#there's just no je ne sais quoi.......no flair...........

[ravenkings]

the fact that jude law captain hook looks like this.....................jason isaacs girlies #staywinning 😘😘😘

[kiwriteswords]

Finer Things [Aaron Hotchner x High-Maintenance!Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 6k|| AN: Here we are! This took a little longer than expected, but I think I like how this one turned out!

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, canon-typical themes, high-maintenance reader, female reader, progression of relationship, simp!Hotch, feminine reader, Jack exists but is only briefly mentioned, BAU reader, materialistic reader, Garcia the helpful friend, flirty banter, mild language

Summary: You're a stylish...arguably high-maintenance BAU agent who unexpectedly falls for your straightforward and grounded partner, Aaron Hotchner. As you both tackle cases and life’s surprises, you learn to blend your love for the finer things with his practical approach, discovering a deep and enduring connection.

Hotch’s office door clicked softly as you knocked, barely audible over the hum of the precinct around you. The frame filled almost instantly with your form—pristine as always, from your flawlessly styled hair down to the heels that added an effortless grace to your every step.

“Got a minute?” you asked, your voice as smooth and composed as the latte you held in one hand, the steam still curling lazily up from the cup.

Hotch stepped aside, allowing you entrance. “Of course,” he said, though he knew his afternoon was already crammed with meetings and reports. For you, though, he made time—something the rest of the team had noticed and often teased him about. But what could he say? Aaron Hotchner, stoic and steadfast, had indeed developed a soft spot for you.

As you settled into the chair across from his desk, Hotch couldn’t help but admire the meticulous way you organized your space on the table. Your designer bag was set precisely to the right, not a strap out of place. He often wondered how someone so particular could thrive in the chaotic unpredictability of the BAU.

“So, what did you think of the profile?” you began, breaking into his thoughts. Your eyes were bright, lively—a stark contrast to his own, which often carried the weight of the job.

“It’s thorough. You have a knack for getting into the unsub’s head,” Hotch replied, his voice firm yet carrying a hint of warmth reserved mostly for you.

Your smile widened, pleased. “I do try,” you quipped, stirring your latte leisurely. “But I think it could use a bit more… je ne sais quoi, don’t you think?”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And what would you suggest?”

“Well,” you leaned forward, the light catching your earrings just so. “If I were him, I’d be more careful about where I left my clues. Too sloppy. Maybe he needs a lesson in organization from me.”

Hotch chuckled, the sound more natural than he intended. “I think he’d be horrified at the idea.”

“Good,” you grinned, sitting back with satisfaction. “Then he’d know how I feel about unorganized data.”

Moving to the round table, the rest of the team began to filter into the office for the briefing, and Morgan threw a teasing glance your way. “Looks like Hotch is getting his daily dose of high maintenance,” he commented, a playful smirk on his face.

Prentiss elbowed him lightly, smiling in your direction. “Leave them alone. If anyone can get Hotch to lighten up, it’s her.”

Hotch cleared his throat, signaling the start of the briefing, but he couldn’t deny the truth in their observations. You brought a lightness to his often too-heavy life, a splash of color to the monochrome routine.

As the meeting progressed, your contributions were not just insightful but infused with a vibrancy that lifted the somber mood typical of these sessions. Each time you spoke, Hotch found his attention drawn not just to your words but to the way you expressed them—with a confidence and a flair that was uniquely yours. When you directed a comment towards him, accompanied by a playful raise of your eyebrows, there was an underlying challenge there, as if you were coaxing him out from behind his well-constructed barriers.

Your laughter, light and unguarded, filled the room at one point when you poked fun at the unsub’s choice of hideouts, suggesting even you could find a better hiding place during your shopping trips. The team chuckled, and even Hotch’s lips twitched into a smile—your cheer infectious, your presence undeniably compelling.

As the team began to disperse, you lingered over your notes, your meticulous nature evident as you aligned your papers and recapped your pens with a precision that spoke of a deeper need for order—a trait Hotch could appreciate, perhaps because it mirrored his own.

Hotch watched you, the way the light caught the highlights in your hair and the meticulous care you took with even the smallest task. He remained in his seat, an internal debate raging within him. He was the Unit Chief, always in control, always composed. But around you, those walls he meticulously maintained seemed less formidable, more permeable.

Finally, he stood, his decision made, propelled by a force he hadn’t fully acknowledged until now. Approaching you, he noted the slight surprise in your movements as you looked up. His voice, when he spoke, was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something more, something deeper.

“Dinner tonight?” he asked, the invitation hanging between them, heavier than the casual manner he attempted to portray.

You paused, a pen still in your hand, and met his gaze. The flicker of surprise was quickly replaced by a slow-spreading smile that warmed your eyes. “Trying to keep up with my high standards, Hotch?” you teased, the challenge back in your voice, but this time it was laced with an unmistakable warmth.

“I think I’m ready to try,” Hotch replied, his voice low, honest. The corners of his mouth turned up in a rare, genuine smile that seemed to reach his eyes, softening the usual hardness there.

“Then it’s a date,” you declared, your voice light but carrying a weight that filled the room with a promise of something new, something thrilling.

As you gathered your belongings and left, your heels clicking assertively against the floor, Hotch watched you go, a sense of anticipation building within him. It was a feeling foreign yet exhilarating, stirring something within him that had lain dormant.

He realized then, as the distance grew between you, that what the team jokingly called his ‘weakness’ was perhaps his most profound revelation. In you, Aaron Hotchner found not just a challenge but a vibrant counterpart who could match his steps in life’s intricate dance. With you, the future seemed less daunting, more vivid—colored by the finer things, in every possible way.

Since that first dinner, a subtle shift had occurred in the dynamics between Hotch and you. What started as a casual outing evolved into a series of clandestine meetings, each encounter deepening the bond that was swiftly becoming an integral part of his daily life. The secrecy was necessary—not just for the sake of professionalism within the team but to preserve the unique world that had begun to flourish between the two of you.

Hotch found himself anticipating your texts, which often popped up on his phone with playful emojis and witty remarks about everything from case files to the peculiar habits of their local barista. You managed to make even the mundane seem amusing, and Hotch, ever the stoic leader, found his day brightening with each notification.

One evening, as Hotch returned home from a particularly grueling case, he found a small package at his doorstep. Inside was a high-end espresso machine—a gift from you, complete with a note: "For your home office, so you can enjoy a proper latte without braving the outside world. Think of me when you use it." It was both a luxurious gesture and so quintessentially you, blending high maintenance with thoughtful consideration.

Hotch couldn’t help but smile as he set up the machine in his kitchen. It wasn’t something he would have ever purchased for himself, but now, brewing a cup in the quiet of the morning, he found a new appreciation for the ritual. It reminded him of you—how you’d insist on the perfect temperature, the ideal foam-to-espresso ratio, details he’d once overlooked but now found endearing.

At work, these small infiltrations into his life were becoming more apparent. You had taken to adjusting the small things around him, straightening the papers on his desk, sometimes replacing his usual stark office supplies with items that had a bit more personality—a stapler in polished chrome, sleek and efficient like the espresso machine, or pens that wrote so smoothly he found excuses to handwrite notes he would typically type.

Hotch had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that your influence was a welcome one. It was as if you were slowly coloring in parts of his world that he hadn’t even realized were so monochrome. And when you both sat down at the round table, reviewing case files together, the subtle touches—the way your knee would gently brush against his, or how you’d share a quick, knowing look over a shared inside joke—added layers to their days that Hotch hadn’t anticipated but found he no longer wanted to go without.

One afternoon, caught in a rare moment of downtime, Hotch found himself at the local shopping center, standing before a display of designer ties. He remembered you commenting on how a splash of color could brighten his usual ensemble of dark suits and somber expressions. With a critical eye, he selected one that was a soft shade--something that would match your eyes, he thought, a private acknowledgment of the space you were coming to occupy in his life.

That evening, when he wore the tie, the team didn’t miss the change. “Look at Hotch, finally taking some fashion tips from the best,” Morgan teased, nudging you as you both arrived for the briefing.

You shot Hotch a playful wink, and he responded with a slight nod, a silent conversation passing between them. Yes, you were changing him, but perhaps, Hotch considered as he adjusted the new tie subtly, this change was not just inevitable but necessary.

For Aaron Hotchner, known for his rigor and restraint, the gentle invasion of your high-maintenance habits into his disciplined life was less a disruption and more a revelation. Each new preference, each shared secret, wove a richer tapestry into his days. And as he looked across the table at you, he realized with a clarity that surprised him, that these threads, once so foreign, were now essential to the fabric of his life.

The rarity of a day off was not something Hotch took lightly, especially with Jack away on a Boy Scout trip. He had considered a quiet day at home, perhaps catching up on some reading or simply enjoying the peace. However, as he was contemplating his solitary plans, you texted him about your own plans for the day—getting your nails done, a routine you indulged in every few weeks.

"I’m off to maintain my high standards," your message read, accompanied by a laughing emoji. "Care to join me for a change of scenery?"

The invitation was unexpected. The thought of spending his day off in a nail salon was not something Hotch would have ever considered before meeting you. Yet, the idea of accompanying you, of sharing in something that was a part of your routine, held an appeal he couldn’t deny.

"Sure, why not?" Hotch texted back, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he imagined your reaction.

At the salon, you greeted him with a bright smile and a quick peck on the cheek. "Never thought I’d see the day Aaron Hotchner steps into a nail salon willingly," you teased, leading him inside.

The salon was a buzz of activity, a stark contrast to the usual seriousness of his work environment. You introduced him to your nail technician, a friendly woman named Lisa who greeted him with a warmth that seemed to radiate throughout the room.

As Lisa started on your nails, you chatted animatedly about the colors and designs. Hotch found himself pulled into a conversation about the merits of various shades—a discussion he never thought he’d have, yet here he was, weighing in on whether 'Midnight Blue' was a better choice than 'Stormy Grey'.

"You know, you could get something done too. A manicure perhaps? It’s quite relaxing," you suggested, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, considering it. "What would the team think if I showed up with polished nails?"

"They’d think you’re embracing the finer things in life," you replied with a laugh. "But maybe just a clear coat. We wouldn’t want to give Morgan too much ammunition."

Surprisingly, Hotch agreed. As Lisa began to work on his nails, he found the experience unexpectedly soothing. The gentle handling, the focus on something so trivial yet intimate, was a stark departure from his day-to-day life.

"So, how does it feel to be pampered?" you asked, watching him with an amused expression.

"Strangely relaxing," Hotch admitted. "I can see the appeal."

As Lisa finished, you both sat under the nail dryers. Hotch looked over at you, taking in the relaxed ease of your posture, and the genuine smile on your face. It was these moments, he realized, that he cherished deeply—the simple pleasures shared, the barriers between professional and personal blurring into something beautifully ordinary.

"You know, I’m glad you invited me," Hotch said, his voice soft amid the hum of the salon. "It’s nice, sharing this part of your world."

