#with his particular denomination

[barnbridges]

no but it's funny that.... bunny corcoran doesn't just hate women, he hates nuns, the virgin mary and his classmate. women with agency. women revered and regarded in catholicism.

[megarywrites]

This part i’m writing is making my skin crawl so much i can’t wait for him to die (it happens in the next chapter lol)

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

Devil's Snare

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

𝑨𝒍𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍'𝒔 𝑺𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒔. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒙𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒖𝒎 𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒂����𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔.

Description: Y/N is apprehensive when she is assigned the post of Aemond Targaryen's handmaiden. She expects him to be cold and cruel, and is surprised when he is actually kindle and gentle to her. All the while Aemond finds himself falling for his shy and skittish handmaiden.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Disclaimer: this is incredibly self-indulgent. I love Aemond and wanted to focus in on the softer sides of his character. I've planned 3 parts to this series but who knows.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of canon typical misogyny, female reader (sorry! This just makes it easier for the plot), handmaiden reader, slow-burn, lengthy?, potentially ooc Aemond but Ewan Mitchell did say Aemond just needed someone to love him.

Y/N was filled with trepidation as she approached the royal quarters, her movements slow as she fruitlessly tried to delay the inevitable. She supposed she should be grateful for her new appointment as Prince Aemond's handmaiden. But she found she'd much rather have continued on in the lower chambers of the keep. Alas, the matron had chosen her for the position, recently opened when the prince's previous handmaiden was mysteriously dismissed. Prince Aemond was known by many denominations, whispered rumours spreading like wildfire throughout the Red Keep. The One-eyed Prince. The fierce dragon rider who'd claimed the largest dragon in existence. The cold second son with a particular proclivity for swordsmanship. None of these served to assuage Y/N's fears for her new role. She was grateful, at least, that it was not Prince Aegon. She'd heard terrible rumours of his behaviour towards female servants. She'd heard nothing of the like about his brother.

The matron had told Y/N not to worry, that Prince Aemond barely acknowledged servants at all. And surely she was the perfect choice, with her excellent skills in needlepoint and, more significantly, her quiet and timid disposition which enabled her to move like a shadow. Y/N tried to even out her breathing and calm her wildly beating heart as she reached the door of Prince Aemond's chambers. Upon knocking and hearing no reply she entered anyway to find the Prince was not within, to her great relief. If she was particularly fortunate she might complete all of her tasks before he returned and avoid an interaction altogether. Quickly setting to work, she began to tidy and clean. Though Prince Aemond's quarters were already unexpectedly neat. Y/N considered this was perhaps a reflection of the controlled demeanour he always seemed to carry whenever she had spotted him in the Keep.

Turning her attentions towards making the bed she noticed a thin strap of leather strewn across it. Picking it up, upon closer inspection she recognised it to be Prince Aemond's eyepatch. Y/N frowned as she realised the strap was broken. She knew Aemond always wore it to cover the gaping wound that still remained from when he'd lost his eye in a brawl with his nephew. Y/N had once passed a group of handmaidens whispering by a stairwell about how the Prince purposefully wore the eye patch so as not to upset the ladies of the court, and hearing them erupt into giggles. She had found herself frowning at their laughter, thinking to herself that it was thoughtful of the Prince, chivalrous even.

The smooth feel of the leather in her hand brought Y/N back to the present, she was prone to losing herself in thought, and she came to the decision that she would mend it for him. Y/N knew the importance the eye patch held for him, indeed she was surprised he had left his chambers without it. Pocketing it, she quickly rearranged the Prince's bed sheets and, thinking the room sufficiently tidy, she exited the Prince's chambers to find her sewing kit.

Y/N had dedicated more time to mending Prince Aemond's eyepatch than was truly necessary, determined to make the stitches as neat as possible. It would be worn by a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms after all. Returning to the Prince's chambers that evening to stoke the fire and light candles, she began to fear her actions had been rash and presumptuous. Perhaps Prince Aemond would be angry with her for taking something so important from his room without his permission. Perhaps he did not feel a need for it any longer and she would simply be cementing the idea that he did if she presented the eye patch to him. By the time she reached his chambers she was wracked with nerves from reviewing in her mind every possible reaction the Prince might have to her actions, and a sickening feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She was once again relieved to find the Prince was not in his chambers. Though her relief was short lived, for no sooner had she lit the candles and begun lighting a fire than the the very object of her thoughts strode into the room. He halted briefly upon seeing her, but quickly moved to sit in a nearby armchair, seemingly ignoring her presence. The matron may have been right then, Y/N had worried for nothing.

But her heart dropped as she realised he was, in fact, wearing an eye patch. She had been stupid to think he should only have the one and now cursed herself for being so foolish. Y/N gnawed on her bottom lip with worry. Perhaps the Prince would be angered with her taking his belongings from his room without his permission. Or maybe he had meant to throw it away and would think her silly for presuming otherwise. Nonetheless, she determined that she would return what belonged to him. Finishing stoking the fire she rose from her knees and dusted off her skirts, before slowly inching her way over to the Prince. It was only when she stood directly in front of him that he raised his one good eye to meet hers, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity. Y/N wrung her hands nervously, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. She hardly knew what to say, and could not help stuttering as she spoke. "My Prince, I must apologise to you." Aemond seemed momentarily surprised by this, before his features settled back into a mask of indifference, though he leant forward at her words, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin on his knuckles. "Must you now?"

Y/N swallowed down thickly, before nodding. "I couldn't help but notice the broken eye patch upon the bed as I attended my duties this morning, and I took it to mend it. I realise now this was presumptions of me, but I had only thought to be helpful as I know you always wear it." Y/N's eyes widened as she realised her words might suggest she believed he should cover his wound. Holding her hands palm up in a supplicatory manor, her words spilled out quicker and even less elegant than before. "Not that I believe you need to wear the patch. I just thought it must be important to you. Oh I am making a mess of my words. Here, My Prince." She bowed her head and tentatively held the mended eye patch out to him, not daring to look in his direction. After a moment a hand came into her line of vision as Prince Aemond slowly took the patch from her, his much larger hand closing over hers briefly.

Y/n could barely stand the Prince's silence. If the rumours were to be believed, his silent composure concealed its own danger. And, being too fearful to look up at his face, she had no idea of his reaction to her offering. "What is your name?" Y/N's eyes snapped up to meet Aemond's good eye. She had not expected his question, spoken in such a measured tone, having anticipated his ire instead. "Y/N my Prince." Prince Aemond only hummed in response before getting to his feet, prompting Y/N to take several small steps backwards in order to maintain a respectable distance. Y/N averted her eyes to the floor, but nevertheless still felt his gaze upon her, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. "I thank you for your thoughtful actions Y/N. That will be all." She didn't have to be told twice, quickly curtsying to him and rushing hurriedly from the room.

Aemond frowned as the handmaiden fled from him, as if he had struck her rather than offered her his thanks. But she did seem a rather skittish little thing. He had never seen this particular handmaiden before, his mother having dismissed the previous one for reasons he did not care to know. As he'd entered his chambers he'd startled for a moment, taking in her features which he found decidedly pretty. He quickly dispelled himself of that thought and opted to ignore her presence, having come to understand it made the servants less nervous in his presence and more efficient. Taking a seat close to the fire the girl was stoking, he could not help keeping his eye trained upon her in interest as he observed a range of emotions crossing her face. He had not expected her to approach him then, almost admiring her boldness before she quickly turned into a stuttering mess, and it was only with a concerted effort that he understood her at all. Yet he found himself moved as he disentangled the reason for her apology from her frantic speech.

Looking down at his now mended eyepatch he could not help but admire her handiwork, the stitches were so neat and close together that you could hardly tell it had ever required mending. Aemond had carelessly strewn the broken eye patch on his bed that morning, he had many others in case of such incidents and had not thought of it since. But at the sight of it in her proferred hand, Aemond became aware of a strange feeling in his chest. He had hardened himself following the events at Driftmark that had lost him his eye, an act of violence against him which had never been avenged. He still felt the slight keenly for his nephew had never been punished for it. Aemond had not since felt such genuine kindness directed towards him, such care for this most essential part of him, even by his own family, with the exception of his gentle sister Helaena. His lost eye had ever been a painful subject to avoid. It was only a small matter really, the mending of an eye patch, but it carried a far greater significance for Aemond, who found himself charmed by this particular handmaiden's thoughtfulness towards him.

Y/N burned with embarrassment as she fled from the Prince's chambers. His reaction was admittedly better than she could have hoped for, but she'd still managed to make a complete fool of herself in this, their first meeting. She felt she could not have given a worse impression of her capability as his handmaiden and overstepped boundaries. Over the next few days she endeavoured to move quickly as she completed her tasks in the hopes that she would avoid the Prince entirely. She successfully managed to do so for two consecutive days by following the same schedule, only entering his room at hours she knew he would be otherwise preoccupied.

On the third day Y/N entered Prince Aemond's chambers, she was startled to see the Prince himself sitting in his armchair. The morning sunlight pouring through the windows cast his face in a soft glow that accentuated his features, which were admittedly beautiful. He was lazily playing with a coin, weaving it between his fingers. When she realised she'd been staring at his hands for an extended period of time she briefly raised her eyes to his face to see his mouth upturned in a slight smirk, and she quickly shifted her focus to completing her tasks. She moved quietly and efficiently throughout the room, trying with great difficulty to avoid looking in the Prince's direction, to pretend he was not there at all.

It would not do for her to turn back into a jittery, stumbling mess and prove what he must already have thought, that she was completely incompetent and unsuited to her position. Removing a tray of used cups and goblets from a side table, Y/N turned to take them back to the kitchens. Walking past Prince Aemond, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that he was wearing the eye patch she had mended for him and halted her moments to confirm she was correct. The Prince was looking at her almost expectantly, as if he'd been waiting for her to notice. With a barely perceptible nod of her head, she hastily left the room.

Aemond had hoped that exclusively wearing the eye patch his handmaiden had mended would assure her he was not angry with her for her actions. And yet he did not see her for the two days following their meeting, and Aemond realised she must have taken account of his movements to avoid being in his chambers at the same time, the clever minx. So on the third day he resolved to put an end to this ridiculous game of cat and mouse. Though it was his habit to rise early and leave for the training yard, he settled himself in his favoured arm chair to await the maiden's arrival. A satisfied smirk ghosted onto his face as she entered, clearly startled to find him still within his chambers and Aemond noted how she'd stared at his hands for several moments before turning to attend to her duties.

His brows furrowed in frustration as he watched her mill about the room, steadfastly ignoring him and avoiding looking in his direction entirely. He did not wish for her to be afraid of him. It was only when she was exiting his chambers that she glanced at him again and, finally, seemed to notice the eye patch he was wearing as she stared at it, rooted to the spot. A light dusting of pink rose to her cheeks before she nodded and swiftly departed, and Aemond assumed she had now realised he was not displeased with her. The moment she disappeared from his view, Aemond found himself wanting to see her blush again.

Y/N was still wary in Aemond's presence, a consequence of her own shy disposition and acute sense of awareness in the difference in their stations. However, she was no longer afraid of him, so to speak, and stopped trying to avoid being in the same room with him, simply finding a rhythm of getting on with her tasks whether he was there or not. He did not address her often, but thanked her each time she completed her survey of his room and turned to leave. His voice was smooth and quiet and Y/N noted that he was much more soft-spoken than his loud and overbearing brother. Prince Aemond clearly did not feel the need to shout to make his presence felt. Y/N had passed two weeks in her new post before there was any shift in the dynamic the Prince and his handmaiden had developed.

Y/N had finished lighting all of the candles in the Prince's chamber and had started collecting empty cups strewn about the various surfaces in the room when she spotted the eight legged monstrosity, prompting her to let out a high pitched shriek and drop the tray she'd been holding, sending goblets crashing to the stone floor. She had always been terrified of spiders, begging the other handmaidens to deal with them when she had worked in the lower chambers of the Keep. But it was just her now, and her heart beat wildly as she realised she would have no choice but to remove it from the Prince's room. She kept her eyes on the creature with a sickening sense of dread as it crawled along the length of the side table she'd been cleaning. But she heard Prince Aemond speak behind her, his tone somewhat demanding "What is the matter?"

Y/N tried to keep her tone even as she answered, but even she could hear the slight hysteria tinging her voice and knew he would not be fooled. "Simply a spider, My Prince. I have never been fond of them. I apologise for disturbing you with my outburst and I will deal with the creature and the mess forthwith." Taking a deep breath to steel herself for what she was about to do, she took a tentative step towards where the spider was still crawling, before letting out a small squeek of surprise as warm hands enveloped her waist and gently moved her to the side. She had not heard the Prince's footsteps, he moved so quietly. Wordlessly he scooped the spider into a goblet she'd dropped and walked to his balcony, opening up the doors to set it loose. By the time he'd returned, shutting the doors to block out the crisp night air, Y/N had come to her senses and cleared up the mess she'd made, tray back in hand. She felt immensely grateful to the Prince for stepping in as he had, clearly having sensed her distress, but she could not help feeling somewhat ashamed of her silliness.

Looking up from the tray she'd been holding as his boots came into her line of sight, she attempted to channel her sincere gratitude into her voice "Thank you, My Prince. I am most grateful for your kindness in stepping in, and I assure you it will not happen again." She watched as a strange look passed over Prince Aemond's features, before he leant his head down towards hers, his long platinum hair brushing against her shoulder with their proximity. "Spiders only look frightening little one, they will not harm you." There was a glint in his eye that hinted at a hidden meaning to his words, though Y/N could not understand what it was. Straightening up, Aemond lightly waved a hand in dismissal. "That will be all for this evening Y/N." Still slightly dazed from their former proximity, where she'd been close enough to smell his scent of leather, musk and pine, Y/N simply nodded before turning from him and speeding back to the servant's quarters. She felt the Prince's stare on her back until the door concealed her from his view.

Aemond had reread the same page at least thrice. He kept having to pull his eyes from his handmaiden's form as he watched her move about his chambers. She'd sparked his interest from their first meeting and though they interacted little, he consistently found himself watching her movements, though he could not tell why. Resuming his focus on his book, a shrill shriek had his eyes snapping back up to his handmaiden. Concerned she had hurt herself, perhaps cut her hand on one of the cups that had tumbled to the floor, his voice came out sharper than he'd intended in his urgency. "What is the matter?" He felt relief wash over him to learn of the reason for her outburst, and a small degree of amusement at the cause being but a little spider. This quickly diminished when he observed her genuine fear as she cowered away from the creature. She looked as if she were headed for battle rather than contending with a spider.

Rising from his seated position he quietly moved over to her, taking hold of her waist to move her aside and remove the spider himself. Returning to her side, he'd not expected the earnestness in her gaze as she thanked him. You'd have thought he saved her from Vhagar instead of a mere spider. But it was her reference to his 'kindness' that had sent his mind spinning. Kind was not a word oft associated with Aemond Targaryen, he was well aware of his reputation within the Red Keep. He felt that same strange sensation in his chest he'd noticed once before, when she'd handed him his mended eye patch. As warmth spread throughout his chest he realised he was endeared to have someone feel so positively towards him, to look to him for protection, to think him kind when this seemed laughable in conjunction with his somewhat fearsome appearance.

With a somewhat cocky smile, Aemond moved closer to the handmaiden, leaning his face close to hers. "Spiders only look frightening little one, they will not harm you." He'd hoped to subtly convey to her that he too held no danger for her, that she had no need of being so skittish around him. But he could see from the look of confusion that crossed her dainty features she had not understood his meaning fully. He did not wish to increase her level of discomfort around him so quickly straightened and offered her his dismissal. He tried not to address the sting of hurt he felt as she once again rushed away from him.

