#grapefruit tattoo

[faggotfungus]

Mobshity

[toxic-apricot]

I’m kinda cute sometimes lmfao

[beachfolk]

Claire Saffitz blood orange olive oil cake recipe w/grapefruit added (bc that’s what my lover likes)

[faeevermore]

-D E V O U R M E-

[systmiki]

Today's practice

[linecoveredinjellyfish]

today in my adventures in reading the original holmes stories:

sherlock has twice now said that he's "written a little something" on extremely niche subjects (tattoo design (by nationality?) and tobacco ash).

a modern sherlock holmes would absolutely edit wikipedia articles in his free time. he'd be super pedantic about it too.

[fanaticsnail]

I know dreaming of you are group works but I literally want one for katakuri sooo bad like, the GRIP this man has on me is insane

(I love him so much🍩❤)

(Ps.I'm sorry if this sounds like a demand I didn't mean it to❤)

Sweet anon, I have had a grapefruit flavoured soju and immediately began this as soon as I saw it in my ask box an hour ago. I hope you enjoy! (Don't worry, honey. I crave the big guy too).

Dreaming of you

Masterlist Here

Word count: 1,800+

SFW Part 2 Here

Synopsis: He couldn't help it. You looked so heavenly in his dream. The way you writhed on his lap, cried his name and allowed him to please you had him wake to sticky blankets when he jolted upright. His thoughts got the better of him, and he was wracked with a new mission to seek out whether it was a possibility to see it become a reality.

Warnings: wet dreams, afab!reader x katakuri, fingering, nicknames, haki, dub con (Using your image to picture satisfying him in his fantasy), suggestive content, size difference, feelings, NSFW, 18+, MDNI.

Notes: Dreaming of You Masterlist Here, Please read the warnings. I normally do this in threes, but as soon as I saw the ask, I needed to know. Enjoy playing the part of Katakuri's fantasy. Art link.

Tag list: @sordidmusings @nerium-lil @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @indydonuts @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @carrotsunshine @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training

Sat on his lap with your back on his chest, his middle digit gently began pistoning in soft beckoning motions into your glistening cunt. His face was coated in a soft glow of blush, his toothy grin tugging dotingly up his cheeks as he watched you cum on his hand through half-hooded lashes. 

Your legs shook as he slowly brushed against your g-spot, angling his large hand over your clit and grinding into it with his palm. Huffing and panting, your release gushed over his leather pants and coated them with another wave of your slick as he stretched your tight pussy with his large fingers. 

“Did you cum again for me, little mouse?” he cooed down at you, gently drawing his index finger over your chin and dragging the pad of his fingertips over your jaw. You looked up at him, the soft sheen of your dewy sweat coated your forehead and stuck the loose strands of your hair against your head. 

“I-I-...” you struggled to find the words, your head fuzzy and spiraling with the sheer number of times Katakuri had devoted to making you whimper, writhe and cream your desires over his fingers, lips and tongue. He offered you nothing but love in his hazel eyes, blinking slowly and angling his face down to smile at you in a soft gaze. 

“I know you did, sweet thing,” he affirmed, drawing soft patterns into your cheek and offering you a kiss on your glistening forehead, “I felt you flutter around me when you called my name. So pretty,” he complimented, rubbing his large cheek over your head and inhaling your perfume, “So sweet.”

You whimpered, drawing your hands up to his face and tugging at his jaw. Moaning and pleading with him, you pressed intentional and desperate kisses against his cheeks, lips, teeth and chin while confessing your desires. 

“I want to try again,” you called to him, imploring him to give into your demands, “Please can we try again? I promise I’ll behave and listen. I can do it this time, promise.” Katakuri groaned, his cheeks deepening with their soft flush as he withdrew his fingers from your pussy, your gummy walls contracting with aftershocks of pleasure as he did so.

“We can’t, you know this,” he attempted to relay to you, gently pressing on your shoulders and turning you in his lap, “I am over seventeen feet tall,” he gestured to his tattooed chest before gently caressing your shoulders, “You don’t even reach half that height. Where are you going to fit it-?”

“-I don’t care,” you reassured him and cut off his train of thought, pressing needy kisses against his chest, trailing lower to his belt buckle, “I’ll make it fit. I am determined to make it fit.” You tugged hard on his belt and released the metal clamp from the leathery holster, “I promise it’ll fit.” 

“It won’t fit,” he again argued, gently tugging at your shoulder with a soft nudge, “You can’t fit it in both of your hands, let alone anywhere else. It’s okay, I assure you,” he urged you to look up at him by drawing up your chin with his index and middle fingers, “It doesn’t make me love you any less.”

You grit your teeth, looking down at him and hardening your resolve. He smiled at your expression, adoring your soft pout and closing his eyes as he was sure he had convinced you to give up on your little mission. It was true, there was no natural way for him to slot himself within you without tearing open your abdomen and breaking your smaller body. 

As he closed his eyes, he felt something soft, wet and tight begin to descend onto his knob. He immediately snapped his eyes open, his eyes wide with shock as you took him within your pussy while wincing back the pain. 

“What are y-you-...?” he began, halting as he gasped at the sensation of your body choking his shaft with your tight pussy. His hands shook, his body ignited with lust and arguing with himself to tug your body away from him, while fighting the urge to buck up into you. 

“I-... I can do it,” you grit your teeth, your eyes clenching shut as you descend onto him inch by inch. Finally taking his large tip into your body, he could see the outline of his knob sheathed within you. Gritting his teeth, he balled his hands into fists and held them firmly at his sides. 

“D-Don’t,” he implored you, his breath hitching in his throat as you took more of him into yourself, “Don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.” He begged, huffing and panting as he felt more of you descend onto his throbbing cock. His shaft twitched at the base involuntarily, prompting a cry to fall from his lips as they parted in shock. 

“I…” you growled at him, prompting his eyes to open at the tone of your cadence, “...can do this.” Your determination held something else in your eye, his own gaze meeting your steely determination as you took the final few inches of his shaft deep within you. He looked closer, noticing the tinge of red around your irises, the lightning veins of swirly command prompting him to fall his toothy jaw slack in shock.

“Armament haki?” he whispered at you, his gaze trickling over your naked form in shock and awe, “You’re-... nnnnhg-... you’re using armament haki in order to take my cock?” His voice stuttered as his resolve nearly crumbled in its cower. Your eyes darkened, your pussy fluttering around him as it contracted to endure his size.

“I am,” you confirmed with a curt, dangerous and feral nod, “And I can hold this armament haki for three minutes,” you splayed your fingers on his happy trail and bounced a little to ensure it was working. You looked up at him with a manic glint in your eye, his eyes trembling in shock as you uttered mischievously, “So you have about one minute forty five to use me the way you so desperately want to, sweetheart. Better get going.” 

Without much further warning, Katakuri spun you beneath him and began mercilessly bullying you with his exceptionally girthy cock. The indent of his shaft molded your body to fit his contour, the bulge in your abdomen protruding as he sheathed himself with every harsh thrust. 

He had never been with a partner, always fearing to tear them in half and break them the moment he gave into his desire. He wasn’t sure he would be able to hold out for the remaining minute and thirty seconds you had remaining of this armament, simply lost to all other thoughts than how perfect you felt wrapped around him. He huffed and panted your name, using you as his personal sleeve as he grasped your hips in a single hand beneath where you lay under him.

“I-I’m-... I’m-... I’m-...” he growled, feeling his release pool in his abdomen and tighten in the pit of his belly, “I’m gonna cum. I’m g-gonna cum.” 

“Cum in me, Katakuri,” you urged him, your body taking him effortlessly without a hint of pain or sorrow, “Claim me, make me yours. I’m yours. Only yours.” He pulled you into him further, harder, faster, stronger. His hips stapled you against the mattress as he felt the first twitches of his cock readying for erruption. 

“Hh-hah-... I’m c-cumming,” he sobbed, his teeth drawing down to nibble at your neck as he began to ride his high, “I’m cumming, I’m-... f-fuck-... I’m cumming.” He shot rope after rope of his pearlescent cum deep within your abdomen, immediately splashing back and coating the base of his shaft and balls with each hefty wave of sticky release. 

Huffing and panting, he continued riding through his high, his bucking, tugging and grinding continuing to have him sob your name as he finally experienced the unity between the two of you. He felt relief and bittersweet sorrow eclipse his being the moment his ecstasy ceased, looking down at you with awe and amazement. 

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing a sweet kiss on your forehead as he felt the final spurts of his pent up release brush into your body and splash back onto his own. As he darted his eyes between yours, your image dissipated into a cloud of vapor and his eyes widened in shock. 

He shook his head, reopening his eyes and noticing his room was without luminance and dark in comparison to the soft, smoky glow it was lit with moments before. Rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, he looked down at himself and noticed another duvet ruined by his midnight muse. He growled at himself, his jaws clenching tightly shut as he came to terms with everything he dreaded. 

It was another dream. 

Another dream about you.

When he met you and the rest of the Straw-Hat crew back at Cake Island for the wedding between his sister and the Vinsmoke boy, he was immediately captivated by you. You had a fiery temper, a need to care for your crew, and compassion for your enemies by heeding a code of conduct while you battled. 

You hurt his sister, Brulee, by engaging her in combat. Something he was going to ensure you paid for with interest the moment he had an opportunity to do so. As she was harmed a little more than you potentially intended, you halted the combat to ensure she was truly okay. Your need to ensure she had an ‘out’ from the fight, to offer her a swift execution or an honorable understanding if she stood down had him immediately smitten with you. 

The minister of flour was in love with you, something he didn’t anticipate ever feeling for an individual. And this was the twelfth time this month he had dreamt of you. His dreams started with him engaging you in battle for you to halt it and offer him peace in the form of a donut. As the dreams became more intense, he pictured himself revealing his face to you and having you accept him for who he was. 

This was the first time he had ever pictured himself fucking you. He had always ever pleasured you in his dreams, never seeking satisfaction for himself due to the sheer impossibility of it. You were small, he was tall: there was nothing he could do to change that fact. 

Nothing, until his dreams offered him this solution. 

He immediately began cleaning up after his night visit, reaching for his tissue box beside his bed and tidying the glubs of his release over his abdomen, deflating shaft, and bedsheets beneath him. Getting up from his reline, he headed over to his desk and pulled out a small collection of information regarding armament haki. Sifting through the pages, he thought this time he had finally found the solution. 

This time, he could finally find a way to experience what he had denied himself for so long. 

He could only hope that you were not only able to wield armament haki, but that you could consider the possibility to engage yourself with him in a relationship. He loved you from afar, using his sister’s ability to check in with you from time to time after the battle. You seemed friendly enough with them both whenever they checked in, perhaps you could see yourself with someone like him.

His hope would come soon enough, his sister's face split up in a large smile as she spoke with you on a den-den snail. You were aboard the Thousand Sunny and sailing with your captain towards Elegia to see Uta's concert. Inviting Brulee to join you at the venue, to sing along to Uta's music with her, was potentially his way to confess his love for you once the festivities concluded.

[jeonjcngkook]

incandescent | jjk

pairing: jungkook x female reader

genre(s)&au(s): fluff, established relationship

rating: pg

wc: 1.3k

warnings: theyre so in love with each other🤭! koos singing voice lulls us all 🤲🏻 makin’ out, playing with koos pretty hair bcs its exactly what he deserves !!!

summary: you and your boyfriend spend a comfortable romantic night in together.

note: unedited. repost bcs the last one stopped showing in tags 🙃.

Is there anything more beautiful than the sound of your boyfriend's voice?

The deep tenors and sweet cadences lull you into a state of calm as you stretch yourself out on the couch below, listening to Jungkook reach the notes in a perfect sequence to the song he is currently singing on his karaoke machine.

Friday nights are typically spent with each other as you participate in different activities. Your relationship's own version of a ‘date night’, you could say. However, this time it had been agreed between you both that staying in and enjoying each other's company in the cosiness of the home you built together was exactly what was needed.

Earlier, Jungkook prepared dinner for you both — a spread on the table of both your favourite foods and glasses of alcohol to wash it down with. Every detail had been carefully thought of, all the way down to the scented candles, that he personally chose to match the fragrances of the food.

Now, with full tummies and even fuller hearts, you both lie within the blanket of reds, blues and greens from the stars of his favourite LED light system and a spread of mandarin & grapefruit scented candles decorating the living room.

You could listen to Jungkook’s voice all day and never be tired of it. The calming effect he has on you with his words alone is something you have always admired. It doesn’t take much for a yawn to slip through his lips, catching the attention from yourself as he continues to sing through the verse of the next song. You watch as he attempts to stifle it underneath his breath, pulling the thin knitted throw up to his face to conceal the motion.

A sweet smirk is on your lips as he continues his lacklustre attempt at concealing his tiredness. Tears cling to his lower lash line from the yawn, head falling to the side and landing on your shoulder.

“You should get some sleep,” you’re quick to say as you feel him wriggle further into your warmth, his hand finding your spare hand that isn’t holding your phone and intertwining his fingers with your own.

“I’m fine staying here with you, baby,” he mumbles back in retaliation, cutting himself off mid-song to rebuttal back, voice half asleep and rubbing at his eyes like that will do the job of removing the sleep out of it. “I like laying here with you.”

You huff a little at his words. He is too darn cute for his own good and it makes your body warm knowing that he is licking being with you over much needed rest.

“But we could lie together in bed, snuggle up nice and cosy, and then in the morning come back here and cuddle all day into the night. Doesn’t that sound like the perfect way to begin our weekend?” You reason with him.

Jungkook’s lips part open for a moment as if he had the words to argue back with but is quick to shut them and opts for putting his microphone down on the coffee table instead. He finds the remote control for the TV and lowers the volume to something less deafening and one a little more relaxing as the lofi sounds act as a background ambiance.

He turns towards you and you watch as the flickers of the candles scattered around the room flicker and dance against his skin; bathing him in an ethereal glow — just like how an angel should look. The bright vibrant amber candlelight beautifully illuminates the melanin of his skin, extenuating his tanned skin stunningly.

It doesn’t help that his shirt is loose and baggy on his upper body, sleeves cuffed half way on his upper arm showing off his pretty tattoos of striking colours and bold black lines, only for the muscle under his skin to thicken as he brings his hand up to his hair. You watch intently as both hands comb through the long curly tresses from forehead to crown; again and again and it only magnifies just how pretty your boyfriend is.

The tip of his tongue presses against his inner cheek, his cheek protruding from the outside…an action he usually does when he is deep in thought. With the way the light hits his soft skin, it perfectly shows off how sharp his jawline is and how his gentle pink lips rest in a natural pout, leaving them looking plump, pink and irresistibly kissable.

“‘m not tired,” he argues, a grin on his face as he lies himself down next to you on the L shape of the couch, pulling back the thin blanket that has been resting on the headrest of the sofa and engulfs you inside the fabric before laying his head into your lap and effectively trapping you against the back of the leather and his body. Another yawn takes over his body as you feel him stiffen as he rides it out.

You lift your hand up to his face and let your fingers play delicately with the strands of his hair, twisting it around your finger and curling it around his ear away from his face.

Jungkook’s eyes flutter closed as you continue playing with his hair, adding to his tiredness and lulling him into a state of slumber. The atmosphere is exactly what Jungkook had promised earlier…cosy.

Jungkook’s eyes slipped shut, just long enough for you to see before he is prying them back open again with as much willpower as he can possibly muster. With the feeling of your fingers gently twisting and pulling at his hair, he has no argument against his exhaustion as it finally reaches him.

You reach the tight curls at the base of his neck, fingers playing with the curls as you make sure to let your nails scratch lightly at the base of his scalp, knowing that Jungkook has no bone in his body to make this stop, enjoying your touches so much.

You have him exactly where you want him.

Jungkook’s eyes are glazed over with sleep and yet all the same still looks dreamy — the browns are rich and deep, flakes of amber dotted within his irises. Love songs are written about eyes like his. It wasn’t hard to peer into them and to see your own smile reflecting back when he looks at you.

He runs his thumb over your lower lip, parting them just slightly before he leans down, pillowy lips connecting to yours in a soft kiss.

The feeling is so fulfilling that it is enough to make your eyelids flutter shut and your heart racing in your chest with blissful warmth as he presses his mouth deeper into yours. Even in a state of sleep, the kiss is still filled with emotion — passionate and sensual.

Jungkook moans as his mouth continues to work over yours, his teeth catching your lower lip and biting down with little pressure and letting it snap back before chasing your mouth for a second kiss.

Your hands run through his hair,nails grazing his scalp enticingly, eliciting another moan from deep within his chest. The way you kiss him has him seeing stars; dazed and lost in the touch of your lips. You caress his face with delicate touches, tongues flicking across his mouth and the way you counter back by nibbling in his own bottom lip before breaking the kiss.

Endearingly, you both press your foreheads together and close your eyes with a smile on both your lips.

Jungkook’s hand finds home on his hip before slipping underneath the cotton material of your t-shirt and resting his hands there. His thumb runs tracks over your skin in back and forth strokes as you bask in the calming, soothing sensation.

You feel his foot nudge open your legs as he tangles his limbs with yours and pulls you impossibly closer to you, your own leg now resting on top of his lip as you lock each other within the other's arms.

The feeling of Jungkook’s breath against your skin causes goosebumps to travel over your body, the warmth now turning into a small bonfire as love for the sleepy man in your arms ignites and burns bright.

It isn’t long before his breathing becomes drawn out and even, loud snores whistling through his nose and his thumb slows its movements as he eventually falls asleep in your arms.

“So much for not being sleepy,” you mock him as if he could hear, when deep down you wish that he had taken off into a dreamy slumber.

With gentle ease, you press the palm of your hand against his full cheek and brush your thumb over his cheeks the same way he did with your hip moments ago. You press your head against his forehead and land a tiny, light, airy kiss on his pouty lips.

You close your own eyes, listening to the flickering sounds of the small candles around the living room as well as concentrating on the rhythm of Jungkook’s breathing, hoping to ease yourself into your own slumber.

What felt like a moment later, Jungkook tightens his hold on you, whispering a small ‘i love you’, before sleep eventually blankets over you.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 2: Story Of My Life]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, cryptic song lyrics, tattoos, motorcycles, pretentious veganism, the return of the Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “I’m not interested in therapy. But I’m somewhat interested in you.”

Word count: 6.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Under the stars, under the canopy of incandescent string lights, you tilt a Salty Dog against your lips: clinking ice, rosemary, a wedge of grapefruit, salt on the rim. The indigo wind raises goosebumps on your arms. From the speakers flow notes muffled by car horns and ambient conversation: Coldplay, Life In Technicolor ii. The Missouri River is a snake in the distance, twisting and glimmering, silver scales built of reflected moonlight. It is one year before you fly to Rome. It is the prologue of a book you never thought you’d write.

“I hope you’re not cheating on anybody,” you say to Aegon. Your voice has that drowsy, unguarded honestly that follows good sex with someone you might have the capacity to love under the right circumstances. His does too.

Aegon snorts and shakes his head. There is sunburn on his cheeks like a stain of spilled wine; summer in the Lower Midwest doesn’t agree with him. It’s too hot, too primal. It’ll bite you if you’re not careful. “No. There’s no one.”

“Is there ever?” you ask. “I remember seeing paparazzi photos of Jace and Luke with their girlfriends, Aemond with Shelby, Cregan with…plentiful, interchangeable Victoria’s Secret models. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you attached to anyone.”

“Look, can I be honest for a second? I mean, I don’t want to offend you. But you seem cool, you seem like you might get it. Can I be real with you?”

“Yeah. Be real, I’d like that.”

“I love what we’re doing right now,” Aegon says. He takes a swig of his Salty Dog, your suggestion. His blond hair, nearly shoulder-length, whips in the night breeze. There’s something about Missouri that feels old, prehistoric almost, and you know because you’ve left it and come back: untamed, unrefined, brown recluses and black bears, copperheads and water moccasins, droughts and floods and tornados, humid and buggy like the earth the dinosaurs knew. “And I loved what I was doing last week in Boston and Philly, and I’ll probably love what I’m doing a few days from now in Houston. But if I knew I had to do it, I wouldn’t love it anymore, you know? That’s just how I am. It’s not a reflection on anyone but me. I can’t handle obligations, commitment, chains. I feel the weight of expectations settling on me and I run.” He rests his chin on his knuckles as he gazes at you like a distant constellation. “I don’t think my worth is determined by who or how I fuck. I don’t think yours is either. I think there are sluts who are angels and virgins who are demons. And I think to believe otherwise is not just archaic or puritanical or ignorant. I think it’s deeply, catastrophically harmful.”

You’re smiling; tears brim in your eyes. “Thank you, Aegon,” you say softly.

He is mystified. “For what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

Coldplay recedes from the speakers. Next—for no less than the fourth time this evening—is the Weeknd’s Starboy. Aegon groans and drums his Salty Dog on the tabletop. “Oh my God, this song again?!”

“They’re obsessed!”

“They really are.”

“It’s for you,” you tease. “You’re the big star. The boy band star. The Starboy.”

He takes your right hand, flattens your palm, and lays it against his chest. Through his t-shirt—Nirvana, grey, short-sleeved, from Target—you can feel muscle, bone, rushing blood. “Starboy,” he tells you, grinning. Then he presses his own palm to your heart, beating calm and slow beneath your dress the color of emeralds. “Stargirl.”

“Oh no. Wrong. I’m definitely a nobody.”

“You’re not,” Aegon says. And then again, to make sure you’ve heard him: “You’re not.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“So I only have to talk to two people?” Rhaena says suspiciously, like she’s waiting for you to pull the lever of a trapdoor.

“Exactly.” You take another bite of your carbonara, an Italian invention that would be at home in the Midwest: heavy, cheesy, lots of pork products. “At the meet-and-greet before the show tonight, I want you to pick two people. Just two. And they can be anyone you want. 13-year-old girls, frat boys, soccer moms, grandmas, whoever. And I want you to chat with each of those two people for two minutes. That’s four minutes total. And then you’re done!”

“I’m really done? You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay. Two people, two minutes. I can do that.” Rhaena turns to Luke, who has bits of lasagna all over his shirt and one wayward shred of a noodle in his dark curly hair. “I can do that, right?”

He nods encouragingly. “You can totally do that.”

Aemond is watching; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, short blond hair and a black t-shirt. He wears a lot of black, few accessories, like he’s trying not to be noticed. You look across the table at him. The band is enjoying a late lunch—everyone sleeps in until at least 1 p.m.—on the patio of a restaurant that overlooks the Palatine Hill. Intense midday sunbeams stream, in threads like tinsel on a Christmas tree, through the gaps in the pergola of grapevines, climbing roses, and ivy. In the daylight, Aemond’s scar is jarring—red, wrathful—and his sightless blue dreamscape of a left eye all the more peculiar. He fixes his gaze on you, daring you to flinch away, to be disgusted, to wilt like something parched and dying. You stare steadily back. Aemond sips his white wine, half-smiling, and twirls spaghetti onto his fork. You have white wine too. You keep choosing whatever drinks he does.

“You came all the way to Rome only to order the most basic, fifth-grader version of pasta imaginable?”

“It has marinara sauce,” Aemond replies. “I’m a vegan.”

“Uh oh,” you say. “For health reasons or the environment, or…?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “I just feel that the world has enough suffering in it already without me contributing to the mass torture and execution of sentient beings.”

“Okay. Pretentious.”

Aemond chuckles, covering his mouth with one hand so he can chew his spaghetti with dignity. “What do your parents do in Kansas?”

“Missouri,” you correct, like a reflex.

“I know, it’s so confusing,” Aegon tells him. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses and a salmon-colored tank top that matches his sunburn. “It’s Kansas City, but apparently it’s in Missouri, not Kansas. But there is a different, smaller, much worse Kansas City in actual Kansas.”

“It’s confusing for your little hamster brain,” you say.

Aegon holds up a dark green bottle of olive oil that he’s been drenching his salad with: lettuce, tomatoes, black olives, skinless boneless chicken. “This is healthy, right?”

“Yeah, it’s really good for you. Antioxidants and anti-inflammatory properties.”

Jace snickers. “Dude, that has like 100 calories per tablespoon.”

Aegon frowns dejectedly down at his salad. “Fuck.”

Aemond asks you: “So what do your parents do in Missouri?”

“They have a farm just outside the city.”

“Oh. Nice.” Some apprehension now. “What do they raise?”

“Beef cattle.”

The rest of the table bursts out laughing. Aemond’s cheeks—one smooth and pristine, one cut in two by a rust-colored cord of bitter corporal memory like barbed wire—flush pink. He is happy in a way that he hasn’t been in a long time; you can see that in the warmth that glows on the others’ faces. He is alarmingly, breathtakingly beautiful. He has the sort of features that belong carved into marble, in myths, in museums. “I mean…I’m sure they do a great job.”

“You should visit one day. You can help brand the herd.”

“Absolutely,” Aemond quips.

“Nothing gets one’s deepest, darkest revelations flowing like hard labor.”

“I’m not interested in therapy.” He peers around the table for the basket of bread. “Jace, can you pass me some of that?”

Jace picks up a piece of crunchy Italian bread and lobs it through the air. It goes sailing right past Aemond, at least a foot from his fumbling, futile hands.

Aegon is exasperated. “Jace, bruh, you know he’s got no depth perception!”

“It’s fine,” Aemond says quickly, like he wants the conversation to be over.

“It’s not fine.” Aegon stands up and leans across the table to jab his index finger menacingly at Jace. “Have some consideration for anyone besides yourself. Have some fucking respect.”

Jace is more entertained than intimidated. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression that I outrank you now.”

“Yeah. And how’d you get there?” In the uneasy quiet that falls over the table, Aegon—quite tipsy already—lurches inside the restaurant to use their bathroom.

Daeron slides the basket of bread over to Aemond. Luke studies him sympathetically without knowing what to say. So much of what settles in us—accumulating like radiation, cooking malignancies into our bones—are things we cannot speak of. This is the great supposition of therapy. It’s what first inspired Sigmund Freud to get that fateful ball rolling in the latter half of the 1800s, before television or radio or record players, before airplanes, before Alaska or Hawaii were added to the Union.

Criston sighs loudly and stabs at his carne alla pizzaiola. Cregan stares indifferently out over the Palatine Hill: the Palace of Domitian, the House of Tiberius, the Temple of Apollo, ruins of gods and men. He slips a minibar-sized bottle of Absolut Vodka out of his sweatpants, empties it into his San Pellegrino, and gulps it all down. Jace has one arm slung across the back of his girlfriend Baela’s chair. She whispers something to him, clearly irritated. He replies briskly back. They have the look of a couple that has spent more time trying to claw their way back to a good place than they ever spent happy to begin with. Jace steals a glimpse of you, smirking. He turns away as soon as you notice him watching. His arms and chest, visible through his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, are a mosaic of tattoos: the Eiffel tower, cherry blossoms, Christ the Redeemer, an alligator, a pair of dice.

After a few minutes, Aegon returns to the table, noticeably more peppy. He starts collecting everyone’s silverware and piling it on a plate for when the servers clear the table. He sorts the utensils by type—forks, knives, spoons—and then by size.

“What is on your face?” Criston demands.

Aegon feigns innocence. Badly. “Huh? What? Face? Huh?”

“Your face. What the hell is all over your face?”

Aegon touches his fingertips to his nose. They come away dusted with white residue. “Um. Donuts.”

“What?”

“Powdered sugar donuts.”

“That’s what you were doing in the bathroom? Eating donuts?”

“…Yes.”

“Aegon,” Criston says sternly.

“They’re called zeppole here.”

Criston claps his hands together and rises from the table. “Okay, time for soundcheck!”

There are groans and complaints, but the band obeys, mopping stray sauce from their lips with cloth napkins and then heading for the black Escalades parked outside the restaurant…everyone except Aemond. He sips his wine leisurely, like he hasn’t heard Criston. You don’t leave either.

Criston regards Aemond with fatherly concern, a hand rested on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah. We’ll catch up with you later.”

“Really?”

“If memory serves, you don’t need me for this part anymore.”

“Right,” Criston admits awkwardly. “Well one of the Escalades will be waiting out front whenever you’re ready.”

“Sounds good.”

Criston and the rest of the band vanish towards the front of the restaurant. You can hear the slamming of doors and Criston shouting: “Get in the car…get in the fucking car…put your seatbelt on…Aegon, right now, put it on—!”

Aemond takes a pack of Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of the pocket of his dark jeans, puts one between his lips, ignites it with a small square metal lighter—vintage? heirloom?—and then throws the glittery gold pack onto the table. “Okay. Go ahead.”

You smile at him, bars of shadow and sunlight across both of your faces. The restaurant speakers, breaking the spell of the ever-ancient Roman mirage, are playing Foster The People’s Pumped Up Kicks. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I’m not interested in therapy. But I’m somewhat interested in you.” He exhales smoke like a dragon. “So go on, ask your questions so I can theatrically unburden myself and emerge from the wreckage like a phoenix, all shiny and redeemed.”

You gesture broadly. “How did this happen?”

“This?”

“You getting kicked out of Comet. Daeron being added to the lineup, Jace being promoted.”

He speaks nonchalantly as if discussing ancient history or the weather, like that’s just the way the world works, a morally ambiguous eventuality. Every once in a while a tsunami or a mudslide comes along and gobbles up a couple thousand lives, but the planet keeps on spinning. “The label made the call. An executive decision, they said. A boy band is a fantasy. It has to be light, fun, erotic without being scandalous or threatening. No one wants to watch some mutilated, half-blind guy strutting around a stage trying to reclaim some long-gone, better version of himself.”

You are at once immeasurably vengeful on his behalf, but you can’t show this. “That must have been difficult. To be treated mercilessly when you were vulnerable. To realize that something you poured your heart and soul into was so transactional.”

He shakes his head, smoking, not looking at you. He gazes out over the Palatine Hill instead.

“Aemond?”

“What do you want me to say?” he answers abruptly. “That I’m angry? I am. That I wish the accident had never happened? Yeah, I wish that. I wish it every goddamn day. But there’s nothing I can do about any of it. Of course I’m furious. Of course I’m resentful. I built this band. I got us together, kept us together, wrote virtually every hit we ever had. Comet was mine. It was my whole life, my past, my future, my legacy. And they took it from me. You want to know how I really feel about that? I couldn’t tell you in words. I’d have to hit something until my knuckles split through the skin.”

He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray with trembling hands, then he drags his fingers—long, uncalloused, dexterous, though you wish you could stop staring at them—through his hair. He glances at you, embarrassed. You look calmly back.

“Jesus Christ,” Aemond says shakily. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“The band was yours,” you agree. “So you’re the one who named it?”

“Yeah.”

“Comet Donati. The first comet ever photographed. 1858.”

He is impressed. “You’ve studied astronomy?”

“Well…I Googled it,” you confess, and he laughs. He’s relaxed again, he’s sunny like the sky. “But I really like it. A disproportionate number of astronomers are from the Midwest, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Because there’s nothing to do there, so people watch the stars instead.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Better than livestock farming or teen pregnancies, I guess.”

“What is it about the comet that inspires you?”

Aemond lights himself a fresh cigarette. His last name is etched into the side of the steel lighter, you see now: Targaryen. “It has an orbital period of 1,740 years. That last time Comet Donati clipped by Earth, Abraham Lincoln was watching it from the front porch of his hotel. It won’t come back until the late-3000s. I’ll never see it. You’ll never see it. But it’s always there. And to me, there’s something really beautiful about that. So many things in life are invisible, silent, unspoken, unacknowledged, unknown, misunderstood. But that doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

You recall the woman you’ve seen standing beside him in countless paparazzi photos: an actress and influencer, 20 million Instagram followers, California blond, Ibiza clubs and Met Galas. “Where’s Shelby?”

“Not around anymore, obviously.”

“She left you or you left her?”

He flicks away ashes, vague, evasive. “She couldn’t handle it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t, that’s clear. It’s marked him somewhere deeper than the flesh.

“No, Aemond.” You reach across the table to take his free hand, his left hand, in your own. “I’m really, really sorry.”

He’s watching you, but he isn’t just watching; he’s a little bewildered, and little captivated, a little impishly proud like he’s won a bet. When you release his hand, he says: “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want someone who’s repulsed by me. Or worse, someone who can only see me as something damaged and pitiful. I don’t want to be fucked out of pity.”

Oh no, you think, gazing helplessly at his face, his fingers, his wrists, the slope of his throat. Oh no, I don’t think pity would be anywhere in my mind, not even a whisper of it, not even a ghost.

Aemond notices. His lips pull up at the edges into a sly smile…and then he grows solemn again. “Are you going to ask me about what happened at the Budokan?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about the past anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because I think what happened to you was horrible and senseless and unfair. And the worst part isn’t that you look different. It’s that you are different. You can’t ever unlearn how people treated you afterwards, what their true motivations were. People who discarded you, people who forgot about you. You didn’t deserve that. You were worthy then and you’re worthy now. I don’t want to talk about your past. I want to talk about where you’re going next.”

“I have no idea. When I said the band was my whole life, I meant it.”

“You’ll figure something out. And maybe I can help.”

“Maybe.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette, intrigued. “What made you want to be a therapist?”

That nervous drop in your stomach; a sensation like falling. You disguise it expertly. “No no, I’m asking the questions here. I’m the one with the master’s degree.”

“Now who’s pretentious?”

You’re giggling, and then Aemond is too, like mirror images of each other: sipping white wine and averting your eyes—those so-called windows to the soul—towards the Palatine Hill before they can reveal too much.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Comet Donati performs now, Aemond isn’t on stage. But he never misses a show. He paces around with a black notebook and a white gel pen—Luke learned that from him, you realize—jotting down suggestions and critiques to share with the others afterwards. You follow him, trailing soundlessly like a shadow, through hallways and down aisles and across sky-high catwalks like ancient aqueducts. You’re wearing the only dress you brought from home: short, black lace, cold shoulders. Unconsciously, Aemond takes your hand to make sure you don’t fall behind. Wordlessly, he points out things that make you laugh: Aegon repeatedly slipping on a puddle of beer that he spilled, Daeron’s improvised dance moves (the Mailman, the Beached Whale, the Reckless Uber Driver, etc.), screaming middle-aged women flashing Cregan, Luke giving little crochet stars and planets and comets—handmade by Baela and Rhaena—to children in the audience. But Aemond rarely acknowledges Jace.

As you and Aemond lurk just offstage, the band is performing A Song I’ve Never Heard, the lead single off their first album and an enduring fan favorite.

“If you disappear, I’m going under

Telling you right now, there is no other

Who could ever replace you, no need to wonder

Your name is a song I’ve never heard before.”

“They’re really good live,” you shout, barely audible over the noise. You stand on your tiptoes and lean against Aemond’s shoulder so he can hear you. You are struck by the dormant power beneath your palms, his tense muscles, his radiating heat. You can’t help but imagine what sort of rhythm you might fall into together.

“Yeah,” he says distractedly.

“They’d be even better with you.”

Aemond turns, startled, then smiles. He passes you his notebook and gel pen so you can read his comments and add any of your own. You skim through his scribbled, pearlescent observations.

Cregan – Good smolder. Pay attention to every fan in the crowd, not just the fuckable ones. Thumbs up and high fives for kids. Fist bumps for dudes. Wear less clothes, maybe? If you’re cool with that.

Luke – Don’t be afraid to move around the stage more. Weave. Prowl. Pretend you are a shark.

Aegon – Wrong lyrics during Space-Time Continuum. And Lake Effect. And A Girl Named After A Car!! And The Worst Way To Be!!!! Please for the love of God the words are on Genius.com if you don’t know them.

Daeron – Really great overall. Missed verse during If You’re Summer I’m The Rain. Beware of handshakes with crowd, they could pull you in. Invent a new dance move, something inspired by Kansas City. The Tornado Watch? The Oppressed Beef Cow?

You write at the bottom:

Aemond – Cultivate at minimum one (1) hobby not directly related to Comet Donati. Or pretentious veganism.

You hand the notebook to him, and then he scrawls back:

Already have it. I’ll show you later.

When the concert ends, Aemond leads you backstage to reunite with the band, along with Baela and Rhaena who spent the past two hours dancing and shrieking in the front row.

“I did it!” Rhaena trumpets when she sees you, eyes alight and hands waving in the air. “At the meet-and-greet before the show! I talked to people for four whole minutes and then I got to sit in the corner and drink champagne all by myself and it was amazing!”

“That’s so great!” you exclaim, hugging her. “See?! We knew you could do it. But next time you have to talk to people for ten minutes.”

“Ugh,” Rhaena says, but she’s still beaming. She knows she’s capable of it. It might hurt, but it won’t kill her. And that’s true for a lot of things, isn’t it? The trick is figuring out which of our brains’ frantic doom-signals are misfires, exaggerations, genetic malformations…and which are warnings of something actually lethal.

Everyone piles into the Escalades for the short journey back to the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel. You and Aemond end up sharing a car with Aegon, Luke, and Rhaena. Luke sits right next to Aemond, wants to see all his notes, wants to rehash every detail of the night with him: Did you like this little move I came up with? Was I too extra when I did that? Am I too low in the harmonies? Did you see how psyched that one kid was when I gave him a stuffed comet? As you watch them, streetlights passing by overhead like miniature suns, it occurs to you that Luke is the only person who still treats Aemond like he’s an essential part of the band, not a progenitor to be paid occasional pennies of homage but a heart or a spinal cord, something that can’t be excised without killing the host.

Aegon is lying on his back across the floor of the Escalade and scrolling through his phone. “Oh my God, guess who else is in Rome right now!” he gasps.

“Who?” Rhaena asks, but she rolls her doe-like eyes in a way that tells you this happens a lot.

“Selena Gomez!”

“Great,” Aemond says. “I don’t think she wants to see you.”

Aegon is typing manically with both thumbs. “We’re about to find out.”

Back at the hotel, a force like gravity—stringless, unthinking—pulls everyone towards Jace’s suite. The lights are low, the air smokey, the drinks misty with condensation, the balcony door open as people—friends and roadies and label executives—drift in and out of the starlit night breeze, the music loud and rumbling, lots of bass, Lifestyles Of The Rich & Famous by Good Charlotte. Crowded together in one corner of the room, illuminated by an end table lamp, are Jace, Baela, Daeron, Cregan, and Criston, who is observing with arms crossed over his chest and an exhausted, long-suffering sort of disapproval. There is a tattoo artist getting set up on the coffee table, laying out the needles and ink cartridges, latex gloves, sanitizer, a squeeze bottle of green soap.

“Get the Pantheon!” Baela is telling Jace. She’s sitting in his lap on the white leather couch, his arms locked around her waist but his eyes roaming around the room. “Or laurels, maybe. Or an eagle.”

“Get a gladiator!” Daeron says.

Baela grimaces. “Please don’t.”

“Get the Colosseum!” Luke says as he hurries over to join them.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“He gets a new tattoo for every city we play in,” Daeron explains.

“Some are better than others,” Baela adds. “There were so many gorgeous possibilities for Miami and you chose an alligator?!”

“Every single city, huh?” you say to Jace. “You must have a lot of tattoos.”

He grins crookedly up at you through locks of dark, messy curls. He’s wearing a black and white striped shirt that is mostly unbuttoned. Aemond’s gaze flits anxiously between you and Jace. “I do. But believe it or not, we’ve never been to Rome until now.”

“Get the Leaning Tower of Pisa!” Aegon says.

Criston snaps: “Really? The one that’s in Pisa? Which is a completely different city? The one that’s four hours north of Rome? That Leaning Tower of Pisa? That one?”

“Well fuck, don’t let me inconvenience you with my presence!” Aegon thumps a fist against Cregan’s brawny shoulder and they disappear together, peering down at their phones, faces painted by the white-blue glow of the screens.

“What should I get?” Jace asks Aemond. It sounds like a loaded question.

“Julius Caesar. A usurper.”

Jace winks up at him, arrogant and taunting.

Baela rubs Jace’s bare, ink-adorned chest. “Baby, don’t.”

“I want the Pantheon,” he declares suddenly. “Right here on the back of my right hand. Prime real estate. I won’t be able to do anything without remembering this city, this show.” He turns to Aemond, victorious. “They were filming, you know. They’re going to make it a Netflix special.”

“I’m aware,” Aemond replies, flat, cold.

The tattoo artist is nodding agreeably at Jace. “Si signore, I do the Pantheon all the time. Tourists love to have a picture to take home with them. Nessun problema. You want it on this hand? You are sure? Va bene, place it here on the table. Si, si. I will clean the area and then we will begin.”

Soon the needle of the humming tattoo gun meets the skin: metal, blood, Jace hissing in pain as black lines spring to life across his metacarpals. Baela passes the time by chatting with you. She is clever and kind like Rhaena, but louder, tougher, beautiful yet barbed like a lionfish. She can talk to anyone and never drops her eyes. It amazes you how siblings, built of the same genetic Legos, can grow up to be so different: Baela and Rhaena, Jace and Luke, Aegon and Aemond and Daeron.

When Jace’s tiny Pantheon tattoo is complete and his hand bandaged, he goads you: “Now you’re getting one too, right?”

“Sure,” you say, and you are delighted to see the shock leap into his face.

“What?!” Baela cries.

“You’re joking,” Aemond says uncertainly. “She’s joking.”

“No, I really want one.”

“Get a gladiator!” Daeron bellows, jumping on top of the couch and flexing his muscles like Hercules.

“Get my name on the side of your face like Post Malone,” Jace says. And then, when Baela and Aemond glare at him: “What?!”

“I definitely don’t want that. But I do want something.”

“I will do whatever you like, signora,” the tattoo artist says, changing out needles.

“You’re actually serious?” Aemond asks. And what he means is: You don’t have to do this. It would be reckless. It would be permanent.

“Yeah.” You smile up at him. “I want to remember this little adventure. When I’m back in Kansas City…in a few weeks, or a few months, or whatever…I want to be able to look in the mirror and know that it wasn’t all something I made up. A fantasy, a dream.”

“You should get Comet lyrics,” Luke says excitedly. “Aemond’s lyrics.”

You tap Luke’s notebook: black paper, white gel pen, just like Aemond’s. “Absolutely. Help me choose them.”

Within ten minutes, you’ve settled on a design that Luke has sketched in starlight-colored ink and a location: upper back, equidistant between your shoulder blades, someplace you can easily conceal it when you’re working. It will be a small, minimalist comet—nucleus, coma, and tail—with cursive lyrics from a hidden gem off the band’s most recent album encircling it like the rings of Saturn:

I’ll come back for you if it kills me

Comets clip by again after eons and so can I

Somewhat clumsily, you manage to unzip your dress, shimmy the top part down to around the line of your bra strap, and then lie on your belly across the couch. Baela and Rhaena giggle at the way the men bashfully avert their eyes…all except Aemond. He is speechless, blinking, fascinated. He shakes it off and turns away when he realizes he’s been staring.

“I’m sorry, is this too unprofessional?”

“No, you were perfectly clear,” Daeron says. “You’re a therapist, but not our therapist. So feel free to walk around in just your bra anytime.”

“For real,” Jace adds.

Baela shoos him away: “Go, get us more drinks. Go! Bar! Now!” And Jace reluctantly retreats.

Using Luke’s rough sketch as a reference, the tattoo artist begins working once he’s thoroughly cleaned the area of perfume, shining perspiration, invisible fingerprints, tobacco, other remnants of life’s general untidiness. The pain is bad but not overwhelming, worst when the needle nears your spine. Aemond sits on the floor beside you and observes thoughtfully, sipping a rosy-pink Bramble. Aegon and Cregan wander back into the suite—white powder on their palms, more on their shirts, their pupils dilated and glassy—and are extremely amused by this turn of events. They stay for a while and then are gone again, forever both here and there, comets zooming around their elliptical orbits, Schrodinger’s cats.

“How’s it look?” you ask Aemond as he studies your back. You can’t see anything; you can only feel it.

“The tattoo, or…?”

You laugh and shove him away with your very limited range of motion; then, when you wince at the stinging pain, Aemond grips your hand in his. “I know I’m being pathetic. I know it’s not that bad.” Not compared to what you endured: blunt force trauma, partial blindness, your face stitched back together, your life’s work stolen from you.

“You’re not that pathetic. Louis Tomlinson probably would have cried.”

You laugh again, louder, and the tattoo artist scolds you: “Signora, per favore! Stay as still as you can, I beg you. We are almost done.”

Aemond’s iPhone rings and he glides it out of his pocket with his free hand. His ringtone is Mr. Brightside. “Oh. I should take this.”

“Go ahead,” you tell him. “Go, I’m fine.”

“Who is it?” Criston asks Aemond with curiously intense interest.

“It’s my mom.”

“Does she want to talk to me? To see how the tour is going?”

“No, Criston.”

“Fine,” Criston says testily. “I’m gonna go make sure Aegon isn’t on the roof or something.”

He departs from the crowded suite, momentarily parting the miasma of cigarette and cigar smoke like Moses split the Red Sea. Aemond goes out onto the balcony. Baela and Rhaena take his place next to the couch, fawning over your almost-finished tattoo and showing you their own: Baela has a ring of roses around one ankle, a quote from her grandmother across her ribs, and a compass on her forearm; Rhaena has a tiny L behind one ear for Luke. Even over the buzzing of the tattoo gun, the reverberating music, the chattering of new friends and perfect strangers, and the backdrop of traffic noises outside on the winding streets of Rome, you can hear chaos: yelling, banging, the pounding of sprinting footsteps.

When your tattoo is completed and bandaged, you fix your dress and follow the commotion out into the hallway. Several doors down, you find Criston in Aegon’s suite. He’s standing on top of the mattress and attempting to handcuff Aegon to the bedpost. Aegon, thrashing and yowling and shirtless for some reason, rips away from him.

“Give me your hand!” Criston roars. “Give me your fucking hand! You want to act like Motley Crue, you’re gonna get treated like Motley Crue.” He finally clicks a cuff around Aegon’s left wrist, fastens him to the bed, and then doubles over gasping for air.

You say from the doorway: “This is not what I, personally, would call effective conflict resolution.”

“Oh good, you’re here.” Criston wipes fat beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. “You talk to him. Meditation, yoga, hypnosis, a lobotomy, read him bedtime stories, get him a shock collar, I don’t care what you do, just give me fifteen minutes of peace. I need a goddamn San Pellegrino.” He stomps out of the room and is gone.

Aegon sighs listlessly. “I’d like to say I don’t deserve this, but I probably do.”

“Hey, Aegon?”

“Yeah?”

“What was up with your salad at lunch today? And the skinless boneless chicken?”

He smirks, an expression you can’t quite read. Nervousness? Cynicism? Shame? “I’ve gained like twenty pounds since last summer.”

“So?”

“So almost none of my tour wardrobe fits.”

“Can you not afford new clothes? Have you snorted that much coke?”

He chuckles, but his large blue eyes are sad, defenseless, watery. “The label doesn’t want a chunky popstar. Girls won’t spend thousands of dollars on tickets to see me anymore.”

“Yes they will. And I would too. In a hypothetical alternate universe where I was rich.”

He smiles, for real this time. “You wanna stay? I still have one hand free.”

“That’s a super tempting offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

He blinks up at you with groggy, drunken realization. “You got your eye on someone else, Stargirl?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He’s grinning, toothy, playful. “You didn’t have to.”

There is a knock against the doorframe. When you spin around, Aemond stands there. “Hey,” he says. “Found you.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Fine. Do you want to see something?”

“…Okay?”

“It’s outside.”

“Oh, no way,” Aegon tells him, still handcuffed to the bed, cackling. “No way is she gonna be down for that.”

“She might be,” Aemond replies evenly.

“You still got a second helmet?”

“Of course.”

“Helmet…?” you venture.

Aemond smiles, nodding towards the hall. “Let’s go.”

Aegon waves goodbye with his free hand. “Good luck, Stargirl. Hope your last will and testament is in order.”

“Like I’d leave you anything.” You set several bottles of water and a box of Nutella snacks on the end table where Aegon can reach them.

“Wait wait wait!” he cries when you are about to depart. “Bring me a trashcan too.”

You are puzzled. “Why?”

“So I can piss in it, obviously.”

“You’re an animal.”

He howls like a wolf, rolling around on the mattress. You supply him with a trashcan, as requested, and then follow Aemond out into the hallway.

“Stargirl?” he asks once the two of you are alone in the elevator and headed down.

“It’s a the Weeknd reference. It’s hard to explain.”

“And you and Aegon are…” Aemond raises an eyebrow, the scarred one, the one that’s cut in two. “Friends?”

“Yeah. Friends.” You’re worried your voice will squeak, but it is traitorously steady. Aemond seems mollified. And is that really such a lie? What would be closer to the truth? Yes, Aemond, your brother and I are friends. But we’re less than that, and we’re also more, because I’ve fucked him but somehow that was the very least of it. He looks at me and I feel understood like a language the rest of humanity has forgotten. I look at him and I see someone who I care for deeply, irrationally, who I could fall in love with in a slightly different world. But that’s not the world we live in. And in this world, the real one, you’re the person I’m falling in love with.

Aemond takes you all the way down to the ground floor and then out front to the entranceway, fountains, cobblestones, taxis, Ubers, stars. He speaks to the valet and within minutes, they ferry it out of the garage for him, growling and puffing like some kind of mythical beast, a dragon or the Minotaur or the Cerberus. The valet lowers the kickstand and then hands the keys over to Aemond.

“What is that?!” you exclaim.

“It’s a 1960 Gold Star, made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company.”

“Alabama?”

He is amused. “No, the English Birmingham. The original one.”

“Oh. Right.” The valet brings two helmets and two jackets. “You travel with a motorcycle?”

“It fits on the jet,” Aemond replies casually.

“You are so freaking pretentious.”

Aemond offers you a helmet and jacket, and he’s trying to keep the fear from his face but it’s there, because he keeps waiting for the spell to break, for the illusion of who he thinks you are to shatter like glass and reveal that all along you’ve been disgusted by him too, that you misunderstand or patronize or pity him. He surveys you with two eyes, one wary and clear and searching, the other a cloudy planet of misty blue like Neptune. And he waits for you to ask one of those fateful questions—Can you really drive this? Is it safe? Can you see well enough? Can I trust you?—and look at him with bleak, sympathetic skepticism.

Instead, you look at the motorcycle. There are extra mirrors on the left side, you notice, capturing angles that he would otherwise miss. He doesn’t need to be reminded of his maiming. He couldn’t forget it for a second. You don the helmet and jacket and say: “Are those leather seats, Mr. Vegan?”

He beams and straddles the motorcycle. “Shut up and get on the bike.”

You climb on behind Aemond, your arms around his waist, your lungs capturing pieces of him to absorb into your bloodstream: smoke, cologne, hair gel, gin, molecules that become your own. He starts the engine, flicks on the headlight, and steers his Gold Star out into the late-night traffic.

You fly through a nightscape of car horns and streetlights and babbling tourists clustered together on the sidewalks like prey animals, ancient landmarks whirling by like comets: the Piazza Navona, the Trevi Fountain, the Arch of Constantine, the Pantheon that Jace now has inked irrevocably to his flesh. The sky is freckled with constellations you couldn’t name. The moon is full and brilliant. There is a black limo cruising nearby full of hooting, half-naked frat boys and blaring Coldplay’s Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall. At stop signs and red lights, Aemond reaches down to rest a palm lightly on your bare thigh, just an inch or two above the knee—his wrist brushing against the black lace of your dress—but enough to pillage your mind of anything else, enough to rip the door to your skull off its hinges and build a home there in the web of neurons and flashbulb surges of electricity that we call memory, emotion, instinct, desire. When you close your eyes as the wind rushes by, you can imagine that you’ve always known Aemond and that you always will. When you press yourself against him as hard as you dare to, you can feel everything else dissolving away: pasts, futures, doubts, every other person on this planet, scars that mar the soul with jagged rifts and knots as red as blood.

In the abandoned, golden halls of the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel, Aemond walks you back to your suite. His hands are in his pockets, his head down, his steps swift. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. Your thoughts are deafeningly loud with clattering impossibilities: Me? Aemond? Lust? Love?

You arrive at your door, swipe your keycard, and open it. You stand at the threshold, but you don’t vanish inside. You don’t want to be apart from him. You gaze up at him, dazed with longing, resting your head against the doorframe, fresh ink burning between your shoulder blades.

“Hey, Aemond?”

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t fuck you out of pity.”

There’s satisfaction on his face, there’s pride, there’s hunger, but there’s trepidation too. He hesitates in the doorway. “Look, I, uh…” He sighs, resigned, perhaps warring with himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t leave.

“Are you lost? Need a map back to your room? I can try to draw one for you. We could get one tattooed on the back of your hand.”

He laughs, marveling at you. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He makes it halfway down the hall, glances back, shakes his head to himself, keeps walking until he’s disappeared.

You shut the door and say to your empty suite: “I don’t even like him that much.”

But I do. I do, I do, I do.

“Oh no,” you moan, covering your face with both hands. But you can’t stop smiling.

You take a shower, pull on an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants, then crawl into your hotel bed: scratchy comforter, a mattress that’s too firm, pillows that are too squishy. You turn on your laptop, open YouTube, and start searching for Comet Donati performances before Aemond left the band, scenes from a different lifetime under the same stars.

[jq37]

The Report Card – Fantasy High Junior Year Ep 12/13 A Moonar Yulenear Miracle

Welcome back to Fantasy High where last week, I was MIA because I was on a girls trip–a reason I think the Bad Kids would very much approve of. 

Luckily, we can easily gloss over what we missed in a quick series of bullet points because, while it was an absolute banger of an episode (eat your dice Brennan!), it was fairly straightforward plotwise:

The Bad Kids were dropped into a creepy, dreamlike version of Mordred Manor which was created by a semi corrupted Cassandra who was trying to create a safe place for the Bad Kids to escape but having her intentions warped.

The Bad Kids did a fetch quest, fighting monsters and dodging Baron while they found the pieces of the pride armor curse. Once they got them together, they had a hefty piece of free infernal magic that Adaine could use as a spell component for a major thing–maybe even freeing Lydia from Bakur.

Cassandra assured Kristen that as long as Kristen is alive and believes in the Cass version of her, she can’t be fully corrupted (which is seemingly what Baron was trying to do–kill Kristen so Cass could comeback as his “stark father” the Nightmare King)

Cass also sent Kristen images of her wedding–where she got Kalina as a kitten as a present. Kalina once again reiterated that Ragh is the only name she can say before breaking her own neck so she wouldn't attack Kristen. 

Got it? Good. We reconvene with the Bad Kids as they’re escaping this briefcase dimension and all of their loved ones are calling out for them, but they all decide to take a brief detour to hell to get some answers about the pride armor first–just what every parent wants for their kids! Adaine stores the infernal energy in the Sword of Sight and Planeshifts everyone to hell.

They pop into Fig’s Hellish Recording Studio and slurp down some boiling hot grapefruit seltzers before recruiting Baby to help them find the research books they need. Baby trashed them all and, unfortunately, it’s trash day so they all have to book it as the dump truck ambles towards the dumpster. It looks like it’s gonna be a close call but then–BLAM! The dump truck is vaporized by a plume of fire from the Goldenhoard! Yup, Bill Seacaster is here and he’s tattooing one of those cheesy bumper stickers onto his ship's ass: My son is a Maximum Legend at the Aguefort Adventuring Academy. He got Fabian’s message after all! 

Father and son are delighted to see one another but there’s still a lot of research to do so Kristen goes dumpster diving for books. She gets a 25 Religion and then a 20 (not nat) History while Adaine gets a 22 History and Riz gets a 27. Here’s what they collectively learn about the armor they came to research:

The sin armors were collected by Gorthalax as trophies for his hall.

Each was created by a different infernal deity to punish a mortal for the associated sin.

The armor of Pride was created to punish an elf named Athrenriel.

The Armor allowed him to win tons of battles but every battle ruined his reputation and the happiness of his family.

Eventually someone gave away the armor (maybe directly to Gorthalax, it’s unclear) but that caused the curse to move to the bloodline of the family itself and it’s been passed down patrilineally since.

The curse is known as the “curse of humiliation” and it usually affects the oldest boy in the family once their dad passes–which is why Gilear was a stud as a younger man and then he morphed into the yogurt man we all know and love. 

The best that they can tell, some combination of Gilear putting the armor back on and Fig calling for the power in the Night Yorb fight/being an archdevil had some weird magical effect that pulled the curse back onto the bloodline and got her involved despite her not being blood related to Gilear. 

This is just my interpretation but what makes the most sense to me is that because the armor was meant to help you win battles at the expense of your family’s rep, once Gilear put on the armor and rebooted the curse to its default state, he got really lucky and Fig, as his family, suffered for it. 

Anyway, the party catches up Bill on the whole Kipperlily situation (he thinks Kristen should just kill her and Kristen isn’t NOT thinking about it), the shrimp jump, and the Cloud Rider (which he doesn’t know much about but he does use it as an opportunity to teach Fabian a fun way to threaten his banker). He also gives them all guns–much to Adaine’s delight.

Fig remembers that she has to figure out her pact and asks Bill, a Warlock patron himself, for help with that. He’s happy to help her cheat at school and for 40 gp (borrowed from Fabian of course) writes her an agreement on the back of one of his crewmembers and flays it off (nobody liked that). Somehow, I don’t think Zara–who wouldn’t even let her be a Warlock of Cassandra because that didn’t feel right–is gonna let this slide but hey, it’s not my grade in jeopardy here. 

On Kristen’s suggestion, Fabian also gets a touchup on his Maximum Legend neck tattoo. He barely manages to stay conscious (truly so barely–Riz is so anxious about Bill using a dragon-sized tattoo gun on him that he gives Fabian disadvantage while trying to be supportive) but with the help of his friends he succeeds and, for his troubles, he now has a gold tattoo that allows him to safely handled cursed gold–no more dragon madness for him!

That super important business out of the way, the group splits up. Fabian and Gorgug stay with Bill so Bill can prove a point about the wisdom of buttering up ramps (just go with it) while everyone else goes further into the Bottomless Pit to continue investigating the armors of sin–this time in person. There are high rolls all around so here are the highlights again:

The Armor of Pride looks elven in design but it also feels fundamentally infernal. Riz wonders if that means it’s something maybe summer Eladrin related and Brennan says that would check out.  

The other armors don’t really feel seasonal in any way (the Lust armor is a full Gimp suit lol).

When Riz turns on Detect Good and Evil, he can see the weird rune from the dead bodies on the Pride Armor which now also pings as the word Anakarna. It’s the arcane mark on the armor which means that Ankarna is the one who made this armor. 

As he does this scan, he gets a call on his Spy Kids watch–it’s his dad! Just like Fabian, he’s super thrilled but he tries to keep it profesh. His dad (Pok Gukgak, secret agent angel) is understandably concerned that his son is randomly in hell as well as the fact that a god whose name hasn’t been said in a thousand years just had their name pinged by angelic spy tech (the necktie Riz used to cast the spell–all info gets routed back to the home office in heaven). Riz explains everything and his dad offers to help if there’s anything they want him to look up. They ask him to look up Athenriel and Ankarana and Pok is able to do that because he’s freed from the bonds of Oblivati Mori since they found the name themselves. So that’s a new fact we just learned: O.M. applies to celestial and infernal agents too, not just gods themselves. With Pok no longer bound by celestial silence, we get a bunch of info about Athenriel:

He wasn’t a follower of Ankarna as far as they know.

He’s older than the Court of Stars (the government of Falinel).

He’s not in any of the heavens they know of.

He was a druid and built many of the standing stones in Falinel (very probably including  the one they triggered two episodes ago. 

Gilear is related to him patrilineally. 

They also tell Pok about Kalina and Spy’s Tongue Curse and Riz asks Ragh if he’s under that with anyone. Ragh says no adamantly but Pok points out that he wouldn’t be able to say yes even if he was. Pok says that in order to get around a Spy’s Tongue Curse situation, the best strat is to find someone just slightly outside of the group of covered people to get you in the right direction and here’s where I want to cut in really quickly to drop the piece of info from Sophomore Year that I said recently was a loose end which was bugging me and might be relevant. This is a screengrab from the recap I did of SY Ep 4:

So that’s suspicious as hell and also a possible reason that Kalina would want to say Ragh’s name to alert the Bad Kids to someone else. Anyway, back to the story in progress, Riz wonders if Athenriel is Bakur and asks his dad if there's anything connecting the armor being cursed and the Ankarna being corrupted/if Ankarna had a previous form. Pok starts looking it up and is a little confused because Ankarna’s file is a bit weird. It says she (we get the pronoun she in this ep so I’ll be using it now) is associated with the 9 Hells and it says that she doesn’t have any active divine domains (which isn’t weird because she’s dead) but the file is corrupted so he can’t see what the domains are supposed to be (though it seems like there are multiple). 

Riz thinks that maybe Sol could have pulled some shenanigans to snag the sun domain for himself and Pok lays down some facts about gods. Gods–even good ones–are playing a different game from everyone else. They have to when their very existence depends on having worshippers. And gods generally hate collabing with a deity that shares their domain because they were explicitly the competition. 

As they’re having this conversation, they’re exiting the pit and they make it in time to watch Bill hurl Gorgug up a giant ramp in some kind of insane and ultimately inconclusive science experiment. Pok says hi to him via the watch and they make quick plans for Bill to sell criminal secrets to heaven in exchange for gold (what is he even spending it on???? It’s hell!!!). Fig asks one last important question. Is this a Night Yorb situation? Now that the cat’s out of the bag, is it OK to say Ankarna’s name? Pok says it should be fine. The only problem will come if anyone actually starts worshiping her. (Did you hear that Fig?) 

Kristen Planeshifts everyone out of hell before Fabian has a chance to say goodbye to his dad (entirely for the bit) and all of their parents are so relieved that they’re OK. Gilear is even more excited when he learns that his good luck has been nullified and his life can suck again. He feels at peace being back in his comfort zone and firmly believes that he doesn’t deserve good luck AND the best daughter in the world. Fig is worried that Hilariel might leave him now that his luck is bad again but Hilariel was into him BEFORE his glow up so they’re all good. Possibly better than just good if Adaine’s teasing prediction of a baby on the way is more than a bit (Fabian demands she undo it with a div roll and plans to give Gilear a vasectomy with his sword). 

Lydia rolls up and asks what the hell happened because Bakur just tried to jailbreak harder than he has in ages. They start filling her in and offer to try the ritual they talked about in an earlier ep but she says they’ve been through a lot and it’s Fantasy Christmas tomorrow so they should get some rest first. Riz asks if Tracker is OK and they confirm that she and Nara both are when they give her a call. Zayn and Aelwyn are also both fine. Tracker and Nara were, as Fabian suspected, thrown out of the circle as protection by Gal from the pride armor situation. 

Kristen explains to Tracker everything about Ankarna and the corruption and Bakur. Tracker is honestly really sympathetic to Adaine saying the name out loud and triggering everything in a, “Well if you find a dead god’s name you GOTTA say it” kind of way, like it’s as irresistible as popping bubble wrap. 

They talk to Gorthalax who, surprise surprise, ALSO was being tongue tied by Oblivati Mori and can now spill some info. Lotta helpful dads in this episode! Here’s what he’s got:

Ankarna wasn’t a fiendish entity to start with. She fell, just like he did (you’ll recall Gorthalax went from being an angel of temperance to a devil of gluttony). He doesn’t know what her deal was exactly pre-fall though (which seems to be a running theme).

Post fall, she was all about rage and fire and conquering and Bakur was her right hand. Unlike her, Bakur wasn’t Celestial previously.

She had a set of scales that she turned into a warhammer (sounds like justice to war–also, doesn’t Porter have a warhammer? Suspicious).

She took artifacts from other pit fiends about conquest to study them which Gorthalax says is a super weird thing for a god to do. 

Bakur referred to her as a “Mistress to her people” which Gorthalax also finds weird because, generally speaking, gods are more the ones making requests not taking requests as she seemed to be doing (the Bad Kids think this might mean there was an as above, so below situation where her followers morphed her into what she is now).

She was very touchy about her relationship status and once almost merc-ed someone who made a pass at her and had a snide comment about her being married still.

Before everyone goes to bed, Tracker checks in with Kristen and offers to help in any way she can. Kristen asks her to ask Gal about Ankarna and her OG domain and Tracker promises to follow up–now that Oblivati Mori is out the window, she can bring it up during their weekly Zoom meeting no problem. Tracker, like Pok, warns Kristen to be careful to avoid allowing this goddess followers and belief because now that this name is out there, it’s only a matter of time. (FIG, ARE YOU LISTENING???) Kristen thinks maybe it wouldn’t be that bad if they can revert this goddess back to her original, presumably less destructive domain.

While the above conversation was happening, Nara was around so Adaine steered her away from it from getting her to take her and a disguised Aelwyn (“Roma Childa” which Fig shoots down with bazooka level force) to the Court of Stars where her dad apparently works (Note: Her parents are supposed to be clerics, right? I guess they just have no separation of church and state in Falinel, lol). Adaine tells these immortal elves with no concept of finances that she can’t afford to be the Elven Oracle and she’s tapping out because she’s working as an ice cream waitress to scrape together enough money for her basic needs. Nara both vouches for her skills as an adventurer and asks her dad to let her have the 10 barrels of diamonds that are just lying around their house that they don’t have any use for. After briefly clarifying that she (Adaine) was *not* in fact declaring war on Falinel (exhausting, high elves are exhausting), the Council says they’ll convene in a month to discuss whether Oracle should be made a paid position. Their first thought is lawyers but Adaine gets it changed to a dance battle and she gets Fabian assigned as her champion. Fabian agrees, though the text asking him if he’s down stops him from completing his sword vasectomy on Gilear. Better luck next time buddy. 

The next day, it’s the Moonar Yulenear and game time re: the gem in Lydia’s chest. Adaine is going to use the energy in her sword plus Contact Other Plane to make a viewing screen to talk to Bakur. With the spell, they get 5 questions and, of course, being the Bad Kids, they immediately waste two just asking “Sup?”. Riz yells at everyone except for Adaine (and maybe him) to shut up and the real questioning begins.

With their first proper question, they ask Bakur if he was Athenriel. He says yes. They guessed it in one. Second question: What was Ankarna’s previous domain before she was all about conquest? He starts crying scalding tears at hearing her name–the kind of crying that you do when you haven’t heard a loved one’s name in a really long time. He says she was the goddess of giants, long days of plenty, clarity, discernment, judgment, justice, righteousness, clarity, and the conviction to act with the force of the sun. So a serious slide from pretty chill to pretty intense. He also says that her sister was the light of her life and that she was fiercely protective of her. Final question: Was Sol involved in Ankarna’s corruption? Bakur, instead of answering, asks a clarifying question: Do they mean Sol himself or his followers?

At that, Adaine has to make a Charisma save. With help from her friends (including Gorgug’s new Flash of Genius Artificer ability) she just barely makes it. Bakur is going off about gods and followers and weapons and who wields who and Lydia is starting to not feel good so Adaine shuts down the connection right away. Lydia has to make a save and also just hangs on so it’s time for that gem to come out of her chest. 

When they reveal that they have the power to get the gem out properly, Lydia is taken aback and Ragh is in tears, soulfully pleading that they do anything they can to help, and of course they do. Adaine uses the energy stored in her sword from Fig’s curse to gold-seal the gem so it’s no longer in contact with Lydia’s skin. Inside the gem, Bakur reverts back from devil form to being a high elf that looks a lot like Gilear and is terrified of yogurt. 

Fabian volunteers to do impromptu surgery because he has the new anti-cursed gold tattoo and clearly the dice know he’s not anything close to a trained medical professional because he rolls TWO NAT ONES and KILLS LYDIA. But luckily, there’s no I in Team and the other Bad Kids are there to bail him (and, more importantly, Lydia) out. Adaine swoops in with a 13 Portent roll so she doesn’t just pass away on the spot and then Kristen, surprise surprise, casually pops out a Nat 20 to remove this enormous, chronic, burden from Lydia. Saint Kristen does it again. 

Lydia, free from the need for her constant rage for the first time in years, instantly falls asleep. Fabian keeps the gem because of his cursed gold immunity and Adaine uses Nystul’s Magic Aura to make it magically ping as an empty palimpsest to anyone who’s being nosy. 

And with that Fantasy Christmas Miracle, vacation is over and we move into downtime.

Fabian first!

First Track Popularity: 18. Wild success.

Second Track Bard: 23: A+ AND Brennan lets the Dance Battle for Adaine be a school project so he crushes his competition and gets her salaried! Even though he’s wildly wealthy and doesn’t need more money, Adaine declares him her champion for all future dance battles and demands that the position comes with a stipend as well. He’s named the Oracle of Dance and Adaine gets her extra credit from predicting that he becomes the future of dance. Way to pay off a bit.

Third Track Owlbears: 27. Big success!

Fourth Track Fighter: 32. Another A+!

Fifth Track Job: You might be wondering what a job roll is for Fabian since he’s, as I said before, fabulously wealthy. Well, he’s keen to threaten his banker life his dad showed him and with help from Fig as backup (and Adaine telling him where the banker is hiding) shakes him down. Brennan, who I assume is making this up on the spot, says that it’s written in Fabian’s trust contract that he gets a 200 gp advance every time he finds and threatens his banker. Adaine offers to locate him every day if Fabian will split the gold with her. Fig is down to tag along for free.

Adaine’s next–though we’re not going to resolve all of her rolls this episode. 

Now that she’s getting paid, she gives Basrar her two week’s notice and he’s sad to see her go but happy that she’s doing well. Adaine says that she’ll maybe come back to get a summer job for fun and he gives her a Fudgie the Whale cake to celebrate. Aelwyn’s sister senses go off and she can instantly sense that Adaine is having a nice thing without her. Adaine, who wanted to stuff her face with ice cream cake in private, is baffled at her non-divination specialist sister’s sudden supernatural intuition, but invites Aelwyn over to have cake with her. 

Also, with the Oracle job being paid now, Adaine gets to roll 2d10 GP and even if she fails her Oracle track, as long as she rolls for it, and her financial situation will count as Well Off which is great because it was really screwing with her school rolls to not have her finances in check.

First Track Wizard: Dirty 20. A+! And without having to worry about her supplies, she now has time for research and projects and stuff. 

Second Track Spells: This is a wizard mechanic that allows her to get new spells from her spellbook. With Help from Boggy, she rolls high enough to get a new 7th, 6th, 5th, and 4th level spell!

Third Track Mystery: She wants to Investigate Kipperlilly and on an 18, Brennan says that they’ll resolve this at the end of downtime, but she’s starting to put together where their hideouts and meetup stops are. Let’s put a pin in that until next episode. 

Fourth Track: Relaxation Fabian is surprised and honestly adorably thrilled when Adaine shows up at his little relaxation nurse spa day thing. And, this time, it actually takes! Adaine is able to relax so well that she removes 2 stress tokens (which allows her to get rid of two negative stat effects–she’s now down to only 1 stress). I guess money solves all your problems after all. 

[NOTE: Relaxation is supposed to be your last track but, in the AP, Brennan lets Shiv roll Oracle track and she gets a NAT TWENTY. Brennan flavors this as her issuing a ton of new prophecies while she’s at her spa day, haha.]

She closes off her downtime rolls with a sweet scene with Jawbone where she’s finally able to open up to him about the trouble she’s been having because she’s fixed it herself. Jawbone really wants her to know that she can come to him with problems and that she doesn’t have to fix things herself and when she says she likes solving her own problems and that she can still get discounted ice cream for everyone since Basrar let her keep the discount, Jawbone gently rebuffs her. He’s the adult, he buys the ice cream. (And Aelwyn steals the ice cream. Adaine catches her creating a portal to steal more whale cake from the mini fridge because she’s a menace even when she’s not actually there).

Finally for the episode, we move on to Kristen who is back in cleric class after a harrowing break and, as she steps into the classroom she sees an even more harrowing sight: In an all white suit with a Kentucky-fried silver tongue is the new Cleric teacher. None other than Buddy’s grandfather–Bobby Dawn. 

Detention*

Fabian for Killing Lydia

I mean, come on? Double Nat ones? My guy. 

Honor Roll

Kristen for Saving Lydia

The reason Kristen can be such a chaos generator is because and everyone just deals with it is because, at the end of the day, she’s also the best cleric ever hands down. Honorable mention to Adaine for her arcane assistance. 

*I want to give Bobby Detention just for existing but I’m gonna wait for him to do actually do something out of pocket. Somehow, I don’t think I’ll have to wait very long. 

Random Thoughts

Just a few quick notes this week! I haven’t been including this section consistently because I tend to get a lot of my random thoughts out in answering asks that people send me and also I’ve been so busy that by the time I get to the end of the actual recap I’m often like, OK I’m done, lol. But I wanted to take a few minutes this week to include a few thoughts.

Love Pok being just not happy that Adaine has a gun but not being able to say anything because his son is literally wielding his gun. Also lol at Murph saying, “It feels less weird when you call it an arquebus.” That’s why I love referring to it as a glock whenever I can.

I didn’t mention it in the recap proper but, in case it matters, Fig uses her blood to create a…Copy? Clone? Child? Romance Partner?...for Baby named Baby Baby. Truly not sure what their deal is. 

Riz has a thought about whether they can use the power of music to uncorrupt Ankarna and, honestly, not even remotely the craziest possible idea. They have a rockstar on the team and last season a viral shrimp party was an important strategy.  

As much as Fabian is protesting, I think he’d make a great big brother. Also, he’d have a full house again! I think he knows deep down he’d be the most ride or die big bro ever. Did you see how outraged he was last ep upon hearing her hurt Adaine?

I wonder if Gal throwing her clerics out of the circle had more to do with the general badness of the pride armor or her recognizing Ankarna’s mark specifically. Glad Tracker is going to question her. I think they should be exploring all their godly options at this point now that OM is gone. Hell, Kristen should try and ask Helio if he’s still taking her calls. 

We need eyes back on the Rat Grinders ASAP. I’m glad Adaine took initiative there because we still have so many loose ends with them. We did a lot of macro investigating this ep but I’m itching to find out about the BS happening closer to home. What is Kipperlilly up to? Why did Ivy react the way she did to seeing “Lucy”? Is Oisin evil or not and can Adaine date him? All equally important questions. 

If Brennan bided his time and let Emily rage about Porter for two seasons only to lull her into a false sense of security and reveal that he was involved in secret machinations this whole time I’m gonna laugh so hard. 

[maithefluffychicken]

Taste of love

"You must admit, he's charismatic," Robin says, a sly grin curling her lips.

"Yeah, he's the new favorite, fucking great," Steve laments, jealously evident in his tone.

Truth is, Steve can admit that Eddie is charismatic, and good at his job, and he's stupidly hot doing said job. It’s not fair, talented and good looking, with bright doe eyes as dark as the chocolate he likes to use in most of his creations?

Steve hates him. He hates the way he can’t stop staring at him when Eddie is in, well, in full Eddie mode like he is right now.

He’s recording himself, the pretentious little shit, with an improvised but somehow extremely professional set up, a whole fucking tripod for his nextgen smartphone as a camera. He has the two long counters for himself, it’s his fucking stage and he’s the rockstar: he looks like one, with the long hair tied up in a messy bun that Steve wants to undo, and all those tattoos covering his arms. He’s not even wearing a fucking chef’s jacket, no. The cocky bastard is wearing a tight black t-shirt, Steve can see the ripple of his muscles when he moves. Again, stupidly hot.

He claims to not need help, and yet, Henderson - pastry chef junior and a traitor - is cheerfully helping him to set everything out and clean the counters between scenes.

On the street, bystanders stop to look through the store window, recording the mess Eddie is doing with their own personal phones, and fucking enjoying the show that is Eddie Munson creating a masterpiece of a cake.

“I still don’t see how this is going to help us,” Steve sighs, leaning against the doorframe of his own kitchen, staring - ogling - at Eddie, watching him peeling limes, oranges and grapefruits for this new dessert he’s making.

“He’ll post it on instagram and whatnot, get the people interested in us,” Robin explains to him, as patiently and lovingly as ever.

“The whole process?” Steve asks, now a bit concerned. “Everyone will know the recipe, and then who’ll come to buy?”

Steve and Robin had worked hard and spent all their money in this little cake shop, which it is, in fact, a fucking monster of a pâtisserie and the fanciest café. This was their dream, and it still is their dream. And it’s also a fucking risk if it fails, so excuse him if he doesn’t want everyone to know how to recreate their goods.

“No, no, dingus, just the pretty parts, like a montage, like a film.”

“Good lord, is this one of those Wes Anderson’s vibes or whatever?” Steve says, and his face must be doing something funny because Robin laughs openly now.

“God, no, but that would be awesome, you should tell him to do that!” Robin says, and then adds. “Or you should do it yourself, join Eddie, make us famous and rich!”

Steve frowns and grunts. To be honest, he should be working too, there’s another completely functional kitchen where he could be baking his own things. But for some reason, watching Eddie is mesmerizing, and Steve is not sure he’ll be able to stop looking and leave to be alone in the other kitchen.

So he stays, and follows Eddie to the oven when the puff pastry is ready to be baked. And then he stays a bit longer to witness the filling. And then- Well, he stays until Eddie finishes with the decoration.

Eddie doesn’t talk to the camera, not once, he just works, he doesn’t seem to notice Steve and Robin at all.

When the stupidly good looking dessert, painted in lime green, is done, Eddie does the second most stupid thing ever. He cuts it evenly and walks out to the street to share it with his audience, Dustin follows him, recording the whole thing. Free samples of a dessert that is, well, it’s expensive as fuck. Eddie smiles and comes back to the kitchen, two spare portions, one for Steve and the other for Robin.

“Come on, chef,” he grins at Steve, far too mischievously for Steve’s liking. “I know you want a taste of this.”

The words sound sinful to Steve’s ears, the way Eddie says it. Fuck, he even swayed his hips while he was speaking! Steve’s mouth goes dry, trying to think of a retort and win whatever battle they’re having. But Robin interrupts them with a groan, her mouth full of the lime tart Eddie saved for them.

“Oh my god,” she says before even swallowing. “Phteef, eat it. Now”

Steve sighs, his gaze locks with Eddie’s when he reaches for his portion, the last on the silver tray Eddie is holding patiently. It’s not solid at all, silky and cold at the touch, and the first thing Steve notices is the aroma. Citrics and burnt sugar, fresh and intense. Steve takes it to his mouth and bites, the lemon praliné breaks easily under the pressure and it melts on his tongue among the softest mousse Steve has ever tasted. The sugar is there but it doesn’t ruin the citrus flavor, the real hero. Grapefruit and orange jam and the soft biscuit join them, a counterpart for the ethereal texture of the mousse.

Steve tries to hold back the involuntary moan that escapes his mouth, but it’s too late. Eddie is grinning wolfishly at him. Steve blushes, fiercely. He’s a thirty year old man, the chef of his own pâtissery, he shouldn’t be moaning and blushing like this, but fuck, the lime tart is absurdly good and he knows he’s going to eat the whole portion. What a fucking shame.

“And?” Eddie asks, nervously buzzing in front of them both, unashamedly fishing for praise he doesn’t need at all. Cocky bastard, again. “Is it good, right? Do you like it, chef?”

Steve swallows, the taste and scents lingering on his tongue and palate. Fucking delicious.

“Yeah, it’s ok,” Steve shrugs, as if he just didn’t fucking moan because of the best lime tart he has ever tasted.

“Come on, Steve,” Robin nudges him.

“Chef, please,” Eddie begs and it does something to Steve, something he can’t - and doesn’t want to - name yet. “Please, I need to know, have I passed my trial month?”

Steve really really wants to say no, that Eddie has an attitude and a temper that Steve doubts is good for the business. Eddie, who is giving free samples to people on the street. Eddie who decided to record himself in Steve’s kitchen to post it on social media. Eddie, who doesn’t wear proper clothes for his kitchen.

Steve wants to bid him farewell.

But the lime praliné is slowly melting with the warmth of his fingers, green painting his fingertips, the smooth mousse giving away, Steve wants to finish his portion, and as the greedy son of a bitch he is, Steve wants more of this even more than he wants Eddie out of his kitchen.

Steve wants to tell Eddie to fuck off, but he’s curious about what else he can to do. A month is not enough to know the enigma that is chef Edward Munson.

“Ok, ok, you’re hired, chef,” Steve says, and Eddie punches the air in victory. Steve holds back a smile. “Six months, and then we’ll see, ok?”

“Fuck, yes! I mean,” Eddie clears his throat, he’s the one blushing now. “Yes, chef. Thank you, chef.”

Six months.

-

Steve is used to being alone in the morning, opening up in the early hours and enjoying the bakery’s calm quietness, the buzzing sound of the fridges and ovens his only company while he works., He spends the time trying out old and new recipes, practicing techniques to apply in future desserts.

That was, of course, before Eddie.

It’s Robin’s fault, anyway, she convinced Steve to give this new, eccentric pastry chef a chance to work in their bakery. It’s true that they both needed help, they both needed a right hand man to keep the bakery and the staff going while they designed new recipes. Dustin Henderson is a talented kid, controlling the dough like a pro, but he’s still learning - under Steve and Robin’s supervision, of course -, and Erica Sinclair is even younger than Dustin, but man, that girl knows how to decorate a wedding cake.

The other staff they hired are just as good. The kitchen is alive and buzzing with energy, Steve loves it. He’s grateful that he gets to have this; his own place, with people he loves.

Stobin Pastry and Cakes started as a humble bakery when Keith closed Family Video, where they used to work as teens. They took all their savings and bought the place, and transformed it into what it is today.

The kids Steve babysat for years applied to work with them. Will left to study art, and Mike followed him blindly, in love. Lucas and Max decided to take a gap year abroad, sending them postcards regularly and texting Steve and Robin about the recipes they find on their journey.

Dustin and Erica decided to stick around and learn from Steve and Robin, now Stobin’s youngest chefs, with the honorary title of Junior Pastry Chef for the both of them.

So, Steve loved to be the first one in, turning on the ovens and getting the bakery ready for the day, while Robin took Dustin to the market at dawn, picking out new products of the season and sending Steve silly pics while doing it. Erica arrived in time to meet the providers, standing by Steve’s side and supervising that everything was in perfect conditions.

Steve could have never imagined that he’d get to work with his family, and he loves it. He once feared he’d end up working for his father, but this? As exhausting and sometimes stressful as it is, this is Steve’s dream.

But of course, now they have Eddie. Eddie, overqualified to be anything less than a pastry chef, with his tattoos and long hair and toned biceps… Steve is still getting used to doing his own job while Eddie is right there with him, kneading fresh dough or whatever. Between the ripple of his muscles and the music Eddie enjoys, it’s hard for Steve to focus.

Because that’s the other thing that had\s changed. The music. Steve loved to work in silence, but Eddie came and asked if they minded listening to music while working: heavy fucking metal and rock from the eighties is now the soundtrack to Steve’s life, since Robin, Dustin and Erica agreed with Eddie, effectively out voting him.

Things have changed for Steve and for Stobin Pastry. Not everything is bad, though, Eddie and whatever he’s posting on social media is also attracting customers to them, as Robin said it would. Steve can’t really complain.

-

“What’s this?” Steve asks, stepping into his office to find Robin and Erica, heads pressed together looking at the bright screen of Erica’s phone. There’s a weird look on Robin’s face, eyes wide open and lips curled in disgust, while Erica is biting her lower lip, holding back a smirk. “What are you-”

“Shh!” Erica shushes at him, and Steve grunts in surprise.

“I think I’m going to puke,” Robin says, her eyes still focused on whatever is playing on the screen.

“Imagine it’s a hot girl, Robs,” Erica replies, half laughing.

“That’s not the problem, Sinclair-”

“Ok, you two, what are you watching?” Steve snaps, rounds his desk to stand behind the girls and frowns, focusing his sight on whatever they’re watching.

“Oh,” Steve whispers.

On the screen, a younger version of Eddie is-

He is-

“I know, right?” Erica giggles. Giggles. “He’s so weirdly hot.”

“Well, at least now we know that he’s alway loved being in front of the camera, right?” Robin adds jokingly, as if that could help Steve to assimilate the images he’s watching right now.

Eddie is wearing a loose black shirt, far too open to be in any kitchen, Steve can see the barest hint of soft hair on his chest, and the tattoos he has there. For a brief second, Steve has the need to see them in real life. But the Eddie in the video, rewound by Erica, is flexing his arms to tie his curly hair in a messy bun, and winks at the camera.

And then, the weirdest things happen. It’s a video showing Eddie making cannoli, but it’s- It’s so sexual it’s almost explicit. He kneads the dough, making sure the camera frames his biceps and his swelling chest, and spanks it, cuts it and digs his fingers into both parts, making it look like it’s a- Good lord. Next, Eddie sinks two fingers into the cream to lick them, tongue curling sinfully around them.

Steve feels his blood simmering in his veins with a new need that startles him, mortified at the realization that he is getting hard.

"Ok, enough, Erica, we've seen enough," he says with a weak, pathetic voice.

He has to watch the whole video, but not here, not with… the girls around, no, definitely.

"Thank god," Robin sighs when Erica closes the video and locks her phone with a pout.

The girls stand up and are ready to leave Steve's office, not noticing his internal turmoil.

"Say what you want, Robs, he is hot, a bit disgusting in a way that only a guy can be, but hot nonetheless."

Steve looks at their backs, Erica's words echoing in his mind. He is hot.

"Don't let Dustin hear you saying that, Erica," Robin teases her.

"He'd agree with me…"

"Ha! That's what you think, but I tell you his reaction will be sooo much different if he hears you talking about a hot guy," Robin singsongs.

"What? Robin! What are you saying?" Erica leaves and closes the door behind her.

Steve thinks he should care about that exchange, but Eddie's video is replaying in his mind. He sits at his desk and hides his face behind his hands, muffling a groan.

The door opens again and Steve looks up to see a flustered Erica showing her head, smiling shyly.

"Chef?"

"Yeah?"

"His youtube channel," Erica says in a low voice. "Is 'demon in the kitchen', chef. I thought you’d be interested, you know, for academic purposes."

Erica shrugs before Steve can answer her, and closes the door again, leaving Steve all alone with his thoughts and his body’s reactions.

When Steve finally gets out of his office - once he’s calm and feeling ready to look everyone in the eye again, and his knees aren’t shaking - the kitchen is the coordinated chaos that it always is. No one bats an eye at him. Robin is glazing the mirror gateaux, Erica is focused on the wedding cake she’s decorating.

Dustin is talking with the staff about a new order that must be ready for the next day, and Eddie is nowhere to be seen. Steve lets out a relieved sigh, maybe he can survive the day.

-

On Monday, Stobin Pastry and Cakes is closed so everyone can rest.

Steve spends the morning in bed, his laptop on his thighs and Eddie’s old videos playing nonstop. The videos are the ultimate thirst trap, and Steve feels helpless when, during the fourth video, Eddie is glazing a doughnut and Steve imagines himself, half deliriously, licking Eddie’s fingers clean. The long haired chef pressing them against Steve’s tongue, pushing them back and forth with Steve’s lips wrapping around them, saliva dripping for his chin while Eddie’s eyes are dark and hungry for Steve-

“Oh, for fucks’ sake!” Steve exclaims, closing the laptop with more force than intended.

Steve gets up, his cock tenting the pajamas he’s wearing, and crosses his bedroom to have a shower, his heart beating hard and fast when he undresses and steps into his shower, steam surrounding him.

He tries not to think at all, but he’s aching and leaking, cock throbbing stubbornly, with the steamy hot water falling over his shoulders. Behind his eyelids, Steve can visualize the Eddie he knows, older than the Eddie in the videos, but with a mischievous smile and his big doe eyes. Steve shakes his head before wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock, squeezing it with a little bit more strength than necessary.

“Fuck,” Steve groans, stroking himself slowly and trying to think about- anyone, except his dark haired chef pastry Eddie.

Steve tries to think about broad hands roaming all over his wet body, he pinches his left nipple, moaning throatily. Soft lips that could trail kisses all along his neck, the hot breath of a faceless lover, a solid invisible body pressing against him.

And it works, for a moment.

Steve flicks his wrist during the upstroke and in that lustful second when his mind is blissfully quiet, his fantasy changes: Eddie’s tattooed hands and arms are the ones touching him, his pink, full lips - oh, Steve can see them so clearly - wrapping around the leaking head of his throbbing cock instead of around his fingers, like in that stupid video. And those eyes, those big chocolate eyes focused on him, hungry for Steve-

“Ah, shit!” Steve grunts when, ridiculously soon, his orgasm coils deep in his core and he’s unable to stop himself or to stop the new fantasy.

“Well, fuck,” he sighs at last, letting the water clean his shame. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

-

After their day off, the kitchen is once again alive and buzzing, but Steve feels like shit. Disgusted with himself, disgusted with the fact that he spent his day off fantasizing about his pastry chef. Eddie. Ugh.

Fucking ugh.

Steve feels far more exhausted than ever, with Eddie’s music playing through the speakers while they all work frantically to satisfy the customers.

Eddie, of course, ignores Steve’s inner turmoil and the effect he has on his boss.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” Eddie says to Steve, flirty and out of the blue. Steve wants to punch him. In his mouth. With his lips. Fuck.

“That’s not how we do things here-,” Steve starts protesting, but Eddie simply laughs.

If only Eddie knew how hard Steve is trying to keep things professional, for both of them. If only Steve could yell at Eddie and tell him he’s seen his videos, his sinfully hot and weird and sometimes disgusting videos; but fuck, Steve is completely obsessed with them. If only Steve could flirt back with Eddie and be selfish.

“Ok, ok, then, close your eyes and open your mouth, chef,” he repeats, and somehow it sounds even dirtier. Steve has to suppress a shiver.

Steve takes a look, making sure no one’s paying attention to them before reluctantly opening his mouth and feeling filthy for it. Filthy and far too aroused thanks to Eddie’s antics.

Eddie tsks when Steve doesn’t close his eyes, but raises a spoonful to his mouth and places it gently on Steve’s tongue. The flavor explosion is immediate when Steve wraps his lips around the spoon and Eddie drags it out: kiwi and pineapple, nutmeg, cinnamon, a touch of rum. Creamy salted caramel and something crunchy, pistachio. Steve closes his eyes now, tasting it, pressing it with his tongue against his palate. He doesn’t moan this time, but he wants to, he really really fucking needs to groan. Eddie’s ego doesn’t need another boost, though.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks him, biting his lower lip, all doe eyed and searching for Steve’s expressions. Opening his eyes to see Eddie looking at him like that doesn’t help to calm his heart beat.

“It’s good, Eddie, it’s really good,” Steve admits, feeling his cheeks burning and taking a second to wonder if he’s going crazy when Eddie’s eyes drop to his lips for a split second. “What are you working on?”

“Do you know that cake for that tropical themed wedding?” Eddie asks, cheeks turning red under Steve’s gaze. Steve nods. “I thought… Maybe this could be the filling, since the bride wants something different and all that, you know.”

Steve shouldn’t find Eddie as endearing as he does right now, bashful and competent and with an extraordinary mind to mix flavors and themes. Fuck.

“With a Madagascar vanilla biscuit?” Steve points up. “What about the icing?”

“Pineapple and rum?” Eddie suggests.

“Try it,” Steve smiles at Eddie. “If it’s good, you’ll be the one making the cake, take Erica with you.”

Eddie beams at him, his smile so wide that his dimples appear, and Steve feels suddenly weak on the knees. Fuck.

“Yes, chef,” he says so softly that it could be a whisper, and Steve sighs, focusing back on the gateau he was making, completely distracted by the whole interaction.

-

Three months into Steve’s life with Eddie in it, and Steve is finally, finally accepting the fact that he’s working with an extremely hot and talented man, and that he has developed something like a crush for him.

Not a big deal, Steve is a professional and he can work with Eddie. He’s even learning to flirt back, still testing the waters, not wanting to push any of Eddie’s boundaries. Eddie seems to enjoy their little interactions.

It’s just that, well, Eddie is touching Steve now. Small touches, pats in his shoulder, hands on his waist whenever Eddie has to pass behind him; it’s nothing really, silly little innocent touches that maybe, maybe linger more than they should.

Two weeks ago, Steve was holding a spoon for Eddie to grab it, and when he did, Eddie’s finger traced Steve’s knuckles and he smiled at him before he grabbed the spoon. Steve felt like swooning, like a fair maiden being courted or whatever. He had to hide in the bathroom for ten minutes after that because he was hyperventilating.

The fact that Steve’s love life is nonexistent doesn’t help either, but it’s not like Steve has time or will to meet someone new. Nor does he want to meet someone else, not when his stupid heart harbors this new and stupid hope.

Hoping that maybe Eddie’s flirting means something. Hoping that Eddie, with his hard work for Stobin Pastry, with his videos for the bakery’s instagram - gaining more and more subscribers everyday - and his new ideas. All of this means that Eddie is earnest in his intentions.

They haven’t talked about this, of course. Fuck, Steve hasn’t even told Robin about his crush. He can’t admit it out loud, it’d be so real if he does it. For the last three months Steve has been nursing these new feelings alone and silently.

Steve enters the pastry like usual, turns on the ovens to preheat them, checks the different doughs for the day… He even plays the music so Eddie’s playlist starts blasting through the speakers. And he waits.

Erica comes, showing Steve a ridiculously artistic photograph that Robin sent her using an eggplant and a peach, and they both laugh, but Steve is feeling antsy. Eddie isn’t here, and usually Eddie is already there, waiting for Steve to open the back door of the bakery, scrolling his phone idly. Eddie is never late.

The providers come and go, Erica’s in charge today, Steve’s barely paying attention to her or the providers. It’s been an hour and a half and still no sign of Eddie. Not even a text or a call.

Robin and Dustin arrive with fresh figs and some more fresh fruit, but Steve ignores them, his fingers hovering over his phone, wondering if he should call Eddie.

“Where’s Eddie?” Dustin asks, looking around the kitchen.

“I- I don’t know, he didn’t show up this morning,” Steve answers with a tremor in his voice.

What if he’s hurt? What if something terrible has happened to Eddie? Steve decides to call the guy, maybe it’s a silly thing. The alarm didn’t ring this morning, or some stupid thing that could happen to everyone. And yet, Steve presses Eddie’s number with shaking hands.

No signal.

Steve sighs, hands tugging at his hair and feeling desperate.

This is completely absurd, Eddie is probably ok, Steve just has to be patient and Eddie will explain to him once he arrives, that’ll be any moment now.

And he does, when he finally arrives and enters the kitchen half an hour later, sweating and red faced, with a small blonde girl in his arms, clinging to his neck, glassy bright blue eyes looking everywhere.

Steve looks at the little girl and then Eddie, not realizing he has dropped his jaw until Eddie’s eyes lock with his.

“Hello everyone, sorry I’m so late,” Eddie says, voice trembling. His eyes never leave Steve’s. “This little girl is CJ, she’s- She’s my kid.”

The kitchen seems haunted by an eerie, tense silence. Dustin is gaping, Erica’s jaw drops just as Steve and Robin’s eyes are wide open in a shell shocked expression.

“Your kid?” She manages to ask, darting glances to Steve.

“Yeah, well-” Eddie’s eyes are still locked with Steve, cheeks burning red. “I just…”

Steve feels - stupid, hopeless, helpless, betrayed, heartbroken, angry, desperate, miserable, incredibly relieved that Eddie is safe - like dying inside.

“Almost three hours late, Munson,” Steve grits through his teeth, his voice harsh and far too sharp. Also, Munson? He hadn’t called Eddie by his surname like, ever, and definitely not in this tone. “What do you think this place is? Your own personal playground?”

Eddie’s eyes flicker and show a thousand little expressions in the fraction of a second, his brows frowned in pain and confusion.

“I- Steve, let me explain-” Eddie’s voice is frail and Steve hates it. Steve hates that such a small detail breaks his heart a bit more, while Eddie’s kid is right there, looking at Steve with fear in her beautiful blue eyes.

“Chef,” Steve reminds him, feeling completely stupid and on the verge of a panic attack, anxiety crawling over his skin.

“Chef, please,” Eddie whispers at him, eyes pleading.

“This is not a kindergarten,” Steve snaps finally. “Take the day off if you need it. Everyone, get back to work, now!”

Steve storms out of the kitchen to hide in his office, falling into his chair with despair and hiding his face in his hands, feeling completely out of control.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck was that, chef?” Robin, of course, followed him and is now closing the door behind her so she can reprimand Steve.

“Robs-”

“Since when are you a complete moron, Steve?” Robin demands, pacing in front of him. He can hear her furious steps, but he still can’t look at his best friend. “The poor man has been trying to impress you since he stepped into the bakery, his work is impeccable, and you treat him like shit, Steve, have you noticed?”

Steve grunts.

“Since when is my best friend a jerk?” Robin asks, oh, she’s really angry at Steve, but not as angry as Steve is with himself. “This is not a kindergarten? Really? Have you seen-”

“I freaked out, ok?!” Steve spits at last, looking at her like the desperate man he is. “I thought he had an accident! I called him and- And then he appears with his kid? I didn’t know he’s married with children, ok? I didn’t know!”

Steve knows he’s making no sense, and yet, he’s letting out more than he wants. His own heartache takes control of his words, all the bottled up feelings spilling out now.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, I just-,” Steve sighs, defeated. “It’s absurd, I know, I’m being absurd.”

Robin sits in the chair in front of Steve, sighing too, far too quiet for Steve’s liking, and he knows she’s already connecting all the dots.

“So, it’s not that you hate Eddie, as Dustin and Eddie himself believe,” Robin guesses, and fuck, she guesses right.

“He thinks I hate him?” Steve asks with a strangled voice.

“That’s all the proof I needed,” Robin smiles sadly at him. “I’m sorry, Steve, it must be difficult for you, Eddie never mentioned a wife or a kid, I thought he was-”

“Yeah, me too, I think it was like, wishful thinking for me, you know?” Steve tries to laugh, but it sounds like a sad bark.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Robin says sincerely, leaning in to pat Steve’s hand. “I think you two have chemistry, like, I was convinced that it was going to happen, sooner or later.”

“You never told me that.”

Robin simply shrugs at that, and to be honest, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“You still owe him an apology, Steve, you were a jerk to him, and his kid, and a broken heart is not really an excuse, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Steve gets up. “I hate you, my little moral compass.”

“Aw, babe, but I’m so good at it.”

-

Once Steve comes back to the kitchen, the initial commotion has faded and everything is again in movement. More or less.

Robin has everyone working the moment she steps out of the office, she’s good at it, far better than Steve. He always enjoyed the creative part more than the boss part. Maybe that’s why Steve doesn’t know how to hire new people or how to face Eddie now, after his little scene just minutes ago.

Dustin and Erica are together, with Eddie’s little girl on the countertop in front of them, making her giggle and - Steve squints at them - giving her chocolate mousse. Dustin is holding the spoon for the kid, CJ, while Erica is looking fondly at Dustin.

Steve sighs, thinking that probably he’ll have to deal with whatever is blooming between these two, but not now. Now he has to find Eddie and apologize to him, and meanwhile he can accept the fact that Eddie is a taken man.

Before he can take a step forward, Robin is already looking at him and points with her chin towards the adjacent kitchen, the one where Eddie records the videos. Steve nods at her sharply, takes a deep breath, and goes to find Eddie.

The long haired chef is there, looking miserable. He has his face hidden in the crook of his arms, slumped against the clean, empty counter, his curls wild and loose, covering his head and shoulders.

He doesn’t notice Steve when he enters the kitchen. Steve opens his mouth, but closes it again, unsure about what to say. The words feel heavy in his sore chest, all that crumpled hope like a bitter ache, making everything a bit more difficult for Steve,

But Robin is right. Eddie never made a move towards Steve, not really. What if the man is flirty by nature? Steve is the one with the stupid crush, and the one that let things get this far.

Deciding to do the right thing, Steve clears his throat, loud enough for Eddie to hear him. Steve grimaces at the startled long haired chef when he looks up, straightening in his spot as a militar. His big doe eyes are glassy and his brows are pinched, his whole pretty face contorted in a painful expression.

Well done, Harrington, Steve thinks.

“Steve!” Eddie squeaks. “I mean, chef, I’m sorry, I- It would never happen again, I just-”

Steve shakes his head, taking a step forward. Seeing Eddie like this shouldn’t hurt him this much, and knowing that he made it worse it’s actually killing Steve from the inside.

“No, Eddie, I am sorry,” Steve sighs, forcing himself to be an adult and look at Eddie’s eyes while he apologizes. “That was completely out of place, I should have asked you if you were ok, if everything was ok, not- I didn’t handle it well, and I’m sorry for that.”

Eddie makes a throaty sound that sounds like a very confused frog.

“Well, you’re the boss and I was late-” Eddie starts to say, sounding defeated. His next words he says them in a rush, as if Steve wouldn’t listen to him if he takes too much time saying them. “I don’t want to lose my job, chef, I love my job, I love working here, please-”

“What?” Steve frowns. “Eddie, I’m not firing you, and please, stop calling me chef.”

Steve decides that today they need to talk, today he has to properly meet Eddie Munson, pastry chef of Stobin, instead of assuming things and let his crush take the best of him.

He leads Eddie to the office, but of course, Dustin has to be the annoying nosy kid - now taller and broader and with stubble, but still a kid for Steve - and jumps in front of them.

“You can’t fire him, Steve!” He says, in that strangled tone he uses whenever he’s chastising Steve. That is, more often than it should be. “That’s not cool, just because-”

“Shouldn’t you be working on that order of cinnamon rolls?” Steve interrupts him, putting a hand on Dustin’s shoulder. “Take Erica and CJ with you if that’s what you want, and we both can talk later, in the office.”

Dustin opens his mouth again, but Steve smiles at him.

“I’m not going to fire Eddie, dude, relax,” Steve promises. Dustin is looking at him with those puppy eyes, lips pressed together in a fine line, but nods sharply after a moment.

“Yes, chef,” Dustin says before leaving, trotting towards Erica, who is still with Eddie’s kid.

Steve closes the door of the office behind them. It’s a simple space, a few chairs, the desk with the computer on top, a couch with a cozy blanket. There are a few shelves, full of cooking books and notebooks written by hand, Steve and Robin’s own recipes and tips, techniques and ideas.

There’s also a coffee machine and a lot of mismatched, novelty mugs. Steve doesn’t waste a moment and picks two of them, pouring coffee onto them.

“Milk and sugar?” Steve asks Eddie, and points at him to sit on the couch.

“Just sugar is ok, thank you.”

It hurts to see Eddie like this, deflated and sad and nothing like his usual self. Steve’s heart clenches at the sight, but he’s decided to ask and to know who Eddie Munson is.

Steve puts one of the mugs in front of Eddie, Dustin’s mug, with yellow ducklings painted on it. Steve holds his own mug, his favorite, the one the kids bought him long ago for father’s day. It says Steve #1 Dad, a private joke between them all.

“Well,” Steve drags one of the chairs until he can sit in front of Eddie. “I know I should have done this when we hired you months ago, but, as you can see I’m terrible at this.”

“You’re not the worst boss I’ve ever had, Steve,” Eddie manages to smile shyly, and it calms Steve’s nerves a bit.

“Yeah, well, I can be better,” Steve smiles back at him. “Ok, Edward Munson, tell me a bit about you.”

[the-90s-music-colosseum]

Round 3 Match 3

propaganda below the cut! (wall of text warning)

Björk:

"sooo pretty"

"Björk looks like her music sounds. Out of this world and beautiful"

"she's like the chipmunk who visits my window"

"She is mjother. She has the range, the versatility to serve any and every kind of beautiful you could ever want. She went from cute art pop girly to icy electronic queen in the span of a few years. She served cunt while dealing with the fallout of divorce. And then immediately pivoted to ethereality and fairies. An icon. Oh also, all of Vespertine exists. Need I say more?"

"She IS grateful grapefruit. No one is doing it like Björk she's so one of a kind and insane and very beautiful and everyone should vote for her. A vote for Björk is a vote for Icelandics everywhere!!!!!!!"

"Björk's voice had such a beautiful clarity and delicate chastity that has infused some of the loveliest songs to ever be written. She is an angel that came down from the Heavens to bless us all with her talent, her mind and her grace. Vespertine, with the most elegantly crafted songs of Pagan Poetry, Cocoon, It's Not Up To You and every other majestic opus on the album stands as the most mystical, tragic, and sensual exploration of love and the core of us that makes us human, our souls. And my second favourite album only to In Rainbows. And all her other albums are great too. Just Google I Love To Love by Björk which is a cover but still shows you that she was the most talented sweetheart ever, even at 6 years old. She is my fire, the one desire. I quoted Backstreet Boys, that should tell you how dedicated I am to this cause. If that still doesn't persuade you however, I'll have you know that Justine Frischmann burned my house to the ground, frequently urinates on my lawn, abducted my mom, pushed my grandmother down a flight of stairs on her trip to Manchester and chopped my dad's "you know what" off to use as a heirloom for her house. She is a nasty and crazy woman. Vote Björk, our Icelandic queen."

"bjork is sexy in a mind-expanding way. she would [redacted] and then teach u how to build a computer. my partner says she makes music for autistic people to have sex to. also history ot touches ??????? hello????"

"Have you seen the swan dress? She's an icon and she is the moment"

"swan dress. need i say more"

(the dress in question)

Dave Grohl:

"Dave grohl. Where do I begin? THIS MAN IS GOD. I WANT HIM TO STRANGLE ME WITH THOSE GIANT TATTOOED ARMS AND STEP ON MY SPINE. I'M NOT KIDDING"

"multiple things to do to/with dave grohl (all affectionately) : 1.) shrink him, hold him in my hands and study him 2.) put him in a washing machine and watch him spin 3.) talk to him for hours on end 4.) wash his hair 5.) ask him about his hair routine 6.) give him a little forehead kiss 7.) bbq with him"

"HOW could anyone NOT pick 90s Dave? He was SOOO beautiful 😫😫 Especially in Nirvana,come ON"

"I mean- just look at the man. If I ever saw him in real life I think I'd unexplainably combust on the spot. I'd sell my grandfather at a garage sale for him."

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

Just saw someone talk about tattooing an orange and suddenly remembered I have a grapefruit on my nightstand

[organicmatter]

tomorrow or the next day i will start tattooing grapefruits in class :D

[ratwhsprs]

THINGS YOUR MUSE WILL NOTICE ABOUT MINE.

WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE:

Sans mask, he looks like he never gets enough sleep, what with the dark circles under his green eyes.

Curly dark copper-ginger hair.

He's short by male standards, 5'3".

He's quite lean but strong enough to lift his own weight, if not necessarily someone much taller than him.

His face is most often clean shaven, to ensure his mask seals properly.

Animal bite scars on the back of his neck; a notch cut out of his left ear.

He has a celtic braid tattooed around one forearm.

WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE:

If he's just bathed, he'll smell a bit like whatever products he's just used (he tries to use unscented so it doesn't risk bothering his rats).

Usually, though? He smells understandably unpleasant. The smell of rats and sewer tends to linger.

WHAT THEY TASTE LIKE:

If his soul could have a taste it would be a sharp, bitter citrus, like grapefruit or Seville orange, perhaps mellowed with a touch of vanilla.

In all other regards… blood and a bit of toothpaste?

WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE:

Quiet footsteps, interspersed with the hiss of his rebreather and the occasional clank of his staff against the concrete (and the sounds of his rats).

His voice is quieter too. 

He's only fluent in English, but he speaks a bit of Gaelic. He's good at switching accents, from a touch of Jersey to “none” to a full Irish brogue.

WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE:

Tense. Otis has NEVER seen a chiropractor or relaxed long enough to permit a massage. 

He'd honestly melt a little if someone he trusted hugged him tight enough.

Cold, particularly his hands.

His hair is actually really soft when he's just washed it.

Tagging: @cxpperhead @mad-hunts @chaotic-watchtower @smilingmxsk @ataviisms & whoever wants to do this! Steal and tag me!

[fairyycoffin]

🌻

hiii i’m going to give you a poem i currently adore :)

this is paradise by jay nebel:

Yesterday a woman walked into a Moscow subway with explosives taped to her chest and blew herself and forty others to pieces. There was a spark and then, like someone had folded the station in half, they were gone. Her first name meant paradise though it sounded more like doesn’t it. You can find paradise anywhere. I love names. I whisper them when I want a cigarette: Hemingway, Dostoyevsky and Levis, Bruce and Jane, Paradise. One of my coworkers enjoyed branding my arm with a burning metal spoon. His name was Scott, so plain and American- sounding, so abbreviated, though Scott analyzed Foucault and rolled his own cigarettes and played electric bass. In high school he sold acid to the same football players who'd beat him up outside of McDonald’s. After turning their eyeballs inside out for thirteen hours straight they never touched him again. We will do crazy things. Sometimes I would wait inside my apartment lobby with the lights turned off so I could scare the manager out of his skeleton. He and I were like Clouseau and Kato, attacking each other for months at odd hours of the night. One of my neighbors loved pissing on his wife and another worshipped the smell of manure and licked envelopes until her tongue bled. I discovered paradise while smoking pot in a minivan, until my friend mistook a Buick Skylark for a cop car, shoved my head down into the lighter and burned off my eyebrows. At his last public viewing Abraham Lincoln’s eyebrows had also disintegrated. This is the picture his enemies would have loved to keep in the breast pocket of their tuxedos while floating down the river on a Sternwheeler. My ideas about paradise have changed. I feel better knowing now that my friend who seared my eyebrows weighs over four hundred pounds. Her paradise sizzles at the all-you-can-eat Mongolian grill. You can find yours anywhere. Paradise in the aisle next to the grapefruit and the cough medicine. Paradise sucking another man’s toes over sheets of tattoo flash. In the light saber and the dinosaur, in your three-year-old singing Wayne Newton through the child monitor, Paradise entering the station alone, kneeling down and opening her jacket.