#and yes that title is a fall out boy reference

[sweetheartsaku]

(BLLK) just say the word.

𝜗𝜚 MIKAGE REO: RANUNCULACEAE.

a/n: [fem!reader] OMGG exam szn is finally over gais i am free!! i still have so many tests to do tho🙁 AND YES the title is a keshi reference

when mikage reo has a crush on you, he’s the type of boy to use your initials as his math variables. you’re all he ever thinks about, ever since he’s been rotted by the sugars of your kindness and presence. you were like his first and last breeze of air mixed in with love and refreshments. he had been enchanted by your soul, knotting his head and heart with yours. you’re all he ever wants to be around, and you have unconsciously seeped into his life like blood into a white sheet. a love that just keeps leaking, changing its colour completely.

SAY THE WORD, AND I'LL BE YOURS

when mikage reo realises, he can’t help but stare at you lovingly. his eyes are glued to you focusing on your tutor work he had given you, your pencil rapidly yet gently moving across the paper. his eyes are so tender and earnest, staring at you like you had hung up the stars yourself. reo finds himself instinctively caressing a stray hair from your face, his violet eyes still endearingly gazing. instantly, a pink hue graces across his face as his eyes meet yours.

THE LOOK YOU'RE GIVING ME GIVES YOU AWAY

when mikage reo steals your heart, he’s the type of guy to take his time into untangling your silver necklace. the one he had gifted you on your 6th month anniversary, that glistens in the sun. it’s chains are pristine, yet tangled tight, just like the way he had found himself when he fell for you (and does everyday). he smiles at the thought as his tongue sticks out slightly in concentration, one of your favourite habits of his. as a tease, you like to kiss the spot his tongue is before he can pull away. he loves to feel your face close to his, because it feels like his soul is too. he takes the time to untangle your necklace with his initial on the simple charm, even before the date’s expensive booking, he is gentle in unstringing every weaved chain.

YOU FINALLY FOUND THE HIGH THAT YOU'VE BEEN CHASING

when mikage reo falls impossibly deeper, he calls you all the time. not texting, because he knows you won’t listen. reo will call to make sure you eat lunch. reo will call to make sure you have your medicine. reo will bring you your favourite beverage and makes sure to remind you to take a break. reo will do everything he can to take care of you, because to him, when you came into his life, time is definitely more expensive than money. reo will take the time to make sure you are well fed and rested. his favourite part though is when you’re apart. don’t get me wrong, he hates it, but when you’re calling him and quietly telling him you miss him, his heart pounds against his chest a little more. and yes, he lets out a boyish chuckle once you’ve fallen asleep.

ONLY ONE MORE CHOICE YOU GOT TO MAKE

when mikage reo who never forgives himself when you have your first fight. after 6 gracious years, he finds himself living the day he could never fathom. yes, he had forgotten to buy your favourite snack at the convenience store, and he says he swears he will never forgive himself. how could you ever love him again? is what runs through his mind as he curls up against the couch, knees on his chest not feeling privileged enough for a blanket, nor feeling privileged enough to lie down with you in the bed in the room nearby. till then you, realising your fiancé’s absence, cluelessly searching for him, you gasp softly as you find reo all small on the couch. you sit next to him, but he inches away. he can’t help but confess his sins, but it all melts away when you lightly giggle at his silly habits.

I NEED YOU TO TELL ME 'CAUSE I

when mikage reo gets to be held in your arms, he melts completely. he feels his body go putty, his eyelids struggling to stay open to stare at your stunningly sculpted features. his teeth feels like he’s rotting, and his heart aches with an abundance of love. reo nestles his head in the junction between your chin bottom of your neck, absorbing every molecule of love he can. there is nothing he would want more than to unwind, cozily tucked into the embrace of his most beloved, sweetheart, and future wife.

IN MY ARMS FOR A SECOND

when mikage reo finally has you for himself, his brows twitch at the sight of your gorgeous figure, walking down the aisle. tears brim at the bottom of his eyes as you smile at him, taking your last steps in front of him. glitter highlighting the apple of your cheeks, lashes fluttering through the brown mascara and the necklace he untangled 5 years ago dangling off your collarbone. there was not a single moment in the world he would trade for this one. he finally smiles through the tears that stream down his cheeks, sliding the silver ring across the hand that once wrote tutor worksheet answers. it glistens in the sun, he thinks, just like you do.

BABY, SAY THE WORD, AND I'LL BE YOURS

mikage reo’s breath hitches. this is where he is. he is currently playing with his one-year-old, her incoherent babbles filling the silence strung into the air. reo finds himself laying on his stomach on a soft carpet next to scattered toys and various oils and creams for his little version. everything about this surreal moment had all gathered together to grasp onto the base of his neck, clenching onto him as tight as they can, making a lump form in his throat. his little version gently pats his nose, confused why her dad suddenly stop activating. he can’t help but tenderly smile at her, swallowing the lump as he lets a tear fall. your one-year-old innocently wipes it away. she must’ve got her kindness from you. he smiles, because thats what made him fall for you in the first place.

now, your initials have changed. guess he’s gotta fix those math equations, huh?

JUST SAY THE WORD.

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

people are like weapons the way they can take you in their arms (on violent love; dropping bombs and cocking guns; arms dealing; and the metal detectors at heaven's gate)

'grenade jumper,' fall out boy / 'my heart is the worst kind of weapon,' fall out boy / 'rat a tat,' fall out boy, courtney love (3, 9) / 'sugar, we're goin' down,' fall out boy / 'this ain't a scene, it's an arms race,' fall out boy (5, 6) / 'dr jekyll and mr fame,' black cards / 'heaven's gate,' fall out boy (8, 11) / 'i am my own muse,' fall out boy (10, 12)

[venusdandy]

God's Rival [Part 1]

[Hazbin Hotel x GN!reader] [Platonic]

Story Summary: The Demiurge is what they decided to call you. You aren't human, angel, or demon. You're something else entirely—an enigma in each realm. The only being who had ever shown you kindness was the fallen angel Lucifer since he freed you from Heaven's prison by offering Eve the apple from your tree. You promised him a fruitful favor in exchange, but he has not asked anything from you. Until now, that is.

Chapter Summary: After the death of Adam, the residents of the Hazbin Hotel discuss ideas of how to protect Hell from Heaven's potential wrath. Reluctantly, Lucifer mentions he knows someone who owes him a favor and quite literally may be the only deity able to help them.

Warnings: Gender-neutral reader (they/them pronouns). No use of (y/n). The reader is genderless and AroAce—platonic relationships with the characters only.

The reader gets referred to as the "mother of chaos" once (in the same way one refers to mother nature). Nifty calls the reader a "bad boy" once (before meeting them). The reader is only referenced in this chapter without appearing yet.

Part 1 [Here] Part 2

The residents of the Hotel are gathered in their new lounge discussing the most recent extermination, or more specifically, Adam's death and the consequences. Heaven hasn't made any contact with Hell yet, but then again, it's only been a few days.

"I still think my idea is better," Angel smirks as he leans back on the couch comfortingly.

Vaggie growls with frustration, but Charlie quickly intervenes by gently touching her lover's shoulders. "Angel, we appreciate your help, but um," Charlie smiles tensely, "I don't think you seducing the angels in Heaven will help."

Angel shrugs. "Best idea anyone's had in the last hour."

Well, he isn't wrong. They've been severely lacking in the brainstorming department. After the conclusion that killing the first man has undoubtedly set off alarms in Heaven, for the past three and a half hours, they've all been discussing potential ideas to protect Hell from Heaven.

So far, Husk has thrown out that they should just set Nifty loose in Heaven (which Vaggie actually considered), Alastor has been making angelic puns (not at all helping), and Charlie has been pitching many civil plans to persuade Heaven (all her plans are in song form).

Lucifer has been very quiet throughout this. He's only been partially listening to everyone, as he is too focused on his worries. He's been mentally debating bringing up his idea; it's potentially the only way they'd stand a chance against all of Heaven's wrath.

But so much could go wrong. . .

Charlie must have noticed the faraway look in her father's eyes. She gently calls out to Lucifer, making him jolt out of his thoughts. He straightened up in the armchair and forced a smile. "Yes, Char-Char?"

Charlie holds one of her dad's hands with concern. "Are you okay? We can take a break if it's too much."

Lucifer sighs, letting his body sink into the chair, and his smile drops. "No, no, it's okay. I just. . .I have an idea."

Charlie perks up at this, a big smile shining on her face. "That's great!"

Lucifer opens his mouth but closes it again. He really doesn't want to mention you, but they've been shoved in a corner, and it's starting to look like only you can break down the walls.

With a reluctant sigh, Lucifer asks the others, "Have you heard of the Demiurge?"

Alastor hums with amusement as his grin stretches. "If you don't have ideas, there's no need to make up words. Just admit that little head of yours is empty!"

Lucifer, unknowingly falling for Alastor's rage bait, glares at him. "I'm not making up words, you oversized dried cherry! That's their title!". Lucifer then specifies your actual name.

Charlie clears her throat, awkwardly trying to distract the two demons. "Okay, let's calm down and hear what Dad's idea is."

Lucifer crosses his arms, still glaring at Alastor as he explains. "The Demiurge is responsible for a lot but mostly known for creating the mortal realm and overall shaping the material world. They're the maintainer of chaos."

Husk scoffs and mumbles under his breath, "Did a shit job maintaining the chaos in my life."

Charlie anxiously shifts her weight from leg to leg. 'Maintainer of chaos' doesn't sound very appealing. "Soooo, are they. . .nice?"

Lucifer finally looks away from Alastor; his smile is pissing him off more anyway, and he shifts his body to face his daughter. "Nice?" Lucifer repeats, "Maybe? From what I remember, they treated their creations with kindness."

"Creations?" Vaggie asks with a raised brow, "What does that mean? Like weapons or. . .?"

"Life.", Lucifer clarifies, "The Demiurge is capable of creating intelligent life forms."

This hooks everyone's attention. Even Nifty stops herself from stabbing a bug and looks up curiously. The little unfortunate bug quickly scurries across the floorboards, trying to escape, only for Nifty to leap at it again with her knife closing in on it.

"Like God? The fuck?" Angel asks with astonishment.

Lucifer nods. "They're powerful, so I thought about summoning them to help us since they owe me a favor anyway."

"Favor?", Charlie asks curiously and slightly worried.

Lucifer was about to explain further but decided to tell the Demiurge's origins so everyone could better understand who you are.

With a wave of his hand, a large and old book of the universe's secrets lands in Lucifer's lap. He opens it to the exact page of your tale and takes a deep breath before reading out loud.

.

"Before time, there was only the Celestial power in a realm called Heaven. But that power balance began to tip when an unknown angel mothered a deity with unbelievable divine powers that she abandoned their child in a clouded realm. The young deity lived for millennium alone, thinking they were the only being in existence. With no guidance from their mother, their power was disorganized, and they created galaxies, planets, and even complex life forms in their clouded realm.

After discovering the mysterious deity and their divine powers, Heaven deemed them a possible threat to the universe's balance. Questions rang in Heaven, wondering where this God-like creature came from. Only one angel knew who the deity was and where they came from, but she stayed quiet in fear she would be punished. It was her very own sinful thoughts and overwhelming emotions that had birthed her child.

The deity was elated to witness life forms they did not create, as they were not as alone as they formerly thought. At first, knowledge was transferred in civil conversations to understand each other's existence. The deity showed their realm, and in turn, the angels showed theirs. Heaven was more lenient towards them after witnessing their calm and happy nature. The deity behaved much like an angel, Heaven thought, so they let them remain in their realm of creation.

It was during that time the deity discovered they had a mother and how she abandoned them over her selfish desire to protect herself. The deity then lashed out with exasperated grief. The one who gave them life was ashamed of them. Their creations began behaving more aggressively and rigidly as the deity's emotions swam in negativity. Once again, Heaven became alarmed by the deity's power. They threatened the deity to stop, or Heaven would have no choice but to force them to stop by the power of the Heavenly Father. But the deity was too far lost in their rage of despair to listen. So, Heaven destroyed the deity's creations to almost extinction and trapped their soul within an apple tree. This massive tree became known as The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

After 65 million years, the Heavenly Father created the first humans within the Garden of Eden. As long as the humans didn't eat the forbidden apples of The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, they would live a pleasant life under God's guidance.

But, the life balance for humans forever shifted when Eve accepted the apple from the serpent and took a bite.

The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil vibrated until it burst into golden flames. The deity stood freely with their power surging through their veins once again. There was no longer only peace; now, there was chaos in the world.

That was the rebirth of The Demiurge."

.

After Lucifer finishes reading the timeless tale, he gently closes his book and teleports it to where it belongs with cloudy red magic. It's been a few millennia since he's sat down and read the origins of the Demiurge like this.

Nifty squeals from her spot on the floor laying on her stomach, kicking her feet in the air. "A bad boy!" She giggles.

Lucifer quickly clutches his fists in his lap as he realizes he's shaking with anxiety. Honestly, Lucifer does NOT want to call upon you. So many things could go wrong, and the first thing that comes to mind is how awkward it'll be. He can't just be like, 'Oh hey, haven't seen you since Eden! Could you fight Heaven and protect Hell for us? Thanks!' ABSOLUTELY NOT!

The second reason is that Lucifer has only a vague idea of what you're capable of. He knows you're powerful; he was one of the angels investigating you and your realm of life.

You treat your creations with love and gentleness, as Lucifer's father does with his creations. But you're the Demiurge, maintainer of chaos. Your mere existence allowed chaos and evil to spread in human souls. What motivates you? What are your aspirations?

. . .And would you be a threat to Charlie?

Vaggie's eyes are narrowed, glaring at where the book just was. Having the radio demon managing the hotel is enough of a risk as is; she will not allow some powerful entity- the maintainer of chaos, that is, anywhere near Charlie.

Husk is the first to break the tense silence with a slight smirk on his lips. "That's some serious mommy issues."

Angel snorts. "Careful, whiskers, the Boogieman might just catch ya for saying shit like that."-he suddenly scoots closer to Husk on the couch, invading his personal space. "But don't ya worry, I'll hold ya real close for safety!"

Without even looking at Angel, Husk shoves him off the couch. "OOF!"

"Boogieman?" Alastor asks with some amusement.

Angel sits up on the floor and shrugs in response. "They sound creepy, like the Boogieman." Angel grins wide with a laugh, "Hey, maybe you and them will get along then, Smiles!"

Alastor only raises a brow at Angel's comment. If anything, the Demiurge will most likely piss him off like Lucifer does. But either way, he's deathly curious about you. What exactly can you do? Or rather, what can he exploit from you?

Lucifer groans and throws his head back against the armchair. "I don't know if we should ask the Demiurge for help. . ."

Charlie quickly shakes her head. "What, why? You said they can help, and they owe you a favor anyway! We have to ask, at least!"

Vaggie rests a hand on her lover's shoulder. "I'm not sure about this either, Charlie. This isn't your average favor exchange."

Charlie is about to argue more but closes her mouth. She bobs her side to side in acknowledgment. "Yeah. . .but Dad freed them from the tree, and helping us protect Hell from Heaven is sorta like freeing us, right?"

Now, Vaggie nods but sighs in exasperation. "Babe, we can't trust the maintainer of chaos who, might I remind you, brought evil into the world."

Lucifer, without a second thought, jumps to your defense, "Now, I wouldn't say they brought evil into the world. Evil already existed; human souls at the time couldn't comprehend evil. That's how they were originally designed. The Demiurge brought the ability for humans to understand evil, and I gave humans free will." He rubs his neck awkwardly and mumbles, "And I mean, it was their world before Heaven took control of it."

Husk scratches his chin in thought. "Sounds like they'd be eager to fight Heaven if that's the case."

Charlie claps her hands together in determination. "Exactly! I'm not for the idea of revenge, but they already aren't on good terms with Heaven. And it sounds like we- as, in Hell, are on neutral terms with them?"

Lucifer nods, but he's still not convinced he should summon you. . . Indeed, you've never shown malice towards Hell, but you've also never shown any signs of supporting Hell.

Well, you've shown respect for his family, which he is confident of. Lucifer can recall how each year, on his and Lilith's anniversary, they'd receive a generous gift from the Demiurge. They especially received a lot of gifts from you for the baby shower Lilith held for the nearing birth of Charlie.

Now that Lucifer is thinking about the Demiurge more, how'd you even know these dates? Neither he nor Lilith invited you to their wedding or baby shower, yet you still sent them gifts. Lucifer always assumed word had got around, and that's how you heard of it, but you were always so precise with the timing, too.

For instance, when their marriage started going South, instead of receiving one gift from the Demiurge on their anniversary for them to share, Lucifer and Lilith received their own uniquely catered gift. He was so emotionally distraught back then that he never realized how odd and borderline creepy that was. How could you have possibly known that Lilith and him weren't doing well? Not to mention how after they split apart, they received no gifts from you! How do you know all of this?! Are you hiding in his castle walls or something?!

Alastor knocks his cane against the wooden floorboards to gather everyone's attention. "I must agree with our dear Princess! We need extra assistance for what's to come, and it sounds like the Demiurge is the one for it."

Lucifer glares at Alastor. Well, now that he knows Alastor wants you to be summoned, Lucifer wants to summon you even less now!

"Plus!" Alastor continues with a stretching smile, "Our little King and the Demiurge are bound by a contract! They must fulfill their end of the bargain whether they want to or not."

"Preferably wanting to!" Charlie quickly adds, "Actually, only wanting to! We aren't forcing anyone to do anything they aren't comfortable doing!" Alastor subtly rolls his eyes.

Lucifer takes a breath in through his teeth at that realization. "Uhhhh, we didn't shake on it soooo. . ."

Vaggie immediately facepalms. "Are you serious right now?!"

Alastor's neck snaps at an angle toward Lucifer. "You didn't. . .Make an official deal? Then what makes you think this creature of chaos would willingly do you a favor?"

Lucifer stands from his chair with a glare and points an accusing finger at Alastor, "Excuse me for having more important things on my mind like, I don't know, getting out of Eden alive!"

Alastor's brows furrow together with irritation, and his smile sits tightly. Leaning onto his cane for stability, he bends forward to reach Lucifer's much shorter height. "You're excused."

Lucifer starts rolling up his sleeves. "Alright, you pompous prick-"

"Okay! That's enough!" Charlie quickly intervenes by leaping between the two demons with a nervous smile. "How about we finish this discussion tomorrow after thinking more about it? Sound fair?"

Reluctantly, Lucifer backs off, blowing air out his nostrils with pent-up anger. Alastor shows no further vexation as he straightens up, firmly placing his hands on his cane.

From the floor, Angel raised one of his hands. "So, question about the Demiurge."

Lucifer sighs with exhaustion but brings his full attention to Angel anyway. "Ask away; I'll answer the best I can."

Angel smirks as he asks, "What do they look like? Are they sexy?"

Husk and Vaggie groan at the question, not even surprised. At that, Husk stands from the couch and goes to the bar. He needs a drink—or maybe 12.

Lucifer, on the other hand, was genuinely pondering the question, the first half at least. "Uhh, from what I remember, the more humanoid form they take on have ears and a tail like a lion and golden scales on the edges of their face, around their eyes, and just scattered around their body, I think."

The term 'humanoid form' catches Alastor's attention. According to Lucifer, it sounds like the Demiurge is a creature that naturally doesn't look like a human and instead takes on that form, most likely for simplicity purposes. From the spiritual knowledge Alastor has gathered throughout his time in Hell, he's come to find that beings of higher ranks typically have a more abstract form. In that form, they are the most powerful, so to harness and control their magic, they take on a humanoid form.

"How interesting," Alastor hums, "A feline and a reptile."

Finally standing up, Angel whistles with a grin. "I've been with both, and I gotta tell ya, those scaley motherfu-"

Angel gets cut off by Vaggie punching him in the gut with the dull end of her spear. "Shut the fuck up, Angel!". Angel only laughs as he clutches his stomach.

Charlie winces and immediately but gently grabs her lover's elbows, making Vaggie lower her spear. "Okay, I think it's time to get ready for bed now."

The residents of the Hotel each do their nightly routine before ending the eventful day in their respective rooms. Though, with the most recent events taking place, they all find difficulty relaxing.

Can the Demiurge truly help them. . .?

They can only hope so.

[sugudoe]

── ✎ CHERRY SODA, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘰‧₊˚ ୨୧

✶ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: June has arrived with a constant presence of heat waves, which your hot self is happy about — after all, now you have an excuse for your red cheeks and sweaty hands whenever 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙠𝙤 𝙞𝙚𝙞𝙧𝙞 is near you.

✶ 𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: happy pride month! i love loving woman. at the end, i got heavenly inspired by gatsby’s love for daisy, if you’ve seen the movie with leo, you will understand which scene i’m referring too. fun fact: the movie they are watching is bodies bodies bodies, and i wanted to explore more of reader’s ct, but i couldn’t, cus is all fluff. there is always gojo slander in my fics where he is not the love interest lmao. I ALSO LEARNED HOW TO MAKE DE DEGRADE TITLE MWAHHH. divider by: @cafekitsune

✶ 𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬: fem!reader / pure fluff / modern!au / curse!au / crackfic! / all are minors so no smut or sexual innuendo / everyone is gay / english is not my first language / too many swear words / lesbian!shoko / reader’s sexuality is shoko, and only that.

✶ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k

The happiest day of your life in Jujutsu Tech was the day you found out your upperclassmen, Shoko Ieiri, was lesbian.

That’s it, it was a simple statement made by her when you heard Gojo Satoru flirting with the girl and receiving the news as an answer. You nearly fell to your knees thanking whatever deity is taking care of this universe and you, the sky was clear of clouds, but you could hear perfectly the fireworks of celebration in your head and heart.

“And then, she said ‘Gojo, I’ll rather eat raw liver than be dating a man, specially you.’” You recall the talk while walking from side to side in your room, while Haibara and Nanami are seated in your bed, one with a enchanting smile and the other completely bored. “And…”

“And what?” Haibara bounces on his crossed legs, hands gripping your sanrio plushie of Cinnamonroll, his favorite of your vast collection.

“And she is vegetarian!” You clap your hands, Yu following your movement. “So, Gojo turned to me, and he said ‘and what about you, hot stuff?’ ”

“What did you answered?” Nanami is the one to ask, although his eyes are fixated on the album cover of the vinyl in his hands, disco playing in the background, his ears are all focused on the gossip.

“So, you see…” Scratching your head, you sighed. “I fumbled for real, just went back to you guys.”

Haibara happy expressions morph into disappointment.

“You’re so stupid, with all respect.” He offends you, though. “This was your chance, it’s not everyday we can be going around telling people we are gay, specially our crush.”

“You do all the time.” Both you and Nanami answers the boy.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m me, Yu Haibara, the one that can’t shut his mouth. No one tells me their secrets, Kennie had to bodyslam me multiple times because I was always about to tell everyone, when we fist stared going out.” Although he said with energy, the boy had his lips in a pout.

“That’s not true, you haven’t told anyone I’m sapphic or about my crush on Shoko.” Your pacing has stopped, as you tried your best to comfort him.

“Not yet, at least.” Nanami snorts his small comment, before whipping the smirk of, and groaning. “Listen, I’m not in the mood to have you two whining, one is already hard enough to deal with, and I’m dating him! So you need to fix this, Y/n.”

“Huh? Fix what? What did I do?” You stare at Haibara, but he seems as confused as you.

“You need to make sure Shoko knows you’re into women as well. Make this your plan of life or whatever, soon as she knows, then comes plan b: get her on a date, it’s not that hard.”

“Yes it is!” You argue your friend’s really good plan. “She is Shoko Ieiri, pretty and popular and strong, and I’m little old me.” You dramatically falls on your carpet, hands on your forehead like a damsel.

“Girl, be for real, this school does not have that many people to be calling her popular. It’s just that you both are the only girls.” Haibara throws the sanrio plush at your face after his statement. “And you are as strong as her, in fact you are stronger than her, you literally are the strongest at the school.”

“So close! That’s the albino with the blinding eyes, actually.” Says Kento, coming to sit on the floor by your side. Both of you with large doe eyes staring at an energetic Haibara.

“She knows what I mean, your cursed technique is literally the more fucked you get, the more stronger you become. If Gojo bitch slapped you, you would break this world with your energy.”

“What are you saying, baby?” You stare agape at Nanami, is not always he uses the pet names, but the boy is as shocked as you with Haibara’s statement, so it slipped.

“Yeah, what’s with you and this weird coach talk? I don’t wanna be slapped by Gojo.” You mumble awkward, thoughts going straight into the cursed image of having Satoru’s large hands slapping your face — goosebumps follow your disgust in your skin.

“You need to shoot your shot, make her see you as not a school friend but as a potential future girlfriend.” The brunette gets up from the bed and points to your calendar. “It’s june, time to proud!”

You are proud and extremely hot, days later when summer has made its presence everyone’s problem. The students at school discards the purple jackets of their uniforms to only wear the white shirt underneath. You have to do a double take when you see Shoko and her classmates coming your way at the vending machine.

Ieiri looks so beautiful. She always does — but there is something about the short box braids she has, or how she tied her blouse on her waist, the way her skin is glowing with sweater, or the way she is smiling and right in front of you — glossy lips tinted pink moving. Oh shit, she is talking to you.

“I’m sorry what?” You catch yourself saying before staring at her eyes, she is smiling and they are almost closing. Adorable. “My brain is melting, it’s so hot.”

Lame excuse, but she buys it, you think.

“I was asking if you bought your soda yet.” You can sense her eyes on your empty hands, and smiles more when you sign no with your head.

“No..No! I was about to, you want some? I can buy for you.” You cringe at your own desperation, but Shoko sweetly laugh.

“No! I want to buy for you. I’m you senpai, it’s my job.” She goes for the machine and presses the number for cherry coke twice, before paying with her card. Shoko gives you your can before saying her goodbye and moving back to her waiting friends, both males smirking at you.

Walking back with a maniac smile before sprinting to your bedroom, you where once again greeted by Nanami and Haibara in there, startled by your sudden entrance of nearly breaking the door down.

“SHE KNOWS MY SODA!” You scream before falling to your knees, the cold can pressed against your hand reliving you.

“What does she mean?” Haibara asks to his boyfriend, but Nanami simply shrugs, annoyed.

“Don’t know, but clearly you don’t know ours. I’m thirsty and melting.” The blond whines before leaving the room to grab his and his boyfriend’s beverage.

“Hai, you don’t understand.” It’s a second after the door closes, you are in front of the boy, happy expressions in contrasts to his alarmed one. “She payed for my soda, and she knew what was my favorite.”

“SHE KNOWS YOUR SODA.”

When Nanami returns, minutes later, he is appalled to see you and his boyfriend screaming happily and jumping on your carpet, while on the background, wedding bells are heard from your music box. He sighs desperate.

Friday comes quickly, and luckily for you, it’s the first of the month, therefore, movie nights in your room: the perfect hangout spot, as always. It’s been a tradition since your friendship with Haibara started, and Nanami shows up whenever he was bored, which pretty much was all the time — specially now that he has his own boyfriend to cuddle.

You love them both to a crazy extent, is true! But no one in their right minds enjoy third wheeling, so you keep mumbling while setting your room up with the help of Yu while Nanami is out buying the snacks. It’s in the middle of your one person rant while adjusting fairy lights on your bed, small couch and plushies’s shelf, you feel something being throw to your head.