After Prince Aemond had gallantly saved her from the spider, Y/N had begun to feel more and more comfortable with him. He had not mocked her or made her feel silly for her actions, indeed he had not mentioned the incident at all. She realised that he had done nothing but try to make her feel comfortable around him and she had responded by treating him almost as if he were a snake about to strike at any moment. So she resolved to make a greater effort not to appear so frightened in his presence, her shyness be damned. She started out small at first, actually greeting him as she entered his chambers, though he seemed surprised she had even addressed him at all. Eventually she even began to ask after his day as she stoked the fire in his chambers and bid him goodnight for the evening. The Prince seemed to welcome her small attempts at conversation and readily responded, sometimes with quite extensive accounts of the events of the day.

Several days followed where their schedules did not align and Prince Aemond was absent every time Y/N entered his chambers. She tried to suppress a bizarre spark of dissapointment at this, not knowing when she had started to actually look forward to their short interactions. Dusting his bookshelf, she ran her hands over the ornate spines of the books. Laying down her duster as she carefully pulled one out to gaze at it, grazing her hand softly over the cover. "You take an interest in the Targaryen histories?" She was startled out of her reveries by Prince Aemond's question, not having heard his voice in a few days. Quickly replacing the book where it belonged she curtsied to him "I apologise My Prince, I should not have..."

The Prince walked over to her, his hair lightly swaying in tandem with his shoulders, until he was close enough to brush his arm against hers when he took the book back down from the shelf. "You are welcome to borrow a few volumes should they interest you." It was such a generous offer that Y/N was saddened to have to reject it. "Thank you My Prince, but I cannot read." Aemond seemed surprised for a moment before he cleared his throat and pulled his hands behind his back, removing the book from her line of vision. The Prince's voice was soft when he next spoke "Is it something you would like to learn?" Y/N's eyes snapped up to meet Aemond's, though she had to crane her neck to do so with him standing so close. Excitement had shot through her at a possibility she'd often longed for, she'd never had the opportunity to learn before. It was not considered necessary for her line of work.

But doubt began to fill her mind. Did the Prince mean to teach her himself? They'd come a long way from their first meetings, but she was still shy around him and could not but think such a situation would inevitably lead to embarrassment. Besides, he was a Prince and that would be beneath him. Prince Aemond did not break his focus from her but spoke before she could voice any of her concerns. "I will have my sister Helaena see to it." With that he turned from her and left his chambers entirely, leaving Y/N to stare after him, mouth hanging open at the suddenness of his departure.

Aemond had been pleased to find Y/N in his chambers, a welcome sight after many days and he quietly took in her presence as she ran her hands across his books. He watched her take a particular interest in a book detailing the histories of his House and felt a spark of something, perhaps excitement, at her sharing this interest with him. He himself was a dedicated scholar and was well versed in the histories of the House of the Dragon, such was his prerogative as a Targaryen Prince. Hoping not to startle her too much, he had asked her if this was in fact the case.

Frowning as she hastily replaced the book from whence she'd taken it, he quickly strode towards the shelf to take it back out and offer it to her. He'd thought it could be an opening for a potential friendship between them. He had noticed she'd begun to interact more with him of her own volition, taking this as a sign of her feeling increasingly comfortable in his presence.

His hopes came crashing down at his handmaiden's next admission "I cannot read." Of course, he'd been foolish not to think of it and cursed himself for potentially fracturing what little progress they'd made by potentially causing her embarrassment now. Nevertheless, he could not help himself from offering her the chance to learn, having seen her gaze so longingly at the books just moments prior. Aemond had in fact intended to teach her himself, and the initial excitement that lit her eyes at his suggestion had him believing for a moment that she would be amenable to the idea. That was before he watched her face fall, and various emotions flit across her eyes.

Perhaps he had been too hasty in his belief that she was now comfortable with him and this was the cause of her conflict. It pained him somewhat to think the idea might be so displeasing to her but he tried not to let it cloud his judgement as he tried to think of a solution that would be more acceptable to Y/N. It came to him to ask Helaena of her assistance. She had a gentle and calming disposition, at least to him, and perhaps Y/N would feel more comfortable with his sister than him. He left Y/N without waiting for her response, not wishing her to see his barely repressed dissapointment, and went to seek out his sister.

Helaena had willingly agreed to teach Y/N how to read, and Aemond had gratefully kissed his beloved sister on the crown of her head before returning to his chambers, hoping that his handmaiden would be pleased.

Y/N began to spend much of her time when she was not working occupied in the Princess Helaena's chambers. The Princess was a patient teacher and a kind soul, though she often spoke words that seemed oddly prophetic and disturbed Y/N, who could not decipher their meaning. She was grateful to the Princess for her help, and more still to Prince Aemond for securing this chance for her. More surprising was his unexpected willingness to answer any questions she had of the material she read with Helaena. The Prince seemed pleased at her questioning, always gazing at her attentively as he answered. She could not help thinking they'd managed to form a strange sort of friendship, despite her shyness and the stark difference in their positions, and she increasingly looked forward to each interaction.

Aemond was not surprised to see Y/N in his sister's chambers when he had come to visit that day. She was often there now, either leaning over a new text as his sister pointed different things out to her, or playing with his little niece and nephew. He was sure her presence was a great comfort to Helaena as well, and was glad of having introduced them. He was surprised, however, to see the look of horror on his handmaiden's face as Helaena placed a furry spider upon her outstretched arm. Her eyes widened so far it might have been comical, if he had not already been aware of her deep seated fear of the creature. All the same, he felt his heart stutter slightly at the sight, in the knowledge that his handmaiden would allow such a thing in order to please his sweet sister who was giggling slightly and cooing at her pet.

And in that moment Aemond realised what he should have done weeks ago, when he had first noted that feeling of warmth spread throughout his chest at Y/N's actions. He was falling in love with his handmaiden, or indeed already had. He was certain his mother would not be best pleased. He was a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and was surely set for a match that would be politically beneficial to his House. In truth, he found it difficult to care. He had lost so much at such a young age, and though he now rode the largest dragon in existence, he still often felt like that scared, insecure little boy who'd been mocked by his brother and nephews. He had dedicated so much of himself to embodying the role of a true Targaryen Prince, and yet his own father essentially ignored him, favouring his bastard nephews over him.

Taking all of this into consideration, was it truly wrong for him to look for a love match with someone he truly cared for? He came to his decision there and then. Aemond wanted Y/N and he would have her whether it pleased his family or otherwise. The greater problem lay in Y/N's meek disposition and wariness around him now, which had admittedly diminished but was ever present. She could hardly stand to meet his gaze for more than a few moments at a time. The Prince resolved that he would find a way to warm her heart to him, and took a step forward to rescue the object of his affections from her current predicament.

[halsteadlover]

𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭

*Pics not mine credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Spencer Reid x Stripper!Reader.

• Requested: no.

• Summary: it was supposed to be a case like any other, an undercover operation like a thousand others he had done but when Spencer sets his eyes on that dancer for the first time suddenly everything fades into the background.

• Warnings: brief mention of alcohol, homicide case, nudity, fingering, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, sex, use of condoms (ALWAYS WRAP IT!!!), cursing, dirty talk, basically Spencer being a ✨man✨, tell me if I missed anything <3

• Word count: 7.6K

• A/N: PLEASE READ THIS ONLY IF YOU’RE +18. This was written in 3rd person. I had this idea for a while now but didn’t know how to write it but now here we are you have no idea how much time it took 😭 I promise I’m still working on the requests please don’t hate me I’m just trying the find the motivation to write again. I really hope you like this one please let me know what you think and comment, reblog and like ❤️ Thank you for your kindness and constant support xx

Spencer had never felt as uncomfortable as he did in that moment, surrounded by germs and all kinds of bodily fluids.

He was disgusted and couldn’t wait for this to be over soon so he could get out of there.

Damn you, Derek Morgan.

He cursed his colleague for forcing him to go in that damned place. He was in a strip club, pretending to be a normal customer so he could talk to some of the strippers and the head of the club himself about an investigation. The BAU was in fact following the case of a serial killer who lured his victims and killed them.

Since the victims – who were about four – were all affluent straight males in their thirties and there were no traces of drugs or signs on their bodies that they’d been forced to follow the killer, the team assumed the unsub was a female in her mid-twenties.

After digging into their pasts to study the victimology, the team discovered all four victims committed sexual crimes which however had somehow been attempted to be covered up. So there was no doubt those killings were about some sort of justice.

The unsub would kill them by slicing their throats with a single and precise movement, a cut so deep it was easy to say she was an expert. There was no way the four victims were her first ones, but nothing came up after Garcia searched for other murders with the same modus operandi.

After leaving their bodies on the bed of a hotel room, the unsub would also write a short note on the wall with a deep purple lipstick – a particular color – which wasn’t found on the victims’ bodies, so the team thought she wouldn’t wear it, she was carrying it with her with the sole purpose to write those simple short sentences.

The BAU had interrogated the victims of these aforementioned sexual assaults but all of them had airtight alibis so there was no real suspect. After interrogating the victims’ families and friends, they realized there was a common denominator between those four men: the Sinful Lust.

And that’s how Spencer ended up there.

He didn’t understand why it had to be him who had to be in that place. How could they think it’d be a good idea to have him to deal with strippers and people having sex around him?

Anyone could see from a mile away how uncomfortable he felt sitting there, even people who weren’t profilers. Spencer continued to look around, almost dazed by the club’s strobe lights as he tried to mask his disgust at noticing his surroundings and the intense smell of alcohol.

He never hated Derek so much.

He knew it was just his sadistic way of making him feel uncomfortable, despite the encouragement from the rest of the team though who were sure Spencer would make it.

His palms sweated with every passing second as he rubbed them on his black pants before fixing the collar of his shirt. He wasn’t used to wearing these kinds of clothes, he felt caged, in a body that didn’t belong to him.

Every woman in that place wasted no time winking at him, shooting him languid glances to which he responded with a tight and totally false smile. Some of them approached him and he had to fake interest in them by engaged stupid and languid conversations.

He couldn’t help but think about how Morgan would’ve enjoyed that situation and how he wouldn’t have wasted time making all the women in that damn club fall at his feet.

Spencer really envied him sometimes. He envied how his friend was always so easygoing and extroverted, especially with women, with a joke always ready, how he always knew what to say and when.

Suddenly the club lights dimmed and focused on the stage, stopping his rush of thoughts and indicating the strippers were about to begin the show.

Numerous tables and seats were concentrated near the stage, populated by hungry men who couldn’t wait to feast their eyes and spend their money and Spencer noted with disgust many of them were even married.

Poor wives.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding only to gasp again as some music started and the strippers began to dance. He didn’t recognize the music and the words, preferring classical music; however, his mind wasn’t focused on the bass vibrating through the room but on analyzing the scene.

But it was so damn hard when women danced sensually in front of him half naked. It’s a physiological reaction, he kept repeating to himself, it’s normal, focus Reid, do not deconcentrate.

The dim lights only added more tension to the evocative atmosphere, interrupted every now and then by men standing up and cheering to hand over their money they had probably earned with so much effort.

Spencer moved into his seat, picking up the glass of some type of liquor he didn’t know and pretending to sip before placing it back on the table, wanting with every fiber of his being for the unsub to reveal herself.

But he knew it couldn’t be that simple. If killers had written on their foreheads they were actually killers, he wouldn’t even have a job anymore.

He wondered if she was there.

Who knew if she had already chosen her next victim.

Spencer’s eyes met with one of the three dancers on the stage and a vice gripped his stomach when he realized she was already looking at him.

Her hips continued to move sensually to the rhythm of the music as her fingers played with the buttons of the skimpy top she was wearing and for an instant Spencer thought if he wasn’t mistaken or having a hallucination.

But he wasn’t wrong.

Her eyes were fixed solely on him.

She bit her lip as she winked at Spencer, and he almost melted into that chair like snow in the sun. He tried to keep his expression as casual and neutral as possible but in reality, every single cell in his body was on fire.

She turned her body and walked sensually towards the pole and Spencer’s eyes went hungrily and impertinently down her body, making him feel no less dirty than the rest of the men present.

But he couldn’t control himself as his eyes seemed to have a life on their own and he couldn’t take them off her.

His gaze traced every exposed inch of her skin, focusing on her ass covered by a skimpy short skirt, the mere sight of her making his pants tighten around his crotch. His mind began to wander with fantasy, unable to help but imagine his head buried between her legs.

Spencer shifted in his chair dejectedly, resting his hands on his lap and covering his erection as if someone was there to notice. Nobody would’ve noticed, all eyes were on her and the dancers.

He didn’t even look at the other two women on the stage, his eyes was fixed only on her, her hips, her beautiful and smooth legs, on her body that spun with disarming ease around the dance pole.

He wondered what it’d be like to feel his fingers squeezing her hips as she rode him into oblivion and this image alone almost made him come in his pants.

He was totally mesmerized.

He didn’t know what was happening to him but every cell in his body seemed to have lit up and inflamed, his fingers were trembling with desire to slide them over her sinuous body.

But it was when her eyes met his again that Spencer felt the air sucked out of his lungs. He couldn’t quite make out the color, he was too far away to be able to do that, but just the way she was looking at him made him shift in his seat again and his aching dick erect even more.

He was paralyzed, he didn’t dare move a single muscle. He didn’t know why but he was afraid if he moved everyone would find out who he really was. That she would find out.

His eyes never left hers, a small grin painting her face as she continued to dance sensually. Spencer felt arrogant enough to assume this dance was just for him.

The show eventually ended and the lights dimmed in the club again, although Spencer managed to track the silhouettes of the dancers coming off the stage. His heart jumped into his throat when he noticed a person approaching him and not just any person but her.

Spencer’s eyes followed her every movement although the light was so low he couldn’t really make out her beautiful features. He shifted in his chair again and tried to keep his concentration up when a cloud of her scent hit him square in the face, short-circuiting every single neuron in his brain.

This was the perfect opportunity to gather information regarding the case, but at that moment Spencer seemed to have completely forgotten the reason why he was there.

“Come with me.”

That was all she said and even her voice was so sweet it mesmerized him even more, as if it was a siren’s song luring the poor sailors into her clutches. He stood up without even being asked twice, his mind trying to convince itself it was just to gather the information he needed.

At that moment, however, the only thing controlling his body was the blood rushing to his penis and not the rationality that always distinguished him.

She walked through the club ignoring everything around her while he followed her like a puppy, unaware of what was coming and what she was up to. A small, tiny part of his brain kept screaming to be careful, that she was a stranger probably looking for the money – or worse to kill him. He knew he needed to focus on the case but Spencer was too attracted to her to even listen to those voices.

Nothing like this had ever happened before. He would’ve never thought of following a stranger to who knew where without an ounce of information.

They entered a room and Spencer quickly scanned it, deducing it was her dressing room. His attention, however, immediately returned to that woman. Under those lights, he could finally look at her in all her splendor and the air was sucked from his lungs as his eyes traveled along her body and analyzed her face.

She was breathtaking, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and there wasn’t a single part of him that wasn’t itching to touch her.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice broke the silence. Spencer didn’t respond at first, his eyes focused on her cleavage and the way her chest rose and fell. Only when he brought his eyes back to her face and saw the mischievous smirk on her lips he realized she had said something to him and that he must’ve looked like a complete idiot.

“What?”

She chuckled and that simple sound traveled through his body, causing his blood to rush and his penis to harden even more.

What is she doing to me?

She slightly tilted her head, her eyes vibrant as she watched – no, analyzed – Spencer.

His muscles froze as she took two steps toward him, never taking her eyes off him.

He returned her gaze with a courage he had never had and didn’t even know he possessed. Her eyes were bright but there was something particularly intense about them, something he absolutely wanted to discover and he couldn’t even name.

His breathing quickened and he prayed she wouldn’t realize how intense the effect she had on him was. She looked at him with an intensity that made him weak in the knees, with an intensity that no one had ever looked at him with.

She hadn’t torn her eyes away from his for not even a second, and although that confidence further intrigued Spencer, it scared him at the same time. He knew she was trying to get inside him, into his soul and discover his deepest secrets.

