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esote-rika · 3 days ago

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on the stroke of midnight | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: angst Summary: A pregnancy scare with your boyfriend leads to a serious conversation about the future Content: one mention of a foot fetish, pregnancy scare, talk of pregnancy and kids, established relationship, mentions of schizophrenia and mental illness, Cinderella and time as an extended metaphor and motif??? (Idk I was writing this while simultaneously writing my thesis on fairy tales oops), open ended ending Word count: 2.2k A/N: I don't want kids and this fictional man does, so I'm making it everyone's problem. This is my first time writing pure angst, so uh, please let me know if I should continue with this genre or just go back to smut and fluff lol. Also shoutout to @notlongtolove and @darkmatilda who let me yap abt this ily girlies.

Ever since you started dating, Spencer Reid has been trying to figure out why you love Cinderella so much. He’s read through different academic papers, come up with his own silly interpretations that either make you gasp, or cry from laughing, and often leaves you marveling at his wonderful brain and all the ways it twists and turns. He likes games, you’d established that from the beginning when he ended your first date with a friendly game of chess. He had let you win twice before you’d caught on, and called him out on it.

It was on the second date when you brought up your love for fairytales, expecting an amused laugh at best, and an oh so you're one of those Disney adults at worst. However, you got neither. Instead, Spencer Reid had launched into an explanation of the cultural significance of these stories, asked you about your favorite, and then proceeded to tell you about the different versions of it across history and continents. Somewhere between the Americas, he'd cut himself off, blushing furiously, before asking you why you loved Cinderella so much.

By then you had already decided he's perfect.

You didn’t tell him the reason that night; you thought it was too pathetic to share on a second date.

“I’ll tell you if you stick around.” you had said cheekily, hoping that maybe the temptation of a secret will allow you to keep him longer.

He had laughed, “So you’re baiting me into another date?”

“Is it working?”

“I would’ve asked you out again regardless.”

That had been the night you got your first taste of his lips, and you’ve found yourself hoping time would stretch on forever. If moments could be bottled up, you would have done so at that moment, kept it in your pocket for the rest of eternity.

Five months of bliss have passed since. Your theory of his perfection just kept being proven correct throughout the entire time, the way he’s trying so hard to communicate with you and make up for plans that get shelved due to the demanding nature of his job. He’d come up with different explanations for why you love Cinderella, until it became a game of its own; him searching through the contours of the fairy tale and you denying everything he comes up with.

At one point, he’d asked if it was simply because you had a feet fetish and you had to start wearing socks everywhere because the sight of your own feet would make you giggle.

You don’t mind it, the games, the way he insists on learning this about you. Spencer Reid's mind desires to understand how everything works, to turn over and mull and analyze, and the first step to that is by keeping track of the variables. You have always found this endearing. He knows how fast you can read — it depends on the genre according to him, but it’s somewhere around 350-400 words per minute. He knows your favorite stories and music, has found connecting themes between them, and now he’s trying to see where your love for Cinderella fits in all of it. Hell, he even keeps track of your cycle for you, resulting in perfectly timed moments shared in bed where you’re ravished, and he’s chanting your name, and the two of you are gasping for a god that neither of you really believe in.

When you miss your period, he notices before you even do, quietly offering two boxes of pregnancy tests. He kept track of how long it took before the results finally appeared — one test took three minutes and eight seconds, the other one three minutes and twenty one seconds. It had felt simultaneously like three seconds and three decades.

That was nearly six days ago. Nearly a whole week has passed, and what you had assumed to be an insignificant fissure seems to have widened into a crack. It’s a rare night off for him, a moment of domesticity that should be relished, but instead, you wonder if the cracks have somehow turned into something else. A fracture. You move around the kitchen together like magnets with similar poles, close but never quite touching. It feels like a chasm between you.

Dinner in the oven. Only the slow tick of the oven timer disrupts the silence, though it doesn’t really disrupt as much as it joins. Background noise, a lull that seems to melt with the silence to highlight the stifling atmosphere. He’s tossing a salad, facing away from you. You both know it is ready to be served.

His name is whispered into the tense air, your voice croaking at the last syllable, “We need to talk about this.” You watch as he tenses, back uncharacteristically straight, and your heart sinks to your stomach.

“I guess we do.” He never guesses. Spencer Reid uses words that are accurate, god knows he has the vocabulary for it. So this, to guess, the hint of skepticism makes your skin crawl. “What is this, again?”

You scoff. He can be so deliberately obtuse sometimes, “I don’t know, Spence, you tell me. You’ve been acting weird since I took that pregnancy test.”

He doesn’t look at you, but he does answer, “I just— I don’t understand why you were so relieved about the results.”

You’ve had an inkling this whole issue is about that moment. Both of you hunched on his couch while you waited with bated breath. He’d timed it, one stick taking three minutes and eight seconds, the other three minutes and twenty one; both had contained negative results.

You still remember it, the utter relief that washed over your body, the way you threw yourself into his arms at the confirmation that he hadn’t accidentally gotten you pregnant. You’d said thank god so quickly, face buried at the crook of his shoulder, so relieved that you hadn’t really noticed his reaction.

“Spencer,” it comes out a sigh, patient and quiet, “We’ve been dating for five months. Of course I was relieved. Don’t get me wrong, I love you, but it’s a little too soon to add a baby to the mix.” Love. That abstract concept you’ve almost given up on, before he’d come into your life. You love him, you’re sure of it. It’s burrowed deep into your bones now, which is why you’re trying to get past this. Communication is the key to making a relationship work. You remind yourself you don’t need a fairy godmother to keep this going. You have agency of your own.

His head shifts, turning over his shoulder slowly, and those beautiful amber eyes meet your own. “Is that all?”

It feels like an accusation, even though you know he’s just trying to understand. You gulp, trying not to get defensive, “I suppose not. If I’m being honest, I was relieved because I don’t really want children.”

There it is. A cardinal sin, a sickness of modern women. You wait for his words to turn bitter, the familiar accusations of selfishness, the condescension.

Instead, he looks at you with wounded eyes, “You don’t want children with me?”

“What? That’s not what I said.”

He pauses, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps. The oven continues to hum softly in the background, its built-in timer clicking at equal intervals. In a different context, it might have given you a sense of peace, but right now it feels mocking. Your time is almost up.

“Spencer, that’s not what I said, honey.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” he turns back to the salad.

You watch him helplessly, searching for any way to bring him back to you.

“You kept asking about my mom,” he murmurs, “It’s not that I didn’t want you to meet her, it’s that, it’s—well, she’s in a home. A– a mental facility. She’s schizophrenic.”

This is not how you expected this conversation to go. “Spencer.”

“I guess, you know, that’s genetically passed down, and it’s no secret that my teammates suspect I’m on the spectrum, so my genetic makeup isn’t exactly the most desirable in terms of a partner with whom you would want to—to procreate.”

God, you wish he had been like most people and accused you of being a selfish bitch instead.

“No,” you gasp, crossing the space between you. His hand is cold when you wrap your fingers around it. Unfortunately, you don’t think you have any warmth to give. Your own hands are clammy, but you try anyway, tugging it away from the tongs he’s using to mindlessly swirl at the contents of the salad. “It’s not like that at all.”

“It’s not?”

“No. And I’m sorry about your mom, I–I’m sure this isn’t how you wanted to tell me about her.” the words feel futile, worthless. You’re entirely unprepared for something like this. He hasn’t told you much about Diana Reid, and you’d given him space, and now… now you understand why.

A beat as he considers. His body angles towards you now, his stance hunching forward into that familiar slouch you’ve come to love. You can’t tell if he’s relaxed or defeated, and that uncertainty burns in the back of your throat. “So you just don’t—”

“I don’t want kids, plain and simple. It’s got nothing to do with your genes, or your suspected autism, I just…” You falter, hands tightening over his own. You wish you could be more eloquent, but there’s so much uncertainty, so many truths being dropped in the span of minutes. You wait for more questions, for the inevitable but aren’t you worried about your legacy? Wouldn’t you get lonely? Motherhood is fulfilling for women. Sentiments you always get when you share this particular choice.

You prepare your arsenal of responses, defenses you’ve practiced and perfected throughout the years, ready for any attempts to make you change your mind.

Somehow, he manages to choose the most devastating response instead. Muttering so quietly you almost don’t catch it, Spencer says, “But I do.”

You wonder how you got this long without ever talking about this? How had you gone five months with him, allowed yourself to let your walls down and fall in love, memorized the scars and calluses all over his body without ever discussing the topic of children? It seems silly, most people talk about that stuff from the get go, don’t they? To see if they would be compatible in the long run?

But you’ve never had that before, the luxury of future plans. You’ve come to accept that the floor will inevitably collapse beneath your feet, that your time with someone will run out. When you’re used to having an expiry date, you don’t bother to make plans. The only way to survive is to live in the moment. Cinderella and her midnight curfew.

“Oh.” It’s a filler word, but the silence is beginning to get to you. You stare at your entwined hands. His thumb is running back and forth across your knuckles, the action familiar and soothing, and allow yourself a moment to believe, to hope, that there’s time left for this. That time would never run out.

His next words break your heart even more, “I know it’s silly, especially with how much risk is involved. With my job, my—”

“It’s not silly at all, Spence.” you gulp, trying to push past the lump in your throat as you remember how he acts around his godson Henry in those rare times he’s had to babysit, “You’d make a great dad.”

“You’d make a great mom too.”

“Spencer.”

“I’ve seen you with your own nephews. You’re great with kids.”

“Don’t—”

“I’m not trying to change your mind,” he finally pulls you in, lips finding the top of your head, “I respect your choice, I do. I’m sorry that I seem like I’m pressuring you.”

“You’re not,” it’s even harder to catch your breath when your face is pressed against him, but you don’t make a move. Losing air seems like a fair compromise if it means you get to feel his touch. The way this conversation went has you reeling, confused. You’d been prepared to defend yourself, to explain your choices and make him understand, potentially to argue. His respect and acceptance is an entirely different battlefield, but no less vicious.

With all the courage you can muster, you speak the words into existence even though you dread the answer. “Is this a deal breaker? Having children?”

He’s quiet. You wonder if this is even still a battlefield. You wonder if this is surrender, quiet and unassuming, a white flag raised before the fighting even began. If it is, then it stings, his soft acceptance. You almost find yourself wishing he’d try to convince you instead if it means he’ll fight for you more.

Your mind wanders back to Cinderella, the little game you’ve been playing, the way you’ve been holding out on the answer because it amuses you to hear the variety of interpretations and musings he’ll come up with. You promised yourself you’d tell him when the time is right, but now you’re afraid he’ll never get the answer. It feels useless, the cat and mouse you’ve developed, not when you’re faced with a real, human issue. A difference in life goals. Something communication potentially couldn’t fix.

His heart is drumming relentlessly against your cheek. It brings you some sick sense of comfort, knowing that he’s just as terrified as you are.

“Spencer?” Is this the end? Please don’t let this be the end, please don’t be another good thing I lose.

The timer on the oven dings, piercing in the tense silence. Your midnight curfew has come. Dinner is ready.

Happy Valentines <3 thank you for reading, here's the rest of my masterlist

Also tagging @olderwomenenthusiast ty for the interest it is here

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x yn #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x afab reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fan fic #spencer reid x reader angst #criminal minds #criminal minds angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid

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yuu-kantokusei · 2 days ago

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Valentine's Day❤️

First year version

Characters: Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Sebek

TW: cute, fluff, wholesome

♥️Ace Trappola

Ace isn't one for grand romantic gestures, but he also wants to make the day special in his own way. He teases you all morning, pretending to have forgotten about Valentine's Day, only to surprise you with an impromptu date at the Heartslabyul garden.

He smirks, holding out a box behind his back. "Oh? You actually thought I’d forget? How could I, when you’ve been blushing at every couple we passed today?"

Inside the box is a mix of chocolates—some gourmet, some oddly shaped—and a single playing card, the Ace of Hearts, with "Trappola’s Special Valentine" written on it.

