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luveline · 2 years ago

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𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐚 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

Hotch touches your face much more than a boss should. Or, 5 times you have a nosebleed +1 time Hotch does.

8k words, a slightly bloody coworkers to lovers, fem!reader, nosebleeds, reader works in the BAU but isn't a profiler, jack is a sweetheart, hotch has game fr, fluff + hurt/comfort

༺༻

You like your desk job. You handle paperwork primarily, and act as a sort of assistant unofficially. Anything to be useful — you get paid either way. It's why you don't mind trying to be helpful in the office and take on some of the office administrator's overflow.

Today, that's fixing the coffee machines. The office can function on one at a stretch but both being broken means an entire roster of grumpy agents and all of them are on your back. And when they have to see all the stuff they say? You figure fixing the coffee machines is the least you can do.

You're ignoring the weight of their waiting, elbow deep in one of the machines. The instruction manual had mentioned a little spout that can get clogged with detriment. Hopefully, you can clean it out and get at least one machine working by midday.

"Oh no," you murmur.

The piece you're trying to unscrew is tightly wound, too tight for your fingers to work behind. You're probably going to need a small tool, like an allen key.

"No luck?" Agent Prentiss asks, sounding defeated.

You look up from the machine and smile quickly. "I need smaller hands," you joke, letting the machine sit back on the counter and pulling out your aching fingers. "I'll have one working by the end of the day, Agent Prentiss. Scout's honour."

She shrugs and waves a hand at you. "It's alright. What's one day without caffeine?"

You laugh at her good-natured sarcasm and go back to your machine. When you're certain you can't jimmy it you turn your attention to the second machine and run through the steps. You're too determined to lose. Your coworkers depend on you.

You start by changing the filter and are unsurprised when that doesn't work. You check the button connectivity, the fuse, and then you turn again to that small piece that needs to be washed.

"Yes," you cheer under your breath, pulling the piece from its home to assess the problem.

It's a tiny pipe with a piece of mesh that acts as a sieve to trap dust. Maybe. Whatever it is, it's full of caramelised coffee grounds. You move to the sink basin and turn on the faucet to clean it, washing with anticipation as the burned coffee trickles down the drain.

You're pleased enough to feel a mild adrenaline rush, and your excitement leads to butter fingers: you drop the prized piece of pipe and it rolls out of sight.

This is not a good time for business casual.

You tug your too-tight pants from your thighs and bend down in search. When it doesn't reveal itself you get on your knees and run your hands along the seams of the kitchen cabinets, face lowered.

"Is everything okay?"

You wince at a very familiar, very unfortunately timed voice.

"Yes, sir, everything is perfect," you say, looking up to meet the eye of your boss' boss, unit chief SSA Aaron Hotchner. "I've misplaced a piece but I'll have the coffee machine working again in no time. I'm sorry."

He raises his eyebrows at you. It's a very nice expression on him, his eyes light with an emotion you don't often see on him. "Is fixing the coffee machine in your job description?" he asks.

You think it might be a polite reprimand. You won't insult him by insisting you're always on time with your actual delegated workload because he and your supervisor have to send you emails asking for missing paperwork all the time, so you try to disarm him.

You beam.

You're not a supermodel but everybody is pretty when they smile. "Sir, I thought I could sacrifice my lunch break for the good of the Bureau."

"Yes, well." He looks like he wants to smile back. You might be seeing what you want to see, though. "That won't be necessary. Take your time."

Your smile falters as you feel a telling heat at the back of your nose. "Thank you," you say quickly, covering your nostril with the pad of your index finger.

You're hoping your swift words will send him on his way, but he's literally the lead profiler of the BAU. He knows suspicious activity when he sees it.

"Is something wrong?"

Blood starts to trickle down your palm. You slide your hand up to cover your nose the best that you can. The alarm on his face when he spots the blood sliding down your bare forearm can't be understated.

"It's just a nosebleed," you placate, sounding stuffed up.

He's a quick thinker, tearing a wad of paper towel off of the dispenser above the microwave and offering it to you.

If you weren't so distracted by your current predicament you'd say thank you.

He turns back to the paper towels and tears off another wad. To your horror, Hotch bends down right there in the kitchenette and waits for you to open your palm, feeding the towels into your spare hand.

"Should you tilt your head back?"

"I think that's a myth," you say.

Your skin starts to scrawl with embarrassment, the itchy, awful feeling of being pinned by his eyes.

"How long do they usually last?"

"Not very long, sir. I'm sure you're busy."

He tilts his head slightly to one side as if conceding your point. "Let me help you up," he commands.

You can't make yourself reject his help. Honestly, it's nice to have somebody care even if the nosebleed is purely superficial. His fingers curl around the crook of your elbow and he helps you onto your feet just in time for Agent Prentiss to return.

"Hotch, what did you do?" she asks, bewildered.

You try not to laugh too much, worried you'll force another burst of blood.

—

Confidential information. You hear it, you ignore it. Harder to ignore the whiteboards in the conference room that are currently choc-a-block with prints of crime scene photos.

You don't mean to gawk at them. It's severely unprofessional and you shouldn't really be in here to begin with. The electronic screen is off, as are the monitors, so you know the room isn't in use.

That could change any second, and it does.

You hide your clammy palms behind your back at the sound of footsteps and try not to rush obviously toward the mug you'd come in here to collect.

The door creaks open as you're leaning over the table.

"I'm sorry," you say without looking.

"You don't have to clean up after anyone."

"Actually," you say quietly, abashed at having been caught, "this is my mug."

You turn to face him.

Agent Hotchner is tall and handsome. These are two undeniable facts and yet every time you see him it feels like a surprise. It might have something to do with how composed he is, how deliberate his movements are, or it might just be 'cause you have a crush on him.

It's anybody's guess.

"I can make Reid wash it," he says.

You're so whipped that your chest confuses his offer for something much worse. Like, he's on your side.

"That's okay, I don't wanna punish him for my own fussiness." You cover the mugs printed sides subtly, or as subtly as you're able.

"What's special?"

You smile at him, lips pressed together tight and eyes squinting slightly. You know what he's getting at but you ask anyways, stalling now he's caught you. "About what?"

"About the mug."

You peer behind him.

"You can't tell anyone," you murmur, rounding the table to stand by his side with your shoulders to the door. "I'm not sure anybody knows it's mine."

The mug is a corn-husk yellow and printed with a scene from a vintage Peanuts comic, dark-haired Lucy standing behind her lemonade stand that boasts 'Psychiatric Help 5¢'. Charlie Brown sits in front of it looking morose.

It's hard to describe why you like it so much.

"I see," Agent Hotchner says.

It's become something of an office joke, offering each other five cents on bad days, calling someone Charlie Brown when they look lost. You doubt very much that anyone is making fun of you, you're just hiding that it's your mug because that's part of the fun. The mystery of the Peanuts mug.

"I can't drink out of anything else," you confide, turning your face to his.

He's definitely smiling this time. "Why would you?"

You nod in genuine delight. "Exactly! Vintage Peanuts, and I searched so much for this because they used to use lead in glassware paint, and-"

The nosebleed comes on suddenly. There's a drop of blood running down your lips before you've even realised. Agent Hotchner's eyes follow it all the way down.

"Oh, no," you say, blood dripping to the hill of your chin.

You use the back of the hand that's holding the mug to catch what's rolling down your neck and the other to pinch your nose closed, bending forward on instinct to hide your face. You're seasoned in nosebleeds. You know how you look — scary. Ridiculous.

"Here," Agent Hotchner says.

His hand comes into your eyeline, offering a dark square of fabric. You cringe at the idea of marring his likely expensive handkerchief but you can't not accept, pressing it haphazard to your bloody nose.

"What were you saying about lead?"

You're so frazzled about the blood you don't realise he's made a joke until it's too late to laugh.

"Do you know what causes them?" he asks.

"I'm not really sure, sir. I used to get them all the time as a kid, um…" You pull the handkerchief away from your nose to check if it's still bleeding. When it doesn't continue, you say, "They're pretty harmless. It's done already."

"If you need time off for a check-up, I'm sure the office administrator can find a sick day for you."

You smile at him, and then remember the blood and grimace. I must look like Carrie right now, you think morosely.

"That won't be necessary, sir, thank you. It's apparently the dry air." You're starting to feel more and more warm under his serious gaze. There's a startling amount of concern there. "I'm gonna go clean up now. Excuse me," you say, face glowing with heat.

"Of course."

You cover your bloody face with the back of your hand, his handkerchief held in red-stained fingers. You pass Agent Prentiss on the stairs, hurrying past her with an I'm okay smile.

"Hotch, again?" you hear Agent Prentiss ask incredulously. "Where do you get off?"

—

You can't return Hotch's handkerchief, it's a biohazard, but the fabric had felt so soft and the monogram in the corner had cued you in on how expensive it must have been. Your guilt manifests itself into three new handkerchiefs with the embroidered A.H. They aren't half as nice as the one he'd let you ruin. You leave them on his desk — or rather, you get Dr. Reid to leave them on his desk, as walking into his office doesn't feel like something you're allowed to do — and try to forget about them.

For a week, you do. Agent Hotchner doesn't visit his office, Agent Jareau apprehends him on his way in that morning and the profiling team gather around their round table, and you don't see any of them for four days. The Friday they return, you're already on your way home.

That's why his actions the following Monday shock you.

It's unusual that he walks anywhere that isn't a straight shot to his desk. You're doing paperwork for once in your life, sitting awkwardly with your foot hooked under your thigh and a pair of wired earphones in. It's not technically allowed but he really doesn't venture over to you often. You've become complicit in your unsupervised nirvana of a desk job.

You snatch your earphone out and struggle into a normal position. "Agent Hotchner," you say, wondering if you should call him Special Supervisory, or maybe something cooler, like your Highness. Your grace. He's intimidating in his accomplishments at the FBI, and he's super handsome.

"Can I see you in my office? Ten minutes."

You nod brainlessly.

Your desk buddy doesn't wait long after he's left to investigate.

"What did you do?" they ask from across the short partition.

"I really don't know," you say, though you have your suspicions.

"Were you reading on your computer again? I told you, read under the desk like a normal person."

"No, I learned my lesson with that one when Agent Morgan started reciting Pride and Prejudice from over my shoulder."

You check your face in a compact before you report to Agent Hotchner's office. Your heart beats in your throat as you knock his open door.

"Come in," he says without looking up.

You take a cautious step.

He finishes off quickly and lifts his chin. His eyes are dark in the early morning light, his hair in mild disarray from the wind and drizzle.

"Come in," he says again.

You wish there was a word that could describe his voice accurately. He talks in the peaceable kind of cadence that comes with hushed tones without truly being hushed.

"Sir…" You bite the bullet. "If this is about the macadamia cookies, I promise I'll replace them. I didn't actually eat any of them. They kind of fell out of the cabinet and exploded, it was a freak accident."

He holds up his hand. "Thank you. For the handkerchiefs. They were unnecessary."

He says 'unnecessary' with a smile.

"Actually, sir, I think they were entirely necessary." You just disagreed with your boss. "Sir. I couldn't return the first, I ruined it and I- I didn't think you'd want it even if I got it dry cleaned."

He raises his eyebrows. "It was unnecessary," he repeats, the word drawn out carefully. "But, I appreciate the gesture. Thank you."

Two thank you's. You stop while you're ahead. "You're more than welcome, Agent Hotchner, sir."

You share an amicable glance and turn to leave.

"L/N?"

You stutter to a halt. "Sir?"

"Hotch is fine."

You try not to swallow your own tongue. "Hotch," you say, and then worry that's something people only do in movies.

A few days later, your humming along to your earphones and wading through the chaos of the bullpen feeling pretty happy. The office has been busy but not in the scary, suffocating way, and you're happy to be here. The BAU can be hard (and that's as someone who isn't on the front line). Times like this are cherished.

You pause a foot from your desk, eyes creasing into a suspicious squint.

There's a small box on your desk.

"What is that?" you ask your desk buddy.

"What?" they ask.

"That. There's a thing on my desk."

"Nothing to do with me."

"Think I should call the bomb squad?"

"I'm sure you'll be alright. Maybe read the note before you raise the alarm."

"There's a note?" you mumble, caution swiftly overrun by a burning curiosity.

You'd be sincerely worried about a bomb, only this is the FBI. If a bomb got this far into the building half the people in it would lose their jobs. You kick your bag under the desk and drop your ipod onto the desk, tinny music blaring from your earphones.

"What are you?" you ask under your breath.

The box is wrapped in crepe paper and a yellow sticky note has been attached to the top.

Rest assured, made without lead.

That only confuses you more. You're hesitance has your desk mate sitting up in their chair. "Wait," they say, peering over the glass partition, "should I raise the alarm?"

You slide a trim fingernail under a neat stripe of tape. "No, I think we're good," you mumble.

And lo and behold, a mug is homed inside. A Peanuts mug no less; the mug has been printed with a Peanuts comic panel. Charlie Brown lays on the floor in a straight plank, and standing overy him is his friend Linus, who says, "I have been asked to tell you that your cries of anguish are keeping the whole neighbourhood awake!"

You laugh loud and instinctively, shrill enough to attract the attention of half the office. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you slouch down as low as possible in your desk chair. Heat pools in your cheeks.

"What is it?" your desk mate asks.

"A present."

And hence your new favourite mug is brought into life. You write your name on the bottom with black sharpie and continue to deny all knowledge of the first, which you retire to the drawer of your desk.

For a while your nosebleeds go away. You know exactly who left the mug on your desk, and you remember the joke he'd made. Maybe Hotch had been on to something, and you'd inadvertently poisoned yourself.

You smile practically every time you see your new mug, and you're unsurprised when others appreciate its humour.

You're not sure how to explain it to an eight year old, though.

You're slumped over, nose to the desk and hand working diligently across your notes. Having a crush on your boss makes doing your work easier because you're constantly trying to impress him — an impossible task, but trying all the same. Your earphones bump a soft love song, something sweet to cut through the unhappy details of the case file you're working on.

"What are you listening to?" a small voice asks.

You drag your gaze up slowly and find Jack Hotchner standing beside your desk. You've seen him in person a few times, and once as Hotch's phone wallpaper, but he grows so much between visits you almost don't recognise him.

"I'm sorry," you say, pulling your earphone out, "what did you say?"

"What song are you listening to?" he asks, hands creeping up over the lip of your desk.

You sit up and smile at him. You can't say he looks like Hotch, though maybe you can see it in his tiny grin, that hint of cheekiness. "I'm listening to a song called At Last. It's a love song. Do you… want to listen?" you offer quietly.

He nods.

You push your chair away from your desk and turn down the ipod's volume so it doesn't damage his hearing. "Here," you say, offering one of your earbuds. "Don't push it in, okay? I don't want it to hurt your ears."

Jack takes the proffered earbud but doesn't seem super interested. "Do you have The Beatles?" he asks.

"The Beatles! Is that what you and your dad listen to?"

He nods, pleased, and you nod yourself, flicking through your songs in search of what he wants.

"I have Here Comes the Sun. Do you like that one?"

He beams. "Yes! Me and dad sing that one in the car."

That's a really nice image, Hotch and Jack belting happy lyrics together in the busy mornings. It's also odd. Hotch singing isn't an image you can say you've ever thought of before.

"I love this one," you tell him, letting your elbows dig into your thighs so the two of you are eye level with one another.

"Me too."

You share the earbuds, Jack combing your desk for something interesting no doubt. You cover a case detail that involves some gory images and almost knock over your mug in your haste.

"What does that say?" he asks, pointing.

Jack looks between you and the mug for answers.

You lick your lips. "Uh, do you want me to read it to you?"

He thinks about it. "Can I try?"

"Of course you can."

You clear a path for the mug and place it in front of him.

"I have been asked to tell you," he begins confidently, "that your cries of an-" He frowns. "Anguish are keeping the whole ne… I don't know that."

"I'm sure you do, it just looks weird. Neighbourhood."

"Neighbourhood," he repeats. "Keeping the whole neighbourhood awake." He huffs a boyish, gentle laugh that makes your heart spin.

"Good job, buddy."

He melts under your praise. He's a cute kid, and his hair shines golden under the office lighting. It flops to one side as he tilts his head. "What's 'anguish'?"