You reached over, your hand finding his. "I’m glad you’re here, Aaron. It means more than you know."

As they left the salon, Hotch felt a lightness he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The day had been uneventful by most standards, yet for him, it was a precious insight into the everyday joys of the person who had unexpectedly become his closest confidant.

The team's discovery of his relationship with you was as inevitable as it was unintended. It began one morning when Garcia, ever observant, noticed the faintest of smiles on Hotch’s lips as he read a text from you. It was nothing overt, just the subtle lift of his mood, but it was enough to pique her interest.

“Spill it, Hotch. You’ve been smiling more these days,” Garcia prodded as they gathered in the briefing room, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp with curiosity.

Hotch, caught slightly off-guard, managed to maintain his composure. “It’s just been a good morning,” he replied smoothly, hoping his nonchalance would deflect further inquiry.

Garcia, however, was not so easily dissuaded. “Uh huh,” she hummed, giving him a knowing look but dropping the subject in the presence of the rest of the team.

The next clue came unintentionally from you during a case briefing. You were discussing a particularly challenging aspect of the case when you casually mentioned a small detail—a detail that Hotch had shared with you in confidence during one of your dinners together.

As you spoke, Reid’s head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing in that characteristic way when he was putting pieces together. “That’s an interesting observation,” he remarked, glancing between Hotch and you. “Not many would’ve caught that.”

Hotch met Reid’s gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Reid’s expression softened into a subtle smile, and he nodded slightly, turning his attention back to the files in front of him.

Morgan and JJ were the next to catch on. It happened in the field, during a tense moment when you instinctively reached for Hotch’s hand. It was a brief touch, meant to be reassuring, but Morgan and JJ caught the action from the corner of their eye.

Later, as they regrouped at the SUV, Morgan clapped Hotch on the shoulder. “You know you can tell us, right? We’re family here,” he said in a low voice, his look pointed but friendly.

Hotch simply nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “I know, Derek,” he said, grateful for the support he knew they would offer.

Prentiss figured it out during a late-night coffee run when she saw you both at a small cafe, your heads close together, laughing softly over shared stories. She didn’t approach, respecting your privacy, but the next day, her smile was a bit wider when she greeted you both.

“It’s good to see you happy, Hotch,” she said quietly as she passed by his office, her words meant only for him.

By the time Rossi found out, it seemed that most of the team had already accepted the new dynamic with characteristic adaptability. Rossi, ever the father figure, simply raised his glass to Hotch during their next team dinner, a silent toast that spoke volumes.

“You’ve got a good thing, Aaron. Don’t let the job get in the way,” Rossi advised later, when they were alone, his voice low and earnest.

Hotch appreciated the wisdom; knowing the balance between personal happiness and professional duty was a fine line to walk.

As the team gradually discovered the relationship, what surprised Hotch most was not the fact that they found out, but the ease with which they accepted it. Their teasing was gentle, their support unwavering, and in their acceptance, Hotch found not just confirmation of his feelings for you but also a deeper appreciation for the team he considered his second family.

In this newfound openness, Hotch realized that his relationship with you did not weaken his leadership; rather, it enriched the very fabric of his life, both at work and beyond. With each passing day, as you both navigate the complexities of a relationship built amidst the demands of the BAU, Hotch found himself not just accepting but embracing the vibrant color you brought into his once-monochrome world.

The integration of your meticulous routines into Hotch's daily life was gradual, almost imperceptible at first, until one day he found himself deeply enmeshed in the particulars of your high-maintenance habits. What began as playful observations soon became cherished moments of his day, each routine offering a glimpse into the meticulous and vibrant world you inhabited.

Every evening, as you both prepared for bed, Hotch would lean against the bathroom doorway, watching as you engaged in your elaborate skincare routine. The array of creams, serums, and tools was impressive, and he'd often raise an eyebrow in mock incredulity as you explained the purpose of each one.

“Do you really need all of this?” Hotch would ask, his tone light and teasing as you applied a night serum with precise, practiced motions.

“Absolutely,” you’d reply without missing a beat, your reflection in the mirror smiling back at him. “It’s about maintaining standards, Aaron. You of all people should understand that.”

“I thought we were just going to bed, not preparing for a photo shoot,” Hotch would retort, the corners of his lips twitching into a smile.

“It’s called preventive maintenance,” you’d say, tapping the side of your nose with a finger. “One day, you’ll thank me when we’re both ninety, and I still look seventy.”

Hotch couldn’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the soft notes of the evening. He had to admit, there was a certain peace in these nightly rituals, a tranquility that had seeped into the crevices of his once rigid routine.

Sometimes, you would catch him watching and pull him into the routine, applying a bit of moisturizer to his face with gentle, coaxing motions. “You’ll feel better,” you’d assure him, and he’d comply, not because he believed in the miraculous claims of the products but because it meant more moments shared with you.

On weekends, the rituals would extend to mornings. You’d take your time selecting an outfit, coordinating accessories and makeup with an artist’s eye for detail. Hotch would sit on the bed, coffee in hand, offering the occasional nod or hum of approval as you held up two nearly identical pairs of shoes, asking for his opinion.

“What do you think? The matte or the glossy?” you’d ask, holding them up for him to see.

“The matte,” Hotch would decide after a moment’s consideration. “It’s subtler.”

“Subtle,” you’d repeat, considering this. “I like it. Subtle but effective. Kind of like you.”

The routine wasn’t just about vanity or upkeep—it was a dance, a way of you expressing yourself and inviting him into your world. Hotch found himself missing these interactions whenever you were at your own apartment. The bathroom felt too empty, the mornings too quick and utilitarian. He missed the scent of your skincare products, the sound of your voice explaining the benefits of jasmine oil, or the way you’d ask his opinion on things he’d never considered before.

Even his morning routine had adapted; where once a quick shave sufficed, he now found himself opening your moisturizer, the scent a comforting reminder of you. It was a small concession to the routines you loved, a way of keeping you close even when miles apart.

Through these shared routines, Hotch learned more than just the importance of exfoliation or the difference between matte and glossy finishes. He learned the value of slowing down, of savoring the quiet moments together before the chaos of the day set in. Each ritual, each routine you shared, wove deeper connections between them, turning mundane moments into cherished memories and in doing so, seamlessly blending his life with yours.

With your birthday on the horizon, Hotch was well aware of the intricacies involved in selecting the perfect gift. Your independence and flair for purchasing exactly what you wanted, when you wanted, left little room for him to dazzle you with something unexpected. Yet, the desire to surprise and delight you was strong; he wanted to be the doting boyfriend who could still manage to sweep you off your feet.

One morning, as he was choosing a tie for work, you playfully suggested one that would "match beautifully with my purse—if I had the right shade." The comment was offhand, perhaps even forgetful of the collection you already owned, but it sparked an idea in Hotch's mind.

Later that day, armed with determination, Hotch sought out Garcia. He found her busy at her workstations, screens flickering with data.

"Garcia, could I get your help with something a bit more... personal?" Hotch began, hesitating slightly as he ventured into unfamiliar territory.

Garcia swiveled in her chair, her expression instantly shifting to one of eager attentiveness. "Of course, Hotch! What do you need? Secret admirer codes cracked? Background checks for mysterious suitors?" she quipped, her tone light.

"Actually, I need advice on buying a purse," Hotch admitted, and briefly explained the situation.

"A purse? Oh, for you know who?! This is going to be fun!" Garcia clapped her hands, her earlier levity shifting into focused enthusiasm. "Okay, first things first, we need something as unique and classy as she is. Let’s dive into the world of designer handbags."

Garcia guided him through various high-end brands, explaining the appeal of each. "These are timeless," she pointed out, scrolling through an array of sophisticated designs. "But knowing our girl, something with both function and a high fashion quotient would be ideal."

Hotch listened, absorbing details about textures, colors, and what each brand symbolized. They finally narrowed it down to a few choices, each one reflecting a different aspect of your personality and style.

"This one here," Garcia pointed at a sleek, modern satchel with minimalist design but luxurious detailing, "seems like it could be the perfect accessory for her. It’s stylish but not ostentatious, much like how she approaches her work and personal style."

"It looks great," Hotch agreed, imagining how it would look draped over your shoulder. He made a mental note of the bag and the brand, deciding to do a little more research before making the final purchase.

"Good luck, Hotch! She's going to love whatever you choose because it's from you," Garcia smiled warmly, giving him a thumbs-up as he thanked her and left.

Back at Hotch’s apartment, as you both moved through your evening routine, Hotch found opportunities to subtly probe for more of your preferences without giving away his intentions.

"So, if you were to splurge on something frivolous, what would it be?" Hotch asked casually as you were both settling down with a glass of wine.

"Frivolous?" you chuckled, giving him a playful look. "Isn’t everything I buy somewhat frivolous to you, Mr. Practicality?"

"Perhaps," Hotch conceded with a smile, "but indulge me."

"A purse," you said after a moment, a mischievous twinkle in your eye. "A really good, outrageously and stupidly expensive purse that makes me feel like a million bucks when I carry it."

"Sounds like a worthy investment," Hotch replied, his tone teasing but thoughtful. Your eyes met, and there was a spark of something that went beyond the casual banter—a shared understanding and appreciation for these little confessions.

Hotch tucked away every piece of information, each helping him build towards the moment he would present you with the perfect birthday gift. It was more than just a purse; it was a symbol of his attentiveness to your desires and his wish to celebrate everything you were.

But the birthday Hotch had planned for you was supposed to be special, a day to celebrate you in style, with every detail tailored to your liking. Instead, duty called in the form of a particularly tough case that dragged on much longer than anyone had anticipated. The hours turned into days, and by the time it was over, everyone was exhausted, physically and emotionally drained.

As the team began packing up, you sighed heavily, the weight of the last few days evident in your slumped shoulders. "I just want to go back to my apartment," you murmured. "I ran out of clothes, and I forgot half my skincare stuff in the rush out."

Hotch, who had been hoping to salvage what was left of the day, felt a twinge of disappointment. "You could grab what you need and come back to my place," he suggested, trying to keep his tone light, though concern etched his features. He’d go to your place if he could, but Jack was waiting for him. 

You shook your head, fatigue lining your face. "I'm just so tired, Aaron. Let’s just celebrate tomorrow, okay?" Your voice held a note of finality, but also a plea for understanding.

He knew he should let it go…give you the space you needed, but a part of him—the part that had been quietly contemplating a more significant step in your relationship—spoke up. "I was going to bring this up over dinner," Hotch began, his voice steady despite the chaos of the day, "but maybe this is the right moment. You and your... elaborate routines should just move in with me."

Your fatigue momentarily gave way to surprise. "Do you know what you’re getting into? My high maintenance might take over your space," you teased, a faint smile playing at your lips despite the exhaustion.

"Yes," Hotch said firmly, his gaze intense. "I know exactly what I’m getting into, and I love it. I miss it when you’re not there."

