#''writing'' is not always ''opening a word doc and putting down words that you intend to be in the final draft''

[catboygirljoker]

they dont tell you this wehn you go to college for creative writing or read books about it or learn about writing from any source other than me but one of the most vital parts of the writing process is designing a spreadsheet marking the progression of the relationship between your primary characters

[maximwtf]

readder takes a bullet for izzy. need this fic asap. omfg. did u want finale yet???

Izzy x Reader

words: 1700

google docs pages: 3

warnings: ! S2E8 Spoilers (Kinda?) ! Gunshot wound, mentions of smoking and drinking, blood, death

opening: Ricky turns to fire his pistol and run, but you saw it coming and push Izzy out of the way. 

AN// Reader can be any gender! I can’t even lie, my angst loving heart was highkey excited for this one XD Thank you for the request, I love writing stuff like this !! This shall also heal my soul after watching ep8, I’m still a mess from it waaa

 “I’ll wait for you”

The long ferns dragged along the freshly stolen British navy coat as you made your way towards the shore with the rest of the crew. Your palm was around the handle of your sword, still convinced that this was a clear suicide mission. There seemed to be absolutely no chance for the whole crew to make it alive all the way to the ship and to make an escape. The Republic of Pirates was swarming with British soldiers, every corner being watched and checked actively. Though, you weren’t going to try and stay here either. You’d rather die as a pirate than get captured and be hung by the British. 

Izzy marched a little ahead of you with Ricky. You weren’t sure why he had been put in charge of the man, but there was no use in asking for him to hand over the job to you. He was still the first mate, and as loyal as he was he continued on with his duties. You weren’t scared for his sake, he was most certainly a more skilled fighter and a sailor than you were. But there was always the what if, at the back of your mind. As far as you knew, the whole area was surrounded by British soldiers. Each and every time you’d peeked to take a fast look, at least three men stood near with their guns. So the odds of one of them spotting the group and shooting weren’t nonexistent. 

Blackbeard and Izzy had a long history together, but so did you and him. From what you’d talked with Izzy, you’d joined the crew only a short time after him. The man wasn’t even the first mate just yet, which was one of the reasons why you’d dared to start chatting with him in the first place. By God, you wouldn’t have started hitting up someone in a much higher position in the crew just after joining. But there had started your decades long, complicated relationship. He’d always been a little snappish, and that had only amplified once he was given the position as first mate. But every time you’d been with him at the sidelines where he usually spent his time, he was just slightly different. He was the same man, but like there was less of a wall he had to keep up. So because he was seemingly comfortable with you around, you sometimes spent time with him. Share cigarettes, watched him carve figures out of small pieces of wood, whatever he was doing. Sometimes there were no words, just silent companionship. At times the air felt tense, and at some point that wasn’t just an itch you had sometimes. There was real tension, but neither of you addressed it. All the way up until you’d sat down to drink a bottle or two of rum with him. There were not many memories of said night, just one of the tension breaking kiss you’d shared with him. And of course the morning after, and the days that followed. The silence that suggested the both of you being at loss of what to do next. 

Your eyes focused on the soldiers in front of you, listening to Ricky speak to them as he’d been told to before. So far the plan was going as intended, but that wouldn’t last for much longer. The prince swung around, alerted the soldiers that the group he was with were pirates and pulled out his pistol. Your eyes widened and without more than a second to think you pushed the man next to you. There wasn’t time to check if he'd landed okay, since that hadn’t been a part of your plan, only to get him out of the bullet’s way. You heard the thud as he fell over, and soon after followed one of the most agonizing pain you could have imagined. The bullet must have hit you instead. There was no time to properly locate where it had hit, but you didn’t have to just yet. As long as you could somewhat walk, that was enough, since after you’d made it to the ship you could take a look at the damage. 

The rest of the unit had heard the gunshot and were hurrying to the scene. You reached out and offered a hand for Izzy, the other hand holding the spot you could see blood seeping through. He took a hold of your hand, noticing that something was clearly wrong. You could see his mouth open slightly, but before he was able to question you, you let go of his hand and pushed him forward by his back. “Fuck off, go!” You growled, eyes scanning the area for the easiest way out. 

The walk to the shore was a blur. You could tell you were stumbling, even the smallest of rocks getting in your way. Izzy was walking in front of you, but you could tell he was stalling more than a person running for their life would. “Did I not tell you to go?” You snarled a little at the stinging pain, now more obvious that it was coming from somewhere deep near your side. You wished he would have just followed the others, gotten away faster. But this brand new version of him wouldn’t do that to you, to anyone from the crew for that matter. You’d been proud of him through his change, but this was not the time for him to care about you. “Come on, I’m not leaving you here.” He paused enough to get you closer to him, and hoisted you up a little by your arm. “Fuck you.” You cursed, trying to walk a little faster now that he was helping you. 

The boat ride felt like forever, and as each of the waves hit the boat the stings of pain just felt worse and worse. You felt light headed and even without noticing you leaned on Izzy just a little more for support. He stiffened up, but kept you in place so you wouldn’t accidentally lean over the edge. You could have sworn you felt his thumb repetitively go over your forearm, as if to keep some sense in the moment .

Izzy got out of the boats first, and with the help of the others he got your form on the main deck. The first mate tore off his coat, laying it flat on the wooden deck before leaning your head over his lap. You could feel cold sweat creep onto your forehead and back, breaths shallow and quick. It was only now setting in what had happened, but you tried to bite back the feelings of panic. You felt Izzy tap your cheek, making your eyes land on his face. Some dirt had stuck to his face from the fall he’d taken because of you, you thought to yourself. “Come on, stay awake.” Izzy said, his voice a little shaken, but the same old commanding tone somewhere in there. “Oh, you’ll be fine, you carouser.” A groan left your throat, making you close your eyes for a moment. You didn’t feel like opening them after, but you did. You did when Izzy’s hand made contact with your cheek again. 

Before this you’d thought of the crew members watching. You’d noticed they were around Izzy, some of them hurrying to get anything to help. Though, you knew this was the day you’d feed the fish. Izzy’s expression looked tight. Like he wanted to cry, but tried not to for your sake. He was hunched over your form as his eyes watered. “Aye, now. Don’t hang the jib. You’ll be fine.” You tried to reassure him. He’d changed so much, gotten to see how much the crew actually cared about him. He’d be just fine even if you weren’t there with him to stand at the sidelines. Only if he could see that as well. “You don’t do this now, ye fucking hear me?” He said, brows furrowed. You looked at him, his eyes. He looked oddly blurry, your head was spinning from the lost blood. Though, you didn’t mention it to him. “I’m not going anywhere.” You grit your teeth, finding breathing a lot harder than it had been before. You wanted to go, if that meant the struggle would finally end. “But even if I did, I’d be leaving you with the…best possible people.”

Your gaze stayed on Izzy, trying to follow his lips in case you missed something he said. But he was silent, like he was holding back something. The first mate swallowed uncomfortably, leaning over carefully, just to hide his words from anyone else. “You need to tell me if you-” He started, but that was enough. A faint smile appeared on your face. “Of course I fucking love you.” You said, for his sake silently, but you didn’t find it in you to speak any louder anymore. Izzy froze for a moment, some tension leaving his shoulders as he nodded. It was subtle, but as long as you’d known him you’d learned to find even the most minimalistic emotions from his face. His jaw trembled, but his mouth opened and he silently replied; “I love you.” Which was enough for you, more than so. But at that moment, you hoped those words would have been said earlier. Then maybe, just maybe everything could have been different. “I’ll wait for you.” You said, the struggle starting to feel better, like it was coming to an end. Izzy’s face blurred into a soft darkness, which slowly became the only thing still holding you. 

AN// Requests for Izzy are open, I love writing for him ahhh >:(

[sequinsmile-x]

Let the Walls Crack

It had always been something she’d thought about, but it was only when she got with Aaron and fell in love with him and his son that she realised a baby was something she could have. That it was something she wanted so much that she ached. 

But she may have lost her chance. 

-x-

Hi friends,

I sat down at my laptop this afternoon fully intending to write fluff, but then I opened a google doc and this came out??

Please let me know what you think!

-x-

Words: 3.4k

Warnings: Infertility, miscarriage, pregnancy

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

“I hate going to the doctor.” 

Aaron turns to look at her and smiles sadly. She’s not looking at him, her eyes fixed straight ahead as her leg bounces up and down, her thumb in her mouth as she bites at her cuticles, her engagement ring shining in the fluorescent lighting of her doctor’s office. He places his hand on her knee, holding it in place to stop her leg from bouncing as he squeezes the joint. She turns to look at him, her dark eyes shining with anxiety he wishes he could ease. 

“I don’t think anyone enjoys it, sweetheart,” he says softly, offering her a half smile, “Everything will be ok.” 

She scoffs, shaking her head as her hand falls to her lap, “They don’t call you in to go through test results in person because it’s good news, Aaron.” 

She wanted a baby with him. 

It had always been something she’d thought about. Even in Rome, she’d known she wanted to have children one day, but the timing and the circumstances couldn’t have been more wrong. As she got older her one defining thought was that if she had children, the idea of when fading during her time with Ian and how it had left her feeling, she would do better than her parents had done with her. It was always a pipe dream. A thought that lived in the corners of her mind, forever chasing her as she got older and time slipped through her fingers. It was only when she got with Aaron, when she fell in love with him and his son, that she realised it was something she could have. That it was something she wanted so much that she ached. 

But she may have lost her chance. 

The damage Ian had done to her in Boston had taken most of her time in Paris to recover from. She’d learnt to walk again. She’d had hours of physical therapy to bring her strength back to anywhere near what it had been when she’d died to protect herself and the people she loved. The doctors had vaguely referred to her fertility then, speaking to her in broken English even though she repeatedly told them she could speak fluent French, but at the time she hadn’t thought any more about it. Her dreams of being a mother, of being more than her mother ever had been, dead and buried with her. But then she came back. She came back to life, and to DC and to him, and suddenly the life she would never admit she’d always wanted was as clear to her as it had ever been. Bright and beautiful and in technicolour. 

It felt almost cruel to know she might never have all of it.

She was engaged to the love of her life. She owned a house with him and lived there with his son, their son, and for the first time in her life, she had solid foundations. The first time she’d mentioned the idea of having a baby to Aaron his eyes had lit up. Hope and joy that cut deeper than Ian’s stake ever had shining in his eyes as he looked at her. She’d told him what she knew, that she’d been told there could be complications, and he simply nodded. Drawing her into a hug as he whispered to her that they could figure it out together. 

So she called her OGBYN, knowing time wasn’t necessarily on her side anyway, and had tests. She’d been poked and prodded and had so many blood tests she was surprised she had any left. She’d almost been able to put it out of her mind until she got the call from her doctor asking her to come in to discuss the results. 

“Em,” he says, linking their hands together and lifting them to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, “No matter what happens, baby or no baby, everything will be ok.” 

Her smile shakes when she nods at him, wanting more than anything to believe him. She knew he would love her no matter what, she believed that part, but she was worried she’d never be able to forgive herself if she took the opportunity to be a father again from him.

He was such a good dad.

“Emily Prentiss?” 

They both look up, immediately trying to analyse the kind smile on the doctor’s face as she stands in the doorway to her office. Aaron stands first and then offers Emily his hand, squeezing it when she takes it and stands herself. The few paces into the office feels like a lifetime and Emily swallows thickly as the door closes behind them and her doctor guides them to the chairs opposite her desk.

“It’s good to see you again, Doctor Fisher,” Aaron says, polite as ever as they watch her sit down. 

“You too,” she replies smiling back and forth between the two of them, “How have you-”

“Can we please cut to the chase?” Emily says, cutting off Doctor Fisher, her voice tight as Aaron squeezes her hand even tighter. 

“Em-”

“Please,” she says, stopping Aaron from carrying on with any pleasantries, “I’ve been driving myself crazy for days. Weeks really. And I just need to know. Can I get pregnant?” 

The question and her desperation hang in the air around them, and the moments of silence that follows are some of the longest of her life. Despite her clear irritation, her frayed nerves that were leading her to be ruder than usual, Doctor Fisher simply smiles kindly as she links her hands together on her desk and leans in slightly closer to them.

“I’ll be honest with you Emily,” she says, “I don’t believe getting pregnant will be your issue, I think it will be staying pregnant.”

It feels like a gut punch. She feels like the wind has been knocked out of her, and she chokes on any follow-up questions, a huffed-out breath escaping her instead. 

“What…what do you mean?” She asks, her body tensing as Aaron holds her hand impossibly tighter. 

“Your uterus and fallopian tubes are intact, which given the extent of your injuries feels like nothing short of a miracle,” Doctor Fisher says, “My concern is the amount of scar tissue you have in your abdomen. I’ve frankly never seen so much, and it could cause complications throughout your pregnancy, especially as your abdominal muscles split to make room for the fetus to grow. It could cause a lot of stress to your body, and therefore-”

“I could lose it,” she says, her voice flat. She wipes a tear from her cheek, furious at herself for crying, “I could get pregnant but then I could lose it.” 

Doctor Fisher sighs and nods, “Yes, Emily. You could.” 

She doesn’t hear anything after that, her head feeling like it’s underwater as Aaron continues to ask questions, his hand around hers as he has a back-and-forth with her doctor. The next time she truly registers anything is when they are outside.

“Sweetheart-”

“Can we go home?” She asks, looking up at him as she cuts him off, not wanting to listen to any reassurances as they stood outside the fertility clinic, “I’d really like to go home.” 

Aaron sighs. He wanted nothing more than to fix this for her, to kill the man who had done this to her even though Ian was long since dead. He takes a deep breath and forces those thoughts away, knowing that, more than ever, she needed his love right now and not his anger. 

“Of course,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead before they carry on walking, “Whatever you want.” 

The journey home is silent. Emily stares out the window the whole way, everything Doctor Fisher had said to her turning over in her head. When they make it home Emily snaps out of it the moment she sees Jack, determined to spend a normal evening with the little boy she loved as her own. It’s only when he’s in bed and Aaron seeks her out, finding her sitting in their bathtub in the en suite that they talk about it. 

“I…” she drifts off, shaking her head as she sits up straighter in the bath, tucking her knees into her chest as the water sloshes around her, “I don’t know what to do.” 

Aaron kneels on the floor next to the tub and tucks some hair behind her ear, cupping her cheek as he tilts her head to look at him, “You don’t have to make any choices right now, sweetheart. That was a lot to take in today.”

She hums, turning her head just enough to kiss his palm, “What do you want to do?”

He sighs because he knows he wants this with her. That he wants a child half him and half her, a kid that he was sure would be as much of a troublemaker as they would be beautiful. But he wants her more, he wants her to be ok, and he would never want to do anything that would cause her more pain.

“It’s your body, Em,” he says gently, “It’s your choice.” 

She huffs out a laugh, a wry smile spreading over her face as her fiancee unknowingly repeats the words Matthew had said to her all those years ago when she was pregnant, the only time she might ever be, and she was left to make a choice no one her age should have to make. 

“Yeah, I guess it is,” she says, resting her cheek on her knees so she can continue to look at him, seeking out the comfort she always found in the eyes she’d always hoped he’d pass onto their child. “I want to try,” she says eventually, “Even if…” she clears her throat, “Even if it doesn’t happen for us. I want to try.” 

He nods, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead, “Then we’ll try.”

___

It happens quickly. 

A test with two lines gripped in her hand as she loses herself in Aaron’s embrace, her happiness coming out of her in the form of hot tears against his neck. 

Her joy, and the pregnancy, is fleeting. A blip in time that she tries to hang onto as evidence that she can get pregnant, a consolation that doesn’t help the grief, the emptiness she feels when they come home from the hospital with medication and a bag full of sanitary pads. She had bought the same brand for JJ after she had Henry. 

Aaron cries with her, his arms tight around her as he stops her from apologising, his assurances that it wasn’t her fault falling flat because it’s all she can think of. 

This was her fault. And she’s only more sure of that when it happens again a few months later.

___

The joy she feels the third time she stands in her bathroom with a positive test is no less overwhelming than the first and second, but it’s followed by sharp anxiety. A sense of inevitability that she’d lose this one too that she can’t shake off. 

It’s only when they get to the 12-week scan, the furthest she’d got so far, that she starts to allow herself to believe it might finally be happening for them. She keeps a copy of the ultrasound in her purse and she takes it out to look at every time the worst-case scenarios threaten to take over. 

When they tell the team at their small, but beautiful, wedding reception a couple of weeks later they are delighted for them. Penelope’s joy is exuberant, her many, many questions about when they were going to have a baby finally have their answer. She’d spent months asking Emily about it, unknowingly picking at an unhealed wound every single time. 

She’s five months along, nothing short of relieved every time she feels her baby, her son, shift in her belly, when she feels it. Sharp pains spreading across the top of her bump, enough to take her breath away. She waits for a moment, hoping it will pass, but it doesn’t. She blows out a slow breath as she stands, her hand pressed to her belly as she walks the short, but almost insurmountable, distance to Aaron’s office. She clears her throat as she stands in his doorway, and she watches as the smile slips from his face as he looks up at her, her panic clear. 

“Sweetheart-”

“I think it’s happening again,” she gets out, the hand not pressing into her belly gripping the door frame. He’s up and out of his chair, across the room faster than she thought possible, “It hurts.” 

He knows it has to hurt for her to even admit to it, her willingness to hide her pain well known, and he places his hand on her bump, “We’ll take you to Doctor Fisher’s office, ok? She’ll be able to have a look at you both and tell us what is going on.” 

He’s already guiding her back down the stairs, his hand on her lower back, before she responds, “I can’t…I can’t lose him, Aaron.”

She’d let herself forget, let herself get carried away with talk of names and the nursery and what colour to paint it. She’d let hope take over and push the anxiety away a little more every single day. Neither of them responds to the team as they call after them, already past the glass doors and waiting by the elevators before Emily even turns to look at them. 

“Everything will be ok,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple, and for the first time since this all started he isn’t sure he believes it himself. 

___

He finds her in their bedroom, sitting up in bed with one hand on her bump and the other holding a new ultrasound photo. 

Aaron thinks he could live a hundred years and he’d never forget the relieved cry that had escaped from Emily as Doctor Fisher confirmed that the baby was ok, playing his heartbeat for them when they didn’t quite believe her. She explained that the pain was from Emily’s abdominals shifting to make room for the baby, a part of pregnancy that was painful for some women anyway, let alone someone with the amount of scar tissue Emily had in the area. Her internal scarring was being pulled at, and now she’d need more frequent monitoring to ensure it wasn’t causing any internal bleeding. They’d been told early delivery was likely, that her body wouldn’t deal with the stress for forty weeks. He watches as Emily blows out a breath, her hand briefly leaving her belly to wipe a tear from her cheek. 

“I want to ask if you’re ok,” he says, walking over to join her on the bed, “But that seems like a stupid question,” he wraps his arm around her and pulls her into his side, “But as your husband, I think I should ask anyway. Are you ok, sweetheart?” 

She isn’t sure how to put it into words. The scare they’d had today solidified everything she’d been feeling ever since that first conversation with Doctor Fisher. She’d never be free of what happened to her, of what she had endured, and it made her angry and sad in equal measure

“I hate that he’s part of this,” she says quietly, wiping another tear from her cheek as she places the ultrasound photo down on her nightstand. 

He frowns, shifting to look at her as he waits for a clarification she doesn’t freely give, “Who?” 

“Ian,” she chokes out, and his frown softens, nothing but love flooding his features. 

“Em-”

“This is meant to be the happiest time of my life,” she says, cutting him off, her lower lip trembling, “I’m married to the love of my life, I’m having a baby but…I can’t escape what happened in Boston, what Ian did,” she shakes her head, tears falling past her lash line and splashing onto her cheeks, “He’s part of this experience and I hate it.” 

She rests her forehead against his shoulder and he cups the back of her head, his blunt nails scratching comfortingly at her scalp as she cries. He doesn’t say anything at first, knowing that this was something she’d needed to get off her chest for weeks. He’d seen it. He hadn’t missed how she’d look at her bump in the mirror, her smile fading as her eyes would shift from the curve of it to the scar that sat over the top. He waits until her sobs subside and he kisses the top of her head before she encourages her to look up at him, his other hand seeking out hers.

“He isn’t part of this, Em,” he says firmly, and she sighs, opening her mouth to respond but he cuts her off, “He isn’t,” he repeats, reaching and placing their joint hands on her bump, “It’s just you and me and our little boy,” he rests his forehead against hers and she closes her eyes, taking a moment to breathe him in, “Ian Doyle is not part of this. You are living your life despite what happened.” 

She pulls back, intending to argue the point with him, but as their eyes meet she sees herself as he does for a moment. As someone who, despite everything, was moving forward. Living a life she’d always wanted but not allowed herself to have. She nods, placing a hand on his neck and stroking his jaw. 

“Ok,” she whispers as she nods. 

“Ok?” He asks, searching her eyes for any further distress, and she nods again. 

“Yeah,” she replies, stamping a kiss against his lips, “It’s just us.”

___

Relief doesn’t feel like a strong enough word to describe how she feels when she hears her son cry for the first time. 

She’s in an operating room, another scar added to her abdomen, and Aaron is sitting by her head, whispering words of encouragement to her as their son is born. She hadn’t wanted a c-section but had accepted it was the best way forward, not wanting to strain her abdominal scarring anymore than she already had with potentially hours of pushing. 

It’s all worth it, everything she had been through, the moment she hears that cry. 

He’s tiny, a small thing that weighs 5lbs 7 ounces, something that the nurse announces as she hands him to her. She’d made it to 35 weeks before Doctor Fisher decided it was time to deliver, the pain Emily had been enduring for weeks impacting her blood pressure. As Emily looks at her son’s face, at the dark hair plastered to his head, she knows she would have endured it forever for him. She places a hand on his back and feels Aaron place his hand over hers, holding their son safely against her as she shakes. 

“Hi sweet boy,” she says, her voice cracking, “Look at you.” 

Aaron turns his head to kiss her forehead, his lips firm against her skin as he tells her how proud he is of her, how much he loves her and their family. He turns his attention back to the tiny newborn whose cries had diminished a little now he was laying on his mother. 

“Hi buddy,” he says, tears clogging his voice, “We’ve waited a long time for you.” 

“He’ll need to stay in the NICU for a few days,” Doctor Fisher says, “Because he’s early we’ll need to monitor him overnight,” she clearly sees how Emily holds him even closer, as if she wasn’t numb from the ribcage down and unable to move, “You can keep him for now though. Do you have a name in mind?” 

Emily tears her eyes from her baby for the first time since he’d been handed to her and she looks at Aaron, unsurprised to see tears shining in his eyes too. He nods at her, a silent confirmation that he was thinking the same thing she was. That the name they’d picked out weeks ago, when she was still half convinced she’d never have this moment, was perfect. 

“Oliver,” Emily says, looking back at her son and smiling as his bleary eyes meet hers. She feels overwhelmed and overjoyed and in disbelief that she was finally here. “Your name is Oliver, sweet boy. And Mommy and Daddy both love you very much.” 

-x-

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[queen-tashie]

Writeblr Q& A

Tagged by @mrbexwrites as usual lol. Thank you!!

Gentle, non-obligatory tags to @ftmerriweather, @ahungeringknife, @elizmanderson, and anyone else that wants to jump in! (Remember to tag me so I don't miss your responses!)

1. What motivates you to write?

If I don't I will explode.

I have ADHD and because of it I am just filled and overwhelmed with ideas. I've started keeping a 'thought dump' list where ALL my half-baked ideas go, and when I get more ideas for that same concept, I pull it off there and pour my heart out onto the page.

Writing has been one of the few hobbies that has been easy for me to jump in and out of because of my ADHD. Painting is great but there's clean up after. Writing, I create a new doc, or open a blank page in a journal and have virtually nothing to clean up or put away later. It's the most accessible hobby for me because of this.

And because I keep doing it, I keep developing skills and each time I write I improve a little. It's a piece of immense stability and pride in accomplishing something that it gives me so much purpose in life. So it compels me to share what I have to say through the medium of fiction. :)

2. A line/short snippet of your writing that you are most proud/happy of. If not maybe share a line of someone else's work you love (just please credit them)

For all its first-book flaws, I think this line from The Quiet Forest goes hard.

Runnicka stood before her home and knocked on the door. She didn’t know why she knocked, maybe Farewai didn’t feel like home anymore, like she was a traveller passing through.

3. What part of writing do you think you are the best at? (Yes stroke your own ego it's okay)

I used to say fight scenes. While I still think I'm pretty good at those, I think that's been overshadowed by my ability to write concisely. I am an underwriter, but once I've edited and beefed up a story, I think I have gotten pretty good at giving detailed and vivid information in few words.

4. What do you enjoy most about the Writeblr community?

I tried for years to make friends on the twitter writing community. Everything felt so superficial there, similar to instagram. When I finally stopped using twitter so much and focused on what I could enjoy on tumblr, I ran into the Writeblr community and made friends quickly. Within months. Trying to be part of the community feels effortless here, and so much more welcoming and genuine. Thanks Writeblr for giving me a place to belong! :D

5. A writing tool/device you use that helps you with writing? (It could be speech to text, a writing program etc)

Blank writing docs to create a thought dump, outline, and each version of my WIPs' drafts. Plus, additional info if needed like worldbuilding. Anything that helps me keep my thoughts on the project organized. Oh, and folders.

6. A piece of worldbuilding that you like in your own story? (It could be the magic system, a particular place in the story, a law etc)

I've always thought that stories where a bloodline is cursed, or someone is blessed with powers, are one and the same, just depending on one's perspective, or the intended outcome. So in Copper Frames, my current WIP, I created a ritual magic system where a 'curse' is a 'blessing' gone wrong, or a curse is a blessing that the recipient didn't want, and vice versa.

7. What piece of advice would you say to encourage others to write if they are having a rough patch?

Take a break. Your writing and your desire to write will be there when you come back. Not just 15 minutes, take a vacation from it. Go do things, recharge your creative well by experiencing new things. Take a walk in a new park, watch a new movie, read a new book, hang out with friends or family you don't often see. Listen to what they have to say and ask questions. Inspiration strikes when you least expect it.

And always have a way to write down those ideas when they come to you.

[oomisluvr]

ALL THE NIGHTS WE USED TO LOVE (HOW IT USED TO WAS)

synopsis: every relationship is bound to have arguments. it doesn't mean you love each other any less. angst. hurt/comfort. swearing.

Song: Childs Play (feat. Chance the Rapper) - SZA

“You’re neglecting your responsibilities as a girlfriend.”

You slide your bluelight glasses from your face, pinching the bridge of your nose to smooth out the indents you’re sure they’ve left behind. 

“Responsibilities?” You squint up at him from your place on the couch, eyes stinging from working on an essay the past four hours, “Like what? Cuddling? Back massages? A fucking handjob?

“Precisely all three of those things.” Though his height and overall demeanor allows him to loom over you, the facemask smoothed to his skin makes him look less than threatening, “Come to bed. It’s late.”

“Kiyoomi, it's barely eleven-o-clock.”

“Exactly,” He seethes, the facemask flopping a bit around his mouth, “I’m supposed to be in bed and asleep by ten-thirty!”

“Then get in the bed and go to sleep.” You snort, brushing him off and redirecting your attention to the unfinished google doc on your laptop. It sounds harsher than you intend, but you don’t have the emotional capacity to babysit his emotions right now. “I’ll be there in a bit.”

“You’ve been saying that for the past two hours.”

“And I already said sorry, alright?” You sigh, “Everything is just… a lot right now. Can you please just give me tonight to get this done?”

“No.” Something snaps in Kiyoomi, something ugly and childish stirring in his core. He reaches to shut your laptop closed, your fingers just barely making it out before being smushed. 

Furious, you turn to him, “What the fuck!”

“I’m trying to have a conversation with you and you won’t even look at me.”

“What conversation? I already told you,” You fume, “What part of ‘I’m working’ don’t you understand?”

“You’re always working, though.” he spits, looming over you, “It’s like you’re not even here anymore!” 