“Ow! What was that for?” You turn around to a pissed of Yu, hands on his hips and scowling face.

“I’m so tired of you, Y/n.” The boy comes closer to you, you fear he is going to throw any other thing, but instead he hugs you. “Please, don’t be stupid. Shoko likes you, everyone can see as much as we see you like her. So stop wasting time.”

It’s not supposed to work, because after all, you are the second most dramatic person in this school — coming after Satoru. For some reason, you might blame the summer heat waves that burn your skin much like Shoko’s attention does, and your brain has always been fogged with thoughts of only her. The thing is, Haibara is partly right. You like her lots and lots, and she likes girls lots and lots, and you are a girl, a pretty girl that can make Shoko laugh and feel comfortable — a pretty girl she knows what’s the favorite soda flavor.

Haibara is startled when you leave his embrace to move out of the room, he follows you after a few second of astonishment, and when the boy notices where you are going, a large smile is plastered on his face. He is so proud of you.

Both of you stop in front of a black door decorated with a cat rug and painted with flowers and vines, handmade by Shoko herself. You take three long breaths before knocking the door, and nearly jump back when it’s opened less than a second later by a six foot tall white haired freak with devilish smile. Gojo doesn’t have his glasses. Bitch knew you were coming.

“Shoko, your girlfriend is here.” Satoru sings before opening the door more, giving you a sight of Shoko’s perfectly cleaned room and minimal decorated, a total contrast to your own.

“Y/n?” Ieiri jumps from her bed besides Geto and comes your way at the door, pink cheeks much like yours. “Hi!”

“Hi…” Your soft voice you have reserved only for her comes out, before you scratch your throat and looks at everyone. All eyes are on you. “Uh, the boys and I are doing a movie night. We- - we thought of inviting you guys, if you want.”

“We would love to, we were so bored, actually.” Shoko answers right away, before turning to her friends.

“Huh? Weren’t we going to the mall?” Gojo asks turning towards Geto, but the black haired only shakes his head. “Oh, oh! Yeah, yeah, we are totally bored, no mall! Just movies with friends sounds amazing.”

“Great!” You smile triumphantly. “Nanami is getting snacks. Hai, can you send him a message asking to buy more?” You turn to your friend, but he is already with his phone in hand, texting, one of his hand making a positive sign. You turn back to face Shoko, shivering while noticing she is already staring at you. “So, see you… You guys, in fifteen minutes?”

“Yeah, see ya.” She whispers back.

It takes Haibara hands on your shoulder, much like Gojo’s on Shoko, for you to realize both of you had been quietly staring at each other. You wave her goodbye before moving back to your dorm. While in there, you and Haibara prepare the room for the others. The sofa would be for him and Nanami and your bed for you, as always. Your friend goes to his room before returning with his inflatable neon pink couch, which prompt you to change your neon lights to pink, as well.

The room is cutely decorated before you both fall on the bed to rest, and then a knock come. You don’t get up, Nanami just bursts into the room before dropping his bags on your coffee table. He scoffs.

“Why did you had to invite them?” Is all he says before falling on his sofa. “I mean, I like her, Geto I can handle…” Kento moves his face to stare at you two before whining. “But Gojo?!”

“Damn, I thought this was going to be a good time, not an offending me time.” The three of you jump at hearing Gojo’s voice, he is by your door, annoying smile decorating his face. Besides him, is Geto and Shoko.

“Every hour is a offending Gojo time, sorry bud.” Geto taps his friend head before moving inside your room, his eyes scan the place before deciding to fall on the neon sofa. “Nice room, Y/n, very you.”

The “thank you” is at the tip of your tongue, barely leaving through your voice, before stagnating when you look at the door, where she is. And fuck, you don’t think you’ve said anything in this world before, words become nothing in your mind in that very moment, all you can think is compliments and her name — Shoko is wearing a different outfit than earlier, she discharged the shorts and shirt for a flourished sundress, and two strands of her hair are braided. You can also catch glitter on her eyelids and her signature pink gloss on her lips.

“Shit.” Someone say, and you quickly realize it’s your voice. You cough before shifting your face to the boys, all again staring at you. “Uh, than��� Fuck, thank you, Geto.” You say before moving towards the coffee table and grabbing two sodas of cherry coke and twizzlers. You go towards Shoko, who is still by your door, and you handle her the soda with a happy smile she copies.

“Am I going to have to share the pink couch with them giants?” Shoko whispers, motioning her head towards Satoru and Suguru, both playing fighting in the inflatable couch.

“No, no.” Couching again to refrain the embarrassment of answering so quickly, you sigh after, containing your nervousness. “You can share the bed with me.”

You close the door behind her, and soon your hand is in her back, moving both of you towards your comfortable bed and sitting on it, legs sprayed all over while your backs are resting on your comfortable headboard. Shoko is near the wall, caged by your body.

You toss the controller to Haibara, and he starts to go through the movies in the playlist showed on your wall, by your projector. You are not interested in movies anymore, if you could you would move everyone away and be with only her. You can sense her face moving towards the boys and you, but you keep staring at your soda. The cold in it keeps you in check.

Taking a gulp, tasting the faint cherry, you wonder what kissing Shoko would taste like. You could bet it would be like strawberries with sugar sprinkled on them, maybe a spoon of honey as well. And obviously, a tinted bitter of the cigarettes she smokes from time to time — it used to be worse, until you commented on the bothering of the smoke, and now she never smokes whenever you are near.

Maybe, you head and heart wonders, she likes you. There is nothing wrong with you, after all. You are pretty, smart, strong and sometimes funny. You could be liked by her as much as you like her, right?

The movie is already playing when Shoko pokes your arm, your mind goes blank and you move to her, tilting your head.

“Can I have a licorice?” She quietly asks. You want to give her anything, in fact.

“Yeah, here.” You open the package, giving her one of the red tubes. Trying not to, but failing, your eyes focused on the way her lips closed on the candy, wetting part of it with her gloss.

“Hey! No snoggin in there, I’m already third wheeling these two.” Gojo’s voice makes you realize how close you were to Shoko’s face, you grunt before staring at Nanami and Haibara, and they are just holding each-other.

“You’re bitter ‘cause Suguru won’t cuddle you.” Shoko answers after biting harshly her licorice, Nanami laughs at her answer when an offended gasp comes from Gojo. He doesn’t deny.

You laugh at Gojo’s offended face, and to add more fire to his bitterness, you move your arm to Shoko’s shoulder, she goes stiff for a moment before resting her head to your neck.

“Traitors.” Gojo mumbles and goes back to staring the movie, you see Suguru smirk before doing the same you did to Shoko to his friend.

After more minutes of the movie, in a particularly funny scene, you sense Ieiri’s head moving, you look down and she is already facing you. You grab another licorice and give it to her, straight to her mouth, she bites it before you take a bite on the other end.

If that’s the closest your mouth would come to hers, you would take it. By the gods, anything she would give you, would be precisely loved by you. Her presence, her scent, her glittery eyes staring solely at you. You would trade anything for her in that moment, if only to keep her attention on you and yours on her. What’s heaven to a woman’s love anyway?

You want to kiss her when the licorice is devoured eagerly. You almost do, lips reaching closer, and her eyes flattering shut, but a bombing laugh of Suguru takes you both apart. No one noticed, all eyes on your wall. You sigh gulping, groaning once more, but smiling while hearing her quiet giggles.

When the movie ends, everyone but you two get up, cracking their bones and talking loudly.

“Y/n, what was your favorite scene?” Haibara is the one who asks you, smirk in his face he shares with Gojo. “My favorite was the cruise one with the bananas’s costume, so funny.”

“Oh, yeah! Yeah, my favorite as well.” You answer while caressing Shoko’s arms, she starts to giggle more and you smile as well. “There was no cruise scene, right?”

“No, there wasn’t.” Shoko moves her head up, laughing sweetly now.

The gods really took their time with her, appreciating every little detail, from her laughs she emanated such good feelings, your insides would go warm and butterflies would rip your ribcage. But truthfully, you felt the weight of all your emotions while staring lovingly at her. Someone coughed.

“Well, I don’t know ‘bout you guys, but I’m tired. Should we go?” Gojo says and everyone agrees, they all say goodbye to you before stopping at the door, Nanami moves towards your music box, playing a calm song he knows you listen to before sleeping.

“Aren’t you coming, Shoko?” Suguru asks with malicious in his voice. She yawns, but doesn’t move.

“I’ll walk her to her room, don’t worry.” You say, making her nod and soon all the boys are gone. Is just you and her, in your bed.

Shit. Shoko Ieiri is in your bed. The perfect girl, the one you adores, the most beautiful human being is laying on you in your bed and she is not complaining, she even hugs your waist tighter when the door closes.

“Ieiri.” It’s rare for you to call her by her name, and she always seems happier when you do, this time is no different, she moves her head up with that cute smile you adore. “I like you.”

You always wondered how to confess to someone — her — in the most majestic and perfect way. In your mind, much like Haibara did to Nanami, you should give her plenty of her favorite food and flowers to match her sun kissed cheeks. It’s not something you planned, because you’ve never thought this day would come. Although it all changed with her in your arms, like she was always meant to be, you were designed to hold her.

So, in the pink and yellow lights of your room, under a shelf of dozens of plushies and Novo Amor playing in the background, your eyes focus shifting from her glitter eyeshadow to the gloss in her lips, that was heaven to you. That was the perfect place. She smiles, and you know you did the right thing.

“I like you too, Y/n.” Her sweet voice is melody to your ears, you barely register what she says, but is nothing to worry about, her lips are quickly on yours by the end of her sentence.

It’s cherry.

Shoko Ieiri tastes like cherry, in fact, she tastes like your favorite soda, a part of you who loves the beverage, unknowingly already choosing her. Her gloss is passed to your lips, giving you more of her taste, and when the kiss gets deeper, you feel like heaven has been given to you. In that moment, you know you are lost.

You separate yourselves for a second, finding yourself hovering over her, and stare at the her pretty crimson face, for just a moment appreciating that after her you would never be the same again. And how happy you were for that. So you go back for a second kiss, and a third, and more, more. All the kisses she wants, you will give to her, for the whole eternity you’ll have by her side — you are hers, and she is yours.

[undead-supernova]

Chapter 2 - Series Masterlist

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

plot: you and Eddie decide you're both showing up. grab some beer, bowl. let that melted cheese on your nachos bring you to a state of vulnerability.

wc: 6k

cw: bickering, smoking, bowling, and alcohol consumption

fic title reference: We Are Going To Be Friends by The White Stripes

I Saw the TV Glow was a big inspiration for this chapter. I don't know how to explain that. They couldn't be more opposite storylines. It did spark this idea so I still have to shout it out. And I listened to the soundtrack while writing it! Beautiful.

p.s. if you havent seen I Saw the TV Glow, you totally should. it's a very important story about queerness and one of the best movies to be released this year. anyways don't think about that right now. instead, go ahead and read this chapter that I'm very proud of. watch the movie after.

There once was a boy who made your impressionable heart swell. He was the class clown, the certified It Boy of your middle school class. Not a jock by any stretch of the imagination, all lanky and desperate for just a touch of peach fuzz on his upper lip. But he was charming. And funny. And cute.

He made the girls giggle and twirl their hair, imitating the exaggerations of television. They would wear makeup to school, always quick to pass around tubes of lip gloss as soon as they left their mothers’ cars. 

You, however, stayed true to yourself. You tried the natural approach, quite certain that he would like you if you didn’t act like the other girls. Sure, he never looked your way. He never gave you a second thought. But, for some reason, that meant something to you.

The day you were assigned a seat next to him in English, he’d forgotten his book. This was your shot. This was your moment. So you offered to share yours, heads huddled together to peer down at the pages of Catcher in the Rye. Your heart was pounding in your ears, shutting out the teacher completely.

After class, he’d thanked you. Asked for your name. Told you it was really pretty. Then he asked for your help on his next paper.

And you said yes immediately, a larva without the protection of a chrysalis.

You agonized over his papers, noting that he wasn’t necessarily the best writer or all that smart, but it was him. He trusted you with his words and that meant he could trust you with his heart. At some point.

Until the end of eighth grade when he invited you to meet him on the playground, behind a large oak tree that the kids used as cover to make out. You’d approached slowly, wearing the lipstick you’d stolen from the local pharmacy.

But when you peered around, you were drenched in spoiled milk. Milk. 

A chorus of laughter sounded and you watched in horror as your crush grinned at you like you were entertainment.

His friend handed him a five dollar bill and they ran off.

That was all you were worth.

After that, you thought you knew what hurt was. What it was like to learn your lesson and never allow yourself the ability to fall into something like that again. An unrequited crush. But that was before high school, where the boys got more clever in their humiliation. Fake love notes, getting handsy at dances before calling you a freak. 

You swore never to let a boy you liked be mean to you again. You meant it.

But never once did you believe it.

It’s just a bowling alley, you thought. Spending one night with him won’t kill me.

The parking lot was nearly deserted, outside of a few Hondas and a gray Chevy Astro. Two of the street lamps were blown out, the remaining three dulled by the fierce January chill. 

You wondered if Eddie would even show up. Maybe this was his prank, one with Ashton Kutcher as an accomplice waiting around in an alley and snickering to themselves. You’d believe it. He was devious enough to make it happen.

It would be a joke for the ages, after you’d applied makeup and spent time working on your hair. You’d put on something casual but seemingly more put together, a deep brown long-sleeved shirt, leaving the first two buttons popped. Layered on top was a cropped, dark green jacket with a hood. You’d settled for dark blue jeans and Converse, sure, but the muted nude pink lipstick you pathetically checked in the sun visor was a step above your usual stupidity.

But Eddie had been insistent about this and it hurt to admit it, but you believed him. In your hardest of hearts, you trusted his word. It was aggravating.

The clock struck seven and you gave yourself one last deep breath before you got out of your car and made your way to the entrance. 

Lanesman was a frequent spot for you, a solitary activity that gave you an excuse to revert to your childhood. After you’d moved back and took this job, you found yourself gravitating towards what used to bring you joy. Bowling with the kid bumpers apparently did the trick.

Working at a high school made you realize that growing up didn’t mean forgetting. It didn’t mean an automatic erasure of what used to soothe your blues. If anything, it reinforced your need for that promise of safety.

The lobby was beige and dull, walls smattered in faded neon paint that hadn’t been updated since your youth. A miserable looking teenager stood at the concession stand, frustratedly trying to get the popcorn to pop. 

As you scanned further, you felt something shock your system as you saw Eddie standing there, waving at you with his plethora of rings twinkling in a fluorescent haze.

He looked nice tonight, with a black Henley, jeans, and Converse that mirrored yours. He started towards you, leaving you to notice the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. A hint of black could be spotted underneath, a wave of embarrassment washing over you as you wondered what tattoos he hid underneath.

But the thing that got you was his hair.

You’d never seen it down before, couldn’t even estimate how long you thought it would be. It hung in wavy curtains around his face and draped onto his shoulders. This was something you hadn’t seen coming. And here he was, sidling up to you.

“You’re early,” you started.

“Yeah, well,” he replied with a shrug. “I’m honestly shocked you showed up.”

“Yes, it seems that we are both in a state of shock.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ll have to trust me eventually, you know.”

“We’ll see about that,” you shot back, shaking your head.

He snorted. “Alright, well. I’ll get the shoes if you get the beer.”

“I can do that,” you agreed before giving him your shoe size.

Eddie lifted his fingers and shot you with finger guns. “Always believed in you.”

He winked. 

Frustration flooded your system as he held your gaze for a moment too long. “I’m leaving now,” you murmured before walking away.

“You do that.”

Yeah, I will, you thought. Dickhead.

You made your way to the counter where that poor kid held up a finger as he attempted to fix the popcorn machine. The sounds of the arcade in the other room projected into the concession area, electronic sounds and buzzers trying to lure children in. As if there were any here in the first place. 

Eventually you ordered, getting a pitcher of beer and nachos. As you waited for the cheese machine to whirl back to life, you found your eyes wandering over towards the shoe hut. 

Eddie was laughing at something the kid said before taking two pairs of shoes and heading towards the back where the lanes were. Those areas were covered in blue wallpaper with pink squiggles, glowing neon in the rotating lights. He faded into the glow, dropping the shoes onto the table. 

You wondered why he’d gotten here early, going so far as to avoid the observation once you’d acknowledged it. This wasn’t even including his attitude being much more reserved than usual. He didn’t mock you once in that entire interaction. 

The night was still young, though.

When you walked over, Eddie’s eyes lit up at the sight of goodies in your arms.

“Beer and nachos?” he asked.

“Got a problem with nachos?”

Eddie grabbed a chip, drenching it in as much cheese as he could. “No, but you will after I eat all of them,” he said before tossing it into his mouth.

“Of course you’d never leave me any,” you commented as you set down the cups, beer, and nachos next to the shoes. 

He swallowed before shaking his head. “You know I can just get us some more, right?”

You shrugged off your coat, tossing it over his. “So that you can eat all of those, too?”

“These are some harsh accusations.”

“They’re hunches,” you countered, crossing your arms over your chest.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Come on. Tonight’s supposed to be about starting over, remember?”

You knew he was right. This was supposed to be a truce. Where was your can-do attitude? 

You took a deep breath before saying, “Yeah, okay. Sure. Yes. Starting over.”

Eddie smiled at you before throwing out his hand. “Hi, I’m Eddie Munson. Nice to meet you.”

You stared down at his hand. “We’re doing this?”

His smile widened. “We are.”

“Okay, fine.” You introduced yourself before taking his hand in yours. Shaking it, you added, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“What do you do for work?”

You snorted. “Uh, I’m a freshman English teacher at South Jefferson High School.”

He gave you a surprised expression. “You’re serious?”

“Uh, yeah?” you asked, confused.

He placed his free hand on his chest. “I’m a freshman English teacher at South Jefferson High School.” 

That was when you realized what was going on. What Eddie was attempting to do. You were really starting over. And if he was animated about this bit then, fuck it, you could be, too. 

Enthusiastically, you exclaimed, “What? That’s crazy!”

Eddie grinned, sparking something inside you. “Isn’t it?”

“How come I’ve never seen you around before?” you asked, fully playing along now.

“I don’t know! I’m in room 11A.”

You gasped. “I’m in 14A.”

“This is so bizarre.”

“I know. Small world, huh?”

In the silence that followed, you became aware of pressure that remained against your palm. The forgotten sensation that had your eyes lowering to your hand. They were joined, warmth being passed back and forth as your playful exchange came to a close. It felt like you couldn’t breathe.

So, you let go.

“Wanna bowl?” you asked, still feeling hazy. “With…me?”

Eddie coughed before sticking his hands in his back pockets. “Absolutely. Though, I have to warn you that I have the bumpers up.”

You smiled. “That’s the only way to play.”

Eddie won the first round. 

However, much to his dismay, you won the second.

It involved a lot of groans, snorts, and retreats to the beer pitcher in between turns. Overall, it was a pretty civil affair which surprised Eddie. He wondered how you felt about it.

The two of you now sat on top of the joint tables, having gone through a second pitcher of beer and demolished another helping of nachos. There’d only been one or two lanes taken up since you started, the room still in near silence outside of “I Wanna Love You” by Akon and Snoop Dogg playing over the crackled speakers. 

You sat close to one another, mirroring each other. Both you and Eddie were hunched over, feet planted on the chair in front. But as the conversation continued, you were turning closer to one another. The distance didn’t really feel like distance anymore.

Eddie was finishing off his final sip of beer when you suggested, “What if we did honesty hour?”

He glanced over at you, slowly lowering his cup. “What, like ask each other questions?”

“Yeah, and the other person has to answer. Nonegotiable.”

That was rather brave of you. And bold. You avoided any and all sense of trying to understand him. Not once did you ask him a question that wasn’t drenched in kerosene. Plus, what did you know about honesty? You grew defensive at any hint of curiosity and hostile when he reiterated whatever you told him. Could this really be considered progress or just a chance to seem like the good guy?

“Oh, I don’t know if you could handle your own game,” he challenged.

“What!” you exclaimed, lifting your hands.

He shook his head, unable to believe you were seriously that shocked. “You always have this look in your eye,” he said, wiggling his fingers in your face.

“What look?” you asked, slapping his hand away.

“Like you’re withholding information.”

One of your eyebrows twitched. “Is it wrong for me to keep some things to myself?” you argued, a forced chuckle leaving your lips. “I don’t need to tell you every thought in my head.”

“Why not?” “Because you make fun of everything I do!”

Eddie shook his head again, your irony bordering on comical. “You get mad at everything I do. Why do you get to be all high and mighty about it?”

“Because at least I keep my opinions to myself.”

“You make your opinions very clear, actually.” You rolled your eyes. “Okay, so are we gonna start or what? I don’t wanna do this if you’re gonna keep getting defensive.”

You let out a small groan. “Okay, yes. Fine.”

“We’ll start off easy, okay?” You nodded. “What was your favorite part of Napoleon Dynamite?”

You chuckled, catching him off guard. Then you smiled and an unexpected ease filled his chest. “Oh, most definitely Napoleon test tasting the milk.”

“It’s so nasty,” he agreed, feeling a laugh escape him. “Almost as good as the part when he watches Pedro ride his bike and asks if he can too and—”

“And he breaks the ramp!” you finished for him.

He nodded emphatically. “Yes, exactly!”

“I loved it. It was really funny.”

“What can I say? I have good taste.”

“You have one point,” you told him, holding up your pointer finger. “One.”

He shrugged. “That’s one more than yesterday.”

“Guess that means it’s my turn to ask a question?”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I think I have a few more.”

“What? I came up with the idea.”

“Yes, but you always dodge answering anything honestly.”

“As if you don’t say anything other than,” you lowered your voice, “Oh, look at me. I’m so cool. You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m just so cool.”

Eddie snorted. “And what do you think you do?” He raised the pitch of his voice. “What? How dare you! Stop that! Ugh. I could never.”

“Yeah, okay,” you agreed. “I do sound like that.”

“Finally rolling an eighteen for once.”

You paused. Eddie watched as you looked down. “Did you just…” you trailed, eyes slowly coming back up to meet his. “Did you just make a Dungeons and Dragons reference?”

“Maybe.”

A loud chortle flew through the air as you exclaimed, “Oh my god! You’re a nerd!”

He rolled his eyes. “Nerd? Really? Are we in high school?” You gave him a playful shrug. “The fact that you know the rules means you’re just as big of a nerd as I am.”

“Exactly!” you exclaimed. “It’s not a bad thing. It just feels like. Well. I don’t know. I guess, to me, it feels like you’re a real human being now.”

“That’s because you have forgotten to ask me anything about myself.” You opened your mouth, but he beat you to the punch. “Which you can do after I ask mine.”

“Okay, fine,” you replied with a huff.

“Do you actually enjoy teaching at SJ?”

“Of course I do,” you said too quickly, eyes narrowing.

Eddie shook his head. “Defensive. I really am asking. It’s not a trap.”

“Fine, fine,” you agreed, holding up your hands. “I enjoy what I’ve started doing. I mean, I don’t think I’ve made the impact that I’ve wanted to, which was why getting the opportunity to do this full-time was really exciting.”

“Do you think this’ll be a long term thing? Teaching here?”

“I hope so. Maybe not forever, but I want to right now. I think I owe it to these kids who’re already in such a vulnerable phase in their lives. It keeps getting scarier out in the world. The least I can do is try to help make it easier with the small pocket of time I have in their lives.”

“That’s really sweet,” Eddie whispered, and he meant it.

“Oh, thanks,” you whispered back. “I mean it.”

“Does your family live around here? Or your, uh, boyfriend.” He panicked when you raised an eyebrow. “Or girlfriend. I, uh, I don’t judge.”

Shaking your head, you said, “No, my family isn’t around. I haven’t seen them in over a year. I moved back and then they moved across the country. Besides, we barely call. We’re all bad at using the phone. I write them sometimes, but it’s usually attached to cheesy holiday cards.” You looked down at your cup. “And no. I don’t have a partner of any kind at the moment.”

“Interesting,” he said.

“Do you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I what?”

“Do you have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?”

Eddie almost said, “Why do you wanna know?” But you were making real progress for once. He couldn’t fuck it up now. Not when your eyes were returning to his, brave and unafraid now.

“I do not,” he answered. “I don’t have a partner of any kind right now.”

“And your family?”

It was his turn to cower away. “Yikes,” he whispered, planting a goofy expression on his face to soften the blow. “Uh, yeah. My dad’s in jail and my mom passed when I was a kid. My uncle lived around here but he actually met a nice guy so now they pose as roommates in Ohio.”

“What’s in Ohio?”

That was your answer? To everything he just said, giving you the basics of a fucked up childhood, the only thing you had to respond with was a question about what state his uncle and his boyfriend settled on?

“Dave, I guess,” he replied, studying your lack of expression. You let out a hum and nodded. “Does that not, like, weird you out?”

“What part exactly?”

“My parents.”

You shook your head. “No, not really.”

“Hm.”

“Do you want me to be weirded out?”

“No, I…” Eddie trailed before taking a deep breath. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

You nodded. “Then you’ll be absolutely ecstatic to know that I am far from being weirded out.”

“Incredible,” he said lightly, trying to force out a laugh. He sobered up quickly when you gave him a closed-lip smile. “Last question.”

“Hit me.”

Do you really hate me?

He blinked. “Would you go outside with me and share a cigarette?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

So you climbed off the tables, grabbing your jackets and heading back out the front door. Eddie had been eyeing your appearance all night, especially the lipstick you’d donned. You never wore lipstick at work and you hadn’t the last few times he saw you around the city. Why now?

If only asking questions didn’t get him annihilated. 

“I’ve actually decided I want my own,” you said, turning toward him.

“Of course you do.” Your breaths fogged together as you chuckled. “Are you finally gonna try a Marlboro Red?”

Your smile bordered on mischief as you pointed your thumb at the parking lot. “I mean, I have a pack of Newports in my car. I could always go get them.”

Eddie shook his head, slipping his pack out of his jacket. “Nah, I don’t trust you to come back.”

Snapping, you said, “Damn. You foiled my epic evil plan.”

“I see right through you.”

“You sure do.”

Eddie held out a lone cigarette for you to take. You gave him a small smile before plucking it from his fingers and sliding it between your teeth. He tried handing you the lighter but you shook your head.

“You’re not gonna light it for me?” you asked around the cigarette. “Some manners you’ve got.”

With only a snort as a response, Eddie lit both of your cigarettes at the same time. The smoke swirled through the air, mimicking a blanket of snow you were sure to get in the next few weeks.

The banter between you was nice. Eddie had made his peace with the constant back and forth, but nothing felt better than this. The two of you being civil and, if not friends, friendly. Your scowl had faded, leaving behind your gentler expressions. If he didn’t find you beautiful before, there was something almost explosive about what he saw now.

He wondered what it was like to grow up so wondrous. What kind of kid you were and whether you experienced the atrocities that he had in high school. What did you turn into after, when you could grasp at the sleeves of freedom? Did your fingers ever slip?

You bent down to stub out the cigarette before tossing it in the trash can next to the door. Eddie watched you, wondering how he could keep you from leaving. Sure, you probably weren’t thinking about leaving. But. Still.

He needed more time with you. He needed more time to understand you. And if you were to walk away from here tonight without divulging those details, he thought he’d explode. Especially when you’d be back as coworkers the following week.

So, he got an idea.

“We should go to the little arcade inside.”

“Why, so I can beat your ass?”

