#(and yet i still love to look up lenses! just in case!)

[emilypemily]

i spend a lot of time on ebay looking at camera lenses and thinking 'do i actually need that?'

[liveontelevision]

Hello hello! If you are still taking requests I've been dying for an Alastor x reader where the reader was married to him when he was alive, and she outlives him quite a while before they reunite in hell, only for him to nearly die again when the angels attack. I love your work!

I've been wanting to do this prompt for a hot minute, sorry it took so long Anon :')

But here's a good long fluffy, angsty, fic to balance out how much of an ass Alastor is in Suffer lol

Curiosity Killed the Cat | Reader x Alastor

What caught your eye first, was how much whiskey he could down before losing his composure. You found yourself in awe, watching this charismatic stranger go round after round, only to end up on the dance floor with more energy than you had when you were sober. Truly a spectacle. Why don't you go tell him that?

"Excuse me-" You say in a sing-song voice, slipping by the stranger to beckon another drink your way. You may or may not have brushed your body against him in some sort of attempt to get his attention. It went unnoticed, but that's alright, that trick didn't usually work on the ones who had one too many drinks.

You decide the next best action is to sit at the seat next to him, despite there being multiple unoccupied stools at the bar. That’s something he has to question, right?

Of course not. You spent far too long trying to get his attention in any way, and he's either humming a song to himself or chatting with the plump, noisy, owner who would come by. They seemed to be close friends.. but she definitely wasn't his type. She looks like one to cause trouble.

You get a good scope of his character. He came in wearing a pristine trenchcoat, shielding an expensive-looking vest and tie combo. But, by now the tie had come undone and was draped across his neck. The heat of the whiskey might've gotten to him, he left his top few buttons precariously opened. You didn't mind that one bit. Next thing you spot; slightly messed hair and smudged glasses- bingo.

"Hey, birdy-" you finally muster some courage to get his attention. "-may I?" You pull out a handkerchief you usually have on hand, in case handsome strangers with glasses need a quick clean. It took you a good half hour to finally speak up, but he's looking you up and down as if you had just walked in. It takes a moment, but you see him finally decide you aren't a threat. He sits silently. Taking another swig of his drink, he looks at you with a smile. Does he want you to.. no harm in trying.

You bite at your lip, hesitantly reach out to his face, and carefully pluck the glasses from the bridge of his nose. He shuts his eyes as you do so. A man hasn't made you blush in quite some time. You decide to blame the drinks. Luckily, you have a task to keep your mind preoccupied. You're carefully swiping any smudges clear from the lenses when you hear his voice for the first time. Or so you thought.

"Mimzy, dear, do tell me who this little kitten here is. A regular?" You're assuming he's speaking about you, he's gesturing in your direction with his empty glass. The owner of the speak-easy, who you now know as Mimzy, trots behind the bar to top off his drink.

"For sure! What do ya say, kid, you're here.. on most weekends, ain't ya?" She turns to you, and you take a moment to confirm. You didn't think she'd notice, you don't come here that often. That's what you tell yourself at least.

"Got an eye on her tonight, Al? Sounds like someone's not goin' home alone~" She teases him with a quick jab, and he's quick to roll his eyes.

"Now now, she's been perched here for quite a while and has barely said a word to me, I doubt she's getting any more than a free drink." He sounds snarky, yet.. familiar..

"Al… as in Alastor? That radio host fellow? Well, I’ll be damned! I wasn't expecting a celebrity such as yourself to frequent little joints like this one." You comment, finally joining the conversation. You hear a throat being cleared dramatically and turn to the owner behind the bar. You laugh nervously.

"Not that- it's still a good bar- I.. Sorry." Good recovery. Your attention is taken to the hand outstretched to you, and you instinctively lean away from it.

"Kitten-" He beckons his hand, and you follow his eyes to his glasses that were still in your grasp. You let yet another nervous laugh and quickly pass them over. He slips them on with a satisfied hum.

"If I remember correctly, Al-" you attempt to mock the nickname you picked up from Mimzy. "- You have a broadcast tomorrow morning, no? You really think drinking like a sailor tonight is the best idea?" You weren’t concerned, really. You wanted to tease him a bit longer.

"Props to you for knowing my schedule." You realize how strange that might've sounded and quickly finish your drink to prevent any more embarrassing thoughts from slipping from your lips. "Are you implying I can't handle my liquor, dear?" He scoffs, beckoning the bartender over. He has them refill your glass.

"I'm sure you can, birdy, but you've been pounding down more drinks than I can count." You respond. You weren't one to flirt effectively. That, or he just happens to see right through your nerves.

"So, you've been counting, hm?" You realize you had outed yourself to watching him all night. You curse yourself quietly, hoping the music filling the room will cover your frustration. "Appreciate the concern, but I promise you, I'm more than capable of doing my job. No matter the circumstances."

While he seemed to be reading you quite easily, you had picked a few things up yourself. For one, he watches everything. And he seems to only drop his intel when he needs to. Or to mock you. And two, he's a bit of a narcissist.. quite an ego on this one. But that could work in your favor tonight.

"Well, fine then. I'll be up bright and early to listen to your broadcast. I doubt you can get through it with a hangover. Especially considering how much you've been drinking."  You state proudly. He lets out a chuckle, and despite how quiet it is, you can't help but appreciate his sultry laugh.

"Is that a challenge, kitten?" He purrs -ha- leaning his chin into his hand and slouching his body towards the bar.

"I mean if it is, there must be stakes." You say it as a matter of fact. "Let's say.. you cover my bill next time if I catch you slip up."

"Hm. Seems fair. You better be listening close, though, I'm very good at what I do." He enunciates his final sentence and it sends a shiver down your spine. For a brief moment, you consider this could be a bad idea.

"And when I win, what will be my prize?" He asks. You let out a little giggle at his cockiness.

"I'll tell you my name." He cocks his head to the side, an intrigue hitting him. Did he really manage to get this far without a proper introduction?

"I see your little detective game going on, I'll give you that. You are quite the observer. But you won't find my name just by looking." You say smugly. That's true for a number of reasons.

"I suppose you did leave that information out, hm?" He let's his eyes drop, as if he was trying to piece it together with what little information he had.

"I must say, you've got me hooked, kitten." He lets out a sigh, leaning back in his chair and finishing off yet another drink.

"Deal?" You hum, holding your hand out to him. He smirks, taking it into his own, not expecting a firm shake, but receiving one. He went on to press a quick kiss to your knuckles.

"Deal."

You went home alone after that night, but it was likely for the best. You were sure you'd see him next time, anyway.

Now that you had to tell him your name.

You thought for sure he'd at least stumble through a sentence, but no. He went through the entire show, even an interview with some big shot, and spoke perfect English. He talked like he'd never had a drop of booze his entire life and got a full night's sleep, which you both knew was far from the truth. You almost dreaded the next encounter, but at least you didn't wager anything too crazy. Sure, he'll see you differently after this, but if this were to go any further - what are you on about? You only met him once and listened to him on the radio occasionally at best. He's a perfect stranger to you. Let's not get too excited.

You find yourself seated in the same spot as before, shrinking into your seat and downing a few drinks to build your courage. You told him your mark. An awkward introduction, first and last name, made you feel like a new student at a children's school. He perks up, which is what you expected.

"Ah! So you're the famed physician! It's almost silly of you to call me a celebrity, you're the talk of the town, kitten." You groan, of course, he recognizes you. Everyone in this damned small town knows your name, your family.

You were one of the first women to complete their studies and practice medicine from your hometown. But to attend such high schooling in this time, your family had to be well off. And you were, in fact, well off. When it came to your love life, men were either disgusted by your pursuit of knowledge or took it like some fetish. You haven't approached anyone for years.. not like this, at least.

"You know, I spoke with your father a few-" You groan at the mention of him, cutting Alastor off mid-sentence.

"Don't be a fool, I heard the little interview on your show.. Can't say that was my favorite broadcast." Alastor had a certain segment where he would chat with some of the richer and more.. stuck up.. men in society. It wasn’t titled as such, you just noticed the trend of guests being pompous and wealthy. And your father was the perfect fit for that.

You didn't know this at the time, but Alastor was suddenly hit with some mixed emotions. There was more than one reason as to why your father was chosen to be on his broadcast. Alastor used his interviews to initiate close ties, and make powerful allies. If they weren't complying how he hoped, he would usually cut ties. Permanently.

Your father was definitely not a reasonable man, in fact, you made it a point to avoid him when you returned home. But did he deserve death?

"I didn't expect just the sight of me walking the streets to be as interesting as it is." You mumbled, leaning forward on the counter and drinking something much stronger than you expected. But the mentions of your father called for a hard hitter.

"You didn't?" He asked bluntly, twirling the liquor in his glass. You hum in agreement. Gossip spreads like wildfire here.

"Well, you've picked up some interesting feats. If you were hoping to go unseen, I would've put some more thought into my rags." He gestured to your clothing. It was definitely of higher quality, but it was something you were used to wearing while attending your school in a high-class city. You felt a bit embarrassed, placing your hands in your lap to subtly hide your body.

"And a beautiful doctor like yourself just 'walking the streets'? Some might be concerned for your safety." You tilt your head to the side at his words. Your confusion makes him smirk.

"I'm sure you're aware, kitten, but there seems to be a killer on the loose." He seems far too excited for the subject at hand, and it's almost noticeable.

"Hm. Guess I shouldn't be going out alone and talking to strange men, should I?" You say with a smile.

"I suppose you shouldn't." He shrugs off your words, getting another drink. You didn't even see him finish the previous one. "Though I must say, I'm glad you did. You've been quite the conversationalist." It's barely flirting, but it seems to leave you blushing a bit.

You went on to chat throughout the night, your drunken rambling turned to complaints about your father, and morbid details about what you'd learned in medical school. Both topics that you didn't realize intrigued Alastor to a personal extent. Later on, the rambles started to become incomprehensible. He decides it would be best for you to leave, considering you were refusing to do so and thoroughly embarrassing yourself in the process.

A giggling, stumbling mess, you were carefully lifted from your seat and brought to your feet with his assistance. He helped you out to the streetside, calling a taxi and bringing you into the backseat gently. He then went ahead and paid the driver, and turned at his heels to head back inside.

As he was reaching for the bar's door, a loud call forced him to turn back to the cab.

"Buddy, she's too sloshed to give me an address. You know where she lives?" Shit. Alastor looks to the bar’s door, then to the cab, where he spots you leaning your head against the window in the backseat. He sighs.

After insisting the driver keep the fair, Alastor brought you back out. He kept you standing with a hand on your lower back, as you gripped onto his shirt, far too small to reach your arm over his towering figure. He was cringing at the sight of his clothes becoming disheveled.

"Alright, kitten, where are you staying? I doubt you'd appreciate me taking you to your family home.." He was talking in a hushed voice, in the hopes that you'd have enough conscious to respond, but knew that likely wasn't the case. He looks around the area as if the answer would be in plain sight. He lets out a sigh of defeat when it clearly wasn't.

"Didn't even get to finish my drink.." He mumbles, pulling you closer to keep you stable enough to walk a few blocks.

There, sat a charming little motel. However, calling it charming was.. optimistic. Your memory, to this day, is in small flashes. Only certain things come to mind when trying to picture what went on.

You remember Alastor talking to the older gentleman at the desk. It seemed like they were acquaintances. Maybe they've done business in the past.

You remember him giving up after finding that the room he booked was on the second floor. Unwilling to deal with the staircase, he hoisted you up quite easily. You definitely remember that. How such a slender man can hold you in his arms with no strain.

You remember the room, it was cleaner than you expected. He seated you on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you to remove your heels. He didn't seem to go much farther than that. He could've removed your entire wardrobe with your state of mind, and you'd be none the wiser. How awful it must be, to live in a world where a man not making a pass, surprises you.

As far as you know, you drifted to sleep almost right after. You're pretty sure he wrapped you in the blankets, and you remember the faint touch of hair being brushed from your face. His hand was far colder than you would have expected.

Being in your occupation, you don't exactly have time to confront all the horrific sights you've seen. So, your body deals with those emotions in other ways. A common occurrence, you were plagued with a number of night terrors. Something seems different in tonight's regularly scheduled program, though. A radio static overwhelms your senses, and any horrifying disfigurations that were taunting you seem to fade into nothing. A yellow grin and glowing red eyes are the last thing you can see.

You woke up the next morning with an excruciating headache, an ache in your stomach, and sore feet. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you barely care about the makeup that you'd smudged beyond repair. You try to recall your dreams, which usually stay vivid in your mind for most of the morning, but.. there's nothing. And despite the killer hangover, you feel more awake than you have in ages.

The panic settled in after you ran your hands across the unfamiliar sheets. With a soft gasp, you observe yourself. Still fully clothed, you spot your heels set next to the door. You look around the room next, and you almost feel relieved, seeing Alastor seated in a lounge chair in the corner of the room. He had his nose in a book. It was better than seeing him lying on the other side of the bed.. wait, was it?

You let out a pathetic little sound, your voice too weak to form any coherent words. He sets the book on his lap, and your sad attempt at a greeting seems to catch his attention.

"Good morning to you, too, kitten. Sleep well?" You were sure he drank as much as last night. If not, more. How dare he look so put together?

"Morning. I-um.. I suppose I did.. I-I hate to ask, but did... did we-" you stammer out, and he quickly holds his hands up in defense.

"Heavens no, dear, I wouldn't dare defile a woman who can't handle her whiskey." You scoff at his insult but still feel disarmed by his reaction.

"So then.. the motel room?" You question. He cocks his head to the side, only now realizing that your memory must've gone from the previous night.

"Ah, so you really can't handle your whiskey.. Well, not to fret, dear. You weren't telling me where you were staying, and Mimzy seemed keen on me taking you elsewhere." In actuality, she was trying to play matchmaker. Thanks for trying, Mimzy.

"I'm sorry for the trouble, Alastor, I hate that you bought a room just for me.. I can pay you back." You sit up, running your hands through your mess of hair and letting out a pained groan.

"I'm sure you can, but I simply can't accept." He stands, tucking the book under his arm and walking to your bedside. You swing your legs over the edge, only to notice how close he seems to hover over you. You look up and realize how statuesque he was. You hadn't seen him in daylight. And his height is much more intimating when he stands.

"It was my pleasure, getting to witness you thoroughly embarrass yourself." He bends at the hips, a taunting smile across his face. You try to recall anything embarrassing you might've done the night before, but you can barely recall a thing. That did little to ease your mind.

"You'll have to tell me about it one day." You grumble, standing with his assistance. He offered to escort you home, and you happily accepted.

The two of you stand on your small porch. It's a quaint duplex you've been renting, you go on about how how the family who lives here travels for the summer and was more than happy to offer their home to such a sweet thing.

"Well, since you insist that I can't handle my liquor, it might be a better idea to find each other.. somewhere other than a joint..." you say sheepishly, your eyes wandering to anywhere but his gaze. When he steps closer, you finally fix your wide eyes on him.

"You don't want me to court you, kitten. You're a lovely, educated, pretty little thing, you'll be wasting your time, unfortunately." He doesn't sound insulting, he says it very truthfully. It only makes you want to see more. To ask him to come in, and stick around awhile. But you're aware he has a broadcast coming up soon. You wonder if he would've stayed by your side if you slept through it.

"I'll be the judge of that. Besides, getting coffee doesn't waste too much time." You decide to stand your ground. You aren't sure why he's refusing if he thinks all that of you. You see him look you up and down, then let out a sigh.

"Hm. I suppose. I'll be back here tomorrow morning since you're so insistent. Just remember I warned you-" He says playfully as he makes his way down the stairs.

"Curiosity killed the cat, my dear!" He calls out before giving another heart-melting smile. You nervously bite your lip and watch him walk off through the cracked door. Like a damned puppy, you couldn't help but watch him walk off. You quickly shut the door, after realizing how hard you were smiling.

-

This was supposed to be for fun. You were just supposed to be some extra company on occasions. And he knew you came with your perks. You were an heir to a decent fortune, it only made sense for him to befriend you. You were knowledgeable and smart, he could definitely benefit from your skills if he needs to do so. There were plenty of ways Alastor could use you if necessary.

But with every little dance, every little coffee, or walk home from the bar, it was making him nervous. Of course, he would never call it that, he's too disgusted by the pangs in his chest he gets around you. Unfiltered, yet still delicate and professional. Incredibly intelligent, yet still makes the silliest mistakes. You were flawed. You came from such a slob of a man, and the fact that you are so kind despite that amazes him more than you realize. You are more than willing to stand for your beliefs. For one of the first times in his life, Alastor admired someone.

He's not sure what conversations led to him agreeing to cook yet another dinner in your home, but here he was; standing at your door with a bag of groceries.

"Oh- you didn't need to do all that, you're always free to use anything in the kitchen." You greet him as he comes inside, where he sets the bag at a nearby counter space. You reach up and pull his trenchcoat off his shoulders, which he willingly surrenders to. It was a little action you took, taking his coat for him when he would stop by. He's come to expect it. You hang it up on the rack nearby.

"Nonsense, I'm sure you have plenty to work with, but I'm following a special recipe tonight." He insisted, already unpacking things, setting up pots and pans, and rolling up his sleeves. He pulled an apron from the bag last, and the sight of him all prepped for cooking leaves you weak in the knees. You want to see this every night. You want him in your kitchen every mealtime. You shake the desires from your head, pushing aside the dreams of domesticity that have been plaguing your mind recently.

"Can I help with anything?" You chime in, peeking around the corner to smile at him through the doorway. He shakes his head.

"If you feel the need to help, you're more than welcome to get the table set, but I am quite in my element here, kitten. So, not to worry." You were mostly listening to him, but one part of you kept your focus on his skillful knife practice, watching him chop vegetables in a nearly professional manner.

"Kitten? The table?" His words and his moving on to something else snapped you from your funk.

"Oh! Of course, yes." You stumble a bit but do as he instructs. It wasn't anything special, but the space was more than enough to give the ambiance of a good date.

Damn, this man could cook. He's cooked for you before, but something you couldn't quite put a finger on left you swooning at the sight of the still-steaming gumbo in front of you.

"Damn, you can cook." You're muttering, between bites. You almost can't taste all its decadence, digging in before letting it fully cool.

"Slow down, dear, we have all night." He says softly, despite bringing a spoonful to his own lips. You catch yourself staring at the sight of him eating beside you, enthralled by his enthusiastic hums.

"So where did this come from? I'm a bit suspicious of the finery if I'm honest." You place your elbows on the table, perching your chin on top of your hands. He scoffs in response.

"How rude. All my meals are of the highest quality. I simply haven't made this in quite a while, I thought tonight would be a good time to do so." He replies.

"A recipe for special occasions, hm? Would you consider this.. a special occasion?" You tease, looking at him with a cocked eyebrow. He looks confused, letting his eyes wander in thought for a moment. Was this a special occasion? Is there any specific reason he wanted to bring his own mother's recipe to some girl he's befriended? He pushes the thought aside, planning on mocking you like usual.

"Any night with you is plenty special, kitten." He hums, popping another spoonful into his mouth. He doesn't see your face turning red, but his oblivious flirting always leaves you flushed.

"In that case, when are you inviting me to your own home? I won't lie and say I'm not curious, Al." You set your finished plate aside and notice his eye twitch. You've been staring at him long enough to notice even his smallest ticks.

"Someday. I've a bit of a mess to go through before considering bringing any guests over." He brushes clean his already pristine top, as you stand and take his empty plate to the kitchen. With a sigh, you take yourself over to the sink to do a quick clean. It's the least you could do after such a lovely meal.

"If you say so." You try your best to sound calm, but you're slightly hurt by his constant rejection of letting you into his personal life. It wasn't all the time, but there were clearly things he refused to talk about. You want nothing more than to know him.

Lost in your mildly upsetting thoughts, you recklessly take one of his knives the wrong way, the blade slicing surprisingly easily down your finger. The shock takes you back more than the actual pain. These are far too nice for everyday cooking.

Letting out a quiet curse, you feel his hand brush over your own, his shadow casting over your entirety. "Such a clutz." You hear, his voice causing you to tense. You let him guide your hand under the water to rinse it, effectively caging you in place.

"Be careful, will you? These are my nicer tools." Interesting way to say it, but you were too focused on the fact that you could feel his breath heating the back of your neck. You simply nod, before turning the water off with your free hand. You turn your body around, leaning your back against the edge of the countertop and effectively facing Alastor. His hands stay planted on either side of you, making it a bit of a tight squeeze. You weren't sure what you were trying to accomplish here, but here you are. Neither of you seem to be moving away, though. He drops his head to look into your eyes. You're lost in them.

You reach your arms upwards, holding them around his neck as best you can, and you feel him willingly lean within your grasp. The moment is heated, you feel his breath against your lips as you pull him impossibly closer. His breath is quick, almost shaky. You've never seen this side of him. You'd never associate Alastor with the term nervous.

Nearly closing the gap, you feel a hand come to your throat and fingers gently holding your jaw. With a quick turn, he places a soft kiss on your cheek. It lingers for a moment, and even if it wasn't what you were expecting, you're gasping beneath his affection. The room seems to cool down for a moment. He steps away silently, pulling his things all together.

You may have made a mistake.

"Oh, Al- I'm sorry I didn't think.. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, i-if that's what happened there." Your words quicken, suddenly becoming anxious that you may have upset him.

"No, don't fret." He waves his hand dismissively, his back still turned to you as he keeps himself busy with a bit of tidying. "I'd be an idiot to not expect that, eventually." He almost sounds insulting, a little cocky.

"Why's that? Are you used to women just throwing themselves at you?" You tease but keep yourself from his eyeline.

"Well, yes- but, you've been especially touchy recently. And you seem to be acting like I make you.. nervous. Fidgety." His little observations leave you a bit embarrassed.

"It's not nervous.. exactly. Never mind that, though.. Does.. that interest you..? At all?" It takes you a while to get the question out and it still comes across shaky. You're response is silence. Fill it.

"H-How about a drink before you head off, hm?" You quickly shuffle to your liquor cart, looking for anything to drown out your essential confession.

"It does." You freeze in place, missing the cup entirely with your first pour. That was an answer neither of you were really expecting. You finally turn to him, seeing that he had looked away just as you did.

"So, that means-" you want him to elaborate. You want to hear him say all the things you've been dreaming of. That he wants to spend his free time with you, hold your hand, and kiss it with more than just a greeting in mind. To call you anything other than kitten. Well.. that last part you didn't mind as much.

"I've not prepared myself for such a conversation, but I.. enjoy your company. And your brains.. and you certainly aren't terrible to look at." He said he didn't prepare himself, and it was pretty obvious. This wasn't his usual taunting, his usually eloquent beats. He's pausing between phrases, to come up with the best words on hand.

"Jee, thanks." You roll your eyes, your smile still shining.

"I suppose you leave me speechless, kitten." You leave a radio host, a man who talks for a living and is quite good at it, speechless. This time, he sees the freshly pink hues across your cheek. He lets out a devious chuckle, one you recognize when he's about to do something you'd consider nefarious. He starts to approach you, his clean shoes clicking against the wooden floors being the only sound. You knew you weren't in danger, but you find yourself walking backward until you hit the table. Continuing to lean away from him, he towers over you, only following your avoidance until you are straining to stand upwards.

"Well?" You let out, your words barely a whisper. "Are you going to kiss me or not?"

That seems to shock him a bit, you see his shoulders tense just slightly. You watch him contemplate his next action. He let his hand snake around your waist, not exactly to pull you closer, but his touch still left you weak. With a soft kiss on your lips, he gave you no time to truly enjoy it.

"I hate to repeat myself, but I warned you, kitten. Curious little things like yourself deserve.. more." After processing his words, you're still melting to his touch despite how fleeting it was. He steps away.

"W-What- No! I thought you said you were interested! And that kiss- W-What were-" You throw a bit of a tantrum, but quickly calm yourself. "I don't understand, help me understand. Please.." You sound a bit defeated. He sighs, clearly pained that this conversation has to continue.

"Hm.. I don't believe I'm able to give you everything you need. But, you deserve everything you need. It's as simple as that." He's pausing between words, and his expression shows that he's still not exactly satisfied with how it came out.

You shrank in place and held your arms, your mind trying to scrap together any little hints to what he means. Maybe something he's mentioned in the past. But as elusive as ever, it still just doesn't make sense to you. He catches a glimpse of your upset appearance, then takes in the rest of your state a bit longer. You can feel his eyes on you, forcing you to nervously bite at your lip.

"Okay. Let's forget all that, then." You said softly, smiling the best you can and waving your hand dismissively. He obviously knows that you wouldn't lose these feelings as quickly as he'd hoped. He'd reassure you, you'll get over it.

But you couldn't. You tried, you did. You went on other dates, considering how many men were throwing themselves at you in the right bars. You kept your distance for a bit but still saw him at Mimzy's bar on the weekends. Despite all your potential suitors, you still only seemed to look forward to those nights with Alastor. You'd go as far as to complain about some unruly men to him. His disgusted reactions were a comfort.

You kept trying to pry his real reasoning as to why he wouldn't be with you. He'd admit to not being trustworthy, which you would always dismiss. He'd go on about the other men that would be a much better fit, and all with good reasoning, but you still wouldn't stop pestering him. Then, after a few too many drinks, he finally let slip his disinterest in intimacy. And from everything he's told you, this seemed different. It wasn't an excuse or an avoidance, it was the truth.

