#it's been more than a decade and sometimes it just appears in my mind

[cannibalisticskittles]

did any of y'all used to listen to the iloveegg song on repeat as a kid

bc i did

[avelera]

I'm wondering what you think about how much Viktor knew about his disease and his limited life expectancy before that scene in the hospital?

Because Viktor draws that conclusion before Jayce even says anything. Jayce is clearly very upset about whatever the doctor says, but he never spells out that it's terminal, and Viktor immediately concludes that, so that might make it seem like he already suspected beforehand.

On one hand, he is obviously hiding his symptoms from Jayce, and at this point he might either be in denial, or already suspecting it. I do get the sense his disease is common in the undercity and always fatal, the documents Caitlyn goes through about the grey show pictures of lungs which imply a lung disease the grey causes, which I think is the same disease Viktor has. It wouldn't be a leap for him to conclude that coughing up blood means he has this disease and will probably die.

On the other hand, he does get increasingly desperate to save his own life after he gets the diagnosis, and even has that talk with Heimerdinger about his legacy, which does kind of imply that the truth hadn't truly settled in before then or it was really the first time he found out. Though in regards to the hexcore, he really stumbled into its potential healing properties by accident and it makes sense he'd fall into that obsession when he first gets a sliver of hope

I do agree if Viktor suspected, he wouldn't tell Jayce. He's already quite ashamed of all his medical issues, and Jayce's comment about his disappearing is probably about that.

Anyway, curious what your thoughts are

Oh, I have a VERY specific headcanon that's going to make an appearance the Distinguished Innovators sequel that I'm actively working on but I'm happy to spell it out here too.

Ok, so, I don't think it's possible for Viktor to have fully hidden his degenerative illness from Jayce. Jayce is too loving and attentive and the illness progression over the course of the time skip between 1.03 and 1.04 is too dire for even the most oblivious person to miss.

And no, I don't buy the "cooking a frog" excuse that Jayce would miss it because the progression is gradual. It's not gradual. It's extreme. Viktor goes from a cane he can occasionally set aside to a crutch, leg brace, back brace, dark circles under his eyes, sunken skin, a hunched posture and regular coughing fits that sometimes spit up blood. I mean look at this:

You simply cannot tell me that Jayce hasn't been aware of this progression.

Not to mention, that when Viktor coughs up blood at the Hexgates, he does not hide the blood from Jayce and Jayce does not react to the blood! That means Jayce has known that Viktor's coughing fits regularly bring up blood at this point.

But what did Jayce believe up to this point? I want to explore that and offer my own rather exhaustive headcanon:

So, there is simply no way in my mind that Jayce could be kept in the dark about the fact that Viktor has his leg and another health issue bearing down on him and sapping his strength.

However, I do believe that Viktor knows that he has a degenerative illness that will likely end his life within the next few years and that he has lied to or obfuscated from Jayce just how dire his prognosis is.

I think Jayce expected Viktor to have decades left while Viktor hoped to have a few more good years left, and both were shocked and pained to learn it might be months. However, Jayce in particular seems completely blindsided, which is why I suspect Viktor allowed him to continue to believe he had decades to live when Viktor knew he did not.

I think Viktor would have rather died on that floor than let Jayce know he's dying.

I also think both Viktor and Jayce held out hope that Hextech would lead to a miracle cure for Viktor, but both knew it would take years to achieve. After all, most of their active innovations were around industry, transportation, mining, etc. It makes sense given the spell they had to work from was a weightlessness and teleportation spell Jayce saw the Mage do. Biology and healing was probably possible, and on their radar, Hextech is magic after all, but I truly believe they thought it was going to take years of innovation and a lot of leaps, not to mention luck, before they'd stumble upon runes that would let them pivot to healing. It's not a natural progression based on what they know of magic.

This is part of why I think Jayce believed Viktor still had decades left. Because I think, if Jayce knew it was only a few years, he would have tossed everything out to just work on healing Viktor with Hextech.

And this is where I'm going to make the full leap to headcanon territory. I don't think this is canonical to the text, it's just my interpretation of the text that I use for fic writing. H'ok, let's go:

I think Viktor knew specifically what fissure illness he had and he knew most people who have it do not live past 30. I think he's known most of his life. I think that's why he's so driven to achieve everything he can while young.

Hence Viktor's, "Don't ask permission," attitude. He's always known he's got about ~30 years to live and he's going to make the most of it, hence his meteoric rise, but also why he's willing to take a dramatic lateral leap to be Jayce's partner at the first sight of a potentially world-changing innovation to work on with his remaining years. He's less worried about losing what he's achieved than he is about missing out on the next great scientific leap, possibly because he knows he's only got a few years left anyway.

I think Viktor (and possibly his parents!) believed that if he moved to Piltover where the air was cleaner, he'd have longer to live. This adds to his parents' motivation to make the desperate, possibly criminal move to sneak Viktor into the Academy.

I think getting to Piltover made Viktor relatively optimistic about his prognosis. With better air, nutrition, and sunlight access, he might have a chance to beat the "Dead by 30" inevitability of his disease. And to some extent, he did! He's about 32 when he collapses in Arcane S1 but still, it's not as much time as he or anyone in his position might have hoped for. This explains his weary resignation to the fact he doesn't have much time left. He's known this is coming for a while.

I also think, and this is pure headcanon, that coughing blood signals the beginning of the end for this particular disease. That's why pre-time skip Viktor is motivated but not desperate yet. He's not coughing blood yet. He still has time. But once he starts coughing blood, post-time skip, he goes from motivated to desperate. I think coughing blood means you've only got a few months to maybe a few years left, and Viktor knows this.

I think Viktor knew his prognosis meant "Dead by 30" but he only told this vaguely to Jayce. Like "Yes, this cough is a symptom of a disease that will shorten my lifespan, but we still have time for a Hextech miracle if we work hard."

Jayce, coming from a background of relative privilege compared to the undercity, took "a shorter lifespan" to mean Viktor would live to like... 60 instead of 80. Plenty of time to find a way to pivot Hextech to healing if they crank it and push everything they have into accelerating the use, application, and innovation of Hextech as quickly as possible. The more resources they have, the more widely Hextech is adopted, the better the chance they'll have the time, assistance, resources, and frankly the power to stumble into something that will cure Viktor in the next few decades.

Viktor is more of a realistic about the progression of science. Note his, "It's a leap," about Jinx's potential to crack Hextech. Jayce believes in miracles because he was rescued by one. But I think Viktor knows intrinsically that it would take a very unlikely miracle to pivot from industry to healing uses of Hextech. He humors Jayce, and he's optimistic, but more than he wants to waste time looking for an impossible cure, he wants to leave a legacy and help others while he's alive, rather than chasing the rabbit of a healing application just for himself that they are realistically decades away from.

I think one reason Viktor didn't tell Jayce how short his prognosis ir OR how unrealistic it is for them to pivot Hextech to healing with what they have is that he didn't want Jayce to waste time on healing him with nothing to show for it when they inevitably failed. Even if they did nothing but try to apply Hextech to curing him, they probably wouldn't have time to beat his Dead by 30 prognosis (as of age ~26 when they partnered up) and Viktor wanted to contribute to problems they could actually solve in his lifetime instead of chasing a fairytale.

The Hexcore changes everything there, of course. It embodies the miraculous leap they'd need to skip over decades of incremental innovation in Hextech and it's what causes the pivot in Viktor's motivations from help the undercity to "help the undercity (but actually I just want to help myself and I'm actually such a good and selfless person I can't even admit this very human desire to live even to myself)"

Just to circle back briefly, I think learning Viktor's prognosis was a horrible shock for Jayce. Like I said, he really believed he had more time with Viktor. All his actions point to this. Yes he knew the Council was a bit of a distraction, but it was serving their overarching goal of pushing Hextech as quickly and as far as possible to cure Viktor in the next decade or so. He would never have stolen months away from working beside Viktor if he didn't think Viktor had many years more to live, even with his illness as it was.

Ok, I think that about covers it! If you do want to read the fic where I'm going to include all this, you should subscribe to this series.

[this-is-exorsexism]

i'm gonna be real with you all. i've kind of been spiralling into dysphoria and internalised exorsexism. as stated in my pinned post, i'm multiply disabled. one of these disabilities is low vision, and i recently finished my O&M training. before that training, i was quite isolated and didn't go out much by myself. now i am able to use public transport and travel to unfamiliar places independently - but going out more also means being seen by more people, being subjected to the binary gaze. as a white cane user, i sometimes have to ask people for help or have people approach me asking if i need help - "don't perceive me" is not an option for me if i want to be safe and independent. there were a few times on my travels where i got misgendered, including very rudely by staff in a shop very loudly talking about my disability as if i wasn't there. and even if it wasn't super often, for some reason it must have really got to me. maybe it's because the top of my undercut now goes past my shoulder and that plus boobs reads "female" to people. i'm fat which makes my curves appear even more. and i like my hair. and i like my curves. and i don't want top surgery. but i hate how the binary gaze reads all of this as female. i hate that people misread my body. i hate that i don't have a chance of ever being gendered correctly because society does not recognise nonbinary people and if i were to cut my hair again they'd call me he which is just as wrong, but at least adds "balance". all the ideas about "privileged theyfabs who don't medically transition" have gotten to me massively. i feel like if i'm so obviously "female" to people i don't deserve to ask for different pronouns, i don't deserve to be out, i don't deserve to assert my gender. i feel like what's the point? being nonbinary in a binary world feels futile. i feel like i don't deserve to call myself trans because i don't want to medically transition (except maybe a hysterectomy if i ever get the money and a surgeon who will operate on fat people). not can't. don't WANT to. i feel like i don't deserve to call myself trans because i can't be bothered to bind. i feel like i don't deserve to call myself trans because i don't mind my body as it is for the most part but see it as nonbinary.i feel like i don't deserve to call myself trans because i look too female to people. i feel like i don't deserve to call myself trans because i'm doing things many people would consider "going back to my AGAB" like growing out my hair, wearing dresses, wearing earrings. i feel like i hardly deserve to call myself nonbinary because clearly i'm not doing enough to "neutralise" my appearance to be seen as anything other than female, i'm "not putting in the effort to pass". i feel like my oppression isn't real while at the same time rationally knowing that i only feel this way because of oppression. i also feel so alone because i never see anyone like me. fat nonbinary people are underrepresented. i never see nonbinary people with visible boobs who don't identify as fem(me). i never see what my style can look like because the only people i ever see in "men's" clothes are people invested in hiding their chest, "androgyny" is either boobless or boobs and beard. people like me don't seem to exist. all of these feelings are very new to me, especially in this intensity. i've been out for nearly a decade and never have i ever felt this much dysphoria and especially this much internalised exorsexism. i always considered myself lucky to not struggle with that too much but here we are. society has finally caught up with me. you can be all condescending and tell me all about "getting into the real world" and how it doesn't accommodate for nonbinary people all you want, how we're asking for too much and act like i'm a naive child who doesn't know the world, how the systemic erasure of nonbinary people is a privilege, idc anymore. so yeah i'm gonna take a little break. as for asks and submissions, keep 'em coming, i'll get to them eventually.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Oh, We're Lovers Now?

Requested by Anonymous: friends to lovers with Hal Jordan with accidental kisses

Pairing: Hal Jordan x fem!reader

Summary: After accidentally kissing your friend Hal Jordan, you're saved by Green Lantern and realize that your relationship is special.

Warnings: one trauma joke ab Hal's dad, fluff, reader is injured by a villain that hasn't been in a comic in over a decade, panic attack, many kisses, kind of a 3+1 fic

Word Count: 3.5k+ words

Masterlist | DC/Hal Jordan Masterlist | Request Info

“You’re late,” you muse when you hear your front door open.

“I know,” your best friend Hal replies. “There was a crash at work, and I couldn’t get out on time.”

You stop what you’re doing, drop the wooden spoon from your hand into the bowl, and turn slowly to face Hal. He hides a smile at your reaction; you can tell because his cheek hollows when his tongue presses against it.

“Are you okay?” you inquire.

Hal lets his smile appear as he replies, “I’m sorry.”

“Answer the question, Hal.”

“I’m fine,” he assures you, walking into the kitchen to hold your arms. “Everyone is fine.”

Nodding, you turn away from him and feel his hands slip from you. When you first met Hal, you worried every time he mentioned work. Test flying planes and experimental aircraft is not the safest job in the world, but Hal is good at it. So, over the years, you’ve learned to trust him more. As a result, you worry less. It doesn’t make it any easier to hear about bad things, though, and the thought that it could have been him who crashed clouds your mind.

“What did you do today?” Hal inquires as he shrugs out of his jacket.

“Not much,” you answer. “Cooked a full meal for you and then thought you stood me up, so, the usual.”

Hal rolls his eyes at your teasing, then tosses his jacket onto a nearby chair and returns to your side.

“Thank you,” he says. “And I mean it.”

“Do you not usually?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at him.

Hal tilts his chin in thought, then admits, “Depends.”

“Hey when you fly tomorrow, be sure and check the ignition sequence and do the gyro calibrations.”

“Stop trying to talk shop with me,” Hal pleads. “How ‘bout you tell me about how you do your hair or something, anything less painful.”

“You’re just mad because I know more about flux capacitors than you.”

Hal groans, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. You laugh beneath him as you turn the knob on the stove to turn the burner off.

“If you’re done being dramatic, can you grab the plates?” you request.

“Dramatic?!” Hal exclaims. “I have never, not once in my life been dramatic. Not since 1993, at least.”

“Trauma jokes aren’t always funny, Hal,” you chide, “but that one wasn’t bad.”

“I bet you’d laugh at the Flash’s trauma jokes,” Hal murmurs as he reaches over your head to get two plates from your cabinet.

“Hey, I need to go shopping this weekend, wanna come with?” you invite as you serve yourself and Hal.

“As riveting as that sounds, I already have plans,” Hal deadpans.

“Okay, I’ll ask my neighbor to tell me how the jeans fit.”

“On second thought,” Hal interjects, turning toward you with his finger raised.

Shaking your head, you place Hal’s plate by the seat that has become his and sit beside him. He’s your friend, but teasing him about hanging out with other people – other men, specifically – riles him up in a way you can’t resist.

A crash sounds in the distance as you take the first bite of dinner, and within ten seconds, Hal’s phone chimes. He taps the screen, reads the message, and looks up at you with an apology ready.

“Go,” you say, smiling. “I’ll pack up the leftovers if you get off work again any time soon.”

Hal sighs and pushes up from his seat. He leans toward you to kiss your cheek, but you turn toward him at the last minute, expecting him to wish you a sarcastic farewell, and your lips meet. Time freezes, and all you can feel or think of is Hal’s lips against yours. Friends kiss sometimes, right? you think rather than let yourself realize how right it feels.

You exhale and move back, keeping your gaze on Hal’s widened eyes as he clears his throat. His hand is flat against the table and only inches remain between you.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I didn’t know you were-“

“Going for your cheek, yeah,” Hal finishes. “Sorry.”

“Uh, be- be safe, okay?” you stutter. “We’ll talk.”

“Later, yeah, we’ll talk later,” he agrees, walking backward toward the door.

“Hal, wait,” you call.

He stops, and his brows raise as he leans toward you.

“Your jacket,” you remind him, pointing to the back of the chair.

Hal shakes his head and murmurs, “Oh, right,” as he snatches it up. “Bye.”

After he leaves, Green Lantern flies across the sky, and you raise your fingers to your lips, forgetting about dinner.

It was accidental, you remind yourself. Pull it together; he was going for your cheek. Like a friend. Because that’s what you are.

Days after your accidental kiss, you exit your bedroom with one thing on your mind: Justice League-themed breakfast drinks. You aren’t sure why Coast City’s most popular tea and coffee chain decided to create teas and coffees based on superheroes. After scrolling through too many copycat recipes last night, you want to try one.

The television in your living room is on, though you don’t remember leaving the volume on. Shrugging, you enter the kitchen and look through your cabinets to gather ingredients before you open the fridge.