“Woah there!” Eddie exclaimed. “Trash talk. I like it.”

You took a step towards the door, watching as he flicked his cigarette out onto the pavement. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

Before you could pull any further, Eddie was taking the handle from you. “I should do it more often,” he replied, gesturing for you to walk through.

“It’s only ‘cause I’m a little tipsy.”

“You didn’t have to drink the beer. I mean, it is kinda shitty.”

You shrugged. “I’ve been having fun. Sue me.”

“Then you’ll be excited to know that the arcade is the final showdown.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, think about it. I won the first round. You won the second, right?” You nodded. “So who is the winner?”

“We could tie and practice good sportsmanship.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

You giggled. You fucking giggled.

It jolted him. It wasn’t lightning, but rather the shock of static electricity on an unforgiven doorknob. 

“You’re right,” you said with a shrug.

God, he really fucking liked you.

“We’ll play three rounds,” Eddie started, fiddling with the coins in his hands. “First are Galaga and Target Terror. And then, for our final showdown? The claw machine.”

“The claw machine is rigged,” you argued. “We’ll both lose.”

“Yeah, with that attitude.” You snorted. “You can’t know if you don’t try.”

Instead of whipping up some witty comeback, you trudged over to the dusty Galaga machine, noting that one of the coin slots was shattered.

Eddie came to stand next to you, plopping a coin in your palm before you thrusted it into the unbroken slot and took off.

One thing you’d failed to mention up until this point was how shitty you were at any and all arcade games. You’d once thought Galaga was your favorite, something you gravitated towards as a kid. The flashes of neon against the black, with only specks of color to create the illusion of a night sky. It always drew you in, the feeling that you were escaping somewhere outside yourself. Outside of the reality— 

“Oh, come on, really?” you exclaimed as you failed. 

“You’re just smashing the keys,” Eddie groaned.

You shot him a look. “But that’s what you’re supposed to do!”

“Well,” he started, bumping your hip with his. “Doesn’t matter now ‘cause you’re dead. Officially. Time for you to scoot over. Come on.”

Reluctantly, you switched places. 

And, boy, were you immediately intimidated.

Eddie was a whiz, all calm and collected as he focused on the screen like his life depended on it. His fingers stretched, skillfully defending space from the countless hoards of aliens and other creatures that dared to cross his path. 

He finally died at the low low score of 140,820. 

“What the fuck?” you muttered as he took a step back and grinned at you.

“So that’s, what, two points now for me and one for you?”

You tried to suppress your glare. “Good job,” you said through your teeth.

Eddie gave you a bow. “Why, thank you. Sometimes it pays off to be a nerd.”

It wasn’t that you were a sore loser. But you were with a sore winner. Now it was time to get your revenge. How you would do that was beyond you, but you had to try.

“Come on,” you told him.

Your next destination was the Target Terror, taking the red gun before he even approached. For good measure, you turned and pretended to shoot him. Eddie let out a dramatic gasp before clutching his chest and falling to the floor.

Laughter tumbled out of you without any thought, made boisterous when he twitched and kept making the stupidest noises you’d ever heard before finally playing dead.

“Bravo,” you complimented.

Like a flattened cartoon character, he regenerated and sprung back up to his feet. 

“I’m a natural, I know,” he responded, sliding coins in for you both.

“Yeah, you should be the next drama teacher.”

He grabbed the blue gun. “I actually think I’d kick ass at it.”

He didn’t sound like he was joking.

As you went to shoot the start button, you couldn’t help but look over at Eddie. He was checking out the gun and deciding on his hand placement as if that mattered. But you were thinking about something else.

Eddie was a good guy, wasn’t he? Take away his revolting arrogance and inability to keep his mouth shut and you could see a person underneath. His ambition mirrored yours and maybe, just maybe, his heart had been in the right place all along. Maybe there was more to him that you wanted to learn.

You wanted to be his friend.

Eddie caught your eye, pausing to look up at you. “What?” he asked. “You waiting on me?”

“Um.” You made yourself look back at the screen. “Yeah, I want to win fair and you’re taking too long. So. Uh. Let’s play.”

Without another word, you shot the first level and the two of you were off, trying to kill as many bad guys as you could. Though, they were kinda lame, just some guys in hoodies and sunglasses. A few of them were women which you appreciated, but they were the only ones who seemed like they had any real backstories. 

You tried not to sneak a glance over at Eddie’s score, but you couldn’t help it. You were winning. He seemed to be struggling, glancing over at you every so often. His frustrated looks sat in your peripheral, leaving you with a shit eating grin on your face as you took your sweet time. 

“What the hell,” he said when it hit game over.

You pretended to blow smoke off of your plastic gun before putting it back. “You were just smashing the trigger,” you said. “So, that’s, what? Two points for me, two for you?”

Eddie sighed. “Guess I deserved that one.”

You smirked. 

The claw machine was the final destination, lined in yellow and emitting a neon glow. Turning to look at Eddie, you saw the neon illuminating his dark eyes which were solely on you. 

You nearly did a double take, suddenly overwhelmed by the exposure.

“What?” you asked.

“What?” he retorted, smirking.

“You’re staring at me.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’re really pretty.”

Your gut twisted again. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Yeah, of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?’

“I feel like you look at me as some, I don’t know, clownish hag or something.”

“Clownish hag?” he repeated.

“Or something.”

Eddie laughed. “You’re just saying that because that’s how you see me.”

“You think that I think you’re a clownish hag?”

“Isn’t that why you’re so annoyed by me?”

“No, I’m annoyed by you because your goal in life is to make mine miserable.”

“Sure, yeah. Let’s go with that.” You rolled your eyes. “So how do you see me then? Hm?” “I mean, a guy like you already knows how pretty he is. I don’t think I have to be the one to tell you that.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Pretty, huh?”

“What?” you asked, blinking.

“You think I’m pretty, too.”

“Objectively, yes.”

“Objectively,” he repeated, snorting.

“You can’t deny it.”

“Only if you don’t deny finding me pretty.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Alright. Come on.” He gestured towards the machine. “Go ahead and try.”

Your eyes lingered on him for possibly a second too long before you returned your attention to the claw machine. Hitting the start button, you moved the claw around the box. You were sure this was going to fail. There was no other way for this to go.

Eddie called me pretty.

It was a rigged system. You give them your money, left with the unspoken contract that this was a game of chance. You paid for what you got in the end. No take backs. No refunds. What you ended up with was what you ended up with. There was no return to the way things were before you gave away something so special. 

Eddie called me pretty.

But in the end, there really was nothing left to lose. So, you slammed your hand down on the button.

Eddie called me pretty.

Slowly, the claw extended and fell against a small tiger plushie. It clamped down on its head before slowly rising. You gasped as it stayed secure and moved towards the safety box inside. Then, the claw opened.

And you won.

Almost simultaneously, you and Eddie erupted in shrieks, jumping up and down as you stared at the machine in disbelief. 

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed.

His eyes sparkled. “You did it!” 

“I know! That was crazy!”

Eddie laughed and gave you a high five. “That was amazing.”

You shrugged. “I’m the best, what can I say?”

“Can’t disagree with you there, sweetheart.”

You felt your eyes widen, mirroring the same exact movement now coming from him. 

Sweetheart.

Of all the names you’d been given from crushes, part-time lovers, and partners, never had you heard the word sweetheart.

It sent a wave of bubbles to your gut before floating up, up, up and into your throat. You tried to clear it, but nothing could get it out. Eddie held your stare, seemingly unable to make a comment. Unable to call you out for what you surely knew he knew despite you not really knowing for yourself. 

What was happening?

“Eddie?”

You heard him take a sharp inhale as his name left your lips. It was the first time you’d uttered it out loud. To yourself. To someone else.

To him.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded, slowly. “Anything.”

You could feel yourself unraveling. “Do you really want to be my friend?” you whispered.

Eddie’s expression softened. “Of course I do.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even blink.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

The catch in your throat was enough.

Eddie’s hands lifted, fingers slowly curling around your cheeks before bringing your lips to his. 

It was the meteor you never saw coming. A gentle kind of impact. It’s intense and explosive, but there’s safety. Somehow, Eddie’s the reason why. 

He was gone too quickly, not giving you enough time to process why he was making you feel this way. But his eyes met yours and suddenly he was the breathless one.

“Uh, sorry,” he said, taking slow blinks.

You didn’t know what to say. Too many questions were caught in your throat. Was this manipulation? Was this real? And if it was, did that mean he liked you? Did that mean that you liked him?

But Eddie began to take a step back and it angered you to no end.

“Don’t you dare,” you grumbled, grabbing onto that stupid open collar of his. “Come here.” You pulled him back toward you, connecting your lips once more.

The trance fixed itself, your brain struck with neon pixels of excitement, of bewilderment. There was this need to completely consume him. To take his breath as your own so that you may understand who he is and what makes this so different.

You knew you’d never be the same after this ended.

Eddie was quick to reverse the roles, turning you around pulling you to the other side of the claw machine, hiding you both. You had no problem shoving him against the wall, both hands on his chest now. 

He broke through your arms, reaching for your jaw once more and dragging you closer. As if that were possible. As if there was any space left between your bodies. 

It wasn’t desire. It was necessity.

Your fingers locked around his hips, digging your fingernails as hard as you could. It was instinctual, like there was no other way this could go.

He let out a deep moan, sounding more like a growl than anything else. It sprung you further as you pressed your hips against his. You found friction and chased it without hesitation. 

Hands moved down to your neck, squeezing ever so lightly.

Your goosebumps rose like static electricity. 

But then someone cleared their throat. Loudly.

You jumped away, turning to find the kid from the counter. “Uh, yeah, hi. Please stop making out in the arcade.”

“Oh, sorry,” you said.

All he did was shrug and walk away.

Slowly, your heart slowed down and you dared yourself to look back at Eddie, his pink lips coated in your lipstick.

His eyes were already on yours, but you could see little flickers to your lips. It restarted that pumping, pushing you to take a step forward.

So did he.

His hand found your elbow and drew you forward.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“That was…” he trailed.

“It was what?” you asked, feeling dread pool in your stomach.

He paused. Too long, your thoughts echoed. Too long.

And that’s when it finally hit you.

Eddie hadn’t given you a second glance before the book club debacle started. There was no indication of interest or intrigue, settling on December as the start date of his ventures. December, when it was finalized that the two of you would be sponsoring together. 

He’d come into the break room for lunch. He had to know you’d be in there, had to know already that you were co-sponsors. Why else would he try to rile you up? Why else would he try to befriend you?

He was tricking you.

This had been his plan all along. 

He was trying to get you to forget all about the book club. He was trying to take it for himself. You knew he’d certainly read enough books to know how to do it. 

This was what men did. They got you alone, vulnerable, and then stabbed you in the back. Their games were always the same. 

You’d grown up, but you were still just as naive as you were at eleven. Fifteen. Nineteen. Twenty-five.

“What am I doing?” you wondered out loud, glancing at him one last time before you turned and walked towards your coat and purse.

Eddie didn’t follow you.

Once more, you smoothed the wrinkles in your white button down and red floral skirt. Your heel-clad feet ached as you leaned against the desk at the head of the room. Next to you was Eddie, back to his bun and waiter uniform. He stood a few feet away, but you were more than conscious of his presence.

It was cumbersome, lighting your skin on fire as you gave fake smiles to every student filing into your classroom at three-ten in the afternoon. The tension was palpable, found in the awkward silence that rested between the two of you.

One by one, the students sat down and made small talk with their friends. They laughed and giggled, eyes flickering over to you two every so often.

But at three-fifteen, you heard Eddie clear his throat.

“We’re going to start by re-introducing ourselves,” he started.

You both said your names.

You couldn’t help but glance over at Eddie, watching as he did the same.

Quickly averting your gaze, you took a quick breath and looked back at the kids.

“So,” you said. “Who wants to go first?”

requested tagging: @anukulee, @twihard28, @doorlesscub00, @whisperingwillowxox, @ubiquitous-corvids, @kellsck

thank you to @littlexdeaths for her dividers :')

[absolutebl]

10 Best BL Shows with the Hottest Sexitimes

Because this is English and word order matters, this title means the show itself has to be good AS WELL AS the scenes high heat, as opposed to the best sex scenes in BL. The two are not necessarily the same list. Anyway I tried to pick both high heat and a fun show. This was hard (pun intended).

FYI expect triggers with your high heat.

(Oh right. For me to get a 3/3 heat rating the BL has simulated sex in it or very close to it. And usually one or more other sexual acts like bjs, a-ply, etc...)

So, I went to the spreadsheet, and sorted it by high heat and then ranking, and here is what I got. I think #1 will surprise you. What will not surprise you is it's mostly Thai and Taiwanese.

10. TharnType (and follow ups)

Thai 2019 Viki

Should it still rank, all these years later? I am sorry to say, yes it should. University setting, great acting and complex characters, interesting friendship groups, enemies to lovers, seriously angsty coming out, high production values, AMAZING chemistry, multiple BL side couples with all the issues, damaging queer rep, strong seme/uke and husband/wife language, classic tropes and lots of them bad.

But it's famous for a reason.

This was KinnPorsche before KinnPorsche.

9. Addicted: Heroin

China 2016 Viki

When Chinese BL was good it was very dirty good and when it was bad it was censored. This is the model for that statement: rich kid falls madly for the genius poor kid in his class, starts an aggressive pursuit, includes kidnapping for love, obsession, stepbrother trope, plus some cheating. I love this BL because of what I could have been.

Just stop watching it after The Sex Scene. Okay?

8. Love Stage!!

Thai 2022 YouTube

This BL surprised me with its charm. The acting was good, the leads were appealing, support cast on point, and the production values high. It followed the original manga story arc relatively closely: boy falls in love with girl as a child, grows up to discover girl is actually a very pretty boy.

Although there are some quintessentially Thai changes that mellowed, softened, and extended the romance arc and heat levels.

7. HIStory 4: Close to You

Taiwan 2021 Viki

Nancy Chen directs, the side dish plot is basically a pastiche of problematic BL tropes inherited from the above. Great chemistry, high heat, stepbrothers, dubcon, obsession, stalker etc…

They sexy tho.

6. My Day

Pinoy 2020 YouTube

The set up on this one is enemies (also boss/employee) and they don’t like each other to start. But that gets resolved pretty quickly. And then they are some of the cutest, hottest, and best boyfriends ever.

This is an under-appreciated BL, IMHO.

5. Cutie Pie

Thai 2022 YouTube

Very high production (and heat) and a lot of visual references to live action yaoi gave this show a whiff of Japan but ultimately it stayed firmly in Thailand’s BL camp veering from absurd to appealing to annoying and then back to absurd again. If you can roll with the arranged marriage conceit and very lifestyle D/s relationships, the chemistry is spot on even if the plot is naff and driven by miscommunication.

Watch this one for the pretty, give it a pass on depth. (It has depth, it just depth of tongue kisses.)

Also the follow up: Naughty Babe

4. Bed Friend

Thai 2023 YouTube but for high heat you'll net to watch on iQIYI

Office frienamies transition a flaming hot one night stand into a f-buddy relationship that is built on a puppy/cat dynamic (and kinks into it at one point). Our puppy is loyal, smitten, and protective with endlessly longing eyes, while our cat is snarky, prickly, and deeply damaged (ALL THE TRIGGERS).

NetJames give lovely high-heat with excellent chemistry and tuned-in performances of surprising depth, unfortunately the story ultimately failed them. Had the show had the strength of its convictions and kept to a tighter, darker, harsher 8 eps it would have been the first high heat to earn a 10/10 from me, but once they fussed with it, it dropped to a solid 8/10. Could have been great but was overworked.

Still if high heat is your thing, this one will not let you down.

3. HIStory 3: Trapped

Taiwan 2019 Viki

Basically the definition of enemies to lovers from Lin Pei Yu. This is a cop + the mafia man he is chasing but WAIT, they fall in love. Added bonus side couple: assassin and nerd cop ALSO falling in love. It’s great. All the leads are stellar. Its high heat, fun action, and a bit of a mystery drama but pretty about all of it.

My only warning is that the main couple doesn’t entirely end up together, it’s implied, but… amorphous ending.

2. Why R U?

Thai 2020 Viki

No one knows what’s going on, not even the characters, but absolutely no one cares 'cause it's so thirsty. The plot seems to be "great chemistry and make sure Zee's shirts are NEVER BUTTONED PROPERLY." We, the collective, have a pro Hawaiian shirt anti-button stance, so rah rah rah! (Still the most confusing thing about this show is: why they didn't just title it YRU?)

The FighterTuror sex scenes still stand as some of the best ever fielded in a Thai BL. I will not be entertaining opposition on this matter.

1. Be Loved In House: I Do

Taiwan 2021 Viki

A cute classy office set BL with a few plot raised eyebrows, but no other concerns. ALL THE TROPES plus a general sweet softness that’s pretty rare from Taiwan, who usually prefer to go hard, but all their signature domesticity.

There is one high heat sex scene and it's great. But it's the whole package of classic sappy Taiwanese BL that puts this at the very top for me.

Generally just v high heat?

Hottest sex scenes in BL is frankly gonna be largely a matter of your personal taste.

But if the ones mentioned above don't work try:

KinnPorsche

Love in the Air

Big Dragon

HIStory 3; MODC (the BL that shall not be named)

Be Mine Super Star

Manner of Death (and anything else with MaxTul)

Oh My Sunshine Night (sides)

Secret Crush on You

Wedding Plan

Most dark JBL has very good high heat, but... ya know.

For @samara44 by request.

Dated Nov 2023, not responsible for amazing high head that came after.

(source)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 5: Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, Otto being the worst (per usual), violence, serious injury, cryptic Helaena prophecies, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), dragons, demented flirting, a late-night surprise, Larys Strong returns. 😞

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Of All The Gin Joints In All The World” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.3k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

The sun would burn him, but moonlight is kind. You’re on the balcony of Aegon’s bedchamber, two chairs, two cups of wine, another full pitcher on the table between you, a glass bottle of warm rose oil like amber, like gold, freckled with curled ruby petals. You’re dressed in your usual attire, simple designs and neutral colors, greys and creams and dusky pinks; tonight your gown is a flat, inky blue that matches the night sky. Aegon is wearing his unpretentious cotton trousers—stained with splotches of pomegranate juice, his recompense before you allowed him the wine—and a tiny braid in his shaggy, silver hair.

“I look like your house’s sigil,” Aegon says as he massages rose oil onto his forearms, his palms moving in large sloppy circles over a patchwork of scar tissue; you would do a better job, but he says he wants to learn how to care for his wounds on his own. His dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—gleams in the cool, ghostly moonshine. His words are teasing, but his tone is dark, troubled, weary. “Some red, some white. All ugly.”

You smile. You aren’t agreeing, just playing along. “Our motto is better than our flag.”

“I might have been inebriated during that lesson.”

“Perpetual Resurrection.”

Aegon looks at you, confounded. “Quite the mouthful.”

“Crabs molt throughout their lifetime. They crack their own skins open and climb out. If they get stuck, they die. If they get attacked before their new shell hardens, they die. But if they live…they’re a brand new version of themselves. Larger, wiser, more powerful.”

“Spiders,” Aegon says. “You’re trying to placate me with some rousing metaphor about what are essentially aquatic spiders.”

“They’re tasty too,” you say, grinning. “Especially when their shells are still soft. The cooks would serve them fried and us kids would sit around the table ripping the legs free and throwing them at each other.”

“What, you can eat the crab whole?!”

“Yes. Once the faces are cut off and the organs scooped out.”

He pretends to be repulsed by you. “Harrowing. Revolting. This is why Targaryens have always refused to breed with your kind.”

It’s funny, but it isn’t, because it’s a little too close to what you’re both thinking. Under the moonlight, you watch Aegon with the words caged behind your teeth: What do you want most? Who are you in your bones? Where would we be if the world wasn’t crashing down around us?

He slathers rose oil on his scarred right cheek—carelessly, distractedly—and accidentally pokes himself in the eye. “Ow.”

You ask: “Why do you want to do that yourself now?”

“To prove I can. To feel ever so slightly less like an invalid.” He takes a swig of his wine and gazes out over the nightscape ocean, stars in the sky, stars reflected on waves. “I am a study in irony. I spent my whole life waiting for it to be over. I poisoned myself, wasted years, resisted any semblance of usefulness. And now I finally have things I want to accomplish, I finally have reasons to live…and I’m trapped in the flesh of some pathetic, deformed, calamitously weak stranger.” He shakes his head, despondent, still not looking at you. “I can have a body that works. I can have a soul. But I can’t have both at the same time. It’s so fucking unfair.”

“I like you exactly as you are. Body and soul.”

“Everything I own, everything I’m given…” He stares down at his palms, open and empty. “It is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I think I’m going to be ruined either way. I’d rather you be the one responsible.”

“Angel,” he says, low and serious. And now his gaze comes back to meet yours. “Who are you supposed to marry?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want it to be true. Your voice is a whisper, almost lost in the night wind. “Cregan Stark.”

His eyes shoot wide, not just startled but terrified. “Stark?!”

You nod miserably. “My father took me and my sisters to Winterfell as part of a trade mission. Cregan decided he wanted me. I never encouraged it, I never desired it, I swear I didn’t—”

“No, I believe you,” Aegon says. He swallows a gulp of wine noisily, his hand shaking. “You were right. I can’t touch him. I can’t stop it. Not unless I win.”

“You don’t want the Iron Throne,” you tell Aegon, already knowing it’s true.

He snorts, a harsh derisive sound. “Who would?”

“Lots of people, I think. But not you or Rhaenyra.”

This intrigues him. “She doesn’t want it either?”

“Not from what I’ve seen and heard. Or, at least, she didn’t until Luke was killed. It changed her. I’m still not convinced she wants to be the queen, but she wants vengeance. And absolute power is a sure path to it.” And so the suffering continues, it goes around and around like a wheel, it is a debt that is never satisfied but only spread like plague.

“I don’t understand why Aemond did that,” Aegon says. His words are hushed, like he’s never spoken them to anyone but you and never will. “When he returned from Storm’s End, I held a feast for him. I had to, someone had to, someone had to pretend it was a victory instead of a murder. But it didn’t make any sense. Arrax was an inconvenience, not a threat. Luke was far more valuable as a hostage than a corpse. Aemond has always been the disciplined brother, the strategic one. I won’t claim to be clever. But I can’t find any strategy in what happened there.”

“Aemond has a temper. He is haunted, I believe. He is not above reckless fury.”

“No, evidently not.” Aegon sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair; again, his dragon ring glints under the moonlight, silver reflected off gold. “I’ll try to win,” he says. “For my family. For you.” Then he smirks, a grim attempt at humor. “Though I pity Cregan Stark for the paradise I will deprive him of.”

You do not return Aegon’s smile. “Don’t have too much pity for him. I have no expertise and I’m scared to death of it. I’d probably end up hiding under his bed, gripping the legs for dear life. He’d have to drag me out and tie me down.”

Aegon is alarmed; his storm-blue eyes are now focused, seeking. He is aware that he has wandered into a quagmire. He treads carefully. “When you say no expertise, you mean…none at all?”

“None.”

“But what about all of those anatomically-correct cock illustrations in your medical books?”

Another joke you can’t bring yourself to laugh at. You drink your wine to stop your lips from quivering, smooth the silk of your gown with a trembling hand. You see it no matter where you look: the pool of red on Theodora’s bedsheets, the dawning and inescapable realization on her face. This is her life now. This will always be her life.

Aegon says gently: “You have no expectation of pleasure.”

“It seems…inherently violent. For the woman. Even if it isn’t meant to be. Being overpowered, being invaded. The man decides when and how it happens. The woman endures.”

Aegon stares at you—biting his full lower lip, deeply somber—but doesn’t speak. He gives you the impression of someone with so many thoughts swimming around in his skull he is struggling to choose just one.

You smile dimly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”

“I’m, um…” Aegon pauses to collect himself; he drains his wine cup and sets it back on the table. He is uncharacteristically cautious, like he thinks one unwise word will break the spell of whatever exists between you, this temptation, this need. “I’m saddened by the fact that you think of it that way. Because it doesn’t have to be…distasteful. Frightening. Coerced. It shouldn’t be, in fact.”

“I suppose I’ll find out if the Blacks win this war and Cregan Stark comes to claim me.”

Again, Aegon is exceptionally circumspect. “You’ve never wanted any man?”

“No. Never. Not in that way. Until…” You look at him, willing him to understand. I want you, but I’m so goddamn afraid to. I’m afraid of this world, I’m afraid there’s no hope left in it.

Slowly, Aegon smiles, soft and warm. And without any grasping, animalistic greed, he reaches over to rest a palm on your thigh, night-dark silk draped over skin that doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t even have to fight the instinct to. You place a hand on his. Your fingertips trace the gold wings of the green-eyed dragon ring he never takes off. And it is sealed like a covenant under the stars, this allegiance that neither of you could begin to explain to anyone else.

Footsteps are coming through Aegon’s bedchamber, heavy and purposeful. Otto Hightower appears in the balcony doorway. He fills the space like storm clouds flood a clear sky, like blood saturates linen. “You’re getting fat,” he tells Aegon gruffly.

“You’re getting ever more wrinkly and close to the afterlife.”

Otto glances to where Aegon’s hand still rests on your thigh and snaps: “If you’re well enough for that, perhaps you would deign to join us in the council chamber. You could shock everyone by actually acting like a king.”

Then he’s gone, taking those last echoes of the moment with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

“They know she’s here,” Larys Strong says. His audience is gathered around the table: Otto, Criston, Daeron, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, the knights of the Kingsguard, Aegon slumped way down in his seat and you beside him feeling his forehead worriedly for fever. Because Aegon and Daeron are in attendance, the council chamber is one chair short. Aemond has elected to be the person to stand; he lurks, severe and silent, in a corner of the room half-lit by torchlight. Daeron is dressed in a vibrant teal, Aegon in black; Aemond wears green, dark and brooding like envy.

Criston Cole asks: “How is that possible?”

Otto sighs irritably, rubbing his forehead. “We have spies. I’m sure Rhaenyra does as well.”

“Someone apparently glimpsed the prince regent…um…” Larys searches for the diplomatic word. “Escorting her through the streets of King’s Landing.”

“Dragging is what he did,” Aegon says, glaring at Aemond. “Abducting. Attacking. Imprisoning.” Aemond, arms crossed over his chest, studies his boots and pretends not to have heard him.

Larys continues: “The Blacks don’t believe that she is here of her own volition.”

Otto’s eyes narrow. “What, they think we’ve detained her as some sort of…healer? Hostage?”

“No, my lord,” Larys says, hesitantly, awkwardly. “They don’t imagine the king’s motivations to be that honorable.”

Otto is losing his patience. “Meaning?”

Larys toys with his restless, rodentlike hands. “They think she is being…violated.”

A stilted, scandalized hush falls over the table. “Good,” Aegon says, invoking gasps and gapes. “If Green supporters believe her to be my captive, they won’t harm her. And if the Blacks think she is being held here against her will, she would be safe with them as well. No matter who wins, she is not in danger.”

“That is hardly beneficial for your own reputation, Your Grace,” Tyland Lannister says.

Aegon grins beneath cold eyes; he shows his teeth like a wolf, like a dragon. “Was my reputation so pristine to begin with, Lord Lannister?”

“No, perhaps not,” Tyland mumbles. Still, he should not have said it aloud. Otto huffs another sigh and rolls his eyes.