"So, you don't find me physically attractive?" You ask him, swirling your half-empty cup.

"It's not that, I assure you. I'd just prefer to shower you in other affections, I suppose." He seems a bit unfiltered tonight, still avoiding your eyes.

"Other affections, hm? Like what, birdy?" You were already enraptured. But you were kicking yourself for getting your hopes up at all. You can see his immediate regret in his words.

"Kitten-"

"Please? I'm just curious." You say sincerely, placing your hand over top of his. You hesitate for a moment, but he seems to not mind the touch.

"Well.. I'd like to buy you the finest things. Any book you're slightly interested in, any frock that draws your eyes, any accessories that would bring out your natural beauty- you deserve it. I want to keep you proudly on my arm throughout the streets, showing everyone that you belong to me. I'd like to cook you every meal, until the day I die." His drunken rants leave an obvious sparkle in your eyes.

"Well that all sounds lovely to me.." you say softly, twisting and turning his hand until your fingers are comfortably interlocked with his. "Simply put, you're not interested in sex?” He was taken aback by your bold words, looking around as if he were nervous someone would hear. “I’ve read about it before, there’s an interesting essay that describes this sort of phenomenon. I'll have to lend it to you.” Your calmness surprises him.

“Well.. Thank you. That puts an end to that, then. Go on and find a man who can properly bed you.” He tries to act just as calm, but his voice still seems a bit frustrated by the idea. You make an act out of tapping your chin and humming in thought.

“No, I’d much rather spend my time with you.” You say bluntly. He quickly chimes in.

“But, I-”

“Alastor, I’ve never met someone as arrogant as you.” You let out a frustrated groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “If you’ll have me, however you want that is, I’d love nothing more than to spend my days with you.” You speak slowly, almost mockingly, trying to get this damned point across after so long.

He’s still quiet, opening his mouth to respond, then letting his lips shut again. He smiles at you. You couldn't ask for a better response. It was the sweetest smile you've ever seen from him, no sign of teasing or mocking you, no hidden intent, and just slightly bashful. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, in a sweet sign of acceptance.

Things went on after that without a hitch. Mostly. There were some kinks to work out, sure, but you were absolutely head over heels for him. No one’s ever brought you this much joy, and having this more intimate side of him, despite its physicalities, was more than you could ever hope for. He’d finally let you into his home after a while. It was near spotless and he was more than willing to show off the space to you. You wondered why he felt the need to stall this for so long. But you’re together now, hardly anything else matters.

As the summer came to an end, and you had to find somewhere else, you were invited to stay with Alastor. After walking freely around town, as promised, with his arm around yours, gossip spread as it always does. Another talk of the town, two unwed youths in the same place, sharing the same bed assumedly. It made you two snicker at the rumors. Living with him was heaven.

Following through his previous statements, he showered you in compliments, cooked every meal for you, and spent as much of his free time with you as he could. He offered little physical affection, little pecks here and there, and had no issue with sharing his bed. It wasn't long before you popped the question. Neither of you were really interested in the big fancy wedding idea, he was even comprehended by the marriage itself, but if anyone could wear down his nerves, it was you. That being said, Alastor did get you a ring that you were sure cost far too much. He brought up the idea of eloping. A little vacation just for the two of you. It sounded perfect.

“Birdy~ You let out in a sing-song tone, opening the door to your shared home. Every time you’d walk up to the house, you’d slow down, taking in your flawless reality every day. You’d hold your hand out to yourself, looking at the still newly polished ring, then finally entering your perfect home.

Although, it wasn’t perfect today.

You call out his name, no response. You know he should be home, so you peak around corners to no avail. You checked tables and counters, no note to be seen.

After setting down your bag, slipping your heels off, and hanging your coat after your quick search, you head to your room to at least change for the evening. You and Alastor usually go visit Mimzy on these nights, an unspoken routine.

On the way to your room, your tights hit a wet splotch on the floor. With a groan of disgust, you finally realize what you had stepped in.

Blood.

Of course, you’d recognize blood. It trailed from the door in front of you.

Alastor assured you this was his office and showed it to you on occasion. The door was always open when he wasn't home, and although you never felt the need to intrude on his personal space, something was clearly wrong. You swung open the door.

“No.”

You cover your mouth after your quiet refusal. You're silent, unwilling to believe what you're seeing. Your darling husband-to-be, kneeling over a stained and still wet corpse wrapped in canvas. His hands are covered in blood. Actually, his entire body is covered in blood.

How he managed to get in and out of the house without making an entire mess was a thought that managed to cross your mind in your state of shock. You glance up for a second to notice one of the heavy bookshelves pushed aside, a sort of patio doorway leading to the swampy area behind the house.

You look at the door, then to Alastor. Who’s giving you a wide-eyed face that pains your chest.

Say something, Alastor. Say something that’ll make this all okay. You're a deer in headlights.

He notices your eyes dart to the right, then back to him, staring for a moment longer. One thing is on your mind without his reassurance. You’re in danger.

Run.

You book it down the hall, clearly going to the exit. Both your feet soaked in blood at this point are tracking through the house. The moment was such a blur, that you hardly remember how far you got before feeling the pain of hitting the floor. You look down after scrambling onto your back, seeing Alastor’s hand wrap around your ankle.

“Hold on! You’re covered in blood, you’re a mess, just-” He sounds deranged. Who is this man? Surely not the one who’s been treating you so well all this time. He sounds anxious and angry. You’re face is stained with tears as he essentially drags you across the floor briefly, not considering his heightened adrenaline in these moments. You kick. You scream.

“Listen to me!” He grabs you by your arms, giving you a good shake. That seems to calm you down.. or at least quiet you down. You’re staring at him wide-eyed, your breath rapid. He has your attention, yet he’s not sure what to say. A pained expression grows on his face. You’re leaving him speechless, again.

“Let’s.. clean you up.” He scoops you up, and maybe it's the shock that leaves you so lenient. Or maybe it's all the good times blurring what you've witnessed. When you come to, you’re sitting in the bath, Alastor by your side, and running a sponge across your arm, thoroughly staining the water with blood. The sight brings a gasp from your lips, that feels like the first breath you've taken in hours.

“A-Alastor-” You let out weakly, your frightened expression now burned into his mind. “Was that real..?”

“It was-” He lets out a pained sigh, seeing if he could soften the truth. It's not possible. “-It was.” no words can save him from this.

“W-Why..?”

“He was rather unpleasant. A man with too much money, who wasted most of his time on hitting his women staff. He had his chance to make things right, I assure you, this is always the last resort.” That doesn't help for obvious reasons. You pull away from his gentle washing.

“Always? You've done this before?” Your voice squeaks as it comes out. You don't want to know the details. But you can't stop the words from spilling from your lips. He stands and rings the sponge out into the sink, watching the red-tinted water swirl down the drain.

“Yes.”

“How many times have you-” You stop yourself finally. You don't want the answer to that one. You don't want the answer to any of these questions. Unconsciously, your mind still seems to piece together every strange thing he’s done and said to you.

Your half-sentence is replied to with silence. He goes on to finish cleaning you up, helping you in and out of the tub, and drying you as best he can. He wraps you in his own robe and brings you to the bedroom. You’re mortified when you notice him guiding you by your shoulders to avoid the bloody footprints still on the ground.

Some time passes. You sit empty-minded on the edge of the bed, your eyes gazing down into nothing. Alastor leans against the vanity across the small room from you. He runs his hands through his hair, pausing and clenching some strands in his fists before moving on.

“I can..get all your belongings together, find you a place to stay. I’ll do what I can to keep you safe.” He finally says, breaking the silence and your endless train of thought. His offer seems reasonable, but you still feel hurt.

“You want me to leave?” You ask quietly, gripping the edges of the robe and shrinking into yourself. He’s shocked by your response, you can hear it in his voice.

“You want to stay?” He asks in response.

“I.. I love you.” You say weakly. It stings to say it out loud. And even more so to hear it. “Will you hurt me? I-If I go to the police? If I rat you out..?” What are you doing? You can’t ask a murderer that. Your mind is running on fear, especially after what you just said. You feel his hand lightly lift your face to his, flinching slightly considering you hadn't noticed him approaching you.

“I would never hurt you. I’d spend my days rotting in a jail cell if it meant you’re safe..and happy. I love you, kitten.” You aren’t used to seeing this face. It’s almost emotionless. You start to picture this face carrying out his murderous intentions. But there's a crack in his psychopathic mask. There's a hint of softness and anguish at the sight of you.

“I don't.. I don't want to leave.” You take a hold of his hand, still shaking and clearly unsure of your words. You hear a soft hiss leave his lips, clearly trying to conceal his reaction to the unexpected. “I don’t want you to be in jail- or.. I suppose I don't want you to be caught..?” You groan, holding tightly onto his hand. “I’m so confused, Alastor. I want things to be normal. I want to go back to when you cooked for me, and.. And go back to planning- o-our elopement…” You let out weakly. He doesn't respond at first, you force your eyes up to meet his. He looks heartbroken at the sight of you.

“I just want to pretend that none of this happened..Please, stop this. F-for me, please don't do this anymore.” Your voice becomes a whisper. His hesitation only makes it all worse. He responds once he feels your grip on him loosen.

“Okay- okay. I’ll clean up this mess, and- I’ll stop. For you.” You manage to give him a weak smile, before resting your head against his chest. After holding you for a moment he settles you into bed after you had essentially fallen asleep in his arms. He does as promised. Mostly. He cleans up the mess at least.

The next morning, you wake up and hope everything that happened before a nightmare. But, you feel his robe still wrapped around you, then notice Alastor’s side of the bed empty. It's real then. It was too vivid. And if it's real.. Then he’s stopping. Because of you. It’s almost touching.

You go on about your day, and he greets you as if nothing is wrong, making your breakfast as usual. He’s chipper and goes on to chat about his plans for today. He’s pretending that nothing went on. How often has he done this? Convincingly pretend that he didn't take a life less than twelve hours ago?

It takes you a few days. A few months.. years, actually. To accept what he had done. You never forgave him, but you accepted it. You had to go on and enjoy your newly wedded life together, didn't you? Alastor had a broadcast to work on, an audience to appease, and you had to work as a physician, helping locals from within their homes. Besides, he stopped the murders after you caught him that one awful night, didn't he?

Didn't he?

Police are at your door. A nightmare of a sight. You open it, putting on your best face. It wasn't as easy as it used to be, but your smile still convinced the public. Leaning against the open door and batting your lashes you greet them sweetly. your face instantly fell to their words. You almost hoped that he had gotten caught. But he didn't.

He's dead.

“Shot in the woods, ma’am. A hunter mistook him for a deer in the dark.” you'd recall these words later, but for now, your ears were ringing and your mind was absent. You thanked them and shut the door.

You can't recall how loudly you screamed and sobbed, or for how long that went on. You need to be held. You need him to hold you and that only pains you more. You mourned for days, canceling appointments, and not answering any guests who were there to offer empty condolences. You rotted in his home. He was so young. You were both so young, there was so much to look forward to in your future. It's all gone now.

The first place you went to was Mimzy's bar. A few months had passed, and all your good liquor had run out. Plus, a familiar face could be a good change of pace right now.

“Oh, hun!” An immediate greeting at the door, Mimzy brings you to the bar. It's a late night on a workday, it was essentially empty. “I'm so sorry for your loss. Everyone in town is worried bout ya! I'm sure you don't wanna hear this, but how are you doin'?” She was right. You didn't want to hear that. You hated that question.

“Fine.” You say squeakly. It was the first word you had spoken in weeks, you realize. She slides you your drink and you immediately down it. She tops it off just for it to be finished off even faster than the last.

“Slow down, hun.” She says, sliding a glass of water to you next. When you drink it thoughtlessly, the absence of alcohol has you scrunching your nose. “I'm sure this isn't the best time, but.. I got somethin’ for ya.” She disappears into some backroom before reapproaching you and your barely touched glass of water. She places an enveloped letter in your hand. Your name written in neat cursive fills its front and your hands start to shake.

“It's from Al. He wanted me to give this to ya. If he ever.. well, if this ever happened.” as she's speaking, you've already opened it and begun reading.

It was instructions. And a large wad of cash. Above the instructions, A small blurb about how sorry he was, how much he loved you, and prayed that you'd never have to read this. Then a list of how to thoroughly clean and dispose of all evidence in his shed.

“Did you know?” you ask Mimzy, your hands crinkling on each side of the letter. She nods. “He never stopped, did he?” You say in a hushed tone, mainly in disbelief to yourself.

“Well- not exactly, no. he was finishing somethin' up in the forest that one night.” Mimzy talks as if she's practiced this conversation. He must've kept her up to date with all this.

“He told me he would stop. He said he was doing it for me-” You grip at your heart, letting out a shaky breath.

“What important is that he loved ya, right? He was an equal opportunity killer, hun, he only did what he had to. It was for the greater good, ya know?” Mimzy was speaking far too calmly about this. you let out a flurry of curses, shoving the crumpled-up instructions into your purse before standing at the bar.

“You're all fucking psychopaths!” You yell out to the empty bar and leave the building in a huff. 

You needed to leave town. The two people you were closest to were both criminals. And being in this house was only hurting you more. You packed as much as you could, hand hovering over the phone to call for a taxi. You freeze in place. Then see your ring. You look at it for a moment, the light giving it a beautiful shine. With a defeated sigh, you set your bags aside and pull the instructions back out from your purse, straightening it out as best you could.

After finishing a very thorough cleaning, and questioning your actions through it all, you did everything on the list. You burned the letter alongside some other items that he told you to dispose of. You still aren't sure why you did it. He was never caught before and he must have cleaned up his job in the forest before getting shot. Maybe it was for the best. Let his radio persona live on. Let it be the last nice thing you ever do for him. You finally leave that hellhole behind.

-

You went on to live another sixty years, quite a feat if you must admit. You weren't much of a religious person, so passing in your sleep and waking up in the streets of Pentagram City, was a bit of a shock. After accepting the idea of an afterlife, you put the little details together. You were sure after all that went down in your youth, you would end up here. And if you're here, then maybe..

There are more important things right now. Lucky for you, you fell right in the middle of a bustling street. You scramble to your feet and quickly escape the speeding cars. Why were there cars in Hell? Why did it look so much like a big city you would visit at some point, how is it so human? There was so much to question, but you were desperate to find any sort of sanctuary.

You weren't sure why your first thought was to find the nearest bar, but something seemed to bring you in. You're almost disappointed in yourself for stepping into a club decorated as a 20s speakeasy. But it was familiar- nostalgic. A shrill voice draws your attention.

"Oh my stars! Get over here, doll!" The shriek brings your attention to the bar, where a slightly familiar face greets you. “What are ya gawkin’ at? It’s me! Mimzy? Get that tail over here!” Mimzy owns a club even in Hell? You approach her after some more beckoning.

"Long time no see! How long you been in?" She goes on. You observe her appearance as she speaks. She looks almost the same. The red eyes and sharp teeth were definitely new. You realize you hadn't had the chance to take in your own appearance, but clearly, it must've been similar enough for her to recognize you. Still questioning your position, you finally process her words.

"Oh- I just arrived actually. Lucky me to walk straight into your bar, hm?" You lean against the counter as she pours you a drink, a flurry of trauma and nostalgia turns to confusion.

"Wow! You had quite a life after old Al got you outta town, didn't ya?” She teased. You let out a nervous chuckle. Good old Al. You haven't thought about him in years. You were so young, so head over heels for this man you barely knew. You somehow managed to suppress all the bad times as you aged. Mimzy notices your face droop a bit.

"I suppose I did.." a brief smile meets the wedding band still on your hand.

"Well? Finally gonna reunite? Ooh! How romantic! You'll have to update me, sweetie!" Mimzy bats at you, letting out an excited giggle. You quickly shake your head, not processing any other way to respond.

"I-I can't- I mean.. Not after everything he’s done.” Your hands clench at even the thought.

“Sorry to break it to ya, but we’re all for a reason. You got plenty of time to forgive him, with the whole eternal punishment of it all.” Mimzy’s tone drops to a more serious one as if she’s heard that line before. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to rot in Hell with someone they love, you should see what he’s up to!” Her tone seems to immediately switch to something more chipper.

“Still, I uh.. I shouldn't. He’s been dead for so long, I’m sure he’s got some other dame cleaning up his messes.” Excuses. You didn't want to see him, because this is his fault. You're here because you helped clean up his space after his unfortunate death. Even when you had no idea, he relied on you. He trusted you to carry this burden for the rest of your life. Your rage was suppressed when you heard Mimzy's voice chime back in.

"Nope! He's been busy with uh.. his work. Still wears the ring, though~" She hums, tapping her finger to emphasize her words. You look down at your own hand. Why did you still wear yours, again? You never remarried, but mainly because of the trust issues that were instilled in you for the rest of your life. Maybe it wouldn't be a terrible idea..

“N-No, I just cant..” You let out louder than you meant to. Mimzy shrugs off your panic. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare room, would you, Mimzy?”

-

Mimzy did in fact have a spare room. You stayed in one of the ratty rooms about the bar, alongside some of the demons that rented the rooms for their own business. You realized, after finding a mirror, that you were portrayed with some feline features, nothing too disfiguring. Once you saw your new form, Alastor’s voice, every single time he beckoned you with kitten, rang throughout your mind. You couldn't bring yourself to look at yourself for the first few months. This was Hell after all. Eternal punishment can manifest in several ways.

Mimzy was still a clear supporter of Alastor, so she had a radio set up in your room already. No matter how hard you tried, you realize pretty early on that Alastor had some power over the radios that force his broadcasts to be the only thing streaming. You heard it all. The screams of souls being torn apart, his constant gossiping and cruel words making fun of other demons.

But damn, if it didn't feel like living again. Waking up every morning to the sound of his voice on the radio, before you can truly decipher what he’s talking about, it almost feels like a normal life. But then you hear the pain in those demons that he’s mercilessly tearing up. Sometimes, you see Mimzy cheering at the radio like some sports game is being narrated. You try to avoid her when she’s doing that.

Things were comfortable for many years. As comfortable as Hell can be, at least. Alastor became a distant part of your daily routine, you'd hear his broadcasts all the time, but only in addition to the other bustling city noises. It all seemed to cancel out after a while. You worked with Mimzy, picking up at the bar when she had to run off. In exchange, you stayed in that room indefinitely. You two seemed to become friends again, despite your living history. It became clear to you that what happened when you were alive really didn't matter down here. You all made the same degree of mistakes and you all learned that you’re here for the same reasons.

You went through extermination days as best you could, only having one face-to-face interaction. That day, you were already on the verge of death from falling debris and trying to escape a specifically insistent exorcist. She had you cornered. You shut your eyes, wincing at the upcoming angelic weapon you saw her raise at you. Only feeling a slight sting across the bridge of your nose and cheek, you open your eyes to see her flying back towards the portal to heaven. You can't believe you got that lucky. You’re still in disbelief at the entire scenario, but unlike most wounds down here, your face was permanently scarred. It was small, barely noticeable! Mimzy says.

But you knew not everyone had this much luck on extermination day. After noticing the silence on the streets, during the most recent extermination, you nervously left the bar. Everything was empty. The portal had opened closer to that hotel you’d heard of. And the exorcists were going straight to it. You scoffed, walking back into the bar. They’d finish off those demons there quickly, so you still wanted to hide. As you barred yourself up in your room, you remembered Mimzy telling you about her visit to that hotel. About why she visited the hotel. Alastor's there. You try to not panic. It’s been decades, why are you worried about him? Besides you know how powerful he is, you've picked up his whole radio demon shtick from others. He’ll be fine.

Then why are you so restless?

A loud knocking at your door shakes your entire core. You keep yourself hauled up in the corner of your room, covering your ears and squeezing your eyes shut. You still hear a voice call your name from the other side of the door.

“You gotta come see this! The angels are gone!” It's Mimzy. it's far earlier than usual, you were almost worried it was some new tactic they picked up. You crack the door open just slightly, and her small frame pummeled the door open. She paces your room, rambling words that you barely catch, and she shoves her phone to your face. You have to take it from her shaking hands to get a glimpse. It's hard to see, but it's very obviously footage of Alastor fighting Adam. His body is warped through the drone’s camera, and you watch him fade away into nothingness after one blow. There was no audio, You couldn't hear what happened. Considering you weren't familiar with his shadow antics, you had no idea what actually happened to him.

“You gotta find out if he's okay! I can't go back to that hotel, you gotta do it!” she sounds frantic, taking her phone back. “What? Absolutely not! I'm sure he's fine.” You wave your hand dismissively, despite the hesitance in your voice. Everyone's in Hell for the same reasons. Your mind goes back and forth on the possibility of forgiveness.. of mending burned bridges.

“The videos from a few hours ago, those angels are gone! Ooh.. He's just gotta be okay..” You didn't realize how much Mimzy actually appreciated Alastor. Whether it be the protection he offers or their actual friendship, you aren't sure. But she's clearly worried about him. You just aren't ready.

Mimzy spent the next few days begging you to go down there and find him. And you refused every time. She mentioned going to Cannibal Town to visit his "Gal Pal" and even she hadn't heard from him. He's disappeared before, just recently too, You're sure it was just like his last seven-year absence. Even if you were getting a bit worried, you'd never admit it. There were no broadcasts, there was no public trash-talking from the Vees, it was just.. quiet.

“Didn't you love him?” You stare at Mimzy, in disbelief that she just said that.

“Excuse me?” That seemed to strike a nerve. And maybe she meant to do that.

“I remember you two in my bar, you were two peas in a pod! I've never seen him like that with any gal, hun. That's not somethin' that just goes away.” Mimzy takes your hand from across the bar. “Please, go check on him. Maybe it'll be like a final hurrah, but I just gotta know if he's okay.” You look around the room as if someone would offer to go in your place. But she's right. And you'd be lying if you said you weren't missing his broadcasts. You let out a dejected sigh.

“Okay.. okay! Fine.” You huff. An immediate change in attitude, Mimzy lets out an excited exclamation and pours the two of you drinks, to celebrate her pushy victory.

-

You take in a deep breath, looking around the new hotel's exterior. It was much larger than the previous one and more lavish. You hesitate before knocking on the door. A series of whispered voices, then scrambling feet, follow the door opening. It's the princess of Hell. You weren't expecting Alastor to greet you, but you still feel a bit disappointed.

“Hello! Welcome to the Hazbin Ho-” You quickly interrupt.

“No! Nono, sorry.” You laugh Nervously. “I'm not here for the whole.. redemption thing. Is.. uh…” You peek around her shoulder, seeing a few demons you recognize from the commercial, but no Alastor.

“Is the radio demon here..?” You finally ask quietly. Charlie still seems a little hurt from the interruption, but just because you're not interested in redemption doesn't mean she won't try to convince you.

“Alastor? Sure! He's been in his tower since we reopened.. So, he's probably up there.” She explains, pulling you into the building despite your refusal. “I can go get him for you! What's your name? I'll tell him who-”

"That's actually okay! I was sent to check up on him, so.. if he's alive, then that's all I need to hear!” Mimzy will just have to be satisfied with that. You're chickening out. If they're saying he's fine, then that's good enough for you. The longer you're here, the more anxious you're becoming. You're worried he could pop out of nowhere. Which is a legitimate concern apparently. 

“Charlie!” A greeting comes from behind the blonde, and you see a red-clawed hand engulf her shoulder. “Already a new resident? How exciting! What unfortunate sinner has found themselves here as a last resort.. today…” 

You know that voice. Of course, you know that voice. He looks fairly similar to how he did when he was alive, the hair was new. Ditto the antlers. A deer? They turned him into a deer down here? You almost want to laugh. Maybe being in Hell for so long has turned your sense of humor that crude. You're staring with wide eyes. He whispers your name so quietly that all you can really take in is his lips forming the word.

“Hey, Al! She was just looking for you! I think she might be worried, right?” 

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up-

“I.. was! But I see he’s clearly fine now, so! I should get back to Mimzy’s-” 

“Mimzy? You're with that trainwreck?” a low voice comes from the bar, interrupting the conversation. The cat demon behind the counter scoffs at you. “Nice ears.” They fold down involuntarily from embarrassment.

“Kitten.” You immediately turn at the sound of Alastor’s voice, shivers thoroughly covering your body. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but it clamps shut. His eyes widen for a moment, looking around the room to see how almost every resident had gathered to witness the new face. You start to back away to the door.

“This may not have been the best idea.. T-thank you, princess, it was nice meeting you.” with a blink of your eye, Alastor’s arm is around your shoulder. 

“Why of course! Thank you for visiting! I'll escort you out!” His chipper attitude startles you, and you feel almost insulted by his eagerness to have you leave.

“Oh! Well.. come back anytime! Our doors are always open!” You hear Charlie call out as Alastor takes you outside the building. Before you even have a chance to protest, you're suddenly in a recording room. Your mouth is still open ready to scold him, but instead, you examine the dizzying change in scenery. Your eyes finally drop to Alastor, who had taken both your shoulders and let his head drop from your view. He startles to mumble.

“W-What are you-”

“Why didn't you tell me you were here?” His head finally lifts and you catch his perplexed expression. Pained eyes paired with a strained smile, it's almost frightening.