"You better treasure that! That card’s got sentimental value, y’know." he says, grinning but looking away slightly, as if embarrassed.

Afterward, he takes you to play some games at the fair stalls set up by different dorms, winning a stuffed animal for you (after losing a few rounds first, much to his frustration). The day ends with Ace casually throwing an arm around your shoulder, laughing at how "lucky" you are to have him.

♠️Deuce Spade

Deuce spends weeks planning for Valentine’s Day, even getting advice from Trey and Riddle. On the big day, he shows up at your door, nervously shifting from foot to foot, holding a carefully wrapped box of homemade chocolates.

“I—I made these myself! Trey-senpai supervised, so they should be good. I hope…”

Inside the box, the chocolates are heart-shaped but slightly uneven, showing how hard he worked on them. There’s also a little handwritten note, written with intense concentration, saying:

"Thank you for being my precious friend. You make my days brighter. Please accept this small gift."

Afterward, he takes you for a motorcycle ride through a scenic route outside the academy, making sure you hold on tightly. At the highest point, they stop and watch the sunset together, his face turning red as he quietly mutters, "I’m really glad we met."

🐺Jack Howl

Jack isn’t one for sappy holidays, but he recognizes that Valentine’s Day is important, so he makes an effort. He finds a small but meaningful gift—a handcrafted leather bracelet with a wolf charm attached, something practical yet symbolic.

When he gives it to you, he scratches his ear, looking away. “This is… uh, something to remind you that I’ve got your back. Always.”

Instead of a traditional date, Jack takes you on a morning jog with him, where they share a quiet but peaceful time together. Later, he surprises you with a picnic under a large tree, bringing some homemade sandwiches and fruit.

As you eat happily, he watches you with a soft expression, muttering under his breath, “You should smile like that more often.”

If you tease him about it, his tail wags despite his flustered protests.

🍎Epel Felmier

Epel, despite his usual complaints about being treated as ‘cute,’ fully embraces the romance of Valentine’s Day. He invites you to a surprise horseback ride around Pomefiore’s flower fields, where he guides you gently through the scenic landscape.

At the end of the ride, he pulls out a small wooden box with a beautifully carved apple pendant inside. "I made this myself," he says proudly. "It’s apple wood from my family’s orchard. So even when you’re not with me, you’ll have a piece of my home with you."

They spend the evening watching the stars, sharing stories from their childhood. At one point, Epel, thinking you have dozed off, whispers softly, “I wish we could spend every Valentine’s like this…”

Little does he know, you heard him and smiled.

⚡️Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek insists that Valentine's Day is an insignificant human tradition, but deep down, he takes it very seriously when it involves you. He prepares a dramatic, formal speech about your “importance” in his life but keeps getting flustered halfway through.

“Ahem! I— I wish to bestow upon you a token of my— No, that’s not right! CURSES!"

Eventually, he simply hands you a carefully wrapped book—a rare edition of a famous knight’s tale. “This story… It’s about loyalty and strength. You remind me of the hero.”

Despite his usual loudness, he spends the day unusually gentle, guiding you through a serene walk near Diasomnia’s quiet gardens. By the end of the day, he clears his throat, trying to look serious.

“You—You are truly exceptional, And… I shall protect you for all eternity!” His face turns red as he abruptly storms off, embarrassed.

#ace trappola x reader #deuce spade x reader #jack howl x reader #epel felmier x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #ace trappola #deuce spade #jack howl #epel felmier #sebek zigvolt

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yumeka-sxf · 7 hours ago

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The school vacation is over and the new term at Eden is starting...of course, Anya is less than pleased with this development 😅

Seriously, her groaning reminds me of my "anti-school" phase I had when I was around her age, lol.

This chapter was mainly focused on introducing Anya's new classmates. I'll admit that I feel SxF has enough side characters already for the type of series it is, but maybe they'll only be relevant for one story/arc (like Daybreak and Wheeler). Though having another female friend in Connie might be nice. She seems weird enough for Anya to have fun reading her mind 😂

Since recent chapters have dropped hints about Anya's past and the emphasis on mind-reading abilities/the occult via Melinda, plus we have the lingering mystery of Anya's affinity for classical languages, I feel like this new set up at Eden is going to play into that. Not only has Arnold returned, but we now have a supposed prince in the mix. It's been theorized that Anya's classical language skills are somehow tied to royalty in a foreign land...so maybe Tertius is connected to that somehow. I mean, you must be royally royal to have hair shaped like a crown 🤣

Then we have the as-of-yet unnamed kid who flicked a booger on Tertius. Curious what role he'll play if all this is indeed leading up to more Anya backstory reveal.

I should clear up some weird translation in the English version. In the below panel, it seems like Tertius is mentioning Jeeves, but the term he's using is 爺や ("jiiya") which I believe is an old term used to refer to an elderly male servant.

Now the word "jeeves" in English is a generic term used to refer to a butler or valet. If you've watched enough movies and/or TV series, you may have heard someone refer to their butler as "jeeves." So technically it's not an incorrect translation, but it's incredibly confusing because we already have an established character named Jeeves, who is Damian's butler. So this could make people think that Tertius knows Jeeves, which is likely not the case. They really should have come up with a different word to use, something like "pop" or "gramps."

Besides the new characters, we now have more potential for Anya and Damian to be alone, without influence from Emile, Ewen, and Becky. Hopefully it will lead to more talk about Anya's mind-reading and Desmond lore.

Guess that's all I have to say about this chapter as it mostly seems like setup for what's to come. I've probably mentioned before that the Eden-focused stories aren't exactly my favorites, especially when Anya isn't a key player. But hopefully whatever's going on with Tertius and the booger kid will be leading up to something significant in the end.

Interestingly, this is the first chapter since Loid's backstory that's being split into parts, as this chapter is called 112.1 (112 part 1 in the Japanese version). Similar to what he did for Loid's backstory chapters, Endo tweeted about this for chapter 112. Guess it's just gonna be two parts?

Also, on an unrelated note, we also got the cover reveal for volume 15 today! Features Martha, not surprised since it will include chapters from the Henry/Martha backstory arc.

#spy x family #sxf #spy family #spyxfamily #anya forger #damian desmond #sxf manga #sxf manga spoilers #sxf spoilers

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goldfades · 1 day ago

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i need to be sidney crosbys controversially young gf… maybe something for that… heh

my new fav concept, hope you enjoy!

It started with whispers.

The kind that curled around the edges of locker rooms and crept into post-game interviews, barely concealed behind tight-lipped smirks and knowing glances. The kind that made headlines in tabloids next to blurry photos of a dinner reservation that should have been private. The kind that weren’t unexpected, not when a 37-year-old hockey legend started dating a 21-year-old who had no business being in his world.

Sidney Crosby was used to the noise. He’d spent two decades as the face of a franchise, his every move dissected and debated. But this? This was different. This was personal.

And you—well, you were the subject of speculation, fascination, and, in some corners, outright disapproval. The girl too young, too fresh, too much of a contrast to the quiet, calculated, carefully managed existence Sidney had built. The age gap was undeniable, a 16-year stretch that gave people ammunition, as if they hadn’t already decided what they thought about you.

It didn’t help that you weren’t some seasoned socialite or a familiar name in hockey circles. You weren’t a sports reporter or a PR darling, not a longtime fixture at games. No, you were something worse in the eyes of his critics—young, new, and entirely yours.

They didn’t know about the late-night conversations, the ones where Sidney’s usual reserve cracked open just enough for you to slip inside. They didn’t see the way he softened when you spoke, or how he looked at you like he was trying to memorize every version of you—the excited, the sleepy, the frustrated, the amused.

They didn’t know that you never sought him out, that he was the one who lingered after your first meeting, the one who texted first, the one who—despite all logic, despite knowing exactly what kind of reaction this would spark—had made it clear he wanted you.

But they knew enough to talk.

"She’s barely old enough to drink."

"What could they possibly have in common?"

"Sid’s having a mid-life crisis."

The comments should have been easy to ignore. Sidney wasn’t the type to entertain gossip, and you’d never cared about the opinions of people who didn’t know you. But still, the weight of it settled into your bones some days, making you wonder if you were an anomaly in his otherwise perfectly controlled life.

Because he was Sidney Crosby—captain, legend, a man whose legacy had been cemented long before you were even in high school. And you? You were just the girl people assumed was temporary.

And maybe that’s what made it all the more exhilarating.

The funniest part? You and Sidney actually found the whole thing hilarious.

The first time you showed him a comment under some sports gossip post—"She’s basically a child. This is so embarrassing for him."—he just blinked at you, unimpressed.

"Didn’t realize I should be embarrassed for enjoying my life," he said dryly, barely looking up from his coffee.

You snorted. "Yeah, well, you should probably start wearing knee braces to dinner so people know how frail you are."

From then on, it became a running joke.

Like when you posted a dimly lit photo of your hand wrapped around a wine glass at a fancy steakhouse, the edge of Sidney’s plate barely in frame, and captioned it: Dinner with my old man 🤍

Or when you caught a candid of him rubbing his temple after a long day and added it to your Instagram story with the text: He’s got a headache from all the whippersnappers in his life.

Or, your personal favorite, when you recorded him tying his skates before practice, zoomed in on his face as he focused, and added: D1 Grandpa Energy.

The chirps were constant, and he took them all in stride. In fact, he played along—leaned into it, even.

"Think I should start stretching before we go out?" he mused one evening as you got ready for dinner. "Maybe bring a heating pad?"

You grinned at him in the mirror. "I already put Icy Hot in your bag. Just in case you pull something walking to the table."

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the twitch of his lips.

Despite the internet losing its collective mind, the reality of your relationship was effortless. Sidney was steady, calm, and deeply private. You, on the other hand, were unbothered, playful, and just reckless enough to make things interesting. You balanced each other out in a way that worked, even if people didn’t understand it.

You loved how Sidney never treated you like you were some silly, naive kid. He respected you—your thoughts, your humor, your way of seeing the world. And you, in turn, loved teasing the hell out of him, keeping him on his toes in a way no one else really dared.

Like the time you went with him to a team dinner, and while everyone was talking hockey, you casually turned to him and went, "Tell me again what it was like growing up without color TV?"

The table went silent for a beat before someone—probably Letang—burst out laughing. Sid just gave you that look, equal parts unimpressed and amused, before shaking his head.

"She’s funny, huh?" he muttered, reaching for his drink.

"A regular comedian," you quipped, clinking your glass against his.

That was the thing—no matter how much outside noise tried to define your relationship, the two of you had already decided what it was.

It was simple. You liked each other.

Sidney didn’t buy you expensive things to impress you. Sure, he could, but he knew that wasn’t why you were here. Instead, he showed up in little ways—the way he always made sure to order your fries extra crispy because that’s how you liked them, or how he’d automatically pull you closer when cameras were around, just to make sure you didn’t get overwhelmed.

And you? You made sure he laughed. Really laughed. The kind of laugh that shook his shoulders and made his eyes crinkle, the kind of laugh he rarely let people see.

You were good together. You fit, even if people couldn’t wrap their heads around it.

And honestly? That just made it more fun.

It was nearly midnight, and the two of you were on the couch, deep in a heated argument over absolutely nothing.

"I'm just saying, people who don’t let the cereal sit in the milk for at least thirty seconds before eating it are a danger to society," you declared, pointing your spoon at him.

Sidney, reclined against the cushions in his sweatpants and a faded Team Canada hoodie, exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "That’s ridiculous. You want it soggy?"

"Not soggy, perfectly saturated," you corrected, scooping another spoonful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch from your bowl. "It enhances the experience."

Sid shook his head, glancing down at his own bowl—practically dry because, of course, he barely let the milk touch his cereal before shoveling it into his mouth like some kind of barbarian. "There’s no way you actually believe this."

"I do," you said, dramatic as ever, settling further into your spot next to him. "This is a hill I will die on."

Sid sighed, took another bite, and then, without missing a beat, shot back, "Guess you’d better hope I go first then."