“So you intend to keep a Celtigar daughter in your service?” Otto says to Aegon.

“I have no doubts concerning her loyalty.”

Larys adds: “My lord, I must say, I cannot see a tactical advantage in her saving the king’s life if she retains any loyalty to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

“Then why save him at all? Why bother? He was lying there half-dead, soon to be properly dead, and she brought him back practically singlehandedly. Why?”

“Mercy,” Aemond says quietly from the corner, and everyone turns to look at him. “Many people have none of it. She perhaps has too much. And now they have grown…” He gestures vaguely, perhaps bashfully. “Attached to each other.”

Jasper Wylde is dismayed. “But the king has a wife.”

Daeron snickers. “Yes, and that has always proved to be such a deterrent in the past.”

“Daeron,” Aegon cautions mildly.

The youngest Targaryen brother obediently sobers and shows the palms of his hands in contrition. “My apologies.” He hides his face with a slurp of his wine cup.

“And what about Cregan Stark?!” Otto exclaims. “You’d encourage his outrage, his Northerner savagery? Seven hells, he thinks you’re spending your days raping his betrothed, do you imagine that will not invoke fiercer wrath, put all of us at greater risk?!”

“Lord Stark was never a reachable ally to our cause, in my estimation,” Larys says calmly.

“That’s not the point, Larys! The point is—!”

“I can offer you something in return for the heightened danger you have assumed,” you interrupt, and these men stare at you as if suddenly remembering that you are here in the room with them, not a phantom or a myth or a cautionary tale but someone real. Aegon glances over, one eyebrow raised on his drawn, perspiring face. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say either.

Otto peers menacingly across the table. “What could you possibly have to barter with? The king is well enough now. He will live with or without you.”

“I have information. I know the workings of Rhaenyra’s council in the leadup to Rook’s Rest.”

“You attended her council meetings?”

“No, but I spent evenings with my father and brothers as they discussed them.”

Otto sits back in his chair, pondering you. After a moment, he nods. “Go on then.”

“I want one concession before I reveal what I know.”

“Besides being permitted indefinite room and board in the Red Keep, which you are in no way entitled to?”

“Not negotiable,” Aegon says.

Otto chuckles, humorless, incredulous, shaking his head. “Fucking insane. Alright. What is it you want, girl?”

“If any member of House Celtigar is taken captive, I want them to be given the opportunity to swear fealty to King Aegon and receive a full pardon for their sins. If they refuse, they are to go to the Night’s Watch, not the scaffold.”

“That’s your price? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Otto is amused. “Nothing for you? No gold, no land?”

“No.” The prospect hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Not very self-serving. So unlike a Celtigar.” Otto grins, not kindly at all. “Your terms are accepted.”

You begin. “The Greens possess great wealth, now split for safekeeping between Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. But Rhaenyra’s funds are far more finite. My father has enriched her coffers in part with taxes placed upon houses of the Crownlands. You are always seeking new allies, people you can turn from her side to yours, Corlys Velaryon, the Dragonseeds. Thus far, you have been unsuccessful.” Otto frowns, but he is listening. “I know there are families who have compelling grievances concerning my father’s taxes. Families who have become disenchanted with Rhaenyra’s leadership…or lack thereof, they might say. Rosby, Stokeworth, Cave, Langward, Bourney, Boggs, Hardy, Chyttering. Probably others as well now. They occupy a tactically significant position, being so near to Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I believe if you wrote to them, they would answer.”

“I’ll send ravens,” Otto says. He marvels at you, like a puzzlingly strange creature, a luminescent fang-toothed fish from the depths of the ocean, a direwolf from beyond the Wall. “You don’t want your side to win this war?”

“I want the killing to stop. For both sides.”

“Well, you won’t get that. The bitch will never surrender. That hope died with little Luke Strong.” Otto glowers bitterly at where Aemond stands in the shadowy corner, but he addresses you. “That is your impression as well? She was entertaining the possibility of a truce before he died at Storm’s End?”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond, and you are struck by an unexpected stab of sympathy for him, compassion that feels like a betrayal of your knowledge of the torture he had planned for you. But what is there to say but the truth? “Rhaenyra was considering it very seriously. She and Daemon quarreled over the subject.”

“Of course they did.” Otto looks at Criston, then back to Aemond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Criston answers for the prince regent. “Very soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Otto spits like venom, and everyone else averts their eyes.

“My lord,” Larys intercedes. “There is one more matter to discuss, and I believe it will be of great interest to His Grace the king.”

Aegon is struggling to concentrate. He blinks groggily at the Master of Whisperers, his brow creased with pain. You smooth his damp, white-blond hair back from his face, threading his braid through your fingertips; you refill his wine cup and give it to him. When Aegon lifts it to his lips, his hands shake so badly he spills scarlet beads like blood down his chin. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Grand Maester Orwyle offers him a small glass bottle of milk of the poppy, but Aegon refuses it.

“Is he alright?” Daeron mutters to you.

“He’s fine. He’s tired, that’s all.”

“Waste no time, Lord Larys,” Aegon says. “I fear Grandsire’s ire has exhausted me. He’s more ferocious than a dragon. We should find a saddle that fits, perhaps Criston could ride him to the Riverlands.”

“Keep guzzling wine, I’m sure that will improve your condition,” Otto bites back.

Larys continues: “It concerns Rook’s Rest.”

Now he has everyone’s attention. “What about Rook’s Rest?” Aegon says. Instinctively, he’s begun twisting the golden dragon ring on his left hand.

“I received word one hour ago that the Blacks have retaken it.”

“What?!” Otto shouts; the rest of the table is in uproar. Criston stands and goes to conspire with Aemond in the corner of the council chamber, urgent indecipherable whispers.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon says frantically. “I have to go to him, I have to get him out—”

“He is already gone, Your Grace,” Larys replies.

“Gone…?”

“Lord Walys Mooton went down to the beach to slay the dragon once his men had taken the castle. He was burned alive.”

“Perfect,” Daeron says, beaming radiantly.

“Lord Mooton’s men fled for their lives, and when they returned, Sunfyre had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of Rook’s Rest. Moreover, his footprints in the sand stopped abruptly. Which means he must have departed—”

“Into the water…?” Tyland Lannister says, perplexed.

“No,” Larys corrects him. “Into the sky.”

“Sunfyre is flying again?” Aegon asks, his face childlike, astonished.

“That’s impossible,” Criston says. “His wing was broken, I saw it.”

Larys drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I cannot conceive of any other explanation.”

“Then he’ll find me.” Aegon smiles. Sweat snakes down his temples; his face is white, bloodless, barren like the moon. “When Sunfyre is ready, he’ll find me and we’ll be together again.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Otto exhales. “The Old, the New, that ghastly Drowned one…” He waves a hand at you. “And do you have any to add, Lady Celtigar? Some crab deity your traitorous people worship?”

“I regret to disappoint you, my lord. To my knowledge we have none.”

“Three useable dragons,” Otto says, mostly to himself. “Three is good. With three, we have a chance. And if I can recruit Vermithor or Silverwing…”

“I should go with you when you and Criston march north,” Daeron tells Aemond.

“No,” Aemond returns immediately.

“If you’re going after Daemon, you could use me,” Daeron insists. “Tessarion and I can help.”

“You are needed in the Reach with Lord Ormund Hightower.”

“You just want him all to yourself,” Daeron realizes, exasperated. “You want to be able to say that you were the person to neutralize the Blacks’ greatest asset, that you won the war—!”

Criston says: “He’s not going on some suicide mission chasing Daemon and Caraxes all over the Riverlands. He’s staying with me and the army. He’s using Vhagar logically, responsibly. Right, Aemond?”

“Of course,” Aemond answers, entirely toneless.

Otto whirls to Aegon. “And when will you be able to fight again? Soon, I hope. Surely the culmination of your existence is not one single instance of utility before lapsing back into being some drunken, idiot degenerate.”

In reply, Aegon moans and crumples to the floor. Grand Maester Orwyle and the men of the Kingsguard rush to him, but Criston gets there first; when you cannot rouse the king, Criston throws him over one shoulder—increasingly difficult with each pound Aegon gains, softness and health that you consider a great victory—and ferries him back to bed. As you follow after them, you hesitate in the doorway of the council chamber. Now that Criston is gone, Otto has crossed the room and pinned Aemond to the wall. His large hands, heavy with rings, are pressed to Aemond’s chest; his face is snarling, wicked, callous.

“You have to fix this. You have to end it.”

“I know,” Aemond replies softly.

“Everything that’s happened is your fault.”

“I know,” Aemond says again, then rips free from Otto’s grasp and flees the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Criston leads his army out of the city. They will meet reinforcements on the road between the capital and the Riverlands. There is infantry on foot and cavalry on horses; above them in a blue sky cluttered with vast, cottony clouds are Aemond and Vhagar. As they head north, Daeron and Tessarion fly south towards the Reach to rejoin Ormund Hightower and his men. In Winterfell, Cregan Stark is receiving word of where (and with whom) his betrothed currently resides. At Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are kindling rumors like dry wood in a fire. On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra is nursing her rage and paranoia like a hungry child, like a wounded man who has milk of the poppy poured down his throat. And you remain static here in King’s Landing, anchored, steadfast, something immoveable like the ocean or the shore it meets.

You can see Aegon’s bedchamber windows from the beach. You keep glancing up at them, though you know he won’t be there; the sunlight is too harsh today, the potential damage to his skin too great. In a month, he may be able to venture outside as he used to. In two or three, he might be able to fight again. He might be able to kill more than just one errant Norcross boy who dared to touch you.

“Helaena wouldn’t come down to join us?” you ask Autumn. You’re walking with her in the surf, the hems of your held aloft so the froth of the waves can wash over your ankles. Perhaps ten yards away and out of earshot, Alicent is kneeling in the sand and playing with Jaehaera and Maelor. They are her great comfort now; they are not the only purpose she has left, but they are the kindest. Their tiny hands are preoccupied with building a sandcastle and adorning it with seashells, pebbles, shards of driftwood, strings of seaweed like green ribbons. You’ve started to notice how much Jaehaera resembles Aegon, his murky blue eyes and his high cheekbones and his gentleness that no one else seems to recognize. You’ve started to see him everywhere you look.

Autumn shrugs, her face apologetic. Her hair is more than just copper in the afternoon daylight; it is fire, it is blood. “I really tried. You know how she is.”

“I’ll visit her afterwards.”

“She unnerves me,” Autumn says, stroking her round belly and shuddering. She earns her keep here by helping to look after Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Aegon treats Autumn the same way he treats his wife and children, which is to say he generally ignores her; on the rare occasion he is subjected to her presence for more than a fleeting moment, he becomes uneasy, irritable. Autumn does not appear to be offended. She says this is the best job she’s ever had. “She’s always muttering the strangest things. Caterpillars and crabs and dragons and only the gods know what else. Yesterday she told me not to dance with the half-year queen. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Helaena’s a bit different,” you admit.

“She’s inbred, that’s what she is. I can’t imagine what those kids are going to grow up to be like. A brother and sister for parents? It’s a wonder they don’t have feathers or tails.” Autumn taps the swell of her belly. “At least this one—if it’s a Targaryen after all—has had its bloodline thoroughly diluted.”

You watch her standing there in the fiery late-afternoon light, this body that has comforted, consoled, satisfied, suffered, known so many men. “What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.

“What? Being with child?”

“No, the…um…the act that led to it.”

“Oh, yes.” Autumn stretches with her hands on the small of her back and smiles vaguely, nostalgically. “That’s the strange thing. It can feel like heaven or hell or nothing at all. If the man knows what he’s doing, and cares enough to try, he can make it better for you.”

“Better how?”

She furrows her brow, shoots you a skeptical sideways glance. She is aware that you are inexperienced, but the extent of your blind spots continuously shock her. It occurs to you that perhaps naivety is a privilege; some cannot recall a time before they were acquainted with truths of the world that others consider forbidden. “You know. He’ll use his hands or his mouth to get you ready. Or better yet, both at once.”

“Ready,” you repeat, not understanding.

“Well, you see…” Autumn takes a moment to decide how best to explain. “Men change when they are aroused, yes? Women do the same. It takes longer, and it is not always so obvious. But it is vital. The more ready you are, the more comfortably he will fit inside you.”

“And what if he doesn’t get you ready? If he doesn’t have the skill, or he doesn’t believe it’s necessary, or he doesn’t even know that’s something women require?” Or he just wants to hurt you. He just wants to watch you bleed like something he goes into the woods to kill and gut and devour.

Autumn smirks cynically. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“The sizes involved. Some men are bigger than others, and women have different dimensions as well. Couples can be well-matched or not. Sometimes it isn’t too bad. Sometimes it feels like you’re being ripped apart. And that doesn’t necessarily stop after the first time either.”

“And you can’t say no.”

“You can say no all you want. But he doesn’t have to listen.”

You peer out over Blackwater Bay, sunbeams flashing on wave crests and gulls swooping in the reddening sky. But you don’t really see it. What you see are fingerprints of dirt or ash on your thighs, snow in your hair, books laden with dust, fur coats and evergreen trees, rust-stains of blood on bedsheets.

“I’ve heard that Lord Stark is a very large man,” Autumn nudges. She knows, everyone knows.

“He’s massive,” you say forlornly. “He’s taller than Aemond and twice as broad.”

“The king isn’t so big,” she says, pretending that the thought has just popped into her mind, as if she hasn’t noticed the way you and Aegon look at each other, speak to each other, find excuses to touch each other.

“No,” you agree in a whisper.

“And he’s not a brute. I can’t fairly speak to his skill, I never had him anywhere close to sober. But he has no appetite for women’s pain. That’s a valuable gem in a man, it’s like stumbling across a ruby or a pearl.”

You nod; but you don’t want to think about Autumn lying with Aegon. You don’t want to think about the child they might share. In a world so dark, it seems cruel to begrudge people creating life where none existed before. But when you picture Aegon touching someone else, that darkness seeps in through your skin like rain soaks the earth and can’t find its way out. “We’re going to the library together tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Autumn groans. “Did I agree to that? I don’t believe I did.”

She did not, this is true; you badgered, she deflected. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“I am illiterate.”

“I told you. I’ll teach you how to read.”

“Why would I want to stare at ink marks in a book all day when I could be outside in the sunshine listening to the ocean and herding inbred little freaks like sheep?”

“Because books can take you anywhere,” you say.

“I like where I am. I’ve never seen anyplace better.”

“Okay, Autumn,” you concede, smiling. “I’ll ask again tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll change your mind.”

“Say hello to Helaena for me,” she says, meandering back towards Alicent and the children. Her footprints in the sand are erased when the gurgling waves roll over them. “Maybe one of those fancy books can help you translate lunacy into the Common Tongue.”

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helaena is standing in front of an open window. It doesn’t offer a view of the ocean; it is positioned over a courtyard of sandstone and chatting courtiers. Helaena does not seem to hear them. She gazes out into the sunset, celestial rage on her impassive face.

“He’s leaving soon,” she says, not turning to look at you.

“Who, Helaena? Aemond? He left days ago. He’s already gone, he’s on his way to the Riverlands. But he’ll be back soon.” You don’t know if that’s true—it probably isn’t, in fact—but you’re certain that Helaena misses him. Her children do too; he is more of a father to them than Aegon has ever been, not in body but in soul.

She only repeats: “He’s leaving soon.”

“Helaena, what—?”

“He’ll leave you. Then you’ll leave him. He’ll make you.”