“W-Well, I.. it was just-” 

“When did you arrive?”

“A few.. decades ago..?”

“Decades?” His voice goes low and static. You pull away from his grasp as his voice changes. “You shouldn't be here. There has to be a mistake.” His voice returns to normal, and he starts to pace the room. Mumbling more nonsense to himself, he starts gripping at his hair. 

You watch this for a while, before finally approaching him. You take hold of his arm, effectively stopping him in place. Pulling down his arm, you feel the grasp on his hair loosen.

“Calm down. You're pulling your hair out, again.” You say softly, brushing his hand clean of stray hairs he had torn out. Reaching forward you attempt to brush his hair back into place. Your hand pauses, hovering just by his cheek. You want to hold him. He seems to follow your hand when you decide to quickly distance yourself.

His eyes look bloodshot and demonic. How could you still possibly be getting lost in them?

“You shouldn't be here, kitten. You’re here because of me.” You flinch at his words, despite how true they are, you manage to feel some underlying guilt.

“Yeah.. Mimzy just wanted to know if you were alright. And you seem just fine. I should go.” You say bluntly, taking hold of your arms and going towards the door.

“Why didn't you find me?” His words cause you to stop.

“Sorry, you weren't exactly the first thing on my mind when I woke up in Hell.”

“Kitten, I-” His voice seems to drop the radio static. It sounds entirely too familiar.

“-don't call me that.” You snap, biting at your lip unconsciously.

“I'm sorry.” He finally says. “It was.. irresponsible of me to lie to you. I made a mistake.” He sounds more embarrassed to admit he messed up. His ego makes you scoff.

“Yes, it was irresponsible. It was downright cruel, Alastor. I had to live with the burden of your murders and had to die with the consequences.” You turn back to face him, a rage that had been boiling for decades finally spilling over. “I did so much good after you died. It has to be your fault I'm here. I never told the cops, I followed your ridiculous instructions, and it was the worst decision of my life! And now I'm paying for it. For being too far in love to realize that you were just using me!” You've had this conversation in your head so many times, that you have no issue saying exactly what you want.

“No!" He stops himself before he can shout anything else. "I assure you, that isn't the case at all. I love you more than I can put into words, kitten, can't we just-” Alastor reaches his hand out to you and you quickly lean away. You spot the ring on his finger.

“Love? You used me to make sure your record stayed clean! That's not love.” You hiss.

“I did it to protect you. I gave you everything you needed to remove yourself from the situation if anything were to happen to me. You said you went on to do good, and I believe you. That was because of me! The letter and the money were both for your safety- I was helping you.” He isn’t exactly shouting, but his tone is certainly sending chills down your spine.

“You don't get to take credit for my life! I should have never come!” You fling your arms up, turning back to the door. He grabs your arm and turns you back to him, a tight grip on your shoulders. He opens his mouth to seemingly scold you, and you're ready to bite back. You notice him scanning over your facial features, and his expression seems to falter.

“What happened to you?” He runs a clawed finger delicately across the scar on your cheek. It had faded but was still visible. You wince at his touch, which makes him pull his hand back.

“Oh, don't act like you care.” You mumble.

“Of course, I care.” His soft response forces a pained groan from your lips. 

“All these sweet words you’re saying.. I-I don’t know what to think with that ridiculous smile.. I can't take you seriously!” Your voice is beginning to crack, losing the strength to have this go on.

“About that-”

“I hate you.” He flinches at your words, Out of everything you’ve said, you don't understand why that seems to silence him. He grips onto his chest, his coat and shirt scrunching into his fist. You watch him drop his head, bracing himself on his desk that he had stumbled to. You’re sure he’s being dramatic. Hamming it up to get some sort of pity. A sigh passes your lips.

“Um.. Alastor… I didn't mean to-” His act only fools you a little bit. You wonder if you’ve let out too much steam. If he really-

Before you can finish any other thoughts, he collapses to the floor.

“Fuck-” You quickly move to his side, flipping him to his back and helping him at least prop himself up against a wall. “Should I get-”

“Don't tell the others.” He breathes out, putting his hand up dismissively. With the wave of his hand, you see the blood across his palm. Your eyes follow the source to a continuously growing stain on his top. The sight of blood didn't seem to bother you after everything. “Just help me up.” 

“O-Okay.” You do as he says, helping him stand. Almost feeling like an instinct, you pull his coat off of his shoulders. He struggles to keep up with the movement but still gives in. He quickly loses his strength and stumbles to the small couch nearby. You almost enjoy watching him stubbornly refuse your help.

“I.. might require.. some assistance.” He says it so softly you almost want to ask him to repeat himself. Even if you understood him just fine.

“You're asking for help?” You correct him, placing your hands on your hips.

“I don't need help.” He snaps. You would've been offended if you knew he was just to flustered to admit it.

“Then what do you need?” You sit beside him on the couch, placing your hand on his blood-stained shirt. He immediately winces.

“For.. you to stitch this up.” You start unbuttoning his shirt, your hands grazing the fluff of his chest with a mild curiosity. You finally get the full scope of a completely untreated slash that would've surely killed any human if left untreated. But for an almost immortal demon, it was just a painful nuisance. Very painful.

“From your fight with… You want me to help you stitch this up?” You ask because that it seems near impossible to do so, even with someone of your medical history. It's wide and seems to be covered with specks of gold. It feels like small shards of glass when you swipe your hand over him.

“.. yes.” He says quietly. You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head at him. He’s reckless, too stubborn to have looked at the wound because of its reminder of his defeat. And you know that's exactly why it got this bad. No matter how small, Alastor sees the smile growing on you.

“I missed your smile.” He says softly.

“Please stop saying things like that.. You're confusing me.” You make sure to speak your words quietly as if you don't want them to be heard. A small demonic creature rushes to your side, holding a tray up with the essentials to properly treat the slash. It stays perfectly still once in your reach.

You went to work, after some proper scolding, trying your best to keep the process as painless as possible. Every so often, you wonder why you are being so careful with him. He doesn't deserve your tenderness. Your thoughts are stopped when you see his hand wrap around your wrist, pulling you away. His face is scrunched, a hiss passing by his tormented smile. You must've hit the wrong spot while lost in thought. Your eyes fall to his ring, again.

“Why did you keep this on?” You ask, examining his hand that’s still engulfing your wrist.

“It reminds me of you. And yours?” His voice is hushed, still recovering from the pain. You realize he has a full view of your own hand, your wedding band sitting just as clear to him.

“It.. reminds me of what you did to me.” You hear a quiet groan in response to your words, and he releases your arm, gripping the couch in its stead. You keep going.

“I'll admit, I was worried about you.. after the battle with Adam. Maybe it was Mimzy getting me all worked up..” You finally admit. You don’t want him to think you’ve spent your whole life and death hating him. But why would it matter either way?

“I can't be killed, you had nothing to worry about.” He replies, not willing to comment on your sudden vulnerability. Not in this position. All you can do is laugh at him. He's clearly talking out his ass.

“Looks like you got pretty close to it.” You scoff. His ears flatten, and he looks away like a stubborn child.

You finish up after an hour. It felt much longer. The silence with quiet quips mixed in, the surprisingly intimate moment, it was suffocatingly uncomfortable.

“I didn't want to come here. I was perfectly content in being in Hell. I didn't expect this form of torture.” You say, setting everything back onto the little tray presented to you. That little demon had been standing there this whole time. You notice it started shaking a while ago.

“Come now, you're being dramatic. You chose to find me, did you not?” He says, sitting a bit taller with the regained strength.

“I'm not being dramatic! You try to avoid Mimzy's constant nagging! I hear your voice everywhere, see all the ads for this hotel, and they made me a damn cat, Alastor!” You feel yourself starting to lose your composure, gripping your hair and letting out a pained laughter. “H-how unfair is that..?” You let out a weak chuckle, feeling tears well in your eyes. He pulls your hand away from your hair, brushing his thumb across your ring as he holds you for a moment longer.

“Completely unfair. Your appearance may be.. unappealing … to you, but your face is still the same. Your eyes still bright as usual, your smile just as sweet.” His sincerity is muddling your thoughts. Those thoughts that warn you he’s hurt you before. And now he’s a cruel overlord, he’ll hurt you again tenfold. You feel his thumb drag along your lip after realizing you had leaned in towards him.

“Still biting your lip, hm?” His static fades again, and you wince at the raw skin he's brushing over. Old habits apparently don’t die hard.

“N-nervous tick, I guess..” His closeness leaves you a bit breathless.

“Do I make you nervous?” His tone confuses you. There’s an underlying sense of worry, a genuine concern for your well-being. But you’re still distracted by his strange smile. You don’t have much time to think any further about it before you’re startled by gentle lips against yours. It’s quick but is more than enough to let out a flood of feelings you’ve been suppressing since the day you left your hometown. He looks at you with a sly smile on his face.

“I’m still mad at you.” You say quietly.

“I know.” He kisses you, again.

“Y-You don’t have to-” He interrupts you with another kiss.

“I know.” Still holding your face you barely take in his next words with a clear head. “I miss you.” Another kiss, just to throw you off this time, “I miss having you at my side.

Stay.. please.”

There was no way you would drop everything to live with a man you were barely married to in life. That didn't stop you from seeing him more, though. You were actually.. kind of glad to see him. To patch things up, even just a little. You’d visit, sneaking around at first to avoid any interaction from the other residents of the hotel. They were all more than intimidating to you. Especially considering one of them was the king of Hell. Alastor was more than happy to keep you away from him, though.

You updated Mimzy on how he was when you left that first night, but you left out the unimportant bits.. Like the giant angelic slash across his chest. You didn’t need Alastor to tell you that you shouldn't be going around spreading that information. A true accomplice. When Mimzy noticed you were visiting him to the point where you couldn't cover the bar when she needed you to, she was more than happy to kick you out. You knew exactly what she was doing. She didn't want you homeless, but you were essentially left with nowhere to go. Except for the hotel.

It wasn’t the worst thing to happen.. Things almost seemed normal. Alastor had lots of sucking up to do, even though he wouldn't call it that. He was definitely working at it. Making you breakfast like before, treating you like even higher royalty than he ever could while alive. He has the power to do so now and he fully intends to use it. And it’s working.. A little bit.

Okay, a lot.

You’re shocked that he still seems the same after becoming the powerful overlord he is. You’d love to convince yourself that none of that mattered, his status in Hell or what happened when you were alive. That you could just forget mortality to look forward to the potential future facing you. It’s easier said than done.

You're still struggling with your nightmares. Even more so in Hell, likely another form of punishment. Something about the hotel seemed to subdue some of them actually. As if the air were clearer here. It only helped most nights, though. Whenever you woke up in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe, clutching at your heart, there was only one thing to calm you. The radio at your nightstand would play a specific song. One that Mimzy was fond of, so you heard it most nights at her bar on Earth. Whenever you heard that, you knew he was there. He was waiting for you.

"Birdy?" You knock on his door, which seems to open slowly just from your touch. Alastor is sitting contently in front of his firepit. This wasn't the first time you've found him in the middle of the night.

"Another one, my love?" He tilts his head up slightly, the book he had in his hand shutting immediately. You nod your head slowly, already approaching him. Your blanket still wrapped around your shoulders is dragging across the ground. You give him a look he recognizes, and he nods at the implications. Without caution, you let out a tired whimper and plop into his lap. He pulls the blanket over your entirety.

Getting completely comfortable, he adjusts his arms to pull his book back to his eyeline. With your head nuzzled against his shoulder, you're too tired to conceal your little habit of purring. He doesn't mind, though. He loves it.

♡♡♡

Another big boy for ya 🫶

Human Alastor is really fun to write for, I had to do some research tho lol

I tried to keep Alastor's sexuality in mind, so I hope I represented it well. That's always something that makes me nervous when writing for Al 😬

Taglist!

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[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining (and hatred), slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, kissing / heavy petting, hickeys, sexual tension, eventual hate-fucking, some misogyny (not eddie), TW readers bandmate is a bully, TW drugs/alc/smoking, disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.

There's a really sweet-looking boy sitting in the chair across from you. The airport is blotted out by both your headphones —huge chunky cans, the best you could afford— and your sunglasses. He's a shade of sepia from the lenses, dark hair darker still where it's tucked into the hood of his hoodie. 

There's no way he could possibly know you're staring at him while you're facing your lap, scribbling lyrics for a song that'll never get made with your body curled inwards, and yet he looks up from the novel in his. He smiles, his cheeks pulled up, and he looks younger. He isn't old by any means but something about his smile is transformative. 

You don't mean to give yourself away. You smile back just a little. 

He says something. You push your headphones around your neck and break the seal, soft 70's rock replaced by the sounds of the airport, footsteps and clicking and children laughing somewhere behind you. 

"I'm sorry," you say, covering the cans of your headphones to cut their weak buzzing, "what did you say?" 

"I said you have good taste."

He nods toward your guitar case patterned in overlapping band stickers. 

You notice his own case on the seat next to him. It's more conspicuous than your own with only one sticker, a band you've never heard of. 

"I wish I could say the same, but I don't know who that is, 'Corroded Coffin'?" you ask, purely curious. 

He sits forward, a picture of casual confidence as he drops his face into his palm, elbow digging into the ripped jeans covering his knee. "I'm offended, sweetheart. They're only the best sound to come out of Indiana in the last ten years." 

"The Stacey's?" you offer, scandalised by his suggestion. "Doorway to Cooperstown? The Cats?" 

He blinks at you. "You know the scene." 

"It's my scene," you say.

You don't mean to sound pretentious, and hopefully you don't, but music is your life. 

"It's mine, too," he says. He leans forward and scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching absentmindedly. "Where are you going? Must be pretty important to tear you away." 

"New York. I'm– I'm a techie for Godless. I will be, once I get there." You sound smug and nervous at the same time.

"Holy shit," he says. He smiles a gorgeous, awful kind of smile, like you've been friends for years, and your good news is his. "No fucking way. Go you." 

Godless have been compared to loads of bands but the one you favour is a heavier, feminine The Clash. It's an emerging sound, punk rock stolen, repurposed, and remade. Reborn by girlhood rage. You love their sound (though you have some notes), you love their statement, and you're probably the happiest you've ever been knowing you'll be behind the scenes of a new era of music. 

"And you're taking her?" he asks, gesturing to your guitar case. 

Inside is a beat up old bass guitar you got for nothing. You're self-taught, you're good, but you don't have any disillusions on what you'll be doing on tour. 

"She's worthless," you say, "mostly taking her for company." You reuse his pronouns, though you aren't the type to assign personality to your instruments. "What about you, uh–" 

"Eddie," he says, taking his guitar case into two fine hands. Your eyes snag on his ragtag assortment of rings, and he leans over the neck of the case to retake your gaze. "This… is Sweetheart." 

— 

Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.

"We have to go. Why are you guys never ready when I tell you to be?"

You panic slightly. "I need a minute." 

"Ananya, could you find, like, a modicum of patience? Fucking annoying." 

Sharp, Morgan's unhappiness sounds over the droning drill of your shitty hair dryer. You shift where you're kneeling in front of the floor length mirror to check she isn't talking to you — unusual, but not impossible that her hostility would be aimed at someone who isn't Ananya. 

Ananya stands in the middle of the hotel room, thick eyebrows pulled into a familiar scowl.

"Get it together," she says disdainfully, like Morgan's nothing more than a mild inconvenience. 

You wish you had her confidence when it comes to Morgan's tantrums. You stand up, clad in nothing more than underwear and a pair of black stockings, your t-shirt in one hand and the hairdryer still humming in the other. You turn it off and let it drop to the floor, worried you're just another rockstar cliche as you take in the state of your room. Your suitcase is open and your clothes are all over the place, laid flat in an attempt to dry your rain-soaked clothes. Your underwear dangle from the lampshade, a mix of pretty lingerie you've yet to wear and full-shaped panties that had made Morgan laugh for a minute, no pauses. 

"I can see why you're so desperate," she'd barbed. 

You slip your shirt over your head in case you have to act as a human shield. It's honestly not the worst thing they've had you involved in this year. 

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Morgan asks. 

She's a fascinating creature in that she isn't always talking with thinly veiled passive aggression. You genuinely believe she's looking out for you sometimes, or believe that she believes it, at least. She doesn't say it with malice, simply asks. 

She's multi-faceted. 

"No," you say, though you'd been meaning to. 

"Good, skirts really aren't your thing. You look blocky. I have a pair of flares in my bag, wear them." 

And Morgan — Morgan's the lead singer of Godless. You don't really have a choice. 

You find the pants she'd instructed you to wear and half tuck your shirt, scrabbling for your shoes as Ananya starts lamenting the time, sat on the small table by the TV.

"They have to wait for us, babe, that's the whole point," Morgan says, fussing over her eye make-up. 

"No, they don't. And we really don't need the attention right now." 

"That's dramatic." 

Ananya leans forward and clicks on the TV with a perfect finger. The screen buzzes to life. She clicks through the channels until she gets to the local news station, and then she slumps over the frame on her elbow. 

You giggle behind your hand. Onscreen, images of Morgan are blown up and slated, your bandmate sloppy drunk on the steps of Covey Gold. They've caught you red-handed in the background pretending you aren't with her, but luckily Morgan's too obsessed with herself to notice. 

"I really don't see the issue," she says breezily, slipping into her tiny heels one foot at a time. "I look sick." 

She looks stunning, easily, but that's not the problem. 

"You have a fucking snow trail," Ananya says. 

Unfortunately, Morgan's left nostril is crusted with coke. 

"It's punk rock!" Morgan's moved onto earrings now, and she's jutting her tiny pointed chin toward the door. "Hello? We're late." 

You don't roll your eyes, but you could. You slip your shoes onto your feet and tuck the laces inside without tying them while the news anchor on TV continues to relay current events. 

"Fletcher isn't the only rockstar making a mess in New York City this week. Members of up and coming heavy metal band Corroded Coffin were sanctioned by Flume Venues Tuesday night for damaging twenty six thousand dollars worth of equipment when their lead guitarist kicked over an amp and caused a quote unquote 'domino effect.'" The anchor laughs. "Their PR has certainly felt some corrosion." 

You look up at the joke and are just in time to catch a picture splayed across the screen of the band. You're so close that their faces are made up of red, blue, and green, more colour than photo. Your skin glows with the image. Your eyes widen, perplexed. 

"Do we know those guys?" you ask. 

Morgan grabs your hand and drags you up. "They know us," she says. "That's what matters." 

Ananya turns off the TV. 

You're thrilled at being included in the 'us'. You've been an unofficial official member of Godless for four months now. Each one feels more unreal than the first, and each one brings a solidity. In Ananya's words, you're on 'probation, given you can keep up', but you look at her now, her hopeless expression as she closes your room door behind you, and know she's not hoisting you off the stage anytime soon. She'd have to deal with the world's tallest toddler alone. 

Your tour manager and assorted personnel meet you in the hotel's lobby, furious and panicky at your being late. Morgan spouts the same spiel as you get shepherded into cars idling outside of the hotel.

"We're the talent. What were you gonna do, throw the gig without us?"

You're both embarrassed by her and impressed. Morgan is pretty and talented and extremely loud — she's not afraid to stick up for herself, even when she's (nearly always) wrong. She sees each hurdle in her life as an unfair disadvantage. Insanity, in your opinion, considering nearly all of those hurdles have been jumped by means of a favour, rather than any expended effort on her part. 

Her bad attitude aside, she's a good singer. She's gorgeous, exactly the kind of face that obliterates mainstream reluctance. 

She sits between you and Ananya and kicks her feet out over the console, boots between your driver and your tour manager, Angel.

"You guys can't be late like this. You have half the time you need for sound check now, you realise?" 

"I don't need practice," Morgan says. 

"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–" 

Morgan laughs and bursts into song. She does it whenever she doesn't want to listen to Angel, and she sings an apt tune: Angel by Aerosmith. You look out the window rather than watch, eyes snagging on the wet New York streets and taxis and people, so many people despite the weather, black umbrellas like inverse stars lining the sidewalks. 

Morgan has a great voice, raw when she wants it to be and full of life when she doesn't. You can't hear Angel's venue instructions under it and are barely paying attention as a lanyard gets tossed into your lap. It sounds stupid, and a few months ago you wouldn't believe it, but you get used to the motions. Ferried from one place to another, all anybody cares about is technicalities, politics, public image, and how you look on stage. All you care about is the music. Your bass guitar in your hands, that familiar weight, the strings as your pick slides across them, and the sea of the crowd. Its waves and ripples, hands and eyes and mouths like poppies, red-pink tongues and black throats at the centre as they scream. When you throw your pick people want to catch it. They fight over it. You throw a few. There's always more in a box in some poor techies bag.

The cushy car you're in pulls up and parks outside of the venue's main entrance. You climb onto a wet curb and shield the top of your hand with your head, dirty rain splashing down in fat, sparse drops that chill your scalp. Morgan blitzes inside and Ananya tags behind her. You go slower, eyes following down the sidewalk where, in a couple of hours, fans will wait to see you, shivering in the cold. 

— 

Every breath Gareth takes sucks in Eddie's short sleeved t-shirt. Eddie scowls at the top of his bandmate's head and tries to shift away. 

"Seriously, man? There's a whole fucking couch," Eddie grouches. 

Gareth sits up with bleary eyes furrowed into a scowl of his own. He's pale and missing his glasses, giving him the appearance of a concerned zombie.

"Shithead." 

Eddie has a lot of emotions he wants to express and none he feels he can properly articulate. The injustice of his current situation, for one, is a burning irritant. How the fuck can you get grounded by your manager? And why did his warden have to be the most boring member of the band? Sorry Gareth. 

"Can't you sleep in your bed?" Eddie asks. 

"You'll sneak out." 

Eddie will sneak out. He's a fledgling rockstar in New York. Suddenly, there are a hundred colourful boozy doors wide open to him, and he intends on haunting the threshold of each one accordingly. 

But you kick one amp and boom, you're the antichrist. 

"You know this is stupid." 

Gareth rubs his eyes. "I mean, do I know that?" He reaches behind the couch armrest for the two-litre bottle of soda stashed there, and he talks as he brings the lip to his mouth. "You've been a real pissant lately, Munson." 

"You're a pissant, pissant," Eddie says, really scowling now. 

Gareth kicks him across the sofa. Eddie kicks back, foot jamming into the side of Gareth's knees. Soda spills in a shoot over the carpet. Gareth is a know-it-all with a predisposition for being as unpleasant as he can possibly be at all times, in Eddie's opinion, and Eddie knows the second the soda lands what he's going to say. 

"Nice going, hotshot. This is why you're fucking grounded." 

Eddie's halfway across the sofa when the door opens, an unimpressed Jamison standing with the light behind him. He flicks on the main switch and glares, brown skin golden in the resulting yellow light. 

"What are you losers doing?" 

"I prefer the term 'freak'," Gareth says, glare softening. "I'm fending off Munson's advances, what does it look like? No means no, asshole." 

"You're disgusting," Eddie says. 

"You look disgusting," Jamison echoes. "I don't know who forgot to tell you, but they invented running water a century ago. Go shower. I'll watch baby boy." 

Eddie thinks Jamison is hot in the freaky way — Jamison is conventionally attractive, and Eddie would let him get freaky if he asked. He has a perfect complexion, the most attractive of the band by far, medium brown skin and a broad-shouldered frame. He's the eye-candy, literally; they'd admitted him into the fold based one parts on his talent, two parts his image. 

He can play piano, guitar, bass guitar, violin, all that shit. He's a musician, and he's better than Eddie at everything but the guitar. 

Nobody's better than Eddie on guitar. At least, not anybody running in his circles. 

"I can't shower, I'm watching him." 

"I'll watch him," Jamison says, like this is extremely obvious and Gareth is an idiot. 

Eddie pulls a couch cushion over his face and drags himself onto his back, whining into the fabric unhappily. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters

"This is due diligence," Gareth says. Eddie feels his weight lift off the couch and lets his legs slide into the empty space. 

"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats. 

There's a silence. He sulks. Gareth collects toiletries and the bathroom door clicks open and closed. The shower spray begins to sputter, and then the pillow is being tugged out of Eddie's hands and tossed aside. 

"Jame," he protests. 

"Shut up." Jamison stares down at Eddie. "Are you done being a child?" 

"I already told you, it was an accident. Yeah, I kicked the amp, because my fucking string snapped and nobody would listen to me. I didn't know it was gonna actually move." 

"If we go out, can you behave?" Jamison asks quietly. 

Eddie sits up ramrod straight. "Absolutely… Why? What's so important?" 

"Jeff's asleep, I'm bored, and-" He shrugs offhandedly. "If you got 'em, flaunt 'em?" 

Jamison holds up a silver pair of car keys. They clink together, the sound music to Eddie's ears. 

—

So you and Eddie meet for the second time like this. 

“Does it have to be this loud?” you shout over the music, pleading gaze on Ananya, who shrugs. 

She looks better after a show, even drunk. Her lipstick is a pink-red with a darker but incomprehensible outline, leaving her looking kissed sick. Her dark eyebrows are ruffled and thick, their minimal gel sweated off. She has the most heartbreaking expression about her, and you think it isn’t truly fair, how she can look so pretty and be so talented at the same time. A tragedy that other people have time for both. You feel as though you barely have the time for one.