“I don’t complain when your job makes you disappear for months at a time,” you say, “I shut the fuck up and support you like a normal girlfriend does. Why can’t you do the same for me?”

“Watch it.” he damn near growls, and something about his tone has you standing to your feet to look him in his face.

“Or what, Kiyoomi?” you challenge, “Or fucking what? Are you threatening me now?” 

“I fucking miss you!” He explodes, “Is that so bad? Is it so evil to want to spend time with my partner?”

“You think I want to do this shit? I don't! I get treated like a doormat every single day, Kiyoomi!” You’re screaming, hot emotions overwhelming you and bubbling out, “But I do it because I’m building a career for myself, a future!”

Kiyoomi goes as still as a statue, studying your expression with a cold calculation you’ve only ever seen him use on the court. Finally, he asks, “And what about us? Our future? Does that matter at all to you?” 

“Are you kidding me? Is that a fucking joke?” You humorously laugh, “Are you giving me an ultimatum right now?”

He opens mouth to speak, but you raise your hand with alarming ease, dismissing him. 

“Actually, save it.” You decide, marching to the coat rack by the door, “I don’t need this right now. I have a fucking paper to write.”

It’s only when you grab your purse does Kiyoomi understand your intention to leave.

“Y/N, please. I’m asking if this even matters to you.” His voice cracks when he speaks, watching you toss on a heavy coat, “Because it feels like I’m more invested than you sometimes.”

“That is not fair.” You whisper, hand frozen on the door handle, “That’s bullshit. After all the shit we’ve gone through? Hell, after all the shit you’ve put me through, you don’t get to stand there and say I don’t care.”

“Can you stop putting words in my mouth?” he says, “Fuck, I’m not saying that’s what’s happening, I’m saying that’s how I feel.” 

You’re breathing hard, like you just ran a marathon. When you don’t respond, he continues, throwing himself down on the couch cushions.

“I feel like I’m… losing you; like you’re slipping through my fingers and there’s nothing I can do but watch. When was the last time we went on a fucking date? When was the last time we had a normal conversation without it blowing up like this?” He sighs, and you see the exhaustion in his eyes. You’re both tired. 

“I just…” He trails off, the last of his anger fizzling into something raw and vulnerable, “I just miss you. That’s it. I miss you, Y/N. All I wanted was to fall asleep next to you. I didn’t mean to blow up on you. I’m sorry.”

His honestly stings worse than if he would have just let the argument escalate. Communication used to be such a struggle for the two of you, and sometimes those old habits come back. You’re both in the wrong, and the realization feels like a slap in the face. The words you used, your tone, your volume–that’s not how you speak to people you love. 

And you do love Kiyoomi, despite everything.

“Don’t apologize when I’m the one who should be sorry.” You whisper, shrugging off your coat and hanging up your purse. You approach him on the sofa, shame heavy in your heart, “You were only trying to look out for me. It wasn’t fair of me to go off on you. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry, Kiyoomi.”

“Are we…” He starts, staring at you with bloodshot eyes. He looks scared. Vulnerable. You wonder how many people had abandoned his younger self, what buried emotions you unearthed, “Are we going to be okay?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered. Relationships were so much fucking work. They were exhausting, and took a real effort to keep both parties happy.

But they’re worth it. Kiyoomi was worth it.

He’s been there for you, and you for him. He’s seen all your good and all your bad, and still loves you the same. The two of you have struggled hard to create careers for yourself, fighting tooth and nail for even a shred of recognition in your respective fields. It’s been hard on the both of you. And as bills stack and debts pile, it only gets harder.

You grit your teeth. It’s been tough, but the two of you are tougher. You’ve come so far. Love bends, but it won’t break. You won’t let it. It was you two against the world. Always will be. These petty fights would never change that.

Sometimes difficult to like, but always easy to love. He’s fully, wholly, entirely yours. 

And you, his.

“Yes,” You say, and it’s not a lie, “We’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” He nods, eyes still glazed over with an emotion you don’t quite recognize, “We’ll be okay.” 

Your hands find his, pulling him up from the couch, “Let’s go to bed.”

“No, it’s fine.” He deflects with a breathless chuckle, “I know you really need to finish this. I can survive one night alone.”

“I just need to add my sources by noon tomorrow. I’ll be fine.” You say, and Kiyoomi knows you both need this, “Let’s go to bed, baby.”

He caves, following you to the bedroom. He helps you with your skincare. You two will be okay. You both apologize a dozen more times to each other. Kiyoomi laughs when he realizes he’s had a facemask on that entire time. You two will be okay. You tell him you love him, and he says it back to you. He promises to take you out for lunch tomorrow. 

You two will be okay.

[knickynoo]

Back to the Future: The Animated Series, s01 ep08 "Batter Up"

Previous episodes linked HERE

Yes, I skipped episode 7. Trust me, you aren't missing anything. Just an episode centering around Marty having athlete's foot and his and Doc's quest in ancient Peru to find a frog that secretes an acid that cures it. Along the way, they run into one of Biff's relatives—who is a conquistador—get captured by Incans, and. Yeah. Then there's another "mini" episode centered all around Einstein going on an adventure to Australia when two bank robbers steal the DeLorean. It's boring and terrible. I didn't want to review it & gave myself a pass. But we're back at it with episode 8!

In this episode: Baseball! Irresponsible use of technology! And Marty inadvertently gives an ancestor a TBI!

As always, we begin with Real Doc doing his science show broadcast. Outside, we can hear Jules and Verne playing in the yard, and Doc soon takes a baseball to the head.

After announcing he's going to go take a nap, we enter the cartoon, where Marty, Jules, and Verne are all playing baseball. As I would have expected, Marty is revealed to be not so great at the sport.

"Must be a defective bat," Marty says, attempting to defend his poor batting skills.

"More like a defective batter," Jules quips. Get him, Jules.

I've always headcanoned Marty as being generally un-sporty. I mean, he's great at running, but I think that's about it. Put a bat in his hands or a soccer ball at his feet and watch him spectacularly display his lack of coordination. In my mind, he frequently ended up in the nurse's office during P.E. classes. I take this opening scene of the episode as confirmation of my headcanon. Thanks.

Anyway, Marty insists that Verne keeps pitching until he finally gets a hit. Doc pokes his head out from his broken kitchen window (courtesy of Marty missing the last pitch) and says he has an invention to help his friend out. And his offer tells me one thing: Doc does not think Marty is capable of hitting a baseball without the aid of science.

Doc comes running out of the house with a pair of high-tech glasses that he claims will help Marty be able to hit anything, after which Marty delivers one of his most un-Marty-like lines so far in the series.

There are a lot of commas in that sentence.

But isn't that just. Not a combination of words you'd expect to come out of Marty's mouth? The sheer level of confidence is absurd, even when taking into account the improved self-esteem Marty gains throughout the course of the trilogy. To claim he's PERFECT? The audacity! Who is this guy??

Let me re-write the scene to be more in line with canon, shall I?

Doc *running out of the house with the glasses*: "With these eyeglasses, you can hit anything!"

Marty: "Whoa, hey, Doc, that's awesome. Let me—" *trips over his bat and face plants in the grass, then somehow tumbles down a large hill even though there are none on the property*

Isn't that better?

Doc's invention consists of laser glasses that track the ball, along with a metal exoskeleton-looking contraption that straps around the wearer's chest and limbs.

He even has different settings, allowing for pitching, fielding, and my personal favorite, kicking dirt on the umpire.

Doc thinks of everything.

Marty is excited that the device might be his "ticket to the major leagues", which is another un-Marty thing to say. Now, based on his interest in hearing of the World Series results in part II, and the novelization (based on a draft of the first film) that contains a scene of him and Doc talking about baseball, I can see Marty having an interest in the sport, but I can't see him wanting to play it professionally.

Doc emphasizes that the device is only intended to help the wearer practice and gain the muscle memory required to play baseball better on their own. He hands it off to Marty and returns inside. There's mistake number one, Doc. Do you really expect Marty to behave responsibly with such powerful technology at his fingertips?

To Marty's credit, he actually does seem like he's intending to listen and just use it for practice, but then Jules goes and makes the second mistake of the episode. He brings out a stack of baseball cards and informs Marty that he had a relative who attempted to make it big in the world of baseball: Pee Wee McFly, Marty's 5th cousin, three times removed.

Why Jules has this collection of cards and the information regarding Marty's ancestor "at the ready" is beyond me.

We learn that Pee Wee retired from the game after striking out and causing his team (The Boston Beaneaters) to lose the 1897 National League Pennant Race.

This is irrelevant to the episode, but I have to share a screenshot of Verne in the scene where Marty is reading the card, simply because it distracted and amused me so much. His animation goes wonky, and he just looks...wrong.

Why—why is he so lopsided and "lumpy" looking?

By the way, we are only FOUR MINUTES into the episode so far. Hats off to anyone who sticks with me to the end of this one, because I suspect it'll be a long post. But at least we're having fun along the way! (I am, at least)

The boys decide they're going to travel back to the game and give Pee Wee the suit to help him win. Bad idea, fellas.

After arriving in 1897 the day before the game, Marty demonstrates what a bad idea it is when he calls to Pee Wee from the stands, distracting him and causing him to take a baseball to the head.

I happened to pause this at just the right time. Poor Pee Wee. Marty needs to stay in his own time and keep his mouth shut.

After that, Pee Wee is just stumbling all around the field, delirious from his recent head injury (THANKS, MARTY!). I must also point out that he sounds just like the Lucky Charms leprechaun. His accent is Seamus's times five.

It becomes clear pretty quickly that Pee Wee is in no shape to play in the game. He's literally just flopping around on the field and bumping into everybody. I'm no doctor, but I'd say that Pee Wee has a serious concussion and needs immediate medical attention. He does not appear to be as hardy as Marty is when it comes to bouncing back after blows to the head.

This is all Marty's fault.

Marty decides he'll have to fill in for Pee Wee. He dons the laser glasses and a fake mustache, puts on his best accent, and runs out to join the game. He ends up winning the game for the team and has to run away from his adoring fans. Unfortunately, this victory ends up angering Diamond Jim Tannen, who was in the audience and had money on the game.

We learn that Diamond Jim had made an "agreement" with Pee Wee in which Pee Wee was supposed to purposely throw the game in exchange for Diamond Jim not "rearranging" his face. When Pee Wee tells Marty he must lose the big game the next day, this exchange happens, and I find it much funnier than it probably is.

He just immediately gets on a streetcar that conveniently arrives and flees town. Maybe I have a simple sense of humor, but I find this hysterical. Pee Wee is gone.

The following day, Marty shows up at the game, pretending to be Pee Wee. Meanwhile, Pee Wee is about to board a boat to Ireland. Marty's shenanigans are really doing potential damage to his family history. It's only been a few hours, and Marty has given his cousin head trauma and is now causing him to return to his homeland.

Back at the game, Marty is still pitching well, which enrages Diamond Jim. After the two get into a brawl on the field, Marty's high-tech glasses are stepped on, and he begins to play horribly. At one point, the glasses cause him to bounce all around the field, complete with pinball machine sound effects.

When we return to the docks, Pee Wee is about to stow away on the ship to Ireland (his plan is to hide in a shipment of potatoes), where he overhears some kids playing baseball. They're all clear fans of Pee Wee McFly and are heartbroken when a dock worker tells them, "Everybody knows Diamond Jim Tannen paid Pee Wee McFly to lose that game." Pee Wee decides he can't let those kids and the rest of his fans down, and he takes off for the ball field.

Upon arriving, he yanks Marty down into the dugout, takes back his uniform, and soon hits a home run, winning the game for the Boston Beaneaters. We return immediately to present day, where Jules displays his Pee Wee McFly baseball card, which has changed to say that Pee Wee was the hero of the game. He also shared some tips with Marty, who finally is able to hit one of Verne's pitches.

Our closing Real Doc content involves us learning about curve balls and the magnus effect. He's joined by Brett Butler of the LA Dodgers. Here is a complimentary gifset, because it's nice to end these posts with our good buddy Doc Brown.

Join me next week as we journey to 2091, where Jules and Verne send their parents on a doomed anniversary space cruise to Mars.

[screadingchallenge]

Behind the Keyboard-Volume 15

Please note that Behind the Keyboard will be posted once per week during the Reading Challenge. We’ll go back to twice a week in mid-August.

Behind the Keyboard is a series of interviews with different Schitt’s Creek fanfic authors. The series will last as long as there is interest (from authors) and capacity (from me). If you are an author from the Schitt’s Creek fandom who would like to participate, send a DM to this account.  

Each author was given ten questions. The first five questions are the same for every author, the last five will vary.

Remember, this year’s Reading Challenge begins July 15, so polish up those MFL lists.

Let’s meet our next author:

NeelyO / @neelyo67​

How many fics have you written?

64 total—33 of them in Schitt’s Creek (17 in Schitt’s Creek RPF)

When did you publish your first fic on AO3?

October 30, 2019!

Describe your writing process from “Oh, I have an idea” to pushing publish on AO3. 

I get an idea, open a doc, and then I get nervous! But then I start putting words down—I usually get an idea about how I want something to start off, so I write pretty much in order till I get stuck and then I’ll put brackets for future Neely to deal with. It helps to have a friend scream encouragement, so I usually share my doc with someone I trust so that they can cheerlead for me. If it’s a bigger story, or if it’s for a fest, I’ll have a friend beta for me when I’ve got a pretty good draft done to be sure I didn’t miss anything and that everything makes sense. Then comes the trauma of choosing a title and writing a summary, and then BOOM it’s published!

Tell me about your most recent fic? What do you love about it? Is there anything you think you could have done better?

My most recent fic is 1. He loves his husband. It was based on a prompt that several friends all decided to fill, using 300 words or less. I like challenges like that, I like prompts, so it was so fun. I love that the title for the fic and the idea to make it part of a list came to me almost immediately, fully formed. That was energizing and fun, and the whole story flowed really easily as I was writing. While I know I can always improve and learn and grow, I really like how the fic turned out! I’m super happy with it.

What advice would you give to someone who’s thinking about publishing their fic for the first time?

Please do it! Write a story that you love, do the best you can, and take the leap. I hadn’t written for pleasure in years and years, and I was really nervous when I first got an idea that I couldn’t shake. I never intended to write fic, I was just going to be a reader. It was so empowering to put something on AO3, something I made. I’d also suggest leveraging your friends to support your writing process and your post-publishing anxiety. I was brave with that first fic because of the encouragement of my friend @this-is-not-nothing​, who kept telling me I could do it! And knowing that I have at least a couple of good friends who will read anything I write, even in a niche fandom where I’m truly writing basically for myself, is really lovely.

Tell me about a story that you wish you could write but that you’re not quite ready to tackle.

I have an idea for a historical AU that would be kinda long, maybe? I’ve gotten as far as the majority of the casting, but I need to get brave and dive into it. I’ve not done a true longfic, and I’m not even sure how long this one would be, but I’m so in awe of all our SC writers who really, really do longfic well.

Alexis is trapped in a drug lord’s palace and you have to convince her captors to read your fic in order to free her. What’s your best sales pitch for your favorite fic?

(Picking one favorite is incorrect, they are all my bebés, but I will play along here.) Hello drug lord people, since you obviously like Alexis, I’d like to tell you about my very fluffy fic We Must Let Go to Know What’s Right. On the night of the infamous barbecue, both Alexis and Rachel are sad. But then they discover that hooking up makes them less sad, and that building a relationship together makes them happy! Oh, and Rachel has two kittens! 

Do you write for any other fandoms? Which ones?

Oo, yes! I’ve written Schitt’s Creek RPF, as I mentioned, along with some Supernatural, Red White and Royal Blue, Ted Lasso, 911 Lone Star, Broadway RPF, and Great British Bake Off RPF.

What is your comfort fic?

Oh gosh—I love all things magical, and also anything domestically fluffy, and so many other genres and tropes…but I don’t have a particular fic I look to for comfort, really. 

Is there someone(s) who has made your writing better? In what way?

We have so many amazing authors in the SC fandom, I feel like all the fic I’ve read over the last three years has made me better. Seeing all the different styles and approaches that different people take with the same group of characters has allowed me to dream and write the things that speak to me in my own way. I also think that being a beta has made me a better writer. I love encouraging, brainstorming, and editing, all of which are things I’ve gotten to do as a beta. Getting an in-depth look at another writer’s process, and being a small part of it, is an honor and a privilege, and has been a great learning experience for me.

[plaidbooks]

Dark Secrets: New Beginnings

A/N: This is the first installment of the Vampire!Sonny x reader fic. This chapter is only setting the stage; next chapter will be more about the vampire aspect, I promise! This covers the Bookstore square in @adarafaelbarba​ moodboard bingo!

Tags: mentions of sex

Words: 2233

Taglist: @witches-unruly-heart​  @beccabarba​  @thatesqcrush​ @itsjustmyfantasyroom​ @permanentlydizzy​ @ben-c-group-therapy​  @infiniteoddball​ @glowingmess​ @whimsicallymad​ @lv7867​ @storiesofsvu​ @cycat4077​ @alwaysachorusgirl​  @glimmerglittergirl​ @joanofarkansass​ @caracalwithchips​ @berniesilvas​​  @reading--mermaid​  @averyhotchner​  @mrsrafaelbarba​ @detective-giggles​ @crowleysqueenofhell​ @dreamlover31​

You spent hours on the computer compiling resources for your thesis. After years and years, you were finally getting your Ph. D in History…if you could just finish this damned thesis. List complete, you headed to the local bookstore; you always checked them first before going online, since they were cheaper.

You were intimately familiar with the bookstore; you went there often. And you had double and triple checked online that they had these books. You had a small basket, four books in it, while you looked for the fifth and final book you needed. But its spot on the shelf stood vacant; a perfect hole where it should be.

Shaking your head slightly, you started to search the shelves around it, in case someone didn’t put it back correctly. But you were coming up empty. And this was the book that you needed to buy here; the shop had it for $20, while online was a couple hundred.

“Looking for Making the Revolution: America, 1763-1791?” a voice asked from behind you.

You turned to find a pale, lanky, attractive man, his hair slicked back, his bright blue eyes watching you intently. He was sitting at a table, open book in his hand. Seeing the cover, you knew it was the book you needed.

“I am, yes. Were you intending to buy it?” you questioned, praying he said no.

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “I was debating it. Why, do you want it?”

“I do; I need it for my thesis. If you let me buy it, I promise to give it to you when I’m done, free of charge.” At this point, you were just desperate for that book.

His eyes seemed to bore into you as he thought about your proposal. Finally, he smiled, saying, “I think that’s a noble reason to buy this book. You’ve got yourself a deal.” He held the book out to you, and you gently took it from him.

“Thank you so, so much. You don’t know how much this helps me,” you said, placing the book in your basket.

He held a hand up. “No problem. There’s a lot of inaccuracies in that text, anyways.”

You blinked in surprise. “There are?”

“Oh yes. For one, it perpetuates the idea that Christopher Columbus came here to ‘escape tyranny’ in England, which is a load of crap, if I’m honest.”

You took a step closer to the strange man. “Do you have a source on that?”

He thought about it, chuckling to himself about something, before he answered. “Well, I am in the process of transcribing a manuscript from the man himself. But it hasn’t been published quite yet, so I doubt it’ll be of use to you for your thesis.”

“Wh—who are you?” you asked in awe.

He held a hand out for you to shake. “Dr. Dominick Carisi Jr., but you, my dear, may call me Sonny.”

Your eyes widened in shock, and you quickly shook his hand. “Dr. Carisi? Oh my god! I’ve been reading your work in class; I loved your thesis on slavery!” You had never seen a picture of him, had no idea he was so young; he was about your age. You had expected him to be an old man, at least in his 80s, not this attractive man in his early 40s at most.

He barked out a laugh. “You’ve really been reading my work? I’m flattered. I didn’t think anyone put stock in my texts.” While it was true he was a world renowned historian, his work was seen as highly controversial. He had a knack for citing manuscripts and journal entries, things that no one had discovered before he brought them to the limelight. But every authenticator had proven that the writings were from the time period. And that was enough for you.

“Please, sir, er, Doctor. Could I spend a day with you, pick your brain for my thesis? I’ll—I’ll buy the drinks and food, just…please?” you asked, suddenly embarrassed.

But Sonny’s smile grew. “I’d like that. But only if you call me Sonny. If you’re doing your thesis, then I assume you’re almost done with your doctorate?” You nodded, and he continued, “then in my eyes, we’re equals, and you don’t need to call me ‘Doctor’.”

Your heart beat a little faster when he called you equals. “Thank you so much Doc—Sonny. Does the coffeeshop next door work for you?”

“It does. And I’m free all week, whenever you need me.”

“How about tomorrow morning? I don’t have class until 3pm; I hope that’s enough time to chat.”

He gave you that heart melting smile once more. “Sounds good. See you tomorrow.” Then he took your hand and kissed it. As he walked away, your knees felt weak. You were infatuated within five minutes of talking to him.

 **********************

Sonny turned out to be an incredible source of information. Plus, he brought books that he thought would help you, letting you borrow what you needed. And, like yesterday, you found yourself completely enamored with him. He didn’t have a ring on, so you assumed him unmarried, but you didn’t know how to bring it up without being weird. Sure, you were close in age, but he was done with school, became a published historian, while you were still finishing up college. But he never talked down to you; on the contrary, he seemed highly interested in what you had to say.

Like before, you had been nervous—star-struck, really—when you met up with him. But as the hours ticked by, you found yourself more and more comfortable with him. He was highly intelligent, especially about history. You had found it hard to find someone who was as interested in history as you were, without sounding like a pretentious asshole. But Sonny checked all those boxes for you. You were just unsure if he felt the same.

“When is your thesis due? I feel like it’s still early in the academic year,” he asked.

You cleared your throat. “It is; I still have months and months to work on it. It’s due next year, but I want it to be perfect, you know?”

“I do, I do,” he agreed, nodding. “I hope you’re taking some time off, though, as well. Don’t let this paper take up your whole life; you should be out, appreciating everything this life has to give you. Don’t get stuck in the past.”

You looked at the table, letting his words soak in. It was like he had looked right through you; for the past month or so, you’ve been deep in your studies. You had friends, sure, but you hardly saw them. And you’d given up on dating until after you finished college, anyways. But maybe Sonny was on to something. You should seize the day, capture every moment in memories.

“Would you like to get dinner with me, Sonny?” you asked, trying to sound as confident as possible.

It was his turn to look surprised. “Oh, uh…sorry, you caught me off guard. In all my years, no one has ever asked me out; it’s usually the other way around.”

You chuckled. “You’re not much older than me,” you joked, and he smiled. “Maybe it’s time for something new. For both of us…that is, if you want?”

“I’d love to go to dinner with you,” he said, and your heart soared.

When it was getting close to 3, you bade him goodbye, and he told you he would be eagerly awaiting your dinner date. You felt your face heat at the words, and you swore your face never cooled off for the rest of the day.

*********************

That date with Doctor Carisi turned out to be the best decision of your life. You both felt the spark between you, and you said yes to a second date before he even finished asking. Now, it’s been ten months of loving bliss between you. You completed your thesis, got your doctorate, and Sonny couldn’t be more proud of you. And you learned that while he was a historian, he was also a detective. He said he wanted to help people now, by giving them both access to history material, and by putting absolute monsters away.

But there were little things with him, quirks, really. Though you’ve been to his place, and he yours, he never made a move to get you into bed. Sure, you’ve kissed—and sometimes this escalated to a full-blown make out session—but he didn’t seem interested in sex.

He also didn’t seem interested in moving in together…or a future at all, really. Whenever you tried to bring it up, he would just nod along with you, agreeing to whatever you said and adding on a lot of “one day’s”.

He had no family for you to meet, and yours didn’t live close. You noticed he also didn’t eat or drink much; he loved to make you dinner, and he would say that he snacked while cooking. And then, about once a month, he’d leave for 3-4 days, claiming he wanted to be alone to work on the manuscript.

You gave him as much space as he asked for, and though you still loved him dearly, you were starting to wonder if there was something wrong with you…or if it was just something he was having issues with.

“Hey Sonny?” you asked one day while snuggling on the couch at your place. “Are we okay?”

He glanced down at you. “As far as I know, yes? Why, something on your mind?”

“Well…I was just thinking about how we’ve been together almost a year and we still haven’t moved in together,” you tried.

He looked to the ceiling as he thought. “Wow, I guess it really has been that long now, hasn’t it? I feel like I just met you yesterday.”

“So, are we not connecting on a deeper level, then?” You sat up, turning to look at him.

His bright blue eyes found yours, and his expression softened. “That’s not what I meant; I’m sorry it came out like that. Time just…it moves so quickly is all. Look, I love you, I just—I don’t think I’m quite ready to make that jump yet. I’m sorry; I know this must be frustrating, but I promise you one day, I’ll…I’ll be ready.”

You nodded. “I love you too, I just….”

“What is it? You can tell me—”

“Why won’t you sleep with me?” you asked softly. His eyes widened, and you quickly added, “are—are you ace? It’s fine if you are, I understand, but I just…I feel like it’s something wrong with me, and I—”

He cupped your face in his hands, looking deeply in your eyes. “No, it’s nothing wrong with you, I promise. I’m just…I’m not ready—”

“I have urges, Sonny. And I love you, want to wait for you. But it’s been almost a year. I—I don’t believe a healthy relationship is built on sex, but well, it’d be nice to have every once in a while….”

He sighed, releasing your face. “It’s not that I don’t want to, because I do. I just want to be absolutely sure I’m ready. Call it shyness, or embarrassment, whatever you want. But I want to make sure that—that you’re the one for me, first, okay?”

You opened your mouth to respond when his phone rang. He gave you an apologetic look before answering with his stiff, “Carisi.” He mostly listened, making little noises of affirmation, before hanging up.

“I’m so, so sorry, doll. But the department needs me. I swear we’ll talk about this once I’m home, okay?” he promised, getting to his feet.

He grabbed his jacket, heading for the front door. “Sonny wait,” you called, and he stopped, looking back at you. You hurried over to him, looking up into those beautiful blues. “Be careful.”

He smiled softly. “I will be; promise.” He gave you a kiss, and then he was gone.

 ********************

You didn’t hear from Sonny again until the next morning, when he showed up on your front door, breakfast in hand. He apologized for leaving you last night during that important talk, but you brushed it off, telling him it was fine.

“That’s not all I have to apologize for,” he said, looking anywhere but at you. “I’m…going undercover. I’ll be gone for three months.”

Your face fell, and you put your fingers under his chin, tilting his face until he looked at you. “Three months?” you breathed.

“I’m sorry; I tried to decline, but the Lieutenant gave her orders. I leave in an hour.”

“Three months…” you said again, worry blossoming in your chest. This was the longest he’d be gone since you started dating.

He nodded. “I’ll text or call when I can, but don’t expect it; it may be too dangerous.”

You’d heard enough; you lifted onto your tiptoes, kissing him desperately. Your hands went to his hair, and you pulled him close, all your fear and trepidation in the kiss. He froze for only a moment before he was kissing you back, hands on your hips. He clutched you tightly enough that you gasped in pain, and he pulled away, releasing you.

“I’m sorry. I love you,” he muttered before turning to leave, but you had a suspicion that he wasn’t apologizing for leaving.

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

Forgiveness is Divine

Ron Speirs x Reader One Shot

Requested by the effervescent @hbo-monster-bob​ (my first ever request oh my lordy!)

Summary: you get hurt and Ron loses his cool in front of the wrong people. Now he fears he may have truly lost you. 

Warnings: mention of injury, potty words, a bit more angst than initially intended, some good ole RemorsefulButTryingHisVeryBest!Ron Speirs, some shitty dialogue i probably should’ve spent more time on

~ ~ ~ ~

He’d really fucked up. 

Even as he had ranted at you, he’d known how badly he was fucking things up.

But you...you’d made him worry. You’d scared him.