At last, and very slowly, she revolves like the stripe of shadow across a sundial. In her cupped palms is a butterfly, shimmering gold wings and spiderlike black legs. It takes flight, flutters aimlessly through the vermillion air, escapes out the open window.

~~~~~~~~~~

A peculiar twist of fate: his palm on your forehead, his whispers through your hair. Now he is the one who has stolen into your bed when the moon and stars hang high in the darkness outside. There is a noise somewhere beyond him, disembodied and hazy, that reminds you of torrential rain: omnipresent, thunderous.

“Angel,” Aegon is saying. “Wake up. Please wake up. I have to go.”

Go? Go where? You murmur, still half-asleep: “You can’t leave.” He isn’t strong enough yet. He can’t fight, he can’t run.

“I have to. They’re here.”

“Who…?”

The answer comes from the sounds that you are only now awake enough to understand: screaming, pounding boots, slamming doors, the ravenous crackling of fire, the shrieking of dragons. You have learned all of their unearthly voices. That’s not Vhagar or Tessarion or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre… It flashes by your windows, a comet of gold and flames.

You bolt out of bed. “Rhaenyra—?!”

“Rhaenyra, Syrax, Daemon, Caraxes.”

Daemon shouldn’t be here. He should be losing battles to Aemond and Criston. “But he’s at Harrenhal!”

“Not anymore.” Aegon takes your hand and pulls you out into the hallway, the hem of your nightgown billowing around your legs, his short silver hair flying behind him. There are servants and guards rushing by you, weeping, shouting, searching for places to hide. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles towards the rookery to send out ravens. Several rooms away, you can hear Helaena wailing and Autumn trying to soothe her. Larys Strong intercepts Aegon and gives him a hooded cloak; Aegon yanks it over his bare, mutilated chest, whimpering as the rapid movement strains the red-and-ivory disarray of scar tissue that used to be his skin. “You have everything?” he asks Larys hoarsely. You notice now that the Master of Whisperers has a satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, Your Grace. Milk of the poppy, rose oil, the crown.”

“Wine?”

Larys produces a bottle. Aegon gulps down half of it, then passes the rest to you. You hesitate before finishing the wine, red like the sigil of House Celtigar, like fire, like blood. “They are closing all roads out of the city,” Larys tells Aegon, speaking swiftly. “King’s Landing will be taken. We will surrender. We cannot fight a dragon, let alone two.”

“Aemond and Criston—?”

“Daemon must have outflanked them.”

Aegon grabs your hand again and does not let go as he trails Larys through corridors and down claustrophobically tight spiral staircases. “The roads are blocked,” Aegon explains to you breathlessly. “But there are secret passageways beneath the castle. I know them. Larys knows them. Daemon probably knows them too, but he has other places to be.”

And through a window of a staircase, you see him: Caraxes spiraled around the apex of the Tower of the Hand, screaming fire into the sky before descending the length of the tower towards the hoards of hysterical courtiers fleeing below, his claws jostling loose bricks that rain down on them.

The bottom of the stairwell opens up into a large, dusty, dirt-floored chamber with stone tunnels leading in every direction like spokes of a wheel. Alicent is there, sobbing wildly, and so is Otto. Otto is telling Jaehaera that she must be a brave little girl and go with Sir Willis Fell. Alicent is giving Maelor over to Sir Rickard Thorne, your once-alleged-kinfolk. The child is panicked and crying, flushed face and white hair. Aegon glances at the scene and then keeps moving, towing you along with him.

“Princess Jaehaera will go to Storm’s End,” Larys says. “Prince Maelor will go to Oldtown. They face execution if they stay. We must risk smuggling them out of the city.”

“What about Aegon?” you ask as the three of you hasten into a corridor thick with cobwebs and illuminated by torchlight. The stone ceiling is arched and perhaps seven feet tall; faintly, you can still hear the muffled turmoil of King’s Landing falling to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“I’m going Dragonstone.” And it does not elude you that he didn’t say we. “If Rhaenyra is here, that likely means Dragonstone is vacant. I will go to the Crownlands families that you believe to be willing to betray her and beg them for support. I will take Dragonstone and prepare a counterassault from there. Hopefully Sunfyre will find me. Hopefully I’m not killed on the way.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m going too.”

“You’re staying in King’s Landing.”

“No.” You stop dead, wrenching your hand out of Aegon’s. “No, what if you get hurt, or sick, or what if you get really bad again—?!”

“Listen!” he shouts with dire intensity, his eyes wide and pleading in the torchlight. “I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect myself. There could be bandits on the road, there could be Black soldiers, there could be animals, there could be fucking anything. I can’t take you with me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Dragonstone. But I know if I stay here Rhaenyra will murder me. I don’t have a choice. I have one option, and it’s not good. But you’ll be safe in King’s Landing.”

“Aegon, no—”

“The Blacks don’t think you’re here by choice. They think I’ve imprisoned you. Tell them that’s what happened and they will welcome you back. Your family will protect you.”

“Aegon, please don’t—”

His palm on your cheek, his braid coming unraveled in his hair. “You will wait out the war with them. And when it’s over I’ll find you.” Tears glistening in his eyes, his voice going soft and tender. “If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. I swear to all the gods I will.”

He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “What can I do?” you ask, your words strangled; your throat is burning, your eyes wet. “What can I do to help you?”

And you expect him to say things you already know: Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard in the Greens’ council meetings. Instead, Aegon grins as he says: “Try to get one of your three superfluous sisters to seduce Cregan Stark.”

You laugh, the sound echoing off ancient, filthy stones.

“My mother and Otto are waiting for you. You will be with them when they are taken to Rhaenyra. They are high-ranking prisoners of war, they will be spared the brutality of the Black soldiers and so will you. They will corroborate that you were my captive.”

“I understand.���

“I have to go now,” Aegon says like an apology, swiping tears from your face with his thumbs. He breaks away from you and follows Larys Strong down the tunnel. They are shadows under the torchlight, cloaks and whispers.

“Aegon,” you call after him, and he stops. I never told you what I wanted. I never told you what I feel for you. “What if I never see you again?”

You don’t know what you want him to do or say. There’s nothing that could make this right. But he soars back to you, takes you roughly and desperately, buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply, tasting like wine and heat and the smoke filling the world outside. He means for it to be quick, but he can’t stop. His tongue darts between your lips, his hips press to yours, you arch into him wanting more, infinitely more.

What was I so afraid of? you think dizzily. How could I be afraid of anything with him?

“Your Grace,” Larys appeals regretfully. “Please. We don’t have much time.”

Aegon twists off his dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—and slips it onto your left hand. And you’re still staring down at it, mystified, as Aegon disentangles himself from you and vanishes into the darkness.

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

mr. clean

pairing: pre-re2 leon x best friend's mom reader

cw: oral sex, older woman/younger man, smut and fluff

summary: the part two to cool mom's countdown! there will likely be a part three as well (bc they're falling in love) but basically, leon just learns to eat pussy in this one lol

a/n: the title is a reference to the yung gravy song of the same name (i couldn't decide which lyric i wanted to make the title, plus leon would never say any of those things he's too sweet)

wc: 1.8k

link to part 1

It was Spring the next time you saw Leon.

You kept your distance when Leon first arrived, only making an appearance to serve snacks to the boys. Your poor planning left you alone that night. You were hoping to get a moment alone with Leon to propose the idea of having more personal time together that night or the next morning. Leon didn’t need to be asked, he snuck downstairs and found you on the back porch, sipping a cup of tea. 

You heard the sliding door squeak and you turned to find a handsome young blond. You tried not to smile too big, fearing you’d develop wrinkles. 

“I couldn’t sleep…” Leon said, stepping out into the cool midnight air.

“Funny,” you said, brushing a hand across his cheek, “you look pretty sleepy to me.”

His eyelids drooped and he looked like he was about to doze off standing up. 

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you remembered that I always have trouble sleeping, so you stayed up to come see me.”

“Maybe…”

“How’d you find me out here?”

“You always come out here. I remember when I was little and I really couldn’t sleep and you let me drink some of your tea.”

“Oh yeah,” you said, recalling the memory, “and you hated it.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you wanna try it now that you’re all grown-up?” you teased. 

“Sure.”

You handed him the mug and he sipped it. He paused, waited for the aftertaste, and then shook his head.

“Still don’t like it, huh?”

“No, but, uh, thank you for letting me try it again…” He handed it back to you, daintily despite his large hands. 

“I’m assuming you didn’t come out here to ask for a sip of my tea,” you say. 

“No, ma’am,” he said, scratching the back of his head nervously, “I guess I just like being around you.”

“Well, thank you, honey,” you said, rubbing his shoulder. You had the comforting touch of a mother, you could coax him into meeting your eyes without a single word spoken. 

He hadn’t changed too much - same baby blue eyes, same bashful smile. You wondered if anything about him had changed - a girlfriend? Were you still the only woman lucky enough to get your hands on him? The subject naturally came up during your conversation.  

“Are there girls at the academy?” you asked him. 

“Not like you.”

“What am I like?” You were giggling like a teenager, struck by Cupid’s arrow for the first time. 

“Beautiful.” There was a certain weight to it. It wasn’t ‘you’re so sexy’ like men your age would drunkenly slur out, begging you to come home with them. Leon was sober, untainted by alcohol, heartache, or even time. The moonlight reflected on his face, making him look angelic. Rightfully so

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, apropos of nothing, and yet, expected all the same. 

You hummed an affirmative as you leaned in and pressed your lips against Leon’s. His lips were pillowy soft and you couldn’t help but imagine what else he could do with them. It didn’t go further than kissing that night. You pulled back, smiled at him and said, “Why don’t you stay a little while tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You made breakfast for the boys and sent your son off to baseball practice.

“Do you want a ride home, Leon?” he called on his way out. 

“No,” you stepped in, giving him the alibi, “He’s going to help me with some housework… since I don’t get any help from you.” Yeah, the accusation, that got him to leave swiftly. Couldn’t get him to do the dishes if his life depended on it. 

From behind you, Leon asked, “What kind of housework are we doing?” 

You laughed, “None, baby, not unless you really want to. I was planning on doing something a little more fun.”

“Oh, sure, yeah, I’m fine with whatever you want.” Always so eager to please, Leon probably would have done chores for you if you’d asked him. You weren’t one to take advantage of such a sweet boy, though. 

“How about you come upstairs with me?” You stretched out your hand for him to take, and you led him to your bedroom. 

You immediately reclined on the bed while Leon lingered in the doorway, unsure of what to do. 

“Come sit down,” you said, patting the spot next to you. 

When he climbed into your bed, he sat close to you, his sweatpants against your bare thigh. “Leon?” you said softly. 

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever gone down on a girl?”

“No, not yet.”

“Would you like to?”

“If you’ll teach me how.”

“Of course. It’s not hard.”

His eyes lit up at the idea of you teaching him. You figured he might be the type of guy who’d be into that sort of thing. A mama’s boy, a teacher’s pet.

“What do I do first?”

“We should probably start by just kissing before we get to that.”

“Oh yeah, I can do that.”

His kisses began soft and slow, you had to coax him into deeper, tongue-filled kisses, but he was a fast learner. You felt his breath quicken and his dick getting hard against your leg as you continued kissing him. 

“Can I see you?” He asked, tugging at the hem of your shirt. 

“Yeah. In fact, it was getting a little hot in here.” You winked and removed your shirt. 

He marveled at your breasts which were still concealed by your bra. You wore a pretty lace one for him, and the discomfort was well worth it to see his eyes widen with desire. 

“Think you can handle taking it off?” You asked. It took an experienced man to take off a bra, so you didn’t expect much from Leon. Just trying was enough. 

“I’ll try my best.”

“Good.”

You played with his hair and watched the redness rise in his cheeks. He fumbled with the clasp with shaky hands. Clearly he didn’t have much experience. It took him a moment, but he was successful.

“I’m proud of you, honey.” Your words were genuine, he could hear it in your voice, and it made his heart flutter. 

“Thank you,” he said, his pitch faltering. 

Most men who entered your bedroom did so at night, usually a bit drunk, none of them bothering to turn on the lights. The light illuminating your body was an unavoidable one. You had Leon in the morning, and he made you feel okay with the idea of being seen - his adoration for you made you shy. To be loved is to be known, to be known is to be seen in the daylight.

His fingers trembled when he unbuttoned your jeans, but he managed to get the zipper down. His appetite was his only helper, he yearned for something he’d never had the fortune of tasting.

“Just do what feels right. As long as you don’t bite, I’m sure you’ll do great.”

He gulped and nodded, sliding your panties down. They matched your bra. You dressed up all sexy for him, though he would’ve happily taken you without all the frills. Maybe that’s why you put more effort into your appearance when you were with him. To match his utter devotion (you would only ever feel half the admiration he would for you). He revered you as a goddess. 

 You noticed his hesitation. “Start by touching it. I won’t ask you to use your mouth until you’re sure you’re ready.”

He placed his hands on your inner thighs and you helped him by spreading them for him. “Don’t be nervous, honey,” you said, running your hands through his hair.  

“Wanna make you feel good,” he said. 

“You will. I already feel good just being around you.” Yeah, it’s cheesy, but it got a smile out of him. 

He started by rubbing his fingers along your folds gently. He noticed the way your breath hitched when his fingertips brushed your clit. 

“Does it feel good when I do this?” He wasn’t even trying to talk dirty. His utter sincerity made his words even hotter.

“Yes, baby,” you said, breathier now, “It feels so good when you touch me there.”

He started to rub circles over your clit now that you’d told him where it was. “Can I use my mouth now?” 

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.”

Leon began with little kitten licks and then began to run his tongue along your lower lips, which were all puffy and wet, (they had been before he’d touched you). 

“Did I make you wet?”

“Mhm, it’s all you.”

The encouragement had him diving back in, lapping at your folds. He wasn’t skilled by any means, but his enthusiasm made up for his lack of experience. When you pulled his hair, you felt the movements of his tongue increase in speed and he pressed his face further into you. There was an insatiable desire inside him, an addiction that began the moment he first tasted you. 

“You can put your fingers in me, too, if you want,” you suggested.

“Just one?” he asked, inserting his middle finger, which made you moan. “Or two?” He didn’t wait for your answer before he inserted his index finger and watched your reaction. 

“Yes,” you said, “Two, baby, feels so good.” As he pumped them in and out, his tongue returned to your pussy. He looked up at you with his baby blue eyes. “Curl your fingers up,” you said, showing him with your own hand. He did as you asked and you moaned loudly. 

He studied you, and managed to figure out where you liked his mouth best - your clit, obviously. 

“Leon,” you said, breathing heavily, “you can suck on it, too, just lightly-” you had something else to say, but it didn’t matter because he started to suck on your clit and you were cut off by your own moan. 

Your legs were trembling at this point. “Oh my god, Leon, keep doing that.” You hooked your legs around him and ran your fingers through his hair. “You’re gonna make me cum.” 

Upon hearing that, he moaned into your core. It sent you over the edge. You nearly suffocated him with your thighs when you came. You felt bad for pulling his hair, but he loved it. If you hadn’t been completely taken by your own orgasm, you would’ve noticed. He was brave enough to tell you the next time you saw him. Arousal gave him a certain bravado. 

After you finished, he said, “Did I do okay?”

You laughed. “Yes, you did great. I thought that was obvious.”

You offered to help him out, to return the favor. But, sheepishly, he revealed that he didn’t need any help from you. You could see the wet spot on his underwear. You didn’t realize he was rutting against the mattress the whole time. 

“You had a lot of fun, huh?”

“Yeah.” His voice wavered when he spoke.

You stifled the laugh that threatened to escape your mouth. 

“Does this mean we have to be done?” he asked sheepishly. 

“Think you’ve got another round in you?”

He nodded and climbed on top of you, ready to kiss you with your slick still on his lips. 

“Already?” you said when you noticed he was already hard again. 

“Yeah,” he said with a light laugh. You could see embarrassment shift to pride when he saw how pleased you were to see that he was ready to go again almost immediately.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 8 — fly on the windscreen (final)

wc: 11k~ (a lengthy one, i know, but i spent two months on this for a reason).

more angst, chess metaphors and depeche mode references (sorry). but i promise i fixed it. and besides — who doesn’t love a good makeup sex scene? oh yes, i went all out with that one. you’re welcome.

—

In 1956, at the chaste age of thirteen, Bobby Fisher made history. 

Game of the Century — that’s what people dubbed it, and it sure did deserve the title: a teenage boy defeated an international master, and with precision so oddly fascinating, that it instantly put the whole chess-world in a strangling chokehold. You never paid that event much mind — young geniuses are not that rare of a thing in this pedantic industry. But Viktor claimed it impacted him — he, too, won his first significant tournament at thirteen, and therefore related to Fisher immensely. 

You remembered the day he told you this in explicit detail: it was the third evening of your affair — right before the mangled bouquet incident. He showed up a tad later than he usually did — and you smiled, realizing that such time-defining adverbs were now acceptable to use while referring to his treasured visits. He was wearing a plain, frayed shirt: a smear here, a patch there: had to help his professor in the lab with something awfully urgent. You rushed to get him out of that sordid thing. Helpful hands popped all buttons open and nudged him softly into the shower. You liked him to enter the filth of your bedroom clean, so the traces of it last longer afterwards. He always complied. 

By the time you set up the board and settled on the comforter, cross-legged, he was done bathing. His skin no longer smelled of dust and machinery, the slippery swiftness of it longing for your attention. He walked out bare — both due to the lack of spare clothes, and because you’d shed them off of him even if those happened to be thrown somewhere nearby. His chest swelled under your hand, flushed and wet.

You made love. It’s funny how fast you stopped calling it just ‘sex’ or ‘fucking’ — oh no, with him you suddenly saw the act of letting someone into your flesh gentle, and, accordingly so, couldn’t just abide by those two simple terms. Sometimes they failed to embrace the concept. 

He tastes of soap and salt when it’s over. Sweat politely intrudes the new, fresh smell of him, and you kiss its tiny drops off his clavicles — two beautiful dips, fragile masterpieces of skin and bones. He laughs and lets his eyes rest. You watch his pupils move under the veiny eyelids, and his lashes tickle your finger when you swipe it gently over those delicate things: to feel the soft movement underneath, to absorb every internal shift in him — his heartbeat, his wincing, the fall of his stomach when he exhales. You wonder if he does the same when you don’t notice. 

“Can I show you something?” It comes out of him strangely flimsy, in a much thicker, throatier timbre. You nod, and he reaches for the board. 

He shows you the Game of the Century. Has it memorized by heart: goes over each move with excited commentary, and his eyes beam almost as passionately beautiful as when he looks at you, dreamily mesmerized. 

“I don’t get it,” you murmur. Your head rests on his lean thigh, pieces a shaky, hlack-white horizontal blur. Scrawny fingers tangle little loops into your hair. “Why did Byrne never take Fisher’s queen? It was right there in front of him the whole time!” 

Viktor chuckles. Bends down to kiss you softly on the temple and smirks discreetly when your pulse touches his mouth, rapid and intense. Playing chess with him always gives you lovely headaches. 

“Because Fisher offered it to him on purpose. He wanted to perform a Smothered Mate.” 

“Oh.” You humm. 

Now you saw it. 

—

You roll over to intercept the little affection. Prop your back with both elbows. Let him comfortably straighten his spine. It’s sweet that he allows it to twinge for you, even if just for a moment, but you don’t appreciate such sacrifices.

Teeth hurt a bit from a sudden clash, but he soothes it when tongues twine, circling lazy patterns. It’s slobbery — a tad clumsy, even, but you like it that way: wet, raw, and terribly, sorely tender. 

He takes you again. Disperses a hundred breathy ‘laská’s all over your pliant skin — neck, and shoulders, and breasts, and thighs. They’re still there, even now that he’s gone — now that you made him go, but the traces of him are no longer sweet and darling. They’re bits of pleasure you were never worthy of, a constant reminder of how you treated that soft man. Not as boldly dark as they used to be: plum started to dissolve into faint, flimsy yellow. The plague of his lovebites, the lasting symptom of his fondness. 

You think of that evening again. 

“Thank you. For showing me this.” You nod to the board and hop on the windowsill to light a cigarette. His heart tries to find its way out of his sternum, muscles still twitch in the afterglow of his orgasm. Both a vision: him — a tired one, full of delicious soreness, you — candid and gorgeously smudgy. 

He rolls on his stomach and cocks a brow, meets your gaze with a warm half-smile. “And here I thought you weren’t interested in a tutor,” sasses delicately. You threaten to throw a lighter at him. You both laugh. And when the balmy sound dies down, his intricate eyes narrow cat-like. They cautiously slide over your form with a quizzical little flicker, and you know he’s contemplating something — it’s visible in his every motion, in the humm he makes before finally daring to be bold. 

“Could I request something… a little risqué?” he finally asks. 

That intrigues you. You take a hissy drag and lean on the glass behind you, wincing when smoke comes out of your nostrils. “I don’t know,” you muse tortuously, “could you?” 

“I would appreciate it if you dropped the obstinacy.” 

“Viktor. I’m probably giving a view of my naked ass to god knows how many people in the building in front of us. How much more risqué can it get?” 

“And yet, I prefer to be certain. Don’t taunt me here, milackú. Please.”

Please. You love it when he says that. There’s something so syrupy about getting this word out of him, and you’re not sure you ever wish to bid farewell with that little addiction. 

He crawls to you out of a damp mess of sheets, pale skin almost peachy where the evening sun embraces each bony slope of his. Thin arm reaches for something on your nightstand and snatches it. Has you smiling in curious bliss when he leans closer, almost falling off the edge of the mattress. Finds some leverage in your hanging off the windowsill legs and clumsily curls around them, pressing the gentlest of kisses to each knee. Now you rise above him, gorgeously drowned in a forthcoming sunset, and light peeks through your fingers when you spread them to catch a hold of your cigarette. 

Viktor hands you the ‘something’ he stole an instant earlier. It’s your seedy “Canon”, with  its murky lens looking up at you, reflecting the perplexed frown of your face. You run a finger over its cold, metallic frame. 

“Does this have any film in it?” Viktor asks. Places his chin on your thigh and stares, beautifully hopeful. You shrug.

“Most definitely. It might be expired, though. Why?” 

He gives it a thought. Leans into your touch and sighs gratefully when you cradle his cheek and stroke — a loving swipe of a trembling thumb over his hollow features. His kisses strike again — now to the inside of your palm, a whisper of a touch, warm and a little ticklish. 

“I want to take your picture,” he finally mumbles. 

You almost choke on the filter. Ashes fall on your skin and Viktor rushes to blow the damage away —soothes it gently before it burns through. 

“What? You mean… now?” Your voice is weak when you say this. Not due to shame or some other internal quandaries — you’re astonished, and it entertains him, makes him laugh again when you pull away to stare at him mid inhale, smoke a bitter halo around your disheveled hair. Yes, he wants to capture this. He absolutely has to. 

“I’d like to savor this,” Viktor explains. “In a more… tangible way. If only you’re willing to indulge me, of course.”

Of course. 

He says he doesn’t want you to pose. A rather hard request, considering the scenery: it simply calls for a pretty arch, for any method of glamorizing your crippling addiction and sheer immodesty. But you aim to please him. Your shoulders laze, narrowed eyes try to sneak a sly peek when he presses the shutter button. He tempts you to smile — the way he bites his tongue in an earnest search of a flattering angle. The flawless intimacy of taking a boudoir picture. You wonder how the local CVS workers handle those. Then chuckle, realizing they’ve probably seen much worse.  

Viktor clears his throat. 

“Can I… have it? After you develop those?” His plea is careful, hushed. Always so sickeningly polite.

“What for?” You torture him again, letting yet another stub rest in a porcelain grave of cigarette bums. Viktor shrugs. 

“Oh, I… I suppose I could keep it in my wallet. After I receive your permission to be that bold.” 

“In your wallet? How scandalous!” 

“Scandalous?”

“Exactly. I’m wearing nothing but thin air in there. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No.” He shakes his head so innocently it makes him look grotesquely oblivious. “Should it bother me?” 

Your foot softly presses into his chest and pushes him back on the bed. He meets that fate with a dainty laugh, and it’s even lovelier when the rest of you follows along, mindful not to make him wheeze. A harmless vengeance, a tacit promise of what’s to come. And he welcomes it, each hand awfully tender in a cautious hold of your rear, curled in the most adoring of squeezes.

You hover above his face, smiling. “I doubt it came out beautifully.” 

He smiles back. “Of course it did. It has you in it.” 

And he’s almost right. Because it comes out perfect instead. 

—

Here you are, in the mighty fervor of your bareness, your cigarette a sparkly scepter between delicate fingers. It’s a little grainy, yet still lush with saturation — all yellows, pinks and reds, flowing prettily into terracotta precisely where sun wraps around the curve of each breast and dark nipples — those gorgeous lines of stilled tenderness. Head thrown back, mouth parted to let out a livid smoky mist — he must’ve caught you mid exhale: so conveniently brusque. Pure art in the obscene privacy of your bedroom. 

…But it’s been a torturous week of avoidant silence, and your bed, albeit filled with memories, feels terribly empty — wraps you in its reproachful mess and strangles relentlessly, and you have no desire to come back to it anymore; seven languid dawns met anywhere but in the sheets. 

All because comprehension is cruel, and it deprived you of resting, solace long gone alongside him — his tenderness, his touch, his patience. Oh how you longed for it, how agonizingly jealous you grew towards that proudly naked version of you from the picture: she was yet to find out how the lack of him really feels, how heartwrenching his resentment can get. It pierced through you — that all-consuming, frightening realization. And precisely when you first got your hands on developed film, too: Viktor will never have it. He doesn’t want it anymore.  

Heartbreaks always come with additional obstacles: finals week made college feel like a coffin, tight, and suffocating, and overwhelmingly grim. It reduced your days to a torturous routine of turning in essays and sneakily running around the campus in between exams: made you attend to every single precaution in the book to avoid bumping into him. 

You even stopped visiting the engineering department to catch Jayce for once obligatory debriefs by a cigarette — the risks weren’t worth exchanging even the messiest dirty rumors. Besides, what’s there to tell him? ‘I started fucking your ‘grandmaster’, developed a feeling I’m afraid to admit even to myself and screwed it all up by letting my wrathful tendencies take over’? Yeah. That’s not exactly an event one boasts about. 

So you found salvation in misery. Stuffed yourself full of its moping weight, wore it like a veil, showed it off whenever something called to leave your self-prescribed hermitage — an ostentatious ‘Look, I did this to myself!’ So craven. So pathetic.

And you couldn’t look at chess anymore. The image of his sinewy hand was now forever attached to the only board you owned, hovering above the pieces in its usual pensive manner. It wounded you. Filled you with some visceral, peculiar rage — and you couldn’t even tell towards who exactly. It’s like you were suddenly deprived of all the other feelings and now had to make do, seeking solutions in disposing of everything he ever touched in your room. But that would also include your skin, so you quickly abandoned the thought. If only the memories of that last draw were that easily escapable. You swallowed yet another frustrated swear. 

Something about it all seemed oddly… awry. Specifically his queen moves: Viktor was never the one to open harshly, he attacked much deeper into the game and preferred initiating trades — rude invasions were more your style, after all. But that day he developed your approach: you were certain of it, trembled whenever reminiscing hit you. 

And tonight it hits you right in the gut. 

—

You’re down to your last cigarette and it makes your throat wail — you’ve had more of those tonight than there are hours in a whole day. Lost count of desperate, big gulps of wine, too, and even considered asking the Lord himself to turn all the water in your apartment into more of that life-saving beverage. The irony hears your prayer, making you cackle, and ‘Sweetest Perfection’ slowly fades into the sexy guitar riff of ‘Personal Jesus’. But instead of reaching out to touch faith you touch the stop button. It’s hard to appreciate music when a headache is splitting your head in twain. 

An utter mess — that’s what you were, scrunched on the floor in your underpants, trembling fingers tracing chaotic circles over the surface of your favorite record, the tournament notes wounded with a wine stain. Your board laid tiles down, crushing the pieces, evidently knocked over in what looked like a livid splutter. 

Viktor could’ve won. He should’ve, actually — it came down on you when wrath died down just enough to finally set the pointless self-deprecating aside. Better late than never, and yet living in ignorance didn’t seem that agonizing now that you deigned to analyze his moves. 

He didn’t offer you a queen exchange. You were certain he chose to refrain from it on purpose: because that would’ve extended the match, allowing him to move his king someplace safe. And, concurrently, aim for a winning position. Viktor, of all people, wouldn’t miss it — which meant he showed you mercy. Always so goddamn caring — fuck, how blinded one must be to overlook something so gallant? 

He still cared about making you leave with a good rating, swallowed his pent-up pride to evolve all that into a draw. Played with his heart for once. A charity, of sorts, and normally you despised that — would tear him a new one for even assuming that you needed such leniency. But not this time. Not after he responded to your onslaught with chivalry. 

Your world is fuzzy when you reach for the door knob — all astigmatic spurts of light, drunkenly smeared and heavy. It’s a night of spontaneous decisions and you commit to it like a martyr: first deciding to indulge in game analysis, then drinking yourself to death over each new discovery.

And now you wince, slipping into your loafers, feeling their harsh press into those swollen spots under each buckle-bone. No socks. No pants, either. Just half-naked fervor and a long leather coat to loosely wrap around yourself — the only armor you need to run outside and head straight towards his dorm, shivering when chilly air softly creeps up your bare legs. 

It’s terrifying how fast decisions are made when you rely purely on liquor and shaky crumbles of messy sanity; with what menacing speed you rushed for him, breathless and murky-gazed. Fingers fumbled with the sharp edge of that erotic monstrosity you slipped into your pocket before running out the door: something kept restraining you from disposing of it, made your hands twitch whenever you held that picture above the weak fiery tongue of your lighter. Viktor deserved to take a glimpse at it. Even if he decides to burn it himself immediately after. 

You swiftly sneaked past the concierge in awkward, wasted excellency. Stumbled over a threshold with a sobby grunt. Almost expected someone to catch you, to enquire why could you possibly be headed to a young man’s room at two in the morning, with just a weary leather cover compensating for your lack of decency. 

But you’ve made it. Stood by his door before dazed mind even managed to realize just what you’re about to do, knees so pitifully shaky you might just be swept off your feet. Figuratively, first, when your white-knuckled fist dares to knock. Literally, when his footsteps shuffle in your direction. 

You know he’s not asleep. It’s almost like he never is — except for those sacred hours when you somehow manage to tire him out: a rare occasion, a calming little tribute. Your heart shrinks when his hand peeks out, tightly curled around the door knob. He’s tense: more so than ever, weariness prominent in a heavy lean on his cane, eyes dreary and red at the inner corners. They flicker in mistrust — stare through you in a way only he possesses, intricate enough to reach your very gut, chase down the drunken audacity and cut it abruptly at the base. You’re not sure if it can save you the embarrassment anymore. 

Viktor snaps out of it — blinks his momentary awe away and frowns, quizzically hostile. Pale wrist flicks in a sudden rush to fix his unbuttoned shirt: he doesn’t know you came to beg for a truce yet, thinks you might just go for his throat if he doesn’t put up a defense quick enough.

It pains you. Stabs your own neck and twists that thing a few torturous times before you finally remember how to breathe. A silly thing, a craving to lay your heart at his feet — to be bold, or desperate, or either of those at once. Easier said than done, because your courage is in shambles as soon as his lips twitch, and the crease of a pretty mouth you grew to adore suddenly feels like a vicious personal attack. And it only intensifies when he sighs, utterly forceless. 

A rocky start. Even rockier now that he huffs your name out like it’s a swear, and disbelief contorts him, deep and flush-cheeked. 

“Why are you indecent?” He all but hisses it, the perfect mad man — all awe-struck copper and audacious glimmer in the depths of his wide-snapped eyes. Has you hiding both quivering legs behind the leather closure of your coat, suddenly shamefully aware of your state of undress. Should’ve never let that impulse win, should’ve waited until morning, but how were you supposed to fight something so potent, so atrociously urgent? 

“I had to see you.” A whisper, a silly blunder. Like a pathetic attempt at getting out of a fork — a sacrifice of a piece to postpone a checkmate. 

Viktor blinks at you in bewilderment. His throat is dry — it’s prominent in an awkward cough he chokes on, in the way he averts his face. 

“That doesn’t explain much,” mumbles finally, staring into the floor. Bites his cheek to muffle an angry comment, watches you sullenly with repressed bitterness. “Why are you here?” 

It’s a simple question. A straight-to-the-point one, too — he doesn’t move an inch, pierces right through you with the pressure of his anguish. And it’s only fair, after all — you butchered his heart and vanished into a week of soul-crushing silence, only to return with no purpose, answers and pants. If anything, he’s being quite charitable by even letting you in. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” God, would you just tell him already? How much longer can you drag this madness out, how much more liquor do you have to consume until it finally drowns your sorrow? No, that won’t do. And Viktor thinks so too — scoffs with a rageful glare, grabbing a hold of the door knob again.

“Then I suggest you retreat to your room and take a melatonin. Good night.” 

“Viktor. Viktor, please—“ 

You cling onto that appeal with every ounce of your desperation, his name a harsh clash of consonants on your wagging tongue — a slurred and rhotic last resort, a hasty mess of shaky syllables. And, strangely enough, it works: urges him to recoil, to return the tremulous stir, to let you see that blend of hurt and confusion in the blown out voids of his pupils. It’s almost like you’re pushing him to the verge of his kindness, bearing witness to every inner change. Here he is, grim and distant — all clenched jaw and enraged inhales, softening into promising mercy. Through a condescending sigh, no less, but you’ll take it. Oh, you’ll take it alright — because this is not a negotiation. This is redemption at any cost. 

Viktor resigns. Whispers a tired “Come in” and points to his bed, watches you limp inside with a weak, disapproving head shake. It’s a walk of shame — grumpy sounds of skin as bare feet drag pitifully on the floor, shoes and coat shed off carelessly somewhere at the entry. 

An abrupt sound of him fumbling with the lock, then a few light thuds of his cane — you absorb it all, waiting for your execution, eyes nailed to the parquet, skittishly following little wooden patterns. You don’t know what to say to him, and it’s terrifying — sure, wine must’ve triggered the motive, but it can only get one so far. And now you crumble, shrinking when the mattress bends by your side, the cross of his lanky legs cloudy in your peripheral. He keeps his distance, seated at a good arm’s length: too close for a shot, too far for an embrace, just enough to add to your agony. Rubs his forehead with a somber wince, turns to look at you with a harried pout, so tragically handsome. A bunch of veins twined tensely on that pretty ivory neck. 

“Please, say something,” begs you hoarsely, setting his cane aside. “Don’t torture me with your silence. It depletes me. And, quite frankly, I’ve had enough of that.” 

You swallow thick, pushing that lump down your throat with immense effort, bitter sticky spit foaming at the tip of your tongue, threatening to come out if you don’t shove it down your stomach quick enough. Tastes of drunk, delirious promises. And you must spew them out before they drool out on their own.

“I’m sorry.” This comes out slurred too, but you don’t mind the stumbling as long as it gets the message across. Viktor scarcely cocks his head, all flushed ears. 

You proceed. 

“For the tournament. Well, for what I did to you before our game, I shouldn’t have— Fuck, how do I even put this? I shouldn’t have done it. All of it.”

Your tear is in your mouth before you know it, and you swipe your tongue over a chapped lip, rushing to get it out the way while he remains still, simply waiting for you to continue with a straight, cold face. Almost kills you with that indifference, or whatever it is he’s trying to sell for it, but you don’t even think of backing off. You have to look at him. You ought and want to.

“I was cruel,” you confess, gulping down a sob. “Extremely so. It’s the rage, you see. I’m a fucking slave to it. So afraid to be hurt that I rush to do the hurting myself. But you… You, with your good intent, and your endless kindness — you, of all people, shouldn’t suffer from that ugly flaw of mine. And I’m sorry for being so full of it. For making you a victim of my crudeness. And for disappearing to bask in it, ever so selfishly. I didn’t run away because I don’t care. I ran away because I’m a coward.” 

He simply nods. Tortures you with a few more seconds of painful silence, sitting up with a curious humm. Locks both trembling hands together and  lets his thumbs take turns, circling over each other. Wheezes out a careful ‘Are you, now?”

You huff. “Of course I am. It took me a week to say this to you.” 

“But you’ve made it after all.” Viktor shrugs. It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic, especially when his gaze keeps crashing you with all its reticent spite.

“Yes, but this is not the way to approach this. It’s not like I didn’t consider crawling here earlier, though—“

“Crawling?” he interrupts. Treats you to a minute of quiet turmoil, waits for you to clarify with a sharp inhale. Props himself on a fist and scoots closer, hovering above your face to scrutinize it intricately. “Are you intoxicated?” finally guesses when the evidence hits him in the nostrils. 

You shrink away, blinking in confusion. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Yes,” you respond in a skittish whisper. “And I’m sorry for that too. I just… I couldn’t bring myself to come to you earlier, but then… That draw, you see. It didn’t sit right with me, and so I tended to some self analysis. I noticed what you’ve done. Noticed what you sacrificed to make me walk out of there with a decent rating. Even after the way I’ve treated you. It made me hate myself so bad I felt the need to flush it down right that instant. But it only got more unbearable to endure any longer. So I simply… Ran out the door to tell you this. I shouldn’t have. Well, now I know that I shouldn’t—“

You’re rambling, and it’s a lengthy, fidgety monologue. So utterly terrified that you can’t even keep track of those ugly cries anymore — they fly out in between words, cutting into a fusion of your candor and hysteria.

But Viktor doesn’t soften. If anything, he’s even sharper now, frowning deeper with every new sentence you throw at him. Cuts you off with a scoff, wagging his head in bewilderment — like he can’t stand to even look at you, let alone listen to any more of these heartful babbles. Curses in Czech under his rapid breath. 

“Unbelievable,” he blurts out, turning away. “So that’s how you view me? That’s how you view us? A meaningless, casual affair you can abandon whenever you please and then repair with a few desultory ‘sorry’s? Is that what I am to you? A foolish suitor undeserving of a proper, sober apology? Well, I’ll have you know that I’m not one of your pawns. And I won’t put up with it — not in a hundred years.” 

Your panic comes back, drawing a snappish bawl out of stinging lungs, and you sniff, trying to push those unsavory tears back where they belong. Unkempt nails bite into your palms, leaving a violent pattern of rouge, deep punishment. 

“You don’t have to put up with it,” you speak again, trying to redeem that heavy home truth. “I don’t want you to.”

“Stop mentioning that,” Viktor demands with a furious scowl, making you gobble up that stupid semantic. “I’m in no need of your elaboration.” 

“But I truly mean that!”

“Mean it all you want, but don’t expect my approval just because you finally deigned to throw a plea at me. I did nothing to merit that. Both the insults and this mess of a repentance.” 

That one does the job. Peels the scab off your wounds, urging each evil goosebump to rise — and thank god for the soft bed under your trembling form, because your knees feel like soaked cotton, unsturdy and doomed to fail.

But you force them to obey, springing up above him in a snappy jerk. It’s a classic, of sorts, like a denial of a King’s Gambit: he doesn’t take the piece you offer him, aiming for something else instead. Something more crucial, and so inherently fragile. Stares up at you with his head thrown back, threateningly beautiful in the sheer shadows that blinds cast on his face. Urges you to seek silly symbols in the way your lack of clothes contrasts his utter modesty. 

Here you are — raw and exposed. One step from shameful nakedness, standing trial in this state of non-sexual, sudden nudity. Here he is — armed with thick fabric, not a smidge of his usual emotive range prominent in both expression and attire. All edgy cheekbones and pure, unfiltered anger in the slight twitch of a bushy brow. So snarky when it arches, challenging you to keep going. To fight for forgiveness for once. 

“You’re right.” It’s a simple statement — a calm, casual acknowledgement. Still teary-eyed and puffy, but those are merely debris. You wipe them away, ready to strike again. “I am a mess. A mess like no other, that’s for sure. I don’t expect you to fix me. I simply paid you what’s due, and you’re allowed to send it back — I’m in no position to demand you forgive me. I never wanted to do that anyway. I’m simply sorry. For mistaking your help for malice, for letting the fear of losing my silly independence win, for prioritizing it over the bond we’ve built. And for not giving you the apology you deserve. Truly. That might just be my biggest regret so far.”

Viktor doesn’t respond. His chest feels heavy, swiftly falling after each deep breath. He’s taking you in — bare legs, bare soul, bare feelings. A sweet contradiction, a living oxymoron in the suspenseful darkness of his bedroom,  but he doesn’t know what to do with you, how to save either of you from the power you hold over each other. 