“… A spokesperson says Ferris Aircraft pilot Hal Jordan ejected in time and no one was injured,” a reporter says. “There will be a press conference Friday afternoon regarding the company’s future and the Air Force’s decisions on acquiring the latest Ferris technology.”

You push the fridge closed and look into the living room. Someone moves in the shadow of the television light, and your heart thumps harder in your chest. They move toward the doorway, and you raise a carton of milk as the shadow moves something between their arms.

As he steps into the kitchen, Hal pulls his shirt over his head, then immediately raises his hands in surrender.

“Put the milk down,” he requests slowly.

“What-“ you begin before your eyes drop quickly to Hal’s exposed chest. “You- the-“

“Deep breath,” Hal advises. “Can I finish putting this shirt on without getting hit by that milk?”

You swallow and lift your gaze back to Hal’s face. He smiles and grips the bottom of his shirt to yank it downward.

“You look disappointed,” he muses. “Want me to take it off again?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, setting the milk on the counter. “You didn’t tell me you had to eject from the plane.”

“It was an accident,” he responds. “That’s all.”

“You…” With your eyes on the counter, you say, “You’re a good pilot, Hal. This kind of stuff isn’t supposed to happen to you.”

“It happens to everybody,” he reminds you. “I’m fine, I promise. Now, what are you making?”

Your mind clears, something which occurs often when Hal is around, and you turn toward him. Crossing your arms over your chest, you say, “I don’t think I want to tell you.”

“Ooh,” he breathes out, smiling as he leans against the counter beside you. “It must be embarrassing.”

“You know, you’re missing some really good cartoons, and I think Channel 7 is showing-“

“You think you’re funny,” Hal interrupts, dropping his head against his shoulder.

“I think I’m adorable,” you correct. “And I’m not telling you what I’m making because you’ll make fun of me.”

“Me? Make fun of you? I’d never.” Hal shifts so his weight rests on his hip, propped against the counter, before he adds, “That’s what friends are for.”

“Friends, right,” you murmur, twisting the food coloring package so you can see it.

“Can I have one?” Hal inquires.

“I’m not making them,” you say through a laugh. “Not until you leave. You do still have a home, right?”

Hal looks around, then says, “This place is pretty homey, and I distinctly remember you saying, ‘Make yourself at home, Hally-Wally.’”

You lift one brow and point out, “I have never – and will never – call you Hally-Wally.”

“Let’s make a wager,” Hal announces.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious.”

Hal doesn’t say anything else. He looks at you, so you sigh and ask, “What wager?”

“If I win, you make us whatever you're wanting to make. If you win, you get to pick something to call me for a week – appropriate, inappropriate, stupid, whatever you want.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. Wait, what’s the wager? What are we doing to win?”

Hal smiles. “We’re going to fight.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh,” Hal says, moving back as if surprised. “I didn’t realize you were scared.”

“I’m not scared, I just know you’d win.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the confidence, but we have to do something.”

“No, we don’t! You can just go home.” After you say it, you realize you don’t actually know why Hal is in your apartment. Or why he was changing clothes in your living room.

“C’mon,” Hal whispers. “Live a little.”

You sigh and rub the side of your palm gently across your forehead. “Fine. But if I win, you have to take me on another desert drive.”

“Deal,” Hal says, extending his hand.

“And do donuts,” you add.

Hal nods, and you take his hand. After he shakes it once, Hal uses your joined hands to pull you forward. As you fall toward the ground, you grab Hal’s arm with your free hand and bring him down with you. On the floor of your apartment, you move your shoulders, attempting to get out from underneath Hal. You knew before you agreed it would be hard, if not impossible, to defeat Hal in a fight. Granted, it’s not a real fight, and there are no rules, so you move your hand to Hal’s side and dance your fingers along his serratus anterior.

“No,” Hal grunts, jerking sideways.

You roll with him, landing against his side and pushing up onto your elbow. Reaching across his chest, you try to pull his other arm across him, but Hal fights against your movement. He leans away from you so you reach higher. When Hal leans up, planning to hook his leg between yours to flip you once more, his jaw brushes against yours. You stop, and Hal slows. His lips press against the corner of your mouth, and yours are on his cheek because of the angle caused by your failed roughhousing. How you accidentally kissed Hal twice in one week isn’t clear, but the world around you seems to slow.

“Sorry,” you whisper against his cheek.

“My fault,” he answers, unconsciously moving his lips against yours.

You lean back onto your heels and wait for Hal to sit up.

“Call it a draw?” he inquires, reaching forward to straighten your shirt.

“I’ll, uh, I can make the drinks,” you offer. “If you want to stay.”

“Sure,” Hal says with a nod. “And thanks for telling me it’s a drink.”

You stand and walk toward the kitchen. “It’s the Green Lantern latte.”

Hal smiles as he watches you go, wondering if he’d be pressing his luck by asking if you like Green Lantern or are just thirsty.

The Ferris Aircraft cafeteria is never busy. You visit Hal at work a few times a month or so, usually over lunch, and you’ve never seen more than twenty people in the space at one time. Today, you ignore the other people sitting at the wing-shaped tables and watch the door. Hal texted that he was running late and you have a joke ready to go about how much time he spends admiring himself in the mirror.

When the door swings open, however, your smile drops. A large, dark-haired man dressed in a blue and gold overcoat enters the cafeteria with an umbrella hooked over his wrist.

“Live and let live, people!” he yells, cracking his knuckles as he looks around the room. “Anyone in here been struck by lightning?”

No one answers, and the man shakes his head. He points at a Ferris Aircraft employee using his phone beneath the table, and a lightning bolt extends from his pointer finger. The phone sparks before it falls to the floor, and a woman whimpers as she sinks in her seat.

“I suggest you start talking,” the man demands. “If you’re staying quiet to save your life, there is no need. I’m not here for you, I’m here for them.”

He points to the flight control tower and a black storm cloud forms above it.

“What do you want?” someone asks.

“Carl Ferris designed an indestructible fighter jet. I want the prototype.”

“It was destroyed!”

“You really believe that?” he challenges.

The room falls silent, and his jaw tenses. The sky outside darkens, and thunder rumbles loudly, rattling the tables and chairs. Gripping your seat, you watch the man.

“That kind of thing can’t be safe,” you call. “It wouldn’t be easy to find, if it even exists anymore.”

Turning toward you slowly, the man muses, “You seem to know a lot about it.”

“Just-“ you interrupt yourself with a swallow. “Just common sense, I think. It sounds dangerous and there’s so many regulations on military-grade weapons.”

“Then use that common sense to tell me where it might be.”

“I have no idea; I don’t even work here!”

“So, you don’t fly?”

“No.”

The man runs his tongue over his top lip. “I’m Major Disaster. What’s your name?”

You whisper your name, and he walks toward you, leaning against the opposite side of your table.

“Lightning strikes are dangerous. The last one I felt wiped parts of my memory, made it harder to do what I’m good at-“

“Villainy?” someone interjects flatly.

You keep your eyes on Major Disaster, but he turns quickly.

“Green Lantern,” he seethes. “It’s too late. I know what I deserve, and I’m going to take it.”

Green Lantern shrugs, then says, “No, you’re not.”

Major Disaster points to you and says, “She can’t fly.”

“Neither can you, if memory serves,” Green Lantern replies. “Although, I guess yours doesn’t, does it?”

Green Lantern flies out of the way of a sudden lightning bolt. As the sky becomes pitch black outside, several employees run toward the exit and into the hallway.

“I know who you are!” Major Disaster roars.

“You knew who I am, Paul,” Green Lantern replies. “Still just causing chaos. Not quite the life you wanted, huh?”

Major Disaster stops suddenly and turns toward you. You scramble off your seat, but Major Disaster extends his arms toward you, and a strong gust of wind pins you against the wall.

Green Lantern forms a transparent green train and knocks Major Disaster off his feet, but the hurricane-force wind continues to hold you in place.

“You want a plane, you’re going to have to build it yourself,” Green Lantern growls as he kicks Major Disaster to keep him down. “Clear the sky and I’ll let you walk out of here with your dignity.”

Major Disaster laughs and leans against Green Lantern’s foot. “What dignity? How am I supposed to build a plane that stands up to what I can do?”

Green Lantern looks at you and notices that you’re struggling to breathe with increased pressure on your chest. Major Disaster uses his loss of focus to knock Green Lantern off of him and onto one of the tables.

“You can fly, GL,” Major Disaster says, his coat fluttering in his created breeze. “I can fly. She can’t. So, I’ll give you a choice. Help me find my plane, or she takes a little flight.”

“I don’t make deals with psychopaths, Paul,” Green Lantern replies, holding his ringed hand out before him.

Major Disaster clicks his tongue, then sweeps his arms from right to left. The wind holding you in place shifts, and the glass windows shatter before you’re tossed out of them. Carried up on a wind vortex, you scream and wave your hands wildly, attempting to find anything to catch yourself with.

Major Disaster yells as he Green Lantern shoves him into the concrete runway, then silences. He loses consciousness, and his weather clears. The sky shines a bright blue, the clouds fade over the horizon, and the wind holding you up calms in a single breath. Suddenly, your yells of fear turn to a continuous, terrified scream as you freefall toward the earth. Your head spins as your chest heaves, though your lungs feel completely devoid of oxygen. Closing your eyes, you anticipate you’ll never open them again, but warm arms wrap around you, and you stop. You move quickly, pressing one hand against the firm chest you’re being held against.

Opening your eyes, you see Green Lantern holding you and lowering slowly toward the ground. Your breaths remain short and uneven, and when he drops one arm to set you on the ground, you cling to Green Lantern like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded – literally and figuratively.

“Hey,” he murmurs, keeping one hand around your waist as the other moves to the back of your head. “Uh, miss? Take a deep breath.”

“He- I-“ you stutter before struggling to take another breath.

“C’mon, focus, breathe with me,” he encourages.

You shake your head, too panicked to even consider watching his breaths to imitate them, and he tightens his grip on you.

Without much thought, he pulls you against him. Green Lantern kisses you, and with your lips pressed firmly to his, you forget about the fear and the panic and freeze at the sudden attention.

He pulls back almost immediately, apologizes, asks if you’re okay, waits for you to nod, and then flies away. You turn, panting for breath, and watch the green streak fade into the blue sky.

“Hal Jordan,” you whisper before you run toward the approaching police cars.

Hal paces on a rooftop, tapping his fist against his forehead as he thinks. He replays the kiss, sees the look in your eyes again, and berates himself for ruining everything. You froze when Hal kissed you because he overstepped and didn’t think. He was running on adrenaline, relieved that he caught you and needed you to breathe, but there were other ways to deal with all of those things. It wasn’t an intentional kiss, even if the feelings behind it were.

“Stop accidentally kissing your friends, Hal,” he tells himself. “Friend! Singular. Don’t make this a habit or Barry will never let you live it down.”

Hal’s ring grows brighter, and he sighs before he follows its beckoning call.

“Green Lantern!”

Hal turns away from his incapacitated foe and says, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t reply, running toward him. He apologizes again as you near him, but you remain silent. When you reach him, you slide your hands up his chest and onto his shoulders. He holds your waist and watches you.

“Are you-“ he begins.

You kiss Hal, interrupting his question and changing everything. It’s not the first time you’ve kissed him, but it’s the first time you’ve meant it and done it on purpose to show him how you feel. Hal is your friend, but you’ve felt more for years, and after kissing Green Lantern today and feeling the emotions behind how he touched you, you’re sure this is the right thing to do.

The accidental kisses made the world still but this kiss is different. Hal raises one hand to your cheek, moving with you as the world shatters. You only know Hal in this moment, and he is all you will ever want or need.

Hal pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for once in his life, Hal stays quiet.

“Let’s make a wager,” you whisper.

“You already know my secret identity, what could we possibly bet?”

“I think there’s a lot more options now that we aren’t friends who kiss on accident.”

“Oh, we’re lovers now?” he jokes.

“I do have a crush on Green Lantern,” you reply with a smile.

“He might like you, too.”

“Might?!” you repeat incredulously. “That’s how it is?”

Hal shrugs, and a green light flashes on your wrist before a charm bracelet appears. The links are decorated with little planes, green gems, coffee cups, and a heart.

“That’s how it is,” he says.

“What now?”

Hal smiles and holds you against his side as he pushes off the ground and shoots upward into the sky. You wrap your arms around him tightly, focusing on Hal rather than Coast City growing smaller beneath you.

Hal lands in the desert, where his car is parked, and his suit disappears.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he announces. “Again.”

“On accident?” you ask, stepping toward the car. “Because I was wrongly distracted when we were fighting for drifting in the sand.”

Hal disappears, and you raise your brows before you feel him standing behind you. He puts his hand on your waist and turns you to face him before he kisses you again.

Bonus:

“Wait, you’ve been Green Lantern this whole time?!” you ask, stepping back from Hal.

“Not the whole time,” he replies, his brows pinching.

“I was worried about you crashing a plane, but you can fly,” you accuse, pushing both hands against his chest.

Hal catches your wrists and points out, “I was worried about you crashing too. Call it even?”

“Not a chance.”

[therealcocoshady]

RED CARPET APPEARANCE 🎥

Eminem x Young Actress Reader

This is Part 2 of Daddy's Spaghetti 🥰

Synopsis : You argue with Em about a red carpet appearance at the Oscars.

The last thing you wanted was to argue with your boyfriend right before going to the Oscars, but there you were. Lately, the two of you had been arguing quite a bit. To be fair, both of you were working a lot and being in a long distance relationship didn’t help. Not only did you have to manage hectic schedules, you also had to deal with time difference and last minute changes in plans. You had been dating Marshall for a few months now and you weren’t too sure how long things would last. Sure, when you were together, things were great, but actually getting together seemed impossible, these days. Right when you thought you could both make time, there was always something coming up, like an unplanned studio session, a meeting, or God knows what else. It didn’t help either that Marshall was paranoid about the two of you being seen together. 

After more than a decade in the spotlight and living in Los Angeles, you were used to paparazzi and having your picture taken whenever you were running errands. Of course, sometimes, it was annoying, but you had learned to live with it. Marshall, on the other hand, in spite of having a career lasting over twenty-five years was as paranoid as one could get. It was one of the many reasons why he hated being in Los Angeles and always tried to get you to come to Detroit instead, along with the weather being too hot. In truth, you didn’t mind going to Michigan or spending a lot of time inside, just the two of you. This time, however, you wished he would be the one making an effort. You were nominated for an Oscar for the first time and it was a big night for you. You knew he wasn’t a big fan of public appearances but you wished he would agree to coming with you. After all, he was a nominee himself - for the same movie as you, mind you - and everyone pretty much knew about your relationship, even though none of you had officially confirmed it. To you, there was no reason not to walk the red carpet together. However, when you asked him if he would be your date to the Academy Awards, he wasn’t too enthusiast. In fact, all you got from him was a « erm, I don’t know. We’ll see. Let me think about it. ». And after giving it some thought, he decided not to go with you, breaking it to you over FaceTime, three days before the event. He brought up a bunch of reasons, like having a studio session with Dre that might run late and prevent him from making it in time, hating the red carpet anyway and not wanting to be paraded in a suit that made him look like a penguin. He did not seem to care that you having to take someone else as your date would mean you wouldn’t be sitting next to each other or that you would have wanted him to be by your side. You were mad. You had always known he didn’t really care about awards and public appearances, but you wished he would make an effort for you. Him being set in his ways made you feel like he wouldn’t put you first, just for once. 

Do you even want to be with me ? You blurted out after he told you to find another date. 

What the fuck ? He asked with disbelief all over his face. What does that have to do with that damn red carpet, Y/N ? 

You cancelled the last time you were supposed to come to LA, you’re never available and now you won’t even make an effort for me, you explained. If you don’t want to be with me anymore, just say so… 

You’re so dramatic, they better give you that Oscar, he groaned. Not everything is about you, you know ? I’m working my ass off to get the album done in time, I don’t need you complaining over a stupid red carpet appearance. 