While helping Malarkey and Bull drag a wounded NCO into a trench, a bullet had ricocheted off of someone’s helmet and buried itself deep into your left bicep. The shock of it had made you drop, unable to catch yourself between your unresponsive arm and your death grip on the NCO’s vest.

Ron had thought you’d died.

He’d been sure that he’d just watched you die in front of him and then he was being fired at and he’d gone numb and gotten himself and his men out of the line of fire.

Hours later, he’d caught sight of you at the med station with one of the medics fishing around in your bicep for the fragments of the bullet that had stained your jacket beyond use with your blood.

You’d initially given him the soft smile you’d always saved for him when he stormed in, the fact that you were alive and safe eclipsed by his rage that you’d made him worry so badly.

His mother had once compared his temper to a tsunami- wild and destructive and overwhelming to those foolish enough to cross its path.

“The only difference between you and your father is that you stick around long enough to see the carnage you’ve created. My only wish for you, my sweetheart, is that you learn to own your mistakes and make them right again…..”

Ron had disappointed both of you with what he’d done next.

He’d let you have it.

He’d shouted and scolded and criticized you for your ‘carelessness’, tearing into you for abandoning your position of relative safety in favor of ‘playing a hero’. 

Ron had called you incompetent and reckless and questioned your sanity. Your smile had slipped from your face and he’d watched as you began to close yourself off to him, eyes becoming cold and detached despite the pain you must be feeling as the medic tweezed the deeply embedded shrapnel from your bicep. 

If you had been alone he knew you would’ve snapped right back at him or (at the very least) told him to calm down and find you when he’d remembered how to behave like a grown-up.

This brought him to his second fuckup, he’d done it in front of people. 

No, it was worse than that.  

He’d questioned your competence in front of three of your superiors (and several NCOs….and six of the medics).

When he’d finally run out of steam, you’d stared at him with a cool indifference that he’d only seen you slip into when you were dealing with something/someone you loathed. 

It was a look he’d never had cast his way before. And now that it was?

Ron felt about two inches tall. He hated it.

After making him suffer your silent and baleful glare for an agonizing two minutes, you’d turned to the (incredibly uncomfortable) medic and let your hateful expression melt into your regular, relaxed one.

“Any instructions for me, Doc?” you’d asked politely, and when the man had given you some gauze to repack the wound later you’d popped down off the table you’d been sitting on and walked past him like he was little more than furniture.

His outburst had gotten you taken off of the frontlines- away from the action and away from him.

When he’d asked Nixon where they’d put you, the other man had scoffed and given him an answer along the lines of “somewhere where her ‘incompetence won’t put others at risk’. Jackass.”

Welsh was significantly more helpful, telling Ron they’d sent you to Battalion for some extended desk duty (after scoffing at him, of course. Ron hadn’t realized just how quickly word had spread about his outburst).

Not that knowing where you were made much of a difference. 

He could be sitting right next to you and you’d still carry on as if you were alone, and when you did look at him it was so detached that all of his words of remorse died in his throat.

It was horrible.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

After reclaiming a hamlet on the airborne’s way to Germany, Ron had realized that you weren’t going to budge or relent in your indifference. 

Your willpower was clearly steadfast- you wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t at least a little bullheaded.

He was going to have to come to you. 

He had to try to make things right, even if you hated him for it...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Ron had knocked and not received an answer, he’d decided to come in anyway.

You didn’t look up at him as he closed the door behind him, keeping your eyes firmly trained on the typewriter in front of you as your fingers flew across the keys. 

A neat stack of (what he assumed to be) freshly typed reports for Sink rested beside your still-smoking cigarette on the table, and from the slope of your shoulders Ron could only assume that you’d been at this task for hours.

Clearing his throat, he tried to ease you into conversation.

“Want me to take those to Battalion for you—?”

“No. I don’t.”

Well, at least that was more than you’d said to him in the past week. 

Ron had never imagined he would ever be the sappy type to miss the sound of someone's voice. Of course, that was before he met you. Before he’d started to care for you in the way a man cares for a woman, rather than the care a CO has for his fellow officers.

Not that he’d told you that. Not yet.

And now he may never get to- considering you’d refused to speak to him for the last three weeks about anything other than urgent work matters…..

You brought your cigarette to your lips and pulled from it deeply as you read over all that you had typed so far, the angry tick of your clenched jaw the only sign that you knew he was still there.

Even as you despised him, Ron still found you beautiful. A vengeful divinity with a glare that could cut glass and a stubbornness that rivaled his own.

He walked over to stand behind you, reading over your shoulder and realizing that it wasn’t reports that you had been working on….but death notices

You’d once told him it was your least favorite thing to do, that you’d gladly take latrine duty for the rest of your life if it meant you never had to write another.

“Soul sucking,” you’d called it, a night when the two of you shared a cigarette while on patrol. Your nose had been red from the cold and your eyes a little glassy from unshed tears, but you’d given him a sad smile when you’d noticed the grim look he was giving you. “I can’t remember the last time I wrote something that didn’t begin with ‘We deeply regret to inform you…’

Ron used to know how you felt about everything, and if he were being honest with himself he liked knowing how you felt about things- good or bad. For all the men you were the consummate professional, bright and even-tempered and nurturing.

But with Ron, you let yourself be a person. 

A brilliant, passionate, driven person whose complicated thoughts and feelings complimented his own so well he’d briefly considered changing his stance on the concept of soul-mates.

With a grim weight in his chest, he realized that all of those feelings toward you may have to be changed to the past tense.

Stubbing out the cigarette with ink-stained fingers, you pulled the letter from the typewriter and added it to the pile. He watched as you picked up a pen and began crossing names off a list he hadn’t seen before. You’d gotten through three of the five pages and it was already two in the morning.

Guilt flooded him when he realized that you’d been having to do this for at least month. 

If he hadn’t understood your anger towards him before, he certainly did now.

“Y/N…” he began, not surprised when you sniffed and made to get more paper for your next batch of death letters as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s late, you should rest.”

Silence as you secured another sheet of paper in place and centered it.

Ron waited a few more seconds before he took another step closer to you, hand hovering over your shoulder hesitantly.

I owe my mother a few apologies if this is how she was ever made to feel with my father.

When he placed his hand on your shoulder you immediately stiffened, fingers freezing where they rested over the keys like you’d turned to stone.

He’d expected as much, yet it still stung.

Ron says your name again, more softly than he thinks he’s ever spoken to another person in his life.

“You need to rest—”

“Are you issuing an order, Lieutenant?” Your voice was sulfa powder on an open wound- searing and sharp. 

Your head has turned minutely in the direction of his hand on your shoulder, and if a glare could cause burns he’s sure his hand would’ve been ash by now.

He shakes his head. “No, no I’m not.”

You seem to nod in acknowledgment, only stopping when his thumb kneads into one of the tight knots along your trapezius. Ron sees your jaw tighten again, but he doesn’t take his hand away.

Surprisingly, you’re allowing it to linger where it is as well.

“Good, Sink’s commands outrank yours anyway. Besides, it’s not as if I have to be anywhere in the morning. You made sure of that—”

You cut yourself off when Ron steps up beside you and crouches down, eyes trained forward so all he can see if your profile. 

“Please,” he whispers, moving his hand from your shoulder in favor of taking one of yours in between his calloused palms.

With an awful surge of hope, he decides to put it all out there, knowing just how easily you could reject him and leave him alone again.

Maybe I don't want to be alone, not like I used to.

“I thought you were dead, Y/n.”

You sigh ruefully at that, closing your eyes with a grimace.

“Hey, look at me—”

For the longest time you don’t, but just when he thinks you’ve shut him out again you let your eyes open and allow your doubtful glaze to fall on him.

You may as well have embraced him, considering the overwhelming relief he felt as he looked into your eyes.

“It, it was….I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did—”

“You didn’t speak to me at all.” You nearly hiss, the deep breath you took the only display of just how furious you were beneath the surface of civility. Ron’s chest tightened uncomfortably when he caught your lip quiver, yet when he made as if to comfort you, you gave him a look that shut him right up.

You weren’t finished yet.

“You were out of line, Speirs. You had no right to speak to me like that—”

“I know...”

“You fucking humiliated me! In front of Winters, Moose, and Sink- not to mention every single goddamned man in that tent—”

‘I know—”

“What in the fuck were you thinking? Do you have any idea how hard it’s been getting them to see me as anything other than something to fuck or mock? Years, Ronald! All gone like that—!”

You cut yourself off again when you start to cry, biting the inside of your cheek in an attempt to regain composure.

You were right, he hadn’t been thinking about that at all. 

He’d never thought much about the immature comments he’d overheard from the NCOs and replacements, never considered that any of those childish innuendos had ever been said to you directly.

“I didn’t intend to…..when you got shot I wasn't able to do anything—”

You furrowed your brows at him and made a face. “I didn’t need you to do anything. I’m not even in your company.”

He feels as if he’s about to lose you again. The idea makes his throat feel uncomfortably tight and his blood is beginning to run cold.

Make it right. I have to make this right….

“I know you don’t need me to take care of you,” he says quietly, looking down at your hand in his and bringing it to his lips so he’s speaking against the curve of your knuckles. “But I think I need to do it for me.”

When he looks back at you he sees that your eyes are wide, one or two of your tears have spilled over and down your cheek.

“Jesus, I’m….Ron—” you begin, but stop when he shakes his head minutely.

“You know.” He interrupts. “I know you’ve got to know by now….”

Of course you know. You’re one of the smartest people he’s ever met. If anyone could read his true intentions through his blunt demeanor, it would be you.

But he’s glad that you don’t ask him to elaborate further. You seem just as content as he does to leave it unnamed.

You roll your lips together a few more times before taking a shaky breath. 

“That doesn’t mean you get to treat me like that.”

He hums in acknowledgment. “You’re right. It doesn’t. Forgive me.”

You open your mouth to reply, but a yawn catches you unaware and Ron can’t help but smile slightly at the simplicity of the action. 

When you raise your left arm to hide your yawn into your elbow you hiss in pain, and instantly Ron is anxious again.

“You okay?” He asks, and you nod despite your grimace.

“Yeah, yeah. I just forget sometimes.”

When you lower your arm he watches as you take a deep breath and turn back to your work.

“I’ll do them.”

You whip your head to look at him, another yawn interrupting your questioning gaze.

“What? No, don't be silly. I’m almost done….”

Something in the look he gives you shuts you up, and when he gives your hand a squeeze you seem to sigh in defeat.

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I go to bed, are you?”

He gives you a smirk. “Good guess.”

Standing up from his crouch he gently coaxed you into a standing position, nodding his head away from the desk and towards the darker corner of the room where your makeshift bed is set up. 

You give him a tight smile. “Gotta rebandage the arm first….oh-kay then.”

The rolled gauze is barely out of your pocket before Ron takes it from your hand, pointedly looking down at your covered arm.

“Ron...you really don’t have to—”

“I know that, but I want to anyway.”

And because you’re infinitely more forgiving than any mortal being could ever hope to be- more forgiving than a beast like him deserved, you let him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  

Sitting beside you on the floor, Ron was careful when unwrapping your old bandage, trying as hard as he could to keep his touch light.

The injury was red and bruised and angry but it was healing- just as the medic had promised. You’d have a scar, but you didn’t seem to mind that possibility.

You said his name quietly, and he realized he’d been staring.

When his thumbs ghost around the curve of your bicep you shiver, and when Ron looks back at your face he sees a light blush dusting your cheeks.

“I’m fine,” you say, exhaustion apparent in your voice now. “Stop looking at me like that—”

“Like what?” he says with a small smile, setting the clean bandage over your wound and feeling a pleasant tightness in his chest when you snorted a laugh.

“Like... like you’re a disappointed babysitter.”

Ron laughed at that, shooting you a look before starting to wrap the strips of gauze around your upper arm.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence as he tended to your arm, and every so often you offered him your cigarette to take a drag from.

Things still felt somewhat precarious between the two of you, yet Ron also felt that something more significant had been established in the dingy office you’d been assigned to stay in.

In the morning, Ron would approach Sink and Winters and see if he could get you back from battalion HQ. Not as a man who cared for you, but as a soldier who’d made a mistake and grievously misjudged another soldier’s character.

Anything to ensure you didn’t have to sit in this room another day and write to the families of dead soldiers.

When he’d finished bandaging your arm, you gave him permission to help you maneuver it back into the sleeve of your sweater. He felt your eyes on him the whole time and he swore he’d never known a feeling so sweet.

Your eyes are heavy with slumber already, but you still try once more to discourage him from finishing your paperwork.

“I can do it in an hour or two, just a quick nap—”

“If you were this reluctant to sleep as a child, I’m starting to get why so many of your babysitters were ‘disappointed.’”

Ron lifts up the pile of blankets you’d reluctantly allowed him to find for you, and despite your protests, you scoot yourself underneath them and fold your arms across your chest like a petulant teenager as he tucks them around you.

“Children tend to mirror the behavior of those in positions of authority,” you say offhanded, almost sounding like you were directly quoting from some textbook on child psychology. “Maybe one should look within themselves and explore what unfavorable quality they may be projecting upon the blank canvas of youth….”

You laugh at the furrowed confusion on his face.

“You must be a poetic drunk.” Ron offers, and from the grin on your face he knows he’s on to something. “Go to sleep, before you start reciting Shakespeare or something—”

“Twelfth Night or Romeo and Juliet?”

“Y/N.”

Ron’s fingertips brushing across your cheek instantly quiets you, your eyes trained on his face as he allowed himself to openly admire you for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and you nod.

“I know you are.” 

When he sees the obvious haze of sleep start to curl around your gaze, Ron knows he needs to let you rest.

“Wake me up in an hour?” you ask, something in your tone of voice seeming to acknowledge the slim chance of him agreeing to your request.

“Maybe. Sleep.”

With a half-hearted glare, you mumble something equivalent to ‘yeah yeah, okay’ and turn your head away from him and close your eyes.

Ron stays where he is, stroking at your hairline in the same calming way his mother used to do for him when he’d had a bad dream as a child.

If his mom were here now, he imagined she’d be proud of him.

Maybe he wasn’t fated to be distant and cold and cruel like his father.

For the first time in his life, Ron let himself begin to dream of life after all of this.

The only thing he knew for sure?

He’d do anything- everything in his power, to make sure you were a part of it.

~ ~ ~ ~ TAG LIST TAG LIST!

@mrseasycompany���, @itswormtrain​

(Love you guys! hasta la pasta, my dudes!)

[rex101111]

Doctor visits (and what purpose they serve)

Rating: T

Summery: Anji, Baiken and Eri visit the doctor for a perfectly routine check-up.

Faust grows very sick of two of them, for different reasons.

AN: Finally. FUCKING FINALLY I ON GOD FINISHED IT. THE FIRST ERI PIECE I DID IN A WHILE. AND ALSO A BAIKEN ANJI FIC. HECK YEAH. also first time writing Faust let’s hope I did okay. enjoy.

ALSO. 50TH STORY ON AO3. HECK YEAH. okay here you go.

Faust was sure nothing gave him as much trouble as giving children a physical. Not because of the children themselves, of course not. They were always nervous the first time, of course, but with a light dosage of silly faces and liberal application of cheap magic tricks, they always came around.

No, the children were never the problem, their parents on the other hand…

Whether they were nervous themselves, protective, or worst of all bored, they never failed to prove to be a headache during what was supposed to be a quick and easy check-up. And that was under normal circumstances.

And, as most things tended to be for Faust, today was in no way normal.

Firstly, the child. Forgetting any of her outstanding physical traits, Faust had seen many varieties of weird shit and a horn was comparatively mundane, she was quite unlike any child he had ever met before. She flinched and quaked at every metal object in his office, as if it was meant for her. She barely spoke a word since she sat on the medical bed, only mumbling her answers when he asked her questions about her health and diet.

She had signs of malnutrition (thin limbs, underweight, slightly pale skin), but they were clearly in remission for the past few months or so. She had faint signs of every form of child abuse he had ever had to deal with in his office, but all of them muted and in recovery, slow as it was.

And then, as he went on, she started to straighten her spine and look him in the eye…hole more directly. She still shook when he brought out his stethoscope, but it seemed controlled, somehow.

About half way through, he decided he’ll give her two lollipops, an extra brave girl deserved an extra reward.

…secondly the…well, he hesitated to say parent. If only because he had no idea how the person in question would react to the title. Baiken and Anji could never find their way to him quietly, it was always a big thing. He either had to stich up a life-threatening wound while Baiken cursed at him, or untie some mess Anji had somehow gotten himself into.

And now, they bring this interesting child into his practice. The bright red eyes made some very loud klaxons blare in his head, but every other thing about her gave him pause. She was dressed comfortably, in a ruby red kimono, and was hiding from him behind Baiken’s leg. Children being nervous around a stranger was normal, and Faust would readily admit that he was very strange indeed, but something about her posture and how tightly she had gripped the fabric, not to mention the hint of bandages peaking from her sleeves, made a different set of warning sirens sound off.

Anji kneeled down and patted the girl on the head, the gesture seeming to calm her, before he looked at Faust, “Doctor!” He cheerfully greeted, “so good to see you after such a long time!” He pointed towards the young girl like he was presenting something fantastic, “You see, me and Baiken had recently added a tiny companion to our merry little band,” he graciously ignored Baiken clicking her tongue, “and well, it just hit us the other day that we don’t know anything about her medical condition!” Anji stood up dramatically and puffed himself up for something no doubt very long winded, “so you see, we came here for a very important task! We need-“

“She needs a check-up,” Baiken had gruffly surmised, putting her hand on the child’s head, “you got a free slot today or what?”

Anji visibly deflated, one could almost hear the high pitched whine of rushing helium, before he cleared his throat, “uh, yes, that.” He shuffled his feet quietly while Baiken shook her head with a wry smirk and Eri looked between them, wide eyed and confused, “so…do you?”

As it so happened, he did, so now here he was, testing the little girl’s, Eri’s, reflexes while Baiken attempted to glare a hole in the side of his head, her sword clicking in and out of her scabbard with repeated flicks of her thumb.

“Better watch that hammer Doc,” the samurai growled lowly, narrowing her eye at him, “she makes a sound of pain and you stop feeling any,” teeth grinding against each other and an extra loud click, “permanently.”

The threat itself would have usually gone ignored. Faust was used to Baiken’s almost comical mistrust of medical professionals, he long figured that whatever cost her an arm and an eye soured her on the whole business and he could hardly begrudge her a bit of grumbling in light of that.

With Eri here, the threat seemed to hold significantly more weight. Every time he pulled some new device or tool she refused to let him anywhere near the girl until he told her exactly what it was and exactly what he intended to do with it to her. He had to repeatedly stamp down his frustration with her lack of knowledge, if she hadn’t made a habit of deliberately skipping physical checks, she would know nothing in this office could hurt a fly…well, unless it fell on the fly but that would be hardly fair to blame him on.

And honestly, it would have been heartwarming, if it didn’t make this check take up much, much longer then it needed to. That being said, he made a point of making as small an impact as he could on Eri’s knees, the legs kicking up lightly in response. “Very good dear.”

He got up and walked to his papers, sitting in a chair as he started writing down his newest data while pointedly ignoring Baiken continuing to glare at his back. As well as her reaching away from her sword to rub a single, slow circle on Eri’s back. A gesture that seemed to visibly and quickly calm the girl down.

For all the wonderful, odd things Faust had seen, the one thing he never imagined he’d see is someone that Baiken actually tried to comfort. Well, aside from the times Anji had brushed death’s door in his clinic and she held his hand while he recovered. But then again, that was an exception…and then again, Anji always seemed to be an exception when Baiken was concerned.

That is, apparently, until Eri showed up.

The dancer himself was waiting outside, no doubt yammering Fanny’s ear off, and the look he gave Faust as he handed over Eri and Baiken was…odd. There was something tense in Anji as he saw them off into the room, though that was quickly hidden as Faust decided to give Anji his full attention for a moment.

He pushed those thoughts aside to return to the matter at hand. He opened one last drawer, taking out a syringe. Considering how Eri reacted to everything else he pulled out…he almost feared her reaction to this more than Baiken’s. Almost.

Taking a deep breath, bracing himself for the worst, he turned around on his chair with the syringe in one hand, the other raising up in a gesture meant to calm, “alright dear we’re almost done.” Since his head was still attached to his neck, though Eri froze on the bed, he hazarded to keep going, “all I need to do is take a small blood-“

“No!”

Things happened very quickly after that, like dominos getting blasted by a leaf blower towards a very big and red button. Eri curled almost completely inwards on herself, shivering in panic and shuffling away.

Baiken looked at her in alarm, looked at him, looked at the needle, and then she glare-fast-deathSWORD!

Shink!

Through some miracle Faust did not dare to question, he somehow managed to pull out his clipboard and place it in the path of Baiken’s strike, and further, in a display of what could only be divine slapstick, the sword was stuck in the board instead of cleaving it clean in half and going on its merry way to do the same to his bag and face.

Though by the sounds of straining wood and low growls, along with the chair he sat in making some very distressing sounds of its own, that miracle wouldn’t last for long.

“Five seconds.” The samurai hissed while her arm quaked trying to continue its trajectory, ”explain the fucking needle.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, “blood tests!” He squeaked with no regard for his dignity, “need blood for blood tests! General health! Vaccinations! Any other minor health problem that can’t be determined with a non-invasive examination!” The explanation tumbled out of his mouth in a hurried panic, a flower bloomed at the top of his head, its petals wilting, as he smiled a rictus grin under his bag. “One point five milliliters! Tops! Promise!”

A few heart-attack inducing moments passed, and then Baiken finally, mercifully, retracted her sword. “Hmph.” She huffed tonelessly, before turning her head to the still shivering form of Eri on the medical bed.

Almost instantly, all the tension in Baiken’s shoulders vanished and she sighed. His head swirled in lingering panic trying to square this Baiken with the one he was used to, finding little success.

Turning his attention to the young girl, he finally gathered enough of his wits to feel very worried. “Oh dear…” He looked between Eri and Baiken, the latter stone like as she stared at the young girl, and raised his nearly sliced clipboard in her direction, “uh, should we call Anji or-“

“I’ll handle it.”

He felt like he got slapped by a fish, which was odd since May wasn’t due for a check-up for another week, “what?”

“I said I’ll handle it.” She repeated tiredly, sheathing her sword and walking towards Eri with an oddly calm stride. As she reached the bed, she carefully and slowly lifted her hand and touched Eri’s shoulder, the young girl flinching almost violently at the contact. “Hey, kiddo,” Baiken, undeterred by the reaction, whispered gently to the young girl. “Kiddo, it’s just me.”

The sheer difference compared to what was a person trying to rip him in half not a minute ago was nearly surreal, and he had never heard Baiken talk like that to anyone. And yet here she is, slowly rubbing circles on Eri’s shoulder with her thumb until the young girl took enough control of her hiccupping sobs to look up at her.

The relief Eri showed towards Baiken was even more surreal, he should probably check if he mistook his morning aspirin for something a bit more potent. “I-“ The halting voice of Eri knocked him out of his incredulity, the girl sniffing miserably. “I-I can’t…” Something dark and stomach-churning passed her expression, “It’s…it’s just like-“

“It isn’t.” Baiken declared quietly, her voice going tight, “The doc ain’t nothing like…” Her shoulders bunch up for a moment before relaxing again, “…he ain’t nothing like him Eri.” Baiken looks at him over her shoulder, still in his chair waiting to see if getting up would be worth the effort. “He’s a bit of a kook, but he’s good at his job…everything considered.”

Faust did his dignity a favor and choose to take that as a compliment.

“…I trust him.” Faust pushed down the minor elation at hearing that, Baiken was in the middle of something and a victory dance would probably undermine it. “I wouldn’t bring you here if I didn’t Eri.” She then put her hand on Eri’s head, mussing up her ivory hair. “I promise.”

He had the slightest feeling he was intruding on something, so he elected to mess with the buttons on his jacket when Eri started to wipe her face. Part of him was happy that Baiken could find someone to be this gentle with. All that anger building up in her was a recipe for both misery and high blood pressure.

Another part of him, a part that remembered a small, motionless body on an operating table, couldn’t help but…worry. Baiken was strong enough to defend herself…but could she-?

“Doc.”

He nearly ripped a button when he fell off his chair in surprise, though he quickly caught himself and stood up to his full height, nearly hitting the ceiling light. “Ye-“ He cleared his throat mid-squawk. “Yes?”

“Get another needle,” She continued, sitting on the bed next to a now calm, but still sniffling, Eri. “Do me before you get to her.” She raised her scarred eyebrow at him. “I’m due for physical, ain’t I?”

It took him a moment to catch on, but soon he relaxed his posture and clapped his hands in realization, “as a matter of fact you are, now that I think of it!” He went back to the drawer to take out another syringe. He then sat on his chair again, backwards, and wheeled himself before his two patients. He pulled out a handkerchief for Eri out of one of his pockets before he went on cheerfully, “And a lucky thing that you are Baiken, because this affords me to explain to Eri exactly what I need to do.”

He looked at Eri, another flower, healthier than the last one, blooming on his head as he leaned slightly towards her, “would you like that Eri? I promise it’s very interesting.”

Eri stared at him for a moment, her eyes lingering on the flower, before she sniffed one last time and wiped her face, nodding quietly.

“Wonderful!” He exclaimed, taking out a cotton swab and soaking it with rubbing alcohol, “first things first, we need to clean and sterilize the area where I intend to put the needle.” He wiggled his fingers rapidly and waved his head back and forth, “there’s all sorts of creepy crawly germs on your skin, and they have no business getting into your body, so we need to make sure they aren’t anywhere near the needle.”

Eri, to his eternal relief, actually giggled a little, her lips lifting up slightly in not-quite-a-smile. She watched him rub the swab on the crook of Baiken’s elbow, “why there?”

“Excellent question my dear!” Faust praised with a raised finger, before pointing to the blue vein in the crook, “you see, this vein is in an easy to access location, and is almost flush with the skin, so there’s no danger of putting the needle through anything important.” He then took the needle and began piercing Baiken’s skin. “And now…”

Eri watched him pull back on the back of the syringe, the tube filling with blood for a moment before he took it out and placed the swab on it.

Baiken, naturally, never made a sound or even twitched during the whole process. Didn’t so much as breath in to brace for it. If Faust hadn’t just finished extracting blood, and knew Baiken well enough, he would have been very concerned. Well, more concerned about her than he usually was at any rate.

“There! Now we just tape it down to stop the bleeding,” saying so he took out a length of clear tape out of another pocket and used it to hold the cotton swab in place. “And voila!” He stood on his feet and took a dramatic bow, “all finished.”

Eri’s eyes shone with admiration, getting caught up in Faust’s performance and clapping excitedly for him. He showed his gratitude for her applause with the required grace, taking another two bows. Baiken scoffed quietly but didn’t interrupt, Faust knew her well enough not to be offended by the fact she didn’t clap.

“Alright then.” Faust said finally, sitting back down on the chair and taking out the second syringe, “now for your turn dear.” He looked at her arms, covered from wrist to armpit in bandages, freshly changed even, and made an effort to not be obvious as he braced for what he would see underneath, “if you would please?”

He tried to make the request as gentle as possible, but still Eri’s mouth pressed into a thin line, her hands freezing mid-clap before grabbing her forearms tightly. She looked at him for a long moment, before looking aside at Baiken. The samurai smirked, the expression strangely warm, and nodded briefly.

Taking a breath to steady herself, Eri began to unravel her bandages with a determined look on her face.

What Faust saw underneath them made his skin crawl and his blood boil. The cruelty was evident on every scar, but what really got stuck in his craw was the precision. Whoever made those marks on Eri had a hand as steady as a rock, not a single mark of hesitation or second guessing. Such precision was born of either practice, or innate talent, and he wasn’t sure which option made him more sick to his stomach.

(He felt more than a little hypocritical, but if there was one thing he and Bald-the good doctor agreed on, was that such marks should never appear on children.)

“Doctor?” The small voice nearly made him gag from the memories it brought up, but he managed to take back control of himself quick enough for his vision to coalesce enough to see Eri looking up at him in concern, “are you okay? You were quiet for a long time…”

He opened his mouth before he closed it, his mind drawing a blank. He looked aside at Baiken, who raised an eyebrow at him, her look half dubious and half worried herself.

“I’m fine dear.” He finally managed, waving away her worry, “I just remembered something, don’t worry about it, alright?” He waited for her to nod, before returning it more energetically, “wonderful, so, back to business.”

The swab, “it’s a bit cold and might tickle a bit, okay?”

A quick, halting nod. Followed by a quick burst of laughter.

“Pump your fist a bit dear?”

Biting her tongue, she made an adorable effort of making and opening a fist. The way she did it made it clear that she never had to fight anyone, which made the strain in his chest unclench a bit.

“Right…” The needle in his hand began moving, “brace yourself dear…”

Despite the courage she showed before, some of it crumbled in the face of the sharp point so close to her flesh. There was no uncertainty in her eyes, she knew exactly how the needle would feel.

Faust breathed through his nose and counted to five.

Almost as if by instinct, Eri buried her face in Baiken’s nearby shoulder, her free hand grabbing on to the fabric much like she did when she first showed up. But her other arm stayed where it was, she didn’t try to pull it away or hide it from the doctor, she simply did as he instructed and braced herself.

Three. He’ll give her three lollipops.

He grabbed hold of her offered arm by the wrist, and brought the needle close to her vein, “deep breath,” Eri did as he said, and the second she finished taking in air he finally sticks the needle in. The girl flinches, but only digs her face deeper into Baiken’s shoulder with a restrained whine.

He takes out one point five milliliters, Baiken’s eye welded to the tiny measurement lines, and takes the needle out. “Almost done.” With professional efficiency, he stops the bleeding with a cotton ball, before covering it with a Band-Aid.

A pink one, with a picture of a unicorn on it.

“…really doc?” Baiken is half-way to smirking, but the tone of her voice makes it look like a grimace, “what, you got a stash of those?”

“Of all the things I do, this is what draws you up short?” He asks innocently, gesturing at himself. “Besides, I thought it would be appropriate.” Baiken opened her mouth before closing it and making a yeah good point shrug, Faust then turned to his patient, “now Eri, how are you feeling?” He tapped her wrist lightly, the Band-Aid smiling up at her as she looked at it, “any pain? Itching? Discomfort?”

The girl shook her head, “N-No, I’m okay.” She takes one last, lingering look at the unicorn, her lips twitching upwards for a moment, before picking up her bandages to re-wrap her forearms with practiced ease, and then looking at the doctor with a bit of apprehension, “i-is there anything else?”  

“Oh no,” The doctor waved off, standing up from his chair with a clap of his hands, “we’re all done for today, and you were very brave.” He leaned down to her eye-level, “and do you know what you get for being very brave?”

Eri looked at him doubtfully, before shaking her head.

Without a word, Faust pulled out three red, plastic covered lollipops, and handed them over to the wide-eyed girl, “a well-deserved reward, that’s what.”

“Damn straight,” Baiken agreed, patting the little girl on the back with a toothy grin, “good job kid, you’ve earned it.” Then her face did something that nearly made Faust’s eye twitch, it went stern, “just don’t eat ‘em all right way yeah? There’s gonna be dinner soon.”

Upon hearing Baiken, of all people, say something that stereotypically parental, Faust could feel his patience for the universe at large rapidly approaching its limit. He took Eri down from the bed and began ushering the two of them out of his office. “Alright, then let’s leave, we’ve kept Anji waiting for long enough.”

Eri unwrapped one of her rewards, stashing the other two in the clothing folds on her chest, and popped it into her mouth as they walked. Baiken looked down at her with an oddly soft expression that left her face as soon as they caught sight of Anji and Fanny.

The dancer was engaged in what seemed like a very exciting and very one sided conversation, the nurse smiling politely at him with all the energy of someone who has been on the rack all damn day and just wants his executioner to get a move on already. If Anji noticed, and he almost certainly did, he made a great show of not being bothered by it.

His focus shifted instantly when Eri and Baiken came close enough, Anji’s smile lighting up his face as he walked towards them, “Eri! So good to see you again!” He kneeled down to meet her gaze properly, “and I see you’ve a reward as well!” He put his hand on her head and warmly ruffled her hair, smile reaching his eyes, “good job dear.”

Faust found this sight slightly easier to stomach, Anji had always been the more emotionally open of the duo. But still, to see those two this attached to this little girl…something about it boded ill, and he wasn’t sure why.

“Shorry it took sho long…” Eri twiddled her thumbs with the lollipop still in her mouth, “it was kinda shcary…”

“Oh don’t worry about it sweetheart.” Anji waved off with a chuckle, “I had some very pleasant company to pass the time with.” He turned around to smile at Fanny, “isn’t that right, miss nurse?”

“Oh yes Mr. Mito.” Fanny nodded cheerfully while writing something on a nearby clipboard, “it was a very engaging conversation.” Anji nodded back, but as soon as he turned his head to look back at Eri, the nurse lifted the clipboard to show what she wrote, the polite smile unmoving on her face.

It read, in very fancy but firm writing: “Never leave me alone with him again. Ever.” The word “ever” was underlined. Four times. With a separate, red marker.

Faust mentally penciled tomorrow off for Fanny, she’s earned her own little “lollipop”, so to speak. “I’m happy you were patient with us Mr. Mito,” He began, before he sighed, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait a bit longer.”

Eri simply blinked at him innocently still busy with her treat, while Baiken and Anji snapped their gazes to him in unison, like a pair of hawks on a hunt, shoulders tense and eyes sharp.

“Nothing serious!” He was quick to assure, the two relaxing only slightly, “It’s simply that Ms. Baiken reminded she is well past due her own checkup.” He turned to Baiken with a smile under his mask that was perfectly professional, “isn’t that right, miss Baiken?”

The samurai’s stare quickly morphed into something that screamed me and my big mouth before she bared her teeth and shook her head, “you know you ain’t going anywhere near me, yeah?”

“I am fully aware yes.” Faust nodded diplomatically, “but the fact remains that you do need a check-up, so I am offering a compromise,” he gestures towards his ever-loyal nurse, “I think that you will find Nurse Fanny to be entirely professional, and as a female physician she would know better what you would find uncomfortable or not.” He clears his throat. “Better than me, at any rate.”

 Baiken looked at Fanny, who had jumped to attention with a slightly overeager smile on her face at being called to action, a bit dubiously, but before she could voice her misgivings, Anji jumped in with a hand on her shoulder, “excellent idea doctor!” He squeezed her shoulder with a smile that was only slightly sharp at the edges, “if we’re here and worried about our health, why not make the most of the visit?”

Baiken shoved her elbow into her partner’s stomach with a scowl, “I don’t need-“

“After all,” Anji continued smoothly, with one arm rubbing where the elbow had impacted while he smiled a bit more sharply, “since we put Eri through this rigmarole, why shouldn’t we do the same?” Anji leaned a bit more into Baiken’s space, and while the dancer while still smiling Faust was certain the samurai began to sweat a little, “all in the interest of health, of course.”

After a moment of heated glaring, Baiken visibly sagged with a sigh, “fine, whatever.” She leaned out of Anji’s grasp, the dancer letting her go easily, and turned to Fanny, “alright nurse, let’s get this over with yeah? I got other shit to-“ A tug at her kimono stopped her, and she looked down to see Eri grasping the white cloth with a worried look on her face, “…don’t worry kiddo.” She mussed Eri’s hair a bit, “I’m just making noise, I’ll be back out before-“

“Can I come with you?” Eri interjected quickly, as if saying it any slower would drain her courage, “I-I mean, I was scared at the doctor’s, s-so, I want to be there with you too.” She worried the white cloth in her hands and looked down at her feet, “y-you know, i-if you get scared.”

The idea of Baiken being afraid of something as mundane as a checkup, for all of her bluster, was just this side of ludicrous, but Faust managed to hold on to his laughter long enough for Baiken to sigh quietly again, much softer this time, turning to Fanny with a light smirk, “is it okay if I bring a guest?”

Fanny smiled warmly as she opened the door to the examination room, “of course! Little Eri won’t be a bother at all, please!” She motioned for the two to come in, “let’s get started, shall we?”

Baiken scoffed, “ya hear that kid? You’re my backup.” She smiled with her teeth at the little girl, who nodded excitedly at the gesture instead of cowering in fear as most would in response to one of Baiken’s smiles, and started following her guardian as they entered the room.

Anji spoke up, “maybe I can-“

“You stay here,” Baiken stabbed at him irritably, “your bull earned you an extra half hour of boredom, now sit.” She glared him down into the nearest plastic chair, and turned back to the room…before sparing her nurse one last doubtful look, “…you don’t still have that huge-ass needle, right?”

“Oh don’t worry miss Baiken!” Fanny reassured as she began to close the door, “I only use that for emergencies.”

The last thing of Baiken to be seen before the doors closed is her face morphing into the very picture of deep concern.

And thus, the two men were left to themselves. Anji went to a nearby chair, sat on it very slowly and deliberately, and turned to Faust with a very thin smile, “you have the look of a man with a lot on his mind, doctor.” Anji’s smile grow wider but stayed as thin as paper as he patted the pale yellow plastic chair to his left in invitation, “how about you have a seat and you can unload all of those worries to your old friend Anji, eh?”

Anji Mito was certainly very friendly, of that Faust would gladly attest, but his friend? That was stretching it a bit, “I’ll stand, Mr. Mito, thank you.” He took out the vial of blood he took from Eri out of his pocket and moved it in his palm for a moment, “and yes, I have a great number of worries to bring to your attention.”

Anji stared at him for a moment, before something in his eyes shifted and changed, the angle of his gaze sharper than it was a moment ago. Wordlessly, he motioned for Faust to begin, his smile painted on.

Faust knew subtlety would be a waste of time, so he went straight to it. “She’s a Gear.” Not a question, but simply a statement of fact. He looked down at the vial, the color in it shifting in the florescent light of his practice in ways that normal blood simply did not. “Is That Man involved in this?”

“Ha!” Anji barked out harshly, clapping his hands once, “well, aren’t we perceptive! Good catch doctor!” His smile opened up and showed a few teeth, “did the red eyes and horn give it away?”

Faust clenched his free hand but kept his calm, “answer the question Mr. Mito.”

Anji was quiet for a moment, before his smile shrunk slightly and he shook his head, “no, I’m intimately familiar with his work. Trust me, Asuka had nothing to do with this.” He laughed a little nervously, “if he did, we’d be on the run from Mr. Badguy right now.”

Faust sighed, conceding the point, “fair enough.” He moved to his desk to shuffle a few of the notes he’s made about Eri during her check-up. “What information do you have about where she came from?”  

“Next to nothing.” Anji answered almost too cheerfully, “the circumstances of us meeting Eri sort of…put a damper on any effort to find out about her past.” He coughed into his palm, “it was part of the reason I brought her to you doctor.” A smile as sweet as arsenic stretched his face, “would it be too much trouble to ask you to send that blood sample to Illyria?”

Faust rubbed his forehead over his paper back with a weary sigh, “I’ll try to get it to Paradox directly.” He was beginning to understand Baiken’s short temper more and more, “…regarding those circumstances…” Anji’s smile slipped right off, “…I’m guessing she came into your company from…the person who gave her those scars?”

Anji blinked at the doctor for a moment, and then smiled again, this time a bit more honestly, “yes, those would be the broad strokes.” He laughed a bit coldly, something in his eyes far away, “I’d rather keep the bloody details to myself, if you wouldn’t mind.” He looked at Faust from the corner of his eye, tone reassuring, “purely for your own safety of course, plausible deniability and all that.”

Faust grit his teeth, but decided to let that particular battle die in favor of more pressing concerns, “how long have you been traveling with Eri?”

Anji straightened his posture and nodded briefly, “six months.”

“Ah, how taller has she grown in that time?”

“Not an inch.”

Faust nearly fell backwards from shock. Of all the things Gears were known for, rapid maturation and growth was foremost of them. Yet Eri looked no older than 7 years of age. “…stunted growth?” He muttered in disbelief, cold sweat on his brow. “In a Gear?”

“Another reason to come to you, specifically.” Anji answered plainly, his smile going flat and his gaze burning a hole in the wall in front of him. “I’m no medical expert, but something tells me those scars might have something to do with it.”

Faust gripped his table nearly hard enough to dent the metal, only barely keeping a grip on his control with a few deep breathes and a glass of water. Anji politely looking away just long enough for Faust to pull his mask up to drink.

After a moment, Faust walked towards Anji and finally took the seat he was offered next to him, sitting down heavily with his head in his hands and his knees drawn up to his ears.

Anji waited without a word, his eyes glued to the door his two girls had vanished behind, but Faust could still feel his gaze, somehow, boring a hole into him as well. Faust shook his head again and straightened up, looking down at Anji, “there was another wound, on her shoulder.” Faust stopped for a reaction, but only got a raised eyebrow, “it was fresher than the rest, what happened?”

“Why didn’t you ask Baiken?”

“It was a closed, clean wound, it was not my place to ask unprompted questions of my patients.” Faust explained tensely, “And I didn’t want to upset Eri besides,” that earned him an agreeing hum from Anji at last, “how did it happen?”

“A few opportunistic young men thought it a good way to earn a lot of money in a very short amount of time by throwing themselves at Baiken and myself,” Anji shrugged, though he stiffly looked away as he did, “…poor Eri got caught in the middle.”

“Assassins.” Faust bit out between his teeth, “Eri got caught in the middle of a fight you had with assassins.”

“She was kept safe the whole time.” Anji tossed straight back, finally meeting the doctor’s gaze again. “It ended well, like it always does, doctor.”

“You and I both know that’s a load of nonsense, Mr. Mito.” Anji’s eyebrows knitted together and his lips drew into a thin line. “Does Eri know how to defend herself?”

Anji laughed, utterly mirthless, “have you seen her? You want us to teach that girl how to fight?”

“Are you and Baiken going to change your lifestyle?” Faust forged on, his nerves on edge, flashes of a bloody surgical table and a horribly small body bag on his mind, “if not, are you simply going to continue to expose Eri to all this danger? Do you take her out on bounty hunting missions with you?” He nearly pressed his face to Anji, who simply stared at him stone faced, “that girl is completely dependent on you two, have you any concern for her safety?”

“Doctor.”

Anji Mito vanished.

In his place was a man with his face, but not his eyes. They were the same color and shape, but they suddenly threatened to swallow Faust whole with the sheer emptiness he saw there.

There was a hand on the collar of his shirt, pulling him along as the man that was not Anji Mito stood up from his chair. Not a trace of the flighty dancer remained, and in his place was the man that spent a significant period of his life hiding in shadows and whispers.

He spoke, and there was the hint of dried blood on his tongue as he did, “as you said, that girl is dependent on the two of us,” the man narrowed his cold, empty eyes, “be certain, we know that very well, knew it from the moment she came into our care.” The hand on his collar tightened its grip, “make no mistake, every effort we’ve made since then had been to ensure that she is safe, that she is happy.”

Finally, something filled those abyssal eyes, anger.

“That girl is everything we could have been, that girl has a future not yet stained with blood and secrets, eyes not yet worn and hollow, and I intend to make sure it stays that way.” He bared his teeth, and Faust felt like he was facing a dangerous animal, “so don’t you dare think for a moment that either of us would treat her callously.”

Finally, impossibly, Faust found his tongue, “you think you can protect her from everything?” He gripped the hand clenching his collar, “with the life you lead? Are you that delusional?”

“With all due respect,” the animal growled, something vicious and cruel crawling up his throat, “you are not the first person I’d ask regarding the safety of children,” his heart leapt into his throat, but the man kept going, “you are hardly the expert there, Doctor Baldhead.”

It took every inch of restraint he had, but somehow Faust kept from pulling a scalpel from his pocket to slice open the throat in front of him.

His point apparently made, the man that was not Anji Mito released Faust, and sat back down without a word to look at the door again. A few breathless moments passed as Faust looked down at him and got his breathing back under control, finally letting out a sigh, “…I will admit, my judgement is clouded from…past experiences,” he shook his head, “…but I stand by what I said, you can’t protect her forever.”

Another heavy moment passed, nearly crushing the both of them…before Anji Mito returned with a weightless laugh, “no, I suppose not.” He looked up at the doctor, a mirthless smirk on his face, “but we can protect her long enough to make a path for her to follow.”

Faust looked down at the man for a moment, shaking his head before beginning to walk to his desk, “what path would that be?” He reached his desk, and turned around to lean on it to look at Anji, “because from where I sit, there’s two.” He held up one finger, “one; she stays be your side, which means you need to teach her all she needs to know to be able to keep pace with you two.” He grits his teeth, “and all the bloody details that would include.”

Anji met Faust’s gaze evenly, but his hands gripped the cloth of his lap.

“And second,” he held up the second finger, “…is that you let her go, put her somewhere safe, where she would never need to raise a hand to harm anyone, that she would never need to protect herself again…” He stopped, something finally clicking to place, “…and never see you two again.”

On Anji Mito’s nearly inscrutable face, something like sadness passed for a brief moment. It was gone as soon as it appeared, and another paper smile took its place, “whatever path she’ll have, it will have to be her choice, wouldn’t you agree, doctor?” Another mirthless chuckle, “from what little I know of her life before we found her…she’s had enough of her life dictated for her, methinks.”

Faust sympathized with his nurse, because after that relatively short conversation with Anji Mito, he felt ready to curl into a ball and sleep the rest of the week away. He could have let that conversation end there, let himself end the day with at least a bit of sound mind, but something was eating at him, a question he knew he had no right to ask. That was utterly unprofessional of him to even consider asking.

But, then again, he’s been plenty unprofessional today, what’s a bit more?

Taking a breath to brace, he once more dunked his head into the shark tank that was Anji Mito’s headspace. “The person who gave Eri those scars…” He started, his grip on the table tightening, “…do you know anything about them?”

“Oh? Him?” Anji asked innocently, as if he hadn’t given that a thought in ages, “ah, I wouldn’t worry too much doctor.” The way he said that, and the smile it came with, only made Faust worry more, “last I saw of him, he was laying on a street somewhere, bleeding out of a hole between his eyes.”

Faust blinked at Anji, whatever tension and anger he gain from examining Eri deflating like a particularly sad whoopee cushion.

“I’d put him out of your head, doctor.” He turned to him with a smile as bright as a flickering florescent bulb, a hint of that emptiness back in his gaze, “I know I did.”

Before Faust could question-no, scratch that-call bullshit on that, the door to the examination room opened, revealing a slightly annoyed Baiken, a satisfied Fanny, and Eri still sucking on her lollipop.

“There they are!” Anji exclaimed, his cheer back on his face in full force, and Faust could even believe it was genuine this time, as he went to Baiken and Eri, “so! How did it go? Any sharp or metal things go into anywhere unpleasant?” He was rewarded with a smack upside the head from a very unamused Baiken, which only got a laugh out of him, “sorry, sorry, I couldn’t…” He stopped of a sudden, looking at Baiken’s face in confusion, and Faust took a second to see he was looking at Baiken’s mouth.

Or, more specifically, the small plastic stick hanging out of her mouth.

Anji blinked at her, “…what-?”

Baiken grabbed the stick, and pulled out a bright red lollipop.

“…how?”

“Eri gave it to me.” Baiken said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “said I earned it for being…” her mouth twitched to stop from becoming a smile, “…brave.”

Anji blinked in surprise, first at Baiken, and then at Eri, who nodded resolutely to show she was perfectly serious. After a moment, a smile slowly forming on his face, too slowly to be a conscious effort, and Anji laughed with more warmth than Faust had heard from him all day, “well! Can’t argue with that!” He bent down to look, and smile, at Eri at eye level. “Good call there Eri.”

The blinked before looking down with a bright blush. Baiken ruffled her hair while Anji grasped her shoulder.

And Faust understood the anger completely. Understood the insult of doubting these two.

But still, with a clear mind, he, as always, stood be his prognosis.

“Mr. Mito.” He called out, the man still leaning down as he turned to look at him, “I would like you to keep our conversation today in mind, alright?”

Anji, to his credit, only glared for a short second before he nodded, “of course, doctor.”

“Huh?” Eri looked between the two, “what did you talk about?”

“My own check up dear.” Anji lied smoothly as silk, “I set it a few months from now since I had one not too long ago,” he ruffled her hair again, “don’t worry about it.”

“…Okay.” Something shone in the girl’s eyes, but she went back to her treat with a quiet hum.

Anji stood up, met Baiken’s razor sharp gaze, and mouthed “later” silently before he turned to the doctor, “well! I think we’re all done for today!” He put a hand on Baiken’s shoulder to turn her towards the door, “say goodbye to the doctor Eri.”

Turning to Faust and Fanny, she waved goodbye in a way that made the doctor want to cry, before running to Baiken left side to grab her hand as they left.

Anji and Faust shared one last, slightly loaded stare before they stepped out the door.        

(Faust closed his practice earlier than usual that day. Fanny didn’t question it, or the way he fingered the bottom of his paper bag, or how stiff and deep his voice had gotten near the end of the day.

She helped him take his medicine, and he went to bed, images of not-himself standing above a perfectly clean surgery table, waiting for his next, his last, patient swirling in his mind as he slept.

Baiken slapped Anji upside the head. She didn’t know why, exactly, she just had the feeling he had earned it.

Anji didn’t argue with that.

Eri offered him her last lollipop, but he refused, he hadn’t been brave for a long while. He wanted to earn it properly.)

[bluejayblueskies]

2, 12 & 23 for the fanfic ask game

fanfic writer ask game!

2 - talk about a notable time a narrative or character has looked you dead in the eyes and said “fuck your plan, here’s what we’re actually doing.”

this happens to me a lot actually--sometimes i'll have a plan for what direction a fic will go in and the characterization ends up taking it another way entirely. in it will be this, always, i'd often be writing an argument and it would stray into areas i hadn't intended to address but that jon and martin apparently felt very strongly about ajgkladf. another notable experience with this was when writing my big bang fic, By Virtue of Divine Providence. in chapter 4, i was originally intending to have jon leave without talking to martin about it at all, and then it would be after jon returned that they would tell martin that they loved him, etc., but when i started writing the scene jon was just ... there. chilling. telling martin that they loved him. and i was like 'okay i guess this is what we're doing' but u know what, they were right--the scene worked way better that way. if writing has taught me anything it's that following the natural flow of characterization is often better than forcing a predetermined plot path (so long as you don't stray too far from where your intended end goal is).

12 - do you ever have trouble focusing on writing? how do you get around that?

oh, yeah, absolutely, especially now that my fervency and ability to churn out three fics a week has ... calmed down a bit lol. writing is usually an active choice for me now rather than a 'oh i need to get this down on paper' and sometimes it's hard to get started. if i'm having trouble even getting a word doc open, i pick an idea that seems exciting to me in the moment whether or not it's what i was intending to work on. then, once i've started on that, usually i can transition over to what i need to work on. another strategy that really works well for me is using sprinto on discord. sprints with others are great because i'm a very competitive person and i will write nonsense i wouldn't normally allow myself to write in order to win <3 but i've also found them quite effective just by myself. i work well with defined chunks of time during which i focus entirely on one thing, and setting a 15 minute timer and being able to see at the end of it quantitatively what i've done really works for me. (side note: i do this when i practice my instrument as well, setting 15 minute timers and focusing on just one section of music. in both circumstances, it usually helps my brain focus because i know that i only have to do so for 15 minutes and can take a break after that.)

sometimes if i'm really struggling, i'll put on an ambient noise track that fits the vibe of the fic i'm working on. for example, for do the stars gaze back? i spent a lot of time listening to ocean sounds to get myself in the right headspace. having that constant noise also works well to eliminate outside distractions and let me immerse myself in the world i'm creating.

23 - how do you deal with writers block?

this is a similar answer to the last question. i use all the same strategies, but i also do other things specific to that feeling of just ... not being able to move forward or rewriting the same sentence 10 times in a row. quick 5 minute sprints are good for me for this--i don't allow myself to backspace, so whatever comes out is what i keep. i do this until i feel my rhythm settle back into something normal for me.

if it's a big section i'm stuck on, i'll write it out in very detailed outline form. that eliminates any hangups i might have on exact phrasing or the exact right words and allows me to just brute force the plot. then, i move on to the next section and come back to that section later when i might have more luck. for smaller sections, brackets are great. i use brackets for words i can't quite figure out and that would get me hung up if i tried to get them perfect the first time, and sometimes i'll do whole sentences or paragraphs in brackets.

some of the best advice i've seen about writing is that if you're stuck on a section or line, the issue is probably ten lines back. it really changed the way i handle snags in my writing, because instead of agonizing over which word or phrase isn't working, i just delete big chunks of the section (up to a natural point or a point i felt worked well or was comfortable) and start over. i have a junk document i put these chunks in in case i want them later, but i rarely go back to them because usually there was something in there that didn't work well--a character said something odd or out of character, there was a plot hole, something was awkward, etc.--which was giving me trouble later on in the fic. reflecting back on question 2--letting the characters guide those sections sometimes helps work out the kinks and usually results in something much better than what i originally had!

overall, working to get rid of my need for a 'perfect' first draft often helps with writer's block because i can allow myself to write absolute garbage. (sometimes, i even come back to that garbage and decide that it's quite all right, actually.)

[spooky-activity]

Just a little update on Cassandratopia 2: Electric Boogaloo (Or as it stands in my Google Docs folder rn, A Helping Hand). I’ll put it under the cut cuz it’s kinda long. 

I just wanted to say that I’m still planning on actually doing it, despite all evidence to the contrary lol 

I did Cassandratopia in a haze of graduating from college(where I was studying animation) and just having ended my first dnd campaign as a dungeon master (which went 3 years!). I was fishing around for internships, but since the pandemic had just kicked off I wasn’t having much luck. So I had a lot of creative energy that wasn’t getting channeled anywhere, and a lot of free time when I wasn’t applying to places. Which is how I did 4 pages a day several times per week. Which was insane. 

As it stands, I’m running 2 dnd campaigns(one meets weekly, the other every other week or so), and just scored a full-time internship at a video game company! The campaigns I’m running are a homebrew open world, which, for those of you who aren’t too familiar with dnd, is a metric fuckton of work to prep for each session because I have no idea what my insane friends and siblings are going to try and do every time we play. 

Anyways all this to say that my storytelling itch is kinda. Sufficiently getting scratched atm and I have a lot less free time. I’m still plucking away at the setting/refining the story of A Helping Hand, but it’s largely on the backburner. Cassandratopia was also, uh, like the first story I’ve ever told in any sort of format besides the give-and-take of dnd, so... I’m not used to having so much control over the narrative. Oddly. I’ve never thought of myself as much of a writer of stories; my main focus is character animation, so someone else is usually writing the stories I’m telling anyways, which is super cool with me. Honestly I’m surprising myself with how much I want to tell this story, which is why I’m still sure I’m doing it. Just. Slower. Than Cassandratopia got done. 

But I’ll share a bit of the lore I’ve been cooking up! Specifically about Zhan Tiri and The Drops. The story will be told in an extremely dnd type setting, because that’s the kind of narrative I’ve told before and am comfortable telling: hard magic rules, neat fights, scary monsters, a dash of eldritch horror, and huge emphasis being put on magical artifacts(kinda like in the show!). Here’s some stuff that’s basically locked-in. 

Zhan Tiri

Zhan Tiri is one of the many Demon Lords of the Abyss. She’s kind of a mashup of two of my favorite Demon Lords, Zuggtmoy, the Lady of Rot and Decay, and Pale Night, the Mother of Demons and Queen of the Night(with just a dash of Hannibal Lecter because who doesn’t like helpful, polite, manipulative-ass bitches lksjflkja;fj). Her domain sits almost exactly between the Sundrop and Moonstone, largely being the new growth that comes from death, and the endless cycle of life and death. Places where her influence is strongest includes the cracks in... Well anywhere really, from society to the planet’s shell, where metaphorical or physical rot could grow; musty, mostly ignored places where something could fester. Iconography related to her would include endless mazes, fungi, grasping skeletal hands, and rotting/blooming corpses. Her spores can animate corpses, which she likes to use as mindless minions when she doesn’t feel like sending one of her Acolytes. She shares a scrap of her power with those few mortals she likes. She appreciates ambition and the desire to Grow to be bigger than what you were to start with, as those are qualities she herself possesses. 

Incredibly intelligent and merciless to those she deems her enemies, her main thing is pulling the strings from the shadows and seeing just how far she can push people to act with as little prompting from her as possible. She does, however, have the power to kinda bulldoze her way through things if she needs to, but she doesn’t like to because where’s the fun in that? 

She first gained interest in the Material Plane when a Wizard with too much hubris from said Material Plane(Named Demanitus) contacted her trying to figure out more information about The Drops and how to control them. After indulging him for a bit, she started preparing to make a summer home on the Material Plane because it’s New and Fun here and Wow These Mortals are Really Fun to Mess With! And some of them she even genuinely liked! Demanitus then realized his mistake and locked her away in Pandemonium for what he hoped was forever, but turned out to be only around 1,000 years, due to the efforts of her followers. Her little stint in Pandemonium magnified the more... Chaotic aspects of her personality, so now she wants to cover the Material Plane in blooming mazes of fungal crops that she can break people with at her leisure. 

The Drops

The drops are two semi-sentient pieces of one original artifact, whose original purpose was to be a tool of creation for the gods. Which, through some great calamity(still deciding that one), got sundered and settled into the two basic aspects of creation: the nearly unlimited well of life-energy which organizes stardust into planets, cabbages, and kings, and the “you gotta crack a few eggs to get an omlette” destructive force which breaks down what the sundrop makes so that it can make more. 

The main goal of the drops is to reunite. I would want to as well if I was ripped in half! This manifests as a... General tug in the direction of the other drop. A desire in the host to Go That Way. It can be resisted, and even ignored for a bit, but it’s always there. Like being hungry if starving wasn’t a danger. Just a bit uncomfortable if you aren’t going That Way, but ignorable. 

Both drops generally try to be as helpful to their wielder as possible, as originally they were a tool of creation to the gods. They are innately obliging. They’re also REALLY UNSAFE FOR MORTALS TO BE MESSING WITH. The Sundrop is a little safer because the most it can do is kinda. Overcharge you into something distinctly not human but still alive, and King Fredrick was lucky he made the Sundrop into soup before giving it to Arianna. But King Edmund got his wholeass arm blasted off for touching the Moonstone. 

The Sundrop

Best I could whittle it down, the Sundrop has power over life energy, like the sun’s light. It also has power over the energy derived from geothermal activities, so deep sea creatures Are Not Immune To The Sundrop, which was a funny thought that crossed my mind that they could be, but that will likely never come up anyways salkdjf;ljsf It is, in its basest form, Growth and Progress. 

It’s a little sentient, but very much entrenches itself into whoever is holding it at the time. Like another mind looking through your eyes and seeing what you see/feeling what you feel while still retaining a bit of individuality from the host. It’s not... Parasitic because it’s in its nature to give, but it’s generally pretty firmly attached to whoever is holding it until they die( which isn’t usually for a WHILE. It ’infects’ a new host when one dies, usually a plant near their grave...) or until a solar eclipse. It wants what they want, but it’s very fussy so they have to ask it for power exactly correctly(like singing an incantation every time you want to heal someone, or doing a Ritual involving lots of very specific ingredients, Celestial Alignments, and Secret Words) or it won’t listen, like an orchid dying if the ph balance is off in the soil by a little bit. But it’s generally pretty intuitive to use, because it wants what you want and (as long as you ask right) is willing to help. 

Anyways basically under the influence of the Sundrop you get a few things: 

Basically limitless energy coursing through your body while you’re in a place with sunlight, which equates to rapid healing, mostly, because every cell in your body is being supercharged with free energy. Never getting exhausted in direct sunlight. (If Rapunzel lived in a place that was sunny 24/7 like near one of the poles she wouldn’t have to sleep like. until it started to get dark in the opposite half of the year. Then she’d have to sleep like a regular human being)

You stay at your prime, or if you are past it, revert to your prime. Someone who is holding the Sundrop, or who has regular access to the Sundrop’s magic can’t die of old age or illness. They have to be hurt beyond the Sundrop���s ability to heal or have it taken away from them. 

The ability to share this rapid healing with others (if you ask right)

The ability to freely draw on the raw, near-limitless energy of the sun to shape into things like cool-looking energy blasts (only if you ask right) 

The Moonstone

The moonstone has powers over varying levels of destruction: from destroying things by ripping them apart/ to Not Letting Things Be Destroyed(also known as protecting) by freezing them in indestructible rock. Like the moon, it can ‘reflect’ a bit of the sundrop’s power, so it can kinda provide energy, albeit a lot less than the sundrop can provide. It’s the inevitable march of The End of All Things, fertilizing the fields of time with the ashes of the old so the new can take root. 

The Moonstone is a bit more in the dark(pun intended hehe) when it comes to bonding with someone, it can only try to figure out what is going on based off the emotions of its wielder, and through anything directly touching the Black Rocks. Because of this it’s... Kinda dumb? It tries to do things to help(Like shooting red fear-rocks to try and scare away whatever must be scaring its wielder so badly) but often fails spectacularly at helping. 

Under the influence of the Moonstone you get: 

Mortals get Neat Body Armor that’s actually just you being turned into a rock! They are very fragile! They need to be protected! The best the Moonstone can do to try and preserve you is to Stop All Destruction by.. Pausing all bodily functions indefinitely. Rocks don’t need to eat, sleep, or breathe, and almost nothing can destroy you if you’re solid Black Rock. The weak reflection of the Sundrop’s energy keeps the host animated, but they’re not exactly alive anymore. Like cryostasis. Wounds (if any) acquired in this state won’t be a problem because they’re not messing anything up, because nothing is technically working in the first place, but they will be a problem when you’re not protected in this way anymore. It’s a cosmic ‘I’ll deal with that later’ button, essentially. 

Like the moon, the Moonstone can reflect the light of the sun. It uses its rock crystals to do so, which can even split the sun’s power into different shades, like a prism. Essentially, different colored rocks can mean new and exciting power sets. 

Blue Lightning! The Moonstone can reflect the Sundrop’s power, so it also has access to pure bursts of energy, even if it is weaker and colder. 

The Moonstone is very helpful, but usually has no idea what you want. ‘Asking’ the Moonstone for more control over its power in the same way you would Ask the Sundrop for more power reminds it of the perfect bond it used to share. The Moonstone’s incantation deepens the bond between wielder and Moonstone in such a way that it actually knows what you want from it, giving you near perfect control of its powers.

*This is kind of just a side note of the Drops: While the Moonstone is weaker than the Sundrop in an head-on fight, it could hold its own if it were on the defensive. Redirecting the power instead of trying to overpower and such.

** Cass made of rocks means I get to draw her skeleton :) not in every picture that would be fucking nuts and way too much work alskjdf;lkjs;fv

[jimmymcgools]

Can you do a directors cut for they pay me a golden treasure?

hi! this has been in my ask box for like two weeks! i'm so sorry! my brain broke and i forgot how to think about things!

i'm glad you asked for this one, thank you so much 🙏 i'd had the first ~500 words of this sitting in a google doc for so long -- i was originally thinking of posting after i finished slip and fall season. but then my brain did that thing where i wanted everything to be exactly perfect and i kept working and overworking the first few paragraphs until way too much gluten had formed in the dough and it was chewy and terrible.

but then i took a step back and just tried to write a thing that captured all the little interesting ideas i wanted to include, and that helped me get the ball rolling.

commentary below! 💖

Two points of pressure weigh down his shoulders, as heavy as the bags of cash had been—heavier, even. It feels like he has two hands locked on either side of his neck. He can feel the man who owns the hands standing behind him, and he can hear the echo of the word wife.

this idea was one of the first things that made me want to write this oneshot -- linking this physical sensation of carrying the bags with this metaphorical way he feels lalo's control over him.

He swallows. His mouth is tacky with a sugary layer of Gatorade.

i wanted the whole thing to hopefully be SUPER sensory and way deep in jimmy's head. and this is the kinda shit that takes me longer than it should to remember. sometimes i have to just sit and think through every part of my body as if i'm in that situation and see if anything good leaps out.

He’s just standing there outside the apartment and his arms are so heavy and his shoulders are so heavy and his head is so heavy he feels as if he’s going to fall right through the ground, as if he’s going to plummet into the earth before she can even open the door.

this is one of the sentences that previously died to being overworked. i kept changing it and changing it until eventually i looked back at my very first version, which was more brainstormy note than intended prose, and i thought it was better than anything else i'd managed. so i used that!

There’s a bang and his eyes snap open. The door is widening to a square of light and his hands are in front of his chest, curling into balls.

this part is a reverse of the previous example, though! here i kept an earlier version for a while, something that started like "The door opens with a bang etc etc" and then i realised it DID need more work, it needed to be more in jimmy's head and not tell the reader exactly what was happening in the first three words.

A square of light—sand and sky and space blankets—and then she’s there, silhouetted against the white, and he takes— —one step, then the next, then the next— —through the bright doorway.

fuckin' love an em dash, mate

His legs, having delivered him here, to this final glowing space, give up.

another one of the ideas i was very excited about for this one-shot was comparing kim to the golden glowstick he holds that night in the desert! i always think about it when i watch that scene!

here's my first shot at making the comparison -- this final glowing space. for a while i wanted to include the memory of him holding that glowstick right here, so that people might link it with him holding her in the entryway, but it didn't work with the pace.

Her voice sounds like it’s coming down a long phone line, traveling through thousands and thousands of copper-lined miles. Crackling and cracking.

i'm a self indulgent lil shit so i put some references to my other fic in here. hopefully if youve read acb, this specific description makes you think of baby kim and jimmy talking softly on the phone at night.

Kim’s fingers are razors in his hair, crushing his head close against her shoulder.

another metaphor from early acb used here, which in itself is a reference to a song by the national, of course. all my fics are just a bunch of national songs stacked inside a trenchcoat

As soon as his chest touches hers, he’s clawing with tight fists at her back, holding her faster and faster, like he’s scrabbling for purchase over screaming dirt

i loved the idea of drawing all these parallels between the desert experience and his experience here. it makes me think of the split-screen opening. jimmy's dry tongue sticking to his mouth is like him trying to say the first part of kim's name. the way he hugs her is like the way he scrambles towards the esteem.

it's all entwined forever now.

From down the long crackling line, she says his name again. Jimmy. He almost can’t hear it. Jimmy.

god, i'm such a writing nerd and i love thinking about writing so much and it's like -- what does not having his name in speech marks add here? in my head it adds so much. is it real, is she really saying it? is he just thinking it? yet he says he almost can't hear it. somehow not having the speech marks also makes it feel far away to me. intangible. if she's really saying it, it doesn't feel real anymore.

i love writing!!!!

“Hey,” Kim says, her voice quiet, her eyes locked on his. The dry skin on his lips stretches with his smile. “Hey.”

would die for these two softly exchanging "hey"s.

It’s good to be close because he knows there’s something horrible trapped between their chests. Something he can feel running warmly down his white and unblemished t-shirt.

jimmy brushing his hand over the spot as they sit together on the sofa.

Like he’s something that might burn her, or something that might break. Or both—like he’s fragile and electrified.

i kind of want to do more with this duality at some point. i think they both feel this about the other. that they could burn them or be burned by them.

He wants her to cradle his cheeks the same way she always does, or stroke her thumbs over his mouth, or curl her fingers around his ears, but she doesn’t. She just holds him in her fingertips. Like water in her hands, he thinks.

more of that wild self-indulgency, but god i couldnt resist linking this moment with the first time they makeout in acb:

"Then she pulls back, breathing heavily, looking down at him. She frames his face with her hands. Gasping for breath, staring up at Kim from between her palms, Jimmy feels like she’s the only thing holding him together. Like he’s water in her hands."

the only thing holding him together.

the ", he thinks." i added in the one-shot makes me feel like jimmy's making the link too, not just me as the writer.

The apartment smells of smoke. Another thing he’s dragged with him over the threshold from the desert: one hundred thousand dollars in cash and the word wife and the smell of dust burning beneath a high sun.

of course, it smells of smoke because kim's been smoking inside, but jimmy doesn't know that

Boxers picked up and then put down in almost the same spot on the bathroom floor.

this moment always gets me. these actors are incredible. there's so much goddamn emotion in one little action.

In his hand now, the ache of a yellow glowstick. The edges of his fingers are made red with it, and his skin and bones and all the gaps between the different parts of himself are marked out with the light. He’s awake, and the yellow stick is fragile in his grasp. Glowing through the cold and the dark. Burning a ghost on his retinas. His suit jacket is thin above him, a loose sheet. The desert is loud with lizards and wind and tires wheeling over dirt roads. The glowstick is golden.

and now finally i get to this glowstick moment. i'm really proud of how i executed this paragraph. it's the writing nerd in me again. i love what the present tense does to it. to me, it makes it feel eternal, ongoing. this is how i felt okay about not setting up the glowstick thing earlier. this paragraph makes me feel like jimmy's been thinking about this the entire time.

all the gaps between the different parts of himself are marked out with the light

also the thought of like... jimmy sitting awake in the desert thinking about the jimmy vs saul of it all.

Burning a ghost on his retinas.

"Did I dream it or did I have $1,600,000 on my desk in cash? When I close my eyes, I can still see it. It's burned into my retinas like I was staring into the sun."

Kim’s face is warm against his spine. Her heartbeat seems to pulse through his skin.

more of my stolen acb lines, this from the final chapter:

"He can feel her breathing, her knees pressed up close behind his, her chest against his back. Her heartbeat seems to pulse through his skin. If he didn’t know better, he’d feel like the Sandias, like a line of protection between her and the world."

When he closes his eyes, he’s walking, he’s still walking.

returning to the first sentence here gave it all a terrifying feeling to me. like -- does jimmy feel like this moment of getting home is the dream? this looping dream?

thank you so much to everyone who read this one-shot, by the way! i was super nervous about tackling canon times, and everyone's messages have been so reassuring. i really appreciate it 💖

[snarkwrites]

13 | gangsta ; sweetpea

NOTES:

It's been a while. I've had these two chapters written for a while now but I haven't had time to sit down, edit them a little better and post them. Since I have time now, I thought I'd go ahead and do that, whether you guys asked for these next two chapters or not.

Sorry this took forever! Sorry I'm so slow, I've been settling into a new house and taking care of some IRL stuff / taking a little break. I swear, I'm going to update everything sooner or later. >.>

I love you guys.

WARNINGS:

NON/ LOOSE CANON COMPLIANCE - this is the biggest warning, so if you’re into things that follow exact canon plot you are… definitely not going to like this. ANGST & SLOW BURN, HEAVY SEXUAL TENSIONSTARTING NOW, ACTUALLY - this is just so everyone who started reading this thinking the smut would transpire in a hurry knows that apparently, it is not. VIOLENCE / SWEARING & FIGHTING, POSSIBLE UNDERAGE DRINKING AND OTHER SHENANIGANS- look.. it’s high school. shit happens. also apparently, my ofc Alyssa uses the word fuck like all the time?…EVENTUAL SEXUAL CONTENT / A VIRGIN ORIGINAL CHARACTER- this one is self explanatory. yes, i plan to write a smutty chapter in this at some point. when? i don’t rightly know. it’s got a while before we get there. STALKER TW - this chapter marks the true appearance of Alyssa's ex, Dave Novak. It's hinted heavily that he's a gross asshole who likes to play mind games. ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING TW - This chapter contains an attempted kidnapping. If this is gonna bother you you're best off not reading it.

If you're under 18+, probably not a good or wise idea to continue reading this series. Because there are going to be a few dark and adult themes within. I'll warn here, of course, but you need to understand that I don't control you. If you continue to read after having read the warnings and you're upset or don't like something... Totally on you, friend.

PAIRING:

Andrews!Sibling OFC x Sweet Pea.

TAGGING:

@brithedemonspawn is the only person on my Riverdale tag list. If you want to be added, the link to do so is below.

OTHER PARTS:

ONE - TWO - THREE - FOUR - FIVE - SIX - SEVEN - EIGHT - NINE - TEN- ELEVEN - TWELVE - soundtrack

OTHER STUFF:

[ about my writing - tag list doc ]

THIRTEEN.

[773 - 589 - 7956] Quiet sleepy little town you’ve got here. I can see the appeal, scarlet.

[773 - 589 - 7956] I saw you last night. If I didn’t know what a treacherous bitch you were, I’d say you look more beautiful than ever.

[773 - 589 - 7956] Have you shown that new boytoy of yours all the dirty little photos you were sending me? I bet he’d fucking love to see that… Or did you actually let him see the real thing?

[773 - 589 - 7956] You can say what you want to the cops, scarlet. You and I both know you enjoyed sending me those dirty little pictures. Do your parents know what a teasing whore their daughter really is? I know mommy wasn’t too thrilled when you went running to her to snitch just because things got a little too real for you…

[773 - 589 - 7956] I’ll see you soon. It’s like I said, scarlet. You owe me. I intend to collect. You think this is a game? You can just promise things and then betray me like that? That’s not how this works, scarlet.

The second my phone was powered on again after school, it immediately started to go insane. The texts came in a flood. They were so disgusting and scary that I dropped my phone because my hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t hold it. I quickly picked up the phone and took a few deep breaths, attempting to pull myself together.

,, I can’t keep this to myself. I have to tell someone what’s going on.” the thought nagged at me for the thousandth time in two weeks and I decided that as soon as I finished my tutoring session for the day, I was going to go to the construction site and show my father the texts. Tell him that somehow, Dave was out of prison and apparently, he was here in Riverdale.

My stomach was churning and a bitter taste filled my mouth at the thought. I felt like a dead girl walking. How could I have been so fucking stupid? I should’ve told my father the first time Dave texted me. I should’ve done something.

I felt anger at the situation too. I came here to get away from everything, to put it behind me. I just wanted to forget any of it happened. How dare he show up and ruin everything? He was supposed to be in jail right now, not walking free!

It wasn’t fair.

I knew I’d never be brave enough, but I found myself thinking that if I did see him again, I wanted to strangle him. To give him a reason to be afraid of me for once instead of the other way around. To get even for the hell he put me through in Chicago.

I stepped out into the parking lot, taking a few deep breaths to calm down. Leaning against the brick wall beside the doors that lead into the building. Waiting. Trying to pull myself together. Half hoping that my brother was still here, still in wrestling practice.

Then I remembered that he didn’t have it tonight and that he’d left earlier with Veronica, Betty and Jughead.

Cheryl and Toni were already gone too. I’d stayed over because I was tutoring some kids in the grade below me. I didn’t think it’d take as long as it did. When I realized just how late it had gotten and that I’d be walking home alone in the dark, I’d panicked.

I could always call my dad.

That’s what I wound up doing. About halfway across the parking lot and just as my father’s phone went to voicemail , Dave stepped out and grabbed me, clamping his hand over my mouth before I could do anything other than scream.

My phone fell out of my hands and hit the pavement . I fought him off, managed to get out of his grasp and took off at a run. He caught up to me and grabbed me, trying to drag me towards his Chevelle that was parked nearby, idling. I fought tooth and nail, making as much noise as I could. Grabbing hold of anything I could to try and wrench myself free from his grasp.

I spotted Sweet Pea walking towards the school and I screamed louder. Fought harder.

“Sweet Pea!” I screamed his name, biting at any exposed skin I could get my mouth on Dave’s body. Clawing and scratching. Determined not to go quietly or without a fight. Sweet Pea disappeared from sight for a few seconds in the scuffle between Dave and I, and I was fighting so hard that Dave was struggling to keep a good firm grip on me…

XXX

He’d come back to school because normally, Alyssa was done and at Pop’s within thirty minutes, an hour tops. It had almost been two. Something felt off. Sweet Pea tried to tell himself the entire walk across town to Riverdale High that he was just being paranoid or overprotective. By the time the school was in view, he almost had himself convinced that he was just being a paranoid idiot.

Until he heard her screaming.

Sweet Pea took off at a run in the direction her scream came from, watching as a guy grabbed Alyssa and started trying to pull her towards an idling Chevelle nearby. He locked eyes with Alyssa before slipping out of sight. Getting himself into a position where he could slip up on the guy from behind and hopefully, distract him enough that Alyssa could get away.

The second she managed to smash her head into the guy’s nose hard enough that he dropped her, Sweet Pea spoke up. Firmly. “Run, Cherry. Don’t stop running.”

“No.” I stubbornly refused to leave. I wasn’t going to leave him to fight Dave off on his own. Not when this was my mess to begin with, my own stupidity coming back to bite me in my ass.

“Damn it, woman. Fucking go!” Sweet Pea practically growled as he lunged for the guy in front of him, spearing him against the side of his own car. The fight took to the ground, the two rolling around. For a second or two, Dave had the upper hand because he managed to get his hand on Sweet Pea’s throat. Sweet Pea used his legs, flipping them so that he was on top, swinging his fists with no real thought other than the sheer rage he felt about the guy trying to grab Alyssa. Dave managed to get the upper hand again, holding Sweet Pea against the concrete, Sweet Pea’s hand wrapped around his throat as he tried to squeeze harder.

Sweet Pea swore in frustration when he saw Alyssa slipping over to the open rear door. She emerged with a baseball bat, making her way over to the fight.

“What the fuck do you think you were gonna do, man?” Sweet Pea snarled in anger as he got in a few hard and fast punches.

“I was gonna get my hands on that little bitch you call a girlfriend and teach her a lesson.” Dave grunted out the words as Sweet Pea’s hand closed around his throat tighter and he managed to get Dave on his back again.

“The only one who’s going to learn a lesson tonight is you, asshole. Don’t fucking touch her.” Sweet Pea got the upper hand again, holding Dave against the concrete, smashing his head against Dave’s head as he sneered, “I’m gonna fuckin kill you, putting your hands on my girl.” and really tightened his grip.

Dave managed to shove him off and stood, the two of them fighting. Alyssa swung the bat at Dave’s lower back, almost connecting with it but Dave stepped out of the way at the last minute, making a grab for her.

“Cherry, I told you to run, damn it!” Sweet Pea growled as he lunged at Dave, sending Alyssa stumbling back, barely managing to keep herself from falling on her butt on the pavement. The two were rolling around on the ground again, punching and choking wildly and Alyssa spotted her cell phone and she dove for it, dialing 911.

Just as she was about to hit call, Sweet Pea choked Dave out and grabbed for the rope that had fallen out of Dave’s jacket pocket, tying his arms together while he was down. Then he rushed over to her, checking her over in concern, wincing at the pavement burn on her cheeks and the few scrapes.

“What the fuck happened to run, huh?” Sweet Pea asked, trying to catch his breath.

“I wasn’t leaving you here with him.” Alyssa panted. Sweet Pea took her cell phone and hit call, keeping his foot on Dave’s head to keep him down as he made the call.

Two minutes later, a cop car came racing around the corner and pulled to a stop behind the idling Chevelle.

The cop got out and wandered over. Glancing from Sweet Pea to Dave.

Alyssa spoke up.

“Sweet Pea was trying to save me, officer.”

“I’m going to need you two to come to the station and make statements.” the cop informed them after getting Dave into the back of the cop car. Alyssa nodded, hugging herself against Sweet Pea’s side. Sweet Pea slipped out of his leather jacket,draping it around her, because at some point during her fight with Dave, her shirt had gotten torn down the front.

The cop left, leaving the two of them alone.

Sweet Pea took a few deep breaths, pulling her against him. Squeezing her tight. Holding her in place. “Thank God I decided to come by here. If something would’ve happened…” he muttered against her hair quietly.

She pulled away to look up at him and he locked eyes with her, leaning in closer…

XXX

My heart was still hammering away at my chest. The adrenaline was starting to wear off and I was starting to panic a little as I began to realize what almost happened to me. How close I came to disappearing, having God knows what would be done to me by Dave.

I wasn’t thinking about how awkward me kissing him would be. I wasn’t thinking about anything if you want the truth. I rose up on my toes, grabbing hold of the front of Sweet Pea’s t-shirt, pulling myself up. My mouth brushed against the corner of his gingerly, trying to avoid the portion of his lower lip that was busted and bloody because it had to hurt like hell. His hands dug into my hips and he growled quietly, his mouth latching onto mine just as I went to pull away, stop myself before I went for it and kissed him in the heat of the moment.

The kiss deepened and I raised my arms, wrapping them around his neck. Dragging my fingers through his hair. My back met the side of the Chevelle with a soft smack and he pressed himself into me more firmly. His mouth continuing to hungrily devour mine.

The kiss broke a few seconds later, we pulled apart breathlessly and stared at one another in a daze. Sweet Pea wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. Going quiet again.

All I could do was melt into him and try to wrap my head around what almost happened and what had just actually happened. He curled his fingers under my chin, tilting my face so that I had to look up at him.

“Who was that? Wait.. was that your ex?”

My jaw dropped. I blinked at him and then I nodded quietly. He swore under his breath and held on a little tighter. Pulling away again, his hands on my upper arms as he stared down at me. “I should’ve fucking killed him.”

“H-how’d you know about Dave? Did my brother tell you?”

“And Jughead. I don’t know everything. I just know that I told myself if I ever actually saw the asshole, I was going to kill him.” Sweet Pea answered quietly. Taking a few deep breaths and then adding a few seconds later, “We need to get to the station.”

I nodded in agreement. Sweet Pea scooped me up when he saw me take a step and wince, then try it again with the same outcome.

“I can walk.” I protested weakly.

“You fell. You probably twisted your ankle. Just… let me carry you, Cherry.” he muttered quietly, his voice a soft and concerned whisper as he gazed down at me.

All I could do was nod. Lean my head against the space between his neck and shoulder.

As we worked our way towards the police station, it poured out of me. Every single thing I’d gone through with Dave in Chicago. I grimaced as I told Sweet Pea exactly what had gone down and why I thought Dave had come to town and tried to grab me tonight and Sweet Pea’s jaw set firm.

I could tell that hearing it bothered him. And at one point, he muttered quietly, “If you don’t want to talk about it you don’t have to…”

“No, I need to get it out. I shouldn’t have kept the fact that the asshole was texting me to myself. Blocking his number obviously didn’t work because he reached out with a new one. I thought if I just ignored him, he’d lose interest. I thought it was just him, trying to scare me. I didn’t think he’d be stupid or brave enough to show up here.” I muttered, shaking my head at how stupid that sounded now that I was really stopping to think about it.

“He’s not gonna bother you again, okay? I’m going to make sure he doesn’t.” Sweet Pea muttered after a few seconds, just as we stepped into the station and made our way over to a sitting area to wait.

“You need to call your dad.” Sweet Pea spoke up after a few seconds that felt like hours.

I nodded. Taking my phone back from Sweet Pea, I dialed my dad’s number and I could hear the relief in his voice when he answered.

Static crackled and popped on his end of the line so I strained to hear.

“I’ve been riding around town looking for you for over an hour, tiny. What the hell happened?” my dad asked in a rush.

“Dave was waiting outside of the school tonight when I came out… If Sweet Pea hadn’t gotten there when he did I… he tried to grab me tonight, Dad.” I grimaced as I said it, bracing myself for all the questions and the lecture I knew I’d be getting because I hadn’t told anyone the second all this started.

,, to be fair, I definitely deserve it.” the thought came and I let myself have it. Leaning back in the chair, resting against Sweet Pea’s side slightly. Taking a few deep breaths.

My dad swore and I heard him punching at something, probably the dashboard of his truck. After a second or two, he spoke up. “Where are you two? I’m on my way, tiny. Right now.”

“We’re at the station giving a statement.” I explained.

“Thank god. So Novak got arrested? That’s good. I’m going to be sure to find out what I can do to make sure that little prick stays in a cell this time.” my dad responded as I heard him rev the engine on his truck.

The call ended and I leaned my head against Sweet Pea’s shoulder. He slipped an arm around me and took a few more breaths as if he were trying to calm himself down again because he was still angry and tense.

The cop who made the arrest found us and ushered us back to his workspace and we sat down. Telling the cop every single detail of what happened tonight. The cop let me finish and then spoke up.

“We’re holding him for Chicago. He apparently escaped. Attacked another girl… A Claire Watson… Then he came here. But everything you’ve told me will help keep him behind bars, Alyssa. Do you have a parent you can call?”

I nodded.

“She already called him.” Sweet Pea answered calmly as he folded his arms over his chest and glared at the cop suspiciously.

The cop eyed him, nodding. Managing a cordial smile. “That was quick thinking on your part tonight kid. Also stupid as hell. If he’d had a weapon, that could’ve gone wrong. Next time, call the station.”

“And do what? Let an asshole make off with my girl? Yeah, no thanks. I’m good. I’ve seen how fast you assholes respond to any call you get from the South side.”

“Not all of us are bad, kid.” the cop pointed out in a calm and even tone.

“Yeah, well… I wasn’t going to stand there and let him take my girl either. I did what I had to do.” Sweet Pea took a deep breath, rubbing his forehead. Calming himself back down.

I spotted my father and Archie coming into the station, heading right for us and I let out a ragged breath. Squeezing my dad so tight he almost couldn’t breathe when they got over to where we were sitting in the back.

My father spoke up, addressing the cop. “We will be pressing charges. So, whatever I need in order to do that, just tell me and you’ve got it.”

Sweet Pea cleared his throat.

“If it helps, here’s her phone.” Sweet Pea held my phone out to the policeman and he took it, nodding. “If there’s anything on here, that’ll help. If you’ll come with me, Mr. Andrews, we’ll get that paperwork drawn up to start the proceedings.”

My dad gave me another hug and stopped in front of Sweet Pea. “If you hadn’t been there tonight, kid… Thank you.”

“I wasn’t gonna let anything happen to her, sir.” Sweet Pea muttered, awkwardly letting my dad hug him too.

My dad made his way to an office with the policeman who’d taken our statements and I glanced up at Sweet Pea, grimacing at the bruises and scraped starting to form on his face and neck. The black eye and the busted lip.

“Archie, can you go get some ice or a soda can? His lips really swelling up..” I muttered. My brother nodded, taking some change from me to go do it. And this left Sweet Pea and I alone again.

“About that kiss.. I’m sorry, I.. the last thing I wanted to do was make anything awkward. I just got caught up in the moment and I can’t keep fighting the way I feel and I… Sorry.” I spoke up quietly. Prepared to give him an out. Afraid that I’d gone way over the line.

“Yeah, about that… I’ve been wanting to do it for a while.” Sweet Pea admitted quietly. Making me look up at him as he chuckled quietly. “You wanna repeat any of what you just said?”

I felt my cheeks burning. I pouted up at him and gave him a dirty look.

He smirked in response and spoke up. “I’m being serious. You were doing that mumble and babbling thing again.”

“You heard me.” I answered, biting my lip as I looked up at him.

“A little, yeah… But maybe I wanna hear it again, cherry.” he pulled me close and gazed down at me for a few seconds.

“Wait.. you wanted to kiss me?” I realized what he’d admitted. Gazing up at him, a little shocked.

“You’re trying to change the subject now?” he questioned, slipping his arms around me. I gave a soft laugh and muttered quietly, “Maybe a little.”

“When you say you can’t ignore the way you feel.. What’s that mean?” he questioned again, making me look up at him. I took a deep breath and toyed with the front of his shirt, trying to figure out the best way to put it to words.

The truth. Simple and direct.

“I care about you a lot. I lo--” I started to say that I loved him, but Archie cleared his throat behind us, holding out the soda can to me. Then promptly excusing himself again to go find our dad. I gently guided Sweet Pea down into a chair and sank down to sit on his knees. Gingerly pressing the cold soda can against his lip. And after a second or two, I finally got myself to say it again. “I love you, okay?”

He chuckled quietly. Locking eyes with me. Lowering the soda can to ask quietly, “Like a best friend or something.. Right?”

I shook my head. “More than, actually. Since that day at the car wash when I drenched you with the hose, I’ve… It’s been hard to make myself not look for you in a crowd. Yes, yes.. I know this is mushy and you don’t do mushy, I..” his mouth crashing against mine cut off the flow of my words and he muttered in a daze, “Say it again. Tell me you love me, Cherry.”

“I love you.” I managed to get the words out breathlessly. His mouth was latching onto mine all over again. The kiss deepening. His arms enveloping me tighter. Squeezing til I thought I’d get lightheaded between the deep and heavy onslaught of kisses and the way he was holding me.

“I love you too.” he mumbled quietly. Gazing down at me. Panting for his next breath as the kiss broke yet again.

“Okay, are you two done with whatever yet? Because dad told me to get Al back home. You can come with us if you want.” Archie surprised me by inviting Sweet Pea. Sweet Pea eyed him and nodded, standing after I’d finally managed to pry myself away from him.

As we walked out of the station, he slipped his hand down between us, lacing his fingers between mine. Giving my hand a squeeze as he glanced down at me.

[angrylizardjacket]

and i’ll miss you

a run to paradise au | [ p l a y l i s t ]

Summary: Lola’s dad, Leo, lives. A series of conversations between Lola, Leo, and Irene, her mother, throughout her life.

A/N: 15,449 words. @misscharlottelee @local-troubled-writer for putting up with me all through writing this. this is making me so fucking emotional you don’t even know. lola’s parents aren’t shitty i promise!! i will say that lola is manipulative but it’s never for negative or selfish (mostly) reasons, but still thought i should warn you.

----

Lola’s sixteenth birthday present from her parents is tickets to see KISS perform live when they were set to come to town in a few months, seeing as how they were currently her whole family’s favourite band. Well, okay, they were her dad’s and her’s, and her mom liked their music well enough but was never fanatical. However, Irene would hum along and tap her foot as she did the diner’s banking for the night once it had closed, as Lola and Leo blasted their music from the jukebox as they were cleaning up for the night.

“A friend of mine got me the tickets,” Leo was telling Lola, “you know Bill, he’s the guy who always eats his fries with no sauce,” he prompts, and Lola makes a noise of recognition.

“He hasn’t been in for a while,” Lola pointed out; he’d been a regular for as long as she could remember, he was a good friend to her father, and once snuck them onto set for a TV show he was working on at the time, though Lola didn’t recognise the show, her dad was overjoyed.

“’Cos he’s been managing KISS!” Leo’s practically bursting with excitement, acting like a big kid, up to his elbows in dishes with his daughter beside him, drying them. Lola, upon hearing this news, almost screams.

“Sweethearts, please don’t let the neighbours think we’re being murdered,” Irene called out from the counter, though there was the faintest smile in her words, and both Lola and Leo called back an apology.

----

For each day that the concert grows closer, Lola grows more anxious. Her friends, while she enjoys their company and their tastes in music, are far more fond of ABBA, and don’t get why Lola’s so excited about punks in face paint. Lola’s cut out a picture of KISS and sticks in the front of her binder, and one friend wrinkles her nose at it, calls them gross.

Lola likes ABBA. Lola likes all sorts of music, Leo had made sure of that, but it was disheartening that her friends weren’t so open minded. Which is why she can’t ask any of them what to wear to the concert; they don’t go to rock concerts. Her dad’s ‘you’ll look kick ass in anything, Lola’  is well-meaning but unhelpful; he has to say that, he’s her dad! Surprisingly, it’s her mom who saves the day.

“You’re fretting, Keola,” her mother says softly. They’re in the diner, side by side at the counter during a lull; the hiss of Leo cooking from the kitchen, and the hum of music from the jukebox fill the air, but Lola’s twisted the straw in her hands that no matter how she untwists it, it’s mostly unusable, not that she’s noticed, looking at the wall where her parents have put their music memorabilia.

“I’m not fretting,” Lola huffs a little. The concert is in two days and she still doesn’t know what to wear, “mom am I a dork?” And it’s more nervous than Lola had wanted it to sound, even if it had been playing on her mind for almost a week.

Irene’s lips twist into something faintly amused at the phrasing, but her eyes are kind and gentle.

“Sweetheart, you are mine and your father’s child,” she says, “we are both very big dorks.” Lola gives her a look as if to say ‘that’s really not what I wanted to hear right now’, but Irene continues, “but I would also say we’re the coolest people I know; me, your dad, and you, of course.” At least at this, Lola’s expression softens, turning honest and a little forlorn.

“All the outfits I try for Saturday make me look like a dork,” she says quietly, “and my friends think KISS is gross.” She doesn’t intend for it to sound petulant, or whiny, though it comes across like that a little, but thankfully her mother can hear how genuinely sad this all makes her.

“Do you want to borrow something from me?” Irene asks, and Lola gives her a somewhat sceptical look that she’d been expecting; her daughter’s only ever known her as her mom, and as an accountant. Even now, she’s in a smart, black button-down and black slacks, knowing full-well that the dress code at Leo’s is quite casual. “I wasn’t always a grown up, you know,” Irene gives a faint grin, and Lola gives her the benefit of the doubt.

----

“Dad, stop- come on dude, be cool,” Lola insisted as she stepped out of her room on Saturday evening, wearing a band t-shirt of his that he’d leant her, her favourite black jeans with the rip in the knee, Doc Martins that had been a present for her last birthday, and the leather jacket from the back of her mom’s closet.

Leo was tearing up. Irene says his name very softly, her hand on his shoulder, but her expression is understanding. He’s really trying to keep it together, but his expression keeps scrunching up like he can’t quite help himself.

“Is that your jacket?” Leo’s voice is strained, looking to Irene.

“The one I wore to every concert we’ve ever gone to together,” Irene tells him, and Leo wraps her up in a hug, hiding his face from his daughter as to not appear as emotionally overwhelmed as he clearly was.

“I can’t believe we raised the coolest kid in the world,” Leo finally spoke, clearly crying with pride. Irene laughed softly from amid his embrace, and as much as Lola could act embarrassed, she herself was trying to act like she wasn’t getting emotional, “it’s her first concert and she’s already cooler than me.” Leo crowed.

“Dad,” Lola said, trying to sound embarrassed, like she thinks any other teenager would probably be, and not grateful, the way she actually feels, “you’re gonna have to redo your eyeliner.” But she can’t help herself, and joins her parents, if only to hide how emotional the moment was, in the way they wrap her up in a group hug.

And before they leave, Irene sets firm ground rules, to make sure neither of them goes too haywire; above all, Lola is never to leave Leo’s sight, she’s strict about this.

“And Lola,” Irene adds, taking a deep breath, “but if you end up meeting the band, if Bill wants to you and dad to say hi after, I know this seems silly, but please promise me something,” Lola frowns a little at her mother’s intensity, but nods as a prompt, “don’t touch them. Don’t let them touch you. Don’t shake their hands. Don’t leave your father’s side at all. Please,” and she looks to her husband, expression imploring, “Leo please, I know you think I’m overreacting, but please.”

“I promise,” Leo says, as serious as Lola’s ever heard her father, and Irene gives a grateful smile, and wishes them a wonderful night.

----

Lola doesn’t have to ask her father if he can see alright, even as she’s sitting on his shoulders; he towers over most of the crowd, and from this vantage point, Lola feels like the most powerful person in the world... Right before the opening act finishes, and KISS walks on stage.

They know all these songs too well, have been listening to them intently for months, and Lola and Leo belt the lyrics back like their lives depend on it. They mosh together when she climbs off his shoulders.

“Don’t you wanna push through to the stage?” He yells over the music; he’s ready to steamroll through the crowd if Lola asked, but she’s shaking her head, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’d rather hang out back here than for people to start throwing stuff at you because you’re blocking their view,” she points out, before adding, “don’t be weird, dad, I’m doing this for the greater good.” Leo raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning from ear to ear with pride. He doesn’t say that she’s considerate, he doesn’t argue that even if she were at the front of the crowd, he could still stand back and still have her in his sights, he just enjoys the moment, enjoys the fact that his daughter still likes his company.

“You’re a good kid, Keola,” he tells her seriously, as the song is winding down. Lola makes a face at that, but then grins and shouts;

“And whose fault is that?!” With amusement and love in her voice.

She’d had her angry, bitter moments, had cursed him and her mom and the diner and the work she had to do when her friends were out being hooligans, but he was grateful for moments like this, for moments when he knew that deep down, she loved him, and loved her family.

As the night comes to an end with three encore songs, and as everyone’s filing out in a messy stream, a pair of surly-looking security guards cut easily through the crowd to Lola and Leo, telling them that they need to come with them. Lola, terrified that they were going to get reprimanded for how she’d been sitting on her dad’s shoulders and probably blocking people’s view for a third of the show, is glued to her father’s side as he’s trying to make conversation with the now-silent security detail.

But then there’s Bill, former diner regular, current KISS manager, beaming from ear to ear, welcoming them backstage with open arms, wishing Lola a happy birthday, giving a joking apology that the tour was two months too late for her. Lola laughs with relief, and steps apart from her dad as she follows Bill through the theater’s winding corridors to the green room, but Leo’s still got a hand on her shoulder; she’s glad for the contact, not wanting to get lost.

“You sure we’re allowed to be back here,” there’s something strange in her dad’s tone, like he’s trying to imply something that goes over Lola’s head. Bill gives him a knowing, but reassuring look, as he tells Leo that it’s fine, and that the band will be on their best behaviour while they’re there. His gaze flicks to Lola for a moment; she’s confused, what, are they drunk or something? Even at sixteen, and as much of a wild child as her father was - and still kind of is - she’s naive.

Well, okay, the band are already drunk, but at least that seems to be the worst of it.

They’re still in their makeup, though it’s a little smeared, a little sweated-through, but they’re bright and friendly and forthcoming, and seem so grateful when Leo and Lola both babble their praises. Bill introduces them as old friends, as ‘Leo and his daughter, Lola’ with a strange emphasis on daughter that Lola doesn’t catch, but then the band, who’d been watching the two of them, watching Lola talk about how cool it was, how much she loves them, they look at Leo as if seeing him for the first time. He’s bigger even than the security guards, with his hand on Lola’s shoulder, standing close to her; the band are watching him like startled rabbits all of a sudden, and when Lola looks to her father, she sees him levelling a look of warning at the band. The moment he sees Lola looking, however, he grins down at her, and addresses the band.

“Listen, we’re absolutely stoked to get to meet you guys, you fuckin’ kick ass -”

“Kicked. Fucking. Ass!” Lola agrees as punctuation, and the tension in the room eases considerably as they all give a fond chuckle at her enthusiasm.

“You want a beer, man?” Ace Freehly asks, and Leo hesitates, looks to Bill, who nods, and then to Lola, who’s finally looking around the dressing room with wide-eyes.

“Just one,” Leo concedes, and Lola nervously asks if she can look around. She gets permission, and Leo sits on the arm of the sofa that Bill had taken up, asking the band what kind of music they listened to in their spare time.

Lola’s naive, but she’s not an idiot; she’s heard bands sing about how they loved girls who were seventeen, she’s heard gossip about celebrities with young girlfriends, hell, she’s at an age where her friends are talking about ‘fooling around’ and it actually means something. And she’d seen how the some of the band members had looked at her, the way she’d dressed up to fit in, maybe looking a little older than she was - she can hear her mother’s warning in her head, and knows why her father was acting protective. For all that the kids her age might think she’s being too safe, being too childish, her parents have never lead her astray; if they’re working this hard to keep her from the band, there was a good reason, and she’d trust them on that.

They leave in much better spirits than they’d arrived, the tension having defrosted between Leo and the band, but even so, as they’re saying they’re goodbyes, and shaking hands, someone offers Lola his hand, but she hears her mother’s voice and moves on instinct, taking a step back, a step closer to her father, though she’s beaming and waving and thanking them for getting the opportunity to meet them, and see them play, and Leo’s hand wordlessly comes to rest on her shoulder, even as he’s using the other to still shake hands. It’s an unspoken connection between them. An understanding for which Leo is so incredibly grateful.

She’s a good kid.

----

“I hear you’re gonna start helping mom with the finances,” Leo says, tone light as he approaches Lola, squirrelled away in the corner booth that’s unofficially hers, as she pores over her homework.

“All I said was that I was thinking of taking a few of the business subjects as electives,” she says, not looking up, sounding distracted, “and music.” She added, as if to put her father’s heart at ease.

“Business subjects?” Leo asks, sliding into the seat across from her. Lola’s holding her highlighter in her mouth, looking up from what looks like English notes. She nods. Leo is quiet, and folds his hands on the table and gives a look that he hopes is intrigued, or curious, or some sort of non-judgemental prompt for her to explain why.

“Mom’s like a calculator of a person; if you could win at doing taxes, you know mom would win taxes,” she says, sitting back and pulling the highlighter from her mouth to fidget with, “and the only reason you don’t have a Michelin Star is because the inspectors are classist, bitch-ass jagweeds who wouldn’t even make the detour that you’re worth -”

“Lola,” Leo admonished her phrasing with a slight frown, and her scowl deepens as she looks to her father.

“Mom said it first.”

“Your mom did not call the Michelin Star inspectors classist, bitch-ass jagweeds,” he countered with, and Lola huffed, knowing it was the truth.

“She called them classist,” she corrects herself, sinking further into the chair and into her terrible posture, “and the other stuff she said too, just not the bitch-ass jagweed stuff,” she concedes, before sighing, and almost out of view from how badly she’s slouching down in her seat across the table, “but I’m just... here, and sometimes I think about seeing if I could talk to Bill about being a musician because I’m kind of okay at piano and singing and that stuff, and I love music and I think it’d be cool to have a job in the music industry, but every time I think about getting a note wrong while someone’s watching me I feel really sick, and now every time I even think about playing in front of people I start feeling really sick, so I’m trying not to think about being a musician, but I keep having these little ideas for the diner and I think about how one-day I’ll be helping run it, and I don’t wanna do what you guys are doing here, so maybe doing not-finance-business-stuff could be my thing.” She’s laying side-ways on the seat of the booth by the end of her rant, hands beneath head, staring at the gum someone’s put there. When she’d finished her homework, she’ll grab the scraper. Oh god, what other teenager thinks like that? Mom was right, she is a dork... Okay, maybe she should have realised sooner, like when she developed a strong opinion on the Michelin Star inspectors.

“Two things,” Leo says, after a beat of silence; he’s still sitting perfectly still, and his voice is kind, “one; if you want to have a job in music, you don’t have to be on stage, you don’t have to have people looking at you if you don’t want,” and as he speaks, Lola slowly raises herself to a sitting position, “and two; what ideas do you have for the diner, kid? I’ve always said we need a designated ideas man, I think you’d be perfect for it.”

In the end, still helps Irene with the finances, though her mom somehow manages to make it interesting, and Lola will always fondly look back on the night she and her mother had taken a break from working on the coming month’s roster to drink milkshakes.

“You’re his favourite person in the world, Keola, he’d steal the moon if you asked,” Irene spoke fondly of her husband, “and of course you’re my favourite too, sweetheart, but I draw the line at using our entire life savings and mortgaging the diner to buy enough tomatoes to fill the diner -”

“But theoretically,” Lola was trying to hold back her laughter, “if we did, we’d have enough money that we could buy enough tomatoes to fill the diner.”

“You’re greatly underestimating the amount of tomatoes we’d need,” her mother chuckled.

“What if I got a great deal on tomatoes, since we’re buying them in bulk?”

“We’re not -”

“Theoretically!” Lola had crowed, which had dissolved into laughter, while her mother played up her annoyance with a sigh, though she was grinning from ear to ear. As the laughter dies out, and Lola finishes her milkshake, she looks over the draft of the roster, and hums. Irene, intrigued, hums in return, hums a question.

“You should put Parker on the weekend; give him the Friday and Saturday nights, and the Sunday lunch,” Lola muses.

“I thought you said he was annoying? Do you want him cooking out the back?” Irene leans forward, following her daughter’s gaze and frowning at the messy schedule.

“Fuck no -”

“Language.”

“He ignores dad’s ‘no idle talking in the kitchen during the rush’ rule, and when he’s serving when it’s not a rush he won’t shut up about WWE, but, he’s cheerful as hell and works well under pressure, which,” Lola takes the eraser from the table and scrubs off a name, before taking the pen from her mother and writing the same name elsewhere, “is why Candice should be taken off the rush on Saturday since she had a meltdown the last three times she was scheduled then. But she’s really good when it’s slow; she refills stuff, helps with prep, folds napkins into swans, and makes great conversation with customers.”

Irene marvels as her daughter talks through a schedule that would optimise each of the strange and wonderful employees they had, and realises something with startling clarity.

Irene knew how the numbers worked. Leo knew how the food worked. Lola knew how the people worked.

----

“Sweetheart, it’s your second-last Prom, wouldn’t you rather go than spend the night at work with your parents?” Irene asked; Prom night was always a slow one, even for a Friday. Lola gives her mother a strange little smile, tapping her fingers against the counter.

“I’m gonna leave it up to chance,” she said, which confused her mother, who was refilling a napkin despenser.

“Leave what - oh, Candice; I know you worked hard as her campaign manager, but she’d want you there with her, win or lose,” Lola’s parents had been confused but supportive when Lola announced that not only their server, Candice, get nominated for Prom Queen, but that Lola was going to be her campaign manager, despite the fact that Prom Queen nominees didn’t usually have a campaign manager.

Candice, who was flourishing with her new shifts, curtesy of Lola’s scheduling, was more than happy to agree, and the two became fast friends. Lola herself was blossoming with the new task, staying up, excitedly making posters, and writing speeches, and hoarding the phone for hours every night to talk to Candice, and the new friends she seemed to be making. It wasn’t that she was unpopular, it’s just that she was standoffish, quiet, and focused, and took pride in her work, which happened to be at her parents’ diner.

Between the campaign, being in charge of the rosters for the diner, the general work she did around the diner, and her school work, Lola’s life was pretty full, and she was surprisingly happy.

Leo had overheard when Candice had approached Lola after her shift, had pointed out how Lola had scheduled her to work on the night of the Prom, and how Lola had sworn before profusely apologising. Lola had offered to cover the shift, and been quick to reassure Candice that it was okay, that she didn’t need Lola at Prom, that she’d do great and be wonderful and that all the hard work was done; now she just needed to look pretty and win. Candice had wrapped her up in a hug, overflowing with gratitude, assuring Lola that she’d owe her one, and in turn, Lola had brushed her off, saying it was nothing, apologising again for the scheduling mistake.

At the time, Leo’s heart had swelled with love for his daughter, proud of her for sticking to her commitments, and for being so kind and reassuring. On the night of the Prom, he sees Lola looking a little giddy, almost a little nervous, and thinks she might just be worried about Candice. Then, when the diner is at it’s quietest, there’s noise outside, and Lola almost shrieks, much to her parents’ dismay.

“They’re here!”

Through the windows, the little family, and the few other employees see a hoard of well-dressed teenagers, some where crowns and sashes, making their way past the window, lead by Candice in a crown, beaming.

There’s chatter, as the other teenagers realise where they are, saying they love this place, some a little tipsy making grateful noises as they divide themselves into groups and fill over half the diner in an instant. There’s a booth where everyone’s wearing crowns, and Candice leaves them, assures them she’d be back, before she bolts to Lola, who’s practically bouncing with excitement. The girls squeal about how Candice won, and she’s adamant she couldn’t have done it without Lola. Of course, Lola humbly brushes it off, babbles about how proud she is.

It ends up as one of the busiest night they’ve had in months.

Perhaps she’d just wanted to help a friend, maybe she’d worked in some way to bring the Prom to her when she ended up not being able to go; mostly her parents think it’s a fluke.

Until the next year.

Until, amid college applications, scholarship applications, work, and homework, Lola sets her sights on campaigning for their new cashier, Abigail, her classmate.

Until it’s her last Prom, and again Lola’s had to swap shifts with the girl she was campaigning for.

Until her parents hear it again.

“They’re here!”

It’s deja vu, with Abigail in a crown, so overjoyed, and grateful, bring with her even more than had been there when Candice had won.

“Didn’t we come here last year? Fuck, man, this place is the fuckin’ best, we should do this every year!” A boy in a white tuxedo announces to a resounding cheer, and yes, he seems a little bit drunk, but Irene and Leo have paused in their food prep to see Lola turn and look directly at them, upon hearing these words, grinning from ear to ear like it was her plan all along.

Oh.

“We may have raised a super villain,” Leo muses, though he can’t stop himself from sounding a little proud as Lola turns back around to head back out and take more orders from students clamouring for food.

----

“I feel like we should sit you down and talk to you about... something, but I’m not quite sure what,” Leo says, wiping down the tables well past midnight, while Lola was cleaning the windows that somehow had grease stains on them. Irene, from where she was organising the till, where they had received so much so quickly that half the bills had been stuffed in haphazardly, chooses this moment to pipe up.

“Using people is wrong, Keola; Abigail and Candice are your friends, you shouldn’t be using them just to make yourself popular,” she reprimands, to which Leo makes a stern noise of agreement. Lola, however, pauses, sitting on the table.

“Ma, if anything, they’re using me; I’m the reason they both won Prom Queen. I wanted to see if business management was something I’d want to do, and it turns out; yes, and I’m good at it. My two-year plan paid off,” she said simply.

“Two year plan?” Irene asked, baffled, and Lola, two months shy of eighteen, crossed her legs and beckoned her parents over.

It takes some explaining, from the fact that when she realised she might want to do business, that she might want to do business managing, and that she’d been thinking about how Leo had told her she could do work without anyone else realising that it was because of her if she wanted to. So she gave herself a challenge; work with the people she knew, to eventually help the business she cared about, the diner. Of course, this asks more questions than it answers.

So Lola explains that she’d switched Candice onto the shifts she works best in to keep her happy, and spent time getting to know her and being kind and building her confidence until she could casually bring up the idea of Prom, and how Candice would kick ass as Prom Queen, and that she had a shot at it, and that Candice would believe her and follow through, and more importantly, let Lola be her campaign manager. Lola knew how people worked, knew what certain people needed to hear, who to interact with to create the most wave, how to market an individual.

“Also, the scheduling thing wasn’t an accident; Candy and Abby love their jobs, and love this place - which is really a testament to both of you - and love me and the fact that I won them Prom Queen; if I tell them I can’t go to Prom and they win, even if I told them I don’t mind not being there, they’d still kind of feel guilty, and I figured they’d want to come and, I dunno, thank me and show off the crown. They love it here and love you guys, like I said, and it’s something to be proud of,” Lola shrugs, wrinkling her nose a little as she looks at her hands, “but, yanno, one night on it’s own doesn’t make a tradition, so I rinsed and repeated with Abby. Now two years in a row, the Prom Queen has come from here, and after the Prom they’ve come here and had incredible food; the people becoming Juniors and Seniors, the top contenders for Prom Court, remember coming here and having a great time after Prom two years in a row. I’m kind of working towards it being a tradition, it was my two year plan; turn one of the slowest Fridays of the year into one of the busiest.”

“While I’m very grateful you were thinking of us,” Leo says slowly, trying to process all the information he’d just received, “you shouldn’t manipulate your entire high school -”

“Twice,” Irene softly reminded him.

“ - twice, just to help the family business.” Leo had his head in his hands.

“No-one was hurt,” Lola added, “and, bonus, I know there’s already a few kind of superstitious Sophomores who will be coming in and asking for job applications soon,” she paused, “not that we need the help, but raises the diner’s profile a little, don’t you think?”

“You know the diner’s doing fine, we’re not struggling, sweetheart,” Irene still sounded like she couldn’t quite believe all of this.

“I know,” Lola’s voice was quiet, and finally her parents looked at her, saw her looking at her hands where she was fiddling, quiet and pensive.

“Then why, Lola?” Leo asked, finally, and she shrugged, a little helpless, as if she hadn’t spent the past two years carefully manipulating her friends, colleges, and peers, simply to increase business at the diner for two nights, one year apart, hoping it would become tradition going forward.

“I wanted to see if I could.”

Looking at their daughter, Irene and Leo see themselves in how she came to be like this; Leo’s got more love in his body than almost any other human, he’s personable and kind and hard working, while Irene’s smart, driven, and ruthlessly pragmatic. Their differences complimented each other, it’s why they worked so well together in all aspects of their life, and to see how well those traits worked within their daughter, they were certainly proud, but Irene quietly suspects that Leo may have been right.

If Lola didn’t become one of the best managers in her field, she’d end up a super villain... Irene’s actually kind of proud, and honestly, so’s Leo.

----

Going to college for Business Management seems like the most logical thing in the world for Lola to do next, and of course her parents would be happy to pay any costs associated, but it’s still nice to discover she’d received a scholarship, thanks to the glowing reports from several of her teachers, whose subjects she made sure to do well in as they would look good when applying specifically to be a business major.

Leo’s the one who drives with her and her things to her new college housing in New York, to her dorm, who meets her roommate and dorm mother, who hugs her for a full minute in the carpark before he leaves. They’re both pretending like they don’t have tears in their eyes.

Lola’s babbling away, reminding him about how he should start advertising the Prom-related discounts for the diner three weeks before the Prom itself, how he should have his employees who are students put up posters around the school, or at least he should put up posters around the school, and the places where teenagers hang out. She’s reminding him which of their employees work best in different circumstances, and why Belinda can’t work with Judas for more than two hours and -

She’s crying, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hands as she talks, until Leo takes her shoulders firmly, and her voice dies in her throat as she comes back to reality.

“You’re going to be amazing,” he says softly, tears shining in his eyes. Lola’s lip quivers at this, and she surges forwards, wrapping him in another hug as she cries.

“You’re going to be amazing, we’re always just a phone call away, my sweet girl, but I know you’re going to take the world by storm,” Leo mutters into her hair, holding her tightly.

“Be good. Be kind. I love you,” he tells her as they finally step back from each other, and Lola wipes at her eyes again, quiet this time, nodding adamantly, before telling him she loves him too, that she’s so grateful for him, that -

“Come on, dude,” Leo says softly, with a gentle smile, “be cool.” And hearing the words that, for so long, had come to mean ‘I love you, I feel the same, but you need to be strong’, since Lola had first said it back when they’d first seen KISS together, has Lola laughing with fond adoration.

None of the other Freshman moving in, saying goodbye to their parents, appear to be half as emotional as she was, but honestly, she didn’t really care.

----

“Hey, question;” Lola’s voice is hesitant over the phone when Irene picks up one quiet evening in the diner at the end of Spring, at the end of Lola’s second year of college, “would you or dad know how to get in contact with that guy who manages KISS? The old regular? Bill?”

“Why?” Irene asked slowly, a little concerned given how much she and Leo had omitted when they talked about him to Lola when she was younger.

“I wanted to see if he needed an intern for the summer.”

It makes sense, but the prospect still makes Irene nervous.

----

“Leo I’m home~” Bill practically sings as he throws the door open to the diner on a bustling Monday afternoon. The server at the door skitters back in the face of his enthusiasm, and as a few mean-looking individuals slink into the diner behind him. Through them all, however, is Lola, who doesn’t even announce her presence, just slips past Bill, darting through the diner and through the kitchen, so by the time Leo’s looks their way, he’s already being bowled over with a hug. 

It was a surprise, and Leo’s yelling he’s so excited. KISS is halfway through their tour, playing Providence the following two nights, but Lola and Bill had dragged the band along to surprise Leo while they were close. 

Leo’s babbling away as Lola ties up her hair without even having to ask, stepping up beside him and falling into the routine of helping him prepare food. Bill and the band have taken up residence in a booth, chattering amongst themselves, while Lola and her father work and catch up. 

“Wait, Lola, sweetie, go sit, go sit,” Leo insisted, catching himself before he lost sight of the whole situation, “I’m not paying you, go sit with the band; you’re customer -”

“Dad -” Lola tried to protest, but Leo was adamant, nudging her out of the kitchen with determination. As they pass the counter, Leo grabs a note book, and gives the confused server a kind smile, following Lola to the band.

“Vito, what do you recco...” Ace asks glancing up from the menu, but he trails off, seeing her father practically shadowing her.

“You guys remember Leo, right?” Bill looked like he was trying not to laugh as he shoved Peter further into the booth to make room for Lola. The others were all, for what seemed like the first moment on tour, silent. Then, Gene speaks.

“If you’re sick of our fuckin’ shit, Bill, murder us yourself, like a real man,” he says, voice gruff, and Lola has to fight not to smile in the face of her father’s bemusement.

“No-one’s getting murdered; Leo’s has the best food this side of the country, right, Vito?” Bill asks easily, looking to her, and she can feel her father’s questioning gaze on her too, so she looks to the others, smile blinding.

“I know I might seem biased, but I swear I’m not,” she fans her fingers out on the table, leaning forward, eyes shining with sudden enthusiasm, “I know you guys have a weird history with my dad, I wouldn’t bring you here if it wasn’t worth it.” She assures, and slowly but surely, the others look at the menu; her dad’s still watching her carefully, even as she’s sitting back, confidently telling the others that whatever they order would be good. 

“Was it you or ‘rene who loved The Godfather?” Bill pipes up, addressing Leo, and Lola, in her seat, goes still. 

“It’s ‘rene’s favourite movie,” Leo says with a slowly forming smile, as Lola chances a look up at him. When she sees the amused, even proud look in his eyes, she gives a small smile back.

“Is mom around?” Lola asks, gaze quickly darting to the counter and the kitchen, and then to the nondescript door that led to the second floor where she her family had lived all her life. 

“At the grocery store, we ran out of whipping cream,” Leo explains, smile growing wider as he lets himself bask in the moment, “menu hasn’t changed much in the last few months, what are you hungry for, Vito?”

Of course Lola’s right about the food, of course, and the band chatters amongst themselves, and to Leo easily enough, though when Irene gets back, for all that she’s thrilled to see her daughter, she’s less than thrilled to see KISS being obnoxious in one of her booths.

Pulling Lola aside, she speaks quietly, glad to see her, demanding to know if the band treats her with respect, scowling when Lola casually rolls her eyes and says the band doesn’t treat anything with respect.

“But I still live by what you said the first time I saw them,” she added, and Irene frowned, “don’t let ‘em touch me, don’t shake their hands.” And Irene gives a faint smile at that. After a moment, Leo’s warm, booming laughter fills the restaurant, and both women turn to see him throwing his head back, eyes creasing in the corner as the rest of the band seem pleased to have made him laugh.

“They’re gonna give you and dad all access passes to their Wednesday show,” Lola says softly, watching the band, watching her dad sit in the seat she’d vacated.

“Oh, that’s so nice, but you didn’t have to -”

“I didn’t ask them to,” Lola tells her frankly, “they’ve been acting like my dad is some violent asshole whenever I bring him up because he was super protective when they met him the first time, even though they know I love him, so I brought them here, and knew dad was too kind of a person, and too good of a chef, to not win them over. They also definitely didn’t believe me when I said how good his food was, even when Bill backed me up. They’re not exactly introspective people, so when they offer the tickets, they won’t realise it’s because they feel guilty for making me upset whenever I bring up dad, but still, they’re trying to make up for it without realising what they’re doing; they think they’re just being kind to a new friend and a cool dude, without thinking about why giving these tickets feels better than it usually does. Friends are made, you guys get cool tickets, everybody wins,” Lola’s still watching the band joke around with her dad and Bill, and she lets herself smile a little, even as her mother is quietly watching her. 

“They aren’t my friends this time, mom, this is business, and if they didn’t want to feel guilty for shittalking a good man, then they shouldn’t have shittalked a good man,” and though her mother says her name with a faintly disapproving tone, Lola’s lips thinned with annoyance, “if you disapproved of me doing this shit, you wouldn’t have told Bill about the Prom scheme I pulled in high school.”

Then Irene says her name again, like an apology, like regret, like she was aware of her betrayal. 

“On the plus side,” Lola took a deep breath, grinning and finally looking to her mother, “I’ve already kind of got a reputation; Bill called me Vito the first day I came in, which is how I figured out you’d told him, and someone misheard and thought it was my name. It stuck.”

“They’re calling you Vito?” Her mother said softly, earlier disapproval vanishing with soft glee, “for the record, I said that while I don’t condone some of what you did, I admired your tenacity, perseverance, and finely tuned social awareness.” Okay, that made sense, and something warmed in Lola’s heart hearing that.

“Well thanks to that, I think they’re implying that I’m The Godfather,” Lola snorts, looking back at the table, “well, Bill was, the others don’t actually believe it, but they still use the nickname.”

“You don’t want them to know that that’s... your goal, do you?” Irene said, wrapping an arm around Lola’s shoulders. Lola rests her head against her mother’s. 

“I’ll only use my powers for good... usually.” 

“I know, sweet girl, you’ve got a good heart.” 

----

“I’ve got my own desk! I’ve got my own office!” Lola’s all but squealing over the phone to her parents, explaining about how she’d been offered a job with Bill’s company as a PR consultant while she insisted on staying in New York and finishing her degree. 

She’s living with her music-producer boyfriend, spending every other weekend at industry events, spending nights in dingy bars that boasted live music as if she were scouting talent, attempting to study during the day while putting out various bands’ fires from afar. 

“That’s wonderful, Lola,” her dad gives a contented little sigh where he and Irene are pressed together, both trying to listen to her speak.

“You’re still studying hard though, aren’t you? I’m glad you’re doing well but you know you’d regret it if you didn’t finish your course so close to the end,” Irene pointed out, and Lola assures her that she’s still going ahead strong, that the company gives her half-days when she has lectures to attend, and she sounds... fulfilled. 

They’re still calling her Vito; she’s garnered herself something of a reputation in the months leading up to her graduation, and anticipated full-time employment with the company. People from all sides are urging her to move out to LA, but she’s refusing to budge until she graduates, and for that her parents are proud. 

Back home, there’s been a strange influx of out-of-town patrons to the diner, music fans, or bands, or part of the industry, usually New York based, saying that Lola had recommended this place, if they were ever in the area. It was heart-warming to think she still thought of her parents so often that she’d still go about recommending their diner. They don’t think much beyond it; she’d been true to her word and only seemed to be using her way with people in professional matters. 

But still, it was jarring hearing ‘the Godfather sent me’ when chatting with customers, even moreso to know they meant Lola every time.

----

“One of Bill’s friends in LA called me up about a job,” Lola’s fretting in her parent’s diner for the first time in a long time. A year out of college, she’s been on the road essentially since graduation, working as an assistant manager, for Bill for some time, then for Kenny Laguna with Joan Jett & The Blackhearts, and a few smaller bands around New York as a manager in her own right, though by virtue of her role as an assistant, she’d been working with everyone in the industry that he usually had dealings with, setting up meetings, organising schedules for the band, setting everything up so all her bosses had to do was sign off and only worry about the bands themselves. 

Lola had her fair share of flings in that time, but it was hard when she was always travelling, and even with the people who she seemed somewhat serious about, she never brought them home to meet her family. Her parents tried to reason that she was just young, that if she wanted to find love, she’d find it in time, but thankfully she seemed more concerned with her career than ever dwelling on heartbreak.

“That’s exciting; would we know the band?” Irene asked, printing off a receipt for a customer and wishing them a good day. The customer smiled back, and went on their way, and Irene joined her daughter, stealing one of Lola’s fries.

“Not really, they’re a little metal, kinda punk band, Motley Crue, but Doc - that’s Bill’s friend - he thinks they have potential, and he thinks I’d be the right person to help him, and help them.”

“As an assistant?” Irene asked, frown creasing her brow, and Lola makes a face.

“As co-manager,” she said, clearly in two minds about the situation. 

“Co-manager?” Her mother prompted, and Lola wrinkled her nose for a moment, taking a sip of her drink.

“I’ve been on tour, all over America, right? But I’ve never...” she hesitates, “actually ever lived more than two hours away from you guys.” Lola fidgeted, “which I know is a dumb reason to not move, I’m an adult, and everyone’s pushing me to move to LA, so even if it falls through I’ll probably still get work, but -”

“Sweet girl, you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with, you don’t have to explain yourself, not to me, not to anyone,” her mother says, reaching out to rest a hand on Lola’s cheek. For just a moment, Lola leans into her mother’s hand, taking the familiar comfort and basking in it, letting out a gentle sigh.

“They’re flying me out in two days to meet the band, and I can decide where to go from there,” she says softly, and Irene gives her a fond pet, assuring her that nothing is set in stone.

----

“Do you remember when I did that thing in high school, that whole thing with those girls, Abigail and... Candice? I think? How I managed them and got them voted Prom Queen?”

“Lola I love you with my whole heart, but sweet girl, you had a whole supervillain monologue prepared that night, so yes, I remember,” Leo says to his daughter, the two of them in the kitchen of the diner the night before Lola’s set to leave for LA. They’ve closed up for the night, and Irene went upstairs to their little home above the diner to relax for the night while Lola stayed, and Leo refilled the salt shakers. The corner of Lola’s lips quirk into a faint smile where she’s leaning her hip against the counter a few feet away.

“I still can’t believe no-one caught on; only you and mom had any idea, or even still know,” Lola admitted with a faint laugh, and Leo assures her that he’ll take that secret to his grave, his tone amused at how he was overstating the importance of the secret. Lola considers for a moment, shifting her weight on her feet before asking, “do you remember, even before that, saying about how I understood people the way you understood flavours, the way mom understood numbers?”

“Vaguely,” Leo’s voice was concentrated as he reflected on his daughter’s teen years in the diner. Lola made a faint hum at that.

“Do you think there’s ever going to be anyone other than you and mom who understands me?”

It hits Leo like a truck, the tone, the rawness to her voice, the way so much had suddenly clicked into place with understanding. 

Lola was who she was because she was listened to, because Leo and Irene had worked to make sure she felt understood, showing by example as they befriended their customers, the people around them too, to build a kind, family atmosphere in their business too. So too did Lola, going through life listening to people, getting to know them, understanding them, understanding more and more as she went that while people loved feeling understood, feeling seen, they very rarely put in the effort to understand others in such a way, even people who were putting the effort into them. 

“Oh Keola,” Leo’s voice comes out an apologetic breath as he puts down the salt shaker he’d been working with, and at that, he can see the tears spring up in Lola’s eyes. Without hesitation, he’s crossing to her, wrapping her up in a firm hug, “you will find someone who sees you, Keola, who understands you, and maybe they won’t understand the world as well as you do, but it won’t matter, because they’ll understand you.”

Lola, who’s hugging him back tightly, fingers digging into him as she’s shaking, crying, scared to leave, scared to be truly on her own. It’s breaking Leo’s heart to see her like this, to not know what to say or how to comfort her in the right way, so he holds his daughter close, and reassures her, and she gives a quiet thanks, muffled against his shirt.

----

“They live like horrible, little, drunk rats and I hate them,” Lola tells her mother flatly over the phone from the hotel Doc McGhee’s company had put her up in for the week. 

Doc she liked well enough, she’d been to events with him, gotten to know him, and spoken extensively to him after he’d called her to ask if she’d co-manage Motley Crue with him; he’d called her up because the band had talent and potential, but he could see that if they weren’t managed properly, they would end up as their own worst enemy, with the whole world loathing them. Some controversy was healthy, but it felt as though this band could be capable of worse. 

He’d called asking for Vito, for the Godfather specifically, and despite Lola’s apparent lack of experience in the industry, he knew what he was doing when he called her. 

The day after she’d flown out, she’d had a meeting with Doc before he’d brought the band in. She’d worn all black, well fitted and perfectly tailored suit, with black shirt to match, hair perfectly straight and makeup dark but clean. She’d looked the part, had stood beside Doc as the band was brought in, her hands clasped behind her back, not sure what she was expecting to see. The band had been dressed down for the most-part, all in varying dark colours, all denim and hints of leather, and boots that made them a little too tall for her liking. She’d held out her hand across the desk, expression stony, and as they’d all shook her hands, they’d looked her over, and while some were leering, one, who looked to be the oldest of the group, Mick, seemed unimpressed. 

“That’s a child,” he had said, and Lola had blinked slowly at him, allowing Doc to make the introductions.

“That is Vito Fields;” Doc corrects, tone firm, and Mick, upon hearing this, looks to her very suddenly. Lola raises a single eyebrow at him as Doc keeps talking, “she’s worked with KISS and Joan Jett; anyone in this industry who knows of Vito knows you want her in your corner, you boys are lucky she’s considering working with you.”

“She seems like a bitch,” the one in the middle, Nikki, pipes up, his pupils wide and shiny, a dead giveaway that he’s high, and he’s smirking at her like he’s waiting for a reaction.

“I am a bitch,” Lola tells him flatly, looking him dead in the eyes, while the younger two on his other side, one dark haired, Tommy, and one blonde, Vince, startled by her response, break out into giggles. 

“You’re Magic Touch Vito?” Mick asks, voice having taken on a strange quality she couldn’t quite identify, though her lips quirk into the barest smile, even as the other three clutch at each other, trying to muffle their laughs at their own dirty-minded implications.

“The very same,” Lola gave a slight nod, and suddenly, there was something impressed in Mick’s eyes. After touring with them, KISS had kindly written a song entitled Magic Touch, about Lola, which as the line ‘she's got the magic touch / oh no, but it ain't what it seems’ implied, wasn’t sexual in nature. In actual fact, it was about how they hadn’t realised how much she’d worked to make their lives run smoothly, to keep them from any serious controversy, how they’d seemingly worked more cohesively and agreeably when she had been around, until she was gone. When asked who it was about, the band would always answer ‘the chick from our management team last tour, Vito’.

They don’t quite know what to make of her, think she’s too uptight, too serious, and they invite her to their gig the following night, in an attempt to see if she could loosen up, fit in, and Lola accepts easily, knowing she has Mick on her side, and that the other three should be easy enough to win over, if what she knows of them is correct.

So she dresses up for the show, clothes tight and dark and revealing, boots high and hair higher, makeup dark and smoky and eye catching; if nothing else, she looks the part. She sits by the bar, nurses a single beer all night, and at least Doc wasn’t kidding about their talent; small miracles, she supposes. They’re loud and energetic and everything about rock and roll that she has come to love, but once the gig is over, they’re messy, spilling off the stage after their gear is packed up, easily distracted by pretty girls and promises of booze. Mick is the first to the bar, and seems surprised to see her dressed the way she is, fitting in so easily, and she gives him a smile, a nod, a raised glass of appreciation, before someone stumbles from the crowd and almost runs straight into her, bracing themselves on the bar either side of her, sweaty and panting and grinning and babbling apologies - Tommy, if her memory serves her well. 

“Hey, Doc was right, you guys play well,” she tells him amicably, tone much sweeter and more animated than he’d heard yesterday, so it takes him a few moments to place where he knows her from before it dawns on him. And he’s drunk and tactile, his hands on her arms, her thighs, her face, as if making sure she was real, and she was the same girl from yesterday.

“Vito?” Tommy asks, still only inches from her where he’d almost bowled into her. Lola, seemingly unphased by the proximity, smile and confirms as much, her hand coming to rest on his where he was braced against her thigh, gentle contact, nothing more. 

And he’s telling her she’d gotta come back to the after party, at the Motley House as he called it, and he turned, wanting to call the others over, still with his hand on her thigh, but they’re lost in their own various states of debauchery. Lola buys him a few shots for good measure, which he’s grateful for, and lets him loop his arm around her shoulders as they head back to the Motley House with the crowd. 

Another pretty girl, however, calls Tommy away with promises Lola definitely won’t make, so he goes, and Lola follows the crowd back to the house with the door nailed shut. Her fishnets catch on something as she’s climbing through the window and they rip, and a guy hoots appreciate from inside the house, but she’s not bothered by him as much as she is by the house itself as she takes in the scene. 

“No shame in admitting you can’t hack it,” a voice in her ear mutters, accompanied by a hand on her hip, and for a moment Lola’s composure breaks as she’s startled, turning sharply to see Nikki Sixx, standing over her in his platform boots and stupidly tall hair, wearing a grin that’s all teeth. Lola doesn’t know enough about Nikki to read him, to understand him, apart from the fact that she recognises that he’d putting up something of a front, and had been both times he’d spoken to her. 

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” tone cool as she finds herself quoting Star Wars with a smirk, she looks Nikki in the eyes, and is glad to see the momentary flicker of confusion as she refuses to back down despite his goading. Then, she looks over her shoulder, “you live like rats, but that’s not necessarily a complaint since it fits with your brand.” And he doesn’t seem to know if that’s a compliment or an insult, but he’s left bemused by the encounter, as Lola heads through to the kitchen, avoiding making eye contact with Vince who’s getting head from a groupie on the counter, as she takes a beer from their fridge and goes to mill about in the main room. 

Lola’s never been much of a drinker; Irene’s been sober since she was pregnant with Lola, and Leo only ever drank socially outside of work, and he didn’t exactly have a lot of social encounters outside of work to begin with. Lola herself was never particularly discouraged from drinking as long as she took care of herself, and sure she had some wild nights in college, but despite her field of work, she preferred to keep drinking to a minimum. Drinking dulled her senses, and she didn’t want the people she was working with to see her as anything less than what she wanted to show them. 

She’d be the first to admit that she had issues with control, both of herself and other people, but it was yet to detrimentally effect her life, or the people around her, so she found it to be more of a strength than a flaw, at least for now. 

All through the night she found herself talking to fans and groupies, talking up the band, the boys, putting on a bubbly persona, perhaps overplaying her own inebriation after only two drinks, giggling and making a spot for herself amongst their groupies. She declined the drugs as they were passed around, keeping her mind clear as she was able, while not being a buzzkill, pouting and making up excuses about a drug test at her work the next morning, how she’d only just gotten the coke out of her system and she couldn’t fail another one - 

Everyone was so understanding of her fake sob story, she almost misses Mick, sitting a few feet away on the arm of the sofa, laughing to himself, watching her. 

“You’re good, girlie, you’re good,” he gives her when she approaches, and Lola raises an eyebrow at him, still smiling, “you planning on outright fuckin’ our frontman, or you gonna tease him like you did the drummer?”

“If I have to fuck him, I’ll fuck him,” Lola shrugs with a smirk, joining him and looking out at the gathered crowd, “but I don’t think it’ll come to that.”

So the next day when she calls her mother, tells her mother that the band lives like rats and that she hates them, she immediately follows it up with ‘but I think I’m going to stay’.

----

Be sweet to Tommy. Be honest with Mick. Keep Vince’s revolving door of girlfriends from seeing him hook up with groupies. That’s the trick to keeping three quarters of the band happy. 

Nikki changes from moment to moment it seems. He’s a hard worker musically, but a loose canon in the rest of his life, and he never seems to be sure of what to make of Lola, so she can never be sure of what to make of him.

She still lives loosely by her mother’s suggestion, to never let them touch her, which means she’s never done anything more than let the three younger ones cop a feel occasionally, or kiss them on the cheek, but she’s never let them get further than that, she doesn’t need to. She’s kind to them, good to them, she compliments their music and their work ethic when they’re working particularly hard. She remembers the names of the hookers they like when Zutaut brings them in, and she gets on well with the rest of their team. Their scandals are kept out of the papers, and when they release Too Fast For Love there’s buzz in the industry from the moment it drops. 

“I know a guy,” is all Lola says when they ask, when in reality she spends nights that she’s not with the band going to VIP events for music executives, rubbing elbows and kissing ass and casually talking up the band within earshot of the bigwigs. Her free time in the day is spent reading tabloids and listening to the bands being managed by the people she meets, and making friends with club owners up and down The Strip who she’d met before, through KISS or Joan Jett.

“Sweet baby Vito,” Doug Weston kissed Lola on both cheeks as she walked through the doors of the Troubadour one sunny afternoon, the day the band was set to perform, “it’s been too long; have you gotten taller?” Doug smiles from ear to ear, holding her shoulders and looking her over as the band, behind her, seems bemused, “how are my boys, Bill and Kenny? You hear from them much anymore?”

“Dad tells me Bill is good -” Lola assures with a smile, before looking over her shoulder, “boys if you wanna start setting up you can go ahead, right Doug?” She grins at the club owner, who nods, gesturing to the stage for Motley and their roadie to go ahead as he takes Lola and leads her to the bar. 

Lola seems to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the bands who have come through the Troubadour before they’d made it big, praising Doug on his foresight, assuring him that Motley would be one of the names on that list he helped grow in popularity. He asks her how she knows so much, how she remembers so well; simply put, Lola tells him it’s her job. 

For a moment, Doug is quiet, looking at her, his eyes searching her face for any hint of insincerity or doubt, and upon finding none, he gives a strange little smile. 

“You know what they say about me, little Vito, don’t you?” 

Lola hesitates, because of course she knows, and him so pointedly using her nickname only makes clearer his meaning.

“You’re essentially the Godfather around here, Doug, I know that, I wasn’t trying to -”

“You’re putting the work in; I’ve heard your name time and again now from my friends and colleagues, you’re working with one band but the whole Strip knows you, kiddo,” he’s giving her a fond, perhaps even impressed look, “little Vito, you’re so young, but I can already see you growing into your title.” 

And pride swells in Lola’s chest as she hears this. 

A week later, a tabloid article will be released with an article on Motley Crue’s quick rise in sucess, with a quote from Doug himself.

“How could I say no to having them play here? Those boys have got more talent in one hand than any do in their whole bodies, not to mention they’ve got Doc and The Godfather behind them; mark my words there’s success on their horizon.” 

“Lola!” Leo had shouted excitedly through the phone the moment she’d picked up, and Lola had laughed nervously, unsure of the exactly reason for his call. Leo had babbled about seeing the article, how he’d pinned it up on the wall of the diner, right next to the photos of KISS, and Joan Jett that had been taken when they’d visited. He goes on in delight about how he and Irene were so proud; Lola couldn’t help but tear up. 

“Doug Weston called you The Godfather, Lola!” 

“I know, dad,” Lola had laughed a little, and Leo had whistled through his teeth, low and proud.

“What did I tell you, kiddo, already taking the world by storm.”

----

“You know how I was... I was like having trouble with Nikki? Like I could figure him out?” Lola brings up over the phone to her father, a few month into being in LA.

“Nikki’s the asshole one?”

“The asshole one, the one you’d like,” Lola clarifies and confirms, and Leo makes an understanding noise in the back of his throat, “I think... I think I’ve figured him out, I think I got him.”

“How so?”

“He, um,” Lola hesitates for a moment, shifting a little where she was sitting on her bed, “he’s actually kind of like me, which I think tripped me up, not like, as refined or anything, or as invested in people, but,” she can’t help but softly smile, “he just wants to be seen, you know, as a musician, as himself, except that things have been shitty for him so he’s actually scared to feel seen, you know?”

“So are you going to make him feel seen, or would that scare him?” Leo asks, and Lola tells him that she’s going to be careful, like she’s always been.

She’s already started; a few days before, she’d turned up to the studio only for a beleaguered assistant to nervously warn her that Nikki had been in there all night, drinking, snorting, and writing music frantically.

“Sixx?” Her voice had been quiet, and he’d looked up with wild, tired eyes, levelling a pen at her through the glass into the sound booth where she’d entered.

“You!” 

“Me?” She gave a slight smile, despite how there was paper and broken glass everywhere, and one of his hands was bleeding. 

“You!” He’d reiterated with a scowl, though Lola kept her approach slow, opening the door to the recording studio, carefully picking her way over to him, while he continued to point at her. 

“What are you writing?” She asks carefully, and finally he looks down, to the page with it’s bloody fingerprints, and messy scribblings. 

“What do you want from me?” He asked, and she’s wondering if he’s talking to the page before he looks back at her, confused and hostile as he regards her. Lola’s expression falls.