This calls for a solution. And you come up with one, attempting to step away, already eyeing the corner you’ve thrown your coat into. 

“I should go,” you propose, carefully inching towards the door. “That would be the wise thing to do.” 

But Viktor’s views on prudence evidently differ. Because his fingers gnaw at your wrist, startling with the tight strength of their gentleness. Such a warm handcuff — it reminds you of your starvation, of just what you’d cross to experience him like this again — insistently gracious, caring to his very core. Pulls you towards him, biting a cheek when you don’t slip away. Realizes the extent of your desperation and sighs, admitting that his own reaches the same depth. Wins a silent staring competition when you blink, completely dazed, finding your voice in a weak ruckle of his name. 

“No,” he drawls, squeezing firmer, “you’ve done enough ‘wise’ deeds tonight. I’m not sure I can endure one more.” 

“I know, Viktor. That’s why I need to go.” 

“You’re a fool if you think I’m letting you walk out of here in that state. You came to apologize, after all. It would be quite counterproductive of you to storm off sobbing instead of achieving your initial goal.”

Your lashes flutter again, flicking a tear. It crawls back into your eye, blurring the world around you, and you rush to rub it out of there, freeing your hand out of his insistent grasp. He lets go, surprisingly reluctant. 

“I thought we’ve already established that I’m in no state for this conversation.” 

“Indeed, we have. Which is exactly why you’re going to take a shower and go to sleep, so your wits are about you when we’re back at it in the morning.” He then clears his throat, fighting a sad, hopeless smile. Loses when the corners of his mouth inch up, adding a sarcastic “I would, actually, lend you a melatonin, if it weren’t for the consequences of mixing it with alcohol. But your loss, I suppose.” 

He’s quieter with that remark. Spares you a moment of familiar, light-hearted comfort — all hushed chuckles, lost, frustrated glances, and fidgety, lonely hands. 

The embodiment of confusion, of bitterness that still fights to linger around, but doesn’t stand a chance against longing. Reducing the smartest person you know to a love-struck man that has no idea how to save this, yet wants you to stay so badly. Even worse when you look him in the eye, shyly asking if there’s any hot water left for you to use. 

The world makes sense again. Or so it seems.

— 

Your dream is lucid — a blend of bizzare, threatening images stirring you awake every time the thing gets too real, forcing bloodshot eyes to snap open and search for him in the opaque darkness, pulse a racing, unpleasant thump in both sweaty temples. Only simmering down when you manage to make out the skews of his shoulders: distant, but so darling. So many torturous inches separating your back from his — it’s more gaunt than you remember, the lopsided arch of it suddenly more bitter than ever, and you quit stealing discreet peeks, nuzzling back into the clean, mint-scented comfort of his pillow. Drifting back to yet another frenetic vision, thinking about how strange it is to share a bed with Viktor without lying tucked under his sharp, bony chin. 

You wake up morbid and, expectedly, hungover. Still wearing both scandalous garments you barged in — numb fingers slide over an exposed thigh, then rub the bridge of your nose hard enough to snap the delicate cartilage. You watch the ceiling tarnish full of flimsy black holes, whimpering as it cleanses of them just as swiftly when your sight repairs itself after a long squint. Shaky arms rummage around, stilling mid slow caress over Viktor’s side — still warm and slightly bent inwards, that overwhelming evidence of his presence. He left you an aspirin and a silly note:

“I have a final to take. Will be back at 10. Don’t you dare run away. 

P.S.

Please, don’t drink coffee. Your head will kill you.“

Your finger stumbles, covering the sharp ‘V’ in the lower corner. An excessive little gesture — as if you wouldn’t guess the sender if he didn’t sign it. You put the sweet warning away and swallow the pill, wincing when it scrapes its way down your throat. 

The morning finally starts.

Sore for whatever reason legs still hang back, and you force them to oblige, scrunching over the sink when those bratty, boneless appendages finally get you to the bathroom. It’s a lifeless, automatic routine — except you have to smear the toothpaste all over your teeth with a trembling finger. You thought of buying a brush to keep next to his for the nights you’re over, but now it repulses you, urges to avert your tired eyes from the mirror: what if you fucked it up beyond return? What if there’s no ‘for when I’m over’ anymore, but only ‘for when I used to be’? 

You don’t embrace that revelation. It appalls you, makes you crave the tasteless comfort of a cigarette — but you ran out of them last night, and, concurrently, respected Viktor’s strong preferences for keeping your favorite vice at least out of his room. And it’s not like this horrific anticipation should last much longer — self-doubts were kind and time-consuming, carrying you through fifty five minutes of tedious, head-in-hands agony. And when the key finally clangs, albeit a quarter later than expected, you rise from the unkempt bed, untangling from the blankets. 

He looks collected: walks right past you, rushing to rid that lanky neck off the strangling tie. Softly hums an unbothered ‘Good morning’, sparing you nothing but a reserved nod, and you writhe upon that calm violence, watching him tend to yet another languid habit — as if both the tournament and last night never existed, as if him simply coming back from a tiring final is the only thing that’s happening in this room, and you’re going to watch him settle back into his domesticated, quiet life. 

But no, you’re convinced that it’s a vengeful punishment — a silent treatment to make up for the one you put him through during your endless days of lacking courage. And so you sit, mouth agape, while he fetches his notes out of a shabby bag, flipping through them with a casual yawn. Plugs the kettle into an outlet, running a hand through a short row of tea boxes on the desk (you only managed to notice that little collection now), then shrugs, picking out a random one with a casual finger-flick. Stills in a half-turn over an angular shoulder, cursory inquiring what flavor you prefer. Driving you deeper into tremendous confusion. 

“I.. Whichever you like,” you mumble from the bed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Only stopping when it starts to slightly taste of iron. 

Viktor understands. Hands you a steaming mug and pulls out a chair to be seated right in front of you, and it all resembles a pitiful, canonical therapy session — even the way you stare at your tea (chamomile, so it seems), shamefully making out the floating, whimsical reflection of your face in the brownish liquid. Wondering if it’s hot enough to burn your tongue. Preferably, to a decent degree. 

Viktor coughs. Crosses his legs again — always chooses that pose for uncomfortable conversations, whereas you always shrink embryo-like — a disparity to his almost professional manner. Oh just how he sits, vestless and relaxed, taking a slow sip. Makes you wish you were the cup, so he could wrap his hand around you and squeeze — to death, or bliss, or revulsion. Anything, but apathy. Please, no more of that. Please please please. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. Grabs the mug by its rim and holds it like one does a wine glass, lets you see the tension in each fingertip. You return to staring down, unsure how to approach the question. Really, though, how do you feel? Scared? Excited? Nauseated? Sorry? You’re sure he gets it by now. And, therefore, all this — is a penalty. It’s only right. It has to be. 

You shrug, letting a whiff of fear invade every sharpened sense. Chamomile joins in, too. This time, evidently. 

“Are you punishing me?” you finally croak. He frowns at that, treats it like the silliest nonsense to ever be said out loud. Rushes to shake his head, to deny and prove wrong. And it confuses you beyond belief, forces an exchange of wide-eyed, bewildered gazes. 

“No,” he insists. “Of course not. I’m asking because I want to be certain that you’re able to proceed with the colloquy. That wouldn’t be possible were you still under the influence of any… substances, would it, now?” He adds with a chuckle. Dry, and curt, and failing at easing anything at all, but you still believe him. You choose to, even if it’s hardly plausible. 

“Yes.” You offer him a lie. “I want to proceed.”

 It’s best he doesn’t know how not ready you really are. 

He gulps, then. Waits for your confession to unravel, plowing through you with the sheer power of patient madness, even if that doesn’t make much sense — how can someone stare with such urgency, yet remain so gentle with it? You know you’ll find him drawn to you if your own eyes dare to move from the slowly growing lukewarm tea. 

“Were you cordial with me last night?” He finds a way to pluck the answers out of you, appeals to something you’re convinced is always the case with your inept amends.

“Of course. I always am.” He arches a brow, causing you to reconsider. As if to cut you off with a silent, cheeky ‘Really, now?’. 

“I meant… I’m always sincere with my apologies,” you try to recover, setting your mug down on the floor before it slides out on its own and shatters into pieces. Can’t have it sharing the destiny of your stability. 

“I just… I’m really struggling to understand you here,” he spoke softly, putting his own tea away — and it’s left forgotten on his desk, like a non-verbal, inanimate testimony. “Why would you turn to anger in response to aid? I don’t think I’ll ever distinguish that, you’ll have to excuse me here.”

“No, that‘s a… really good question.” 

“Answer it, then.”

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“That won’t ease our quandary.”

“I’m aware, but… Just let me think a little. Please.” 

He lets you. Invites you to help yourself to all the time in the world, but you only take two minutes — it’s important not to squander his generosity. Especially when you don’t know exactly how much more he has to spare.

“It’s like… Caro-Kann, and I’m playing black,” you finally mumble, knowing he’ll ask to elaborate. 

“Caro-Kann?” Viktor muses, visibly besotted. As if he expected you to think anyhow but in chess.

“Mhm. Seems so safe and solid, and yet the development is so slow, and the board lacks space for me, and white can be so unpredictable with their responses—“

“Yes, I’m familiar with the disadvantages of this opening.” He raises a hand, stopping you from burrowing any further into tiring theory. “Please, get to your point.” 

Your pulse thumps a march so terrified it echoes in your throat, swells above your left breast into something unbearably massive — capable of breaking the ribcage and rolling out to his feet. It reverberates in your temples, too, and you squint, as if enduring a migraine. Eyes shimmy down to pathetically shaky knees. 

“When I play Caro-Kann, I prepare for an attack from white,” you continue carefully. Viktor looks at you, attentive to the bone. “But it doesn’t happen — and I panic. Like I’m all ready to be aggressive, to sting if you come any closer, and you just choose… not to. Here I am, with my developed bishop, threatening a check, but you ignore it and play something like… say, pawn h4. And I grow livid, and my pieces fly all around the board, but it all seems so useless, because you haven't taken anything from me yet. And I take first, and inevitably lose by taking more and more — because I was scared to let you do it to me first.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” he protests. Crosses both lanky arms on his chest, leaning into the chair. Rests his neck on the top back, glaring from beneath heavy lids. “You’re not supposed to play it like that.” 

“Exactly. That’s why I like gambits. You always know what to expect with a gambit. Even if your opponent declines it, you know it’ll hurt later. For both of you. It’s predictable, and beautifully violent. It’s what I’m used to. Not only in chess.” 

“As much as I’m infatuated with your skills at merging logic with poetics, metaphors are not my forte. I’d much rather you explain in layman’s terms.” 

Hearing Viktor call himself that sounds almost blasphemous. But you don’t argue with his wording. You fix your posture and recline, mirroring the angle he looks at you from — your one last death rattle before resignation. And he waits, fumbling with a rolled up sleeve. Getting more vulnerable, inviting you to follow suit. His eyes fill with contradictory, somber candidness. ‘Get right with me,’ they beg of you discreetly. 

But begging is hardly necessary. Not when he’s entitled to knowing the truth. 

“I see you as a threat to my independence. Not just you, I suppose — anyone who’s not responding in a way I know how to handle.” 

Viktor nods. “So you’re implying that you only know how to handle… mockery?” 

“Correct.” You stop to gasp for air, the sharp pang of its scarcity pinching at your lungs. “I’m sorry,” you add in a mumble, and he sees just how vehemently you mean it, pupils so wide they almost steal every bit of your beloved copper. 

A creak of a chair when he gets up, sighing harriedly. Has you stirring, utterly convinced that he’s about to fetch his cane out of its convenient spot against the desk — but he never reaches for it. Finds leverage in a sturdy hold of your knee instead, leans on it with a wistful smile and settles right into the notch of sheets next you. Not quite where he sat last night, but much closer — evidently so. And when he doesn’t move, letting your bare thigh freely rub against the thick fabric of his trousers, you know he accepts the truce, even with no verbal confirmation. Bless the mighty power of his languid body language. Careful, when he takes your hand in his, covering the tracery of palm lines in lovely strokes. So darling. So familiar. 

“You,” he emphasizes with sweet indignation, “are incredibly gentle. I don’t ever wish to hear that you’re incapable of handling kindness. You simply ought to learn not to bite at the hand that feeds you. And that requires playing more Caro-Kann. I’m willing to help with that. As long as you’re willing to learn.” 

His touch grows firmer, suddenly flowing into a squeeze, and you bate a breath, tongue a swirling little drill into the slopes of your palate. But Viktor goes on, keeping you close — practically face-to-face, and so very, very intimate. 

“And no more returning to stupid vices when you’re facing a nuisance,” he demands. Means it with every ounce of his being. The veins on his neck swell again, menacingly handsome. 

“Yes.” You gulp. The knot in your throat dissolves. “Of course.”

“I see it now. The reason why you think I’m encroaching on your autonomy, that is,” he muses, a bit sorrowful. “It must feel torturous — having to keep your guard up all the time. And I detest those who put you in such misery. However, I don’t like to be mistaken for such a man. I spoke up because I don’t tolerate disrespect. Not because I was trying to assert… ownership of you.” He trailed off, eyes filled with awkward sheen. “Although, I do admit that some possessiveness was involved.” 

Your chuckle turns into a sonorous laugh, but it’s hardly mocking. Insightful, more so.Like the one people emit after solving an equation with the most simple of formulas, like finding out that a confusing answer was sickeningly obvious all along. He allows you to touch him, stays still when you dare to entangle a hand in his hair, brushing through it with a little tug. Lets you know that he’s starving, too. For conversation, for skittishness, for what it augments into when the tension softens. 

Shivers run all the way up to tense shoulders when he wraps an arm around the arched curve of waist, pressing flush against his side to fetter into a desperate embrace. You giggle, dragging a fingertip over his flushed ear. Catch the shift in his breath, so abrupt and delectable.

“You know, I really did threaten to kick that prick in the crotch,” you murmur.

“Oh, I’m aware. Should I be concerned for my own, er… testicles?” 

“No. Well, not in a way that hurts. If you’ll have me.” 

A sheepish grin pulls at the corner of Viktor’s lip. “Now?” prods so huskily that it paints his motives unhallowed, and you hussle in his grasp, wondering if the implication is really there. Wondering if his hunger had suddenly merged with yours. 

And, well, that’s certainly a way to secure an amnesty. One you’re conveniently very eager for. 

So you decide to be bold. “Like I said.” You lean closer, tipping your head down. “If you’ll have me.” 

Viktor chortles. “Is that even a question?” 

Oh fuck.

The malt of his tongue sliding sloppily into your mouth — a kiss so lewd it has your world tumbling indistinct under fluttering eyelids, blurring completely when he steals your breath, ardent and tumultuous when your gasps turn into whines under that persistent, sweet pressure of his lips — starved enough to bruise, to bite a chunk out of you if only he tried hard enough. So wet it threatens to get into your throat, or drip down both of your chins in a glistening little trace — and you open up for him, always so incessant with that reciprocation: tongue, and teeth, and lips so pliant at his disposal. Doesn’t matter if you’re choking. You want to pass out under that gentle mouth, so warm, and inviting, and pressing into you in the most perfect of kisses. Even more strangling when his fingers dig into your hip, holding in place, eager enough to linger there for a few hours in speckled red, engraving his sheer desperation. You can hardly control your own, pulling at one messy chestnut strand. And it earns you a moan — gorgeously wheezy as he sucks at your bottom lip, teeth a sudden sunk into it when he senses the sharp affection and returns it right that instant. 

And you’re putty in those sinewy hands, arching backwards and falling senseless onto the sheets, tangling them with every new jerk of shaky legs. Spiraling into immaculate, tingly madness when Viktor exhales a chuckling breath somewhere above the collarbone, grabbing an overbearing hold of your chin. Coaxing your head to tip back and make some place for his teeth; thirty two little prickles plunging into your throat with pent-up vigor. Pulling at your skin in a not-so-gentle lovebite. More canines than anything, overwhelmingly so. 

But you let him, and meet it with a moan, needy, and high-pitched, and utterly unfeigned — an invitation to suckle more of you into his eager mouth. So he accepts it, freeing a soft breast out of the loose hold of a lacy shirt — and suddenly you’re grateful for that rushed choice of attire, so fitting for the way he squeezes, and twists, and selfishly laps up to tease a soft nipple to delicious stiffness. Watches the fleshy shade of it darken, growing hard under a playful lick. Smug, when he looks up, going in for another taste, pinch slow and torturous when he pulls at that tender nub, prideful for the way you keen, twitching with a fistful of his hair between lithe fingers. And so indecisive, too: does he want it nice and slow, or impatient, hasty and salacious? So many options to choose from. 

He’s leaning towards the latter, however. Lurches the shirt off your chest, tucking it to hastily ruffle around your waist — thank god for the lax straps, so helpfully hanging off both shoulders. Always teasing the lack of a bra. 

Warm palm lingers over the dip of your solar plexus, so gentle between the spread of breasts. And when it creeps higher, lingering over your chin, you force him to be even bolder. Stealing a sharp, dazed exhale when you capture his wrist, leveling those talented digits with your open mouth. Cheeky as you guide them inside, tongue a hot, wet fondle between ring and middle finger. And he shudders, enthralled by the sight, swallowing a whimper as you taunt him. Dragging out that debauched pop when you wrap your lips around them and suck hard, looking up with needy, impudent eyes. 

Such a filthy thing. Even dirtier now that you’re done with your little performance, head drooping to the side, adding to the complacent smirk. Viktor heaves out a laugh. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” whispers sweetly. Presses a peck to your shoulder, smiling when you trace the sharp line of his jaw. Tilts a hollow cheek into your touch, stilling above you. Steams pure admiration, pulling you closer. And you let him have that, so sickeningly starved for his love, grateful for the kiss he plants on the corner of your mouth, shivering when his caring hand — still a little spit-slick at the fingertips — brushes somewhere dangerously low, tickling at the pelvic bone. 

“Wouldn’t that be a good way to go?” you muse. The ever indefatigable tease, gorgeous, as you wrap both arms around his neck, noses pressing together for a split second. 

“I can think of a better one.” He shrugs. And when you humm, asking to elaborate, he simply clings to your thigh, thumb a fleeting brush over the damp edge of your underwear. “Crush me,” he pleads, “while I taste you.” 

“That’s hardly fair. I want to taste you too.” 

And he falters, coyly chewing on a thin lip.

“I think there’s a remedy for that.” 

Always a sight when he rises to undress, fumbling with the impressive amount of buttons. Makes it feel like a striptease, of sorts — an unintentional, lazy show. But this time he’s a little hasty. Almost tears that shirt apart, cocky when it gets to you, thin and immaculate — the pretty tautness of what little muscle he possesses, a shadowy slope of his navel and the curly black fluff running down right into his trousers. Besieging what you know must be really hard to keep in there when you look at him like this — so achingly desperate. Nimble, when you kindly help him with a belt, grinning vixen-like when the buckle budges. Normally, you’d palm him through all those layers, perhaps adhering to some languid torment. But today you’re undressing him rather crudely, eager to pull every cover down long legs and grab a hold of that lovely cock, fingers curling at the base to lay it flat against your restless tongue. 

But he stops you. Grabs a gentle squeeze of your hair somewhere at the nape, coaxing to meet the lustful scold of both glowing eyes. The slight twitch of a lopsided smile, weakly melting into an open-mouthed gasp. 

“Not yet,” begs of you so softly you can’t help but comply. With a reluctant whine, no less. And Viktor dismisses it, crawling back in between parted legs, fingers the sweetest of hooks into your underwear, then an eager drag of it all the way down and off the ankles. Dazed, when he notices a slick little stripe precisely on the pliant inner thigh. Cheeky, when he nudges legs apart again, and nuzzles into the delicate wetness, tongue darting out to lick the trace away — a tad sour, but he adores it, wants to bury his face in that divine flavor, to drench his fingers full of it. 

“Tease,” you accuse. His chin rests in that sweet spot between your thumb and index when he leans in for a kiss, grinning almost ear to ear. Can’t taste yourself on his tongue yet, but that’s a question of lust and a few more minutes of fervent devouring. It’s manageable. Exciting. 

“Bold of you to assume I can last through all your tortures,” Viktor murmurs, a little strangled. Falls supinely on his back, staring lazily from under dark lashes. “Although, I’m flattered. You give my stamina much more credit than it deserves.” 

“Oh please,” you scoff, turning around. Gasping, when long fingers curl into your waist, each thumb a press into your back dimples. And he pulls you onto him, nudges to throw a quivering leg over his neck and drift higher – until your knees press into the matress, and you’re hovering above him in a clumsy squat. And he’s gorgeous beneath you — hair sprawled out on the pillow into a myriad chestnut strays, eyes instantly meeting yours when you throw him a lustful look over your shoulder. 

“Sit.” His breath is syrupy against you, making the slick of folds feel somewhat cold when he exhales into that darling flesh. 

“On your face?” You want to be sure, to coax the obvious answer out of him. It’s a delicious offer, and you wonder if it still stands — as if Viktor’s hands digging into your sides with such firmness is not enough of a confirmation. 

“Precisely,” he rasps. Strokes each haunch in admiration, slowly making his tender way to your ass, spread slow and gentle, yet so achingly lewd it has your face blushing a pretty coral. Twitching, when he smooths a palm over one soft curve and fights the urge to leave a pink trace of a loving slap. And he smiles when you leak at the touch, tongue peeking out to deliver a shuddering lick, to circle the lovely orifice loose, sucking gently on your swollen clit. And you arch backwards again, mouth agape and stuffed full of your own fingers — to muffle that loud whine of a plea, preventing a noise complaint. And Viktor stirs your heat awake again, kisses coyly at the entrance before his index effortlessly slips inside — pumping, and curling, and making a nice, wet sound. “You’re so beautiful,” he praises. “Please, don’t crouch. Sit. I beg of you. You don’t know what it does to me.” 

And he’s right. You don’t know, yet his cock teased full of blood gives you a decent idea on that. So you melt, sighing when your clit lands exactly where you prefer it: on Viktor’s precious tongue, always so eager to please, to whisper filthy words or confession-like Czech nothings. And it’s a pleasant fusion: you know his eyes snap wide open when you reach to push him into your mouth, licking off the musky bead at the reddened tip and humming at the familiar, salty taste. He follows suit, meeting every bob of your head with the loveliest of little wet thrusts — tongue and fingers working together to earn yet another clench, while you tense up, gagging when he tickles the back of your throat. And you’re struggling to take him full, yet yearn for it with such genuine madness: so determined to please and be pleased, merciless with each persistent grind on the seediness of his tongue, grateful for the white-knuckled grip sturdily keeping one hip in place. And it consumes you, that earnest  chase of dizzying undoing, the need to memorize the patterns of the throbbing veins on his cock, each slippery, muffled gulp as you swallow around him, keen on having him paint your throat in warm, slightly bitter spurts. 

But you could also have him find that release inside you. How precious that must be — the tempting stretch of him, gorgeously raunchy, the sounds of skin slamming against Viktor’s narrow hips so utterly debauched. How good he’d feel, pulling you apart, coated in sweat, and slick and your greedy kisses. How breathy you’d plead him to fuck you stupid, moaning things so obscene your ears might still burn hours later. Yes, you’d rather finish him off like this. And you almost feel sorry for that impulse, yanking your mouth off his cock. Deft, when you slip from his grasp, turning to find him flushed and almost drunk on sensations. Oh, he was so, so close. How cruel of you to dispose him of that bliss. 

But you’re about to offer him so much more. So darling when you roll onto your back, open legs a lewd, tantalizing invitation. Beckoning to slide back in — deeper, heavier, closer. And he whimpers at the loss of you, hands immediately aching to gnaw at whatever they can reach. 

“Didn’t want you to cum yet,” you murmur. “Not until you’re inside me.”

That breaks him. Urges to accept the endeavor, rolling swiftly atop your sprawled out form and into the tender twine of limbs. “Milackú,” he keens through a shaky sigh. Pointy lips tremble against your neck. “Oh, milackú. What am I supposed to do with you?” 

“I can think of a certain verb. Four letters. Short and sweet.”  

And Viktor’s eyes lance your very heart when he whispers “I can think of two.” 

“Mmm, I’m not sure I want you to ruin me. ‘Fuck’ will have to suffice.”

“Not the word I was referring to.”

He’s gentle when he pushes in, hooking one thigh over his hip, thrust slow and deliciously torturous — more so to savor, to feel every crevice of yours wrap around him tightly. 

“Viktor,” you plead, wheezy and breathless, but he cradles your face and tips it towards him, aching to have you crumbling under his foggy gaze, drawling a high-pitched whine as he slides in hilt-deep, leaning in to lick a slippery kiss to the side of your neck.

“I want to love you,” he pants. “Four letters. Short and sweet.”

It courses through you, that tender revelation. And he means it, stroking a thumb over your bottom lip, gently nudging your mouth open for another heartful collision. Pours his whole being into that tangle of tongues, glides two shaky fingers over the swell of your clit and presses, stealing moans, twitches and incoherent mumbles.

You want to let him love you, to emit something that isn’t a muffled cry of his name, needier with every motion. And it’s so inherently filthy. The arc of your back over the damp sheets, the debauched stumble of your words as you whisper that confession back, nails a deathgrip into his shoulder when he thrusts again, gently working you through a release. Always so keen on making you cum first, on hearing more of those lewd squelches. And when the stretch stings you for the umpteenth sweet time, it takes him only a few more flickers over the sloppy mess of your clit to coax the final plea out of your sore throat, uttering a praise so dirty it has your toes curling tight enough to spread the tension all the way up to calves. Makes you feel the delicious pain of an orgasm spasm in all its candid beauty — perfect, loud, and hard, swathing around his cock in the loveliest of squeezes. And Viktor claims it like his greatest achievement, moaning into your ear as he finally allows himself to follow suit, lean body a tired collapse on your chest when it waves through him, sticky and so, so warm. Must be the result of a week’s long obstinacy or the plain desperation he nourishes when it comes to you, but you know you just have to make him cum like this again — unarterlably inside you, with every twitch of him so clearly palpable against slippery walls. 

And you’re full of him, overflowing, pulsating and suffocating, the ripples on the ceiling indistinct when you rest your slightly teary eyes. Viktor slides out, stealing a glance at a white little trail running down your thigh in a way so salacious he almost bites his tongue. Breathes so heavily you can feel every shift of his lungs under a flushed cheek. And you notice just how he holds you, basking in the weary afterglow, his chest a heaving pillow for you to nuzzle into. There they come — the loving trades of glossy glances, the smiles when you notice a bold scratch on his scrawny shoulder: he’s going to wear you for days, grinning whenever he passes a mirror naked.

Naked. It strikes you, the little thing you still have to do. It’s right there, in the pocket of your leather coat, probably a little crumpled. But you rush to fetch it nonetheless, ignoring Viktor’s confused humm of a protest. Laughing when he tries to stop you from making your way to the peg, so nimble even with your wobbly, fucked out walk. 

“You wanted to have it.” You grin, handing him the picture. So excited for the gasp when he reaches for it, weary eyes still adorably puzzled as you slip back in bed and under his gentle arm. Giggling when he unfolds the thing and utters an insightful ‘oh’.

He remembers now. Holds it with a knowing smile, amber eyes gliding over each divine line of you, eyeing first your version from the windowsill, then looking back at the real thing with even more striking appreciation. Like he couldn’t believe that a gorgeous creature from the photo is actually sprawled out in his bed; that he’d touched her, pleasured her, been inside her. 

“Thank you. It’s breathtaking.” His forehead presses against yours, and you flick a few wet hairs off its salty, sticky skin. You both need a shower, terribly so. 

“Do you really want to carry it in your wallet?”

“Oh, I intend to. If you approve of it, of course.” 

You chuckle, rolling your eyes at him in a theatrically mocking way. “Mmm, I don’t know about that. Normally, I wouldn’t allow it, but I suppose I could make an exception for the man I love.” 

His laugh wraps around you, warm and dear, muffling against your mouth when you lean to kiss him again — to ensure he doesn’t doubt you, to show him that you’re certain. Sighing when mouths part, but he’s quick to offer you his hand instead, and fingers carefully coil together, tender and still shaky. And Viktor bows his head, settling a soft peck against your knuckles. 

“Go take a shower. I’ll get the board. We’re playing a lot of Caro-Kann today.” 

—

i want to thank every single one of you. this fic has been A JOURNEY. it gave me a better vocabulary (because writing viktor requires research, especially when english is not your first language), a chess addiction and a stronger nicotine one (you don’t want to know how many cigarettes i’ve smoked during those long writing sessions, and neither do i — i’ve stopped counting for a reason). i don’t know if i’m pleased with how this fic turned out. it’s my first multichapter, so of course it’s not exactly perfect, but it was a fine ride nonetheless and i’m glad so many of you loved it. so excited for season 2!!!! so excited to write more for my favorite boy!!! but as of now, i’m taking a small break from writing.

oh, and i wanted to do something special once i’m done with this au. so here’s a spotify playlist dedicated to this fic: the c(o)unterpart

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

[deathbxnny]

Can i request childe with childhood friend reader? I feel like anything that involves his childhood will ends up as angst tbh, imagine meeting your childhood friend again after being seperated for a long time but he looks so different and off

The winter Ajax died. | Childe x Childhood friend!Gn!Reader

Ooh yeah, the uncanny feeling would lowkey be very creepy for sure... thank you for the request, Anon! This was interesting to write about. (I hope someone gets the title reference-)

Content: Childe being a bit unhinged, vague mentions of his past in the Abyss, some angst, platonic relationship, uncanny valley, lowkey turned out too creepy, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

That isn't him.

It's the first thing you thought of when the adults finally left the room and, in turn, you two alone together. The spark in his eyes was gone, face littered with faint scars, hands calloused. And his face was sharp, lacking any softness of a boy his age. It unnerved you, and yet you couldn't look away.

He looked the same otherwise, even acted as bubbly and bright as he used to. But you could feel it nonetheless. He was out of place, nearly standing out inhumanely against the backdrop of his once cherished, warm room. Your body screamed for you to run and hide from that unsettling gaze of his, but you couldn't move. You hadn't even gone to hug him like you had wished to do ever since his disappearance months ago.

"Did you miss me?" What an odd question. Who didn't miss him? Everyone was out looking for him in a desperate daze to find him, yet it was impossible to locate him. Your parents hadn't told you what had happened to him, and frankly, you'd rather believe the lie of him getting lost in a snowstorm than knowing the truth. "Yes... I did." You carefully muttered, but as before, you just couldn't near him. His smile sent a shiver down your spine.

"I'm glad to hear that. I missed you too. But there is something I have to tell you..." He trailed off, his gaze falling onto the sword he had returned with. You never recalled him having one before either. Mind reeling with every possible outcome, you grimly wondered if he'd admit to being a fraud. Perhaps one of those evil creatures that stole the skin of others, like the ones in the evening tales your mother told you about.

"I'm going to join the Fatui." "Oh... wait, but... why?" Different than most boys in your village, Ajax never showed any interest in the military. He always spoke of living a simple life and fishing all day alongside you. So this came as an unlikely surprise you didn't enjoy at all. This wasn't him. This just wasn't him.

You swore it.

His face fell at your clear hesitance but brightened again once your parents returned. "I'm going to be a Harbinger one day, just you wait. I promise you'll be proud of me." He whispered to you under his breath before giving his mother a smile that never reached his eyes. You could only watch him from afar then, his words feeling more like a threat than anything else.

Whatever happened to him out there must've killed him. You were sure of that.

[zukosdualdao]

through all of the shadowy corners of me

zutara month, day three: (re)meet ugly/meet cute. @zutaramonth

summary: as katara's plans on the anniversay of her mother's murder fall apart, she ducks into a teashop to wait out the storm and finds herself familiar with the rude tea server she comes face to face with and promptly bursts into tears. because of-fucking-course.

warnings: grief, nightmares, references to kya's murder (and ursa's disappearance, though that is less explicit), and references to ableism wrt facial differences. also, just, some lightly gratuitous swearing, on behalf of katara's no good very bad day. she deserves it.

other notes: title taken from landon piggs’ falling in love at a coffeeteashop. because i am basic in that way.

Katara’s pretty sure the universe is conspiring against her.

First, it was the fucking felt-tip markers being all dried up—damn it Sokka—she needed for the posters for the protest she was supposed to head.

(She tries not to think about how really, first, it was the dream she woke up from, that she wakes up from often, but especially on this day, the dream with fearful eyes and the ominous drip of blood and the feeling of too late too late too late. The dream that is also a memory.)

Someone had to make the posters—because seriously, why was the school shutting down the campus food bank when a third of the student population was food-insecure?— so she missed her first class of the day to get new ones from the closest craft store, over half an hour way with traffic. There was supposed to be a quiz, too, and the professor is notoriously stubborn about absences and make-ups. 

And then there was this huge storm, so they couldn’t even have the protest today like they’d planned.

Now, as Katara ducks out of the rain and into the tiny little hole-in-the-wall ambient tea shop—The Jasmine Dragon, the sign had said—which is all warm lighting and soft ringing laughter from the bare few patrons inside, she figures she can at least get a cup of something hot to drink. It’s been a truly horrible day, and she can’t wait to get back home, sleep for ten hours straight, and wipe it from the record of her memory, but right now, this is her one saving grace.

So, when she gets to the second place in line, very patiently waiting as the server at the front snipes at the man in front of her, part of her wants to reel up to confront him. Sure, she knows customer service can be a day-in, day-out nightmare—she didn’t spend her first two semesters waiting tables because it was fun—but really, he could at least try to be a little nicer. The man wasn’t doing anything wrong, as far as she could see.

When she gets to the front, Katara opens her mouth to say—something, she doesn’t know what—and is caught off-guard to find that she recognizes him faintly. With his eyes the color of amber, swoopy, dark hair, and a shiny, painful-looking burn scar set against the left side of his face, on her right—yes, he was a boy who was in Sokka’s class back in high school. And he was a total jerk, barely speaking a word to anyone except to get into arguments, whether with teachers or other kids. She didn’t know him all that well herself, but she’d never liked him from the stories Sokka told or for the way he seemed to bristle at everyone and everything as she watched from a morbidly curious distance.

Zuko. Yes, she remembers him.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice almost a snarl when she spends a beat too long taking in his features, though he’s not looking at her, instead glancing down at his scratchpad. “I’m supposed to tell all of the customers we’re out of the oolong,” he adds in a rough voice, without looking up.

Katara wants to rage, wants to scream, why does he think he gets to treat people like that, god, at least have the decency to look me in the eye and treat me like a person when you’re being a dick—but instead, she bursts into tears. 

Very loud, messy tears. It’s been a long day.

And, well. He certainly looks up then. 

“Um,” Zuko says in lieu of an actual reaction, his right eye wide. His expression has softened considerably, his mouth shaped in surprise, his browline furrowed. “We have jasmine?” he tries.

Well, she thinks as he stands there stiffly, the perfect image of a deer in headlights, before reaching over the counter to push the napkin dispenser toward her, this is humiliating.

At least it’s not terribly busy in here. There’s no one standing beside her, and she only feels one or two worried glances from the tables, the shop mostly empty.

“Sorry,” Katara says through her tears. “God, I’m sorry. I just—I’m having awful day,” she says, motioning to her face as a way of explanation before yanking a napkin out from the dispenser to dry her face.

Zuko’s lip curls in what she thinks might be sympathy. 

“Me, too,” he admits on a sigh. “Sorry. What can I get for you?”

“Um,” she says, shaking her head and smiling through still teary eyes. God. “A cup of jasmine tea would actually be nice.”

“Sure.” 

She pays quickly and tries to ignore his eyes as they follow her over to the tiny round table she chooses in the corner. One cup, she thinks. She’ll drink one cup of tea and be out of here quicker than even the lightning flaring outside, before anyone can say anything about it, and then head back to her apartment and think through every turn in life that got her there, sobbing in line at a tea shop as a mean boy she knew from high school tried not to call her on it.

But he has other plans, because when he brings her order to her, he doesn’t just leave like he’s supposed to, standing there for several awkward moments that feel as though they’re spanning lifetimes.

Yeah. The universe is definitely conspiring against her.

“So… you’re… good now?”

Katara stares at him blankly for a moment, feeling her jaw grow a little slack.

“Are you… checking on me?”

A beat. “I’m just very committed to customer service,” Zuko deadpans, and Katara can’t help but laugh.

“Right,” she says. “Yeah. I’m… good. Thank you.” He nods—just once, a rigid jerk of his head—and starts to turn on his heel to leave.

But for some reason, she suddenly doesn’t want that. He’s being… almost kind of sweet, and it’s so incongruous with the memory she has of him that it kindles a new kind of curiosity.  “We went to school together, you know,” she says quickly, before he can fully turn around. He pauses in his tracks. “You probably don’t remember, but—”

“I remember you,” Zuko says before she can even finish. She frowns, intrigued. “You always wore your hair up in a braid and those loops. And once, even though we barely knew each other,” he adds with the faint traces of a smile, “you told off that kid when he was… uh…” The smile fades.

Katara remembers suddenly. It was an overcast day, not unlike the way this one had started, and Zuko had been sitting alone in the courtyard, not bothering anyone (for once) as Katara made her way to lunch when she saw some other kid go up to him to start needling him, saying horrible things about his scar. Very loudly.

Katara hadn’t liked that, so she’d marched right over and told the kid so. Also very loudly.

She’s pretty sure that’s the only time she and Zuko even tangentially interacted, and even then, they hadn’t spoken any actual words to each other. Everything else she knew about him came from stories and distant observation.

“When he was being a dick,” she finishes for him.

“Yeah,” Zuko says. Peering through his eyelashes, he adds more quietly, “I’ve always remembered that.”

“Really?”

A shrug of his shoulders. “You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

“I don’t like cruel people.” He nods, hands in his pockets, eyes suddenly downcast and looking almost a little ashamed. It makes her sort of sad. “Do you have time to sit?” Katara asks suddenly.

He looks surprised as he glances back at up her. “What?”

“I mean, I know you’re working, so don’t worry about it if not,” she adds in a hurry, tripping over he words. “I just thought maybe…”

“My shift’s actually over,” he answers, and suddenly, there’s a soft, sort-of-shy smile playing on his lips. “I—I could sit.”

He pulls the chair out and sits while Katara sips at her tea. It really is quite good.

“This is almost making up for the rest of my day,” she laughs, and his face scrunches up, maybe almost amused.

But then, the expression morphs. “Why was your day so bad, Katara?”

She’s surprised to find he ever knew her name, let alone remembers it now. He really is full of surprises. 

She could tell him the simple version, the actual events without the why she was taking it so hard, without divulging what it was really about… but, well…

He seems sincere enough in asking, at any rate.

“I just… I lost my mother when I was really young,” she begins to explain, feeling sort of choked-up and tight in her chest again, but no tears threaten to fall right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and she looks up to meet his gaze, swimming with undeniable sympathy. “That’s something we have in common.”

She looks at him for a long moment, surprised. This is something they share, then. Something they can understand about each other. “I’m sorry, too. It’s awful. And… today is the anniversary. I usually just try to keep busy, but…”

“But everything went wrong?”

Katara hums.

“That’s the fucking worst,” he says bluntly, and Katara laughs then. He has very little tact, it seems, but also, yeah. It is. And it’s nice for someone to be able to… just say it. To feel it with her.

“It is the fucking worst,” she agrees. “But… I really am doing better now.”

“I’m glad,” he says, but he frowns, staring down at his hands, which are splayed on the table. “I really shouldn’t keep you from your day."

“I mean… the rest of my plans for the day have sort of fallen apart, and I should probably wait out the rain anyway, so I might, uh,” she says, feeling suddenly shy and hesitant. “I might stick around for a while. Get one more of these,” she nods down to her cup, warm and solid in her hands. “You know.” She takes another sip.

His smile glints, but it’s soft, too, definitely as shy as she feels. “I could do with a cup.”

Katara’s own smile grows wider.

The kindly older man who runs the shop—Zuko's uncle, Katara learns quickly—brings them out another round of jasmine, two cups this time, and Zuko slowly raises his in a cheers motions motion, a little awkward and a lot funny.

“To awful days?” he says with a raise of his brow.

“And to perfect storms,” she adds in agreement, laughter bubbling in her chest.

They clink their teacups together.

[she-wolf09231982]

Eugene Doc Roe

“Still Falling For You.”

Summary: You did your best to get through the war without getting too attached to anyone. The amount of loss you’ve seen as a combat medic taught you that tomorrow is no guarantee, and that it would be foolish to connect to anyone. That all flew out the window after you met Eugene Roe.

A/N: One shot, EugeneDocRoex!FemMedic, WW2, Female Pronouns, Cursing/Swearing, Military and Medical Terminology, Inappropriate Nicknames, HBO Band of Brothers References, Mentions/Descriptions of Injuries/Wounds, Weaponry, Smoking, Drinking, FOREVER FLUFF/FLUFF AND STUFF

(d)=Dutch

(f)=French

