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ghcstlyy · 4 months

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"Force you to Sleep."

you cannot tell me that this man is not a cuddler. my first time writing for the slasher fandom so please be nice to me.

reader has trouble sleeping. bo is annoyed at their absence and comes to bring them back to bed. kind of comfort for disassociation? if that's not an accurate term I apologize. reader is gender neutral.

The alarm clock read 2:47AM as you rolled over onto your side, the red glow of the numbers displayed just softly enough to not bother your eyes. You couldn't sleep again, and had gotten tired of trying to sleep, and staring off into the darkness. Rinse and repeat. You had to get up. Trying your best not to wake Bo as you slipped out of bed, you silently cursed the both of you for being so damn clingy at night. Somehow you managed to wiggle out of his grasp without disturbing his sleep. Making your way down the stairs, every creak in the steps sounded x10 louder than it really was in the dead silence of the house. Part of you wondered if you should have just stayed in bed even longer, waiting out whatever was keeping you from sleep until you eventually knocked out. 'Too late now', you thought.

As you stood in the kitchen, listening to the sounds of the crickets and other nocturnal creatures, and staring off out the window, you felt... uneasy. Ambrose always unsettled you at night. Sure, it was weird enough during the day, but it was your home now. It felt safe, especially with the boys walking around all the time. Not at night, though. Something felt different as you stared out the window at the empty, dark streets, the empty yards and houses. It felt like the town was staring back at you.

Bo had noticed your absence rather quickly after you'd gotten out of bed. At first he figured you were probably going to the bathroom or something. He didn't bother moving, and went back to sleep. That was, until you didn't come back. He couldn't stay asleep for long without you anymore. The feeling of the empty space in the bed beside him pulled him back to consciousness once again, and he found himself frustrated. What the hell were you doing? Why hadn't you made your way back upstairs, and into his grasp again yet? Whatever it was about that town, had captivated you so completely you hadn't even noticed as he made his way down the creaky stairs and sauntered sleepily up behind you.

This wasn't the first time he had found you like this. It had become a recurring thing these past couple weeks, and he'd never say it aloud, but he was concerned. He'd come down, and usually find you staring off out the window just like you were now, or mindlessly scrolling through TV channels without even paying attention to what was on the screen. It'd take him a minute to get your attention, coaxing you out of whatever state you were in during those moments. Slowly, and as gently as he could, he reached out and placed a hand on your waist. "(Y/N)."

Bo's voice was quiet, just above a whisper as he coaxed you out of your trance like he always did. He wrapped an arm around you, and turned you to face him. You didn't break your gaze from the window until he gently grasped your chin, tilting your head to look at him instead. "Sweetheart. What're you doin' down here, hm?" Your gaze finally met his, and he gave you a tired smile. "There ya' are. What's goin' on?" You wrapped your arms around his torso, slowly coming back to it as you focused on the soft sound of his voice.

"Couldn't sleep. Sorry..." Was all the explanation you could manage in the moment, and he nodded, bringing you against his chest. His arms wrapped around you securely. "At's alright. Don't need to apologize to me." He brought a hand up to stroke your hair. "Come back to bed, hm? S'Lonely without you up there." He wasn't really asking you to come back to bed. More like telling you, but y'know... nicely. "Need to stop leavin' me at night." His tone was comforting, but you were aware enough now to know he was being serious. Bo didn't like waking up to an empty bed in the middle of the night. It sent his paranoia through the roof, thinking maybe you'd ran off or worse, something had happened to you.

As you attempted to further ground yourself, taking in the feeling of his skin against yours, the smell of him as he held you securely against his frame, you felt yourself be lifted off your feet. One arm hooked itself under your knees, the other holding you securely around your torso. "C'mon. Let's get you some sleep, hm?" Bo kissed the top of your head, and carried you up the stairs. Gently, he set you in the bed, chuckling softly as you nestled yourself comfortably in the blankets. He slipped into bed next to you, his arms wrapping around you to pull you tight against his chest. His head rested in the crook of your neck, nestled against you. Bo knew you were probably out already, muttering to himself as he drifted off.

"Next time I'll force ya' to sleep if I have to."

#bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #sinclair brothers #sinclair brothers x reader #slashers #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #house of wax #house of wax (2005)#gn reader

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aaa-japan-store · 2 years

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Shin Megami Tensei Card Game Nocturne Rare Holo N-023 Samuel 🛒　https://www.aaa-japan-store.com/products/shin-megami-tensei-card-game-nocturne-rare-holo-n-023-samuel #shinmegamitensei #cardgame #tcg #tradingcard #megamitensei #nocturne #rare #holocard #samuel #akuma #atlus #mediafactory #chaos #neutral #law #tokyo #japananime #kazumakaneko #japangames #tokyogameshow #mediamix #persona #devil #digitaldevilstory #cardcollector #akihabara https://www.instagram.com/p/CdF_OJmvHxO/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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stormgardenscurse · 2 months

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‘do you remember? back when…’

Summary: a childhood friends AU! Well, Lilia’s is more like ‘back in our youth’ rather than childhood, but you get the gist.

Characters: Lilia, Malleus, Riddle, Jamil, Vil

Content warning: the Reader is gender neutral, but it’s mentioned they’ve worn dresses in Malleus’ part.

If you liked this, consider checking out my TWST Isekai Fanbook, now digitally available on my kofi!

Lilia Vanrouge

Back when you were both training to be knights, you mistook Lilia for a girl at first.

In your defense, it’s simply because of how pretty he is, yet so cutthroat and lithe on his feet that you swear this is what they mean by ‘angels of death’ descending on a battlefield.

Lilia calls you weird for comparing him to that when he much prefers to think of himself as some type of demon, or harbinger of doom.

“Do I still not look intimidating enough for you?” He’d asked, sharp teeth flashing with the question as the both of you leaned against the railings on the castle rooftop. Lilia angles his head back to gaze at you, and you think to yourself how it exposes the pale skin of his neck, which he’d never show to any opponent in a fight.

Two of your fingers reach to tap on that expanse of skin, causing Lilia to freeze from the contact. He tilts his head, comfortable enough that he hasn’t decided to shove you away yet.

“It’s just… you seem more mortal to me.” You shrug. “As mortal as a fae can be, anyways. I can reach out and touch you, and I would walk away unharmed.”

“That’s because I allow you to.” Lilia rolls his eyes. He finally steps away, picking up his weapon — heavy and gleaming emerald. From beneath his lashes, he gives you a challenging smile as he flips and catches it in his hand. “Care to spar before we turn in for the night?”

“Maybe you’re a vampire after all.” You pretend to be tired of his late requests, but follow Lilia down to the training grounds regardless. “The kind that human kingdoms are romanticizing in their newest novels. Sparkly under the sunlight.”

“If you’d like to sleep already, I’d be more than happy to croon you a lullaby.”