Despite the volume, you love the sound. This is your sound. Small town hatred in a big room — begging to get out and the music proof enough that you did. It’s passionate and anxious, a two-chord progression that’s boggling simplistic but drawing you in anyhow. Wrinkled noses and bored eyes say it’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’d hazard a guess that whoever plugged it into the stereo isn’t the kind of person who worries about public opinion. If Godless worked more on your choices, this is how you’d sound.  

“Whose house are we in?” you ask. 

“Babe,” Ananya says, “seriously, there’s a whole room of people who want to answer you. Go bother someone.” Else. Go bother someone else. 

She dismisses you with little more than that, slinking into the kitchen with a toss of her thick hair. The red of her corset top darkens to a bloodier shade in the mood lighting. She looks as though she’s bleeding out from the back. 

You aren’t sure Ananya’s right. You aren’t, in the eyes of the people here, anything impressive. A techie who’s been filling in isn’t anything new, no, you’re only impressive if you get to stay, if you play better than anybody else. You’re never gonna prove that under Morgan’s thumb, and you’ll never prove it without her. 

I need a bump, you think. Morgan’s coke nose flashes in your mind and you change your mind. I need something to drink. Something fucking cold, but if Ananya thinks you’ve followed her into the kitchen she’ll throw a pissy fit in front of everybody. 

The room is a gaudy yellow, a tobacco stained fingerprint over the lampshade with whorls of dirt in lines, darker patches where shadier reconciliation plays; in one corner, a bag of coke, another something worse. This had been a surprise with age rather than location, the commonplace of cocaine and the bravado of its sufferers from high school and up. You’d die for some of that cocky confidence now, numb gums and a sullen credit card. 

I need to get paid. 

The heat of a cigarette tip kisses your shoulder. In your ear, the sound of someone taking a long, slow drag, crackling paper. You turn into it slowly, looking up slower, right into the skinny face of your missing-in-action bandmate. 

“What’s up?” Morgan asks, blowing her smoke in your face. Your eyes burn. 

She’s placing the cigarette between your lips before you can answer. Whether she believes she’s tormenting you or throwing you a life raft, you’re grateful for it, sucking in a blistering breath and wincing as it floods your nose. 

You blow it away from her. 

“Ashtray?” you ask, pinching the cig between two fingers. 

“The floor’s fine.”

You raise your eyebrows, unsurprised at her cavalier suggestion and flick it still smouldering into your cupped palm. The door is perpetually open, guests flicking in and out like the froth of a cresting wave, a rushing entrance and a sluggish recession. 

“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her. 

“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.

“Bored already?”

“I have to be bored?”

To bother bothering you? Yes, Morgan would have to be bored. Bored or wasted, and she doesn’t seem inebriated. You place the cig between your teeth and lean your head back to look at the ceiling rather than give her the attentive watching she desires, the roof of your mouth an uncomfortable heat.

You remove it, blow all your smoke skyward, and drop your head. “How are you gonna fuck with me tonight?” you ask plainly. 

You find you aren’t asking Morgan. 

In her place stands a much taller, much more handsome face, big eyes set into pale skin. You don't recognise him at first. He wears the uniform well, in company with every other guy in the room, a crumpled shirt you imagine discarded and re-discarded on different floors. Ripped, dark jeans. He could be wearing nothing at all and the air of intimidation surrounding him would survive — there's something behind his eyes that alarms you, a knife's edge. Sweetness bordering cruelty. 

"I don't know yet," he says. An insipid smile takes his lips from corner to corner as he eases the cig from your hand. "I'm sure we can think of something… together. Sweetheart." 

Boys don't always give you the time of day, not the nice ones, and he doesn't look very nice. He looks like he's trying to calculate what he can get out of you. You're thinking you'll pay just about anything if he can get you a bump of something fun. 

He sees your look too, his lips poised to mention it, but you've just realised where you know him from. 

"I saw you on TV."

"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?" 

"In court." You give him your best doe eyes, a soft, sweet look, far from mastered and yet effective where it counts. "How much did you have to pay for all the stuff you broke?" 

His smile shutters, realigns. A split-second and enough to let you know his cool gaze is nothing more than a parlour trick.

"You look familiar," he says. 

You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?" 

He glares, the idea that his record label might pay for the damages he'd caused laughable and undoubtedly correct. You aren't trying to make enemies, aren't attempting to play someone you're not — you're meek mannered, mollycoddled, too naive to be in the industry for very long. You can see it on his face, exactly what he's thinking, and it's easy to see because everybody else is thinking it too. Even you. 

Before you can repair the offence you've caused, he's dropping your stolen cigarette on the ground and grinding out the flame. 

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly. 

You stare straight ahead and listen to him leave. Smoke tickles your nose. When you look down, the cigarette is smouldering. You squat down, pick up the flattened bud, and drive it into the floor until your fingers are black with soot. 

You wrap those same ashy fingers around the neck of a bottle of coke and try not to be too pissy about it. Fucking rockstars and their fucking egos. He did something embarrassing, and you're the villain? 

You feel bad halfway through your coke. Maybe he'd had nice intentions, but how could you know? You'd talked for all of two minutes. And even if he was bad news, he likely wouldn't have been any worse than half the jerks here. 

He'd have had a handsome face to look up into while said intentions were being acted out, at least.

You frown more. Wishing you'd been nicer to him because you're bored enough to want to get laid isn't strictly kind. Human, maybe. 

The feeling worsens when his appearance garners a small crowd. He sits in a nest of dirty couch cushions and a cloud of smoke, the smell of green strong enough to irritate you from here, telling a story with frenetic hands, and despite the cool look he'd given you earlier, he's making a show of it. Cussing, giggling, blunt between his lips as he ushers for a zippo. A pretty girl with surfer curls relights it, an act of flirting in the way she pulls her shoulders in. 

He takes the blunt from between his lips and blows the smoke so it misses her completely. 

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice rough as hewn stone. 

You kick one shoe behind the other and squeeze your tired thighs together. You get this feeling like a matchstick, red powdered head flicking against gritty scratchpad but failing to strike. Something is familiar about the way he speaks, his sticky inflection. 

Or you're lying to yourself, and you just like the way he talks 

The way he would've spoken, thick fingers braceleting your wrists as he forces your hands into the pillow behind your head, the weight of his body on top of yours, the snugness of a knee between your soft thighs. Your hotel light would've kissed his left side, dividing his curls into strands, the individuals glowing like silver thread as they danced over your cheek and temple, as his breath warmed your lips, as he closed the distance. 

Joan, you could hit him.

"That's an unfortunate hand. Are you sober?"

Cheeks full of heat at being caught in a fantasy, you lift your eyes and meet light, almond brown eyes almost entirely shielded by darker eyebrows. A man stands in front of you, a comfortable gap between his nondescript skate shoes and your worn boots. He's tall and pretty and surprising: he's smiling at you like you're something worth smiling at. 

"I'm–" You brandish the bottle as if that might explain it but harshly set it aside. "No, not sober. I mean, not willingly. Coke's were out here, so…" 

"Oh, right," he says, nodding knowledgeably. "Right, I was sorry to hear about that." 

You lick your lips. "'Bout what?" 

"They banned beautiful women from the kitchen," he says. "Hadn't you heard?" 

"No, that one passed me by." 

"I'm Jamison," he says, holding out his free hand. 

You take it. You tell him your name. 

—

Morgan is crying. Big heaping sobs that she attempts to talk through, creating this ringing whining sound that fills you top to toe with anxiety. You lean back in your hotel bed, wondering what it is in the world that could've happened to her as a kid to make her this unsatisfied now. Ananya blows on her freshly painted nails though they've been dry for hours, knee to knee with you atop the squishy hotel sheets. 

"I can't fucking do this," Morgan cries, tears dripping down her bare skinned cheeks. 

The three of you have been sworn off of makeup, junk food, and unapproved wash products for the next four to five hours. You're happy for this to continue until the end of time. Morgan, less so. 

You're trying to decipher exactly why she's crying, feeling a confusion you'd liken to the first modern day archaeologist that laid eyes on ancient hieroglyphics. All these symbols and colours and stories. No clear translation. 

If Ananya were an archaeologist, she's the kind who got to see the Rosetta stone. Morgan's moods make sense to her, and while she often doesn't empathise with her, she at least knows what to say to appease the worst of it. 

"It'll be alright, Morgs," she says, her faux sympathy unconvincing.

You feel a little sorry for Morgan and clear your throat. "And you're not by yourself. We're here." 

"Fucking amazing help you've been," Morgan says. Her voice does a theatrical peak, pure hysterics. 

It irks you how good she looks. You think that, maybe, if you could make your problems pretty the way that she does, you'd be a lot happier overall. You've often lamented that you suffer the kind of unhappiness that makes people uncomfortable and unwilling. You cry ugly, and always alone, hands over your mouth to smother the sounds, and that's when you do cry. Mostly, you bounce around inside yourself and feel very afraid that this feeling is forever. 

But, you think presently, that isn't Morgan's fault. Not all of it. 

Morgan throws her hands out at you and Ananya and spins on her heel, through the bathroom and into her own separate room. 

"At least the backdrop of her breakdown is nice," you murmur, hugging the pillow against your stomach, heels digging into the mattress to keep your knees up. 

Ananya snorts and flicks to the next page of her magazine. "Right?" She stretches her naked legs out over your sheets. You know she's decided to ruin your bed with her after-waxing oils rather than her own. "Better here than back home." 

"Why's she so upset?" you ask. 

Already, your thoughts are starting to drift. You take another peek at the phone across the room and will it into ringing. 

"She draws them on everyday anyway," Ananya says agreeably. 

You summarise that Morgan's eyebrows are the root of the problem. You don't blame her for wanting to look perfect tomorrow night. Your stomach is a weight every time you think about it, solid as petrified wood. This will be your first TV appearance that isn't a recorded concert, a mid-show performance for the Prover Music Awards, and it should further cement your place in the band. If you look good and people like you, public favour might be enough to keep you around. If they don't, there'll be a couple hundred different audience members with industry links. If you play well, and you're certain you will, you might finally prove to Morgan, Ananya, and the rest of the management team that you're worth choosing. 

You want it badly. You want lots of things, and being a real part of Godless could hand them all to you on a studded platter. Recognition of your talent, further experience, the chance to perform and be supported, to be adored, and the money isn't something you'll pretend you don't think about. A rockstar's salary is hardly stable, but a lack of stability is almost always supplemented by the amount. Wouldn't that be nice? To buy your own bass, to buy whatever you liked. To go out and have spa treatments like the one you'd had just this morning whenever you please. To get to feel beautiful and limp as this all the time. More than anything, you want the validation, the poster that comes with it. 

If Godless decides to keep you, it's a huge, blinking, neon-lit sign that says you're good enough. 

They chose me, and you're stupid for letting me go. 

They chose me. I'm something worth something. You didn't see it, but it's there in me. 

The subtext isn't important. 

You're scared shitless at the reality of performing tonight, knowing any fuck up could follow you, or worse ruin your hopefully budding career in rock for the rest of time. You have this body and this name, and if you want to keep your life you have to be good. It has your fingers itching for your piece-of-shit bass guitar where you know she's hiding under the bed. You should be practising, but this entire week has been practising. The dress rehearsal went well, and you'll give yourself a pass for having certain distractions. 

Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone. 

"Waiting for someone?" Ananya asks. She misses nothing. 

You both wince as Morgan screams and throws something across her bedroom, the eventual clattering smash indicative of a fragile target. 

"Think room service will send up a sedative?" she asks. 

Room service won't send a sedative, nor will they send the single hashbrown Morgan is apparently craving. You're starting to panic when the solution practically jumps at you. 

"Morgan," you say gently, standing in the doorway of her room with a tentative smile, "can't offer you something, can I?" 

You hold up your little pouch. Morgan doesn't know you well, but she knows it's where you keep anything interesting. She should know, she pilfers it of anything truly exciting within the day. 

"Don't be stupid," she scathes. "My eyes will be bloodshot. You know smoking doesn't agree with me." 

You hold in a comment on how she'd literally been smoking out of the window last night. 

"It's a brownie. It's a couple days old, but… perfectly edible." You offer her the pouch, dropping it at the end of the bed among her things. 

She picks at the brownie, timid princess bites that make you want to roll your eyes. You often think the worst thing about Morgan is that you love her, or you could love her more, if only she felt the same way. She isn't all evil and she never will be, she's just a person. But she takes shit out on you and makes your life harder than it needs to be, so even her most endearing moments fall short. 

"This tastes awful." 

You laugh and kneel down at her dresser to start putting her thrown jewellery box back together. "It wasn't that nice when I got it," you lie. 

You clean her room. Morgan never wants to do anything she knows can be done for her, and you know she won't bother here, not when room service will spend the hour it takes themselves. You think of some poor service worker squaring away the impossible amount of stockings and garters for a sad $3.45 an hour and the task suddenly becomes much more enjoyable. 

Morgan doesn't say thank you. You don't insult her intelligence by thinking she isn't aware of what you're doing. She sniffles and blows her nose daintily with a balsam tissue. 

"I saw you talking to that guy from Corroded Coffin." 

You brush off your knees as you stand. "Which one?" 

"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist." 

"The loud one." 

"He's kind of hot. If he calls, you should go out with him." 

"That's not–" who I'm waiting for. You squint at her. "Morgan, that would be terrible." 

"Can you get me something from the minibar?" 

You kick open her minibar and grab a cold can of seltzer. She slides onto her back and accepts it, pressing it to her eyes with a relaxed smile. Eyebrows forgotten, it seems. 

"That would be perfect. He can be the cat to your mouse." 

"Your definition of perfect–" You cut yourself off again when she starts to laugh. You don't believe it to be genuine. 

She lounges in bed for an hour until she's high, reappearing in you and Ananya's suite with a dizzying smile. You don't mind high Morgan. She's smoked enough in her time to bypass the dizzying, giggly kind of stoner. This Morgan is relaxed, almost easygoing. She sits at the end of your bed and watches you pluck out a bass line proposal for one of their current works in progress, head bobbing. 

An hour again and the stylists appear to spray you down with smells and oils and make up, and soon you've been strapped into a short shining dress with a cowl neck, dark black stockings that shine like oil, and heels you can't really walk in. You complain about them politely enough that Mel, the man in charge of your 'costuming', swaps them out for shorter ones. 

"This fucking corset is a nightmare," Morgan grumbles. 

"Sorry, love, that's all we've got." 

The commute is over in a blink. You arrive outside of the venue for the Awards, staring up at its imposing silhouette against the skyline, a dark building in the strange blue night. The sun is unseen but light illuminates the wet streets in blinding patches, so white they glow violet behind your eyes. 

There's a modest red carpet where you thankfully don't have to pose for many photos. After all, besides being a temporary member of the stage, you aren't truly in Godless. Most casual fans (the majority of their fan base) only know the faces in the magazines and on TV, and you have yet to be in either until tonight. 

After a bundle of shy and regretfully nerve-wracking photos, you're drawn inside the building and away from all the flashing hubbub. You sit in your seats, short rows divided by the occasional table for drinks, and you try not to sink into the carpeted floor. It smells insanely like nothing at all. No bleach, no air conditioning cleanliness. Every now and then another guest walks past your row and you get a whiff of perfume. 

A familiar scent pricks your attention. 

You look up, slightly over your shoulder, and your eyes meet familiar sticky brown. 

He drops down in the seat next to you, and you think, No way. 

He holds up the placard that had been under his thigh. His name is typed in clear blocked letters. 

It's a strange humiliation to have been read for filth like that. You're you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression can be pretty telling, evidently. 

"Hey, sweetheart." 

Matchstick against the box. You tilt your head and try to place him for the tenth time. 

"Have we met before?" you ask. 

He actually grins like this is the best thing you could've said. "You met my friend," he says, pointing down the aisle. 

Jamison stands talking to a woman who is admittedly gorgeous, and, to your sinking horror, much prettier than you. They kiss each other on the cheek and it's the kind of over friendly to make you sick. 

Eddie pouts at you. "Better luck next time, sweet thing." He throws one leg over another. "You look different. New haircut?" 

"You look exactly the same," you say. 

It's surprising how untouched he is. Sure, he's had some makeup applied and his hairs been tousled into life, but his outfit is remarkable in its simplicity. Surely rockstars can wear suits too? He looks neat and dark and tidy, but he also looks effortless. It's irritating.

This phenomena is not self contained, you find, as his bandmates sit down the row with their managerial chaperones and one date. Jamison sits right at the very end. He doesn't look at you. 

You avert your eyes and wonder if it's possible to die from embarrassment. 

The venue gets increasingly busy as the bigger names and bands flood inside. Soon, you're sitting amongst legends, people who pretty much spearheaded late 80s glam rock, punk, grunge. People you've only ever seen on TV. And it isn't restricted to alternative sound, there are pop stars and their supermodel girlfriends shaking hands and kissing cheeks in the row behind, while producers with names big enough to make your mouth dry up clap each other on the shoulders in front. 

"You'll catch flies." 

You turn to Eddie. He doesn't sound entirely cruel. He doesn't sound like much of anything. You could almost believe him to be a friend. 

There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek. 

"You have–" You point at your own cheek, a mirror. 

His lightness fades. "Nice." 

"No, seriously, you have something. Make up, on your cheek. I have a wipe if you want it." 

He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually. 

You're reaching out to help before you can stop yourself, witnessing your own actions with a strange out-of-body horror as you wipe the small black line gently. It spreads, and you panic and dab at it until it's an unfortunate grey shadow. 

"Let me get the wet wipe," you say. You'd been holding your breath, awkwardness stiff between you, and it sounds too much like a laugh. 

Eddie flinches away from your touch and covers his cheek. "I got it," he says stonily. 

He leaves, stepping over his bandmates feet like stepping stones, earning a cacophony of protests and disparagments. 

Dick, you think. Again, that had been a little bit your fault. Not all of it, he seems to be in a perpetual bad mood that can't be your doing, but you can understand why he might think you were laughing at him, and the defensiveness that comes with it. When he comes back you'll apologise. 

Or that's what you tell yourself. The lights go down, the curtains open, and the venue erupts with applause. By the time Eddie takes his seat again you're too afraid of disturbing the quiet. 

After half an hour you're ushered backstage. You have to move in front of Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin as you go. 

He looks up at you in silence. Head tipped back, face barely lit by the lights while you stand in between his legs. His lips part and he's all rockstar, his brown eyes and their edging of straight dark lashes, his pink, pretty lips. He has a distinct line to his nose, a cupid's bow perfectly shaped. His maker must have looked at him and known somebody, somewhere, would want to kiss him right there. His lips twitch. 

"Can I help you?" he whispers. 

You stammer a response that won't form and Morgan shoves you. 

"Fucking move," she says. 

His expression flickers. 

"Sorry," you say, unsure of who you're talking to. "Sorry." You sound pathetic. A kicked puppy. 

You keep your eyes on the floor until you're in the aisle, where a new set of nerves tries to swallow you whole.

—

Eddie knows exactly who you are, and he hates himself for it. He remembers you, the first you, shy and sweet and so excited, sitting pretty in Indianapolis International Airport with your guitar and your huge leaky headphones pounding death metal. While fame has broadened the amount of people who want to sleep with him, it hasn't changed his type, and you'd been a ringer, right there in the middle. 

You'd been pretty and maybe you knew it, maybe you didn't, it didn't matter — what he liked most was the way your hands had moved as you spoke, hummingbird thrumming, an energy he'd seen in himself and every other musician desperate for a chance. He loved the passion and your eyelashes and the way you'd smiled as you'd waited for your plane, the two of you destined for New York, where you both seem to have looped back now. Only, he'd been cursed with remembering your every detail, and you either didn't remember him or don't care. Both sting, but he likes the second better. He'll take purposeful cruelty over the casual any day. 

Like your thumb pressed to his cheek. The heat, and then your laugh. 

"The fuck is this?" Gareth asks, leaning over the space between their two chairs. 

Eddie looks up at you on stage and shrugs. While bands made up completely of women aren't new, they aren't as common as bands made up of men, obviously. He likes it, likes your sound, though it's not the kind of thing Corroded Coffin would ever play, and he won't join in on Gareth's doubt. Even if you are, like, a magnanimous shithead. You're good. 

"She's hot," he furthers. 

"Jesus, Gareth." 

"What? She's fucking hot." 

He has to squint to see you from this distance, and he can't truly make out many details. Gareth's not wrong. You're pretty, and out of the three members of the band you're the only one who actually looks like they're having a good time. 

The lead singer trails around the stage pulling Blond Ambition poses. She can sing well, she has a strong voice that does whatever it is she bends it into, but her propensity to drop the guitar slung around her neck to grab at the microphone stand like it's escaping isn't helping anything. 

The girl on drums is arguably given a pass, fighting to keep up with the pace, sweat sticking her thick hair to her neck in glossy spirals and her huge eyes set in concentration. Her messy lipstick sparkles under the stage lights, a party pink that pops against her brown skin. 

He thinks you might be trying to cover up the lead singer's sloppy playing. You're good, sure, but it's not the easiest to tell when it's ragtag and rough like this. Only because he's watching does he notice your pick slipping between strings to the floor, and your willingness to strum with the sides of your fingertips. He likes that. The dedication is hot. 

"I've never seen a girl on drums who didn't look like a guy," Gareth says. "She's killer. Think I can get her number?" 

Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser." 

"I was just asking." 

You bounce around and Eddie shifts in his seat, annoyed that he'd assumed you were the one Gareth was talking about. 

He claps for you when the song is over and hates how you return to your seat during the break, back in your cute dress and beaming, practically dripping in deodorant and post-show adrenaline. 

You apologise again as you step over him, and if there's one thing he doesn't want from you it's a sorry. Twice now you've spoken to him in the last week and twice you've made fun of him like some plaything under your thumb. Eddie isn't in the habit of being under anyone's anything. Apologies feel like salt in the wound, even though he knows you aren't saying sorry for the stuff that's pissing him off.

"What the fuck was that?" Lead girl asks you, sounding about as uptight as she looks as she climbs over your leg. "What were you doing?" 

"Morgan, I don't know if you noticed, but you didn't play half of the song," you say defensively, the skirt of your gem-encrusted dress glancing off of his thigh. The gems are tiny, like pinprick stars in country night skies. They shine purple, green, orange. 

Morgan holds her hand up for an attendant. When one approaches, she says, "Appletini," and nothing else, waving dismissively. She pulls at her stockings and doesn't notice the ladder she makes near the calf. "You're here to play what you're given." 

"I did." 

"And only that." 

Your silence speaks volumes. What he'd thought to be an edge in Godless' sound may have been an improvisation, something Eddie personally applauds. 

"Christ," Morgan says, "you're more trouble than you're worth. I hope you know that." 

Eddie believes the sting of her barb to be in the presentation rather than the words themselves, though what she'd said is hardly kind. She looks away from you as she says it, like she's giving instruction far below her station. Factual, concise. 

You barely wince. The lights dim, and he watches you contend with how you're feeling from the corner of his eye.

Eddie isn't evil. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and he's definitely holding his resentment at being forgotten tight to his chest, but nobody deserves to get shit on like that. You'd played well, you'd had a great time, and that should be commended. What's worse, your lack of a reaction tells him this is a common occurrence. 

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you say. 

Morgan waves you away like she had the waitress. You stand, and you say, "Excuse me," to every person you pass. Eddie put his hand on the back of his chair to follow you up toward the back of the room where the sign for the bathrooms glows green. 

He sets his eyes back on the stage and begs himself to stay sitting. Corroded Coffin's nomination for best up and comer has already passed, a loss, and there's no reason he can't nip to the bathroom himself. There's also no reason he should go after you. 

Fuck it, he thinks. 

What could go wrong? What could go wrong, outside of the women's bathroom, where he has so obviously followed you, where he waits for you like some creeper trying to paw one off on you. He can't hear anything but the running tap. For a moment he thinks you haven't come here to collect yourself after all, you'd needed to pee, which makes his situation that much awkwarder. 

Stuck between indecision, he leans against the wall between the women's and men's and digs for a cigarette. His pockets are empty, a precaution for exactly this moment. You can't smoke in the Prover Theatre, pissant.

You appear and blitz past him. 

"Hey," he says before you can go too far, "d'you have a card?"

You turn on your heel. Hands already in your purse, you dig out an unopened box of cigarettes and offer it to him. You don't look as though you've been crying or anything like it, but you don't look him head on, so he keeps his theory. 

Eddie peels the plastic off of your box and slaps the end against his chest for good measure. 

"I don't think you can smoke in here," you say finally. Your voice is tired. 

He raises his eyebrows and peers down into the box, pulling a cigarette free and sliding it between his lips. He holds out his hand for a lighter and you give it to him, already waiting with it between two fingers. 

He lights it, inhales sharply, and passes you back your carton and lighter with a clouded, "Thanks." 

"Yeah." 

He's surprised when you don't move. You stand there and watch him smoke, whorls of pearly smoke dissecting the air between you, spider-webs over your pert face. You're waiting for what he doesn't know, so he'll give you something. He's nice. 

"She's a piece of work." 

You shift uneasily. 

"I'm not the feds," he says, pulling the cig from his lips to talk unfettered.

"Forgive me for wondering if you have my best interests at heart." 