“I asked what you’re doing here.”

“You told me to come.”

She licked her lips and Spencer’s eyes flicked to her mouth, causing him to react in a way that resulted in the further restriction of his pants. He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets to avoid doing something he’d regret, but damn it was so hard.

This was also the moment he understood the true meaning of the phrase ‘blue balls’.

He was so fucking horny it hurt.

“I’m well aware of that,” she replied with a smirk, probably noticing the way he was staring at her lips. “But don’t act stupid, you don’t look like one. What are you doing here?”

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat, using the shred of rationality he had left to think of an answer. But the way she was looking at him, as if she wanted him to take her right then and now, was enough to make him no longer even remember his name.

I’m an FBI agent investigating a murder case and you, like every other dancer here, could be a potential suspect.

He couldn’t say it, but damn it if she kept coming closer to him, he wouldn’t even bother giving her his wallet and bank details.

“What all the men are doing, why don’t you go ask them?”

Well done.

“I’m asking you.” She flicked her hair behind her shoulders with a single but graceful movement of her head, leaving her neck and shoulder exposed. Spencer’s throat bobbed up and down again, his mind filled with images of him sticking his tongue out and licking and tasting her skin, sucking it and leaving marks.

Dammit Reid, get a hold of yourself.

“I’ve been watching you,” she spoke, her tone calm and sensual. “You looked like you were going to vomit when you came in and I know you would’ve never come here of your own free will; so why don’t you tell me the truth pretty boy?”

Fuck yeah keep calling me that.

Why doesn’t it sound so good when Morgan calls me that?

Stop thinking about Morgan.

“There’s a first time for everyone, don’t you think?” Spencer raised an eyebrow.

She bit her lower lip, a gesture that made him feral.

Please somebody help me.

It was only then she took her eyes away from his and let them wander slowly along his body.

She studied and analyzed him and with every inch that passed under her eyes Spencer felt his skin catch fire, especially when her gaze focused on the huge bulge in his pants.

The beautiful stranger brought her eyes back to his and Spencer didn’t miss that lustful glint in them and the way her breathing had quickened, indicating she was as affected by him as he was by her.

“What’s your name?”

“David,” Spencer replied, congratulating himself on the way he had managed to control himself and not give away his real name.

“David,” she repeated, slowly, as if wanting to taste what his name felt like on her tongue. She took another step, closing her distance and her scent hit his nostrils. It was a mixture of vanilla, coconut, innocence and sin and he was going crazy.

“I’ll pretend you don’t think I’m that stupid, David,” she winked and Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat for the third time, trying to keep his breathing to a normal pace even though his heart was pounding wildly inside his rib cage.

They continued to look at each other for an almost infinite time, the air more tense and warmer with each passing second. Spencer tried to think of something to say, anything, but the way she looked at him paralyzed him. His eyes roamed and traced the lines of her lips imagining what it’d be like to feel them pressed against his, what it’d be like to feel them wrapped around his dick and just the thought almost made him come in his pants.

I can’t do this anymore.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice so low he almost didn’t hear her. Spencer had the impression she wanted to say anything else, but she had refrained from doing it, like if she had opened her tightly closed lips she would’ve told a terrible secret.

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he replied, taking his hand out of his pocket and bringing it closer to her face. His fingers played with a lock of her hair before tucking it behind her ear. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, it was as if his body was acting on its own and had completely disconnected from his brain. Her breathing quickened at that contact and that time he was the one to smirk. “What’s your name?”

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t tell me yours.”

“It matters to me. And I did, it’s up to you to believe me or not.”

She cocked one eyebrow up. “Why does it matter?”

“I want to know whose name I’m going to moan when I’ll think of you with my hand around my dick.”

Spencer almost chocked on his own words.

What the fuck?

Again, what the hell is wrong with me?

What was he doing? What was going through his mind? He completely lost his mind but he didn’t care, not when she looked at him like she wanted to tear him apart and burn him right then and there. And the worst thing was that he probably would’ve let her do it without objecting.

He could see the way she was holding back, the way she tried to appear casual but after all it was his job to know what people really felt, what they thought. He knew it from the way her pupils were so dilated they covered almost all the color of his irises, from the way her skin was flushed and the redness on her cheeks, from the light layer of sweat covering her forehead, from her rapid breathing, the stiffness of her muscles, from the way her hands clenched into two fists as if she was leveraging on herself to not let go.

But why?

Spencer wasn’t an expert in that world, but he really thought she’d try in any way to get some money, to seduce him and then leave him broke, but then why did she hold back? Why was she rejecting him? Why did she ask him to come with her if she wasn’t trying to do anything?

In other moments he would’ve investigated more but in that instant everything had taken a step backwards, Spencer didn’t seem to be focused on anything other than putting his hands on that stranger who was hypnotizing and bewitching like no one else ever did. He had never felt anything like this, being consumed by the desire to kiss her, touch her, run his tongue over every inch of her body, he never felt that raw and primordial desire to have someone.

And he wanted her.

Fuck the consequences.

“You don’t really want this,” she whispered and it didn’t take a profiler to figure out that she wasn’t sure of those words either. It was Spencer who closed the distance between the two that time, feeling the heat of her body envelop him and attracting him like a moth to flame, as every part of her skin was screaming to be touched by his fingers. Her words repelled him but the way she looked at him said something else.

“Why did you ask me to come here then?”

Her eyes looked at him with a look that even him couldn’t decipher. She was hiding something, she was battling herself and he wanted to know why.

“You don’t belong in this place.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know…” she whispered as her gaze kept alternating between his eyes and his mouth. He wet them with his tongue, pleased when he saw the way her breath hitched.

“I just couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

Spencer may not be very experienced in the women’s game, but he could see the passionate hunger in her eyes, that glimmer of lust and desire that left him breathless.

“Do you want it?”

“Yes.”

Those two single whispered letters were enough for Spencer to destroy what little shred of control he still possessed. Before he knew it his hands were cupping her face and his lips were pressed to hers in a searing, electrifying kiss.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him, he couldn’t even recognize himself at that moment. As her mouth devoured him and her tongue tasted his, he couldn’t let go of the feeling he was watching everything as if he was an outside observer, like he wasn’t the one commanding his actions.

He couldn’t believe what was happening, that he – the man who was terrified of even shaking hands with strangers for fear of germs – was kissing that beautiful, sexy stranger who had invaded his senses ever since she set her feet on that stage. And to be honest he didn’t even care, Spencer was only focused on the world in which she was devouring him.

Their tongues intertwined in a sensual dance as their deep breaths and sighs blended into each other. There was nothing sweet about that kiss, about the way he fisted his hands around her hair, the way she had her arms around his neck and pulled him towards her, the saliva mixing. It was animalistic, raw, sloppy, messy, a kiss so deep they felt their soul being sucked out of their body.

The tension and electricity in the air was clearly palpable as time seemed to stop around them, leaving them engulfed in the fire of passion and making them both forget who and where they were.

While Spencer’s hands roamed along her body, squeezing and groping every inch of her skin he could reach, sucking in and swallowing every sigh that escaped her throat, he no longer thought he was an FBI agent who was there because he had a job to do.

And even his name was forgotten as her fingers began frantically unbuttoning his shirt, her fingertips leaving fiery marks on his skin as they slid down his chest. They both began taking slow steps, their mouths continuing to devour each other and only breaking away when Spencer’s legs touched the sofa in the dressing room. He sat with his legs apart and a very painful erection in his pants, his gaze on fire while his hungry eyes analyzed and looked with meticulous attention at the stranger.

Never more than in that moment was he grateful to his eidetic memory, because he knew he would never forget that divine image in front of his eyes. Her breasts, legs, hips, her waist, everything seemed to scream to be touched and worshiped and Spencer couldn’t wait to do it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered more to himself than to her, his hands resting on his thighs as he continued to let his gaze wander down her body.

She smiled and Spencer almost fainted. And it wasn’t a mischievous grin but a real smile, one of those that weakened the knees and made everything more beautiful and brighter. One of those he’d never forget.

He took her hands and pulled her towards him making her sit on his lap, her legs tightly straddling his thighs. He groaned as his hard dick collided with her core, relieving that feeling of pressure and pain even if for just a few seconds.

Before he could say or do anything she had pressed her lips on his again, starting to sensually move on him, shamelessly grinding herself and unleashing obscene sighs from both of them that sounded like they were coming from a porn.

Spencer’s hands cupped her ass, pressing his fingers so hard into her skin as he followed her movements while her hands instead continued to roam his chest, her nails pressing into his skin until she leaves red marks on it.

“Fuck I want you so bad,” she breathed into his lips and he let out a particularly loud groan when she bit his bottom lip, sucking it. Her lips parted from his, leaving wet kisses along his jaw, down his neck, sucking, biting, nibbling at his skin.

Any trace of whatever indecision she felt was gone and he couldn’t control himself anymore. His body seemed to move automatically. Lust and desire had clouded his mind, that sublime mind that had done everything to prevent these moments from happening but that had given into the most primitive of instincts. Sex.

His hands went up to the skimpy top she was wearing, ripping it off without even thinking twice before dropping the broken material on the floor, soon joined by her bra as well. His hands cupped her breasts, teasing and pinching her turgid nipples that so recalled his mouth.

Spencer obeyed that wish, wrapping his lips around one of her breasts sucking it while he continued to grope the other. Her hands threaded through his hair, curling into fists and pulling, causing another groan from Spencer. He didn’t even know he was into this. His hips jerked up, continuing to grind against her for some relief.

“Please…” He let go of her breast, throwing his head back and fearing he’d explode right then and there. He wanted to know that stranger’s name, he desperately wanted to moan it and he equally desperately wanted to tell her his, just so he could hear it screamed by her beautiful mouth as he fucked her. “I’ll come in my pants if you keep doing this.”

She giggled and this was a further shock to Spencer, who thought he was going to have a heart attack at any moment. Her hands fumbled with his belt, undoing the button and pulling down the zip of his pants. He let out a sigh of relief when, after slightly lifting his hips, she lowered his pants along with his precum stained boxers, finally releasing his erection.

“Shit…” he hissed a curse through gritted teeth as her hand wrapped around his dick. It started to move up and down with it and he closed his parted lips as he tried to suppress his moans. His eyes were glued on that stranger’s hand who gave him pleasure, a vision he’d never forget. Her hand was so delicate and perfect, in stark contrast to the sinful and dirty action she was doing.

“Don’t hold back, I want to hear you moan for me, okay?”

Spencer met her gaze and nodded, not trusting his own voice. She lifted herself from his lap and knelt between his spread legs and if Spencer hadn’t already been sitting down, the mere image of her on her knees with her hand wrapped around his dick would’ve made him fall to the ground.

“Is this okay?” She asked and Spencer found himself nodding again, this time with so much enthusiasm that she chuckled.

“Yes please…” he breathed as she continued to masturbate him, alternating fast and slow movements and making him lose his mind even more, if that was even possible. Her thumb drew imaginary circles on his red, wet tip, making him gasp against his will.

He placed a hand on her cheek, her skin hot against his palm, his thumb caressing her lips. His breath hitched in anticipation when she wrapped her lips around his thumb, her eyes never leaving Spencer’s as she sucked on his fingertip. “I’m dying to have this pretty mouth around my dick, do you want to show me what it can do?”

Spencer had no clue where this confidence was coming from, but he was too horny to think about shyness and what to say.

She let go of his thumb and stuck her tongue out before tracing the shaft of his penis with a single, excruciatingly slow lick from the base to his tip. He let out a deep, loud groan, throwing his head back as he felt his silky skin against her tongue. It was an aphrodisiac sensation and if Spencer was to believe in heaven and an afterlife, her mouth would definitely be his.

“Shit just like that,” he moaned as her tongue drew imaginary circles on his tip, sucking and taking away every trace of precum. His soul nearly left his body when she encircled his tip with her lips, sliding his length into her mouth until his dick hit the back of her throat.

She placed a hand on his bare, hairy thighs, dragging her nails across his skin as if to draw his attention to her and Spencer granted her wish, lifting his head and looking down at that sin dressed as an angel who was sucking his dick.

Fucking hell I don’t even believe in angels.

It was immoral, the most unethical thing he could’ve done, something for which he could’ve even be kicked out of the team but Spencer couldn’t care less, not when that mouth was sucking him like her life depended on it and making him feel a pleasure he couldn’t even think was possible to feel.

“You’re so good little angel,” he praised her, placing a hand on her head threading his fingers through her hair and a little spark lit up in her eyes. She definitely had a praise kink. “This mouth will be the death of me.”

She hollowed her cheeks, picking up the pace as her head bobbed up and down and her tongue licked circling his dick. Spencer felt like he was already one step away from exploding in her mouth, but he didn’t want to come, not before being buried deep inside her. “Dammit… Stop, stop, I don’t want to come yet.”

He cupped her face pressing his lips to her swollen, wet ones while simultaneously pulling her on his lap again. He kissed her as if he wanted to suck her soul out of her body, resting his hands on her smooth, bare thighs as his fingers pressed into her skin, teasing her but never touching that magical spot where Spencer couldn’t wait to sink.

“For fuck’s sake touch me,” she hissed impatiently pulling on the young man’s hair, earning a small grin from him.

“Tell me how much you want it,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her neck, inhaling deeply that scent he knew would torment him for the rest of his life, that scent that drugged and marked him in the span of very few seconds. His thumbs kept drawing circles on her inner thighs, dangerously close to her pussy as she squirmed under his touch and Spencer was loving every single shred of the desperation she showed.

She wanted him.

She wanted him desperately.

Spencer never had someone who wanted him so badly, sure he had his experiences with women – albeit very limited ones – but he had never felt anything so deep, animalistic and visceral. He had never had any woman looking at him with that fire in her eyes, as if he was the only man who existed for her, as if he was everything she wanted, as if she could die at any moment if he didn’t give it to her.

But that stranger did.

And damn it felt so good.

“Please, I want it… I want you…” she cried out in an impatient and desperation tone and that was music to his ears. If there was some divine entity Spencer thanked it for making her wear a miniskirt.

His fingers slipped into her panties, moaning to himself as he felt the amount of fluids wetting her pussy. “So wet… You’re going to kill me, you know that right?”

She didn’t answer, she threw her head back while Spencer looked at her with hooded eyes and one of his fingers wasted no time in penetrating her. Her hips moved in rhythm and he trembled with anticipation, imagining her walls squeezing his dick.

“Fuck yes…” she moaned loudly, her hands in Spencer’s hair as he inserted a second finger inside her, watching her reaction and how her body writhed in pleasure.

“You’re so tight little angel, I can’t wait to be buried deep inside this wet pussy,” he murmured with pleasure before taking one of her breasts into his mouth, too temptingly as he sucked and licked it. His other arm went around her hips, holding her in place and keeping her from squirming away. “How many of them did you let fuck you mmh? How many have made you feel this way?” He licked her chest, her collarbone, every inch of skin he could reach before he began torturing her other breast.

“No one…” she breathed, unable to finish her sentence due to her heavy panting and moaning. Her thighs were shaking, her hands gripping his hair. “Nobody… Holy shit…” She trailed off again, her body contorting forward if it wasn’t for Spencer’s arm holding her and he knew his fingers had hit her G-spot.

He actually had no idea what he was doing or how to move but he was an attentive observer. His eyes glued to her studied with careful attention every single breath, the intensity of her moans, the way her muscles trembled, the way her pussy clenched, the way she held him, studying her body and quickly adapting to her reaction.

“Oh God yes, yes, you’re so fucking good keep going…” she cried out and then looked down at him. Her thumb traced his lips and – just as she had done earlier – he wrapped them around her finger, sucking on it as his fingers continued to pump in and out of her. Her walls clenched his wet fingers and if the vision of her coming over them didn’t make him lose his sanity, then he didn’t know what else would.

Spencer left her no room to catch her breath or strength after her orgasm.

“Open.” He ordered, bringing his fingers that until a few moments before were inside her, close to her lips. She didn’t hesitate to lick Spencer’s wet fingers clean, making him dizzy as her eyes watched with adulation and lust at the way his tongue sensually moved her fluids. “Yeah little angel, just like that.”

He was going crazy. He seriously thought his vessels were going to explode from how horny he was.

She let go of his fingers and sloppily kissed him, making him taste her juices on her tongue. “Fuck what are doing to me…” She whispered and something told Spencer she didn’t mean to say those words out loud.

“If you think I’m anywhere near done with you, you’re completely wrong,” he murmured against her lips. “Show me how a good girl you are and sit on me, let me see how this pretty pussy soaks my dick.”

Good job Dr Reid.

I’m really proud of myself.

“And here I thought you were a virgin,” she chuckled before getting up and taking a condom from one of the drawers in her closet, but not before taking off her panties. She settled down by straddling his thighs again before slipping the condom onto his painfully hard dick. She lifted her pelvis and wrapped her hand around Spencer’s dick, letting herself be penetrated until she found herself completely sitting on it. “But I know behind this cute pretty face you’re so dirty, filthy enough to fuck a stripper whose name you don’t even know.”

Spencer clung to every ounce of strength in his body to concentrate on anything other than the warm, wet walls of that stranger’s pussy or he would’ve come instantly.

He had even forgotten how good it felt to have sex after so long and remembered why people were so obsessed with it, why his team pestered him to get laid.

Her pussy engulfed him so perfectly it seemed to have been made just for him.

“You feel so good god…” she breathed out a moan interrupting her sentence as she slowly raised her hips and lowered herself again. Spencer couldn’t control a deep groan as she continued to tease and torture him with that slow motion, rolling her hips on his dick.

Spencer’s fingers found themselves on her ass for the second time, groping and spreading her ass cheeks trying to maintain control but it was so damn hard when all he wanted to do was fuck her brains out of her head.

“F-faster… You’re torturing me…” he panted brokenly, his chest quickly rising and falling as if he was running a marathon.

Instead, she kept going with her slow, destabilizing pace, lifting her hips again and slowly lowering herself on his raging dick, torturing him further as the sounds she let out filled the room. Those alone would’ve been enough to make him fall into the void and never be able to get back to the surface.

“Beg me.”

“Please, please… Make me feel good little angel, make me come,” he obeyed, not caring about sounding pathetic. The smirk that formed on her lips was the manifestation of the most pure form of sin, a sin for which there was no absolution or redemption.

Luckily Spencer didn’t even believe in these things.

But if there was a definition of heaven and hell, if they ever existed, it would’ve been her.

Her and those eyes that looked at him like they wanted to capture what was left of his soul, those eyes that would’ve made Spencer thrown himself off a cliff if she had asked.

Her and those hands that held him and touched him, causing him sensations he didn’t even know the meaning of, and this said something for a person who knew the meaning of every single word written in the dictionary.

Her and her deadly mouth that continued to kiss him until there was no air left in his lungs, her teeth biting him, her tongue licking his skin and sucking his tongue.

Her and those moans and gasps she couldn’t hold back and that Spencer was absorbing one by one, imprinting them in his memory so he could repeat them again and again.

“Look at you, aren’t you a desperate little thing? So hungry for me,” she sensually whispered in his ear and biting his earlobe. Fulfilling Spencer’s wishes, she began to increase her pace, placing her hands on the back of the couch for support.

Nothing resounded except their moans, pants, grunts mixing with each other, the sound of their skin rubbing and flapping and their lips smacking with each kiss with the smell of sex, sin and prohibition filling their nostrils.

Spencer’s eyes were glued on her, on her parted lips and her head thrown back, her eyes half closed, her tits bouncing in rhythm with her thrusts which he didn’t waste time taking into his mouth and sucking them, biting the nipples until they were numb.

She fisted Spencer’s hair again, pulling it and forcing him to tilt his head back to look at her. That gesture made him grunt and aroused him even more than he already was, and his hips twitched against her, giving a particularly deep thrust that made her curse.

“I can see how you’re holding back pretty boy,” she sighed, continuing to ride him but slowing her pace this time causing a pathetic cry to escape his lips. She kept brushing her lips against his without kissing him, with the sole aim of torturing him and driving him crazy. As if she hadn’t already done it. “Don’t hold back, I can see how much you want to ruin me, how much you’re dying to destroy me.”

“Fuck.” He cursed and something snapped inside him.

He thrusted his hips so deep into her she choked out a moan and he was sure she felt it in every corner of her pussy. His long fingers continued to press into the red, heated flesh of her ass holding her still while he jerked his hips forcefully, taking command even though she was still on top of him.

His dick kept pushing in and out of her, engulfed by her pussy as it tightened around him. Spencer knew how fundamental the importance of using protection was, especially with strangers, but he wished he didn’t wear that damn condom so much, so he could feel every wet corner of her around his dick.

“Oh fuck yes… Just like that,” she loudly moaned and he was sure that by now everyone had heard what was going on in that dressing room but had chosen to ignore it.

Spencer didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. He needed to come but he didn’t want to, he didn’t want this to end.

That’s why he made her get up off him, earning a confused expression before flipping her onto that couch and laying on top of her. He opened her legs and positioned himself between them. He left her no room to say anything as he aligned his dick with her entrance, penetrating her in one motion.

Her legs encircled his hips, her heels pressed against his skin as he fucked her on that couch like his life depended on it, with hard, deep thrusts that made her eyes water.

He had completely lost control.

His hand went around her throat, a gesture that happened spontaneously and that Spencer didn’t even realize until he saw the smirk and expression of pure ecstasy on her face.

How long has he been into choking?

That damn woman would be his downfall.

“Is this what you wanted?” he groaned, his fingers tightening sideways around her throat, being careful not to press on her windpipe. Some strands of hair fell in front of his eyes but she removed them, almost making him faint at that sweet gesture, in stark contrast to the animalistic way in which they were fucking.

“I knew there was a little devil inside you pretty boy, God you’re so fucking sexy,” she gasped, biting hit lower lips and making him increase his pace. “Yes, yes, yes I’m going to come… Keep going fuck yeah…”

His thrusts were deep, messy and although he tried to keep himself from coming, wanting to prolong that feeling of ecstasy as long as possible, it was impossible as her pussy kept clenching around him, moaning “I’m coming” in his ear so sexily it made him come. Spencer exploded and with one last thrust he let himself go into a mind-blowing orgasm that made his body tremble and his eyes blind for a few moments as he poured all his sperm inside the condom.

There were a few moments of silence, broken only by the panting and deep breathing of the two as they caught their breath.

After the ecstasy of the orgasm, Spencer stood up, noticing out of the corner of his eye that she too was trying to get up but her still shaking legs prevented her from doing so. He tried to hold back a smirk, giving her a hand and helping her to get on her feet before earning a feeble “Thank you.”

What the fuck did I just do?

I just had sex with a stripper who could be a potential witness/suspect while undercover.

I’m so screwed.

He realized the enormous mistake he had just made, not even imagining the consequences. He thanked no one in particular for not having worn the microphone or, holy shit, that would’ve been difficult to explain.

Spencer didn’t say a word and he was grateful that she didn’t either, too dazed and groggy to be able to face a conversation.

They both cleaned up in silence and after throwing the condom in the bin, Spencer tried to tidy himself up, tucking his shirt into his pants after buttoning it.

His profiler nature, however, couldn’t help but notice the way how her demeanor completely changed, going from that sexy vicious woman to a silent shy one. She hadn’t so much as glanced at him, he noticed how her shoulders were tense while she moved frantically as if she was trying to vanish from that dressing room as quickly as possible.

She was nervous.

But why?

“You still haven’t answered my initial question, you know?” Spencer broke the awkward silence, before he could stop his tongue.

Damn it Reid why do you want to complicate things so badly?

She turned her head towards him, looking at him with a confused expression trying to make up her mind.

But then a small smile spread across her features before she closed her backpack and placed it on her shoulder. “No one’s been lucky enough to get in here,” she replied, effectively giving the answer Spencer was looking for and for some strange and absurd reason he believed her. “Or unlucky, depending on your point of view.”

Before he could answer she gave him one last glance and left the dressing room. He was supposed to be relieved, there would be no question he couldn’t answer – especially after she realized David wasn’t his real name – but for some reason he couldn’t let go that sinking feeling in his stomach.

He was good at analyzing other people’s emotions, every facet and change of expression, but he wasn’t as good with himself.

He was tempted to follow her, at least to know her name, to find out who the woman who had fried his brain was, but before going out he noticed a small object near the door, probably fallen from her backpack before she went out.

He knelt to pick it up from the ground, but his blood froze in his veins and his heart stopped beating for a millisecond when he realized what the object was.

It was a purple lipstick.

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[dragonfoxgirl]

My thoughts on Elemental and how one scene spoke to me deeply.

Elemental, aside from its poignant depiction of what it entails to live as a first generation child born of immigrants and the challenges faced related to it, has also seemed to have touched on another subject, maybe accidentally. But, regardless of it’s intentional depiction or not, the movie also touches on the complexity of romantic relationships for people outside the common denominator.

A few days ago, I saw a lot of activity on social media about the movie coming from Aro/Ace people. As an effort to avoid spoiling myself, I skimmed the few posts that showed up in my feed. Now that I have seen the movie, I understand with clarity why it resonated so strongly with these particular communities, despite not being the intended broader target with its messaging.

As a person in the Ace spectrum, as well as someone with Autism, I can testify to the fact that we navigate very different waters in terms of human connection outside our family nucleus.

We hold value on the soul, the personality and the abstract connection that results by having “chemistry” with someone above physical displays of attraction. The same goes for many neurodivergent people. In short terms: It’s a lot harder for us to “touch” and go beyond it. For us, it needs to matter. It needs to be genuine.

In the “touch” scene where Wade and Ember join palms, she hesitates. Ember struggles with allowing herself to try. Wade is calm, patient and understanding of her limitations without holding back his own desire to connect. Showing genuine affection towards her.

When she realizes she can touch him, his contact starts to ground her and she relaxes. Finally allowing herself to fall into his embrace.

They dance and sway and for a few minutes, simply enjoy each other's proximity. What’s been an emotional connection has now been proven to also be able to be present physically. In their own terms, without having to morph it into anything else. It 's genuine. It’s unique and it’s entirely theirs.

To someone like me, who struggles with allowing my walls to come down. To be touched, it’s a beautiful scene. One that displays the yearn many of us have: To connect with someone on such a level. To find the person we can touch without feeling uncomfortable and who accepts and respects the way we are.

To me, modern dating culture expects physical displays of attraction as a genuine demonstration of connection and when you are somebody that doesn’t follow those “rules” you struggle finding the connection you seek.

To see these characters find so much calm and comfort in a simple embrace is a visual testament to what we value. What we seek and hold dear to what constitutes us as a person.

“I’m so lucky” he says while holding her and my heart swells.

It’s like hope and maybe also reassurance. That one day, we will find the person we can allow in. Their touch won’t feel foreign and we’ll not deny ourselves in how we connect with them.

Dragonfoxgirl.

[ckret2]

So what happens if You're Athiest? Is it like a ping pong depending on what you did? Or is it more like you choose which judicial system or oblivion. Which does that even count as a belief if you believe in oblivion???

(For context for anyone who missed it, we're talking about this headcanon post, this isn't an actual religious discussion.)

We know, for a fact, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that ghosts exist in Gravity Falls. Let's start with that. This is a universe where, all other matters of theology being up in the air, the existence of the soul and of continued existence after death is Canonically Confirmed And Real.

And so, souls & life after death being confirmably real—they continue to be real whether you believe in them or not.

We don't know much about the afterlife-afterlife in Gravity Falls beyond what little bits we get from Bill. We know he's been to hell and gotten kicked out, and he claims "heaven" is a dimension where you get everything you want. The soul contract on TINAWDC lists "heaven, hell, purgator[y?], big corner, flow state, the dream house, the reincarnation processing center, axolotl’s tank, and consequences hole" as some (but not all) possible afterlives. The Theraprism appears to be an afterlife (Bill shows up there after getting killed, leaving his corpse behind, and he'll remain there until he can reincarnate; and since it's literally located inside a mind, it might be located in the mindscape).

But, while we might not know much about afterlives: we do know afterlives exist.

In most human religions, you go to an afterlife whether you believe in it or not. Believers tend to believe that all humans go to This One Afterlife (or One Of These Available Afterlives Depending On What You Did). Most Christians don't think you can opt out of heaven/hell if you're an atheist. Buddhists don't think you're excused from participating in samsara if you don't think it's real. I doubt the ancient Egyptians believed you'd be pardoned from having your heart weighed if you told Anubis you thought he was imaginary.

You'd be hard-pressed to find afterlife beliefs where what you believe in matters to what afterlife you go to—except in cases where you're rewarded for believing the right thing and punished for believing the wrong thing.

So I am assuming that, if we're talking about a setting where afterlives are canonically real, that's how they operate:

Nobody's setting up afterlives to accommodate the beliefs of people who are wrong about whether souls & afterlives exist

you're subject to an afterlife whether you think it's real or not.

In light of all that, I don't think getting sent to a particular afterlife has to do with belief; I think it has to do with bureaucracy.

If you are born, you are probably the citizen of a country. You didn't ask to be. You didn't consent to being a citizen. But you are one anyway. The government you had no say in and don't even know exists yet decided you belong to them. If you don't agree to be their citizen, tough titties. You were born on the property they've decided is theirs, and/or they consider your parents citizens; so they consider you a citizen too. When you become an adult, they'll ask you to pay taxes to them because they're your country! You never agreed to any of this! But you were born into the system so you're participating in it whether you want to or not. Sometimes you can stop being a citizen, or become a citizen of some other country, but it's very rare, very difficult, and takes a whole lot of paperwork.

I assume that a Generic Non-Denominational Multi-Afterlife setting works the same way. You may be able to choose which afterlife you go to, if you meet whatever criteria there are for transferring to that afterlife; but one way or another, you're going to an afterlife. If you don't choose one, one's chosen for you. You can't opt out of being in the system just because you don't believe it's real.

[stories-and-chaos]

Shrike: Drinks with Mimzy

[Hazbin Hotel reader insert as Alastor’s “darling life and death partner” Ace x ace relationship, both parties are moderately sex favorable.]

[One shot, word count 1587. Cw: aphobia, alcoholism, cursing]

——————

The day after Lucifer’s visit, you went hunting. Not for souls or deals. Or…well one soul and in particular. And you didn’t intend to make a deal with this one. It took some time, checking various bars and clubs. You didn’t know which ones she was likely to frequent nowadays; being an Overlord didn’t give you much chance to go bar hopping with girlfriends.

So it wasn’t until early evening that you found her. Sitting at the bar, clearly tipsy, nursing another glass of whiskey, and bitching to the clearly annoyed bartender was Mimzy. You watched her finish her latest glass. “Gimme another one a these sugar.”

“Make that two, cher.” You came up next to Mimzy and slid a bill to the bartender. He looked even more annoyed at the idea of there being two whiny bitches at his bar but he got your drinks. “Thanks cher,” you said with a smile.

Mimzy glared at you. “Ugh, the fuck do you want?” It didn’t stop her from grabbing the drink you paid for.

“What, I can’t buy my friend a drink or five?” You expected hostility but damn. This seemed excessive. Fortunately you knew the way into her good graces: free drinks.

“Friends?!” she growled. “You come here saying we’re ‘friends’ after what your husband just pulled on me?!”

You sipped your whiskey, doing your best to let her fury wash over you. “From what I saw, Alastor pulled you out of yet another situation, and told you to take off because your problem trashed the place.”

“Like those sharks made much of a difference to that tacky joint. If anything I did you bastards a favor, free demolition.” She laughed nastily and finished her drink. You caught the bartender’s attention and nodded to Mimzy. You slid him another bill as he supplied her with another glass; it was high enough denomination to cover whatever she’d had already.

“Maybe you have a point, cher.” Not really, but you didn’t want her to close you out yet. You needed her less hostile, at least for now. “Here, let me treat you today Mimzy. Make it up to you.”

“Oh you know just how to butter me up doll.” The curvaceous blonde gladly accepted. If she owed 50 grand to loan sharks, doubtless she had tabs at every place in the city that sold alcohol. Which made up the majority of businesses in Hell.

You drank sparingly, just enough so she felt you were having a grand time together. You had the bartender keep supplying her refills; he seemed in a better mood now that someone else was dealing with the sloshed demon.

You let her bitch about everything in her afterlife and responded with soothing noises. In the end, you wanted to know how much shit she was in. This was the first time Alastor had sent her packing; you weren’t sure how she would react. You hadn’t missed the pink mark on her back on her shoulder blade. It hadn’t been there the last time you’d seen your old colleague.

Once she paused in her rambling, you asked about the mark. “I never expected you to get a tattoo, cher. What convinced you?”

The drinks and your apparent sympathy were enough to keep her talking, especially if it was something else to bitch about. “Ugh, that. Had to get it for work. One of the club owners works for someone that works for someone that works for one a’ the Sins. Greed’s head honcho.” She sipped her drink, starting to slow down as she got drunker. “The Sin bastard likes to mark any Sinners working for him, like some horny creep.” She downed the rest of her current whiskey.

“‘Course if you and your beau were properly grateful. I wouldn’t be dealing with this shit.” She pointed at you, empty glass in hand, her eyes looking unfocused and angry. The bartender moved to give her another drink but you made a cutting motion. This was the first time you heard anything of this.

“Grateful for what?” You asked, unable to help yourself. You honestly couldn’t remember what she could be talking about.

She looked at you, black and pink eyes wavering. “Fucking, of course!” You could only tilt your head. “Jesus Christ, it’s been a century and you’re still clueless? It ain’t cute anymore dollface.” Mimzy set her glass down harshly. “Sex, Y/N. S. E. X. If me and the gals hadn’t said anything, you and Alastor woulda never figured it out. You’d probably still be frigid little virgins in Hell.”

Your jaw dropped as you felt a cold spike in your core. You actually had to look down to make sure you hadn’t been stabbed. No, it was just words from someone you’d still thought of fondly. The alcohol didn’t excuse Mimzy; if anything it made her more honest.

Has she always felt like that? No… you remembered her saying she thought you and Alastor were good together. That she wanted you both to be happy. Somewhere in all those decades between then and now, things changed.

She was smirking as you processed all this, glad that she managed to hit you where it hurt evidently. In the way only people who are hurting can do, she kept pushing. But she didn’t realize what exactly hurt you. “You’re probably both terrible in bed too. Lemme guess, you just lay there while he tries to remember where to stick it?” Mimzy kept going as you stayed silent.

As her insults grew, the betrayal of a friend gave way to comedic disbelief. You started chuckling, then you were outright laughing, pounding your taloned fist on the counter. It was a good thing you had finished your drink because all the glasses around you jumped.

“What the fuck is so funny?” Your laughter finally got her stream of rudeness to stop. The indignant look on Mimzy's face just made you laugh harder, your feet kicking in glee.

“Oh, damn, I’m gonna pee myself. Fucking Hell Mimzy! Oh fuck, I needed that laugh.” You wheezed and took deep breaths until you could look at her reddened face without laughing. “Cher, you got one thing right; I still don’t understand all this nonsense about sex. Alastor still doesn’t either.

But that’s never mattered. I’ll never understand why you people think that’s so important to us. Maybe we wouldn’t have ever done it. I doubt that but we also would never have cared. You and so many others are so obsessed with sex that you can’t even imagine a relationship without it! It would be sad if it wasn’t so hilarious.”

Mimzy blinked at you, confusion, anger, and drunkenness warring in her expression. “Even now, you don’t get it! Cher, you insulting us about sex didn’t hurt. You’re a friend and my friend thinking I was stupid hurt.”

You ran your hand down your face. “Mimzy, cher, I’m just going to back up my darling here. If you want to redeem yourself, you’re welcome at the hotel. But don’t come calling otherwise. Especially if what’s his name, Mammon? The Greed Sin, comes after you. We’ll gift wrap you for him before we tussle with a Deadly Sin.”

Pulling the bartender aside, you paid for her outstanding tab, along with tonight’s drinks and a generous tip. “I paid your tab here, so you can call that payment for that talk years ago. Find me when you decide to not be a bitch.” You tucked one of your feathers into her headband. “Au revoir cher.”

Mimzy snatched the feather out and crushed it in her hands. “I don’t need you or him. I don’t need your hotel! I hope those angels kill all of you next Extermination Day, bitch!”

Back at the hotel, Alastor was in the parlor, listening to Charlie’s plans for her visit to Heaven. “Soooooo, how did it go?” he asked in a sing-song tone once he spotted you. You’d told him your plan to find Mimzy before leaving.

“As well as could be expected. I don’t think she’ll bother us anymore. I told her we’d gift wrap her for whoever came looking if she tried something like yesterday again.”

“Hmm, but that would be such a waste of good gift wrap.”

Later that night, in your suite, you went into more detail about your conversation. You were on Alastor’s lap, venting your hurt and tears. “I know she’s gotten worse in Hell, that she’s been using you, but I thought she was still our friend.” He let you get it all out, handkerchief at the ready when you were.

“I thought so as well, cher,” he said quietly. “I hate to admit it but Husk pointed it out to me. We can’t have her interfering though.”

“No,” you said simply, drying your eyes.

Alastor looked down at you, that sharp edged smile just a bit softer than usual. “I think I know what can help you for now, my dear.” With that he stood you both up and started humming, a question in his eyes. Your voice felt a bit hoarse from crying but you hummed along, practice making you harmonize. Then he swept you into a dance.

After a few numbers, you felt up to singing. The two of you danced until you were tired (Alastor probably could have kept going but he didn’t have an emotionally stressful day). That night you fell asleep in his arms, glad you’d married someone that understood you like he did.

——————

A/N: this is more than a little self indulgent on my part. My frustrations with aphobes knows no bounds. Kinda prompted after discussion with a therapist concerning aphobia and the nonsense acespec people deal with. Never forget how valid you are. 💜🤍🩶🖤 💚🤍🩶🖤 Cheers darlings!

@whitewolfsoldat @edgyboi10000 @ch3sire-blu3 @clearly-awkward @badatpunz @bengewatch @chewbrry

[livwritesstuff]

In December of 2001, the receptionist at Steve’s counseling practice starts bugging him about sending out a holiday card of his and Eddie’s daughter. Clients and counselors alike send holiday cards to the practice, so by mid-December they’ve got a whole wall of them, and their receptionist wants Moe to be a part of it.

The second Eddie, still as theatrical as ever, hears the idea, he takes it and runs, which is how they end up with a photo of six-month-old Moe, wearing a white onesie and a big red wool hat and a big drool-y smile, being held up in front of their Christmas tree by Eddie so only his arms are visible.

It’s a cute picture – so cute, actually; maybe Steve is biased but with those big brown eyes and that smile? She’d be the cutest kid on that wall of cards by a factor of about a million.

Still, Steve was on the fence about doing a card so overtly Christmas. He and Ed had no interest, patience, or time for immersing their daughters in any particular religion, including the Catholicism that Steve had grown up in and the Judaism that Ed still has an affinity for via his late mother. They had agreed they’d celebrate the holidays that were fun for kids so they’d create memories and traditions and all that shit, and if there was an opening for some explanation for why they were celebrating, they’d take it, but it wasn’t a big deal. 

Maybe Steve was worried about the message they’d be sending if they sent a card out to all their friends and family with their daughter in a Santa-esque hat in front of a decorated Christmas tree.

Steve: I thought you wanted the card to be – what was it? Non…denominational?

Eddie:

Eddie: Well, I mean…yeah, but…

Eddie:

Eddie: Shut up. Her hat matches the ornaments and it’s cute as fuck.

[autumnalfallingleaves]

Okay, so I've been thinking. Season 3 gave us so much in terms of magic and the origins of magic, specifically, which got me thinking-- it's stated that all magic originally came from Fairy Country, and, following that, all magical creatures came from there, which should include things like trolls and nisse, right? But young Johanna states that the sun never truly sets in Fairy Country, which wouldn't work for trolls, unless they were constantly in hiding. However, that wouldn't really seem good evolution-wise. Seems kind of weird, right? And nisse are another matter-- they are spirits, which suggests Wild Magic, but are primarily found in domestic spaces, thus suggesting a use of at least some Domestic Magic. Last I checked, Fairy Country doesn't seem to really have any houses (save for Phinium and Lydia's) or uses for house spirits. So what's the common denominator for two species that don't seem to have any common threads? And why do trolls and nisse seem to stand out in particular for being specifically not geared to Fairy Country, evolution notwithstanding?

One word: giants.

What about them? you ask. For that, we need to turn to the original Hilda: Hildafolk's Hilda and the Midnight Giant.

In the back of the graphic novel, we are presented with a visual guide to the mountain giants, which you can find me yelling about here. In that guide, we get this guy:

Who is named Björg, and, according to the book, was "the outcast of the group. He was fearful of the other giants and not well liked. When the others left he went into hiding. Trolls and nisse are descended from him." So this guy is the common link, giving trolls and nisse a common ancestor and a reason for why they may be the outliers in terms of magical beings. The mountain giants are now show canon, per the Faratok Tree episode, and seem to be lifted nearly 1:1 from the book.

From left to right are Halldór, Sigmund, Einarr, Valfreyja (who actually has a slightly different design from the graphic novels), Gertl, Aldinn, Bliða, Heimskr, and Jaðarrok. This basically confirms that all the giants listed in the graphic novel exist in the show, which means that we can extrapolate that Björg also exists, and seems to be in hiding, as the blurb suggests. I'm also thinking, based on the fact that the giants were on Earth really before humans were, that they left Fairy Country thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of years ago, shaping Earth to their liking through the years. This may mean that, while the other giants stayed together, Björg went off and did his own thing, which, I'm thinking, perhaps may have been creating the species that would go on to split and become trolls and nisse respectively.

With the two species being so well-suited to Earth, my guess, taking all of this, is that they were created and Earth and were never native to Fairy Country-- they've got ancestral roots there, but it was never their true home. That's how we get a species that can only live in the dark, and evolved to do so, and a species that has a symbiotic relationships with humans and their houses, which create Nowhere Space.

Now, to go further, my guess is that nisse evolved into their own species later than trolls, as trolls were likely present before humans. The nisse branched off as their own species likely when a particularly small, particularly hairy, and particularly magical troll managed to get into the newly-created Nowhere Space and made a home out of it, which then became the nisse as we know them now.

Anyway. This magic system. I've got Thoughts™️

[golvio]

Quietly obsessing over the fact that, based on how you can get to The Fury in the base game, Voice of the Stubborn will be the common denominator of the two possible starting routes, but also that his role in Fury might change depending on whether he’s the second or third Voice you meet.

I don’t remember exactly which interview I heard the devs say this, but I remember them saying that the second Voice you met was usually less helpful in the Chapter II they appear in, but the third Voice who appears in Chapter III is more helpful in that their advice guides you towards a conclusive ending to the relationship/story you’ve built with the Princess in that particular loop. But I don’t remember there ever being a route where you can get the exact same Voice from two different circumstances (unless Voice of the Paranoid can show up in The Wraith from Spectre’s direction, in which case I’m being a dum-dum).

In Adversary > Fury, Stubborn’s a perfect mirror of Adversary in that he’s accepted his role in the story as Her Eternal Enemy and enjoys it so much that he doesn’t question it. Contrarian being introduced serves as a potential destabilizing, deconstructive influence who might encourage him and Fury to start questioning their respective places in the narrative. Meanwhile, Tower > Fury has him introduced as the third voice in a manner that seems similar to his appearance in Den, where he sees himself as protecting us from a bully by encouraging us to stand up for ourself and fight back instead of meekly accepting our role as prey. But he also has no prior relationship with Fury and therefore no time to get comfortable in his role as Enemy, nor has Tower-Fury ever encountered an aspect of us with quite as willful and unrelenting as Stubborn.

Still, I don’t think it’s going to be just like Den where Stubborn is only helpful in the ending where you try to slay the Princess in revenge. I think there’s a reason why he’s in both versions of the route, even if it feels like Fury’s going to be a radically different character based on which route you approach her from, much like the Greys. I think, like the Greys, there’s a common theme to her route that makes both versions converging on the same role make sense despite the two versions of her being completely different characters. Fury’s route has this theme of literal and figurative deconstruction as both versions of her are denied what each sees as their purpose, throwing the cycle of violence/domination between us off its axis though not breaking it entirely, and then this possible theme of exploration/self-exploration as she takes us apart to try to figure out what that means. For whatever reason, Stubborn needs to be there, regardless of whether he’s initially helpful or not. And the updated Fury route will have the most new dialogue, sprites, and music out of all the upcoming new content for The Pristine Cut, if not all the base game routes in general. I find that extremely suspicious. There is something more the devs want to say with Fury, and, again, Stubborn has to be there for it.

Not to mention that, even though he was born to fight and perfectly happy with the idea of fighting Adversary forever, the only other time we’ve ever seen him truly at peace was The Wild, where he lays down his arms and willingly wants to be one with her. And then this route is another one that involves the Princess going inside of us in a very bizarrely intimate way. On top of that, the Tower being a very surprising route for me because she only ever seemed truly interested in the Long Quiet beyond allowing him to be “a priest or a pet” was when he was resisting her and trying to fight back, whether in Tower (before he actually makes her bleed and everything goes wrong) or in Apotheosis, where she seemed genuinely curious about what he was going to do if he tried to stop her.

Like…the update announcement said there was going to be a “new ending.” Is it going to be a character-specific ending like Stranger, where her route left such a massive loose end that she needed to have her own ending to give her and Contrarian’s story closure? Are we going to get that but with Fury and Stubborn? I mean, we can’t have a story about the breaking of cycles that possibly involves poor Stubborn having his own existential crisis and then leave both him and Fury hanging, can we?

[duhragonball]

Akira Toriyama (1955-2024)

I wouldn't say I'm feeling better today, but I'm feeling less bad than yesterday. So let's see if I can put some words together.

In case anyone still hasn't heard, Dragon Ball creator Akira Toriyama passed away on March 1, 2024. This news was made public on March 7 or 8. I woke up early on Friday morning and found out while I was checking Twitter. I had a long, busy day at work, and I kept getting on my phone to scroll through fan reactions and tributes.

I think that, more than anything, is what's gotten me so worked up about his death. My Twitter timeline and my tumblr dashboard were just chock full of touching message and images about how Akira Toriyama's work has changed their lives. I wanted to write my own tribute, but I'm not sure what else I can say that hasn't already been expressed by Archie Comics, professional wrestling trio The New Day, and the Republic of El Salvador.

There's this immense, global community of fans, and it's easy to lose sight of just how big it is. It's easy to get bogged down in the infighting and petty squabbles. I saw one tweet responding to the criticism of Dragon Ball not being like this "entry level" franchise compared to other, more high brow anime and manga. It's popular with so many people, that critics will assume it's designed to appeal to the lowest-common-denominator. But the opposite is true! Dragon Ball is accessible, which is how so many people from so many different places and walks of life can get into it. The guy telling the story was such a master storyteller that he could grab an audience's attention and make it look easy. So easy that the haters would start to think that it was a trick, and he must be overrated.

Let me talk about this panel for a minute.

Last night I started going through the original manga, looking for panels to screencap. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, but I thought maybe a selection of panels that really stood out for me might be worth posting. I'll probably still do that one of these days, but I got to this one, where Gohan tells Chi-Chi about Goku's death, and it hit me like a ton of bricks.

This was a powerful scene in the anime, of course, but in the comic it's even more profound. It's just one panel, no dialogue, because the reader already knows what's happening here. We know Gohan is telling his mother that Goku died in the Cell Games, and that he refuses to be wished back, because he thinks his presence on Earth will attract new enemies. It was hard enough to hear when Goku said it to Gohan and the others, and now Gohan has to relay that message to Goku's wife. All she can do is lie prostate on the floor and weep.

And look at the composition. She's surrounded by all that negative space. Gohan's there for her, but she still feels so alone, surrounded by her husband's absence. Pots of flour for food he'll never eat. An empty chair he might have sat in. Their son, who will have to grow up without him.

I saw this, as though for the first time, and it was so gut-wrenching that I had to post it by itself. I felt like it summed up my feelings better than any words could. We're all Chi-Chi in this panel, reacting to Akira Toriyama's death. And we're all Gohan too, each of us consoling one another with our own thoughts and tributes.

So what did Akira Toriyama mean to us all? Lots of people have answered this in a lot of different ways. Obviously his art, storytelling and cultural impact speak for themselves. I've seen people compare him to other luminaries like Jack Kirby and Osamu Tezuka. I'll try to add my own two cents with this:

I wrote a post about "Dragon Ball Daima" back when it was first announced, and I led off with this image of a note from Akira Toriyama. I guess this was from some big fancy presentation about Daima at a convention. I forget which one. In particular, I was skeptical that the Daima rumors were even true, and if they were, the whole idea seemed half-baked to me. Turning Goku into a kid had been done before, and it wasn't exactly successful the first time.

But this note from Toriyama was very reassuring to me. More than the trailer clips and character designs, this was what got me interested in the show. That's because he took the time to not only hype up the show, but also to explain what's going on behind the premise. He took the time to tell everyone that he's working on this show, and what "Daima" means, and why all the characters get turned into kids. It's "due to a conspiracy", and the good guys will have to "fix things". In short, he established a plot, conflict, and resolution to the story. He didn't just slap this together to sell new merch. I'm sure that was part of the motivation to make Daima, but there's more to it than that.

I think that's the loss I feel with Toriyama's passing. It's not that there won't be new Dragon Ball stories in the future. I'm sure others will continue telling their own versions long after I'm gone. I'm not that worried about the fate of Daima. I'm sure they'll figure something out, whether it's delayed, rewritten, or canceled. But we'll never see another message from Toriyama to promote a new project, and that's what I'll miss. From here on, his credit will just be an acknowledgement of his past contributions.

There's this great credibility with Akira Toriyama's name. Fans will argue about how involved he was in a project as a way of establishing how good or bad it was. Dragon Ball GT has his name on the credits, and he provided some designs and artwork early on, and for some fans that proves the series has his endorsement. For others, the sole problem with the show is that he wasn't directly writing the script. There's similar debates over Dragon Ball Super, where he was involved, but only writing those mysterious "notes". So if a fan doesn't like something in DBS, who do they blame? Did Toriyama lose his touch, or did his co-creators fumble the ball? Dragon Ball Evolution basically ignored all of Toriyama's advice and bombed, while Battle of Gods, Resurrection F, Broly, and Super Hero all put Toriyama's writing credits up at the very beginning, and each film made plenty of money. I read his comments on the Daima confirmation, and immediately thought "Okay, this should be pretty good. Akira Toriyama knows what's up."

That's gone now. I mean, there's still a lot of talent out there, but we'll never again have the little gas mask-wearing robot telling us that this story will be good because he worked on making it good. I don't think I really appreciated how much I trusted that guy until now. I still can't believe he's really gone.

I'll probably have more to say about this in the coming days, but I'll stop here for now. Thanks for letting me ramble a bit on this.

[thefrogsennaneverfound]

I ask this question from a curiosity standpoint, and don’t mean to seem rude or anything, but why don’t you like Daniel Ricciardo? Am I missing something?

He’s far less offensive than a lot of the other drivers. He has a tendency to awkwardly laugh rather than say “that’s a shitty joke. Not okay”, which is frustrating, but not even in the same universe as something like Lance Stroll physically assaulting his trainer.

Like all F1 drivers, he wants to be WDC and talks a big talk, but he’s still nowhere near as obnoxious as a lot of the other drivers, who all think and say the same.

Maybe my understanding isn’t correct? As far as I know, his only really shit time as a driver was with McLaren in 2022, and words like “scapegoating” and “sabotage” get thrown around a lot. In 2021, he gave McLaren its only win in over a decade, and it wasn’t team orders based, and he hauled Renault back up into the podium as well, for their first time in almost a decade. I don’t think he should have left Red Bull, and I don’t think he’s necessarily an Alonso or Verstappen level talent, but he also made those Red Bulls and Renaults that he drove look a lot better than they were.

It's not just about what a driver's like on the track; it's his attitudes off the track too and Ricciardo has really bad form. As for dragging the Renault into the points, and the Red Bull when it was underperforming - that's his job and the cars weren't that bad. If he'd swapped with one of the back markers at the time, they'd likely have performed just the same. Plus, if he made the Red Bull look better than it was, why wasn't he the one winning championships in it? Why did Vettel get all that action when all Ricciardo got was a handful of race wins?

Anyway, here's (just some of) why I firmly believe that Daniel Ricciardo is every bit as obnoxious as the most obnoxious drivers on the grid. If you don't read right to the end, and I wouldn't blame you, please at least take in the part I've highlighted in red; it pretty much sums up the type of character he is and why I - along with many others - really do feel that he's most definitely obnoxious.

“I don’t watch the news and feel better about my day so I choose not to watch it.” Just one direct quote regarding his complete and shameless ignorance about the extreme humans rights abuses prevelent in some of the countries F1 travels to. What it amounts to is that the “drama and negativity” (his own words) of news reports on out-dated and abusive attitudes to women and LGBTQ people is a buzz kill so he’d rather not know about it, thanks all the same.

His attitude to the sexist objectification of the (now thankfully defunct) Grid Girls: "It's kind of like part of the attraction of the sport, fast cars and fast girls,". In his opinion, because it’s a male dominated sport it’s “a cool thing” so “let’s keep them”. If that's not obnoxious, I don't know what is.

On “Your Mom’s House” (a lowest common denominator podcast aimed at pathetic little boys who think they’re men) he laughed along with deeply sexist, misogynistic ‘jokes’ about women. There are plenty of drivers who would, at the very least, have kept their reactions neutral, making it clear they didn’t think it funny, but not Ricciardo; he was more than content to chuckle away at their vile comments about women.

Tricking Yuki Tsunoda into trusting him to come closer on a boat so he could throw him overboard, because it’s funny to force someone to face a very real phobia of sharks by throwing them into a body of water that’s widely known to contain them. I don’t care what Tsunoda’s reaction was to it (it's common for the victim of bullying to make light of their ordeal) or that Ricciardo threw himself into the water too; it’s still an appalling way to treat someone when they’ve been brave enough to be in such close proximity to one of their greatest fears. It’s the behaviour of a bully and Ricciardo is the worst kind of that particular species – a charming bully. The reason he gets away with so much of his crappy behaviour is because so many people are taken in by a cheeky smile, a twinkle in the eyes, and the friendly disclaimer that it’s just a bit of fun; they’re just trying to lighten the mood and make people laugh. It’s always at someone else’s expense though.

Given he was in a highly competitive Red Bull for all those years, he won precious few races, and left because he wasn’t getting the attention he thought was his right. I know athletes have to have an enormous amount of self-belief but to have looked at a racer like Verstappen and sincerely felt that he was his equal? That’s delusional. But is that really how he felt? Or did he – like so many who can’t face real competition when they know someone else is going to come out on top – jump ship because being a big fish in a small pond is preferable to being outperformed and therefore second best? I don’t know which it is but if he really, genuinely, sincerely thought he was on the same level as, first, Verstappen and then Norris, surely he’s just not very bright?

Monza 2021 absolutely was a team orders win for Ricciardo. Have you listened to Norris’s radio? He was faster; he wanted to pass; he asked if he could pass; he was told to maintain position. Either the team were concerned that the two might take each other out (although I am absolutely certain that Norris could have made that move with ease so was it more a case of Ricciardo taking Norris out if he tried to overtake?) or Ricciardo’s ego was so fragile by that point (Norris had been wiping the floor with him) that they decided he needed the win to boost his confidence and get a few more much needed points for McLaren. Either way, Norris was robbed of his maiden victory because he’s a team player who obeyed team orders rather than saying “screw this; I can win and I’m damn well gonna win”. I respect him for playing the team game but I hate the fact that Ricciardo got an undeserved win at his considerable expense (that’s not hyperbole; a driver’s first F1 win really is huge).

You're probably sorry you asked now.

[doomwitctheories]

YOU and HIM is an 18+ visual novel. Minors, refrain from interacting.

Trigger warning: Conservative Christian beliefs.

A while ago, the creator of YOU and HIM answered one of the questions on Tumblr, stating that Adam decided to dye his hair purple as an act of rebellion against his father.

At first, I thought they were referring to the puritanical dress code of some Christian denominations: short hair for boys, no piercings or tattoos, etc.

However, while researching for another theory, I found that the color purple, in particular, is especially disliked in Baptist denominations, which are very influential in Tennessee (where Adam grew up). So much so that, in the middle of a sermon on "the proper way to dress," they emphasized purple as the worst color to dye your hair.

The reason? One of their fundamental pillars is the total submission of women to their husbands. In recent years, purple has become a symbol for advocates of women's rights. It is the color of feminism and the representative color of International Women's Day. 💜 (Fun fact, It's also a symbol of empowerment within the LGBTQ+ community, specifically gays and lesbians 👀).

That's when the light bulb went on for me. It's quite possible that, just like Adam always wears the cross earring, he dyed his hair purple as a sign of opposition to his father's treatment of his mother and the traditional gender roles they (he and his mom) had been forced to conform to.

I honestly really like that conclusion, but we'll see if it checks out in the future. I'm excited either way.

The main theory for which I sought out this information is going to take a while to be published because, unfortunately, I'm very busy and can't devote the time I'd like to it. 😭

But I decided to post this preview because I really wanted to share this idea. Any thoughts?💕

[willothewispwisteriadawn]

Bunny’s Moral Crisis and Julian being Anti Judeo-Christian

I was positive I got the impression, during my first read of TSH, that Bunny was truly morally bothered by the farmer-killing. Then I started wondering, post-reading, if I was being too generous, and Bunny legit was just worried for his life and was angry that the group was keeping secrets from him (that second one is what Henry told Richard).

But I got to the part in my on-and-off listening to the audiobook where Julian tells Richard he’s wondering what’s going on with Bunny. Julian says Bunny keeps approaching him and asking to talk about morality (particularly sin and forgiveness). Julian says he’s getting concerned that Bunny may convert to Marion’s religion. He asks Richard what denomination she is, and Richard says he thinks she’s Presbyterian. Julian is disappointed and says the only Christian denomination he can gracefully accept losing a student to is Roman Catholic.

Now this scene is interesting to me for a couple reasons. Firstly, it does indicate there may be more going on with Bunny internally than the Greek class gives him credit for. If Bunny is trying to approach Julian privately to talk about ethical dilemmas, this shows some level of genuineness in his questions (Julian also believes it to be earnest questioning). But secondly, Julian’s comment about only finding the Roman rite to be a worthy foe is so, so interesting to me.

The scene shows that something more is going on with Bunny, but it also reveals that Julian hates Judaism and Christianity— making exceptions for people like Dante and Giotto. The thing that’s fascinating to me about this detail is that Julian’s statements show the central theme of the whole book: that beauty is worth something if it’s backed by things of substance (Georges Laforgue says this, and the same thing is said by Theo in The Goldfinch. This is a concept important to Tartt’s writing).

Julian has a basic respect for Catholics, because Catholicism traditionally also has emphasis on art, philosophy, and classical aesthetic beauty. And, perhaps most importantly, Roman Catholics have kept Latin as the language of the Church and Vatican. The medieval Catholic Church was perhaps the biggest patron and commissioner of artists, and from the Catholic Church came Notre Dame, Aquinas, Dante, etc. Here, Julian mentions that the Catholics make “worthy foes” for the pagans, and what he means is that there’s all this aesthetic beauty and classical study within the Catholic Church. But it’s key here that Julian hates other branches of Christianity. The scene emphasizes that the only thing he enjoys about Catholics is their specifically classical history.

The thing I like about this detail is that it is a really specific bit of characterization to show that Julian does not care about morality or the search for truth that’s at the heart of all religions and mythologies. He’s different from people like Aquinas because he does not see human art and language as a means to articulate and pay homage one’s moral beliefs. He sees art/language as the highest good in and of itself. Once you remove the classics aspects of Catholicism, Julian does not care. And we see this because of his apparent disdain for Protestants and Jews. This also reminds me of Bunny saying Henry thinks Jamaicans have no culture. Obviously, they do, but it’s not the particular kind of culture and expression Julian and Henry find legitimate.

I guess I like how Donna Tartt understands her own theme and can show how it’s applicable so naturally just in the way her characters talk. We get a lot of hints about how closed-minded and shallow Julian actually is before we get to the end of the book where it’s confirmed.

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter eight

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, furina, sedene, literal cameo of wriothesley, clorinde and navia, other melusine characters ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 6.5k

“Ouch! Sedene, can you go any tighter?” You really just intend on patting her arm to stop, but your hand meets her face and she reacts with a little squint to her nose.

You look under your arm, and find that she has tilted her head. “But isn’t it a Fontainian custom to tighten a corset to its limit? For a woman’s youthful look to ‘shine through’, as they say.”

“Well — my youthful look is going to turn into a wrinkly one if you’re going to constrict my airways.” The ironic thing is that, although you've had your share of tighter corsets and could wear them tighter yet, the issue persists; the innumerable comforts you've offered Neuvillette over the previous few days have served just as a distraction. You're still in excruciating pain.

The week had unfurled in a whirlwind of activity, traversing boutiques and bakeries alike, where both you and Monsieur Neuvillette took the painstaking sacrifice to your schedule to craft the wedding arrangements. Arguments, though not exempt, arose with discussions on which croquembouche would most harmoniously blend with the theme (Neuvillette eventually bent his opinion in your favour, your excuse being that he is not allowed one as his profession forbids him so). However, the task of securing the venue had been entrusted to Lady Furina's capable hands, and to Monsieur Neuvillette's discerning eye, her choice did not fail to impress.

In the days leading up to the wedding, the place at which you have been staying happens to be the very Palais Mermonia — and though you were initially apprehensive about living in the same place as your ‘fiance’, it was a strategic move, a calculated step on the chess board. It has proven to be of other conveniences as well: a shorter commute to your office and the excuse for leisurely strolls around the Palais grounds, weather permitting, which you’ve come to realise isn’t very often during this monsoon (odd how this period of the year in particular isn’t known for its rain, but then again, it never has really been consistent).

But out of all of the days where the rain poured and the levels rose dangerously high, a common denominator stood true: the Iudex of Fontaine, standing tall and erect over the balcony of the Palais, water matting his hair to his face, his robes to his skin.

You briefly recall the night in which you weren’t dressed in any garments but a nightgown, toeing lightly down the steps in hopes that you wouldn’t awaken anyone at such a late hour over a matter as trivial as a cup of tea.

If a memory is worth recalling, it is worth noting that embarrassment is one of its most prevailing factors. When it comes to you, of course.

And to see such a sight at such an hour had you almost playing death with the ceramic cup in your hand.

____

The Chief Justice of Fontaine stalks down the hallway, and though it is too dark to see the dampness of his clothes, you are sure of how he radiates a certain coolness, ridding wherever you are currently standing of warmth. His silhouette appears more fitted, a likely reasoning from the clothes that cling to his skin. For someone who sees nothing but the warm lights of the Opera, he is certainly of a robust build.

You don’t think he sees you when he almost slams into you with the full force of his momentum. A most depressing sight turns out to not be the both of you, but the lemon tea that spilled onto the marble floor.

“There goes my cover. And my midnight tea.”

The clarity in the whites of his eyes grow more pronounced, the adrenaline-fueled rush that spurred his almost inhuman speed beginning to fade. “Goodness, I am sorry. Let me make another cup for you.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I’m very much hydrated now that you’ve decided to show up,” you jab, eyeing him from head to toe. It's doubtful that he notices your scrutiny, though if he does, you hope he realises it's not in a particularly flattering light — more of a bemused acknowledgment of his somewhat unkempt appearance. Most definitely up to par with his reputation, you muse.

(Is it just you, or did the rain stop?)

He shoots you a fatigued smile in the dim-light. “I was just about to make myself a kettle of tea, to soothe the nerves. I could pour you a glass, if you’d like?”

“If you insist.” You finally look him in the eye, a subtle gleam of indigo glowing against the night. 

And with a midnight snack consisting of awkward small talk and sips of tea, you wish you never rolled out of bed to begin with. 

___

“Earth to you?” Sedene taps at your hip, but such a gesture would’ve gone unnoticed had it not been for her insistence. The corset you wear is the main culprit, taking the jabs of her hand.

“Yes? Is something the matter?”

“Does it feel better now?” She finishes, the discomfort increasing once she finishes tying the knot at the base of your waist.

“Yes, thank you Sedene.”

If anyone were to barge into the room at this particular moment, you would have been set for utter humiliation on your wedding day. You are clad in nothing but a corset and an underskirt — surely a most scandalous sight!

Sedene calls for someone to grab the dress off its hanger, and you see Kiara peek from a corner, clearly struggling under its weight. You immediately rush to take it from her hands, and you notice her immediate expression of relief. How adorable.

With a swift move, you retreat behind the privacy of the changing screen. The gown’s delicate lace and silk shimmer softly, catching glimpses of the stream of light peeking through the window. With a gentle touch, you slip into the gown, but the sleeves, as if possessing a will of their own, elegantly drape over your arm, reluctant to rest precisely where intended. 

You glide towards the dressing table, greeted by a reflection unfamiliar in its elegance. Flowers weave delicately through your hair, stray curls framing the soft contour of your cheeks. The white wedding gown, meticulously tailored, drapes like a dream, its sleeves sitting off your shoulders, leaving them bare. Slipping on your lace gloves, you make a statement to have the engagement band to remain on the ring finger of your right hand.

The two share reactions in astonishment, with Sedene voicing "Oh, wow," in disbelief, affirmed by Kiara's nod of agreement.

You gently smooth down the gown, then look a little forward to see the two of them waddling toward you, all smiles. Returning the warmth, you affectionately pat both of their heads. “And you two as well.” They had eagerly volunteered to be the flower girls ( you harbour doubts, having spotted them in the Chief Justice's office—a more likely scenario being that Neuvillette ordered them so), and were thus given sky blue dresses to wear.

Kiara hands Sedene a translucent cloth, and Sedene promptly relays it out to you. “Would you like me to put on the veil for you?”

“It’s quite alright, I can manage.” Playing with it in your hands, Kiara takes her leave, but Sedene stays. Your eyes follow her as she slips past the door, but she stops, seemingly greeted by someone on the other end.

Focused as you are, it is diverted when Sedene taps your hand. “You do not seem happy.”

This prompts your smile to drop. “What do you mean? Can’t you tell that I am from my smile alone?”

“A smile it is, yes, but it is a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your expression is the textbook definition of joy, yet I cannot help but feel like you are anything but.”.

Your fingers pinch at the bodice, and you try your best to keep composure. If someone were to see you like this, it would be only you. Not Clorinde, not Sedene, and certainly not that Iudex. “It is nothing to be concerned about, Sedene. I am just fine.”

She blinks, and you think she doesn’t really believe you. “Alright then, if you say so. I'll call for Monsieur Neuvillette—see you at the venue! And in case I haven’t mentioned it yet, you look absolutely stunning.”

“Ah, thank you Sedene. You flatter me too much.”

She smiles and walks toward the door, closing it gently behind her, yet it fails to muffle the voices emanating from the other side.

The resounding echo of the door's closure bears down upon the room, casting the weight of burden in the now still silence. How could you have possibly subjected yourself to this stupid, senseless excuse of an arrangement? With hesitant steps, you approach the mirror, only to be met with a stranger's visage staring back, prettied and prepped for a sale that was never your choosing. Today is supposed to be an opening of a new chapter, of a life you haven’t lived, yet why does it feel like you are the corpse in a casket, awaiting your own burial?

With a shaky effort, you steady your fingers under your eyes to stop the tears from ruining your makeup. Not here, not anywhere, you assure yourself, hoping that if you bite it back, the feeling will eventually go away.

You try to affix the veil to your head, but it slips off to the right, resisting your attempts to secure it to your head. In an act of desperation and haste, you remove it, cautious not to catch any stray hairs — only to discover that your subsequent attempt moves it too far back. With your vision blurring from the effort, you reluctantly decide to leave it be.

Time does not wait for you to wallow in self pity, and instead it sends you something even more frustrating to get your mind off it.

“Mon coeur?” a deep voice whispers from the other side of the door, but you don’t have to think to recognise who it is.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” you question in return, a hopeless act of confirmation.

Wiping your eyes, you take in a sharp breath before allowing him to come in. He stands apprehensively by the doorway, wearing a white suit with blue accents on its lapels. Given how the outfit bears elements to his everyday wear, you entertain yourself with the notion that work life never seems to leave him, no matter the circumstance.

Monsieur Neuvillette, the Chief Justice of Fontaine, is comically frozen in his place.

You raise an amused brow. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he says, blinking, before proceeding to shut the door behind him, beginning to walk toward you with a hesitant pace. 

You flash him a brief, cordial smile, but a grimace manages to fight through. “You ready?”

He stops before he can get too close. “I’ve spent days convincing myself that I was, but to tell you the truth, I am not so sure,” he whispers, gaze lingering on the flowers woven through your hair, to the earrings clasped to either side of your ears. He does not dare look any further. 

Neuvillette finds himself at a loss for words. Should he offer you words of comfort? No, that would only rile you further. 

The two of you motion to different spots in unison, lips parting to say similar words.

“I bought you a gift —”

“No, please, your gift first—”

“I insist that you present to me my gift first, to avoid disappointment.” You think he takes it lightly when he chuckles. But for once, it truly isn’t in jest.

“I thought this gift would be fitting.” He reaches into his breast pocket and presents to you a bag. Curiosity piqued, your brows raise. It doesn’t take much discerning to realise that the fragrance emanating from it is, in fact, a handpicked array of tea packets.

“Oh. Thank you for this, I needed to restock my stash of it but I had gotten a little lazy in doing so.” You fidget with the bag antsily, taking a peek at the content. Pulling the drawstring closed, you face Neuvillette, to whom returns the look with an expectant one. “If you’d just give me a moment.”

Pacing toward the dressing table, you reach for his gift, making an effort to avoid your reflection in the mirror. You turn around and meet his eyes, only for him to break it and find interest in a… pot? 

You walk over to him and simply hand him the gift. “A notebook — for when inspiration strikes you at all the wrong times.”

“Ah, thank you. A very thoughtful present —”

“Don’t think too hard about it, Monsieur. It’s just Fontainian custom.”

A pained smile paints his short lived, light manner, and he tugs at the elastic that keeps the notebook from opening of its own will like a boy who's never seen a toy quite so fascinating. “Does it hurt to appreciate a gift?”

A spike of childish reminiscence leaves your lips before you can think anything of it.  “On apprécie mieux le soleil quand on a connu la pluie.” We appreciate the sun better when we have known the rain. 

Neuvillette’s expression softens into recognition. “On trouve toujours que la douleur est moins amère après l'avoir sentie quelque temps,” We always find that pain is less bitter after we have felt it for a while. “That quote derives itself from an old play. How did you come to know of it?”

“Well, Monsieur, like any normal person, I had interests. I was once a fan of the arts, poetry, plays, you name it — but look at where I ended up.” 

“I never knew you were so attuned to the fine arts. I should have purchased an anthology if I knew of it.”

“Dwelling on it won’t do anything, Chief Justice,” you stop to adjust your glove. “Is our escort here yet? The wedding reception begins in under two hours.”

“We shall anticipate their arrival within ten minutes. Shall we adjourn to the entrance promptly?”

If you were anymore rushing with adrenaline you would’ve answered immediately, but you notice that your head feels a little bare. “I certainly do wish that were the case — but I do still have a veil to put on. So if you don’t mind.”

“Alright then. I shall be waiting by this very couch.” He points to the leather seat you’ve grown accustomed to in your stay in the Palais, and promptly sits, making sure to look away. 

For the nth time today, you make your way to the vanity, and try again. It almost drives you mad at how it just cannot sit right, and your heart pounds anxiously against your chest as if in sync with the intrusive ticking of the nearby clock. 

A distant voice interrupts your struggle. “Do you require hel—”

“No. I am fine. Just, ever so amazingly, fine.” Your response is tinged with sarcasm, a hint of irritation slipping through despite your attempts to mask it.

Ignoring Neuvillette's persistent offers of assistance, you wrestle with the veil again. And again. And again. Each attempt is punctuated by audible sighs of exasperation, likely loud enough for him to hear from across the room.

With your eyes still trained on the reflection of the veil, you ask the other person occupying the room an offhand question: “Do you remember when you asked if I needed help?”

“Yes, I do remember it very well.”

“Well I think an emergency such as this is worth warranting help.” 

Before you can even finish your sentence, he rises gracefully from his seat. As he moves closer, occupying space in the reflection beside you, his eyes lock onto yours with a depth of uncertainty that sends a shiver down your spine. Ego aside, you feel bare, stripped, vulnerable.

His words brush against the nape of your neck. “Do inform me if my touch proves too unyielding,”

You take a nervous gulp and choose a nod over words, fearful that any utterance might betray your inner turmoil. Neuvillette deftly accepts the veil from your hands, then gently pushes a few strands back with a practised touch. His left hand traces your bare shoulder, a fleeting warmth that tantalises before dissipating, now lingering at the very lobe of your ear — and your lungs begin to plead for more air as you begin to hear your heart beating against your skull, the cloth of the Iudex’s suit the sole barricade between scandal and sin.

But there’s no one to stop you.

“That is enough,” you remark, turning to face him with a newfound resolve — and in that instant, a dawning horror grips you, realising it to be a grave oversight. There is something terribly wrong with the air in this room! Your eyes, usually sharp and commanding, now betray a flicker of uncertainty, quickly masked by a defiant lift of your chin. It doesn’t seem to last, your authority dwindling — robbing you of composure, the marble floors swirling in your vision; your high ground caves beneath you and it stirs a strange, undefinable confusion of feeling. It's as if all sense and logic have been threatened by his proximity alone, his face uncomfortably near yours, hand still in your hair. Despite the undeniable allure that you might grudgingly acknowledge, your stance remains firm, a silent refusal to entertain such thoughts, buried beneath the weight of your loathing for him.

Pull yourself together. This is the man who ruined your life.

You swat his hand away with a quick, dismissive motion — a gesture of indifference, of your forced aversion. There's a fleeting expression of disappointment that crosses his features, but you steel yourself against any sympathy, unwilling to entertain thoughts of his feelings. Instead, you draw in a deep breath, the cool air filling your lungs as you straighten your posture, a silent act of regaining control over your emotions.

“Did I clip it on too tight?”

“No. No you didn’t,” you say, taking an awkward step backwards. “It’s fine, you did half of the work.”

His eyes do not leave yours — a narrowing, apprehensive gaze that has you fighting against all your composure. 

You take a brief once-over of yourself in the mirror before letting out a breathless, dry laugh. “We should get going.” He really did good work on that cloth — but what is to be made of him as a husband (however temporary)  if he wasn't able to do something as simple as clipping something in your hair?

His engagement ring glints in the blooming sun. “We shall.”

____

The hour preceding the arrival of guests is nothing short of chaos, with eager individuals clamouring at the doors of the coach in a flurry of excitement. With all your judgmental tendency, you cannot help but regard them with a tinge of annoyance, at their fervour for a touch of fame, at a corrupt ideology planted into them — a flaw they have no one to blame for but themselves. An imperceptible roll of your eyes goes unnoticed by the man next to you, who seems nothing but aloof amidst the commotion.

“How civil,” you chide, clearly amused at the state of madness possessing these people.

“Ah, well,” Neuvillette replies with a knowing smile, “I suppose you're quite familiar with their ways, given your role as the Head of Civil Affairs.”

“Archons forbid a woman be fascinated,” you muse, a sneer making its way to replace the frown that had come to form since your time in the Palais.

The man at the wheel swerves to the right, and you grip onto the handle by your side of the coach, but the effort is fruitless when you end up scooted up against your fiancé’s arm. Before Neuvillette can make a reaction of it, you step on all of whatever he might be thinking. “I know, I know, you think I cannot get enough of you.”

The Iudex uses his right arm to help yourself back up — but you shake your head. His brows furrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s called humour, Monsieur. You’re going to need some of it.”

He says nothing.

After what feels like aeons, the coach jerks to a sudden halt — and before you can lurch forward, Neuvillette instinctively extends his arm to shield you.

You eye his arm with a raised brow. “That wasn’t required of you.” 

Though visibly hurt, he soundlessly slips his arm away, and turns to open the door.

Reaching to do the same, you find that Neuvillette happened to reach an inhumane speed and is now opening yours. He offers his hand, but you find support in the handle near your seat instead.

But there is one important thing you seem to forget. Eyes follow.

Neuvillette seems to come to the same conclusion and gives you a knowing look. You begrudgingly accept his hand, heels meeting on cement.

You wish not to engage in whatever he seems to be planning behind those eyes that gleam like ice: cold and unforgiving, and yet, you realise this is what you’ve signed your life for — to act, to be a pawn mercilessly thrown around on the table.

Standing at the precinct of the mairie, amidst the bustling noise, a stark loneliness envelops you. You're about to walk down the aisle as an orphan, bereft of a mother's reassurance or a father's farewell kiss. Gripping Neuvillette a little tighter, you cling to the only semblance of support and he stops (everyone else surrounding the barricade does too, but you pay it no mind). 

___

Judging by Lady Furina’s shriek at your appearance, you sense her disapproval of how you look. “Y—Your makeup! It’s smudged! Oh God.”

Your hand hesitantly brushes against your cheek, detecting the subtle dampness where your makeup has indeed betrayed you. With a superficial calmness, you respond, “It should be expected, Lady Furina, given the unpredictability of the weather as of late.” Despite the Hydro Archon’s critical gaze, you maintain a dignified demeanour, unwilling to let her judgement dampen your already heavy heart.

Neuvillette intervenes before Lady Furina can continue her scrutiny. “Lady Furina, the wedding reception commences in fifteen minutes. I kindly request you save your critiques for another time.” His protective stance shields you momentarily, prompting you to seek out Sedene amidst the commotion.

You venture further into the hall, and to your satisfaction, find them giggling with baskets in their hands, their dresses a perfect blue against the backdrop of the glass architecture. Bands of joyous light peek stream through the windows, casting a sheen against the silk of your dress. 

The Melusines pause in their chatter, their eyes widening in admiration as you approach. “Madame!” they exclaim, encircling you in excitement. Their gentle inspection of your dress brings a fleeting sense of satisfaction amidst everything.

However, Sedene’s gasp and concerned inquiry shatters the brief respite. “What happened?”

You attempt nonchalance, replying, “What do you mean?”

“Let's put that aside for the moment, shall we? What's important is that you look your best,” Sedene declares, determined. She leads you to the dressing room, where makeup supplies are scattered in a chaotic array, likely the result of others' hurried preparations. You note the various shades of lipstick and the slightly uncomfortable puckering of the Melusines’ lips all likely because such application of the cosmetic was in a rush. Sedene works swiftly, applying powder to salvage what remains of your makeup, her movements deft and purposeful.