“You’ll only do so after I’m defeated on the ground, I’m sure.” With a pause, you give Lilia a proposal. “If I win, I’ll sing to you instead. But I’m not carrying you back to your dorm.”

“Oh? It’s a deal, then.”

Ever since, you can’t be sure if Lilia likes to throw your sparring matches just for the chance to hear you sing. You don’t often do so (you’re knights, after all), so he regards it as a secret side of you that only he gets to witness. You only come to this contemplation after feelings spark between you — face flushed as you wonder what to do next when you’ve fallen for someone so impossible.

He’s already been keeping you up at night with his nocturnal tendencies and hangouts… and now this?!

Malleus Draconia

It helps that as children, you never truly processed who Malleus was until a little later in your friendship. You were told he’s the son of the royal advisor, and so you prattled to him with questions of what the crown prince is like. He’d answer vaguely, sometimes saying that His Royal Highness has bad habits, and you’d nod along, hanging onto his every word.

Malleus soon realizes that you don’t care as much for ‘the prince’ as much as you did for him as your mysterious friend. You were both lonely noble-children, and you enjoyed sharing treats, flowers, and any new thing you could with Malleus. Once, he even tried on the trendiest dresses with you out of curiosity, and you lamented the fact that he could’ve made a beautiful girl.

No one would dare say that to him in any lifetime, other than you. Though to be fair, you didn’t know he was the prince yet.

“Flowers look wonderful in your hair! Since it’s dark, they stand out.” You continue weaving yellow and blue blooms into Malleus’ locks. “...Hey, what do you think life would be like if we were regular children?”

“Not nobles, you mean?” He hums, helping you decorate your hair once you’re done with his. He casts an easy spell to dye your hair with highlights to match the dress. “I suppose we’d be towns-children frolicking without a care in the world.”

“We’d still be friends, right…?”

Malleus pauses at the anxious edge in your voice. Perhaps you were just as reliant on this comforting friendship as he was. He tells himself to hide his status for a little while longer. “Of course. Our parents would still be acquainted, and we’d still have playdates — only running through the roads rather than castle halls.”

It’s hard to find a real friend amongst noble children. Some cling to their families, others are picky or judgmental, and…

A lot are only friends for as long as the other is useful.

“We should have an outing in the city one day.” You smile, trying to fight away the heavy air. “I’m sure you’d like the marketplace. I’ve only seen it from inside a carriage, but it looks fun.”

Soon, the outing is arranged. However…

“Before we go, there’s something I need to tell you.” Malleus takes your hands in his, squeezing them as if to ground himself in the moment. Time passes quickly for the fae, but his heart is beating out of his chest at what your reaction might be.

…He ends up delaying this reveal until the end of your excursion. But the last thing he expects is for your eyes to well up with tears and for you to latch onto him in a hug.

“I’m… I’m so sorry—! If only I was more reliable, you wouldn’t have to keep this a secret, and…”

As you let out a hiccup and continue apologizing, Malleus’ confusion melts into a soft smile, hugging you back.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle’s mother didn’t know about your existence for a while, as you’d always sneak over to his window after she left the house. You claimed you knew how accomplished his family is, so you told Riddle you’d prepare for a better impression in the future! “That way, we can hang out normally or study together!”

Truth be told, the only studying you’re interested in is with practical magic — as another child with an affinity with magic, you’ve been going to the library often to read up on theories, experimenting with what spells you can do.

As worried as Riddle is for your safety (you’ve been doing all this without supervision), he’s also very curious about watching magic unfold from your own hands. You showed him a color changing spell once, surprising him by appearing with a different appearance — it was cute how he panicked, thinking you went ahead and dyed your entire head pink.

“And nothing hurts? No side effects?” He asked.

“Nope! And one day, we can both attend a magic school and do spells like these all the time!”

One day… Despite how he’s temporarily stuck at home still, adhering to his mother’s strict rules, he clings onto the hope that it’ll fruition in him becoming a great mage. Then, when that happens, he can be the one to wow you with magic you haven’t seen before. Just as you have all these months, visiting with the intention of cheering him up or encouraging him.

On rare days, you manage to sneak Riddle out of the window for a quick visit to the park or library. There, with his heart thumping out of his chest, he’d marvel at the world you’re so familiar with already, and so willing to place into his unsteady palms.

“Can you read that?” You ask, pointing at a passage in a history book. While technically rebelling, you still chose a book on the same topic Riddle was meant to study at home.

“Yes, it’s…” As Riddle translates the scripture, he realizes you’re listening very intently. And all of a sudden, the closeness of your seats in the corner of the library makes him flush, realizing how you’ve always spoken to him kindly. Different from the playful tones you used at the start of your friendship, or currently do with the acquaintances he’s seen you greet along the way.

It’s been a while since he’s felt special, especially as the sentiment expired after years of his mother claiming he had a gift; that because he had the potential to be perfect, it'd come at a price of overwhelming pressure.

So why does your kind of ‘special’ feel like a balm?

Jamil Viper

Between his busy schedule working for the Al-Asims, it’s all Jamil can do to relax in the solitude of his own room… that is, until you’re temporarily displaced from your own, and have been allocated to bunk with Jamil since he’s ‘very capable’ and close to your age. Another bed is moved in. There’s still space, but Jamil dislikes having his privacy encroached upon.

The two of you never interacted before this, but he’s seen you around the mansion before doing chores and learning from the head servants. You aren’t too chatty, Jamil thinks, until you finally break it to him after the night of a banquet (the both of you too tired to keep up appearances, slumped on your respective beds), that he frowns a lot. And that’s why you haven’t spoken to him much until now.

Jamil blinks once, then twice. “I do?” He’s always been good at controlling his facial expressions—

“Yeah, when you think people aren’t looking.” You raise a finger in the air. “Especially when the meals aren’t to your liking, you tend to look around with judgmental eyes.”

“So you watch me when we’re at work.”

“Only because you never looked like you wanted to talk.” It’s not accusatory, merely an observation from you. With a sigh, Jamil falls on his back against the mattress. “Did you see the performers at the banquet?”

“The dancers were great. I saw them practicing in the morning before the event.” Jamil answers. It’s the first time you’re having a proper conversation, and while he’s not as chatty as Kalim (who he’s normally assigned to watch), you feel at ease.

“I remember them! The kitchen was handing out meals to the staff, and I was one of the delivery people.”

“Did you help cook too? There wasn’t enough salt in the curry.”

“You—! Then come and help us yourself!”

“Too much work.” Jamil pushes himself up on his elbows just to stick his tongue out at you, before turning to lay on his side. “We should rest. Tomorrow the guests are leaving, so the suites have to be cleaned.”

Even after you move back to your room, you spend time with Jamil, running off to the market after visiting family, and watching street performers and food vendors go about their day. On rare occasions, you knock on his window when you have a bad dream, and Jamil groggily holds up a conversation until you’ve calmed down. The stars are especially twinkly on those nights, as if they’re another witness to the friendship you shared beneath busy days and tall adults.

“Do you think we’d make good adults, Jamil?”

“Not many adults are good at it either. So we’ll be fine.”

“Well… That’s true. Goodnight, Jamil.”

“...Goodnight. Sleep tight.”

Vil Schoenheit

When you first met Vil as kids, you were intimidated by him not because he acted in evil roles, but because he had the aura of an adult.

“It’s weird… you look my age, but walk and talk like a grown-up.”

“Hm, I guess that’s not too bad of an impression. …What’s your name?”

You were next-door neighbors, and suffice to say your interests lied more in pop-culture as an audience rather than as an artist on-stage. It’s a world away from Vil who’s a child-actor and upcoming model, but when he’s not pursuing such work, he’s still just a boy.

…A boy who you were very surprised to see act his age, when he was with his father or smiled as he told you about the movies they starred in. You’d always listen, realizing that while Vil was always pretty, he’s even more eye-catching when he’s rambling about something he’s passionate about. It almost makes you want to grow up quickly too and pursue your own dreams.

No one would see this side of him outside the comfort of your homes, though. Vil has an image to uphold (at least, you’re quite sure he’s trying to craft a persona for the camera, considering how he asks you what you think an actor’s personality should be like), so you try and cover for him when strangers ask about Vil. Giving just enough praise without revealing too much, since they might be reporters:

“He’s really hard-working and nice to others! Vil even explains his work to me if I ask. You can tell he really loves acting.”

“Oh? You sound like you admire him a lot.”

“Well… lots of people do. Once you meet him, you’ll realize he’s like a diamond!”

Word of your comments gets to Vil, and he seems to be in a good mood, explaining to you that it sounds like something a fan would say. “...One day, I’ll have as many fans as my dad does.”

It becomes routine for Vil to knock on your door whenever he gets a new script. He likes having you watch him rehearse and give him your thoughts, amongst other things like discussing the story and causing the both of you to become invested in the plot.

You’re sworn to secrecy, of course, since you can’t leak the movie’s details. And after you’re a bit older, Vil instead makes it a game to read random lines to you, then asking you to make up the rest of the story (it’s a good improv session, even if your conversations devolve into ridiculous scenarios.)

You got each other parting gifts after you were accepted into different colleges; Vil’s to you is a ‘poisoned flower’, which is to say, an artificial flower scented to help you sleep. It’s so you can get proper rest instead of scrolling on your phone, Vil claims. And of course, you’re added into his personal Magicam to get life updates — even now, when asked who you were texting with a smile on your face, you keep Vil’s secret and claim it’s just a childhood friend:

“He’s in Night Raven College.”

“Oh, the same one Vil Schoenheit is in?”

“The very one! Pretty impressive, huh?”

#lilia vanrouge x reader #malleus draconia x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #jamil viper x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst reader insert #twst x you #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #storm writings

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aboxofcereales · 8 months

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Currently trying to collect all the information about our companies’ life before the events of Baldur’s Gate 3. Mainly, about their family and age. Any suggestions/editing will be very much welcome.

Huge thanks to everyone who aiding the cause in comments and reblogs.

Last update - 10 April 2024.

Wyll Ravengard: is about 24, has left the city when he was 17, in origin introduction states that he’s been exiled for 7 years. According to Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms, he's in fact 24 & Neutral Good. Apparently his dad, Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard, raised him by himself, Wyll’s mother, Francesca, passed away in childbirth, when Wyll was born, as stated by Ulder’s longsword description, Wyll mentions her during a romance scene in Act 3, also calls himself “a single son to a single father”. According to Murder in Baldur's Gate: Ravenguard has never married and has no interest in domestic matters, moreover the said sword description calls Wyll's mother Ulder's love, not wife, which makes me think that Wyll was born out of wedlock. Supposed to have 3 uncles. I’ve seen a note about Wyll diving to see a mermaid as kid, written by his dad, in the high security vault. Florrick seen him grow up, had a crush on Stelmane as a kid, also during his childhood enjoined fishing with his dad, but sucked at it. Also, Ravengard's Scourger states that "Duke Ravengard's father was the sort of man who works with his hands, and communicates in grunts. In his heart his son vowed to do better. But when Wyll was born, Ravengard felt a strange gravity that drew him away from his son.", that strange gravity might be Francesca's death in childbirth(?). Generally, I strongly advise to take him around the city in act 3, as he tells plenty stories of his boyhood.

Gale Dekarios: still not sure if there any information about how old he might be, but I estimated around mid-to-late 30s, though it doesn’t really sit well with him meeting Mystra as a kid (btw there’s an absolutely wonderful post on this topic by @lairofsentinel, check it out), still I’d like Gale to be on the older side, alternatively, he may be around 28-30 due Mystra's return year. Personal headcanon - he's 37. According to Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms, he's 35 & True Neutral. He casted his first spell as a babe - a score of rabbits in the panty. Apparently lives separately from his parents in his tower, at least as kid had them both (mentioned when he first tells about his friend-tressym, Tara), thou in his origin (at least as much as heard and played myself but @vitanithepure confirmed it) only his mother gets mentions, the state of the other parent is unknown. Has a very tender relationship with her, but didn’t inform her about the orbe for her own safety, her name may be Morena (godsblessdataminers), Mrs Dekarios really wants him to find someone to settle down with. Also, Tara hates his beard.

Shadowheart (Jenevelle Hallowleaf): is about 50, comments that Viconia documented about 40 years worth of her life at the hands of Shar, in the same note she writes that Shadowheart was able to keep her heart true to her child self, and was hard learning Shar lessons. As I understood when she was kidnapped, she was about 10-13, kidnapping was directly by the Shar command.According to Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms, she' 48 & Lawful Neutral. Personal headcanon - she's 51. After her abduction made friends with tiefling named Nocturne (they might have be more than friends?), had a pet mouse for sometime called Nibbles. There’s a grafiti somewhere behind Jaheira house which she has drawn. Shares a questionable taste of romance literature with Wyll and his father. Her parents’ fate, Emmeline and Arnell Hallowleaf: is up to you decisions. Her mother mentions that they wanted Jen to have siblings.

Karlach Cliffgate: early 30s I think, the way she speaks about Gortash makes me thinks she was practically a teenager when she started working for him and spend 10 year serving Zariel. Personal headcanon - she's 29. According to Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms, she's 30 & Chaotic Good. Her parents, Pluck and Caerlack, she moved them from Outer City to a nicer place. Her mom died due to fewer when she was a teen, dad a couple years later due to road accident. Both died before she met Gortash. Her mom seems to be behind her love for Minsc, Jaheira etc. You can meet her friend near Baldur’s statue.

Lae’zel of K’liir: seems to be barely 20. Githianky reach adulthood in their late teen, and as Lae’zel was yet to present a mindlflaer’s head, I think she’s the youngest in the party. According to Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms, she's exactly 22 & Lawful Evil. Personal headcanon - she's in fact 20. She hates owls due to their necks, Karlach agrees.

Astarion Ancunin: according to translation of his grave he only lived for 40 years before becoming spawn, spend 200 year as such. Safe guess - there's definitely smt wrong with his grave stone or/and translation as it messes the current year - from 220 to 250. According to Idle Champions of the Forgotten Realms, he's 263, which doesnt seem right, & Neutral Evil. According the artbook he was a corrupted magistrate, which seem to be true atleast to pre-release version.

Halsin is 350, his family is from the High Forest, thou they are all gone. Spend 3 years captured by drow, loves honey and curving ducks. Jahiera is about 150-160, as she was a child in 1347. Has atleat five foster children: half-elf Rion, half-orc druid Jord, three humans - Jhessem, Fig, and Tate. Minsc was a statue from 1409 to 1480s.

#bg3 spoilers #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 #wyll ravengard #gale of waterdeep #shadowheart #laezel #astarion #karlach #gods I’ll be adding stuff up.#I have so many thoughts #another reason to love wyll - HE BASICALLY TELLS YOU HOW OLD IS HE UNLIKE OTHERS #expt halsin

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zapreportsblog · 8 months

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↳ THE VOLTURI / POLY ↲

queen of the ball

your ours

bonds beyond blood

a haunting resemblance

tangled in duty

im not easily impressed but when I am then im impressed

ending things

a nocturnal sojourn

installing fear into their hearts

protecting what’s theirs

target on my back

moments like these

forced to stay

as long as you’re okay

caius knows best

unexpected bonds

an unconventional union

the enchanting dance

the beginning of understanding

the hybrids protector

headcanon : you as the volturi mate with Cassie personality

bleeding me dry like a got damn vampire

baked goodness

she’s just too damn good

how would the volturi react to someone with the gifts similar to the scarlet witch

your end and your beginning

how the volturi would react to their mate who’s both repulsed and fears them for killing innocent people

different type of yandere the volturi can turn out to be

how yandere volturi would react to their human escaping

↳ OTHER CHARACTERS ↲

how they react to you kissing them on the lips unexpectedly

i need love and affection

damsel in distress

beanstalk

too far gone

i can handle my own

happy birthday

the end of the road

our other half

don’t mess with the guardian

a day to remember

tattoos and bar talks

descendants

getting through mama bear

home from war

concealed

duckling

papa

my sweet boy

the non shifter

cold

wedding singer

waking up

the cold never bothered me anyways

the past needs to stay in the past

a lifelong bond

not a people person

afraid of love

↳ THE CULLENS ↲

finding my voice

the storms rolling in

heed my warnings

descendants

getting through mama bear

concealed

forget me not

an unconventional union

true mates

my sweet boy

the mating pull

the non shifter

wedding singer

how they react to you getting a tongue ring

waking up

a blast from the past

little fairy girl

the cold never bothered me anyways

the past needs to stay in the past

fear of rejection

the hybrids protector

a lifelong bond

show some respect boy

not a people person

the witch hybrid and her companion

the witch hybrid and her companion 2

afraid of love

like a bear in hibernation

blood cravings

perfectly imperfect

↳ REQUESTED / ORIGINAL CHARACTERS ↲

the predators and their prey

shadowed hearts

the pairing

↳ THE PACK ↲

how’d he react to his gender neutral partner wearing his hoodies/shirts because they are oversized on them

whenever, wherever, however

the night we met

checking in on you

the non shifter

imprint

the past needs to stay in the past

a lifelong bond

the witch hybrid and her companion

the witch hybrid and her companion 2

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mortallyfuzzytyrant · 7 months

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Orlox wrapping his arms around you and holding you all night, so tenderly, it reassuring you of your safety. Your place in his heart. Not a creature on this earth would harm you with this man embracing you. Orlox's hold is gentle but strong. He cradles your head more delicate and protective than that of a mother to her babe. His arm on your waist warm and unassuming. Orlox's breath is on your neck, with not a single intention of biting down, only to kiss away the night's bitter cold. Your ear takes in every second of the pleasant rise and fall of his chest. Your forefinger curling around and playing with his braid, a privilege only given to you. Every time your bare feet curled up, Orlox held you you tighter with benevolent strokes to your waist and soft kisses on your forehead. He smelled divine. And the soft, warm whispers from him that filled the silence caused the very blood in your veins to shiver with love.

#castlevania nocturne #castlevania #castlevania imagines #orlox #orlox castlevania #orlox x reader #castlevania reader inserts #gender neutral reader #fluff #cuddling #orlox x gender neutral reader #yes I wrote this exclusively because I want Orlox to embrace me shut up-#here- for the fluff-weak losers out there

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mauesartetc · 4 months

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If y'all are hungry for a character design challenge, might I recommend the "ideas grid" section in "Fundamentals of Character Design"? (Seriously, read this book. It's GOOD.)

The book encourages the reader to choose some themes from the categories provided, but that seems a bit easy for my taste. I figure I'll just gravitate toward the design elements I'm already fond of, and where's the fun in that? Where's the challenge in doing something I've done a hundred times before?

Thus, I'm adding a component of randomization. I'll number the items in each list from 1 to 20 and use a random number generator to pick one from each (using the first selected number for the first category, the second number for the second category, and so on). Then I'll design a character based on the results, and so can you!

Category 1: Anatomy

Tall

Tiny

Muscular

Short

Angular

Soft

Broad

Adolescent

Square

Strong

Slim

Elderly

Athletic

Curvy

Infant

Petite

Elongated

Average

Round

Middle-aged

Category 2: Style

Colorful

Plain

Practical

Severe

Fashionable (the book had "stylish" here but I felt a stylish style would be too vague lol)

Minimalist

Eccentric

Vintage

Neat

Sporty

Mismatched

Alternative

Cozy

Outdated

Smart

Messy

Boring

Comfortable

Expensive

Simple

Category 3: Emotion

Cheerful

Afraid

Eager

Sad

Shy

Annoyed

Curious

Worried

Overjoyed

Awkward

Relaxed

Disgusted

Tired

Surprised

Wistful

Bored

Pitying (the book had "kind" here, but that's more a personality trait than it is an emotion. So I went with an emotion that would lead someone to acts of kindness.)

Awed

Excited

Furious

Category 4: Color

Warm

Dark

Vibrant

Pale

Cool

Autumnal

Contrasting

Nocturnal

Neutral

Deep

Faded

Tropical

Clashing

Pastel

Analogous

Bright

Natural

Monochrome

Neon

Light

Category 5: Role

Hero

Explorer

Learner

Entertainer

Guardian

Worker

Villain

Helper

Troublemaker

Fighter

Parent

Royalty

Henchman

Thinker

Wanderer

Rebel

Companion

Teacher

Trickster

Civilian

Category 6: Item

Book

Hat

Phone

Scarf

Weapon

Necklace

Cloak

Spectacles

Briefcase

Artifact

Torch

Coat

Spade

Rucksack

Cane

Key

Map

Belt

Glove

Earring

Category 7: Setting

Magical

Modern

Aquatic

Castle

Garden

Vehicle

Urban

Historical (might pull out the random date generator for this one)

Library

Spooky

Futuristic

Beach

School

Forest

Zoo

Shop

Dystopian

Street

Office

Mountain

Obviously these are just starting points and you don't have to include something from every category, though doing so in a natural, cohesive way would be an impressive flex of your design skills. Let me know which words y'all got, and if you design a character based on them, drop a link!

#character design #challenge #art challenge #exercise #prompt

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honeybcj · 3 months

Text

@jegulus-microfic february 8 / headphones / 941 words / based off those silly videos i’ve seen where people approach others and ask what song they are listening to

The last thing Regulus anticipated for his peaceful morning walk was to be bombarded by a man with a tiny microphone asking him the silliest of questions.

The morning had been going well; headphones on, a cozy sweater hanging from his torso. He finally had a free moment to walk around campus without the impending doom of assignments on his back. So when this man—a concerningly gorgeous one, mind you—approaches him with full blown enthusiasm, Regulus’ mouth suddenly runs dry, no words coming out.

“So what song are you listening to?” The man asks, extending the tiny microphone at him.

Regulus blinks at the man, mouth opening to say something. He freezes, glancing down at the phone screen in his hand. He could lie. Come up with just about anything. Or he could just flat out ignore the infuriating man.

There’s another one of them, balancing a phone in his hands, seemingly recording the whole interaction. Frankly, Regulus has no idea where to look. Actually caught off guard by the whole situation.

Cautiously, Regulus slips the headphones from his ears, peering up at the man in front of him to get a better look. He’s got these gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, which are kinda dorky, but they actually look good framing wide hazel eyes surrounded by crinkles from smiling too hard.

“Uh, I’m listening to, um,” Regulus stutters, glancing back down at the screen. His voice comes out quiet, “Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor.”

The man’s brow furrows in surprise, the corners of his mouth turning up even more. A smile that stretches miles wide revealing pearly white teeth that are blinding. Those stupid little crinkles aren’t going anywhere, and it’s making Regulus positively mad.

How does one just go about their day having a smile like that?

Infectious, even. Almost possessive in the sense that Regulus has to school his own expression, tugging the corners of his mouth down into a flat line. An attempt to remain neutral like a stick wasn’t thrown right into the middle of his morning routine.

“Wonderful. Thanks so much,” the man replies before turning to his partner behind the camera. As the camera is lowered, seemingly having gotten what it needs, the bothersome man turns back towards Regulus, cheery grin still in place.

“Is it okay if we use that for our video?” The man inquires.

Regulus just blinks, unsure of how he got himself into this predicament. Ages ago. He could have walked away ages ago, no longer caught up in whatever scheme this is.

But, no. Regulus may or may not be swooning. Too captivated by brown skin and the blinding smile. Warm, inviting eyes with those goofy glasses and unruly curls twisting along his forehead.

Feeling brave, Regulus straightens his shoulders, cocking his head to the side. With a deep breath, Regulus says, “If you tell me your name, you can.”

Like a godforsaken dog, the man’s ears perk up, a dimple popping in one of his cheeks. Regulus finds himself wanting to dig his thumb into the divot. Find out how deep it can go.

“‘M name’s James.” The man—James—extends his hand out to Regulus. A stupid handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

Hesitantly, Regulus takes his hand, giving a good, practiced handshake in return.

“James,” he tries out, getting a feel for the weight of the name on his tongue.

“Am I pushing my luck if I ask for yours?” James asks, tilting his head to the side curiously.

Regulus snorts his response, taken aback by the man’s sheer will to keep asking him questions. The audacity of this man. Absolutely, positively ridiculous.

But he takes it all back with a shake of his head, caving in and responding before he even has a chance to stop himself. “Regulus.”

“Regulus,” James repeats, still shaking Regulus’ hand. How had they not let go yet?

The two of them stand there staring at each other. Neither of them saying a word, just looking. It should feel awkward, having just met this stranger on the sidewalk, but Regulus can’t tear his eyes away from this James guy.

It’s the voice of the other man that cuts through, ending the shared moment between James and Regulus.

“Oi, James. We’ve got places to be. Gonna need you to peel your eyes away from your newfound crush for a second, so we can get going,” the other man announces, which makes Regulus breath hitch.

Apparently, it’s doing things to James as well because his cheeks go ruddy, ducking his head down to get out of view of Regulus who is feeling far too amused now. He’s pretty sure his own cheeks are dusted with a soft pink, mesmerized by the sudden shyness James is emitting.

“Seems like you have places to be, James,” Regulus comments, shifting in his place.

“Appears that I do, Regulus,” James agrees, taking one final look at the man in front of him. “See you around then?”

Regulus hums, jutting his chin out. “Maybe so.”

It all ends too soon for Regulus’ liking. Has him wondering when the next time he’ll see James will be. Hadn’t seen him before this point, so what is the likelihood Regulus will run into him again.

It’s a gamble he’s willing to take.

One thing though, he doesn’t miss the way James throws a wink in his direction as he walks away. Or when he friend whacks him over the back of the head, warm laughter falling from his mouth.

It’s enough for the smile to finally spill over onto Regulus’ mouth. Oh, he wants to see James again. Very much so.

#jegulus #james potter #regulus black #james x regulus #jegulus microfic #marauders #han’s microfics

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syoddeye · 1 month

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useless, part three

Part three (and the finale!) of my submission to @glitterypirateduck's O, Captain! Challenge. As a reminder, I rolled a d100 to select three prompts. I finally used my third prompt.

42. The story spans over a period of 10 or more years

14. Opposites attract

66. Price or Reader is auctioned off for a date as part of a fundraiser

cw: one pregnancy mention (Reader does not get pregnant, has never been pregnant)

Read Part One, Part Two. Tag list: @v1x3n @kiranezra

~4.2k words, Price x f!Reader. This is the most self-indulgent shit I've written in awhile. Please enjoy.

It's past midnight when you limp through the front door of your flat, dropping belongings and articles of clothing alike, shedding both the weight of personhood and your eighteen-hour day. You set your keys down on the end of the counter, ignoring the thin folder for the umpteenth time. James will undoubtedly text about it in the morning, his patronizing messages more reliable than any alarm clock. A half-hour commute home, and you didn't even glance at your phone in fear of accidentally seeing another email from his lawyer. Solicitor. Whatever.

Hamhock slinks out from his lair beneath the bed, weaving between your ankles when you drag yourself into the bathroom.

"Hello Hammy," You whisper, eyeing the newer crop of gray hairs near your roots with a weary neutrality. Definitely the fundraiser's fault. Your hair started to change long before this year's planning began, but this is the longest period you've gone without dyeing it. One thing to thank James for. Not only did his departure give you a crystal clear focus, it freed you from his ridiculous expectations. He'd've commented the moment he spotted the wisps of silver, then casually worked something like anti-aging cream into the conversation.

The prick poisoned the well, and now the only man in the world for you currently lies at your feet. How it should've been from the start, really.

After checking the orange menace's automatic feeder, you slip into bed, allow him to assume his nocturnal throne—your armpit—and plug your phone in one-handed. Your eyes glaze over at the sight of notifications, thumb swiping by muscle memory, and set an alarm. With two weeks left until the big day and more than a hundred unsold tickets, you need every moment you can get. You sigh, counting the tasks of the day ahead instead of sheep.

You'll sign the divorce papers tomorrow.

Naomi practically forces the granola bar into your hands. The assistant stage manager and the props lead—the younger woman is the glue to your glue. A newer fixture at the Bramble Theatre, she was you to an extent, maybe a decade ago: fresh-faced, eager, and optimistic.

"I didn't like how you were looking at the wax fruit."

"We should swap the oranges for plums. Or pears."

"We've been through this. The oranges fit the palette, from the paintings to Dotty's–oh, quit pulling my leg."

You grin, then jut your chin at the stack of slips in her hand. "Are those the waivers? Did all the volunteers sign?"

"Yes, I can post headshots today on socials, so that should boost sales."

"Good. That's one fire extinguished," Rubbing your temple, you lean back in your chair. "I feel gross about it, though. I mean, we run shows that are hundreds of years old, but a date auction? Why don't we raise a guillotine out front and sacrifice effigies to raise money?"

Naomi blinks and whips out her phone. "...Okay, one, I'm noting the effigy idea for next year, but two, the auction won the vote, and everyone participating volunteered."

You grimace. "I know, it's just–"

The sudden opening of the door to your shoebox office interrupts. Theodore, business manager, director, and occasional movement coach, bursts in. Everybody's a multi-hyphenate.

"Terrible news!"

Wonderful. A new fire. You squint, chewing, and watch Naomi try to stifle a laugh valiantly. "Whatever could this be about?"

The older man slams his palms onto your desk, his layered pendants tinkling. "I've punched the numbers, including a best scenario, stars aligning–"

"Teddy. Out with it."

"–we're going to be £40,000 short. Even if we sell out, even if we raffle off the company like cattle, we are circling the drain!"

The tired amusement leaves your body, and in its wake sits a five-digit number and the distant idea to schedule a salon appointment.

The annual fundraiser for the theater, your hard-won home, is a dramatic, demanding, and near-disastrous event every year. The theater has continuously operated a hair above the red, but the laundry list of expenses from the last year cannot be ignored. The new light rig, the stage flooring replacement, the curtain repairs—they never stop. Sponsors and grants only go so far.

Originally, you took this job for its laughable but slightly higher pay and because running around like a madwoman between four gigs at a time wasn't as thrilling or charmingly bohemian as it was in your twenties. Your livelihood depends on the playhouse's success. And the economy. And the general public's attitude toward the arts. All wildly variable. It made you resourceful, and already, you were composing a mental list of people to politely bully for pledges promised in years past. You need time and a phone charger.

"Teddy," you set the half-eaten granola bar down. "Go get ready for afternoon rehearsal. Naomi, cover for me today?"

"'Course."

Theodore swipes his spindly fingers over his brow, nodding fervently at your resolve. "If anyone can pull it off, it's you. Do tell if there is anything yours truly can do." With a flourish, the director departs your office, but Naomi lingers.

"You know if it's donations we need…"

You shake your head, immediately knowing what she intends to suggest. "Out of the question."

"But think of her–"

"I'd rather debase myself and resort to dinner theatre."

"I'm just saying–"

"Naomi," You stress. "I am not calling my mother."

She frowns. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Are you really so proud you wouldn't leverage your family's connections to save the Bramble?"

It makes you pause. As usual, she's right. Irritatingly so. You could take another salary cut, but you'd need to find a flatshare, a humiliating idea. Hammy wouldn't survive it, the sensitive thing. You sigh and dismiss her with a wave.

"Fine I won't rule it out. But I'm going to shake down half the city first."

An hour later, you've managed to secure a percentage. Not too shabby, but far from the goal. You take a break to read James's team's latest, vaguely threatening missives and entertain the idea of withholding your signature until he makes a donation. What's a little extortion in the name of art?

You know it's wrong to delay this ugly process. How close relief is should you simply sign the papers. But it's another failure, another black spot in your life's ledger. Another dream crushed beneath the boot of reality. With a wave of bitterness, you type out a curt reply, ensuring you will sign the papers and ask them to arrange for a courier tomorrow.

Naomi's suggestion takes advantage of your mind's lethargy, testing the strength of your will and stubbornness. The last time you phoned your mother was months ago, on the anniversary of dad's death. The old man took his last bow five years back, and it destroyed the last bridge between you and your formidable mother. In retirement, she still holds court with major political players stateside…and across the pond.

Before you let your loathing catch up, you pull up her contact card and dial. It's after noon in D.C., the middle of the week. You might get lucky and reach her voice–

"Is everything alright? You're not in the hospital, are you?" Her donnish, sharp voice hurtles you through time and space to your teenage years.

"No," You answer with gritted teeth. A headache waits in the wings. "No, I'm fine, mom."

"Then why are you calling?"

This is why dad handled conversations. You stand, swiftly shutting the door to your office and locking it. "Can't I just call my mom?"

"Of course. Historically, you do not," There's a low murmur of chatter in the background. She's at a luncheon or at the club. "So I assume there is a reason."

Having an ex-ambassador for a mother is a joke. All that practised charm for everyone else in the world, none of it reserved for you. "Okay, yes, there is a reason."

"Thought so. Well, darling, what is it? Is it James? Don't tell me you're pregnant."

You return to your desk and eye the bottle of bourbon on the corner. "No. James and I are divorcing, remember? This is about my work."

There is no acknowledgement of the separation. Instead, your mother pulls the phone away from her mouth, excuses herself from wherever she is, and the background noise dissipates.

"Your work."

"Yes, the Bramble? Look, we're two weeks out from our big annual fundraiser, and–"

"Oh, you need me to write a check." The clicking of her heels halts abruptly, and if you didn't know any better, she wilts. "Fine. How much do you want?"

Your face heats with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. "I am not asking for money. If you would stop interrupting me…Ugh, mom, I need help contacting some of your old friends here. If there's anyone you know looking for tax deductions or a pet project to brag about, the Bramble is in a bad spot financially."

In the past, whenever the theatre and, by extension, your chosen profession came up, your mother took the opportunity to lecture. She reminded you of the wasted opportunities she afforded you. She brought up your old schoolmates and their current positions. And most insulting of all, she always, always compared you to a certain soldier. Bracing yourself for her monologuing, you reached for the bottle.

"Why didn't you open with that, darling?"

Your fingers close around empty air, and you nearly pitch out of your seat in surprise. "What?"

"Send me the information. I've been meaning to reconnect with some old friends. When is the fundraiser?"

"In two weeks," You repeat, scrambling to pull up your email on the ancient desktop. "Tickets are–"

"Email it. I'll book my flights today and let you know when I'm getting in."

Your hands hover over the keyboard, and your neck protests the angle it bends to keep your phone lodged between ear and shoulder. "Oh, no, mom, you don't need to come."

"Nonsense. I'll, of course, make my own donation, and as a donor, I ought to see where my money is going."

Christ. For the Bramble, you remind yourself and exhale. "Okay. You do that. Listen, I have to get going…but mom?" It kills you to say it. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome. Oh, this will be so much fun. I haven't visited since before your father. You know, on the topic of reconnecting, I happened get an email from the Prices the other day, and John–"

There it is. You kick into fourth gear, rattling off your exit. "I've really got to run. Thanks again mom, send me your flight info. Love you. Bye!"

You feel like you've run a marathon and dodged a bullet. And yet, as you send the email and file the waivers, your mind snags on your mother's words. On a name. His name. It's not the first time your unhelpful brain's waylaid you with a trip down memory lane. Admittedly, it's happened more since James asked for the divorce. Most nights, if it isn't life's stresses hounding you, it's an endless parade of what-ifs behind your eyelids.

What if you studied economics instead? What if you stayed in America? What if you hadn't gone to that stupid New Year's party? What if you hadn't kissed John? If you didn't get on the train?

The people in your circle frequently speak about living life without regrets. It's a romantic notion and a highly unrealistic one.

Your phone buzzes—Naomi. You're needed. Pushing the past where it belongs, back on a dark shelf, and head out to put out another fire.

Three days before the fundraiser, your mother lands in London and hosts you at her hotel for dinner. Playing catch-up is a professional sport with a whirlwind of names you barely remember and memories you remember very differently.

You pick at dessert, listening to another story.

"–and he was so insistent that that school of yours was a breeding ground for monsters, and I told him, isn't that what's needed in today's society? People need thick skin in politics and business. You'll be happy to know, though, he bought four tickets to the fundraiser."

You don't remember who you're talking about but smile and nod. It's a tough pill to swallow, your mother's success at rallying old friends with deep pockets. Teddy's practically in love with her despite having never met her, popping his bald head into your office to sing her praises whenever another pledge arrives.

Your response is rote. "That's wonderful, mom. Thank you."

She prattles on for another half hour before you decide it's time to return home to Hamhock and burn the midnight oil on the fundraiser's date auction. You asked the company for fifty-word bios and actors, bless them, struggle to contain their self-praises. When she finally pauses to take a sip of wine, you rise. "I should head home, lots to do–"

Ignoring you outright, her head turns, and she grins. "There you are!"

Following her gaze, your brow lowers in confusion until you clap eyes on a trio headed in your direction in the company of a server. Very briefly, you consider the melodramatics of matricide. You've been set up.

Mr. and Mrs. Price look well for their age, puttering toward your mother. They are greyer and a little shorter, but the warmth is there.

John, however…

The universe is intent on humbling you.

The hair is the first thing you notice. Short, kempt, and annoyingly a dark shade of brown. It's crept southward onto his face in a beard of a choice style. There is comfort in the finer details that clarify as he nears. He hasn't escaped time's passing with a face marked by crow's feet, frown lines, and forehead furrows. Beneath his shirt, there's a slight suggestion of a belly, though, with his thick arms and the narrowing of his waist, he's clearly a wall of muscle.

The worst part is how infuriatingly kind his smile looks. It's the beard. Softens him. Once an arrogant prick, always an arrogant prick.

John rumbles your name in a whisper, reeling you in for a polite peck on the cheek. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

You're years beyond fifteen and twenty-five, but how swiftly the impulse to snark resurfaces is alarming. Maturity tempers you. "You look good, too."

After a few minutes of greetings, the two of you are tasked with heading to the bar to fetch drinks. Wholly unnecessary what with a server, but it's a clear command to let the 'adults' talk for a spell. Nevermind being shy of forty. John's quick to try conversation when the order's in.

"You haven't changed a bit," He observes, leaning against the bar beside you.

"Now there's something a woman wants to hear after a decade." You huff, casting your eyes across the restaurant, finding it difficult to look at him. The dark blue of his sweater makes his eyes pop.

"Fourteen years, actually," He corrects. "Drinking martinis, actin'…"

You snort. "You're half right. The Martini half."

His elbow gently knocks into yours atop the bar. "Apologies. My mother told me you'd been in My Fair Lady last summer."

That draws your attention. "No. The theater put it on, but I'm the stage manager. I haven't been on stage in ages." Your eyes flicker to the table, then back to him. Heat crawls up your collar. What other information has your mother passed along? Glancing down at your bare ring finger, you turn the conversation. "Not so different from a Captain, I reckon. How's that going?"

John squints a little, and his mouth pulls into a familiar smirk, tugging at old strings in your stomach. "Can't complain."

"Riveting stuff," He chuckles at that, a deep rasping sound, and you find yourself grinning. "Don't suppose that bit of clandestine, secret agent-type shit your mom's talked about?"

"Secret agent?"

"Yeah. Mentioned it in a Christmas card maybe three years ago?" You smile triumphantly into your glass. Seems both your mothers have a penchant for dressing up the truth.

His jaw works a tick, and something heavy passes behind his eyes. "Well, 'm not. Not exactly."

"Let me guess. If you told me, you'd have to kill me?"

He refocuses some, and a short laugh leaves him. "Something like that."

It's all painfully familiar, but it feels different with a little more life under your belt. His mere presence keeps you on your toes, yet you haven't felt this comfortable in months. For all the history and tension, talking to him is easy. A silence passes, the drinks arrive, and you ferry them to the table.

The night passes better than you expected when you first saw the Prices. They express belated condolences over your father, you chat about the fundraiser, and John politely navigates questions about his work. It frightens you when he briefly mentions Piccadilly to know he'd been there in the carnage. Part and parcel of military life, you guess.

"John, be a gentleman and walk her to the station," His mother chides as the five of you congregate in the hotel lobby.

"He doesn't need to do that," You hastily say. Not again.

"'Course."

There is something dreadfully giddy to how your parents wish you both goodnight.

At least you do not need to take his arm this time. Still, there is no way John isn't thinking about that night. Not when that look of quiet desperation he wore is seared within your memory. It's silly, but you peeked at his hands earlier, and like yours, they're naked.

You break the silence to fish. "How long are you on leave?"

"A week. Got in yesterday."

"Do you normally visit your parents?"

"Often."

Doesn't mean there isn't a woman in his life. 'Often' is not 'always'.

"Visit anyone else? Friends?"

He chuckles. "Sometimes."

You roll your eyes. "You know, you haven't changed much either. Aside from the beard and smoker's lung. Still a stunning conversationalist."

John smirks down at you. "Picked it up in the army."

Oh, yes. He remembers.

The conversation lulls, and the walk is short. You figure John's keen on a repeat when he wordlessly escorts you to the platform. But today's not a holiday, and the station is reasonably busy. He watches like a hawk, nonetheless, when you check the time.

"Brings back memories," He quietly comments.

Nodding, your thumb rubs where your wedding band used to rest. "Sure does." You respond and meet his gaze.

You studied theater, moved back to London, went to the party, and kissed John. You didn't regret those choices—only one.

The invitation flies out of you as your train emerges from the tunnel.

"Do you want to meet Hamhock?"

"He's…certainly orange."

"Don't rush to spend all your compliments at once," You glare, arms full of Ham, then coo at the cat. "John's jealous because he's going grey in the beard."

"I am not."

"Saw them on the Tube. Can't those from me," You tease and set the cat down, giving your kitchen a quick glance. A silver lining of work eating up your schedule is that you last cleaned two weeks ago, and it's held.

"What're those on your head then?" He gestures with a finger and toes off his shoes.

"Details of a person ageing gracefully." You play it confidently, but part of you holds a breath.

He hums and sidesteps Hamhock. "Suits you. It's pretty."

Maybe inviting him over is a mistake. The bolt that runs through you from the compliment pokes at something you thought buried. "What a gentleman," You try to inject as much sarcasm as possible, but your voice quivers. "I'll be right back. Sit tight?"

You leave John in the kitchen to retreat to the bathroom to regroup. Come on, you scold yourself over the basin for getting worked up. It's just John.

And yet, what remains of your confidence perches on a cliffside at the sight of John pointedly staring at the folder of your copies of the divorce papers on the counter. Fantastic.

His small smile is genuinely sympathetic. It's enraging.

"Y'know, I knew you were married…When I didn't see a ring at the hotel, though, I wondered."

Your chest tightens, and you shove the folder into a bookshelf. "Yep. Finalized the divorce two-ish weeks ago."

You're not in the mood to be reminded of your failures.

"Sorry it didn't work out," John murmurs.

"That's life. That's how it works sometimes," You exhale, then force a smile. "Want a drink? Bourbon? Wine?"

He lets you change the subject, and you let him have a glass of whiskey.

You sit on opposite ends of your short couch, Hamhock acting as a gentlemanly barrier. The conversation rekindles itself after a few fingers of liquor, and eventually, John migrates to the floor, idly playing with the cat. You confide in him about your worries about the event and whether the funds raised will be enough, and he listens. There is no condescension, no bulldozing. Not a trace of smugness at all when he makes suggestions. You don't realize how you've slipped into an old, practically ancient formation until he peers back, eyes creasing from laughter. You're fifteen again, and it is useless to deny it – you are regrettably in love with John Price.

"Can I confess something?" He suddenly asks as your cat waddles off with a catnip toy in his mouth.

Your heart lurches. "If it's a crime, I'm a terrible conspirator."

"No. Nothin' like that, but I lied earlier." He chuckles, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. "My mother didn't tell me about My Fair Lady."

"What do you mean?"

John turns sheepish. "I came an' saw it when I was on leave last summer. Thought I'd surprise you, but I got to the theater and lost my nerve."

Instantly, you pick through scraps of memories from the production. There is no way you would have known he was in attendance, not with how hellishly busy you are.

"You, Captain John Price, lost your nerve?"

Color blooms high on his cheeks, and he turns on the floor, rubbing his neck. "I knew you're not acting but I didn't know how to mention it without soundin' like a prick." His eyes look soft. Different from how they looked that night in his parent's garden. Steady, unwavering, but soft. "I know I'm not good with words. I seem to have a talent for making you angry. But I really am happy to see you. Didn't think I'd get another chance after how I bungled it all those years ago at the train–"

At your grown ages, the angle of the kiss is inadvisable. The two of you fix it without parting, and his hands cup your face when you're finally standing toe-to-toe.

He touches your foreheads together when breathing becomes necessary. "Change anything?"

You don't answer. You lead him to your bedroom and exile the cat.

The fundraiser goes off with a predictable amount of hitches. The caterer is an hour late and forgets half the hors d'oeuvres. The bar runs out of red wine early. Two actors from the children's company slap-fight on stage. Nothing you, Naomi, and Teddy can't fix with elbow grease and stage magic. The caterers re-course. Naomi calls in a favor from her bartender girlfriend. And the children forget their quarrel when they're called upon to defeat Captain Hook.

What you are not prepared for is one of the actors calling out sick, leaving you one date short for the auction. You waste an hour trying to convince one of your fellow techies to step in.

Naomi corners you when you stress-eat a comically tiny piece of toast swiped from a tray.

"You know, if one person is all we need…"

"Your girlfriend won't be mad?"

"Ha-ha, don't get cheeky. C'mon, isn't it time you got back out there?"

You suppress a smug smile. Naomi has no idea. Nobody does. You've gotten back out there and then some.

"Did I not tell you I was grossed out by the auction?"

She's relentless. "Are you really so proud you wouldn't debase yourself a little for the Bramble?"

"Absolutely not."

You'd said it with such conviction, so it's a puzzle when you find yourself waiting in the stage wing, makeup hurriedly refreshed. It takes all your courage and grace not to stumble to Teddy's side when he calls your name. He improvises an introduction on the fly, and you nearly laugh when you realize this is the first time you've been on the stage, under a spotlight, in years.

The bidding opens, and you hold your breath, letting it go when a few unfamiliar voices call out numbers. A humbling embarrassment clutches you by the throat. But then a paddle raises more confidently in the front row. The light is bright, but you know whose hand hoists it high.

He collects you at the end of the night as you lock up.

"There's my prize."

You can't stop the grin that splits your face. "It's just a date, John."

"Yeah, doin' things a bit out of order, aren't we?" A glimmer of his younger, puffed-up self shines through, and his hand envelops yours.

As you walk, your elbow digs into his ribs, "What will our mothers say?"

"That a big deal to you?"

"To some people."

"Well, love, you're not 'some people'."

#ocaptainchallenge #john price #john price x reader #john price x f!reader #price x reader #price x f!reader #lieutenant john price #cw alcohol #i love love #i love corny shit #i needed to write something soft okay?#lightly edited bc i don't think i'll have time to write tomorrow and the deadline is tomorrow!

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