~~~~~~~

October 1944, Holland

You had been assigned to Dog Company while he ran with Easy. You’ve only seen him in passing in Toccoa during training, but it seemed you ran into him quite often in Holland.

This man always had an intense expression. His defined jawline always clenched, and eyebrows usually drawn inward giving his face that constant look of concern.

You had always seen him from distance. The closest you two ever got was when you both reached for the same pack of dressing at med supply at the aid station in Aldbourne. You reached without looking and his hand accidentally grabbed yours. Startled, you pulled your hand back and you heard his honeyed Cajun accent,

“Oh, sorry, go ahead.” He had said with a weak smile, gesturing to the pack on the shelf.

You were almost a puddle at his feet.

Now as cold October nights came in Holland 2 years later, you’re bumping into eachother more than you can count. Not that you were complaining. He was a handsome man, and it warmed you from the inside to see him.

You never really had a reason to talk to him. You tried to not be a distraction or get too involved with people during the war. You made that mistake when one of the soldiers from Dog Company led you to believe he was interested in a longterm romance with you but you caught him with a local blonde bombshell in England before D-Day.

You felt it best to keep to yourself and do your best keeping yourself busy helping the boys stay alive in the field. So, making small talk with this other medic outside duty related reasons was out of the question. But, goodness, he was quite the tall drink of water.

~~~~~~~

One particularly chilly October evening, you both arrived to the aid station with wounded men from the field.

“Nurse! We got a gunshot wound to the right lower quadrant here. One syrette.” You explain as you followed the litter that carried your wounded man in.

“Thank you, Corporal Y/L/N. We got him from here.”

“I got a chest wound here, nurse. Two, possibly three syrettes were used on this man.” The other medic called out.

“Two, possibly three?” The nurse repeated.

“Yes ma’am. The men who applied them couldn’t remember how many they used, unfortunately.” He clarified.

“I see,” the nurse returned, “thanks, Gene.”

A name….Now you have a name to go with the man. You wished you hadn’t heard it, now it made him more real to you. Without a name, he was just considered a living dream with just a job title. Just a face amongst a crowd. Now, you know his name, pushing him into your reality on a whole different level.

You vigorously shake your head to snap out of your intrusive thoughts.

“Get it together, Y/F/N.” You whisper to yourself.

“That’s a pretty name.” You hear a baritone voice from behind you.

Your heart skips as your breathe catches in your chest. You turn slowly and come face to face with Gene.

You swallow hard, “Uh, thank you.” You squeak.

“I’m Eugene. Eugene Roe.” He introduced extending his right hand.

You gingerly take his hand and shake, “Y/F/N Y/L/N.”

“Good to finally meet ya.”

“Ha, yeah.” You utter smiling coyly looking down at your boots.

You were known to be impenetrable under pressure. You could easily find a vein and apply an IV of plasma to a man’s arm in the midst of complete chaos during combat…but this guy had you falling apart inside just by speaking to you.

“You doin’ ok over at Dog Company?” He asked.

“It’s been busy. Mostly men with pneumonia. The guy I came with was on patrol and was shot after they stumbled upon a German outpost.” You explained, “What about you?”

“Steady. Moose over there was shot by one of our own guys. Kid got spooked when our CO and him were doing post checks and he shot him thinking it was a German.”

“That’s awful.”

“Well, the worst part was the officers with him didn’t keep track of how much morphine they gave him. Could’ve killed him.” Gene added.

“The nurses are great here, I’m sure they’ll be able to help him.”

He smirked briefly, “Yeah, well good thing he’s a big man, maybe he’ll have a chance.”

You nod in agreement.

“Well, I should get back. See ya around.” Gene said with a smile before he rushed out the door.

~~~~~~~

November 1944

Throughout the everyday chaos of tending to wounded soldiers, you found peace on your downtime (when you did get days off) reading in your foxhole or going into town to grab a hot shower and have a few drinks at the local pub in town. Two medics were assigned to each company, so on slower days when the Germans weren’t raining hell on Americans, they would rotate out to take a break.

It was your turn to take a break, so you hitched a ride into town and cleaned yourself up donning in your dress uniform. You usually sit tucked away at the end of the bar so you wouldn’t be bothered. As more soldiers and locals started to filter in, you notice Gene breeze through the door with a handful of Easy.

You light a cigarette to calm your nerves.

“Nog eentje, mevrouw? (d)(Another one, Miss)?” The bartender asked.

“Ja, bedankt (d)(Yes, thank you).” You reply drinking down the last of what was left in your bottle.

You glance over by the dart boards and see Gene and his group settled at a table and began ordering their beverages from the barmaid.

“Hey, Doc, ain’t that the Dog Company medic you told us about?” Guarnere asked nudging Gene with his elbow.

Gene looked over his shoulder at the bar.

“Sure is.” He acknowledged simply.

“Pretty girl.” Babe professed.

Gene hummed as he took a gulp of beer from the pint the waitress put in front of him.

“So, you gonna go talk to her?” Perconte prodded.

Gene looked at him inquisitively, “Why?”

“Come on, Doc! We know you got it for her. Whenever we come cross Dog Company you light up like a goddamn Christmas tree.” Guarnere exclaimed.

Gene scoffed, “You know that ain’t true, Bill.” He dismissed as he sipped from his glass.

“My ass, it ain’t!” Bill retorted.

“What if I told you she looked over here a couple of times since we got in here?” Babe revealed.

Gene shrugged while twirling his glass on the table.

As the room started to fill up, the music picked up and before you knew it, couples were tearing up the dance floor. Bill and Babe found ladies to dance with while Frank and Gene watched on from their table. You remained at the bar observing the crowd as they whimsically enjoyed their evening.

“She looks bored.” Frank observed.

“Perhaps.” Gene replied.

Frank rolled his eyes, “Just go to her!”

“I don’t wanna interfere with her personal time, Frank.”

“Well, looks like Guarnere is extending the invite.” Frank pointed out.

Gene quickly turned around to see Bill gesturing for you to join them. You were reluctant at first, not wanting to impose, but Gene can see he was insisting as he ushered you off the barstool and guided you towards their table.

As he approached Gene and Frank, he flashed Doc a mischievous grin.

“This here is Frank Perconte. Frank, Y/F/N.” Bill began.

“Good to meet ya!” Frank waved from his seat. You nod to him.

“And I know you know Doc, over here.” Bill added.

“Yes, I’ve had the pleasure of running into him a few times.” You proclaim.

Gene smiled at you as he stood to pull the chair out next to him for you to sit,

“Always my pleasure, Y/F/N.” He returned politely.

~~~~~~~

The night was filled with laughter at that table. You were starting to like Easy better than Dog Company. These guys had a sense of humor and from the stories they told that evening, the rest of Easy were not far off from them.

Eugene was the strong silent type. Only smiling or chuckling as the boys bantered and laughed and only said anything when they asked him to confirm their anecdotes about being on the front line. He would occasionally make eye contact with you leaving you shyly giggling as you try to maintain your composure.

But as the evening came to a close, you felt a sense of dread that you may not get the opportunity to see him again. At least not under these pleasant circumstances. The boys stood up and filed towards the door. Gene pulled your chair from under you as you stood.

“This turned out to be a wonderful evening, Gene. Your friends are a hoot.”

“They sure are.” He agreed with a laugh.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you out there.” You said as you walk together towards the exit.

“Absolutely.” He confirmed smiling.

~~~~~~~

The following week, the Germans were relentless with artillery attacks causing mass casualties to Easy Company. Your CO approached you with temporary orders to report to Winters over at Easy Company because their back up medic had a minor injury while administering care to another wounded soldier.

Your nerves were a wreck as you looked for Eugene’s foxhole. You peered into each hole to no avail until you finally found a familiar face.

“Hey, do either of you know where Doc Roe is?”

Guarnere’s face met yours, “Hey! Look who it is!”

“Hey, Bill! Good to see ya.”

“Yeah, doll, Doc’s over dat way.” He pointed over to the tree line.

“Thanks, Bill, I’ll see ya.”

You look into the hole and see Gene sitting against the dirt wall fiddling with a rosary in his hands.

“Hey, Eugene.” You greet as you crouch over the opening.

He looked up, a smile stretching across his face.

“Bonjour mon ami (f) (Hello, my friend).”

“You speak French.”

“Oui. I was raised in Louisiana and my grandmother mainly spoke French.” He explained.

You hop into the hole and sit next to him.

“You’ll have to tell me more about home sometime.”

“Gladly.”

Just then, you both hear Lipton’s voice in the distance.

“INCOMING!”

You hear a blast from German artillery nearby. You both stand and peak over the edge. You look around in all directions seeing soldiers running to foxholes manning their positions to prepare to fight back. More attacks from the Germans showered dirt and shrapnel everywhere until you heard that familiar call:

“MEDIC!”

You scurry out of the hole and sprint towards the shout for help.

“Y/F/N! WAIT!” You hear Gene call after you.

You dive behind snow mounds and piles of fallen trees for cover everytime a blast strikes close enough to where you are. You squat behind a pine, straining to hear the call for medic again.

“MEDIC!”

You run in the direction of the voice you can hear closest to you. Weaving and dodging blasts and pings of bullets flying past your head. 

You finally find a soldier laid out on the ground bleeding from his left arm.

“I gotchya.” You say as you land on your knees next to the man.

“You ain’t Doc.” He said through heaves of breath.

“Glad you can tell the difference, corporal.” You say as you tie a tourniquet on his bicep.

You pull a large gauze out, stuffing it down into the wound opening.

“Ack! Why’s it tingling!?”

“There’s sulfur on it to clot the bleeding.” You explain as you push a dressing into his arm to put pressure on the gash.

When the bleeding stops, you securely wrap his arm to keep the pressure on the wound.

“Can you make it to HQ?” You yell out to him while more explosions erupted around you.

He nodded.

“Ok go!”

As he hurried off, you see Gene waving you over to him to take cover with him behind a pile of fallen trees. You take off towards him until a German shell detonated in your path sending you backward onto your back.

“Y/F/N!” Gene’s muffled voice was the last thing you heard before tinnitus set in.

Delirium had you standing looking for safety, not realizing you were in fact putting yourself in more danger. Through the ringing in your ears, you faintly hear Gene calling your name to get down but all you knew was you were out in the open and needed to find cover.

You continued to walk aimlessly, believing you were closer to refuge until you feel yourself once again propelled backwards onto the ground, this time by Gene tackling you as another explosion emitted less than a few feet away from where you were.

Gene sprang to his feet, taking you by the arm and hoisting you over his shoulder carrying you off as fast as he could to the nearest trench. He slid on his rear down into the next hole he found, bringing you in front of him where he could cradle you in his arms. He shielded your face by tucking your head into the crook of his neck.

“I gotchya, mon amour (f) (my love).” He reassured as he rocked you back and forth.

Your eyelids started to feel heavy as tunnel vision began closing in. Gene looked down at you when he felt your body going limp.

“Hey, Y/F/N, stay with me! Stay awake!” He pleaded as he gently shook you.

“I’m so tired-“

“I know, mon amour (f) (my love), but I need you to stay awake.” He implored.

He noticed the right sleeve of your uniform was saturated in red.

“-merde (f)(shit).”He whispered to himself as he unbuttoned your collar to locate the source of the bleeding.

As he pulled the neckline of the shirt off to the side, he discovered you had shards of metal from the German shell spiking out of your shoulder.

“I’m gonna get these out, Y/F/N.” He said as he gently placed you on your back.

He ripped your uniform sleeve to expose your whole right arm, then braced you down with his forearm across your sternum and started pulling them out one by one by hand. You hissed at each extraction, trying not to pass out from the pain. When he finished removing them all, he took a syrette from his pocket and injected it in your tricep.

“You’re gonna be ok, mon amour.” He said softly as he applied a large gauze and wrapped your shoulder.

“Make sure you remember how much morphine you used.” You weakly joked.

His worried features melted into an adoring grin, as he affectionately brushed away loose strands of your hair away from your face.

Last thing you remember was Eugene placing a soft kiss on your forehead before the world around you slipped into darkness.

~~~~~~~

You awoke in a panic two days later, only remembering you had been surrounded by chaos and danger, not realizing you were in the solace of the aid station. A nurse hurried over to calm you when you shot up from the cot alarmed.

“It’s alright, honey, you’re safe. Just breathe for me.” She instructed.

You can’t catch your breath at first, but take a deep breath to slow it down. You suddenly remember the wound on your shoulder and no sooner does the thought cross your mind a sharp pain begins to throb in your entire right arm.

“Son of a bitch!” You bellow as you touch the mummy wrapping across your shoulder.

“Oh my!” The nurse gasped at your language.

You groan, “I’m sorry. Kinda rubs off on ya when you’re surrounded by men all the time.”

“Hm, well let’s get you something for the pain, shall we?” She suggested as she walked off.