He beams at you, really smiles, startled and enamoured by your sharp tongue. "Now why wouldn't I?" 

You don't say anything, only pull at the neckline of your dress in what's likely a nervous habit. He gets a flash of the top of your chest and looks away. He thinks you're beautiful in a rather understated way, and he doesn't not want to see what it is you're showing, but he knows you don't actually mean to be so forward. He might be an asshole, but he's not like that. 

It's quiet here in the foyer, like standing outside the doors of the movie theatre. You can hear the announcement of a new category, the roaring applause. The hallway and the bathrooms feel cordoned off from it in a strange way, an uncanny energy that has him on internal tenterhooks. 

"You always let her treat you like that?"

"Like what?" 

He steps toward you because the distance feels unnecessary. "Like that. Like you're a dog." 

"Fuck you, I do not." 

He pouts, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue. 

"What would you know?" you ask.

"Besides hearing it all fucking night, nothing. You must like that shit." 

Your eyes go wide. He hadn't meant to say it. There's a light behind them now, some life, something to cover up that shitty wounded despondency you'd been wearing. Your hands bunch in the soft skirt of your dress, shaking. He's touched a nerve. 

"I must like it," you quote, strained.

"Woof. Do you do any tricks, or is it just the one?" 

He doesn't mean for it to happen this way, he wants it on the record. He's a dick, he's a loser, whatever, he hadn't meant to argue but he will. And, you know, there may be a slight possibility that he isn't as sure in himself as he appears, and that there are nerves he keeps too close to the surface, too. 

"You can teach me one of yours, if you want," you offer, voice tight with annoyance, "I'm thinking smug asshole picks easy target, but I'm open to other options." 

That's funny. He takes another step toward you, another, your cigarette between his lips smouldering at the tip as he inhales through his smirk. 

"Yeah, like what?" he asks, smoke licking your cheeks as he breathes out. 

"How you get your head through the door might be a good place to start." 

He waits for you to explain, knowing the silence will force you to fill it. 

"You know, considering you're in the exact same place as me, only one of us performed tonight and it isn't the one acting like God's gift." 

"You think they invited you to play because you're good?" he asks, feigning an earnest tone.

"I know exactly why they didn't ask you." You hike the strap of your purse higher up your shoulder, chin lifted in a snooty superiority that makes his heart pound. "Wannabe rookie who had too much smoke blown up his ass and thinks he's somebody. But you're not," you say. "You're a child. They've seen a hundred guys just like you in the Indiana circuit."

"You're a jumped up fucking groupie that got lucky," he says.

The light behind your eyes dims. He takes that last step, the step that's gonna put you shoe to shoe. 

He should stop now, he would, but suddenly his anger is real, this isn't strictly fun anymore. He says what he knows is gonna hurt you. 

"You're a stand-in, a temp who's already overstayed her welcome." He flicks the tower of ash between your heels. You follow it down, watch as it settles into the fibres of the carpeting. "You're a burnout waiting to happen." 

Your breathing is loud in his ears. Slightly too fast. 

"You don't know anything," you murmur. 

"If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog," he says, pausing, words coming out thick and slow, "it's a dog."

Your face flares with hurt. You're gone before he can say anything else. 

He's glad for it. Honestly, he's not sure what else he would've said, and later, he'll regret this, regret blowing up at you, regret following you out here and making you feel worse when he'd wanted the opposite. But tonight he's lit up from the inside out, your words a reverberation. A hundred guys just like you.

"Yeah, right," he says to himself, scoffing with a surety he doesn't feel. 

—

Donington Park, England, August 1990

"I'd be a little more excited if I knew they weren't desperate this year," Jamison's saying, "that's all." 

"They're hardly desperate." 

"Last time they had KISS, Iron Maiden, Megadeth." Jamison sighs and falls back into the couch, muttering about the stale smell before continuing, "and this year, what do they have? Poison? Thunder? Who cares." 

Eddie thinks he might actually have an opponent for biggest ego right now. 

"You know they put Godless bigger on the poster," Jeff says with a bright smile. 

"Can we not talk about them for one fucking day?" Eddie pleads. 

He's a little disappointed at the lineup too, but that doesn't make this entire festival a bust. Monster of Rock may not be the most prestigious event they've ever attended but it's still impressive to be asked to play here, and this is only Corroded Coffin's third festival. Eddie's a smug bastard and even he knows Jamison sounds like a bitch. Besides that, he's so, so tired of talking about Godless. 

"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"

"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?" 

Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?" 

"It doesn't." 

He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him. 

"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone." 

"You have it?" Eddie asks.

Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up. 

"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath. 

"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon." 

Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column. 

"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."

There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.

He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows: 

Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see? 

Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror. 

Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off? 

Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad. 

"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."

"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him. 

"And Cindy." 

"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously." 

"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs." 

"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks. 

"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave." 

"Do I know that?" Eddie asks. 

He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up. 

He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet. 

"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks. 

"Because she was jealous of my success." 

Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out." 

"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands. 

"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy. 

What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious. 

He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue. 

He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right? 

Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and— 

Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely. 

Don't be a bitch, he tells himself. 

Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room. 

Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it. 

You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch. 

You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly. 

He can feel your gaze on the side of his face. 

He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted. 

He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end. 

It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes. 

"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly. 

"Sorry." 

"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?" 

The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID." 

You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips. 

"You're American?" the cashier asks. 

"I'm visiting for the festival," you say. 

Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card. 

"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie. 

Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together." 

"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.

You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now." 

There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that. 

"I thought you didn't know who I was?" 

"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said." 

He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till. 

"What were you really gonna say?" 

The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.

"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean." 

His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown. 

He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.

You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway. 

"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess." 

"You can't be serious." 

"I'm so serious," he says. 

He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it. 

"You're hot when you're mad." 

You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same." 

"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?" 

"I thought that too," you say. 

He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice." 

You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter. 

"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival." 

You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor. 

You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention. 

"Seriously, come on." 

"No." 

"No?" he asks. 

"No. I don't have to listen to you." 

"You're being stupid." 

"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care." 

"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."

"What do you get out of this?" 

He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?" 

"Tormenting me." 

"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other." 

"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–" 

"You started it." 

You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his. 

"Don't touch me," you say quietly. 

He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea." 

"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car." 

You're infuriating. 

Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…" 

You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd." 

His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that." 

—

You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people. 

The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt. 

Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his. 

Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl. 

You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him. 

And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats. 

You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has. 

You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second. 

You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson. 

You don't do that. 

You wave. 

You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat. 

For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do. 

You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face. 

Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.

There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left. 

A wooden board creaks. 

You look up. 

"Hey, you–" 

Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat. 

Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view. 

"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest. 

"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You want to mess with me, is that it?" 

His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart. 

"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson." 

"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation. 

He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft. 

You lift your chin. 

I dare you. 

His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in. 

"Are you going to–" 

"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours. 

It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you. 

You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away. 

You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much. 

Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth. 

"Don't play games," he says. 

He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist. 

"You like games," you argue. 

He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once. 

His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt. 

"Stay still." 

You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own. 

"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?" 

Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it. 

"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now." 

A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan. 

"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks. 

His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding. 

He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice." 

"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again. 

"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart." 

Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance. 

You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.

You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game. 

You'll have to be better. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol

[pimosworld]

Only if you catch me

Pairing-Frankie Morales x f!reader

Series Summary-You meet Frankie when you least expect it. Both of you hiding from your past and trying to find each other won’t be easy, but it’s worth it if forever is with him. 

Series Warnings- 18+,MDNI, NSFW, Angst, hurt/comfort, Slow-ish burn, Explicit Smut, D/S dynamics, canon typical violence, Tom is mentioned (but dead), The boys got the money, Frankie helping reader open up in the bedroom, mentions of past abusive relationships, recovering addict, PTSD, tough family relationships, healing through therapy, protective Frankie, protective TF boys, found family, reader is a photographer , no description of reader other than the nickname Flash. 

WC-7k (who am I?)

A/N- This introductory chapter got me so excited for this. I hope you love these two as much as I do.

[Series Masterlist][Main Masterlist]

Not beta read

Chapter 1. Aperture

This should be a simple shoot.

  In and out. 

  Easy enough to dust off the cobwebs and get your name out there in a new city. An amateur boxer about to go pro. He needs a promo bill for some huge fight he has coming up. The details don’t really concern you about why. It’s the who. 

  Capturing a good shot isn’t about the camera or the angle, it’s not even about the time of day or lighting. That’s all secondary to who and what is in front of the lense. The emotion makes the image feel one hundred times better than the camera could ever try to capture. 

  You figured this would be a good way to dip your toes back into working. 

  You're early. An odd habit you picked up from knowing that the most meaningful shots are captured when everyone’s guard is down. When the family is setting up or when the bride is hanging out with her friends. When everyone is too preoccupied to pose…that’s when the magic happens. 

  It’s a modest gym, warehouse style on the edge of town. Thankfully not far from your new apartment so you didn’t have to stress about still not knowing your way around. Judging by the minimal trucks in the parking lot it’s a private shoot. That helps your nerves settle a little more not having to be in too large of a crowd. 

  You can tell you’re stalling so you brace your hand on your tote bag and the other on the door handle and haul yourself out of the old green Jeep. The most tried and true possession you own besides the Nikon Z nestled neatly in its case. 

  ****

  Low rumbles of men’s voices hit you when you enter the gym. The scent of sweat soaked leather and old wooden floors. The faint hint of liniment and gym mats. 

  The front desk is empty but you wait there for a brief moment. Taking in the clean front entry way  with various pictures on the wall. Some posed and some candids of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen. Just beyond the desk is a large framed photo of some of the men and one brunette clad in military gear. 

  A huge roar of laughter sounds from the other room, a welcoming sound that you feel yourself being pulled towards. So you take a deep breath, shrugging your strap higher on your shoulder and venture towards it. 

  You wanted to look nice,professional on your first job. Now the heels clicking against the wood, signaling to the men that a woman is approaching seems like the worst idea you’ve ever had. All eyes land on you as you enter the main area of the gym. There’s two men in the ring. One man is hunched over, dripping sweat as he looks like he ran several miles. A tall blonde leans on the ropes, looking the opposite of exhausted as he does nothing to disguise the way he rakes up and down your form. A huskier version of him is making his way towards you, a look in his eyes almost like he’s stalking prey, yet there’s something familiar there and it dawns on you that they were in the photo. 

  Another man across the room leans against the wall, his broad back turned away from everyone while he talks on his phone. His hand flits nervously to the back of his neck as he continues his conversation in hushed words. 

  “You’re early. I like that.” The man extends his hand and you compose yourself briefly to offer a former handshake than he expected. You can see it in his eyes as he releases it. “I’m Will, that’s my brother Ben in the ring that you’ll be taking photos of.” 

  “Hi sweetheart.” Ben blows you a kiss with his gloved hand and you raise your eyebrows at the forward gesture. Handsome, cocky, definitely not your type. 

  “Ignore him.” 

  “It’s kind of my job to do the opposite.” You offer up as you make your way to an open bench and he laughs genuinely. 

  You can feel the nerves rolling off you in waves as you open your bag to set up your camera. You know they’re watching, waiting for instruction and something about having the cool heavy metal in your hand always turns you into a bit of a bossy bitch. You don’t mean it but you can tell around these men you’ll have to hold your own or run the risk of being treated like a joke. 

  Will had already gone over in great detail via email what his vision was for Ben’s promo. The man was meticulous in his description of how he wanted his brother to look. You could tell how much he cared about his image in the way he wanted you to capture his youthfulness and passion for the sport. You didn’t need any further direction when you squared up alongside the ring. 

  “You here to capture my boyish good looks?” Ben flexes his muscles as you take a photo catching him slightly off guard. 

  “Just pretend I’m not here.” You gesture towards the other man in the ring who’s finally gained some composure. 

  “That’s James, don’t worry about him. He likes getting his ass kicked.” 

  “Oh…I guess you would know.” Ben scoffs and Will has to hide his smile behind his hands at your banter. Not one to back down from a little teasing and unbeknownst to Ben capturing candid photos while he tries to flirt. 

  You flit your eyes to Will in a silent communication. 

  “Ben! Focus please.” 

  It’s almost immediate the way he switches to fight mode. Dancing around his opponent, toying with him like he’s a child. He doesn’t seem phased by the snap of your camera as you take a few test shots. 

  The way he bites his lip when he’s squaring up his opponent. How he bounces left to right when he doesn’t have a good shot. Maybe only you notice because you’re watching him so intently when he realizes he’s found his opening. His vision zeroes in and his movements cease. 

  That’s when you take the shot. 

  “He’s too photogenic.” The low sultry voice registers behind you but it doesn’t cause you to startle. 

  “Disgustingly so.” 

  He laughs, and there it is again. The boldened, unadulterated laugh that these men have a lock on. 

  You don’t have to turn around to know the mysterious voice is accompanied by the man that you’ve been eyeing since you got here. He’s confident enough to penetrate your bubble of safety to occasionally peek over your shoulder as you check the shots you're getting. 

  If he notices you flinch at the sound of leather meeting skin he doesn’t say anything. 

  “It’s a shame such a handsome face chooses to subject itself to such torture.” You say as you continue to adjust the angle. He glances over to you, watching you work. Trying to keep his eyes off your legs exposed in your knee high sundress. 

  His body is closer to you now, this stranger. 

  “He doesn’t make a habit of getting hit.” He smirks when you look at him and there’s no cover for you as your lips curl into a smile. “It’s easy to not pretend that he’s so good looking.” 

  “Don’t sell yourself short.” 

  He looks at you then as he brushes his fingers along his lips. Chocolate brown eyes piercing into you and you can’t help but snap a picture. 

  It’s brief. The moment of apprehension from him as you study the photo on your lense camera. This stranger is awaiting your approval. Likely not having his photo taken in such an intimate setting in quite some time. Another one of the handsome men from the front desk picture. 

  It takes you by surprise when you see it. 

  If he notices he doesn’t say a word. 

  He’s beautiful. An old world beauty with all hard lines and soft eyes. He sidles up next to you and the warmth emanating from him is enough to have you delirious. 

  “So…what’s the verdict?” 

  You bite your lip and hold on as you glance up at him. His mouth slightly parted in an o shape as he watches you release it. 

  “You’re a natural.” 

  “Francisco.” 

  You give him your name and he says it like a command. 

  “Hey, I’m not paying you to take pictures of his ugly mug.” Ben’s voice cuts through the little moment you were having with him as he flips his friend off, looking a little sheepish at having displayed it in front of you. 

  You send him an apologetic look as you get back to work. You occasionally check the images to make sure the lighting isn’t off. It’s glaringly obvious that Ben is posing and it’s throwing you off. You want him to look more natural but instead it’s coming off like a cheesy catalog. 

  “So…you borrowing that camera from Andy?” There’s that voice again, so close to you and you can’t deny it does something that you wish it wouldn’t. 

  You smirk glancing down at the black and white label just above your lense. 

  ANDY

  “No, that’s her name…Andromeda.” Offering up no further explanation you continue shooting, walking around the ring because you have to find a way to work around Ben's chaos. 

  He’s following closely behind as his heavy footsteps creak on the old wood floors. His arms crossed against his chest as you look over your shoulder. His face reads exactly what you would expect from purposefully leaving someone in the dark for your own amusement. 

  “Andy because Andromeda wouldn’t fit…Andromeda was rumored to be the most beautiful and…” You trail off as you admire it in your hand. “She’s the most beautiful in my collection and the most important to me.” 

  Running his tongue over the front of his teeth you think he wants to make fun but it’s quite the opposite. You’re distractingly beautiful and cute and if he was feeling adventurous he’d call you Andromeda but he’s not confident enough to dish that one out. So he stays quiet. 

  Too quiet. 

  You’re panicking thinking how you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of this handsome man and you should back pedal. Explain away your ramblings because you’re so used to not being understood. Yet he surprises you. 

  “I have a heli named Lucy.” 

  He mentions all casually and you have to register that he means helicopter. Subtle 

  “Francisco.” 

  “Frankie, my friends call me.” 

  “Frankie…you own a helicopter?” 

  Will stepped into the ring to let Ben know he can stop torturing James. Frankie has to thank his friend as he sees him grab Ben to keep him from intruding on one of the best conversations he’s had in awhile. 

  “It’s not meant to be a brag, but yes.” 

  You hum in approval as you turn to look at him. Your eyes pin him to the spot and he feels his face grow hot. 

  “Lucy is a lucky lady.” 

  It’s the gleam in your eyes. The way his stomach does a flip when he gets a whiff of your perfume. He’d throw away all notions of the cliche love at first sight because maybe he finally sees how it’s possible. It also welcomes another uneasy feeling. The feeling that people are so quick to settle for less, something he’s done most of his life because that’s what he thought he deserved. His last few relationships he settled just to feel comfortable and one of those almost took him under. 

  “So did you turn me into a model or what?” Ben slaps Frankie on the back and he’s never wanted to strangle him more. “Or what.” Mumbled under his breath and he catches your smile ear to ear. 

  You don’t answer as you see Will approaching already knowing who has the final say. 

  Ben’s ribbing him, sending all sorts of suggestive eyes at Frankie as he wraps his sweaty body on his shoulders and you slink away to handle business. 

  ****

  “These look great.” You know Will is being nice when it comes to your work…you don’t want nice. You want honest. 

  “They could look better.” He snorts as he looks over at his brother shadow boxing Frankie.

  “Tell me more.” 

  ****

  You’d said your goodbyes and made your way out of the gym with your dignity intact. Stepping out into the parking lot to take the first deep breath in over an hour. 

  Will was thoroughly impressed with the photos. So impressed that he asked you…practically begged you to photograph Ben's upcoming fight. You think this may have just been an audition for that but you can’t be mad since he paid you for today and you got to meet Frankie. 

  He could sense your apprehension and assured you that the fights are nothing but professional and he would be there if you had any concerns. Of course you were secretly hoping Frankie would be there as well. 

  Since moving to Tampa Florida a year ago you knew dating was out of the question. The dramatic fashion in which you ended up here was enough to have you swearing off all forms of a relationship. As the months passed and you watched your savings dwindle you knew it was only a matter of time before you picked up your camera again and tried to find that sliver of hope that you hadn’t lost the passion for something you once loved. 

  Meeting Frankie was unexpected and it makes you wonder if you’re even ready for this. It seems you’re getting a little ahead of yourself because all you received when you left him was a polite nice to meet you. You didn’t miss the way his friends looked at him as though he had more to say. 

  You put the keys in the ignition of your old Jeep praying to anyone listening that it will still turn over. You know it’s on its last leg but you definitely can’t afford a new car right now. The weak ac blows in your face as it roars to life and you curse yourself for having chosen a place so humid that everything clings to you to the point of suffocation. 

  Your phone is buzzing in your tote and you already know who it is before checking. 

  “Hi Dom.” 

  “How’d you know it was me?” You take a long pause and hear her chuckle on the other end. 

  “Dominique, you’re the only person I talk to.” 

  Your sister, the only family member you can still stomach talking to. The only sane one who understood your struggles and didn’t dismiss your need to separate from your toxic mom and stepdad. 

  You felt bad leaving her behind but she had a family of her own that kept her afloat. Her wife Elise and your adorable nephew Casey were the only family you acknowledged at this point. 

  “So how was the shoot?” You can hear it in her voice. You know what she’s really asking. Are you okay?

  “It was great honestly.” You pause long enough for her to seem worried. She always worried, being your older sister. 

  “Hmmm.”

  “I’m being honest. It went a lot better than I thought. I was having second thoughts at first with this being my first one, but the second I started it was like riding a bike.” 

  “And you were fine with the fighting?” A beat of silence. 

  “Yes…it wasn’t really fighting, more so just throwing a few punches and dancing around.” You clear your throat. “The boxer is actually a sweetheart. His friend and brother were there too and they were really nice.” 

  “Ohhh tell me more about this boxer.” 

  “Oh no he’s not the one.-“ You hadn’t stopped yourself in enough time to catch the way you specified that there was one. 

  “The brother…wait no let me guess.” You groan at your sister’s incessant detective skills. “It’s the friend isn’t it?” 

  “It’s no one actually.” Which isn’t quite a lie. “Oh shit.” 

  You hear your sister frantically asking what’s wrong when you see Frankie exiting the gym. It looks like he’s coming right towards you but maybe he’s just parked near you. You don’t seem to be that lucky when he rounds the side of your car and taps on the window. 

  “Give me a sec Dom.” 

  You roll down the window as you try to calm your beating heart. He leans against the side slightly ducking to shield himself from the sun and you notice how snugly his shirt fits around his bicep. 

  “This Jeep has to be almost twenty years old.” He glances in at the pristine interior admiring your mini camera charm hanging from the rearview mirror. 

  “Wow, we’re starting off with insults.” You smile and he can’t help the way it’s already so easy with you. 

  “It was meant as a compliment.” The way he drops his voice and his close proximity has you sweating, or maybe the humidity is taking over. “Anyway…I just wanted to let you know I’ll be there on Friday. Will said you seemed a little nervous.” 

  You groan as you hide your face in your hands “Was it that obvious?” 

  He hesitates as he looks at the worry lines between your brows, wanting to smooth them out with his thumb and he thinks me might actually be losing his mind over you. “No…I’m sure it was fine.”

  Fine

  He removes his cap as he runs his fingers through his hair and it’s not evident if he’s doing it on purpose or if it’s a nervous habit but you wish he would stop looking so handsome. 

  “I look forward to seeing you and Andy on Friday.” His eyebrow arched and his lips curled up into a smile. 

  You plop your hands dramatically on the steering wheel. “I’ll be the awkward one with a camera if you can’t find me.” You both laugh and a moment passes as you wait for something, you’re not sure what. “Bye Frankie.”

  You roll up your window and sigh at the cool air hitting your damp skin as he takes one last look at you over his shoulder. You think he’s heading to leave but he retreats back into the gym and you realize he came out here looking for you. You are so fucked. 

  You shakily hold the phone up to your ear. “Dom, you still there?”

  A shriek echoes in your ear as you hold the phone away. 

  “I’m deaf now…are you happy?” You can practically see her face on the other end. All teeth and tongue as she tries to contain her sarcasm. 

  “Who’s Frankie, how does he know about Andy? What’s happening on Friday?” She’s spiraling now and you don’t have the patience to sit in this parking lot any longer. 

  “I gotta go Dom, I’ll explain later.” 

  “Don’t you dare hang up-“

  ****

  Friday

  You’d been nervously counting down the days leading up to the fight for several reasons. The thought of seeing Frankie again and the fact that Will had a lot of confidence that you were going to be perfect for the job. Despite never having watched a professional fight let alone photographed one terrified you. 

  Blood made you squeamish and the thought of possibly witnessing any broken bones had you sweating through your shirt. 

  You’re early again but Will was impressed by that. The fight is being hosted at a much larger gym so you wanted to make sure you didn’t get lost on the way. Giving yourself a once over before hopping out of your car with your tote and Andy in tow. 

  Heels didn’t seem appropriate for a fight so you went for a casual look of jeans and some thrifted tee shirt from ages ago that had Mike Tyson on the front. 

  Going anywhere alone always gives you anxiety but you muster up the courage to head inside. The moment you step through the door it’s an assault on your senses. The unmistakable scent of stale sweat and cheap cologne greets you. There’s a lot of people already here crowding around the ring and taking their seats. The air vibrates with a hum of conversations, discussions of strategy and predictions. 

  There’s a clear divide of supportive colors, some people clad in red and other patrons in all black with Miller boxing on the back of their shirts. 

  You’re thankful no one seems to notice you as you mill about searching for that one familiar face you’re hoping is here like he said he would be. 

  You’re taken aback by a promo poster of Ben along the wall. The image of the tall blonde flexing with his arms raised, looking proud as a peacock was definitely a photo you took the other day. Whoever designed the poster did an amazing job at not taking away the raw charm of the original photo. 

  “Admiring your work.” Will steps up next to you, arms crossed as he stares proudly at the photo. 

  “This poster looks pretty good for such a quick turn around.” You told him with a genuine smile. 

  He shrugs his shoulders. “I dabble here and there with photoshop.” 

  He notices you glancing around him, a small smirk gracing his features. “Looking for someone?”

  This isn’t the first time you notice how obnoxiously intuitive he is. “No, just taking in the scenery.” It’s a lie he'll let you get away with for now. 

  “I’m actually glad you’re early, if you don’t mind snapping some shots of Ben in the locker room.” He gestures towards the large double doors across the room. 

  You have to laugh at him. “I don’t mind doing my job, Will. It’s what you hired me for right?” 

  He starts walking and you follow close behind. “Sorry, I’m used to giving orders to men and asking for permission from women.” 

  “Will, please don’t ever apologize for that.” You add before he opens the door stepping aside to usher you in. His presence is so reassuring, it’s dizzying being around men that actually make you feel safe for the first time since you left home. 

  Will whistles and it echoes off the walls in the locker room. Ben glances up from his hands being taped and shoots you a nervous smile. You can tell his attitude is in fight mode, his adrenaline no doubt focused on his opponent. The bouncing, jovial man from the other day is subdued, concentrating on the task in front of him. 