Oh I’m being dramatic ? You asked as you stared at his face on the screen. I’ll give you drama : you can book a hotel room and forget about all the nasty things you were planning on doing to me in bed for next time we were supposed to see each other. 

Whatever, he said as he rolled his eyes. Just go and rehearse your acceptance speech. I have to go anyway. I have Dre calling on the other line. I’ll call you later. 

He did try to call you a couple of hours later, but you didn’t feel like picking up. You were still pissed off and, frankly, a little stressed out too. After all, he hadn’t answered your question about wanting to be with you. You knew you’d have to talk to him at some point - and get to the bottom of the situation, but you also didn’t want to break up over the phone merely three days before one of the most important events of your life. Whatever it was, it could wait until after the Oscars. 

You ended up walking the red carpet with your older brother as your date. The two of you were extremely close and he had always been your plus one to events. It sort of made sense to go to the Oscars with him, even though you would have loved to have Marshall by your side. Your big brother was all smiles as he watched you pose for the photographers in a stunning custom Alaïa dress. However, your attire or possible Best Actress win wasn’t exactly the main focus of the journalists, who were yelling questions about your boyfriend who was nowhere to be found. 

Where is Eminem, Y/N ? One asked. Is he coming tonight ? 

Are the two of you together ? Another yelled. 

You didn’t answer the questions about him, only the ones about your nomination, how you’d feel about winning, the movie and your outfit. You tried to focus on the positives and everything this night meant for your career, but you had a hard time focusing. All you wanted was Marshall’s hand in yours and him to be by your side. Hell, you had even picked the dress color because you thought he would like it. You knew that blue was his favorite color and had figured that, if the two of you were to walk the red carpet together, it would make his eyes pop. 

Breathe, your brother said. You look tense. Is this about Em ? 

Just call him by his name, you said as you rolled his eyes. You’ve met him. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be your date and enjoy the open bar, he continued, but you look… upset ? 

I think he wants to break up with me, you said nervously. 

No he doesn’t, your brother scoffed. Where did you get that from ? 

Well, he’s never available, he didn’t want to be here with me tonight, and he called me dramatic, and… 

First of all, you are dramatic, your brother chuckled. Also, you know he’s working a lot… 

I should have known better than to ask his biggest fan for support, you said as you rolled your eyes. 

Just shut up and focus on your big night, sis, he said with a smile. My baby sister might be getting the biggest award there is for being dramatic, tonight. Now, I think we should focus on that, as well as the fact that stylists managed to make you look presentable. 

Your brother’s weird encouragement was a good way to make you smile, and the glasses of champagne waiters kept on handing you did a great job when it came to taking the edge off. You were taken to your seats and the ceremony began. You kept nervously searching for Marshall in the crowd but you didn’t manage to spot him. Was he skipping the whole thing ? Your mind wandered as the ceremony unfolded and you were soon on autopilot. It was your first time attending the Academy Awards and this had to be the longest ceremony ever. The only entertaining things were the various performances. Your heart skipped a beat when you heard the music of Marshall’s song - the one he had written for the movie. He was not supposed to perform tonight - this had not been announced - but he was on stage, rapping the song that got him his second Oscars nomination exactly twenty years after winning Best Original Song for Lose Yourself. The crowd was wild and you were excited as well. Seeing him on stage made you forget how mad at him you were and you were back to being his number one fan, gushing over how good he looked and rapping the lyrics at the same time, like the groupie you very much were. His performance got him a standing ovation and, twenty minutes and a commercial break later, he was back on stage, accepting the award for Best Original Song. Only this time, he was conforming to the Academy’s dress code, looking dapper in a tux. He might hate this type of outfit, but no one could deny he looked absolutely incredible. One detail did catch your eye : the bow tie he was wearing was made of the same fabric as your dress. He was matching with you ! 

When you wouldn’t return his calls, he called me to ask who you were going to wear, your brother told you. 

He did ? You squeed. 

Yep. Not the kind of thing anyone who wants to break up with you would do, I think. I’m not supposed to tell you, but he’s got another one to match your second dress, too… 

You couldn’t help but smile. The fact that he would go out of his way to call your brother, as well as the dressmakers to have a bowtie matching your dress was absolutely adorable. You couldn’t keep your eyes off Marshall, who was giving a heartfelt speech about how great it felt to have the Academy acknowledge hip-hop and how grateful he was to have the opportunity to be on this stage, two decades after Lose Yourself won. His speech was just like him : elegant and understated. When he went back to his seat, you could see him search for you in the crowd and you waved quietly, sending him a kiss. You couldn’t wait to go and hug him. 

Can’t you behave ? Your brother chuckled. There’s cameras, Y/N. And try not to eye fuck him or drool, this time, will you ? 

I’ll try, you giggled. 

You were almost in agony the rest of the night and the two of you kept looking  and smiling at each other. As always when the two of you were in the same room, you were unable to take your eyes off him for a single second. You didn’t pay much attention to anything else that was going on, so much so that you almost missed your name being called for Best Actress. Everyone around you got up and cheered for you and you were lost. You had actually won an Oscar ?! You ? It didn’t feel right. Bit it was indeed, your name on the screen, and people kept on looking at you. Your brother had to help you get up as you came to your senses and realized that your childhood dream had come true. You made your way to the stage as tears of joy were welling in your eyes. You were almost shaking with nerves as you started your acceptance speech. You had one written and memorized but you couldn’t remember it for the life of you. You spotted Marshall in the crowd, who was smiling and looking at you with pride in his eyes, mouthing a silent « I love you ». 

I… Wow, you said nervously into the microphone. I can’t believe this is happening. I had something really heartfelt, clever and funny written but I can’t remember a single word so please bear with me. Hum… Standing here, on this stage, holding this award is a childhood dream come true. First, I want to thank my family who has always supported my passion, and I’d like to thank everyone in Hollywood that gave me a chance to act. And everyone who didn’t. In fact, I want to acknowledge every person who doubted me. And every boyfriend of mine who called me dramatic. There have been a few, and you best believe I’m creating a group chat tonight and telling them that I actually got an award for being dramatic and made it my full-time job. Um… What else ? Oh, uh, thank you to my manager, assistant, glam squad… Shout out to Alaïa for getting me into this dress tonight, and shout out to Marshall Mathers who will be taking it off me tonight. Dreams do come true, guys ! 

The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter and you could see Marshall laughing before you exited the stage. When you made it backstage, you took a moment to sit and realize what just happened. You had won an Oscar. Oh, and you had accidentally mentioned Marshall taking off your clothes. On stage. While million of people probably watched the ceremony on TV… Oops. A few people came to congratulate you, though you were quickly ushered back to your seat for the remainder of the ceremony. The movie you were in did not end up winning Best Picture, but you easily got over your disappointment. When the ceremony ended, you were swarmed by an army of people who came to congratulate you. You even got to hug Meryl Streep and tell her how she was the one who made you want to act in the first place, and this was definitely the highlight of your night. Your brother had gotten out of your sight and was enjoying the open bar, as he always did whenever he came with you to an event. When the crowd began to vacate, you had a moment to yourself. That’s when you spotted your boyfriend. 

Congratulations, he said as he pulled you into his arms. 

Congratulations to you too, you said giddily. You were amazing on stage ! 

As were you, he replied with a smile. Great speech, by the way… 

Oh my God, I am so sorry, you said. I forgot my speech, and I-I… Are you mad ? 

It’s fine, he chuckled. You’re way too adorable for me to be mad. 

Really ? You asked nervously. I know how you are about privacy… 

Really, he said reassuringly. And with you looking like this… ? I am glad everyone knows you’re spoken for. 

I think they got the idea when they saw you matching with me, you said with excitement. 

You like it ? He asked with a smile. I had to ask your brother and harass the dressmakers. They hate me. 

He told me, you said giddily. And I know you have another one to match my dress for the afterparty, too… 

If you still want me as your date, that is, he pointed out. 

I do, you giggled. But I’m going to need your help to get out of this dress and into the other… 

Let’s go, then. 

He grabbed your hand and you walked out of the theater, holding your awards, while an army of journalists were screaming to get your attention. You half-expected Marshall to let go of your hand, knowing how guarded he was when it came to the press, but he only squeezed it tighter before grabbing you by the waist as you made your way to a car. 

Em, how are you feeling tonight ? A journalist asked. 

Have you seen my date ? I’m great, man, he grinned as he looked at you lovingly. 

VIDEO : WATCH AS EMINEM GUSHES OVER Y/N AFTER THE OSCARS

Eminem & Y/N have officially confirmed their relationship ! The couple did not walk the red carpet together but they certainly made a memorable exit, as Eminem gushed over his date to journalists while not letting go of her. This happened after Y/N hinted at Em taking her Alaïa dress off her in her acceptance speech. While the Rap God did not mention his girlfriend in his own speech, he certainly appeared in love. While known for his stoic face, he was seen smiling all evening, especially when they made their way to the Vanity Fair afterparty (almost an hour late, mind you…)  in matching outfits. And if he does not seem like one to kiss and tell, no one missed Y/N’s lipstick all over his mouth, nor the hickies in his neck. 

That night was a big one for the rapper and the movie star, as they both took home statues, respectively for Best Original Song and Best Actress. And from the looks of it, they certainly celebrated. 

[irndad]

Christmas Wrapping- a.h.

a/n: i'm back and this is sad (no, really, it's a sad christmas fic. merry crisis!! also writing this made me think of @hotchfiles lol- lari i hope u like it <3 summary: 2 years ago, hotch broke up with a lovely but eccentric woman, and is thinking about this while attending a christmas party.

It’s Christmas, and it’s New York, and Aaron doesn’t want to be here. 

He always feels guilty when he misses Christmases with Jack, and it’s painful to admit that it’s happened more than once. He’d been understanding, but Jack is almost ten now, and the resentment in his voice is subtle, but sometimes Aaron could swear he could hear Haley’s voice in it. 

This dinner wasn’t optional- a director that was above him mentioned that if he wanted his career to advance, he couldn’t afford not to attend events like tonight. Which as far as thiny veiled threats go, is one of the lease concealed ones he’s received in a good bit. 

New York always makes him think of her. Even though their relationship ended two years prior, she sticks in his mind like a song, the melody never quite getting to be grating. She’d loved being called his girlfriend, and Aaron had loved the way she loved it. She was younger than him, by a little over a half-decade. But still, she’d worn it better than he had. He still remembers the sight of her, meeting him at his office (never inside, lest the team tease him endlessly), in her green shoes and multicolored scarf, hair in a clip that had been lazily thrown up, and a smile that dazzled him. 

“Are you ready, Mr. Hotchner?” he remembers her saying, on the other side of a memory lit in warm, glowy lights. 

“I don’t think I can endorse whatever you have planned for me.” He’d replied back in jest at the time. 

The walk from his hotel to the host of the party’s home is cold. He think it might be colder in Quantico, but his memory feels colder and seeps into his bones. 

He might’ve married her, Aaron muses to himself. It all feels so silly to think about. But she was hard not to think about when she was his to ponder over, and she sticks in the back of his mind even after he had made he decision not to. 

She’d been generous with him, the entirety of it all. Gentle with him when he mentioned that he wasn’t ready to tell the team, even if she’d known that he hadn’t waited eight months with Beth. More than that, she was beautiful. not just in her appearance, which was lovely in and of itself, but in how she carried herself. Warm, and kind- Jack would’ve loved her. 

He thinks of her laugh, how she’d picked off all of the salmon roe on their fancy 5 month anniversary dinner, and eaten the meal without it- how she booked Amtraks to visit family, because it gave her more time to read on the way, and no one would make her drive once she got there. How she traced hearts into his wrist when  she could tell he was anxious, read him like a book he never gave anyone permission to see. Loving her was a pleasure, an indulgment. An expensive wine sipped with leisure. 

A honk of a cab shakes him out of his memories, but it doesn’t stick. She’d loved Brooklyn, loud cabs and overpriced brownstones all the same. Sometimes, when doing monotonous paperwork, he’d fantasize about buying her one, a new home in her dream city, Jack and maybe a sister. 

The way it had fallen apart was one of the least proud moments of his life. Because she was different- not polished, or withdrawn in how she carried herself. It was what made her a pleasure to know- she smiled with her whole face, hugged people like she knew they might need it, wore her favorite colors because she wanted to see them whenever she passed a mirror. And he was a behavior analyst. 

“Could I meet your friends?” he’d frozen, when he’d heard it. Her voice was soft, like she was nervous. “I know you were wanting to wait, but you know- you’ve met my graduate school friends. They were thoroughly impressed.”

He didn’t feel impressive to them, and he suspects she might be being kind in this moment. 

“I just think you wouldn’t like them, honey.” He feels rotten lying to her, but the idea of it- of the team knowing that she is the person he loves- it feels like a magnifying glass under the sun. 

“I find that hard to believe, Aaron. And either way, I’m telling you, it would mean the world to me to know them.” 

He’d been backed into a corner, he’ll tell himself, later. This will be a lie, and it’ll be a lie he knows, even as he tells himself it. 

“I just think we shouldn’t do that until we’re sure about eachother.”

The silence that had followed felt chasms wide. She’d been silent in front of him before- when he’d come to her apartment too tired to speak but still needing to be held, and she’d lit a candle and massaged his hands, easing the carpal tunnel from writing paperwork. Or when she held his hand waiting for Jack’s results, when he’d gotten a fever they hadn’t been able to shake. This silence was different. Long and dissapointed, and Aaron felt like he couldn’t breathe under the shame of it. He watched her wipe a single tear from her eye, and grab her novel that had been sitting on his coffee table for the last six months. 

“I can’t make you sure about me, Aaron. I don’t really want to try.” 

It had ended like that. Reminiscing on the whole affair had made the walk feel short, although he could feel a tear welling in his eyes. His body knew her absence, and still does. Even now, walking to this party he doesn’t want to go to, he imagines what it would be like to have the shape of her pressed into the side of it. 

Aaron thinks to himself, before buzzing into the building, that he wasn’t ashamed of her. He’d wondered since the end of the first relationship he’d felt held in, if he left it because he was ashamed. But he wasn’t. He was unwilling to submit to the plain, unmediated joy of her touch. 

He was almost done ruminating on this, until he knocked on the door, and there she was. 

Aaron- he almost wonders if he’s hallucinating, because there she is. And she’s fucking gorgeous. She always is, but she’s so lovely tonight. Maybe it’s the fact he hasn’t seen her in so long, or maybe it’s just that she is that lovely, but the warm light of the party and Christmas Wrapping playing in the background- she looks like vision plucked from a movie. 

She’d kissed him at midnight to this song, once. 

Now, she’s beaming at him, opening her door to welcome him as a stranger into a party. 

“Aaron! Is that you?” it’s a physiological response, the jump in his chest, when she says his name. “My god, it’s so good to see your face!” 

She hugs him, and she still wears the same perfume. Her arms are warm and her face is in his chest, and even though it’s less intimate than all the ways she’s held him before, it feels kind. 

“It’s so good to see you too- what are you doing here?”

It’s a blunt question, but she doesn’t seem to mind, as she ushers him into home. It’s a family apartment, old-school and clearly well-loved.

“My husband liasons with the FBI, actually! His boss said they needed a get-together space, and so we offered up our apartment. It’s cute, right?” she’d walked him right up to a man, wrapped her arms around his middle, before turning back to Hotch. “Peter, honey, this is my old friend, Aaron Hotchner! He works for the BAU.”

Husband. She has a husband. She is a beautiful woman, who he has had the honor to love, to run through the rain while laughing with, who is known and seen and loved by someone else. Hotch takes a look at her, really drinks in the sight. She’s got on a green sweater, new- he can tell by the shape of it. Earrings that seem like they’re gifts, and her hair’s pinned up lazily despite the occasion. 

She looks happy. 

“Oh hey! I’ve heard so much about you- I’m glad you were able to come!”

Peter has a wedding band on hsi left wrist, and Aaron can’t help but analyze him. He’s wearing an ill-fitting dress shirt and slacks, and Hotch thinks he might not have had too much choice in hosting. Owning real-estate is uncommon in New york, and your boss knowing you have a place to use might have been enough to strong arm him into using it. it’s a relative’s clothes, and it’s casual in a way that would suggest ease and friendless. An arm rests on the small of his wife’s waist. 

The whole rest of the night is a blur. Jealousy doesn’t feel like the right word for it- it feels uncanny, to see her so open and warm with a man who so unashamadly loves her. There’s engagement photos on the walls, and Aaron studies them like he’ll be tested. Maybe he’s testing himself. They’re not real photos, just a photobooth they’d gone too, her ring in the foreground of all of them. Peter is a wiry, thin, dark-haired brown-eyed man who is younger than Aaron, and a year older than her. 

He hears someone say they met in high school, and Hotch dimly wonders if he ever had a shot with her. He thinks this, while looking at a photo of the two of them at prom together (but not together). It’s self-comfort, he knows. Because she’d asked him, to take her seriously. 

She’s drinking grape juice, instead of champagne. Aaron thinks he knows why, from the way she runs a gentle hand over her stomach when she thinks no one’s looking, and how Peter’s eyes are always trained on her midsection.

He wishes he didn’t know how to be this observant. 

When the night ends, and Aaron comes back to Quantico, and people asks him how the party went, Aaron tells them it went well, and says that he saw an old friend who he’d missed a great deal out there. 

He figured it’s probably better to admit to loving her in some way, at some point. Even if it’s far, far too late. 

[fayes-fics]

Ripe, Like Fruit

Pairing: Vampire!Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Set two weeks after Enthralled. Benedict appears on All Hallow’s Eve, and your husband is not home…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, mentions of blood drinking, bloodplay, cunnilingus, facesitting, creampie & vaginal sex

Word Count: 0.7k

Authors Note: Set in the same world as Enthralled. Just a little scene that came to me last night, so I am posting it for Halloween. If there’s interest, I could write more. @colettebronte kindly gave this a once over. Dividers by @/firefly-graphics. Enjoy! <3

“Where is our fine Doctor tonight?”

Benedict's rich baritone rings out through Dorset House, making you jump. Once again, he has materialised seemingly from the ether. 

“Away,” you explain once you have modulated your breathing. “Tending to a sick patient. We received a visitor on horseback stating that he was urgently needed at Bingley Hall. He took off on our fastest steed not a half hour ago.”

Benedict draws closer, the flames from the nearby fireplace dancing in his eyes as he does so. The room suddenly notches much warmer, even in just your simple silk house dress.

“So… ‘tis just us?” he checks as the hallway clock softly chimes 11pm.

“It would appear so,” you titter, unable to hide your quake of nerves, watching as he glides across the room towards your drinks cabinet.

You have yet to spend time with Benedict without your husband. It has only been a fortnight since you met this man, well creature, well, no, being. 

“Vampire,” he supplies helpfully, raising a laconic brow as your eyes dart to meet his.

Sometimes, you forget he can read your thoughts.

He makes his way back over to you, handing you a glass of wine, dark red, like blood.

“Tis not,” he assures with a crooked smile, once again knowing the contents of your mind. “A toast?”

“To what?” you blurt, drawn to the flash of his incisor glinting in the soft candlelight of your drawing room.

“To us,” he rumbles portentously as he clinks his glass against yours. “Alone at last….” he adds, holding your gaze hypnotically.

He takes a long, indulgent sip, ensuring your eyes track his throat as he swallows the viscous drink, Adam's apple bobbing prominently under alabaster skin.

Something flares in your stomach as you mirror his actions, taking a sip and feeling the weight of his stare upon your jugular vein. Trepidation mixed with arousal, wanton desire, more than a tinge of reckless abandon. You have never given yourself to this man without your husband present. This would be something else entirely.

He takes the wine from you, moving in, smelling of smoke and damp earth, petrichor in human-like form. His nose buries into your hairline, and he takes a deep inhale, scenting you. 

“You always smell so… ripe. Like fruit. Succulent berries awaiting devourment…” 

Just those simple words alone have you trembling for him. You can't help the moan that escapes your lips as he kisses along your jawline, your hands encircling his biceps, the fine black wool of his jacket tickling your palm. A tartness blooming on your tongue that is mesmeric.

“I want to sink my teeth into every inch of your pristine skin…” His voice is decadent and dusky, your heart pounding as he moves to worry your throat. A slight shudder races down your spine as his fang traces your pulsing artery, lightly snagging your skin. “So many things I want to do to you….” he trails off as you find yourself pliant in his arms, under his thrall once again.

He effortlessly turns you around in his arms, crowding into your back. The press of his rigid cock into the cleft of your bum is unmistakable. His mouth works its way across the top of your exposed shoulder as you pant lightly, every cell in your body thronging for him to take you, make you his again, as you have been ever since that fateful night. 

“I want to hold you down and drink from you and fuck you, then do it all again. I want to taste my seed dripping from inside you. I want to bite your thigh while you writhe upon my face after we fuck. Your blood, your cum and mine, I want to taste it all….”

His filthy soliloquy has you barely able to stand, swooning back into his solid mass, needing every filthy, debauched thing he promises. A large hand stoops low, gathering your dress until he can run his cool palm up your quivering thigh, not stopping until he is cupping your bare, soaked cunt.

“What do you say, my goddess? Will you permit me? ‘Tis All Hallows Eve after all…..”

Who are you to resist?

masterlist • wips • taglist (follow this blog to be tagged)

No taglist, as this is so short.

[frostedpuffs]

Chat Noir took pride in his ability to read Ladybug like an open book, even when she hadn’t spoken a word. After a decade of fighting side by side, they’d become so attuned to each other’s expressions and body language that deciphering her thoughts was second nature. 

A scrunched nose could mean she was either disgusted or stifling a laugh. A polite smile for reporters, though outwardly friendly, sometimes carried the subtle tension at the corners of her mouth that revealed she wasn’t in the mood to talk. And during battles, the sharp gestures of her hands were all he needed to understand exactly what she wanted him to do, or where she wanted him to go.

And, of course, she knew him just as well—so well that a simple smirk could prompt her to preemptively groan at a pun he hadn’t even uttered yet.

But now that she was well into her second trimester, understanding her thoughts had grown more challenging. Pregnancy brought a new layer of complexity that Chat Noir wasn’t equipped to navigate, exposing just how little he knew about it.

However, not one to back down from a challenge, he’d dedicated most of his free time to researching pregnancy through books and the internet. While some websites offered a plethora of information, they all stressed that each person's pregnancy was different. Therefore, he couldn’t rely on the web as a foolproof guide to Ladybug's feelings or what exactly she was going through.

(And, wow, some of the things he’d read were downright scary. What the hell was preeclampsia? Frequent nosebleeds were normal? Holy shit, a uterus could expand to the size of a watermelon!?)

Still, he was determined to be as valuable to Ladybug as he could. He’d been studying her facial expressions and body language more often. Sometimes, she’d catch him staring. Not that that was unusual. He'd always had a hard time taking his eyes off her.

“What is it?” she’d ask. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Just beauty," he'd say.

And she’d scoff and smile, in the same way she always did; the way he always loved.

Occasionally, her eyes widened, and then she placed a hand on her stomach, which rounded out more day by day, before a smile appeared. When he asked, he learned she did that whenever her baby was “quickening.”

Flutters in her stomach as the life inside her moved.

(He wondered… if he gently placed his palms on her stomach, would he feel it, too?)

She'd been complaining of back pain as of late, and Chat Noir was more than happy for the opportunity to practice his masseuse skills by massaging her shoulders. Getting to be close to her was a small pleasure on its own; to touch her, ease her pain, and breathe in her familiar scent, which always twirled through his senses like a well-worn song and dance. Easy to remember, hard to forget.

"Thank you for this," Ladybug said as he soothed the knots in her shoulders. "Sorry I keep asking for it."

He smiled. "You say that like I mind."

"Well, I've been needy."

"You can be as needy as you want," he chuckled, careful not to poke her with his claws while his hands worked. "You're growing a person. I'm willing to do whatever I can to make that a little easier for you."

She didn't respond, but she leaned a little closer. Just slightly. 

When she arrived to patrol one night wistfully reminiscing about a soup her late grandmother used to make, there was no doubt in Chat Noir’s mind—he had to try making it for her.

"Describe it for me," he said. 

"It tastes like home," she replied. 

Continue reading on ao3! ➡️

[kayjaywrites]

Like Bugs in a Rug: Chapter One

Summary: Azriel Shadowsinger, mysterious pretty boy extraordinaire himself, was head over heels in love with you for years. Everyone in the room could see it, except for you of course. A series of connected one-shots.

Chapter Word Count: 6,350 Chapter Music Inspo: End of It - Friday Pilots Club

Chapter Content Warnings: fluff, some cursing, one bed trope, awkward but wholesome communication, AFAB Reader, Reader (You), some details about Reader's appearance but overall vague, canon plot spoilers as this is canon compliant-ish, reader low key being thirsty for Azzie

Note: Hello! Welcome to my first fic in like 10 years! This idea came about when I was having a hard time falling back asleep. I sometimes draft fanfiction when i'm trying to sleep. I don't often remember the plots come morning, but the memory of this one remained intact enough for me to jot down. I’m thinking this update is gonna be the longest chapter because it's both prologue and the first chapter, but I have terrible self control with word count limits. So I guess we’ll see what the next chapters bring, but they may be shorter!

Enjoy me 2am fugue state musings, there are likely typos~

XxXx

Prologue

It was all worth it. The decades of patience and silent suffering. The centuries of loneliness paying off just as you lost hope of ever leaving The Court of Nightmares. You and your father, Kier, expected a typical visit from the Inner Circle. The High Lord would threaten your father to keep him in line, you’d go unnoticed in the back of the throne room monitoring the interaction. Just like every other time they visited.

Except, the High Lord and his Inner Circle asked about you like you were the reason behind their visit. You had clocked the visit as odd as soon as only Rhysand, Feyre, and Mor arrived. The absence of both The General & Shadowsinger at the same time a rarity. Despite being related to Rhysand and Mor, you didn’t think they knew your name, so when they asked Kier about you, by name, your heart damn near fell out of your ass.

They wanted you to leave Hewn City to work with them. A Courtier of the Night Court, working alongside Nesta, Lady Death herself, of all people. They wanted you to start immediately now that the war with Hybern was over. Relations between Courts were strained, and upon learning of your talent, the High Lord deemed it a waste for you to be hidden away down here. He and the Inner Circle believed you did not belong in The Court of Nightmares. To anyone else, having the High Lord speak so highly of your child would have been an honor.

It was the most furious you’d ever seen Kier. Which was saying something. His emotions grew volatile in a blink of an eye, outraged by the absolute gall of the High Lord. How dare he come to his city and tell him that you weren’t meeting your full potential down here? At some point Kier stood up, snarling at Rhysand and the others like a wild animal. Kier, so lost in his anger, let his mental shields falter. Just for a second, but it was more than enough time for your powers to draw his wayward thoughts to you, like a magnet, his unspoken intentions seeped into your own mind. You were always terrible at blocking him out when he got like that.

Power. Kier's thoughts whispered to you. A spy for him in the Inner Circle.

It disgusted you how predictable your father was, his intentions were always about how he could best use you for his own gain. It was the driving force behind your excessive training habits, desperate to protect yourself from the toxicity of his intentions. The more you failed at keeping him out, the more you hated him, and by default hated yourself.

Rhysand was right, you were wasted down here, and it wasn’t that your father didn’t see that, he didn’t care. He wasn’t furious with the High Lord for taking another daughter away from him, he was mad about losing a tool.

Well, your father could rot down here alone for all you cared.

You felt a lot of things in that moment. Intimidated by the prospect of working with Nesta, unsure of Mor’s morals and the rumors surrounding her, apprehensive of Rhysand and Feyre’s power, and not to mention all the unknown dynamics between the rest of the Inner Circle. But, despite all that uncertainty, you did not feel nervous about leaving Hewn City with them.

The first task Kier ever appointed you was to report on Rhysand and his Inner Circle’s intentions every time they visited. Either they all had flawless control over their mental shields, or their icy behavior was an act from the beginning. You never dared to share your suspicions with Kier, your father only wanted ammo for his hate, and he never took kindly to evidence that didn’t support his biases against High Lord Rhysand.

It felt a little too much like blind faith and a hunch for you to be 100% comfortable with the decision, but you decided to put your trust in these strangers anyway.

You would take the job.

Not to be a spy for Kier.

Not out of some duty to your High Lord or older sister.

It was time to live your life for you. Consequences be damned.

But, the focus of this story was not about moving to Velaris with Mor and getting to know the Inner Circle. It wasn’t about how much you rock as a diplomat for the Night Court. It wasn’t about how good it felt the first time sunlight touched your skin upon leaving the underground city. It wasn’t even about how you and Nesta became best friends. However good those stories may be.

However, this story is about Azriel Shadowsinger, and how the mysterious pretty boy extraordinaire himself, fell head over heels for you without you ever picking up on it. Yeah, that’s right, the girl who struggled to control her talent for hearing unspoken intentions never puzzled the pieces together. For literal years everyone else in the godforsaken room could tell the Spymaster was in love with you, except for you.

...one year and a couple months later....

It all started with an argument with Rhysand a few assignments into your career as the Night Court Courtier. You felt like you could handle traveling between Courts without needing an escort, especially if you’d be meeting up with Nesta at the destination anyway. Rhysand did not agree, basically threatening to ground you if you didn’t allow someone to accompany you.

That was how Azriel had become your full-time travel partner. Rhysand appointed Azriel as an additional escort in case Nesta was pulled away.

You’d take this to your grave before ever admitting it, but Rhysand wasn’t wrong to be worried. There had been a good number of times where just that had happened. Nesta would be working the other side of the room, and having Azriel lingering nearby eased your nerves. Prythian was a vast Realm, and Rhys had been right in worrying about your adjustment.

It didn’t take too long for you to adapt once you had visited all the different Courts a few times. Yet, Azriel continued to go out of his way to accompany you to events. The first obvious sign of his affections for you came a little over a year into your career.

The event was in a small Day Court town on the border of the Night Court, just under a day’s travel from Velaris on foot. Home to one of the libraries hit hardest by Amarantha’s looting, the entire town was celebrating the return of a sizable chunk of the stolen volumes. The gala was advertised to be a quaint dinner and cocktail hour. You suspected that scholars and book enthusiasts would be the bulk of those present. Although interested in going, Rhysand had High Lord duties to attend to that involved Nesta and the other Archeron sisters in the Summer Court. With a promise to fill everyone in on anything of interest, you packed a small overnight bag and waited for Mor to arrive home. You never developed the ability to winnow, so you needed someone to bring you.

Fussing with your hair in one of the numerous mirrors decorating Mor’s walls, you couldn’t help but smile at your reflection. Your time in Velaris, just over two years, had already begun to sooth a deep sadness you hadn’t realized had settled under your skin. It was obvious in the gentle way you gazed at your reflection, the healthy flush of your cheeks, and the warmth of your thoughts. Velaris looked good on you, and as you smoothed a hand down the shimmery sapphire blue fabric of the dress that clung to your curves, you thought the new formalwear looked good on you too.

Giddiness bubbled up in you at the idea of modeling the new dress for Mor. The excitement felt foreign still, after spending centuries believing Mor didn’t care to know her own little sister. You never thought you’d ever get the chance to gush over dresses with her. Kier hated everything Mor represented, and was cruel to her in ways that made you feel lucky in a perverse way. Your father may have manipulated and alienated you, filling your head with lies about your older sister, but it was never public. Kier made sure everyone in the Court of Nightmares knew that Mor was a useless whore and a traitor.

When Mor became a core member of the Inner Circle, and Rhysand put her in charge of Hewn City, you would wait for her to acknowledge you during her visits. Decades turned into a century, but the same hope would always rise up when Mor was due for a visit, only to be crushed when she ignored you. She never paid you a second of her time, just a fleeting look in passing as if you were another spectator. Knowing that she wasn’t ignoring you out of ill intent stung more, because you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her.

Kier may be your father, but that didn’t mean you had to be a fan of his intentions. You never believe the rumors he spread about Mor.

And then, the big reveal came. It turned out that to Mor, you were just another spectator. Mor didn’t know she had a younger sister at all. Keir hid you so well that no one realized you were related to him. A detail that made you feel so small when it came to light. You were just the shy woman in the background, taught to be pleasant when spoken to, a pretty little wallflower the rest of the time.

Later, when you asked about who first realized your identity, you got mixed accounts from the Inner Circle. Rhysand insisted that it was he who put the pieces together first. Stating that it came to him suddenly after Azriel submitted a report from a surveillance mission detailing an overheard conversation between you and Kier about your talents. Rhysand claimed that your powers reminded him of a variation of Mor’s. The rest of the Inner Circle credited Feyre for noting the resemblance between you, Kier, and The Morrigan the first time she noticed you loitering at the back of a council meeting.

When the truth was confirmed, and you agreed to go with them, Mor wept. She vowed to never leave you alone in The Court of Nightmares ever again, even for a second. That promise was your first experience with making a deal in the Night Court. Your clear surprise at the intricate tattoo that branded itself over the center of your sternum clued Mor, Rhysand, and Feyre in on how out of touch you were with common lore from your own Court. Mor wasted no time in winnowing you out of there after that. The both of you had heard enough of Keir’s nasty sneers and low-blow comments to last a lifetime.

Now, Mor’s cozy little home was also your cozy little home, if not a bit tight for two people. If someone asked you a decade ago if you thought you’d ever have a relationship with Mor you would advise them to seek out a healer.

And yet there you were, vibrating with things to tell her, anticipating her arrival with an almost goofy grin when…Azriel of all people winnowed into the living room.

Perplexed, but not totally disappointed, “Oh!” you said, clearly taken aback. “I was expecting Mor.”

Azriel huffed a low chuckle, dimples bracketing his amused half-smile. “Sorry to disappoint.”

You looked him over, dark circles under his eyes, droopy eyelids, posture leaning forward in a slight slouch. “Az, didn’t you just return from a long mission? Why aren’t you resting?”

“Wanted to escort you to the Day Court Library Gala, of course.”

The tenderness in his voice had warmth bubbling up from your chest. “That is very kind,” you started, making sure to meet his gaze so he knew you meant it, “but you look so tired, Az. I’ve visited the Day Court a bunch of times now and only need someone to winnow me there. As much as I enjoy having you accompany me to these things, I don’t want you to stretch yourself thin on my account. I’ve got this.”

“I know you’ve got this,” came his immediate reply, “as you’ve pointed out I’ve been gone for a few weeks. What if I offered to escort you because I missed you, hm?”

Despite yourself you felt a flush of heat in your cheeks at his teasing. You refused to use your powers on anyone in the inner circle, unwilling to violate their privacy without explicit consent. But you didn’t need your powers to read Azriel’s sincerity. It made it hard to meet his gaze, you turned back to running your fingers through your hair in the mirror, taking a moment to compose yourself. “Well alright then, I don’t think I can do anything more to tame my hair, we should be off then.”

You felt Azriel at your back, a gloved hand coming up to gently grasp your elbow, guiding your arm down as his hand trailed down the bare skin of your forearm to hold yours, turning you to face him. “Stop fussing, you look stunning, this dress is new, right? I think the color suits you.”

You smiled. “Thank you, I suppose you would like this color, now that I’m thinking about it,” with your free hand you held up the skirt of the floor length dress to the siphon on his wrist, marveling at the color match, “it looks like I did it on purpose.”

He hummed in acknowledgement as he pulled you closer into an almost embrace. “We should go now. Wouldn’t want to miss the opening speeches.”

You suppressed a shudder. Definitely from the way his breath tickled your ear, and not from the way his voice sounded as he tucked you into his chest. “You hate opening speeches.” You pointed out, remembering all the times he complained about how boring they were.

“I do, but you like them.” You’d never said as much aloud, but you did enjoy listening to people talk about things they were passionate about, and opening speeches tended to be just that. Of course the Spymaster had noticed.

If Azriel saw your smile before you hid your face against his leather-clad pec he didn’t let on. You pulled your hands free and looped your arms around his middle, clasping your fingers together under the base of his wings.

“I’m ready then, thank you for coming with me.” Your voice was muffled, unwilling to tilt your head up to talk to him in case your maddening blush was there. It didn’t seem to matter how many times you winnowed with Az, your whole face would go cherry red. Something Cassian never failed to poke fun at whenever he witnessed it.

Azriel wrapped his arms tightly around you, your body now flush to his. You focused on the sound of his wings rustling as he tucked them in closer. Anything to distract from the way your pulse spiked when you felt his lips brush against the crown of your head, his hold on you gentle, yet firm and protective as darkness folded around the both of you.

XxXx

Neither you nor Azriel realized the issue with your room reservation until much too late. Upon arrival in The Day Court the both of you hurried to the event. The gala wrapped up around midnight, and like most of the other guests staying in town, you and Azriel retired back to the nearby Inn. With your strappy heels in hand and a pleasant buzz from the alcohol, you felt positively bubbly. Paused in front of your room, you let Azriel rummage through the small black purse at your side for the key. After almost leading them into the wrong room, Azriel took it upon himself to find the correct room and unlock the door.

Minutes later you were still trying to suppress a smile at how Azriel reacted with such mortification when he realized you’d led them to the wrong room. The mental image of the great Shadowsinger so frantic in his efforts to stop you from further jostling the doorknob, had you letting out a laugh before you could stop it.

“It’s not funny.” He grumbled as he swung the wooden door to your room open, leading you inside. You were on the verge of poking fun at him some more when you caught a glimpse of the interior layout. Right, you had RSVP’d expecting to attend the gala alone. The realization sobered you up real fast.

The room was small, burgundy curtains concealing a sizable window, antique desk with tourist flyers stacked in a neat pile on top. A queen sized, four post bed situated in the middle of the room.

“I’ll take the floor—” Azriel started saying.

But you interrupted him. “—you should have the bed.”

“Absolutely not, what kind of gentleman would I be if I let a lady sleep on the floor while I hogged the whole bed.” He nodded, as if the conversation was over, and you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes at him.

“There’s not even enough space on the floor for you to stretch out Az. The room is basically only bed. It’s fine, I can use my extra clothes—”

You inhaled sharply, tensing at the thought of your overnight bag, left forgotten back at Mor's apartment. Your eyes darted to Azriel, meeting his gaze out of the corner of your eye, and you knew you didn’t need to say anything about it as he scoffed under his breath.

“You forgot your bag.” He observed.

Sighing, you ran a hand through your hair, your tight dress feeling like it was constricting around your chest as you contemplated sleeping in it. “I did indeed forget my bag.”

“We could just go back, we don’t have to stay here for the night.” Azriel pointed out, but the thought of cutting the trip short caused a ripple of disappointment to drop in your stomach.

“Or,” he continued with a hint of amusement, “I have an undershirt beneath my leathers. I changed before I met you at Mor’s, so it’s relatively clean. I was going to sleep in it tonight, but I would sacrifice my shirt for you if it meant you’d stop frowning like that.”

If you thought you were anxious before, Azriel’s suggestion sent your anxiety through the roof. You had always found Azriel attractive, even when you were still living in Hewn City. Who wouldn’t? That attraction grew into a bit of a crush when you first arrived in Velaris. He treated you with such care as you adjusted to living above ground, quiet, patient, and thoughtful.

Once it was apparent that you would be working closely with him you shut that shit down. You and him had spent a lot of time traveling together the last few years, always with separate sleeping arrangements, and never sharing clothing. You went out of your way to respect his privacy, give him space, all in hopes of being someone he one day could trust, like how you trusted him.

You could handle one night, sharing a bed, borrowing his shirt. That wouldn’t totally backfire on you in any way, right? Nodding to yourself once, you tried for an air of confidence as you talked around the nerves that have bloomed in your chest.

“Okay,” you agreed, “but if I change into your shirt you definitely can’t take the floor. I won’t let you sleep shirtless on the ground while I’m all tucked in and cozy in bed. I’ll only take up a sliver of it by myself anyway.”

He opened his mouth to object, his intentions written in the way his brow furrowed at you. But you barreled on anyway, “So, we share the bed tonight. Are you comfortable with that?”

His mouth snapped shut, eyes studying you for a tense moment as if you may be tricking him. You clasped your hands together in front of you, the longer you waited for him to respond the clammier your palms felt. Each second felt like an eternity and in no time at all you found yourself scrambling for a way to play off your idea as a joke.

Of course he wouldn’t want to share a bed with you. What in the world had you been thinking?

Maybe you could blame it on that deliciously fizzy drink you downed before leaving the gala, say you weren’t in your right mind. Pretend to not remember in the morning, as if this wasn’t going to be a moment you cringe about decades later. Would you be able to just laugh it off? Would Azriel be chill enough to let you live this down? You were probably so screwed.

He was still a little tense, but just before your panic truly took root Azriel began to nod his head like he...agreed with you?

“Yes, I think that is the most logical solution. The bed can definitely fit two.” Azriel finally said, and you tried to keep yourself from gaping at his response. But your surprise must have been all over your face because he went on to say, “I didn’t suggest it myself because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Wiping your hands down the front of your dress did little to help with the sweat. The pit that had been taking form in your stomach churned, your dread morphing into jittery nerves.

Then, as if you weren’t having a nervous breakdown right in front of him, the handsome lunatic started striping his leathers off. Dept hands tossing his gloves to the desk, he unclasped the chest pieces of his leathers, they fell to the floor with a thud. Then, the promised black undershirt was up over his head, and you were drinking in all his tattoos and corded muscles like you were a tactless teenager instead of a 300+ year old female.

A flash of movement from him, and you flinched when his shirt hit you square in the face. It was so big it draped over your head. You made a disgruntled noise, ignoring how delicious the shirt smelled as you removed it from your face, “Hey—!”

“If you’re done gawking at me like you’ve never seen a shirtless male, you can get ready for bed first.” He headed further into the room, collecting his chest piece off the floor and approaching the desk to place it with his gloves. He turned to face you, his butt propped against the desk as he gestured to the door his wingspan had been blocking from view. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, flexing his biceps, and you almost swooned at the sight. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Your fist tightened around the shirt, fighting the urge to toss it back at him out of spite. Embarrassment felt like hot iron under your skin, so instead you snapped your attention to the door he had pointed out–the bathroom. You knew you’d averted your gaze much too fast to seem unaffected by him. He chuckled, and you glowered at him as his head tilted to the side, watching you with a bemused expression. He looked about ready to comment further, but you waved him off with faux-annoyance and an exaggerated roll of your eyes. Clutching his shirt close to your chest, you escaped into the bathroom.

Subtle.

Pressing your back to the door, it closed under your weight. You paused there for a moment to focus on your breathing, your frazzled mind going a mile a minute. This was all so far out of your comfort zone, it wasn’t even funny. You never had to deal with handsome males in The Court of Nightmares, Kier didn’t let you socialize long enough for it to even be on your radar. Dating hadn’t quite made your list of top priorities upon arriving in Velaris either.

What little experience you did have was with a male named Allistair. You’d met him at Rita’s within your first year above ground. It was a fling of sorts that lasted a few months before you decided casual dating wasn’t for you. He was a perfectly adequate lover. At least you think he was. He was also your only lover. A nice enough companion as you acclimated to your new life. The times you had been intimate with that male had left you feeling…bereft. Seeing Allistair shirtless had been nothing like seeing Azriel shirtless.

And Azriel calling you out for ogling him so blatantly? Mother have mercy.

So now you were just expected to fall asleep next to him wearing his shirt after that? The situation almost made you want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The last thing you wanted was to draw his suspicion by loitering against the door for too much longer, so you moved to the sink. Maybe splashing lukewarm water on your face would reveal that this had all been a weird ass nightmare.

Cupping water into your face a couple more times, you took in the smeared makeup dripping down your face in the mirror. Definitely not a dream.

Azriel was going to think you were in love with him for fucksake.

Snatching the nearby hand towel from the rack on the wall you soaked it, and got to work on scrubbing your face clean. You had to have a little more faith in Azriel. He wouldn’t let a single weird moment ruin over a year of amicable teamwork. But your personal relationship with him felt fragile to you at best. You can't let some tattoos and abs mess up what you considered to be the most solid friendship you’d made among the Inner Circle.

So what if he was hot as hell? You could co-exist with attractive people, it was legit a part of your job. You could salvage the situation, just change out of the dress you accidentally matched to the colors of his siphons, put his shirt on that smelled so strongly of him it gave you a headrush, and face him like you hadn't just been drooling over his naked chest.

You know, simple.

The hem of his t-shirt landed just above your knees, and the comfort you found in it was criminal. The black fabric was very soft and so baggy that you worried the wing slits in the back would shift forward in your sleep. It could reveal a little more than what you’d considered 'tasteful side boob'.

Resisting the urge to fuss in the mirror (because it wasn't like you were trying to look cute for anyone, right?), you exited the bathroom clean faced and a bit more settled than when you had entered.

Your bravado, however, was short lived. Azriel faced away from you in only his underwear, the rest of his leathers added to the pile on the desk. He was organizing his various knives on the bedside table closest to the main door.

He looked over his shoulder at you. Totally not catching you checking out his butt in the tight underpants. Cauldron boil you. Would it be weird if you marched yourself back into the bathroom to try the whole “not affected by sexy, almost nude Illyrian warrior” thing again?

Azriel inhaled sharply, and you snuck a glance at him. His attention was back on his knives, but there was a tension to him, almost like he was brooding. There might have been a light blush over his cheeks, but you felt weird analyzing him anymore than you already had out of habit. You clocked the change in his body language for what it was the instant he saw you in his shirt. Clenched jaw, tense shoulders, spine ramrod straight, wide eyed before averting his gaze, elevated heart rate–classic signs of attraction. Reactions he clearly didn’t want you to notice.

"I'm taking this side." He informed almost absently, patting the mattress. Leaving you with the window side.

You wandered to the desk to avoid observing him further, wishing that you could turn off the part of you that always seemed to be prying for more information. And then you felt it, his thoughts getting louder, his emotions growing wilder, reaching out to you. You slammed your mental shields up hard, a gross feeling taking root when it was too late.

Protect. Azriel’s intentions conveyed to you. Protect. Comfort. Provide. Here you were invading his private thoughts without his knowledge, while he was concerned with your wellbeing. What was the point of all that effort Rhysand put into teaching you how to better control your mental shields? It never worked when you needed it most. The failure stung, and you had to busy yourself with folding your dress in a neat square so you had something to keep your hands from shaking.

It was quiet for too long, and you struggled with recalling what he had said to you before you’d lost control. Something about the bed. "Sounds good to me." You decide on saying, placing your dress next to his leathers.

Azriel didn’t seem to find your reply out of the ordinary. Small mercies.

"I'll be out in a few minutes, then." His voice was rougher than before, and it sent chills down your spine. As soon as you heard the bathroom door click shut you scurried into bed. You couldn’t get under the covers fast enough, pulling the blankets up to your neck with a hefty sigh of relief.

It felt awesome to be laying down after such a long evening on your feet. Too bad you couldn’t enjoy it more, instead drowning under waves of shame. Maybe you’d never get a full handle on your powers. Maybe the Mother was teaching you a lesson in this life? You couldn’t fathom what the moral could be. You wanted more than anything to be able to mind your business.

You wished you could turn your brain off. Alas, even your guilt couldn’t stop you from reflecting and organizing what you’d just observed. Not only had you heard his intentions, but you also felt them. Unlike the sweet warmth of his thoughts, his gaze had felt like desire and bad decisions.

He didn’t seem like he was actively seeking to bed you. You reasoned that you were also an available female wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of panties. You could only imagine how all of that must have chafed against his Illyrian instincts. Rhysand had once mentioned that Illyrians were possessive and protective at best, controlling and jealous at their worst.

Surely those possessive instincts were what you were picking up on, then. You were covered in his scent after all. That was the only logical explanation for his reaction, his instincts were telling him to protect you because you were vulnerable and wearing his clothing. Even if it didn’t quite sound right to you, it was the only explanation you were willing to entertain. You were barely friends, there was no way Azriel wanted to court you. The thought sent a fleeting pang of disappointment through you that you refused to examine.

Whatever. There wasn’t anything you could do to make the situation less messy right now. You were exhausted, and stewing on scenarios that would never amount to anything real was unlike you.

Snuggling further into the sheets, you decided it was best to just pretend you hadn’t noticed shit. The damage was done, Azriel wasn’t dumb, he at least knew he had flustered you. You weren’t going to draw any more attention to that tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever. Everything about this night was a fluke.

Azriel returned from the bathroom, and you kept your focus on fluffing your pillows. Sitting up you tossed an extra pillow onto the floor, and you could feel as soon as his eyes landed on you that some of his…instincts…were still acting up. You pulled the comforter back up to your neck as he got into bed next to you. Turning on your side to face him you were determined to be normal. No more awkward gawking allowed tonight.

He stretched his arms up above his head, his joints popping a million times as he groaned in relief. You couldn't help chuckling at him, the fearsome Shadowsinger of the Night Court, doing something so mundane.

Scooting further onto the bed, Azriel rolled over to meet your gaze, his wings tucked close to his back as he settled. Most of his wingspan spilled over the side of the bed anyway. He surveyed you, eyes lingering along your tired but genuine smile, and you saw the stern tenseness slowly leave his body. "You sure you're comfortable with this?" He asked.

Your smile turned a tad warmer. This male was just so kind, so different from what you knew in Hewn City. "I am, I trust you Azriel." It was the truth. You didn't have friends growing up, and although you may have a long way to go before Azriel truly called you his friend, you considered him a dear (sexy) friend.

Your words seem to settle something in him, and you could have sworn you saw something almost affectionate flash across his face. You blink, and it's gone, but the fuzzy feeling it left in your chest remained.

Like he sensed your mushy thoughts, he ruined the moment. "So I have to ask you something, it’s serious.”

Your brows raised in bemused interest, the scenario with him wishing to court you snapping to the forefront of your mind again. He’d always been very attentive to you, but in a worried protective way. You’d never picked up on any romantic intentions from him before, and he’s not the type to make a decision like that on a whim. The chance was small, but you couldn’t 100% rule out him wanting to ask you out. Could you say no to him? Would you even want to say no? You’d never considered this as an option before!

He held your gaze, as if for dramatic effect and then with the seriousness of a top notch spymaster he asked you, “You have seen a shirtless male before...right?"

Maybe it was a mistake to consider this male kind, he was a menace all along.

You had never rolled your eyes so hard at someone. Unbelievable.

Turning away from him with enough force to toss your hair in his face, you are rewarded with the sound of his indignant grunt.

"Can you turn the light off please?" You snap, unable to rein in your annoyance. Unsettled by how it tasted almost like rejection.

"You didn't answer my question." He goaded, and you fell right for it.

"Yeah, because it's a silly question." You fire back.

He hummed at your response, "Doesn't seem like you think it's a silly question."

You would rather swallow your own tongue than admit to Azriel that you’d seen shirtless males, but he had been the first you’d enjoyed seeing shirtless.

Done with the line of questioning, you blindly flung your arm back, swatting at him. He startled at the contact, and he exhaled a scoff when you didn't stop flopping your arm at him after the first blow.

He caught your wrist, stilling your flailing. "Fine, fine, I'll drop it," He let go of your wrist, “for now.”

You shifted to burrow further into your pillows, totally not dwelling on how his big hand wrapped around your wrist made you feel dainty. The texture of his scars hadn’t made your heart skip a beat either. Nope. Not at all.

"Could you shut the light off please." You asked again with more venom than you intended. It bothered you how easy this male could get under your skin. He wasn’t even trying.

You felt his weight shifting, the bed frame squeaking a bit as he moved. "Anything for you, Princess." He shuffled a little more, and then the light went off, casting the both of you in darkness.

The nickname made you grimace into your pillow. No one had ever called you that before, and you really didn’t want it to catch on.

You felt him return to the position on his side facing you. Some moments passed in loud silence, and although you were the one that let the conversation drop, the residual tension in the room was killing you. There was no way you would be able to fall asleep, and you would bet that Azriel was stewing in the tension too.

"Az?" You whispered. His response was quick like he’d been waiting on edge for you to speak, "Yes?"

"Goodnight." And you found yourself meaning it. You hoped he got some sleep tonight despite the turmoil he had so effortlessly sowed in your stomach with his teasing. The prick.

You could practically hear the mischief in his voice. "Sleep well, princess."

Ugh. Your stomach coiled, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. Very dangerous. It was an inappropriate reaction, and you wrote it off as stress. However as hard as you wished to forget it, you wouldn’t be forgetting how Azriel had made you feel that night anytime soon.

Even your racing thoughts couldn’t stop sleep from finding you, putting you out of your misery.

And if you woke up to the sounds of song birds that morning, your face pressed against Azriel's neck, your body sprawled atop him while he slept on his back, then that was your business. No one would know if you relished being in his arms a few minutes longer than necessary. You wouldn’t confirm nor deny if one of his hands had looped through a wing hole of his borrowed shirt, his fingers resting just under your breast.

And so what if it had been the best sleep you'd gotten since leaving Hewn City. And if Azriel seemed more well rested than usual on your return to the Night Court, you certainly didn't notice that either.

XxXx

Next Chapter

[kk-iki]

it's been a long time coming, but. . .

enough is enough. i think i've moved in relative silence when it comes to some of the more odd things that occur in this fandom, but one instance in particular is giving me pause. this honestly feels like something better suited for a substack essay, but i'll hold off on that since i think everyone in this specific sub - tumblr ( ? ) should hear this first.

i feel like so much of the call of duty fandom is trapped in a constant woman - hating epidemic.

and i don't just mean 'oh, there's barely any female character x reader content, there's nothing for the girls who like girls'. that's an entirely different issue i may or may not bring up later.

i'm talking about how a good majority of the writing i read in this fandom is so geared towards men. and i don't mean that there's a surplus of male reader content, because there really isn't. i mean that there's so many fics i read that are drenched in the light of 'doe - eyed, pouty, submissive woman who is always eager to please her man, and the idea that the man may be eager to please her in return is such an incredibly radical concept'.

i click on any 'x reader' tag in this fandom, and i'm met with a tidal wave of two specific archetypes;

the doe - eyed, pouty, submissive fem reader who is always eager to please her man and gets off on him essentially treating her like property, or. . .

a reader who has no character. no structure. no personality. a reader who is meant to be vague enough to where the actual reader can neatly insert themselves into their shoes, but at the cost of any innate substance or realness. a reader who is essentially just a placeholder in words.

somehow, inexplicably, it's more often than not the first.

write and read for this fandom long enough, and you'll see what i see in droves. the attention that is lavished on writing within this fandom is relegated to the specific archetype of the tradwife who knows nothing but to cook for her husband and be a willing conduit for his post - deployment stress relief.

and what truly infuriates me the most is that it will be these kinds of writers who are so adamantly against the idea of tradwives. yes, you say you're against it, but can your words hold up when your writing is essentially tradwife propaganda in disguise?

and it just irks me so badly when these mentalities infiltrate the characters themselves. today's specific instance of this was when i was scrolling through the könig x reader tag and i came across this one headcanon list that advertised itself as "loser!könig". nothing innately malicious, of course, but then i saw the tags.

'but also, he's a sucker for the wife, which makes him a loser. say it with me now.'

i want to make it known that i mean no ill intent towards the original author of this specific headcanon list. i don't want any vitriol to be directed at them because i'm speaking my mind about this fandom as a whole. it most likely was meant to be an affectionate, "haha, he's such a malewife loser"-esque endearment. but this set of tags just. . .baffled me.

. . .because when did it become loser - like or a loser - adjacent trait to be a sucker for your wife?

this isn't even the first instance of this. i've seen it before, the way this fandom—sometimes subtly, sometimes unintentionally—pushes this narrative that has been setting us back decades. the idea that there is not only a beauty standard that women must live up to in order to be considered desirable by men, but there is also a mentality that a woman must have in addition.

there's another fic that i read, a 141 x reader one if memory serves me correctly. it featured a reader who was insecure about her appearance, which is absolutely nothing to frown upon. what startled me, though, was the fact that the author themselves referred to the reader as 'ugly'.

the reader is a single mother. she is stated in the fic to have love handles, breakouts, and a thick waist. she has messy hair and wears baggy clothes and has dark undereye circles. she required the love and special attention of four conventionally attractive men who moved in next door in order to feel beautiful.

she is said, by the author in the precluding note, to be meant as a way to 'show some love to readers who feel ugly, instead of petite girly readers'.

as if people with these traits should feel ugly. as if people with these traits cannot be girly.

i understand i may be reading too much into this. i may be making a mountain out of a molehill. but i'm angry about this and this is my blog and you've read this far, so clearly you want to see where this goes.

and this is where it's going.

i spoke about this briefly in a server i'm in and am extremely fond of—shoutout to the shitheads.

i said, quote: "are you nothing but a slave to the whims of a patriarchal society’s dictation on how someone must present in order to be considered desirable? or are you willingly feeding into this at the risk of the self image of so many beautiful people who cannot recognize their own enchanting presences because of people like you howling at them in your sweetest voice that they are anything but?"

i also said: "have you considered the reason for that might be because she’s a recluse and doesn’t go outside apart from making sure her child is getting sufficient vitamin d and is thus making assumptions about what people will think of her on the basis of one bad man’s words to her?"

maybe she doesn't feel ugly because you think the traits she has are ugly. maybe she feels ugly because she doesn't socialize. maybe, instead of just leaving that in the subtext, you should have started with that.

the writer, if i recall correctly, was a woman. by the way. which makes this worse.

it is so difficult for me to understand how the women in this fandom can be so cruel to each other, even implicitly. from the way we're written in reader - insert fics to how we react to each others' ocs and creations. . .it's just so disheartening.

more than anything, it makes me wonder how someone like me—a lesbian who exclusively writes women for women and tries to veer away from the reader and the character falling into any one archetype—is going to find any sort of platform in this fandom.

the bottom line is that there is so much casual misogyny in this fandom. frankly, i'm a little sick of it.

one might think i'm making a big deal out of this. i know. i'm being a killjoy, i'm being a hater, i won't let anyone have any fun. but we need to remember a couple of key points here:

art is always political because there is no way to create something without a modicum of bias.

the politics promoted by the art in this fandom—specifically, the writing—are pushing an agenda that has been consistently used to strip women of their rights and needs for decades.

most of these writers are women themselves.

obviously, there's nothing wrong with a submissive woman. obviously, the characters in call of duty that are most featured in reader - insert content are canonically framed in a lens that makes it seem like they would be the kind of men to only enjoy this kind of woman. obviously, not everyone in this fandom indulges this.

but it occurs enough. and it sets us back.

and i'm sick of it.

thank you for reading this far, and for hearing out what i have to say. i promise i don't do this often—but i also promise that i absolutely should. i love you.

kiki x

[galedekarios]

elminster and gale: an addition

a while ago, i posted a meta about the relationship between elminster and gale.

i tried to detail their relationship and delve deeper into how gale values elminster not only as a friend and mentor, but perhaps as well as a paternal figure in his life - especially working on the assumption that gale's father might have left morena and gale early on in his life.

back when i wrote my meta, i didn't have the information yet that elminster knew gale from an incredibly early age, which was only revealed once the epilogue was added to the full release version of the game. in one of his epilogue letters, elminster recalls his first meeting with gale when gale could have been "no more than eight summers' old".

which then in turn of course means that gale has known elminster for almost all of his life, if we take the age attributed to gale by idle champions as canon. it's set at 35 years old. if we assume gale was indeed eight when he first met elminster and not younger, it means elminster has been in gale's life for nearly three decades at this point in time.

it's a lot of preamble, but i felt it was necessary because i was looking through the files again and found these idle lines for elminster that don't appear to trigger in the game.

it's indicated to be idle comments made by elminster at camp, before elminster informs gale of mystra's will at the beginning of act 2 proper:

Elminster muttering to himself ruefully as he prepares to tell Gale bad news and wait for him to be ready. - 1: Weary Traveller: How will he react? He has a stout heart, but this...? - 2: Weary Traveller: Perhaps another way will present itself. But perhaps not.. - 3: Weary Traveller: I can't say I'm relishing this, but it must be done. - 4: Weary Traveller: I do wish this was over with.

the devnote is the same for all four idle comments:

devnote: Spoken to self. Weary, heavy heart. Waiting to deliver some tough news for someone.

not only does this give us another (heartbreaking imo) insight into how elminster himself feels about being forced to deliver mystra's demands - there are several others in the game itself, as well as gale quite clearly saying that he had no choice but to do so, defending elminster from the protag's anger - but it also does give us some more insight into how others perceive gale.

and not just others, but those who have known him longest.

elminster says he has a "stout heart", which also ties in beautifully - and heart-wrenchingly - with his epilogue letter, speaking about gale's kindness, eagerness and brilliance.

the "stout heart" comment resonated very much with me because it reminded me of yet another line from tara, another life-long companion of gale:

Tara the Tressym: If that's all, then what comes after is for you to decide, Mr Dekarios. Think well on all that's happened, and stay true to that heart of yours. It's a good one.

which in turn reminded me of an all-time favourite lore blurb:

Tressym were sometimes kept as familiars by wizards and sorcerers. They needed to be experienced mages capable of bonding with a more advanced creature, and the tressym would only accept a good-hearted master.

and though it's only a description and not in the game itself, i also immediately thought of gale's idle champions description:

With a kind heart, and a keen mind [...]

a stout heart, a good heart, a kind heart.

[sssarrrra]

Dying to stay alive. Why does Fyodor Dostoevsky enjoy being killed on purpose? Bsd analysis

Why Dostoevsky looks so young despite living for centuries? I think it's because he often gets killed. He literally has no time to age.

His skin care routine is being murdered every year or so. Maybe, even more often.

Fyodor CAN age, he isn't immune to it. He isn't immortal. He's ability isn't about eternal youth. He can get gray hair and wrinkles. But he doesn't. Dostoevsky looks almost identical to how he's been when he's met Bram centuries ago (minus a scar and an outfit). So why is it?

Let's assume that the physical "age" Fyodor naturally gains can be transferred to the new body he enters. And the only things that get "erased" are traces of harm left by someone else (bruises, cuts, scars, etc.)

Let's pretend that we know Fyodor's "biological" age. And it's 20. (That's just an assumption for this example!)

It would go like this: Fyodor's biologically 20. He lives until his 22, than gets killed. His "new" body will have the age of 22. Then he lives until he's 26 and dies unnaturally. He's biological age in the new body is gonna be 26.

And so on and so on. It means both his appearance and physic will gradually change. But we see NONE OF THAT. Present Fyodor is almost a twin copy of Fyodor from the past.

It means that Dostoevsky has never lived longer than a couple of years max without dying and respawning into a new body. He probably dies quit often and can't even get old enough because he simply doesn't have time.

Maybe, he has some mark on his calendar: "Need to die every year to keep my body young and relative healthy". And it's a strategy and nothing else. But I feel like there is more to that.

Dostoevsky probably enjoys the thrill of death (or near death) experience for various reasons.

People sometimes describe Dazai as a "suicide-addict", but THIS is a new level of it. These two share a hobby of trying to die often. But Dostoevsky not just tries. He dies. Fyodor's way of getting a rid of his stress is being brutally murdered by someone else. I wounder, if Dazai knew it how it would make him feel? To find out that Fyodor is drawn to death in the same way that he is? We'll find out eventually.

Dostoevsky meticulously got himself killed probably more than 300+ times or so. And, yes, sometimes it was work related incidents due to his plans. But he didn't HAVE to die so often, did he?

It honestly seems, that for Fyodor "dying" is just an extracurricular activity he does to pass the time. Some ppl go their friend's house to play video games. And Fyodor goes to someone's place -> dies there.

Maybe, Dostoy tries to connect with people by "dying" by their hands? When he transfers his mind into a new body, it makes him feel less lonely, somehow?

For example, Fyodor didn't have to break into Bram's castle and chat him up about demons. He didn't have to put his life on a line just to see how Bram would react to his musings about world-politics. He knew he would die, obviously. But he went anyway. Just to "catch a glimpse" of Bram (in his own words). And then, of course to get murdered. Did he hope that Bram would be the one to deliver a final blow? Did Fyodor secretly want to "posses" Bram's body from that long, long time ago?

You know how ppl joked about Fyodor's hobby being captured on purpose? Add "dying" to this list, asap.

He's reasons for overusing his ability to "reincarnate" are probably complicated.

A part of it is a need to escape/ease his guilt. Dostoy wants to feel like a martyr that has a right to commit sin. Maybe, it's his own self-punishment, a form of self-harm. He believes these short or long moments of agony "erase" the harm he does to others or, at least, balance it out.

On the other hand, Fyodor is still a human who wants to belong. But he spent decades in paranoia and isolation that affected him immensely. So now the only "true" connection Dostoevsky can create with someone is when he inserts his consciousness into their body. The flow of new feelings/goals keeps him distracted from himself and his bleak view of the reality. So he does it over and over.

Or is it just a boredom thing? Like living is such a drug he can't help but try to die?

Dostoy is too afraid/guilty to go to heaven right away so he passes time by adding bits of different personalities to himself. He has this semi-free subscription to people's agendas, he only has to die to access them. It keeps him entertained. Like a Netflix but he has to die to watch a "movie" from someone's POV, with their goals/emotions intact still.

Dostoy wants to pick up a new passion/hobby? No problem. He just needs to find someone who likes that particular interest, and than get murdered by that person. Then Fyodor can gain their insights into the topic (possibly).

I wish I could see the way Dostoevsky envisions humanity. It seems like he's both enmeshed with it to the point of losing himself and at the same time he's discarded by humanity and isolated from it.

It's such a mixed-up experience. No wounder Fyodor's mind is so… Bizarre.

[erogenousmind]

Executive Toy

Mrs. Duncan, in my office please.

The order echoed in Rose's mind as she closed the double doors behind her, and strode across the large, sparsely furnished office until she stood a few feet in front of his desk. She tried to look every part the administrative assistant she was employed as. Her skirt was short but tasteful as was the hair she wore down, stopping at the bottom of her neck. She felt her makeup made her look professional but still attractive, as she hoped her ensemble as a whole did. She'd always found her boss attractive, not that she would ever act on it. For a while she had been quite smitten by some combination of his power, his wealth, his looks, and his cool confidence. She tried not to lean into those feelings too much, but it probably made her better at her job.

"You called, Mr. Aurum?"

He raised a hand and gestured toward the large seat behind Rose. Following his cue, she sat and looked at him expectantly. He considered her in silence for a moment, holding her eyes with his, before he spoke.

"My schedule is open for the rest of the day, yes? No meetings?"

"That's correct, sir. You had work you wanted to do for the presentation to the board next week, and there was something related to an upcoming R&D project you wanted time to complete, but no meetings."

"Good." He nodded. While her employer was Rose's senior by almost a decade, he still maintained the appearance of a man in the prime of life. He radiated the timeless aura of the executive, complete with pressed suit, clean shave, and a head of hair that looked like they had been placed one by one. Rose had often thought he would have fit in equally well in the executive suites of any of the last 3 generations.

"I have no use for false modesty. I am successful...we are successful because I am harder working and better at what I do than anyone else. The meetings, the presentations, the addresses, the galas. They are a necessary part of success. But I am at my best when I can focus on my work without unwanted distraction." He emphasized the word as he looked down to one of the few objects on his desk not clearly devoted to productivity, and Rose felt her gaze drawn down with his.

He reached forward to pull back a single ball on the Newton's cradle and released it. It fell with a sharp clack sending the ball on the far end up into the air and repeating the process. A regular beat reverberated in the empty space of the office. Clack. Clack. Clack.

"For the longest time, I didn't understand the purpose of the executive toy," he continued, tilting his head to the side as he watched the balls swing back and forth. "I thought them a frivolous thing. A status symbol or a tool to stave off boredom for those who didn't earn what they have. But then I began to understand. Because it takes focus to achieve what you didn't think you could. It takes concentration. You have to train your mind to be able to focus so completely. To tune everything else out. And sometimes you need to let your mind rest. Allow it to process what it has learned. How it has changed. And when you have accomplished the task that was set before you, you need to be rewarded."

Rose was listening still, but she watched the cradle as the balls swung back and forth, her eyes jumping between each end to see the next ascent and descent. She had wondered for a moment if she needed to be taking notes, but it seemed much more natural to focus on what she was being told. To watch. And to listen. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack...

"Sometimes it can feel difficult to proceed," he continued. "Sometimes you don't know what to do next. And that's when it can be so powerful to focus. You can even find yourself doing exactly what you need to automatically. So often your body and your mind know the solutions to your problems without you realizing it. You just need to get out of the way. And so, when you can find something else to focus on, that deeper part of you, that part that knows exactly what it is supposed to do can take over. All you need to do is let it happen."

Something blocked her view for the briefest of moments, but Rose quickly regained her focus on the cradle. She was aware of movement. Her arms or her legs had adjusted somehow. Her head was in a different spot. She felt...different. But that was okay. Her body knew what to do. She needed to focus... Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack...

"You can imagine what a relief it can be, when you've been working so hard. How tired your mind can become. When there is something there that can draw your attention away. Can satisfy some part of you that had gone unfulfilled. Something you can pour yourself into. Lose yourself in it. Feel it consume you. And even when your mind shifts focus again, it can still be there, in the background. Still filling that role. Still providing your mind with what it needs. Allowing you to continue to achieve. To do exactly what you need to do. Your mind can even stay focused right here. Sinking down into it. Everything else forgotten. Your mind has been trained. It knows what to do. Even if you don't need to think."

Empty eyes stared ahead now, no longer focusing on the balls as they continued to swing. Behind them, Rose's empty head watched, passively. Listened. Her mind knew what to do. Her body knew what to do. She didn't need to think.

"And eventually, you can drop so deep into what you are doing, you lose yourself so completely, that all of you ends up right here. Your mind tied to the motion. Your thoughts, your will, even your sense of self all collected right here. Moving with it. Joined to it. Controlled by it. So completely enthralled in it, that all it takes." As he spoke, his hand steadily moved to catch a falling ball as it landed, freezing the motion of the toy on his desk. "And everything stops," he concluded.

Rose sat frozen. Her arms hung limply by her sides. Her mouth hung open, head hanging just a little to the side. Her eyes rolled back, eyelids fluttering. Her mind was open. Empty. But her body knew what to do. She had been trained for this. Slowly her hands began to show signs of life. Began to move from where they had fallen.

"And when you have focused so well, it is only natural that you reward yourself. There is no better way to train your mind than a reward for doing as you were supposed to do. You find the best ways to reward yourself. To give yourself that pleasure. To allow yourself to surrender to it."

Rose's hands were not obstructed as they began to roam her body. Her clothes lay scattered around her seat, forgotten. A moan escaped from her still open mouth at the word pleasure but she wasn't aware of it. If she was aware of anything, it was only the growing heat as her hand began to prod and pull and tease at her body more urgently. As her legs spread and she pulled her feet up on either side of her, allowing her fingers to explore deeply and, unwittingly, to give a better view.

The toy on his desk still and silent. Aurum paused to admire the toy in the seat in front of him, writhing and panting. It was amazing how excellent this was for his productivity. He worked surprisingly well just knowing she was there, able to see her out of the corner of his eye while he labored away. And when he would look up to rest, or to think, there was something centering about watching her mindlessly working herself into a more and more frenzied state for his viewing pleasure. And when he finished his work for the day, he knew well enough that he needed to reward himself. No better motivation to work quickly and efficiently.

Rose, his favorite toy, swayed slightly from the work of her hands on her body, rocking back and forth. Her mind was aware that she was the best toy. She was serving her purpose. She was achieving her goal. Their goal. Her body shook. Her hands varied their speed. Slowing when needed to keep her body and her arousal right where he wanted them. Speeding when she felt his eyes on her. At the end of the night, she would be aware as she walked out of this office, dressed and every bit the professional she had been when she walked in, knowing only that she had done her job well, oblivious to what that job entailed.

He started at her a moment longer, hunger in his eyes. He smiled, pleased with himself and with the progress they had made. They would both earn their reward tonight. But there was much to do first. He turned to his side and began his work in earnest. Her head still empty, Rose shuddered as a wave of pleasure rolled through her body.

[obeymematches]

Hi! How about hc of mc getting pursued by another demon to be with them instead since the demon brothers ignores them and doesn't treat them that well connected to their avatar (like how belphie ignores you 24/7 for sleep) I just wanna see possessive demon brothers please! 🥺

ahhh i remember the guy who i was _just_ talking to on tinder say i needed to have his name painted on my nails... what a funny guy he was

also i'm having this in several parts, it's gonna be that long.

Possessive.

Prolouge;

You supposed you and him had a special chemistry between the two of you. It is hard to describe what it was like but you felt it everytime you looked into his eyes, heard their voice, felt their touch. To your best knowledge the feeling was mutual, he did ask you out on a couple of dates. Until he stopped texting you (if you texted him he didn’t even open your messages) and sometimes you didn’t even see him for a day or two despite living in the same house. You didn’t want to make the situation more awkward than it already was , so from your point of view you made the most realistic decision. Catching another fish from the sea seem like a great idea.

Lucifer: He saw you from a distance as you were having a chat with Lord Diavolo himself. At the time he preferred not to think much of it. Not that the idea of you falling madly in love with the prince didn’t cross his mind; of course he did consider that a possibility. He knows Diavolo the best and he also knows he’d adore you if he got a chance to. The next day you and Diavolo walk by, completely unnoticing him. He didn’t eavesdrop; what would be the point of that? But he, or to be more specific, this side of the RAD building could hear Diavolo joking about and laughing with you. It was most unusual! Especially in public like this, Diavolo would normally keep it lowkey, it would be too risky to let anyone know he enjoys your company.

That’s when The Avatar of Pride had the idea to check the message you sent him ….. almost 3 weeks ago.

Was telling you he was busy be good enough? Would you buy that? Most likely not. It was a shame he let the situation escalate like this, however it’s been decades or maybe even a century since he felt chemistry with anyone the way he did with you. Of course he can’t tell you like it is, otherwise he wouldn’t be the Avatar if Pride but the Avatar of Bluntness.

As much as it hurt his ego to admit it, he did grow fond of you.

„Meet me in my office, 3PM today.”

As you read his message your little human heart almost skipped a beat. It’s going to be awkward assisting him after you started growing feelings for him, feelings which he pretty clearly never reciprocated. You don’t really feel like meeting him, quite honestly.

So you didn’t meet him. He could call you if it was so urgent anyway.

The next day he made sure to run into you when you weren’t in the company of his friend.

„We must talk. Are you free now?”

„I am, for now. I have a class in 20 minutes.”

„I am sorry I did not talk to you about it sooner. Our last date was everything I could ask for. It would be a shame if you were seeing anyone else now. Are you free this afternoon?”

„Oh…um…how should I put this… if you really enjoyed it that much how come you were avoiding me for weeks?”

„I will tell you everything later. I promise.”

• It is up to you to accept or decline him now, however his possessivenes will get the best of him in the following days. He’ll be waiting for you after classes just to talk to you. Sometimes he even gives you a rose. Why is he being so desperate now? Thankfully his pride doesn’t allow him to talk to Diavolo about the situation.

Mammon:

There you are, in his favourite pub, playing pool with two attractive demons plus a duo who appears to be a couple. He knows you can’t play pool very well; it was most definitely not your idea to come here and play. Then who’s? Are you on a date? That cannot be happening.

Yes, he stopped spending time with you but it hasn’t been that long, has it??

He checked your message which you sent about 4 days ago. Surely not much time has passed since!

He ordered himself AND YOU a drink and didn’t hesitate to go up to you.

„Heyy, watcha up to? This ones for ya.”

„Thanks Mammon-„

„So who’re ya here with?”

„I’m with my friend” you look at one of the members of the couple.

„And who’re these losers? Lemme join ya!” he said as he put his arm around your waist.

„Well actually we don’t know them. They were just here, playing.”

The night went by, Mammon did provide you support in the game, although he is not much of a pro himself either. He did his best.

„Sorry I didn’t text ya. I was hustlin at Hell’s Kitchen ya know, givin me sweet money for working nightshift.”

You didn’t really reply as it was still a bit hard to believe him.

„And I also got me a second hustle for the day. I needa get more money! I wanna take ya on some nice ass dates, not a stupid coffe from the machine again.”

• Even if you tell him so he won’t leave you alone for the night. • Which is nice as the unknown demons left already! Now you are for sure for him only!

Part 1.

Tumblr is out there making me fight for my life as I'm trying to edit this post

[frownyalfred]

Hi! Just off ao3 on various storms and saints, ( Left a long comment - hope you like it, and my question is: What did Alfred and Pa talk about during that time on the porch? I'm just picturing Alfred, who has seen firsthand the complexities of living a dual life and dealing with intensely protective parents (like Bruce's own history, and his relationship with the Bat-family), and Pa, who is grappling with decades of fear and the recent, terrifying reality of Clark's powers saving his life. What happened there? What wisdom did Alfred share? How did he help Pa start to process what happened and perhaps begin to understand the "other world" that Clark lives in? Did he perhaps share anecdotes about Bruce's own dangerous life, or how he, Alfred, learned to cope with it? I just imagine Alfred being the perfect person to help Pa bridge that gap between his fear and his immense pride for Clark.

Also, what if: *Lois* had been present for that dinner, instead of Diana and Bruce (or even in addition to them)? That past relationship tag really got me thinking! How would her dynamic with the Kents have played out, especially during that intense conversation where Pa shuts down discussion of Clark's 'other life'? Would her journalistic instincts kick in during the crisis? How would she have reacted to the whole situation, given her own history with both Clark Kent and Superman? I feel like her presence could have either made things incredibly more complicated:)

Ahhh thank you for asking me about this! Even though it was so quick to write, that fic really took over my brain for weeks. I very much appreciated your comment, I've re-read it like six times now to get through today haha.

Alfred and Pa

In my mind, they were talking about Bruce and Clark, yes. But I don't think it was an immediate connection. Pa balked at Alfred's softer, elegant explanations and said "You have more of a right to be just as much of a basket case about this as I am, your boy can get hurt" and Alfred has to gently backtrack and dig into why that's an issue for Pa. So what is he afraid of, if it's not Clark being injured? Pa would then talk about how some people revere Superman, sure, but so many people don't. People spit on him. They want him arrested. They want him put on trial for the lives he "took" in Metropolis during Black Zero.

What Pa is truly afraid of is the people who hate Superman, because that means hating the good, kind boy/man underneath the cape. And Clark cares, so damn much. Pa worries about people taking advantage of that. Of digging into his past and using him. He didn't like Lois on paper or on sight because he thought she was just using him to get to Superman for her articles. Not entirely untrue in this fic, but not charitable to her either.

Alfred can work with that. People hate Batman, even more than they hate Superman. Everyone wants to unmask him. Half of Gotham wants to torture him on a good day. No good deed goes unpunished with him, ever. And Alfred has to sit there and watch it happen. Watch Gotham beat down a son who cares for it so dearly.