“Right now? I want you to come to the bathroom so I can clean you up and get you some medical attention -”

“You want something you always want something, you know too much about everyone we meet, everywhere we play, every photographer who shoots us, every writer who writes about us, every interviewer we speak to,” he sounds half-mad, but Lola’s blood has run cold, “it’s like the more you know about everyone, about us, you can predict us, can plan for if we go rogue, how you can lasso us back in line like we’re your cattle; you’re The Godfather but you never explained to us what that means.”

Lola swallows hard, steeling herself for a moment before she looks Nikki in the eyes.

“What do you want from music?” She’s dropped the kindly voice, “you understand it, you understand how to make it sound good, how to make something people will like and want to listen to, and you know what to do to keep it from being a disaster because you know the note before, and what notes should go after,” she explained, and in the face of her cool composure, Nikki’s hostility was actually... disappearing. “To me, people are their own kind of music when organised well enough, when I know where they’ve been, so I know how to keep them out of disaster, which topics not to talk about, to know what’s worked to bring things to their attention in the past, so I can use those for you guys in the future.” 

Nikki is quiet, looking up at where she’s standing over him, and then at the paper in his hands. 

“You’re organising us to... to what?”

“To optimise productivity,” Lola said bluntly, “which is hard, considering who you all are, but I’m glad Doc called me in. I feed your egos in the way you all respond to best, and keep you all from self destructing, and I pull you assholes from the gutter, and you get a successful album. I’m not hurting anyone, it’s my job to make you successful.”

She’s got her hands behind her back to hide how they’re shaking; she’s never been so bluntly honest with anyone since she’d explained her Prom Plan to her parents years ago. 

“You won’t remember this,” she tells him, and he looks sharply at her, though she’s saying it more for her own peace of mind than for him. She offers her hand to him, and he quietly takes it, lets her take him to the bathroom and clean him up. She calls the Motley House, and Mick, and Doc, and lets them know that Nikki wouldn’t be in today, and she takes him back to her little apartment a few blocks from the Strip.

“This is tiny,” Nikki comments, his first since Lola’s monologue about her true intentions.

“I’m frugal,” Lola responded, flatly, showing him through to her bathroom, advising him to shower or bathe, though he made a face at that.

“Why am I here?”

“Because I have actual toilet paper and I didn’t want your hands to contract sepsis,” she responds with irritation, but soon enough, as she’s reading through the stack of tabloids that she has delivered daily, she hears the shower being turned on. 

After an hour, she realises something may be wrong, as she hasn’t heard him moving about in there for a while, and when she knocks there’s no answer, and cracking the door reveals that he’s fallen asleep sitting at the bottom of her shower. Sighing deeply, Lola turns off the water, tries to wake him, and gets a sleepy, groaned response, which at the very least means she doesn’t need to call a paramedic. So she dries him off, and wraps him up in her bathrobe, and deposits him in her bed, while she listens to the radio and takes notes while reading the tabloids. 

“Vito?” Nikki’s bleary voice greets her around sunset, and Lola, who’d been painting her nails and humming along to a cassette of the latest Queen album, looks up sharply at him. When their gazes meet, he regards her curiously before yawning, “I remember, you know?”

“Remember what?”

“What you said, how you use people because they’re like music,” he says, and grimaces when he tries to use his hands, only to see they’re bandaged. When he asks for a drink, Lola has to tell him she has nothing in the apartment, and he calls her a bitch under his breath, but that was to be expected.

“I don’t use people for fun, I... I...”

“There’s no sweet way to say it, is there?” He sits up with a groan, though he still manages to smirk, and Lola’s expression sours.

“Are you mad at me for manipulating people in the industry to make Motley Crue successful?” Her lip curled, tone derisive as an insult sat on the tip of her tongue, but Nikki paused.

“Are you trying to manipulate me by saying that?”

“What? No!” Lola had insisted, “everyone else thinks I’m the version of me that I want them to know, okay? But you... you’re the only motherfucker who knows I’m all of them at once, and also, well, none of them,” she admitted after a moment.

“Well how does me knowing that help you?”

“It doesn’t, okay?! I can’t figure you out, Nikki, I don’t know how the fuck to -”

“How the fuck to control me,” Nikki said, seemingly proud of that achievement.

“I don’t control you dumbasses, I keep you out of jail; if I wanted to control you, I’d try keeping you from hookers and drugs and falling asleep in gutters, I’d make you presentable for a mass-market audience, but none of you want that, so I’m trying to keep you alive and keep you productive while still being yourselves, get it?”

“You really want Motley to do well?” Nikki asks, tentatively, surprising Lola, who had her head in her hands.

“You fuckin’ dickbags have so much talent and absolutely no ability to function as human beings. Yes I want you to do well, I know you can, and I know you will, but dude, if you all go out in a firey ball of carnage, they’re not gonna blame you guys, because you’re the talent, live fast die young is what talent does, and they’re not gonna blame Doc,” her voice catches in her throat, and Nikki realises she’s on the verge of tears, “they’re gonna blame the twenty-three year old girl who everyone in the industry knows, and is calling The Godfather, who has a reputation despite only doing this shit for a few years -” 

“Vito -”

“My name’s Lola!” She’d snapped, and Nikki had gone quiet. “You’re a talented musician, Nikki,” her voice had gone soft, and she gently thumped her forehead on the table, “you’re all talented men, I’m just doing the only thing I can do to get you the success you deserve, okay? I made a promise to never manipulate people for evil, and I don’t break my promises.” 

After a long silence, Nikki finally spoke up, saying her name, her real name.

“Lola, thanks for taking care of me.”

----

“So this is Motley Crue,” Leo says the day Lola walks into the diner with the band and Doc, and Leo’s trying to reign in his instinct to be excited and proud and loud, trying to act discerning from behind the counter... Right as their Too Fast For Love album begins playing over the jukebox. The band seems confused, Lola hangs her head, and Leo’s lips immediately twist into an overjoyed grin, “that wasn’t planned but I love it!” He delights, and goes over to greet the band, giving each member a hearty handshake, managing to name each and every single one of them before they introduce themselves, which only serves to mortify Lola.

“You talk about us?” Tommy teases, while Lola’s standing by her father, face bright red. 

“Drummer Boy, you’re killing me,” Lola groans, but takes her seat beside Nikki, and he throws an arm around her.

“Don’t worry, Leo, we’re taking care of her,” and he gives Lola’s shoulder a squeeze. 

The thing is, Leo knows he can believe Nikki, knows because after a year, Lola’s told her parents practically everything about the band, every terrible, sordid detail, but also about their talent, and how they can be good people when they want to be. Leo and Irene have hear the change in the way Lola spoke about the band, heard Lola marvel at the way the band seemed to grow more protective of her after her breakdown in front of Nikki, how they defend her when they’re in their right mind, and at least attempt to listen to her some of the time. They’re still themselves, still far from perfect, but it’s become a known fact that The Godfather had the might of Motley Crue behind her now. 

Mick and Leo got along well, of course Leo got along with all the band well, but he and Mick’s taste in music aligned, and there was a certain wisdom to the pair of them that eluded the others. 

And when Lola hands tickets to the band’s show the following night to her mother, she assured her that it wasn’t their idea, it was all Lola’s. Irene wraps her in a tight hug, pride in her eyes, before she looks over at the band, louging in a booth like they own it while the diner was meant to have closed twenty minutes ago, and Leo’s still talking to them. It’s empty apart from the band, and Lola’s about to start washing up so her dad can keep getting to know the band, but her mother speaks quietly.

“They’re good boys,” she muses, and Lola snorts.

“They’re garbage boys, ma, pretty terrible, you know they fucked an eggroll so their girlfriends couldn’t tell they slept with other girls?”

“Oh I know they’re terrible - eggroll, really? -” Irene made a momentarily horrified face as Lola confirmed, but as a shiver of disgust passed down Irene’s spine, she continued, “but they’re good to you.”

And looking at them, Lola sees the band and Doc smiling and laughing and chatting with her dad, picking at the crumbs they had left of the food they’d been served, and for a moment, Nikki looks over and catches her gaze. He raises an eyebrow at her, a silent question; Lola gives the barest nod back, and he turns back to the conversation. 

“They’re pretty good to me when they want to be,” Lola agreed.

----

“Lo, we wanted to run this past you first,” immediately hearing these words from her father, Lola’s stomach drops, “but you remember your Aunt Malia who lives back in Hawaii, right?” And as Lola confirmed as much, Leo went on, “her youngest, Kai, is going to come and live at the diner; he’s about your age and Malia says he’s wanted to be a chef for a long time. I thought he could come work with us, or maybe stay here if he wanted to study in the states.”

“Why do you need to run it past me?” Lola asked, voice quiet, though her heart eased considerably; the news had been much less dire than she had been anticipating. 

“He’s going to be sleeping in your old room is all, I know you’ve moved everything out, but I didn’t want you to be surprised if you dropped in; when you stop by, we’ve converted the old study into a spare bedroom.”

“Okay,” Lola wasn’t quite sure why the news hurt so much, but it did, though she tried not to let her father hear as much, “as long as he does a good job, that’s all we can ask for, right?” And Leo seemed happy to hear as much.

But it had sent Lola spiralling; all her life she’d thought she’d end up running the diner when she got old enough, but now she was getting to be old enough, and living a completely different life.

“Would it make you happy?” When had coming to Nikki Sixx for life advice become a real option? They’re sitting in a round booth at a bar, both dressed casually, sitting side by side, probably closer than was necessary, though Lola liked the contact.

“Yes,” she admitted, “if I went home and ran the diner with mom and dad for the rest of my life, I’d honestly be happy.” She admitted.

“And us, the industry, everything you’ve been working for, you’d give it all up for them?” He asked, and Lola picked at the label on her beer bottle, stomach twisting with guilt.

“If they asked,” came her answer.

“Did they ask?”

Lola swallows hard, and realises with startling clarity that Nikki knows where her train of thought is headed. 

“Does the life you have here make you happy?” He asks, tone demanding an honest answer, and Lola nods once, before his final question hits her squarely in the chest; “would they want you to give up this happiness you’ve built, the experiences you’re still yet to have, for them?”

He understands her. 

“And if I asked, would you stay here and manage us?” 

“What?” Lola’s voice came out soft and surprised as she looked to Nikki, her eyes wide, and a little misty with all the emotions and thoughts blurring together in her mind. 

“If I get any sort of say or vote in this, I’d like to keep The Godfather on my team,” he muses, grin getting a little wider, tone a little more honest, “‘d like to keep you around, Lola.”

----

Kai vaults the counter the first time Lola walks into the diner after he arrives. It’s been a few months, Lola’s been overseas with the band, but she’s back, and had wanted to stop in home to see how he was going. They’d spoken often; he’s as kind and outgoing as her father, and seems just as enthusiastic about food, which is good. At first there had been jealousy, that he was there, while she couldn’t be, but her parents always assured her there was a place for her if she wanted it, if she wanted to come back.

But Nikki had been right, they wanted her to see the world, so long as she knew they’d always be there for her to come home to. 

But it’s Summer, Saturday afternoon, and Kai looks up as the bell rings, spots Lola, and drops the napkin dispenser he’d been refilling, vaulting the counter to sweep her off her feet in a hug. He’s chattering away about how good it is to meet her, how people keep saying the Godfather sent them and how it’s weird knowing they mean her, about how a few more bands had come through, without Lola even, word of mouth having spread that this was the place to come to in Boston, and he gestures proudly to the wall of photographs, and how more had been added; Areosmith, the Pixies, Blondie.

“And you! You’re -” suddenly spotting the person who’d come in behind Lola, Kai’s eyes go wide and his words stop for a moment. 

“Nikki Sixx, man, good to meet you,” Nikki grins brightly, “Kai, right?” And Kai nods, before blinking away his shock and nodding, shaking Nikki’s hand vigerously. 

“Good to meet you, dude, lemme go get Aunty; Leo’s at the markets,” he says, and then he trots off, calling out to the kitchen staff where he was headed. The moment he’s disappeared up the stairs to the flat above, Lola leans into Nikki, huffing a laugh.

“God, he fits right in,” she muses fondly, and Nikki wraps an arm around her, himself trying to process Kai’s enthusiasm. 

And Irene greets Nikki and Lola with warmth and excitement, the three of them sitting in a booth together while Kai goes through any changes to the menu, lighting up when Lola asks what he recommends. Nikki and Lola sit close as they chatter away, recounting stories to Irene about their travels, words flowing together like they were rehearsed; as Lola’s overcome with a fit of giggles recounting one of Nikki and Tommy’s stunts, Nikki wraps his arm around her, pulling her close as he seamlessly takes over the story, grinning from ear to ear. As Lola’s giggles subside, she looks back to her mother, and Nikki’s voice goes quiet as Lola takes back over telling the story, instinctually in sync, and oh, Irene realises fondly, they understand each other. Despite everything she’s heard about the band, about Nikki, she’s filled with an indescribably sense of calm knowing Nikki made Lola this happy, made her feel understood. She’d be here if he broke Lola’s heart, but until then, she’d be happy for them. 

“Lola!” It’s Leo’s voice that interupts them, and instinctively Irene reminds him that he’s holding eggs, without even needing to look at him. When they all do, they see Kai handing Leo an empty, plastic fries basket for him to drop in surprise instead, and he does so, which makes Lola laugh, even though she’s tearing up at the sight of him.

Nikki relaxes his grip on her shoulders without her needing to ask, and she ran to Leo, jumping to wrap him in a koala hug as he anticipated as much, holding her tight. 

“If you guys ever wanted her back here to stay, you know she’d be more than happy to do it, I don’t know how you guys did it, but she loves you more than anything else in the whole world,” Nikki says quietly to Irene, the pair of them watching Lola and Leo, still hugging, with Lola koala-ed onto her father, talking to each other.

“She’s lucky to have Leo,” Irene said softly, “and so am I,” she admits easily, with a smile, “we both just wanted to give her the world, and if that, for her, means taking over the diner, then she’ll always have a place here, but if she wants more than that, if for her the world is the world, we’ll do everything in our power to help her get it,” she paused, before her smile turns amused; the expression looks so much like Lola’s, “but I suspect she doesn’t need our help with that.”

“And Nikki,” Irene turns to him, to look him in the eyes, and he knows that she knows every terrible thing Lola knows about him, but the thing is, he trusts Lola, and Lola loves and trusts her parents more than anything in the world, so if she’s trusted them with his dirty laundry and they still treat him kindly, he knows he has nothing to fear, “as long as you love her and treat her well, you’ll have us in your corner too.”

----

In 2005, it seems as though everyone in the entertainment industry knows about Boston’s famous Lionheart Diner, renamed in the mid-90s to coincide with the official forming of Lionheart Talent Management in LA, a label that would develop a reputation for finding talented underground acts, and making them huge. 

Over the years, it had become a tradition for touring rock groups to visit the diner, claiming The Godfather sent them, even if Lola had never interacted with the band. As time wore on, bands outside of the rock genre caught on to the tradition, and soon even those from film or television or even art had joined the tradition too. 

The business was booming, it had become a spot for tourists to come take photos against the wall of famous band photos, and people would often stop by on the off chance that someone famous would be around. They’d invested in selling shirts, plain black with the Lionheart logo over the left breast, and the word ‘crew’ printed in all capitals in white across the back. 

The heart of the business remained, with Leo, seventy-one and still spry, as Sous Chef, while Kai had stepped up as head chef. One of the benefits of being part-owned by a successful management company was that Irene was able to retire, as Lola’s in-house accountants took care of the diner’s finances, and her little sixty-nine year-old mother could spend her time relaxing, or playing with her grandchildren. 

In 2005, Lola went home in anticipation of a letter she hoped her parents would be receiving, taking Nikki, their son, and her entire rolodex of industry contacts with her.

In 2005, Lola and her family are awoken by a legitimate yell sounding through the little flat above the diner; it’s Leo, he’s excited and nervous and panicking, and Lola’s rubbing sleep from her eyes as she finds him, alongside her mother, sitting at the kitchen table, looking at a pristine, off-white envelope. 

“We should wait for Kai, we have to call him, we have to call him now,” Leo’s chattering away, already up, and when Lola sits at the table, Irene hands her the bulky envelope before she even has to ask. 

The return address was the Michelin Offices in Paris. 

Lola’s smile grows wider.

The kitchen is eerily silent, apart from Lola’s son Mal moving about the kitchen, making himself cereal, as all the adults wait quietly for Kai to arrive with his own wife and baby daughters.

“I heard they were... were coming to America, but I thought it was only New York,” Leo looked so much younger for his nervous excitement, and once Kai had sat down and realised what it was, Lola pushed the envelope towards her father.

With shaking hands, Leo opens the letter, he and Kai reading the congratulations that had been sent to them, the praise for their food, their plating, their atmosphere and service. Leo’s crying, his hand pressed to his mouth, he’s crying, and Lola can feel the tears in her eyes too. 

“They gave us two stars,” he chokes out, pride in his voice, “two whole Michelin Stars, the only restaurant outside of New York,” he’s sniffling as he lets Kai take the letter, pulling the book from the package, thumbing through it, and bursting into tears, the book in a white-knuckled grip as a lifetime of work is finally granted the recognition it deserved. 

“Two stars; excellent cooking, worth a detour,” Kai was crying too, his pride overwhelming him, and it seemed, all other at the table, aside from Nikki, and Kai’s wife Julia. 

Lola spends the next week organising a party, calling everyone and anyone to invite them to Leo’s, promising her father the night off to celebrate, but he waved her off, so long as she would work by his side for the night. Of course she agreed. 

It was a star-studded event, surprising the locals, with Lola calling her contacts who loved the restaurant, and Leo and Irene and Kai calling old regulars they wanted to celebrate with, everyone who heard the news was delighted, knew it was well earned, and cheered as Leo unveiled the new sign with the Michelin Stars on full display. 

“Thirty years ago,” Lola makes a toast, and the room falls silent, all looking at her on this night of mirth and merry, on this night of celebrating Leo and Irene and their family and their staff, “I claimed that the Michelin Star Inspectors were classicist, bitch-ass jagweeds, who hadn’t given the diner a star because they couldn’t even be bothered making the detour it was worth,” and that got a laugh to rise from the crowd, while Leo’s surprised Lola remembers that, hell, he’s surprised he remembers that, “but they’ve finally come to America; they said they were coming to New York, but you know what- you know fucking what? They made the detour! Because they’d heard this place was worth it! They knew what my parents built, what everyone here still upholds, it’s world class, it’s excellent cooking, it’s worth the detour!” And a cheer rises from the crowd, just as the diner deserves. 

But something about it sticks for Leo, something about it is familiar, perhaps it’s just the way Lola’s smiling, but he asks for a word with her, and she agrees easily. She’s not his little girl anymore, neither of them as young as they once were, but they sit on the back step of the diner, the door shut, the celebrations inside muffled.

After a long while, Leo looks to Lola and gives her a fond little smile.

“I’ve really raised a supervillain, haven’t I?” And Lola acts confused for all of two minutes before she gives up the ruse, grinning like she’d been caught red-handed.

“Hey, if this place didn’t deserve any Michelin Stars, it wouldn’t get any; I just wanted to get the word out there so people would know where to look,” she shrugged, and Leo threw an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“How long were you planning this?”

“That day in the diner when we talked about my future, and I said this place deserved a Michelin Star,” she admitted, and Leo’s eyes went wide, realising just why she’d remembered that day so well during her speech.

“Your thirty year plan?”

“I didn’t know when they’d come to America, honestly I think you guys would have still had enough notoriety to warrant someone coming to check this place out fifteen years ago,” she mused, “but like I said, it’s because this is a good diner, dad, I only brought it to their attention.”

“Lola, this is you life -” he tried with concern, though Lola rested her head on his shoulder, cutting him off with reassurances.

“I love my job, I love the life that I have, and the people in it, and it just so happened that the thing that I’m good at and do professionally means I have some influence; I promised I’d only use my powers for good, and this is the good-est thing I could think of,” she ducks her head, to hide her teary eyes, so glad that finally her family, her father, got their deserved recognition. 

“All for your lil’ old family,” Leo gave a watery chuckle, overwhelmed with pride.

“All for my lil’ old family,” Lola agreed, sniffling, and Leo pulled her into a tight hug, so Lola’s next words were muffled against his chest, “come on, dude, be cool.”

“You made the whole world love us because how much you love us, I will not be cool,” Leo held her tighter, and Lola laughed softly, wanting this moment to last forever if it could, “you were never a supervillain, sweet girl, you’ve always been my hero.”

[reservethesun]

im sorry i couldn't not jump on the opportunity can we pretty please get forth beam with like hurt/comfort. idk forth doing normal engineering things aka gets into a fight for honor and doc beam to the rescue

Ahh thank you for your prompt! I love ForthBeam so much. T_T I feel very rusty with writing rn and I don’t know how good this is going to be, but here you go. Not a whole lot of actual like... traditional hurt/comfort but more Forth finding comfort in being around Beam and things being normal between them.

Word Count: 1658

Forth groaned as he tried to sit up fully, using the wall behind him to prop himself up. He wasn’t sure how he got to that point. He’d only stepped in to try to help and he’d thought that he had the upper hand. Until suddenly he didn’t - but at least the kid he’d stepped in for had run off. Forth would count that as a win, even if he was pretty sure that he looked a mess and that he wasn’t going to be moving normally for a while. Forth let out a small, almost bitter laugh - Beam was going to murder him.

Speaking of Beam, it seemed just thinking about him did wonders because his phone started to play Beam’s ringtone. Forth thought about letting it go to voicemail while getting himself to the hospital to get looked over, but then he was sure that would only make it worse when Beam found out he’d gotten hurt and hadn’t said anything. “I was just thinking about you,” Forth greeted as he answered the call, doing his best to not let the pain he felt obvious in his voice.

“Where are you at? You were supposed to be here ages ago,” replied Beam. He sounded a little distracted - he was probably studying while waiting for Forth to show up so they could grab dinner like they had planned. 

The sound of a page being turned on Beam’s side of the call reinforced Forth’s assumption. “Ah. Just hanging around,” Forth said, trying not to wince. He exhaled slowly, shifting the phone so that he didn't breathe directly into the speaker. He shifted wrong in his attempt to get up and was unable to mask the involuntary sound that escaped him, making it very clear that he wasn't as okay as he seemed. 

“What did you do this time?” Beam sighed heavily and Forth could easily picture him pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look. There was this kid and I-”

“Where are you?”

Forth hesitated. He was sure that Beam was intending to come find him, if only to scold him for being impulsive and reckless again. “On campus. I’ll be there soon.”

“Where on campus?”

Forth could hear the sounds of Beam closing his textbook and things being shuffled around - probably him searching for his wallet and keys. “I’m fine. I’ll be there soon. You stay there and keep your pretty nose in that book.”

“Uh-huh. If you’re so fine then why are you still there and not already on your way here?”

Forth faltered at that question. He had no good answer because Beam was right. If Forth really was as fine as he was saying, he would’ve already stood up and started to make his way to Beam’s dorm. Yet he still sat there, vaguely sure that the only reason he was able to sit up like he was was because the wall was behind him if the way his side was hurting was any indication. He guessed the guy had kicked him after he’d fallen. Forth couldn’t really remember. It had all been a big blur, as fights tended to be. At least in his experience. He didn’t think he hit his head besides the fist that hit his face a couple of times. But it was fine. Forth got in several hits of his own - his knuckles were bruising to prove it. “I’m fine. I’ll be there soon. But, uh… could you make sure you have some ice?”

“Forth.” Beam said his name more as an exasperated sigh than a real word. It made Forth wince which hurt more than he would have liked. His face was probably turning pretty colors.

With a groan, Forth used the wall behind him to brace himself and stand up. Doing so left him a little out of breath but he was able to stand on his own and the world didn’t spin around him like it did the last time he’d been in a similar situation. “I’m up. I’m moving. It’s good. I’m fine.”

“What do you mean you’re up?” Beam snapped.

Forth gave a short, airy chuckle in response. “I just mean that I’m okay - just a bit banged up. I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. You said-”

“Was I supposed to let that guy keep wailing on that kid?” Forth could hear the slight click of Beam’s teeth from how quickly and hard he closed his mouth at the question. They both knew that Forth wouldn’t do that. “That’s what I thought. Now. I’ll be there soon. If you promise to be nice and tend my wounds for me.” Beam didn’t answer, just sighed heavily through his nose but Forth took that to be a confirmation and he promised to see Beam soon before he ended the phone call.

If he was limping a little when he walked, well he was just glad there was no one around to prove it.

It didn’t take him too long to make his way to Beam’s dorm. Honestly, trying to navigate himself up the stairs took longer because his side hurt to a point that it was difficult to breathe after several steps up. None of his ribs felt out of place, though, so he was sure that it was just strain and bruising. He was also aware that he was probably just being a baby and that none of it was anywhere near as bad as he felt it was right then - his pride was probably more injured than he actually was, but damn that guy could throw a punch.

Forth knocked on the door to Beam’s apartment once he reached it and it opened almost immediately after. Beam must have been waiting by the door for him to show up. Beam reached out and grabbed his chin, directing Forth to turn his head this way and that to inspect the bruises forming on his face. “I know I’m pretty but are you going to keep me out here all night?” asked Forth. He smiled when Beam huffed out a breath but let go of his face and moved aside. “Promise it’s not that bad. Just some bruising to my face, hand, and side. You’ve seen me worse.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Beam replied. He gestured for Forth to go sit down on the couch before disappearing into his bathroom so that he could grab his first aid kit. He returned to the other room and sat down on the couch. Neither one of them said anything as Beam used a cotton swab to put some antibacterial ointment on a small cut Forth had on his face. Forth wasn’t sure if it was from being hit or from when he fell. There were no other cuts or anything, which they both took to be a good thing. Just some swelling and bruising.

Beam activated the instant ice pack in the kit and wrapped it loosely in a thin towel before placing it on top of Forth’s knuckles on the hand he had used to punch the guy he fought with. “Hold it there,” Beam instructed.

“Thank you, Doctor Beam,” said Forth with a smile.

Beam struggled not to smile in return, fighting against the upward twitch in the corners of his mouth as he cleared his throat. “Anything else?”

“I love you?” Forth’s smile took on a more cheeky nature when Beam just sighed and rolled his eyes before gathering up the kit to return it to the bathroom. Forth didn’t mention his side hurting because he was sure it was nothing. It was all nothing in the grand scheme of things. 

After he put up the kit, Beam returned to the couch. Forth immediately shifted closer to him and leaned against his side. Beam seemed to struggle with himself for a few seconds before he lifted his arm and wrapped it around Forth’s shoulders, letting Forth shift even closer to his side. “You know, for someone who hurt me far worse than this guy did yo-” Forth started to tease Beam, chuckling when his boyfriend interrupted him.

“That was an accident!” he insisted. It truly had been an accident, they both knew it. Beam would never purposely hurt Forth. 

“Well. Just keep it in mind that you did more than just a black eye next time you get mad at me for defending someone.”

“I’m not mad that you defended someone.” That wasn’t why he was always obviously annoyed that Forth had gotten into another fight. There was always a good reason for the fight, he knew that. Forth didn’t go around picking fights just to pick fights. Still, he didn’t like seeing Forth hurt.

“Mn. But you are mad.”

Beam sighed inaudibly and hugged Forth a little closer, to the point that Forth was practically on his lap at that point and he rested his head on Beam’s shoulder as he got comfortable where they were. Beam wasn’t mad. He knew it seemed like he was, but he wasn’t. He was just… worried. And he didn’t like seeing Forth hurt. Beam found it easier to show anger than concern. Even if there was always that tinge of concern on the edge of everything he did and said. Forth knew him well enough to know that by that point in time, but it didn’t stop Forth from poking at the obviously angry actions and tone of voice. “Let’s watch something instead of sitting here with you being all frowny and glaring at the wall,” Forth suggested.

“I am not-” Beam sighed when Forth reached up to place a hand to his lips to shush him, letting the ice pack fall to the floor.

“Shh. I’m hurt. Let me choose what we watch.”

“Ai’Forth!”

Forth smiled with a laugh as Beam removed his arm from around his shoulders, but Beam didn’t move away and let Forth set his head on his shoulder again.