  Your hands instinctively reach for your camera  to capture the pre-fight moments. There’s a woman taping his hands with red hair and strikingly beautiful green eyes. She doesn’t seem to mind as you close in on their space to get a shot of her intricate tape. Ben’s hands shake slightly but he does his best to hold them still. 

  He’s clad in all black shorts and shrugs off the Miller boxing shirt when she’s done taping. He can’t help himself as he turns to you and flexes. 

  “I think this is your signature pose.” You say as he turns to his brother, sending him a look of  ‘I told you so’. 

  “Don’t encourage him.” The woman adds as Will slides up next to her planting a kiss on her cheek. 

  “I think you both forgot why she’s here.” Ben gestures to you. “Yours truly is the main event.” 

  “I don’t know how the other guys gonna fit in the ring with Ben and his ego.” Will and the woman laugh as Ben looks less than amused and you snap a photo, candids being your favorite. 

  “I’m sorry, excuse my manners.” His hand placed gently along her lower back as he ushered her towards you. “This is my wife Amber.” 

  She raises her eyebrows at him as you offer your name and you look slightly confused as Ben scoffs. “I’m his fiancé, but I should be flattered at how eager he is to be my husband.” 

  “Wife has a better ring to it.” He leans in kissing her again and Ben just groans. 

  “They’re like this all the time. It’s obnoxious.” He says with mock disgust. 

  You snap another photo of the intimate moment, since they didn’t protest the first. I think it’s beautiful. 

  ****

  Still no sign of him

  But you can’t think about that right now as Benny prepares to enter the ring. The bright lights surrounding the room and the raucous noise is starting to get to you but you take a few deep breaths and hope you can hold out. 

  Amber and Will are preoccupied on the sideline, hyping Benny up as he sized up his opponent. Who somehow seems two times the size of the young blonde. Something tells you not to underestimate him as the stone cold look washes over his features, making anyone who stands in his path sorely regret it. 

  The crowd roars as the bell signals the start of the fight. Your camera poised and ready with your nerves and excitement swirling in equal measure. If you thought Ben sparring the other day was bad, you were wildly unprepared for the sound of the first blow to his opponent’s face. You wince behind your camera flash as the distinct grunt of a possible broken nose is evident. Ben takes a wide shot to the ribs but he doesn’t falter. Blow after blow and it seems you’re getting more comfortable with the onslaught of violence for some odd reason. 

  Perhaps it’s the way Benny has handled each one or the fact that you’re finally getting the shots you so desperately wanted the other day. He’s actually focused on what’s in front of him and not on you. You can drown out the rest of the noise besides Will's coaching and Ambers cheers of encouragement. The shutter of Andy is all you need. 

  “Sweetheart, you should take my picture.” 

  You recoil at the sweaty palm on your lower back and the pungent smell of cheap liquor invading your senses. It’s no surprise when you turn to see a random man, bloodshot eyes from too many long nights and too much booze. You already knew by the sound of his voice that it wasn’t who you’ve been expecting. 

  “No thanks.” You gesture to your camera. “I’m sort of working here.” 

  You continue to try and focus back on the fight as it seems Benny has him on the ropes and it’s not too long before the other man is going down. 

  He’s closer now, caging you against the ring as his hand threatens to move lower and everyone is too preoccupied to notice that you want to crawl out of your skin. 

  “Come on hun, you don’t have to be bitch.” The last part he practically spits at you and with his opponent keeled over momentarily Benny’s eyes flash to you like a caged animal. 

  You think for a brief moment he might jump over the ropes but he flashes you a wide grin and continues to back up as the ref gestures his hands for the countdown. 

  The pressure is suddenly off you and you feel like you can breathe again, as you whip around to see where he went. “You know you shouldn’t touch women without their permission.” Frankie’s large palm is gripping the man’s shirt as he struggles to get out of his grasp. 

  “Get the fuck off me Morales, I know you’re not gonna hit me.” Frankie's eyes flash to you briefly in worry, a signal that he knows this creep and doesn’t want to be associated with him. 

  Frankie drags him by the collar just out of earshot as he sees you turn back to the fight so as not to miss any important shots. 

  “Listen up Jones.” He grits out through clenched teeth. “You’re gonna get yourself in some real trouble one of these days.”

  “Hey, Morales I didn’t know she was your lady okay.” 

  “She’s not…” He lets out a sigh of frustration. “Just quit fucking around, I can tell you’ve been drinking again. If I don’t see you at a meeting this week I’m gonna throw you into the ring with Ben and see if he can knock some sense into you. Comprende?” 

  He releases him with force as he shrugs his shoulders, trying to smooth out his shirt. “Ya ya, you’ll see me.” 

  Frankie watches the man disappear into the crowd toward the direction of the bar and just shakes his head. You’re still there as the ref signals that Benny won the fight and he shoves his way back through to you on the sideline. 

  There’s a look of relief and something else on your face when you turn to him. 

  “Benny won!” You flash him a bright smile as he laughs to himself. 

  “He always does.” It’s said assuredly and proud as you turn back to the ring. His arms lean protectively on the ropes beside you, careful not to touch you but close enough where no one would try to push you out of the way. 

  You glance down at the monitor to take a deep breath as you feel him behind you. His woodsy cologne mixed with the fresh body wash wafts towards you. That mixed with the fact that he was so instantly protective of you has your head spinning. 

  Trying desperately to focus back on your job you realize the last shot Benny’s slightly blocked by the ropes. You let out a huff of frustration as Frankie leans down close to your ear. 

  “Everything okay hermosa? Is it Andy?” No it’s you

  You close your eyes as you let the deep lull of his voice calm you. The voice you’d waited hours to hear. The one you couldn’t stop thinking about since that first day. 

  “Ya everything is fine.” You laugh to yourself at his genuine concern for your most prized possession. “I just can’t see very well.” 

  He worries his lip hoping he’s not overstepping after your encounter earlier. “I have an idea.” 

  Intrigued, you turn to him as he gestures to the side of the ring. “Step up.” You tilt your head at him and he raises his eyebrows and points to the ledge. 

  “Frankie.” 

  “I promise I won’t let you fall.” You falter for a brief moment, but the crowd cheers as Benny runs around the ring and you can’t waste another shot. 

  He steps up behind you, careful not to touch until you’re ready as you take one hand and hoist yourself up with the rope. Your other hand is securely on your camera. You think you’re fine but the rope gives a little and you start to fall back but the breadth of his shoulders is right behind you as he instructs you to lean on him. 

  Your heart is going to pound out of your chest as you realize how intimately he has you wrapped up. His arms around your thighs hold you steady and yet you can tell he’s doing it with the utmost composure to make you feel comfortable. 

  Benny runs over to you, flexing his arms with his signature pose, coined by you. Your hands still aren’t moving and Frankie nudges you slightly. 

  “I’ve got you.” You sure hope he does for your sake. The way he’s looking at you and holding you right now, you don’t think you’d be able to stand up on your own. 

  You turn back to Benny and snap a few shots of his winning smile. 

  “Fuck me, the flash is on.” You make a few adjustments and disable the automatic flash. The bright lights surrounding the ring provide plenty of light amongst the room. 

  Frankie has to take a few deep breaths, especially when your choice of words has him thinking things he shouldn’t with your body as close to his as it could get. He’s trying to be professional, he did suggest this after all and it would be rude to take advantage of the situation. 

  He can tell you’re relaxing as you go back and forth between glancing at the screen and Benny. Your ass is perched  perfectly along his shoulder as his arms protectively bracket your legs to keep you upright against the ropes. He can smell vanilla and something familiar, even through your jeans which he’s grateful for, if not for them his cheek would be touching the smooth skin on your thigh. 

  The crowd starts to disperse as Will and Amber join Benny in the ring. Benny playfully jumps on his older brother as he shrugs his sweaty body off of him. Despite you not taking any more pictures Frankie still has you wrapped as they come over to join you. Amber sends you a knowing look and your face grows hot as you halfway pretend to look over photos. 

  “So…how did it turn out?” Ben bounds over with a gleam in his eye. Adorned with a few scrapes and bruises but otherwise untouched. 

  He leans on the ropes as you hold out the camera flicking through a few of your favorite shots. His arm draped over you and the sweat and adrenaline is rolling off him. You can’t be too upset, the man just single handedly pummeled his opponent like it was just another day. Frankie swats him playfully to save you from the post fight stench about to seep through your tee shirt. 

  “Sorry, he doesn’t really know what personal space is.” You glance down to Frankie and realize how ironic that statement is coming from the man who's been the closest to you physically in over a year. 

  “Oh shit, she got a perfect shot of me crushing his nose.” Ben jumps up and down as Will sends you a half apologetic look. 

  You’re slightly knocked off kilter as Frankie tightens his grip on you. 

  You look over to see another handsome dark haired man pulling himself up to the ropes next to you. 

  “Who might you be?” His aquiline smile and toned muscles rippled through his shirt as he grips the rope. You recognize him from the photo on the desk but opt to stay silent. Assessment was your strong suit and he seems like the type that likes a challenge. 

  Amber looks like she’s going to say something but doesn’t get the chance as you’re quite literally swept off your feet. Your grip on Frankie’s arm tightens as he pulls you away from the ropes and the sickeningly sweet man beside you. 

  “Relax hermosa, I’ve got you.” He gently sets you down and grabs your hand, pulling you even further from the prying eyes as you try to catch your breath. 

  ****

  Santiago points at you and Frankie as he shrugs his shoulders. Indignation dripping off his features. 

  “Oh, I know he’s frustrated when he’s gone non verbal” Ben teases as he ruffles Santi’s hair. 

  Will sidles up next to his fiancé, wrapping his arms around her as he leans in. 

  “You’re staring at her like a piece of meat babe.” 

  “Sorry.” She hisses under her breath. “It’s just…she would be perfect for the wedding.” 

  “I know, but why don’t we give her some space. Let her get settled in.” He nods his head toward the two of you. “Also maybe give Frankie a chance to ask her out before you ask her to photograph the wedding. It would be awkward if she said no to him.” 

  “How do you know he’s asking her out?” 

  Will lowers his voice as Santiago raises an eyebrow at him, doing his best to pay attention to Ben and eavesdrop. 

  “Look at his stance, he can’t stop moving from one foot to another.”

  “He’s taken his hat off twice.” 

  “Now his hands are in his pockets, and I can almost guarantee he’s sweating.” 

  ****

  You’re not sure what to do as he stares at you. His scent envelopes you even now that you’re apart. 

  Frankie clears his throat awkwardly as he bounces from one foot to another. He’s nervous and you’re not entirely sure why, seeing as though you’d spent the better part of the fight attached to his shoulder. 

  “I ugh…hope this wasn’t too traumatizing for you.” 

  You laugh as you dip your head. “It was definitely eventful. But you made it a lot easier to handle.” 

  He tries to hide his smile as the red creeps up his neck. His obvious nervous tick as he takes off his hat for the second time, running his fingers through his hair. You have the sudden wild urge to do it yourself as you busy your hands with the hem of your shirt. 

  “We usually go out for drinks after his fights to celebrate.” He leaves it open ended as he watches you visibly tense. 

  Shit 

  Shit

  “It’s been a really long day.” Not entirely a lie. 

  You can see his demeanor go from nervous wreck to utter panic and you can’t leave him out on a limb. 

  “Listen Frankie, I have to be honest with you. I don’t drink. I’m not a buzzkill or anything but…”

  “I’m sober.” He doesn’t mean to shout it at you but it comes out all rushed and now he can feel the sweat dripping down his back. “If that changes anything, if not I understand.” Frankie feels like he’s scrambling and realizing how much easier this was when he wasn’t sober. 

  You let out a sigh of relief as you glance to your right at the small audience huddled around the ring. Santiago quickly turns around while Amber and Will do an awful job of seeming interested in the ceiling. Benny flashing you a thumbs up as you chuckle to yourself. 

  “I would love to join you guys, another night maybe. I think I’ve had enough action for one day.” You hope the open ended invitation isn’t completely shutting you off from any chance with Frankie. 

  Every nerve ending in his body is screaming at him to stop but you do something to him that he hasn’t felt in a long time. That small subconscious part of his brain knows if he leaves it like this he may never work up the nerve to say something. 

  “Would you be up for dinner? Maybe sometime next week?” His voice cracks a little at the end like he’s some kind of pubescent boy. If the floor could swallow him whole or Benny could come over and just put him completely out of his misery that might suffice for the next few weeks. 

  You bite your lip, consciously or unconsciously. He doesn’t care either way. Some wild part of his brain wants to reach out and pull it down with the pad of his thumb. 

  “I would love to go to dinner.” 

  Relief floods his features and you have to fight the grin that crosses over your face. 

  “So it’s a date.” 

  Fuck a date. 

  You haven’t been on one of those in ages. 

  “Ya Frankie, it’s a date.” 

  He’s finally stopped fidgeting and he seems so much more confident now that you can really appreciate him. 

  You're both in your own little bubble of flirtation and you could care less who or what’s going on around you. 

  “Would it be okay if I hugged you?” 

  You smile. “I think after how close we were for the last hour it would be weird if you didn’t.” 

  His arms wrap around you instantly and that familiar scent is becoming so comforting for you. You have to fight the urge to deeply inhale as your nose is pressed against his chest. His touch is so delicate and grounding all at once and you fear you’ll grow to associate him with someone safe. 

  Why would that be a bad thing?

  The last time Frankie was this impulsive he got himself into a lot of trouble. This doesn’t quite feel the same as he tries not to inhale the scent of your shampoo as his cheek rests on the crown of your head. The way your body molds perfectly into his. The way he has to gain some level of composure when it comes to you and yet all reason has gone out the window. 

  It’s dizzying when you finally break apart. Your shoulder bag slipped slightly down and he reached over to secure it for you. 

  “Well, I should say bye to everyone.” 

  “I’ll do it on your behalf if you want to make a break for it.” He winks at you and your knees might give out right then and there. 

  Letting out an exasperated sigh. “You’re a lifesaver Francisco.” 

  You wave goodbye to more than a few confused faces and exit the gym to a mostly empty parking lot, inhaling the fresh night air. 

  ****

  “Did she let you down easy?” Benny teases as his brother smacks him on the back. 

  “Yee of little faith gentleman.” Amber says as she directs her attention to Frankie. 

  “As a matter of fact, we’re going on a date next weekend.” 

  Amber squeals and Benny pats his friend in the back as Santiago looks thoroughly annoyed at still being left in the dark. 

  Will's phone pings in his pocket and he pulls it out, the widest shit eating grin plastered on his face. 

  “Our boy is a little rusty.” 

  All heads turn to Will confusion written among their faces. 

  “You’re gonna need her number if you’re gonna take her on a date, Fish.” 

  Okay, so maybe he was a little rusty but he had a date. With you. 

  “Alright boys…and Amber. Let’s get some drinks to celebrate.” Benny jumps over the ropes like it’s nothing and heads toward the locker rooms as the rest of the men follow. 

  “Is someone gonna tell me who she is!?” Santiago yells out to them as they all leave him seemingly in the dark. 

  At least for now, Frankie’s gonna keep you to himself. 

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated

Taglist- @sawymredfox @morallyinept

Next

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 21: picnic

Masterlist flufftober 🎀

Reblog if you liked it!

“Do you want more juice?” you asked softly to the man lying next to you.

Spencer had decided to take a day off due to all the stress at work and you had suggested going to the park to organize a small picnic, taking the time to prepare all the food and drinks yourself. Your boyfriend had seemed excited at the idea, even though he didn't really like being in open spaces, and after a few hours he could tell that he had quite enjoyed the activity.

You had brought fruit, nuts, cheese, some cake, juice, and sandwiches for both of you, plus a couple of books and an old radio that you thought wouldn't even work yet, but luckily it did, on which you listened to a station of romantic ballads.

“Just a little,” he murmured, handing you his glass and flashing you a smile. His hair was spread all over the blanket and his eyes were hidden behind the lenses of his glasses, instead of the usual contacts, which made him look absolutely gorgeous.

Spencer stood up just a little to drink from the straw in his glass and then set it aside, motioning for you to lie down next to him. You had taken off your shoes a long time ago and caressed his bare feet with yours while you settled your head on his biceps.

“That cloud looks like a kitten”

“Did you know that this is due to a psychological phenomenon called pareidolia?”

"Is that why that cloud looks like a kitten?"

“No, that's why you think it looks like it. Our brain finds familiar faces or shapes in inanimate objects” he smiled, looking up at the sky to try to find a way to what you were saying and concluding that, indeed, that cloud looked like a cat.

“Well then play with me. What does that one over there look like?”

“A stratocumulus”

“Wrong, he looks like a rabbit,” you laughed, turning your face a little to rub your nose against his cheek and plant a kiss on his jawline “Come on, love, you can do it. Try with that one over there”

“That looks like…” he started to say, humming just enough to stretch out the last word, and then he struggled for a few seconds to think of a correct answer. “A four-fingered hand?”

The sound of your laughter filled the air and he felt slightly embarrassed by his lack of imagination, although he also joined you in laughter.

“In fact it does, a little bit. It's like an amorphous hand."

“I don't want to play this anymore.”

New bursts of laughter came and when your stomach hurt there was silence, with the two of you just dedicating yourself to observing the blue sky and feeling the fresh breeze from the countryside. Spencer reached out to grab a piece of cheese and he gave it to you to bite into, eating the rest after that.

"How do you feel now?"

“Better,” he confessed to you and you turned your head to watch him while he spoke “It's just that spending so much time on cases and traveling and doing profiles suddenly becomes overwhelming, you know?”

“Oh, I can imagine it, honey.”

“And I like being here with you. You help me make the rest of the things seem... smaller. Less worrying”

Hearing that comforted you and, at the same time, made you feel an enormous responsibility towards him. You wanted to make him happy and you wanted him to be able to find a safe place in your arms: a corner in the world where nothing but you mattered.

You couldn't respond with anything more than an enthusiastic kiss on his lips, which you broke for a second just to get rid of his glasses. You leaned against your elbows so you could reach better places and Spencer just let himself go, enjoying the feeling of your lips gently caressing his.

“I love you so much, you know that, right?” you said quietly, feeling drunk with love and still with your eyes closed “And whenever you need a break, I will support you, even if I am not among your plans”

“I know,” he murmured, a grateful tone that warmed your heart. You pulled away enough to look at him and then slid his glasses back on so he could take in the view as well.

"Do you want to go a walk?" you suggested after a while “It will do your feet good to connect with the earth.”

Normally you'd expect to hear ramblings about the pros and cons of walking barefoot in the grass, but now he looked so relaxed that you didn't even think he had the energy for it.

"In a few more minutes. For now I just want… I just want to stay here”

You nodded and settled against him again, feeling him place a kiss on your forehead. Spencer fell asleep in that position and you didn't dare wake him up, so you just stayed there for a long time to continue searching for shapes in the sky and hearing his really calm breathing for the first time in weeks.

taglist: @navs-bhat @reidwritings @tricia-shifting14 @spencerslove @vivian-555 @r-3dlips @rhiannonhippiegirl @taygrls @simp4f1 @sdddoobydoobydoo @taintedstranger @missabsey

[em-prentiss]

Hello. Big fan of your writing. I was wondering if you could write Hotchniss from someone else’s perspective maybe the team watching them being cute and soft together and them seeing their new side?👀🤭

Heyy, thank you!! I really love this idea, so I hope you like my execution of it <3

you can see it with the lights out (you are in love)

----

“I think,” Penelope whispers, her smile evident in her voice, “this is the best thing to ever come out of the BAU.” Her eyes snag on the way Aaron buckles Emily’s seatbelt before he shuts her door. She’d been disbelieving at first, unable to imagine the two of them together. But now, looking at them, the gentleness of their love, she can’t imagine things being any different.

The car pulls away and JJ smiles at the sight of Emily’s head resting against the window. She’s already fast asleep.

“I think you’re right.”

Aaron and Emily, through different lenses.

Word count: 5.2k

Mild cw for some minor injuries, nothing graphic but a little blood mentioned

----

It starts slowly. 

At first absolutely nothing changes, Aaron and Emily going about their work as Hotch and Prentiss—last names, the occasional (and still prevalent) disputes—as if the team hadn’t caught them making out in a storage closet.

It takes a few months for them to evolve further than the generously filled cup of coffee with a gentle hand to the shoulder and the secret holding of their fingertips beneath the table, a habit of theirs they still haven’t broken.

Their armor starts crumbling on a rowdy night out. One Aaron does not want to go to. 

“Let’s just go home, Em.” It’s as close as he’s ever come to pleading in the nine months they’ve been together. It’s been a strangely quiet day and all he wants to do is go home and spend time with her and Jack, make them dinner and fall asleep on the couch to Cars with his head in Emily’s lap and her hand in his hair.

“And do what? Eat dinner and go to bed at 10 like old people?” Emily wrinkles her nose in distaste. “It’s our weekend, Aaron. The first one without a case in god knows how long.” 

She’s restless, her body humming with unspent energy, and today is exactly the kind of day where a night out at a bar actually sounds good. She perches on the edge of his desk, lets her knee touch his. “Please?” She smiles, her eyes bright and her smile brighter still.

Aaron wilts. He has yet to find a way to say no to her when she flashes those brown eyes, dark and beautiful and like a knife straight through his heart. 

He sighs. Emily’s smile widens; she knows she’s got him. 

“It’ll be fun,” she assures, the open blinds of his office only barely holding her back from kissing his downturned lips. 

“You’ll get to touch me,” she reminds him, reaching her hand out to soothe the furrow between his brows instead. “And dance with me.” Her thumb softens the creased skin, runs over it until it’s flat. Aaron feels his lips tip upward in a smile.

“And you’ll finally get to scare off any guy that tries to hit on me,” Emily grins, recalling the last time they went out with the team. She could see the tight line of Aaron’s jaw all the way from the bar, his forceful gaze searing onto her skin as he gripped his drink so hard she thought the glass would shatter in his hand.

“Okay,” he concedes.

Emily beams at him. She leans forward, her nimble fingers undoing his tie with ease. Aaron’s eyebrows shoot up. “Undressing me in the office already?” He asks mildly. “At least close the blinds.”

“Hush,” Emily laughs as she slips the tie from his neck. Tossing it carelessly on his lap, she pops his collar and undoes the first two buttons of his shirt, feeling her whole body heat under his gaze as he watches her closely. “I’m making you bar-ready.” She murmurs. 

“I see.” Aaron hums. Emily looks up at him and smiles as she meets his eyes. She brings a hand up and runs it through his hair, thoroughly messing it up. 

“Hey!” He laughs and grips her wrist lightly. “You said bar-ready, not…delinquent.” He protests.

Emily laughs and swats his hand away. It falls to her thigh as she continues messing up his hair, shaking up the leftover gel in it until it’s soft and wilting over his forehead.

“That’s better,” she murmurs, proud of her handiwork. Now he somewhat resembles the Aaron she sees at home, soft and relaxed. Only one thing left. “Take off your jacket.”

Aaron sighs and obliges. “Any other orders, Ma’am?” He looks up at her as he places his jacket on the desk, his softened gaze betraying his annoyed act.

Emily smiles coyly and takes his right hand into her lap. “Roll up your sleeves,” she says as she starts doing the task herself, popping open the button on his cuff and rolling his sleeve up to his elbow.

Through the open window, JJ, Morgan, and Reid watch with rapt attention as Emily perches on their boss’ desk and casually attacks his meticulous appearance, her fingers mussing his hair and undoing his buttons.

“Interesting,” JJ murmurs when Hotch simply shakes his head at her, his laugh visible even from the bullpen in the way his large shoulders shake. He does nothing to stop her, leaning back in his chair when she takes his hand into her lap, her head bent as she fusses with his sleeve.

“Weird is more like it,” Morgan mutters. He’s never seen Emily smile so wide at Hotch before, never seen him smile like that at all.

“He’s letting her sit on his desk,” Reid comments, mildly intrigued at their lack of interest in the open blinds.

“That, pretty boy, is one of the many advantages that come with dating the boss,” Morgan says, his voice dripping faux wisdom. 

“You seem like you know all about that,” Reid retorts snarkily. 

Morgan exclaims in surprise and JJ huffs out a laugh, “Behave, both of you,” she looks behind her to find Hotch and Emily walk out of his office. “Or else Mom and Dad will ground you both.” She winks at them, promptly shutting them up.

________

He’s tense against her, his eyes fixed on the table their friends are at. Reid ducks his head to avoid Aaron’s gaze but Rossi meets him head on, making him grimace. 

Emily turns to glare at them, her icy expression forcing Rossi to turn away. 

“Ignore them.” She loops her arms around Aaron’s neck and tilts his head down. He meets her warm eyes, feels the ruckus around them slow down to a buzz as she threads her fingers into his hair and smiles reassuringly at him. She presses closer to him and he relaxes, his shoulders slumping as she presses a lingering kiss to his jaw.

Until he hears the loud squealing and whooping of Penelope and Morgan back at their table. Aaron instinctively turns to them, his eyes leaving Emily’s. She feels him tense against her again and holds back a growl.

Emily tugs his head back to her, a little too forcefully. “Eyes on me, Aaron.”

His eyes immediately snap back to hers. Emily smiles at the darkened look in them, her words accidentally snapping into a command. He turns his back to the team and focuses solely on her. “Yes Ma’am,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a smile before he bends down and presses them against hers.

