#non practising though

[angstigone]

as a catholic, I am having the time of my life with all these arcane viktor-jesus comparison

[batsplat]

hii I was just wondering why you think the aprilia bikes will be horrible next yr? because to me based on recent races it feels like theyre doing ok esp compared to other non-ducati teams.

'horrible' is maybe a strong word, but even by their standards this second half of the season has been pretty abysmal. and it'd be in line with my long-term expectation, where I think aprlia's done very well in motogp and I'm very impressed with their general trajectory but... I kind of feel like their title-winning opportunity might have already come and gone. mainly because the other manufacturers have a lot more spending power than them. now, I'm aware this is an expectation that might age quite poorly if ktm is in as much financial trouble as they seem to be but... just on aprilia, obviously it's plausible that it's a race-winning bike next season, that a rider as capable as martin can fight for victories on multiple occasions, but... well, it's not going to be title-winning machinery, is it. and it's not the one of the non-ducati manufacturers I would personally bet on making that step in the next few years. and even if I'm wrong and it IS, inevitably it's going to be a step down for the two riders going there next year. which is. a shame

[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k

c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here  

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“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”

You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks. 

“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.” 

“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out. 

“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”

You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask. 

“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says. 

They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world. 

There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.

Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation. 

You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person. 

Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about. 

“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.” 

Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him. 

“He was nice,” you murmur. 

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“How come you fell out of touch?” 

“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?” 

“You’ll be alright?” 

“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”

You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands. 

You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare. 

What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought. 

The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.

Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage. 

Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little. 

“Darling.” 

You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand. 

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says. 

Me, you think. 

“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.” 

“You didn’t,” the woman says. 

“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.” 

Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense. 

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says. 

Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.” 

“Hardy-har.” 

“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks. 

“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”

“But?” 

“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.” 

“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”

“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.” 

“Gentleman and the tramp.” 

“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.” 

You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape. 

You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth. 

You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water. 

What the fuck? 

You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down. 

Your head races with hurt feelings. 

You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman. 

You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees. 

What had they meant by usual woman?

Mismatched? 

It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is. 

“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.” 

You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky. 

He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“

You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in. 

Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal. 

Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing. 

Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse. 

She was unbelievable. 

“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?” 

“What?” 

“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.” 

You startle at his scolding. “I–”

“You should feel my heart.” 

“I didn’t mean to come out here.” 

“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?” 

“Scavenging for food.” 

That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.” 

—

Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?

You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…” 

After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones. 

“I love you, too,” you say. 

His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”

“Mm.” 

“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…” 

You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable. 

You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it. 

“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath. 

You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands. 

“These aren’t good tears,” he says. 

He’d know. They’re not. 

Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out. 

“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not you.” 

“But something does hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs. 

“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.” 

It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not. 

He looks sick. 

“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage. 

For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring. 

“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly. 

“It’s so stupid.” 

“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?” 

You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.” 

You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin. 

He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.” 

He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs. 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.” 

You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.

“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.” 

You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh. 

“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble. 

“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.” 

“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.” 

“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says. 

You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying. 

“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.” 

“Aaron.” 

“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.” 

You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.” 

“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown. 

You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.” 

His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.” 

“Aaron!” you laugh. 

“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.” 

“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased. 

“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.” 

“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.

“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” 

“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.” 

“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.” 

You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask. 

He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.” 

“You said you weren’t getting any younger.” 

“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze. 

”You said it.” 

“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.” 

“I’m glad you asked me.” 

You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now. 

“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders. 

He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress. 

“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.” 

“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.” 

He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”

You shush him quickly.

He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.” 

“And you can make me feel even better.”

His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear. 

—

Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast. 

The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast. 

Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind. 

“Are you eating that one?” you ask. 

Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?” 

“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”

“You could’ve made dad cook.” 

“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?” 

“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?” 

“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.” 

Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.” 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.” 

“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says. 

He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour. 

“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.” 

“I thought Miss Jareau went?” 

“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.” 

“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks. 

You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.  

“Hey,” Aaron says. 

You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw. 

“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe. 

Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?” 

“I didn’t take any, sorry.” 

“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says. 

“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.

“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.” 

He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text. 

Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal 

Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding? 

Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that 

Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless. 

Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette 

Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right? 

Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online. 

Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D 

The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake. 

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thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️

also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake

[leeloooonfire]

based on this post about Steve's internalized bi-phobia:

Steve has known for years.

And how could he not when Tommy's freckles come back tenfold each spring like a flower peaking it's head through the last layer of snow? Or when Matthew Carver's hair have a reddish brown tone that turns blond after they spent the last days before summer break practising outside and remind Steve of liquid gold? Or when he watches Star Wars and Harrison Ford, rugged and witty, comes into view and twists his stomach in knots? How could he not know?!

Steve knows he finds guys as attractive as girls, known for many, many years. But.

But he can't. Not when Tommy sneers at that boy in their literature class who likes flamboyant clothes and wants to be an actor on Broadway. Not when the people they meet in Indi who are like Robin and Eddie 'fully queer' and talk about people like Steve as if they're traitors and scams. Not when he reads the newspaper and is assaulted by Reagan and his folk preaching about the 'fag pandemic' or how his father nods in approval and mutters 'another sinner gone for good' when the news play on TV and they occasionally mention the crisis that kills people like Robin and Eddie and him.

Like him....

It doesn't matter how much he loves sleeping with his nose pressed against Eddie's collarbone or that he thinks he'd like to kiss Eddie and hold his hands and wake up beside him until they're old and wrinkly and complain about bad knees.

He is, but he cannot be a queer, half a fairy '50% like me, 50% like Eddie' as Robin jokes.

He will not be a bisexual, he can keep it inside, keep it hidden, buried deep inside him no matter how much it pains him. He can be the straight friend who goes to pride and bakes rainbow cakes and marries a woman even though his heart screams in an ear ringing cacophony, 'Eddie, Eddie Eddie Eddie!'

This is how his 20s go: loud and hurting and yearning and hiding and more noticeably being disgusted and ashamed of himself for simply being able to love men the way he can love women.

He's 29 when his wife, Becky, leaves him. It's not just Eddie and this shameful secret that weights heavy on their relationship, but the scars and all the other secrets he is unable to explain to her that drive Becky finally away - back to Boston. She leaves him alone in that tiny house they bought three years ago with their Saint Bernard puppy they lovingly named Bernadette.

He's 30 when he goes to a coffee meeting of the bisexual group meeting in Chicago, nearly turning the car multiple times, hands and knees sweaty with fear that they won't want him there. They do want him there, welcome him with open arms, and talk about things Steve knows all too well: 'When I fell in love with the first girl, I ran. I like men just fine, so I hid my crush. It's just easier, when your parents hate gays, when the world is shaming our community, when we're dying.' He finds a second home there, and learns - learns about queerness and bisexuality, about trans and gender non conforming people and physical attraction versus emotional attraction. He learns about his past and present and about his future, about their history and where they want to go, how they want to mold their world to fit people like them into it without the pain and the hiding.

Steve is 33 when he finally comes out to everyone dear to him. To the kids who aren't kids anymore and to Joyce and Hopper, and then his parents. this does not go well, but Steve doesn't want, doesn't need their validation anymore. He has his family, his friends, his support system who love him not regardless of his sexuality but because of it, love him because it's part of him. He comes out to Becky, too and that goes much better. they want to be friends, in the future. She's also met Gary who works the the NY Times and wants her to follow him into the big city. So Steve is looking forward how that goes, their tentative friendship.

He is 34 when Eddie comes back from his latest world tour and wants to take a break to rekindle with his uncle, to write new songs, to take a breather. It's only natural that Eddie moves into Steve's guest room and takes over his space on the couch where he cuddles Bernadette while Steve is in the kitchen and makes them grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner.

Its even more natural when their feet meet while watching a movie and they lean into each other in the kitchen, dawn barely there, while they wait for the coffee maker to finish.

Steve's 35 when Eddie finally kisses him and he kisses back. No hurt, no shame, no guilt gnawing on him, Steve finally allows himself to be with the person he truly wants - regardless of their gender.

[diejager]

We need more Dark!Captain Price please!!

Behave, Love

Pairing: Dark! Captain John Price x fem!reader

Cw: implied smut, DARK, IMPLIED NON-CON, possessive behaviour, kidnapping, kinda Stockholm syndrome, captive reader, mean Price, punishment, basement wife?, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 2.6k

“We have guests tonight, love,” he told you this morning before leaving.

That was a warning, the only one you needed to understand what you were told - ordered - to do. You spent the morning cleaning up, wiping off the nonexistent dust from the shelves, washing off the clean tables and surfaces around the house that you’d cleaned yesterday after he called to tell you that he was coming home. The following hours were spent vacuuming the wooden floor and mopping up any nano-spill of some kind. Only after the long hours you took to clean every speck of dust in your shared home, did you start cooking.

Price was a simple man in the things he liked, he might’ve been strategic in his plays and his decisions, down to the smallest aspects of each mission, or preferring his gun or knives maintained in a specific way that was his only, but anything at home, he liked simple. Perhaps it was a blessing for you, never spending time learning how to cook or bake, your training took up all your time and any free time you had was spent resting or on extra training. He liked well-rounded meals, having meat, vegetables and a bit of spice on his plate with rice or fries on the side.

You dread the moments he leaves as much as the giggle of the knob, leaving meant that he’d be watching you remotely, from the small screen of his phone with alarms and countermeasures against your escape - to which you’ve tried and failed many times, the severity of his punishment racking up from an hour in the dark basement to being tied up and tortured to overstimulation of a fake cock moulded to replicate Price’s cock - and his return would leave you at the mercy of his prying eyes and hungry mouth, letting his hands trace the scars that littered your skin. Any sign of disgust: shuddering, flinching or freezing would get you some time in the basement. 

He pulled you from years of training, the result of your blood sweat and tears gone with the flick of Price’s wrist. He had you discharged and had you move in with him - how fortunate you’ve been living on base without an apartment outside of the compound, you saw no use for it if you’d rarely be home - even though you fought against him, tooth and nail. Yet that only landed you in time out - or so he called it. 

“We’re going to get married, love,” he told you, a bright smile hidden under his beard, a wishful gleam in his eyes. 

You weren’t only getting married, you were signing off your body and soul to your captor to become a glorified housewife. From a private to a housewife, how saddening, you couldn’t help that self-deprecating attitude rather than the confidence and strength that were beaten into you during training. 

Any connection to the outside world was cut off, Price made sure that you wouldn’t have any way to contact your family without his supervision - he had you call them once a month to reassure them that you were safe and happy with your new life - or the authorities, not that they’d listen to you with The Captain John Price and his decorated background. Granted, you had a TV to entertain yourself in moments of boredom or the book-filled wall in the living room, even a few recreational activities he wanted you to practise: knitting, sewing, cooking and baking.

Naturally, you turned to cooking and baking as a way to pass the time, leaving the radio or the TV on as background noise to fill the depressing atmosphere. With time, you’d grown more comfortable in the kitchen and Price could trust you with more complicated dishes, even being excited to eat a homemade dinner when he came home. He liked meat, so you read about different meaty dishes - especially with the notion of the other coming over for the afternoon - with good portions of vegetables. 

You moved around the island, setting the table with plates and cups, knives, spoons and forks on the sides with a bowl of fries in the middle. The steaks were almost done, sizzling besides the warm sauce you were boiling after cracking the can. The beans and mashed potato were already set on each plate, waiting for the juicy meat and sauce you worked on, hoping that you’d be finished on time for Price to get home. You hoped Price would be nicer to you while the men ate, nothing too rash or possessive from him during their stay.

The lock clicked as you placed the final piece, the rattle of keys and the familiar steps of Price’s heeled shoes were - unless you missed his soft “I’m home, love.” - the usual sounds you’d hear when he came home, the only indications that you were never truly able to relax.

“Welcome home, John,” you returned, greeting him with a small kiss on the corner of his lips, his bushy beard irritating your cheeks. 

He leaned down, chasing you for a second, deeper kiss, his teeth catching your lower lip before he moved aside to let his coworkers enter. 

“Ma’am,” Gaz jumped in, lowering his cap in a mock bow to you.

Being called ma’am made you feel old and married. While you were married, you were a year or two younger than him with him having an authority over you on base. You didn’t necessarily know him before your discharge, only catching a few glances when either of you were passing through the gym or shooting range, or when you crossed paths in the halls or mess hall. Perhaps in another universe, you would’ve been friends or teammates by chance. You swallowed down a sigh that threatened to slip from your pursed lips.

Soap followed closely behind Gaz with a boisterous greeting of his own, his smile infectious and giddy. How couldn’t you smile back at him when he seemed so happy to be here, you couldn’t bear to break his heart, his puppy-like joy. You shook his hands, they were as firm as the last time, his fingers more calloused and harder on the tips from the many deployments between their last visit. Ghost was a step behind everyone, giving you a quick but welcoming nod, his eyes softening at the dark bags under your eyes. 

“Come in, I was just about finished.”

Without so much of a complaint, they sat down, watching you pour the brown sauce over their plate. Price - as always - sat at the head of the table, watching you and his team from his vantage point. Ghost sat to his left with Soap beside him and Gaz on the opposite from him, taking the seat to your right. The seat to Price’s right was always reserved to you whenever you were present, a rule he imposed himself. He could easily hold your hand while it rested on the table, he could sneakily place his firm hand on your thigh, or he could send you a quiet message through the corner of his eye, something so discreet that not even Ghost noticed.

Dinner with 141 was always animated, with Soap and Gaz throwing jabs at each other and Ghost jumping in with a few jokes of his own - though they were the usual dark and morbid humour that he thrived on - while Price watched over it all, a proud smile adorning his face as his thumb brushed your knuckles. You could see the fatherly joy in his eyes whenever everyone was at the table, this joy that almost made you happy that you were part of this small family - almost. You couldn’t forget the pain and harrowing sadness that clouded your mind every day, Price’s influence on your life becoming the looming shadow that kept you locked away from the freeing sun.

“It was tidy, bonnie!” Soap thanked you, collecting the plates while the rest helped around.

“Thank you, Johnny.”

While you washed the dishes, burly arms reached around your waist and locked fingers, pushing his chest to meet your back. He hummed a comforting tune, peppering your neck and shoulder with kisses, playing the loving and caring husband he was to the rest of the world. Laying his head on your shoulder, he was content with watching you work, ears listening to the chatter in the room and your beating heart, a calm and soft beat that soothed his nerves. 

“A right delight,” Price breathed out, hips swaying side to side in a drawl dance, rocking you along with him. 

He pressed his lips to your ear, mumbling praises for your behaviour and playing the husband he wanted to be - was. He was gentler with you, his strong arms holding you lovingly and expressing his devoted obsession with you with kisses and whispers. It was a side you saw often, Price being the ever-loving man he vowed to give you on the day of your marriage, the other one was the possessive and obsessive man who wanted your everything, your mind, body and soul. That side of him was given to you when you misbehaved, when you did something to displease him or when he deemed you worthy of punishment.

The other rarely saw their captain acting so soft and loving, even toward them, his little, ragtag of a team. Although it was something to be proud of, unendingly happy because at least one of them finally settled down, who were they if they couldn’t jab at Price, just a bit.

“Growing old, Cap’? You look like a romantic sap,” Gaz snickered, watching Price narrow his eyes in mocked anger through squinted eyes.

“Aye, I dinnae yer were a bodach,” Soap elbowed Gaz, failing to hold back his cackle, head tilted back and arms around his abdomen.

“English, Johnny.”

Price huffed, shoulders shaking with his own laughter.

“Oh, sod off,” he spat, lips stretched in a snarky smile. “Am I an old sap, love?” 

He clung to you, hands slipping under the hem of your shirt

“ ‘Course not, John. Maybe romantic, but not old.”

Calling him old wouldn’t do him or you any good, especially since you were married to him, a man over a decade older than you; and calling him romantic would be a lie thrown to the face, at least to you. Price would call himself a romantic man and preen about his rugged, yet gentlemanly character, his hands calloused and loving, his mouth praising and biting, his eyes ravaging and devoted, his acts protective and possessive. How Price would proclaim himself as the perfect husband - he said he was the day he dropped you the discharge letter - and how lucky you were to wound yourself with him rather than any boy your age. 

Price chuckled, his chest rumbling against your back as he tightened his hold around you. He liked your reply, that wide smile pressed to your throat with nipping kisses made you aware of his joy. You rocked back against him, dancing along the lazy sway of his hips, you were catering to his whims to stay safe and alive. His training wasn't for nothing, carved into the seams of your mind with every thrust of his cock or the silicone mimic of his cock. You learned quickly that if Jonathan Price was happy, you’d be safe and unharmed, so you aimed to please him and keep him happy.

If it meant playing the reciprocating and happily married wife to their captain, you’d do that. There wasn’t any loss of dignity and pride in wanting to feel safe, wanting to ignore how his hands gripped you too firmly or how your skin was littered with painful bruises after a rough night. To the Task Force, you were a willingly discharged soldier who became a housewife for their hardworking captain and your loving husband. The gold band carved with curved and intricate words added to the illusion of your perfect life. 

It made you want to scream and pull your hair out at how trusting they were of Price. All and any man had his darkness, that ugly need buried under the mass of duty and morality that made them who they were, but if let loose, they could be like Price, another monster wearing the skin of a man.

You couldn’t help squinting your eyes in a silent plea to the men, watching them drink and laugh merrily without a fault. Being a witness to their bountiful smile and full-bellied laughter when you were glued to your captor by the hip, his arm looped around your waist, pulling you to him. Laying your head on his shoulder as the bottle of whiskey grew lighter and lighter over time, the golden liquid rolling down their throat with a comforting burn after a long week at work. The little glances Price sent your way were reminders for you to behave until the end, his fingers curling over a healing bruise from when he held you too tightly, pussydrunk with his head between your thighs.

You smiled and nodded, going along with whatever they were chatting about, from meaningless affairs to slightly classified subjects. Nothing was off the table with you, they trusted Price enough to trust you with sensitive subjects and they all liked you, someone who could relate to their cause and understand their pains. Perhaps that played a part in his obsession with you.

Even when they stood on your doorstep with slurred speech and hooded eyes, they were always aware of their situation and minds sharp, but they were blind to your plight. Gaz and Soap shook hands with Price, the darker Brit bowing to lift his cap in a familiar salute: “‘Night, ma’am.”

“Thanks fer the meal, bonnie.”

“It’s always a pleasure having you over, Johnny.”

Ghost waved at you from the driving seat, he drank less comparatively to the other men, being designated as the driver between them. You send him a tired grin with a wave of your own, still within Price’s grasp. You looked on beside him as Ghost drove off, returning to base with two drunken sergeants in his custody. With them gone and the door shut and locked - bolted down with keys and codes only he had access to - he pulled you to his chest, rumbling out praises with his deep, soothing voice. 

 “You were so good today, love,” he pressed his lips against yours, hand cupping your nape with a slow lave of his tongue to deepen the kiss. “I’m so proud of you.”

He dragged you away, feet hanging on your toes to follow his movement while letting him press for more kisses, growing passionate and stealing your breath. You clung to him, fingers clawing at his form-fitting shirt as you walked backwards, stepping into your shared room. He blindly kicked the door shut, throwing you to the bed with a rough push. He stared at you through lidded eyes, bouncing on the bed as you scrambled to get your footing before he straddled your hips between his thick thighs, rutting his covered hardness against your stomach. 

His leaky head trapped under the tightness of his briefs and pants drenched his clothes, his chest rising with deep and laboured breaths. In the silence of your privacy, Price became handsy, wanting to grab and touch every part of you, cradling your face and wiping the drool on your lower lip with his thumb. He brought it to his mouth, sucking his thumb with lust-hazed eyes as he peered down at you. His brown hues were darker in the dim lighting, nearly black with lust and need as he grappled himself over you. He wore a crooked smile on his perfect lips.

“You deserve a reward for behaving so well, yeah?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs

[hazbinshusk]

blitzø x gn!reader. during a slow week at the imp office,blitzø convinces you that there are better ways to spend your time waiting for a new client to call on. and honestly, it doesn't really take all that much to convince you, especially when he figures out a kink you've been keeping close to the chest. requested by the wonderful @blitzsicedcoffee. 2.75k

featuring: collar kink, light pup play, dom!blitzø, oral sex (blitzø receiving), blitzø using his tail as a leash, light degradation, penetrative sex. blitzø uses terms like 'pet' and 'pup', reader has non-specific genitalia, and a prehensile tail (so could be read as an imp or an incubus/succubus).

Flipping idly through an outdated Weapons of Wrath catalogue, you’re curled up on the sofa in the I.M.P. office, leaning against the arm of it comfortably. It’s been a slow enough couple of weeks that Blitzø had decided to start having you all work in shifts, and with him holed up in his office, you had the main room to yourself, waiting pointlessly for a new client to call in.

And holy fuck, you were bored.

Even thinking that thought seems to be enough to summon your boss from his office, and you jerk upright as the door slams against the opposite wall when he kicks it open.

“Satan’s fucking taint, how does no one in this shit-slinging ring want to have somebody murdered?” he complains, tossing an empty coffee cup towards the trashcan and missing completely. It bounces off the wall behind it and the lid pops off, spilling the remains of a couple of ice cubes onto the carpet. “This is still Hell, isn’t it?”

“Last I checked,” you reply dryly, returning your attention back to your magazine, thumbing a page over idly.

He arches an eyebrow at you, irritated by your lack of similar dramatics. “Since when do I pay you to just fuckin’ sit there?”

You turn another page with practised nonchalance. You know it’s only going to piss him off further, but, well… you’re petty. “Depends. Did you have something else that needs doing?”

Blitzø groans, throwing his head back dramatically. He sighs, straightening his posture and setting his eyes on you again. He considers you for a moment, an eyebrow raised, before he says, “So… you wanna fuck?”

If you’d been drinking something, you would have choked on it.

“What?”

He grins, shrugging. “There’s no point in soundin’ so damn scandalised. It ain’t like we haven’t done it before.”

You feel your face flush. “A couple of drunk hookups does not mean I’m going to fuck you in the office, Blitz.”

“Why not?” he asks, closing more of the distance between you. You clutch the catalogue tighter against your lap as though it’s some kind of ward against bad decisions. And this would definitely be one. Right? “Ya think M&M don’t get their fuck on on the conference table every chance they get?”

“Christ, Blitz, that is so not the po—”

“This is jus’ fuckin’ adorable, by the way,” Blitzø tells you lasciviously, hooking a claw up under the choker around your neck. You’d worn it on a whim, and you curse yourself for the way your breath catches despite yourself. Your cheeks warm even more as you feel the band tighten slightly around your throat. There’s a second where you hope he doesn’t notice, but Blitzø’s eyes widen then narrow, a downright villainous smirk blooming on his lips. “Ohhh… I get it. Lil’ pup likes to play.”

You swallow, finding your voice. “Blitz…”

“That’s it, ain’t it?” he continues as though you hadn’t spoken, although his smile twitches wider at the hitch in your voice. “You like bein’ collared, don’t ya?”

You hesitate a moment even as excitement floods through you. Heat pools low in your belly at the suggestion in his voice, as the way his claws graze the column on your throat as he hooks two more in the front of the choker. You swallow again, wetting your lips with the tip of your tongue as it tightens the choker around your throat. He tugs on it, urging you to stand in front of him, and you do it without thinking, the catalogue slipping from your lap to the floor. Blitzø is standing only inches from you, his tail switching back and forth behind him slowly.

His breath fans across your face, warm and tickling. “Don’t you?”

You nod.

Blitzø grins. “Good pet.”

Fuck.

You can’t help the soft whimper that escapes you when he pulls you closer again, his nose skimming against yours. He’s watching your every reaction with hooded eyes, and you feel his other hand ghost down over your waist. It makes you shiver, and his smirk widens when you lean forward slightly to kiss him. Blitzø pulls back the moment your lips should meet, and he bites his lip with a cocky grin.

“On your knees for me, pup.”

Blitzø is half-hard as he palms himself through his jeans, and a soft growl rumbles through him as you tongue slides across your bottom lip. He runs a hand through your hair almost sweetly before he suddenly grabs a fistful of it, jerking your head back to meet his eye.

“What’re you waitin’ for, exactly?”

The pain only adds to the heat blooming low in your belly, and you reach up with eager fingers to unbuckle his belt. You lean forward to nuzzle against the bulge in his jeans, planting open-mouthed kisses over it until the fabric is damp with your saliva and his cock is straining against the zipper.

“Oh, puppy wants to play,” Blitzø croons, releasing a breathless laugh as you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. You press a kiss to the underside of the head before parting your lips, curling your tongue around it as you take him into your mouth. His head falls back as the wet warmth of your mouth engulfs him. “Fuck…”

Blitzø keeps one hand in your hair as you suck him, the other lifting his shirt so he can watch the way you gag around him when he hits the back of your throat. You whine around him when you feel the spade of his tail slip under your choker, winding around it to pull it tight against your throat. He smirks when your eyes roll back.

“You’re a good little bitch, aren’t you?” he coos, voice husky sweet as you clutch at his thighs, hollowing out your cheeks as you pull back. He moans as you roll your tongue around the head of his cock and suck, his hand tightening possessively in your hair as you take him all the way in again. Blitzø holds your head in place, thrusting his hips forward to feel the way your throat flutters around his cock. “Fuck, you’ve got a nice mouth…”

You moan around him and the vibrations of your throat makes his eyes roll back. He presses his hips forward until you choke in earnest, releasing your hair as you pull back with a cough. Drool hangs from your chin as you catch your breath, and Blitzø reaches down to smear it across your lip with his thumb. You suck it into your mouth, biting down on it lightly, and he hisses through a sharp-toothed grin.

“Shiiiit…” he wraps a hand around his cock, pumping it against your spit-slick bottom lip. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you, pet?”

Your voice comes rough, your swollen lips brushing against the tip of his cock as you murmur, “Yes, Blitz.”

The imp’s smirk widens, his eyes dark and hungry with lust. You part your lips obediently, and he thrusts it back into your eager mouth with a grunt. His tail tugs on the choker again, and you’d be embarrassed at the way your tail wags behind you, but all you can focus on is the way Blitzø’s eyelids flutter as he presses his cock deep into your throat. You gag around him again before he pulls back, instead fucking himself languidly into your mouth. You curl your tongue to cradle the length of him with each slide of it past your lips, the taste of his precum downright addictive. “Then I’m gonna need to hear it, slut.”

You suck firmly at his cock until his breath hitches and he pulls back, gripping the base of his cock. He snickers deliriously, the choker around your throat so tight your eyes roll back as you blink. “Fuck me, Blitz.”

“Not good enough,” he grins wickedly, stroking himself slowly. He leans down, his other hand closing around your jaw as he brings his face down to yours. He forces your chin up, his lips a breath from yours as he growls, “I wanna hear you beg, baby.”

Dear Satan, you wanted to kiss him.

“Please,” you whimper, shifting on your knees in a vain attempt to meet his lips with yours. Blitzø pulls back just enough to leave you wanting, infuriating amusement playing at the edge of his smirk. “Please, fuck me, Blitz.”

“Hmm?” he raises a brow tauntingly, his tail tugging at the choker warningly.

“Sir,” you correct yourself, an edge of desperation colouring your broken voice. “Please, fuck me, sir.”

Blitzø grins. “That’s my good pup.”

He straightens up, stepping to the side and waving a hand towards Loona’s desk.

“Bend over it for me, pup.”

You make move to stand, and his tail tugs you back down again.

“Did I say you could walk?”

Fuck, he looks so pleased with himself. Still, you can’t help the little whine that escapes you at his tone, and you crawl across the scratchy carpet until you reach the desk. He nods and you stand slowly on shaky legs. Blitz unwinds his tail from your choker as he does, trailing the spade of it down your spine and smirking when you shudder.

“Strip.”

You feel a surge of nerves settle in the pit of your stomach even as you tug your shirt obediently over your head. Yeah, you’d fucked before, but those had been drunk and hurried and in the dark. This was stark and carefully paced, and somehow so much more exciting, and your fingers shake as you push your jeans down your thighs. You stiffen as you feel Blitzø press himself up against your back, his fingers expertly unclipping your bra as his lips find the nape of your neck.

A soft moan escapes you as he trails his lips to the side of your throat, sucking a mark into the sensitive flesh as his hands take hold of your hips, pressing his naked erection up against your ass. He shifts his hips to slide it between your thighs, and you whine, head falling forward.

“Bend over, baby,” he mutters, breath hot against your ear, and he squeezes a handful of your ass as you do as you’re told, pressing yourself further back against his cock as you brace your hands on the desk in front of you. Blitzø groans as you do, claws tearing your underwear away greedily. “That’s it…”

You hear him spit, excitement burning through you as you feel him stroke his cock against your ass, mixing his saliva with yours. Your eyes widen and you moan, a long, drawn out, throaty sound as he presses the head of his cock into you.

“Christ on a stick… always so fuckin’ tight,” he groans, withdrawing only to thrust into you again. With each slow push of his hips, he slides another inch into your warmth, stretching and filling you in a way that makes your eyes roll back. You bite your lip in a vain attempt to stifle your moans, claws digging into the edge of the desk hard enough to gouge marks into the wood. “Fuck, I’ve missed this…”

You don’t even want to think about why those words thrill you so much. You push your hips back to meet him with each thrust, and Blitzø snarls, hands clutching at the flesh of your hips hard enough to hurt. He lets you fuck yourself back on his cock, reaching up to hook his claws in the back of the choker and pull it taut against your windpipe. It makes you whine, your head forced back with the way he pulls at it.

“Bli—” you choke on his name, and Blitzø snickers headily at the eager way you ride his cock. “Fuck…”

“Such a good fuckin’ pup,” he growls, gripping at a handful of your ass. His tail winds around yours, the spade of it teasing against your thigh. He begins to fuck you again, punctuating each word with an unforgiving thrust. “So. Fuckin’. Good…”

You jump as the phone suddenly rings beside you, and Blitz curses as you flex around him.

“Go ahead, pet…” he grinds out, fucking into you hard. “Answer it.”

“Blitz—”

He tugs on the choker when you try to protest, and you moan. “Did I fuckin’ stutter, pup? Answer it.”

You whimper, reaching for the phone with an unsteady hand. You knock the receiver off its cradle, the phone clattering obnoxiously against the desk before you pick it up and shove it against your ear.

“I.M…P. Imm—ediate Murder Profession… Professionals.” you say, trying desperately to control your breathing even as Blitzø takes the opportunity to smack you hard on the ass. “How can I—hnnn – help you?”

Blitzø laughs at your tone, his voice tight with his own need, and you bump your forehead repeatedly against the desk as the guy on the other end of the line rumbles into your ear.

“I’m sorry, can I--  uhn… can I call you back?” you stumble over the words, teeth gritted together in an effort to keep your voice steady. You’re so fucking close, your whole body hot and tingling with sensation. “Blitz is… he’s a little busy at the—fuck. Look, I’ll call you back, alright?”

You slam the phone down and it bounces off the cradle, the receiving falling off the desk to dangle over the side. You moan in earnest and Blitzø groans, his hips meeting yours in a desperate, disjointed rhythm as the two of you approach the peak.

“Fuck, Blitz…” you curse as his tail tightens around yours, his claws pulling so tight on your choker you’re sure it might snap. Your eyes roll back at the feeling of it, your jaw hanging slack. Every time his hips meet yours, you let out a high-pitched ‘uhn!’, and Blitzø snaps his hips forward so hard the desk begins to slide against the carpet. “Fuck…!”

“You wanna cum, puppy?” he snarls breathlessly. “You gotta ask nice.”

“Please, sir…” you whimper, so close that your thighs tense painfully, toes curling against the carpet. “Please. Please, make me cum. I need to cum, sir, please…”

“That’s a good, fuckin’ pet.” Blitzø growls and he thrusts hard, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck. The feeling of his large, strong hand closing around your throat is enough to make you keen, and you all but collapse onto the desk as you finally cum, your body shaking with the feeling of it. “Satan’s fuckin’— FUCK!”

Blitzø cums deep inside you, clutching blindly at your hips as he shudders through it. You whimper with every touch he gives you as the two of you cum down, your eyes closing as you feel Blitzø bend down to press a kiss to your spine.

“Christ on a stick,” he moans quietly into your skin, smoothing his hands up along your waist and back down again. “Fuuuuck…”

You laugh quietly, breathless, pressing your forehead against the cool wood of the desk. “Pretty sure we fucked it up with that client.”

“Fuck it,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your shoulder blade. “They really want someone dead; they’ll call back after they’ve finished yankin’ it to that hot little whimper-y thing you do.”

“Shut up,” you retort even as you feel your cheeks warm.

When he pulls out you shudder at the feeling of it, patting you on the ass as you push yourself up. When you turn around he smirks at you, self-satisfied, and he hooks a claw in the choker and tugs you in to – finally – kiss you. He does it languidly, smiling as his tongue slides into your mouth. Leaning back against the edge of the desk for support, you wrap an arm around his neck, the other bunching in the fabric of his shirt. Blitzø braces himself on a hand beside your hip, pulling away only when your lungs begin to burn for a proper breath.

“Y’know, I’m preeeetty sure I’ve got an actual collar and leash set in the sex trunk in there,” he says suggestively, nodding towards his office.

You have to hope he doesn’t notice the way that suggestion, even after what you just did, makes you flush. “It’s still so messed up that you keep that shit here.”

Blitzø cocks a brow at you challengingly. “Does that mean you’re not interested in round two?”

“… I hate it when you’re cocky like this.”

“You fuckin’ love it, horndog.”

[theemporium]

🧸 le monagasque x reader’s daughter taking her first steps inside charles’ childhood home

☕️

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

edit: I’m a dumbass who only realised now you said daughter😭I’m so sorry

.

It had just been like every other Sunday brunch. 

With so many Sundays robbed from his family due to the race season, it became something like an unspoken tradition for the Leclerc family to spend non-race weekend Sundays together. Something lighthearted and sweet. Something that helped him put his family first, no matter what was happening on the race track or in the garage.

Once upon a time, it was just Charles and his brothers making their way to their childhood home. Each boy would have their own role to help their mother. Each boy would laugh and smile and bask in something as simple as a meal shared together which wasn’t as easy when they were all around the world.

And in more recent years, there had been a few additions to the Leclerc Family Brunch.

“He looks just like you.”

Charles lifted his head to see his mother standing by the doorway, a warm and kind smile on the older woman’s face as she watched the sight in front of her. Her son sat on the floor of the living room, an array of toys around him and her grandchild crawling around as he happily babbled. 

“Really?” Charles asked, a little bashful as his mother’s grin widened. 

“It makes me feel twenty years younger,” Pascale joked, a look of adoration on her face as little Adrien Leclerc garbled happily on the floor before tilting his head up to look at her. “He even has your smile. Different eyes though.”

“He has his mother’s perfect eyes,” Charles cooed as he grinned down at his son.

Though you had been more than welcome at the Leclerc household for their Sunday brunches, Charles also knew that you liked to give him some time with his family regardless of what he said. After many weeks of trying to tempt you early on in your relationship, he finally relented and made his own Sunday tradition with you. It started of as a day to just treat yourself at the expense of his card, but soon became your day away from him and Adrien. 

Just a day for you to take a breather from the Leclerc men in your life.

“Ah, Maman, look what I taught him,” Charles announced suddenly as he shuffled back until his back was pressed against the couch. “We’ve been practising.”

“Charles,” his mother scolded softly. “He’s your son, not a dog.”

“But he’s so obedient,” he teased playfully before turning his focus back to his son. He spread his legs open and patted the floor in front of him as he called his son’s name. “Adrien, box box!”

Adrien’s head snapped towards his father and he let out a happy giggle like he seemed to realise what was happening. He began to crawl towards his father, a wide and toothless smile spread across his face.

“My smart boy!” Charles praised as his son continued to crawl across the carpet towards him.

“Oh Adrien,” Pascale cheered with a clap. However, her smile faltered slightly when he started to slow down. 

Charles' brows furrowed together. “Adrien, come on. Box, box.” 

Adrien looked at his father before he stopped fully. But before Charles could even say anything, he was sitting back on the carpet before he began to slowly push himself up onto his feet with the help of the table beside him.

“Maman,” Charles murmured breathlessly, excitement mixed with tears shining in his eyes as he watched his son stare determinedly towards him. Later on, he would be grateful his mother had half the sense to take her phone out while he was so focused on young Adrien.

Charles could only let out a choked, wet laugh as he watched his son take one step and then another and another, and eventually letting go of the table as he took shaky steps towards his father. He could only let an array of mumbled French as his son fell into his arms, quickly hugging the young boy to his chest as he pressed kisses all over his face.

“My smart boy. My smart, smart prince,” he continued to mumble against his chubby cheeks as Adrien squirmed and squealed in his father’s arms. “Oh, I can’t wait to show Mama what you can do, hm? Gonna be a good boy and show her what a smart boy you are? She’s gonna be so excited.”

And truth be told, Charles cried when Adrien walked in front of you too when he caught a glance at your glossy eyes. But he wasn’t ashamed to be emotional about his family.

.

[that-hazbin]

Media Demon AU - excuse me you've inspired me to write in your AU, have a gift.

Lucifer and Lilith being dragged out to Pride by Teenage Charlie, they aren't expecting anything but blood, brimstone and depravity and are pleasantly surprised to find everything drastically changed.

The streets are well lit, banners of alternating colours crisscross the streets below, colourful storefronts and music on every corner, it's easier to say what street doesn't have a sinner or group of sinners with musical instruments singing their hearts out as practice or hoping to be recruited. Walls usually vandalised with nasty graffiti feature massive spray painted murals and while some are admittedly indecent they are of high quality.

Posters on every storefronts advertising performance arts of any kind imaginable, with temporary soul contract offers for skilled musicians and other artists to either teach or perform.

Lucifer looked at some of the advertisements somewhat curiously.

Carmine Industries who in addition to Angelic Weaponry also did research and sold parts for sound systems, stages and repaired instruments in partnership with the Media Demon.

Zizzi the Party Overlord who seemed to have a mild friendly rivalry with the Media Demon in terms of recruiting talented bands with many non-violent battle of the bands in their history.

Then there was Alastor the Media Overlord himself, there was no picture, but a mention of sponsorships and sign up sheets guaranting safefy in return for the low low price of your soul. The caveat of 'for however long you were employed' was interesting but seeing the list of guaranteed benefits supplied, and the sheer lack of better options, it would be extremely difficult to refuse. Food, Housing, lessons, free dental and there was even a section for imps and hellhounds who wanted to work in the porn industry.

Lucifer paused his reading and sharpened his hearing to listen to the sinner talking to his wife and daughter.

"I'm practicing for The Media Demon... no I'm not into the lust sector... or television sector, don't worry... Overlord Alastor suggested I publicly perform to get over my stage fright. I never gotta perform up top back when I was alive cause I wasn't of the right folk. Overlord Alastor don't care about that nonsense though, so I can now!... What do you mean redemption?... Why would I want that when I got everything I want down here?... Those bigots are either up there or down here in the service industry, watching the same folks that they denied a job cause they was coloured be the next Michael Jackson is like Karmic Retribution... You wanna meed the Media Demon? Good luck with that, man's got a schedule so packed it's gotta be a war crime, managing the radio, Television, Internet and the entire Porn industry, powerful overlord but yeesh the paperwork... I don't think he actually sleeps... He's sponsoring a theater performance on Laufrey Theater, that's on Allegra Avenue... Look when the Media Demon rebuilds a entire city district after a Extermination on his own dime the demon can name a street whatever he wants... Royal permission? Pfft! Those bluebloods are never here, never help either... It's a far better name that 'Wreck that Booty Lane' that's for sure, look ladies get a new map from one of the shops, I gotta practise!"

Charlie was gone on the musical performances of the sinners on the streets, she'd thought earth was interesting from the extensive smuggled books and media she got from various Goetia and Hellborn after her interest in humans had became common knowledge but this was like everything all at once, she really didn't understand her parents extreme views on sinners. Look at what they were capable of, clear and present evidence that they just needed a chance!

Charlie was mentally adjusting her redemption plans and jerked in surprise when her father spoke up, waving a leaflet with Laufey Theater on the title. "How would you like to see a play?", her dad was showing interest in sinners? Actual interest?! Don't jinx it Charlie! "Can we really?" Charlie couldn't hold back the excitement, like a confetti cannon about to go off and it probably showed. Lucifer smiled "Anything for you Char-char"

"I'm sorry, sir, our tickets have sold out."

Alastor couldn't help but stop, ears perking up, as he passed by the Laufey Theater. It's unsurprising that the tickets have sold out, it's the premier of a creative adaptation of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, and Alastor can personally attest to the uniqueness of the play. It doesn't follow the popular inspirations from James Whale's film adaptations, such as electricity bringing the monster to life, and the background music consists of newly commissioned works played live for the audience. Alastor had seen a couple of the rehearsals, and was invited to watch the premier by the theater director herself.

He was busy, though, terribly busy, and he told young miss Melody that himself. Still, she insisted on reserving seating for him in the VIP section, despite his protests. A whole box, four seats, left empty for a man who doesn't even have the time to attend? It was preposterous, really. He tried several times to convince her to sell the seats, or at least give it to some of the family of the actors, but she remained firm. No one else were to sit in that box unless he were right there along with them.

"I'm truly sorry, sir, but there really is no room left tonight. We've even had to use our expansion runes to create more space in the theater, but even those extra seats have filled out."

He should walk away. Really, he's on a tight schedule, a meeting with Carmilla Carmine and several others regarding the adaptability of angelic steel in the medical field. He has no time for a singular man missing his chance—

"Sorry, girls. I know you were excited, but maybe next time?"

Fuck.

Alastor pivots, catching sight of an imp, a succubus, and presumably their teenaged daughter, who shares features of both. Something about them is familiar, but he waves the thought away; he's used to seeing "familiar" things, given that he's back in time. He's stopped trying to place the memories.

"Pardon me," he calls, instantly getting the attention of both the family and the ticket seller. "Apologies for eavesdropping, but I seem to have a solution for your problem."

He flashes a nonthreatening smile, dripping southern charm and hospitality.

"I just so happen to have a box set aside for me, and no one else to fit the remaining seats."

He turns to the seller and winks.

"Could you tell our darling miss Melody that her so-called muse is here for the premier?"

The seller gapes, immediately connecting the dots, face growing red with realization.

"Right— Yes! Right away, sir!"

The seller practically vanishes from sight, rushing to fulfill the request. Rather than waiting outside, Alastor moves towards the doors, opening them wide. He turns his head towards the family, noting their expressions. The father looks confused, almost suspicious— which, fair enough, this is Hell after all, and although the Pride Ring has gone through many changes over the years, you can never be too careful.

The mother's face is mostly unreadable, although she seems to be evaluating him the same way he's doing it to her and her family. Taking in his demeanor, his clothing, the way he positions himself. Her daughter has, in contrast, the exact opposite disposition. She's excitable, eyes sparkling and smile wide enough to rival his own, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her behavior reminds him of a certain optimistic young lady, which only furthers to solidify his decision.

"Well?" Alastor says, cocking an eyebrow and waving a hand towards the doors. "Shall we?"

"YES!" The teenager squeals, eyes somehow growing even sparklier. She practically floats through the doors, pausing briefly to turn towards her parents to show off her excitement with a near-silent "eee!"

Her father's expression melts into something hopelessly fond, while the mother's turns amused, shaking her head exasperatedly.

"Apologies," the mother says. "Our daughter's never been to a play in the Pride Ring. She loves new experiences."

"Well, she's in for quite the event! You all made an excellent decision, tonight's show is certainly one for the ages!"

The succubus chuckles, moving to step through the doors.

"I'll take your word for it."

The father, left alone outside, seems to hesitate for a moment. Then, he gives a tight smile, moving through the doors with a polite, if awkward, nod. Alastor follows him in, and internally sighs. The familiarity he feels with these people only seems to grow, and he wonders, briefly, if it was worth ditching his meeting to sit for the next few hours trying not to wonder how on earth he knew this family.

"You know," the imp says, dragging Alastor out of his thoughts. "I don't believe I caught your name, mister...?"

"Oh my!" Alastor exclaims, perhaps a touch too loudly in the near empty foyer, turning the heads of the man's family and the few stragglers who've yet to take their seats.

"Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Alastor, the Media Demon!"

He takes the imp's hand, giving it an enthusiastic shake. He notes the man's expression is shocked, almost disbelieving. It brings a mischievous glint to Alastor's smile.

"Pleasure to be meeting you sir, quite the pleasure!"

[suguru-getos]

— soft yandere suguru geto pt 1 —

-> building the story in this one. warnings: none! the reader meets suguru for the first time since her best friend was encapsulated by a curse causing nightmares and issues. it’s fluffy <3

suguru had one goal — irradicate the non-sorcerers so there comes to be a world without curses. satoru on the other hand wanted to make people capable enough to fight the curses. the goal was same - a world where curses don’t exist anymore. suguru was hell-bent on achieving that of course. gaining fame as ‘geto sama’ a monk-looking saintly human being who helps people. the backgrounds are for suguru to handle anyways - he needed curses to get powerful & eventually achieve his goals.

his hatred for monkeys was unsubstantiated. no one who was not in control of their cursed energies would be spared by suguru geto. he didn’t even spare his parents. though he knows certain monkeys are slightly more valuable than others. some are his banks, some give him curses to swallow. and some are the ones who have no control of their CE and end up attracting higher curses/creating them.

what he didn’t take into account was you. your best friend was tormented by sickening nightmares of being non-conned almost everyday. aches in the back, cramping and utter pain during her period. you had almost given up — as her roommate, you had searched all psychologists; all doctors. nothing seems to be working. until one day — you found a ‘monkey’ treated by none other than geto sama.

without wasting time, you believed their gratefulness and their willingness to lend you the address. since nothing is working — you will definitely try anything at this point.

the moment your car landed on the geto estate you knew this man was no joke. why else would he be able to afford something like this otherwise? on the other hand — you were suspicious as to his ulterior motives. what if he was a mafia boss or something? who knew. finally, after some wait; you were advised to follow the instructor who led you to suguru geto.

he sat there, a merry & a friendly smile over his face. something that’s practised even as he talks to your friend. “yumiko san.” he grins, “you have symptoms like rape nightmares, don’t you? you feel like you’re being touched in the wrong places & there’s nothing you can do about it?” your best friend teared up, she had never felt so intricately seen and heard the way geto had made her feel. he raised a hand, and the curse that was latched into her, unseen by you. unseen by her.. latched itself into suguru’s hand.

she instantly felt lighter & felt better. while you were extremely considerate of what suguru geto did, you were not pleased. what even was that — you and your best friend bowed and on your way to leave. you turned back, “what did you do?” you couldn’t help but ask.

“ah, i have god’s grace in my hands thankfully. nothing much. prayed on her behalf that her problems go away. little one.” he hums, monkeys are usually dumb enough to be happy-go-lucky with the treatment. you weren’t. suguru hums, “if that’d be all, you may leave. i have other things to cater to.”

your siren eyes met his own, deep down. you could sense suguru hated your best friend. it was just a hunch— the vibes were so off. you hum, “what do you practise then? what form of meditation?” you crossed your arms, eagerly wagering for more answers on his behalf.

suguru chuckled in disbelief, an insignificant, puny monkey was asking ‘him’ questions? “be grateful and leave.” he said dismissively. and your best friend held your wrist, dragging you outside. you were adorable and so curious. pity you were just an ordinary, low-class monkey.

“he’s a scammer, a fraud! i’m fucking sure! let’s go to a doctor.” you scoffed, gritting your teeth. glaring daggers at the man who laid down in front of you on a stage, seemingly uninterested. suguru wanted to play with you too, the same curse that was latched onto your friend, he transferred it into you, going out. now you’d have the same symptoms and suffer. shouldn’t have voiced your shit so hard, tsk…

unfortunately for suguru, you ended up like one of those who can see curses once subjected to cursed energy. you screamed gutterally when you saw the hideous creature attached to you. an amused smirk ran past his lips at the way you tried to shove it away. your friend was in utter confusion — what did she do? got on her knees and apologized on your behalf to ‘geto sama’ who promised to treat you. and forgive you of course. forcing her to leave.

you screeched curses and profanities at suguru, who was more than pleased to see you hit some sort of a standard he has for people he’s allowed to care about. his hand touched your crotch, right where the curse was supposed to be holding, unconcerned with your flustered resistance as he absorbed it.

“there we go, little girl.” he smiled, while you watched the curse turn into a ball. “this is the thing that was latched onto your friend. normal humans can’t see these. some of them can. i can.” you sat next to him and asked him a multitude of questions about this. you don’t remember the last time you had talked to someone this much & suguru doesn’t remember the last time he was so thoughtless. he was observing literally everything. your facial features, the way your brows scrunched when you emphasized over something, how you overcommunicated with your hands at times, rolled your eyes ever so often and shook your legs while you asked questions and waited eagerly for your answers. you blinked and your lashes looked so long and luscious, your hair suited you just well. he wonders how your soft looking skin would look all marked up with hickeys. he wonders how your voice would sound when you would moan or scream out his name. he wonders how his name would sound. how your lips would curve a certain way to pronounce ‘suguru’. oh he’s slowly losing his mind isn’t he?

he asked you to stay the night and join for dinner since it was quite late because of everything he just told you. you of course obliged and met his adopted daughters, miguel and the others who he called family. holy fuck they worshipped him. you knew that because of the way they respected you — treated you as their own because suguru said you are a guest today. his daughters were bratty but they knew their limits; seems like suguru raised them well.

after dinner, you joined him for a walk outside, pouting and flushed because he wasn’t wearing his gojo-gesa anymore. he almost looks so normal with that. “you aren’t an actual monk are you?” you raised a brow, grinning when he shook his head in denial. “no, i’m just here to collect cursed spirits because of my technique for a greater cause.” he hums; replying gently and looking deeply into your inquisitive eyes. you threw another question at him, seemingly obvious. “what greater cause?” you tilt your head like an indulged bird, and he caught that gesture. “want to know everything at once? hmm? little bird.” he smiled, looking relaxed and like a normal human being. “i’ll let you know with time.”

you had a peaceful and a sound sleep, why? because you were unaware how suguru watched you sleep in awe. just thinking of the ways he would watch you smile again, just thinking how he could make you feel special again? he can brain wash you into thinking humans are detestable, no?

the next morning, you were called for breakfast and had a great time, making promises to visit again while suguru bid you a farewell by kissing your knuckles. looking ever so charming. oh you will visit again, otherwise suguru geto would: either way… your red thread of fate was sealed.

suguru geto had a little crush…

or was he in love?

[signedkoko]

Hi hi!

How would Striker, Bee, and poly Stolitz (romantic) react to their chubby s/o being very physically strong and working out a lot?

No pressure to write this, and If you don't write for this many characters, you can choose who to focus on!

Sending lots of love your way 💚💛💙

-🐻

Beelzebub | Blitzo & Stolas | Striker [Romantic]

In which you are considerably physically stronger than them, and work out plenty to match.

Naturally, all of the sins are extremely strong in comparison to any overlord or sinner

Even so, you were surprisingly up there, without her magic Beelzebub couldn't begin to carry half the weight you did, and usually had to resort to her larger form- or just asking for your help

It's part of why she found you so attractive, it felt like in some way you could protect her more than anyone she knew

A lot of the people around her were already small, so it was also nice that you compared to her in size, though she found you to be much more curvaceous than her own lanky figure

" Ugh. I'd kill for hips like these, babe. "

She loves to feel you up and down and hold you close because god, you are just sooo comfortable

And when you flex your muscles it drives her crazy! She thinks you're the hottest person she's ever met

She also may be partially to blame for your chubbiness, because she never stops feeding you sweets, oops!

Both of these fools are physically WEAK, however strong they might be with guns or magic

They recall their first encounter with you was when someone was making fun of Stolas for dating an imp, and you totally rocked their shit with a punch straight to the face

Blitzo is already on you, asking so many questions about who you were, why you did that, making jokes

And Stolas has a faint blush because god, that was so attractive

They kept inviting you over until eventually you were closer than most- present on every date, called by the same sweet nicknames

Stolas likes to go with you when you work out, he especially loves to see you boxing

Being able to cheer you on against an opponent, or imagine you protecting him- oh it was just so exciting

Blitzo enjoys walking around hell with you because he gets to see everyone fuck off

Scary dog privileges

Stolas is always squishing your cheeks and hugging you tightly while speaking of all his fantasies involving you both

Blitzo is sneaking pictures of you after workouts for his office

Stronger? Than him? Sure thing

Striker first heard it at a place he frequented for drinks, that there was a guard for hire poster put up on their bulletin, someone new

When he hired you to see what'd happen, you sweeped the floor of some royals security team in minutes, and all he had to do was pull the trigger

Admittedly, he didn't feel the need to work with you more than that, as he enjoyed the hunt as much as the kill

But it was certainly fun seeing what someone else pulled

He’s straightforward about that, but also admits that he'd like to keep in touch

OBVIOUSLY so he can hire you on tougher missions, not because he thought you were interesting or fun

Suddenly, he's always popping up in the places you go, always offering you a drink, always getting tipsy enough to invite you to dance

Oh yeah, he certainly wants you

Fortunately for him, you're his lovely significant other only a few weeks later

He enjoys practising sparing with you, though he usually loses with just strength to strength, hsi wits certainly make him a tougher opponent

Striker find your resolve fiery, and something about you ignites something in him that leaves him wanting more

Author's Note - Actually love these guys sm... good crew you chose bear non I respect it!

Also I CATCH all the love you sent my way and EAT IT 🖤

[cochineal-leviat]

Say, Applin! (A snapshot before disaster)

I was going to practise lineless art, but the lineart came so well that I gave up and proceeded in this style. The picture is set during the Teal Mask with Kieran and Flore (MC) after they found the first signpost in Loyalty Plaza. Kieran showed Flore the orchard down the hill. Even though Flore had already explored it, they didn't mention it.

Flore asked Kieran if they could photograph him with his Applin. Kieran definitely thought Flore was weird when they requested him to do this silly pose. But he still did it - admiring Flore too much to deny them. Applin was very pleased.

(Flore kept the picture and stared at it often. Wondering where things went wrong when they went back home and what they could have done better. In the present time - after the DLC episode - Kieran is unaware they kept the photo and would die from mortification if he found out about it or ever saw it)

Also, the symbolism of Kieran holding up his hands to mimic Applin's eyes but also imitating the ogre's horns of Oni Mountain, which do not line up symbolising that he admires but does not understand Ogrepon, is entirely intentional and totally not something that happened accidentally as I was painting the background. I swear /lying/.

Also, the size being perfect for a phone background was an accident, too, but a happy one.

(Flore is Julliana and Florian combined, btw. A sort of Non-binary option of the player character)

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

could we have some mikey and baji hcs please:3

Like friendship ones for them? Here are some!

Even as adults they still occasionally call each other Micheal and Edward.

Speaking of that, whenever someone questions Mikey why he goes by Mikey and Baji overhears, he gets a knowing grin and will exchange glances with Mikey

Whenever they argue it's normally about fights (they both want to fight the same guy or group). They always make up with each other pretty quickly though.

Baji has never really wanted siblings because when growing up Mikey and the Sano's basically filled those roles for him.

Draken used to sometimes ask Baji for advice on the best way of dealing with Mikey (esp when Mikey's upset)

Mikey has pouted before because Baji has been paying more attention to a cat then him

They have a lot of silly little competitions with each other like who can get somewhere first or who can eat faster. 

Mikey steals Baji's food a lot, because of this Baji has gotten very fast at defending his food.

Baji is really great at climbing trees (he wanted to beat Mikey so badly at climbing that he started practising non stop.)

They tease each other a lot too, they're one of the only people who can get away with teasing each other.

One way that Baji teases Mikey is by saying Emma prefers to practice martial arts with him

One way Mikey teases Baji is by taking his hair band (Baji has no idea how Mikey does this)

Mikey has tried to ask Baji for a piggyback ride many times before but stopped after Baji dropped him one time. (Baji can never live this down).

They tease Emma regularly too, normally it's to do with them messing around while hanging out with her

And finally, they're very good at trusting each other, they always know they'll have each others backs

[celestialprincesse]

💅💞

Gaz and his hyper feminine girlfriend - that's it, that's the post.

He comes home to find her sat on the living room floor with a nail polish bottle and all sorts of other clippers and cuticle pushers and whatnot, which to him just look like miniaturised torture instruments.

She's constantly got a flawless mani-pedi, does it herself like twice a month even though he always offers to pay to take her so the nail salon. She likes doing her own though because she can change it whenever she likes. She's also like a chronic people pleaser who has a hard time admitting when she doesn't like something, and has come out of the nail salon more than once in floods of tears because the nail tech didn't do what she wanted and she couldn't say no.

She has a whole box of pretty polishes in an assortment of glossy pinks and pearly whites, even has some little extra things that she adds when she wants to spice things up, like glue on rhinestones or chrome powder.

Gaz learns to paint nails - orders a clear top coat online and practises on himself. Before he gets deployed she trims his nails and cuticles for him anyways so that they don't get in his way, broken etc, so he's got a vague gist of how it works.

He notices the way she struggles to paint her non dominant hand and offers out of the blue to do it for her. She accepts and he uses the pink coated brush with meticulous precision that only a soldier could even think of achieving.

He ends up joining her little mani pedi sessions, claiming that he's only doing it to protect his nails, keep them clean and short for totally innocent (not) reasons.

He also helps her fix her hair, seeing as he's got the advantage of his height and being able to see the back of her hair, he's always adjusting her little ribbons that she wears or making sure her ponytail isn't bumpy.

Also always makes sure to subtly pull down the hems of her skirts and dresses when they ride up and show off a little more than she'd be cool with. He's fine with her wearing whatever though, no matter how short or skimpy. He can fight.

This man is so utterly whipped for his girlfriend, he'll do anything to make her happy, even if that includes skincare and her freaky face masks that actually kind of sting, not that he'll admit it when she putters around in her Hello Kitty skincare headband without complaint.

[chericheribaby]

✯my entry for the @croptopjames fest✯

jegulus | 1.3k | non-canon/magical au

summary:

It was revenge, they say, for a prank they played on the other houses. So if Lupin and Pettigrew got their trousers turn into shorts, and Black got his shirt turn into a crop top, then that means Potter—

“Did you hear what happened?”

“They say it was revenge for a prank on the other houses,”

“Seems like a weird way to take revenge,”

“Someone said it was a new statement for the dress code,”

“Of course those Gryffindors would come up with something like that,”

“Mila from my transfiguration class says someone charmed their clothes to transform into something else whenever they wear it. You know, trousers turn into shorts and—”

“Oh, so that’s why Lupin and Pettigrew were wearing shorts! But why was Black’s shirt cropped? Not that I mind the view but—”

“Maybe the spell worked in pairs? If Lupin and Pettigrew got shorts, and Black’s shirt was cropped, then maybe Potter got—”

But Regulus had heard enough.

He should’ve known something was off the moment he crossed Lupin and Pettigrew earlier that day wearing shorts of all things, but if he was completely honest with himself, his mind was somewhere else and didn’t even think twice about it. But now, after eavesdropping on a conversation of some sixth years, maybe he shouldn’t have been so dismissive.

Entering the Great Hall for lunch, Regulus makes a b-line for his seat at the end of the Slytherin table and starts filling his plate absentmindedly, trying to ignore the sight of his brother at the Gryffindor table, talking animatedly to Lupin and Pettigrew, still in those ridiculous clothes. His mind inevitably going to the person who’s conveniently, not among them.

The thing is, Regulus isn’t capable of thinking of a piece of clothing that would look bad on James Potter.

He has seen the guy practising on the Quidditch pitch for Salazar’s sake. He has had a front row of what James’ body looks like when he leans on his broom, quaffle in hand, gaining some speed over his fellow teammates. He has seen how his forearms look when he grips the handle hard and how his thighs squeeze the rear of the broom when he’s doing a particularly hard move so he doesn’t fall.

So no, he doesn't think there’s a piece of clothing that would look bad on him, he could pull any look, especially a crop top, and that is the problem, isn’t it?

Regulus could feel his cheeks warming at the thought. Oh no this is bad, what he’s going to do if he sees him wearing that? He’s going to make a fool of himself and he can’t afford that. No, Regulus needs to get the fuck out of there if he wants to make it with his dignity intact.

Practically stuffing his face, Regulus tries to be as quick as possible, cursing in his mind at the idiot who hexed James Potter to be stuck with that particular piece of clothing, or lack thereof, more like.

“Let it not be said that we don’t do anything nice for you, Regulus,” a voice comes from behind and Regulus freezes and then groans.

Looking up from his plate, he eyes the pair who has taken the seats in front of him, both looking smug as fuck, “You guys are unbelievable,”

Evan hums in agreement, “Aren’t we just?”

“Wasn’t a compliment,”

Barty tuts disapprovingly, stealing a piece of food from Regulus' plate and popping it in his mouth, “Why Regulus, we thought you would be thrilled by this, can’t believe you’re this ungrateful.”

“Crop tops, really?” He huffs, stabbing whatever is left of his chicken, “And don’t get me started on the shorts.”

“Those were my idea,” Evan mentions.

Regulus doesn’t get it, “Why though?”

“We couldn’t be so obvious and only hex Potter, we had to cover our traces,” Barty says, turning his head slightly to look at the Gryffindor table. “Besides, the others look ridiculous, minus your brother of course, the bastard is fit as fuck.”

“Why though?” Regulus repeats, this time even more aggravated at the notion of Barty ogling his brother.

Evan gives him a pointed look, “You know why,”

Regulus drop his gaze, sniffing lightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

Barty smirks at him, “You will,”

There’s a sudden ruckus at the entrance. The voices grow loud and you could hear some whistles here and there but what actually catches Regulus’ eyes when he looks up, is the man at the doors.

Something inside him is pleased to notice he was right about James looking good in any piece of clothing, especially something that would show his really fit body. James is looking a little dishevelled, but that only makes him look even prettier. Still enthralled by the sight of James Potter wearing something this sinful, Regulus notices a little too late a voice shouting really close to him, efficiently taking him out of his rivery.

“Looking good, Potter!”

“Barty!” Regulus hisses in embarrassment as James looks in his direction. And oh, the way he smiles at Regulus as soon as their eyes connect.

Regulus is incapable of doing much else under the intensity of that look, he wants to run like he had planned before. He wants to hide, not only from James but from the way he feels when he’s near. Pathetic as it is, the only thing Regulus is capable of doing is following James as he makes his way to the Slytherin table.

Regulus blinks hard at that. Wait, Slytherin table?

Before Regulus can process that, James is already standing right in front of him.

“Rosier, Crouch,” he greets them, still not taking his eyes off Regulus.

“Potter,” Barty nods in his direction. “Nice shirt, does it come in men’s?”

James grin turns sharp, “You don’t want me to answer that, Crouch,”

“Okay, time to go, have a great one!” Evan practically drags Barty aways as the latter cackles like a madman all the way out of the Great Hall.

When his laugh fades, James is still in front of Regulus and Regulus is purposefully looking at anything but his face, so his gaze inevitably fall at the only thing at his eye-level, James’ stomach.

There are beads of sweet running down over that beautiful golden skin and all Regulus wants, is to touch it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. Wondering how it would feel under his teeth.

James clears his throat to catch Regulus' attention. Unnecessary, since he hasn’t lost it the moment he entered the Great Hall.

“So, Regulus,” he starts.

“Yes?” He can see the trail of hair disappearing under the navy trousers. He’s having a hard time not to reach out and touch it.

He’s being so brave about this whole thing, someone should notified his mind-healer.

A beat of silence and then a hand, reaching for his chin and turning his face up, callous fingers against his soft skin. The sight of James’ playful smile makes something inside him melt.

“My eyes are up here, love.”

His cheeks get warmer out of the embarrassment of being caught. Not that he was subtle in the least but still, embarrassing.

James doesn’t seem to mind in the least.

“You’re blushing,” he notices.

Regulus' face is practically red at this point.

“Shut up,” he grumbles and James chuckles.

“No, no, I like it,” he says, voice soft. “Red looks good on you,” and then he proceed to fucking caressing his cheek.

It’s settled then, Regulus is living inside a romantic novel where making a fool out of yourself in front of someone you fancy is necessary and crop tops are a thing.

“What do you want?”

“Just wanting to say hello,” James says, eyes softening. “Hello,”

“Hi,” Regulus says, like an idiot.

“Fancy a Quidditch game with me?”

Regulus frowns. “Right now?”

“Why not?”

“You’re not wearing the proper gear,”

James smirks, “I think I will manage,”

This is a bad idea, a terrible one and Regulus knows it, everyone knows it and yet— “Lead the way then,”

James lets his hand drop from his face, and it takes all of Regulus not to chase the touch, but the feeling of loss is quickly replaced with excitement when he sees James holding his hand up for Regulus to take.

Regulus does, of course he does.

Hand in hand, they make it to the Quidditch pitch.

Together.

[purinfelix]

possibly, maybe i'm falling for you [ pt.1 ]- joao felix

summary: when you're asked to train the new barista at work, you don't think much of it until you realise something about him is winning over customers - and it isn't just his coffee. w/c: 1.3k

a/n: this was supposed to be a cute fluffy fic but i'm physically incapable of not writing (one sided) enemies to lovers for some reason

The tiny bell atop the cafe door rang softly, alerting you to the entrance of a customer. Considering that you weren't meant to open for another twenty minutes, you instinctively recited your practised phrases without even bothering to look up from the counter you were cleaning.

"Sorry, but we aren't open yet! You're free to come back in half an hour though, and we'll be happy to serve you then."

"Oh, sorry, am I at the wrong place?"

Well, that was definitely a new response - polite mutters of embarrassment, groans of annoyance and even fits of rage you were used to after almost two years of working here, but this was new. Looking up slowly from your counter you locked eyes with a tall, almost ridiculously handsome young man. His brows were furrowed in confusion but his mouth sat open in a half-smile, though out of embarrassment or amusement, you weren't sure yet.

"Uhm, sorry?" you said.

"I was told to come in half an hour before my first shift to get trained, am I at the wrong place or something?"

Shit.

So this was the new barista your manager had mentioned to you in passing the last time you had worked a shift. She had asked you to be the one to train him since you'd be the most experienced employee working that morning and even offered to pay you more than normal for it. "Though I'm sure once you get a look at him, you'll forget about the money," her assured words rang through your head, only now your feeling of confusion felt long gone. You had to give it to her, he really was good looking, though that meant little if he couldn't do his job correctly.

"Oh, right! You're ..." you started, trying to jog your memory for his name.

"Joao Felix," you'd be lying if you said you weren't endeared by how quickly he seemed to pick up on your words, "though you can just call me Joao."

"Right, Joao c'mon behind the counter and I can show you where to put your stuff."

He does as you say almost instantly, and as you take him through the basics - uniform requirements, where ingredients are, how to talk with customers - you're impressed by how quickly he picks things up. What you're less impressed by though, is the air of naivety he holds about it all. Doing things perfectly the first time around is one thing, pretending you don't know you're doing it is completely another.

"Now, this is the coffee machine which I honestly think you'll be more adept with than me," you laugh, and he does the same though much shyer, almost as if he's weary of accidentally insulting you.

"Well, I mean I've been taught how to but I'm not really a professional or anything. I'm sure you can't be worse than me."

"I mainly stay around taking orders and preparing non-coffee drinks. Milkshakes and smoothies are my forte, but this bad boy," you explain as you tap the top of the coffee machine awkwardly, "we don't get along too well."

He laughs again, louder and more sure this time and you instinctively smile. "Well, I hope you and I get along better then."

"Yeah," you say, a bit taken aback by how forward he is. "Anyways, that's pretty much everything I can think of, we'll be starting soon so if there's anything you have questions about let me know."

The rest of the morning shift proved easier than you had expected, though a new concern was raised once you realised most of this was due to Joao's uncanny abilities. Not only did he make amazing coffee, but he did it incredibly efficiently - wiping down as he went, communicating on orders and doing almost anything you told him. A small part of you was impressed, but more than anything you felt an immature irritation brewing within you at the fact that, despite it being his first day, he had racked up more tips than you had gotten all week. It confused you - surely his coffee wasn't that good.

"Will that be all today Miss?" you said to an older customer who was coming up to pay.

"Yes, but before I pay," she began, and your eyes widened as she pulled out a twenty-dollar note, "would you give this to that handsome young man over there?"

You were taken aback as you took the note from her, "him?" You gestured to Joao, who was busy frothing milk, though the two of you were the only ones working you had to be sure.

"Yes, his coffee was the best I've had in a while, and," she leaned in, "that face, why I'd pay double the price just to get a look at it!"

You blinked, bewildered, "I'll pass on your tip, thank you ma'am."

Of course. Why hadn't you realised it before? Sure Joao worked well, but that wasn't what had been helping him rack up tips - no, it was that godforsaken face.

"Come again soon ma'am!" you heard him call out as the woman left the cafe, but only you saw the shy smile spreading across her face through the window. Groaning softly you scrunched the note up in your hand as you walked over to him.

"Here, she left this for you," you said, your voice coming out sterner than you had meant it as you pushed the crumpled note to his chest.

"That lady?" God, you hated how clueless he could sound sometimes.

"Yes, she said to give it to you specifically - never mind that I was the one who took her order, wiped down her table, served her."

"Oh, well that's nice of her still, you can put it in the jar and we'll split it later." Somehow this selflessness only annoyed you further.

"Don't be an idiot, it's yours, plus I'm clocking off anyways."

You stormed off, pulling your apron over your head hurriedly, eager to get out of there. It was just your luck that a newbie comes into the cafe you'd been slaving away at for years, and almost immediately outperforms you. That alone was frustrating enough but the fact that he had the nerve to act so kind about it just felt like salt in your underpaid wound. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you emerged from the staff room with a huff. As you turned to punch out from your shift you saw Joao out of the corner of your eye tidying up the counter, straightening topping jars.

"You leaving?"

"Duh," you sighed, motioning to the clock, "my shift finished five minutes ago."

"Oh, well thanks for training me today." You felt your heart twist - despite how selfish it was a small part of you wished he would just stop being so nice to you. That way it might make it easier to dislike him.

"It's nothing, I mean it's my job."

"Yeah but still, I think you did a pretty good job," he smiled shyly.

"Alright," you sigh, beelining for the door - you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up this tantrum, and you were eager to get out of here before you said something too immature for you to mean it.

"See you next time?" The hope in his voice stopped you as you opened the door, the tinkling bell punctuating his words - half a sentence, half a question.

"Yeah sure, and hey just a tip," you turn to him, tone cold, "spend less time flirting with customers and more time actually doing your job."

You whipped your head around, regret filling in you almost as soon as the words left your mouth. Did you have any idea why on earth you would say something like that? No. Were you fully aware that what you just said might risk your job if Joao reported it to someone? Yes. Were you going to turn around and apologise to him though? Absolutely not, but the further you stormed away from the cafe the more you thought about the idea - because maybe then you wouldn't be so filled with regret as you did.

[senualothbrok]

Remembrance

Summary: In Waterdeep, Tav journeys through grief and loss, with Gale by her side.

(Featuring fighter and Harper Tav, Professor Dekarios, and Jaheira.)

Word count: 4.9k

AO3 link

Disclaimers: Non-18+. Angst (with resolution). Grief/bereavement.

A/N: This fic is dedicated to @tee-dohrnii, who wanted to read about Gale comforting a Tav who has experienced grief and loss. I hope that anyone who resonates with this journey finds comfort, hope and healing through this fic.

Thank you again to @inglorionamy-ammy for being a fantastic beta-reader.

**********

She would roll her eyes. That was Charis’ usual response, when you were halfway through a diatribe about your uncle’s ineptitude as a parent, or the way the roads were more perilous than they used to be, or how she had always been stubborn to a fault.

But the last time you saw her, Charis had thrown her head back and said instead, “You always do this.”

“Do what?” you retorted, irritated by her interruption.

Her bright eyes crinkled slightly, her voice softening.

“You forget. You look back at something, and you just see one part of it. You forget the rest of it. You forget to remember.”

You had stared at her, backfooted by her sudden seriousness. Her unexpected insight embarrassed you. You waved her away.

But this is what you remember now.

****

“You’ll be pleased to know that all is in order for the funeral, my Lady. There’s only one matter left, on which we’d be grateful for your direction.”

You stare at the cleric. There is a languid deliberation, a cloying softness, in his words and movements, common to all the clerics of Lathander in this temple. It irks you, how they speak as though life were a slumbering companion to tiptoe around, rather than a crushing flood leaving nothing but rubble in its wake.

Beside you, Gale clasps your hand. Your other hand is a balled fist. You gaze at the blanching of your knuckles.

“What do you need from me?” you hear yourself say.

The cleric hums as he thumbs through a crusty tome, his gnarled fingers scratching at the pages. With a practised smile, he holds the words out to you.

“We would like you to choose a reading on Charis’ behalf, to commence and conclude the ceremony. There are five potential passages.” He indicates each one painstakingly. “Please let us know which one your sister would have preferred.”

You stare blankly at the writing as it swirls and congeals into a mass of meaningless blots. You stare and stare, until you can stare no longer, until you are no longer sure what you are staring at. Gale’s hold on your hand tightens.

“Brother Walter,” he says. “Perhaps you can leave the passages with us, so that Tav can have a moment to consider them?”

The cleric nods, an impression of patience, understanding. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

He lays the tome on the table between you and rises. As you watch his stooped and receding back, a bolt of bile surges within you.

“Shouldn’t you know?”

Brother Walter stops, glancing back. “Pardon?”

You stand. Haltingly, Gale follows suit. His fingers remain intertwined in yours, as if he is afraid to let you go.

“Charis came here every week,” you say. “For daily prayers, services, all the rest of it. She believed,” you jerk your hands around you, “in all of this. She spent time here with you all. She thought it was something worth doing.” 

Brother Walter’s pale eyes widen. You can tell he is unaccustomed to scathing displays of disgust. You imagine him shuffling about the temple placidly, padding out his existence with pointless prayers to his indifferent god. All at once, this is the most offensive, despicable thing you have ever imagined.

“She was one of your faithful. You knew her. Shouldn’t you know what nonsense she would prefer?”

Brother Walter looks down. Gale clears his throat. The building awkwardness only adds fuel to your fury.

“My Lady-”

“In fact, shouldn’t the Morninglord know?” you spit out. “He loves his faithful, right? Is that why he claimed Charis when she was barely twenty five, at the prime of her life? She must have been incredibly highly favoured by the Dawnbringer. What a blessing.”

Brother Walter’s thin lips twitch. You welcome his indignation, his sanctimonious chiding. You are practically begging for it. You want to fight, to rage, to scream. You want to drown this temple in the sea of your grief.

But he says nothing. Instead, Gale drifts into your vision. His eyes quiver like soft earth, his frown stilling you for a moment. Your hand goes limp in his.

“My love,” he whispers.

Your breath spasms. You are a glacier, shattering against the shore.

“I don’t have a godsdamned clue what passage Charis would have wanted,” you choke. “Charis should be here. Not me.”

Gale turns towards Brother Walter. You do not know what passes between them, and you do not care. When he shuts the door behind him, you let Gale take you in his arms. With the steel of your rage, the bleeding void that gapes, you cannot reciprocate the tenderness of Gale’s embrace. But it does not deter him. He holds you for a long time.

“Aren’t you going to tell me off?” you ask eventually.

He draws back to look at you, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. When his skin grazes yours, you wonder whether he can feel the black ice beneath.

“Whatever for?”

“Disrespect and discourtesy. Blasphemy.”

His brow steeples, his lips parting in surprise. “No, Tav. No.”

He takes your hands and kisses them, so firmly and yet so gently. You tremble at his affection, the warmth of his touch.

“I think vitriolic anger is an appropriate response to this injustice.” The lines on his forehead are deep and dark. “This tragedy.”

Everything within you twists, like the tendrils of a tornado, tearing you apart. You try to speak, to maintain composure, but all you can do is clench and unclench your fists. He notices.

He is tentative at first. Then his words tumble out swiftly, lightly, almost playful. Like Charis’ springing feet when you practised swords together. Her leaping sprint when she stole the apples that were halfway to your mouth.

“Do you want me to conjure an effigy for you to batter?” he offers. “A dummy for you to rip apart? Should I find some barrels to fireball? Perhaps some statues for you to shatter in reckless abandon?”

Months ago, you and Charis had told Gale about your favourite childhood pastime, after your father had left you in the joyless care of your uncle. Over one of Gale’s sumptuous home-cooked meals, you had laughingly extolled the virtues and cathartic benefits of breaking everything you could get your hands on. You and Charis had offered to give Gale a detailed demonstration, but he had respectfully declined.

You are cut through by the joy of this memory, and of Gale’s love in sharing it. They are a sunbeam, searing through your empty heart. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury yourself inside him.

“Charis would approve of anything you choose,” he tells you, when you start to weep.

***

“So I told her, in no uncertain terms, that the next time she sends a simulacrum to one of our Board meetings, I will not hesitate to destroy it. That got her attention.”

As Poppy bobs her head in pride, you watch her tight curls bounce like coiled springs. Beside her, Kriv’s emerald scales shine as he applauds Poppy’s bravery. Gale is chuckling, cradling your hand in his lap. You mimic a smile.

Around you, there is the echoing of clattering mugs and clinking glasses. Hollow voices bleed into trailing laughter. The glow of candlelight warms your companions’ eyes and skin, but does not touch you. You have the strange feeling of being submerged in a glass box, watching and listening, hearing but not understanding. You feel disembodied.

You have sat at this table many times. When you moved to Waterdeep with Gale, you were keen to visit the Yawning Portal, the legendary tavern where Gale had rescued an unwitting crowd from violence with the power of ale, wit and generosity.  You were overjoyed when Gale introduced you to his old friend Kriv, the dragonborn bard who narrowly escaped a stabbing on the night of Gale’s heroics. You made fast friends with Poppy, too - Gale’s colleague at Blackstaff Academy, a pyromancer in specialism as well as temperament.

And when, a few months after the wedding, Charis had moved to Waterdeep, no trip to the Yawning Portal was complete without her. It was only natural that Charis should move to be near you. Before you awoke on the nautiloid, you had worked as mercenaries together, watching each others’ backs as you had since you were children. That did not need to change, just because you were married now, and had taken up with the Harpers. Charis settled in quickly, as she always did, renting modest lodgings near your tower, surprising you by joining the City Watch as a Constable. Your baby sister, finally putting down roots beside yours. You could not imagine life without her.

You stare at the empty space beside you.

You suddenly realise that your companions have fallen silent. You look up to three pairs of eyes, brown and green and blue, expectant and concerned as they wait for your answer. You look back blankly. You did not hear the question.

“Kriv was wondering whether we can still expect Jaheira next month, my love.” Gale squeezes your hand, his smile flickering. “Apparently, he’s quite taken by her.”

Kriv sighs loudly. “There's no use hiding it. That woman’s sunken her talons into my big black heart. If I had a moment alone with her, I could-”

Poppy chortles. “You spoke to her for all of ten minutes last time, Kriv. And you were more than a little tipsy.”

“It's called love at first sight, Popsicle. The stuff of odes, sonnets and ballads.” He waves dismissively. “I thought wizards were supposed to be wise.”

Poppy arches an eyebrow. “We are.”

You are nodding, smiling. You are trying.

“Jaheira's coming next month,” you manage.

You expect Gale to come in with a quip, but he does not. As Kriv and Poppy resume their bickering, Gale dips towards you. There is no hiding from his searching gaze.

“Do you want to go home, Tav?” His face is dark with worry again, a familiar sight which shames you.

After the funeral, you promised yourself that you would keep going. You would put on a brave face, as you and Charis had always done. For so long, you only had each other. You had to be strong for her, and she for you. As fighters, you were trained to soldier on through the most harrowing of battles. You would go on as normal. You had to.

So you accept every social invitation at Blackstaff, every gathering with Morena and Tara. You show up to every shift, attend meetings with Harpers around Faerun. You try to continue as though nothing has changed.

You can tell this troubles Gale. When he encourages you to take some time out, you reassure him this is not what you need. You need to keep going. To keep doing. You shrug off his tender, knowing gaze whenever he asks if you are alright. You cannot explain that you will never be alright again. This is what life is like now, without her.

“I'm fine, Gale.” Your voice is harder than you intend. “Everything's fine.”

A frown creases his brow. You avert your eyes, leaning forward to plant a long kiss on his cheek. You let go of his hand as you rise, turning towards your friends.

In the brightest voice you can muster, you ask, “Does anyone want another round?”

***

You are drifting towards the bar when you see her at the corner of the tavern. Ash blonde hair, shaved on one side and cut harshly at the chin. A deceptively willowy frame, concealing the strength of mountains. A soft, round face with deep set, almond eyes. She turns away, back facing you, nestled within the cackling group around her.

Time stops. The glass box splinters, and you are raked through by piercing ice. You leap towards the vision of your sister - flesh and blood, alive and well, here with you, and not crushed beneath the rubble of a disintegrated orphanage.

You knew it. It could not have been Charis lying on that pallet, grey and stiff as a torn doll. That was not the Charis you had wrestled with in the grass, who spiked your drinks with chilli and laughed so loudly that your ears rang with her delight. The Charis who sang in her sleep, who sharpened your blades as you stitched up her wounds. A desperate, frenzied relief possesses you.

An elderly man yowls as you shove him aside. A coiffured youth curses as you knock half of his ale onto the floor. You ignore the heads that turn at the commotion. You bound towards her, heaving wildly as you clutch her shoulder.

“Charis,” you cry.

She spins around to face you. Her eyes are wide with confusion, the blue of a cloudless sky, not the green of spring leaves. She is all straight lines and angles, harsh and pinched. Her skin is pale, unadorned by the freckles which mirror your own. On her jarringly narrow forehead rests a choppy fringe of an unfamiliar fashion.

You are winded. You stand speechless, tears erupting from you like guttering flames. The woman who is not Charis shifts away. The burly man next to her steps forward.

“Is there a problem here?”

You cannot move, cannot think. You have lost her. You are condemned to lose her again and again. A torment, an agony of remembrance. You cannot bear it. Your legs buckle beneath you.

He catches you. You know it is Gale before you see him. His body is warm and solid around yours, his arms steadfast and sure as they embrace you. The fragrance of sandalwood and soap envelopes you. He cups your cheek, sealing your forehead with kisses.

“I’m here, Tav,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

You are shaking. His body reverberates with your grief. You wonder if it is a shield straining to crack.

“Charis… She was…I thought…”

“I know.” His gentle eyes glisten as he holds you. “And I’m so, so sorry that it wasn’t her.”