~~~~~~~

You hadn’t seen Eugene for days. You began to worry that something might have happened, but according to the nurses, the front lines were quite busy and all medics had their hands full.

“Well, then I need to get back out there.”

“Absolutely not! You’re not even close to a full recovery!” The nurse stated.

“I’m close enough. They need me.” You insisted as you started to put on your uniform.

Against the better judgement of the nurses, you finally left the aid station, hitching a ride to the line to finally see Gene. Before even reporting back to Dog Company, you wander around Easy Company’s camp searching for him.

Not before long, you see a familiar figure with his back facing you. Your heart beats against your ribcage something painful when you see his medic brassard on his left arm.

Your breathe catches in your throat, as a tear escapes the corner of your eye. You want to run to him, but your knees almost give out, so instead you call to him.

“Eugene!” You yell as loud as your lungs would allow.

Gene immediately turned after hearing your voice.

“Y/F/N!?”

You beam at him and quickly walk to him while he trotted towards you to meet you half way. As the gap close between you and Eugene, the concern on his face increased. You each stop less than a foot from eachother.

“Why aren’t you at the aid station??” Gene queried with his eyebrows furrowed from worry.

“I wanted to get back out here to help.” You clarified.

His lips pursed together in disapproval.

“You need to heal. That shell did a number on your shoulder. You lost a lot of blood, too. I know cuz I put the IV in myself to give you plasma.” He declared.

Your heart soars at his confession. You inch so close to him, you feel his breath upon your face.

“You saved my life, Eugene.”

He returned a bashful grin.

“It was nothin’.” He replied simply.

“It must’ve been something. I heard you call me your love a couple of times out there. ‘Mon amor,’ I believe you said?” You presented.

Slightly embarrassed, Gene averted his eyes to the ground.

“I did.” He admitted still avoiding eye contact.

His chest started to palpitate.

“Eugene-“ you began as you slipped your hands into his. He gradually met your gaze.

“Oui?”

You pull him towards you, “I fell for you the first day I saw you. And I’m still falling for you.”

Completely astonished, Gene enveloped you, pulling you against him as he planted kisses on the top of your head, your temple and all over your face. You giggle then look up at him through your lashes. He dreamily looks back at you then leaned in locking his lips onto yours.

He cupped your face, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as you return the intensity. You separate briefly, your mouths hovering over one another as you pant for air.

“Does that mean you feel the same?” You ask playfully.

He rests his forehead against yours, then released an elated exhale.

“With all my heart.” He purred.

~~~~~~~

@mrs-greenside I almost forgot to tag you for this Doc Roe x y/n! Here’s a one shot for you until I write a multiple chapter series with y/n 🪖 ♠️ 🦅❤️

[navybrat817]

Spoils of War

Pairing: Gladiator!Steve Rogers x Female Reader, mention of Dark Advisor!Andy Barber x Female Reader Summary: Steve gets a reward for a job well done and wishes he could have been with you under different circumstances. Word Count: Over 3k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Noncon references (do NOT read if this upsets you), Dubcon elements (reader consents with Steve), vaginal unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), possessive behavior, dirty talk, talks of violence, captivity, servitude, dark themes, Steve Rogers (he's a warning, okay?) A/N: Here we go with The Arena! Please heed the warnings with each post for this AU as there will be dark elements throughout. Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. Banner and moodboard by yours truly. Divider by @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Steve Rogers believed in doing the right thing. Even as a young boy, he didn't allow his small size to let bullies push him, or others, around. As long as he could get up, he would fight. He carried that idealism throughout his life. It was why he chose to work with S.H.I.E.L.D..

But he no longer fought for the greater good.

The cheers from the arena rang in his ears as he closed his eyes, the water from the showerhead washing the blood and grime away. It wouldn't take away the guilt that ate at his soul. He was meant to save people, not take their lives away. How was he reduced to being a puppet for the demented masses?

One day, he would be free.

Today, he would savor the spoils of war.

"You've done well, Captain Rogers. A prize is long overdue."

Steve dried off moments later and kept a towel around his waist as he waited for you. He didn't have to wait much longer. The cell door opened long enough to shove you inside, anger boiling in his gut when you almost fell to your knees.

"Break her and Barber will kill you," the guard threatened.

Andy Barber. His former colleague. Your master.

"Should I tell him you nearly made her fall on her face or do you want to do that yourself?"

The guard didn't respond, but had the decency to look afraid before he slammed the door and left the two of you alone.

Steve watched as you straightened up and carefully glanced around the room. The cell HYDRA kept him in was comfortable enough. A small bathroom, a nice bed, and a desk so he could draw. Charcoal only, as they didn't allow him to have anything he could use to harm them. They also refused to let him have a cell near Bucky, afraid they would conspire against the guards and break free.

Even if he did have a weapon with him, he wouldn't use it on you.

His prize.

"Would you like to sit down?" he asked, bringing your gaze toward him.

This was the first time he had seen up close since the day everything went to hell. You were still beautiful, but there was sorrow in your eyes that hadn't been there before. The lacy red and black lingerie set did little to cover you, so different from the office clothes he typically saw you in. He wondered if you shivered slightly from the cold or fear.

"Yes. Thank you, Captain," you answered, offering him a small smile as you made your way to the foot of the bed.

You still had the same smile.

"Don't call me that," he said harsher than he intended to. "I'm not your Captain anymore."

He failed as Captain America. HYDRA captured you, Bucky, and countless others because he hadn't taken them down. It seemed like they only referred to him by his title to taunt him. Was he ever worthy of the shield?

Your smile slipped away as you sat down and lowered your gaze. "I'm sorry, sir."

Steve immediately wanted to pull you into his arms and apologize. You weren't in his cell for more than two minutes and he took his frustration out on you. He hadn't meant to.

"You don't need to apologize. I'm sorry for taking that tone with you. Steve or sir are both fine, sweetheart," he said, his towel slipping further down his hips as he walked toward you. "Or would you prefer I call you by your name?"

"You can call me whatever you want."

The words sounded rehearsed.

You looked up at him when his warm hand cradled your jaw, surprising him when you didn't recoil. He wondered what you saw as you looked into his eyes. A murderer? A monster?

"Why did you ask for me?" you asked.

"Because I was told I could have a reward for a job well done," he told you.

You narrowed your eyes. "Why me specifically?"

Rewards were typically in the form of a mistress since fighters couldn't ask for their freedom, or challenge anyone in charge to a battle. Mistresses were usually sent from the harem and not taken directly from one of the advisors or generals. It was only natural that you'd ask why.

"You belong to Andy Barber," he stated to gauge your reaction.

You flinched, your eyes flashing with something akin to offense and fury, but you didn't pull free from Steve's grasp. From what he gathered, you weren't a willing mistress to Andy. You knelt beside him at every match he could remember and never said a word. Advisors and Generals loved to show off their possessions. Requesting you as his prize for doing such a good job in the arena pissed Andy off, but he couldn't deny him.

A pet having power or sway over a master isn't allowed.

But unlike Andy, Steve's intentions weren't to harm or force himself on you.

If he thought for a moment that you were a willing participant in this, your reaction told him otherwise. "I don't belong to anyone."

"I wasn't trying to offend you," he promised, keeping his hand on you as he took a seat beside you. "How does he treat you?"

You hesitated before you answered. "Sometimes he fucks me like he loves me."

He ran a thumb across your cheek when a tear fell from your eye, rage surging through his veins. Even though you didn't bear any physical scars like him and the other fighters, you no doubt had wounds on the inside. Forced into sexual servitude would be enough to hurt the strongest of people. But the flicker of fire in your eyes, you still had some fight in you. It comforted him that they didn't break you.

"Did he do something to you? Is this some sort of payback?" you guessed.

"He did, but I didn't ask for you to get back at him," he said.

He wouldn't have asked for Andy's mistress if it was anyone other than you.

"I don't know why you're asking how he treats me. At the end of the day, I'm just his whore," you said, eying him warily. "And tonight, I'm yours."

He shook his head, bringing his other hand up to cup both cheeks. "You're not a whore."

He wished you could be his girl.

Maybe in another life.

"Then I don't understand why I'm here if you're not going to use me," you said, confusion filling your beautiful eyes. "I'm nobody."

"You worked on the 3rd floor," he said, tracing his finger along your bra strap when you gasped. "You had a cardigan on the back of your chair and the background on your computer matched whatever season we were in. You kept to yourself, but offered a small, kind smile whenever someone looked your way or jumped in to help without anyone asking. You were vital to S.H.I.E.L.D. and you're far from being a nobody."

You moved an inch closer and his gaze fell to your lips. "You knew me?" you asked in disbelief as he nodded. "I-I never thought anyone as high up as you would've noticed me."

"Of course, I did. I was just too stupid to say anything then," he replied, smiling sadly when he wiped another tear away.

Would it have made this situation better? Worse? Dwelling on "what if" would do more harm than good.

“So, you asked for me because you wanted to see me? You care?”

He let out a breath as he nodded. “I had to see for myself that you’re okay. Well, as okay as you can be given the circumstances,” he said.

There were so many things he wanted to say. That he was sorry a man like Andy ever got his hands on you. That he didn’t want you to give up hope. Why wouldn’t the words come out?

"I didn't think anyone cared," you said, lightly tracing a tiny scar on his arm. Something in your expression shifted from uncertainty to seductive as you leaned in closer. "But that shouldn't surprise me. You're a good man."

He placed a hand on your lips to stop you before you kissed him. Yes, he asked for you to be here, but he didn't want you to feel forced to do this. “No, sweetheart. I’m not going to use you.”

The point of his confession, or whatever he could call it, wasn't to make you give in to him. He needed you to know you did mean something to someone. You weren't alone in this.

“Is it using me if I’m offering?” you countered when he lowered his hand, giving you the chance to lean in to pepper his jaw with soft kisses. He didn’t stop you this time. “Unless you don’t want me.”

Steve wanted you. God, he wanted you, but he wouldn’t take from you the way Andy did. Even when you placed a hand on his thigh, your touch light and heavenly, he had to resist. HYDRA reduced him to a killer, he refused to sink any lower.

“I know you won’t hurt me,” you said, leaning back and reaching behind you to unhook your bra. He didn’t mean to groan when you took it off, but your breasts on display had his heart pounding against his ribs. Your nipples were hard and he hadn’t even properly touched you. “Like I said, you're a good man.”

Steve’s hands fell to your hips when you straddled him, his cock twitching beneath the towel. Was it wrong to give in if you wanted it? But did you actually want him? Were you acting on instinct? Orders?

“How am I a good man if I’m taking advantage of you?” he tried to argue when you pushed your hips down.

“You aren’t. You're giving me a choice and I'm choosing to give myself to you,” you said, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I want to forget even if it’s just for tonight.”

He wanted to forget, too. He didn’t want to see the blood that stained his shield or the life leaving the eyes of the bodies that fell. What he wouldn’t give to have a beer with Bucky after a mission gone well. Or take you out on a proper date.

“I’m your prize, Steve. So take it.”

The last shred of hesitation inside him snapped when he fastened his lips against yours. You went pliant against him, opening your mouth for him to take what he wanted. It wasn’t how he wanted your first kiss with him to be, but it made him dizzy nonetheless.

He didn’t break the kiss as he rolled you over, spreading you out on your back to slide in between your thighs. He swallowed down the small sound you made before he gave you both a chance to catch your breath. The sight of you gazing up at him made him lose his breath again.

“Please,” you whispered, shuddering as he moved his calloused hands up your legs.

He heard people beg before, but not like this. You would be his salvation. He hoped he could be yours, too.

Torn between kissing up your thighs or diving right in, he decided to dip a hand between your legs. You shivered again as he pressed his palm against the damp, flimsy fabric. “You’re wet,” he said in awe, gripping the underwear and tearing it away.

Your back arched, sending a shiver down his spine when he saw your eyes glaze over with lust. “For you, Steve.”

For him.

The slide of his first finger made him close his eyes. You were tight and warm and the clench around the digit alone was enough to make his cock twitch. He wondered if you ever got this wet for Andy. Did he prep you? Make you come?

“I’m supposed to take care of you,” you whined when he pushed another finger in.

“Are you my prize, sweetheart?” he asked, spreading and sliding his fingers in and out. He brought his other hand up to your breasts, not wanting to neglect them as he toyed with your pussy. "Are you giving yourself to me?"

“Yes,” you said breathlessly when he pinched a hardened bud, your walls tightening more by the time he added a third finger. “I am.”

“Then let me handle you as I see fit,” the slight command that came out was reminiscent of his days of being a Captain, the very thing he told you not to call him.

“Yes, Sir,” you whimpered, arching your back again when he removed his fingers.

He brought them to his mouth and licked each of them clean, savoring the sweet and tangy flavor of you on his tongue. If he was a better man, he’d take more time with you. Worship every inch of you until you sobbed and begged for more. Later, he’d indulge until all he knew was your taste. Your first orgasm though, he wanted on his cock.

He had to be inside you now.

You blinked and smiled as if you sensed his need. “I’m ready.”

Steve gripped the base of his cock as he settled between your legs. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine you were in his home. He refused to do so. This was the reality you were in and he had to make the most of it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, silencing you with a kiss when you opened your mouth.

You gasped as he lined up with your entrance and slowly slid in. He almost stopped halfway through when you clenched hard around him, but his kisses relaxed you enough to let him in. He never felt anything as good as you and was sure he never would again. He was afraid he’d become addicted.

“I’m sorry, too,” you whispered back, sending shivers down his spine when you ran your fingers through his beard. “But it’s okay.”

He began to thrust, unable to take the tenderness in your eyes. In another life, he would’ve been worthy of that gaze and comfort. Now it was survival of the fittest.

“I won’t break,” you moaned, allowing him to take your wrists and pin them over your head. “You can fuck me how you need to.”

“What was it you said?” he asked, driving deeper into you to make you moan louder. “He fucks you like he loves you?”

You choked on your breath when you gazed up at him with fear in your eyes. You blinked it away before he could dwell on it. “Sometimes.”

“You haven’t been fucked by me before,” he grunted, taking your leg to wrap around his hip. “When I send him back to you, you’ll be dripping with me. He'll know you'll never truly be his."

A loud moan escaped when his grip on your wrists tightened, your hips rising to meet his thrusts as he fucked into you. It was easier than he thought to forget the horrors when he was buried inside you. What would he have to do to keep you for more than a night?

You squirmed when he slid his hand between your bodies and sought out your bundle of nerves. “You said you don’t belong to anyone, but here with me, you’re mine,” he said, circling your clit with his thumb. The whine he got in response was otherworldly. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you moaned, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

He wanted to believe it.

“Again,” he gritted. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours. I’m yours!”

Your eyes widened when you quivered around him, a gush of wetness flowing around his cock as you cried out. The orgasm seemed to take you by surprise, but he kept up his pace to ride it out. He hoped it would be the first of many. Your face twisted in pleasure was almost enough to send him over the edge.

“Please, Steve,” you moaned brokenly, lying bonelessly beneath him as he buried his face in your neck.

Steve couldn’t resist when you begged so beautifully, letting out a broken sound of his own as he spilled into you. The release had him panting against your skin as finished, trying to remember the last time he experienced ecstasy like that. He desperately tried to hang on, not wanting it to end for either of you.

He pushed himself up to look at you, but didn't pull out, a sense of pride filling him at your fucked out expression. Releasing your wrists, he brought your hands up to wrap around him. He wasn’t expecting to need the comforting touch, but he had to feel your hands on him after what you shared.

Silence stretched on as snuggled close and he thought for a moment that you drifted off when you stayed quiet.

“I don’t want to send you back in the morning,” he admitted, tilting your chin so you'd look at him.

You quietly sniffled as you turned away. “I don’t either, but you have to. Andy is furious enough as it is."

He pulled you in for a hug when you trembled. He wanted to choke the life out of Andy himself. Maybe HYDRA had made him a monster.

“Maybe you can't stay here permanently, but I’ll ask for you again after my next match. I promise.”

He didn’t want you around Andy longer than you had to be.

“So, we meet up after your fights and allow ourselves to keep forgetting? You go back into the fight and I go back to the Advisor quarters?” you asked, your eyes shining as he let you rest against the mattress.

He tilted his head as he studied your face. The blissful expression had determination underneath. Both of you wanted to get out of here, like everyone else. With your position, maybe you could use it to your, and his, advantage.

“I’m a fighter. You’re the mistress of an advisor. I’m sure we can forget and find other uses for our time together,” he said carefully, in case he was reading you incorrectly. “What do you say?”

The smile you gave him was hopeful. “I'm in."

Oh, you don't think it'll be that easy, do you? Not if Andy has his way. 😏 Love and thanks! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Steve Rogers Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[uptoolateart]

The Miraculous Child

So, in 'Representation', Felix talks refers to ‘the miraculous boy’ a couple times. He also calls Adrien’s conception ‘a miracle’, meaning Adrien too is ‘miraculous’.

The second I heard this, it hit me that the title of the show has had this extra meaning from day one. If we look right back to the start of the series, it has been a story about children and adults, especially parents, some a little overbearing (like Tom) and some neglectful or downright abusive.

The message I take away is - life, bringing a child into the world, is a miracle. Science tells us how it works, but the fact that it works is almost like magic. Yet, there are people out there who fail to see this and don't value the gift they've been granted.

There will be people reading this and thinking, ‘Yeah? So what about Chloe?’

I hear you.

Audrey is a terrible person, and Andre is no better. When he hauls her off at the end of ‘Revolution’ and says he needs to correct his mistakes, he just sends her away with her mother. He’s washing his hands of ‘a problem’, just like he’s done with everything else, e.g. when he resigned as mayor. He walked away from responsibilities, after creating a mess for the people who voted him into office. Likewise, he walked away from his responsibilities as a father.

Does that excuse Chloe's behaviour towards others, especially Marinette? No. Does it explain it? Yes.

So, let's talk about choice, which has been mentioned several times in the series. Chloe has a choice to become just like one of her parents...or to become something better.

Because, if you think about it, at some point in time, Audrey and Andre and even Gabriel were all children. And children aren't just born nasty. They learn nastiness as they grow up. To become who they are today, they had to have started out in a similar position to Chloe, for example. They represent the potential future for their children.

If we saw them as kids, we'd probably see them being mistreated by the adults in their lives and we'd all sympathise with them and hope for their redemption. But we're seeing them as adults and our instinct is to say oh well, too late, they're just awful people. In fact, they could redeem themselves at any point, as demonstrated by Nathalie's turnaround in Season 5. It's just that, the more awful things you've done, the more you have to atone for. Gabriel would have to do a lot - maybe even have a brain change - to be redeemed. But you see my point.

So, at the end of 'Revolution', we see Chloe at a crossroads. She's on that plane, annihilated by her mother, and hiding by herself in a corner. She browses her contacts and hovers over Sabrina's entry...and her face crumples like her heart is breaking with regrets. Oh, it’s sad.

But she passes over Sabrina and moves onto Marinette. She makes one last attempt to bring her down. It’s an act of desperation – redirecting her own suffering onto another, trying to keep control over things when she’s completely out of control of her own life.

Marinette finally puts her in her place, and we see Chloe fall apart in a real way - for the first time ever. I don't know about you, but I found that very uncomfortable viewing. It was a relief to see Marinette stand up for herself, and it needed to happen...but Chloe's despair was also painful. I think all of those were emotions were intended.

Let’s set Thomas aside here. I don't want to get into debates about what was said on Twitter. He’s not the only writer for the show, anyway. I am just speaking about my personal perception of that scene. Chloe gained heaps of sympathy, after she’d been appalling all season, which was pretty powerful.

The fact is…Chloe needed to be put in her place. But that doesn’t mean she deserved everything she went through. Even so...sometimes these moments are necessary and revelatory. They can be the catalyst for great change.

What I mean is – if you're in denial about your position, redirecting your pain onto others, sometimes you need that wakeup call. You need to hit rock bottom in order to start climbing back up into the light. So, when Chloe fell apart, it was painful...but I also saw it as her potential turning point. As long as she maintained her delusions to escape into at school, it was impossible for her to transform - because she refused to see that there was any change needed. But when you have nothing left…that’s when you might begin rebuilding yourself.

Every episode in Season 5 has had multiple meanings. Looking at 'Revolution', when Chloe was akumatised, she trapped her victims in a maze, going round in endless circles (revolutions). Notably a lot of them were adults.

I think if this had happened early on in Season 4, Adrien would have been trapped morosely in that loop with the others. We saw this kind of thing in 'Guiltrip'. So, it spoke volumes about his growth as a character when he was the first one to seek a way out of Chloe's maze. He immediately used his cataclysm and broke a hole, escaping and letting everyone else out. Metaphorically, what he did was break the cycle. If we think about cycles of abuse, this is what the next generation always has the chance to do - to revolt against the past.

it's interesting, then, that when we got to 'Representation', we saw Cat Noir completely lose it with his father. He needed to let it all out...but he was in danger of going too far...and deep down, he knew it. His worst nightmare was of losing all control, to the point of letting his rage destroy everything he loved. Unconsciously, he's well aware that he runs the risk of becoming like his father. However, his complete breakdown, begging his father to take his miraculous to make it all stop, tells us he won't become like his father - because his conscience is too strong. He wants to break that cycle.

Felix has also done some bad things - but he's begun the journey of redeeming himself and changing. He too is trying to break out of that cycle so he doesn't become like his father.

Kagami is embracing her passionate side, rejecting the coldness and isolation her mother has attempted to breed into her, no doubt due to her own upbringing once upon a time.

And I think there’s definite potential for Chloe to do the same. There’s no reason for anyone to remain caught in these patterns. The trick is to recognise the pattern is there in the first place - because you can’t break free of something if you don’t know you’re imprisoned. At the end of Revolution, I think Chloe finally saw her prison, saw that she was already trapped in her own maze, going round in circles. Now it’s up to her to pull an Adrien and cataclysm the bars that hold her in.

Because like Felix said, over and over – each child is miraculous simply for existing. And miracles should be cherished.

PLEASE NO POST-REPRESENTATION SPOILERS IN COMMENTS :)

[ingravinoveritas]

I personally think its disgusting of what she posted yet again its all about her and she the reason why micheal keeps trending 4th day oh please he was trending for days before she came in the picture. And for someone who has no career and basically living off her parter who works so hard and been ill with virus the last few days and haven't been able to perform and she post this. Taking the credit for something that has nothing to do with her. He very grateful that she keep him grounded what that suppose to mean ? He was doing better before she came in the picture since he been with her his career have been slowed a little and she probably the reason for it

What do u say ?

Oh, boy. I saw this a little while ago, and all I could think was that the bar is so low at this point--like halfway between the fourth and fifth circles of Hell--and this still somehow falls short.

I know there has been a lot of talk about the t-shirt Anna is wearing (which was a gift from a fan at the stage door of Nye), but for me, the t-shirt is the least concerning part of all this. It's a reference to a quote from Staged (it's the title of a season 1 episode, in fact), and I am sure Michael found it funny. The only problem is that without the context of why it's a joke, it actually just isn't that funny. And it sets the stage for everything else that is happening.

Which brings me to the caption she wrote, which was what primarily caught my attention. The reason Michael is currently trending on Twitter (X, whatever we're calling it) is because of the overwhelmingly positive response to The Assembly, which aired last Friday night. He is receiving a tremendous amount of praise for being on the show, how he spoke to the interviewers, and the respectful and joyous atmosphere that was cultivated on the show. And rather than allude to any of that--not to mention Michael being sick recently, or the trip they went on to Disneyland Paris--Anna made Michael trending on Twitter about her.

That is what stands out to me the most. The idea of "keeping him grounded" that is coming across more like kicking someone when he is already down. That he somehow needs that, and that she would have us believe he is "grateful" to her for, what...comparing him to a loud bird? Repeatedly making fun of his looks and interests without a shred of respect or affection behind it? I'm also confused by the implication (and the irony) that Michael somehow has a large ego that needs to be kept in check when she is the one coming across as self-involved in this Insta story. So, yes. I'm at a bit of loss here.

I just keep thinking of the things she could have said instead. How she could have uplifted Michael, wished him well on returning to the stage tonight after several days' absence, said how she was glad to have spent time with him or taken care of him while he was ill. Just something that would give him a reason to hold his head high. But I guess it might just be easier to convince herself/everyone else that he is smiling if his head is hanging down instead.

I am just glad Michael is out performing again tonight and getting to be on stage and do the thing he truly loves to do. But those are my thoughts, and I'd be glad to hear from my followers about what you think, regardless of whether you agree or disagree...

[generalidiocy]

Escape From The Vault thoughts

I know I'm a couple days late, but I'm gonna try and recreate my thought processes watching the dnd stream cause I need to yell into the void (please yell back I love conversations)

basslines basslines basslines! I knew Luke played bass but didn't know he was that good, wow

yay jockey boy! oh no... oh no jockey boy!

wap tentacle... great

"i used to have doors in my house... back when I lived" - there's so many instances of Fullset being bizarre, but this one tickles me

"how do you know my name" "it says SNAKEHIPS in giant letters across the door" - classic joke, perfect, no notes

Juliet Caesar cameo! I think...

she does magic for a fee, old lady margery

sam just playing all his classics this time around - @.meneatyoghurt made the same point but she's right

the unrelenting aubergine is the best name for a warhammer

royal andre - let's not call him prince andre though, that name just sounds wrong to me now /lh

"i bought these in a shop :-] :-] :-]"

"you've always wanted to be capteeeuuuurrreeedd"

tom knows what a skylight is, sam does not

why are these title cards so eerie

round of applause to Teo and Sam for the music and visuals, fucking brilliant

"things are heating up" "press A"

Love/Brother Face Eldritch Blast

"Tell me how you feel about the Jews!!!"

Andre and Andrew are the sweetest, if we see Andre again I hope he has his Andrew with him, too

"I used to be a trapeze artist"

that description of a dead hare made me so sad...

also leftenmost mc and david being dead in this hurt me a lot more than it should have

fullset beating the other two to the second body lol

"entering the astral plane" - in case you didn't get the reference

"are you having a non-canon adventure?"

sam knew what he was doing ending the first half with "Where's Jeremiah"

also why didn't bubba die from the fall? i don't want him to be dead, but he seemed absolutely fine considering he just fell 60 feet

andre beetroot being friends with bubba was a nice combo

"ok that's a different thing" i really hoped they wouldn't make "pressing A" an innuendo... but ofc they did /aff

yes, homosexuality is the link between these characters (twas funny, but came out of left field for me lol)

again, what's with the creepy title cards?

andre and bubba again!

"are you saying that you weigh less than 10 pounds?"

andre can't fight but we love him

snakehips being badass as usual

"RUN" followed up with a highly non-threatening "flee :-)" took me out

"the gm should've given these characters higher armour classes"

"tell me how you feel about the Jews!" the sequel

Troll Son!

"a dock, as in, boat boat" - perfect definition, well done margery

"that's *strictly* non- canon"

goddammit I got really excited to see Persephone then we ran out of time

sweethearts sweethearts sweethearts!

this was such a great tribute to the iconic characters we know and love, and we all had fun watching it I'm sure. Sam was an amazing DM, and AJ, Tom, Luke and Teo all did phenomenally as usual

anyway, ramblings over, just needed to scream about this for a bit