You gasped, shoving his shoulder. "Did you just—"

He fought back a smirk, chewing methodically like he didn’t just say something that made your jaw drop. "You’re too young to be making retirement home decisions, anyway," he added, extra casual.

"Wow," you scoffed, setting your bowl down. "Big words for someone whose lower back cracks every time he stands up."

He snorted, finally breaking into that slow, warm smile that made your stomach flip.

It was moments like this that made you realize why, despite the comments and the noise, this relationship worked.

You weren’t intimidated by him. Not by his reputation, not by the weight of who he was. You poked fun at the untouchable Sidney Crosby the way most people wouldn’t dare, but you never disrespected him. You met him as a person, not as a legacy.

And Sid—Sid liked that.

He liked how quick you were, how you made fun of him without ever making him feel small. How you never treated him like some god on skates but also never downplayed how much he meant to people. It was a balance no one had quite figured out before you.

He let out a deep breath, stretching his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the ends of your hair.

"You done bullying me for the night?" he asked, amused.

You hummed, considering. "Depends. You gonna admit my cereal method is better?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then no."

He chuckled, shaking his head before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in. You melted into his side like it was second nature, warm and easy.

The whole world could talk. The whole world could speculate. But in here, in this quiet moment between bowls of cereal and bad jokes, you fit like you were always meant to.

#sidney crosby imagine #sidney crosby #sidney crosby smut #sidney crosby x reader #sidney crosby fic #sidney crobsy #sidney crosby imagines #sidney crosby fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl #hockey #nhl fanfiction #nhl oneshot #hockey fic #nhl imagines

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msbigredmachine · 2 days ago

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My Angel, My Love (Roman Reigns)

For their first Valentine’s, Roman and Naima indulge in passion, laughter, and love. From heartfelt gifts to stolen touches over dinner, every moment is intoxicating. In each other, they’ve found something rare, something real…and tonight proves it again.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Black fem OC

Warnings: Smut, fluff

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: This is based off characters from my upcoming multi-chapter Roman fic and its standalone, An Angelic Christmas.

Naima sits at her desk, the glow of her laptop screen the only light in the quiet bedroom. It’s well past midnight, but sleep isn’t even a thought. Not when she’s been obsessing over every cut, every transition, every second of this video.

Their first Valentine’s Day.

She wants this to be right. Not extravagant, not over the top—just something that means something. Something that captures what they’ve become.

A year ago, she never could’ve imagined this. That he would be hers. That she’d be sitting here, heart full, carefully piecing together their story, one that unfolded in ways she never expected but, somehow, felt inevitable.

With a practiced eye, she scrolls through her camera roll, pulling out clips that define them.

Roman carrying her suitcase through an airport, looking back at her with that teasing smirk.

A blurry shot of them laughing in the car, her filming him as he rants about Atlanta traffic.

His big hand wrapped around hers as they walk through a city, fingers interlocked like they always should be.

A quiet moment in bed, his arm slung over her waist, sharing soft, sweet kisses that were clearly leading to something more.

A snippet of her in the crowd at his match at last year’s Wrestlemania, eyes locked on him, the camera catching the pride on her face.

Her surprising him with his favorite sushi tray one random afternoon, him beaming at the camera as he holds them up.

Him showering her with hundred-dollar bills at Exotica, her laughing as she twerks on him, giving him his money’s worth, Jimmy and Naomi hyping them up in the VIP section.

A clip of them at the beach, her on his back, both of them soaked from the ocean waves.

The late-night drive where she caught him singing along to a song he swore he didn’t know.

She threads them together seamlessly, using the same precision she applies to her work on the Elysian Moves Instagram page. The pacing, the music, the way each moment flows into the next—it all has to feel right. Like them.

She keeps the full video at a minute, a perfect distillation of what they are. Then she creates a shorter, 30-second version for Instagram, something the world can see.

But it’s the captions that make it.

Little statements appear throughout the video, subtle yet intentional.

I didn’t see you coming, but somehow, you’ve always felt meant to be.

You are home.

I didn’t just fall in love with you. I ran into love with you.

My safe space. My love. My person.

And at the very end, the words that make her heart tighten as she types them out:

I love you, Roman.

Naima exhales, staring at the finished product.

She hopes he feels this.

The wheels of the jet touch down with a smooth glide, and Roman exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he leans back in his seat. He’s flown in and out of Atlanta more times than he can count, but these days, the trips feel different.

For years, this city had been a checkpoint. A place he passed through for work, for college, for obligations that didn’t leave much room for sentimentality. Georgia Tech was where he honed his discipline, his drive. Back then, Atlanta had been about chasing a dream. But now, it’s about her.

Naima.

This city—her city—has become something else entirely. A place that pulls him back in ways he never expected. He used to come here for matches, media, appearances. Now? Now he comes because he wants to. Because she’s here.

His schedule isn’t as relentless as it used to be, something he made sure of. A few years ago, the thought of stepping back from WWE, of letting someone else carry the load, would’ve been unthinkable. But things change. Priorities shift. He spent over a decade giving everything to the business. He’s still him, still the Tribal Chief, still at the top—but he’s also a man who wants more than just titles and main events.

He wants her.

And if cutting back means more time with Naima, more time wrapped up in her warmth, in her world, then it’s worth it. She’s worth it.

As the jet rolls to a stop, he rubs a hand over his jaw, exhaling. Valentine’s Day.

He’s never been the sentimental type. His last couple of Valentine’s had been…transactional, at best. A quick call to his assistant, a luxury gift delivered to Princess, his ex-fiancée, a generic message attached. No real thought. No real feeling. Just an obligation.

But this year is different.

This year, he actually wants to make it special. For her.

Because Naima isn’t some obligation. She’s his woman. His love.

And that alone makes all the difference.

Late morning sun filters through the windows, casting soft light over the soft interior of Naima’s townhouse. Roman is stretched out on her couch, shirtless, gray sweatpants worn low on his hips—because of course. One arm rests along the back of the couch, the other wrapped around a cold bottle of water. His focus drifts between SportsCenter and the plate of wings and Valentine’s-themed cookies laid before him on the coffee table.

He’s comfortable. Content.

Naima plops down beside him, her body warm against his, fitting into his side like she belongs there. Without thinking, he tugs her closer, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against her hip.

She presses her phone into his hand. “I have a surprise for you,” she says, a quiet smile playing on her lips.

His brows lift. “Yeah?”

She nods, biting her bottom lip. There’s something in her eyes; something nervous, something deep.

Roman notices everything when it comes to her.

“What is it?” he asks, tilting his head.

Her fingers tighten slightly around his forearm. “One of your Valentine’s gifts.”

His lips twitch. “One of them? You out here spoiling me, baby?”

“Maybe.” She grins, but there’s a flicker of hesitation beneath it. Because this? This is something big.

Roman is private—fiercely so. He’s always kept their relationship just between them, away from prying eyes. And Naima has come to understand that, to respect it, embrace it even. But her love for him is too vast, too consuming to be hidden away. It fills every inch of her. And now, she wants the world to see it.

She just hopes he understands.

Roman studies her for a beat, then shifts his gaze to the phone in his hand, pressing play.

She watches him as he watches the video. Watches the subtle changes in his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls a little deeper. Watches his lips part slightly, his jaw tighten as he swallows hard.

By the time the final words appear on-screen—I love you, Roman—he’s completely still.

The weight of it settles over him, sinks into him.

Naima tightens her grip on his bicep, resting her cheek against it. “I wanted you to know,” she murmurs. “And I want the world to know, too.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at the screen, his fingers tightening slightly around the phone. Then, after a moment, he blinks, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip as he exhales sharply.

“You tryna make me soft, baby?” His voice is husky, rough around the edges.

She tilts her head up, brushing her fingers along his arm. “You're already soft for me, big daddy. Just making sure you feel how much I love you.”

Roman sets the phone down, turning toward her. His hand cups the side of her face, his touch gentle despite the sheer size of it. His thumb brushes along her jaw, reverent.

“I feel it, baby,” he murmurs. “I feel it every day. But this?” He shakes his head, eyes dark, voice thick. “This hits different.”

Naima swallows, emotions swelling in her heart. “Good.”

A quiet, shaky chuckle rumbles from his chest, and he presses his forehead to hers, exhaling deeply. “You know I love you too, right?” His voice dips, heavy with feeling. “So much.”

She smiles softly. “Yeah, I know.”

He kisses her, slow and sensual and full of everything he can’t quite put into words. And when he finally pulls back, he lingers, resting his forehead against hers. Shaking his head, he huffs out a small, incredulous laugh.

“Baby, you done set the bar too high for Valentine’s now.”

Naima grins against his lips. “Guess you gotta step your game up, big daddy.”

He smirks, eyes warm, adoring. “Oh, I will.” He kisses her again, soft and teasing. “Anything for you.”

Valentine’s Day

Naima barely stirs when Roman lifts her into his arms, her body naturally curling into his warmth. She mumbles something against his chest, too groggy to form actual words.

Roman just chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple as he carries her and their wiggling four-month-old Staffordshire Bull Terrier, Chief, out of her townhouse and into his waiting Rolls-Royce Cullinan.

“Mm,” she groans sleepily as he settles her into the passenger seat. “Where we goin’?”

Roman smirks, closing her door before rounding the hood of the car. By the time he gets in, Naima has already slumped against the headrest, eyes barely open.

“You’ll see,” he murmurs, rubbing her thigh as he pulls off.

She dozes off again, lulled by the quiet hum of the luxury SUV and the warmth of his hand on her. She stirs slightly when they pull into the underground parking of his Atlanta condo, and Roman takes his time waking her up, brushing soft kisses along her jaw.

“Wake up, baby,” he whispers. “We’re here.”

Naima groans in protest but lets him help her out of the car, half-leaning into him as they take the elevator up. Chief, full of morning energy, tugs at his leash, eager to explore.

When the door to the lavish condo swings open, Naima steps inside—and stops.

The entire space is filled with balloons.

They float against the ceiling, tied to chairs and tables, surrounding the entire living room. Red, pink, white, all scattered amongst oversized I Love You balloons. Rose petals trail from the entrance toward the bedroom, and the soft melody of D’Angelo’s “Lady” hums through the speakers.

Her breath catches.

She’s been wined and dined before. She’s had men try to impress her with extravagant gifts, luxury trips, money—so much money. But this? This feels a whole lot different. This feels intentional.

She turns, still taking it all in, before her gaze finds Roman’s.

“You did all this?” Her voice is soft, almost disbelieving.

Roman steps up behind her, his big arms sliding around her waist as he nuzzles into her neck. “Yeah. Made a lot of calls, but I did it.”

Her hands rest over his, pressing them closer against her stomach. “You tryna make me cry first thing in the morning?”

Roman grins, kissing her exposed shoulder. “Nah, but if you did cry, I wouldn’t be mad at it.”

Naima shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from smiling too hard. “You are ridiculous.”

Before Roman can respond,

Pop!

Both their heads snap toward the sound just in time to see Chief bouncing on his hind legs, snapping his tiny jaws at one of the balloons. He jumps again, missing but determined.

“This damn dog,” Roman groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Boy! Leave the damn balloons alone.”

Chief barks once, his little tail wagging, then leaps, almost getting the string between his teeth.

Naima giggles, turning back to her man. “This is just the beginning of the day?”

He slides his hands down to her hips, squeezing lightly. “Just the beginning, beautiful.”

The rest of their day unfolds effortlessly.

They spend the afternoon wrapped up in each other, lounging around the condo in comfortable silence. Roman, freshly showered and dressed in nothing but sweats, flips through channels, occasionally distracted by Naima as she scrolls through her phone, stretched out across his lap. Chief sprawls on the floor near their feet, snoring softly.

At various points, Roman surprises her with gifts—luxury perfume, a pair of Chopard diamond earrings, and a silk robe so soft it feels like water against her skin.

Naima stares at the earrings for a long moment before looking up at him. “Dude, you are spoiling the hell outta me.”

Roman smirks. “Ain’t that my job?”

She tilts her head, studying him with something unreadable in her gaze. Then, without a word, she gets up, disappearing into the bedroom. When she returns, there’s a sleek, velvet box in her hands.