"Anguish. Uhm, it's like sadness."

"Oh." He takes this in. "Do you have Let It Be?"

You eventually give up your chair and let Jack sit with your ipod in his lap, playing through all The Beatles songs that you have. Nobody seems to be watching you and Hotch has yet to come out of his office and tell you off for supplying his son with technology, so you work around him, leaning over the back of the chair to fill in what's missing from your reports.

Jack leans back in his chair, his adorable singing coming to a stop. "Do you have movies on the computer?"

Yes, but should my boss' son know that? "It's for work," you say regretfully.

"Not even FernGully?"

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "It's okay, it's not your fault."

"Do you like to draw? I don't have many colours, but we can play a game."

He smiles for a moment, then hesitation crawls over his features. "Dad says not to disturb anyone."

"I'm on my lunch break," you assure him. You hadn't been, but you don't mind taking it now. "Are you hungry? I have oranges."

You and Jack end up sitting under your desk. You really don't mean to end up like that; you sit on your knees because your back has started to ache and Jack wants to sit with you. You can't say no to him. (You could, you just don't want to.)

"What did she say after that?" you ask, fingers digging into two orange segments to pull them apart. You shave off all of the strands of white pith before you pass it to Jack, who says thank you every time.

"She said to ask Stacy who said to ask Morgan P who said to ask Joan. And Joan said she didn't wanna know, but then she changed her mind after I told her abd she said to ask Cooper."

"What did Cooper say?"

"Cooper says he doesn't think he knows where it is."

You nod, chewing your own orange slice slovenly. "Well, what did your dad say?"

"I haven't told dad."

You lift your head from the paper where Jack has drawn an impressive house with five windows. "You haven't told your dad?"

"He worries about everything."

"That's his job, Jack. He has to worry about you."

"He worries about everybody."

"Some people do." You clean another orange slice for him, and he says thank you again. "You're welcome… Jack, I really think you should tell you dad. It sounds like somebody might have taken your pencil case on purpose. And even if he can't find out who did, he can get you some new pencils for school."

"I told mom but she hasn't done anything yet."

Your stomach hurts.

"Well," you murmur, picking up the green pen, "I'm sure she's trying her best, baby. Can I help colour in these trees?"

You and Jack fall into a companionable silence, his head bobbing to You Make My Dreams (Come True) the cutest thing you've ever seen. You're not sure how long you sit there, but all good things must come to an end, and your half hour for lunch draws to a close.

"Hey, Jack?" you say, straightening where you kneel and preparing to stand. "I have some stuff I have to do but you're welcome to stay there."

Unfortunately, you don't manage to grab his attention. Double unfortunately, somebody else does.

"Morgan, where's Jack?"

You peek past your desk chair. A little ways away, Hotch stands looking sick to his stomach, and Agent Morgan looks lost.

"I didn't have him?"

"I asked him to sit with you," Hotch says miserably, throwing his gaze over the office. "Jack?"

Jack hears that loud and clear. Something in his dad's tone must spark some urgency, as he stands in a rush and trips on his own shoelace, smacking the top of his head into your nose.

You gasp.

"Ouch," Jack moans.

Blinking, you shake off your disorientation. "Oh no, are you okay? Here, sweetheart, stand up," you encourage gently, "I'm so sorry, have I hurt your head?"

Jack's gaze to the floor, he rubs the top of his head with a clumsy hand. "It's okay, Miss Agent, it wasn't you and-" He stares at you.

"What?" you ask.

"Dad!" he shouts, backing away from you. "Daddy!"

Jack runs out of your little alcove and straight into his father's legs, almost bowling him over. Hotch drops two relieved hands down to his small shoulders. "What?" he asks, startled, "What happened?"

Your nose stings, admittedly, but you've felt worse. It's a light throbbing that distracts you entirely from the blood racing down your lips until you taste it.

Shit, you think, crawling out from under the desk with one hand, the other clamped over your bleeding nose. Your movement draws Hotch's attention, which in turn gathers at least a quarter of the office's.

"I didn't mean to," Jack says shrilly.

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault," you say stuffily, clambering onto shaky legs.

You turn your head away from the collective gaze of the office and start toward the kitchen and hear at least three different people say, "Wait!"

You ignore them, using your elbow to help tear off a paper towel from the roll and pushing it without finesse against your face. You squirm under the weight of tens of eyes, more embarrassed than anything else, worse when a warm hand turns you by the shoulder.

"He really didn't mean to," you say, looking up into Hotch's concerned face.

"I know."

"Is he okay?”

"He's not the one with a nosebleed," Hotch says, neither kind nor unkind.

"I honestly didn't even feel it."

His fingers curl around your wrist, a slow tightening. "That doesn't surprise me, Y/N."

You bite your tongue to stop from laughing. “He bumped his head into me."

"Mm. Just a red mark. It won't even bruise."

You deflate in relief. "Oh, good."

Hotch's hands have found their way onto yours. He pulls one from your nose, gaze hardening at the strong river of blood that makes its way into the dip of your cupid's bow.

"I'm sorry, sir."

He shakes his head and gathers another wad of tissue paper, a light blue that quickly turns to a wine dark when he presses it to your face. Your heart hammers at his proximity, a thousand and one nerves aflame.

He's close but not too close, nothing anyone could mistake for something else, and still it feels like a strangely intimate moment. His careful touches. He directs your hand to hold a fresh paper towel to the stream of blood and discards the bloody tissue. You watch him push up his sleeves carefully and give his hands a quick rinse in the sink before he dampens another paper towel.

It's cool against your neck.

"I think your shirt is ruined," he says, dabbing at a line of dried blood.

You shiver at the feeling of cold water dripping under your starched collar.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, moving up to your jaw.

You don't know how to admit it to him. No, it doesn't hurt. Your hands are really warm, and you're touching me so gently I can barely feel it.

"A little."

"Well, Jack is very sorry."

"He doesn't have to be. He tripped, he…" You fade off as Hotch lays his hand across your cheek, thumb lifting your head slightly so he can clean your chin.

"How are you faring?" he asks.

You pull your tissue away and wait for the tell-tale heat of continued blood flow. You're ashamed to admit it but you're almost glad it hasn't stopped, Hotch's hand warm and large and impossibly comforting. Nosebleeds don't stress you out, exactly, but it's not fun to be covered in your own blood at work where everyone can see you. It's nice to have somebody wiping it away.

"I think I'll live," you say.

—

Jack sends you an apology card.

It's hand delivered. Hotch is coming up to the BAU main floor as you're heading out. Like a rock dividing a river, his teammates stream from the elevator around you and Hotch remains inside.

"I'll catch up," he promises.

Agent JJ raises her eyebrows. Agent Morgan chuckles.

You draw in on yourself self-consciously. You don't dress as nicely when he isn't here, and today you're rivalling Dr. Reid for most lovable dork in a pair of brown pants and a big sweater. Teetering the line between professional and unprofessional.

"Sir," you greet, stepping into the elevator.

He presses the ground floor button. "I have something for you."

Your eyebrows jump up high. Hotch unzips the main zipper of his duffle back and threads between clothes and papers for a smaller envelope.

"It's for you."

You accept, careful not to tear the thin sheet of folded paper as you pull it free. You're thrilled to see a drawing of Charlie Brown on the front, crudely drawn but clearly him with his head-wrapped in bandages. His puppy Snoopy sits beside him with something in his hands. You're not sure what.

The inside is even sweeter.

To Y/N

I am sorry if I made your nose angwished. Please feel better soon

Love, Jack Hotchner.

"Oh, I love it," you say, rubbing your thumb over a heart drawn in red crayon. "He's really something else, Hotch. He's brilliant, and so smart. I mean, anguished."

He laughs and it twists your chest in five different directions. "He is."

"It wasn't his fault though. If my nose weren't so sensitive it really wouldn't have bled at all, I didn't bruise. How is he? Did his head feel better?"

The doors open. You hesitate, waiting for his reply.

"Children are made of harder stuff than we are," he says.

You step backwards out of the elevator. "I felt so bad. I don't suppose he'll want to come and sit with me again."

"Actually," Hotch says, stepping out of the elevator just as the doors close again, "he thinks you're, uh, in his own words, the 'coolest friend' I've ever had."

"Friend," you repeat with a smile.

You've focused on the wrong word, and you worry an awkward silence will ensue, but Hotch steps up to the plate and says, "Yeah. He wouldn't stop telling me about all the cool songs you have on your ipod."

"Purely for non-working hours."

"Right." His smile says that he's seen straight through you.

You're thinking maybe he likes what he sees.

"This is really amazing," you reaffirm, pressing Jack's card to your chest.

"He felt guilty."

"He doesn't have to. Please, tell him I said thank you. And that he's amazing. And that my nose was being dramatic." You smile softly. "He can sit with me whenever he likes."

"Maybe at the desk, next time, rather than under it."

"Yes, sir."

You nod at him and he nods back, and you take it as a dismissal, turning on your heel. You've barely walked a metre when he's speaking up.

"Y/N?"

You look at him from over your shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Are you hungry?"

You bite your cheek in a hurry to answer, “Yeah. I’m starving.”

Your heart is basically a ticking time bomb in your chest as you and Hotch make your way into the heart of the city. He's a fast walker with long legs and you rush to keep up. That’s totally why you’re breathless. Not because he makes you nervous.

Hotch is a really surprising guy, though maybe he isn’t surprising at all, you’re simply unversed in how he is outside of work. He talks more and his voice grows louder the further into the city you go, more expressive.

You’re no profiler, but you’d bet money on Aaron Hotchner being nervous.

Good thing you’re nervous, too.

“It’s not far now. You like Thai?” he asks.

“Yeah, of course. Have you ever had Tom Yum?”

“With shrimp?”

“Exactly.”

“I think I’ve tried it. I lived off of pad Thai when I was a prosecutor,” he says, head tilting back very slightly. His Adam’s apple works under the skin.

He looks back down, a sheepishness to his voice as he continues, “A lot of late nights.”

“More than now?” you ask skeptically.

His laugh is low and warm. “No. The firm was much closer to the city than the bureau. It’s a long walk.”

“It is,” you say, taking a small step closer to his side to share a secret smile, “but it hasn’t felt that way tonight.”

You try to keep it light. You don’t want to scare him off.

“No,” he agrees. “It hasn’t.”

You duck into a fragrant Thai restaurant and order fast, the two of you knee to knee in the very corner. A potted plant threatens to blind him every time he moves, and so he endeavours to stay very still.

The food's a little on the spicy side, and while you're laughing you can't find it in you to feel embarrassed about your runny nose.

"You didn't like Seinfeld?" you ask, and how you got here's a mystery, but Hotch is extremely passionate about it in the best way.

"No, of course not. How could you? George was always worrying about something, he was the definition of a self-fulfilling prophecy and he never learned!" he debates, all in a rush, chopsticks moving in emphasis.

You snort and wipe your nose again. "It was like a relief, though, that it was happening to him and not to you, you know? You might be having a bad day but George Costanza's having a worse one."

"Oh, honey," he says.

It takes you a second to realise that he's talking to you.

"What?" you ask, perplexed.

Hotch stands up though there's no space for it, chopsticks ditched and hand pushed into the recesses of his pocket swiftly. He pulls out a small packet of tissues, and he lifts his chin, a jut. You lift your own, and he's quick to press the tissue to your nose.

"It's bleeding?" you ask, startled.

"Just a little."

"Sorry."

"No, no," he says, bent down, a comforting hand around your shoulder, "don't be. It gives me an excuse."

"To do what?"

"To be this close."

Your smile is a slow, molasses thick thing. You can't get a handle on it, and Hotch's answering one is worse. He looks so happy to be here with you, to be wiping your bloody nose.

It's only a small nose bleed. Hotch pulls the tissue away once or twice to check, wiping at it tenderly and giving you a comforting squeeze each time. The silence feels natural as breathing.

"There," he says eventually, pulling the bloodied tissue away with a smile. "All done."

"Thank you, Hotch."

"I'd think you'd better start calling me Aaron, considering."

"Considering what?"

His hand climbs from your shoulder to the column of your throat. He doesn't make you wait any longer, leaning down with a sure, brave deliberateness. He presses his lips to yours.

A sweet kiss but too short — barely two seconds and he's taking a half-step away, your lips tingling in want.

You go to stand and he pushes you down into your seat, not unkindly. "I'm gonna go see if I can get some hot water for you," he says, placating your gutted look with a kiss to your cheek.

He wipes it thoughtlessly with the pad of his thumb before he goes.

You're genuinely surprised your nose doesn't start bleeding again at the look he gives you as he turns the corner toward the restaurant's kitchen. Protective, knowing. Your heart races in your chest.

You probe at your face, elated. Your sensitive nose is good for something after all.

—

The first time you sleepover with Aaron is an accident. You don't "mess around," as you'd crooned over the phone, joking but with enough salaciousness to make him smile. The gas and hot water had stopped working in your apartment, and though the landlord had promised they'd fix it the very next morning, Aaron couldn't stand to think about you cold and alone when you could easily be warm and with him.

So here you are.

"Are you sure this is okay?" you whisper, peering over his shoulder at Jack.

His son stands in the living room in his pyjamas.

"It's okay," he says, "I asked him, and you know he's obsessed with you. His one condition is that you watch FernGully."

"FernGully," you say, enthused.

"You'll like it."

You actually really do. Showered and dressed in your own pyjamas, a little shy but not too much to stop from laying against his side on the sofa. He's got one arm around you and one around Jack but he might as well be invisible, the two of you talking in murmurs across his chest.

"And that's-"

"Pips," Jack supplies helpfully.

"Pips," you say, hand spread over Aaron's chest.

If he didn't know better he'd think this was a slice of heaven.

"So many people," you whisper in Aaron's ear.

"More in the second one."

"There's two?"

After the movies finished — "It was better than you said, Jack," — and dinner’s been eaten and cleared away, Aaron takes Jack to bed.

"Do you want a story?" Aaron asks, flitting around the room in a half-hearted attempt to square away the mess.

"No."

"You sure?"

Jack's eyes are heavy, and they have been since dinner. "Yes," he mumbles, face turned into his pillow, hands lax on top of his blanket.

Aaron smiles and makes his way to Jack's side. He kisses his son's cheek, and strokes the soft hair from his face. He smells like strawberry toothpaste and kids shampoo.

You're sitting on the end of the bed when he gets to you, face damp with skincare and shining in the light. Aaron kisses you without touching it, worried he'll mess it up.

“He’s wiped. All the excitement,” he says.

“Excitement- From me?” you ask.

“From you.” He puts his hands carefully either side of your neck.

You haven’t been dating very long, and still he knows how easy it is to fluster you. And while he loves to see it, see you giddy and shy, blinking at nothing like there’s a light shining in your eyes. He’d once pressed his thumb with the very faintest of pressure into your windpipe while kissing you, and you hadn’t been able to look him in the eye for three days.

He loves that, but he’d prefer if you slept facing him. He wants to see what you look like asleep, as odd as it sounds, he assumes you’ll be beautiful. He wouldn’t be surprised if you were more.

“Aaron,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Want me to massage your bad shoulder?”

He wonders, as he thinks is more than allowed, if that’s a seduction trick, but you genuinely just give him a massage, as you have a couple of times in his office after noticing how sore it gets now the weather’s cold.

You rub into the problem spot carefully, sighing with sympathy. “Oh, baby,” you say, more to yourself than him.

He fucking loves the way you say it. Aaron’s never been called baby like that — like it’s his name, and it’s sweet to say. Your tired yawns warm the back of his neck as you go. He doesn’t think he’s getting lucky tonight, and he doesn’t care one bit. He feels pretty lucky just having you near.

He gets you under the covers before you can fall asleep against his back and makes sure you know how grateful he is for the massage with two kisses. The first is a genuine thank you and the second is to make you laugh, nipping and playful under your jaw.

Aaron falls asleep thinking about it.

He wakes to something much less idyllic.

It’s that strange feeling. Being a dad has honed it, but he’s always had it. It’s one of the things that makes him so good at his job, a prickling at the back of his neck. At first he can’t pin it down.

Your waist rises under his hand with your breathing. He remembers that you’re there and smiles contentedly, hand sliding behind your back to pull you in. You’d fallen asleep on your back, and you’ve turned toward him in your sleep.

The metallic stick of blood is sudden and sharp in his nose. He knows what it is before he opens his eyes. The room is dark, lit only by the red light of his alarm clock on the nightstand. His eyes ache with fatigue, and he knows in his gut that it’s too early to get up.

Blood pools under your nose. Not a lot, nothing to panic over, but blood all the same. He sits up, quickly turns on his bedside lamp, and rouses you as gently as he can, a hand slid under your shoulders to drag you up.

You blink blearily. “What?” you ask, voice scratchy.

“Nosebleed,” he informs, pinching your nose before blood can slink down your neck and ruin your pyjama shirt.

You wince and he hates the way you flinch away from his touch, your clouded confusion. It’s only a second but it doesn’t sit right with him.

“Sorry, honey.”

You catch hold of his bicep and blink some more.

“You okay to pinch it yourself? I’ll go grab some tissue paper.”

You nod robotically and replace his light pinching with your own, much less kind. He rushes to grab a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom, and when he returns you've pulled yourself into an alert sitting position, awaiting his return.

He tears you off a wad of paper. “Here, honey.”

“I think it’s stopped.”

“Yeah? Let me grab you a towel.”

Back to the bathroom. When he returns for the second time you’re holding his given toilet paper against your face. He’s alarmed to find your eyes glassy with tears, shimmering in the bedroom light.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, sitting across from you.

He’d been right about sleepy you. You look lovely, a little funny with your rumpled pyjamas, and now quite sad because of your tears. “Honey,” he says again, pulling your hand from your face so he can assess the damage, “you’re okay. Is it hurting?”

You’ve told him before the nosebleeds are painless, but maybe they’re a symptom of something, maybe you’re sick—

“I ruined your pillow,” you mutter.

Ah. That’s much better than your being sick. He can work with that easily.

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

He takes your chin between his thumb and his forefinger to lift your head. The blood has stopped already; your nosebleeds are often a whirlwind, over by the time you’ve started panicking.

“I’m sorry.”

He drops your bloodied tissue into his lap and brings the dampened towel to your face. He’s cautious. Your nose gets irritated and any roughness could disrupt the blood clot or agitate the anterior blood vessels inside.

“You think I’m mad over a pillow?”

“No, of course not.”

You sound stuffy. It’s adorable. Adorable and sad. He rubs the hill of your chin in a show of affection.

“Then why?”

“Sorry, I think I’m just tired. I- I was trying to make tonight perfect because,” — a small tear bumps down your cheek — “it’s our first night together even if it was accidental.”

He dabs at your upper lip and the wet blood there with a smile growing. “It was perfect. It is perfect. You getting a nosebleed on a seven dollar pillow doesn’t change that.” His hand moves to your cheek, squashing your baby tear. “You know I love any opportunity to touch you… Now, do you want a glass of water?”

You close your eyes and lean your face heavily into his palm. “Can I have one of those kisses from earlier?”

“Can you keep your blood inside your body?” he asks with a smile, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

“Depends how hard you bite me.”

He’s very, very gentle.

—

Aaron breaks his nose. You are not supposed to know that he breaks his nose, only he breaks it so bad that he has to go to the hospital to get it set, and he decides he’d like you there.

Technically, somebody else broke his nose. The details aren’t important. What matters is that Aaron makes a rookie mistake and he has to deal with the consequences, which is a biting, aching pain behind his eyes and a trip to the ER. He does not let them take him in an ambulance, and it really isn’t urgent. He sits in a waiting room chair with a stiff back and it doesn’t take long before you’re striding inside looking terrified.

“Hey, baby,” he says, testing it out. He doesn’t really like it.

“What did they give you?” you ask, bending at the waist to take his face into your kind hands.

“Vicodin when I got here.”

“Lucky you.” You turn his face in your hands.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

“I wish I could say the same, but somebody messed you up bad.”

He laughs and takes your face into his hands, the two of you smiling way too much for the situation that you’re in. “I was so worried,” you say with a little laugh.

He kisses you soundly. It hurts, but it’s worth it.

They call his name not long after and a nurse takes you both into a grey examination room. The doctor is a short, stern woman who has to use a stool to reach Aaron’s face, and she sets his nose with a swiftness that even he manages to recognise for the brutality that it is in his drug haze.

You hold his hand. He has to try very hard not to crush your fingers.

It starts bleeding immediately.

Aaron meets your gaze over the doctor's head, eyes wide and in similar fashion as your own, and he knows it’s an adverse reaction to shocking pain but he starts giggling. Aaron Hotchner doesn’t giggle, really. He laughs, and sometimes when he’s with Jack that laugh can get super loose and high, but this is a bona fide giggle.

You try to gasp in shock but you’re laughing too. “Aaron,” you reproach.

He holds his breath as the doctor presses gauze to his face.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says.

You snicker behind your hand. The doctor presses gauze to his face and rolls her eyes. She likely does not get paid enough.

“You’re still handsome,” you say giddily.

“Oh, well that's good.”

There’s a small silence rife with tension, and when it breaks it bursts like a dam. You laugh so hard you end up clinging to his arm, chest pressed to his bicep. He strokes the back of your head with a wobbly hand, wondering how miserable he’d be if you weren’t here with him right now.

“What happened to keeping all your blood inside your body, Hotchner?” you ask, delighted.

He beams at you dopily. “I’ve never been any good at that.”

You kiss his forehead. The doctor is furious.

༺༻

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russellsppttemplates · 11 months ago

Text

How oblivious, Charles! (George Russell)

Usually, people think being a twin means having to share everything is a con, but really, it's having another you to help in everything

Note: english is not my first language. Here's some Leclerc!reader for you, it was quite fun!

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

my masterlist

Tw: reader and George are in a secret relationship, mentions alcohol consumption

Tag list: @myloverjk-blog

"Is that a guys' wallet in the story you uploaded today? Who did you go and have lunch with today, Y/N?", Lorenzo asked, sitting next to you on the living room's sofa, exaggerating his fall and purposefully partially body blocking you.

"Why do you care so much?", you asked, hearing Charles' footsteps on the stairs, surely hearing the topic his older brother was on about and wanting to know more.

Because we are your older brothers and have a right to know if and who our little sister is dating!", Charles said, sitting next to you more gently than Lorenzo, expectant of your answer.

"I was with Arthur, if you must know", you said, looking at your younger (even if it was by only a few minutes) brother as he walked inside from the balcony, "me and Arthur had lunch today", you signalled with his eyes, hoping he would get the message.

While most people thought being a twin was a bad thing because you had to share everything since the womb, you would have to disagree. Having a twin brother had not only made your childhood incredible because you had a sibling always ready to play with you when your older brothers couldn't but also because you had someone to cover up any mishap the other did.

Your dating life wasn't a mishap, per se, but you and George had been careful. You knew how the media would react at the fact that the only Leclerc girl was dating a Formula One driver, and quite frankly, how your brothers would react. In reality, any person wanting to date you would have big trouble as it was, but being someone they knew so well?

Surprisingly, Arthur had been calm when he found out. He was quick to join the pieces when he went looking for you in the Mercedes hospitality, someone mindlessly pointing him there as it had been the last place they had seen you walk in. When he asked you about it, you couldn't lie to him. He understood your worries, and like so, he vowed to not tell anyone until you allowed him to. Unlike the odds of Charles making the same promise to you, Arthur been careful and, so far, there had been no issues.

"Yes, we went for lunch by the bay", Arthur replied shortly, "are you jealous?", he teased them. The ongoing joke that, one day, you two would join forces would take on the world was recurrent and hardly harmful, but it didn't mean you didn't love teasing them about it.

"Why don't you join forces and take on Ferrari's strategy delegation? Might as well start small before taking on the world", Lorenzo tapped Charles' back, making all of you laugh at the situation.

"That's where you think we would start small? At this point, taking over Monaco sounds easier", you offered.

"Did I just hear my mother talk about how 'lovely George must be' because you gave my brother advice on his love life and how it is to have a sister who's probably dating? Did I hear that correctly, George William Russell?", you said as you walked inside your boyfriend's apartment as soon as the door opened.

"Did your mother talk nicely about me? I think you should be thrilled about it", he said, puckering his lips so you could kiss them, melting when he finally had you close to him.

"I hate you, did you know that?", you slapped George's chest, kissing the spot straight away as you chuckled.

"It was funny, you have to admit it! Charles was genuinely listening to my advice and telling me all his worries about you, I think it's cute and caring, actually", George brought you to his kitchen, seeing you take a peek at want he was cooking, humming in delight as the scent stroked your nostrils, "my mother sure is delighted. Pascale Leclerc is a woman who takes a lot of convincing and persuasion, and she kept singing your praises!", you yelped when George's hand touched your tummy under your shirt, "I know how to make the Leclerc women fall in love with me, don't I?", he said cockily.

"You wouldn't prefer to be in a restaurant instead of having to eat in?", you asked as George as you helped him carry the food to the table, "I don't mind it, and this way we can have more privacy", he smiled.

"When do you want to tell them about us?", you continued, serving yourself and then your boyfriend, "whenever you want to, darling", George replied honestly, taking the cork off of the bottle and pouring the wine.

"Besides, I like this game where people try to figure out who you are and who I am", your boyfriend chuckled, kissing your forehead as you shook your head, watching him sit down in front of you, "Charles, especially, he's so easy to wind up about you. The other day, and I have to admit it I actually nearly gave it all away, it was me, Charles and some Ferrari guys, Pierre and Francisca, and she was commenting on how pretty you looked in your dress, and I made an humming sound in agreement as one of the crew members agreed and he shot daggers through his eyes directed at him", he explained.

"I think he genuinely doesn't know about it. Arthur knows about it, he's one of the reasons we've been able to do this for this long. Lorenzo knows that I'm seeing someone, and he's pretty much certain he is someone from the paddock, I think. Why he is keeping it quiet and never bringing it up, that I don't know. But I think he knows more than he says he does", you took a sip of wine.

Celebrations after the race were mandatory today. Both Charles and Arthur had been in the podium for each of their races, and since the whole family had travelled for the race, your family and some of the other drivers had agreed to have dinner together and celebrate at a club later.

"Behave, all of you", your mother threatened lightly, "I don't you doing anything that is dangerous, non consensual or illegal, okay?", she said as you and your brothers kissed her cheek good night before she went back to the hotel.

When arriving to the club, you were shown the area you'd be spending the night in, Lando and Carlos taking all of the orders from the rest of the group as your twin brother approached you, "is tonight the night?", he wondered.

You raised your eyebrows, not getting what he meant, "you're drinking, I've seen you look at George with eyes that could only mean you're undressing him your mind, so is tonight the night you slip and show everyone?", he smirked as you widened your eyes, "not if I can help it! Why are you conspiring against us?", you belted out.

"I'm only joking, if you need cover up, let me know okay? Besides, I think he's the one we will have to look out for tonight", Arthur chuckled, kissing the top of your head and looking at Carlos and Charles doing shots by the bar.

The music was nice and you had been dancing with Francisca and Lily until the Portuguese girl excused herself. Not long after, Alex walked up to his girlfriend, "Y/N Leclerc, just the one I was looking for", he smiled cheekily at you.

"Why do I sense this is going to be bad for me?", you squeezed your eyes nearly shut as the Williams driver pulled George with him, "if I have to dance with Lily, and I have to because this is the song we always dance together to, you can't be alone! George is a fine dancer, I'd say, so, lead the way, Russell!", he said as he made your boyfriend approach you.

Chuckling, you allowed George to hold your hand, "does he know?", you asked your boyfriend, "no, I didn't tell anyone, but he was just telling me that we'd be a good fit for eachother, and that if I could 'tame the army of brothers' you have, it would be smooth sailing", he offered, twirling you as the song became louder.

"Wonder where he got the idea, hm?", you smiled, George's arm and hand helping you twirl and spin, "Do you think they'll notice if I sneak a kiss?", George whispered.

Classic George, he was wearing a shirt, the top two buttons undone and his hair was wavy just how you liked it. Having started the race from the bottom places, the post race glow after he reached P4 was noticeable and it made him ever more charming and handsome as you pulled his neck down slightly, stealing a kiss when no one was looking.

"Arthur! Why do I have hair gel on my floor? Last time I checked, this wasn't a cleaning hack", you asked your brorher over the phone as he laughed histerically, "it's not funny Arthur! Me and George were wearing socks and it's all gooey now!".

"You can't deal with your boyfriend's feet, Y/N?", Arthur teased you, seeing your disgusted expression.

The prank was simple. Hair gel in your bedroom floor on the day everyone was our of the house and Arthur had assured you you'd have the place to yourself for the day.

"The minute you offered help, I should've- thank you, amour- I should've suspected!", you snapped, "my boyfriend has pretty feet, they're not like your nasty ones!", you said, chuckling as George wiped the floor with a wet cloth he carefully got from the kitchen after he cleaned his feet.

"Is this you having a go at my feet or at my hair?", George asked Arthur, smiling at his prank, "you looked like you needed help!", your brother offered his input.

"I love his fluffy hair, so I suggest you stay out of it before I go to your room and clean these wet cloths on your bed", you foreshadowed, you're lucky you're helping me have my boyfriend all to myself today, Arthur, or this could've ended differently".

"Why is George here?", Charles asked, noticing his friend walking to his mother's house garden with you by his side.

"Y/N didn't tell you he was joining us for lunch?", Pascale said simply, smirking at her son's obliviousness.

Your mother, as it turns out, had known all along not only that you were in a romantic relationship, but a romantic relationship wirh George Russell. Her unfazed expression when you announced to her you'd be bringing him to your family lunch told you that much, "Chérie, you have that look in your eye your father had for me when we met. It's kind, and a little scared, too, but it's full of passion, too. I noticed the moment you came home from Silverstone", she smiled, hugging you and kissing your forehead.

"Have you seriously not caught on, brother?", Lorenzo laughed at Charles' unawareness as Arthur watched his jaw drop when the Scuderia Ferrari driver noticed George was holding his sister's hand, "no way!", he yelled.

"Charles, this is my boyfriend, George. We've been dating for a few months now", you introduced them like they didn't race eachother twenty four weekends out do the year.

"How did I not know you were daring my sister?", Charles asked George, and maybe a little to himself too, "I spend a third of the year near you, and you live here on Monaco, where you've been seeing my little sister? How did I miss this?".

Chuckling at him, you walked up to Charles, letting go of George's hand and hugging your brother, "to be fair, Arthur covered for me a lot", you explained.

"But mama and Arthur knew, then?", he wondered, looking at the rest of the family.

"I thought only Arthur knew, but mama has known from the start, it seems. I only told Arthur", you clarified.

"I got suspicious when the race was here, you kept 'accidentally' going to the Mercedes hospitality, right Y/N? Didn't say anything as j figured it wasn't my place", Lorenzo excused himself.

"You knew and you didn't tell me? I asked you so many time if you knew if she was dating!", Charles pointed his finger at Arthur.

"We're twins, Charles, I wouldn't do her that dirty", Arthur added, "you certainly didn't have any issues when we swapped her shampoo when we were younger", he called, "That's different, messing with that is okay. With her feelings, it isn't", Arthur smiled.

"I hope you're also an apologist of not playing or messing with her feelings, George", Charles threatened lightly.

"The most. No messing with her feelings ever, even if she had messed my heart quite a bit until she finally let me win her over", George said as you approached him, hugging your waist ad kissing the side of your head.

#george russell x reader #george russell imagine #george russell fanfic #george russell fluff #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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archiveikemen · 4 months ago

Text

"Ghost House Report" Story Event: Prologue

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Warnings & FAQ

One summer day, under the blazing sun.

We were travelling in a carriage headed to the location for one of Crown’s missions.

Kate: According to the map, the location is in this area. Let’s alight here.

…

— The mansion stood alone in the middle of a dense forest.

The garden, once blooming with seasonal plants, was now overgrown with weeds.

The building was in a terrible state with cracks running all over its outer walls.

Harrison: … So this is the mansion Victor told us to investigate.

Alfons: It indeed looks like it has a shady history.

Kate: This mansion has been abandoned ever since its last owner sold it, and no one has done any maintenance work on it for a long time…

Kate: Despite being uninhabited, there have been reports of crying being heard coming from it at night, so it’s known as a ghost house.

Roger: Ghost house… huh. Realistically speaking, ghosts don’t exist.

Kate: Yes. Victor mentioned that the voices that were occasionally heard were likely human, and not ghosts.

Kate: Someone sneaking into an uninhabited mansion could use it as a base for criminal activity.

Kate: That’s why we were instructed to investigate this matter.

Jude: *sigh*... Do we need this much manpower to investigate something with no solid evidence?

Roger: You could've stayed behind if that’s what you think, you know?

Jude: I have my own business with this mansion.

Kate: We only have today to investigate, that’s why so many of us are present. Please bear with it, Jude.

Jude: Tch…

Harrison: But one day is too rush.

Harrison: With a mansion this big, we should have more time to investigate it.

Kate: Now that you've mentioned it, it’s indeed odd…

Elbert: If I’m not mistaken… Will did say “I have a bad feeling about this, so it's best not to stay for long”.

Elbert: Victor might've taken his word for it.

Kate: W-What does he mean by “a bad feeling”...?

Alfons: Maybe there really are ghosts in the mansion.

Kate: No way…!

(I agreed to go on this mission without worry because I heard the “ghost house” thing was just a rumour…!)

Roger: What’s wrong? Scared of ghosts, little lady? Do you want to hold hands?

Kate: N-No…! I’m not scared at all!

Harrison: Yeah, that's a lie.

Kate: Ughh…

Jude: Bullshit… it doesn't matter whether there's ghosts or not.

Kate: It does! We could get cursed…

Roger: That’d be interesting. Then we’ll see what happens when the Cursed get cursed.

Jude: Ridiculous. What can dead people do to us? Quickly get investigating already.

…

With the key Victor gave us, we unlocked the heavy door and entered the mansion.

Kate: It’s kind of chilly here. Could there really be ghosts…?

Roger: This mansion has trees surrounding it that block the sunlight out, so it's not surprising that it’s cooler here.

Kate: R-Right! There’s no way there would be gho—

— Ghosts. Before I could complete my sentence, the door slammed shut with a loud bang.

Kate: …!?

Elbert: … A ghost?

Harrison: Probably just the wind.

Roger: Whatever it is, this is no place to be loitering around. Let’s get the investigation over and done with.

We spread out the floor plan of the mansion and started discussing which areas to delegate to each member.

(This place is too scary to investigate alone…)

(... Let me ask him to go with me.)

#ikemen villains #ikemen series #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #otome #ikevil translations #ikevil story event #harrison gray #roger barel #alfons sylvatica #elbert greetia #jude jazza

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karniss-bg3 · 10 months ago

Note

WAIT!! Kar’niss can purr?????!!!!!???

Yes!

...Well, sort of.

While the term “purr” does fit to describe his sounds, it’s not exactly like what we would expect from cats. I’d say it’s more akin to a reverberated croak or trill. I don’t believe Larian included the isolated background crowing he does in the game files but it is present anytime he speaks. It also seems to intensify in response to high emotional stimulus, such as rage and ecstasy. So I imagine when he isn’t speaking but he feels very content, calm, or deeply annoyed then he will idly purr in response.

Another neat addition to his speech is how breathy every word is. He pants a lot and it sounds like the very act of pushing words out is an exhausting endeavor for him. This would make sense considering his anatomy is fifteen flavors of fucked up. There is a debate on if the organs in his torso still function or if all of his inner workings are delegated to the spider body alone. Either way, his humanoid lungs wouldn’t be equipped to supply oxygen to a form that large which would make breathing and speaking a chore. Either that or the book lungs in his abdomen have to work overtime to deliver air to his mouth due the distance between the two and the same issue crops up as a result. I’m not sure if this was intentional on Larian’s part but if so I think it’s a clever addition to his character design. It tells the player a lot without explaining it. Show, don’t tell, as they say.

The voice clip included here is one of the few times we witness Kar’niss pretty pleased with himself. As usual, his tone is very labored and breathy. But we can also hear the background reverb that clings to his speech. I really enjoy the sound effect, more than I probably should. I’ve always wanted an eight legged cat.

Thanks for the ask!

#baldur's gate 3 #kar'niss #bg3 #karniss #drider #baldurs gate 3 #answered #bg3 kar'niss #sound byte #I refuse to clean his litter box though. He has two hands of his own.

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emmg · 2 months ago

Text

Larian really did it, eh? They took one look at all the rich possibilities for complex, deeply layered antagonists and thought, "Nah, screw that. Let’s just make a devil who could probably cum just by looking at his own reflection." And somehow—somehow—it worked. Like, I know I’m showing up late to the party here, but holy hells, they cooked up Raphael, a mysterious, narcissistic, probably-can-suck-his-own-dick-until-he’s-cross-eyed kind of character, who has about as much emotional depth as a puddle of jizz. And the fandom? The fandom was like, “Oh yes, Daddy, I would like a side of that. And make it extra toxic.”

Let’s be real here, the man struts around like he’s the second coming of every goddamn god in the Realms, practically making love to his own shadow as it follows him around. And we're all like, “Yeah, that’s it. That’s my guy.” He’s the type who wakes up, glances at himself in the mirror, and you know the first words out of his mouth are, “How do you do it, you stunning, devastatingly perfect beast?”

And when he’s done looking at himself, he watches his own cum drip down the mirror like it’s some kind of divine art installation. He’s just standing there, all smug, probably biting his lip, admiring the drip as if it’s the Sistine Chapel and muttering, “Exquisite. Truly a masterpiece, Raphael. You outdo yourself again.”

And yet. And yet. Despite the fact that he lasts about as long in bed as it takes me to throw out any remaining shred of dignity I possess—spoiler alert, it’s not long at all—the fandom is still like, “Oh yes, give me that.” I mean, let’s call it what it is: Raphael is over here jerking off in front of a mirror, flexing his wings, probably biting his lip and winking at his reflection while moaning something like, “I’m the real devil here,” and somehow people are out there thirsting after him like he’s offering a five-course meal instead of trauma with a side of existential dread.

You know this guy practices his sexy monologues in the mirror every morning, right? There’s no way he doesn’t. He’s probably standing there, buck-ass naked, wings unfurled, saying something ridiculous like, “Oh, Tav, you poor fool. You never stood a chance,” while blowing a kiss to his own reflection. And you know the moment Tav walks in, he’s like, “Oh, didn’t see you there,” as if he wasn’t just mid-flex, trying to decide if his pecs or his horns were his best feature today.

Honestly, Raphael probably thinks missionary is an act of charity. He’s not trying to make anyone else feel good—he’s just giving you the honor of basking in his sheer, unfiltered glory. Meanwhile, you’re over here just happy to be involved while he’s thinking about how good his ass must look reflected in the chandelier above. He’s like, “Oh yes, you love this. Everyone loves this. I love this,” as if the entire experience is just him doing you a favor by letting you witness the seventh wonder of the world: him.

AO3 is out here churning out fanfiction like, “Raphael’s sweat dripped down his perfectly sculpted abs, glistening in the flickering candlelight of Avernus as Tav moaned, ‘Oh, Raphael, you’re just so… perfect.’ He smirked, flicking his tongue as if seduction were some high art only he had mastered,” and somehow we’re all reading this like, “Yes. Yes, please.” It’s ridiculous, but are we complaining? Absolutely not. But also what abs? The motherfucker is sipping wine all day and delegating every possible task to everyone but himself. He should have a beer gut.

AO3 has officially become the home for the weirdest, most insane, borderline illegal fantasies you didn’t know you had until Raphael walked in with that velvet voice and that “I’m better than everyone” attitude. And suddenly, you’re reading about how he’s chained Tav to a bed made of solid gold in a mansion on the second layer of Hell, calling her ‘mouse’ like it’s a goddamn pet name while he drafts another contract with one hand and—you know—‘negotiates’ with the other. Tav’s out here thinking, “I could stop this if I wanted,” but really, could she? Could anyone?

Oh, and let’s not forget the taglines on these fics: “Extreme narcissism,” “dubious consent,” “he’s an actual devil, what did you expect?”, “wingplay,” “weird infernal kinks you didn’t know existed,” and my personal favorite, “Raphael’s dick is bigger than his ego (which is saying something).” And somehow, people are eating it up like it’s the best goddamn wine from Avernus, despite the fact that Raphael is probably the kind of guy who’d finish in record time, look over at you, and say something like, “Well, aren’t you lucky to have had me?” before leaving to stare at himself in the mirror again.

At the end of the day, Raphael is the equivalent of someone giving you their business card after mediocre sex and telling you they’re free for a follow-up next Thursday. He’s probably sitting back after three minutes of glorified foreplay, sipping on some infernal wine, dribbling down his chest, cock half-hard and still leaking, saying, “That was a gift, darling. You’re welcome.” Meanwhile, you’re left there thinking, “Is it rude to ask for a refund?” You know he’s terrible for you, but like, what’s the alternative? Not letting him wreck your life? Ridiculous. Absolutely not.

This is the kind of fandom insanity we’ve built, folks. Raphael’s out here jerking off to his own reflection and smirking like he’s some kind of gift to the multiverse, while the rest of us are like, “Yes, Daddy, please tell me more about how you’ve single-handedly ruined my life and maybe take your shirt off while you’re at it.”

And what’s truly wild is that somehow, somehow, we’ve collectively managed to elevate this walking, talking narcissistic wet dream—this smarmy, self-obsessed devil with more self-love than a Greek god on steroids—into the sex icon of the year. Like, how? Raphael’s out here selling delusions of grandeur with a side of, “Oh, by the way, I will absolutely fuck you over, and you’ll thank me for it,” and the fandom’s response? We all just dropped our panties like it’s some kind of compulsory event. Logic? Gone. Self-respect? Out the window. It’s like we’re all standing in line with a collective, “Sir, yes, sir! Please ruin my life.”

#this is my manifesto #thank god veilguard is coming out so i can obsess about less toxic characters #but maybe not #raphael bg3 #bg3 #raphael x tav #bg3 shitpost #raphael baldur's gate 3 #i'm really spiraling over here with the quiet season and nothing to grade

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wordy-little-witch · 5 months ago

Note

Buggy should get to do Crocodiles nails and it should be a very comforting experience for both of them. For Crocodile because not only does he feel handsome in his body after transitioning to a point that made him comfortable, but he also now feels like this finally gives him the ability to enjoy something again that he had mixed feelings about when he hadn’t transitioned yet, beautiful, dark and harsh colors coating nails on a hand that felt too feminine in a way he couldn’t describe yet.

Buggy just likes to sit crosslegged between crocodiles legs on the couch, back touching his chest, as he instructs the man to lay his remaining hand to rest his hand in his lap and Buggy gets to debate with himself wether today a sharp crimson color or a more subtle, velvety plum kind of tone would be more applicable.

This originally was just about little!Buggy but honestly Buggy is such a fashionista that when he has finally widdled Crocodile down and proven that, yes, it actually DOES look really good, he probably could even convince him to do this once or twice a week

… That being said Buggy, age eleven doing Shanks nails with some polish they looted from the last marines and Roger walking into the room like “…. what’s going on here?” “C-Captain!?” “We… I … Buggy and I…. We were doing our nails- I ASKED HIM TO HONESTLY AND-“

“Me next.”

Cue Roger walking around with an incredibly amateurish and not specifically color matched manicure for the next few days or so.

Okay but honestly? I'm in love with this. Little! Buggy probably would have fun spa days with his crew, where they all do each other's nails and hair, and he's THRIVING there it's fun and he can stim and wriggle and laugh and it's amazing. Maybe the first time Crocodile caves is after a few times where he's joined them, maybe something about the gathering in question is Off or Buggy's struggling to drop. The Logia user makes a semi-rash decision.

"Here," he rumbles, reaching a hand out to tap Buggy's shoulder. "Don't make me regret this, brat."

It's the start of a frequent occurrence. Buggy, big or little, enjoys working with his hands and the focus can help him calm down and relax when he's a little too tightly wound. Sometimes Mihawk will give him a chance to do his nails, too - and Buggy hates that he thinks it, but he really prefers Croc's hands when he's regressed. The size difference and semi-gruff/semi-gentle way he offers it just takes Buggy to those precious few years when he truly felt safe and loved and it's only reinforced when they care about him so much. Mihawk is refreshingly new, but Crocodile is comfortingly familiar.

Speaking of familiar and the past, however, that bit with Shanks and Buggy? They really would. I have the weirdest suspicion they both swiped some bottles from the same place, and convened later on like "look what u got for yo-OHHHH!!!!"

They're up late, doing each other's nails by lantern light, trying to stay quiet but struggling between the giggling and excitement. And they both freeze when the door swings open.

"What are you boys doing up so late- oh. What's going on here?"

And Buggy chokes a little, so Shanks dives headfirst into babbling explanations, trying to take the prospective heat off of Buggy, both a little scared and-

Roger grins. "Can I be next?"

They blink, dumbfounded. But they nod. He settles down with an exaggerated groan onto the floor, complaining about his "old man bones", getting giggles from his boys. They look over the bottles, and Roger decides one can have a hand each - make it fair, he claims. Shanks does some solid color on each nail of his delegated hand, tongue out as he adds random embellishments. Buggy takes a few moments longer before he does a neutral coat, then carefully does his best at a mix between french tips and a wave pattern with white and blue. On the ring finger, he giggles nefariously to himself as he takes a toothpick and adds a red flower.

It's messy, not professional in the slightest but Roger wears it proudly, even if he choked on air when he saw Buggy's handiwork, threatening to noogie the kid when his nails dried.

((Bonus points, someone on the crew tried to make a snarky teasing remark to Buggy for his bright nails One (1) Time the next day. Shanks lunged into the exchange to gush about his own nails. Roger then got involved too, showing off his nails. Then he decided to "make it a crew bonding experience!!" The next island they docked at, he demanded they get "nail paints. All the nail paint!!"

"It's nail polish, captain."

"All the nail polish!!!!"

It's weird at first, but it becomes fun when everyone finally relaxes. Buggy turns out to be one of the best with the brushes, and the others let him practice on them frequently. It's a rare spot of harmless fun))

((Bonus points, the sentiment spreads to the Whitebeards too after one battle where Roger cries because the fight chipped his manicure and he begged Buggy to fix it. Sitting around the fire, Buggy just plops into his captain's lap, holds the man's hand in his own lap, and works on fixing it. Whitebeard chuckles warmly about it, and the captains make conversation about it. Newgate then drops a casual question of "do you accept new clients, little blue?"

So Buggy winds up getting passed over lap to lap, starting with whitebeard and including many others. Izou and he get into a spirited conversation about color theory and beauty tips.

He's very happy that Teach hard passed on it, and to this day he doesn't know if it was genuine disinterest or if the other declined due to the absolutely murderous waves of Haki coming from Shanks every time he got within several feet of Buggy. Regardless, he is grateful)).

Just. Buggy being a little fashionista and tiny Diva, Big or Little and the cuteness that ensues and just AAAAAAA

(Also whatever you do, don't imagine Buggy, regressed, laying on his tummy, kicking his feet and concentrating so hard while he carefully paints Ritchie's claws. Don't think about Buggy going Puppy's claws so they match and getting guavawani kisses during the whole thing which results in giggle fits and a messy but happy clown. Don't do it, buddy. You might die-))

#witchy answers!!#agere buggy #cross guild agere content #caregiver crocodile #roger pirates #pirate manicures are metal af #shanks and buggy #buggy is a lil diva regardless of age or headspace #agere one piece #regressor buggy #baby clown!!!!!#help he's so cute #btw #Puppy the guavawani is my favorite random made up character #me: writing #my brain: give buggy a cute frien with a weird name #me: my gods that's genius

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youcouldmakealife · 11 months ago

Text

LBTE: Jared (158-160)

In which there are meetings.

If you'd like to follow along, the series page is here.

158. Under Advisement

Sit down, it’s actually a good thing I have a chance to talk to you guys without PR breathing down my neck.”

“Um,” Jared says. Private meetings with GMs are not historically his favourite thing, even if Foster’s always been cool before. “Should we — maybe we should wait for everyone?”

“No, no,” Foster says. “Sit.”

Brian Foster: PR’s worst nightmare.

“Ownership’s explicitly told me you’re not currently tradeable assets — I didn’t need to be told that, by the way, I just want you to know that the first thing they said to me. Well, actually not the first thing, the first thing was — never mind, I’m rambling, I do that. It’s an annoying habit.”

“It’s not annoying,” Jared says, which gets him a grateful look from Bryce as well as Foster. “I think PR would have been pretty cool with that speech, honestly.”

“Are you kidding?” Foster says. “It’d be all ‘you can’t identify who asked for advice, Brian!’ ‘you can’t tell them about a private conversation with the owner, Brian!’ Though probably that’s more HR. Who are also going to be at the meeting, by the way. It’s an all hands kind of meeting. We probably should have booked a conference room. Not that we need to book, it’s — never mind.”

PR’s worst nightmare. Also there are three people in this room and maybe one functioning brain to mouth filter between them.

“Of course they do,” Foster says, then frowns at him. “I told you to as well. Anyway don’t tell them I told you that stuff. I shouldn’t have. That’s — I know the rambling is annoying. I’m trying to get better about it.”

I am very fond of this man.

“I couldn’t figure out how to book the conference rooms,” Foster says. “The system kept locking me out.”

“You’re the GM, Brian,” Dwyer says. “You delegate that. Stay here, I’ll find us a conference room.”

Everyone suddenly arrives, then they scatter, off on the hunt for a room big enough to hold everyone, then on the hunt for someone who has keys to the room, then calling Summers and Greg to let them know things will be delayed. Foster was right — everyone calls him Brian, and there are a lot of exasperated ‘Brian’s being said, while Bryce and Jared sit in Foster’s office, forgotten for the moment.

Very, very fond of this disaster GM.

“Babe—“ Jared says, then Foster’s coming in, saying, “Sorry to barge in!”, like they aren’t sitting in his office, then, “They found a conference room. I’m not allowed to organise meetings anymore. Did you guys want coffee? Shelley’s assistant is going on a coffee run.”

Every bit I write of Brian makes me smile. A little treat for me.

“Okay,” Foster says, then, retreats, mumbling something to himself that Jared can hear — he’s reciting Bryce’s drink order under his breath, presumably so he doesn’t forget it.

“Oh,” Foster says, bursting right back in. “You guys should probably come to the conference room, eh?”

He, like Greg, is doing his best.

So — small mercies, he guesses. They have supportive friends and teammates. His parents are giving him some distance because he asked for it, but they’re standing by. Bryce’s mom came with food and hugs. Their GM is behind them, as is their room, and they couldn’t have depended on that in Calgary or Edmonton. This could have happened earlier in their relationship, when Bryce was less comfortable with his sexuality and Jared had less faith in them as a unit. It really could have been so much worse.

Listing all sorts of possibilities that could have, but did not, occur in this narrative.

Do we need Dmitry as an annoying chaperone going forward Jared texts Stephen after Elaine heads out. He wonders after if that’s a confusing question, but then decides that Stephen pretends to be omniscient often enough that he can figure it out or be confused.

Gabe is much less annoying if you require a chaperone Stephen replies, which is comforting, and also true.

Yes but Jared doesn’t scowl the moment Gabe enters a room, so that will do nothing to mitigate Jared’s soppy face.

Also: confirmed, Stephen is omniscient. Or just very on Jared’s wavelength.

“What’s twitter saying about us now?”

“How should I know?” Bryce asks, but his guilty face gives him away and he knows it.

Someone must stop him.

“It’s not as bad as I figured it’d be,” Bryce says. “Like. I don’t know if I made it bigger in my own head all along, or if it’s like — it was that bad, the first few times players came out, and then time passed and it kept happening and people got used to it. I don’t know. There’s shit but it like — honestly people said worse shit about me when I got traded to the Canucks. By like, a lot.”

That’s weirdly unsurprising, and both depressing and encouraging at the same time. Like, sure, you can marry a dude, but playing for a divisional rival? That’s a bridge too far.

The conversation has significantly changed since Marc and Dan were outed (2010). There’s some extremely alarming backsliding happening, but all told, it would be a very different reaction than what Bryce witnessed as a teen.

Also seriously imagine if Leon Draisaitl joined the Flames or something. CHAOS. OUTRAGE!!

“And everyone’s talking about how hot you are,” Bryce says. “Which, like, obviously I agree.”

Jared rolls his eyes. “They are not,” he says.

They are. Incessantly.

And it’s kind of comforting to know that while Jared would get caught obsessing over all the worst tweets, Bryce is focusing on the ones that call Jared hot. Not the ones complimenting him — and if there are tweets about Jared being hot, there are probably twice as many about Bryce — but Jared.

There are not twice as many about Bryce.

“What’s that for?” Bryce asks when Jared kisses his temple, the crest of his cheekbone, his mouth as it curves up. He was clearly expecting that argument about cognitive bias, and he looks confused but pleased that he’s getting kissed instead.

“Nothing,” Jared says, and takes that golden opportunity, Bryce smiling, guard down, to confiscate his phone, because clearly Bryce needs to be saved from himself.

Bryce so touched he forgot about machinations.

159. Rehearsal

Bryce makes a noncommittal sound, and Jared breaks his own ‘don’t touch the driver’ rule, reaching out and squeezing Bryce’s thigh in a way he hopes is comforting and not like, grope-y. Not the time for grope-y. Kind of because of the general situation, but mostly because of the whole driving thing.

No groping in motor vehicles. This is not a lesson Jared needs to learn twice, unlike the shower lesson.

Jared wonders if they opted for a younger employee to make them feel less defensive, more related to. If there’s one department he can assume is always trying to spin something, it’s PR.

Yes.

Grace also does a lot of the social media stuff though, and they knew this wasn’t something they could handle exclusively via traditional media. So ‘relates to the youth’ but also ‘is the youth’. She’s in her late 20s, which they consider close enough. There are youth-ier employees, but nobody’s putting an intern in charge of this, even with supervision.

“Before we start discussing how the press conference is going to go, I want to hear from you guys, in your words, the answers to some of the questions you’re probably going to get,” Grace says. “And we can build on everything from there, okay?”

In other words: how much do I have to edit the words that will be coming out of your mouths?

Jared tries not to wince. He thinks he fails. Bryce glances over at Jared, and then gives a very tame, very redacted version of camp. Jared only sounds moderately dickish in it, which is impressive, really, because now that he’s no longer seventeen, he accepts that he was extremely dickish the entire time, and also extremely lucky that Bryce likes that about him for some reason.

I think this is the first time Jared admits, without caveats, that he was an asshole to Bryce at the camp. No ‘but he was a douche’ quickly following or the like, no defensive ‘he started it’, just ‘I was extremely dickish to Bryce’. Good work, Jared. (He’s still never telling Bryce he was right about that stretch, even though they both know he was)

“That’s how we met!” Bryce says.

“It sounds sketchy,” Jared says.

“It sounds so sketchy,” Grace confirms.

It was supposed to BE sketchy. Fucking Bryce, man.

“Great,” Grace says. It does not sound like she thinks it’s great, honestly.

“Jared was really mature for—“ Bryce starts, then quiets when Jared kicks his ankle before he makes things sound even sketchier.

NO, BRYCE.

“I’m not going to ask you to lie about how you met,” Grace says. “But I am going to ask you to not tell the truth, unless you want people to start talking about power differentials and the age of consent.”

“Not in Canada,” Jared says. “Age of consent is sixteen.”

Of note! Because of course Jared looked it up (there are also ‘Romeo and Juliet’ near in age exceptions that would encompass their relationship, because nobody wants that law getting used to harass a sixteen year old dating a fifteen year old.)

“It wasn’t sketchy,” Bryce tells her very earnestly. “I know it sounds sketchy, but it was like—“

Jared silently wills Bryce not to say ‘true love’.

“—true love,” Bryce says.

BRYCE. NO.

“Like, we’re married,” Bryce says. “We’re spending the rest of our lives together. It was like—“

Jared hopes ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’ isn’t leaving Bryce’s mouth next.

“—meant to be, y’know?” Bryce says. “Stop looking at me like that, J.”

“I’m not even looking at you,” Jared says. He is looking at the table, because he can’t bear to accidentally meet Grace’s eye while Bryce is saying these things.

Bryce is starting to warm up to this media business as he realises he can say things like ‘true love’ and ‘meant to be’ and nobody starts booing and face washing him.

“This is exactly the kind of dynamic we want. People tend to push back against the gross in love stuff when it seems manufactured, but it’s pretty clear it’s genuine. We can definitely run with this.”

This is a very kind way of calling Bryce gross.

“That’s not really Jared’s thing,” Bryce says.

“We could try?” Jared says weakly.

“No,” Bryce says. “That’s — that’s not J. We’re not like — we’re not coming out just to pretend to be people we’re not.”

Oh Bryce.

“Just because you’re stupidly romantic like, naturally, does not mean I can’t be just as gross as you if I want to be,” Jared says.

He doesn’t believe it even as he’s saying it, and neither does Bryce, judging by his face. Which is — fair. It’s fair. Nobody could compete with Bryce’s level of mushy, but Jared isn’t even in the running. Dmitry is mushier with Bryce in public than Jared is. And frankly Jared’s fine with that, but he can be mushy if he has to. He guesses.

“Doing this in public is also totally acceptable,” Grace says.

“Doing what?” Jared asks.

As Jared is feebly arguing he can be romantic, Bryce continues to have visible hearts in his eyes for his lying husband. It’s a great dynamic. Grace is excited about it. (she hasn’t seen them in front of cameras yet.)

They exchange contact information, making sure to CC Summers. Also Greg, though that’s more so he doesn’t feel left out. This is Summers’ show, and Jared thinks Greg knows it, and honestly doesn’t think he minds. Jared certainly doesn’t.

I cannot begin to express how relieved Greg is that this is Dave’s show.

“Absolutely no internet,” Grace tells them. “None. I mean, other than the email I’m going to send you, obviously.”

“Not even funny dog videos?” Bryce asks.

Bryce has to make sure after Dave’s ‘nobody but me and Greg’ somehow allowed him to take calls from his mom.

“Okay, fine, you can have funny animal videos,” Grace says. “But stay off all social media. Also anything to do with hockey.”

“Can I check the box scores, though?” Bryce asks. “It’s important to keep up with the rest of the league.”

Grace sighs. “Okay. You can have box scores and animal videos. And that’s it.”

“But—“ Bryce says.

Jared doesn’t see Bryce much in the context of ‘authority figures’ (loosely, in Grace’s case, but she is calling the shots), so beyond Bryce and Dave having a combative relationship, Jared misses part of the issue with Bryce in these situations is that he sometimes (often) pushes back just to push back. He’s gotten a lot better about it as he’s matured, but sometimes he can’t help himself.

“Everyone likes you best,” Bryce mutters as they’re walking to their car, but only after someone from security made sure no one was lurking in the underground parking lot hoping to ambush them for a picture or a scoop. Which is obviously such a fun thing Jared hopes will continue indefinitely.

“You’ve never checked the weather in your entire life,” Jared says.

“I could,” Bryce says. “Maybe I’m getting old and boring.”

“Knowing what it’s like out is not boring,” Jared says. “It’s preparation. Are you mimicking me right now?”

“No,” Bryce mutters, abruptly ceasing.

Jared elbows Bryce in the side, and Bryce hip checks him right into a pillar. Gently, but still: rude.

They don’t bicker much — it’s more Jared snarking at Bryce, but it’s fun when Bryce bites back. For me and for Jared.

160. Whirlwind

So Jared guesses they got engaged like, practically as soon as they got together. Like, boom, date three or something: engaged. Bryce moves fast in the storyline. Also in real life, but not that fast. Jared thinks Bryce in this storyline moves a little too fast, frankly. And it isn’t realistic that Jared in this storyline said yes that early in their relationship.

Nitpicking Grace’s storyline for OOC behaviour is peak Jared.

“Please,” Grace says, pinching her nose. “It was a whirlwind romance. Based on a friendship that grew out of shared interests and mutual respect and nobody being anybody else’s coach at the time.”

Jared would like to again point out that Bryce was a terrible couch who didn’t do anything but sulk, so it basically doesn’t count.

“You come here, wringing your hands about best business practices,” Foster says. “When a decade ago both Riley and Lapointe went to the Habs as a package deal. Did you forget about that or are you just coming here with a bullshit line of reasoning so you can pretend you’re not being homophobic as you’re asking homophobic questions? You don’t get to have it both ways. You don’t get to say their sexuality has nothing to do with this and then turn right around and ask me if I knew about their sexuality when I signed them. That’s not how this works.”

Brian Foster’s entire press conference was some of the most fun I’ve ever had writing a scene. Pure Id.

Grace finds a tweet with a longer clip, in which Foster manages to insult three media organisations, mock homophobic fans, swear at least half a dozen times, and reiterate the organisation’s support for Bryce and Jared. He also takes a question about the power play.

Love me a man who can multitask.

“I think you should probably give in and start calling him Brian?” Bryce says, looking over at Jared. Bryce caved to his demands the third time Foster explicitly told him to, but Jared wasn’t planning on it: it felt too weird. But he may have to revise that decision.

“He does keep asking me to,” Jared says.

Jared figures angry monologue defending him and Bryce earns first name basis.

He’s sure there’s already going to be ‘wow, Marcus is slumming with a middle sixer’ shit.

“Literally nobody is going to be saying that,” Bryce tells him. “Like. At all.”

Babe you’re the arm candy.

“Bryce!” Jared says.

Bryce very busily looks at literally everything but Jared.

“Stop going online!” Jared says.

He can’t help it!

“I mean, not by Joe from Kamloops who’s decided he can’t support the Canucks anymore, no,” Jared says. “And definitely not Jim from Red Deer who doesn’t give a shit about the Canucks, but has come to say he’s pretty positive your shoulder injury is proof that being gay is morally wrong, actually.”

No offence to Joes and Jims. Full offence to Kamloops and Red Deer.

And Dmitry will probably beat them up, judging by the text he sent Jared assuring him that he will beat them up, along with approximately seventeen emojis Jared didn’t bother trying to parse.

Look: emojis transcend language. A fist is a fist is a fist.

“Okay, then quit reading the opinions of people who are so miserable that the idea of two people in love with each other makes them furious,” Jared says. “It’s pathetic. They’re pathetic.”

Jared was at a very tender, vulnerable age when he saw some of the blowback of the OG coming out controversy. It didn’t make things easier for him as he started to come to terms with his sexuality, and it did not make Jared like people any more than he was originally inclined to.

“They’re planning on like, rainbow flags,” Bryce says. “Canucks fans. They’re coordinating it online. They’re planning on bringing rainbow flags. And supportive signs and stuff. Some have taken pictures. They’re — they’re really nice.”

It isn't all bad though.

“There aren’t any bad ones,” Gabe says, nudging Jared’s shoulder. “If that’s why you’re keeping your head down.”

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose,” Jared says.

This warm up scene is dialogue and action heavy because Jared’s trying really hard not to feel anything right now, starting with keeping his eyes on the ice so he can't see the crowd.

“There’s one behind the net that says LJBTQ,” Gabe says. “The JB is in a heart. I thought it was kind of clever, but you just know someone on the internet is going to say it’s bi erasure. Which, as a bi dude, I completely agree there’s bi erasure in the community, but — oh, that one says PB&J and peanut butter and jelly are holding hands. It’s adorable. I have no idea what the P could be, though. Maybe Pacific? That’d work, I guess, but—

The P stands for ‘we can’t make a PB&J pun without the P’, for the record. Sometimes it’s not that deep.

“Gabe,” Jared says.

“Okay, okay,” Gabe says, putting his hands up, and skates over to where Dmitry’s doing the ridiculous motions he calls stretches.

Jared looks up, but the lights are bright and his eyes are blurry and all he can see is a wash of colour, so he blinks and blinks and goes to find another puck to try to get in the back of the net.

God Gabe can’t you see Jared is trying not to feel emotions?

“If anyone says shit to you,“ Dmitry says. “Tell me. I will fight them.”

“I know,” Jared says.

“Even if they say ‘hello’ or ‘good evening’,” Dmitry says. “I will fight them.”

“Kind of sounds like you just want an excuse to fight someone,” Jared says.

Well. Yes. But also — got your back.

But something breaks through during a TV timeout, has him looking up at the Jumbotron, because the applause and cheers are louder than a kiss cam or dance cam or celebrity lookalike. The camera’s on Bryce in the press box, looking a little stunned. After a moment Leo elbows him, grinning, and Bryce raises a hand to wave at the crowd in acknowledgement, the sound intensifying in response. The Canucks all bang their sticks against the boards, and Jared is late to join them, eyes caught on Bryce’s face.

And Jared knows this is a home game. He knows it isn’t going to be anything like this in other arenas, knows other teams’ fans won’t be this supportive, that opponents are going to use this against them, that there are always going to be people that think less of Bryce, of both of them, simply because they love each other. He knows that.

But Jared also knows Bryce is looking bashful but smiling, a mixture of happiness and bone deep relief on his face, and in this moment, that’s the only thing in the entire world that matters.

The moment that Bryce gets everything he never even dreamed of hoping for. That he gets everything he never thought he could have.

This is the original ending, before one last arc decided to jump onto the back. I also consider it the end of the climax — it’s all denouement from here.

#liveblogging the end

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thewriterowl · 2 years ago

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Luke Skywalker Thots

Because he is my baby and I would sell you all out for him for less than half a potato chip:

1) Slips up and will call animals their “baby names” in front of armies, delegates, Din, anyone he probably should be trying to impress (i.e: “oh the duckies are swimming” “....the ducks, Luke?” “....I said what I said.”)

2) Still wants a pet so bad and will try to adopt any fur/scaly/feather-baby that moves. No matter how poisonous.

2.5) Said dangerous, poisonous animal will love Luke back just as hard.

3) Is VERY jealous of Ezra and all his interactions with the Purgills (”I WANNA RIDE A SPACE WHALE TOO”)

4) Eventually does ride on a space whale

5) 100% still has Tatooine (aka Australian) accent that slips through from time to time.

5.5) Din can’t tell if it turns him on, if it confuses him, or if it is the most adorable/hysterical thing to hear this Jedi one-man army say some things that sound foreign to his ears (”ARE YE TAKIN’A PISS, MATE?!” as he throws down some evil hunter)

6) Luke still has a temper but it is a lot better than it was before and he expresses it through some sort of craft, rather than sparring. So, if someone sees Luke really yanking out weeds in his garden or has knitted eight blankets or gloves they know he is not in a mood to be messed with.

7) if there is such a thing as space-soda, Luke has chugged a gallon bottle of it.

8) is probably a potato lover (baked, fried, roasted, etc.). I just see him loving potatoes

9) Has an almost unlimited level with his inner-ear/equalirbium....almost. He knows the limits. And he knows because he spun himself in his X-Wing until he met that limit and puked.

9.5) He is trying for a new record with his spins

10) Luke does not need his Force power to beat anyone in an arm wrestling match. He throws them over the table from his sheer physical strength alone.

#star wars #the mandalorian #dinluke #luke skywalker #thots #luke headcanons #headcanons

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omegaversecurse · 8 days ago

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Chapter 3 of Teyvat Tales of a Creator God!

I know things suck so bad rn- so I'm uploading a surprise chapter early for y'all!

I awoke to the feeling of my hair being played with. My eyes fluttered open, and I saw Kaeya’s face looking at me fondly. I smiled softly, before our cute moment was interrupted by the sound of a knock.

“Yes?” I asked, slightly annoyed, and Barbara and Rosaria opened the door.

“Oh!” Barbara said, her face almost glowing red, while Rosaria snickered. My eyebrows furrowed in confusion, before my face went as red as Barbara as I realized how it looked to have Kaeya in my bed.

“No- no- we didn’t- we didn’t… I’m going to shut up now…” I said embarrassed. Rosaria smirked and said,

”I didn’t expect our divine creator to be so vulnerable to Kaeya’s seduction techniques,”

My face burned from the blush,

”What can I say, I’m simply irresistible,” Kaeya said with a wink. Barbara looked like she was about to faint, and I probably didn’t look much better. Kaeya looked over to me and softened,

“Hey, you good?” He questioned,

“Yeah… just embarrassed,” I said. Barbara, seemingly recovered from the shock of seeing her divine creator in bed with someone, said

”Well now that you’re awake, We have your outfit for the day, Liyue’s delegates will come at around lunch, the honorary knight should be with them,”

I smiled at her as Kaeya took the outfit from Barbara, with a quick bow, she exited seemingly in a hurry. Rosaria sighed and followed after her.

Kaeya, gave me the outfit, and said,

“If you need any help let me know,” he said, and led me to the bathroom to change.

As I took off the covering, I gasped in shock at the beauty of the gown. It was an anemo green, and glittered as it caught the light. I stripped down and put it on, as I realized I would need help tying up the corset. The bottom of the gown was golden, and covered in golden mini wind wheel asters. I couldn’t resist giving the gown a little twirl, and I laughed as I felt like a princess.

After the brief moment of celebration, I exited the bathroom, and asked Kaeya for help tying the corset. He smiled, and helped lace me up. Despite the horror stories of too tight corsets, it wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

“Do you need help with your hair?” He asked, I nodded, and he grabbed a brush and began getting out the knots that arise from sleeping outside for several days. He started braiding my hair, in a loose four stranded braid,

“The four strands are meant to represent the four winds,” he commented, before putting a wind wheel aster clip that matched the bottom of the dress to keep it secure.

After he finished I turned to him, and he asked

”Are you ready?”

I sighed and nodded, ready for a long day. He held my hand as he led me out of the cathedral, where everyone was waiting for me to arrive. And I mean everyone, all the vision holders in Mondstat were here, from Albedo to Venti. Kaeya once again pulled out my chair, and pushed me in when I sat down. He then sat at my right side. As I scanned the crowd, they all stared at me with varying levels of curiosity.

I grabbed some fruit to eat, as well as some fried eggs and pancakes. The pancakes reminded me of Noelles specialty dish, and I noticed her beam when I grabbed them. As I ate, I tried to be on my best manners, knowing several people were watching me eat. I also made sure to eat slower in order to ensure everyone got a chance to eat. I didn’t want to make the same mistake as yesterday.

Once I finished, making sure that everyone else was done eating, the nuns started to take our plates.

Klee stood up eagerly and said, “Can we give gifts now!” Almost yelling from excitement.

Albedo put a hand on her shoulder and told her to use inside voices. Klee nodded seriously before saying in a whisper yell, “can we give gifts now,” I looked to Kaeya in confusion, mouthing “gifts?” To him. He nodded and said, “The people of Mondstat have prepared gifts for your return,”

I smiled at Klee and said, “I’d love to open gifts Klee,” who was practically vibrating from excitement.

I was led over to the front of the church, and sat down on the chair (throne?) provided, Kaeya standing on my right side.

”Me first! Me first!” Klee said, dragging her and Albedo to the front.

“Your grace, me and Klee have prepared a gift for your enjoyment, we hope you appreciate it,”

“It’s your very own Dodoco! He’s friends with my Dodoco and they go on adventures together!”

I gasped at the cuteness, “Thank you so much Klee and Albedo, I love it!” I gave my new plush a big hug and a kiss on the forehead. I sat my Dodoco next to me for safekeeping, as the next person came forward to give me my gift.

“Your Grace, I, famed astrologer Mona Megistus, give you this gift of a light box, simply put a candle in the box, and it will project a image of the night sky that appeared the night of your arrival,”

I smiled again, and gave Mona my thanks. The line continued and I received gift after gift from the assembled crowd. Some of the highlights included a TCG deck from Diona, a wind glider from Amber, and a set of beautiful ornate knives from Rosaria.

Finally it was Venti’s turn, and he looked quite nervous when approaching me. “Your Grace, a lyre attuned to the four winds, if you ever need help, merely play it and one of us will come to your aid,” I smiled at Venti, even if it was tight, and said thanks. He looked rather relieved that I accepted his gift, and moved to join the others at the pews.

The nuns and Kaeya moved to help pack up all the gifts, but when I moved to help them, Kaeya put his hand on my shoulder and told me “we got this,” I pursed my lips and sat back down, feeling awkward I wasn’t doing anything to help.

They finished packing up, and a knight entered the Cathedral. “Grandmaster Jean, the Liyue delegation has arrived,” my eyebrows raised in shock, clearly the gift giving took more time than I thought.

Everyone assembled to the sides of the cathedral in a practiced motion, although Bennett did stumble while getting there. Kaeya returned to standing on my right side. A knock was heard on the doors of the Cathedral, and two nuns worked to open the heavy doors.

Xiao, Keqing and the Traveler walked in, with Paimon floating in excitedly. They all kneel before me, except Paimon who gave a curtsey. “Your grace,” Jean said, “May I present the Liyue delegation, your escorts to taking you to the Celestial Palace,” I nodded a little confused at the ‘Celestial Palace’ business, but figured this wasn’t the place to question it. “Standing before you is Adeptus Xiao, the last Yaksha of Liyue Harbor, Lady Keqing of the Liyue Qixing, and the Honorary Knight of Mondstat,”

“Mh-hm” Paimon said a little annoyed at being left out,

”And Paimon, the Traveler’s guide to Teyvat,” Jean finished, Paimon nodded, satisfied.

“Uh- Hi- Nice to meet you guys,” I said, a little unsure of how to continue.

“It’s nice to meet you too! Paimon’s very excited to go adventuring with you!” I nod, and Kaeya steps forward,

“I am Kaeya, the Cavalry Captain of the Knights of Favonius, and the first Mondstat Retainer of the Divine One,”

Kaeya then offered his hand out to me, and helped me up from the chair, I unfortunately stumbled a little bit while getting up. Kaeya luckily caught me, but I felt pretty embarrassed that I just stumbled over my two left feet in front of everybody. Kaeya guided me out of the Cathedral, with everyone giving me well wishes as I exited.

Walking through Mondstat was a fever dream, as crowds were gathered around us to be able to see me leave. However they were being held back to the sides by ribbons blocking off the center of the walkway. It felt like we were a part of the Disneyland Parade, and I felt uncomfortable with everyone staring at me. Xiao didn’t look much better.

As we finally crossed the bridge to exit Mondstat, with the Pigeons once again flying around me like they would a Disney Princess, Kaeya turned back and asked me “Are you alright?”

I nodded and said, “Just, a lot of people staring, I wasn’t expecting such a reception,”

Paimon paused, and told me “Why not? You’re the super duper most important person in all of Teyvat! Of course everyone would want to see you!”

I cringed, and told her “I don’t know about that, I’m no one special,” the entire group stopped to look at me, surprised at my response,

”Your Grace,” Keqing said, “You are the Divine Creator of Teyvat, the One Who Guides the World, there is no one more important than you,”

I looked away, blushing, feeling very awkward and unsure on how to explain how I’m a normal person. This all still felt like a dream to be honest. Xiao started looking at me contemplatively, as if seeing me in a new light.

The group continued past Springvale, and further away from the city. Once we reached Stone Gate, the sun was going down and my feet were killing me.

“We should make camp,” Xiao said, and I almost passed out in relief. Traveler brought out her teapot, and we all touched it to enter.

Entering the teapot, I didn’t know what to expect. It looked exactly like how I decorated, and that was a bad thing. Mismatched furniture and bits and bobs left over from primogem farming furniture sets.

“I uh- added some beds so we could sleep, I hope you’re not offended,” Lumine said,

”Of course not,” I said, “Believe me anything you do in this space is an improvement,”

She nodded, and showed me to a room with a nice fancy bed, and the picture of Paimon from the event with Albedo.

“I’ll keep watch first,” Xiao said, and Keqing nodded and offered to go second, and Lumine chimed in saying she’ll go third.

“When is my turn?” I asked,

”Oh your grace, you won’t need to keep watch, you need to rest,” Keqing told me,

”Still I feel bad, if you’re all keeping watch and I just sleep,”

”You need to regain your strength, there is a long way to go to get to the harbor,” Xiao said gruffly. I blinked and realizing I wasn’t going to change their mind, I nodded and yawned.

“There should be clothes in the dresser,” Lumine said, “we’ll leave you to change,” as everyone left I grabbed Kaeya’s wrist and asked

”could you help me with the corset?” He nodded, and shut the door so we could have some privacy.

“So uh- what’s the Celestial Palace?” I asked, as he was undoing the knot of my corset. He paused his motions for a second before answering,

”It’s a palace for you to reside, during the Archon War Liyue won the right to have it within its borders,”

“Ah okay…”

“If you don’t mind me asking, do you remember the archon war?”

“The archon war? No- I don’t remember it, wasn’t aware I was supposed to,”

“Hmmm…”

”What’s wrong,” I asked.

“Nothing- the last time you were seen was before the Archon War, before the… incident, so it makes sense you won’t remember it, it must’ve taken a while to regain your strength enough to descend,”

I paused, incident? I didn’t know what he was talking about, and frankly I was too afraid to ask. I didn’t want to reveal much about my lack of knowledge, mainly because I was still afraid of being labeled an imposter.

Kaeya finished unlacing my corset, and then asked me, “Do you want me to stay again tonight?”

I nodded and said, “If it’s not too much trouble,” he smiled at me, pulled out some pajamas from the dresser, and then told me “I’ll wait outside, tell me when you're done changing,”

I finished changing and poked my head out of the room, seeing Kaeya talking with Lumine.

“I’m staying with her tonight, it helps her sleep better,” I blushed at this, kind of embarrassed that I needed a cuddle buddy to sleep.

Lumine noticed me first, and smiled and waved at me, Kaeya turned to see me, and said,

“You ready?” I nodded, and he followed me into the bedroom, and untucked the covers for me to climb in, before climbing in after me. I fell asleep pretty quickly, my head on Kaeya’s chest and his arm around me.

It was about midnight when we heard a commotion. A crash and an inhuman screech. Kaeya was already out of the bed when I lifted my head, sword in hand,

”Stay here, I’ll guard the door,” and with that he left, shutting the door behind him. My hands shook scared not only for me, but for the people with me.

“It’s you-” an inhuman voice said. I turned and saw an Abyss Lector.

I backed up, and tripped over a blanket. My butt hitting the floor with a thud, I continued backing up pushing myself up against the wall as the lector approached, hyperventilating as he reached towards me. I squeezed my eyes shut, turning my head away as the hand got closer and closer, as a long sharp nail traced itself against my face.

A crash was heard, and I opened my eyes to see Xiao lunging at the the abyss herald, the door next to me slammed open and Lumine and Kaeya came running in. They cornered the abyss mage, ready to use their elemental powers to attack him.

“I’ll be back” the abyss herald said, staring straight at me, before leaving through a portal behind him.

Kaeya immediately came to my side, and asked me “are you alright”

I nodded, still shaken up by the attack.

”No thanks to you,” Xiao said bitterly,

“Do you have something to say?” Kaeya said, turning to face Xiao.

“You left her alone when the Abyss Order was attacking, she could’ve been taken or killed, you’re clearly not worthy of being a retainer,”

“I was outside the door to prevent anyone from coming in, it’s not like I straight up abandoned her,”

“You might as well, you reek of abyssal taint, I stayed silent because I trusted her Grace’s choice, but considering your actions tonight, I fully believe you did this on purpose,” Xiao spat out.

Kaeya was red with anger, but before he could respond Keqing and Paimon entered.

“All clear, the Abyss Order has left the premises,” Keqing said

”Uh… Did we interrupt a moment?” Paimon said, sensing the tension between Kaeya and Xiao.

“No- just a minor disagreement,” Kaeya responded, clearly shaken up by the aggression and accusations from Xiao.

“I should dispose of you right here-”

“Woah woah woah- No one’s disposing of anyone, Xiao, I trust Kaeya, he’s put his life on the line for me before, there was no way to know that the Abyss Lector could get in here,”

“Your Grace, he is not to be trusted, he clearly is associated with the abyss,”

“Enough- you don’t need to trust Kaeya nor like Kaeya, but I trust Kaeya enough to make him my retainer,” I said, standing up, “You’re attempts to undermine me aren’t appreciated”

Xiao scowled and disappeared, clearly frustrated by my decision.

“Wow- that was intense!” Paimon said, and Lumine and I facepalmed at that. Lumine and Keqing started leaving, and Kaeya followed them.

I grabbed his wrist and asked, “You’re leaving?”

“I think that’s for the best…” Kaeya said without looking me in the eyes. He then exited and shut the door behind him.

I spent a good minute or so staring at the door, feeling dejected at Kaeya’s rejection. I eventually turned to the bed and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t as I tossed and turned, both shaken up by the fight, Xiao’s reaction, and Kaeya’s disappointment.

#genshin impact #genshin sagau #sagau

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tired-demonspawn · 2 years ago

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hollywood could never make a movie as batshit as Lotrando a Zubejda.

like imagine: a fun story in the czech woods where the son of the leader of a thief group gets an education and becomes an honest lumberjack against all odds.

fun right? sounds complete already.

yeah the problem is that... all that happens in the first 50 minutes of this 100 minute movie. the halfway point.

what happens next? well a delegation from a non-descript arabic country rolls up, looking all over the land for doctors, for their princess is sick. the son and the lumberjack he met are recruited because the lumberjack's name starts with Dr and the delegation were told they should look for a Dr.

no im not making this up

they get to their non-descript arabic country and meet the princess. but damn, they just lumberjacks they dont know shit about being doctors. so they are sentenced to be executed for failing to cure her.

now they maybe aint doctors, but they got sum of dat common sense. and they deduce "hey the princess aint getting any sunlight, she aint gettin dat vit D yfeel?" so as a last request they want to "dance".

aka the czech jewlery salesman they met along the way distracts their supervisor and just says things like "oh theyre probably just dancing dupák, that's why there such loud bangs" while our 2 boys cut down all the trees in front of the princess' window.

the princess gets that vitamin D, touches some grass, eats a thicc slice of bread with cottage cheese and is feeling much better already. the sultan sees this and is like "oh my god you cured my baby girl!" cancels the execution and throws them a feast.

during the feast, the son and the princess get closer.

next day:(joseph joestar voice) oh no! the son is sick... lovesick. upon reuniting with his long lost mother, who coincidentally happened to be a maid thingy in the sultan's court, she tells him "well lil lotrando seems 2 me that ur in love"

and through some misc. happenings bada bing bada boom, lotrando and zubejda(the son and the princess) marry each other. 'even though they speak a different language and have a different religion, love finds a way' as it were.

and if you need to know, yes they did have kids, and none of them had to become thieves.

and like the worst thing is... IT WORKS?????

IT ACTUALLY WORKS????

all the things that are set up are like pretty well paid off????

the jewlery salesman first meets lotrando while he was in school, he then travels to the non-descript arabic country for bussiness and tells em "see back home we call our doctors Dr., lemme write it down for ya on this blackboard"

because lotrando went to school he could write the Dr on the other side of the small blackboard

they have the homemade cottage cheese twice, once after the lumberjack and lotrando become friends once after they help the princess.

and so much more?????

like???

it shouldnt work???

but thats the beauty of czech cinema(or at least older czech cinema), it dont have to make sense if its a banger

my point is: hollywood could never-

#čumblr #czech #lotrando a zubejda #czech cinema #bruh hollywood could actually never #and its a musical!#with some BANGERS #like it gave us the god tier bangers of 'pod dubem za dubem' and 'řízni řízni'

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robbingprince · 6 months ago

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Golden-fine

(also on AO3, 1.5k)

The man who killed Laurent’s brother offered him a peach.

“Sweetheart?”

He blinked, and the image changed; nothing changed at all, but it was Damen, who was trying not to frown but frowned anyway, in his hand a round little peach. It was disconcerting, how normal it all was. Sometimes—Laurent still, sometimes. Reeled.

“Life is rarely ever what you expect it to be,” he told his horse once, on a summer stroll through the forest. The world glinted golden all around them and Laurent’s chest was ever-tight. No-one really listened to him, then, but for his horse; no-one… well. Can’t say he made much of an effort.

Her name was Eleanor, and she was a gift from Auguste. The horse. She was young then, a foal, and so was Laurent, and Auguste will always be. He’ll never change. Laurent told himself there was comfort hidden deep, deep within the thought.

“Sweetheart,” again, from his left, oh, from the present. Blinking, blinking:

“Yes?”

“You seem very far away.”

Was he? Far. How far could he run before being wrenched back, torn and dragged till he was right where he started. Laurent sometimes thought… no, no-one was this good at planning. The gods didn’t care enough to punish him, specifically, the matter of merit aside, and Uncle was dead.

Uncle? Something gleaming in the corner of his—

Laurent stood, brushed invisible crumbs from his sleeve, where none had the chance to fall: he never touched his food. Oops. “My head,” he said, to someone. Probably.

“Laurent.”

Would humming be enough for a response, or had he missed the chance to salvage this? Laurent’s mind wasn’t working in its neat straight lines. Everything was running around in circles: run, run, could he still, run? But he would return. He always returned.

“I,” he said, swallowed, “think I will go for a ride.”

Damen’s frown deepened. “What about your head?”

“I’ll be sure to take it with me.”

A pout. “You said it ached.”

Did he now. Laurent couldn’t remember saying anything, ever, in his life. He was not the wordy type, was he? Surely not. “It’ll pass.”

“You haven’t eaten a thing.”

Very observant, this husband of his, this brother-killer slave-freer beast-tamer king of a man. Laurent said, “Yes.” It was pointless to argue.

“Are you feeling unwell? Perhaps we should have a physician—”

“I’m fine.” He was, after all, one of the beasts the great Damianos had tamed. Admittedly, he didn’t feel very tamed right now, but the proof was in his actions, and he always returned. He might stick out his claws and sometimes even cause damage, but he was, over all, quite domesticated.

Suddenly, Laurent hated everything.

Everything: from the morning light falling gently through the curtains, to the brilliant day rolling hilly-green outside, to the tasteful and horribly bare décor of the dining chamber, to the peach, set carefully on a napkin, bright. He did not allow himself a single glimpse of Damen, wary, knowing himself. He couldn’t bear hating Damen right now, and he hated him, hated him, with viciousness that stole his breath away.

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t,” frantic, skidding three steps down the stone floor, panting already. “Don’t. I need to be—anywhere else. We have the day, still, before they arrive?”

This delegation from Patras, an ambassador Laurent couldn’t name for the life of him. He knew his name, all of their names. Simply not right now.

“We… yes. Not before tomorrow morning, the messenger said.”

“Good.” Had to force himself to take a deep breath, still his hands. Damen didn’t deserve this lashing out. He didn’t deserve anything Laurent inflicted upon him. Still, words would not come. A peach outlined in gold behind tightly-shut eyelids; a trickle starting in the crown of his head, pouring downwards, irreversible. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Laurent,” Damen said. Pleaded. It all clawed inside his throat, venomous, I’m sorry and you are not to blame and I wish I knew how to. Laurent couldn’t say any of that.

“Tonight,” he promised instead. And left.

As soon as he was out of the room, as always, the earth shifted course, the knife thrown, struck, right between his breastbones: rage finally aimed at the real culprit. Himself, of course. Himself-himself-himself. There was no-one and nothing Laurent hated more, who deserved to be hated more, who needed punished worse. To the never-ending list of his affronts against Damen in particular, now add this. Another instance of his trademark casual cruelty that would jab into Damen’s too-big heart. Another fault in Laurent.

He could not stand a moment longer under this skin. But to tear at it had proven non-helpful one time too many, and his head truly was splitting at the seams, because every lie had to come back to bite him tenfold. Just desserts, he was getting his—where on earth was the door out of this infernal place. Every corridor was too long. Every window taunted. He needed to be outside (out, gods, let him out of his head). He needed—

Click-click, jibed his shoes as he marched, fled, always the scared little boy running, like Uncle said—

Every occasion in which Uncle was right should give Laurent pause, and he paused, literal hand on his chest like a tittering maiden in a play. Not to be intimidated by a ghost, he stood his ground. Spite would always work fastest. Stood his ground, and thought, enough, and thought, please, and thought, out.

Read the rest of Golden-fine on AO3 or under the cut

Outside was a courtyard, privately kept, which Damen found pleasing and Laurent found strategic enough a place to ambush him in on occasion. Today he would rip through it without reservation had he the time, but he didn’t, the time, didn’t have any time. Already the sun was moving, and he promised Damen tonight. He needed to not-fall-apart by tonight. To have glued-himself-together with Paschal’s special scar paste and to be—whoever he normally was. Someone level-headed, presumably. Someone who remembered words and cared about… matters. Someone real. By tonight he had to be someone real.

And so he allowed his legs (wobbly?) to take him to the stables, and his face must have been frightening enough to secure him this silent reprieve, as no-one dared approach. Good. That they learned. It would be terrible, if he went back to his right mind and found out he’d made a stable-boy cry, or—scared a serving girl. He had enough entries on the list of his crimes, and no time, no time.

Find the reins: whoever organised this hellhole ought to be beheaded—

On his horse (the only one at which he couldn’t snipe), and oh, how the sunlight irritated his eyelids, how it burst and crashed through his cluttered thoughts, how it blocked his airways with seething, burning fury and… the air was cool. He closed his eyes. Eleanor knew where to go.

The air was cool: Laurent clung to it like the scared little child he never ceased to be, and rode on.

“It isn’t…” he found himself muttering as Eleanor trotted through the forest, slowed down by age and much more interested in following hares than in philosophical conversation. “Rarely,” Laurent said, stupid. “What you expect.”

She was a gift from Auguste, all those many, many years ago. He worried, sometimes. That the wound would close. Life had never really been what Laurent expected, but he could be certain there’d be some melancholy tonight, some resolve. A concession. He would beg, as always, and bear the humiliation of—Eleanor took a sharp turn, showering Laurent with leaves from a too-low branch.

He shuddered with sudden, unexpected peals of—bubbling up his throat—laughter, maybe, wet down his cheeks; stroked a marvelling hand down her mane, and remembered to breathe.

Before him was a fork in the road. The path to the right would lead deeper into the forest, where the lake he favoured hid, curled between the hills. To the left would be towards the township, golden fields and unfailing skies. Neither seemed like the right choice, a strangely soothing concept.

He was hungry: silly, not to eat anything, and his cheeks flushed high-pink, and his muscles finally consented to unclench, then re-clench to fit the current objective. It was maddening, how much prompting his body needed for every single action. Amusing, sometimes, his desperate exercises at control. He taught himself. Perhaps he could be taught again.

Back where he came from a conversation awaited, an explanation, and a peach. Laurent knew he didn’t have what was considered a ‘normal’ approach regarding punishments, and yet… well. Something was already forming. Damen would forgive him.

Damen always did, which was most of the problem, and not why he kept returning.

Perhaps Laurent just wasn’t good at running? He looked down at Eleanor’s fussy braids he did not remember tying. Golden under his fingers. Auguste would like this day tremendously.

The familiar ache finally provided some relief; there will be no closing this. With a nod, Laurent kept riding.

#captive prince #capri fic #some sort of character study i suppose #sometimes the inside of laurent's head is really not a pleasant place to be #grief/mourning #1500 words #Robin does capri #Robin is alive

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lonesome-witching · 8 months ago

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Do You Like Me?

Another day another prompt. I got an anonymous request to write a prompt in which Nancy reports on a football game and rides with the band on their bus. It also includes a tad bit of jealous Nancy. Enjoy!!

Do you have any prompts yourself? Or do you want to dive into what I wrote before? You can read my previous prompts or send me some new ones.

Nancy loved the newspaper. She loved writing the articles and doing the research. It felt like a place she belonged. It felt like she finally found something she liked. There was just one part she disliked. Perhaps even hated. It was reporting on the Hawkins High sport games. The basketball and football and soccer.

She usually delegated the task to someone else, until today. She couldn’t get out of this one. Not when Hawkins High was so close to not only being the basketball state champions, but also the football state champions. Something like this had never happened before in a small town like Hawkins. So, Nancy had to report on it.

Jonathan Byers had been dragged along to take some pictures. They had known each other their whole lives but had only recently become friends while working on the paper together.

“Where are we supposed to go? There are two busses,” Nancy asked, already frustrated.

“We usually ride with the band, I honestly think it’s better that way,” Jonathan replied, toying with the camera that was already hanging around his neck.

“Which bus is theirs?”

Jonathan looked up, his eyes searching for the green marching band uniforms. “That one.” He pointed at the bus furthest from them where a group of girls stood talking with their hats in one hand and their instruments in the other.

Nancy recognized some of them. A girl named Kate who gossiped a bit too often, the red head was named Veronica or Victoria or something like that, and Robin Buckley. Nancy knew Robin. They had sort of become friends over spring break. Maybe not just sort of. They were friends, officially. Nancy could feel the smile forming on her face. She hadn’t told Robin she’d be here. It could be a pleasant surprise.

“C’mon, wouldn’t want them to leave without us.” Jonathan started walking towards the bus. Nancy cleared her throat and followed.

By the time she reached them Robin had already gotten onto the bus. Nancy pulled herself onto the vehicle. She tried to find Robin, hoping to see an empty spot next to her. She was disappointed when she saw that the red head had taken a seat next to her. With a sigh she fell down next to Jonathan.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, of course.” Nancy turned in her seat to look at Robin. What she hadn’t expected was for Robin to look over at that exact moment. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Instead, she simply waited for their eyes to meet.

Robin raised her hand, waving excitedly. “Nance, hi!”

Nancy waved back with a small smile on her lips. This was getting ridiculous. It was one thing to be glad to have a new friend, a real friend, it was a whole other thing to stare at her from afar with a smile on her face. She had to get herself in check.

Her notepad was probably her best solace. She doodled a bit on one of the pages. Drawing figures that looked oddly similar to hearts. What would be next? Would she be writing Nancy + Robin into the shapes? Or would she be writing Nancy Buckley all over it? She thought Robin Wheeler sounded better anyway.

She turned around again. Robin seemed entertained by her neighbor’s conversation. She should be glad that Robin had friends. The girl seemed nice enough. Yet, Nancy couldn’t shake the burning feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was foreign and unpleasant. The red head grabbed Robin’s hand, seemingly toying with her fingers as she smiled up at her through her lashes.

Something within her snapped. Nancy jumped up from her seat, stepping over to Robin’s seat.

“Hi, Robin. How are you doing?” Nancy asked, her voice sugar sweet.

“I’m alright, how are you?” Robin’s eyes looked up at her with those lovely blue eyes.

“I’m good, I’m good. So happy to see you.” Nancy turned toward the red head. “Is it alright if I sit here? I just really would love to catch up with my friend.”

The girl’s eyes searched for something when she gazed at Robin, but whatever it was she didn’t find it. The red head sighed and stood up. “Sure,” she muttered.

Nancy fell down next to Robin. Her hand itched to reach for her friend’s, the one the red head had been holding earlier.

“What was that for?” Robin asked, but when Nancy looked over there was a smile on her face.

“What was what for? I just wanted to sit next to my friend. We are still friends, right?” Nancy’s hand reached for Robin regardless of what her mind was warning her for.

“Of course, we are, Nance. I’m just wondering why you scared Vickie away.”

“I didn’t scare her away.” The look on Robin’s face made it obvious she wasn’t taking that as an answer. “Fine, I might have scared her away. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I just wanted to sit next to you, and I was annoyed she had taken my seat. But to be fair, she got you for about half of the ride. I’m taking you for the other half.”

“Taking me?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” Robin’s eyes fell to their entangled hands resting in her lap. Her thumb stroked Nancy’s knuckles. It felt nice.

“I think you do, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“Oh,” Nancy sighed. She wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t sure she knew why she did it anyway. She couldn’t explain herself to Robin.

“Your hands are cold.”

“I’m sorry.” Nancy wanted to pull her hand back, but Robin wouldn’t let her, holding on to her hand.

“No, it’s alright. I don’t mind.”

“Do you like her?”

“I used to.” Robin placed her free hand over Nancy’s. Slowly warming up her fingers.

“Do you like me?”

Robin tensed up, stilling her movements. Nancy thought that was a yes. She hoped it was. The bus stopped. The doors opened. Robin let go of her hand.

#prompts #ronance #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #my work #stranger things #fanfic #robin x nancy #nancy x robin

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imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese · 2 months ago

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Apprisal

I will write belated Ikora-week things and post them in future when I am less ill. For now, have another Drifteris story involving Ikora. This time from shortly after Season of the Witch when Eris gets to take a well-deserved vacation.

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there.

“Camping.”

Ikora repeated what Eris had said, her hands flat on her desk, confirming that it was, in fact, what had been spoken.

“Yes.” Eris confirmed, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Ikora looked from Eris, leaning forward attentively in one chair, to the Drifter sprawled in the other, leaning back, looking bored, a coin tumbling on his knuckles.

“Your idea, I’m assuming.”

“We ain’t asking yer permission, Rayray. We’re doing ya the courtesy of keepin’ ya informed.”

Both women stared at him. The coin tumbled from one side of his knuckles to the other and back again. The Drifter looked from one person to the other, gradually getting more and more nervous. He swallowed and sat up in his chair. The coin disappeared into his hand.

“I should stop talking.”

Eris tilted her head slightly, her hand cradling the ball of soulfire in her lap. “Yes,” she said firmly.

He lifted up hands and leaned back in a gesture of surrender.

Ikora kept her face impassive, inwardly laughing.

Eris turned back to Ikora to continue their conversation.

“There is no way Zavala will approve this.” Ikora said it more as a formality than anything.

Eris accepted her soft volley and returned it. “As has been so… bluntly pointed out, we are not requesting his authorization. And, it would be preferable if any… surveillance… was minimal.”

“Xivu Arath could strike at any moment, with full force.” Ikora continued the performative exchange, her eyes searching Eris’ face for confirmation.

“She would need to find us first.” Eris’ mouth twitched in a small smile.

Ikora quirked an eyebrow in acknowledgement. “It seems like an unnecessary risk.” Another gentle pitch.

“The Vanguard has no issues with me being stationed on the moon, in a known location, surrounded by hive. How is this less safe?”

Ikora nodded. “And you are not exactly known for playing it safe.” She looked briefly at the Drifter.

“No.” Eris replied. “I am not. And… of all people, have the two of us,” she gestured to the Drifter beside her, “not proven ourselves… beyond competent at… survival?”

The Drifter watched the two women talking, gradually realizing they were playing some form of 3D chess, but not clear on what was actually going on. Whatever it was, Eris was clearly winning, and that was good enough for him. Maybe it was Hidden shit. It was probably Hidden shit. Absolutely was Hidden shit.

“What about Immaru?” Ikora asked.

Eris sighed. “Would you be willing to delegate the odious task of overseeing that osseous little toad to someone else for a few days?”

“You could always have him stay with Spider,” the Drifter interjected, “He’s got a way with ghosts.”

“No.” Both Ikora and Eris spoke firmly in unison.

The Drifter threw up his hands again.

“As cathartic as that would be,” Eris continued, “...we need him intact, not… sold for parts.”

“That little shit could use a few less parts… maybe the ones that let him speak… just sayin’.”

Eris’ three eyes flashed. “The same might be said for you.”

“Hey!”

“I will find someone.” Ikora said firmly. “Drifter, would you be willing to bring Tom camping with you?”

Eris turned to look at him quizzically.

“That depends,” the Drifter shifted in the chair and met Ikora’s gaze, “Does Tom have ears I don’t know about?”

“No. Geographic location only. Responds to a ping, not broadcasting.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” The Drifter twisted his neck until it made an audible crack. “He can come.”

Eris tilted her head.

“Tell ya later.”

“Hmmm…”

“I trust you will at least bring some sort of comms device with you,” Ikora continued, looking back at Eris, “so you are able to request assistance if you need it? Not that you will.”

Eris turned back to face the Vanguard spymaster. “Of course.”

“Well, then.” Ikora folded her hands on her desk. “Have fun.”

“Thank you,” Eris stood and brushed her fingertips against the Drifter’s hand, trailing them up along his arm as she turned and made her way to the door.

Ikora’s eyebrows raised at the ease with which Eris touched him. Eris did not touch other people very often… at all. The Drifter’s reaction to it was almost more interesting. He looked up at Eris with a delighted half-smile on his face as she went by and then, cat-like, flowed out of his chair to follow her.

Crow was right. His entire body language changed.

Have you seen the way he looks at her?

Neither one made a sound as they moved. Two shadows, visible for now, but able to disappear at a moment’s notice without a trace.

Ikora’s eyebrows raised even higher as she watched the Drifter slide his fingertips into Eris’ hand as they walked. There was no awkwardness there from either of them. Eris seemed completely at ease with this physicality. It was a very small gesture but the weight of it, the resonance, to Ikora was… profound.

On the one hand, Drifter was clearly showing off. Ikora half expected him to stick his tongue out at her. But on the other hand, what he was showing off was not just that Eris was letting him touch her, affectionately, in front of Ikora, but also how happy it made her.

Eris stopped and turned back to face Ikora in the doorway. The Drifter, now ahead of her, paused mid step and pivoted, leaning his back on the wall outside of Ikora’s office, out of sight, still holding Eris’ hand.

“I will provide you with the report I owe you upon our return,” Eris said.

Ikora could not help but smile as she watched them. “I… look forward to it. Enjoy your vacation.”

Eris smiled back playfully over the soulfire of her Ahamkara bone.

“I shall,” she said quietly before turning and pulling the Drifter along with her down the hall.

Ikora found herself once more staring at an empty doorway. But, this time, instead of frustration and analysis, picking apart an interaction for clues to what had actually happened in the subtext of a conversation, she found herself replaying over and over in her mind the genuinely loving way the two of them had touched each other in front of her, and, especially, Eris’ playful smile.

When was the last time she had seen that sort of smile on Eris’ face? Ikora couldn’t remember. It was so rare Eris smiled at all, at least, it had been. She was smiling a lot more since her triumph over the hive, but what Ikora had just witnessed was not mere contentment, this was mischievous, and filled with… delight.

Ikora closed her eyes, relief, happiness and gratitude washing over her. Whatever dislike and distrust she had toward the Drifter… as long as he was making Eris smile like that, then he was right, they should, and… would… be friends.

There is, indeed, an entire Eris & Drifter camping trip on Ao3 (with bonus Crow appearance, and combat!) if at any point you wish to enjoy it. It includes some happy fun sexy times, but I've set up skip links so you can bypass them if that is not to your taste.

#destiny 2 #ikoraweek2024 #the drifter #eris morn #ikora rey #drifteris #the drifter/eris morn #drifter/eris #writing #ao3 #fanfiction #imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese #apprisal #embers and stars series #cs member writing

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kanerallels · 9 months ago

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For @monthly-challenge day 14: "I love you", I'm finally updating the Steve Miller Au!! But this one can be read as a standalone as well

Full fic under the cut, but you can also read it on AO3 here!!

Taglist: @day-to-day-thots @auroramagpie @laughingphoenixleader @accidental-spice @heckin-music-dork @opalknight @seleneisrising @cassie-fanfics (DM me if you want to me added or removed to the tag list!)

More and more in life, Kanan found his days full. Namely, full of missions and reports and maintenance and training and working. There were so many things to do, people to help, and between training Ezra, working with Hera and the rest of the crew, and still managing his network of spies, Kanan was busier than he would have liked.

Obviously he delegated, and he wasn’t busy constantly. But no matter how hard he worked, it seemed so rare that he had any real free time. Or in reality, he supposed, it was rare he had any real free time when Hera did, too.

That was why Kanan treasured the times they did have even more.

It was late, and the two of them were sitting up in the Ghost’s kitchen. Hera had just gotten back from a recon mission with her new squadron, and Kanan had stayed up to greet her.

“You look tired,” he told her as she dropped onto a supply crate with a sigh. Glancing up, Hera snorted.

“That’s charming,” she said dryly.

“It in no way detracts from your beauty,” Kanan assured her, and she laughed.

“You’re so full of it sometimes.”

Shooting her a wink, Kanan said, “You like me that way, and you know it. Can I make you something to eat? There are some leftovers I can heat up.”

“Yes, please,” she said. “Although I can take care of it—”

As she started to rise, Kanan gently pushed her back into a sitting position. “Uh-uh. We learned our lesson on that one when you nearly set the kitchen on fire last week. Besides, I don’t mind. You sit and tell me about your mission.”

Giving him a grateful smile, Hera leaned back with a sigh. “It was a pretty routine op. I’m still getting used to working with a larger team like this, but after working with you and the others for so long, it’s not too hard. And they seem to accept me as their leader.”

“Of course they do,” Kanan said, opening the Tupperware container he’d pulled out of the fridge. “Why wouldn’t they? You are the incredible Captain Hera Syndulla— and they’ve seen you risk your life time after time for this rebellion.”

“Hmm. You know, I’m still trying to decide if I should thank you for this recommendation.”

Switching on the stove, Kanan started scooping out the contents of the container— a meat and vegetable stir fry he’d made for dinner a few hours earlier. “It wasn’t me who got you the job, you know. I made the suggestion, but Sato’s the one who chose you. Past that, it’s entirely your own fault.”

Hera scoffed. “You’re the one who put it in motion. You realize this means I’ll be even busier now?”

Grimacing, Kanan said, “I didn’t really connect those dots until after I told Sato. But, unfortunately, I stand by it. You’re the best person for the job. We don’t have another pilot like you.”

“Thanks, love.”

“You’re welcome, Captain Hera.”

The two of them stayed in the kitchen together as Kanan heated up the leftovers and Hera talked about her new squadron, telling him about the ones that caused trouble and the others that were excited to have her. “I’ll have to introduce them to you and the others properly,” she said. “I think you’ll get along with them.”

“Anyone who likes you, I usually like,” Kanan said, grabbing a bowl from the cupboard.

He dished up the stirfry and passed the bowl to Hera, who accepted it with a laugh. “I think if we test that, it’ll be disproved pretty quickly,” she said.

“Probably,” Kanan said, pulling open a drawer. “Where in the name of the Force are all of our forks? I thought I told Ezra to put them away in here.”

“Jyn rearranged the drawers the other day,” Hera said. “She said the way we had things organized was driving her insane and she couldn’t live like this any longer. I assume she didn’t inherit this from you?”

Checking a few more drawers, Kanan said, “Not likely. Aha!” Grabbing a fork, he passed it to Hera. “Mission accomplished. Meet you in the lounge? I want to find something to snack on.”

“See you there,” Hera agreed, sticking the fork into her bowl before heading into the lounge. Kanan remained behind only for a minute. Digging through the cupboards, he located a half-empty bag of chips and headed out to join her.

They sat on the couch, side-by-side. Hera devouring her dinner, Kanan at her side, they settled into a comfortable silence for a little while. Kanan didn’t mind it, much though he loved Hera’s voice. Any time he was with her was time well spent.

Finally, Hera pushed aside her empty bowl and sat back with a sigh, letting her head drop against Kanan’s shoulder. He offered her the bag of chips, and she took a few. “Force, I’m glad to be home,” she mumbled.

“Must have been a long trip,” Kanan commented as she munched on her snack. “You tired?”

“A little,” Hera said. “But I can’t sleep just yet— I was wanting to run some maintenance checks on my A-wing before our next mission.”

“Ah, yes,” Kanan said, feeling a small grin cross his face. “Your A-wing. Did I see Sabine did a, uh, a little work on it? I like it.”

Hera elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t you start.”

“What? I said that I like it!”

“We’re not discussing this.” Glancing down at her, Kanan saw Hera flushing slightly. “Besides,” she said, “it was Sabine’s idea.”

Chuckling, Kanan said, “I had a feeling. Doesn’t really seem like your thing.”

“No,” Hera said decisively. “But it’s Sabine’s art, so I’m not going to get rid of it.”

“Mm-hmm. Is that the only reaso— ow!” Kanan let out a yelp as Hera walloped him in the arm. “Okay, okay, dropping it.”

Resettling against him, Hera muttered, “You’d better.” Despite her words, a hint of humor colored her tone, and Kanan couldn’t hold back his grin.

He slipped an arm around her, pulling her a little closer. “You know, the A-wing can probably wait until tomorrow. You need some rest.”

Hera let out a sigh. “Don’t tempt me, dear. I should be setting a good example for the others.”

“Including a terrible sleep schedule?” Kanan said, and Hera snorted.

“It’s not that bad of a sleep schedule.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I respect your commitment.”

As she sat up slowly, Hera raised an eyebrow at him. “You’d better not be teasing me again.”

“I’m not, I promise,” Kanan promised her. “You stick with your principles, you always have. And you follow through. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”

He only realized what he’d said when Hera went rigid next to him, shock flashing across her face. Pulling away from him a little, she stared at him. And then it hit Kanan.

He had just told Hera that he loved her for the first time.

“Ah,” he said, wincing. “That— I’m sorry. I mean, no, I’m not, but I didn’t mean to push you, and if you’re not ready for it— I just—”

Holding up a hand, Hera said, “Kanan. Stop.”

He stopped.

Hera took a deep breath, her skin darkening with a blush. “Force. This is— I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Kanan said quietly. “You don’t need to feel like you should—”

Shaking her head, Hera said, “No, not for that. I— okay, I need you to listen and not interrupt so I can explain this. It’s a little… complicated.”

Complicated was, generally speaking, not good. But Kanan just nodded. “Okay. I’ll listen.”

Gratitude crossing her face, Hera said, “Thank you.” Rubbing her forehead, she was quiet for a minute, her expression thoughtful. Finally, she said, “I don’t know how much you know about Twi’lek culture— I’m assuming not much.”

“You would be right,” Kanan said slowly. Okay, there’s definitely something I’m missing here.

Nodding, Hera said, “I thought so. Part of it— something I was taught growing up— is that saying… what you said… well, it’s more serious than it is for other cultures. Most Twi’leks at home wouldn’t tell someone that until… until they were married.”

“Oh,” Kanan said, his eyes widening.

“Yes,” Hera said. “It’s treated as something very personal, even for family members. It’s not just words, it’s the beginning of a promise. A promise for a future. And you don’t just say it, especially not out in the open—”

“Like I just did,” Kanan finished. Wincing, he said, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

Shaking her head, Hera said, “It’s fine. I should have explained it to you earlier. It’s—” she let out a half-laugh, her smile more like a grimace. “There’s a lot of my home that I’ve left behind. But this is one of the things I’ve held onto, at least unconsciously. It’s what I always believed.”

Slowly, Kanan said, “Okay— that makes sense. First of all, I will absolutely respect this. If you don’t want me to say anything like that, I won’t. And Force knows you don’t have to say anything.”

But Hera was already shaking her head. “No. No, you’re— you’re fine, actually. We do technically say it, we just don’t… say it. Verbally, that is. There are a lot of parts of the Ryl language that aren’t communicated out loud, but with the lekku. Hence why there aren’t many non Twi’leks who can speak it well.”

“Makes sense,” Kanan said with a nod. “So you’re saying—”

“I’m saying that… I’m fine with it if you say it. And…” Kanan saw her blush again as she seemed to gather herself. “I feel the same way. I’m just not going to say it out loud, and I’m sorry—”

Catching hold of her hand, Kanan said, “Don’t apologize. This one’s on me— and I understand.” His mind flashed to the way she’d hugged him when they’d rescued him from the Empire. To the way her eyes glowed when she smiled at him, when she kissed him. To the fact that she’d come home, exhausted, and chosen to spend her time with him. To the way she called him “love”.

She was saying that she loved him, too, even if it wasn’t out loud.

“I won’t say it too often,” he promised her. “But I am going to say it, because Force only knows I was bad enough at disguising my feelings before. And it’s only going to get worse from here.”

Hera let out a slightly breathless laugh. “I’m okay with that.”

“Good.” Bending down, Kanan kissed her gently, holding her close for a long moment. When he finally pulled away, a slight movement caught his eye. Her lekku were twisting together behind her, in a spiral shape. He’d seen them do that before, but only now had he realized what it might mean.

“That’s what that means, doesn’t it?” he asked softly, brushing a thumb along her temple near the base of her lekku.

Her blush was answer enough, as was the small, secretive smile she gave him. Kanan made a mental note to properly learn more Ryl, and leaned in to kiss the woman he loved again.

#star wars rebels #swr #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #kanera #the steve miller au #februfluff2024 #happy valentine's day!!#writing stories is a kind of magic too

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