You looked at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, your smile grew, and the weariness seemed to lift slightly. "You really want me and my half a suitcase of skincare products moving in?"

"Every last bottle and brush," Hotch confirmed, his voice softening. "It’s part of who you are, and I want all of you every day. Not just on good days or birthdays, but every challenging and tiring day too."

Your eyes softened, and you stepped closer, leaning into him slightly. "Okay, but we’re getting a bigger bathroom cabinet," you stipulated, your tone light but sincere.

"It’s a deal," Hotch agreed, wrapping an arm around you. The case had taken much from you both, but at this moment, a new door was opening—a commitment that promised to blend your lives in ways beyond shared cases and briefings.

As you both headed back, the weight of the case still lingering, there was a new undercurrent of hope, of shared futures and bathroom cabinets, a testament to the resilience of your bond.

You decided to pick up a few essentials from your apartment and spend the night at Hotch's place--now your place, too, despite your tiredness. Hotch, feeling a mix of relief and excitement, drove you to your apartment, waiting as you gathered your things.

Inside, you moved efficiently, albeit with a tired grace, packing your cherished skincare products and several outfits. Hotch leaned against the doorway, watching as you filled a small suitcase with what seemed to him an elaborate array of potions and tools. Each item was carefully selected, a ritual that he found both fascinating and slightly amusing.

“You sure you’ve got enough there for just one night?” Hotch teased lightly, his eyes twinkling with humor.

You glanced over your shoulder, a playful smirk on your lips. “This is the streamlined version, believe it or not. You might have to rent the apartment next door.”

“I’ll consult the landlord tomorrow,” Hotch quipped, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile.

Back at his apartment, as you began setting out your skincare products in the bathroom, Hotch watched for a moment, his mind returning to the gift he’d carefully hidden away—something he hoped would make your day a little brighter after the tough case.

“Hey,” Hotch called softly, capturing your attention as you meticulously arranged your items. “I have something for you. I was saving it for a proper celebration, but I think tonight is as good a time as any.”

Your curiosity piqued, you followed him to the living room, where he retrieved a small, elegantly wrapped box from a drawer. Handing it to you, he watched as your eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and anticipation lighting up your features.

You unwrapped the box with a gentle precision, and as you lifted the lid and saw the purse—a beautiful, designer pocketbook that perfectly matched the sophisticated style you cherished—your expression transformed into one of sheer delight.

“Aaron, this is beautiful,” you breathed out, carefully pulling the purse from the box. You admired the craftsmanship, running your fingers over the smooth leather and the detailed stitching.

“It reminded me of you,” Hotch said, his voice sincere. “Elegant, practical, and incredibly stylish. Happy Birthday.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining not just from the beauty of the gift but from the thoughtfulness behind it. “I love it,” you said, stepping closer to wrap your arms around him in a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you; this is the best end to a rough day.”

Hotch held you close, his heart swelling with the joy of seeing you so happy. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you smile like that,” he murmured into your hair, feeling the weight of the case and the fatigue of the day finally begin to lift.

As you pulled back slightly, still holding the purse, you teased, “Does this mean I get a new purse for every rough case?”

“Birthdays,” Hotch corrected with a gentle smile, his gaze softening as he added, “You make it incredibly hard for me to spoil you more than I already wish to.”

You laughed, a sound that Hotch had come to cherish deeply. “I’ll try to be less self-sufficient in the future,” you quipped, clutching the new purse a little closer as if it were a treasured award.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about your independence,” Hotch replied earnestly. “It’s one of the many things I admire about you. But allow me the occasional indulgence of spoiling you, especially on days like today.”

The purse, an elegant and thoughtful gift, lay between you on the coffee table, symbolizing not just a celebration of your birthday but of the new phase in your relationship. The evening settled into a comfortable rhythm, the earlier tension from the case dissolving into the background as you both enjoyed the simple pleasure of each other’s company.

With the challenges of the case behind you and the warmth of your shared space around you, Hotch felt a profound sense of contentment. This was more than just a birthday celebration—it was a reaffirmation of your partnership, a testament to how deeply your lives had intertwined.

As you both relaxed into the sofa, the conversation drifted from light teasing to deeper, more introspective topics. Every so often, your hand would brush against the purse, a physical reminder of Hotch’s affection and attention to what brought you joy.

“Thank you, Aaron,” you said again, your voice lower, more reflective as the night wore on. “For understanding me, even when I think I don’t need anything.”

Hotch reached over, his hand finding yours, squeezing it gently. “You don’t need to thank me for that,” he murmured. “It’s just another part of our journey together. And I’m grateful for every step we take, side by side.”

The purse remained on the table, a beacon of new beginnings and mutual understanding, as you both shared the quiet comfort of knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns

[p0orbaby]

Centre Court

summary: you’re starting to think that tennis is an aphrodisiac

warnings: suggestive, mentions of sexy times

a/n: yes, i know wimbledon is long gone…

word count: 1.2k

-

You’re on your annual trip to Wimbledon. A place where the scent of freshly cut grass and overpriced strawberries mingles with the murmur of the crowd. Leah’s next to you, a distracting presence as always, her elbow grazing yours every time she shifts. You wonder if anyone else can feel the static electricity she generates with every casual brush against your arm.

“You know…” she begins, pulling your attention from the back-and-forth of the second point.

“Hm?” you hum, eyes glued to the court despite the magnetic pull of her voice. It’s the kind of acknowledgement that means, ‘Please don’t say anything outrageous, we’re in public,’ but you both know that’s wishful thinking.

“You’d look good in one of those little skirts,” she murmurs, her tone low and familiarly conspiratorial. There’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s not really talking about tennis anymore. You’re not sure why you’re so surprised.

You chuckle softly, your eyes drifting to the player’s attire. You had to admit they wouldn’t look out of place in your wardrobe. “Oh, would I now?” you reply, raising an eyebrow at her. “And what makes you think that?” It’s a rhetorical question, though Leah’s known for her uncanny ability to undress you with her eyes.

Leah leans in closer, her breath warm against your ear. “Just a hunch. You’ve got the legs for it. And besides, I’d love to see you show them off.” Her words tickle your ear, and you suppress a shiver even under the rays of the sun.

You smirk, finally turning to meet her gaze. “You’re awfully bold, aren’t you, Miss Williamson?” You try to sound stern, but your lips betray you, curling into a smile.

She shrugs, her grin widening. “I know what I like. And I know I’d like you in one of those skirts.” Her tone is as casual as if she were discussing the weather, but her eyes tell a different story.

You shake your head, amused. “It’s nothing you haven’t already seen, baby”

Leah’s eyes darken, a playful glint there that promises trouble. “True, but these outfits have that certain… je ne sais quoi, don’t you think?”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” you tease, nudging her with your elbow. “A bit of French flair to spice things up?”

The match continues, punctuated by grunts and the rhythmic thwack of the ball. You’re only half paying attention now, Leah’s words and the heat in her stare pulling you in. Her hand rests lightly on your thigh, a touch that’s barely there but feels like a live wire.

“You think you could keep up with me?” you challenge, a playful edge in your tone.

Leah’s smirk turns into a full-blown grin. “Oh, I know I could. I’ve got stamina for days, babe”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a laugh in the quiet of the court. “Big talk for someone who’s never seen me play”

Leah’s fingers tighten slightly on your thigh, her eyes locked onto yours, swimming with amusement and something else that makes your pulse quicken. “Maybe we should find out,” she says, her voice low and full of confident assurance.

You’re about to bite back when a particularly loud cheer from the crowd reminds you of where you are. You glance around, half-expecting to see a camera trained on the two of you, but the spectators are blissfully unaware of the electric current between you and your girlfriend.

“Behave,” you whisper, though the word lack the conviction needed to stop your mate in her tracks.

Leah leans in, her lips brushing your ear. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

You shake your head again, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible”

Leah’s fingers begin to trace small, infuriatingly light patterns on your thigh, the sensation sending shivers up your spine. “Impossible? I prefer determined,” she says, her voice dripping with mock innocence.

You try to refocus on the game, but it’s a losing battle. The players might as well be on another planet for all you care right now. Leah’s hand inches higher, and you give her a sideways glance.

“Leah, we’re supposed to be watching the match,” you murmur, though your tone lacks any real reprimand.

“Oh, I am,” she assures you, her eyes never leaving yours. “I’m just multitasking.” Her hand gives your thigh a gentle squeeze, her thumb brushing just a bit too close to where it shouldn’t be in public.

You let out a small, involuntary gasp, quickly covering it with a cough. Leah’s grin is all too pleased with herself. “You’re going to get us in trouble,” you warn, though you can’t deny the thrill coursing through you.

Leah’s other hand joins the fun, now resting at the base of your neck. Her thumb begins to make small, maddening circles just behind your ear. You try to keep your focus on the game, but the match is losing its grip on you, fast.

“Remember the first time we came here together?” Leah’s voice breaks into your thoughts, once more.

You do remember. It was less about the game and more about the impromptu christening of the private box. “Vaguely,” you respond, the memory making your cheeks warm. “I recall you getting us kicked out”

Leah laughs, the sound drawing a few more curious glances. “I’d say it was worth it, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s one way to put it,” you reply, grinning at the recollection. Leah had insisted on testing just how soundproof those VIP boxes were. Spoiler: not very.

Leah’s hand squeezes your thigh gently, her fingers drifting higher. “It’s funny, you know. How you always pretend to be so proper and composed”

You arch an eyebrow at her. “Pretend?”

“Yeah,” she continues, her voice a seductive whisper. “Like that time at the charity gala, when you were giving a speech and I—”

“You really want to bring that up here?” you interrupt, your heart pounding at the memory. Leah had been insufferable, sneaking suggestive touches under the table before you tried to maintain your composure on stage.

Leah smirks, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Just saying, you’ve got a wild side. And I love bringing it out”

You glance around again, paranoid about the camera but also thrilling at the risk. Leah’s hand ventures even higher, and you place your hand over hers to stop her. “Leah, we’re in public”

She pouts, but there’s a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. “Fine. For now.” Her fingers retreat, but she leaves a lingering touch that promises more mischief later.

As the match progresses, Leah continues her playful torment, her fingers wandering back to your thigh at every opportunity. You can’t help but recall all the other public places where she’s pushed the boundaries: the quiet corners of museums, the back rows of cinemas, even that one unforgettable time on a nearly deserted beach.

You lean in close to Leah, your lips brushing against her ear. “You keep this up and we’re going to have to find somewhere private,” you warn, your voice a low murmur.

Leah’s grin is positively wicked. “Now that sounds like a plan.” She glances around, then her eyes settle back on you, filled with that familiar, enticing mischief. “How about we slip out after this set?”

[k-hippie]

TAROT CARDS LEARNING DECO SET - HALLOWEEN 2024

Unfogging the Future ...

The future is mysterious, but your Sims' décor doesn’t have to be! This set brings the magic of tarot into your Sims’ lives with a beautifully detailed deck of cards from the classic Rider Waite ...

Perfect for those who dabble in divination or just enjoy a little mystical flair on their coffee table. Whether your Sim is predicting the next big love affair or simply trying to figure out why the fridge keeps breaking, these cards will definitely make them feel more enlightened. Or at least, more stylish.

10 swatches to choose from, there’s a card design for every mood—gloomy, hopeful, or “I totally saw that breakup coming” Each swatch gives a different combination of cards, ensuring your Sims can switch up their fortune-telling aesthetic whenever the spirits ( or their ever-changing home décor tastes ) demand it.

And here’s the real magic :D if you place them on a glass table, the back of the cards is fully visible :) Why settle for just one mystical side when you can show off both? The detailed, ornate card backs will impress even the most skeptical of Sims ;)

So, whether your Sim is seriously into tarot or just looking for that perfect "je ne sais quoi" for their haunted or witchy vibe, these cards are a maybe must-have ;)

Remember, this is just a deco clutter ...

download here

...

[lineffability]

The Serpent Files 🐍

chapters: 5/5 rating: M/E wordcount: 13.9k au: human, the magnus archives

summary: Aziraphale works as the head archivist at Eden Institute. Crowley has been supplying them with potentially cursed artifacts over the years -- until he himself gets entangled in a case that turns him from associate to client...

[ art credit and support credit and 1000 hugs to: @chernozemm my beloved ]

start reading:

“Ouroboros. Yes. The introductory statement is meant to be concise, though, akin to a title. You can describe the necklace in detail in your statement, Crowley. Also, I need you to state your name. It occurs to me I don't actually know it. I mean. I'm not saying I want to know your full name, or anything. Just, all these years– erm. You'd have to state it anyway. For formality's sake. We have a system.”

“Sure. So. Name's Crowley.”

“I… know that part. [sighs] Full names, please, throughout.”

“Ah. Anthony J Crowley.”

“I said full names, please. What's the J stand for?”

“Erm. Uh. Just a J, really. Thought it added a certain gravitas, y’know, flair. Je ne sais quoi. Makes people treat you serious, a J like that.”

“Uh. Alright. Well. Anthony J. Crowley, then. I suppose. Seriously? [clears throat] So. Please start from the beginning.”

“Mmmmhhhh wellll. I’ve been coming to Eden for, what, now, six years maybe?”

“I believe so. Yes.”

“Anyway, not like I go here often. We’ve met a handful of times, you and me, maybe nine, ten? I mean, it was ten times. I know. Uh. Not like I counted or anything. Just, coming here, it stays with you a bit, doesn’t it? All that occult shit. Which is why I come here, of course. I’m – what should I call it? A… supplier. Of sorts. I work with – this is confidential, right?”

“Yes. Internal use only. We don’t give out those files. Your words are safe with me. Erm. Us.”

“Good. Right. I work with the Doomsday Group. Can’t really talk about it much, but you’ve heard of them. Shady stuff, crime, theft, trade, religious artifacts, apocalyptic jazz, all that. Supernatural stuff, too, sometimes. Or claimed supernatural. You know I don’t believe in all that. Well. Didn’t. I didn’t believe in it. Now��� uh, anyway. Sometimes we get those weird artifacts, right, apparently cursed, so I bring them to you, to, to check, or verify, or call bullshit. Or to lock them away, or whatever you do with them when you buy them off our lot. That’s how we met. Best part of this shit job, really, if I’m being honest. I didn’t ask to be– hm. Wish I could just– ngh. Confidential, right? Wish I could just be done with them. Run off. Can’t, though. But erm. Forget I said that, alright? Please.”

[pause] “You're rambling a bit, de- Crowley. Or should I, should I call you Anthony now?”

“Hell no. I mean – Crowley's fine. You've called me Crowley for years, haven't you? What, now you don't like it?”

“No, no, I do in fact quite – well, for propriety’s sake, the official documentation, I thought – nevermind. So, Crowley, while the background information on your…job is reasonable, might I politely remind you why you’re here? Please talk less about our personal relationship, or at least only insofar as it pertains to the case, and more about what happened to you since… since you put on that necklace.”

“Right. Righty-oh. S’ just, never been in this room before. The tape recorder, all that. I’ve only ever been here as a sort of… co-worker? Nah. You’re not my co-worker, you’re better than that. As a tradesman. So to be here as a client , it feels… surreal.”

“That is understandable. I trust you will muddle through, though.”

“Hey – remember the first thing I said when I came here? Today, I mean.”

[continue reading]

[wizardbracket]

Round 5: Match 1 of 4

(Battle of the German mud wizards)

PROPAGANDA UNDER THE BREAK

Why they deserve to be the ultimate wizard according to YOU:

Caleb:

Vanquished (so far): Essek Thelyss, Adaine Abernant, VR-LA, Will Byers

"consider: Caleb said 'you were not born with venom in your veins. you learned it.'"

"Caleb is a disaster bisexual middle aged ginger with mud in his pockets and an emotional support cat who is also an octopus at times"

"he's literally a little german boy."

"he's an angry ape he's got zero muscle tissue on his body he's a professional diplomat he smells like literal shit all the time."

"There will never be a better wizard than Caleb Widogast"

"Caleb deadass planned to rewrite time to fix his childhood mistakes"

"He is peak sad wizard boy energy, but also has that little bit of flair that is essential to any wizard"

“Caleb just has that je ne sais quoi”

"Caleb has a cat!!!"

“Dedicated his life to learning the ultimate magic to change reality & fix his mistakes, and also opposes the magic CIA.”

“Chaotic bisexual snarky powerful wizard who married a war criminal and killed a living city”

Mud Wizard:

Vanquished (so far): NZ/Aotearoa Wizard, Amaury Guichon, Orb Wizard, Vermin Supreme

"Actual real-life wizard beats out any fantasy/literary/tv wizard"

"he fought the police while being knee deep in mud"

"i just learned about german mud wizard but i respect his field tactics"

"Mud wizard has field experience ... mud wizard is the one you need on a battlefield"

"I'm sure the other dude is very cool but throwing cops in the mud >>>>>>"

"my boy mud wizard getting the recognition he deserves. there is a mud wizard in all of us. and it says ACAB"

"absolutely german mud wizard its not even a question"

"German mud wizard uses his powers for good"

"Mud wizard is objectively cooler"

"Mud wizard takes direct action against cops. He's doing good old fashioned wizardry ... mud wizard embraces the chaos of magic"

“Outplayed cops with mud magic.”

[vibratingskull]

Do you think it's wrong to use chatGPT to write? I have lot of my own ideas of all kind of stories i even have entire scene in my head but I suck at writing (and I'm also super procrastinating) also with English not being my first language. So I use chatGPT (but I don't actually post it anywhere its mostly just for myself). Is it really bad?

Yes

Yes, I do think it is wrong.

I will hold your hand saying that, but sucking at writing and English not being your first language are not valid excuses.

You'll never get better unless you write yourself. You need practice. Who gives a fuck if the first stories are "bad" (whatever that means). You already have the most important thing for writing: IDEAS.

Why spoil those ideas with plain, boring, unoriginal, stolen Ai writing when you could give it your own twist, your very special flair, your very own je-ne-sais-quoi to flavor and elevate those ideas?

You don't have that je-ne-sais-quoi to make your story unique yet? Of course: You are using Chat Gpt instead of practicing and perfecting your craft. You will not develop it unless you practice it.

I know it can seem scary to write, it's overwhelming, but no half-baked AI story will EVER come close to the sentiment of satisfaction and self-accomplishment you feel when you put the final "." to a chapter.

It's unoriginal, stolen content, nothing truly creative and satisfying can come out of it. It has no flavor, it has no soul, no intent, no spark behind it.

It's just boring.

Try writing, do it FOR YOURSELF

You deserve BETTER than flavorless AI writing, your ideas deserve better than AI, they deserve that human touch, YOUR very own touch.

I can't even start to put into words the pure pleasure I feel when I write, it's a fire, a need I have to satisfy, I NEED to write, this is such a pleasure to see your story appearing on the page and have full control of it. This is MY story, MY ideas, MY VOICE

MY

UNIQUE

UNREAPLACABLE

VOICE

You need to find yours, for your very own creative soul, for your own good. No AI can give you that.

Let's say you try and the first chapter is "disappointing" to you

WHO GIVE A FUCK?!

You already put more effort into that single chapter than all of the AI users ever put in their """"own writing""" ever and you are therefore more legitimate. Your ideas are more legitimate. They inherently have more value than whatever AI may vomit on a document ever.

Write, draw, sing, make movies, we are inherently artful creatures, and you deserve to nourish and grow that part of you, using AI will only atrophy this part of yourself until it dies.

Write, erase words, create entire paragraphs and delete them, forget a WIP for months, and feel your heart jump in joy rediscovering it one day.

This is a muscle that needs training.

The first chapters won't necessarily be good, but this is NORMAL. You are new to it. Hell, my own first chapters are TRASH, but those are MINE, they came from MY CREATIVE SOUL and were made to please and cater to me. I kept trying, I kept pushing because it is a fire burning inside of me.

Do I still think my writing is trash? Depends, someday yes, someday no, but the pleasure of creation goes beyond the final results. It supersedes anything else.

I think my writing is still not good enough but some people find it pleasant enough to decide to stick around my blog to keep reading me, so my writing has qualities and values, even if I stop posting.

Nobody wants to stick around AI writing, it's easy and flat, not even taking into account Chat gpt's limitations on touchy subjects.

I started plenty of chapters with one intent and ended up with an unexpected final text because new ideas kept coming up while writing.

Ai will just give you a boring straight line from A to B, while your own writing will make you travel all up to Z and make you discover numbers and colors and music.

You are doing a huge disservice to yourself anon, very honestly.

And for the "English isn't my first language", well it's not mine either. Want to know how I got to write in English daily? I read fanfics.

Real fanfics real people wrote. It took some time but I got there. School did not give me my English current level, fanfics did.

Find a fandom you love and read, read, read, read, and read. Use all the Google Translate and WordReference you need until you are comfortable, it gets easier with time.

Like WRITING *gasp!*

Maybe you have an idea for an INSANE AU nobody wrote for that fandom yet, maybe it deserves better than some dry robot words and a real human influence instead.

And lastly "I don't actually post it anywhere its mostly just for myself", it may be just for yourself but using AI is endangering everyone, it is a DISASTER ecologically speaking. For each idea you put in Chat gpt you can just empty 20 water bottles on the ground directly and you'll have the same creative and ecological result.

TLDR : it's stolen, unoriginal, soulless content, its an ecological disaster, and your ideas simply deserve better than that.

(And I really, REALLY hope you did not feed anyone's fics to GPT to finish them or give it ideas for """"your"""" chapters)

ALSO, WHAT I SAID STANDS FOR ART TOO.

[locked-in-the-tomb]

Maybe projecting my personal opinion here, but the "worst" part of the Ianthe-Babs situation (from their point of view) is that Ianthe Naberius is just cooler than Ianthe Tridentarius. Babs was an immaculate, stylish, cocky showoff and monching on him has given Ianthe a sense of theatricality that is so fucking fascinating. I know she had some flair for the dramatic all her own (can you grow up on the Third without it?), but Babs has still clearly given her just that added touch of piquancy, a certain je ne sais quoi. They are brilliant together and they would both hate that fact SO much.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 8

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** So, a rogue and a bard walk into an inn... ***

“You know, Durge, I don’t mean to insult Gale - he is the smartest man I know, probably - but coming up with names is probably not his strongest suit. Durge lacks a certain… I don’t know, it lacks a certain…”

“Je ne sais quoi?”

It was rare for Raphael to speak a single word while they made their way towards Baldur’s Gate through the night.  As much as Raphael clearly loved the sound of his own voice when he held all the cards, he was much less inclined to speak now that he was markedly at a disadvantage. He usually walked at the back in sullen silence, with Wyll and Durge right in front of him carrying a torch and Astarion and Halsin further ahead, putting their darkvision to use. To be honest, sometimes as they talked among them they almost forgot he was there. His voice made them recoil, and turn back.

“Was that Infernal?” Halsin asked, and got a shrug in reply.

“Something similar.”

“Abyssal, then? The language of demons?” Astarion guessed.

“That does depend on who you ask,” Raphael replied. He didn’t seem inclined to add any further clarification, and the conversation turned to other matters as they walked through much of the night.

However, a few hours later Wyll went back to… well, names. If it were up to him, Durge mused, everyone would have such impressive-sounding names, no name would seem at all impressive anymore.

“I have grown attached to Durge, I’m afraid,” they chuckled. “Odd as it sounds. I think I may just stick with it.”

Wyll made a vague gesture with the hand carrying the torch. “I understand, but you could add something. For a little more flair.”

“I take it you have suggestions?”

“How about… D’urge?”

“... That’s exactly the same?”

“But, with an apostrophe!”

“Why?”

“Ah, a y is indeed a good letter, but not the best for every name. Dyrge doesn’t quite click, does it? Although perhaps--”

“Is this kind of talk how you bested the Netherbrain?” Raphael spoke up. He somehow sounded both weary and genuinely curious. “I for one can feel the contents of my skull shrink with every word you push past your lips.”

“I can take a dagger to your ears if you think that would help,” Astarion suggested without turning, and Raphael had the good sense not to respond. However, Halsin did turn, as did Durge.  For Raphael to speak during their nightly marches was rare enough, but what really caught their attention was how weary he sounded - and it probably wasn’t because his brain was truly shrinking.

In the flicker of the torch Durge couldn’t see him as clearly as Halsin surely did, but when he stumbled on a root and barely caught himself before falling, they did notice how it took him a few moments to actually regain his footing. 

“... You seem a little tired,” Halsin said, not unkindly. “Perhaps we should have ended that sparring march earlier than we did, after all. Did you not get enough rest before we set off?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Raphael snapped, and staggered again in a way that very much suggested he was not perfectly fine. To be fair he had recently recovered form grievous injuries, they had been walking through the night for nearly a week with heavy backpacks, and he was very much dealing with the limitations of a human body that was, frankly, a few years past its prime. 

When Durge instinctively reached out to catch him, he leaned heavily on their arm rather than pulling away like he’d touched-- well, a rat. It made them all pause, and Durge cast Dancing Lights to better illuminate their surroundings. Once they could see clearly, Durge could tell that Halsin’s choice to describe him as ‘a little tired’ had been a kindness in itself: he looked exhausted.

“I think we have covered enough distance to warrant an early stop,” Durge said. After all, they were only hours away from dawn, and the drizzle that had bothered them through most of the night was starting to turn into actual rain. Against their feverishly warm scales, Raphael felt cold even through clothes; that may very well be the reason why he was not pulling away. 

“... If we can push ahead just another couple of hours, we should reach a town on this side of the Chionthar,” Wyll spoke, gesturing to the path ahead with the torch and forcing Astarion to duck under it. “It’s called Sunridge. We passed right by it last time, but it has a really nice inn. They make some of the best rabbit in wine-currant sauce I’ve ever tasted. If the day will be as rainy as tonight promises, it would be nice to spend it in a room with actual beds in it.”

“Wyll, that sounds excellent. Not the rabbit, not for me, but a warm room and a real bed would be very much welcome,” Astarion declared, and turned back. “If the old man can bear another short walk, that is. Ah, don’t look at me like that. You are by far the oldest here.”

“Speaking of bear, I could turn into one and carry him,” Halsin offered, gaining himself a laugh from Astarion and a snort from Raphael.

“You really only want an excuse to change form, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not. I can walk,” Raphael snapped, and pulled away from Durge. Before anyone could point out the obvious fact he’d likely collapse within the hour by the looks of it, he pulled out the lyre and played a few notes. The sense of relief was immediate, and Durge looked around to see the others looked perkier, too. Of course, they thought, the Song of Rest. Useful little spell, that. 

“Well, that was nice,” Wyll commented, gaining himself a scoff from Raphael. The magic had helped with some of the exhaustion, but clearly not with his mood.

“Glad to be of service,” he muttered, not sounding glad in the slightest. “Let us head to the inn, then. I shall gladly bear the walk as long as you keep quiet.”

They did reach the town and its inn within a couple of hours, as Wyll had said, only to find that the inn had no vacant rooms. The disappointment was somehow mitigated by the fact that, despite the late hour - or early hour, depending on what side of the day one looked at it from - the innkeeper was still able to bring them a hot meal.

“We’re hosting our annual Three-Dragon Ante tournament, from noon through the evening, and we’re full with players who came to sign up from out of town,” she explained, placing hot soup, roast rabbit, candied almonds and mulled wine on the table. “I do have some space available in the attic, if you have nowhere else to go, but I doubt more than two people could squeeze in there. I am very sorry.”

“Ah, I see.” Wyll sighed. “No need to apologize, it was bad timing from our--”

“Actually, the attic sounds good to me,” Astarion cut him off, and smiled at the innkeeper, gesturing to Raphael. From his part, Raphael had finished the soup and bread in a few bites and was staring intently at the candied almonds. Very intently. A little odd, that, really. He must be more tired than they thought, Song of Rest and all. “Our friend here is exhausted, and I expect a few hours of rest on a proper mattress would do him good. If you could accommodate the two of us in the attic, we’d be truly grateful.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that can be arranged. I’ll have mattresses and blankets brought up, give it a quick clean while you finish your meal. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a lifesaver, my friend.” Another bright smile and the innkeeper was off, leaving Astarion to turn to Durge. “You don’t mind, do you, love? Someone has to keep an eye on him, may as well be me. Staying out of the rain for a while might make my hair more manageable, too,” he added with a sigh, running a hand through impossibly well-coffered hair. 

Later on, Durge would feel more than a little foolish for not immediately guessing Astarion was planning something: with the shared goal of getting to the Hells, there hadn’t really been any need to keep that close an eye on Raphael in the first place. But they were tired from the walk, and a little distracted by the fact Raphael was proceeding to absolutely demolish the entire dish of candied almonds by himself. They simply assumed Astarion wanted to sleep in a real bed for once, and couldn’t fault him for it. 

“Of course, it sounds good. We’ll camp nearby and be back at sundown,” they said. Astarion smiled, and turned to Halsin.

“I know you’re probably looking for an excuse to wander around on four legs again, but would you stay in the tent with them today? Their sleep hasn’t been great lately.”

“That’s not nece--” Durge began, only for Halsin to cut them off. 

“Of course, you need not even ask,” he said, with an eagerness that made Durge suspect they may not be getting a lot of sleep, and that settled it. The innkeeper announced the attic was ready just as they finished their meal, and they took their leave just as the sun rose.

Durge did not notice - none of them did - that their backpacks were only slightly lighter, their gold pouches gone.

***

When Israfel first arrived in Cania, all he had to hold onto was a bag of almond sweets.

There were other things he’d wanted to take with him, all his books and his lyre and his clothes, but everything had moved so fast. Duke Barbas - tall as he was wide, with a mane of black hair slicked with oil and flowing red robes - had refused a forced invitation to stay for a meal while Israfel gathered his belongings. Barbas had declined with a politeness that did little to conceal his disdain.

“As much as I’d love to accept, Lord Sunspear,” he’d said, very purposely misremembering the name, “I am in quite a hurry to return to Cania, as I have other duties to tend to and my liege lord is not a patient master. The boy’s belongings can be collected at a later time.”

Israfel had felt Lord Starspire’s hold on his shoulder tighten, pulling him closer to his side, but there was nothing he could do to keep him there and they both knew it. “His lordship can allow us a few minutes, I hope,” Lord Starspire had spoken, gaze low despite the furious tremor in his limbs, “for Israfel to--”

“Raphael,” Duke Barbas had cut him off, and dropped his gaze on Israfel. He’d smiled with no warmth. “Lord Mephistopheles is keen to choose the names of every spawn he welcomes home. Your name is Raphael.”

Israfel may have protested at being renamed like a dog changing master, if not for his surprise. He’d blinked, taken aback. “Mephistopheles? The archdevil?”

Barbas’ jet black eyebrows had gone up almost to his hairline. He glanced over at Lord Starspire, whose grip on Israfel's shoulder had turned heavy as stone. He looked surprised and oddly delighted. “You mean to tell me you never told the boy who sired?”

The man had swallowed, and looked down at Israfel, whose mind still reeled at the notion that his sire wasn’t just a devil, but the Lord of the Eighth. He had read stories about Lord Mephistopheles, his might and his fury, the power second only to that of Asmodeus himself. And he’d been reading about his father, all along? Israfel had stared at Lord Starspire, eyes wide, and the man’s own eyes seemed to veil with tears. 

“Forgive me, boy. I’d planned to tell you, but I’d grown to hope this day would never--”

“Well!” Duke Barbas exclaimed, clapping his hands once and causing both to recoil. “Now that that has been cleared up, I think it would be proper for Raphael to discard that disguise. He won’t be needing it anymore,” he added, gesturing vaguely at him.

Israfel had wanted to tell him it was no disguise, that this body was real and his own just as much as the one with horns and wings, but the devil before him had raised an impatient eyebrow and he’d suddenly felt very, very small. He’d breathed out and willed his form to change back, from human to fiend. It gained him that smile devoid of warmth again, and the weight of his stepfather’s hand on his shoulder was gone.

A satisfied click of his tongue, and Barbas had nodded. “Much better. Your Lord father summons you, little duke. You may say your goodbyes, but be quick.”

The goodbyes had been quick indeed and most of it had been a blur, too fast for his usually nimble mind to catch up. He’d remember Nan holding him tight, whispering something-- You’re loved here, promise your Nan you’ll remember that, come back see us -- and he’d remember a few people crying, and the cook pushing something in his hand, a small bag of his favorite almond sweets. 

Last had been Lord Starspire, who’d crouched and pulled him close in an embrace that Israfel-- not anymore, he had a new name now, didn’t he-- was too overwhelmed to return. He couldn’t make himself say anything, his tongue heavy as lead. “Be careful,” was all Lord Starspire managed to whisper in his ear, then he’d pulled back and stood. 

As the boy nodded and stepped back as well, Duke Barbas had cleared his throat. “Come, boy. It’s time to join your kind,” he’d called, holding out a hand. 

Raphael had taken it, and that-- love-- was that.

***

Astarion was not, usually, a details kind of guy. 

He saw little point in planning and plotting when, more often than not, some absolutely insane shit would inevitably happen and make all the aforementioned planning and plotting entirely useless. He’d rather just keep his knives sharp and close at hand, and his eyes peeled. 

This time, however, the situation did require some strategic planning and so plan he did. Quite brilliantly, if he said so himself, paragon of humbleness that he was. A perfect plan that would see them leave a couple dozen thousand pieces of gold richer, allowing them to get Helsik to open that portal to Avernus for them… and have enough left over to buy the best supplies available to give them a better chance at surviving the Hells than a literal snowball. It would all work out perfectly.

If the devil did indeed know how to play Three-Dragon Ante, of course. If not, Astarion hoped he was a very quick learner, or they would be utterly screwed. The others just might be a little cross to learn all their collective gold was gone. 

Ah well. The die was cast, and it was time to find out how it landed.

“Hey, old man, wake up,” Astarion called out, shaking Raphael by the shoulder. He made a noise, trying to shake his hand off, to no avail. “Come now, you’re fine. I’ve let you sleep almost six hours.”

“What do you want, spawn?” Raphael muttered, voice thick with sleep. He sat up, blinking, but of course he could see next to nothing in the dark. Not anymore. “What time is it?”

“It’s time you get up and play your part to win us some gold, that’s what.”

“Wha--”

“Because we do need gold. Badly. You can play Three-Dragon Ante, yes?”

Raphael grunted, running a hand over his face. “I can play any game you mortals ever dreamed up and several you never did, obviously. But what--”

“And are you any good?”

“I am not going to deign that with an answer.”

“I’ll take it as a yes. Great. Come downstairs, the tournament is about to start.”

Raphael’s hand stilled midway through brushing back his hair. Astarion could see him frown while putting two and two together. “... The tournament the innkeeper kept going on about - you signed me up?”

“I did, so you can win that nice prize of ten thousand gold pieces. And I bet all of our money on you, so if we’re to pay our way into Hells, you know what to do.”

“And you didn’t think of asking me--”

Astarion laughed. “Don’t be absurd, of course I did! But you would have said no. Plus the others would have said no, and we really don’t need all that nonsense. It’s a nice simple plan, really. You go downstairs, sit your ass on a chair, and don’t get up until you’ve won every single game and claimed the prize. That should be easy for you. Unless, of course, you think you may lose to mortals.”

“If that’s an attempt at goading me into doing your bidding, it’s amateurishly transparent and--”

“By the way, if anyone asks, your name is Wulbren Bongle.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused, darling. Up now, they won’t wait for you. And stop frowning, I’m sure beating scores of people at something will make you feel good.”

Raphael scoffed. “Would stepping on insects make you feel good?” he muttered, and Astarion smiled in the dark. 

“Yes, actually.”

“... Of course it would,” Raphael muttered, but he did start feeling around for his boots, and Astarion considered the argument won.

***

“So, you found him well.”

“I’d say well is somewhat of an overstatement. He’s doing acceptably, for someone who was only recently turned into a mere mortal. Certainly an improvement from the state he was in when I took him to the Material Plane, though I regret to inform you his skill in bed has not likewise improved.”

“... That was not among my most pressing queries. Or anywhere among my queries.”

“Ah, I suppose that is not something that’s usually shared with one’s mother, hmm? Apologies.”

“You don’t look very sorry.”

“Don’t take it personally, dear. I’m never sorry for anything.”

Dalah held back a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I am no one’s mother,” she muttered. In the back of her mind, she remembered being terrified as months passed and her belly swelled. She’d heard enough stories to know what fate befell any mortal mother of a half-fiend, but ending the pregnancy would gain her an archdevil’s ire, and her husband’s certain death on the battlefield. In the end, it had been for Rahirek. It had always been for him.

She remembered locking herself in her rooms when flowing robes could no longer hide her state, and she remembered spending nights awake praying to any gods she knew of. She remembered what she promised, too.

Let me live, and I’ll learn to love the child. 

But she had not lived, and that promise no longer mattered.

“... I was but the means to bring a spawn of Mephistopheles into the world,” she muttered in the end, her voice bitter as bile. Haarlep tilted their head. 

“Well, you were rather successful. Half-fiends seldom live all that long. The least impressive ones are meat for the Blood War, and the more impressive ones tend to bite off more than they can chew sooner or later, and pay the price. Raphael lasted more than  most. I am pretty sure he is Mephistopheles’ oldest living son, really.”

“It seems to me he did bite off more than he could chew.”

A shrug. “Eventually, yes. But it was always going to happen. That’s how cambions are.”

“That’s how all devils are.”

“Cambions most of all. Nearly all of them think they have something to prove, the silly things.” A shrug, and they grabbed an orange from a silver tray next to the bed. “And how’s the other half of him faring?”

“It’s hard to tell. It-- he seems restless. But he hasn’t attacked anyone without provocation. He has some form of control over himself, at least.”

“And the little trick with the name still works?”

“Yes. He stills whenever I speak it. He almost let me-- I think he may have let me touch him.”

“Good thing you didn’t, or you’d have to make do without hands. Still, interesting. It wasn’t a fluke, then.” Haarlep smiled, seemingly delighted, and finished peeling the orange to eat a slice. “That may be very useful.”

“Useful for what? What is it she’s planning?”

“My lips are sealed. You know that.” A pause, and they shrugged before eating another slice. “As in for talking, not for--”

Dalah held back a groan. “Yes, I know what you mean,” she muttered, already regretting trying to get an answer out of the incubus. They were far from the worst company to keep in Mephistar - not that it was a high bar to step over - but the longer any conversation went, the more she found herself thinking that being torn from the inside out while birthing a devil was perhaps not the most excruciating thing she had ever gone through after all. 

“It’s not personal of course. She clearly trusts you to a degree - why else task you to give him the ring?”

Because it’s on me, Dalah thought. He’s my doing as much as Mephistopheles’. 

Still, she chose to ignore the question. “Have you spoken with her at all since last time?” she asked instead. Duke Baalphegor could change her appearance just as easily as Haarlep could change theirs; it made sense that any communication would take place between the two of them, who knew in what disguises. It was the most sensible way to go about it, and Duke Baalphegor was nothing if not sensible. She had to be, to keep her loyalty to both Asmodeus and Mephistopheles for so many centuries. Until recently, that was.

In an official capacity at least, no one really knew the reason why Mephistopheles’ long-time consort had left Mephistar quite so suddenly. However, for the many qualities even his victims could begrudgingly recognize Mephistopheles possessed, subtlety was not among them. His bursts of temper were not all that rare, but few recalled seeing one quite as terrible as the one that had followed the disappearance of the Crown of Karsus from his vault. 

… That may be partly due to the fact that most close witnesses to his tantrums rarely lived to tell the tale, truth be told, but that day his fury had been felt throughout the citadel, and probably through the entire glacier it was perched upon. And while there were many accusations one may move against the devils who formed the upper crust of Mephistar’s hierarchy, no one could accuse them of being stupid. They had immediately noticed that Duke Baalphegor had seemingly disappeared immediately afterwards, and put two and two together. More or less.

Among them, some whispered that Mephistopheles had destroyed her because he thought she’d played a role in the theft of the Crown; others said he had taken her prisoner. Others yet, more shrewd, knew that even in anger Mephistopheles would not risk Asmodeus’ ire quite so brazenly, killing such a close ally of his. 

“Think of it, our Lord of Hellfire has always coveted Asmodeus’ throne--”

“Nearly every archdevil does, Quagrem, except perhaps Zariel with her obsession for battle. Or do I need to remind you what became of Levistus?”

“Ah, but none was ever brave enough to say as much in Asmodeus’ face. Why then would he sit on that crown and its power for so long, without using it for his highest goal?”

“It was the work of a mere mortal, who tried and failed to be something more. Perhaps it was not powerful enough to take on the Lord Below, even on his brow.”

“Or perhaps, Duke Baalphegor convinced him not to use it. Perhaps she even used your same arguments. Everyone with sense knows that Baalphegor’s diplomacy was all that’s kept the Lord of Nessus from removing Mephistopheles--”

“Do you truly think Duke Baalphegor had a hand in taking the Crown?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd, Nexroth. She certainly did not sneak in the vault like a common thief, and may not even know who did, but think of it - she convinces him not to use a powerful artifact against Asmodei, he listens to her as he always does… and when the Crown goes missing, he’s lost the chance to ever use it. To her great credit, Baalphegor balanced her role as Mephistopheles’ consort and close ally of Asmodeus for millennia, but even she couldn’t keep it going forever.”

“And you believe the Crown incident is what upset that balance?”

“Can you think of anything else that might have?”

A pause, a hum. “... Perhaps there is truth to your words. But if that is so, the Lord of the Eighth is in a more precarious position than ever before. As you said, without Baalphegor here, Asmodeus’ tolerance may run thin.”

“Indeed it might,” was the reply, and that had been the end of the conversation, because neither was foolish enough to push it further, to even voice thoughts of a possible demise of Mephistopheles. Neither of them had paid the slightest attention to Dalah, and why should they? She was one of hundreds of thousands debtors doing menial tasks in the citadel, the vast majority of them uttering to themselves whatever gibberish crossed their broken minds. No one’s sanity lasted long, with few exceptions. 

Namely, Baalphegor’s personal attendants, all of them mortals who had been tricked or terrified into bearing children for her consort. As far as masters went, she was not unkind as long as instructions were followed… and she had extended some sort of protection over them, for none of them had lost their mind as other debtors eventually did. Not out of charity, clearly - it paid to have eyes and ears everywhere, those of debtors no one paid attention to - but Dalah cared little for her reasons as long as it kept her mind intact. 

Except that now, suddenly, she could think of nothing but her reasons. 

Saving Raphael, or at least part of him, had been a clear move against Mephistopheles - but to what end she couldn't begin to imagine. What game was she playing? Was it even just her game, or was it Asmodeus’? What role was Raphael supposed to play? What role could he play now that he was split into two beings, one enslaved and one a mere mortal?

Is he to be yet another lanceboard piece to sacrifice? Did I only delay his demise?