Emily grins into the kiss. She links their fingers together and tugs him deeper into the dance floor until they’re crammed between throngs of people, away from the eyes of the team. 

She starts moving against him and he’s gone, so far gone, any inhibitions disappearing as Emily moves to the beat of the music in his arms. Aaron finds himself smiling as he matches her rhythm. He suddenly realizes that they’ve never danced together before, at least not like this, with pounding music in his ears instead of her soft sighs and bitten back moans.

He voices the thought out loud to her as his hands tightly grasp her hips and pull her closer. “We’ve never done this before,” he breathes in her ear, feeling her link her fingers together behind his neck.

“Fun, isn’t it?” She smiles brightly, her eyes glittering, and he can’t help but agree. 

“Yeah,” Aaron murmurs, leaning down to kiss her. He slips a hand into her fluffed out hair, his other digging into her waist and feeling the smooth skin peeking out from the hem of her shirt.

Across the bar, two blonde women are clutching each others arms. 

“Oh my god.” Penelope squeals, just barely holding in the urge to jump up and down in glee. “Look at them, Jayje. Hotch is smiling!”

“I see them, Pen,” JJ laughs, but she can’t help but feel her friend’s reaction is just a little bit understandable—just a tiny bit.

Aaron and Emily are deep into the dance floor, lost in their own universe as they dance together, laughing and smiling, their bodies moving against each others with practiced ease. It feels almost private to see, the way Aaron smiles at Emily, how she digs her hands into his hair so casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Her shirt rises up her stomach, her jeans low enough on her hips that she sees something on her skin. Multiple somethings. Four circular marks, dark against her pale skin and peeking out from the hem of her jeans. JJ frowns, wondering if she got hurt, but she’s moving around carelessly, the bruises obviously not bothering her. She’s about to look away when Hotch’s hands trail lower, his fingers pressing directly on the bruises. They disappear beneath his fingertips, the perfect size, and—oh.

JJ flushes.

They watch as Emily turns around in his arms. She leans into him, cards her fingers through his unusually messy hair and pulls him down for a kiss. His palm slips up her shirt and JJ turns away, swallowing down her surprise.

Penelope grins next to her, officially losing her mind. “Oh my freaking god,” she slurs, throwing back her drink and gripping the glass tightly, “boss-man has moves?” She exclaims in disbelief, her eyes widening. “No wonder Em is all over him.”

JJ doesn’t like to intrude, but her eyes are drawn to them. Hotch seems so carefree, so relaxed, his body limp as if Emily had taken the weight of the world off his shoulders. She sees his face break out in another smile, a dimple dug deep in the cheek she can see—she’d bet money there’s another equally deep one carved into his other cheek—as he says something to Emily. She laughs back, her cheeks flushed, and Hotch brightens, his whole face glowing.

JJ smiles, her heart warming at the sight of them. At first she’d doubted Emily could fall for someone so serious and stoic, but she glows under his gaze, his touch. She doesn’t know how this happened, but she does know one thing; they’re in deep.

“Did you know he has a dimple?” She turns to Penelope, her eyes sparkling.

Emily turns her head slightly and laughs at the sight of JJ and Penelope gawking at them. She’s sure if she was in other situation, any less drunk, she’d have been annoyed. But right now she can’t really bring herself to care.

“They’re losing their shit,” she whispers to Aaron, her lips nipping at the warm skin of his jaw. He hums as she continues her lazy kisses and slips her hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Let them.” He looks down at her, breaking her contact from his skin. Aaron tenderly tucks her dark hair behind her ear, his knuckles lingering on her cheek. He shifts so his back is to their friends and leans down to kiss her, softly, gently, starkly different from the heated kisses they’ve been sharing all night.

“I’m glad we decided to come,” he squeezes her waist. 

Emily’s eyes light up. “Really?”

Aaron smiles. “Really.”

****

Penelope startles when she catches sight of her boss standing in the doorway. It’s still weird to see him like this, as simply Aaron and not Hotch. He’s dressed in casual jeans and a t-shirt, his lips turning up in a soft smile as he looks at Emily. Her friend is sprawled next to her on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest and laughing at JJ’s story, cheeks softly flushed pink from the multiple drinks she’d had. She doesn’t notice him yet, her attention on JJ sitting cross legged on the floor.

“Sir Hotch!” Penelope may or may not yell, and Emily’s gaze slides from JJ to Aaron. Her face transforms as she beams at him, her smile spreading impossibly wider as he awkwardly scratches his hair. 

“You don’t have to call me sir outside of work, Garcia.” He insists yet again as he crosses the living room, his eyes already locked on Emily’s.

“Feels weird not to,” she says cheerfully, yelping at JJ’s pinch to her socked foot. What? She mouths at her friend. JJ mimes zipping her lips shut, her eyes wide and curious.

Her comment goes unanswered as Aaron crouches down in front of Emily. “Hi, Em.” He says softly.

Emily smiles lazily. “Hi,” she slurs. She drops the pillow and lurches forward to wrap her arms around his neck. His arms band around her back as she almost slips off the couch and halfway into his lap, her movements unsteady and clumsy. Her knees knock into his chest but he doesn’t seem to mind. She whispers something to him, her dark hair nestled beneath his chin, and he smiles.

Penelope feels something in her melt at the still unusual sight of his dimples, his smile so soft her heart aches. 

The room is too quiet to mask his reply. “I missed you too,” his voice is quiet, low as Emily leans back and gives him a sloppy kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

Aaron flushes. His eyes dart to Penelope and JJ, who hurriedly look away as Emily mumbles, “Let’s go home,” into his skin, her inhibitions lowered as she slips her fingers into his hair and nuzzles her face away from her friends, into his neck.

Penelope bites her thumb between her teeth, trying to hide a smile as Aaron clears his throat and awkwardly stands up, juggling Emily in his arms as he unsteadily gets to his feet. She feels a grin spreading wide on her face despite her best efforts, a look at JJ telling her she’s struggling, too. They hadn’t seen more of Aaron and Emily since their initial night out, case after case steering them clear of bars and dinners.

At least the alcohol is a good excuse for their unabashed interest.

Hotch—Aaron’s—cheeks are dusted pink as Emily stumbles into him, her arms wrapping around his waist. She lays her head on his shoulder and turns back to her friends. 

“Sorry guys, I hav’ta go,” she tells them, her eyes almost comically wide. “My pretty boyfriend gets lonely when I go out for too long,” she whispers loudly, breaking out into giggles as Aaron bites back a sigh.

“Right, Aaron?” Emily turns to him, her lip bitten between her teeth. Her hand slips off his hip and slides into his front pocket, the movement thoughtless, instinctual. 

Through her drunken haze, Penelope watches Aaron’s cheeks flush bright red, as if he’d been drinking along with them. Another giddy thrill goes through her at this new side of him, another chip of his armor removed and thrown to their feet. The reason for it is still moving impossibly closer to him, hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

He swallows but doesn’t refuse her touch as she leans into him. “Sure, Emily,” he mutters, clearing his throat and turning to JJ. “Can we have a bottle of water for the ride?” Aaron asks, firmly wrapping his arm around Emily’s waist as she sways against him.

“Uh huh,” JJ nods and pushes herself to her feet, unsteady as she heads to the kitchen. Penelope scrambles up to follow her, socks slipping on the hardwood floors.

“Oh, Jayje, aren’t they the cutest?” She whispers as JJ opens the fridge and takes out a water bottle. “Hotch is blushing,” she sighs dreamily. “I didn’t know he could do that.” Her eyes drift to the living room wall separating them from Aaron and Emily, briefly wishing it were transparent as Emily’s voice faintly drifts toward them.

JJ giggles, “He’s like a tomato,” she agrees, promptly taking out another bottle and pressing it to Penelope’s flushed cheek. Her friend yelps as JJ takes out another bottle for herself along with Emily’s. “Now we know he’s kinda human.” She wiggles her brows.

Penelope gasps loudly. “That’s mean,” she slaps JJ’s arm. “Hotch has always been fully human with me,” she insists firmly, even as her words slur together. 

“Em is just helping him show it more. Isn’t that cute?” She sighs as they walk back to the living room again. She stumbles and JJ loops their arms together, though she’s hardly any more steady.

“’s cute,” she mumbles, resting her head against Penelope’s as they walk into the living room again. 

Emily’s face is firmly tucked into Aaron’s neck, her hands in his back pockets and his arms around her back. He abruptly stops whatever he was saying, his soft voice tailing off into a hesitant smile as he takes the bottle from JJ.

“Thank you, JJ,” he says. His cheeks are decidedly less pink than they were before, but he still doesn’t hold their gazes for long.

“Sure,” she hums in reply. 

Emily untangles herself from Aaron’s arms and gives her friends a joint hug, JJ’s arm still looped through Penelope’s. 

“Night, mes amours.” She gives them quick kisses and bounces back as suddenly as she came, her arms barely wrapping around them before she goes back to Aaron’s side. 

“Next time at my place, yeah?” Emily grabs his hand and pulls it around her shoulders as JJ and Penelope hum in affirmation.

“Good night.” Aaron tells them over his shoulder as Emily pushes him toward the door.

“Night,” the women grin back. JJ smiles at the way he submits to Emily’s will, lets her push him around even with his arm steady around her waist. Who would’ve thought, she sighs as they disappear from view, her heart unbearably warm at the sudden, unexpected happiness her friends had found. 

“Pen’s bangs are nice.” Emily’s voice floats to them from the foyer, wistful and slurry, a couple octaves louder than it usually is. “I should get some too. D’you think I’d look pretty with bangs?”

The door creaks open. Aaron’s voice is low as they walk out into the night. “You’d look pretty in anything.” He says, affection seeping through the words. “Just not tonight, hon.”

The door slams shut behind them and the two blondes wilt against each other, sighs and giggles escaping their parted lips as they see Aaron guide Emily into his car, his hands gentle on her even through the living room window.

“I think,” Penelope whispers, her smile evident in her voice, “this is the best thing to ever come out of the BAU.” Her eyes snag on the way Aaron buckles Emily’s seatbelt before he shuts her door. She’d been disbelieving at first, unable to imagine the two of them together. But now, looking at them, the gentleness of their love, she can’t imagine things being any different.

The car pulls away and JJ smiles at the sight of Emily’s head resting against the window. She’s already fast asleep.

“I think you’re right.”

****

Dave can count on his fingers the amount of times Aaron Hotchner ever lost his shit. Even when he was a quiet, overly confident agent fresh out of the academy, he barely lost his cool, always staying frustratingly in control. 

That is, of course, until Emily walks into the conference room leaning heavily on an officer, blood slowly leaking from a gash in her forehead and her left eye quickly turning sickening shades of purple. 

“Emily.” Aaron jumps up from his seat at the table. She lets go of the officer supporting her and sways on her feet, but Aaron is in front of her in an instant. 

“Woah,” she says quietly as she grips his forearms, her knuckles white and her face bloodless. Dave feels a pang in his heart as she stumbles headfirst into Aaron, her legs shaky and weak.

“What the hell happened?” Morgan demands as Aaron helps Emily into a chair, his brows tightly drawn and his jaw clenched. His hands are soft, though, his voice softer still as he quietly whispers sit down, honey, frowning when Emily slumps into the chair with a low groan.

Dave turns away from them and looks at the officer that accompanied Emily, his brows raising as he waits for an explanation. They were only supposed to interview the victim’s boyfriend. 

The officer pales when Aaron turns to him as well. 

“We saw him outside his apartment, he was already looking like he was ready to bolt. We just introduced ourselves then he kinda…slammed her into a lamppost.” He ends lamely, swallowing as Aaron’s gaze turns vaguely murderous.

Dave doesn’t blame him.

A weak scoff breaks the tense silence. “He wasn’ too happy we wen’ to visit him,” Emily mumbles. She raises her hand to block the lights, her face twisting in a grimace as she leans back into the chair.

Aaron grips the back of her seat, standing guard over her even though the damage is already done. His tone is low when he speaks, buzzing with barely controlled anger. “JJ,” he grits out, “put an APB for that asshole’s car and tell the detective we need to be on the lookout for him. Morgan, call Garcia and have her track his phone. Reid, get me a first aid kit. Now.” He barks, and they all snap into action.

“Than’ god, I really didn’ wanna go to the hospital,” Emily slurs as everyone clears out of the room. She squints at Aaron as he crouches down in front of her. “Y’re all blurry, though.”

Dave reaches for one of the cold water bottles on the table and holds it to Emily’s forehead. “Hold that there, bella,” he says quietly as Aaron works on unlocking his tight jaw. 

Emily holds the bottle without complaint. “Than’s Rossi. Tha’ bastard got me good,” she winces.

“If it’s too bad, we will go to the hospital, Emily.” Aaron says firmly. His eyes don’t leave her as he blows out a breath and gently tilts her face under the lights to see the extent of the damage. Dave can almost hear his teeth grind together as he examines her eye, nearly swollen shut.

“No, ’ron, I don’ need it.” She mumbles. Aaron ignores her as he carefully runs his finger around her eye, prodding along her cheek. He presses on the bruised skin of her nose and she flinches. 

“Ah, fuck, why’d ya do that?” Emily hisses.

He blanches and pulls away as if he’d been burnt, “Sorry, sorry,” he rushes out, dropping his hands from her face. “Just wanted to check if anything’s broken.”

“Is it?” She scowls, holding the bottle with her other hand. 

Aaron shakes his head and steadies the bottle himself. Emily lets go and closes her eyes, her throat bobbing as she swallows. She curls her fingers in the fabric of her pants, her knuckles turning white from her grip.

The sudden silence makes Dave hyper aware of his own presence. 

“Anything you need me to do?” he asks, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding on something unbearably vulnerable; Aaron crouched in front of Emily, her knees pressed against his chest as he holds the bottle to the split skin on her forehead.

“Have Garcia dig into his life,” Aaron says tightly. “We need to work him into the profile, re-interview the parents and their friends and see what their relationship was like.”

Emily opens her eyes and flinches back a little, her knuckles sharpening under her skin. “The lights hurt,” she mumbles. 

Aaron’s pained look doesn’t surprise Dave so much as Emily’s admission, quiet and slurred, clearly meant only for one person. Reid finally comes back with the medical kit and Aaron sets down the bottle, popping the kit open and grabbing a pair of alcohol wipes.

“I know, honey, just close your eyes.” He whispers, gently swiping the wipe over her skin. It grows red in seconds, and he quickly discards it to tear open another one. “You definitely have a concussion.”

“Doesn’t look like it needs stitches,” Reid murmurs, leaning forward to examine the gash as Dave leaves in search of the detective. He explains the turn of events and is halfway through re-arranging the interviews when his phone buzzes with a message from Aaron.

Taking Emily back to the hotel. I’ll coordinate with you once she’s settled.

We’ll handle it, Dave sends back, unsurprised by the message. These past few months Aaron has slowly been loosening his tight grip on work, instead shifting his focus to prioritize his son and a certain brunette whenever they needed him.

He sees them walking out of the precinct, Emily leaning heavily against Aaron with her arm around his neck, trying her best not to sway. Aaron’s grip is tight around her back, his steps small as he matches her pace.

Dave is half surprised he doesn’t carry her outright.

****

Spencer stands next to the sliding door leading to the backyard, trying to leech warmth from the living room. He stuffs his cold hands into his pockets and wonders who encouraged Dave to plan a barbecue in the midst of winter. 

“Here,” JJ walks over and hands him a mug of coffee. 

“Oh, perfect, thanks,” he sighs as he wraps his freezing fingers around the mug, tipping it back and feeling the hot coffee scorch his throat as it goes down. JJ hums in response and takes it from him to steal a sip, the cold seeping into her skin despite the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“This really was a terrible idea, wasn’t it?” She laughs as she looks around at the backyard, Emily hissing and spitting as she rubs her arms, Penelope huddling next to the grill and effectively Morgan, her gloved hands wrapped around his bicep. 

Dave seems to be the only one enjoying himself, watching over Morgan and Aaron like a hawk, making sure they don’t burn the steaks as he leisurely sips his scotch.

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees, shivering as a gust of wind cuts through his clothes. 

JJ smiles. “Here,” she opens up the blanket so he can join her. He doesn’t hesitate, eagerly wrapping it around himself and huddling into her for warmth.

“Thanks.” He hums as the cold starts to leave his body. She hands the mug back and Spencer tries not to fuss too much over the idea of her lips touching the same area of the rim as his. He lets it warm his hands instead, his eyes catching on Aaron and Emily next to the grill.

She’s frowning, rubbing her arms as her mouth moves quickly—no doubt in complaint, Spencer thinks with some amusement; he always appreciated Emily’s bluntness. The tip of her nose is red, the sleeves of her sweater stretched over her knuckles as she rubs her palms together, her lips turned down in annoyance.

Aaron smiles at her and passes the tongs in his hands to Dave, who mildly protests as he takes them. Aaron ignores him as he steps away from the grill and in front of Emily. 

JJ’s arm presses into Spencer’s as she reaches for his coffee mug again. He hands it to her absentmindedly, his eyes on Aaron as he opens up the sides of his jacket.

“That’s weird,” he murmurs as Emily’s frown disappears. “Why’s he—oh.”

She walks into Aaron’s arms and promptly stuffs herself inside his jacket. 

He hears her laugh as Aaron tucks the sides of his jacket closed around her body, fitting her snugly against him and pressing his lips to her hair as she snuggles closer. Emily’s scowl is nowhere to be seen as she looks up at him, her lips twisting in a smile as she says something, too far away for Spencer to hear.

He feels his heart grow warm suddenly, as if he were the one tucked into someone’s jacket. Spencer smiles a little, his mind clocking the difference between this Aaron and Emily and the ones he’d known a year ago. They used to be tense and stiff, hesitant to show outward affection as if someone would scold them for it. But they’re both fully relaxed now, soft dimples in each of their cheeks as they ignore everyone else, brown eyes locked on brown.

“Wish I had that,” Spencer mumbles to himself, acutely feeling the cold sink into his bones. 

JJ turns to him in surprise, an excited sparkle in her eyes. “A relationship, you mean?” Her brows raise into her hairline.

She looks far too excited at that prospect. Spencer shudders, “God, no. The warmth,” he clarifies, looking down at JJ and giving her a wry smile. “They look awfully comfortable, don’t you think?”

JJ laughs as she looks back at Aaron and Emily, the two of them huddled close together. Her head is tucked under his chin and his lips are pressed to her hair, his hands holding the sides of the jacket closed over her back. There’s not an inch of space between them.

“They do,” she agrees.

However, not everyone enjoys the domesticity.

“Hey lovebirds!” Morgan calls out, pretending to twist his mouth into an irritated frown. “How about you make yourselves useful?” 

Penelope slaps his arm and he bites back a grin.

Emily rolls her eyes and puts her lips to Aaron’s ear, mouthing something that looks an awful lot like flip him off.

Spencer is proven right when Aaron hesitates, his hands tightening on her back. “That’s childish,” he hears him say. 

Emily heaves a huge sigh and turns her head back to meet Morgan’s gaze. “Fuck off, Morgan,” she grumbles and huddles close to Aaron, fitting her head under his chin. “You wish you were as warm as me right now.” 

“Like I want to be that close to your boyfriend,” he scoffs, setting down his tongs. “Besides, I got my own babygi—”

“He’s my fiancé, I’ll have you know.” She retorts, the way her eyes widen telling Spencer the words slipped past her lips without much thought.

It’s quiet for a few stunned seconds before Aaron breaks the silence. 

“Emily.” He laughs, the sound breaking them all from their reverie. “It hasn’t been two days,” he shakes his head, but he’s smiling at her, amused and utterly infatuated.

“Sorry,” she grins up at him, not looking sorry in the least as Penelope grabs her shoulders and pulls her out of his jacket. 

Emily yelps and stumbles backward, but the blanket flaps against Spencer’s side and suddenly JJ’s there to steady her, hands tight on her shoulders.

They squabble around her and Spencer smiles as she takes out the chain tucked beneath her sweater, the one he’d seen the outline of earlier today and asked her about. Spencer tunes out the squeals as her ring glints in the weak winter sun and raises his brows in mock surprise as he approaches Aaron along with the other guys.

“Congratulations, Hotch,” he grins, his words drowned out by Morgan’s enthusiasm and Dave’s I knew it.

And when Aaron smiles, the curve of his dimple is no longer unusual, but familiar.

[violetmuses]

From Scratch - T. Richmond ❤️‍🩹

Title: From Scratch - T. Richmond ❤️‍🩹

Fandom: “Rebel Ridge” Film Universe

Character: Terry Richmond

Pairing: Terry Richmond + Female Reader

Main Storyline: After escaping Shelby Springs, Terry Richmond doesn't know what to expect.

@peaxhygirl @superstar-t20 @adoresmiles @klssngss @deja-r @hyper-trash-panda @amethyst-loves-bucky @planetblaque @sweettea-and-honeybutter @lovedlover @xjjawsomex @readingisahobby @kindofaintrovert @nelo0wesker @gg-trini @cloveroctobers @maliagurl @nobodygetsza @twinklestarslight @yassbishimvintage @episodes-ff @sweetiepie4190 @kirayuki22 @katbakhoe @persethegawd @babybratzmaraj 🏷

=====

2024

With his cousin Mike gone, veteran Terry Richmond slid evidence by the police station and drove away, leaving that rural but dangerous town of Shelby Springs. There's no other choice.

Scoring this new home later, Richmond organized his few belongings and just planned to settle, hopefully comfortable within the unknown space.

After mowing his lawn this morning, Terry glanced across the street and noticed that someone took down one of those long-awaited “For Sale” signs.

Before long, this U-HAUL truck arrived without fail and different staff members hopped, ready to assist whoever else could join the neighborhood.

Once folks carried various boxes inside, another car pulled right into that driveway and this woman stepped out, gathering luggage from this trunk.

Thanking everyone for helping, you entered this house and closed the front door. No partner or wedding ring joined in sight, not yet at least.

Taking this much-needed shower, Richmond quietly acknowledged your presence.

Who knows what could happen next?

________

Later that night while listening to music, you cooked dinner, but someone rang the doorbell out of nowhere.

Setting down work in your new kitchen, you checked the lense of that peephole just in case and found this man holding gorgeous flowers.

“Can I help you?” You opened the door, but took the porch to stand by.

“Uh, sorry to bother you. I…” His deep voice almost chuckled through nerves.

You gently smiled for a moment. “I just moved here.”

“Me too.” Terry grinned back.

“Is everything okay?” You asked.

“Yes, Ma'am. These are for you.” Richmond postured the bouquet again.

“Oh!” Your voice nearly gasped upon realization this time. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Terry exchanged the flowers and planned to head back, but you still reached him.

“What's your name?” You cleared your throat.

“Terry…” His striking eyes locked down when Richmond faced you again.

“Nice to meet you.” You've nodded right back in return.

“Good night.” Just as Terry left the porch, you noticed that this tight shirt clothed one muscular frame and dark tattoos inked past corners.

Damn. Who are you? Your thoughts jumbled.

*******

After visiting porches back and forth, you exchanged numbers and invited Terry over, still offering boundaries no matter what happens next.

Nothing crazy lined up that afternoon. You both planned to share lunch and Terry would leave before sundown. You'd have work in the morning.

Tonight though, talking moved past midnight and you accidentally fell asleep on the living room couch.

Right before Terry could slip away, you somehow woke up again.

“T….” Your voice rasped.

“Don't worry. I'll leave.” Richmond knew so much better.

“It's dark outside.” You would caution him regardless.

“Appreciate your concern, but I live right across the street, remember?” Terry pointed.

“Yeah, but I'd feel better if you stayed here until tomorrow. It's late and I have a guest room upstairs.” You kept looking out, worried.

“Thank you.” Richmond nodded, heading to your guest room for the first time.

He was a good person even after moving away from Shelby Springs. Richmond deserved safety like everyone else in the world.

*****

By morning, you found each other leaving this house and stood in the driveway.

“Thank you.” Terry repeated himself.

“Of course.” You just held the car keys and smiled.

“Don't fall asleep.” His chuckled warmed your heart again.

“Very funny. Bye.” You planned to drive away, but Terry gestured for your chance to roll down the window.

“No more flowers.” Towering height, Richmond tapped the roof of your car and you left, prompting this man to grin all day.

[crazyunsexycool]

Beautiful Stranger

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: on the morning commute you come across a beautiful stranger.

Word count: 1.4K

Warning: pining (?), fluff I guess

A/N: Just a quick one shot. This is based on this song:

You shouldn’t stare, it wasn’t nice. But you couldn’t help it. The train was full as usual on your way to work. But across from you sat the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. Blond hair that was perfectly styled, a charcoal gray suit tailored to perfection, the most mesmerizing ocean eyes, pouty pink lips and you assumed the body under the clothes matched perfectly. It was unreasonable but you ached to know more of him.

You looked down at the book you were supposed to be reading but couldn’t help but take another peek up at him. Your eyes meet briefly before you turn away, only catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye. The corner of his lips curled upward in a smile that was quickly hidden by the newspaper he was reading. Was he smiling at you? Did you see him blushing? You couldn’t be certain but there was no time to dwell on it once you heard the doors slide open for your stop. Unfortunately. With your purse in hand you reluctantly get up and head toward the doors taking one last look at the beautiful stranger.

****

“Hello?” Nat waved her hands in front of your face. “I’ve been calling your name.”

