#Un-reds the crystal(s) they had

[creepswrites]

Hola ví que está abierto y quería solicitar un Jason, Billy Lenz y Lester (si querés más) con una s/o que tiene mala cara siempre y un poco malumorada con los demás menos con ellos? Si no querés ignorame, besos y buenas noches (⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠)⁠つ⁠⊂⁠(⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠)

i don't speak spanish but google translate said "Hello, I saw that you are open and I wanted to request a Jason, Billy Lenz and Lester (if you want more) with an s/o that always has a bad face and is a bit grumpy with the others except with them? If you don't want to ignore me, kisses and good night (⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠)⁠つ⁠⊂⁠(⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠)" so!! i hope this is what you asked for!

SLASHERS w/ a GN! S/O who has a grumpy face with others but not them

JASON VOORHEES

Sometimes other camp counselor potentials would show up, trying to give Camp Crystal Lake a fresh start, but Jason stopped them at every turn

You'd been a fresh, potential counselor once. But, of course, Jason put an end to that

You stayed with him though

You heard the story of the young boy who drowned and your heart just melted

So you and Jason became close. You were different to him, you weren't interested in sex and drinking

When Jason first met you, you'd been staring at one of your fellow counselors with an annoyed face

At first, he'd thought you were angry with them, but he learnt your face was just like that

Resting bitch face, you'd called it

But the way you just lit up when you saw him... it made him feel special

He loved when he'd spot you brooding and how you'd just smile at him, like your smile was just for him only

Jason feels honored that you only look happy around him

BILLY LENZ

You were part of the sorority where Billy had been staying

As he'd been stalking you and the rest of your sorority sisters, he'd learnt your behaviors and mannerisms

Particularly, he noticed how you never seemed to smile

You always looked perpetually annoyed by everyone and everything, which he found amusing

Even when you had to deal with his calls, your face never really changed

But when you finally met him?

You'd actually smiled, which made Billy's stomach hurt and he wanted to throw up from how sweet you were

You were always kind to him, careful to not overwhelm him when you held hands or kissed, and you always looked at him with a soft smile that made him melt

He'd bite you sometimes, trying to cope with how you made him feel, but you'd just laugh and kiss his head and talk to him

It made him feel special, that you weren't like that with anyone else other than him

LESTER SINCLAIR

Lester had first met you when you'd arrived to town, standing on the side of the road looking pissed beyond belief at the flat tire your car had

Your friend had been with you and you'd looked so annoyed he would've assumed your friend was the one who ruined the tire

But when you'd looked over at him, your face just softened into a shy smile

And Lester felt how red his face got, nervously rubbing the back of his neck as he stuttered through talking to you

Once you started dating, he'd come visit you in the nearby town where you lived, bringing you flowers and blushing like a maniac

You'd always smile at him though, laughing brightly whenever he'd stumble over complimenting you

Sometimes he'd catch you talking with others before you noticed him, a bitter look on your face until you turned and saw him, lighting up like the sun

He was obsessed with you, like your happiness was only for him

[uwusenpaiuwu]

Baji A.K.A. The Worst (Best) Matchmaker Ever

Summary: Baji dares you to call Mikey a ‘piss boy.’ You’re an idiot, so of course you say you’ll do it. Things don’t go as planned...or do they?

Pairing: Sano Manjirou | Mikey x Male Reader

Warning(s): mentions of omorashi (pissing), but there’s no actual pissing involved

You’re gonna die. Oh, dear God, our holy Lord and savior, you’re gonna fucking die.

Baji may be an idiot, but you’re an even bigger idiot for letting him convince you to call Mikey a piss boy.

It’s a pretty damn good trade-off, you foolishly reasoned when you accepted his offer: $10 and a spin on his motorcycle, which is basically hitting the jackpot for a broke, motorcycle-less middle schooler like yourself.

Now, what you failed to take into consideration, is that you’d literally be risking your life. Had you taken a step back and used your brain for a second or two, you would’ve realized that calling Mikey, of all people, a ‘piss boy’ isn’t worth the measly $10 Baji is currently waving in the air from across the room.

You open your mouth to chicken out. Baji pulls out another $10.

“You wanna waste your allowance? Fuckin’ fine,” you grumble under your breath, making damn well sure your icy glare is received and, yeah, the irritating smirk that widens across Baji’s face when you continue on your path to your demise means your message is read, crystal clear. He just doesn’t give a shit.

Taking a deep breath, you square your shoulders and practically march towards where Mikey is casually munching on fresh taiyaki, legs crisscrossed as he sits atop an old crate.

Oh, man. What would’ve been worse: interrupting one of Mikey’s naps or interrupting him mid-snack?

(Un)Luckily, you get to experience one of them today!

When your footsteps lead you to where you don’t want to be, you stop to stand directly in front of your target, who doesn’t immediately look up in your presence. Simply keeps munch, munch, munching.

It gives you a chance to hesitate, a chance to rethink your reckless decision, a chance to back out and save yourself from a one-sided ass beating.

Alas, the chance to make that split-second decision vanishes when deep, dark eyes flicker up to meet yours, the owner’s expression reading that he’s not exactly bothered to see you there, rather, simply curious to know what you want.

It’s the perfect moment to get this bet over and done with, so, along with your prayers, you just go outright and say it.

“‘Sup, Piss Boy.”

Mikey stops chewing, and you already feel your heart about to burst out of your chest.

The room comes to a dead silence, making it all the more nerve-wracking when, following a dreadful minute of absolutely nothing, Toman’s leader speaks.

“What.”

It’s the only word he says, voice low, emotionless, and instead of it being a question, it’s a demand, a challenge even, to dare you to reaffirm what couldn’t have possibly come out of your mouth.

You remind yourself to breathe, while mentally preparing yourself to get decked in the face, ‘cause it’s way too late to backpedal now. One of your feet is already in the grave; it wouldn’t hurt to speed things up and launch your entire body in there.

“Nothing. I just- I wanted to know how my, uh...my little piss boy is...doing?”

Well, you lived a good life.

Mikey stares at you, unblinking.

One second passes. Two.

Then-

“Are you into that?”

“I- Huh?”

“Baji said you’re into some weird stuff, but that’s pretty fucking dirty, (Y/n). Even dirtier than Ken-chin’s tastes.”

(”Don’t fucking drag me into this shit.”)

Seeing the horrified confusion on your face, Mikey’s head tilts ever so slightly to the side.

“You want me to take a leak on you, right?” he asks, and that’s when your soul says its farewell, leaving behind a red-faced corpse on the verge of combusting. Bringing a hand to his chin, he adds, “Or, did you want to piss on me?”

You thought getting beat up by Mikey would be bad?

No, no, no.

You’d gladly take that over this humiliation.

“Hey, Baji! What did the couple in your porn mag do? Did they take turns or what?”

And Baji, the piece of shit, can’t hold it in anymore and breaks out in the most obnoxious laughter, the kind that’s loud, unrestrained, and has him doubling over, gasping for air.

“Oh, fuck, this is gold!” He’s wheezing at this point, triggering a few of the others to start laughing as well, including Mitsuya, who, to his credit, at least tries to stifle his laughter. “Ask (Y/n) what he prefers! Ask!”

At the other boy’s persistence, Mikey raises an eyebrow at you, giving you his full attention as though genuinely curious to know what your pissing preferences are. It causes the flush coloring your face to turn 10 shades darker and 10 degrees hotter.

You don’t know what’s worse: the fact that your friends now think you have a piss kink, or the fact that Mikey is open to exploring said kink with you.

“So, what’ll it be?”

“I...” What do you even say in this situation?

“Do you want me to pee on you?” Mikey asks again in a much softer voice, hoping it’ll reassure you into giving him a direct answer. He doesn’t want to scare you, no. Knowing how nervous you get around him, he’s been doing his best to show only the good sides of himself to you.

That must be why he takes your hand in his, giving it a little squeeze to encourage you to speak up. What he doesn’t know, is that as opposed to being comforted by the kind action, it makes you feel mortified, especially at the insinuation of you wanting him to release his bodily fluids on you.

So mortified, actually, that the first thing that comes out of your mouth is an unintentionally shy, “Please, don’t pee on me...”

You realize your mistake the second those words are said.

Ahh! No! That’s not what you were supposed to say!

Why didn’t you say you don’t want anything to do with piss in general?!

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Your head is spinning, thoughts going haywire after misspeaking , but what really sends you over the edge is the, admittedly, cute little smile you catch on Mikey’s face. Now, not only is your head in disarray, so is your heart.

“Alright. Since it’s you, I’ll let you do it.”

Nope. That’s it for you. Time to clock out of consciousness.

Thump!

“Oh. He passed out.”

Abrupt as it is, your passing out is of no concern whatsoever to Mikey. Nah, he finds it endearing as hell and crouches down to admire your ‘sleeping’ face.

“He must’ve been super happy,” he fondly muses, completely ignoring Draken’s advice to make sure you’re still breathing in favor of stroking your head and pinching your cheeks. 

(”He might die, dumbass. I’m tellin’ ya.”

“He won’t. (Y/n)’s strong.”)

On the other side of the room, Baji has zero fuel left in him to bark out another laugh at Mikey and his gullibility when it comes to wooing the person he fancies, though he does have the energy to wipe away the tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Best $20 I’ve ever spent,” he blissfully remarks to Chifuyu.

“Baji-san, this isn’t how you play matchmaker.”

“Dude, this is exactly how you play matchmaker.”

To prove his point, the long-haired teen points back to where Mikey is sitting beside you on the ground, carrying out a normal conversation with Draken, like there isn’t an unconscious person right beside them.

“Ken-chin, where should I take (Y/n) for our first date?”

“Huh? Date? I thought he was just gonna piss on you?”

“That means he likes me, Ken-chin,” Mikey explains, sounding, for all it’s worth, similar to a parent teaching their child a new life lesson. “And if the person I like likes me enough to want to piss on me, then, obviously, I should take him on a date.”

It makes no fucking sense, but if Mikey wants to believe that your love language is spilling less than desirable bodily fluids on each other, then so be it.

Because for him, anything goes as long as it’s you.

Not only are you $20 richer, you also scored yourself a date with someone that would let you take a piss on them and vice versa.

Aren’t you a lucky guy?

[theterribletenno]

There are Many Benefits to Being a Warframeologist

This is the wordiest season of Bad Warframes so far, a lot of stories being told. ALSO, this is the first season in which D-listers are getting their chance at being recycled! As per usual anyone new or needing a refresher can find the voting guide here make sure you cast your votes based on which frames you'd like to see get a full profile page, every vote counts!

Naberus, the Kuva Lich Warframe. In a life now long buried in the dusty tomes of history, Naberus was once a member of the Orokin High Council, one of the most powerful men in all of the Origin system. But for his crime of sharing the precious red kuva with the unworthy and the unclean he was branded a heretic, stripped of rank and title, and condemned to a fate worse than death. Naberus was entombed in his own flesh, turned into an un-living, un-dead warframe abonimation and sealed away. From his corrupted flesh the kuva flowed, a pungent red wine for the mouths of those who cast him down. Now released, the warped and withered form of Naberus has awakened to feast on blood and spread a plague of foul undeath through the cursed black kuva that courses through his cold veins. (based on a submission by bandit-o-s)

Armstrong, the Sentient Shrapnel Warframe. Half-destroyed during the old war, Armstrong's body was riddled with shards of debris from an exploding sentient. As a hundred fragments of a shattered foe embedded into his body, he fell upon the battlefield, presumed dead. But the Sentients' powers were not yet fully understood at that time, and the hundred shards of rust-red metal pulses with Eidolon energy for a century. When Armstrong was unearthed from the battlefield his warframe body had assimilated the throbbing Sentient shards, becoming a new hybrid. With his broken body rebuilt from minerals leeched from the earth and stone, and prickling with alien thorns that sing in voices only he can hear, Armstrong has reawakened to bring hell back to the battlefield in an explosive way.

Avatar, the Digital Construct Warframe. Where the arcane meets the technological is where you find Avatar, the princess of projection. Avatar conceals her true slender form beneath an extravagant display of light and shape and color, a constant and dazzling demonstration of her power. Beyond making herself look larger than life, Avatar's powers of digital construction and projection of hard light holograms makes her a strategic asset in battle. She can travel at the speed of light by turning herself fully into energy for a fraction of a second, and create energetic traps and illusory hazards to misdirect enemies to a shocking death. Avatar is something incredible to behold, ensconced in an illusory gown of twinkling crystals and swirling lights. Electrify the battlefield as the goddess of glamour, the idol of illusion, the princess of projection, Avatar.

Kelvin, the Negentropy Warframe. The Warframe now known as Kelvin was meant to explore the possibility of creating new engines that drew power directly from the void, but the shallow and flawed understanding of its properties led to the creation of an engine that produced excessive heat instead of limitless power. The occult Orokin engine inside Kelvin generates such immense thermal power that if left unchecked it would burn Kelvin to ash. So throughout his entire body a system of coolant tubes like pumping veins was installed, a means of reducing the arcane engine's temperature chilling Kelvin's overheating body and even his surroundings. But Kelvin can also cut the flow of coolant, letting the heat build. To make sure that Kelvin's body is never subjected to temperatures so extreme that they would destroy him, a heat gauge was installed into him, activating the coolant pumps if he becomes too hot, and disabling them if he becomes too cold, forcing him into a state of constantly fluctuating equilibrium.

Mantis, the Kung Fu Warframe. A warrior whose tutelage traces its origins to the far distant past, a martial art older than the golden empire, Mantis is a master of close combat. With skills that embody the five totemic animals of his ancient art, Mantis changes his fighting style to suit his ever-changing battlefield. Mantis style is fast and precise, Crane style's stance cannot be broken, Monkey style is agile and acrobatic, and the legendary Tiger style is unmatched in ferocity and force. Bring the ways of the old world to the new generation with Mantis and his legendary Kung Fu fighting styles, enhanced beyond their limits by Warframe technology and Tenno control.

[dreamsclock]

Be very very fast so people can’t hit u. Benchtrio angst please. /hj

warnings: temporary character death, blood, injuries

(this accidentally turned to a happy ending whoops)

“Hey, Ranboo. Ranboob.” Tommy coughs, and it splatters red all over the snow in front of him as he collapses beside his friend. “Brought you someone. Figured—”

Another cough. This one hurts.

“Figured you’d… you’d want t’say goodbye to— to the Tubbster.” The words lodge themselves in his throat, and he feels like a coward for not being able to force them out. “Dunno. ‘S just… I think he would’ve wanted it.”

Clumsily, Tommy pulls Tubbo off his back, a harsh groan of pain ripping through his throat as the moment makes his wound shriek in pain. His best friend is silent — Tommy, gingerly, lays him gently next to Ranboo’s headstone, curling up next to them both and pretending they’re having a sleepover.

They never actually managed to have a sleepover before everything ended. It’s a shame.

He’d’ve loved a sleepover with them.

“Sorry I wasn’t fast enough,” he murmurs, blood trickling down his lips, and he doesn’t have the energy to push it away, “sorry I let you guys down.”

There’s a numbness creeping up his legs, his arms. If he’d had the strength to move, Tommy knows looking at his communicator would show his last life fluttering weakly in balance, ready to give out, flickering…

Instead, he turns his head towards Tubbo limply, offering the dead body of his best friend a tired smile.

“We did it, Tubs,” he tells him, words falling into each other, dazed, pained, “we got the disks back and we kept ’em— and we managed to survive, yeah? An’ Ranboo. The three of us. We were… fuckin’ heroes.”

The snow is almost nice against the numbness growing in his limbs.

“Just… then the Egg.” He swallows.

Not even a hero had been enough to save them from that. They’d all fallen eventually. It just hurts that he’s last — it just hurt knowing he has to bury his friends, that they got to die all around each other, that he’ll die alone.

But it’s fine. He’s gonna be okay. Because he’s got Tubbo and Ranboo, even if they’re both dead, he’s got them by his side at least. He has to believe this (he’s so scared, otherwise, and he hates being scared, more than anything he hates feeling helpless).

“You guys better be there when I wake up,” he whispers roughly, exhaling softly, “don’t… let me down now.”

Don’t let me down now. The universe hears, and as TommyInnit’s breaths get shallow, struggling to keep his eyes open, the universe pushes him from the server — pushes all the souls from the server, using the last of its energy and love to transfer them to a new place.

A better place.

TommyInnit closes his eyes in the Dream SMP, and opens them to Philza fluttering above him, expression half-amused, half-concerned.

“Still not figured out your wings can’t support you enough to fly?” The older chuckles. “You’re un-fuckin’-believable.”

Tommy blinks, but before he can say anything else, Philza has flown off, leaving him alone. Getting to his feet, Tommy stretches out his wings, trying to recall the dream he’d been having. Something about snow, something about a sleepover with his friends…

“Oi, Tommy!”

Tubbo’s voice is crystal clear in the distance, and when Tommy turns, he sees his best friend there, grinning wildly.

“Last one back to the Pube has to punch Wilbur!”

Tommy screeches, beginning to run as fast as possible back to the Pube while Tubbo sprints in front of him. His dream drifts from his mind, completely forgotten.

(He’ll begin to remember when the others join this new SMP — Origins SMP, is what they call it. He’ll remember more and more as time goes by; all of them will, and by the time a new member called Dream gets added, they’ll have all their memories back.)

(And they’ll welcome him with open arms, because Origins is a new start for everyone. And they’ll hurt, and they’ll remember, and they’ll talk, and finally, they’ll begin to know peace.)

But for now, Tommy races his best friend back home, and feels content for the first time in a long time.

[librarianandguardian]

Just a feeling- Saul Silva x Female!Reader

Pairing : Saul Silva x Female!Reader

Word Count : ~2300

Warnings : Fluff, brief mention of drug use and burns

Music : Un homme - Jérémy Frerot

Author’s note : Getting pretty stressed because of a huge project at school, so I wrote this to blow off some steam ! I also wanted to say that I do not agree with the way some characters are written and treated in this show. I hope I did not perpetuate these errors, and that I got Silva’s personality a bit right at least. Feedback is appreciated, may it be on the story telling or even the grammar. English isn’t my first language. Flahs-backs in italics. Enjoy ! :D

GIF ‘s not mine, and I can’t find the creator.

French First World songs resonate in the Great Hall, she is dancing. Wild and free. Her loosened hairs fly through the wind. She has traded her Specialist armour for a long flowing dress. Her feet are hammering the ground in rhythm. The crowd carries her all over the dancefloor; she twirls and claps her hands following the music.

From an ignored fairy bloodline, her parents considered her a Specialist Legacy. When her mind fairies powers woke up, everything went wrong ; she was always an overwhelmed child. No one could help her everytime she lost control. Nothing but medication: earrings to contain, and pills to attenuate. It wasn't bad. She lived like that her entire life.

Silva is sitting on a plastic chair, leaning on the table by his side, his gaze lingering. She is an exceptional fighter; dance must be a piece of cake and fun judging from her large smile. To be fair, he barely remembered her from their time at Alfea. Farah told him she was three years younger than him and seemed to have a few memories.

« (Y/N) travelled a lot to the First World prior to college. Her parents were emissaries and brought back souvenirs. Rumours said that her room resembled a cave of wonders.

-Ever went there ?»

His friend chuckled.

« Once. It was full of trinkets, books, movies, postal cards too. Ben caught interest in it, especially the giant botanic encyclopaedia throning on her bookshelf. We both agreed after a while that she might be the ray of sunshine of her Specialist promotion. But I guess she was discreet, if you've never heard of her.»

It took some memory searching, but he indeed remembered one thing. A conversation between a bunch of 1st years talking about a secret party displaying famous First World movies. A few hours later, on the training field, (Y/N) battled fiercely. It caught the attention of many students, who gathered around the platform. Curiosity taking the best of him, he had followed the crowd.

« What's that First World song that I love to describe you with ?

-By the light Clairo, is it really necessary ? »

Her opponent mocked her. She rolled her eyes, wielding her sword before choosing her fight stance.

« You son of... Maneater from Nelly Furtado. Now let's fight please.

-Alright doll, eat me up. »

(Y/N) huffed in annoyance. Clairo was a good fighter, but a little bit too flirty. He launched himself at her. The young woman stayed incredibly calm. Dodging to the right, she left him to stumble before hitting his back with the wooden weapon. He fell to the ground with a grunt. A shy smile spread on her features.

Now that he thinks about it, her earring had intrigued him : an ear chain hanging from the top of the cartilage of her ear to her lobe. Each end was composed of a lavendish round lilac crystal. When she lost control recently, those crystals lit up with a blinding light and burned her skin.

« I change the earring every five year. Every year If any several big crises occurred.

-What about your burns ? How did they clean them up ? »

Her left hand ghosted over her intact lobe, while Harvey healed the bruised flesh. Her eyes stared at the floor of the greenhouse. Saul was holding her other hand.

« They... I stuffed myself with pills. Sometimes enough to sleep through an entire day. Within the Solarian force, it was the only way for them to treat me. None of their mind fairies could calm me down. I don't think you realize how much this, she lifted her intertwined hand, helps.»

The soldier chuckles at the memory. His eyes examined his fingers, remembering how she locked hers, as she found an anchor in his mind.

« My best guess ? Your training forged your head to have a certain mindset in crisis.

-Loads of Solarian troupers could have given you that.

-Yeah. I can't really explain it, she laughed shyly, maybe because you're a teacher, that two of your long time friends are fairies or just because you're good with people.»

Their gazes crossed. The air thickened. Truth to be told, (Y/N) was so lost upon why he managed to calm her down. Farah tried to guide her, but even then, nothing positive came out. Her youth as a student at Alfea only consisted in shared side glances with him in hallways. She sure as hell found the man attractive, but she had other stuff to think about.

A loud giggle snaps him back to reality. (Y/N) falls on his laps while trying to take off her high heels. Her eyes are opened wide and a little glassy. She's definitely drunk.

« Oh by the light, I'm sorry Silva. Aimed at the table ! »

The atmosphere becomes lighter. He catches her when she nearly trips off by trying to get up, one of his arms snaking around to help. Steadying herself on his laps, she catches her breath slowly, though some giggles erupt as she looks around.

« How can you still dance, uh ?»

With a guilty smile, she leans slightly against the table.

« Alcohol ! It's the only thing keeping me up, baby !»

Instant regret shoots through her veins. Some red creeps up on her cheeks, as her hands cover her mouth. The soldier chuckles, enamoured by her adorableness. One thing that strucked him when they met was her lightness. Out of all the solarian troupers out there, or even all the specialists he ever crossed paths with, she was one of the few who stayed so bright and playful. Subconsciously, his fingers dig slightly in her hips.

« It's alright, (Y/L/N).»

She giggles a bit, but thanks him. Farah watches from a far, joined by Ben. (Y/N)(Y/L/N) has been teaching at Alfea for a year now. The entire school seemed to have transformed into a much more joyous place : students got along better, the shyest opened a tad and the roughest softened. Ben's daughter Terra found a supporter of her personal projects and a confidant. Ben himself benefited from her return. Mostly in books and knowledge but that meant already so much to him. Farah gained a daughter ; (Y/N)'s powers were a mess for her advanced age, helping felt natural. But what she loved the most was how confused Saul got with the new Specialist. Their bond strengthened with time, however the first few days rocked the Headmaster all over the place.

«(Y/L/N), what did you do to our office ? Did you... Are these books classified by alphabetic order and colour ?! »

His colleague shrugged, trying to see if he was mad or just surprised. It happened a few days after her arrival. Their shared office went under few renovations.

« (Y/L/N), why dancing classes ? »

She shot up, put her hands on his desk and took twenty minutes to explain how it would make their movements more flexible, strengthen teamwork and be a tool for future mission on the job. Astonished could not describe Silva's feeling.

An admirable change that proved beneficial to the students. These two grew very fond of each other. A lot more than they thought. Words in the hallways started to spread about their growing fondness.

« Okay, I got a question for you, soldier boy.»

Saul tilted his head to the side.

« Are you having fun ?

-Of course I am.»

(Y/N) looks disappointed. Turning around, she pours some water in her cup and chugs it down.

« Really ? 'Cause the only thing I've seen you do is sit in a corner all night. »

He lowers his head, searching for the right words. How does he say that he just loves watching her run around the dancefloor ? How she bounds with students but also keeps their respect ? The fact that she's so organised that she could plan a First World themed party and keep her teacher skills to their best ? The shortest way for that would be admitting his feelings. He zones out long enough for her to talk again.

« It's okay. »

His eyes lock with hers. How did she sober up so quickly ?

« I know you have a reputation as a serious and frowny teacher to keep. And this is a graduation party, so. »

Never mind, she did not. The woman gets up, only to kneel under the tablecloth. He panics briefly.

« (Y/N), what on Earth are you doing ?»

She mumbles before appearing back outside. Her hands are holding a package. Another bright smile shines on her face. Silva knows what's coming, and he has mixed feelings about it; between fear, excitement and confusion.

« Happy Birthday Saul. »

His heart nearly stops. Few people know about his birthday, she is now a part of them. He frankly does not mind, even wished for it for a while now. His hands gently take the package to open it. Before his eyes lies a hard covered sketchbook and a wooden box full of high-quality pencils. The cover has a crow flying in a pearly sky with a red sun. The box is made of ebony and his name carved in silver. She knows an another of his secret. He tears up. The woman worries when he starts to sniffle. Much to her surprise, the soldier puts the gifts on the table before hugging her with all his might. Thank God the students are dancing or already out of the hall to smoke. (Y/N) answers his embrace, reassured.

« Thank you so much dear. »

It's her turn to have glossy eyes. She buries her face in his shoulder. This man is constantly under pressure and she has always wondered what he does during his free time : Does he train more ? He probably reads, right ? The answer came on a regular afternoon.

Silva knocked on her quarters' door. He heard shuffling before (Y/N) opened. She was wearing a bathrobe and a towel around her hair.

« Hi Saul ! Sorry hum. I woke up late and did not expect you so soon so, hum. »

The woman looked around, making her towel fall. Picking it up, she invited him in. He indulged, though a bit surprised.

« I'll be back in a jiffy, you know, putting some clothes on and all. Okay.»

She disappeared in her bathroom, leaving him to explore her room. Many watercolour paintings covered the walls, some abstract and others from the Realms of the Otherworld. However, a few landscapes felt unknown to him. On her desk lied sketches with a horde of different pencils. He discovered portraits of Farah, Ben, Terra, Sky, Riven and finally him. The lines were thin, some shadows sharp for the warriors and smoother for the fairies. A hint of jealousy took over him, quickly brushed away by shyness. The fact that she took the time to draw him was flattering. His fingers grazed over the pencils, wondering if he had time to prepare a little surprise. He puts down the file he came to discuss. A few minutes later, (Y/N) came out, dressed but her hair still wet on the edges. Silva was leaning against her desk, file in hand, a small smile on his features. She mirrored it before asking about the important matter at hand. Twenty minutes later, he left. Her eye caught a change in her drawing material : the portrait of Farah and Ben switched positions. She shuffled them, making sure everything was here, only to find an unknown piece. A cute fox was smiling, a little bubble under him stating :

« Nice Work (Y/L/N). Nice pencils too. Wish I had your talent.»

That last sentence made her wonder if he indeed had an artistic side. Needless to say that his quarters gave her answer. Same reason as his when he came, she knocked on his door one night. Though he did not fully invite her in, her eyes caught glimpses of nice sketches lying on a table, some rudimental equipment next to it.

They stay like this for a few seconds. The headmistress and Professor Harvey look at each other. No words, no need. Terra is chatting with a second year in a corner, bur her eyes catch them. She smiles, looking away shyly, but happy Sky sees the scene too, thanks to Riven who taps on his shoulder. They can't help the smile growing on their faces. Sky's father figure finding support is definitely going to be one of the highlights of their first year. (Y/N) and Saul part. One of her hands pats his arm.

« Wanna dance ? »

He closes his eyes, sighing. There is no lack of desire but the fear of what the students will say.

« I wish but... I don't know.

-I get it. But one day, you will ! That's a promise. »

With one last smile, she strolls back to the dancefloor, leaving him sheepish. He takes the sketchbook and a pencil. He might not dance tonight, but he'll make up to it.

[fandomsilhouette]

a joke, a tag (we’ll choke on that gag)

They’re trying to help. They’re trying to give you what makes you happy, can’t you see that? It’s just for fun. We’re having fun, why aren’t you laughing? We’ll have the fun, please, put it on her tab. 

Happy @felinettenovember,  y’all! Or not, if you read this. Um... actually, this is @musicfren‘s fault. I’m being blackmailed to write angst, or something, so yell at him. Also, @emzurl is encouraging this with her art and also by saying they can handle the angst. 

Part 1 complete. Part 3 to come. 

Marinette’s mistake was even daring to hint to anyone, Alya especially, that she may have given her heart to a boy. 

Well, no. Marinette had made multiple mistakes, enough to forget how to count higher, enough to need to remind herself that every step was a mistake lest she make a bigger one in her absentmindedness. If she remembered how much of a flaw she was, maybe she could’ve reined herself back in, stopped spilling her secrets so readily to all and sundry, until she’s left hanging in the sun out to dry. 

Instead Marinette bled her heart out over the people she calls friends, leaving stains that didn’t scrub out, leaving skin rubbed raw and dry under hot water and still so discolored with the blemish of her emotions. 

Her kitty had sworn up and down that it wasn’t true, that he wanted to know what she was thinking, the way she felt. He would ask, as if he would listen whether she wanted to talk or not, stick around anyways even if she didn’t perform all the right words, or tripped over herself trying to work out what she meant at all. She trusted him, no matter how much she meant to get around to stopping. She trusted him, but she never expected to keep trusting him until the end, because she never expected the end of ‘us’ to come so quickly. For so long Marinette had pushed the task down to the bottom of a to do list that never stopped unscrolling, because she was busy, so busy, so she swore. 

She leaned on her kitty and pretended she didn’t suspect who he was, and held herself upright as best as she could under the gentle weight of Felix’s curious gaze, persistent in every class, the quiet acknowledgements, the way his fingers skimmed the edge of her desk and flicked her worksheets into his hands before she managed to haul herself to tired aching feet so she wouldn’t have to walk down the aisle to turn them in. 

He had kept looking at her. 

She leaned on her kitty and didn’t admit to anyone save the conscience in her heart that she put off the task of un-trusting him because it would leave her alone again, and she wasn’t sure she could bear it. 

As it turns out, she could very much so. 

Even when he stopped looking at her. 

Even when he started looking at someone else. 

(Marinette could not for the life of her work out where in his schedule Felix had managed to fit a girlfriend, now that his uncle Gabriel had so kindly taken over as his guardian, enrolling him promptly in archery and violin and Japanese lessons until his schedule is fit to burst. Just looking at it made the scream that’s been building in her chest for so long claw at her ribcage, demanding, pleading to get out.) 

The problem was that Alya doesn’t quite catch on to the lingering gazes and persisting touches until Felix-- Chat-- her kitty had dropped out of her life entirely. Alya put it together two days after Marinette had been shattered into crystal glassy sand, so fine and so sharp, scrambling to gather up the pieces of herself before they got kicked away or ground into dust, leaving cuts on her fingers so deep she worried they would scar with every piece she pulled together. 

That was probably Marinette’s mistake, too. She was too obvious, or not obvious enough. 

(Wryly, resignedly, desolately, she wondered if they would’ve still been here, like this, a heartbeat away but worlds apart anyways if she had just managed to say something before she managed to ruin everything.) 

(Then she remembered that it would’ve done nothing but bring the end closer, faster.) 

It’s not that she didn’t know what’s happening. The girls used her bedroom as their home base, whispering plans between snack runs and distracted dozing off until she started keeping her doors closed, coming home through her balcony so her parents tell her friends she’s still out. 

She was settling into the lies, a skin as familiar as the red-and-black that itched at the seams that didn’t exist and clung too tightly to her chest until she couldn’t breathe. 

But the shenanigans persisted, managing to squirm their way into the spaces between her busy schedule and his, by way of hands clamped too tight over her wrist and the lure of approval followed closely by Felix, who had always been desperate from such things. 

(“Your guardian will love to have you spending more time in the library,” they whispered, “he’ll be so proud of you.”) 

(Marinette didn’t need to ask. She could see the grimace that made it home in his features for weeks, shifting awkwardly where he stood as he tried to adjust his long-suffering independent-without-choice self into a body that craved guardianship, guidance, guarantees that he is loved, that he is not alone.) 

Their eyes met: across the park, the library, the Trocadero or the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower. 

Their gaze missed: under the treetops, the awnings, the cover of an umbrella in the rain.

Whichever choice they made, it was always, always the wrong one. Marinette was left voiceless, screaming no no no stop I need you to stop please please please no more make it stop to a friend that never heard her over the sound of her own cleverness, her own schemes. 

“It’s Adrien,” Marinette blurted out when she can’t handle it any longer, when she was worn down so threadbare there was nothing left to hold the fabric of her reality together any longer. “It’s Adrien that I like.” 

She destroyed herself to do it, but detachedly, distantly, because there was so little self left by then that it hurt hardly at all, except when she thought about it. 

Within days, she was holding clammy hands with Adrien in the hallways and working out how to smile so it didn’t look so much like a smirk. 

The day after that, Felix ditched the girl he’d been with. 

The rumors flood the school, except that they’re mostly right: it’s his schedule, his guardian keeping him too busy, too distracted, too antisocial for a girl that pretty, who doted over him the way a girlfriend should (and never pushed him off of rooftops or dragged him to parties he would hate just to watch him squirm and then, eventually, bloom). 

She didn’t know how fast his lessons and his comportment, always so carefully crafted, were slipping slipping slipping out of his grasp, sand and silt too fine to hold onto. 

She didn’t know how much it reminded him of losing her. 

He stops looking at her at all. 

It’s still the wrong choice.

[appleb0mb]

Can you write a short story on Epel, Rook, and Vil where Epel is having a bad day and Vil and Rook just come to the rescue and helps him feel better?

Sorry for the long response! I hope this was definitely worth the wait!

"I don't WANT to become like you..."

𝙰 𝙿𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙿𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚎: 𝙼𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚃𝚆𝚂𝚃𝚡𝙳𝙰𝙻: 𝙿𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚎 (𝙿𝚕𝚘𝚝).

𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚙𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝.

< | Warning - l o n g reading ahead! | >

𝕰pel felt as if he was catching a fever. 

Vil meticulously inspected Epel, before sighing in defeat. The blonde held his oily face into his hands - the pressure of the spotlight was eating him whole.

The trio (or internationally known as "The Aphrodities") was constantly spotlighted after their grand debut. At first, Vil was thrilled - the whole world finally recognizing the efforts he made. Their spiking popularity gained them opportunities such as live interviews, speaking to admiring fans, and most of all - sharing their uplifting stories.

But then it all became too much. 

They became bombarded with sickly fan mails, excruciating world tours, and constant footprints of paparazzi clinging unto their new doorstep. Sleep became a nuisance, forcing the trio to output content for their viewers to devour like wolves.

It wasn't until Epel dropped to the floor during one of their live interviews that Vil started to grasp the gravity of the situation. 

For once, Vil wanted to go back to a life of freedom - even if they were neglected like orphans.

Rook sat at Epel's wooden table, skimming through Epel's letters in boredom. His maimed hands opened one of the heart-shaped letters, his face clouded with solemnity. The letters were getting to him. He slowly crushed it, suffocating its contents before throwing it into the garbage.

The blonde grabbed a wooden chair from Epel's bedroom, sitting next to the glowing idol. Vil placed a silky rag, the cloth icy to the touch. He could feel the ice evaporating thanks to Epel's high temperature. Maimed hands traveled down to Epel's smooth hand, before leaving a lingering kiss.

"See you soon, Monsieur Crabapple."’ 

◉ <?> ◉

An echoing void. A void filled with his own screams.

That's what the lilac thought as he entered here.

Epel couldn't pinpoint where he was, but he knew that he needed to find a way out.

He woke up groggily, turning back and forth to find any resemblance of the world he'd known before. Rather his small, petite form was surrounded by an assortment of red apples and polished mirrors. Each mirror was distinct and varied in shape and size, distorting the unfamiliar being before them.

Each of them was smashed, shattered, and destroyed upon impact. Some had multiple to no specks of dust, while some had a fog of smoke engulfing the mirror within. What was inside of them - the male couldn’t guess - but there was one mirror that stood out amongst the others.

A lavender oval-like mirror caught his vision, its contour decorated with rotted vines and golden apples. Inside, laid an endless but familiar darkness, with a vaguely nostalgic feeling.

Within seconds, a dark purple poison apple appeared. Epel furrowed his eyebrows, fixated. He pressed his hand forward, eager to satiate his curiosity. 

Suddenly, a crack echoed into the air.

“Ah...S-Shoot!” 

The lilac felt himself pricking his ankle, picking up the mirror in front of him.

Immediately, he stood as still as a statue.

Epel had Vil's appearance, resembling characteristics of his Astral Form. His hair was well-combed and his skin was fair-toned, and beautiful, intricate details flowing from his chest to his shoulders.

However no crown, no halo was placed above his head. Golden robes and lavender crystals covered his arms instead.

"Why am I like...? What? W-What's going on...!" He turned his head back and forth, trying to look for an answer through the mirror.

As if they heard his plea, a shadowy figure encapsulated the space inside the mirror. Only violet eyes were radiated through the mirror, glaring.

Epel threw the looking glass away in horror, exhaling hitched breaths. His hands practically trembled in fear, his eyes widening in shock. He started crying, afraid...

Afraid that he would never be himself...

Afraid that he would become like him...

Afraid of becoming like Vil.

"SMASH!!!"

A black hand broke through the mirror, dyed in its own blood.

"There you are, Epel..." The voice pursued. "...come with me. We have a lot of things to catch up on..."

Before the lilac, laid a grotesque figure covered in darkness. Its movements were sporadic, filled with bloodied glass shards. There were only those scornful eyes, and no nose, no mouth could be seen. The figure was slightly hunched, trapped in its own garments. It was as if the clothing was suffocating it from the inside out.

A crown made with glass sank through its skin. Finally, a bloody halo rotated around him, causing the figure to groan and grunt in pain.

"No! I don't want to come with you!"

"You will...you want to keep this life, don't you? S-Stop being so un-grate-grateful..."

"I'm not! Every single time you tell me that I am, but don't you feel the same way!?!"

Epel threw mirrors, apples, anything to prevent the being from coming any closer.

"E-Epel...please..."

"I've had enough, Vil! I'm tired of acting like you!"

Epel screamed, letting his raw emotions out.

"I don't WANT to become like you!"

The figure retracted.

Within seconds, it lunged over the male's figure. Its sharp fingernails clutched Epel's face, sinking it into his jaw.

"Then you will learn to become like me...for our sake."

Darkness overtook his vision.

◉ <Caera, Eudoxia - The Aphrodites' Villa, Epel's Room> ◉

Light blue eyes shone in the twinkling moonlight. The lilac took deep breaths, trying to recuperate from the nightmare he was in.

"Ah, Monsieur Crabapple!" Rook clasped his hands together, beaming with joy. "Welcome back!~"

Epel shook his head. A loving smile planted on his face.

"I told you to stop calling me that..." He murmured. "Where's Vil-..."

...No response came.

The petite male glanced at the freshly-picked roses and the enormous, fluffy teddy bear beside him. He must've squeezed on it by accident when he woke up.

"...Oh."

In a flash, Epel slammed the teddy bear and the roses onto the wall, spreading the dark red petals onto the ground.

The male growled, curling under the sheets. He clutched the fabric tightly, sighing in defeat.

He really needed to go back to bed.

[weepingvoidpenguin]

Misconception

Summary: After Elijah harshly cuts you out of his life, you’ve learned to move on from a love that once was. Or was it? The love lingers there but when Elijah returns he’s met with an unexpected surprise and you have to decide whether you want to forgive him or finally let him go.

Warnings: Angst, or at least my attempt at it

Word Count: 2k

Author’s Note: Hey guys! I’m sorry I haven’t posted so long! I just started the school semester and I’m working part time so I rarely have free time but I don’t want to leave anyone wondering. For those of you who are following me for The Gods’ Blessing story, don’t worry it hasn’t been discontinued. Again, just busy. Sorry! I hope you enjoy!

  “There’s nothing about this conversation that can be serious,” you said, standing up from the armchair and gliding your way over to the container of bourbon on the platter.

  There was a pause, a hesitance in Elijah’s tone that sprouted just a hint of fear in your heart but you pushed the negativity aside and poured the liquid into a glass. The trickle of the alcohol was the only sound that could be heard in the room, you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding your breath in hold of his response.

  “(Y/N) . . . please.” You twirled around and raised an eyebrow at him over the brim of the cup as you sipped from it, “Let’s not make this harder than it already is,”

  You watched how his eyes never met yours, how his throat strained at the guilt mingling in his voice and how he looked down at his phone expectantly, his gaze roaming back and forth from the floor to his screen.

  “Who are you waiting for?” You twirled the liquid around in the glass, your elbow rested on the hand wrapped around your own waist.

  For the first time since the beginning of the conversation, Elijah looked up at you and there was an honesty, a hidden pain behind his gaze that triggered the reality of his words in your soul. You exhaled the little breath you withheld and a tight knot formed in the pit of your throat. He wasn’t kidding. You fought the sudden overpowering ache in your chest and forced yourself to blink away the tears threatening to spill over despite never being afraid to cry in his presence before and the glass slipped from your grasp.

 You were sure the shattering of the crystal was loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the household but no one came and it dawned on you that they knew that this was coming. They knew what was happening and they had been ordered to stay out of it.

  “Why?” you croaked through the pain in your throat.

  His phone lit up. Your attention shot to the device on the side table and the name sprawled across the screen clenched at your heart.

Hayley.

He pried his sight away from the black screen and his flared nostrils mixed with the red rim of his gaze spoke volumes louder than his words ever could.

“For her?” You cursed yourself for emitting so much vulnerability in your tone, “You’re leaving me for her?”

“I-I love her,”

“You love me!” You shouted, stepping around the shattered glass that lay around your barren feet. “Or have you forgotten that?”

“(Y/N), I – ”

“Does she cloud your judgement so much? So much so that you forget the promises you’ve made me?” You clamped your hand on his jaw and jerk his face towards yours. If he was gonna do this then he would have to bare witness to your pain.

“She clouds nothing!” Elijah yelled, the pain in his voice constricting his words.

Your eyes studied his own, observing how his gaze never landed on yours and danced across the room. You felt the beginnings of stubble under your fingers and the smell of him, of his scent, was among the many things you were to miss.

“You’re lying to me, Elijah,” You hissed, the tears no longer contained by your lids, “I know when you’re lying,”

Elijah gripped your hand painfully and pried it from his face, “You believe what you choose to despite me telling you what’s true,”

“It’s not!” You shouted, ignoring the pain shooting up from the sole of your foot.

Elijah looked down, already smelling the cause of your pain and unlike his usual mannerism, ignored it and held strong in his words. He was showing that he cared nothing for you anymore. You were no longer his concern. And that went into effect immediately.

His glare bore into yours and a ferocity that replaced his pain urged him on despite how much he knew he was hurting you. It had to be done.

“You have ‘til the end of the night to find somewhere. If not, I’ll personally escort you off the premises,”

Your glare softened and disbelief took over, “E-Elijah,”

He bent over ever so slightly so he was at your level and you took a step back to make up for his intimidation, “Get. Out.”

~

Four years. It’d been four years since you’d last seen Elijah.

That night you called Damon and he offered you his home with open arms. Very un-Damon like but you sighed with relief when he did. Your family was back in Mystic Falls and although they’d be the logical option to move in with, your brother had a wife and you didn’t want to intrude on that.

The first year was hard for you. Everything about everything reminded you of Elijah. The kindness in your friends, the suits on Damon, the morality of Alaric. It was all too much for too long. Then Bonnie came up with a solution, temporary of course. She offered alleviation. A numbness without a cold. You would feel nothing but a dull ache while you sorted your pain out. Eventually, it worked.

These days, Elijah was the last thing on your mind, truly. You’d moved on, lived your life and stuck with Damon as a weird duo but you’d retained your mortality, until you were ready to give it up anyway. Or so he offered. But you weren’t sure. You couldn’t trade all that you currently had for immorality.

And as you sat on the chair outside The Grill, waiting for your food and drink, the reason for your hesitation waddled out of the restaurant, her eyes looking for your familiar figure. Your smile met your eyes as you outstretched your hands, repeatedly closing and opening your fists to motion for her to come to you. Her laugh brought a joy to your ears you’d long thought you’d lost but she rejuvenated you.

“Where’s Daddy?” You asked, not waiting for a reply. “Where’d he run off to?” You continued your chatter with her, not noticing the figure walking up to you.

“(Y/n) . . .” a voice emerged from behind you and your heart twisted in your chest.

You couldn’t bring yourself to turn around, afraid of seeing who you thought it was. Or worse, not seeing him at all. Your body shook but for what you didn’t know. Was it agony? Anger? Excitement? You didn’t have enough time to ponder its reasoning before he spoke your name again and you slowly turned around.

And seeing him now hurt just as much as when he’d kicked you to the curb.

“Elijah,” you whispered, afraid at how weak your voice sounded.

You watched as he looked you up and down slowly, not in a way to objectify you but like he was taking you in all over again. Like the first time he’d ever set eyes on you.

“W-what are you doing here?” You asked before a tugging on your leggings caught your attention and you looked down to see the toddler’s hands reaching out for you.

“Up!” she demanded and you contemplated it momentarily, afraid you’d honestly drop her from how hard your body shook but you seceded and picked up her light figure, resting her on your hips.

Elijah observed as your motherly instincts took over and a tightening in his chest that he’d felt throughout the years came back with a ferocity. It was too late. Unless . . .

He watched how you almost hid the girl from him, as though you were afraid he would notice something about her and the tightening twisted into physical pain at the thought that crossed his mind but he couldn’t help but ask.

“I-is that . . . I mean, is she,” but he couldn’t find the words, rather he pointed to you and then to himself. Normally, he wouldn’t even have considered the idea but Klaus managed to have a child with Hayley so anything could be possible, he thought. He hoped.

You twisted the child away ever so slightly and shook your head, “She’s not yours if that’s what you’re wondering,”

He smiled sadly at the child and stared down at you, of course she wasn’t his. That’d be more ‘good’ than he deserved. Especially considering how he behaved the last time he saw you. But he needed you gone, needed you safe. And you were.

The ache pulled at his stomach and made its way up to his throat, cramping it up. He’d waited too long to come back for you. How foolish he was to think you’d wait for him.

“She looks like you,”

You nodded and jumped up to raise her higher onto your hip, “I get that a lot,”

Moments of silence passed between you before you cleared your throat and shook him from his fantasies.

“I’m sorry to bother you, I have business to attend to,” he whirled around and took elegant but hasty strides away from you.

Oh God. Don’t go.

“Elijah,” you whispered, knowing he heard you despite the hush of your tone but he didn’t look back. He never looked back.

~

“It’s too late, Klaus. I’ve lost her,” The words burned Elijah’s throat as he spoke them.

“That’s not possible, Elijah. The woman’s in love with you,” Klaus responded, bearing no mind to the pain that his brother was living through. “You snap your fingers and she’ll come crawling back to you I know it-”

“She has a child, Klaus. A daughter.” Elijah whisked back the drink in his hand, staring menacingly at the lit fireplace.

Klaus raised his brow, “How old is the child?” He asked, the same curious tone that Elijah emitted not too long ago.

“Three, maybe four,” he responded.

Klaus’ eyebrows raised even higher, “Could it be-”

“She’s not.” Elijah silenced his brother in his retort. The topic would no longer be discussed.

“I see,” Klaus rested lazily back in his seat, “That’s too bad, Hope could do with a cousin her age,”

“This is your fault,” Elijah spoke, no specific emotion prevalent in his words.

Klaus let the silence go on for a beat too long, not knowing what he could say to calm the heartbreak of his elder brother. “You know she wouldn’t have left if you hadn’t broken her heart, Elijah. She’s a stubborn one. She would’ve stayed for the war and then you’d have truly lost her forever,”

Elijah chewed on the inside of his cheek, the resentment he had for his brother at a point he wasn’t aware it could reach, “I already have,”

~

By the time you pulled in to the driveway you were practically a mess, only holding it together for a few more moments before you were going to implode.

“Let’s go,” you said, unbuckling her tiny body from the new car seat you bought and walked her over to the front door before looking at the man standing beside you and waiting for him to pull out his keys. When he gave you a sheepish smile, you rolled your eyes and knocked on the door. 

The seconds of silence that passed gave you the opportunity to immerse yourself in the pain you’d avoided for years now and if the door wasn’t opened soon you wouldn’t be able to hold it together for much longer.

“Mommy!” The door creaked open and she ran up to her mother and jumped into her arms.

“How was she?” she asked and you smiled, hoping the man beside you couldn’t see the pain in your action but he knew you too well to not notice.

“She was great. We went for ice cream and took a walk around the park then played on the swing set.” You chuckled at how loving she was towards her daughter. She watched as her husband entered the house looking as exhausted as ever.

“Thank you for watching them both.” She giggled and gave you one of her world renown smiles.

You nodded, “Of course, you know I love her and am obligated to love my brother as well,”

“No! Stay Aunty (Y/N)!” The toddler demanded and you smiled lightly at her.

“I’ll visit again soon, I promise!” You stuck out your pinky for her and she twisted her own miniscule one around yours.

“Pinky promise,” she said and smiled goofily at you.

“Pinky promise,”

[mihidecet]

Sbi&co. D&D AU: Hbomb94

AKA: Tibi’s MCYT WritingTober, day 19.

A special thank you to @octopus-defence-squad for requesting an d&d version of Hbomb, I had a lot of fun thinking up things for him!

This is also my fill for “Survival (A tale of)” from @the-only-gamer-gost ‘s list of prompts, which has also been a lot of fun! <3

I do hope you’ll enjoy!

Hbomb has been his name ever since he left his hometown. 

It didn’t serve any specific purpose, other than hiding his true name - not that it was impossible for an arcane user to simply open the backdoor in his mind and take a quick peek inside. But still. 

It was a nice and simple way to separate his past from whatever adventures he was going to embark in, for better or for worse.

H must admit that he’s not proud of everything he’s done in his life. 

Sometimes, coin and situations bring people to do things that they wouldn’t have normally done. He’s not fond of killing and the hits he gets are few and scattered around his life, like somebody stumbling a handful of times during a marathon, no matter how much they stick in his mind, refusing to let him go. But jobs are jobs. 

And at least of that he is proud. He gets the job done, and he is well known for that. Not that he is generally well known, but still. He has gained enough renown that he doesn’t have to actively look for jobs anymore.

Still, the thing is. 

Hbomb has been his name for almost forever, and yet that one time he almost doesn’t recognise it. 

To be fair, the voice that calls it sounds more like a chorus of many different voices, speaking in multiple languages - H knows five different languages, ok, he’s not dumb, but he has a really hard time comprehending what it’s being said - and all coming from the same point a few feet behind him. 

It’s both a whisper and a song, and to be completely honest all it does is creep him out, jump in his skin and hurry to sit up, hand moving to grab his longbow. Which is supposed to be right next to him. 

Instead all he grabs is grass. Bright purple grass. 

H blinks, confused, only then noticing that there is light around him, yet he’s sure he only went to sleep a couple of hours ago. 

Then he looks up, towards where the voice came from, and he nearly screams - nearly being a key word, as his instincts tell him to scream and freeze at the same time, so what he ends up doing is let out an extremely high pitched “eh” sound that lasts about a couple of seconds.

The scene in front of him is both stunning and extremely disturbing. 

Over fields of purple grass shines the light of two red suns, bright over the backdrop of a pastel orange sky. In the distance, a forest, but instead of dark green pines - or even bright purple trees- , all he can see are huge brightly coloured mushrooms.

And then, a few paces away from him, a figure sits, cross legged, gently floating over the grass - the strands seem to reach upwards towards them, as if attracted by some sort of gravity. While H is familiar with tiefling, the ones living in the material plane usually have only one set of horns, none of which pulse with silver light, and one set of eyes, instead of having most of their face covered in them. 

Somehow, without the aid of any eyebrow, the figure seems amused. Maybe it’s the unnatural curve of their smile - are those additional eyes on the palm of their hands, or just tattoos? H really doesn’t remember drinking that much the earlier night. 

“I’m going to excuse the damage you did to my creation, since you seem to be a bit lost. Don’t you know where you are, child?” 

A flower takes flight from one of their horns, turning into a butterfly midway. H has no idea where he is. 

The chuckle that resonates in the air around him sounds like wind chimes, and for a moment he’s reminded of an old friend, an old companion that he used to travel with, a bright eyed warlock who loved to wear flowers in her hair, simply because they would turn into butterflies as she fought. 

H’s lips part in a small “oh”, as if he’s understood something, but to be honest he’s more lost than before. Surely the being sitting in front of him isn’t-

“No, I am not. She is one of my children, still. You came … recommended. Your skills have been evaluated, your deeds have been found worthy.”

That certainly piques his interest. Choosing to ignore how the individual in front of him is currently reading his thoughts - which is quite rude in his personal opinion -, he’s always been fond of Shubble, and she did seem like a reasonable and trustworthy person. Not to mention her cool as hell powers. 

Still, one should be always careful when dealing with mind-reading beings.

“What do you mean? Worthy of what?” 

“Capabilities. Powers.”

“Like?”

“Like you’ve never seen.”

“Would you be able to … elaborate? Please?”

“No.”

Hbomb is going to have a headache. Normally, he’d loathe such a conversation, and he would probably be quick to walk away. But it’s not like he can leave. 

“Oh, but you can. I just brought you here to let you know you’ve been chosen.”

The cheshire smile on the being’s face is deeply worrying, especially since their mouth doesn’t seem to enjoy following the usual anatomical constraints one would expect to find in a mortal. And apparently now he’s signed a contract with them? When did he sign? Can he un-sign? 

Another chuckle fills the air, this time sweeter and warmer, like a hug on a winter night. 

“There is no need to be afraid. You’re not bound to me, not like your friend is at least. Try to focus. Find the connection inside of yourself.”

H isn’t a stranger to meditation - his parent, being an elf, had taught him everything he’d needed to know. So he stares at the creature in front of him for a moment, waiting for any sign that he maybe probably shouldn’t do this, then he closes his eyes. 

It takes him a moment, but once he finds it, it’s impossible not to see it. 

There’s a thread inside of him. Like a string of silk, hanging, floating at the center of his chest. It floats towards his hand as he becomes aware of it, tangling between his fingers, moving on its own as if it were water, or wind. A snake coiling around in his hand. 

While his eyes are closed and his mind is focused, the being’s voice resonates inside his mind, clear as the crystals their eyes were made of. 

“Be good. Good luck, plane traveler.”

There’s a quick pulling sensation around his gut - not a bad feeling, per se, but certainly an unexpected one - and then.

Hbomb’s eyes open to the darkness of the night. He’s back in the same place he went to sleep in. 

But now, there is a slightly luminous tattoo on his right hand, which gives off a feeble light: a purple snake, coiling around his fingers, and a remotely familiar drawing of multiple circles on his palm. 

Digging around, looking for what the circles represent, takes a while. 

But he does remember talking, a few months back, with an arcane scholar with a passion for creating things out of thin air. 

That, on his hand, is a drawing of the planes of existence. 

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Sunshine City: Three

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read/reblogged/commented on the last chapter. You are all lovely and deserve a Whiskey of your own. This chapter still revolves around the plot of the film, so if you have any questions just let me know! I hope this little story can make you smile at least for a moment. My asks and DMs are always open.

Pairing: (Eventual) Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (No Y/N)

Word Count: 5.7k

Rating For This Chapter: T for guns, blood, injuries

Catch up on the Prologue, Chapters One, and Two here!

Y/N sat at the bar and ordered a cranberry juice.

Butterfly Guy was sitting with Eggsy, Whiskey, and a guy who insisted on being called Merlin in a booth near the window.

“Rough day, sugar?” Paula the bartender asked as she set down the cloudy glass filled with purple-red juice.

“Rough couple of days,” she muttered and handed over a handful of crumpled bills that Paula methodically straightened out before placing them in the till. Paula was basically an agent in her own right. She’d been part of the bar for nearly twenty years and since only Statesmen drank here and knew of its existence, they spoke freely about their work. She probably knew more classified intel than some junior agents.

“You sure I can’t get you anything stronger?” She asked, her bleach blonde hair swiping over her shoulders. “Something with a little more oomph?”

“Just the cranberry juice for now.” She smiled and sipped on the too-bitter drink and resisted puckering her lips at the taste. “But thank you.”

Paula nodded and cast a glance at the table where the agents sat. “You know, Whiskey keeps lookin’ over here.”

She ignored the twisting in her stomach and took a large gulp. “ ‘s just post-mission jitters.”

“Uh-huh,” Paula said with a roll of her eyes. “Sure. When a handsome man looks at me like that…” she drifted off with a raise of her eyebrows.

(But she wouldn’t deny that she noticed Whiskey looking at her a little more often. When they met up after she implanted the tracker in Clara, she noticed Whiskey kept turning away every so often, a hand tucked in his front pocket. It was a common gesture used by men to hide an erection, she knew that—she just didn’t believe he would have one at that moment. They were in the middle of a mission. There was no way he was hiding a boner. But the thought was fun.)

Thankfully, Agent Moonshine started hollering and she sighed into her drink and got up from her barstool and walked behind the bar.

Paula was watching the scene unfold like she hadn’t watched a million bar fights before and looked ready to piss herself. Sunny patted her on the shoulder and signaled for her to hide in the little cubby beneath the register.

The Butterfly Guy quickly made a fool of himself, trying to teach Moonshine and his buddies some manners and she leaned against the sticky bar to watch as Whiskey stood from his seat. It wasn’t the first time she would watch Whiskey kick Moonshine’s ass but it was always fun to witness.

And those tight jeans did wonders for his butt.

While she would never understand his affinity for his lasso or his whip, it was nice to watch him work (and to see Moonshine bleed a little).

As he finished, Moonshine and his hangers-on all unconscious or bleeding enough to keep them still, Whiskey adjusted his hat and let out a whistle. “I feel like a tornado in a trailer park.”

She snorted and finished her drink as Paula slowly came out from the cubby and gaped at the mess. “It looks like a tornado came through here, boss. I think you owe Paula another window.”

“And new glasses!” Paula said with a frown.

She patted Paula’s shoulder again with a promise that the window would be fixed within a handful of hours as the televisions switched from the football game and were overtaken by a wash of yellow and red with an obnoxious chime.

A woman draped in a horrendous yellow outfit with fiery red hair soon filled the screens. “Mr. President, my name is Poppy Adams. I believe the UN has no teeth. So I've selected you, as leader of the free world, to receive this communication. And I invite you to begin negotiations on the largest scale hostage situation in history. A few weeks ago, an engineered virus was released and contained in all varieties of my product: cannabis, cocaine, heroin, opium, ecstasy, and crystal meth.” Each line item popped up on the screen in a pretty font. Cap looked over to see Whiskey already looking at her, lips pulled into a frown. “Some of you are already infected. And this is what you can expect in the coming days. After a brief incubation period, victims present with stage one symptoms: a blue rash. Next, second stage symptoms appear: mania, as the virus enters the brain. Very distressing to the victim and those around them. Stage three: paralysis. Muscles enter a state of catastrophic seizure. And once the muscles of the thorax become affected, breathing becomes impossible.” She watched as one new victim after another was revealed on the screen until blood spurted out of the last man’s eyes and nose, dead for millions to witness. “This leads to a very nasty death within 12 hours. But I have good news to the millions already affected. It doesn't have to be this way. I have an antidote.” Poppy held up a clear vial filled with an amber liquid—and Elton John behind another glass wall.

“What have you done to me, you fucking bitch?” God bless Elton John.

Undeterred by Elton John’s outburst, Poppy continued, “100% effective and ready to ship out worldwide at a moment's notice. I will do this if the following conditions are met. First, you agree to end the war on drugs, once and for all. All classes of substance are legalized paving the way to a new marketplace in which sales are regulated and taxed just like alcohol. And second, my colleagues and I receive full legal immunity. Meet my terms. I look forward to helping you keep our beloved country great, boosting our ailing economy, and easing spending on law enforcement. Or continue this blinkered, outmoded, and, frankly, disastrous exercise in prohibition, and live with blood on your hands. Save lives. Legalize.”

The broadcast ended and the televisions screens quickly flipped back to the football game. Whiskey was at her side in a blink of an eye. His hand brushed down her back. “We gotta talk to Champ, Sunny.”

And that was how she found herself bundled in winter gear on an Italian mountainside. Clara had called Charlie, and thanks to the tracking device she had implanted at Glastonbury, they were able to pick up the conversation. Charlie told Clara (who was now covered in the blue rash) to meet him at the ski resort they’d visited last year so he could give her the antidote. The tracking device could pinpoint their exact location and everyone was betting that the Italian resort was one of the storehouses for the antidote.

But she was also wondering, once again, why she found Whiskey attractive. He was in a terrible blue and white snowsuit that had to have been made in the 1970s. And he still refused to take off his damned cowboy hat. She appreciated the dedication to his aesthetic but it still seemed…ridiculous.

And he’d been grating on her last nerve on the flight over.

Ginger had buzzed in and suggested that Cap be the one to retrieve the antidote because only Clara would recognize her as opposed to Charlie possibly recognizing Eggsy or Butterfly Man (who she was told to call either Galahad or Harry). Whiskey then laughed—loudly—and stated plainly that he would be planning the mission and Ginger should stick to her computers and gadgets. “It isn’t like ya have any experience in the field.”

She really thought about murdering her boss for the rest of the flight. Her plots to kill him only got more creative when he told her to stay at the safe-house when they landed.

She was tired. She was angry.

And that was probably why she finally snapped. “If you didn’t want me to come along, you could have just told Champ. God knows you don’t listen to anyone else.” She hefted her bag filled with her own weapons and ammo higher onto her shoulder and turned away from him, readying to hike up toward the house and stew in her lonesome until the three men returned—hopefully with the antidote in hand.

But his hand grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop before she could get very far. “That ain’t fair, Sunny.”

She pulled out of his grip with a poorly hidden snarl. “No. You’re not fair. To me. To Ginger. All because of some bullshit you think is right.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection. I’ve been in this game a long time-”

“And I’ve been in it longer-”

“-and I can take care of myself. What you’re doing to Ginger is so fucking backwards I’m surprised you can see straight,” she hissed it out like a curse. “I’m tired, Whiskey. I’m so tired of watching her jump through hoops trying to get you to notice that she could outperform half the agents in the field and you want her stuck behind the desk until she dies. I’m tired of you thinking you know best in the field. Why do you even request me to go with you if you’re going to undermine me every step of the way?”

Whiskey’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Her shoulders slumped. Harry and Eggsy both looked like they were very interested in the calibrations of their earpieces and not listening to what just happened. God this whole situation was pathetic. They were trying to save the world and she was waffling between yearning and rage for her stupid boss. She trudged away in the snow toward the safe house and barely heard Whiskey say, “what are you lookin’ at, Butterfly Guy?”

But she continued on, up the mountain and found the small shack of a house and swept the perimeter before settling in. She comm’ed in only to say she reached the safe house. Eggsy responded cheerfully but she didn’t respond when Whiskey also chimed in with a, “good work, Sunny.”

Time ticked by.

There was a commotion on the other end of the comm line when Butterfly Guy wouldn’t respond—and then all she heard was Eggsy and Whiskey screaming. She rolled her eyes. They were so dramatic. But soon, the trio was making their way toward the safe-house and she didn’t bother to open the door when she heard them outside. They all hobbled in, mid-argument.

Eggsy pulled out a small vial and showed it to her with a smile she had to reciprocate. “You got it.”

“We did. A little dicey—Charlie recognized me.”

She glanced at Whiskey who frowned in return. It didn’t matter. Ginger had been right and now he knew it.

“Can I see it, kid?” Whiskey asked with his hand outstretched as he walked toward them. But then his dark eyes tracked to the window and widened. “Get down!” Whiskey all but tackled both Eggsy and her to the dusty ground of the house as bullets started to fly. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.

She watched, unable to do anything from her pinned position, as the small vial was all but knocked from Eggsy’s hand and shattered on the ground.

“You fucking dickhead!” Eggsy hollered as he scrambled out from under Whiskey to look over the spilled antidote, almost uncaring of the bullets whizzing by.

“Fuck you, I just saved your life!” Whiskey retorted.

“Yeah, and cost millions of people theirs!”

She had to slap at Whiskey’s thigh to get him to move off her and she rolled off into the corner when he did. The rain of bullets stopped for a moment and she looked out the window. “They’re reloading.”

Whiskey nodded. “All right, I'll fix their wagons. Cover me, boys!” And then he all but bolted out of the house, guns blazing.

With a roll of her eyes, ignoring how Whiskey had told the ‘boys’ to cover him, she followed suit and ran out into the snow, pulling her guns out from their holsters. The shootout was nothing she hadn’t seen before and, while she didn’t have all the flair most of the Statesmen agents had, she could mow down people just as efficiently. (The acrobatics the Statesmen and Kingsman agents seemed so fond of really just seemed…excessive.)

Whiskey went through the left flank so she went through the unlucky men on the right.

It was easy pickings, really. Despite the heavy artillery and uneven numbers, it was almost too simple of a gunfight. But the adrenaline rush was nice. It had been too long since she had felt her heart beat this fast. Bullets were flying by her head as she dove behind a tree and then twisted to shoot down the other man. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Whiskey pull out his electric lasso and then cut a man in half who came out with a knife.

“Fucking ridiculous,” she muttered as she stood, lowering her guns and quietly thankful that Whiskey wasn’t hurt.

There was a single gunshot and she froze. A familiar cold crept up her torso and one last man stepped out from the tree line with his gun raised right in her direction. The barrel smoked. But his eyes were wide like he couldn’t quite understand that he’d actually managed to shoot her. With a snarl, she pulled her guns up again and fired twice, painting the trees and snow behind him in a spattering of red.

“Sunny!” Whiskey yelled as he spotted her.

She pressed a hand to her stomach and felt the terrible, wet warmth soak her palm. She holstered her guns again and stepped out to look at him, turning ever so slightly to hide the blossoming red from him. “We’re good.”

“You should’ve stayed in the house.”

“You needed back up!” She said, marching toward the house despite feeling her legs shake. Pressing against the wound only made bile rise in her throat.

“The kid and Butterfly Guy-”

“It’s over, boss. Let’s just-”

Whiskey suddenly grabbed at her waist and all but threw her into the house and she nearly lost her footing. She barely had time to recognize the pain suddenly roaring through her system as the adrenaline started to fade.

“Troop carrier coming in. And I’m out of ammo—whaddya got?” He asked, pointedly looking at Eggsy and Harry.

But they were both looking at Whiskey’s hand.

He slowly raised it to his face and saw it covered in blood. His head snapped to the side to look at her. “Sunny?”

Her knees finally buckled and she hit the weathered wood. She shakily caught herself with her other hand, feeling blood slip between her fingers. She coughed and watched as blood splattered against the wood.

“They’ve got Gatling guns!”

Whiskey was yelling. Bullets whizzed by. And the beat of her heart started to drown out everything else.

“Harry, no!” She barely heard Eggsy shout.

And then, in her quickly-hazing vision, she watched Whiskey’s body crumple to the floor beside hers. She reached out a bloody hand toward him without thinking, pressing crimson-colored fingers against his face as if that would stop the bleeding.

“He broke the vial on purpose, Eggsy. If we made it out of here, he was gonna kill us both!”

The world went dark.  

                                                     **

The sterile scent of HQ’s medical wing was a welcoming aroma as her eyes opened.

“There you are.” Ginger leaned over her with a soft smile. “How ya feeling?”

“Tired.”

“No pain?” She asked as she helped Cap sit up slowly.

“A bit tender—but I know what feeling shot in the chest feels like so I would prefer this.” She pulled at the bland, cotton-blend shirt she was dressed in and saw her stomach covered in a bit of gauze and tape. Despite Ginger telling her not to, she pulled at the coverings to reveal the mostly-healed bullet wound and then pushed back into the pillows. It looked like it had already been healing for weeks instead of a day or two. Statesmen truly knew how to patch someone up. But then a thought struck her. “Where’s Whiskey?”

And Ginger’s soft, answering smile calmed her suddenly clenching heart. “He’s in the next room over, Cap. He’ll wake up soon. Eggsy gave him the Alpha Gel and it worked like it was supposed to.”

She pushed out a long breath through her nose and nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

Ginger’s watch beeped. She looked at the small screen and sighed. “I will be back. Don’t get into any trouble, okay?”

“I promise nothing.”

Ginger chuckled, having heard that answer many times before, and let herself out of the room. 

She let herself stew for a moment (it was really about an hour). Her life had really gone off the rails since Vegas. It was one thing to secretly harbor amorous thoughts about your boss. It was another to scream at him, get shot, and then see him get shot after seeing him (possibly) thwart any efforts to get the antidote and save millions of people. And she had a chance to say something to Ginger. But she didn’t.

Hm.

She carefully slid off the bed and winced when a bolt of pain zig-zagged through her body as her feet touched the cold floor. Shuffling over to the door, she peered out into the hallway and then stepped out. Whiskey’s holding room was only a few footsteps away.

Should she go in? But then what would she say?

Should she just go back to her room and pretend she was unconscious the entire time and remembered exactly nothing from Italy? But what was she trying to forget anyway?

But, thankfully, Eggsy found her in the middle of the hall and broke her rambling thoughts. He pocketed his phone and looked a bit worried as he noticed her. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Better than I should be after being shot. You?”

He started to nod but then shook his head. “My girlfriend…she, uh, she’s got the blue rash.” He rubbed at his forehead.

“You care about her. Probably more than you should, right?” That was easy to see. Eggsy was a good kid, probably a little too easy to read. “Especially in this line of work.”

“You get it—Kingsmen aren’t allowed to have attachments. And I…” he tried to grasp at the words he needed, “love her.”

“Statesmen doesn’t have that rule. Probably because we’re very bad at following any sort of guideline anyway.” She shrugged and regretted the movement as it pulled at her wound. “But that means you’ve got less than 12 hours. You got a plan?”

Eggsy quickly explained that they had been able to trace Poppy’s location to Cambodia and they were heading out there now. But his eyes quickly widened as he realized he had just revealed a plan to a potentially dangerous adversary.

“Relax, Eggsy. I’m not the one you shot in the head.” She waved him on. “Go. Save the world. Look out for landmines.”

“Landmines?” Eggsy parroted, face scrunching into a confused frown.

“If Poppy’s as crazy as I think she is, I wouldn’t be surprised if she has nonsense like that. Who knows? Maybe she has a fleet of man-eating robots, too.”

“What are you on about?”

She shook her head. “I’ve seen some stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

He smiled and started to walk away. “You should come to London when this is all over. I’ll get you a drink!”

She smiled a bit and watched him disappear around a corner before her eyes once again drifted toward Whiskey’s door. “…fuck.” Against her better judgement, she walked up and let the door glide open without a sound. The room was quiet. Whiskey was motionless on the bed, face still covered by the machine to help the Alpha Gel finish its work. His vitals were steady, displayed on large screens across the wall.

He would be fine.

He would be fine.

He would be fine.

She slipped gingerly into a chair near the bed and resisted the urge to reach out and touch his hand. He just looked so…vulnerable. It was so unlike him. An angry, terrible twisting pulled at her chest. “I’m not sorry I yelled at you, you know.” She wasn’t sure why she was talking to him but the words kept coming anyway. “You need to let Ginger out in the field. She’d be a better agent than me. I don’t know why you’re… I don’t understand you at all, actually. I wish I did, I think. I wish I could understand you and why you do things and say things. I wish I could understand why you make me feel so stupid.”

Maybe being this close to death—again—was making her sentimental. Or maybe the pain medication was making her crazy.

Probably the second option. Hopefully, anyway.

The door opened again and Ginger stepped in. “I knew I’d find you in here.”

“How’d you figure that?”

Ginger gave her a look but didn’t answer. “It is about time we wake him up. You remember how it’s like, right?”

She nodded. She had heard stories about how most agents needed a ‘reminder’ of a traumatic event to bring them back to the present and how their minds could be a bit foggy for a few days after, but she had never seen it in person. But she basically knew what to except--right? 

With a flip of a few switches, the machine receded and Whiskey’s eyes opened. He was up and off the bed with a spring in his gait that had her laughing as he gave some terrible pick-up line to Ginger. But the laugh drew his attention and his body went rigid as his eyes landed on her. “Sunny.”

She felt tension she didn’t realize she was holding leech from her shoulders as he smiled at her. “Hey, boss.”

Ginger tucked something back in her pocket and her smile seemed to reach her ears. “I’ll leave you two…alone. But I’m just outside if you need anything.” She then scurried out and left her alone with Whiskey and her hammering heart.

“Sunshine.” The new nickname was all but crushing to her heart, caving in her chest.

She waved him back to the bed and told him to rest before she curled her fingers around his hand. It was warm and calloused and, as cliché as it sounded, seemed to fit hers perfectly. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been shot in the head.”

She almost laughed and her other hand carefully pushed his still-impeccably styled hair away from the bandage covering a small bit of his temple. “Yeah. You look great for a dead man, though.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” But he said it with a smile and squeezed her hand. “Say it again.”

“You look great.” And her smile grew, heart a little lighter.

He huffed out a laugh but then a long silence stretched between them. She looked away from his dark eyes but didn’t pull her hand away from his, fearing he’d disappear if she did.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sunshine?” He squeezed at her hand until she looked at him again.

“I’m okay. They fixed me up just fine. A new scar for the collection.”

His smile slowly dropped and he placed his other hand over hers, too. “I saw you drop. You were bleedin’ out and I-”

“I saw you get shot, too, you know. Butterfly Guy has an interesting way of showing he doesn’t trust someone.” She shook the thought away. Harry’s brain was scrambled, too. “I’m just happy you’re okay. Your brain might feel a bit funny for a day or two, but I’ll be here.”  

“Where are they now? The Brits?”

“They’re on their way to Cambodia. They think they’ve found Poppy’s base.”

Whiskey all but yanked his hands from hers and threw his legs over the side of the bed before standing on his long legs. She quickly stood too, chair clattering backward. “We’ve gotta go. Tell Ginger to get the Silver Pony on the runway.” He started toward the door before she grabbed at his arm.

“Boss, c’mon. You need to rest-”

“I need to make sure that bitch doesn’t get what she wants.”

She was scrambling then, hands pawing up his arm to grasp at his face. Her heart was in her throat as she looked at him. His dark eyes looked so cold. Unfocused. She knew the Alpha Gel could scramble someone’s brain as it physically repaired it, pushing them into old habits and thoughts and fears. She knew Whiskey wasn’t thinking right at the moment—no matter how soft he had been with her moments ago, this wasn’t her Whiskey. Her mouth went dry. Thoughts raced by as the pit she had felt growing in her stomach expanded to an abyss. She knew what he’d been through. The death of his wife at the hands of some coked-out druggies was an open secret. And she knew her own grief, dealt with it in her own way—not all of it healthy, she knew. But she had to try. She knew the look of a man who wanted vengeance no matter the cost—and, right now, the cost was millions of lives. “Do you know why I don’t drink?”

“We don’t have time for this,” he said as he pulled out of her grip.

“Drunk driver plowed into my dad’s car. I was at the local pool with some friends and Dad piled everyone in to pick me up so we could get ice cream after. They never made it.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Do you think I hold it against everyone who likes to put a little something extra in their coffee? Likes to have a little liquid courage to talk to the cute guy across the bar?”

Whiskey’s face twisted and his eyes seemed to dilate before he scrunched them shut. A shaking hand pushed through his hair.

“I work at a distillery for a man named Whiskey.”

Another silence stretched between them. She would swear he could hear her heartbeat in the quiet of the room.

A careful hand reached out to touch his wrist, too afraid to do much else. “Stay,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”

And his eyes finally opened.

                                                        **

Champ smiled and congratulated them on a job well done. It was a week since the entire Golden Circle situation had been handled. Tequila was well. Whiskey’s mind was clear. And their profits had never been higher.

Merlin, Harry, and Eggsy were standing at the end of the table and each held a glass of amber liquid as everyone raised a toast. Whiskey was sitting across from his Sunny, golden glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He probably should have been listening to what was Champ was saying but all he could see was how she licked her lips after taking a sip of her cranberry juice.

Statesmen, knowing an ally when they saw one, had purchased a distillery in Scotland. It was the perfect guise to help Kingsman rebuild and keep their money looking “clean.” Yes, he should have listened.

Because the Kid opened his mouth and said Kingsman needed more agents.

“I think Ginger would be a great Kingsman,” Sunny said with a smile.

Ginger, tucked into a corner a drink of her own, smiled in return. “I…”

“Agreed,” Whiskey heard himself saying. And he quickly realized that he meant it. 

Ginger’s eyes went wide and she nearly sloshed the entirety of her drink across her shirt.

Champ laughed. “Alrighty then. Ginger Ale, well, I guess you’ll get a new code name, won’t ya?”

But the Kid’s smile widened. “And I was thinking Cap could come, too.” He turned to her and shrugged a shoulder. “Whaddya say, Cap? I’ll show you the real London.”

Whiskey looked at her, feeling like someone had shoved their fist down his throat. Don’t go. Don’t leave.

“I always wanted to be a knight of the round table.”

The men at the end of the table cheered again and Ginger walked over to knock their glasses together.

And while everyone continued to pat themselves on the back for completing the mission, all he could feel was cold.

The revelry eventually died down and Whiskey found himself the last one seated at the table. Everyone else filtered out to ready for the next mission—or the move to London. It was just him and Champ. The older man plopped down in the seat beside him and refilled his empty glass.

“London is only a few hours by plane from New York.”

He took a long pull from his glass.

“I’ve never known you to wait for something you wanted, Whiskey. But sure seemed to drag your ass on this one.”

“What are you talkin’ about, Champ?” He finally asked after another large gulp of alcohol.

But Champ just shook his head with a throaty chuckle. “You two are a mess.”

                                                     **

Royal weddings were…an event, she was finding.

After nearly losing Princess Tilde to the Golden Circle, Eggsy actually proposed. And with Harry now known as Arthur and presiding over Kingsman, the rules changed. Attachments were allowed. And because Tilde knew his fellow Kingsman were like Eggsy’s family, they were invited to the wedding. A handful of Statesmen, too. It had been a year since Poppy’s demise in Cambodia and the world was (mostly) at peace. Kingsman managed to salvage quite a bit from the wreckage of their former bases and Statesmen funded the rest of their necessary rebuilds. It was slow-going, and a handful of new agents were still finding their footing after graduating from the selection process.

“Please tell me Tequila is not wearing jeans,” she muttered.

Ginger, now known as Agent Percival, rolled her eyes with an affectionate smile as she spotted the jean-clad man amid the rest of the American crowd. “I could but that would be a lie.” She paused. “But Whiskey certainly dressed for the occasion.”

She leaned forward just the slightest bit to see Whiskey dressed in a fine tuxedo. “Is that one of ours?”

Ginger hummed. “He came in a few days ago for a fitting.”

She swallowed the saliva filling her mouth and turned back to watch Eggsy nervously fidget with his cufflinks at the end of the aisle. “Looks good.”

The ceremony finished after the vows and a bit of perfunctory reading and singing before the guests were all chauffeured over to the reception space at the royal palace. “You know, Merlin told me that you and Whiskey are quite fond of using emojis in your emails,” Ginger said as dinner was cleared away and dessert started to be served. 

Her glass of water nearly slipped from her grip as embarrassment washed over her. “I was told those were private.”

“Nothing’s private in our line of work,” Ginger said with a pat to her hand. “But you haven’t really explained what is going on between you two.”

She rubbed at her temples. How could she possibly explain that she knew Whiskey, while his brain was still scrambled, wanted to let everyone infected with the Blue Rash die? How could she explain that she, despite all that, missed his smile and stupid mustache? Missed how he had terrible pick-up lines that always made her roll her eyes? Missed how she always seemed a little lighter whenever he would waltz into her office in New York?

Their constant contact devolved away from work and missions and into their private lives. He would ask after Bela and she would ask him to tell her about the view from his office window. It was now a strange sort of friendship that she treasured and protected despite how they hadn’t seen each other in person in over a year. She had taken the position at Kingsman, took the code name Agent Mordred, moved to London. It should have been a clean break. She could have kept their communications purely professional. But she didn’t. She just couldn’t truly let him go.

But on the outside, she shrugged as her hands dropped away from her face.

“It looks like I’ll be able to see for myself because he’s on his way over here.”

Her head snapped up at the sound of Ginger’s smug tone and, sure enough, Whiskey was on his way over, walking through the dancing crowd and wandering guests, right toward their table.

“But oh no. Would you look at that, I need more champagne.” Ginger then scampered off and left her alone.

Whiskey easily took Ginger’s vacated seat and smiled at her. “Hey, Sunshine.”

“Hey, bos-Whiskey.”

He chuckled at her slip. His head tilted to the side as he looked at her, eyes trailing down her form and she resisted a shiver like a teenaged girl but was silently thankful for the designer dress that fit her like a glove in a soft blue silk. “You look good.”

“You too.” And he did. The tuxedo was impeccably cut and the darkest black. A pristine white shirt was held back with a matching cummerbund and a black bowtie was slightly crooked around his neck. She reached out and straightened it.

He reached up to keep her hand pressed against his chest with a small smile. “I miss you.” It was whispered like a secret.

“We talk every day.” But she didn’t pull her hand away.

“ ‘s not the same and you know it.” He squeezed her hand. “Dance with me?” Wordlessly, he led her out onto the dance floor and pulled her close.

His expensive cologne made her mind swim but she resisted the urge to rest her cheek against his shoulder despite every nerve in her body telling her to do so. The music was slow, soft, and romantic. The lighting was low and accentuated by flickering candles that danced across the golden walls of the royal ballroom. If she could let herself remember anything—it would be this moment. Held in the arms of the man she loved even if it was just for a tiny sliver of time.

“I never thanked you, you know.”

“For what?”

“Saving me. My head was a mess—even before Butterfly Guy put a bullet in it. It took me a while but I…” He shook his head. “You’ve given me a second chance.”

She cocked her head to the side with a smile. “To save the world?”

Whiskey’s smile was small and his cheeks reddened the slightest bit but his dark eyes never left her face. His grip on her hand and waist tightened the slightest bit. “A second chance at everything.”

She chuckled and ignored how her chest tightened. Reading into it would only make it hurt.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @spookyold-saintjm​ @honestlystop​ @paryl​ @fioccodineveautunnale @lackofhonor

[theredherb]

The Red Herb’s Top 10 Games of 2020

Hey, fuck 2020. You might notice that many of the “Best Of” lists you read this year and last can’t help but mention how terrible 2020 was. That’s because every day was like hitting a new, splinter riddled branch on our 365 day plummet off a shit-coated tree. The year brought with it a viral pandemic that served as a pressure cooker for the societal and systemic issues boiling beneath the surface of our every day life. And we’re not out of it. 

At least one positive holds true of 2020: the games were pretty darn good. One has to wonder, though, if 2020 was the last year of what can be called “normalcy” for the video game industry. Now that the remainder of titles brewed in pre-Covid times are out in the wild, what will the future of gaming look like as studios shift to work-from-home and distribution models migrate to digital as the primary bread winner? What will games look like going forward?

I have no fucking clue. We’ll get there when we get there. But looking back, I’m glad to have had such solid distractions from the stress and strife. If 2020 is any indicator for the industry going forward, then my takeaway is that games will continue to grow in prominence because of their ability to help us cope and, more importantly, stay connected.

Anyway, here’s video games:

10. MARVEL’S AVENGERS

Oh, Marvel’s Avengers. I know you expected to be on more prestigious Top 10 lists than mine. Truthfully, I debated whether or not you should be here. But I had to search my soul (stone) on this one. Really assemble my feelings. Tony Stark my thoughts (?). Here’s the short of it: Marvel’s Avengers has a great story campaign with a surprising amount of emotional weight thanks largely to Kamala Khan’s quest to reassemble the heroes of her youth. Once the final cutscene ends, though, players were expected to take their play box of Marvel heroes, jump online, and duke it out against hordes of villains for the privilege of precious loot and level gains. It would be impossible to get bored because Crystal Dynamics was going to continually Bifrost in new quests, cosmetics, and heroes -- for free!

Except, after fans blasted through the campaign (took me a solid weekend), they found a multiplayer mode filled with repetitive fights against non-descript A.I.M Bots, a handful of dull, un-Marvelous environments (the PNW?! In a video game?! Wowwee!), and a grind for gear that became useless minutes after it was equipped. Oh, and bugs. Tons of bugs. It must be hard for A.I.M. to take earth’s mightiest heroes seriously when they’re falling through the fucking earth every other mission.

So why the Kevin Accolade™? Of all the mistakes and underbaked ideas, Crystal Dynamics got the most important thing right: they made me feel like I was a part of the Avengers. Cutting through the sky as Iron Man; dive bombing, fists-first as the Hulk; firing gadgets at cronies as Black Widow; cracking a row of skulls with Cap’s shield… Avengers is a brawler on super soldier serum.

The combat is crunchy and addictive, and surprisingly deep once you unlock your character’s full suite of skills and buffs. The gear matters little. But choosing a loadout that works for you -- like ensuring enemy takedowns grant you a health orb every time or turning area clearing attacks to focused beams of hurt -- does matter. When it comes to games with disastrous launches, Avengers is the most deserving of a triumphant comeback story because, if you clear the wreckage, I think there’s a solid game here. If I was able to spend hours playing it in its roughshod state, I can see myself digging in for the long-term once it’s polished up and given a healthy dose of content. You know...if Square Enix doesn’t outright abandon it.

9. STREETS OF RAGE 4

Here’s a fact about me: I love beat ‘em ups. From Final Fight to X-Men to The Simpsons, I prioritized my quarters for the beat ‘em up machines (and House of the Dead simply because House of the Dead fuckin’ owns). Unfortunately, Streets of Rage wasn’t in arcades, and I didn’t own a Genesis growing up, so I didn’t get around to the series until Sega re-released as part of a collection. Though my history with the 29 year old brawler is shorter than some, the basics stand out out right away: it’s an awesome side-scrolling brawler filled with zany character designs and high octane boss fights.

SoR4 nails that simple spirit while adding an electric soundtrack, buttery smooth animations, and an art style that looks like a comic book in motion. You can button-mash your way through the game or master your timing to combo stun the shit out of bad guys. Same screen co-op is a requisite for the beat ‘em up genre but I have to call it out nonetheless given that it's next to obsolete these days. The story campaign is, of course, finite but a stream of unlockables and a Boss Rush Mode pad out the package nicely.

I really don’t have to go on and on. I’m on board with any game that captures the arcadey high of classic beat ‘em ups, and Streets of Rage 4 does it with flare.

8. RESIDENT EVIL 3 REMAKE

Resident Evil 2’s remake was my game of the year in 2019. It’s a pitch perfect revision that captures the pulse-pounding fear of the original while beautifully updating its graphics and gameplay for modern audiences. The most striking aspect of RE2’s remake is how it expands and reconfigures the classic game’s environments and set pieces. Capcom managed to recontextualize, and even improve on, the original’s design while staying faithful to its tone and atmosphere.

Resident Evil 3’s remake is less successful in modifying and improving on its source material. If the game feels like it was handled by a different team than RE2R, your gamer hands have good eyes (roll with it). It was developed by a separate internal team (three different teams, in fact), but that’s actually one of many choices mirroring its 1999 forebear. Just like the original, RE3R is a tighter (i.e. shorter) experience that launched less than a year after its predecessor. And just like the original, the game skirts away from survival horror in favor of action horror.

Unlike last year’s remake, however, RE3R paints in broad strokes with the original material much in the same way that 2004’s Dawn of the Dead remake shared a vague resemblance with Romero’s ‘79 classic. Capcom at least nails down what matters: you play as Jill Valentine, beaten and discredited after the Arklay Mountains incident, during her last escape from the zombie besieged Raccoon City. Her exit is complicated by Nemesis, a humanoid missile that relentlessly pursues her from minute two of the game. Her only chance of making it out alive is by teaming up with a gaggle of Umbrella dispatched mercenaries, including an overly handsome fellow named Carlos Oliveras that you control for a spell. But fans struggled to get over what Capcom didn’t remake. Several enemies, boss fights, and a “divergent path” mechanic that had you choose how best to escape the Nemesis in a pinch were omitted from the remake. Even an entire section set in a clock tower was cut. But, let’s be honest, the biggest omission is a secret ending where Barry Burton saves the day using only his beard. For real, YouTube that shit.

If you look at what the remake does instead of what it doesn’t, you’ll find a lightning paced action game highlighted by tense, one-on-one fights against the constantly mutating Nemesis. The tyrant’s grotesque transformations evoke the mind-rending, gut turning creature designs found in John Carpenter's The Thing. It’s sad that Nemesis doesn’t pursue you through the levels as diligently as he did in the original, or as Mr. X had in last year’s remake, but these “arena fights” end up being harrowing and fun, culminating in a memorable final encounter. The remake also treats us to the best incarnation of Jill to date. She’s a cynical badass, exasperated at how Umbrella upended her life, and can take a plunge off of a building yet still muster enough energy to call Nemesis a bitch. RE3R also shines thanks to its snappy combat, including a contextual dodge that feels rewarding to pull off, less bullet-sponge enemies than RE2, and an assortment of weapons to get you through Jill’s Very Bad Night(s). It makes for a necessary, though shorter, companion to last year’s stellar remake.

7. HADES

I’m experiencing a new type of shame including a title that I haven’t beaten on my Top 10 list, but I can assure you that I’ve dumped hours into its addictive death loop. It’s probably because of my resistance to looking up any tips, but given the skill-check nature of the difficult boss fights, I’m almost afraid the top shelf advice will amount to “die less, idiot.”

My failings aside, Hades is brilliant. It’s the perfect merger of gameplay and storytelling. You play as Zagreus, son of Hades, and your entire goal is to escape your father’s underworld domain. You pick from a selection of weapons, like a huge broadsword or spear, and attempt your “run,” seeing how far you can make it before an undead denizen cuts you down. It’s familiar roguelike territory, but where Supergiant separates their game from the pack is in the unique feeling of constant progression, even as you fail. With each run, not only is Zagreus earning a currency (gems or keys) that unlock new skills that make the next go a little easier, you’re also consistently treated to new lore. The fallen gods and heroes that line your father’s hall greet you after each death and provide a new insight into their world. The writing is bouncy and hilarious, the voice acting ethereal and alluring, and the character designs could make a lake thirsty.

Supergiant’s stylistic leanings are at their peak here. They’ve managed the impossible feat of making failure feel like advancement. Sure, it totally fucks up other roguelikes for me, but that’s okay. None of those games have Meg.

6. DEMON’S SOULS

Whereas Capcom takes liberties with their remakes, Bluepoint took the Gus Van Sant approach and made a 1:1 recreation of the 2009 title that launched the “Soulslike” genre. The dividing difference is a 2020 facelift brought to us by way of the PlayStation 5’s next-gen horsepower. There’s been online arguments (surprise) regarding the loss of Fromsoftware’s visual aesthetic in translating the PS3 original in order to achieve a newfound photorealism. It’s true, some beasties lose their surreal weirdness -- a consequence of revisiting designs without the worry of graphical or time constraints -- but the game’s world is still engrossing, morbid, and bleakly gorgeous.

That’s not to say all Bluepoint did was overhaul the graphics and shove this remake out the door. No, their improvements are nuanced, under-the-hood changes that gently push the genre into the next-generation. For one, the loading times are incredible. You could hop between all five archstones in under a minute if you wanted. And this game is a best DualSense controller showcase outside of Astro’s Playroom. You can feel a demonstrable difference between hitting your sword against a wall compared to connecting it with an attacking creature. Likewise, the controller rumbles menacingly as to let you know enemies are stomping across a catwalk above you. “Better rumbles” was not on my wish list of next-gen features, but the tactile feedback goes great lengths to make you feel like you’re there.

Granted, sticking so closely to the original means its pratfalls are also carried over to the next-gen. The trek between bonfire checkpoints is an eternity compared to the game’s successors, and Fromsoftware hadn’t quite mastered the sword ballet of boss fights prevalent in Dark Souls. Instead, a handful of bosses feel more like set pieces where you’re searching for the “trick” to end it versus having to learn attack patterns and counters. Still, it’s easy to see the design blueprint that bore a whole new genre. From having to memorize enemy placements to hunting down the world’s arcane secrets in the hopes of finding a new item that pushes the odds in your favor. Bluepoint’s quality of life improvements only make it kinder (not easier) to plunge into the game, obsess over its idiosyncrasies, and begin to master every inch of it. That is until you roll into New Game+ and the game shoves a Moonlight Greatsword up your ass.

5. YAKUZA: LIKE A DRAGON

Here’s a fact about me I’m sure you don’t know: I love beat ‘em ups. Streets of Rage 4 had an easy time making it on this list because it can be classified as both a “beat ‘em up” and “good.” Here’s another fact about me: I’m not the biggest fan of JRPGs. I’m told this is not because of any personal preferences I harbor, but rather due to a distinct lack of culture. I’ve made peace with that. At least my uncultured ways are distinctive.

But my disinterest in JRPGs is notable here because it illustrates how very good Like A Dragon is. Transitioning the Yakuza series from a reactive brawler (entrenched in an open-world SIM) to a full-blown turned-based RPG was risky -- especially 8 entries into the mainline series -- but it pays off explosively for Like A Dragon. Not only does the goofiness, melodrama, and kinetic energy translate to an RPG -- it’s improved by it. Beyond a new protagonist -- the instantly likable and infinitely affable Ichiban Kasuga -- we’re finally treated to an ensemble cast that travels with you, interacts with you, and grows with you. Their independent stories weave into Ichi’s wonderfully and end up mattering just as much as his.

The combat doesn’t lose any of its punch now that you’re taking turns. In fact, it feels wilder than ever and still demands situational awareness as your enemies shift around the environment, forcing you to quickly pick which move will do the most damage and turn the fight in your favor. RGG purposefully made Ichi obsessed with Dragon Quest (yes, specifically Dragon Quest) as an excuse to go ham and morph enemies into outlandish fiends that would populate Ichi’s favorite series. It’s a fun meta that never loses its charm.

This is the best first step into a new genre I’ve ever seen an established franchise make and I hope like hell they keep with it for future outings -- and that Ichi returns to keep playing hero. There’s plenty of callbacks and treats for longtime fans, but RGG did a masterful job rolling out the virtual carpet for a whole new generation of Yakuza fanatics.

4. GHOST OF TSUSHIMA

Sucker Punch’s dive into 13th century Japan doesn’t redefine the open-world genre. But like Horizon: Zero Dawn before it, Ghost of Tsushima takes familiar components of the genre and uses them exceptionally well, creating an airtight experience that can’t help but stand out. I can tell Sucker Punch mused on games like Assassin’s Creed and Breath of the Wild, tried to figure out what makes those games tick, and then brought their own spin to those concepts. You can feel it in their obsession to make traversal through the environment as unobtrusive as possible, letting the wind literally guide you to your destinations instead of forcing the player to glue their eyes to a mini-map. You can feel it in how seamless it is to scale a rooftop before silently dropping on a patrol, blade first. You can feel it in the smoothness behind the combat as your sword clashes against the enemy’s. Every discrete part is fine-tuned yet perfectly complements the whole. The game is silk in your hands. 

The mainline story can be humdrum, though. It mirrors the beats of a superhero origin story, which isn’t surprising when you account for the three Infamous titles and satellite spinoffs under Sucker Punch’s belt. But Jin Sakai’s personal journey outshines the cookie-cutter plot. His gradual turn from the strict samurai code to a morally ambiguous vigilante lifestyle (to becoming, eventually, a myth) is a fascinating exploration in shifting worldviews. This is bolstered by the well-written side-missions dotting your quest, some of which play out in chains. It’s these diversions about melancholy warriors and villagers adjusting to life under invasion that end up being the essential storytelling within the game. Whatever you do, don’t skip a single one.

Before GoT can overstay its welcome with collectible hunting and stat-tree building, the ride is over. If you find exhaustive open-world titles, well, exhausting, Sucker Punch coded enough of a campaign to sticking the landing and not more. But if you were looking for more, the game’s co-op Legends mode is the surprise encore of the year. It strikes its own tone, with vibrant, trippy designs, and a progression system that embarrasses other AAA titles in the space (I mean Avengers. I’m talking about Avengers).

3. THE LAST OF US PART II

The Last of Us is widely regarded as a masterpiece. It’s a melancholic trek through a realistic post-apocalypse, driven by the budding bond between a world-weary survivor and a would-be teenage savior. The fungal zombies and violent shootouts with scavengers were scary and exciting, but ultimately just window-dressing compared to the level of complicated, and honest, human emotion on display throughout the tale. While a segment of detractors helpfully pointed out that The Last of Us’ story isn’t unique when compared to years of post-apocalyptic books, comics, and movies, that argument seems to forget that a narrative more concerned with the human protagonists’ connections to one another instead of saving the world or feeding into a hero complex is pretty unique for games -- especially a high profile, AAA budgeted game.

Still, fans made heroes out of Joel and Ellie because of their own connection to their journey. And that connection is almost instantly challenged in the opening hours of The Last of Us Part II to heartbreaking effect. But I’m here to tell you that any other sequel would have been dishonest to the legacy of the original game. To be given a hero’s quest as a continuation, an imagined sequel where Joel and Ellie do battle against the viral infection that’s swept the earth, would have been a despicable cash-in. It would have been a mistake to follow-up the original’s careful examination of human nature just to placate an audience that seems to have missed the point Naughty Dog made. The Last of Us Part II hurts. But it has to or else it wouldn’t have been worth making. It’s a slow-burn meditation on the harmful ripples revenge creates, how suffering begets suffering, and how, if we don’t break the cycles of violence we commit to, suffering will come for us.

To drive this point, we’re given two distinct perspectives during the meaty (and somewhat overlong) campaign, split between Ellie Williams, the wronged party seeking revenge, and Abby Anderson, an ex-Firefly whose actions set the sequel into motion. The greatest trick Naughty Dog pulls off isn’t forcing us to play as a character we hate, it’s giving us reasons to emphasize with them. It was gradual, and despite some heavy-handed moments meant to squeeze sympathy out of the player (how many times do I have to see that fuckin’ aquarium?!), I eventually came to love Abby’s side of the story. The obvious irony being that she unwittingly walks the same path Joel did in the original.

My love for the narrative shouldn’t distract from how well designed the world is. Being a King County local, the vision of a ruined Seattle strikes an uncomfortable note -- it was eerie seeing recognizable buildings overgrown with vegetation but otherwise devoid of life. Maybe the heart-wrenching story also distracts from the fact this game is, by definition, survival horror. Exploring toppled buildings in the dark, hearing the animalistic chittering of the infected, defending yourself with limited resources… It manages to be a scarier entry into the genre in 2020 than even RE3R. There’s a particular fight in a fungus covered hospital basement that easily goes down as my Boss Fight of the Year. Human enemies make for clench-worthy encounters, too, with incredibly adept AI that forces you to keep moving around the environment and set traps to avoid getting overwhelmed.

Admittedly, the subject matter -- or more to the point, the grim tone -- was tough to stomach during an actual pandemic which has happily treated us to the worst of human nature. Still, The Last of Us Part II is absolutely worth playing for its balance of mature themes and expertly crafted world, and the way it juxtaposes beauty and awfulness in the same breath.

2. SPIDER-MAN: MILES MORALES

The most impressive thing about Miles Morales is that, despite being a truncated midquel rather than a full-blown sequel, it’s a better game than 2018’s Spider-Man. It’s not because of the instantaneous loading times or the fancy ray-tracing techniques used on the PS5 version of the game. Rather, it’s how it takes the joyride of the original game and hones it into a laser focused experience filled to the brim exclusively with highs. Like Batman: Arkham Asylum going into Arkham City, Miles starts the game off with his mentor’s best abilities and tools. From there, he discovers his own powers, his bioelectric venom strike, which ends up feeling like the missing ingredient from the first game’s combat.

Your open-world playground -- a locale in the Marvel universe called “New York City” -- is exactly the same size as the previous installment, which helps avoid making the game feel “lesser.” But Insomniac wisely consolidated the random crimes Peter faced into a phone app that Miles can check and choose which activity to help out with. Choices like this really trim the fat from the main game and help alleviate “the open-world problem” where the story’s pacing suffers because players are spending hours on end collecting feathers. This is great because Miles’ story is also great. The narrative kicks Peter out pretty early on, focusing on how Miles assumes the role of city protector, primarily focused on his new home in Harlem. Insomniac avoids retreading the same path paved by Into the Spider-Verse by telling a relatable tale where Miles defines his identity as Spider-Man. With a strong cast led by Nadji Jeter as Miles, the game lands an impactful story that weaves its own new additions to Miles’ mythos (light spoiler: I loved their take on The Prowler).

Miles Morales was pure virtualized joy from start to finish. A requirement of the platinum trophy is to replay the entirety of the game on New Game+. I didn’t hesitate to restart my adventure the minute the credits were over. Everything I loved about 2018’s Spider-Man is here: the swinging, the fighting, the gadgets, the bevy of costumes. But it gave me a new element I adore and can’t see Insomniac’s franchise proceeding without: being Miles Morales.

1. FINAL FANTASY VII REMAKE

I love subversive media, I do. And Square Enix’s “remake” of one the most beloved video games ever made subverts expectations by openly acknowledging that, yes, the original story you love exists and is consistently referenced in this game. But this is not that story. This is something..else. Because the truth is, SE could never have recreated FFVII and delivered a title that matched the Sacred Game fans created in their heads. That impossible standard is like an imagined deity, given power by feeding on raw nostalgia reinforced by years of word-of-mouth and appearances on Top 100 lists. I’m not saying FFVII is a bad game or that fans give it too much credit. Not at all. There’s a reason it’s so influential -- it’s good! But memory works in a funny way over time. We have a tendency to codify our perception of a thing over the reality of it. The connection we make to certain media, especially when introduced at a young age as FFVII had been to a whole generation of fans so long ago, creates a legend in our heads. Unfortunately, it’s a legend no developer could achieve when tasked with remaking it.

So Square...didn’t. Final Fantasy VII Remake has the same characters, setting, and plot beats as the first third of the original game but it’s not the same game, nor is it a remake of it in the traditional sense. It’s something new. And I fucking love that about it.

Everything is reconfigured, including the combat. After years of trying to merge RPG mechanics with more approachable (and marketable) real-time action (see FFXV and the Kingdom Hearts games for examples), Square Enix finally landed on the perfect balance. You fully control Cloud on the battlefield, from swinging your impossibly huge buster sword to dodging attacks. The ATB gauge (no one knows what the acronym stands for -- that information has been lost to time) gradually fills up, letting unleash powerful moves. But best of all, you fight in a party, and you can switch who to control on the fly.

That may not sound revolutionary, let alone for a Final Fantasy, but each character has a completely unique feel and suite of moves. At times, it feels like playing a Devil May Cry game where you can switch between Dante, Vergil, and Nero on the fly (that’s a free idea, Capcom. Hire me, you cowards). You can soften up an enemy with Cloud’s buster to increase their stagger meter, switch to Barret for a quick gatling barrage, and finally switch to Tifa to crush them with her Omnistrike. You can accomplish this in real-time or slow down the action to plan this out. It’s a great mix of tactics and action that prevents the game from feeling like a mindless hack n’ slash.

What really, really works here is the character work. Each lead walks in tropes first, but the longer you spend with the members of your party, the more their motivations and fears are laid out. You end up having touching interactions with just about the whole main cast. There’s a small segment, after Cloud saves Aerith from invading Shinra guards, that the two make an escape via rooftop.They make light conversation -- small talk really -- but it’s exchanges like this that feel genuine, perfectly framing their characters (stoic versus heartfelt), and grounding an otherwise larger-than-life adventure.

Many bemoaned the fact that FFVIIR only revisits a small portion of the original game, but I think it was a brilliant choice -- to massively expand on areas we only got to see a little of in the original. I honestly didn’t want to leave Midgar. It’s a world rife with conflict and corporate oppression, sure, but Midgar is beautifully realized, from the slums below the plates, populated with normal people trying to make the best of life, to the crime controlled Wall Market, adorned with gaudy lights and echoing honky tonk tunes. It very well may be years before FFVII’s remake saga comes to a close, but if each entry is paved with as much love and consideration and, yes, storytelling subversion as this introductory chapter… It’ll be worth the wait.

[artificialqueens]

Praise Me Up (Gigi x Nicky) - moonshot

A/N: moonshot here! thank you for the anon who suggested the gigi/nicky rivarly prompt! I had so much fun writing this, basically 4.1k words of Nicky driving Gigi insane while some of the season 12 (and some special guests) are in for the ride! Please feel free to let me know what you think of it! - moonshot

 Gigi knew she was the perfect candidate for the promotion. That was until she found out Nicky Doll, the infuriatingly stunning model-tier beauty from the French branch of the company and recently had moved to NYC, was also being considered for said promotion.

-

Gigi knew she was the perfect candidate for the promotion. That was until she found out Nicky Doll, the infuriatingly stunning model-tier beauty from the French branch of the company and recently had moved to NYC, was also being considered for said promotion.

At first, she wasn’t bothered at all when Nicky came to the office permanently. One could say she was almost excited to have someone else so verse in high fashion, as the older blonde had worked for the lengths of Vogue Paris. Gigi had always thought that the foreign woman would bring an added layer to their already impressive fashion editorial.

That was until Gigi realized how much alike they really were, flaws and all.

And the realization came pretty much during the first time she was officially introduced to Nicolette Doll .

The American blonde was well known around her office for being an avid make-up enthusiast thanks to her former job as a make-up artist prior to joining Needles & Co., arguably the most notable fashion editorial in the nation, the year before, so it was almost a given that her colleagues would ask her for advice, especially Heidi from the Closet.

Cue to her blonde wannabe-Broadway star Jan calling Gigi over to her desk to ask for advice for a special night out with her girlfriend.

“Gigiiii, you have to help me! I don’t know which lipstick to match with my eye look for tonight! It’s Jackie and mine’s anniversary, I can’t do my usual nude lip, I want something more… fancy?” The New Jersey woman pouted, half whispering not to have said girlfriend hear the conversation from the desk booth down the row.

“What’s the eye makeup you’re going with? The usual purple, lilac moment?”

Jan nodded, “Yeah, you know me. Do you have something in mind that could work with that?”

Gigi stood quiet for a moment, her mind running through all the various possible combinations, “Well, I would go with a-”

She was interrupted by a sultry accented voice, “I’d suggest a dark nude color with some coral undertones, I got one from MAC, it’s called Stone, I can let you borrow it if you want”.

The long-haired blonde squealed in joy, “Oh my god, that would be great, Nicky. You’re a lifesaver!”

The fashionista turned around to see who was the supposed ‘live saver’. She was met with the brightest icy blue eyes she had ever seen, framed by an impeccable soft smokey eye. A pair of pouty lips accentuated by a fiery red lipstick smiled at her in an almost mischievous way. Short blonde hair, perfectly styled, completed the editorial worthy look.

“I don’t believe we have met before,” she extended her hand, covered by a sheer black glove, “Nicolette Doll,” the French woman squared off Gigi’s slender figure from head to toe, “you can call me Nicky. I got transferred here last week. Genevive Goode, I suppose? I heard a lot about you from the others”.

Gigi shook her hand firmly, a fake smile on her face, how much she hated when people used her first full name, “Yeah, that would be me. Gigi is fine. If I’m not mistaken you have worked for Vogue Paris, right?”

“You’d be correct, it’s thanks to Miss Chachki’s kind words on my behalf that I was able to get a position in this editorial. I’m sure you’ve heard of her”.

Of course , Gigi had heard of the legendary Violet Chachki, her idol ever since she had found her passion for fashion.

“I sure have,” the younger woman didn’t let any of her inner discontent come through on her face as she continued to speak, “well, I hope you are finding our office to your liking”.

Nicky smiled back, a glimpse of something Gigi couldn’t quite understand in her gaze, “So far I’m liking what I’m seeing, chérie,” she commented, quickly turning to Jan to let her know to remember to give her the lipstick before her attention went back to the blonde in front of her,  “I can’t wait to work with you, miss Goode”.

“Likewise,” Gigi simply replied as she watched the French woman walk down the room to what she assumed was her new desk.

She was definitely not looking forward to working with Nicky.

As the months went by, what was driving Gigi insane was the fact that, besides herself, everyone seemingly beamed after the French beauty.

Jan - and Jackie by proxy - had already gone out multiple times to the karaoke bar down the street from their office with the blonde woman, only to have them talk about it the following day while they sipped on their steaming cups of coffee. Gigi had learned that Nicky was not only gorgeous but also a phenomenal singer because of course, she was.

The older blonde had become Jaida’s, her desk neighbor, go-to party girl for the free drinks Friday nights at the local queer club. A position that use to be Gigi ’s. Granted that the dark-skinned beauty still asked her to come out with them but never in a million years the young fashionista was going to get caught going to the club when Nicky was also involved.

Hell, even her own best friend, Crystal, had grown fond of the foreign woman, much to Gigi’s displeasure.

“Oh, c’mon! She isn’t that bad at all! She actually complimented my makeup!” She proclaimed excitedly, twirling a long strand of her brown mullet around her index finger.

Gigi looked up from the stylized drawing of her latest dress idea with furrowed brows, “Crystal, she said you look pretty for someone who paints like a clown ”.

The brown-haired woman’s expression didn’t change, if anything, her smile had just gotten bigger, “Still, she said I’m pretty!”

“Ugh!” the blonde went back to her drawing, mindlessly filling in the drawing.

“Honestly, Gi… you should give her a chance. You two have a lot in common!”

“That’s the problem! It’s basically like looking at a copy of me! I bet you that if I shaved my head, she would come in the next day sporting a bald head and call it being avant-garde!”

Jaida butted into the conversation, having just come back from the bathroom, “Girl, don’t you dare go bald. That Halloween look as that damn robot still haunts my nightmares,” she added from behind the sitting blonde before taking a closer look at Gigi’s drawing, and chuckled, “Nice drawing of Frenchie”.

“What?” The young blonde looked down at her drawing, this time paying attention to what she had drawn. It did look an awful lot like a stylized version of Nicky.

“Fuck!” She whined out, quickly crumpling the drawing and tossing it to the other side of the office.

It was as if the universe was against her when the piece of paper landed just in front of Nicky as she walked into the room. She bent over and picked it up, quietly examining the drawing. She swayed her hips as she walked towards the trio, a smirk on her face.

“Chérie, if you wanted me to model for you, you could have just asked,” she said with a wink before walking to her desk, prompting a laugh from Gigi’s two close friends.

The fashionista groaned loudly, a blushing creeping on her, “I hate everyone!”

Thinking back to the day when Miss Needles called into her private office on the 12th floor, Gigi knew something was up when she was forced to share the elevator with Nicky on the way up. She was tempted to close the door on the older woman but she had been too slow. What a pity.

“Which floor?”

“12th”.

Gigi tensed her jaw for a moment as she pushed the button before resting her back on the wall. The ride was awkwardly silent, neither of them thrilled to strike up a conversation as they went up.

“ Toi t'es bon qu'à planer, ouais je sens t'as l'seum, j'ai l'avocat ”.

The older blonde has seemingly had enough of the silence as she quietly sang in what Gigi assumed was French. She would never admit Nicky’s singing was actually as good as Jan had boasted her to be.

“ Entre nous y'a un fossé, toi t'es bon qu'à faire la mala ,” the French ran a hand in her short blonde hair, eyes closed as she waited, that smirk Gigi detested flashing on her lips.

Before Gigi could say anything, the familiar sound of the elevator doors opening filled the small space. Nicky gestured to her to go out first, “After you, chéri”.

The younger blonde scoffed, quickly exiting the elevator and making her way to the door of her boss’ office, not waiting for the older woman.

She gently knocked three times and waited for a reply.

“Come in”

How she was tempted to close the door on Nicky’s face, again.

Gigi entered the office to find Miss Needles standing up, looking out the window to the New York skyline. The statuesque woman turned around with a bright smile on her face that surely contrasted with the intense sharp makeup she was wearing.

Working for Aquaria Needles had been a pleasant surprise for the young fashionista. She was a little over a year older than Gigi and yet, at 24, after working in her teen years as a runway model, she had already taken over her mother’s role as editor in chief while the matriarch of the Needles family had decided to step down from the spotlight for a while.

Gigi had gathered quite the respect for Aquaria, who was truly a 180° from her stoic, almost spook-inducing mother, Sharon. However, she knew not to get on her bad side as she was still a Needles, after all.

“Oh! You’re both here already, that makes my job much easier as I can explain myself just once,” she started as she sat down in the expensive-looking faux leather chair, “please take a seat, we have a lot to discuss here!”

The two fashion queens of the office sat down, keeping their bodies as far from each other as possible, neither really trying to hide their discontent for each other.

“So, as both of you know, May is coming up and so is our annual special issue for the Met Gala. Now, I’ve been keeping an eye on both of you as you two are our best designers,” Aquaria continued, her bright blue eyes staring intently to the two women sitting in front of her, “Miss Hytes-Mateo has recently announced that she is transferring to our branch in LA in a couple of months time, which means the position of creative director will need to be filled up”.

Gigi’s eyes widened, which had been the promotion she had been looking up to ever since joining the team as a mere intern two years prior. She had to have that.

“And this is where you two come into play, for the next month leading up to our May issue, I’ll be regularly checking with both you two and Brooke Lynn to determine who is the best candidate for the position once she’s gone. Have I made myself clear?” Aquaria finished up, waiting for a reaction from either of them.

Nicky was the first one to speak up, “It’s an honor to be even considered for such position, Miss Needles”

The editor in chief smiled, her hand waving in front of her, “oh please, you can call me Aquaria, Miss Needles reminds me too much of my mom. Anything you’d like to add, Gigi?”

“I’ll make sure to show you that I’m the perfect candidate for this promotion,” the younger woman replied, she wasn’t going to let that French blonde take her spot.

“If you don’t have any question, I think we can call it a-”

Aquaria was interrupted by the door opening. The two designers turned around to see a short petite woman peeking in the room, her long blonde hair perfectly framing her face.

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Needles but your mother just called and wanted to remind you that she is expecting you to have lunch with her tomorrow at noon,” the woman said with a soft voice.

Gigi turned back to the editor in chief, not failing to notice the blushing cheeks on the young woman’s face. Everyone around the office knew about Aquaria’s crush for her assistant, Miss Heller (she could still hear Widow’s voice, “It must run in the family! Didn’t her mother meet her current fiancé because the woman worked for her? Miss Thunder, was it?”).

“O-Oh okay, thank you for reminding me… but I told you to call me Aquaria, Brianna”.

“And I told you, as much as I want to, your mother won’t let me, Miss Needles,” she replied playfully before turning her attention to Gigi and Nicky, finally noticing the duo, “oh, sorry for the interruption. Goodbye!”

She closed the door behind her, leaving a quiet Aquaria, staring at the door.

After a minute of silence, Nicky cleared her throat, waking Aquaria up from her own thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah okay work, we are done here! Both of you, enjoy your day. I’ll be sure to let Brooke Lynn know you are ready to start,” the editor excused them, turning her chair around to, once again, stare at the beautiful skyline.

The two designers exited the editor’s office in silence, walking up to the elevator. Gigi nervously tapped her foot as they were descending back to their floor.

As they reached their floor, she felt a hand grab her wrist, “may the best woman win, chérie”

That was the only thing Nicky said before leaving Gigi alone.

She sure planned on winning.

For the following month, if Gigi had thought Nicky was insufferable before, now that they were officially competing against each other, the French woman was downright perfect in everything she did. Nicky with her stupidly gorgeous frame, impeccable style, and sultry voice. And those sheer gloves, those goddamn gloves.

If Gigi did something that earned her praises from Brooke Lynn, there would come Nicky Doll with something that was just that much more innovative, bringing the spotlight on herself. It was driving Gigi insane. The younger blonde was desperate to find something, anything , that she could use against the older woman.

The young blonde sat quietly as she elaborated her next move to bring Nicky down, her close friends chit-chatting next to her.

“Girl, I think y’all two should just fuck it out!”

Gigi rolled her eyes at Jaida’s suggestion for the nth time. Everyone in her friend group had caught onto the fact that she despised the French designer and mercilessly teased her about it.

“Not this again! I don’t like her, Jaida,” she replied with a dead-pan voice.

“Who said anything about liking her? You can cut the sexual tension between the two of you with a goddamn butter knife!” Widow commented with a knowing look, the blonde promptly ignored it.

“Bet 20$ y’all fuck by the end of the month,” Jaida announced, getting a laugh out of the Missouri women.

“I bet 30$ they fuck by the end of the week ,” Widow added, always in to poke fun at the young tall fashionista.

“Oh God! Fuck you both!”

“Chile, girl, save that for Frenchie over there,” the dark-skinned beauty chuckled out.

Gigi simply rolled her eyes again, her attention shifting its focus from the conversation to a particular blonde that was standing across the room from her.

She furrowed her brows. She hadn’t realized that Brooke Lynn had come down to their floor. Nicky was talking to her with a smirk on her face. Something she had told must have been so funny as the Canadian laughed out loud. The French woman touched the taller woman’s arm and it looked like she was… flirting ?

The younger designer inhaled sharply. How dare she?

Gigi quickly got up from her seat, ignoring the confused looks on her colleagues’ faces. She walked over where the two women had been talking, clearing her throat before speaking up.

“ So sorry to interrupt but may I have a word with Miss Doll right now? It’s urgent,” she faked a smile but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, sure. We’re done here anyway. Thank you so much, Nicky. I’ll reserve a table at that restaurant then. Have a good rest of the day you two” The tall Canadian replied before making her way to the elevator.

Gigi didn’t lose any time as she grabbed the older woman’s wrist and walked both of them to the nearest free storage room, closing and locking the door behind her. If they were going to talk, she didn’t want anyone interrupting them.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing? You flirt too now? Is that what they teach you in France?” the young fashionista’s voice fully expressing her anger.

For the first time since they had met, Nicky was speechless and confused, “ Pardon ?”

Gigi scoffed, “Oh, now you play dumb? Do you think I didn’t see you flirting with Brooke Lynn just a minute ago, getting all touchy? Talking about going out to restaurants? Are you that desperate that you’re going to sleep with her for this promotion?” She let out all at once while the short-haired blonde stood in silence.

She had an unreadable expression on her face. She opted not to reply, instead, she slowly took off her gloves, placing them on one of the shelves.

“You are absolutely un-fucking-believable. I wasn’t flirting with her. If you had even just once got out of your head, you would have realized how desperate you sound right now,” she answered calmly, slowly walking up to Gigi, who was in return backing up, “She came up to me to ask for my opinion on which one was the best French restaurant in Manhattan, as she wanted to surprise her wife for their anniversary”.

The younger blonde gulped, suddenly feeling the tie around her neck suffocating. She found herself trapped between the wall next to the door and Nicky’s body, the distinct smell of her Chanel n°5 perfume going straight to Gigi’s head.

The French woman took her tie in her hand, toying with it as she further pressed their bodies together. She slid one of her thighs in between Gigi’s slender legs. The latter can’t help the soft moan that escapes her lips.

“You know what I really think of you, uh?” Nicky put her hand underneath Gigi’s chin, forcing her to look her in the eyes as she spoke, “You’re just a mommy’s girl, wanting to please everybody, having them say how much of a good girl you’ve been, isn’t it right?” The French woman let her hand down the younger girl’s body, reaching the single button on her blazer and unbuttoning it.

Gigi shivered as she felt the cold air hit her bare chest, Nicky’s warm hands making her feel even more the temperature difference.

“That’s why you think you hate me, but, chérie, you’re just scared of me,” she continued, her slender fingers grazing on the erect nubs on her chest while her naked thigh pressed harder against the clothed core, “Scared that someone might be better than you and get that praise you desperately need. You want everyone to think you are this perfect little bitch who is better than everyone else. That facade doesn’t fool me, I see right through it. You still have so much more to learn, you have no idea, chérie”.

The younger woman whimpered as she felt Nicky’s lips press down hard and bite the pulse point on her neck, her knees almost giving out on her if it wasn’t for the older woman’s thigh keeping her in place. The short-haired blonde smirked as she traced the very evident mark she had just left with her tongue, her mouth slowly making her way up to Gigi’s ear.

“That’s for thinking I would sleep with Brooke Lynn for the promotion, salope ” she growled out before biting down on the earlobe. The American gasped loudly, inadvertently jerking her hips forward, causing even more friction between her center, covered by her favorite tailored pants, and Nicky’s thigh. She froze at how good it felt, something she hadn’t felt in months.

The French woman didn’t lose any time in pressing herself harder against Gigi’s body, her mouth ghosting over the younger woman, “Oh, won’t you look at that, uh? Fucking yourself on my thigh? That eager to prove you don’t need my hands,” she pinched one nipple and palmed roughly the other exposed mound, “or my mouth to come?” She taunted her, biting the other woman’s lower lip, “well, then, be my guest, chérie ”.

Gigi moaned as Nicky kissed her roughly, the short-haired woman’s hands never leaving her chest. The younger girl brought her arms around the other designer’s neck as her body started to rock her hips against Nicky, melting under her touch.

“If I knew it only took putting my thigh between your legs to shut your pretty mouth up, I would have done it the first day I came here,” the French woman mocked her as she focused on leaving more marks on Gigi’s pale skin, flushed by the pleasure she was receiving. She felt Nicky’s skirt ride up as she fastened her thrusts against the naked tanned skin.

“F-Fuck you ,” Gigi managed to let out only to be met by a laugh from Nicky.

“Already am, chérie,” she commented, as she left another hickey on Gigi’s sensitive spot on her neck.

As the friction got greater and as she grew hotter, Gigi could start to feel her heat and wetness seep through her pants, wetting Nicky’s skin in return.

“You’re so close, aren’t you? So desperate to come all over my thigh?”

The younger designer was at a loss of words, her heart pounding so loudly as she could feel herself being moments away from her release, she could only nod.

“Well, then, be the good girl you are and come for me. Let them hear how much of a salope you are for me, uh?” Nicky finally whispered in her ear, as she met Gigi’s thrusts.

The American woman gripped tight onto the other woman’s blouse, not caring if she was crumpling the fabric. The intense orgasm washed over her, her legs trembling, her breath hitching as she tried to recover.

Nicky backed off, looking down to the thigh that was now glistening with a light coat of sweat and Gigi’s wetness. She ran two fingers over it before bringing them up to her own mouth, keeping eye contact with a flustered Gigi as she licked them clean.

The younger designer was trying to catch her breath when she saw that same stare she had when they first met in Nicky’s eyes. The older blonde took a longing gaze all over Gigi’s still exposed skin.

She smirked, “À bientôt, chérie”

She took her sheer gloves off the shelf where she had placed them, quickly putting them back on before turning to unlock the door and left.

Gigi blinked a couple of times, trying to register what had just happened. She looked down on her own body, realizing she would have to change after the mess she did.

“ Fuck! ” she muttered before buttoning back up her blazer and making her way to convince Heidi from the Closet to let her change into one of the outfits they kept around for the magazine photoshoots.

She came back to her desk 20 minutes later, trying her best to look as if nothing had happened, which turned out downright impossible as soon as Jaida saw her.

“Hey, what’s with the midday outfit change… wait, is that what I think it is? Oh my god! Y’all did it!” she exclaimed in shock before turning to Crystal, who had walked over, “Damn it! Girl, you were right, they couldn’t last the day”.

The mullet-haired woman rejoiced, “Yay! 50 bucks for me!”

Gigi shot her a look, “Crystal?!? You betted against me too?!”

Her best friend shrugged her shoulders, “What? I need money to save up for the eventual future One Direction reunion because I KNOW it’s real!”

The young designer shook her head, she was never going to see the end of the teasing. She opened one of the desk’s drawers, grabbing her color correction palette and her favorite full coverage concealer.

As she worked her way around her now colorful neck, she looked up to meet Nicky’s icy blue eyes. She scoffed when the French blonde winked at her, however, the smirk on her own face betrayed her.

The American woman crossed her legs. It was just the beginning and Gigi knew it, but now she didn’t mind the competition. If anything, it added some French flavor to the plate.

But first, she had to google what the fuck did ‘salope’ meant.

[mortuarybees]

oh I just sent you an ask and then realized that you answered my question in a previous ask, so ignore me. (Though I do have another question about them getting married or at least choosing to be committed to each other forever). Thank you for this AU though!

THIS GOT LONG I’M SORRY. The chef suggests that this be paired with Mitski’s cover of Let’s Get Married, which actually invented the institution of marriage.

It looks like this:

It’s a balmy Sunday in April, 2014, and Aziraphale’s hands are clasped before him, forehead pressed to his knuckles. He’s nervous; he shouldn’t be, he knows, but he is. The pew is hard and uncomfortable, unforgiving–Crowley would laugh at that, and even as he smiles, the thought makes his stomach clench.

The service ended a while ago, but he likes to remain, reading through the echoing chatter until everyone has gone and he can have a word alone with Her. Praying in a room full of others feels obscene and vulnerable, like leaving the front door open for the neighbors to peak in.

Please, please, please, he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, praying, knows that if today is the day, he needs to go home before Crowley gets irritable and worried, but he wants to feel certain, the way Crowley had been.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale likes gold. Loves gold; he grew up in an ancient and wealthy family, with so much money they’re casual about it, crystals dripping from chandeliers and fine tableware so old it belongs in a museum, and he won’t admit it–not now, especially–but he misses the elegance, the luxuries, misses a wardrobe full of Harris tweed and Burberry and Liberty’s. He likes gold, he would want gold, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but give him what he wants.)

It’s been a long time, Aziraphale thinks. He’s getting older–I’m getting older–he only gets one life. He’s the restless kind, what if he says no?

He asked first, he reminds himself, and then counters it by pointing out that last time, it didn’t mean much, to him. No, that isn’t fair, it meant something, but it wasn’t binding.

He doesn’t need to bind himself to you, he tells himself. He’s committed in every way he can. He’s never been the restless sort when it comes to us.

I’m overthinking this, he thinks, bemused, and as if God agrees with him, he hears the door behind him open, and Crowley’s relieved voice boom, echoing in the empty church and certainly disturbing the bad-humored priest, “Christ, there you are. I thought maybe the Rapture came and the rest of London was too godless to notice.”

Thank you, he prays. Amen. He turns around and smiles. “Crowley, dear. Would you like to sit?”

“Best not,” Crowley says, stopping at the end of the pew Aziraphale occupies. “Surprised I haven’t burst into flames yet, don’t want to push my luck getting comfortable.” He looks around and points at a painting of Saint Sebastian, posed in a rather un-agonized manner. “That why you come here all the time? An excuse to gawk at younger men?”

“Crowley,” he scolds, getting to his feet. He ducks his head to hide his smile and puts his hands in his pockets, toying with the small velvet box inside. “Please, dear, keep from blaspheming inside the church. Besides, you’re far better looking.”

“Damn right,” Crowley huffs, and he takes his arm possessively when he exits the pew, pulling tight against his side. He looks beautiful in the mid-morning light, hazy and soft, hair loose around his face, the stained glass painting colors on his pale face when he squints up at it as they leave. The face of John is mirrored perfectly in the lenses of his dark glasses for just a moment, and Aziraphale wishes he’d ever really tried his hand at art, just to immortalize in rich oil paint the rainbow of light on his face, the Beloved Disciple in his eyes, the swipes of glitter across his cheekbones, the black lace top under his leather jacket, pierced a million times over with all manner of pins over the years; he thinks if he wasn’t at peace before, this picture does it.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” he murmurs when it’s ended, when Crowley tilts his chin down, curls his lip against whatever blasphemy he was certainly thinking and it’s just him again. Just them, and God as far away as She always feels.

“I was kidding, angel,” he says, thumb stroking a reassuring line down his coat sleeve. “Ogle some guy all–” he gestures, quite theatrically– “shot up with arrows if you like. He’s dead, I’m not. I win.”

(It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in London six months prior, alone and uncertain, refugees on a foreign shore. They both grew up in rural villages–wildly different experiences; Aziraphale’s family had an estate and he attended some posh boarding school on the moors, Crowley slept on a bus bench on more than one occasion–and the city is new and frightening and exciting. It seemed like the place for two young queer men to go, newly anointed adults forging a life together.

Aziraphale likes it, Crowley knows he does, he likes the museums, he likes the beautiful old buildings and the British Library, he likes taking walks in the park, and he likes having a home of their own, a home with Crowley. He tells him everyday, a comment here or there with a soft smile. But he’s wounded and mourning; he misses his family, and his new way of life is a bit of a shock. He won’t admit that it hurts, just sniffs and insists he knew it was coming, but Crowley knows him better that that. He loves London, but he can’t help but see the life he’s lost in every crevice of the life he’s found.

Crowley doesn’t believe in divine providence, but if he did, this would be the surest evidence of it: on his way home to their shithole of a flat with his first paycheck in his pocket, he passes the window of an antiques store, and sees it in the window. It catches the afternoon light perfectly and shines gold against the black velvet display; it’s a clunky old-fashioned sort of ring, with angel wings forming the band. Crowley has been thinking hard about this for years now, and it’s absolutely perfect.)

The sunlight outside comes weakly through the clouds, pale but just bright enough to avoid dreariness. Crowley relaxes once they step from the church steps and onto the sidewalk; his first boyfriend broke up with him with a vague and plausibly-deniable note in a cheap bible left on Crowley’s front porch when he returned home from a summer church camp, and Aziraphale thinks he’s always been afraid in the back of his mind that Aziraphale is going to come home from church someday and do the same thing, though he’s never said as much.

“I brought the rolled oats for the ducks,” Crowley says. “Figured we ought to stop in, since we missed last week. Otherwise they might mutiny.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, and that had been his plan, but it’s all becoming so terribly real and sudden, isn’t it? He could wait just a little longer–

No, he can’t. They’ve waited long enough.

(It looks like this:

Crowley, ever-charming, talks the proprietor of the antiques shop into setting the ring aside for him. She’s suspicious of him, with his sibilant S and the pins on his leather jacket, but he’s wearing his work uniform, a perfectly respectable red polo shirt and black slacks, and he gives her a down payment and a long and terribly touching story about his college sweetheart that’s mostly true, apart from the gender of the lover in question.

The truth is, there are some things which can be easily done without, and some things that can’t. Aziraphale prefers fancy vintages from significant years and miraculous rains in the French countryside, but a £5 bottle from Sainsbury’s won’t ruin New Years. They can buy store brand cereal, the eggs discounted because one of them has been cracked, they can throw Aziraphale’s fancy embroidered throw over the pullout and hang richly dyed moth-eaten curtains from the theater department’s dumpster and pretend it’s the Hotel d’Alsace. But there are some things that must be done right, some things that cannot be done without, and he’s convinced that this is one of them. He could as easily propose with a plastic ring from the coin machine at their favorite bar, but Aziraphale is going to love this ring; even if he says no, pats Crowley on the cheek and says, “How romantic of you dear boy, but that’s not really what’s done, is it?” he’s still going to love it.

He’s secretive and vague about the extra hours and side gigs he takes on to make the payments. Aziraphale notices, he knows he does, he knows him too well not to, and he’s curious and a little alarmed, but he felt bad enough lying about where part of his first paycheck went without having to do it again every month when he stops in to make a payment on the ring.

It takes six months, but she finally hands it over, along with a comment about how she’s thought about it and she thinks it’s really rather noble, what he’s doing, and he best keep to it, best not break this poor girl’s heart, she’s read about people like him, giving it a go with nice girls for a couple years and then skipping out, sticking them with kids and a broken life. He rolls his eyes and says he’ll pass the message along to his boyfriend after he proposes, and saunters out, a skip in his step. It’s perfect; he’ll still wear it every day and admire it on his hand the way Crowley admires it now in the sun, and even if he says no–well, that would be a fine consolation prize.)

There is a bench they’ve been coming to for fifteen years now, so habitually the ducks flock to them when they arrive, flicking oats into the water. Crowley is catching him up on the fight he missed while he was out (the walls are thin and the neighbors provide endless entertainment with their incessant and bafflingly banal bickering; it’s a proper extended universe, their family disputes, and the mother-in-law is visiting, so it’s been an exciting weekend), and Aziraphale is trying to listen, he really is, even though he insists eavesdropping and gossiping aren’t especially neighborly–“oh, come off it, angel, you know they’ve got their ears pressed to the wall when we fight, not to mention when we–” “Crowley!”–but he cant focus on anything but the weight in his pocket.

He’s been putting money away for a year now, ever since legislation to legalize it was introduced last July. He’d known it would take some time to pass, but if they were willing to propose it, it would be soon.

“Alright, what’ve you got squirreled away, huh?” Crowley demands, the dozenth time in a few short minutes his hand has gone to his pocket to ensure it’s still there. “I’m hungry. Was so worried you’d gone off and joined some cultish offshoot I couldn’t eat. Well, a more cultish offshoot. Is the Catholic church an offshoot? Suppose it must be, not like Jesus named a pope–”

“It’s not food, dear,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “And he did, he gave Saint Peter the keys to Heaven and he was bishop of Rome. Blasphemous old serpent.”

“I’m sure they all say that,” Crowley says, waving a hand. He eyes him curiously, flicking a rolled oat so it hits a duck in the head. “What is it then?”

Aziraphale’s heart thuds chaotically in his chest. “Crowley, dearest,” he says, turning to face him. He takes his hand in his, desperate for the anchor, the reassurance. “I love you.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley says, looking alarmed. “Are you alright?”

“You love me,” Aziraphale repeats, both wishing desperately he could see Crowley’s eyes, search them, and desperately glad that he can’t. Crowley’s bare eyes are so terribly expressive, the sight of them so intimate, he couldn’t bear it.

“‘Course I do,” he says, with conviction. “More than anything. What’s this about?”

“Crowley, my love,” he says hoarsely, and he kneels on one knee, still clinging to his hand.

(It looks like this:

It’s October in 2000, and it’s been raining like the coming of the second flood for days. Crowley stands at the window, biting his lip and scowling at it, sick of it and about to start refreshing himself on the principles of chaos magic in a bid to end it.

“Crowley, dear, you’re making me nervous,” Aziraphale grumbles from the sofa. He loves a nice rainy day, loves curling up against Crowley with a cup of tea and a book or one of those awful television shows with the flouncy costumes and overwrought acting, but even he is growing tired of being stuck inside all day and getting soaked to the bone on his way to work. “Come sit down, would you?”

“I’m busy,” Crowley mutters.

“You don’t look busy,” Aziraphale says. “It looks like you think you can scowl the rain into submission.”

“Works on the plants,” Crowley tells him, and he knows Aziraphale is rolling his eyes without having to look. He’s half a mind to do away with his idea all together, just do it right here in their cramped little studio, when quite suddenly, the rain lets up to a light mist. He stares at it, jaw slack, for several long moments. When it doesn’t start pick up again, he shouts, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Aziraphale frowns. “In this?”

“It’s just misting and we haven’t gone out properly in days,” Crowley says eagerly. “C'mon, get dressed, I want to go to the park.” He won’t have time to get dressed properly, doesn’t want to risk the return of the storm–which is a crying shame, he had such an outfit planned–but he yanks the pants he knows make his ass look the best out of their dresser and a deep purple blouse with lace around the cuffs Aziraphale once said made him look very royal, stripping out of his pajamas and hopping into them as quickly as he can.

“The park?” Aziraphale puts his book aside. “Well, I suppose I would rather fancy a stroll, stretch my legs–”

“Excellent!” Crowley throws him a horrible pair of houndstooth slacks and the first button down he sees. “Get dressed.”

“Crowley–”

“Dressed!”

“These don’t even match!”

“I don’t care! Get dressed!” He darts to their vanity, staring wild-eyed at his reflection. Eyeliner is smudged raccoon-like around his eyes, but his sunglasses will cover that. He picks up a brush and yanks it violently through his hair. His eyes dart to Aziraphale, taking his sweet time picking out a new button down. “Dressed! Dressed, c'mon!”

“I’m getting there,” he mutters, waving lazily at him. “What do you think, green or white, dear?”

“You look best in blue,” Crowley tells him. He pulls his hair back, then lets it fall again, then pulls the front back and secures it a few pins and a comb he knows Aziraphale likes. He spins around to see Aziraphale quite leisurely buttoning up his shirt. “If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving without you.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but his fingers quicken, and he sits down to tie his oxfords. Crowley hurries to join him, shoving his feet in his boots and lacing them up as quickly as he can. The moment they’re both done, he yanks him up, hauling him to the door, shrugging his leather jacket on and tossing Aziraphale his blazer. “Wait, I’ve got to get my bag–”

“You don’t need your bag,” Crowley insists, and reaches into his pocket to make sure the ring is there.

Aziraphale frets the whole way to the park about how it’s bound to start pouring again any moment, and Crowley rushed him so much he forgot to bring an umbrella, they’re going to get drenched, they forgot bread for the ducks–unaware as they were that one ought not feed a duck bread, for its own sake–and St. James’ Park is positively sodden and it’ll take ages for his wool socks to dry out. Crowley doesn’t care; he links their arms and slogs bravely on to their usual spot, grateful that the heavy rain has cleared it out. The only other people around are a mother and child, some ways off, enjoying the brief respite.

“Angel, I’ve got something to ask you,” he says urgently, and he wrenches his sunglasses off–wait, he forgot, the eyeliner–he slides them back on, then takes them off again; he knows how Aziraphale likes to see his eyes.

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks confused and alarmed, he doesn’t like surprises or irregular reactions. He jumps to the worst every time, starts overthinking every twitch of Crowley’s face, and Crowley loves him, the anxious prat.

“I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”

“I love you more than words can say, darling, what’s going on?” His eyes search Crowley’s face, his brow furrowed.

“Do you–” he swallows hard. They’ve never talked about this, not really. “You don’t think this is–y'know, a sin, right?” It feels so awkward in his mouth, his tone not weighty enough. The truth is, he’s never really seen what all the fuss was about, why so many other queer people struggled so much to reconcile their lives with the Church. The Church rejected him, so he rejected the Church, and he hasn’t looked back. But it means something to Aziraphale. He doesn’t know if he struggles with it still, but it means something to him. It means a lot to him.

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” he says, his eyes clearing. He touches his cheek, so gently Crowley could scream. “Of course not. This could never be a sin, I’ve been reading–”

Crowley can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Of course you have,” he says, beaming at him. “Of course you have. What have you been reading, angel?”

“Well, Montefiore’s ‘Jesus, the Revelation of God’ points out that Christ’s early life–”

“Flaming homosexual, Jesus was, then?” Crowley asks, unable to smother his unhinged grin, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’s so giddy about, but it seems like he can’t help but smile back, a little uncertainly.

“There was John, of course, the Beloved Disciple, and there’s a rather interesting idea about the Wedding at Cana, which is of course in some ideas thought of as a symbolic marriage of Christ to the church, and some–there’s this beautiful German print, of Jesus and John at the wedding, I’ll have to show you–some have suggested that it’s also a more literal marriage between Jesus and John–”

“Christ, angel, you’ll marry me, won’t you?” Crowley breathes, and he kneels.

Aziraphale blinks at him, brow furrowed, his mind clearly trying to catch up to this sudden switch in the topic of conversation. It’s always hard to interrupt one of his rambling little speeches, he gets so invested in them, but Crowley will just have to make it up to him later, let him lecture above him well into the night about apocryphal writings and stained glass and this print or that; right now, he just need to be engaged to this ridiculous man. “Er, what?”

“Marry me,” he says. He had a whole proposal planned, but he’s forgotten it, and it was stupid, anyway. “Marry me, I–” he fumbles in his pocket, pulls the ring out of the little felt bag the proprietor put it in and holds it up like an offering. “I have a ring. Will you marry me, Aziraphale?”

“Are you–” Aziraphale’s eyes are getting wide, his breath coming fast. “Crowley, you’re not joking about this, are you?”

“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” Crowley snaps. “Look, see, I got a ring and everything. Do you like it?”

“Crowley–” Aziraphale gasps, a wet and rough sound. “I–I suppose it would be legal, technically, but I–Crowley, you know how I feel about, about–what do you mean–”

“It’s not legal, I know, but neither is buggery, technically, just can’t be prosecuted, but that’s never stopped us,” he says. He knows, he knows how Aziraphale feels about playing to his assigned gender, even when it’s convenient. “Look, it’s not like Jesus and John had a marriage license, is it?”

And Aziraphale starts crying.)

“Angel,” Crowley says, staring down at him. “The hell are you doing?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale releases his hand to pull the small velvet box out of his pocket, opens it carefully, precisely, and holds it out to him. “Crowley, my dearest, will you marry me?”

“We’re already married, angel,” Crowley whispers, and as if unconsciously, his thumb strokes the tattoo on his left ring finger.

“Well, certainly,” he says. “But it’s legal now, and I know that what the state has to say doesn’t matter much, but you know–well, you remember how it can be, without something legal. Something on paper,. And you don’t have a ring.”

“I have better than a ring,” Crowley says, but his eyes are glittering, fixed on the little black ring in the box, a band of silver around it.

Aziraphale swallows hard. “Crowley, I would really quite like to marry you, officially, dear, if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll–I swear to somebody, angel, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met,” he swears. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot, I–what the fuck does the ring say, Aziraphale?”

He smiles, can’t help but be pleased that he’s noticed. On the inside, in his own hand writing, is You Make Me Live, Dearest, in deference to the song Crowley has, on many occasions, blasted so loud their neighbors have pounded on the wall, practically shouting the lyrics at Aziraphale, hauling him, laughing, into terrible dancing that usually ends up knocking something over. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and sings very quietly, and off-key, voice wavering (he hasn’t sang since his second puberty; he had a lovely voice, before, he was in a choir, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it since), “Oh, you make me live, whenever this world is cruel to me–”

Crowley grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up into a hungry kiss, passersby be damned.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale is crying, his face in his hands, and Crowley is frozen on his knees, all his giddy joy slowly leaving him, a hollow humiliation replacing it.

“Angel,” he says, hating how his voice cracks. “Angel, I’m sorry, you don’t have to say yes–you can keep the ring, I want you to have the ring–I won’t–I won’t leave, if you say no–unless you want me to, obviously–” Shit, shit, shit, he didn’t fuck up that bad, did he–

Aziraphale drops his hands, startled, and stares at him. “Why on earth would I want that?” he asks, and he goes to his knees on the wet concrete, pulling the ridiculous handkerchief that matches his ridiculous bow tie from his breast pocket, dabs at his eyes, wipes his nose, and puts it in his pocket with a deep breath. “I never–I never thought this would be possible, the way I wanted it,” he says at last. “I never even–considered it, really, I wished, perhaps, but I never–” he stops, and he stares at Crowley with such warmth and love it settles him, a little. He’s not going to turn him out, and that’s really all that matters.

“I just thought, I know you wouldn’t want to do it…officially, so it might not be legal, but maybe–you and me, we could say some vows,” he says. “If you wanted. If you don’t, that’s fine,” and his voice, the goddamn traitor, cracks again on the word.

“Oh, dear, I haven’t said yes, have I?” Aziraphale says, and he smiles, a watery thing, puts his hand on Crowley’s wrist. “Yes, darling, I’d love nothing more than to marry you, I really wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” he says, and a smile begins to form. “Oh. That’s–great, then.”

“You ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and he throws his arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel his lashes flutter against the soft skin there, the slide of warm tears, his breath ghosting across the fine hairs, and he shivers.

“Hey,” he says, nudging him. “Hey. Did you see the ring?”

Aziraphale laughs, leaning back onto his haunches, and wipes at his eyes. “The ring?”

“Yeah, the ring,” Crowley says, waving it about. He thinks it looks even more impressive in the washed-out grey light, shining like a second sun.

“Crowley,” he whispers, seeming to really truly notice it for the first time. “Where–where did you get this?” His hands hover around it, reverent, as if he’s afraid to touch it.

“An antiques shop,” he says proudly. “Give me your hand.”

“How did you afford it?” he asks wonderingly, and he lets Crowley take his hand in his, slide it onto his finger, smiles at his little sigh of relief when it fits.

“Saved up,” he says. “That’s, er. What I’ve been doing, going out.”

“I was curious,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes well up again. “Oh, darling, all this time, you’ve been working?”

“Wanted you to have the best,” he says. “Look, see, they’re angel wings.” He runs a finger around the band, beaming at it. “You like it?”

“Crowley, my dear, I love it more than I can say,” he says fervently, and he puts a hand on his cheek again, leans in to give him a chaste, brief kiss. “Let’s go home,” he suggests. “I’ll thank you properly.”

Crowley leaps to his feet, bringing Aziraphale with him, and they don’t quite run to the bus stop, but it’s a very close thing, giggling like drunk teenagers sneaking out late, laughter peeling through the park when Crowley’s poorly laced boots send them tumbling, arms linked, into the grass.)

It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and it’s 2014, and they run home from the bus stop in a sudden downpour of rain, having forgotten umbrellas, absent-minded and distracted by more important things. A leather jacket is shed onto the floor, a tweed coat thrown in the vague direction of a coat rack; Crowley throws Aziraphale’s suspenders off his shoulders with pleased gusto, a tie, belt, shirts, hit the floor with abandon, sunglasses are placed very delicately somewhere safe. Crowley pulls at Aziraphale’s binder insistently, in 2000, yanks his white undershirt over his head in 2014; oxfords and combat boots are tossed and hit the walls and floor; they stumble over their pants as they try to take them off without stopping, without taking their hands off each other for even a moment, and the old bed creaks when they tumble onto it. The headboard cracks against the wall, knocks the crucifix loose, and the thud is followed by shaking laughter overtaken by gasps, and cries, and fervent declarations, hands clasped, mouths sliding inelegantly together. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you; and they’re both thinking with desperate and delighted devotion, my husband, my husband, my husband.

[bsahla-pahsh]

@everybodylivesau made a post about wanting to hear about people's NPC/WoL kids so :eyes:

This will have Spoilers for both shadowbringers based world building reveals but also generally for Daughter of the Sun, of the Sand, my fic novelization of B'sahla's story

So the kids- B’valia Ares de Fortemps, nickname Vali - Black and Red Mage, Paladin B’maël Haurchefant de Fortemps, nickname Mae (May) - Paladin, Astrologian B’laurette Haurchefant de Fortemps, nickname Laura - Paladin, Machinist

So B'sahla's first kid, B'valia, is born during the downtime after the scions move to Mor Dhona. She has a history of miscarriage and infant mortality prior to being an adventurer, so when she found out she was pregnant she didn't expect to get this far. And then she didn't expect the child to be strong enough to live more than an hour if it ever took breath at all. So she never told the Scions.

Valia was also sired by Lahabrea while he was possessing Thancred, who doesn't remember their relationship at all because it had never been with him, so there's also that.

So she  D I P S  the fuck out and hides away at camp dragon head for like three months. She and Haurchefant grow closer during this time, but she's still holding out for Thancred to maybe show interest in her again, so nothing actually happens other than Haurchefant being named B'valia's Warden, which is like a god parent in my idea of Sun Seeker culture, so now he is effectively a dad.

Lahabrea is also. Unexpectedly. A dad. Because he can't /see/ souls, but he can /feel/ them. And B'valia's soul is unsundered and whole, and new, and while he did intend to stick around sort of to find out if his possession of Thancred would have an effect on B'valia (it will), he ends up WAY MORE INVOLVED than he ever anticipated.

So lil Valia's got like three dads and SO MANY WEIRD UNCLES. The ONLY non-uncle is Alphinaud because B’sahla saw the twins, went ‘where the fuck are your parents’ shortly followed by ‘I’m your parent now and that is a threat put on a CLOAK I SWEAR TO AZEYMA-’. 

This is also a fix it fic for Haurchefant flavored reasons. Because during the duration of Heavensward B'sahla and him become a couple. And get married.

They will have twins: their son B’maël de Fortemps and their daughter B’laurette de Fortemps who split their time, along with their older sister, living with their father at Camp Dragon Head, staying with the scions on occasion, and living at the manor in Ishgard. Valia is a Very Frighting black mage prodigy, who also picks up red mage from big sister Alisaie. (When she's around seven she comes upon the earth shattering revelation that she and Alphinaud are /not/ actually her blood relatives, like she had always assumed them to be especially after Alphinaud accidentally called B'sahla 'mom' once when she was 3.) 

All three are trained for knighthood, with B’maël also learning astrologian and B’laurette taking up machinist with uncle Stephanivien. None of them are Dragoons but fuck you’d think they were. Thank You Uncle Estinien for making THE ENTIRE ROOF-LINE OF ISHGARD yet ANOTHER place these kids’ various guardians have to check while looking for them. You maniac enabler. Vali’s gonna go missing during a brooding emo phase some day and it’s gonna be YOUR FAULT.

They have traditional Ishgardian names, with their mother’s tribe letter, and their father’s name as their middle name in approximation of Sun Seeker tradition. They get very defensive when Ishgardians attempt to get away with dropping the B’ from their names. Only family and close friends do that, its an offense to their mother, and they are the last of the Sagolii Boar tribe. Repeat offenders, or those who say things about their mixed race, (IE elezen at school and rude nobles) get a visit from The Scary One (Valia).

Valia despises Hydaelyn, the gods, and Zodiark for taking her parents from her, (Laha reconstitutes un-tempered post Thordan, here, but still) and if there ever comes a day where Hydaelyn doesn’t drag Sahla’s soul back into her body and the Warrior of Light truly dies, she will take it upon herself to shatter the crystal gods, and be rid of them for good. This is not a plan the younger two are in on, but her father approves.

All three of them fear that Hydaelyn, in creating her ultimate weapon, will turn their mother into a primal as Bahamut created Phoenix. Their families and the Scions think they train to follow B’sahla’s legacy. Only the three of them and Lahabrea know that they are really preparing for this worse case scenario.

If you’ve gotten through this veritable fic chapter/outline and essay without any prior knowledge on Sahla or these kids, bless you uwu

[jadespeedster17]

More on the Card Universe AU I’m coming up with. 

Gods of This World

Pretty much each kingdom has their own gods, and then there are the two main gods of the worlds. I’ll briefly go over each and later go into more of how they are worshipped by each kingdom.

Kingdom of Spades: They worship 3 gods, with one main and two minor.

Main God: Nalia (Nal-li-aa) - Goddess of Wisdom, Ice, Knowledge, and Intuition. She goes by She/Her pronouns and is depicted as a owl with the moon as a crown on her head and stars in her feathers. She is kind, but firm, the mother that is silently pleased with you, even if she pushes you to do better. She cares deeply for her chicks and wouldn’t let harm befall them if it’s in her power to protect them. She is worshipped mostly by the Kings, Queens, Jacks, and sometimes 10′s of the kingdom. She had two god children, Fall and Flow. 

Minor Gods: Fall and Flow- Gods of Pull and Push, the ever forces of the two types of magics in the Spades kingdom, Sleet and Snow, Create and Build, Speech and Memory, Movement and Thoughts. They used They/Them pronouns, as in many books they have no real gender and cam appear as either. Depicted as two fish, Fall is the chaotic of the two with thorn like fins and jagged patterns down their back, their sibling, Flow, is calmer, with rounded fins and soft, squiggly patters down their back.  Flow is worshipped by the numbers 2 - 5, sometimes 10′s, representing Push, Snow, Build, Memory, and Thoughts.  Fall is worshipped by numbers 6 - 9, sometimes 10′s, representing Pull, Sleet, Create, Speech, and Movement. 

Kingdom of Hearts: They have two major gods in their pantheon.

Major God: Kliad (K-lie-da) - God of the Sun, Jungles, Speed, Truths, and Strength. Uses He/Him pronouns and is depicted as a cat with an orb in his hand that is bright blue and the sun as a halo around his head. Worshipped mostly by the cat people of the jungle, but still seen as the opposite to his sister, Fergo, the people of the Hearts look to Kliad for strength in coming wars and to force the truth from their enemies, and speed for ambushing enemies. It’s through his sun that the deserts remain hot and the sands hotter, just the way the people of the Hearts like their days. He is firm, stern, a bit of a hot-head, claws, and teeth. 

Major God: Fergo (Fur-Go) - God of the Moon, Sands, Stealth, Lies, and Endurance. Uses She/Her pronouns and is depicted as a lamia, with a yellow orb in her hand and with the moon as a halo around her head. Worshipped by the sand dwelling nagas and lamia’s mostly, but seen as the opposite to her brother, Kliad, the people of Hearts look to Fergo for endurance in fights to last longer, stealth to sneak up on their enemies, and the ability to lie smoothly when the situation calls for it. The nights in the south are shockingly very cold, especially out in the sands, Fergo’s moon brings to end the heat, and leaves the chill, which is when the People of Hearts do most of their work, between the hours of dawn and dusk. She is firm as well, but collected, calculative, and silent as the shadows. 

Kingdom of Clubs: They have 1 major god, and 4 minor gods. 

Major God: Adderian (Add-dear-ee-an) - Mother God of the land itself, they are the very ground one walks on and where all her children come from. Using They/Them pronouns as they can look either male of female or both if they wish. They are depicted as a chimera of sorts, with a bears head, wolves body, and the tail of a horse. Most other kingdoms think this is weird, but that’s the Clubs for you. Being part of the far forests and valleys of the east they had most of these traits, and everyone pretty much worships Adderian as the main god and through the seasons give to them and their children. This is so because only the forests of the east experience seasons. They are very mothering and very caring to all, unlike Nalia who is the ‘scolding mother’ Adderian is the ‘soft mother’.

Minor God: Thunder (Th-un-der) - God of the valleys and the many grassplains that exist between the forests, he is also god of Summer, storms, and green leaves and summer harvest. He uses He/Him pronouns and is depicted as a centaur that is pure black with white accents on his hooves and tail, he is also very large and tall, the name ‘Thunder’ comes from the fact of when he runs the ground itself shakes sounding like thunder. He brings the storms of the summer after the showers of spring. His main place of worship is the Wheat Meadows, where the biggest harvest is had in the kingdom every two years. 

Minor Goddess: Dodiea (Da-dee-a) - Goddess of the rivers, lakes, and streams, she brings the showers of spring, the flowers, and sows the seeds for the summer harvest. She uses She/Her pronouns and is depicted as a wolf with silvery grey fur and soft blue eyes. She brings the rain for the crops and seeds to grow for the next major harvest and brings the flowers of the spring and the buds on the trees. Her main place of worship is the Ebony Lake, the largest lake of the Club’s territory and said to have the power to make anything grow. 

Minor God: Fenick (Fen-ick) - God of the forests, of the autumn harvest, of the winds, and travelers. Fenick uses he/him pronouns and is depicted as a bear with a lantern in his hands, tall boy with paws as big as your head and claws that are two inches long. He brings with him the cold winds of the north and the harvest before winter, he is also seen as the god of travelers as his winds set you on your path in life. His place of worship is the Elder Tree in Brightburn Forests. A tree that is said to be made up of the four main trees you find in the forest, a maple, ash, birch, and pine. It’s hallow on the inside, and said to be where Fenick lives and hibernates until the Summer Harvest. 

Minor God: Zanthia (Zan-thi-aa) - God of the mountains and hills, of the winter, of the dead, and the afterlife. Zanthia uses They/Them pronouns and is depicted as a white snow hare with bright red eyes. They are neither the strongest like Thunder, nor the swiftest like Dodiea, they are not wise like Fenick, they are instead the understanding. With winter comes the barren of the land, the frost of the soil and the death of the crops to sleep for the new year. Zanthia charts the course of the dead to the afterlife, along the river of seasons and to be reincarnated into the earth again. Such is the cycle. Zanthia may not look it, but they know much more than a Club could ever hope. Their place of worship is the silent hills of Hare Winds, it is said the winds in the winter are the voices of many Clubs who have fallen and have returned to the earth itself to await another life. 

Kingdom of Diamonds: They have 3 Major Gods. 

Major God: Bruno (Brew-no) - God of the giants, having created the many canyons with a mighty swipe of his club. Uses He/Him pronouns and depicted as a rock giant with gray, stone skin, and intense silver eyes. His club is ten feet long, with he himself being 15 feet tall, his walking causes earthquakes that cause the canyons to be placed, then he merely carved them out with his stone and wood club. He rarely leaves the rocky canyons he calls home, but when he does, it’s said to be sign that he is displeased, for earthquakes follow.

Major God: Thieon (Th-ee-on) - God of the dwarfs, of caves, of miners, and said to be the protector of those who make their way underground. Uses They/Them pronouns and depicted as a dwarf with a long red beard, short, stubby, and wielding a pick made of harden steel and blood. Theion is gruff and rough, having a sharp tongue and does not suffer fools lightly in their tunnels. They made them after all, and it’s through their skills of caves that the dwarfs of the Diamonds can create mineshafts. They live underground and are said to help those under the earth find their way to the surface should danger be near. 

Major God: Silveria (Sil-ver-ee-a) - Goddess of gems, of magical crystals, and of rare finds. Using She/Her pronouns and depicted as a humanoid being covered in gems, with a crystal skin, and spiky hair and hands and thin, pointed legs. She is the bringer of any rare ores found in the mineshafts or the land above. The Diamonds are the main export of jewelry and are considered a wealthy kingdom. Silveria is the one who said to create the many gems found in the canyons of the east, and is the most elusive of the three. Is she’s as worshiped as her siblings, but she has a firm place in the pantheon of diamonds. Without her, gems would never grow, and never would they have become the wealthy kingdom. 

The Major Gods of The World and the Creators

God of Destruction - Joan - Using They/Them Pronouns and is considered the god that helped create the world with their partner Talyn. Is the God of Destruction, Chaos, Entropy, Fire, and Earth. They are chaotic and a little unpredictable, they used their powers to bring death, and created the land which Tayln gave green life too. 

God of Creation - Tayln - Using They/Them Pronouns and is considered the god that helped create the world with their partner Joan. Is the God of Creation, Order, Harmony, Water, and Air. Spontaneous, jumpy, and a little clingy, they used their powers to makes the green and gave life to the world. 

Mythical Demigods of The World, The Jokers.

Demigod of Chaos - Remy - Using He/Him or They/Them Pronouns and is said to be a Joker, not much else is known about him as he’s rather elusive. Thought to be just a myth.

Demigod of Order - Emile - Using He/Him or They/Them Pronouns and is said to be a Joker, not much else is known about him as he’s rather elusive. Thought to be just a myth.

[sweetc2020]

weird asks that say a lot from @julietgiulia​

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans? Coffee mugs

2. chocolate bars or lollipops? Chocolate 

3. bubblegum or cotton candy? Neither

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you? Shy, conscientious, perfectionist

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups? Glasses

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear? All contributors

7. earbuds or headphones? Earbuddies :)

8. movies or tv shows? Movies

9. favourite smell in the summer? Hot soil, flowering plants, fruit and needle trees, post rain, towel after ocean swim, wind through car window driving through forest(ed highway)

10. game you were best at in p.e.? Hockey, soccer, california kickball, high jump and arm hang? 

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day? Usually oatmeal or millet with omegas, fruit and oat milk or avocado bagel with black pepper and nutritional yeast

12. name of your favourite playlist? A nice mix for ness

13. lanyard or key ring? Key ring

14. favourite non-chocolate candy? Licorice, candied fennel or anise seeds

15. favourite book you read as a school assignment? Les miserables, The thief lord, The cellist of Sarajevo - off the top

16. most comfortable position to sit in? Slumpy posture, one leg over or under the other, knee tuck or apple sauce

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes? Hiking boots or black sambas

18. ideal weather? Sunny after rain a little windy

19. sleeping position? No pillow usually on my left or on my back or front with one leg bent 

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)? Notebook or notes app

21. obsession from childhood? Fairies and making homes

22. role model? Opa

23. strange habits? Not sure what qualifies as strange

24. favourite crystal? Not really into them but maybe jade or quartz 

25. first song you remember hearing? I turned out a punk or something by Joe Strummer

26. favourite activity to do in warm weather? Backpacking

27. favourite activity to do in cold weather? Cuddling, snowy adventuring, dancing

28. five songs to describe you? Hazel (bob dylan), Planted a thought (arthur russell), Junie (solange), Corridor of dreams (the cleaners from venus), Even cowgirls get the blues (emmylou harris)

29. best way to bond with you? Quality time, presence, care, spontaneity / silly curiousity

30. places that you find sacred? Oma and Opa’s yard and greenhouse, forest, Veluwe, ocean

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names? Floral dress, nice earrings with sambas and sweatshirt or hiking boots, wool socks and over shirt, with shorts and tank top

32. top five favourite vines? Fresh avocado is the only one that comes to mind

33. most used phrase in your phone? Yay sweet and or That’s funny

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head? Can’t think of any

35. average time you fall asleep? 2am

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing? Probably one of those justgirlythings ones here or Fb I have no idea

37. suitcase or duffel bag? Suitcase

38. lemonade or tea? Tea

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie? Lemon tart

40. weirdest thing to ever happen to you at your school? High school - Maybe bear spray yoe evac? authority figure telling me what I was wearing was inappropriate? psych teacher crying in class? Post sec - Tiktok famous boy makes a tiktok of me knitting in psych class? boy crushing steals my textbook just to get me to go to his car so he can return it to me? 

41. last person you texted? Daisy 🌼

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets? BOTH

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket? Hoodie

44. favourite scent for soap? Rose, patchouli, rosemary, lavendar, mint, etc.

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero? Fantasy

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in? Naked 

47. favourite type of cheese? Cashew cheese or if I could brie

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be? White nectarine but there are so many to try!

49. what saying or quote do you live by? “She walked with her entire body as if to gain momentum for an event in which her entire body would participate.” - Anaïs Nin (A spy in the house of love)

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have? Probably my kid best friend

51. current stresses? Health issues, unstable income

52. favorite font? Freight rn

53. what is the current state of your hands? Coffee shakes

54. what did you learn from your first job? Hundreds of PLU’s, how to pack groceries, how messy and wasteful people are, that everyone should have to do a customer service job in their lifetime, how really great and awful people are, that I shouldn’t let other people’s stresses make me feel like I should be stressed, that quitting is good sometimes

55. favourite fairy tale? The six swans, Vasalisa the wise, Baba yaga, Bluebeard, Rumpelstiltskin, The red shoes, The velvet ribbon, Goldilocks and the three bears, and many many more

56. favourite tradition? Writing letters and cards, dressing up for halloween, celebrating birthdays

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome? Eating disorder, depression and heartbreak (although these are things I still need to keep being overcome)

58. four talents you’re proud of having? Writing, taking notes, learning about my body, feeling for what resonates

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be? Heyo, how bout that!

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be? Nausicaä of the valley of the wind (hayao miyazaki)

61. favourite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.? Recently found on my Tumblr feed from a book waiting on my shelf: “I want to believe, walking those aimless nights, that I was praying. For what I’m still not sure. But I always felt it was just ahead of me. That if I walked far enough, long enough, I would find it–perhaps even hold it up, like a tongue at the end of its word.” - Ocean Vuong (On earth we’re briefly gorgeous)

62. seven characters you relate to? In no particular order, not long thought out: 1) Sabina (A spy in the house of love), 2) Elio (Call me by your name), 3) Patti (Just kids), 4) Sally (The ruby in the smoke), 5) Camille (Un amour de jeunesse), 6) Dani (Midsommar), 7) Orla (Derry Girls)

63. five songs that would play in your club? I follow rivers - the magician remix (lykke li), JA! (bizzey), Gasolina (daddy yankee), Nice for what (drake), This must be the place - naive melody (talking heads) / love my way (psychedelic furs)

64. favourite website from your childhood? Myscene, Club penguin - those free gaming websites 

65. any permanent scars? A few on my face from tables and my dog, one on my knee from flip flops on a boat launch, a few burns here and there that probably aren’t permanent

66. favourite flower(s)? Always changing, echinacea and yellow roses rn

67. good luck charms? Change on the ground, nice earrings, well worn shoes, spotting flowers or animals

68. worst flavour of any food or drink you’ve ever tried? Cream of mushroom

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned? Popped in my head, maybe not the most fun - the flower bud in the centres of apple tree fruiting spurs make the king fruit (the biggest and best apple from each spur) and if you pick the king blossom then all the surrounding blossoms will be bigger and better 

70. left or right handed? Right

71. least favourite pattern? Galaxy?

72. worst subject? Economics

73. favourite weird flavour combo? Miso and apple, blueberries and coconut curry, orange juice and beer (I don't know if its really possible to find a “weird” combo maybe it’s more like “not found in my culture”)

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen? 5 if 0 is no pain (I don't think I’ve been above 8.5)

75. when did you lose your first tooth? No idea

76. what’s your favourite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)? Gnocchi or boerenkool

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill? Flowering plants

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store? Station coffee

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo? School id

80. earth tones or jewel tones? Earth

81. fireflies or lightning bugs? I don't think I have much experience with either

82. pc or console? I cannot either way

83. writing or drawing? This is my kryptonite question

84. podcasts or talk radio? Podcasts if I had to choose

84. barbie or polly pocket? Polly pocket

85. fairy tales or mythology? Mythology (stories are linked more)

86. cookies or cupcakes? Cookies

87. your greatest fear? My health issues keep accumulating and getting worse forever

88. your greatest wish? My health issues resolve

89. who would you put before everyone else? Myself, Suzmom or Marleymoon

90. luckiest mistake? Choosing mini school, don't regret it but maybe not the best decision

91. boxes or bags? Bags

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights? Sunlight and rocksalt lamps

93. nicknames? Ness, nessie, nessa, bean, bear, benjamin, kindje, sweet pea

94. favourite season? Late spring or late summer

95. favourite app on your phone? Flo, Spotify, Google maps, notes, weather, find my

96. desktop background? Santa Catalina Island off the coast of Southern California

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized? 7+

98. favourite historical era? I love revolutions and renaissances but all of em have hard times and good times