Not knowing ate at her, but one thing was clear: she may be on shaky ground but, very suddenly, even Mephistopheles’ position in the Hells didn’t seem all that secure anymore.

***

As it turned out, stepping on insects was making Raphael feel a great deal better indeed.

That was not something he planned on admitting to the spawn, of course. Not that he could have even if he wanted to, as players were not allowed to speak to anybody other than their opponents and the judges.

That, and Astarion was currently busy: it seemed that betting all the gold he had on him was not enough, and he had started his own little gambling ring. He was collecting small bets for each round from spectators whose chosen winner had clearly already lost, but who still had gold left to lose. 

And lose it they would, unless they did the clever thing and bet on him. 

Raphael smiled and leaned back on his chair, looking at the other five players in his group as they put down their cards. The only truly decent player, a half-orc with a sound strategic mind, had the highest strength flight by far; a quick calculation told her that Raphael could not possibly have a stronger one. Raphael allowed her a handful of seconds to celebrate her victory before putting down his own cards. The weakest flights by far, and yet…

“Unfortunately, my friend, I must claim this round.”

“What! Your flight is nowhere near--” she began, only to trail off when she properly paused to look at the cards.

Raphael smiled. “I have the Druid. The lowest strength flight wins,” he said, and smiled again - admittedly, only a touch smug - before leaning back to let the judge look over all flights and declare his victory, letting him pass the turn to the next game.

The announcement was not particularly well-received by the half-orc, who made her displeasure known by grabbing the judge and flinging him against a table where another game had just concluded. An impressive throw, considering that the judge was roughly the size of a particularly burly gnoll. 

A brief bout of chaos unfolded, several of the judges banding together to throw out the sore loser. Raphael ducked under a thrown stool, took a moment to drink a mouthful of wine, and looked over to his left. Astarion was distributing wins and pocketing his fees, but he paused a moment to look back and grin.

Raphael didn’t quite smile back, but the corners of his mouth curled up just a fraction, and he raised the goblet in a silent toast. Another sip of wine, and he looked around again. 

Several hours and many games in, the pool of players had significantly been narrowed down. They were now down to twelve tables and, in the last rounds, only one player would advance from each; two more games, then, and that entire travesty would be over with. Until then, he supposed he had no choice but to keep winning. 

Not the worst task in the world, he had to admit. Compared to the dismal experiences he’d had in the past half a year, this was almost… acceptable. 

As some semblance of order returned and the winners from their respective games were seated in groups of six, Raphael briefly considered losing on purpose right at the grand finale. Watching the spawn trying to explain to the rest of their companions where most of their gold went would be amusing, he had to admit… but they did need that gold to open up a portal to the Hells, so losing it would be too great an inconvenience to be worth it.

Perhaps the vampling’s little plan hadn’t been all that foolish after all. That, too, was something Raphael would definitely not admit aloud. 

He turned his attention back to the game instead, and went ahead to stomp on a few more insects on his way to his first victory in a long time. A laughably small victory, in the greater scale of things, but a victory nonetheless. 

May it be the first of many, he thought, and emptied his fourth goblet of wine just as finished his winning hand.

***

“I still maintain you should have told us what you were planning--”

“Thirty thousand gold.”

“That’s not the point I’m trying to--”

“Sorry, love. I can’t hear your point over the jingling of thirty thousand gold.” Half drunk on the bottle of blood he was drinking from, Astarion sat more comfortably on the tree branch he was perched on along with Wyll. He turned to Raphael, who was precariously sitting on another branch, and grinned, lifting the bottle. “Sharee!”

“... What?”

“Isn’t it Infernal for ‘cheers’?”

“It means turnip.”

“Ah. Well-- cheers for the Three-Dragon Ante champion of Sunridge, who just made us rich. We’ll very much enjoy carrying this money to Baldur’s Gate, where we’ll promptly spend it all to go, literally, to Hell.”

As Astarion set to work to empty the bottle, Durge shifted a little on the fork in the tree trunk they were sitting on, with Halsin in his cat shape sitting across their shoulders. They glanced over at Raphael. “... Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

A shrug. “It was a childishly simple endeavor. Bragging would be poor form on my part.”

“He said, bragging,” Wyll muttered, but he seemed amused and even Raphael’s scoff sounded almost like a barely held-back chuckle. Durge suspected he’d had more than a couple of goblets of wine during the game, but said nothing of it and let their gaze wander back to the ground below, where they had set up two tents and started a fire, as visible as a beacon into the night. 

If anyone had set out after them with the intent of robbing them of the winnings - more a certainty than a probability, to be quite honest - they couldn’t miss it. What they would hopefully miss was the fact that the several barrels near the tents contained smokepowder.

“... Well. How much longer are we supposed to wait?” Raphael asked, and Durge shrugged, holding back a yawn. Sharing a tent with Halsin was rarely conducive to a sound, long rest. 

“I’d give it another hour at most,” they said, and they were not too far off: in the end, it took only about forty minutes before Halsin, still perched on Durge’s shoulder, hissed. They looked down to see shadows creeping at the edges of the small camp, a group of at least ten people. One dragonborn, from what Durge could tell, and a couple of dwarves, along with what was probably an half-orc and others who may have been human or elves - hard to tell. 

In the flickering light of the campfire, they watched them split in two groups, each surrounding a tent; weapons were brought up, swords and axes, and they fell on each tent, the silence of night broken by cries and hollers as they proceeded to hack at the tents and… well, at the people they assumed to be inside. 

“Not precisely professionals, these ones,” Wyll murmured. “Who wants to do the honors?”

“Oh,” Astarion whispered back, the grin almost audible in his voice. “I bet the devil wants to have a go. Don’t you, Raphael?”

“I’m surprised, spawn. I thought you’d be eager to end them yourself.”

“I’m just generous like that,” Astarion replied, his voice making clear he was also a little tipsy. Wyll reached to grab him by the shoulder, just to make sure he wouldn’t fall off the tree while he gestured widely at the scene below them. “Go on, old man. This shot’s all yours.”

“It will be my pleasure,” was the response, just as someone below spoke up.

“Wait a minute, there is no one he--”

“Ignis!” 

The firebolt shot through the air, a streak of bright light in the dark. For a moment it illuminated the faces of the bandits below - one of them saw them, a dragonborn with blood-red scales, but it was too late to do anything - and then the barrels of smokepowder blew up in a deafening explosion that covered any screams, and left their would-be killers no hope for survival. Bit of a shame to lose two tents like that but, Durge figured, better those than their skins.

The shockwave of the explosion was powerful enough to make Astarion entirely lose his balance, but Wyll caught his leg on time and he just dangled for a few moments upside down, laughing at the carnage below. He glanced up with a grin, the flames beneath turning his hair into a bright halo.

“Admit it, devil,” he said, holding up the hand that wasn’t clutching the now empty bottle. “You had fun today.”

Raphael scoffed, of course; he seemed to spend half his time doing that lately, so it wasn’t surprising. What did surprise Durge was the fact he actually leaned over to grab Astarion’s hand and help him back up on the tree while Halsin dismissed his wildshape and cast an ice storm at the fire below, to keep it from spreading to the forest. That particular task covered, Durge’s attention stayed on Astarion and Raphael.

“I suppose that your antics do provide a sort of childish entertainment,” Raphael was muttering. “For those who care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you’re drunk.”

“Sounds to me like you both had enough to drink,” Wyll laughed, only to recoil when both turned on him as one. 

“Look who’s talking!”

“That’s a bold stand from someone who guzzles wine like water at all times of the day.”

“Hey, that’s not--”

“Amazed the Blade still recalls what end of the blade he’s supposed to hold, really.”

“Granted, your passable taste in wine makes it marginally more tolerable--”

“I only sample a little wine every once in a--”

“Oh, that’s sampling now? If I sampled necks the way you sample wine, I’d be leaving a trail of dead bodies in my wake.”

“I-- well--” Wyll groaned, clearly realizing he’d bitten off more than he cared to chew at the moment. “Oh gods, I did not sign up for this. Can you two go back to hating each other’s guts?”

“We still absolutely do,” Raphael pointed out, and Astarion grinned. 

“The feeling is mutual,” he declared, and patted Raphael's shoulder hard enough to make him fall off the branch with a cry. Later he’d deny doing it on purpose, but as Durge nearly fell themself to cast Feather Fall and spare Raphael a very painful landing on icy ground, Astarion looked at them with a lopsided smile. 

“You know, love,” he said, “I still think he likes us.”

***

[Back to Chapter 7]

[On to Chapter 9]

[Back to Start]

[gctchell]

" In the depths of darkness Where the flames burn bright There's a little demon With a soul pure as light Niffty's her name She's a maid from the abyss But my heart's on fire Just aching for her kiss With her fiery eyes and her playful wink She's got me under her spell I don't wanna think Her demon wings They shimmer and they shine With Niffty by my side Everything feels fine

Oh Niffty my angel from the fiery pit You're the one that I desire Don't you know it? Our love burns strong like the fires of Hell Together In darkness Forever we shall dwell! "

Whoooooooooa.

Geez, there it is - the flair of the stars! Niffty wasn't immune to the charm of a rockstar on stage, even though her flavor was more preferable to the men of her time. There was a certain je ne sais quoi to them that could not quite be replicated beyond the Golden Years, but leave it to the First Man to be able to own his own sort of flavor that could make her grin. Matters helped that the subject of the song just so happened to be about her!

Oh, her heart was all a-flutter!

Giggles spilled from Niffty as she huddled her hand beneath her chin, grinning wide as her eye blazed and furthered its orange halo, pupil shrinking to the size of a dime, completely focused on Adam with unbroken attentiveness. Her other hand disappeared into her apron pocket, clicking the red REC button of her cassette player. You better believe she was recording this to later play until she had to rewind all the film back in.

She's the one that you desire, hmmm? She'll remember that.

[lexa-griffins]

I love your headcanon for Lexa's ass that won't quit 🤣 Is that why she always wears her long coat for any unexpected wardrobe malfunctions?

Lexa's jacket is so long because it's full of secrets, and the secret is actually her ass 😌 it covering any mal function is just a plus, girl got it for the drama and the swoosh and the flair!!!

That jacket was there to keep everyone humbled and focused on anythingnbut the heda booty and add a certain je ne sais quoi to Lexa's entrances skdnskznd

[wuorija]

Embracing Festive Cheer: How a Simple Avatar Change Brightens the Holidays

The air is getting crisper, the lights are twinkling, and the world seems to don a cozy sweater. It's that magical time of year when the smallest gesture can spread heaps of joy. Have you ever wondered how something as simple as updating your social media profile picture can be a part of that spreading cheer? This Christmas, I stumbled upon a nifty little tool that had me reflecting on the power of a personalized touch – enter PFP Maker Free by iFoto.

Have you ever felt like your social media profile could use a little sprucing up, especially during the holidays? It's like putting on a ugly Christmas sweater, but this time, it's digital and you're not limited to just one style. That's where PFP Maker Free caught my eye. It's an app that's like having a personal stylist for your online persona, especially when you're looking to deck the halls – or in this case, your profile – with some festive flair.

Let's backtrack a bit. Have you ever uploaded a photo just to find it missing that je ne sais quoi? PFP Maker Free actually addresses this issue by turning your everyday photos into something extraordinary. It's like having a personal Picasso in your pocket, ready to add a splash of holiday color to any snapshot. This little gem of an app is a part of the iFoto suite, known for its user-friendly interface and creativity-boosting features.

As I started playing around with PFP Maker Free, I was struck by how easy it was to infuse my photos with the Christmas spirit. It's not just about slapping a Santa hat on your head or adding a candy cane filter; it's about genuinely capturing the essence of the season in your online identity. I found myself asking, how often do we take the time to express our festive side in the digital world?

What's really neat about PFP Maker Free is the level of personalization it offers. It's not a one-size-fits-all deal. Instead, you can tailor your profile pic to suit your style and the mood of the season. Whether you're all about the classic red and green or prefer a more subtle nod to the holidays, PFP Maker Free has got you covered. It's like having a box of holiday decorations, but for your social media profile.

As the holidays approached, I noticed something heartwarming. Changing my profile picture didn't just update my online appearance; it sparked conversations with friends and family about our favorite holiday traditions, recipes we couldn't wait to try, and even plans for a Zoom holiday party. It's amazing how a simple avatar can be a catalyst for connection and joy during this time of the year.

And the beauty of PFP Maker Free isn't just in its holiday themes. It's in the way it encourages creativity. As I played with different styles, I began to see the potential in my everyday photos. It was like rediscovering my own album of memories with a fresh pair of eyes. Each converted photo became a new memory, ready to be shared with the world.

As I wrap up this little tale of my festive digital change, I can't help but feel a warm glow, much like the one you get when you're snuggled up by the fireplace with a cup of hot cocoa. So, if you're looking to add a touch of holiday magic to your social media profiles, consider giving PFP Maker Free a try. Who knows? You might just brighten someone's day with a cheerful avatar that sparks a conversation or brings a smile.

In the spirit of the season, let's not forget that it's the little things that make a big difference. Whether it's a new profile picture or a heartfelt message to a friend, each act of kindness or creativity contributes to the tapestry of joy that defines the holidays. Here's to spreading cheer, one avatar at a time, with a little help from PFP Maker Free and the magic of iFoto.

[songvitko]

The Beauty of Numbers: How iFoto's AI Attractiveness Test Is Redefining Personal Flair

In a world where the line between art and technology is as blurred as the features on a perfectly filtered selfie, the concept of beauty has evolved. We're no longer just admiring the surface; we're analyzing it. Enter iFoto, a beacon of modern mystique, with its AI Attractiveness Test, a tool that promises to measure the unquantifiable – the allure of a face.

Have you ever stopped to wonder what makes a face stand out? Is it the symmetry, the eyes, the smile? Or perhaps it's something more complex, something that's as intangible as the very essence of beauty itself? iFoto's AI Attractiveness Test doesn't just guess; it calculates. It's like having a digital dermatologist for your complexion, a computerized connoisseur of cuteness.

But what does it mean to have your attractiveness measured by an algorithm? It's a question that's as intriguing as it is personal. Imagine you're a detective, but instead of solving a crime, you're on the case of your own face. You upload a photo to iFoto, and it does its thing. The results? A number, a score, a grade. It's like a report card for your beauty, and let's be honest, who doesn't want to ace that test?

Now, let's talk about the intersection of tech and beauty standards. It's a dance, a tango, a collaboration. Technology is the partner, and beauty is the rhythm. iFoto's AI Attractiveness Test is a step in this dance, a synchronized move that keeps pace with the ever-changing tides of what's considered beautiful.

But here's the twist – beauty is subjective. It's like trying to define the color of the sky. Some say it's blue, others might argue it's a gradient of hues. So, what happens when a machine tries to define beauty? Does it become a universal truth or just another opinion in a sea of opinions?

Consider this: you're at a party, and someone walks up to you, eyes twinkling, "Your face, it's got a certain je ne sais quoi." How do you react? Are you flattered, defensive, or do you just nod and smile, feeling a bit confused? Now, imagine that same scenario, but instead of a person, it's a machine. "Your face, it scores a 9.8 on our AI Attractiveness Test." How does that make you feel?

The beauty of iFoto's AI Attractiveness Test isn't just in the numbers it spits out. It's in the conversation it starts. It's a catalyst for discussion, a prompt for self-reflection. It makes us question what we think we know about beauty and what we might be missing.

Is your beauty a 10 or a 6? Is it defined by society's standards or your own personal flair? With iFoto's AI Attractiveness Test, the answer is up to you. It's not about the score, but about the experience. It's about seeing your reflection in a digital mirror and liking what you see.

[editorialistcom]

How to Master French Girl Style

The essence of French girl is timeless elegance, a blend of classic silhouettes and contemporary fashion. It’s a style that has been emulated and admired around the world for its effortless chic and understated sophistication. At Editorialist.com, French style is celebrated and explored through various lenses, from the iconic staples that define the look to the modern interpretations that keep it fresh and relevant.

The Timeless Appeal of French Style

French style is often characterized by its simplicity and attention to detail. It’s not about being ostentatious but rather about being well-dressed in a way that seems natural and unforced. This approach to fashion is exemplified by icons like Jeanne Damas, a model and founder of the Parisian brand Rouje, who embodies the Parisian chic aesthetic.

Key Elements of French Style

To truly capture the French style, one must consider the key elements that are staples in a French wardrobe:

The Breton Stripe: A classic pattern that originated from the uniforms of French sailors, the Breton stripe has become a symbol of French fashion.

The Trench Coat: A Burberry trench coat is a quintessential piece that adds a touch of class and versatility to any outfit.

Ballet Flats: Comfortable yet stylish, ballet flats are a go-to shoe for many French women, embodying the blend of fashion and function.

Well-Fitted Denim: A pair of well-fitted jeans is a must-have, perfect for casual outings or dressed up with a blazer for a more polished look.

The Basket Bag: Adding a touch of rustic charm, the basket bag is both practical and stylish, a favorite among French fashionistas.

Incorporating French Style into Your Wardrobe

Adopting French style doesn’t require a complete wardrobe overhaul. It’s about incorporating key pieces and understanding how to style them. For instance, pairing a simple white blouse with high-waisted jeans and ballet flats can instantly give off a French vibe. Adding a trench coat or a silk scarf can elevate the look further, providing that signature French flair.

The Role of Editorialist.com in Promoting French Style

Editorialist.com plays a significant role in promoting French style by providing insights, guides, and curated selections of French-inspired fashion. The platform offers a window into the world of French fashion, highlighting the latest trends, essential pieces, and style tips to help readers master the art of French dressing.

In conclusion, French style at Editorialist.com is not just about clothing; it’s about an attitude, a way of life that celebrates simplicity, elegance, and a certain je ne sais quoi that makes French fashion eternally appealing. Whether you’re a seasoned admirer or a newcomer to the concept, Editorialist.com is your guide to embracing this timeless style.

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View more: https://editorialist.com/style/french-girl-style/

[fashioneditswebsite]

5 spring coat trends we can’t wait to wear

Stay stylish through April showers or sunshine with the latest Spring Coat trends. Spring might only have just started to appear, but the seasons are shifting, so lightweight outerwear is in vogue now. When it comes to transitional jackets, we're all for hard-working pieces that marry function with flair, have room for an extra layer underneath (in case there's a sudden cold spell) thanks to a relaxed fit, and are versatile enough to know you're going to get lots of wear out of them. "Here are the latest trends for spring coats." 1. Utility View this post on Instagram A post shared by Max Mara (@maxmara) Utility wear was a hot pick on the spring/summer 2024 runways, and the combination of beige neutral colors with warmer sandy tones makes this style la crème de la crème of casual cool. Cropped Cargo Jacket Madwell $99 The Barn Jacket Everlane $178 2. Overshirt View this post on Instagram A post shared by Sézane (@sezane) Sure to be a big hit this spring and beyond, it's time to swap out your cardigan for the far trendier, loose-fit overshirt. One should wear over a sweater, T-shirt, or bandeau top (yes, they're back big-time), and shirt styles are shaping to be the cover-up this summer. Shirt Jacket Rails $348 Oversized Shirt Denim Overshirt Reiss $290 3. Parka View this post on Instagram A post shared by Damart UK (@damartuk) We know it's not a game-changer in the style stakes, but when those April showers call for something with a bit more coverage and a hood, an effortless parka hits all the right notes with jeans and trainers. SIGNATURE OVERCOAT ALO $238 Parker Jacket 3 in 1 waxed cotton cost Landsend $146.96 4. Cropped trench View this post on Instagram A post shared by MAJE (@majeparis) If you're used to longer styles, the cropped trench takes a little getting used to, but it looks ever so hip – and that's exactly where the length should hit. A hero piece can be in any wardrobe, and they can also be packed for the summer holidays for a quick cover-up if sudden showers threaten to dampen your style. Mango $99.99 Cropped Trench Cropped Trench H&M $33.60 5. Classic Trench View this post on Instagram A post shared by The White Company (@thewhitecompany) Furthermore, despite the changing fashion trends, a full-length trench coat still remains a standout for spring. The key to pulling off this classic look is how you wear it. Timeless and universally flattering, it's the fashion chameleon that keeps on giving and manages to combine effortless chic with a certain je ne sais quoi. The golden rule? Furthermore, you could try wearing the outfit open and keeping the belt loosely tied at the back. Additionally, you can dress it down with denim this time to give it a more casual look. Classic trench coat Mango $139.99 Classic Trench Coat Phase Trench Coat $298 Read the full article

[wizardbracket]

Round 4: Match 1 of 8

Why they deserve to be the ultimate wizard according to YOU:

Caleb:

Vanquished (so far): Essek Thelyss, Adaine Abernant, VR-LA

"Caleb deadass planned to rewrite time to fix his childhood mistakes"

"He is peak sad wizard boy energy, but also has that little bit of flair that is essential to any wizard"

“Caleb just has that je ne sais quoi”

"Caleb has a cat!!!"

“Dedicated his life to learning the ultimate magic to change reality & fix his mistakes, and also opposes the magic CIA.”

“Chaotic bisexual snarky powerful wizard who married a war criminal and killed a living city”

Will:

Vanquished (so far): Rupert Giles, Mickey Mouse, Schmendrick

"His mom probably made him his costume & I love his mom"

"Look at his cute little hat!"

"He's a fashion icon and we love him. Address him by his full name. Will the Wise"

"Will the wise was such a certifiable slay that’s that”

“he is my sweet cheese, my rotten soldier, my good time boy”

“everyone’s soooo jealous because Will’s hat is pointier than theirs and their robes aren’t even breathable”