Roman raises an eyebrow as she places it on his lap. “What’s this?”

“Another gift.”

He eyes her, then the box, before flipping it open.

Inside sits a stunning, custom-designed gold bracelet, thick yet refined, engraved with the words My Ali’i.

My Chief in Samoan. In delicate script.

Roman’s lips part slightly.

Naima watches him carefully, a little nervous. “I know you don’t do a lot of jewelry, but I saw this and thought-”

Roman doesn’t let her finish.

He pulls her onto his lap, cupping her face in both hands before kissing her deeply, his mouth warm and hungry against hers. By the time he pulls back, Naima’s breathing is uneven, her fingers curled into his chest.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I love it.”

She exhales, relieved. “Yeah?”

Roman smirks, cups her shapely hips. “Now you really got me out here tryna make sure I earn this title.”

Naima laughs softly, her fingers threading into his hair as she tugs him closer. “You already do, big guy.”

Her hands drift lower, slipping beneath his waistband, fingers wrapping around his thick length. Roman groans, his grip on her hips tightening as she pushes his sweats down just enough to free him. She meets his gaze, her eyes dark with intent, before sinking down on his dick.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his head falling back as his fingers dig into her skin.

Naima grins, rolling her hips, watching his control unravel. “Better hold on, Tribal Chief.”

As evening falls, Roman tells her to get dressed. They’re going out. He doesn’t say where, but Naima already knows he’s about to pull out all the stops, like always.

She takes her time getting ready, slipping into a dress that clings in all the right places, low neckline and high slit, her wig soft and wavy, her makeup smooth and flawless. But the moment she steps out, fully prepared to turn heads, she’s the one caught off guard.

Roman is waiting by the kitchen, dressed in an all-black button-down and slacks, his sleeves rolled up just enough to tease that thick, tattooed forearm of his. He looks good. Too good. And when his dark eyes drag over her, slow and smoldering, her breath catches.

His jaw flexes, his fingers twitching at his sides. “Damn,” he murmurs, his voice husky. “You tryna unalive me, baby?”

Naima swallows, gathering herself before stepping closer, smoothing a hand over his jawline. “Maybe. You like it, daddy?”

Roman's hands find her waist, tugging her in just enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. “I always do, mamas.”

Her eyes roam over him, appreciation gleaming in their depths. “You look so damn good.” She bites her lip, fingers lingering on his face. “You sure we’ll be able to keep our hands to ourselves tonight?”

Roman smirks, his grip on her waist tightening as he leans down, his lips brushing her ear.

“Oh, we won’t, baby,” he murmurs, his voice dark and promising. “Matter of fact, I’m already tryin’ to figure out which part of the night I’m gonna have you bent over.”

Naima gasps. “Baby!”

He merely laughs, taps her ass and leads her out of the condo.

They leave in his Rolls-Royce, Naima still clueless about their destination. When they arrive, she realizes the restaurant is completely empty.

She turns to him, wide-eyed. “You cleared out the whole place?”

Roman smiles, his fingers threading through hers. “Only the best for my girl.”

She shakes her head in disbelief, still getting used to this. She’s been around wealthy men before, but none of them move like him. None of them make her feel like this.

Dinner is intimate. Their dinner is indulgent yet refined, a perfect reflection of the night.

They start with a rich lobster bisque and warm, crusty bread, though Roman’s wagyu beef tartare gets a playful nose wrinkle from Naima. For the main course, he enjoys a perfectly seared bone-in ribeye with truffle mashed potatoes, while she savors butter-poached lobster tail with Parmesan risotto. Sipping on a deep Cabernet, Roman keeps her glass full, his eyes never leaving her. Dessert is a molten chocolate lava cake, and when Naima hums in pleasure at the first bite, Roman leans in, his voice dark and ominous,

“Keep making noises like that and we gon’ cut this dinner short.”

Naima smirks, taking another slow, deliberate bite, her pretty eyes shining with mischief.

Roman huffs, shaking his head. “Baby girl, you play too much.”

It’s always like this with them; this effortless push and pull, the teasing undercurrent woven into every glance, every touch. He watches her sip her wine, watches that smug little smirk every time she catches him staring. The candlelight flickers between them, casting a warm glow over a love that burns just as intensely.

Somewhere in the middle of their conversation, Naima's voice softens. “Babe…what do you see for us?” she asks.

Roman watches her, the cerebral being that he is taking his time to digest the loaded question. “What do you see?” he gently counters.

She hesitates. “A future.”

His gaze darkens with something deeper. “Good. ‘Cause I see the same thing.”

Her heart stumbles. After everything he’s been through, after everything they’ve been through, it’s almost a shock that he feels this way. About her. And yet, it isn’t.

Roman reaches for her hand, his grip warm, steady, full of quiet promises. “I want it all with you, Nai. Whenever you’re ready,” he vows.

Naima swallows hard, squeezing his hand. She may not be ready yet, and he knows that. Their love still feels too good to be true. But when she is, he’ll be the first to know.

This place is straight vibes.

An upscale lounge with an old-school feel, where dim lighting meets the golden era of 90s R&B and hip-hop. The bass thrums through the space, the atmosphere thick with a sultry energy that wraps around them the moment they step inside. Roman takes her hand, leading her straight to the VVIP section where a plush leather couch waits. His whiskey arrives within minutes, but he barely touches it.

Because Naima is a problem tonight.

She’s out on the floor, lost in the music, that short-ass dress clinging to every inch of her body like a second skin. Her hips move slow, teasing, rolling in time with the beat, her long waves cascading down her back. That butterfly tattoo on her hip peeks out every time she shifts just right, and he’s already decided he’s putting his mouth there before the night is over.

Men are watching her. They always do. But surprisingly, he doesn’t give a damn. Not tonight. Let them look. She knows where she’s going when this night ends.

She spins, eyes locking onto his, and her grin is electric. Aaliyah’s “Back & Forth” slides through the speakers, and she drops low, hands on her thighs, twerking to the rhythm, her ass practically begging for him to grab it.

The OTC exhales, shaking his head. This woman is gonna kill me.

Naima is tipsy. Loud, wild, his. Singing along at the top of her lungs when “This Is How We Do It” drops, throwing her hands up before dancing her way back toward him.

Roman is waiting, his massive frame sprawled across the couch, a lazy grin on his face.

“Come here,” he calls out over the music, motioning her over with a crook of his finger.

She doesn’t hesitate. Strutting toward him, her dress rides high on her thighs as she climbs into his lap, straddling him like she owns the damn place. She sets her drink down on the table without looking, wrapping her arms around his neck as Tamia’s “So Into You” begins to play.

“You know this one?” she asks, her voice breathy and playful.

Roman smirks, his hands immediately settling on her bare thighs, grunting as her cleavage inches towards his face. “’Course I do.”

She leans in closer, her lips by his ear as she begins to sing along, off-key and slurring slightly but sexy as hell.

I really like what you’ve done to me…

He exhales slowly, fingers flexing against her skin. She’s gonna make him do something reckless.

“You tryin’ to start some shit in public, baby?” His voice is low, rough against her ear.

Naima bites her lip, shifting against him just right, feeling him harden beneath her. “Maybe.”

That’s all he needs.

His hand snakes around her neck, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss that starts slow but spirals into something messy, desperate. She tastes like wine and trouble, her fingers in his hair, his hands on her ass. The music, the crowd, all of it blurs into nothing.

She grinds down against him, rolling her hips in a way that makes his jaw clench, and he exhales sharply against her lips.

“We leavin’,” he growls.

She smirks, licking her lips. “Took your fine ass long enough.”

They barely make it to the car.

The Cullinan is parked in a private indoor lot behind the bar, discreet and empty. The second the door shuts behind them, Roman’s hands are on her, pushing her back against the seat.

Naima yelps, laughing breathlessly. “Roman, what the fuck-”

“Shut up.” His mouth crashes into hers again, swallowing the rest of her words.

She moans into the kiss, fingers tugging at his shirt, his belt. He yanks the hem of her dress up roughly, hands gripping her ass, pulling her forward.

“You know what you was doin’ back there,” he mutters against her lips, his voice thick with need.

She laughs breathlessly, lifting her hips to meet his touch. “What, you couldn’t handle it?”

Roman smirks, dark and dangerous. “Oh, I’ma handle it.”

He spins her, pressing her face first into the leather seat, hands sliding up her thighs, over her curves. Naima shudders, gasping as he kisses the back of her neck, down her spine.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dripping with lust. His fingers trace slow circles over the wetness seeping between her thighs. “Makin’ a mess on my seats already.”

She hisses as his grip tightens. “Don’t act like you not the one startin’ shit.”

Roman spanks her ass, chuckling darkly at her gasp. His lips ghosting over her ear. “You been askin’ for this all night.” His hand rubs her pussy, and she trembles. “Tell me how bad you want it, baby.”

Her nails scrape against the leather as she exhales shakily. “You already know.”

Roman grips her chin, tilting her face toward him. “Say it.”

Naima's mouth meets his, her gaze bold and unashamed. “I want you, big daddy.”

His growl rumbles through the space, and that’s all it takes before the car is filled with heat, moans, and the unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin. The windows fog, the Cullinan rocking slightly, her body arching into his with every frantic movement.

Roman keeps his grip on her hip, holding her steady as he drives into her, deep and unrelenting. The wet sounds of their bodies meeting fill the car, mingling with her breathy moans and his hungry groans.

“Fuck, baby,” he grits out, his lips pressed to her shoulder. His other hand cups her exposed breast, fingers teasing her sensitive nipple. “You feel too damn good.”

Naima is gone, completely lost in the pleasure he’s giving her. Every stroke hits just right, sending fire through her veins, tightening the coil low in her belly. Her hands press against the backseat window, her moans breaking apart as she meets his thrusts, chasing that edge.

“Roman…” she gasps, her voice shaky, “I…I’m close.”

He smirks against her skin, his pace shifting, his strokes deeper, dragging her right where he wants her. His fingers leave her breast, slide down to where they’re joined, circling that sensitive bud, making her cry out.

“Yeah, baby?” His voice is thick, teasing, knowing. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

She doesn’t need much more than that. With a shuddering gasp, she unravels, pleasure slamming into her, her walls pulsing around him. Her body trembles, back arching, thighs shaking as waves of euphoria crash through her.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Roman groans, feeling her tighten around his dick. He grips her hip harder, his own restraint crumbling. “Shit, you feel so good…”

He pumps deep in her, the pleasure climbing fast, and Naima, still breathless and floating from her own release, whispers, “Come in me, baby. Please.”

His jaw clenches. That does it. His thrusts stutter, his entire body tensing as he unloads in her with a guttural moan, his face buried in her neck as he comes hard.

For a long moment, all that’s left is the sound of their ragged breathing. Then Naima, still sprawled out on the seat, groans. “We really just fucked in your damn Rolls Royce?”

Roman, still catching his breath, smirks against her neck. “Don’t act like you ain’t love every second of it.”

She laughs, breathless. “Ridiculous.”

He flops into a seated position and pulls her into his lap, kissing her deeply, his grip firm but gentle. “And you love it.”

She sighs, melting against him despite herself. “Hate you.”

Roman just chuckles, nipping at her bottom lip. “Sure you do.”

Morning comes too fast.

Naima blinks groggily, cheek pressed against his chest, his huge arm wrapped protectively around her. She stretches slightly, wincing at the awkward angle.

She looks around, realization dawning. “Oh god. We really slept in the car?”

Roman stirs beneath her, groaning as he cracks an eye open. “Damn.”

Naima sits up, adjusting her dress. “We look crazy.”

He pulls her back down, smirking. “We look like we had a hell of a Valentine’s.”

She rolls her eyes, but the smile she fights is undeniable and futile.

Roman kisses her mouth, fingers tracing slow circles against her hip. “Happy Valentine’s, baby.”

She sighs, nuzzling into him. “Happy Valentine’s, big guy.”