After a brief pause of silence, you rub your hands against either side of your arms in an attempt to find warmth. Sedene prompts your eyes to close, and you hear her tap her brush against an eyeshadow palette. A familiar softness of a brush swipes over your eyelids, the quiet bringing the Melusine to hum jubilantly in tandem with the strokes. 

You hear the door creak open, but the brush lingering on your eyelid has you still, unable to move. “Ah. There you are,” the voice says, a middle ground between panic and relief.

Your lips pull upwards in sardonic spite. “Yes, Monsieur Neuvillette, I am well aware that we have but a few minutes left — but won’t you give your fianceé a few minutes of solace before she walks down the aisle with you? You can have her all you want until you grow tired of it.”

Satisfaction courses through you when your response is met with a tense hush, abuzz with silence that dances like errant shadows against the walls. “What, cat got your tongue?”

“No, no, certainly not. We shall rendezvous by where we met Lady Furina, if you do not mind.”

What difference would it make if you did, in fact, mind? Could time, against its natural course, be  reversed at the hands of a clock at your beck and call?

“I have no problem with that. Now, if you would excuse me.”

Neuvillette acquiesces, and this you know from the way the pad of his boot clicks against the cement instead of the wood tiling the floors of the room, each step a catalyst for the brimming tautness. 

The frantic brush of the trail of his coat twirls the strands of your hair and you make no interest in fixing it. Response would be idle, a futile attempt at salvaging the rubble of whatever the two of you have.

And with almost no regard for the now tense quietude, Sedene resumes her putting on of your makeup. You think you can almost slip this under the rug for how easily a quarrel like this could go under Sedene’s nose — but it appears that you forget that naivety comes with a lack of filter. 

“Neuvillette tells me you aren’t entirely fond of him.”

A wrinkle forms between your brows and your eyelids push against the brush that hovers above it. “What?”

A hand in which she holds nothing comes to fly over her mouth. “Was I not supposed to say that?”

You scoot further into the stool, the rustle of your dress leaving the ground. I suppose this discussion has come earlier than anticipated, the thought is rueful, a catalyst that weighs you down just as much as your dress. “You're not wrong,” you finally admit; though your voice is soft, only the most adept of hearing would hear the edge that cuts a thin abrasion through the air. “But fondness is a luxury I've learned to live without.”

“You make it seem like he had committed a crime,” Oh, how vicious of a contrast. But what he had done to you, it might as well be.

“It’s… complicated, Sedene. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, dear,” Sedene murmurs, shifting eyeshadow palettes and lipsticks alike into an arranged array, the mess you were once greeted with now left with no trace to a crime. 

You shake your head, bitterness possessing the shift in your bearing.  “I do not need your pity,” you assert, though the words feel hollow even to your own ears. “What matters is that this must go on. For however long it wills to.” With practised ease, you straighten your posture, a facade of composure settling over you like a second skin. 

Sedene nods slowly, her gaze thoughtful. “As long as you're alright,” she says softly, her concern palpable.

“I always am,” you reply, exhaling a shaky breath you hope goes unnoticed by the Melusine in front of you.

You hear someone (or something) scurry past the door, and Sedene promptly peeks from your side, her eyes widening before she waves at whoever it is.

“Who…?”

“Kiara has just gone to usher the guests. You must go. It is nearly time,” Sedene's voice breaks the tranquillity, grounding you back to the horror you find reality. With a shaky breath, you steel yourself for what lies ahead, drawing upon the fleeting moments of solace and camaraderie within the dressing room as you prepare to face the orchestrated spectacle awaiting outside.

____

The bouquet of flowers thrust into your hand by Lady Furina slips slightly in your hold, and you await behind the grand doors of the hall, except there is no one to guide you through the aisle. A sudden, icy cool works from your fingertips, the cause of your own fault. 

Frost accumulates at the bottom of the wrapped posy, but you crush it before it festers any further up the stems. The glow of your vision is the sole source of light that falters in tandem with the flutter of your heartbeat, and you recognise it well — it does not stem from excitement; rather, from an overwhelming confusion of impending doom.

Aeife and Aeval come to hold the train of your dress, Sedene and Kiara, ever giddy, come to stand in front of you — one, holding a basket of flowers, and the other, meticulously protecting the rings in the palms of her hands.

The colloquy breaks off as a beam of light peeks through a crack in the door. Before you can make a name for yourself as a runaway bride, the gasps of all almost succeed in shattering your resolve — but you swallow, choosing to use it as a vessel to fuel the unwavering smile that comes to paint over your lips. You feel it creep up to the squint of your eyes, but the only receiver of the sting happens to be the man standing high and mighty at the end of the aisle.

You can almost hear the judging hushes of ‘an orphaned bride?’ and its more degrading counterparts stirring from the crowd.  Keys of a piano start in a rapid crescendo, arpeggios drowning out the whispers of condemnatory tones regarding the absence of the man next to you.

But scandal is what fuels the people, you conclude, a more stirring, grim smile coming to twitch at the corners of your lips. 

Kiara skips down the aisle, opening the way with flowers, excitedly giggling as she makes her way through the stretch.

Every step you take towards the man that you have come to hold in a loathful regard grows more weighted with hesitance. 

You reach the steps, catching a glance of Clorinde and Wriothesley sitting beside each other, along with a woman you do not recognise clad in a black dress, blonde hair tied neatly with a ribbon.

Helping yourself with your trail, you bring yourself to level your gaze with your future husband, eyes flickering in uncertainty, his mirroring yours. 

(You try to ignore the absolute excuse of a woman officiating the wedding to your left, but you cannot.)

Lady Furina’s eyes dart between the both of you with a childlike wonder, a growing grin showing teeth flashing in the rising sun; cruel, but a smile nonetheless. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we are here to witness the most influential of marriage unions Fontaine has ever seen! Please, provide your utmost respect.”

A light courtesy of clapping incites from her very words, and through the very edges of your peripheral vision you see her cant her head to the side, basking in the pleasure. 

Her loud, and debatably authoritative voice drops to a whisper, as the smile she dons stays picture perfect — a smile, that to the naked eye, would appear that she is soundless and simply happy. “Please tell me you memorised your vows.”

You do not give her the satisfaction in turning your head to her; instead, it stays fixed in place, taking in the man that stands as stiff as a rod in front of you, further fueling the confident tilt of your chin.

 “Why, of course,” you start, “But we must proceed now, or they will grow suspicious. Surely you must agree, mon amant?”

Neuvillette blinks, shaking him of his stupor. He appears awfully dazed, the distinct authority you know that applied exclusively to the Chief Justice pools at his feet, disrobed him clean. He takes your hands in his, the agonising act of a real, authentic smile coming to oppose his duty as the ever impartial.

“I, Monsieur Neuvillette, take you to be my wife, promising to hold you close from this day onward, through every joy and every challenge, in times of plenty and times of scarcity, in sickness and in health. I vow to love you deeply and cherish our bond, knowing that nothing but death itself can part us.” The words leave like a burden, and you take it with morbid conclusion that the words you must say will have you linked inextricably with him, no matter the farce.

“I…I take you, Neuvillette, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, through better or worse, through richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; until death parts us.” You let out a defeated sigh, the only aspect of your form that betrays the rest of your otherwise joyous mannerism. 

Lady Furina’s eyes light up with a brightness of a thousand fires, exuberance radiating from her despite her affinity with water. “Monsieur Neuvillette, will you take her to be your partner through life? Will you love her, protect her, and spend your days in laughter together forever?”

His grip on your hands tightens a little, the friction of glove against glove exuding a warmth that snakes up to the tip of your spine.  “I do.”

“And to the bride,” her gaze fixes on yours, intense like a hawk's to its prey, “will you take Neuvillette to be your partner through life? Will you love him, cherish him, and pledge your days to laughter and love for all eternity?"

A thousand rational voices come to scream in response. No! they say, objecting to the very idea of it. It sickens you, that in all your years of living, that this is how you are to be wed; forcefully, stripping you of all sense of control. But alas, who are you to make that choice? The sole influence you hold over Fontaine’s population is but a fraction of the people's devotion towards the Hydro Archon. It would mean nothing of your rebellion.

“I do,” are the words that spill like poison from your lips, betraying your own autonomy, betraying the promise you vowed to yourself that night, hidden in your closet. 

Sedene eyes you with pity as she presents the rings, but you dismiss it with a quick glance away pretending to find interest in the way the clouds swarm above the glassed roof.

He makes a calculated move to lift your right hand, making sure of the absence of an engagement ring that lies in your left (he cannot help but be meticulous in  handling your cold touch). He then reaches to remove your glove, but you shake your head. No need for that, you order with your eyes alone, and the solemn smile on your lips says just as much. With a knowing nod, his hand slips from your hold, leaving you with nothing but a looser fit for a glove.

You make the intent of no longer meeting his eyes when he slips the ring on, the band of blue an irresistible target for burglars who do not know any better. Though the ring fits like a dream, you cannot say the same for yourself; how do you fit in as a bride? Before being tangled in this rout, the very notion of marriage was a faraway fantasy; a pipe dream. It was, and still is something that only fairy tales could fulfil. Fairytale indeed, for what you face right now is hellish, an arrangement designed primarily for Lady Furina’s own personal gain.

Sedene shuffles to your side, and when you turn to look at her, you can only make out the blonde head of hair from under the pillow where the last wedding ring sits. She pushes it slightly forwards to make for an easier reach, a move that brings the edge of the cushion to touch the tips of your fingers. Hopeless is what can only be described of your effort in bringing the ring to level with the Iudex’s own, admittedly warm hand. 

Neuvillette’s gaze bores into yours, and this, you do not need to affirm for yourself; it is truth, as is the word of the law. Your dress shields how you move to steady yourself (because, frankly, you think you might just lose consciousness if you don’t), the probing eyes of those in the crowd a factor you further take into consideration at your own, reckless ambivalence.  

The moment this ring pushes against his finger, it will all be set in place — and the final verdict lies in your hands. You briefly entertain the childish notion that you’re almost back as the Acting Chief Justice — though, really, it is a stupid distraction.

And so you bite your own hand, the one that feeds you. The band slips on with troubled attempt, its own reluctance a humorous prospect you amuse yourself to.

Lady Furina's hands shoot out from her sides, buzzing with exhilaration. “Monsieur Neuvillette, the Iudex of Fontaine, and Madame (Name), the Head of Civil Affairs are now officially wed! Put your hands together for this union!” Furina bellows, voice ricocheting off the glass walls of the town hall. This is the only time you revel in her love for spectacle, an uproar of celebration conjured by the command of a god. 

Amidst the mass of commemoration lie the most miserable: the newlyweds; the ones, who in all of tradition, should be amongst the completely joyous — and yet, here they stand, rigid and mourning. 

What you do next is not by the command of Furina, but of your own volition. 

You make the first move to step closer. It is a silent vow you make to your husband. I will not forgive you, but for once, I make an exception, just for this moment. You reach for his tie, fingers tracing the fabric as you pull him close, until the only sound you hear is of the both of you breathing, until you two are nose to nose, foreheads touching.

The longer you stand in such a manner only serves to heighten the thundering acclaim of the crowd, a ceremonious cacophony of anticipation leaving you to marvel at how the rain outside roars a solemn hymn in response.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice husky and unfamiliar, as though it hadn’t been used. You forcibly guide his arm around your waist, feeling the warmth of his touch against the cloth of your dress, a silent reassurance, however unideal.

“It is of no consequence, Chief Justice,” you whisper, a breathless act of convincing, a facade you know deceives no one. “The damage has been done.”

a/n: sorry for putting this out so late I got sick midway thru writing this chap[ter LITERALYL almost got admitted cuz my head was pounding like crazy

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog

[wanderingwomanwondering]

615 & 805 Cemetery Scenes

Fandom has already pointed out the fact that the scenes are parallel but I wanted to share my thoughts on exactly what that looked like and what it could mean moving forward.

In 615 Eddie mentioned Marie's line "We're all gonna die alone" from earlier in the ep. Buck then offered Eddie a little perspective and comfort saying that Marie was surrounded by friends and family. They got really real after Buck confessed that he feels different after the lightning strike. Eddie empathized and acknowledged that it made total sense that Buck felt different. He told Buck that he doesn't have to be any particular thing for anyone else and that "we're all different from one minute to the next". At the end of their talk, Buck pointedly noted that everyday since the lightning strike is "a gift".

The core themes were alienation and loneliness, and the healing power of connection and being seen by loved ones.

In 805, at the same cemetery but with Tommy this time, Buck talked to Billy Boils about the curse he put on him. He mentioned his arm injury and of course the boils. Buck made special mention of Tommy not wanting to kiss him. Tommy denied this but it seems safe to assume that Buck wouldn't have said it if Tommy had touched him at all up to that point. Anyway, the meat of Buck's eulogy for Billy was recognizing the "curse" as actually being "a cry for help". He realized that Billy was lonely because he was abandoned by his posse. Buck waxed on about how "our people" make for a life worth living - full of memories, help when we fall down, keeping us on the right path, and generally just being there. This scene's crescendo was when Buck said plainly "I can't imagine anything more painful than going through life alone". He then told Billy "I'm your posse now". Buck felt that by joining him, Billy could rest and that he'd lift the curse. On their way out of the cemetery, Tommy quietly echoed Buck's request that Billy lift the curse.

As convoluted as the Billy Boils metaphor was, the 805 cemetery scene with Buck and Tommy still had similar core themes to the 615 cemetery scene with Buck and Eddie. Loneliness, and the healing that comes with connection and being seen by others. Buck saw Billy in the end and that was what he felt could and would lift the curse.

Between the two scenes I'm especially fixated on a few key details:

Buck (805) and Eddie (615) were and still are wrestling with loneliness.

Buck was in a questionable relationship in 615 with Natalia and he's in one in 805 with Tommy.

Buck being distant from who he used to be in 615, distant from Tommy in 805, and Eddie looking isolated in the 805 montage

The loneliness common denominator in both scenes is actually Eddie. In 615 he's actually the one who brings up loneliness and in 805 his absence is actually louder than Tommy's mere distance.

The twist in the 805 Billy Boils subplot was the fact that Billy was actively **betrayed** by his posse. That element wasn't technically present in the 615 scene but I would argue that **betrayal** was implied because if Eddie's facial expressions were meant to be any indication in that episode, he felt some type of way about Buck feeling seen by Natalia when Eddie himself had been by Buck's side the whole time.

We saw Eddie taking the same trusted bestie role in 805 by going to the hospital with Buck and actively translating for him with Tommy when he came to visit. I think Eddie feels some type of way about Tommy too but he's Buck's bestie first and foremost so he just watches them when they aren't looking and interjects when necessary because he knows that Buck wants his relationship with Tommy to work. Yet, Eddie is mourning the fact that Chris is still gone and very upset with him pretty much all by himself since the start of season 8. Buck is with Eddie in spirit because how could he not be, still they haven't actually had any screen time where they've discussed it.

I'm hoping the anticipated 806 scene between them addresses Eddie's loneliness in the context of that grief and that Buck actively joins him. The other aspect of it that seems relevant is that Buck is actually pretty distant from Tommy. Pretty much all of Buck's bids for connection with Tommy get brushed off. If Buck does have a scene where he connects with Eddie over their shared Chris grief and Tommy knows about it, it could reveal the wedge between Buck and Tommy. They've already laid the groundwork for Tommy as an outsider/visitor looking in on the 118. A deep moment with Eddie and Buck that isn't played for jokes could force a BuckTommy conversation about the divide between them. Bonus points if all the crap from Tommy's past is also in the mix.

I've been having a hard time enjoying this season but this episode actually did deliver at least a few morsels to savor so I'm grateful for that.