All at once, you are sobbing. Cocooned against his chest, you begin to register the swirling of footsteps around you, bent on resuming the rhythm of the bustling tavern. You feel sharp jerks of Gale’s head, hear his protective warnings to irritated passersby. You know Gale would fight any one of them if they insulted or threatened you. You cannot allow that to happen. There can be no more death, no more tragedy. You try to steady the spasms of your breaths, to regain control of your limbs. Gale waits. He does not let you go.

When you stumble to your feet, Gale stands beside you. He brushes a tear from your cheek, weaving his fingers through yours.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

***

Every dawn is a punishment. A mockery by the Morninglord.

You draw your curtains, wrap yourself in the darkness of your bedsheets. You drink in sleep like an elixir, a balm that helps you forget. A spell that maintains the illusion.

You dream of her. In your dreams, she is alive, a babe and a child and a woman all at once. Barefoot and squealing as you chased her through the summer fields. Smug and smirking as she found your hidden stash of erotica. Feverish and frail as you fed her broth in bed. Grinning and victorious as you yielded to her wooden sword.

You dream of the thorns as well as the roses. Her incandescent, roaring rage. Her vile obscenities. Her stubbornness that drove you to madness. The petty squabbles you grew out of, and the meaningless quarrels you did not. You long for them now, more than ever. What you would not give to feel her seething anger, the proof of life in blood that boils.

Your dreams are a canopy, suspending you in time. Death cannot reach you there. It is perfect, and every time you wake, the anguish of truth crushes you so completely you do not think you will ever breathe again. You crumble beneath the weight of it.

You cannot keep going. Everything has changed.

***

He is curled against your back, close as a second skin. His arm drapes around you, his hand resting against your chest. You can smell the salt of sea air on Gale’s teaching robes, the bittersweet scent of his musk. It has become a routine, for Gale to bound up the stairs on return home from his lectures, sliding silently into the bed behind you, as though he never left your side.

“Jaheira sent word.” His breath caresses the shell of your ear. “She’s arriving a bit earlier than originally planned. She would like to spend that time with you.”

You say nothing. You can sense his movement. He is trying to catch a glimpse of your face, to parse the signals of your turmoil. You know you should feel gratitude at his love and patience, guilt at your withdrawal, your failure as a wife, friend, and Harper. But all you feel is a gaping chasm where Charis used to be.

“Tav.” His voice is impossibly soft. “I know it’s agony, unimaginable agony.” His hand reaches for yours. “But you’re not alone. I’m here for you, all of our friends are here for you, and we love you. I love you.”

For a long time, you cannot speak. You are collapsing into yourself, drowning in memories. When you answer, your voice is strangled and hoarse. The sound of decay.

“She was my mirror.”

Gale is quiet for a while. A tear rolls down your cheek, into the space between your intertwined fingers, braced against your heart.

“What do you mean, my love?”

You close your eyes. It hurts to speak of her. Every word is an admission of her absence, an ache that swallows you whole.

“She told me when I had food on my face,” you begin. “I wiped the mud off hers. She showed me when I was being an asshole. I made her keep her promises. I took care of her, and she kept me going. She told me I was her hero. I never got to tell her she was mine.”

You are haunted by all the things you should have said and done, broken links in the chain of possibilities. You had always thought there would be time. Why had you taken it for granted, as though every moment with her was infinite? You should have cherished them like pearls of dew in a desert. Now, you have nothing left.

“She’s gone, Gale. Who am I without her?”

You cannot see his face, but you can feel the resolve in his frame. He holds you against him, as though he can shield you from the storm.

“You’re who you’ve always been. Kind, brave, passionate. The warrior who saved the world. A soul that puts the stars to shame. The woman I love.”

He speaks with such certainty. You do not think you will ever be sure of anything again.

“I don't know how to be, without her.”

You can feel his heartbeat against your back. Its rhythm is constant and true.

“She'll always be a part of you, Tav. You carry her within you. Nothing can take that away.”

Something wrenches inside you. You are overcome by all of your doubts, all the questions that strip you bare. You cannot hold them back any longer.

“I should have insisted,” you choke. “When we asked her to move in with us, I shouldn’t have taken no for an answer. I could have kept a closer eye on her, then. I could have vetted her last mission with my contacts. They would have known that orphanage was falling apart. I could have warned her, stopped her, saved her…”

Gale is shaking his head, first slowly, then more and more insistently. His denial wracks your entire body, but you do not stop.

“My whole life, I’ve tried to protect her. To take the blows meant for her. She had so many years ahead of her. I should be dead, not her.”

Gale flinches. His hands are urgent, almost forceful, as he turns your body to face him.

“That’s not true. Please don't say that.”

You wince as he cups your tear-streaked cheeks, holding your gaze with brown fire. His chest heaves, and you feel his distress like a dagger, twisting with the knowledge that you are the source of his pain.

“Charis loved you fiercely. Furiously. She wanted nothing but the best for you. She wouldn’t want this for you. For you to be torn apart by guilt and regret over a tragedy no one could have prevented. To think it was in any way, shape or form your fault.”

His voice trembles, his eyes a stormy sea.

“No, Tav. She would want you to live. She wanted you to be happy.”

You want to cling to the thought, to the hope that Charis had. Her passion for life, her love for you. But sorrow comes like an avalanche, and you are buried in it. You are gasping, keening, weeping into his chest. You are a mangled mass of memories that hurts but never heals.

But he remains.

“There’s nothing you could have done to change things,” he whispers. “You’ve done nothing wrong. None of this is your fault.”

He presses you so tightly against him, you feel his breaths as your own. He kisses the crown of your head over and over again, his very own warding spell.

“I love you,” he says. “I'm here.”

***

You are standing in the kitchen, watching Gale stirring a simmering pot of Hundur sauce. He bobs his head enthusiastically as he relays the latest news from Kriv and Poppy. A strand of grey hair falls over his eyes, and you lean forward to tuck it away. He kisses your palm as you draw back.

You had stayed home when Gale ventured to the Yawning Portal last night. You had intended to go through some reports from recent Harper patrols, but you did not get far. Instead, you sat on the balcony with a glass of wine, staring at the stars. Thinking but not thinking. Feeling but not feeling.

When Gale returned much earlier than usual, you did not chide him. It had been an effort to convince him to go in the first place, to enjoy the company of his friends without fretting after you. You could still see the concern in his eyes when he joined you on the balcony, peppering your face with tiny kisses, as though he had not seen you for years.

You had kissed him properly for the first time in weeks, open mouthed and inviting. You could feel his yearning, raw and swollen, a surging flame dampened by worry. You reassured him that it was what you wanted, you were ready, it was alright. You had made love, wreathed in the haze of the stars - desperate and starving, throbbing with longing. And afterwards, you wept. You were relieved, so relieved, that you could still feel desire. That you were still capable of showing him your love. That having Gale inside you was still the closest you had ever come to feeling complete.

“I don’t have the heart to tell Kriv to cut his losses with Jaheira,” Gale goes on. “Though my esteemed colleague probably has that task well in hand. Better to leave such things to the experts.”

You chuckle. “Kriv doesn’t listen to Poppy though.”

“No.” Gale titters. “He doesn’t. I’m not sure how much he knows about Khalid, either.”

Gale’s brow flickers as he searches the kitchen counter. Instinctively, you pass him the pepper.

“He’s a bard,” you point out. “He’s read all the legends. And he’s done a ton of special research on Jaheira.”

“Ah.” Gale hums, his fingers a flurry of seasoning. “Then he must be an optimist as well as a hopeless romantic. To hear Jaheira speak of Khalid… She’s still married to him in spirit, and I think she always will be. New love can’t blossom in a field already full.”

You are quiet for a moment. Gale bustles around, squinting and frowning as he tastes his creation. You cannot help but smile at the intensity of his focus, his pride in everyday miracles.

“Khalid was a good man,” you say. “Compassionate and kind.”

You step forward, pressing yourself against Gale’s back, wrapping your arms around him. A sigh escapes him, a huff of busy contentment.

“He loved her,” you continue. “I think he would want her to be happy.”

Gale stops stirring. Slowly, he turns to face you. His smile is sunlight on thawing snow. He presses his forehead against yours, his arms circling your waist.

“I think he would, too.”

***

You are grizzling and grinning as you pour Gale’s sauce into jars, ready to be stored in the larder. The sauce was a mere moment away from being ruined, Gale mock-complains, because you drove him to distraction yet again. Thank the gods, he declares, for his discipline and self-control.

You are developing an appetite, in more ways than one. You suspect that the flush on Gale’s cheeks is not just from the heat of the hearth. You are dividing up the last of the sauce as briskly as you can when an afterthought comes to you.

“We need to keep a few jars aside for when Charis comes,” you exclaim. “She loves this stuff. She asked if she could take some away with her the last time she-”

Your throat closes. You cannot breathe. There is a roiling inside you as the bridges you have started to rebuild crumble to dust. You are dust and ruins, and she is gone. Never again will she savour your food or drink, or sit with you and Gale trading jests and barbs. Never again will you ruffle her hair and cuddle her close, a grown woman, formidable and fearless, but still your baby sister. Always your baby sister.

You break.

In an instant, Gale is by your side. As you fall apart, he gathers up the pieces, returning them gently to the palm of your hand. You look at him through black waves and splintered glass. His brow is steepled with sorrow, but he shines with the hope of love.

He cradles your head against his heart.

“It’s alright,” he says. “We’ll enjoy it for her.”

 ****

You are sitting together on the balcony. Within the coral sky, purple bruises turn to gold, as the sun takes its weary dive into the sea. Three boxes of Charis’ belongings rest at your feet, waiting and expectant.

It is difficult at first. Each item aches more than the last. The scent of vanilla and smoke clings to all of Charis’ clothes, assailing you with a longing that has no equal. There are things you never knew Charis kept, like the one-eyed teddy you found for her when you were ten, and the book of lewd drawings you doodled together when your uncle sent you to bed. There is the silver locket you gave her on her twentieth birthday, polished and still kept in its plush box - “too expensive to wear”, Charis used to say -and the green ribbon you used to wear in your hair, when it was longer and less unruly. 

Gale listens as you unravel the mystery of every priceless treasure. You are sobbing one moment, chortling the next, and then you sit in silence, holding one of Charis’ scarves against your face, as though you are embracing her one last time.

“It was an honour to have known her,” Gale says after a while.

You realise that he, too, is crying. You plant feather-soft kisses beneath his eyes, and when your lips meet, you can taste the tears on his tongue. His arm drapes around your waist as you lean your head on his shoulder, watching the seagulls soaring overhead. Surrounded by these last traces of her, there is pain, but there is also a kind of peace.

“For a while, it hurt to remember,” you start. “It tore me apart. I wanted so badly to forget. I wanted to forget everything.”

An image of Charis blazes in your mind. You let yourself linger on every line and curve of it. Her toothy grin. The messy dance of freckles across her nose. The white down around her hairline. A face like no other.

“Now, I want to remember. I don't want to forget anything. I want to remember it all.”

Your gaze drifts over each and every wonder that Charis cherished, the remnants of a life well-lived. A life containing multitudes, far more than three boxes of scattered possessions, more than a clumsy jumble of tales.

“So many moments in a life. So many memories.” You look down at your balled fists. “I’m losing them already. I don't want to forget.”

As your voice catches, Gale’s fingers find yours. Your anchor, constant through the storm.

“Then I'll help you remember.”

You frown at him, questioning.

“Tell me.” He smiles, his eyes warm as sun-kissed oak. “Tell me everything.”

So you do. You start at the beginning. With your hand in his, you leap through the chapters of your history, the thread of Charis’ life woven into yours like a braid. As the cloak of night falls over you, then dissolves to the birth of dawn, you laugh and cry and rage. You remember your sister in all her glory, the rough and the smooth, every feat and foible. Every memory you share is a stitch in your broken heart. Gale listens, eyes streaming, lips curling, chuckling and seething, as though he feels every memory as vividly as his own.

And when you gaze into the sunrise, you know there is no ending. In Gale’s embrace, you burn with a love stronger than death.

“I won't forget,” you promise her. “I won't forget to remember.”

*****

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