That evening, Naima uploads her Valentine’s Day video to her Instagram, pairing it with a simple but heartfelt caption:

She sets her phone aside and curls up next to Roman on the couch, not thinking much about it after that. But within hours, the post explodes.

Thousands of likes pour in.

The comments flood in just as fast—friends, dancers from Elysian, fans of both her and Roman, all gushing over the video, over the way their love feels through the screen.

— Y’all are the definition of soulmates 🥰

— THE ROMANCE, I’M CRYING🥹

— Not me watching this 10 times in a row.

— She loves him OUT LOUD, we love to see it.

— This is my favorite couple ever idc idc.

— Roman won at life, fr.

And then Roman finally drops his comment underneath her post.

I love you.

No emojis. No extras. Just those three words. But somehow, it’s the realest, deepest thing he could’ve said.

Naima smiles, clicking on his profile.

And then she sees it.

Roman’s own post.

He’s reposted the video to his page, with a caption that makes her heart stop.

Every day with you is a gift. I love you, @naimurphy ❤️🥰#ForeverMyGirl

The moment it hits his page, the internet erupts.

— ROMAN JUST SHUT THE WHOLE TL DOWN WTF 🤯

— The way he loves her… I wanna experience that just once in my life.

— This man just said ‘mine’ without saying it.

— THE CAPTION THO 😭😭 #ForeverMyGirl

— Naima, you have been CHOSEN 😭

— Roman don’t be posting NOTHINGGG like this, omg 😭 Love is real.

— Their love is my Roman Empire.

— I need a man to repost me with this type of energy or I don’t want it 🙂‍↔️

Naima bites her lip, staring at the screen. The comments, the love, the overwhelming reaction.

Roman watches her from the side, amused. “What’s that look for, baby?”

She shakes her head, grinning. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out how I got so damn lucky.”

Roman smiles wide, tilting her chin up so she’s looking at him. “Nah, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to hers, gentle and soft. “I’m the lucky one.”

THE END

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once-a-traya · 18 hours ago

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i've been thinking a lot about the way kingdom come: deliverance ii structures its romances. it's interesting, in the sense that they all feel bespoke - short fling or long term or in-between, there's no hard and fast system that applies to all characters. most games with romances stick to a rhythm: you have the initial flirtation options, then there's a companion quest (or multiple companion quests), then you are 'locked in', and finally you get a scene at the end.

anyway, spoilers under the cut.

the romance with katherine is the closest to that model. which makes sense! she's a traumatized person who needs to be convinced henry is reliable, and she also doesn't know him, so the flirting is apt. it stretches across the entire game, because trust-building takes time and action (sidequests), and much like the romance with hans, a lot of the 'romance' moments hinge on non-romance moments you have with her throughout the story. romance in this game is part of a continuum of human interactions; it's something you can lean into if you want, not a reward toggle.

rosa's romance lasts while rosa is plot-relevant, and is contingent on you flirting with her and giving her the feeling that she and her capabilities are respected. you have to spend time with her and back her up, basically. then there's the various flings, which are all context-dependent. and theresa, which is technically a full-blown romance even if she's only on-screen for five seconds, because henry makes it a romance by bringing her up and speaking of their time together - in that version of the story, she's often on his mind. (but, like the other romances, you have to actively bring her up in the epilogue yourself; the game doesn't hand you "here's your reward romance content")

which leaves us with some interesting implications re: hans and henry. there are, as far as i've been able to find, five heart-icon dialogue interactions between them in the game, one of which is The Big Scene. none of the four romance dialogue options before that are flirty. the flirting happens outside of that, in all the non-romance sections, in ways that can be brushed off as bros-being-bros if you're into that. in fact i'd say most of the development that makes the romance possible happens in the non-romance sections.

the romance choices just let you lean in a little further.

the first romance dialogue comes at the midway point; it's hans apologizing for being a dick and henry can then respond to say it's fine, hans can always rely on him no matter how he behaves, he's the closest friend henry has. the second comes at maleshov, right after henry has staged an elaborate rescue for hans, and it's about henry reassuring a panicking hans that he will always be there for him and they can handle any situation together. the third romance dialogue comes halfway through the italian job and is missable - it's henry telling hans he's missed spending time with him, and repeating that when hans tries to joke it off as a 'yes we should go wenching again soon' kind of deal. finally, the fourth is shortly afterward, with henry worried about hans's claustrophobia, and stating, 'I care about you. maybe more than you know.'

hans brushes all of these things off, it seems like, but then by the Big Scene it's obvious he's been thinking about them a lot. and then hans is the one who makes a move, not henry (though you have to pick the option to trigger it). notably, even if you end the romance scene early by leaving or fumbling the moment, hans makes it clear he thought henry had feelings for him.

so if the difference between non-romanced and romanced katherine is flirting + her feeling she can trust and rely on henry, and the difference between non-romanced and romanced rosa is flirting + her feeling respected by henry, what's the difference between non-romanced and romanced hans? well. it's henry being earnest about his feelings, and going out of his way to make it clear that he cares about and values hans above everything else.

and that, maybe, in this time of extreme trial, he's safe to make this move on.

the extended implication of that is that hans had romantic feelings for henry all along, of some sort or another. he just doesn't address them in a non-romanced path because he doesn't feel confident to abandon plausible deniability and leave the safe, charged ambiguity between him and henry. not outwardly. possibly also not inwardly.

anyway, it's interesting. it also means that the entire game is technically the hans/henry romance arc. and i think that's neat.

#kcd 2 #hansry #kingdom come deliverance #kingdom come: deliverance ii

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pixel7777 · 2 days ago

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Dedications - A Bloodweave Fanfic

The full version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

This fanfic is a sequel and will be better enjoyed after reading Editorial Prerogative.

🪶📜The Netherbrain has been defeated, and the party has gone their separate ways. Astarion and Gale have moved into Gale's tower in Waterdeep while Gale focuses on publishing the chronicle that brought them together. Astarion has an entirely different focus and... thoughts about their post-adventure life he has yet to confess.📜🪶

Read here below or on AO3!

Work Content Tags: Post Canon, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, POV Astarion, ~5K words

This fic about the extensive contributions of editors and beta-readers had amazing beta readers! This one was much rougher than Editorial Prerogative as a draft and was improved extensively by their thoughtful suggestions. There was no time for a second round of edits after doing my best to merge everyone's ideas, and sometimes I am stubborn in keeping my errors. Kindly consider all those errors that remain to be entirely my own. You can blame the cum jokes on me as well ;)

Thank you very much silent_as_the_grave, bashfulexe, and hiraethey for your time and help! This one is dedicated to you!

Like Gale in this story, I cherish feedback! I'd appreciate reblogs and replies 😁

Dedications

"Seven minutes left," Astarion purred against Gale's ear, rolling his hips. "Still think you can hold the Fly spell that long?"

The moonlight through the tower's high windows cast blue shadows across their skin as Astarion pressed Gale against nothing but air, twenty feet off the floor just below the vaulted ceiling of their master bedroom. His lover's warmth radiated through him as their bodies moved in tandem, suspended by Gale's magic. Dimmed lanterns lit the bed lay far below, its sheets already rumpled from earlier activities.

Gale's breath hitched. "You underestimate—ah—my concentration."

"Do I?" Astarion shifted his grip on Gale's thighs, changing the angle. "One slip and we both fall."

"I'm well aware." Gale's fingers dug into Astarion's shoulders, a moan escaping him. "Though I suspect that's part of the appeal for you."

"You know me so well." Astarion nipped at Gale's neck, careful not to break skin. The thrill of danger, of testing limits—it made everything sharper, brighter. "Six minutes now."

Gale's magic held them aloft, but Astarion controlled their movements, using his grip on Gale's hips to drive his cock deeper. The tower's chill air raised goosebumps on Gale's skin. Astarion traced them with his tongue, savoring each shiver and gasp he drew from his wizard.

"Five minutes." Astarion grinned against Gale's collarbone. "Shall we make it interesting? If you drop us, you have to indulge that idea I had about Greater Invisibility and the Blackstaff library stacks."

"Not—ah—not a chance." Gale's voice wavered as Astarion found just the right spot. "And at some point you will need to explain your preoccupation with spells with limited durations."

"We'll see about that." Astarion quickened his pace, determined to drive Gale over the edge and test his vaunted concentration. "Four minutes, love. Still feeling confident?"

Astarion slid one hand from Gale's hip, tracing his lover's trembling abdomen before wrapping deft fingers around Gale's cock. They had been lovers for months now, and he knew every sensitive spot, every trick to make Gale unravel. A few strokes—firm and sure—and Gale's breath stuttered, his body tensing.

"Three minutes," Astarion whispered, with wicked delight. "But who's counting?"

Gale's response was a strangled moan, his nails biting into Astarion's flesh. Astarion could feel the precise moment Gale's concentration shattered—the magic holding them aloft flickered, and gravity reasserted itself. Gale's climax hit, his cock pulsing in Astarion's grip, and they plummeted.

Astarion twisted them mid-air and pulled out. They crashed onto the bed, laughter bursting from both as the mattress creaked in protest and they fell apart.

"Well, that was invigorating," Astarion chuckled, brushing a lock of hair from Gale's flushed face.

Gale grinned, still breathless. "You cheated."

"I did no such thing." Astarion feigned innocence. "I recall no agreements with regard to the means by which I may or may not distract you."

Gale pushed himself up, straddling Astarion's hips, and raised a questioning eyebrow. "My turn to take the lead, I think?" Astarion nodded a yes and ran his hands up Gale's thighs. Gale's eyes gleamed with mischief as he reached behind him, positioning Astarion's cock, his hole still wonderfully slick and stretched. He sank down slowly, a gasp escaping him as he took Astarion in fully again.

Astarion's hands found Gale's hips, guiding his rhythm. The room filled with the sounds of their pleasure, the bed creaking in time with their movements. And then—a soft, wet plop. Astarion glanced up just as another drop of Gale's cum fell from the ceiling, where it had splattered in generous abundance, landing on Gale's shoulder.

"Oh, for the love of—" Astarion started, laughter bubbling up.

Gale looked down, bewildered, then up at the ceiling. Another drop fell, this time on his cheek. He wiped it away, a laugh escaping him as well. "Well, this is... distracting."

"Focus, darling," Astarion teased, though his own concentration was waning. "You have a task to complete."

Gale shook his head, grinning, and refocused his efforts. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on Astarion's chest, and rolled his hips with renewed determination. Astarion stroked Gale's thighs encouragingly, his breath coming faster.

Another drop fell, this time on Astarion's forehead. He swiped it away, growling playfully. "Gale..."

Gale bit his lip, trying to hold back laughter. "Not my fault you wanted to defy gravity. Gravity, apparently, wants payback."

Astarion bucked his hips, driving deeper into Gale. "Less talking, more riding."

Gale complied, his movements becoming more urgent. Astarion could feel his own climax building, the tension in his body coiling tighter. The lantern light glinted off the oil on Gale's spent cock and the sweat on the planes of his chest. Beautiful. His lover was so damned beautiful. He reached up, pulling Gale down into a fierce kiss. Gale's body pressed against his, their movements syncing perfectly.

And then, finally, Astarion's release hit, his body arching as he spilled into Gale. He broke the kiss, a groan escaping him as he emptied and gave himself to the moment. Gale rode him through it, his own breath ragged, until they both stilled, panting and sated.

Astarion looked up at Gale, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Well, that was—"

Another drop of cum fell from the ceiling, landing squarely on Astarion's nose. He sighed, laughing as Gale collapsed onto his chest, their laughter filling the room.

Gale pushed himself up, kneeling over Astarion as he surveyed the ceiling. "Well, that's quite the mess."

Astarion smirked, stretching languidly beneath him. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Gale rolled his eyes but grinned as he stood, careful to keep his balance on the mattress. He reached up, stretching to his full height, and began to chant softly. A faint glow enveloped his hand as he waved it toward the stain, his Prestidigitation spell making quick work of the mess.

Astarion watched, appreciating the view. Gale's body was lean and toned, his muscles shifting under smooth skin as Astarion's own spend ran down Gale's thighs. "You know, I could get used to this sight," he mused.

Gale glanced down, a smirk playing on his lips. "Me cleaning the ceiling?"

"You, naked and on display," Astarion corrected. "The chores getting done is just a bonus."

Gale shook his head, returning to his task. Once the ceiling was spotless, he turned his attention to them, cleaning them both efficiently. Astarion sat up, gently pulling Gale back down to the bed. He reached for a small vial of the soothing oil they favored for aftercare on the nightstand, pouring a generous amount onto his fingers.

"Let me," he murmured, guiding Gale onto his stomach. He started at Gale's shoulders, massaging gently before moving lower. His fingers found the spot where Gale's back met his ass, and he rubbed slow circles into the skin, feeling Gale relax under his touch.

Astarion took his time, his fingers eventually slipping between Gale's cheeks, applying the oil with tender care. Gale sighed softly, his body melting into the mattress. Astarion loved this—the quiet moments after, when Gale let him take control in a different way.

Even as he tended to Gale, a restless energy hummed beneath his skin. The night had been perfect—dangerous and thrilling and everything he had wanted—but already his mind flitted to what came next. There was always another sexual adventure to plan, another boundary to push.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Gale's spine. "How was that?"

Gale hummed contentedly, turning his head to look at Astarion. "Perfect. Thank you."

Astarion smiled. He lay down next to Gale, propping his head up on one hand.

"You're thinking," Gale murmured, eyes closed.

"Always," Astarion admitted.

Gale cracked one eye open, studying him. "About what, I wonder?"

Astarion shrugged, his fingers still moving. "Just... possibilities. For next time."

Gale hummed, a small smile on his lips. "Dangerous word, 'possibilities'."

Astarion's grin sharpened. "Exactly."

Gale chuckled, shifting to face Astarion fully. "You've been insatiable lately."

"And you love it," Astarion retorted.

Gale's smile softened, his hand reaching up to cup Astarion's face. "I do."

Astarion leaned into the touch, but his mind was still racing, already planning. This night had been a success, but there was always more to explore, more pleasure to experience. And he intended to make the most of every moment.

Gale shifted, reaching for something on the nightstand. Astarion spotted a manuscript bound in stiff canvas. Another proof copy from the printer, of course. Astarion sighed. The book. Again.

"Must we? I can think of far more entertaining ways to spend our time." Astarion traced a finger down Gale's spine, trying to distract him.

"The printer needs the final draft by tomorrow. I just need you to look at one more thing."

"Volo's barely started shopping his version around." Astarion rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling to avoid meeting Gale's eyes, hoping that for once Gale would just set the book aside and come fully back to him without having to be chivvied into it. "What's the rush?"

"The rush is getting the true account published first. Before he can romanticize everything into nonsense. And I want you to edit the dedication."

"The dedication." Astarion's voice went flat. Of course Gale would want his help polishing the final touches of his grand scholarly achievement. "Surely you can handle that without my input."

"I'd really like your thoughts on it."

"What's to think about? 'To my beloved companions, who provided such invaluable assistance.' There. Done." Astarion waved a dismissive hand. "Now put that away and come back here."

"That's not—"

Something about Gale's earnest expression made Astarion's skin prickle uncomfortably. He didn't want to examine why being asked to edit the dedication bothered him so much. Better to provoke, to push, to make Gale as unsettled as he felt.

"Or perhaps 'To my dear editor, without whose sharp wit this tome would be unbearably dull.'" Astarion sat up, indulging the impulse to be perfectly dreadful. "Though I suppose that might undermine your scholarly authority."

Gale's expression shifted from amusement to concern. "Astarion—"

"No, no, I've got it." He snatched the proof copy from Gale's hands. "'To my reformed vampiric lover, who made this chronicle possible by not eating me that first night.' How's that?"

Gale gaped. "You really think that I would mischaracterize your contributions? Or that that's how I see you?"

"Isn't it?" The words came out sharper than intended. "It's your book, after all. Your legacy."

Astarion's fingers tightened on the manuscript, the binding creaking under his grip. He knew he was being unfair—Gale had never treated him as less than an equal partner. And he had loved working on that manuscript together during the long months of their adventure. It had been the thing to finally bring them together.

But lately, everything felt... off. Wrong. Like an itch he couldn't scratch.

He had thought it would be simple after they'd saved the world. No more running, no more fighting, no more desperate scramble for survival. Just pleasure and comfort and Gale. And for the first few weeks, that had been enough. More than enough.

But now...

The empty hours stretched endlessly. While Gale pored over proof copies and attended meetings, first with various publishers and then the printer, Astarion found himself prowling their tower like a caged animal. He had tried everything—shopping, decorating, arranging elaborate dinners he couldn't eat just to watch Gale enjoy them.

Sex helped. For a little while, at least. When he had Gale's full attention, when they were testing limits and discovering new ways to please each other, everything felt right again. But then Gale would reach for that damned book, and the emptiness would creep back in.

It wasn't fair to resent Gale's dream finally coming to fruition. His beloved wizard was thriving, getting the recognition he deserved. But a nasty voice in Astarion's head whispered that Gale should be focusing on him instead. After two centuries of serving others, wasn't it his turn to be the center of someone's world?

He glanced at Gale, who watched him with patient concern. That was almost worse than anger would have been.

Astarion hurled the manuscript onto the bed. "Oh, don't look at me like that. Like I'm some delicate thing about to shatter. I've had quite enough of your concerned wizard act for one evening."

"This isn't an act. You have witnessed my best attempts at acting—why wouldn't you think my concern was real?" Gale's brow furrowed. "I genuinely don't understand why you're upset."

"Of course you don't." Astarion stood, pacing naked across the floor. The moonlight caught his pale skin, turning his already pale skin a nearly ghostly white. "You're far too busy with your precious book to notice anything else these days."

"That's not fair—"

"Fair?" Astarion whirled on him. "You want to talk about fair? While you're off being courted by every publisher in Waterdeep, what exactly am I meant to do with myself? Sit here and look pretty? Wait for you to need an editorial opinion?"

Gale's mouth opened, then closed. The sudden understanding in his expression only stoked Astarion's anger.

"Here's a confession for you—perhaps something you could work into an epilogue. Do you know what I did yesterday? I reorganized our closet. Again. Then I spent three hours watching the unseen servants clean because I was so desperately bored I considered doing it myself." He ran a hand through his hair. "I can't even go outside during the day anymore, now that this blasted tadpole is gone. I'm just... here. Useless. Decorative."

"You're not—"

"And do you know what I did last week?" Astarion continued his pacing, each step precise despite his growing agitation. "I reorganized our library. Twice. First alphabetically, which was mind-numbingly dull, and then by level of pretentiousness—you'll be delighted to know your treatise on the standardization of arcane nomenclature ranked near the top. And you have been so singularly focused on the book you never even noticed to complain!"

His laugh came out sharp and bitter. "Then I spent an entire evening categorizing your spell components by color. Not utility, mind you. Just aesthetics. Because apparently that's what I've been reduced to—interior decoration and waiting for you to need my opinion on your prose. "

The words tumbled out now, each confession carrying a twisted satisfaction at revealing his pathetic pastimes in all their absurdity. "I've named all the rats in the cellar. Did you know that? There's Herbert—he's missing half an ear—and Old Lady Whiskers, though she might be dead now. I haven't checked today."

"Astarion, I didn't know…"

"How would you? You've been so very busy at the printers." Astarion gestured wildly at the wardrobe. "I've arranged your robes by the seasons. Then by texture. Then by how likely they are to get you propositioned at academic functions. I even tried to learn that ridiculous card game Wyll taught us, but it's significantly less entertaining when you're playing against yourself and can see all the hands."

Astarion's lips curled into a sneer. "I thought saving the world would finally free you from your compulsive need to make your name, but alas, here we are again—we're both naked, but you're distracted by paper.

"And now you want me to help polish your grand achievement. To put the finishing touches on the story of how we saved the world. Except we're not saving the world anymore, are we? You've found your new purpose. While I..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "Well, I suppose I can always fall back on being very good at fucking you senseless. At least until you tire of that too."

The hurt that flashed across Gale's face should have felt satisfying. Instead, it just made Astarion's gut churn. He had gone too far and been monstrously unfair. It didn't help that he knew it and couldn't stop spewing attacks he didn't even mean.

Gale reached for the discarded manuscript. Astarion turned away, not wanting to see more of that wounded expression, but Gale moved to his side and held the book out. The silence stretched between them.

"Really?" Astarion snapped. "After all that? Now?"

Gale didn't respond, just kept holding out the book. Fine. If that's how he wanted to play it. Astarion snatched the manuscript, ready to tear into whatever flowery dedication Gale had composed.

"Read the cover first," Gale said quietly.

Astarion frowned. "The cover? What—"

The words caught his eye, and his throat went tight. He blinked, certain he was misreading. But no—there it was, clear as day: "The Fall of the Absolute: An Eyewitness Chronicle, by Gale Dekarios and Astarion Ancunín."

He read it again. And again. His name. On the cover. As co-author.

He looked up at Gale, unable to form words.

A brilliant smile spread across Gale's face. "Did you really think I saw this as just my book? Your perspective shaped every chapter. Your commentary challenged my interpretations, made me question my assumptions." He stepped closer, taking Astarion's free hand. "Your voice is woven through every page. What kind of historian would I be if I neglected to give my co-author the credit he deserves?"

Astarion's fingers clenched, his chest tight with something that wasn't quite pain.

Astarion stared at his name on the cover, tracing the letters with his thumb. His name. Not in a footnote or acknowledgment, but right there beside Gale's. Equal. Co-author.

He glanced at Gale, then back at the book, checking for an illusion to fade, for the joke to materialize. No, the words remained unchanged.

He flipped through the front pages, scanning for the inevitable correction—some footnote or disclaimer that would put him back in his proper place. Surely there would be a note: "With editorial assistance from..." or "Based on the contributions of..." But the title page bore both their names. The introduction credited them equally. Even the publisher's mark listed them as co-authors.

Gale's voice washed over him, explaining how he had meant it as a surprise, how he had never meant to make Astarion feel excluded. "I've thought of it as our book for ages, since before we were even an us. I should have told you sooner—"

But Astarion barely heard him. Two centuries of being nothing more than Cazador's property, a toy to be used and discarded. Even after their victory, even after becoming a "hero," he had been defined by others—the reformed monster, the redeemed villain.

But this... this was different. This wasn't just surviving or being forgiven.

Astarion's hands trembled slightly as he opened to the first chapter. His own words jumped out at him from the page—not just in commentary, but woven seamlessly into the narrative. His marginalia hadn't just inspired edits—they had shaped the story itself. Where Gale's original draft had focused on the metaphysical implications of their tadpoles, the final version explored the visceral horror of violation, the psychological toll of being changed against one's will. His perspective on what it meant to be transformed, to lose control of one's own body, had deepened the scholarly analysis into something raw and real.

Even his most acerbic comments had been valued. That entire section comparing various theories about the tadpoles' nature had been completely restructured after he had written "For fuck's sake, Gale, get to the point before your readers expire from old age."

Astarion traced a finger over a particularly elegant turn of phrase—one he distinctly remembered suggesting as an alternative to Gale's more flowery original version. His words. His thoughts. His perspective. Not filtered or edited to be more palatable, but presented as essential to understanding their shared story.

This was creation. His words, his perspective, preserved in ink and on paper. Not as a cautionary tale or a victim's testimony, but as an author. A chronicler of his own story. Gale was right, of course—by the time they had exchanged back-and-forth notes on any given page, it was likely half Astarion's words and thoughts. He just hadn't thought of it that way.

His throat felt tight. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "Gale, I—" The apology stuck in his throat. He had been so quick to lash out, to blow things all out of proportion.

"Don't." Gale's hand covered his where it gripped the book. "I need your help with something more important. The dedication—"

"What is it with you and this damn dedication?" Astarion's voice cracked slightly.

Gale smiled as Astarion hesitated, the pages half-turned.

"Go on." Gale's voice was warm, encouraging. "It's the best part."

Astarion's throat tightened. He had already received more than he had dared hope for. What if this undid it all? What if, after seeing his name on the cover, the dedication reduced him back to a mere contributor?

"My love." Gale's hand covered his on the page. "Trust me."

He turned the page.

Two passages faced each other on the creamy paper—mutual dedications, Astarion realized with a start. Astarion looked up at Gale, blinking fast to keep traitorous tears from falling. Gale's own eyes were suspiciously watery, but his smile was radiant, their argument and Astarion's ranting obviously forgiven. Gale moved to wrap his arms around Astarion from behind. Astarion nestled back into Gale's embrace before shifting his attention to the pages. He read Gale's first—formal yet intimate, managing to capture their collaboration in a way that left his chest tight.

"To my dearest Astarion, whose sharp tongue, sharper mind, and inexhaustible patience turned these words from mere history into something worthy of remembrance. And to our companions, who lived this story alongside us. This book is but ink on parchment; you are the legends."

But the second... He recognized his own words—remembered scrawling them in the margins months ago during one of their late-night editing sessions. He had been marking up Gale's latest chapter with increasingly ridiculous commentary, each note an excuse to keep their conversation going, to stay in that perfect bubble of possibility...

"You kept this?" His finger traced the words. That night had been months ago, before they'd even kissed. Before he had realized that their endless exchanges of notes and rebuttals had become something more than editorial collaboration.

"I kept all of them," Gale said softly. "Every margin note. Every correction. Every time you called my prose 'insufferably flowery' or suggested I was 'compensating for something' with my extensive footnotes. They are as much a part of our story as the text itself."

He had been tired, punch-drunk on lack of rest and the joy of their collaboration, and had written what amounted to a love letter disguised as snark. Gale had picked lines from it and composed a dedication on his behalf.

"To Gale Dekarios, who never met a sentence he couldn't overcomplicate. On the darkest days, your relentless optimism that our story would be worth telling made the endless footnotes (almost) worth it. And to our comrades-in-madness, who not only survived but triumphed despite their best efforts to the contrary. (P.S. You are all still insufferable.)"

"I borrowed that from your notes," Gale whispered, drawing Astarion closer as he spoke the words against his ear. "But of course, you should write whatever you'd prefer. You obviously don't have to dedicate anything to me. Presumptuous, I know, although I meant it to be romantic. This was just a placeholder until—"

Astarion stared at his own words on the page, all his usual sharp retorts deserting him. The dedication—their dedication to each other of the book that had brought them together—was there in permanent ink, ready to be bound into countless copies. His thoughts, his perspective, his story—preserved forever.

He stepped out of Gale's arms and sank onto the edge of the bed, still clutching the proof copy. The weight of it felt different now. Real. Lasting. Not just Gale's grand scholarly achievement, but their shared legacy.

Gale stood before him, radiating that particular blend of smugness and affection that should have been infuriating. But Astarion had long since learned to love these little moments of his wizard's self-satisfaction—especially when they came from making him happy. "Do you like it? Or shall I prepare myself for another ten pages of revisions?"

"I think..." Astarion's voice came out barely above a whisper. "I think it's perfect."

Gale's eyebrows shot up in pleased surprise. He turned to the side table where—of course—he had already set out a bottle of wine and two glasses, clearly having planned this moment. The bastard.

Astarion found his footing again, a smile tugging at his lips. "Though I still reserve the right to deface every copy in circulation with additional notes."

"I would expect nothing less." Gale handed him a glass of deep red wine, raising his own. "To our book?"

"To our book," Astarion agreed. "And to the idiots who made it worth writing."

Their glasses clinked softly in the moonlight.

Astarion savored the wine, letting its rich flavor chase away the lingering tension. "To our book," he repeated softly, still caught on those words.

"I should have told you sooner," Gale said, settling beside him. "About the co-authorship. About all of it. I got caught up in the excitement of publication and forgot that you might not see what I see when I look at these pages."

"And what do you see?" Astarion asked, trying for lightness but not quite achieving it.

Gale's expression softened as he set his wine glass aside. "I see us, darling. Not just our adventures, but the way your wit cuts through pretense to find truth. The way you take my meandering thoughts and sharpen them into something precise and powerful." He took Astarion's free hand. "I saw a future where we might do this again. Together. Writing about whatever catches our interest."

Astarion's chest tightened at the earnestness in Gale's voice.

"And once again, that was presumptuous of me," Gale continued. "Just because you excel at this doesn't mean it needs to be your future. I should have discussed my hopes with you instead of assuming. Asked what you wanted rather than letting you feel trapped here with nothing but closet organization and the corruption of my virtue to occupy your time."

"I suppose I haven't been particularly... forthcoming either. About how adrift I've been feeling." Astarion gave a short laugh. "Though attempting to seduce you into distraction every time you mentioned the book lately probably should have been a hint."

"Gods, I've been stupidly oblivious, haven't I?" Gale ran a thumb over Astarion's knuckles. "Here I was, planning our literary future while you were naming rats in the cellar."

Astarion traced the rim of his wine glass. "Well, to be fair, I hadn't exactly been making any competing plans, really. Beyond finding new ways to scandalize Tara." He gave a hollow laugh. "Two centuries of torture and degradation, and all I could think about was pleasure. As if that would be enough."

"And now?"

"Now I don't know what I want. Isn't that ridiculous? I finally have everything I dreamed of—wealth, safety, you." He gestured at their opulent surroundings. "I should be content with endless pleasure and no purpose. But I'm not content."

Gale's fingers ghosted along his jaw. "There's nothing ridiculous about wanting more than hedonism, love. Though I must say, your dedication to corrupting my virtue in the wake of our trials has been a thoroughly appreciated respite."

"Has it now?" Astarion managed a genuine smirk. "And here I thought you were too distracted by your—no, our—precious book to notice."

"Oh, I noticed." Gale's voice dropped lower. "In fact, I've been taking extensive mental notes for future reference."

"Always the scholar." Astarion leaned into his touch. "Though I suppose that's served us both rather well, hasn't it?"

"Indeed. And perhaps..." Gale's thumb brushed his lower lip. "You might consider that pleasure and purpose aren't mutually exclusive. You have a gift for this—for taking complex ideas and making them sing. Why not pursue that alongside your campaign of corruption? Something to consider. And to talk about—together, I hope. We have plenty of time to work through our options, now that the editing is done, at least for the moment—" Gale began.

"For the moment?" Astarion's head snapped up. "What do you mean, 'for the moment'?"

"Well, perhaps—just perhaps, of course—there will be our next book to consider." Gale said it so casually, as if he hadn't just upended Astarion's entire worldview for the second time that evening. "But I think we've earned a break, don't you?"

"Next book," Astarion echoed faintly. The implications spun through his mind—more late nights arguing over prose, more shared discoveries, more chances to shape how their story was told. Not just this one volume, but others. A series, perhaps?

"Though at present," Gale continued, his tone shifting to something distinctly more promising, "I find myself rather more interested in your earlier claim of more interesting ways we might spend our evening."

Our next book. The idea seems so absurd that for a moment, he doesn’t know what to do with it. A future, stretching beyond just this one volume.

Astarion set his wine glass aside, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "You know, darling, maybe we should begin thinking about potential topics for our next collaboration. Perhaps something focusing on the political implications of—" He broke off as Gale's lips found his neck and a frisson of pleasure made him shiver. "—the various factions within Baldur's Gate during the crisis."

"Fascinating," Gale murmured against his skin. "Do continue."

"Well, considering the complex web of alliances—" Astarion's breath hitched as Gale's hands slid down his sides. "I believe my name should appear first on this one, given my unique insights into the city's power structure."

Gale hummed noncommittally, pushing him back onto the bed. "We can discuss the particulars later."

"But the publishing contract—oh." His protest dissolved into a gasp as Gale's beard brushed over his nipples in that way Gale knew he liked. "That's not fair."

"What isn't fair?" Gale's innocent tone didn't match his actions at all. "I'm merely expressing my enthusiasm for potential future literary endeavors."

Astarion struggled to maintain his train of thought as Gale shifted lower. "The... structure would benefit from..." He lost his place entirely as Gale did something lovely with his tongue and borrowed blood left his brain to chase the sensation. "What was I saying?"

"Something about structure, I believe." Gale's muffled voice held entirely too much amusement.

"Right. Structure. And proper credit for—oh gods." Astarion's fingers tangled in Gale's hair and tugged gently. "You're making it very difficult to discuss business arrangements."

"Am I?" Gale lifted his head, eyes dancing with mischief. "How terribly inconsiderate of me. Please, continue outlining your publishing strategy."

Astarion's protests died away as the room was filled with the soft sounds of their breaths, the rustle of sheets, and the distant hum of Waterdeep's nightlife. There was no urgency this time, no ticking clock of a spell about to expire. Just the two of them, realigned in purpose and desire, and it was wonderful.

Astarion breathed into the pleasure as Gale's tongue worked this other magic of his. He could feel Gale's smile against his skin, the warmth of his breath as he moved. Astarion moaned, shamelessly, as Gale took him deeply, swallowing him down and then sucking hard as he pulled back. Gale looked up, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Enjoy that, do you?"

Astarion laughed. "You're far too smug for your own good."

Gale grinned. "And you're far too delicious for yours."

Astarion reached down, tracing the line of his jaw. "You know, I think we might have a real talent for this."

Gale's eyebrow quirked. "For what, exactly?"

"Sex, darling. I think we should write a book about it."

Gale laughed, a full-throated sound that warmed Astarion to his core. "A sex book? Really?"

"Mmhm," Astarion hummed, already imagining the possibilities. "Think about it. We've certainly done enough research, more than enough to fill certain gaps in The Quarta Sune and make our own, unique contributions to the field."

Gale's hand took the place of his mouth, clearly intrigued by the discussion but unwilling to abandon Astarion's pleasure entirely. "And who would be the target audience for this illustrious tome?"

"Everyone," Astarion declared, happily rolling his hips into Gale's touch. "Think of all the poor souls out there, fumbling around in the dark, metaphorically speaking. We could be doing a public service."

Gale's laughter shook the bed and disrupted the rhythm of that exquisite stroking. "A public service? Really?"

"Absolutely," Astarion insisted. "And of course, I should be first author on this one too."

Gale's hand moved faster. "And why is that?"

"B-because," Astarion stuttered, his hips bucking up into Gale's grasp. "I have more experience."

Gale's smile was positively wicked. "Is that a challenge, my love? Because I would like to point out the difference between qualitative and quantitative research."

Astarion grinned, pulling Gale up for a kiss. "It's a fact, darling. But I'm sure with your natural prowess, you'll have no trouble keeping up."

Gale's lips curved against his. "I do love a good competition."

"Mmm," Astarion agreed, his body already racing toward the finish line under Gale's firm touch. "And I do love a good—oh!"

Gale's fingers did something particularly clever, and Astarion decided that perhaps they should do a bit more research before committing anything to paper. Between the two of them, he was sure they'd get it right.

#bg3 #astarion #gale of waterdeep #bg3 fanfic #myfic #bloodweave

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leashybebes · 2 days ago

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fic: blue and gold (15/28)

@bucktommyfluffebruary day 15 prompt is babysitting and my fill is here

tumblr version below for those who prefer to read here

Tommy's working on his neighbour's car on the driveway when Chim pulls up and leans out the open driver side window.

"Tommy, thank god!"

He has a look on his face Tommy recognizes - he's about to ask a favor. And given Jee is waving from the backseat and clutching her backpack, Tommy's pretty sure he knows what it is.

"The life debt's gotta be paid off now," Tommy says, half joking.

"Ah, but this isn't a life debt thing," Howie says. "It's a family thing."

Chim's such an asshole, Tommy thinks fondly. Evan's such an asshole. He's turned Tommy completely transparent.

"Sure thing," Tommy says.

"You're a prince among men," Chim says, hustling Jee out of the car and over to Tommy. "Just for a few hours," he promises. "Maddie wants me at her appointment after all, but Buck will come relieve you when he gets off work."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Jee, be good for Uncle Tommy. Uncle Buck will be by to pick you up when he finishes work."

"Okay, daddy!"

Chim drops a kiss onto the top of Jee's head, straightens her rucksack on her back and slaps Tommy's shoulder. "Later!" he calls, and is gone in a blur.

Jee rocks a little on her heels and looks up at him. "Watcha doin', Uncle Tommy?"

"Uh. I was working on my friend's car, but that doesn't sound like much fun, huh?"

Tommy's not sure, honestly. When he was Jee's age, he would have loved to get his hands on a car engine, but she's got such tiny fingers it seems like a recipe for disaster. She makes the decision for him, shaking her head firmly.

"Okay," Tommy says, wiping his hands on a rag and securing the car before he guides Jee inside via the garage so he can wash his hands properly and not get any oil smears on her stuff.

He's looked after her with Evan plenty of times, but it feels different - a bigger deal - to be the sole responsible adult in the house. Every interaction he's ever had with a kid goes out of his mind.

"So, uh. What'd you wanna do, Jee?"

"We make cookies?" she suggests.

"Um. Sure. I think I have Uncle Buck's recipe around here somewhere."

That's how Evan finds them an hour later, Jee with a Rogue from X-men style streak of white flour in her hair and tell-tale smears of chocolate chips on her fingers where she's been sampling the goods. Tommy's sure he's not in much better condition and he shoots Evan a desperate look.

Evan laughs, crosses the kitchen to kiss Jee's hair, Tommy's cheek.

"This looks fun," he says.

"Uncle Tommy can't bake," Jee says frankly.

"Jee-bug, that's not very - "

"It's okay. It's our mantra, right, Jee?"

She nods happily.

"Well," Evan says, looking at the approximation of cookie dough in the bowl. "I think it can be salvaged."

"The batch in the oven might be another story," Tommy admits.

Evan's smile fills the whole world.

#bucktommy #my writing #bucktommyfluffebruary

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cochineal-leviat · 2 days ago

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Valentine Special 2025 ships

Heyo, it's already midnight where I am, so Valentine's Day has passed, but I still wanted to celebrate it. Valentine's Day is weird for me because I am Aro&Ace, so I never really get to appreciate it. Every year, it just comes and passes, and I feel nothing, even though I do like the aesthetic.

But this week, I had the brilliant idea that even though I can't celebrate it conventionally, I can still do something for all the pairings and ships I have come to love over the years. So, I drew eleven ships that had helped me during my most challenging moments, from when I was a child to the present. They are ordered in no particular order but rather what I got on paper in my sketchbook.

Idk. Maybe this way me my fellow Aromantics shippers can still enjoy the holiday.

Which ship do you like best? I would love to know~ (even if it is simply from the technical perspective)

From the first panel to the last, we have:

Page 1

Kirfluff (is extra special to me as a fic I wrote for the pairing, including many other franchise characters, which led me to keep writing for fun and posting it online. Without I would not have the boost of confidence that I do now about my writing)

Metadede (Who doesn't love a good ship with a warrior's bond? They're hilarious)

Isafrin (my most recent ship. They make me soft and cry at the same time. Like this pairing adds a lot ISAT's story and manages to also be very entertaining and heartfelt)

Sonadow (I got into the ship before I was even into Sonic. There was even a long-ass fic I found back when I still read on Fanfiction.net that I reread every year because I found it so funny. I definitely enjoy the modern Sonadow writing more than a decade ago)

Snufmin (perfect balance between yearning and the needing space and the freedom to adventure. I want to read more of this ship)

Page 2

Ravioli(nk) (The name alone already makes it worth it. I also have an unholy amount of fics saved from this ship. They are the literal roommates meme)

Vidow (a classic. I enjoyed this one even before I got into Zelda. Like I was reading Four Swords without having any clue what the lore was or what the fuck was going on.)

Reguri (This was named Namelessshipping and Orginalshipping back in the day. Too tired to do research rn. But I think the difference lies in the manga and game versions. I prefer the game versions, personally)

Purpleshipping {Kieran x mc) (A little backstory: this is just the mc from Scarlet and Violet that I made an NB version for, which became their own person after writing a fic. Here, they are exchanging an Applin with Kieran. For those who know the custom, you know, you know. A friend of mine named this ship)

Shadowpeach (the most divorced couple I have ever come across. I remember back when this was considered a crack ship. Ah, good times. The character depictions were very different back then, too. I depicted them in their friend's era, but still. Btw Macaque is laughing at Sun Wukong's antics but I think it accidentally looks like he is laughing at Sun Wukong rather than with him. Oh well, it wouldn't be too out of character for seasons 1-3 Mac)

Marink (not a ship I read about a lot, but it hurt me so much when I played Link's Awakening for the first time. Everytime I think of Marin I feel sad)

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kingsmoot · 3 days ago

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ok we're back with ten more image slots to talk about joffrey's inherent badness because the text argues vehemently against this thing that people keep saying in my tags that joff is just uniquely bad and wrong and was destined to be a cruel, violent, spiteful despot. someone said that robert hit joff so hard he got brain damage and that's why he's Like That™️. this is no different than saying that joff is A Bad Apple because he is a bastard born of incest, abhorred by the gods. or that he is bad because his mother is a lannister and so he is of tainted, evil stock. the argument that joff is not only uniquely but inherently bad is refuted time and again by the text, and by me. let's discuss.

agot; chapter 30, eddard vii

above, robert confides in ned that he loathes his son and heir. cannot abide him. is terrified that he will one day take his throne. he claims that ned does not know him as he does (when ned has suffered far more for joffrey's actions than robert! his lady wife's hands disfigured by joff's hired catspaw, his daughter's soulbonded warg beheaded thanks to his lie that both his parents accepted) and crucially, robert blames cersei's parenting and joff's lannister blood on the fact that he is unfit for the throne.

yet joffrey is the image of his father (robert, not jaime). he acts in ways that he thinks will earn robert's approval. he acts out because of robert's disdain and abuse. robert (and many others) says he sees nothing of himself in his son, and yet this is time and again proven false.

asos; chapter 53, tyrion vi / asos; chapter 63, davos vi

cersei and stannis both recall the incident where robert was so enraged at joffrey that he hit him hard enough to knock out two baby teeth. hard enough that stannis thought he'd killed him with the blow.

and the act of animal cruelty that provoked this ire in robert was a clear mirroring of (genuinely i cannot remember if it was ser amory lorch for real or gregor clegane who did this idr which version of the story is a lie) presenting robert with the dead and mangled bodies of princess elia's children, who were viciously butchered in their beds. it would make perfect sense for joffrey to have heard that story more than once, and to have understood the pleasure robert took in seeing the dragons slaughtered. killing a pregnant cat and presenting robert with her dead unborn kittens is something a small child exposed to his father's brutality and violence would do to please and emulate him.

(much pithier post by @visenyaism about this same passage: https://www.tumblr.com/kingsmoot/724517618713837568)

and, of course, none of the three adults in the room with joff when this happened thought to teach him anything about why this was not something they wanted him to do. his father beat him while his mother (robert's property even more so than joff. understandably helpless in this situation) and his uncle (not helpless. should have opened his mouth) watched. there is always an adult in the room and they are always doing nothing.

and even after this. years after this!! after who knows how many more instances of scorn that would not have registered with the other adults present because they were not physical violence, joff still tries to emulate his father:

acok; chapter 53, tyrion vi

asos; chapter 77, tyrion xi

WELL A SON TAKES AFTER HIS FATHER :(

could it be that there is somewhere else in the text where we have seen a father disparage his cruel, violent, monstrous son on the basis of his inherent wrongness? absolving himself of his own responsibility for the boy's behavior? 🤔

asos; chapter 49, catelyn vi

adwd; chapter 32, reek iii

i've made one post before comparing joff and ramsay as expressions of their mothers' rage and as characters driven by the entitlement their mothers sowed in them (https://kingsmoot.tumblr.com/post/723616029989896192/) but this time i want to focus on their fathers' culpability and denial

i do not draw the comparison between joff and ramsay to either:

absolve ramsay of his responsibility for his actions as a serial killing serial raper who tortures theon and donella until they lose every last shred of their humanity. he's like thirty. OR

compare or equate the actions of an adult man doing leatherface/otis driftwood shit to a little boy being supported in his terror and violence by the huge and powerful group of adults around him (ramsay's violence is his own. he is skinning and raping women in the woods. he is killing children. he is torturing theon and donella and raping jeyne. joffrey's violence is not his own. it is carried out by willing participants thrice his size and twice his age at least.)

i draw the comparison because roose and robert both blame the intrinsic, immutable, corrupted nature of their sons on why they are monsters, and yet both of them also acknowledge (subtly) that the fault is theirs.

robert's "jon despaired of me often enough, yet i grew into a good king! (...) ah, say that i'm a better king than aerys and be done with it!!" to ned is telling. he knows that he's a horrible king. he knows that he hasn't grown out of anything. (https://kingsmoot.tumblr.com/post/773495838881333248/) he claims to ned that there is something wrong with his son and he blames the lannister bitch for it, but somewhere deep down in the parts of his grey matter the light or the conscious can never touch... he knows what he is. and he knows whose son joffrey is. and he knows what that makes the both of them.

and roose, who blames his son's monstrosity on his bad blood, leaves us with the very obvious question of whose blood it is that's in him? roose's preoccupation with his own bloodletting takes on a very different cast after this exchange with theon. the leeches suck the bad blood away, all the rage and pain. the rage and pain ramsay is filled with would poison even the leeches... but how much rage and pain does roose need removed?

roose sent a serial killing serial rapist to raise the child of a woman he brutally raped and whose husband he murdered (https://kingsmoot.tumblr.com/post/757215882916265984/) and acts as if ramsay growing into the kind of man that he grew into is an issue of his low birth out of wedlock. robert is a huge violent wife beating drunk who delights in the gruesome slaughter of babes in their beds and acts as if joffrey's cruelty and violence is the frigid lannister bitch's fault. can you see how the text purposefully sets up two of its most vile and overtly hateable characters to have the exact same justification for their sons' actions and how by doing so it is suggesting that you, the reader, should not believe them?

overall, the asoiaf series stands in staunch opposition to the concept that your birth determines who you are (yes, even with the prophecies and the chosen ones and the many heroes' destinies). to believe that joffrey baratheon was born bad is to misunderstand the core of his character and also to forgive and absolve the many characters who have actual power of their responsibility for "his" actions, and to forgive (and praise!) robert, cersei, tyrion, and jaime for their abuse.

to believe that there was nothing anyone could do to stop joffrey baratheon's reign from driving westeros into the ground but to kill him, is to concede that the murder of children is justifiable and necessary, something that the text pointedly and repeatedly refutes (the murder of elia and rhaegar's children repeatedly defined as a fracture in ned and robert's relationship and a stain on his reign, jon snow switching gilly and mance's babies, stannis' refusal to burn shireen, davos' saving of edric storm, cersei's murder of robert's bastards, the list goes on and on and on and on)

joff is literally 13. how is this lost on the vast majority of asoiaf's audience. have you ever met a 13 year old? he's a 13 year old boy who was beaten and neglected. the fact that a traumatized child has the "power" to doll out life and death sentences is in fact a structural issue. the fact that a bunch of 30+ year old professional body guard attack dogs nod along and happily beat the living shit out of the 11 year old girl joff is engaged to is very pointedly not joff's fault. would you, tumblr user reading this, beat the shit out of a child if another child told you to? probably not, right? that would be fucking insane, right? you would feel that it was your responsibility to NOT beat the shit out of a child no matter what position the other child telling you to do so had above you, right? you know that the smallfolk of king's landing, who were literally being shot at and murdered by joff with his automatic crossbow, also said that it was the adults on the counsel's responsibility to reign in the boyking on the throne? ok well they are imaginary people being shot with an imaginary crossbow and you as the real flesh and blood audience have so much more perspective on this situation than them. OK, GOOD TALK.

#joff tag #ramsay tag #i have another part to add to this about the lann fam too #but i ran out of images again

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