“I’m sorry, what did you need?”

“What’s his name?”

Nat knew you so well. Whenever you got that dreamy look in your eye and all you could do was stare out of your office window it meant only one thing. You had a crush on some guy on your morning commute.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You always get a name.”

“It was different this time. He was different.” You sighed as you thought about the man you’d seen early that day. “He was so beautiful, it was honestly not fair.”

Nat rolled her eyes but she loved your view on life. You weren’t naive but you’d chosen to view the world through rose colored lenses. There was a chance for love around every corner and the possibility of a fairytale ending for everyone.

“Yeah well you also tend to fall in love on the train every morning. So you might find someone else tomorrow.”

“But just imagine if I hadn’t had to get off at my stop. Maybe I could have gotten his name.” You pout up at her. “It could have been like a meet-cute. Better yet a fairytale.”

“Maybe next time then.”

“For now he shall be my beautiful stranger.”

“Ok, but now I need those files you worked on yesterday.”

“Way to burst my bubble.” You mutter making her chuckle.

~~~~~~~~

The next morning you made sure to be on time for your train in hopes of seeing him again. Did you put in extra effort into your look? Maybe. This time you had hyped yourself up and you were going to get his name at least.

The doors slide open and you push your way through to get in. There was no real way for this to work. With as many people that lived in New York what were the chances that he would be in the same train car as you? Still you remained hopeful that he’d be there. You stayed by the doors and held on to a handrail as you scanned the sea of faces but alas, he wasn’t there. The doors slide close and you look out of the windows and onto the platform. There rushing to try and get on was your beautiful stranger. Just a bit too late.

His cheeks were rosy as if he’d rushed to get down the stairs. Your eyes meet and he gives you a small wave and an apologetic smile. As the train begins to move you wave back and smile.

****

“You don’t get it. We were so close to actually meeting. He waved at me.” You recount the morning’s events to both Nat and Wanda.

“Are you sure it was at you?”

“Yes, we made eye contact and he smiled and waved at me.” You sighed happily as you dreamt up the possibilities once you met him.

Wanda shook her head but was amused at your ramblings. This was always the case at the weekly lunch meetings. You always had some sort of story about love and all the good things you’d seen that week. Nat usually offset it by some dark story of her own. Sunshine and midnight is what Wanda called you both. You were opposites in a lot of things. Where you wore light colors and frilly dresses, Nat chose dark colors and sleek designs. In situations like this Wanda couldn’t help but egg you on just to watch Nat roll her eyes and shake her head.

“We got it, he was hot.” Nat says with slight irritation in her voice.

“No Natasha. He wasn’t just hot he was beautiful. There’s a huge difference. But it’s fine I’ll drop the topic.”

“Thank you! Now can we talk about what we’re actually here for?”

“Of course.” Wanda nods with a smile. “What store do you want to go to first? I need a new pair of heels.”

“Finally something we can all agree on, shoes.” Nat raises her glass.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Days went by and although you didn’t see your beautiful stranger again you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Nat and Wanda both tried to convince you that you were romanticizing the moment too much but you begged to differ.

“You know I love you but you’re gonna go crazy thinking about that guy.” Wanda said cautiously.

“I’m not gonna go crazy. And it doesn’t matter, I plan to move on.”

“You sound like you dated and broke up.” Nat adds as you continue to walk down the street to your favorite coffee shop.

“I did, in my head at least.” You say with a laugh.

Nat pulls the door open and you walk in first. A few steps in and turn to tell them something when you collide with someone. It was hard enough that you almost fell back if it wasn’t for a pair of strong arms that kept you from doing so.

“I’m so sorry. Are you ok?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you.”

You and whoever you ran into said at the same time. Looking up to see who it was, your jaw drops.

“It’s you.”

You both say at the same time before you laugh softly.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You giggle again as you both keep saying the same thing.

“You ok there?” Nat steps closer when she notices that this stranger hasn’t let you go.

“Yeah I’m fine Nat.”

‘Oh my god, It’s him.’ You mouth over your shoulder.

“Thank you for catching me.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Your beautiful stranger answers.

“We’re going to order. I’ll get your usual.”

“Thanks Wanda.” You say before turning back to look at him again.

There was a light pink dusting on his cheeks and he was scratching the back of his neck as he tried to say something.

“I’m Y/N.”

“Steve.” He replies.

“It’s nice to meet you Steve.”

“Yeah, it’s nice to meet you too.” His phone chimes and he pulls it out of his pocket. “Sorry, I have to go.” He says regretfully.

“Yeah, of course.”

He started walking out and you did your best to not watch him leave but it was difficult because he was so cute. Steve stops and turns back, catching your eye and he smiles. That smile alone is so very dreamy.

“Would you like to go out some time?” He asks once he’s in front of you.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good. Could I get your number?”

He hands you his phone and you quickly type your number in and save it. He takes it back and sends you a text so that you have his number. Steve’s phone chimes again and this time he does leave. But not without one last look through the coffee shop window.

Once you sit down both Nat and Wanda agree that he is in fact beautiful. You tell them about how he asked you out. They immediately start talking about what you would wear on this date. Your phone chimes and you see it’s a text from Steve asking when you’re free. From that moment on you get to know each other more.

He’s still beautiful but now he’s less of a stranger.

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[ihatedtoadmit]

Violet-coloured lenses

pairing: Bang Chan x male!reader

genre: angst, fluff(?)

warnings: gore, mention of suicide

word count: ~3.5k

summary: Chan hides his feelings and he couldn't regret that decision any more.

a/n: This is a bit different, you'll see in what ways. Hopefully it doesn't confuse you guys.

A Guide to the AU, in case you are unfamiliar with it (it does spoil the surprise though).

↳ Main Masterlist

All rights reserved. Please do not steal, repost or feed my work into AI. Thank you!

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not at all.

We were supposed to just meet up for a friendly lil café date, all to help him wind down after a long day at work. He’d said he was tired, but needed some advice on some projects and I just couldn’t say no. Our chats where we’d agreed on where to meet were colourful and energetic, full of our usual friendly banter and memes. I was made fun of, of course I was, unable to escape being called old even outside of my lively group. Yet, I didn’t mind it, enjoying the soft tingling nestling inside my chest way too much for me to put a stop to it. Besides, he just looked too happy as he teased me and my heart always ached at the mere thought of being the reason for the disappearance of his smile. 

Every little laughter of his caused my skin to tingle, the breath stilling inside my lungs and deciding to take residency in there forever. Each touch and brush of our skin only caused my feelings to bloom, as if that was even possible at that point. That was the effect he had on me, being the sole reason for the colours to appear in this bleak world, for music to sound wonderful and hold meaning.

But I didn’t mind any of those, truly I didn’t. Not his teasing, not how he called me his friend, none of them.

My only regret was staying silent, now forced to watch his once bright face be still and pale, only the constant beeping sound providing me some form of mocking solace.

Why couldn’t I just say those simple words out loud at last? 

It had all been planned out, our shared friends having helped me cook up a foolproof plan. But it wasn’t enough, me being the biggest fool of them all, ultimately forcing me to now sit beside his still form in an all too white room.

The moment I’d showed up to the birthday party, looking all sharp and neat -Changbin had made sure of that-, I just simply couldn’t do anything. The breath had stilled in my lungs as my palms had grown sweaty, and a small tremor had run through the entirety of my body as I no doubt looked like a man-turned-stone.

But how could I not?

The one I had grown so fond of over the course of a few months had looked absolutely breathtaking in those casual clothes of his, a soft smile decorating his rosy lips perfectly. There was a twinkle residing in those dark orbs, as if they were hiding something that resided deep inside, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I was much too enamoured as a quiet chuckle had left him, amused by whatever Jisung had said.

The urge to gulp became impossible to ignore much too soon, that itching feeling clawing at the back of my throat fiercely once more.

And as the day had gone by, my eyes glued to that one person only, that itching feeling had only grown into a suffocating urge to cough. It had been getting bad lately, petals only increasing in number. And I’d known if I had continued like this, that hidden affection would have been the cause for my own death.

Those thoughts caused me to let out a broken laugh as I sat beside his unmoving form, the situation much too ironic for me to not do so.

Because all of those words turned out to be true. My drowning love would lead me to my own demise, with me being much too stubborn to give it up even in such a dire situation. And worst of all, I was completely aware of that, much to everyone else’s demise.

Instead of confessing to the one my heart beat for, to the man these rooted feelings had blossomed for, I’d instead spent that night hunched over the toilet in my own residence, much too sick to stay at the party anymore, where he was at. Every single glance I’d stolen of him scorched me, just like how each spoken syllable directed at me caused my chest to constrict painfully, the roots squeezing the walls of my lungs together viciously.

I hadn’t been able to keep pretending to be his friend anymore that night, the action much too painful for me to bear any longer.

How I wish I had held out just a bit longer, until the words spilled out of my mouth in a flurry of violet petals as gentle as he was.

“Hey, Chan. How’re things going?” - Felix’s voice broke me out of my dark thoughts, granting me just a second to stop blaming myself for what had happened. “Stable, I guess. He’s breathing, but there are no signs of him waking up yet. Not a single one…” - the words that had left my mouth sounded utterly broken, a surprise Felix heard them at all.

He silently shuffled next to me after having placed a grocery bag on the nightstand, his hand squeezing my shoulder reassuringly. It was as if he was trying to glue my shattered pieces back together, no matter how bleak it all looked. That was the thing with Felix. He never gave up and stayed by our side, my side, even though I’ve been glued to this uncomfortable plastic chair for the past 8 days relentlessly, refusing to let sleep claim me in case anything were to happen.

Anything at all, just, please.

“It’ll be okay, mate, trust me on this one. He’s never been one to give things up easily, have some trust in him. He’ll come back to us, to you.” - he whispered back after a beat of silence, and something in those words just broke me inside. “...if what you say is true, he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed, having overdosed on meds just to try and take his own life.” “I know, but–” “Lix, his life was apparently so miserable he’d turned to this desperate ‘solution’! We didn’t notice anything, nothing at all! He smiled the same, he laughed the same, he behaved the same. Like a perfect mask. And we, we weren’t able to notice it was there in the first place. We couldn’t help him… I couldn’t help him.” - with each sentence my lungs burned, the air between us cooling down as I silently wheezed there, hand nearly tearing my remaining hair out. “Hyung…” “Don’t hyung me, Lix. You know I’m right. Maybe if I’d confessed that day he wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’t be here now, dying due to my own stupidity.”

The room became completely silent after that, only the constant beeping and my own raspy breaths filled the air. The hold on my shoulder turned tight, desperate, and I could only lower my head in shame. It wasn’t enough that I could have prevented this entire hospital visit, no, now I had to lash out at Felix who was only here to help. Because without his help, his constant and relentless support, I wouldn’t be here anymore. I was sure of it.

What a hyung I am…

That hold on my shoulder suddenly disappeared, only for my collar to be grabbed and tugged at, the chair loudly falling to the ground as I was harshly ripped out of it. Our eyes were on the same level now, his hold on my shirt so strong the fabric nearly tore in half.

There were tears in Felix’s eyes, even though he looked the angriest I had seen him in a good while.

“Listen here Chan hyung and listen well. I don’t care how you spend each day here, how I need to get you food for you to survive and literally shove it down your throat, but you stop blaming yourself for everything that happened right now! No, we don’t know if your confession would have helped, get that through your thick skull finally! It wasn’t your fault, okay? Because if we go by that logic, I’m also to blame, being his best friend and-...”

By the end the younger aussie’s voice had broken, his arms letting go of me as I just crumbled to the ground. I could only watch from below as crystal droplets had started cascading down his frail face, eyebags I had never noticed before only becoming more prominent. And that wasn’t the only thing that had finally registered in my selfish brain, far from it. The boy was merely a ghost of his former self, skin pale and clinging alarmingly close to his bones, as if he himself had refused to do the one thing he came to me every day for. His moves were different too, hesitant, as if he didn’t have enough energy to execute them properly.

How could I have been so blind before?

As Felix merely stood there, quiet sobs escaping his tiny form he had desperately tried to muffle behind his hands, something inside me snapped. Whatever it was, I had no clue, but there was now nothing more to hold me together, nor to stop the dams from breaking.

We both just sobbed there, unable to hold back those loud wails for seemingly eternity, emotions running much too high for any of us to stop.

Minutes must have passed before my breath stuttered, my entire throat feeling as if it was drenched in a sea of fire, its only purpose to drag me down into its dark depths and drown me there. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get any air into my lungs, the petals inside preventing it from happening. I could feel their soft surface clinging to the bloody walls of my organs, leaving no surface bare, like a roadblock on a busy driveway or a kaleidoscope of butterflies swarming to the sweetest of nectars. The world ceased to exist, only the suffocating urge to survive, to breathe, remained. I couldn’t feel anything, only the bitter taste of iron inside my mouth and the wet feeling as it dripped onto my hands amidst my desperate struggles to finally take a proper breath. It was impossible to tell what was happening anymore and soon my lungs gave up the near impossible fight, my body having lost its strength completely, unable to hold itself up anymore.

The last thing I remembered was the feeling of the small violets resting in my hands, bound together by that awfully deep shade of red.

READ FURTHER FOR HAPPY ENDING

-.-.-

I awoke to a deep pain that resided inside my skull, a groan escaping my dry lips as I was unable to hold it back. Even worse, harsh light assaulted my eyes the moment I’d opened them, causing a scowl to be etched deep into my face. I tried my best to block out the offensive brightness with my hands, but every move felt sluggish, as if I was underwater. It merely succeeded to confuse me, not a clue why I’d be in such a predicament.

Once I opened my eyes I only grew more alarmed, that familiar beeping now finally registering in my brain, its sped-up version heard crystal clear in my head at last.

Why was I in a hospital room?

Looking around didn’t help me at all, as the room was bare, save for a sleeping Minho by my side. His chin was tucked into his chest as he silently slept there, hands crossed and brows deeply furrowed. And as my eyes carefully roamed over his resting form, dread sat heavily into my stomach.

He looked just as bad as Felix did.

Minho might not have been as close to the one my heart blossomed for as Felix or Jisung was, but that didn’t mean this entire situation had no effect on him. Especially with how stubborn I’d been lately, the team’s supposed leader and the one they could turn to for advice.

I remember to this day how he’d stormed into the hospital room, distress clear on his face as he’d looked at me, Felix hot on his heels and out of breath. That was the day Minho’d learnt about my situation, the disease that ran inside my veins and slowly poisoned every inch of my lungs, my throat, in a morbidly beautiful way. The look he’d had in his eyes had nearly killed me, those glistening chocolate orbs wide with fear.

Fear of losing me, his only hyung.

It wasn’t rare for us to argue, especially me and Minho. There was a certain level of trust between us, the two oldest that made it easier to understand the other. But that day, he had raised his voice against me, demanding that I take the surgery and have those deadly flowers cut out.

And what have I done in return?

I argued back, as he’d never be able to understand my feelings. How would I ever be able to live without love in my life, without all those memories of the one I adored? I just couldn’t.

It had taken Felix for us to quiet down, my eyes unable to find Minho’s as his long hair had covered them. And so I had turned away, done with the conversation, when the quietest voice I had ever heard from him reached my ears. I had only believed that it had come from him because I had seen his lips moving, desperation clear in his entire body.

Minho had begged me to have the surgery.

Minho wasn’t a man who begged for anything. He was always strong, determined, ready with a plan to get what he wanted easily. But to see him in that state… I’d considered his request, even if only for a heartbeat or two. That, I couldn’t deny.

Despite all that, how intensely we had argued, he sat there in the corner of the room now, asleep as he no doubt stayed by my side for much too long. I couldn’t help but smile at that, warmth filling up my body.

Although that wasn’t the only thing that I’d felt, a vicious cough ripping itself out of my lungs as I heaved there, barely able to sit up and lean to the side to at least try and get into a more comfortable position. With each cough I could feel something tearing out of the tissue residing deep inside, petals and leaves freeing themselves first and being the messengers of its presence.

I had nearly given up when it had finally freed itself, a handful of violets now laying in my blood-covered hands, looking up at me with their splotches of colours.

“Good job Hyung, let me clean you up.”

I didn’t even notice Minho had been by my side this whole time, his warm hand leaving my back as he took the soiled flowers from my hands without hesitation, depositing them into a nearby bin. He was fast in cleaning his own hands before grabbing some wet wipes, motions gentle as he cleaned my hands silently.

When he turned my head up to clean the vermillion droplets residing on my chin, I could see how utterly defeated he looked. It was as if he had accepted the fate I had chosen, forced to witness my downfall as he could do nothing about it except watch from beside me.

It made my chest constrict painfully, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Just as I was about to reach out towards him, the door to my room bursted open violently, a distraught Felix standing there. He was panting hard, no word able to escape his exhausted form and we could only exchange a worried, yet confused glance with Minho at that.

What could have been so urgent?

Our silent question was answered soon enough, the words I was desperately hoping to hear finally hitting my ears and making me second-guess myself. Was I truly so far gone that I’d hallucinated it? Wouldn’t have been the first time after all, my wishes chasing me into brief nightmares even in my sleepless hours.

“He’s awake.” - Felix repeated himself, eyes solely on me and my frozen form.

It took me that second confirmation to realise I wasn’t hallucinating this time, my body springing into action. Minho wasn’t fast enough to catch me, my hands having already torn out the IV and other, different machines that were attached to my skin. I didn’t care about any of them, or how it stung to remain a few.

All that mattered was that he was awake, alive, and I could talk to him again.

Felix didn’t hesitate to scramble out of my way as I became a force to be reckoned with, unable to be stopped no matter what. Minho tried his best to try and do just that, or at least to slow me down, but I could care less about that at the moment.

It didn’t take long for me to find where he was, the door closed and waiting for me to open. Yet, as much power as I had so far, it all drained out of me at the thought of confronting him, of speaking the truth at last. It was as if my legs had rooted themselves into place, my entire body paralysed in fear.

All it took was Minho and Felix to gently push my back, silently beckoning me to finally take that step forward.

The door opened and there he sat in the bed, silently gazing out the window. He had lost some weight and his skin was now pale, yet he was still captivatingly beautiful in my tearful eyes.

My feet made a sound on the cold floor of the room as I made a few tentative steps. Our eyes met, those dark orbs I loved so much twinkling in delight and looking lively again, their glistening surface drawing me in. Tears carved their seemingly permanent way down my cheeks, my dimples coming out of their hiding places as I just stood there, taking it all in.

He moved before I could fully register it at all, his much taller, yet thinner form nearly knocking me down to the ground, were it not for the others. His hold on me was strong, desperate, as if he was trying to mould me into his own skin and I could only sob as he held me in his arms.

He was alive, his heart beating fast, his body warm and he was holding me tight, so, so tight I could feel my broken pieces being mended together.

As I just stood there, soaking in his warmth and sobbing into his chest, no doubt soaking his hospital gown, a quiet question hit my ears.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Channie?”

The sobs froze into my lungs, wet eyes now staring up at him as he drew me away so he could look at my face directly.

“Why didn’t you tell me you love me? That you were dying because of me?” - he asked once more, his voice so full of hurt I was ashamed of myself. “I-... I wanted to. But it was me who hurt myself, not you, never you! I’am dying due to my own stupidity.” - I replied, unable to meet his eyes.

His hands slid down from my shoulders, gently taking my own hands into their hold. It was as if he was handling something fragile, his touch featherlight and never too harsh. It made my skin tickle and flush, his care only causing my stomach to flip inside and turn on its own head.

“I never thought this would happen. That someone would have feelings towards me, of all people. So I’m sorry, so sorry that I never noticed. But… even if you won’t forgive me, can I hear it from you this time? That you love me?” - his question was equally gentle, his inability to see his own beauty cutting deep into my heart painfully.

I grasped his hands in return, determined to never let him go, even if only as friends. And with a deep breath, I answered his doubts.

“I love you. I love you so fiercely it nearly suffocates me, but I could care less. I’m in love with you, my dear butterfly.”

His eyes twinkled at my words, lips wobbling and glistening tears finally falling to the ground. I’d nearly feared he hated me so much my confession made him cry, but he spoke before I could, his hold on me tighter than ever.

“I love you too Chan. Please never doubt that, never again.”

I didn’t hesitate to hug him close immediately, the reality of his response not hitting me fully yet. Only after a minute did my brain register his words, a wide smile dancing on my lips as we sobbed in each other's holds, unwilling to let the other go.

I didn’t care how the others were now all there to witness us, hugging in tear-soaked hospital gowns. We were both happily in our own little world, inseparable from the other, soaking up each other’s presence and warmth we missed oh so much.

Taglist: @michelle4eve

[egg-emperor]

Does Eggman go after big burly men/monsters because he enjoys the thrill of making them submit or is it possible that in very rare instances he's fine with temporarily letting someone else be in control long as his own pleasure comes first?

I like to imagine it's both. For just big burly men in general, I imagine he was "fascinated" like all his life but didn't want to outright admit it to himself for a while besides his statues on the Egg Carrier but he could create various, still very gay, excuses for having them lol. But he'd finally get experience with big strong guys for real like Zavok (or Bowser but non canon) and he wouldn't be able to deny it any longer when he just has to jump on that 👀

As for the monsters, it started as just loving the thrill of making them submit for sure, since he primarily gets involved with them for his plans, feeling they'll be useful. Then through it he realizes he's really into the process of making them submit and serve and not just in his typical desire for control and domination way, he realizes it's a full on kink and it goes to very interesting places

The best example is Eggman with the Deadly Six in Lost World, ESPECIALLY Zavok. He had way too much fun bringing them to their knees in submission and was clearly really getting his kicks out of the sadistic aspect of the pain too. He's so playing up the master and slave dynamic here and Zavok doesn't understand that even if he only sarcastically calls him master, he's setting up the perfect opportunity for him to put him in his place and enjoy it

Making him bow at his feet, wagging his finger at him. Yeahhh 🥴

And the way he finds even the smallest reasons to punish them (though it's due to his very high standards too of course) and takes every opportunity to force them to obey with the conch

And the prequel comic made it even more blatantly kinky it was gold

Like hello he literally steps on him and tilts his chin with the conch shajgsnjgksng god me next pls

It's literally canon that he's into it in some form, I don't even have to exaggerate, I mean look at that sadistic smile on his face the two times he does it

The second smirk being quick and sneaky because he wants to appear serious and threatening yet smiles for a split second like he just can't contain himself hehe I love it

All I'm doing is speculating that he gets another kind of excitement from it too lol

And Zavok being a muscle monster dude and how he repeatedly goes after monsters and his hall of muscular guy statues in Hot Shelter, it all checks out. Zavok was the jackpot and best of both in one for him

While the rest doesn't have such confirmation lol, I like to think he discovered he also very secretly likes to be on the receiving end. Typically he'll stay dominant through it first, being the one to order and control them. I can see him always starting with a more dominant power bottom position, where he's still in control and likes to use it in a way to demean them some more, by treating them as not just a tool for his plans but also his personal pleasure

But there'll be temptation to be a little more submissive and when he finally is, he looks at it as being the one being serviced, it's for his own pleasure that comes first rather than what they get. It makes a lot of sense for him to want to just take, in fact it makes a lot of sense for him to not give at all. He has a great case for being a total pillow princess with his entire personality so viewing it through that lense, there is kinda official stuff to support it and it's just *gestures to his entire character* XD

When he is practically just giving himself to them, he constantly has this inner conflict of "why am I letting this happen, if this got out it'd ruin my image" but he likes it too much. It feels nice to just give up control for a little while, relax and have fun. And to feel like the one that's the full center of attention and priority as he lets them work on pleasing him, as it's still always in pursuit of his own pleasure and always his only priority, of course! He'll make sure they still know he's the real dominant one in control after and just enjoy it for now ;)

[fanfiction-she-wrote]

Pulitzer's Daughter

A redemptive take on the confrontational scene in Pulitzer's office before the rally, as well as the rally and rooftop scene.

Word Count: a little over 9000 (I'm a fiend, I know)

Warnings: perhaps some language, mentions of potential abuse (physical/emotional/verbal) but nothing graphic or explicit

Author's Note: I do bring up Lucille, Pulitzer's second oldest daughter who died two years before the Newsboy Strike in 1897 at the age of 17 from typhoid fever, so just wanted to offer that context. Also, I'm playing with the idea of continuing this into a mini collection that includes Jack and Katherine telling everyone about her identity, the blackmail, and The Children's Crusade, as well as maybe a heart to heart about the Pulitzer family dynamic and the process of writing The Children's Crusades? I'm really out here trying to build up Katherine's character a little more so I can justify my love for her lol.

Still reeling from the excitement she felt over the upcoming rally, Katherine Plumber roamed the streets, giddily informing every Newsie she passed about it. By the time she made it to the gates of The World, the sun had started to go down and the Newsies had all scrambled to sell the last of their papes before the meeting, leaving Katherine to her thoughts. She wanted to be realistic about the odds, but she couldn’t help the hope that had stirred from within her. This just might work. Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice ring out beside her.

“Just who we’s were lookin’ for.” Katherine whirled around to come face to face with one of the Delancey brothers. She tried to take a step back, but where one brother was, the other was never far behind. In this case, it came in a literal sense as the other brother stood right behind her and blocked her motion. “Mr. