#and yes yes he should probably be delegating all of this

[arcxnumvitae]

One "project" of Aur's since his coronation has been seeing to the formerly glamoured mortals in Seelie. Aur's first order of business upon taking the throne was to forbid the glamouring of mortals throughout the land-- specifically for use by the gentry as their servants. It's been....a long road.

Aside from the obvious uproar such an order caused, he's been working on enforcing this against those who may still try to employ glamoured mortals, but the biggest part of this ordeal comes from figuring out what to do with formerly glamoured mortals.

Some of the mortals chose to remain as servants. Be this because their time as servants was not particularly horrible or because in some form or fashion, they are unable to return to their former lives in the mortal plane, generally it's a mix heavily involving the latter portion. For these, there comes the task for Aur of acting as a mediator to figure out a fair wage or repayment for their services between them and respective gentry houses. Since Seelie generally operates on a bartering system as opposed to physical currency, and the barters can truly be anything, this is a little more complex culturally than just trying to negotiate a living minimum wage.

For those who no longer wish to be servants, there is organizing transport back to the mortal plane with provisions to help them return to their homes or be set up wherever they wish to live. Honestly, these mortals are the simplest since it basically means giving them some food, clothes, and an escort to the nearest entrance point between the planes.

As for those who no longer wish to be servants, but who either prefer to remain in Seelie or have no home to return to, Aur has been building a settlement in Seelie for them to live in.

[luveline]

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.

—

+1

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. 

༺༻

[karniss-bg3]

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!

[russellsppttemplates]

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.

[youcouldmakealife]

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.

[wordy-little-witch]

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-))

[thewriterowl]

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.

[tired-demonspawn]

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?????

LIKE

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-

[robbingprince]

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.

[lonesome-witching]

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.

[kanerallels]

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.

[nokingsonlyfooles]

“It’s my hope, Mr. President, that you listen to us, that you choose democracy over tyranny.” - Abdullah Hammoud, Dearborn Mayor and Voter

YES! I can't fuckin' believe the media accurately reported this as a protest and printed/publicized the words of the voters explaining why they did it. AND NOBODY HAD TO ATTEMPT SUICIDE! This is big and it could get even bigger! But it's a qualified bigness, because...

Walz, a major supporter of Biden’s reelection campaign, said Michigan’s “uncommitted” results were a healthy demonstration of democracy. “I think they feel passionate, as they should, about an issue we all care about,” Walz said, adding that he expected most protest voters would eventually return to Biden’s side in a likely November rematch with former President Donald Trump, who himself has struggled with college-educated voters and suburbanites in his ongoing Republican primary against former U.N. Ambassador Nikki Haley. “I’m much more convinced there’s a chance bringing those folks home is much greater than bringing the ‘Never Trump’ folks back home,” Walz said.

Yeah. I know this song and dance. I've seen it happen in person, at protests, in reatime. They come out to "do voter outreach" and they're all smiles to start. "Yes! Please do continue to act upon your freedom of speech in a way I, an advocate for the status quo, find nonthreatening. Your feelings are valid, ha-ha! I expect nothing to change, and indeed I will act to change nothing, but good for you!" A few folks always believe the message has been received and quiet down, that's why they do it. But wait and see what happens to that smile when a few people start interrupting and yelling, "THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!"

At least this guy's willing to suggest Biden would pick up more votes by moving left than moving right, although I doubt he actually expects anything radical. A few more forgiven student loans or somewhat cheaper drugs aren't much of a problem, and that's leftist too! So we don't really have to worry about the ongoing genocide.

The thing is, if/when this picks up momentum and the DNC starts to think they might have to change something or lose, it will become something other than a positive demonstration of free speech. It'll be childish tantrum-throwing, pointless, uncivil, attention-whoring, astroturfed, counterproductive foreign interference, and whatever else sounds bad. If any of you out there in internet-land already feel threatened by it, you're probably saying that right now. (Go ahead and comment, you'll boost this with other people who think like you, and I might change some minds.)

And, if you are comfortable with it and want voters to do it instead of threatening to withhold votes from Biden in the general, check your privilege. Not every state offers this. Unless something changes real fast (at least, I THINK it hasn't changed, it's hard to do a search when "uncommitted" brings up SO MANY news articles about Michigan 😁), mine won't. I can't do this. I can't vote in a third party primary either. It'd be all blue or nothing. And neither of those things will get me any press, so I gotta keep talking. Maybe I'll motivate someone who can vote uncommitted! Or scare a politician! I still think I'm doing more good by staying alive, and I'm a bit distant from any property I might meaningfully damage (although I am open to suggestions that won't get me arrested and silenced), so this is the only thing I got that won't injure a human being.

Tumblr, no matter how you actually intend to vote, if you're not up for living in a two-party system where both parties think they can do a little genocide and stay in power, you have ways of making yourself heard. There are options beyond falling in line behind the lesser evil. Don't let anyone tell you there aren't. And when you start hearing "stop!" or "you can't!" that means you have something they want. A cessation of hostilities! Well, now you might be in a position to negotiate terms! Don't give up!

Please, please, please don't give up. There is so much to be done.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Double Birthday - a Malevolent fic

This was probably not the wisest strategy. Eh, Hastur’s fault for inviting a bard, then.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3

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

What in hell was a double birthday?

The initial announcements didn’t make a ton of sense. Invited cordially to the celebration of—

Right, right, the princess, everyone knew about that, but what was all this about the composer? 

“And Carcosa—look at this fucking map, where are we supposed to stay?”

“Who in hell knows. Apparently madness is the, uh, dish du jour.”

Great hilarity over human words, had by all. Until, that was, it hit them that this Composer would need a present, too.

What the fuck did he like? What did he do? What did he need? Musical instruments he had. Clearly provisions were not an issue. What the hell were they supposed to do with Arthur Lester’s birthday?

#

This was turning crazier than Hastur had expected, but he would not revert Carcosa, damn it all. He’d made up his mind! “I don’t care if the K’thog delegation doesn’t want to be within a mile of the Lll’thah. They are not at war, they are officially allies, and they will handle two nights within breathing distance!”

His servants scattered, ready to take who knew what message to complaining guests.

“You all right there?” drawled Dagon, who would not leave, and did not help, and seemed to find all of this just so entertaining.

“Should’ve stuck with Cthulhu’s plan and just made it hell for everybody,” Hastur muttered.

“Aww, you don’t mean that,” said Dagon, leaning back with his arms behind his head.

Hastur gave him a look of burning rage. 

Dagon smiled, shark-teeth gleaming.

“My lord!” some servant squeaked, popping in. “The Mi-Go delegation is here and, ah… they, ah…”

“What do they want this time?” Hastur said, low.

“They brought ponies.”

Hastur stared. “Ponies?”

#

Ponies was not, perhaps, the best word for the things the Mi-Go had brought. They were creatures of vague horse-like shapes, shadows wisping off them like steam, four gleaming red eyes each and horns instead of ears. But sure. They were vaguely equine—and small enough for Faroe to ride.

Nibbles. Was. Offended.

Hastur. Was. Confused. “Are they… why are there four of them?”

“According to the delegates, your lordship,” squeaked the servant, “there are two for each of the, er, celebrated. They will pull chariots? Maybe?”

“Did they provide the chariots?” said Hastur, who had no intention of letting these things near his human family.

Nibbles was growling, a terrible sound more felt than heard, gnashing teeth in the direction of the interlopers.

The ponies unwisely growled back.

“Uh, no,” said the servant. “Also, it seems they’re, uh. Toxic to human flesh.” They cleared their throat.

Hastur knew gods were not supposed to get headaches. This was not supposed to happen. Maybe he was dying already. Maybe this was what mortal felt like. “Take them to the stables on the side of True Carcosa and ensure no one goes near them for now.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Huh,” said Dagon. “Wonder if this’s got something to do with the changes in the city. Some stupid ‘oh, you made it bad for humans’ payback.”

Hastur did not have a face to twitch. His tentacles managed it for him.

“Who knows?” said Dagon, grinning, and leaned back with his arms behind his head again.

#

Nibbles’ bad mood seemed to have transferred to Faroe. “I don’t want to do this!” she said in one of the deeply rare moments of temper she’d shown in years.

“I am aware,” said Hastur, being patient. “If not for yourself, do it for Arthur.”

“It should all be about him, anyway!” she said. “I have things to do.”

“What do you have to do?” he said.

She wasn’t going to say hunting invaders. “Things!” And she stomped her foot.

If Hastur could have turned himself into a corkscrew and dug into the floor to give physical vent to his stress, he would. “You must at least appear. There will be gifts. They are for you, in your honor. This is about Carcosa.”

She sighed.

Nibbles rumbled.

“You aren’t being replaced,” Hastur said to Nibbles again.

Nibbles clearly wasn’t buying it. She snapped the air in his direction.

Hastur began to weigh the potential damage to his Gallery. “My daughter,” he said, being fucking patient, “this is a duty. It is to celebrate you, yes; but I think you know our true celebration was in the Scriptorium.”

Her face was flushed. “Maybe I’ll go back there and hide until this is all over.”

How the fuck did Dagon do this father-thing without committing mass murder? “My daughter—”

“Dad!”

“Please. If you wish, we will phase these out, but we cannot do it at once. People will talk—especially since you insisted on bringing Arthur into it. It has to be done gradually.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to be a princess right now.”

That hurt. He wasn’t sure why. “What would you rather be?”

“A warrior like Dis.”

“You can be both.”

That gave her pause. “Not with all the lessons I have.”

“You can be both with the lessons you have.”

Oh, her glare. Oh, gods, that glare. Identical to Arthur’s (and no wonder Hastur hadn’t realized Arthur was broken). “How much longer until we phase it out?” she said.

“Thirteen is considered a notable age among humans. We can make that your last. If you truly wish.” And by that time, hopefully, she’d grow out of whatever snit this was.

“Three more years.” She looked as grim as if she’d received a sentence of hard labor. “All right. I can do three years.”

He touched her cheek. “Thank you.”

She glared.

Headache. Impossible headache. He left, and wasn’t at all surprised to hear Nibbles breaking something back there with her teeth. 

#

There was a lot of hullabaloo in Carcosa at present. Odd hadn’t really expected to be the focus of the King’s attention, but he also hadn’t expected that his first week of life inside Carcosa he was going to be mostly ignored in favor of all the preparations.

No one had told him to go elsewhere, so he’d made himself a bed on the couch in Arthur’s room, and most of the time was quiet enough that he didn’t seem to bother the man. In the mornings he had breakfast with the King’s strange little family, which he deeply enjoyed (even if he wasn’t sure what to do with the King). All the other times, he walked about the palace, shied away from the areas that were just a touch too maddening for the non-human half of his heritage to handle, and took moments to sit with his violin and play and be left alone.

It gave him time to think.

That was, perhaps, the crux of it. There were so many little pieces to this puzzle that he really needed time to sit and think and sort through, and maybe if he had been busy juggling the King’s attentions and conversations with Arthur and everything else he would have been too distracted to do so.

The King was very, very concerned about time.

That was strange. That was very unlike a Great Old One. What had Hastur meant when he said he would seduce Odd if he had time? What deadline weighed so heavily on the King’s shoulders that he seemed determined to ignore everything else? He’d spoken of needing rest in several years, true. But so desperately he acted like someone with a death sentence? Perhaps it was pride speaking, but Odd was fairly certain that if this god desired him so much as to talk of seduction instead of just breaking him, he might put off his rest for a little bit. Odd would probably be long dead by the time Hastur woke.

Strange things were afoot in Lost Carcosa, and Odd rather unhappily found himself set on the trail of them.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, honestly.

But watching the King with Faroe… he deeply suspected that whatever was going on, it was going to affect that little girl. So maybe he should get to the bottom of it.

Ugh, morals. What a drag.

Later, though. First, apparently, there was a double-birthday, which was delightfully absurd, and Odd could step back and watch this alien machine tick and see what other clues he could dig up.

#

No, no, no! John would not allow it. This is your birthday! This is an event of epic proportions! Have we ever celebrated it, Arthur? Ever?

“No, but there wasn’t any point, and nobody ever… I didn’t want to, and—“

This is unacceptable. I agree with Faroe. You must take precedent this time.

“John, none of this is my ide—“

You think Faroe will be happy if you’re not? John demanded. Odd!

There was a pause.

“Um,” said the bard, who had been minding his own business on the loveseat in the corner. “Yeeees?”

You. You’re a bard.

“Correct,” said Odd. “Is there… something I can do for you?”

You will create music suitable to celebrate the greatest musician Carcosa has ever had.

Arthur looked embarrassed beyond words. “You can't just… I’m not…” He covered his face and sighed. “Sorry about him.”

John sure was a piece of work. Baby god confirmed, maybe.

“That’s a tall order for a guy who normally writes songs about ill-advised hookups and, on occasion, folk heroes he hears about on the road,” Odd said. “My work is more… tavern fare.”

Then do that! We don’t have that here. It’ll be phenomenal!

“You really don’t have to,” Arthur said.

It will be unique! You… you can make… everybody laugh!

“Laugh?” said Arthur.

I want them to have a good time and remember you.

Arthur smiled, gaze distant. “That’s not a bad idea.” He turned (mostly) in Odd’s direction. “Odd. You can say no. I can do… funny songs.”

John huffed as if that were absurd. Let Odd do them.

“I’m not doing much of anything, at present,” Odd said with a shrug. “I can give it a shot. The King said he’s paying me, and will pay me more if I make music. Worst comes to worst, it’s garbage and we don’t hear it at all.”

Arthur’s face was so soft. “You’d do that for me?” Then he shook his head. “I’m glad he’s paying you.”

He’s finally paying you, too.

“I keep forgetting that.”

John blurted it. Hastur didn’t pay him for years. Then suddenly we’ve got back-pay plus regular pay. But we don’t know what to buy.

“All our needs are kind of cared for.” Arthur shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

John sounded smug. He has no idea how to reward himself.

“John…”

“I’ll compose something for you. Consider it thanks for the kindness you showed me the evening of the Rite,” Odd said, warm. “Besides, it seems uncomfortable to compose something for yourself for your own birthday celebration.” He chuckled a bit. “Do you get down to the city proper, much? I imagine you’d find things to spend your coin on there.” 

Arthur smiled. “I never have, actually. Parker and Sunny said it’s lovely down there, but…I haven’t.”

We could! John gasped. We could go with you!

“John, he’s our guest. You can’t just keep putting things on him.”

A pause. I can, too.

Odd gave them a long, curious look. “It would be more fun to go with someone, certainly.”

“I don’t know the way,” said Arthur.

Parker and Sunny would be happy to take us—and in a group that size, Hastur might even consider us safe.

“Or he’ll send that weird bodyguard again. The one Parker talked about. With the four arms.”

John sounded suspicious. Yes. With the four arms.

Arthur shook his head. “We’re getting off track. Thank you, Odd. I appreciate it. And I’m sure the music will be great. Whatever you need, instruments or anything, we can manage to procure.”

“I do have some ideas,” Odd said. “What kind of mood do you want for this?”

“Oh, gods,” Arthur groaned. “I… I don’t… can we make it… less fucking grim?”

Arthur…

“Grim?” said Odd, tapping his chin. 

“All those… rumors, and the tension in court, and…” Arthur sighed. “I just want to feel lighter for a while.”

John’s hand rose to take Arthur’s.

Odd considered, tail flicking lazily as he rolled the thought around in his head. “How bold do you think I can be?”

Bold? Said John warily.

“I’m a bard, my little golden friend. We make fun of things as part and parcel of our parley.”

Arthur’s face went hard. “Do it. I’ll take any fallout. Fuck these guys. I don’t want this anyway. Go bold as you want.”

Odd’s tone gentled. “I think you may like what we’re going to do. Let’s play with these rumors people keep throwing on your head, eh?”

And Arthur lit up, and Odd could begin to see why John (and possibly Hastur) was so into this guy. “Yes.”

Odd grinned.

#

“You sure, bud?” Parker murmured softly as they watched the cooks preparing for this absolutely wild feast. The kitchen size had tripled overnight (fuck, magic was something), and the smells were beyond delicious.

Yes. I… I want to be there. Not at the royal table, or in any kind of prominence; I think it would be best if we were seen as little as possible. But I want to make sure everything goes smoothly, and… I want to be part of this. Very quietly, Sunny added, I think it will mean a lot to Arthur and Faroe.

“Then we’ll do it. Maybe in the shadows or something, right?”

Right.

Parker snitched a plate of cookies and sneaked out of the kitchen.

#

The fireworks were set up in the wrong place and had to be moved, or half the city would miss the grandeur.

The gifts were sorted wrong, and had to be sorted all over again in terms of who had what favor with the King in Yellow.

Faroe refused to wear a pretty sparkly dress and wanted to go in full-plate armor.

“You don’t have full-plate armor,” said Hastur, reasonably.

“I want it, then!” she declared.

Dis fortunately talked her out of that. “You can’t move for shit in that stuff.”

Faroe sighed. “Oh.”

Crisis averted.

(The headache grew.)

Security was naturally beefed up, and this had an unexpected side-effect. It turned out Hastur’s guests were all too aware they were jockeying for favor from the King in Yellow, and security’s new job was breaking up in-fights in the living areas.

Nibbles broke into the stable and almost killed the new “ponies.” She was stopped in time (and the Dancers were going to be rewarded somehow), but those beasties had definitely lost their wild spirit. They were tame as fuck now, not even bothering with smoke out their orifices.

Hopefully, the Mi-Go wouldn’t notice.

(The headache grew.)

The Yithians showed up in force, and they had the loveliest toys, little automated things with gears and chimes that climbed and cut food for you and juggled. Absolutely adorable, small enough that Faroe squealed with joy when she saw one, and was disappointed that she’d have to wait for the rest.

At least something was going right. 

(The headache still grew.)

And now Odd would be performing at the celebration? Well… good. Good. 

(The headache eased a bit.)

“Think I’ll invite a few more’a my kids,” Dagon said, and Hastur’s headache soared.

#

The day dawned. The palace shone as if polished.

Sunshine kissed the waving grasses in the magical fields. Lake Hali echoed with the laughter of Dagon’s family, who’d taken up much of its waters and incidentally made it safe for everyone to play in, even in the depths. 

Faroe loomed in dark leather, far too skinny to look dangerous in her form-fitting armor, but feeling quite pleased. She at least agreed to wear her crown.

It was an oddly striking look. Hastur had a feeling he’d be seeing this combination from her again.

And instead of the usual gathering in the throne room, Hastur converted an enormous portion of the palace into one huge dining hall. A ballroom for feasting, performing, and being shown. Everybody was going to fit in there.

Parker seemed nervous. He disliked all these new people, and kept making rounds through the kitchen and anywhere else that could affect Arthur.

Sunny, at least, was handling it.

John… preened.

Since his talk with Hastur, he had leapt into the role of heir to the god and embraced it to the fullest. There was an awful lot of You may rise, vassal, and that kind of nonsense while Arthur tried to seem like he wanted to be there.

Arthur looked great, if tired. Hastur was pleased. For the first time, he’d placed a circlet on Arthur’s head: simple, a red-gold band. It was barely a crown, but its presence said much. Slaves did not wear such things.

Those who had been present for the marking ceremony years ago certainly thought it wild.

Good. One step at a time, history would be rewritten.

Though Hastur could never undo that brutality of a marking. Well. He’d pay for all his mistakes soon enough, wouldn’t he? “Are we ready?” 

“Yes, dad,” said Faroe, submissively vengeful.

He touched her cheek. “I am sorry, my darling. I know this is not what you want.”

She looked up. “Does this happen to you? Things you don’t want to do?”

She didn’t know how Arthur had been marked. “Yes.”

Something in his voice must have convinced her, because some of her hardness melted. “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

And so the festivities began.

#

Dagon’s people arrived. The bad news: they swarmed the place. The good news: they kept it from getting too serious.

Hastur had to admit it; those fish-kids knew how to have a good time.

Faroe sat on her throne in her form-fitting leather, looking somehow both dangerous and adorable, her curls pinned back, her black and gold crown glittering, and behaved as a princess ought as one by one, beings brought their gifts before her.