The wisdom I think Alfred ultimately shared with Pa was that those halves/lives/masks aren't as discreet as they sometimes appear. You couldn't take Gotham from Bruce Wayne, you couldn't take Batman from Gotham, and on and on. They bleed into each other. The only true undercurrent is the care. The devotion to the mission and higher ideals. That runs through every version of the man, past present and future.

Getting Pa to admit that he's worried people won't treat Clark well because of Superman and vice versa is an important step. Then having him listen to Alfred describe how Bruce cannot be someone else, even when he is. Clark has this other life because he needs it, and he's made the choice to bear those insults and threats. Across all of his lives. Denying it in one life would create chaos elsewhere. Imagine a Bruce who could only hurt people as Batman, without Bruce Wayne's fundraising and welfare apparatus. Imagine a Bruce who had to perpetually sit at a table and pretend to be less than, dumber, less involved. No gaps, no breaks. It would be torture.

Clark does it to make Pa happy. But it hurt him. He tried to make Lois happy in the opposite direction, and it ALSO hurt him badly. She wanted Superman more than she wanted Clark Kent. I think because she didn't truly understand Clark Kent, because he kept his lives so stiff and separated. I think it would have been a good conversation for her to witness, but it would have been such a world-rocking kind of realization, seeing Clark Kent for Superman and Superman for Clark Kent, that I think she'd need time away. If their relationship was already on the ropes, this wouldn't help.

I think the only reason the conversation worked is because Bruce and Diana were there and 100% on Clark's side. They backed up both versions of him when Lois and even his parents couldn't. They did the farm visit and the family dinner and they did the JL emergency all in one breath.

[positivelybeastly]

Would love your thoughts on Hank's sense of style and what the big blue furball might do to spice up his wardrobe. Understandably, his size and the fur can make insulation and fitting a drag.

With he and Emma being friends in some iterations, I also wonder what he might look like in a Hellfire Gala outfit? Maybe a deep open-v suit?

With him being so theatrical and charming you can't help but wonder what it'd be like if he let himself dress up (or down, if he wants to be comfy)

"I believe it was Harry Winston, a luxury jeweller, who said that, 'people will stare. Make it worth their while.' You can understand why such a sentiment rings true for me.

I wouldn't say that I'm vain, but I do take a good amount of care in my appearance - how you dress, how you comport yourself, how you present, it all adds up to the impression you make and the way you live on in people's heads. Fashion and style are, naturally, an important part of that."

So, Hank is one of those characters for whom dress is an important facet of their personality and their presentation - in some ways, just as important as it is for, say, Emma Frost, Sebastian Shaw, Monet St. Croix, Janet van Dyne, Warren Worthington; it's a very particular kind of character that obsesses over these minute details, but Hank is unique among them because fashion feels as though it was, in some respects, something he had to start paying attention to, rather than being an indulgence born of wealth or an expectation that came about as a result of social class.

Hank, being a farmboy who grew up in Illinois, did not originally have the same expectation of standards for dress as, say, Emma or Warren. So, naturally, you see a fair amount of variation of casual clothing when he's younger. Black turtlenecks, shirts, and, especially when he became more athletically inclined, jerseys and the like.

It's an underrated aspect of Hank's character, but he's very much a social chameleon. In Defenders #116, he has this monologue:

"I developed an interesting skill. I learned how to recreate myself - how to construct new personalities to win people over, and protect me from them at the same time. In my X-Men days, it was the 'intellectual' game. That was the Hank McCoy you first met - the guy who hid behind a smokescreen of big words and big ideas.

But inside I was the same scared kid I always was. I thought I was beginning to find myself when I left Professor Xavier's school, and went out on my own - but then I accidentally turned myself into this overgrown Muppet, and it was back to square one! My whole world fell apart!

To keep myself together, I put on a new mask. No more stuffy, brainy Henry McCoy. Now I was Happy-Go-Lucky Hank, the man of a thousand jokes! I'll tell you, sometimes I don't know who I am!"

Naturally, this all goes part and parcel with his dress sense, and you see it again when he joins the X-Men - not only does he conform to the Professor's ideas of what was best to wear, usually a smart suit (which was the general expectation for a lot of young men in the 60s, and it's sort of 'artifacted' over even though he logically can't have been born in that decade anymore), but he also tends not to show much variation in his costumes, either.

And a general consideration that you always have to bear in mind with Hank, in ANY form, is that shoes are pretty much always painful. He finds any excuse to take them off, and when he does wear them, unless there's a requirement for them to be of a certain style, he usually opts for something like a sandal. This naturally impacts his stylistic choices to a degree.

But, even still, he's dressing fairly normally for the moment. One has to imagine his clothes are, if not tailored, then probably being bought from a specialist store designed for men with larger builds, which probably contributes to why he's not sticking out very much when it comes to his sartorial decisions - but, realistically speaking, it's a conscious choice: he's trying to blend in.

"Fashion is the armour to survive the reality of everyday life," said Bill Cunningham - well, I think that's certainly true for Hank in this stage of his life. But, naturally, things are going to change for Hank, and I've always found it significant that he initially tries to continue presenting as he has before, with a mix of make-up, binders and encompassing suits, to maintain a through-line of normality.

"I'm a man again!" Literally one of the single most trans coded characters in all of fiction if you bother to examine him closely enough, but, whatever, we're here to talk about fashion.

Now, eventually, he realises that he can't do this for the rest of his life - he has to come out of his shell and embrace who he is.

So, now we come to one of the first decisions of self-presentation that Hank has, largely, had to make for himself. Explicitly, this is his choice of how to be viewed . . . and it is brazen. He isn't wearing a costume, really, he isn't wearing a helmet or a mask, he is almost buck naked! He's cast off the armour, and embraced who he is.

Now, he's gonna go back and forth on this, he's gonna have his up days and his down days, but it's still an important part of his character in this form - think about what it says, to have made this mistake that's going to define you for the rest of your life, and then to wear it on your sleeve.

Think about what it says, that Hank turned blue and furry and bestial, and he said, fuck it, I'm going to show the world what and who I am. Honestly, it's a powerful statement! Lauren Hutton once said, "Fashion is what you're offered four times a year by designers. And style is what you choose." Well, Hank is choosing this!

But, there's two other factors to consider.

One! Hank is on a team with a noted fashion designer, Janet van Dyne, who has all kinds of experience with fabrics and fashions and designs that have to fit on unconventional body types (for those who don't know the name, she's the Wasp, and her partner was Ant-Man/Giant-Man), so I've always been of the belief that almost all of Hank's clothes from this point on are van Dyne originals, either given to him or bought using his Avengers wages, unless they seem like they wouldn't fit Janet's styles.

Two! Hank is a sexual being now.

This man is roughly 21 years old. He's a superhero. He lives life on the edge. Every day could be his last. He has disposable income, a muscular body, wit, charm, and boundless intelligence.

Which means he's gonna fuck. And let's be real here, the man can get away with wearing nothing, he's doing it most of the time, but people appreciate it when you put a little effort into what you wear. It shows that you care. So, now we start to see Hank indulging in fashion.

This is one of my favourite outfits for Hank, because it is so painfully 1970s, and yet. Iris Apfel once said, "Fashion you can buy, but style you possess. The key to style is learning who you are, which takes years. There's no how-to road map to style. It's about self expression and, above all, attitude."

Hank possesses self expression and attitude in spades. The clothes do not wear him, he wears them. If you aren't aware of Derek Guy, writer of Die, Workwear! then you should do a dive into some of his writing, but here's a Twitter thread talking about some peak 1970s tailoring, and if you look at it, it's clear that Hank is cutting edge.

This is not a fashion disaster. This is chic. This is a man who exudes confidence, who knows that bright colours suit a man with an uncommon complexion, who knows that a suit and tie aren't quite appropriate for clubbing in the '70s, so he's opted for something open, something daring, something loud, something that suits him.

This outfit from the same issue is the same - I'm awfully sad we don't get to see more of it. The purple shirt is such a nice touch, and yellow is a hard colour to pull off in real life, but Hank makes it work for him.

Classic panel, classic look! Because here's the thing - if you take a moment to really look at Hank and Simon here, if you can see past the colours that the 1970s allowed men to wear without being considered garish, again, this is a well tailored suit, with a shirt that speaks to confidence and self-assuredness, to individuality. Again, he's not wearing clothes that cover up who he is, he's matching his skin tone and pitching his clothing to match.

You need to know what colours complement you, and bright colours, especially yellow, have always suited Hank.

But! He also knows that different social occasions call for different things. After all, Oscar de la Renta once said, "Being well dressed hasn't much to do with having good clothes. It’s a question of good balance and good common sense." Meaning that you can't always be sporting bright colours, sometimes you have to dress a bit more modestly - but there's a difference between modest, and boring.

This is a lovely outfit for Hank - a bit later now, this is mid-1980s, and you would think that this is dressing down a bit so that he can give a lecture, but, befitting the tone of his address and his personality, his outfit is formal, yet still spirited! Slate grey complements his fur colour nicely, but there are a lot of fun touches to elevate what could be a boring outfit, such as the bright blue cummerbund and bowtie (which is a touch oversized), and the white piping along his pants.

The powder blue accentuates his natural colour while working in tandem with the shirt and suit - there is no clash here, apart from the bright yellow button, but, given that he's wearing a Church of the SubGenius badge here, a parody religion that used the tactic of culture jamming to promote an avoidance in mainstream commercialism and the belief in absolute truths, that's probably intentional! He wants you to notice it! Command of colour balance! It's important!

It's also interesting to compare it to two later outfits he would wear while in his feline form.

On the left, a darker blue suit, a less loud bowtie - in conjunction with the glasses, he's notably more official and formal looking, which is appropriate for the occasion (here, he's dismantling the old Xavier school after the X-Men have moved to San Francisco, so it's almost a kind of mourning outfit), but still tasteful. He is not stodgy or ill-dressed, it's just a different take on much the same outfit.

Compare and contrast with what he's wearing on the right - still slate grey, but with a brighter bowtie, a tasteful red, and a waistcoat. Notably more buttoned up, notably more prim, and the bowtie is notably pitched up to attract attention - all of which is intentional. He's attempting to control where you're looking in a way that the outfit on the left is not, even though it's ostensibly the exact same ensemble. The dark blue blends with his fur, the slate grey contrasts - the one on the right is notably 'louder' and commands attention. These are choices. These are choices being made by a man that has come to effortlessly manipulate clothing so that you see what he wants you to see.

Even when it comes to casual wear.

Think about what these choices say. They speak to relaxation, to ease, to the projection of casualness. This is not a man who is afraid of dressing up when the occasion calls for it - but that's the point, isn't it? When the occasion calls for it.

Now, with all that established, I'm gonna just showcase some other examples of Hank's style, in the form of a moodboard I made quite some time ago!

And I'm going to shout out a favourite of mine.

White suit, cream vest, red shirt, purple tie - such a mixture of colours, and yet. It all just sort of works, doesn't it?

Oh, oh, and another favourite of mine!

Pinstripe vest with the arms cut off for the gun show? I'm sorry, but that is incredible. That is a style icon. That's sportiness and formality in one outfit, that says I can lay you out with one punch but I'm not going to because I'm a man of grace and gentleness. Have you ever seen an outfit that's more effortlessly Hank McCoy?

Now, naturally, this all falls apart when we get to Krakoa . . .

Immediately a downgrade. The fit, at least here, looks fine, but it's just so boring and practical and blends in - and, yes, I understand that it's a Hellfire Gala at which X-Force is providing security, but it just doesn't feel like Hank to me? And, I hate to point this out, but if the objective is to blend in, then, surely, if you're at a party at which everyone is wearing things like this . . .

Then wearing something bland and nondescript only actually serves to make you stand out more? So it's in this weird halfway house of boring enough to mark you out as security, but too boring to make you actually blend in.

And that's before we get into the bolo tie. Bolo ties, a type of necktie consisting of a piece of cord or braided leather with decorative metal tips (called aiguillettes) and secured with an ornamental clasp or slide, are usually associated with Western cowboy culture - you see Wolverine wearing these things, and it just doesn't fit any version of Hank's aesthetic?

It's also just a very loud kind of neckwear to be wearing if we're going with the security aesthetic, it draws attention immediately, especially the splotch of red that makes the X stand out - if we're going for something subtle, surely black on white would have been a better choice? To say nothing of the shorts, which - like, usually, those make a ton of sense for Hank, he's wearing them with the pinstripe vest I highlighted above, but again, it contrasts so much with the stately, boring aesthetic of the outfit?

All it takes is one look at everyone's outfit to see that Hank got a uniquely raw deal here - Sage and Domino look great with the asymmetrical fits, to say nothing of it complementing their natural colour choices; Wolverine looks fine, the bolo tie suits him; Quentin looks, bleh, but it's serviceable; and then there's Hank. Being humiliated in this shitty little shorts suit with a bolo tie that doesn't suit him. It's just so unflattering.

This is the choice of a man who doesn't give a fuck, which is not Hank - but, then again, this is X-Force, are we remotely surprised that this isn't a very Hank thing to wear? Even the clothing choices are off-base. And one of the other instances that comes to mind . . .

Ugh. It's literally drawn to be as bulbous and ill-fitting and unpleasant as possible. Even details like the band of the bow tie being visible are all wrong. This is humiliation by fashion, and I refuse to believe that it wasn't intentional.

Now, as for what I would have wanted out of a Hellfire Gala outfit for Hank? Honestly, I found a lot of them to be particularly garish and loud, but something that's still befitting Hank's outspoken style while not being embarrassing would be nice. I think that something like Colman Domingo's style would be appropriate!

Something impressive, something loud, but not garish, something that complements and accentuates the body rather than overpowering it. Hell, consider the larger body type that Hank was sporting during Krakoa - something open, that showcased his musculature but also his pleasing roundness, would have been rather avant garde, honestly. Kris Anka, notably for his fashion sensibilities, has even drawn Hank in this form (albeit slimmer) before, and he came out with something really quite lovely! It's possible!

Finally, I'll leave off with a piece by Sam Johnstone, and I'd like to draw particular attention to his blurb:

"Dr. Hank McCoy AKA Beast! – Kicking off the second year of Mutant Mondays with one of the most well known X-Men there is. There have been so many versions of Beast over the years, from gregarious and avuncular to sociopathically pragmatic, and that breadth of representation is one of the reasons I put off drawing him – how do you pick which version of the character to focus on? 

He’ll always be one of the most interesting characters from the perspective of ‘mutation’ – one of the few examples in Marvel comics where a character is not just allowed to change over time, but one who is defined by the incremental, unpredictable nature of that change, whether in his personality or in what literal form his body takes. 

Like so many people, my first exposure was though the animated series, but the moment that unlocked him for me was in New X-Men, where he reckons with the fear of what his changing body means for his sense of self. When his appearance becomes more feline, and his hands grow into paws and he loses the dexterity that was always the one way his physical mutation actually complimented his brain instead of contrasted it. So that’s the era I’ve tapped into here. I’ve taken the feline-era’s lion-like features down a notch, and imagined a version of that approach that blended the more animalistic aspects of his mutation with his avengers physicality. 

Now onto the fashion: I wanted to put him in some american ivy inspired menswear since I think his vanity is one of his most under-sung characteristics (and also, the browns compliment his fur), and the version of the character leaping around in underarmor is much less interesting to me than the version of the character who is definitely wearing fake lenses in his wire-rim frames. My ideal interpretation would have Hank really into tailoring, to balance form with function (Saying to cyclops "With the right materials and cut, you can do any amount of superheroing in a sport coat. Any choice not to is just personal style")."

I couldn't agree more with Mr. Johnstone here. Hank has a sense of vanity, an indisputable appreciation for what appearance means and what it communicates. I've talked at length about how his relationship with his body necessitates a degree of performance of not just humanity, but also specifically masculinity, a degree of gender presentation - he wants to be recognised as human, and not just specifically human, but warm blooded male, and his clothing sense should absolutely reflect that.

Also tagging @mccoysofthemultiverse because I'm sure their Hal has thoughts on all of this.