And at her side…

It wasn’t a throne like hers and Hastur’s. It was a seat, high enough to keep Arthur on a level with her, but not a throne.

It still sat in the line of thrones, beside the ruling family.

Nobody knew what to do about that. No one knew where Arthur stood.

“For the Duchess of Ythill!” came energetic and delighted and pleased, since Faroe, at least, was a known factor… though the gifts were hit or miss. Jewelry? Like she didn’t have all she wished from Hastur. Musical instruments? Clever, but clearly copying Celephaïs’ success from before. The Yithian toys were a big hit, so that was good. That also took a while, since she giggled, slipped down, and played with them a bit.

Arthur sat awkwardly, still uncomfortable in the spotlight. Hastur wondered if he knew that the circlet suited him. Strange, that it did. Food for thought another time.

Odd, meanwhile, was just… perfect. On the platform at the other end of the hall, Odd strummed away on various stringed instruments, creating perfect background sounds, musical and lively and cute… and opinionated. He played a little wah-wah sound at the gifts that failed. Played happy little dancing notes when Faroe was pleased. Dear gods, he was a court jester and a political genius and a musical delight all in one.

The Mi-Go’s “ponies” were brought forward, quite tame and soundless, obediently keeping their heads down. 

They knelt. Before Nibbles.

Odd played a sort of uh-oh sound, and the Mi-Go began sputtering, upset that their gift wasn’t working right, saying they’d take them back, they’d replace them—

Faroe slid down and petted the heads of these creatures, who seemed to have forgotten to be toxic to human flesh. “Sweet things. Stable them, will you?” she said to the Dancers, who led the docile creatures away.

Odd was laughing with his instrument.

Oh. Oh, Hastur liked Odd. He wondered how long he could bribe him to stick around.

At last, said John, because now, it was time for Arthur’s gifts.

“Sit up straight,” Hastur urged.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Arthur whispered.

“Let John carry it,” said Hastur, because it had to be done that way, because they all had to understand that John was ruling and Arthur was support. That they were a set, not to be separated, but John would take the lead.

The first gift was a box of empty canvases.

Everyone stared.

“We, ah,” stumbled the representative from the Groking mountains, who had not visited Carcosa before. “We’d… heard he was a wonderful artist?”

“Musical composer,” Hastur said slowly.

“Yes, of course,” said the embarrassed rep, who stood awkwardly for a moment, and then all but fled to the back of the dining hall.

Odd made a sort of squeaking, trembling sound on his violin that absolutely communicated social faux pas.

Fuck, what a treasure. “Next,” commanded Hastur.

The next gift, from the Mi-Go, was a wide golden collar studded with gems.

It was beautiful, but, ah. Well. “It’s a what?” said Arthur. “It’s what?”

Stunning, breathed John, who must be picturing Arthur wearing it.

Oh, dear fucking hell. “Lovely,” said Hastur. “A generous gift from our allies. We thank you.” And he gestured toward the little pile where gifts went.

Odd somehow made his violin sing Awkward! without opening his mouth, a trick entirely of bow and skill. Quite a few people laughed, checking nervously with Hastur to make sure they could.

The urge to keep him rose like a flood, and Hastur dammed it up fast. He nodded, waving graciously at Odd to encourage him to keep going.

Which he was.

“A fucking collar?” Arthur hissed. “Like for dogs?”

Dogs are never that beautiful, John whispered.

Arthur rubbed his face.

It got worse from there. Absolutely nobody knew what to give this man; he received jeweled earrings (for pierced ears which he did not have); a pair of cursed swords that drew on the user’s life-force (for a mortal?); a heavy gilded mirror (why?); a set of strange clothes that seemed designed to flare out in some graceful way when he danced (which he never did); trunks of fruit from foreign lands (which Hastur already had), and—

And… oysters, asparagus, chocolate, figs and watermelon?

There was a theme here. Something Hastur knew, but couldn’t remember.

Plants, too: silphium, soca.

Wait.

Wait.

Mandrake, oleander, cyclamen—

Wait just a damn minute.

“Um, thank you,” said Arthur, accepting a crate full of white rushes that had gone extinct in ancient Egypt due to… certain properties.

Why in fuck were people giving him aphrodisiacs?

Hastur glanced around. It didn’t seem that anyone had noticed; too worried about reception for their own gifts. Certainly.

Hopefully.

It was just more of that fucking open secret that Hastur encouraged and nobody knew what to do with yet. Setting Arthur up as protected and special, as connected to John, was one of the steps ensuring these two could take up the reins when the worst happened.

Fine. It would take time to pull the gossipy mess out of the sewer. Hastur’s plan was to wait it out. Eventually, the gossip-mongers would get it out of their systems and accept things the way they were. Done and done.

At last, at last, the final gifts were given (one of them a “robe” that seemed thick but was only layers upon layers of gold lace), and they could move on. Hastur rose. “We will shortly begin our musical entertainment for the evening. Until then, make merry, renew alliances, and enjoy our feast.”

They were more than happy to do that.

Colorful movement caught his eyes. Songweavers were making their way toward Odd at the other side of the room, living fabrics fluttering, beautiful in their gradient colors. He peered. Aria was not among them.

No, Aria was beelining for Arthur.

Oh, ho. This was going to be a trip.

#

Arthur had never really been big on birthdays, even before Faroe was born. In his youth they had mostly fallen to the wayside, a date that was meaningless except for legal reasons since no one really cared enough to celebrate. After Faroe was born, they ceased to matter, as his only family was too young to care and instead Arthur preferred to focus his efforts on celebrating Faroe’s milestones.

He’d refused to let Parker celebrate them at all.

Now that Arthur thought about it, the only one who had really celebrated his birthday was Bella. Maybe that was part of why he felt so…

Well, if nothing else, John seemed to be having a wonderful time.

I want to see you in that robe, John said with the barely-restrained glee of a child set loose in a candy store.

“Sure, John,” Arthur sighed, his fingers idly twisting the edge of his tunic. John had gone to great lengths to tell him how handsome he looked in it, and it was comfortable, and the embroidery on the hem at least gave him something to do with his hands while he tried not to die of mortification. “Where is Odd now?”

There’s a thick crowd between us, currently, John said. But you’re the guest of honor! If you desire it, we can bring him to us! He paused—and gasped. Arthur! Someone is coming this way.

“Who?” Arthur did not particularly care.

Some… some… oh, Arthur, he breathed. She’s beautiful.

“Mister Henley,” sang a voice like a chiming crystal glass.

Arthur sat up. “Aria?”

“It is so good to see you again, Arthur,” she laughed.

“Aria! You came!” Arthur broke into a grin.

She’s bowing, Arthur, John breathed, his voice a poorly-controlled whisper. But who is Henley?

“It’s a long story,” Arthur said back, quietly, clearing his throat. “You’ve got my name down perfectly, now. Lovely Rs.”

“I have been practicing,” she said. “And your companion must be John, whom I have heard so much about. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

We… yes. Ahem. Yes. I am John, crown prince of Carcosa and ruler of this realm!

Arthur’s face went long.

I… I would bow, but. Arthur, bow.

Arthur cleared his throat in a totally serious way and bowed.

“Oh!” she said. “Thank you, noble prince, but I am hardly anyone to bow to. And if I am honest, I hoped to approach as a friend, not as a diplomat—my brother is far more skilled in political matters anyway.” She sounded almost embarrassed. “But, before getting into anything else—congratulations on your hatchday, Arthur. I truly am happy to see you’re well.”

Arthur smiled, though it faded. “And I’m glad to hear your voice again. You were… right about the Oracle. So you know.”

“Oh,” she chimed, so sad. “That is… unfortunate. May I join you?”

You may, John said, doing his best regal voice.

“John,” Arthur said. “Is there a chair?”

She may sit on the armrest, John said, clearly pleased with himself.

Aria laughed. “I don’t think that’s quite appropriate. I will sit upon the steps,” she said.

No! You deserve better than the floor, John protested.

“Look, there are Dancers everywhere—”

Sit here, next to me—or, well, my hand, John said, clearly trying again for that velvety voice Hastur had pulled out with Odd the other day.

Her warmth and familiar petal-like body brushed against Arthur’s side as she perched on the armrest, a bell-like chuckle sounding from her.

Arthur went red.

“You’re quite charming,” Aria said warmly. “And such a lovely gold you are!”

John let out a happy rumble as he preened.

She let out a small laugh, which faded into a sigh, and then silence. “I am… I am sorry you found yourself needing my warning. Everyone has heard what happened,” she said, quietly. “Is the princess alright?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Hastur… took care of it.”

John’s fluttering gold went still. Him. 

They both knew this wasn’t a Hastur-him. “Yes,” said Arthur quietly.

Oh. The gold drooped, forgetting briefly to show off. Aria’s presence, however, seemed to help, and he shimmered again.

Arthur looked tired. He smiled, regardless. “So I guess it’s all out, then? Who we were looking for.”

“The King all but announced it when he announced the Oracle’s defeat,” Aria said solemnly. “And… well. I trust you're familiar with the rumors, Mister Lesterrrr.” She drew out the R, unintentionally, but she did her best.

He sighed heavily. “Thank you for your warning. I think we all made it out alive because of that.”

She knew? John said very quietly.

“She knew to warn us away from the Oracle.”

John’s voice was thick. She was right. Thank you for your warning, most beautiful, gracious lady. Your magnificence would lead me to song, were I more bold.

Aria fluttered.

Arthur exhaled. “Thank you for coming. Were you, uh. All invited? Vulgtmog?”

“Not all of Vulgtmog, just my people. We will be performing in your honor later tonight, after the main show.” She paused, then, a full body sigh rippling her body next to Arthur's leg. “Though given your new court bard… we may have a tricky diplomatic situation on our hands.”

Arthur’s eyes (not quite focused on her) went wide. “Why?”

Odd, I think. Fuck. Hastur will have to handle it.

Arthur looked grim. “There are some extenuating circumstances. Hastur didn’t take him, if it makes any differ—”

He’s hired. He’s being paid.

“That is good news,” Aria said, voice low. “All of that. Odd is one of ours, and… well, he’s been missing for nearly three months. We thought he was dead.”

“He said something like that,” said Arthur evenly. 

He showed up the night of the Rite—

“I think it’s Odd’s story to tell,” said Arthur firmly. “So they hear it from him, and know he’s okay.”

From the other side of the room, Odd crowed, “You can’t get rid of me, you old curtain!” followed by Songweaver laughter, which almost seemed harmonized.

“Well, he certainly isn’t acting broken,” Aria said, voice warming. “Though… oh, what am I doing? Speculating only makes me anxious. I trust my brother will handle it with grace, as is his duty. I wanted to warn you, since you are evidently quite close with the King, and I didn’t get the feeling you would allow him to come to harm.” 

“Not that close with the king,” Arthur muttered, a little red (which did not help).

She paused. “He’s… alright, though? Nothing… untoward happened?”

“Nothing did.” He sat up and faced her. “Nothing did.”

He’s right. A pinch mournfully. Odd is lovely, and nothing happened. Not as lovely as you, though.

“I knew it,” Arthur muttered.

What?

“Nothing.”

“You’ve clearly inherited your father’s charm,” Aria laughed, but the relief was clear in her voice. “I’m glad. I’m sure Odd will tell us the same; I don’t know how this will shake out quite yet, but I’m certainly much more optimistic than I was when I first saw him. Strange times we live in, eh?”

You have no idea.

Arthur placed one hand over the other. “Thank you for coming. I look forward to your performance. Oh! Faroe!”

She’s right over there.

“Faroe! Come meet Aria!”

#

“Songweavers?” Parker murmured from the perimeter. He was dressed like Hastur’s security, a nondescript cloak and practical boots. A knife gleamed at his side, for show more than anything else, as the rest of the humanoid guards had them.

And, like most “help,” he was ignored.

Yes. They’re the most talented music-makers in the Dreamlands, Sunny breathed. And they’re beautiful.

Parker shook his head. “Walking, singing robes. Wow. Wow.” Nonchalantly, he slipped out of the shadow to snag a small plate of fancy little toasts and toppings from a servant, then back into the gloom.

John must have spotted them. Arthur waved (in the wrong direction, then corrected and waved at them).

Parker snorted. “Idiot,” he said fondly.

Subtlety is his strong suit, Sunny said, just as fond.

Parker laughed, spraying some crumbs.

#

Well this was certainly an experience.

Odd took another sip of the mead he’d been nursing for the whole party, just enough to keep his throat nice and supple and his nerves at a pleasing thrum beneath his skin.

There were a lot of big players here. Odd couldn't quite identify all of them by sight alone, but he did pick up the names when they were introduced, ranked them based on their seats’ proximity to the King's little family, and committed their various gifts and faux pas to memory as best he could.

He scanned the crowd, picking out where Parker and Sunny (such a lovely name for a godling) stood against the wall like they were part of the guard retinue; maybe he could slink over there later, once everything was done and chat with them about some of this. It’d certainly be more enjoyable than going to bother some of the other options.

Like, for instance, Larson. He was here, of course, and that guy… it was funny. In a crowd this big, this powerful, it shouldn’t be one nasty little human who made Odd nervous, but he did. There was an edge of obsession to that man.

—who currently sat six tables down from the royal family. He could come to the birthday, yes, but not be part of the main group. Ouch. (And Larson, Odd was willing to bet real money, would learn absolutely nothing from this.) He was also currently on his fourth glass of wine, which did not bode well, and Odd took note of it.

There was so much to take note of. Normally this would be a time of networking, but at present he was only interested in one group, and—

Oh, thank fuck.

“Odd!” The Impresario of the Songweavers approached, the rest of the family weaving through the crowd behind him. (Or most of them, since he could see the Songbird sitting next to Arthur, and that bastard hadn't told him he knew her!) “You're alive!”

Odd grinned, leaping to his feet. “You can't get rid of me, you old curtain!”

The Impresario’s color improved significantly as he laughed, sash opening to show a flash of teeth as Odd risked angering his (owner?) host to leap into his outstretched arms. “Gods, we thought you were dead! Have you been here this entire time?”

“Nope,” Odd said, briefly picking him up and swirling him like a large, flowing teal-and-indigo ribbon. “It's a long story, but Carcosa is a new development. Swear on my flute—”

“Pfft, you barely even like that thing,” the Impresario said. “Swear on your horn.”

“My horn, you say?” Odd said, mock offended if not for the relieved, happy lashing his tail was getting up to. “You would love that, wouldn't you.”

“You're incorrigible,” the Impresario sighed, though his indigo-tipped petals began to grow ashen with growing anger. “It’s a relief to see you in good spirits. Make no mistake, though, I will be having words with the King—”

Odd frowned. “Fa-do-re.”

“—if he thinks he can just hoard away one of our Songwalkers because of his alliance with Celephaïs he’s got another fucking thing coming—”

Odd sighed and whistled the Impresario’s name, enough to interrupt. “I have some music for you, something I composed about my most recent travels,” he said gently, taking the Impresario’s hand.

The Impresario’s eyes narrowed as he twisted his hand, palm upward beneath Odd’s hand; his fingertips tapped three times on his wrist. “Lots of Carcosan influence?”

“Not at all, but I trust you will find it illuminating when I have it sent to your quarters. Yeah?” He smiled, warm, pressing his thumb into the Impresario’s palm, the symbol for I’m safe, really.

“You should illuminate me now,” the Impresario said, low; he covered Odd’s hand with his free one, smallest finger tapping Odd’s middle knuckle twice. The King?

“Ah, it’s not ready for these sorts quite yet.” He shrugged as his thumb stroked down the Impresario’s thumb. Ally. “Needs critique first.”

The Impresario sighed, pulling his hands back. “I look forward to seeing it, then. Hope you’re prepared for a lot of red marks.” This isn’t over.

“I expect nothing less,” Odd said, smiling, giving a small two-finger salute with a wink. Trust me.

Hastur glanced Odd’s way and gestured.

Odd’s nerves showed in precisely two barely-noticeable movements: the dart of his tongue against his lips, and the twitch at the tip of his tail. “Looks like I’m on. You’ll love this. I’ve been working on it for days with my new friends up there.” He grew louder, not yelling, but projecting, a trained voice, polished, rising above the crowd and drawing attention as he gracefully climbed the platform. “I think we can all agree, after all, that things have been tense around here!” Wide-eyed, he dramatically poofed his tail.

That got attention; the small chuckles brought more, curiosity always a terrific second draw.

Odd winked at the whole room and twirled his lute so fast it shone. “And what’s better for a little tension than a public celebration?” His eyebrows waggled. “With booze?”

On cue, Dancers swarmed the tables. This was some kind of dessert ale, rich, heady, and just sweet enough to counter the strange human spices Faroe (and evidently Arthur) preferred.

“Be careful, little brother,” murmured one of the Songweavers, and they fluttered back down to their seats.

Odd grinned, teeth flashing. The tension quivered in the air like a string waiting to be plucked, and he didn’t feel the need to be careful at all.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

#

He began by abandoning his post, hopping lightly right off the platform as if he weighed nothing (not true, as walking did tend to build up the muscles quite a bit) and, strumming playfully, walked between the tables. 

This. This right here was the big time. He could hold on to that, grip it; immerse himself in the role of honored bard at a real god’s shindig so hard that his fear would behave and do its shivering in the dark unseen.

He could pretend he’d been invited, and this was on purpose, and an honor. And as such… he’d make damn sure they remembered it well.

Evidently, Hastur didn’t have a lot of bards in his court. They all expected distant musicians, alive but two-dimensional, seated on the platform or in some shady corner, making grandeur, heard but not seen.

That was not Odd’s style.

He balanced the volume of his lute so as not to interrupt, but definitely to be noticed, and leaned in between the two glaring delegates from the sibling Grantha fiefs, whom everyone knew were fighting over a crop of magic corn. 

They startled.

He winked at them. Blew a kiss. Sipped from the other one’s cup. And moved on.

Everyone around them laughed, surprised. It blew the tension right away from those two like a breeze in mist.

Good, good. More.

He stood tall right above the bulbous head of a rambling Brago who was going on and on about some really dull weedexperiment that no one around him wanted to hear, and made… some faces. Played harder as the guy got more intense about root structure. Woke up the whole table (who’d been stuck, looking dazed as though drugged), and when the Brago said, “Damn it, this is important for the future of the realm!” Odd leaned around him backward (core-strength being a key to proper bard performance) and peered at him upside down, all but hovering over the table.

“Seedy,” Odd said so seriously.

The guy behind Odd laughed, spraying wine.

That broke it up. The Brago coughed. Reddened. Laughed a little. “Ah. Too much, eh?”

“You’re fine, Dnari,” said his plus-one, and the topic finally moved on with smiles instead of vapid stares.

Odd played himself off to light and happy applause.

This part was easy. The closer he got to the head table, the harder it would be. There were the heavy-hitters, people with actual political stakes in Hastur’s realm. The ones who’d been hoarding the rumors, the things everybody fucking knew, including Arthur, and nobody would admit.

The things Odd would oh-so-delicately use.

This was probably not the wisest strategy. 

Eh, Hastur’s fault for inviting a bard, then.

He left each table happier. Encouraging good-natured laughter, some ribald smiles, a little light and healthy desire. Smiling with promise of what he’d do when he properly performed, tension lightly teased away. And he got a little bit louder.

Humming as he moved from spot to spot, drawing more eyes. Flirtatious with his tail, ridiculously exaggerating expressions at anything anybody said. It was working. Of course it was working.

The big guys near Hastur’s table—the Mi-Go and the like—weren’t smiling yet, but watching him as though expecting a trap.

Well, it was a trap. Of having a good fucking time.

Light as a feather, Odd leaped onto the second-to-last table. (That got a startled cry and more than one flicker of a beginning spell, but nobody attacked him. Point to Odd.) Hard, he strummed, and then waved his lute so the chord sounded underwater. “Didja have to bring the whole clan?” he dared (dared) say to Dagon. 

Who laughed. 

Well, now it would be rude if nobody else did because he was a Great Old One. 

Odd strummed and spun in place, not so much as twisting the tablecloth. “Free food, am I right?”

“You are right,” Dagon bellowed, which (as planned) guaranteed all eyes on them. “My buddy here’s pretty good with the free food.”

Hastur’s eyes seemed a bit wide behind the mask. (Again, invited a bard, what did he expect out of this?)

Arthur, however, was grinning.

He’s on the table, John whispered badly, his excitement obvious. I don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s great!

A proper strum now, loud, an announcement, and Odd began to hum as he danced up the main table toward the royals. (Just a gig, he told himself, keep it together, he told himself, and with years of habit and protective coloring, shoved that fear right down. Weird thought to have, though.) “Hallooooo birthday duo!” he called, and the whole room knew it was time.

Faroe giggled.

Odd raised the lute over his head, still playing with deceptively flawless skill, and posed, back foot up, tail curved. “And what do my lady and liege wish for their most special day among days?”

Someone further back in the room growled something, and a few people around that guy chuckled meanly.

John snarled softly. He said a fucking condom.

“Now, that’s just rude!” Odd said, spinning with a grin, and ran, on the tips of his toes, not even disturbing the flower arrangements, to land lightly beside the startled rock-looking guy who’d said it, close enough to kiss. “You stole my joke!”

A moment of shock.

Hastur chortled.

And there it was. Permission. No one was getting exploded.

Odd took the crowd’s shock—that fear, that wonder of what the fuck was going to happen—and wore it like a cape. Back on the table, strumming and humming the tune now (the chorus, so they would pick it up before he even sang it), he made his way back toward the main table, drawing every eye with every step. “Now I have to improvise! Let’s see, let’s see…I know!” A few absurd la la las as if he hadn’t warmed up. Then he took a deep breath and began to sing.

Slowly. Dramatically, in a minor key, with arpeggio support. “Now, you all know of gods and their music,” and he bowed toward the Great Old One whose home this was. “When eons have flown by so fast that we’re all sick…” He held that one, dipping down low, shaking his head.

A few chuckles. He had them and they didn’t even know it yet.

“In a magical world!” Louder. “Of dreams and of mice…” He leaped, spun and landed on the floor before the head seats on his knees. “A mortal that sings well sure goes down real niiiiiiice!” 

Dagon guffawed, sure, but that wasn’t the key. Hastur was still amused, and in the game of fine lines and entertainment, Odd knew he’d won.

He built up speed, switching to a major key, and bellowed the chorus. “Let us celebrate! Here we are to celebrate, to sing the song and do the dance for this fellow who’s here by chaaaance!” And he twirled behind Arthur—who was blushing, laughing along, hunching a little as Odd played over his head. 

Faroe clapped, eyes wide with wonder, and Odd had the feeling she’d never heard music like this before in her life. Well, he had to fix that.

Prancing behind Arthur, Odd sang on. “What a stand-up guy he is! Composing, singing, what a wiz! Looks good for his age, it’s true! What’s he, about… a hundred and two?”

Three! shouted John.

Arthur laughed for real. Faroe giggled. Dagon was losing it. And like a mighty tide, that pulled everybody (nearlyeverybody, and Odd noted who refused to take part in this very carefully indeed) along.

Odd spun around, went down, and leaned against Arthur’s legs, looking up with absurdly sparkly adoration. “Yo-ho, it’s Arthur’s day! A lovely guy, he’s here to play! Woo-ha, and all night long, we will sing his song!” He leaped as if spring-loaded back onto the table, tapped his feet, and indicated they should clap. And sang the chorus again. “Let us celebrate! Here we are to celebrate…”

A good third of everyone joined in. Others looked around, realized this was allowed, and a few more did, too. Perfect. 

He took them through that chorus twice, then slowed it down, back to the minor key of the first verse… and dared now to pose before Hastur’s throne. He was aware too well of how huge and terrifying the god was behind him, but he couldn’t resist. Such a backdrop! “There’s only one thing left here now to say: Arthur’s all right, in his own ways,” he sang.

“Fuck yeah!” bellowed Dagon, whose entire family might have gotten drunker during this performance.

Still in front of Hastur, Odd turned and sang right to Arthur, who (prompted by John) faced him. The smile, though, was all Arthur’s own. “A good friend!”

“Hear, hear!” shouted Parker from his corner.

“A good dad!”

Faroe bit her lower lip, grinning.

“The best Hastur’s ever had!” Odd said dramatically jumping the octave with a vocal crack as if he’d just scared himself.

(Utterly shocked laughter now… and he got another chuckle. Hastur gave him another chuckle. Enjoyment from the King in Yellow. This was inebriation.)

Dagon was slapping his knee. Odd gave the fishy god a stern look as if he were the one misbehaving, which just made the god laugh harder. 

Time for the finale. Back on the table. “And if he looks sad, you can bet he’s not mad! And no one can top him except for… um…” A build-up on the lute, nervous, rapid strumming, eyes wide and looking around as if for aid. 

The group was in the zone now. He got suggestions, shouted from the back. Most of them were pretty tame, given the party’s host, but Odd reacted as if they were the bawdiest things anyone had ever said, and kept building volume and speed with his chords. “No, too dirty! No, too innocent! What? Sir, I don’t know what that means, can you please see me after the show?” And by now, he had to really project to be heard over the laughter and cheers.

It was time. Odd sang on. “And if he looks sad, you can bet he’s not mad! And no one can top him except for….” He produced a hat out of absolutely thin air with a wild flick of his tail and dropped it onto his own head, which caught on his antlers at a deeply funny angle he could not have rehearsed if he tried. “A hat!” One final, hard chord.

The guests went insane.

Odd headed back to the platform, still on the tables, strumming and humming the chorus and inviting with his eyes as he strode, pulling entertainment out of them. And when he got back to his platform and spun and posed on the steps—back leg up, tail curled over his head, fluttering his eyelashes—the applause was really something.

If it could be called applause. These things mostly didn’t have hands, and anyone not used to the Dreamlands might think they were about to be mobbed by demons. 

Odd knew his monster sounds. He’d made them happy, dared to dip into the secret everybody knew and fucking forced it into the light, and taken a huge weight off Arthur’s shoulders.

Arthur was standing and clapping and cheering. He looked really, truly, genuinely happy.

That, Odd thought, was worth the entire fucking risk.

#

Oh, Hastur thought. That’s why Kayne sent this guy here. 

This had been borderline blasphemous, potentially politically venomous, and an absolutely brilliant show. Talented. Lovely. Funny. And within Hastur, for only a moment, with eons of habit, the urge to break his word and just take this man was almost too much.

For only a moment.

Faroe bounced up and down, cheering, then ran to him and threw herself into his arms. “Thank you, dad!” she cried, clinging. “It’s everything I wanted. Arthur’s so happy!”

Arthur was happy.

Arthur felt happy.

Arthur felt… relieved.

Hastur breathed slowly, focusing on his daughter. “Well. You did ask.”

She beamed at him and ran back to her seat, and he thought…

Couldn’t help thinking…

How much more she weighed this year than last.

She was growing. So fast. So damn fast.

And he’d never see her fully grown.

Well, that thought put an end to any unwonted desires.

Normally, after the big musical performance, they’d start to wind down, but that wasn’t happening now. Hastur had more food and ale brought in, and the absolute ruckus of beings in a good mood nearly drowned out his melancholy.

#

Parker made his way slowly through the ballroom. About a third of the guests had gone (some of them needing to be carried), back to their quarters, or in position for the fireworks later tonight. He’d kept on his hood and cloak, maintaining the appearance of mere security.

He wanted to peek in on Larson.

Larson sat at the table where he’d been, and was visibly very drunk. Drunk was interesting to Parker. It always revealed what was really going on in there, or at least part of it, if not any great complicated thing. Well, Larson looked mad. 

This was not, Parker thought, a face Larson would normally show to these beings he wanted to impress. 

Are you sure? Sunny whispered.

“Yeah. This is the moment to see what’s going on in there,” Parker whispered back. “Besides, after what happened… we gotta at least start addressing it. We all gotta live here.”

I don’t want to be anywhere near him.

Parker gently caressed his jaw. “I know, bud. Since it ain’t our choice, we’ve gotta make the best of it. Letting the river take us where it may ain’t gonna do that.”

True. Sunny breathed carefully. Alright. I’m ready.

Parker was not quiet as he pulled out the chair next to Larson and sat down.

The man knew he was there. He didn’t look up. Hands on the table, he stared into a golden, jeweled goblet probably worth more than half his holdings on Earth and said nothing.

“Hell of a show, huh?” Parker said, absolutely neutral.

Larson’s hands twitched. “You could say that.” His accent was thick with booze.

“Not what I expected, that’s for damn sure,” said Parker, still neutral.

Larson finally looked up. Oh, boy, those were some red eyes; this guy was gonna be hungover as fuck. “And what was it you expected, Saint?”

Parker weighed his words carefully. “We both know I’m not one. I don’t claim to be one. Just use my name, man. That’s all.”

“Oh, so now we’re equals? Buddy-buddy?” Larson said, teeth bared.

Parker let that one go. “What we are is in a lifeboat, and if anybody rocks it too much, we all go down.”

Lason stilled. Looked back into his goblet. Took a long swallow of his wine. “You’re not wrong. Are ya.”

Parker shrugged. “Weird here. You and I got real different goals in mind, and that’s fine—but we’re in the same boat. Look. I don’t expect you to see me as anything good. Not askin’ that of ya. All I’m saying is maybe we can make this work until we can part ways for good and never think of each other again. All I’m saying is let’s just try.”

Larson exhaled. “There’s some wisdom in that head’a yours, borrowed though it may be.”

“Just survival instinct. Kinda had to hone it, being what I am.”

Larson looked at him. “You acknowledge it.”

Whatever that meant. Parker chose where to poke. He shrugged. “I’m alive. Plan to stay that way. So do you. Just think on it. Okay?”

Laron sat there, breathing, eyes narrowed. Finally, he licked his lips. “I’ll think on it.”

“Temporary truce. That’s all.”

“Temporary truce. Maybe.”

“Good enough.” Parker nodded and stood. “Enjoy the fireworks.”

“Off to foul up your guest even more?” Larson said.

Sunny growled.

Parker didn’t even turn around. He waved one hand, calm, his back to Larson and shoulder-blades itching, and walked away.

That…

“Let him have his quip. It’s all he’s got. He’s lonely, miserable, and his life’s out of his control, and he actually fuckin’ feels it today.”

Sunny was silent for a long moment. You really have met men like him before.

“A lot of ‘em.”

Sunny sighed. Their tongue darted out. He’s dangerous.

“Real dangerous.”

Was it wise to turn our back?

“I wanna see how he takes it. If he thinks he’s been dismissed, or understands I meant what I said about not rocking the boat.”

He’ll think you’re proud.

Parker shrugged again. “If he comes at us, we’ll handle it.”

He’s dangerous, Parker.

“So the fuck are we.” Parker grinned, a crooked and wicked look in the mirrors.

Sunny let out a soft noise of surprise. We… Yes. Yes, Parker. We are.

“Wanna go see those fucked-up ponies again?”

I’ve got to. What the fuck even are those things?

“Nibbles’ acolytes now, I guess,” said Parker, and they both had a good laugh.

#

On the highest tower of Carcosa, Arthur sat with Faroe tucked into his side, his arm shielding her from the chilly spring evening. Faroe had asked for the time alone, and Hastur flew them there. Neither were bothered that there was not another way down. They knew he’d come for them. And in the meantime, they experienced fireworks.

Another! It’s blue, Arthur, limned with gold, and it’s words! John gasped. Oh! It’s tracing the whole of the Epic of Kardon across the sky in letters hundreds of feet high!

Arthur chuckled softly. “You like that one, if I recall,” he said, the distant boom of the pyrotechnics felt more than heard.

“I do,” said Faroe, and snuggled in. “I think it’s one of the prettiest histories.”

Arthur kissed her curly head. Both their crowns lay beside them, forgotten.

Oh! Oh, Arthur! This one… it’s the heart of fire itself! And it’s making the Yellow Sign!

Arthur closed his eyes (Noooooo…) and rested his cheek on Faroe’s head. “Happy birthday, baby.”

“Happy birthday, dad,” she whispered. “Did you mean what you said?”

“When, sweetheart?”

She shifted a little; her leather creaked. “I remember you said… that it was all worth it to get to see me grow up. Did you mean that?”

Fireworks boomed, the sounds thudding against his chest; Arthur’s breath caught. “Yes.”

She shivered a little. “That’s a lot, though.”

Faroe was beginning to understand some things, apparently.

Arthur couldn’t ask her what. He could barely speak. “Sweetheart…” He slowly exhaled, shuddering. “I love you. When you… when…”

She took his hand, her own so much smaller than his.

From that, he found courage. “When I lost you, my world ended. I kept going because… that’s just what happens. But I… I spent every single day missing you so much.”

“What about my mother?” she asked.

Fuck, said John.

Arthur ignored him. “She’d be so proud of you.” He held her tighter. “I know she would. You’re so like her, in so many ways.”

“But you don’t miss her?”

John inhaled and held it, making the sound without lungs.

Arthur was silent for a long moment. “Not the same way, no. I do miss her. I wish… gods, I don’t wish she was here, this place is…” He stopped himself. “I do miss her. She was a good friend. We got each other in trouble and we never meant to, and… I was a pretty bad friend to her, toward the end.”

“Maybe she’d be proud of you, too,” said Faroe, holding his fingers. “I know she would be, if she’s like me.”

Arthur shook once and fell silent. His tears dripped onto her curly head, and she held him tighter.

John stopped describing fireworks. His left hand rose, hesitated, then very, very gingerly rested on top of theirs.

Nobody pulled away.

Fireworks bloomed, cheers followed from down below in the city, and Faroe fell asleep in Arthur and John’s arms.

[norbezjones]

June Of Doom Day 23: "You're Doing Great." (Romance The Backrooms)

Continuing @juneofdoom with my Romance The Backrooms characters!

RtB may be an F/M game, but in my heart of hearts, I'm a Glarence & Adiel shipper. A Gladiel shipper, if you will.

This story may or may not be canon. Idk if it's still whump if there's a nice ending, but oh well.

This is Day 23: "You're doing great." I did incorporate the keyword "Trembling".

Takes place: before Romance The Backrooms occurs

Contains: stressed out & overworked Adiel

Other things to know: this story takes place in the backrooms. Adiel travels in a group of 4 other entities, including Glarence. Adiel is an entity that doesn't "need" the things most people need to survive, like food or sleep. As a result, he usually keeps watch while the others rest. However, the other members of the group do need those things.

___________

While the others slept on the cavern floor of Level 8, Adiel was keeping watch. He always volunteered to keep watch. After all, he didn't need sleep, so why should anyone else take on the task? It only made logical sense.

He stretched, blinking a few times. He was tired, he had to admit. Even if he didn't need sleep, resting once in a while could do him good. But somebody had to make sure that everyone was safe. And he was the leader, so that person should be him, of course.

It was always him. It always had to be.

"Geez, you look like shit."

Adiel jumped in surprise and turned around to see Glarence standing behind him. "You scared me!" Adiel said, letting out a relieved laugh. "I thought you were asleep."

The green-haired entity shrugged and sat down next to Adiel. "Couldn't," Glarence replied. "My brain is talking like crazy; it won't shut up long enough for me to get some shut-eye. So I figured I'd come over and hang out with you."

Adiel smiled. "Well, I do appreciate the company."

Glarence nodded. Then, he cleared his throat and asked, "So, are you going to talk about what's going on with you?"

Adiel started. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Come on, I know you're holding something back," Glarence grunted, giving his friend the stink-eye. "It's all over your face every time I look at you."

Adiel laughed, trying to joke the situation away. "Is my face really that good at giving me away."

"Yes," Glarence replied. His face softened, and he said quietly, gently, "Look, it's just you and me here. You can be honest, ok?"

Adiel sighed. He looked up at the stalactites on the ceiling of the cave. "I guess I'm a little . . . stretched thin," he admitted. "I've been doing a lot for the group--and don't get me wrong, I'm happy to do it! But I try so hard to make sure everyone is ok, and it's just so much sometimes."

His hands were shaking a little bit now, and the emotions Adiel was trying to hold back came rushing out. "And I didn't want to say anything, because that probably makes me a bad leader!" he exclaimed, feeling himself tear up a bit. "I should be better than this, I should--!"

"Stop," Glarence demanded. "Just stop it."

Surprised, Adiel stopped talking. Glarence continued, "Look, you're not a bad leader, first of all. You're doing great. You really are. But even the best leaders need a break once in a while, and need to delegate tasks. So I need you to learn to rely on us more so you don't get stressed out like this. Got it?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Adiel asked.

"Is bringing you to your limit a better idea?" Glarence asked, folding his arms. "Because if you ask me, it's a worse one."

"Ok, you have a point there," Adiel muttered. "I suppose I can talk to the others when they're awake. . . See what responsibilities they can help me with."

Glarence smiled. It was rare to see a genuine smile on Glarence's face, and it made Adiel feel like he was doing something right. "That's what I like to hear," Glarence said, nodding in approval. "Now, why don't you get some rest? I'll take watch."

"Are you sure?" Adiel asked. "Don't you need sleep?"

Glarence shrugged. "I'll live if I miss it for one night. Go get some rest."

Adiel smiled. "Thanks, Glarence."

Glarence shrugged again. "Don't mention it."

Adiel lay down on the cave floor and closed his eyes. With enough focus and concentration, he was able to fall asleep.

[fanfic-scribbles]

Dinner Date Chapter 27

Masterlist

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Overall Story Facts:

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Story Summary: Steve Rogers has a girlfriend. A prickly, generally asocial girlfriend, but they make it work. They have more in common than some people might think.

Quick Facts: Romance – Steve Rogers/Reader – Female Reader

Story Warnings: Reader-insert that verges on OFC, written in 1st person past tense

Chapter 27: Steve Rogers and the Terrible, No Good…Sort of Okay Day

Chapter Summary: Steve has a Bad Day. It’s nice to have a partner who’s willing to make it better.

Chapter Word Count: 2158

A/N: I really wanted to get this out last week, but I kept…getting fucking stuck. But it’s done now. Next chapter I think is going to be a bigger one, unless I manage to pare it down or split it. /fingers crossed. For now, please enjoy an indulgence of comfort.

~

Steve: So Steve: I hate to ask this but Steve: I’ve had a really bad day Steve: Can you come over to my place tonight instead?

My eyebrows went all the way up. Steve had already not been having a stellar first week back at work after his extended vacation, so this was…concerning.

Me: Are you okay? Steve: Yes Steve: Just…I see your point about being “too cranky to deal with people”

I smiled.

Me: I believe the actual quote is “too fucking cranky to deal with assholes” ;P Steve: :)

Oh no. That was the most insincere smiley ever. If he was hurt he would have told me, so he must have been really upset about something.

Me: Do you need me to bring anything? Steve: No. I’ll order in. Steve: Or bring clothes if you need to? Steve: But you have a couple sets of clothes here still I think Steve: I can go check Me: Don’t Me: It’s fine, I’ll see you tonight

I then added a little kissy face.

Steve: Oh no Steve: You’re being nice Steve: Do I sound that bad?

I rolled my eyes. It really must not have been that bad if he could sass me like that.

Me: Oh fuck you

I then sent a line of hearts. Since he was having a bad day and all.

~

I made it to his place without catching whatever bad luck streak he’d gotten, and as soon as I stepped in I got wrapped up in large arms and ensconced by an equally ridiculous body as Steve tried-not-tried to suffocate me.

“Are you okay?” I asked and wrapped my arms around him, trying to squeeze in return.

“Just…one of those days,” he said, voice wavering on the last two words so they ended up oddly stressed.

“Everything going wrong?” I asked, sympathetic, because those days sucked.

He huffed. “I think you said it best once…it was one of those days where everything goes wrong but you can’t complain because it all sounds petty and stupid.”

“Oh, I hate those,” I said, emphatic in my honesty, and tried to squeeze tighter. He sighed and slumped and made no move to leave, but I had to start thinking. Steve always took care of my bad days, so it was time to step up. I patted his back and pulled, but he let out a little…not quite a whimper, but it was a sad sound that pulled on my dusty, otherwise-immovable heartstrings. He did let go though, and I only pulled back just enough to look at him. “Okay then.” I held his face. “For tonight, I’m the boss.”

He cracked a small smile. “You mean you’re not usually?”

Hmm…he sort of had a point. “Well I’m not delegating tonight.” I patted my chest. “Gonna do all the work myself.”

His smile faded. “You don’t have t-”

“Shush,” I said and put my finger to his lips. His lips moved and I pushed harder. “I’m the boss and I say shush.”

He rolled his eyes and saluted. “Less sassing, more shushing,” I said and thought about the things that Steve found most comforting. I could have made a list (probably should, someday) but the very basics were: warmth, a full belly, and close contact. “Mmkay. First: go run a hot shower for us.”

“‘Us?’” he repeated hopefully. Then– “Oops; sorry ‘Commander,’” and he mimed locking his lips.

I rolled my eyes. At both comments. He wasn’t getting anything up in his state, being as he looked like he was holding himself upright by a single thread of stubbornness, but I could let him be delusional for a little bit. “S’okay. I know you too well to think you’d shut your mouth for long.” I ran my hand up over his cheek, and tried not to melt when he leaned into it. He was going to be ridiculously cuddly tonight, I could already feel it. “Get the water going. I’ll pick some clothes and lay them out for after.”

His eyes lit up and he went to his assigned task with determination. I scooted over to the bedroom and rifled through his drawers for one of his more worn tank tops, and some sweatpants. The super-soft and ultra-worn ones were askew on the side of the laundry basket, but one thing about Steve was that if he decided he liked a particular set of clothes, he got multiples, so I was able to put together an acceptable outfit for him, and also one for me.

I then went to join him in the bathroom where he looked almost half-asleep just standing outside by the spray. I rolled my eyes– apparently I would need to cut the time I’d planned to spend in there with him, if I was going to get him out safely. But when I nudged him he smiled at me, already looking a little less tweaked at the corners, and I kissed his cheek.

“Good job,” I said and felt the temperature. “And it’s not going to melt us.”

“Tempting,” he said. “But I want you to stay in there with me. Delicate skin and all.”

“Because you’re having a bad day I will not turn the handle to cold and shove you in,” I said. “But only just because. Now strip.”

He smirked, but didn’t say anything. Exhibit B for why he wasn’t up for getting any tonight, but again, I let it go, and we both stripped down and got into his nicely sized shower. There wasn’t much more room than could just about fit us, but there was enough that I didn’t feel claustrophobic. I let him get rinsed down first and watched some of the tension in his body practically wash right down the drain. He was still a little stiff though, and he only just got his body wet before turning to the side and sliding his hand along my lower back to allow the warm water to hit me too.

“Get your hair wet, then sit on the bench,” I said and grabbed his shampoo bottle.

His eyes opened a little wider, but he did as he was told as I poured some of the shampoo into my hand. I then started lathering his hair and his eyes honest-to-god fluttered shut. I started out rubbing gently, slowing adding more and more pressure, and then lightening up when I started with my nails.

He moaned, and I smiled to myself and kept at it. His shoulders drooped and I even dipped my hands down to rub them a little. It was a weird angle though, and between that and the soap I couldn’t dig in, so I stowed that idea for later and went back to massaging his scalp. He seemed content enough with that, though, if the absolutely lovelorn glance he sucker-punched me with was any indication.

However, because I was too…wide, he wasn’t getting any of the water that was supposed to be keeping him warm. I shifted to the side. Not too far– there really wasn’t that much room– but he put his hand on my side to stop me. He quirked an eyebrow, but the water was hitting part of him now, so I shrugged.

“Don’t want you to dry out,” I said.

“I’m not a fish,” he said with a smile to one side.

I considered him…and then made a faux-hawk in his hair, trying to mimic a fin. “Da nuh…da nuh…”

He snorted– then grinned, and dove in to nip at my tummy. I laughed and smushed his hair, and spent just a little more time scratching his scalp before I turned to rinse my hands and grab the showerhead from its perch. As much as I ever hated to leave my apartment, Steve’s had enough creature comforts to make up for it.

“Lean your head back,” I said and he obeyed, shutting his eyes and showing me his relaxed, tired, entirely open and trusting expression.

I put the nozzle to the crown of his head, moving it slowly as I used my other hand to work out the soap with one last, good, quick scalp massage. He was so content already, and that was before dinner even, which was going to be great. Pricey, but great, and I was already making the order in my head.

So I maybe yelped when he suddenly wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer. He pushed his face into my stomach which…honestly made me feel a little weird that it didn’t make me feel weirder. I was naked in the shower with the most handsome and well-built man I’d ever seen, but the way he rested against me was…like it– like I was a comfort, and so I found it hard to be upset by it.

I put my hand on his head and he kissed the patch of skin closest to his mouth. “What’s on your mind?” he asked and sat back.

“I’m planning out dinner,” I said. “We’ll do that pasta place you’ve been hooked on lately. Extra extra garlic bread.”

His eyes widened and he looked at me with so much adoration it almost made me itch. “I love you,” he said.

I smirked. “I know.”

~

We finished up in the shower and got dressed and made it all the way to the couch before Steve continued to indulge in his super-clingy instincts. Honestly, sometimes it was like he saw me as a teddy bear or something. …Not that I was ever going to complain. Nor would I ever admit out loud that it was fine; that I, maybe, kind of liked it. My reputation was in tatters enough, and he already knew what a damned softie I was.

Case in point– I got through ordering everything for dinner and was on the payment screen when a card slid into my view. I almost thanked Steve for being so proactive when I realized that it was not my card. I rolled my eyes. This again. However I had the upper hand of not having had a terrible day, so I turned my head to try and glare him down only to see…the saddest eyes he could make.

I crumbled almost immediately. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” I said and just barely managed to keep from grabbing his card. “Cheering you up after a bad day, all that crap.”

“This will make me very happy,” he said and held it closer to me.

I rolled my eyes and, after a few seconds and requisite heavy sigh, snatched it. “You are such a fucking weirdo,” I said as I started entering the payment. Steve had never made me feel unequal, like I was freeloading, but it still felt…weird. To receive so much and have him act like it was natural and fine that I hardly paid for anything, and not even because he was ‘the guy’ but just because…because he had money now and was happy to provide.

But those feelings were mine to deal with and now was not the time, so I stowed them and went back to snuggling with my boyfriend while we waited for the food to arrive.

“This is…a good day,” Steve decided, somehow wrapped around and hiding in me both.

“I’m glad.” I kissed his head and went back to stroking his hair. “You can ask me to come over whenever you want. Or need. Whatever.”

“Even if it means you have to leave your apartment?”

“I will, in fact, put on pants and brave the subway for you,” I said, gravely dramatic, but still meaning every word. I lost the exaggerated effect and curled around him. “Also, your shower is much better than mine.”

“I don’t think we could both fit in yours. I’m surprised you can fit in yours,” he said, voice fading a little. “Though I am jealous of your in-unit laundry.”

“Yeah, I didn’t get to give you nice warm clothes this time,” I said. “Though since you were having the ‘every little thing goes wrong’ day, you would have banged your head on the doorway. Or hit your shin on the coffee table. Or hit monster traffic. So staying home was probably the right idea.”

“Mm hm,” was his very sleep-addled reply.

Oh no. I sighed. “Steve,” I said and nudged him, but his body was already heavy on mine. “The food’s on its way.”

“Mm…hm.”

I rolled my eyes, and he was out within the next few moments. I glanced at the clock. Well…the food was going to take a while, given the amount we ordered and the fact that it was peak dinnertime. So maybe he could have a little snooze. I situated us just a little more comfortably, set my phone on the cushion with an alarm just in case, and leaned back to let him have some peace at the end of a long day.

~

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

[shannankle]

My Running Thoughts on DFF (Episodes 1-4)

Just started and caught up with DFF, thoughts from my watch for episodes 1-4 are below

Episode 1

Okay but people not hearing from someone is kind of the definition of disappeared

"Don't over think it he probably just moved" lol very comforting

Okay why are you smoking with asthma--I assume this will be related to how he dies, you better keep your inhaler on you at all times when the horrors start

Hmmm some relationship red flags from this guy

Lol our killer getting a bit handsy lol, but what are the actual logistics of that?

Throws cigarette over the railing, starts a fire, end of show--it's all a PSA: only YOU can prevent forest fires

Lol did he just bite his dick to make a point 😂 That's right stand your ground, bite his dick!

Okay so is this a real person or supernatural? Cause the hand and now only one person is hearing weird things. I wonder if there will be a trend of the newbies not hearing or seeing things for a while

Owww. Well the murder got right to the point--the stick kind

I don't know anatomy that well but why is there blood in his mouth? I mean I'll let it slide since it's a trope but I'm still wondering

I think we should split up 😅

Poor guy hasn't even started lessons yet and now he has to deal with tree impalement. Oh good, yeah he's right don't pull it out

Some good delegation from Phee (? still learning names)

Okay that's so not where you're going to find jumper cables ...Okay I was wrong but it certainly wouldn't be where I'd look

Maybe one of you just take the motorcycle? Seems like less of a waste of time, cause it'll take at least 10 minutes to jump that truck...

Oh good, but they should've done that before wasting time finding cables

Oh walkie talkies or radio smart

Who keeps a saw in their kitchen?

Team bike is not doing well lol

Wait so the murderer did try something, enough to cut his arms, crazy that they figured that out just like that though

Okay so it is supernatural maybe cause they aren't seeing it at the same time. I guess it could be hallucinations but it's so consistent

Oh brave to try and bring the bike back still

Wait are they holding off on what they saw in the video till next week or did I just miss it, I'm very good at missing more subtle jump scares but then jumping at stuff that wasn't supposed to be scary

Oh wow they actually used a busted bike for shooting, love that, truly delightful

Love that they give us these behind the scenes it's a nice reprieve from the spooky spooky. It reminds me of something I read on tumblr about how blooper reels serve a similar role to curtain calls for tragedies, they let us know that the actors are okay after all and it's all a show. I will now take all horror with bloopers please! sincerely, a resident scaredy cat

Alright I enjoyed that even if I won't sleep tonight, that mask is so well done and I'm starting to get a feel for the characters

Episode 2

Wait does iqiyi only have this tagged as romance 😳

Ah yes separate from the group that's smart

This is why you don't go off on your own in a horror show, and your even one of the ones convinced it's supernatural man

The masked man: Can you give me directions please, I seem to be lost

Oh wait I'm bad at faces it's the other guy, but also still stupidly alone

I know you're alone but maybe try and fight back

So will the axe be gone and no one believes him or will someone find it later in horror?

Lol he's seeking revenge cause he's upset you tried to film a sequel, don't mess with a writer 🤣

"Thai ghosts can do anything"...Oh interesting that they're making that explicit distinction. If my understanding is right, thai phee can be physical and there's less of a distinction between corporeal vs incorporeal, ghost vs monster. So they're setting the possible stakes and genre. This is a western style slasher but if it is supernatural we'll likely be operating on thai rules for that not western ghost stories. Heck it might mean that this is both physical and supernatural.

Guys, I don't think getting rid of evidence is going to make a ghost move on from its attachments

Ooof that's more than a little rash ouch. Oh not real. So if they're hallucinating it's not just the old group

Interesting to phrase it as "beat him"--so was it self defense in the past or maybe they see it as justified?

Ouch is right my poor ears

Okay physical knife but hallucinated choking. I like that they're playing with whether this is a person or supernatural. It totally fits with the emphasis on this potentially being a thai ghost. Cause it's hard not to waver back and forth.

Is it still not noon yet? Like I assume that'll fall through anyway but still, will the plot all happen in like two days? Interesting if so

All he said was he heard a sound, why are you asking if he saw someone? Suspicious me thinks

Ah really un-suspicious doc

Okay but 2 guys there were also around 3 years ago, you just gave your plan to find the drive first away...

I'm confused why Jin doesn't want it destroyed

Oooh punchout, fight fight fight

Well I knew the uncle wouldn't make it but goodness gracious 🤣

Okay I know it's supposed to be scary but I laughed when he was still handing them the bags

Wow seriously just abandon everyone including your boyfriend, you're on my shit list now

Also you didn't check that you were past the wire when you rode off

Okay Top, but you and Tee literally have encountered the thing before why are you acting like Tee is ridiculous for saying he saw and heard someone

Oh good job you do care a little even if you're going to lie your ass off about it--you're still on my shit list, Tee

Ghosts don't use wire, but like Thai ones could technically, but I guess that's a lot of extra work when you could do anything else as a ghost. I'm really liking how it's playing that line. Is this supernatural? Is it a slasher? What type of horror is this? We don't know yet, the characters certainly don't either.

Did the uncle's body just move?

The end song is very pretty, not what I'd choose for a horror show but it is a nice safe wind down from the scary

Episode 3

Really liking Ta's acting here, it's obviously a bigger role but he's standing out way more to me than in KinnPorsche

Okay I know we are upset about trust issues, but saying Top shouldn't go alone is smart actually you dumb asses

Sure you can set up the walkie talkies to communicate but then anyone can listen in if they know what channel you tune it to, so watch out

Oh yes let White go get the other walkie talkie alone

Ummm shouldn't you still have it tuned to the outside and try it as you drive out to see if you can reach anyone

I feel bad for the guys who are new. Unless they're in on it. Tan is pretty persistent

I do like that we as the audience are as curious as the newbies about what the heck happened in the past, it's a nice way to draw us in and give that past stakes beyond just a motivation reveal

Okay thank you, no touching or concealing bodies thank you. But good point about attracting animals

Okay yeah his body did move

I don't know why that attack felt so cartoonish, not in a bad way just visually it read that way to my brain

Oh Top is gone...dramatic!

Nice that they want to go after him but also how do they expect to catch up with a bike

Wait weren't they leaving, how'd he get back so fast?

Okay so only Top saw it, so is it supernatural or are more people in on it. Tan, I have my eye on you

Lol that's a big temple to just be hiding, spooky though

I want to know more about this Janta. Is it supposed to be a buddhist sect or older practices? Feels like it fits a trend I've noticed of older folk practices being framed as spooky in thai horror but my sample size is small and my context still pretty limited

Duuude great doctor over here, trying to shut up the dying guy. Have you killed before Fluke? Huh?

Interesting how their desire to hide the past keeps making them go against what would be best for survival, like telling white to go somewhere else

Yay white being smart and polite to the deceased! He best live

I think this is the first time I've seen them carrying weapons/defense of any kind. Hope they use it

Oh God how bad is this going to be? That is a lot of blood

Well he's not on the ceiling. After watching both Shutter and Nang Nak the possibility is totally there

I wonder what the writing says

Wait was that a statue or a mummy

Lol aware of the genre now, let's not split up, a little late, but good job guys

Wait one of them is named Phee, I'm guessing it's intonated differently but still an interesting choice

Ah here comes smoking with asthma, still betting that fucks him over when his inhaler is stolen or something

Wait who asked about the smell, cause White doesn't seem to be sniffing or anything

White being a little princess and the pea over here, good for him, I'm putting my bet on him for final girl. White for final girl 2024!

Oh boy what they absolutely don't need is a gun in this situation, I see it helping for defense but also being ripe for so much to go wrong

Lol the sudden flash back scared me more than the axe throwing scare earlier. My ability to miss jump scares but jump at random shit instead prevails

Okay good hide that sucker, no one needs to know you have a gun until the pivotal moment you use it to save yourself

Okay it was the dudes at the shrine who asked about the smell

Wow these guys are so unobservant pffff, let's all pay no attention while the axe guy just walks right up to us

Okay they all see it this time, so unless it's Top in there the rest are accounted for I think

Glad they're fighting back physically this time

I mean maybe try a few more swings before running, 4 on 1 you could maybe get the mask off

Maybe wait on opening the drive, White, cause I feel like doc is going to come looking for you soon

Oh doc is scary, hope White hid that in time

I don't feel like hiding in a confined axeable space is the smartest choice

Ah saved by another idiot

Locked in a casket by your own stupidity. I think they should kiss about it.

Oh did he already sew the wound? Not sure the logistics on that when it's a stab wound

Okay these two are stupid, like there was so much time to run while axe guy just slowly walks

Okay but axe guy on the motor bike is such a funny image...WEEEEEEE

Interesting, so does axe guy not want the disk shown or is he after doc now

So not abandoning White this time, how gallant

No but White is right you best sterilize things

Doc is losing it

And the gun comes out at the worst time

Okay so mask reveal, interesting

Will we actually get to know so early?! It's got to be a twist. Cause if it's Top under there then there's definitely more to it

Episode 4

Fluke's lost it

Is he going to force white to do the sewing?!

Boy you better sanitize that needle

Oof did not want to see the stitching, but at least doc did it himself

He's bleeding in his abdominal cavity AND you just used unsanitized equipment so he's probably going to get a nasty infection

Ah the romance of being locked in a box. I think the oxygen problem could be resolved by kissing actually

Again? Did he dislocated his arm in the past or something

Not going to try and snap it back in, probably smart I guess

What ghost or human could lift a person like that, well it's got to be one or the other guys

Wait I'm pretty sure those were the pants Top was wearing

Yeah okay kind of suspected but how does that work?

And does that mean he's headed to help or harm White

Oh now a ghost? And not in a mask so a real spirit this time, unless it's hallucinations? So I'm guessing multiple things are happening at once in terms of the attackers.

Again only one person seeing it

Omg did this fool just pull a "I'm not lost the woods are just cursed" 😂 going to pull that one out next time I don't want to admit I'm lost. Not all who wander are lost, some are just stuck in cursed woods where they shot a horror film and are now being hunted down for real.

They literally went a foot before spotting the house

I see they brought the supplies the uncle bled all over inside

Why is a random newspaper with tee's uncle sitting there, seems very planted. Did Fluke put it there?

Oh God is that foreshadowing is there something in his stomach

Did Top poison himself or was he forced?

He probably shouldn't become a doctor if he's complaining over two patients

Looks like some clay can but that's cursory search. Oh he learned it from detective conan how cute if this wasn't life or death

Bleeding eyes seems to be a thing

Why are they using a hair dryer on the clay and not like the oven

Hmmm maybe try the oven before waiting till the sun comes out!

Dun dun dun

Possession? Or has Top just lost it?

Oh no! Friend on friend violence! We're one man down now

Okay but why now? Por has been dying just fine until now. And the killer seems pretty well planned. So I don't think Top is the actual one behind anything. I mean I guess he could've faked the poisoning but again why kill him now? Cause wouldn't it be better to go after White who saw the tape?

I mean no one checked it was loaded so I guess it makes sense it wouldn't be shooting bullets

I'm not convinced it's just Top being a maniac, I still think there's a supernatural component or at least more going on

Ruh roh it is loaded after all what did I say about bad things happening if you throw a gun into the mix

White love you bud but you are being super unhelpful right now

It looked more like he was trying to shoot himself

Good job White atta boy!

Oh fluke looks so sad...

And then there were 7 (or 8 I guess if we have an extra person running around after all)

I do like that because this is a show and not a film we get their moment of grief and that's given space 😔

Now doc has no patients (too soon?)

Ahhh poor doc, that's a lot before you've even had your training, wouldn't blame him if he switched majors (allowing he stays alive and all)

Yes for goodness sake tie him up, though I'm guessing he'll be back to normal and it's not the end, that or he's gone already

How'd these idiots get locked in the shrine, you were outside before, go around

Wait who was on the walkie?

Dude I think getting out is way more important than your resume, though I guess if you think it's over

The comparison and contrast between Top losing it supernaturally (or hallucinating idk) and fluke losing it cause of the past and his anxiety over the future

Ah the joys of youth, friendship, and threatening each other with a gun in a cabin

Dang dude

Once again fear of the past is making them choose to screw themselves over, mostly Fluke here, but yeah

Dude you have alibis and CCTV footage, you'll be fine (i mean you won't cause it's definitely not over but yeah)

Top making a hilariously dramatic re-entrance

And then there were 6? 7 I guess if we still assume there's an extra person. If the shot actually landed. Maybe doc just got himself a new patient instead

Oh looking forward to seeing Non and a non-passed-out Por next week!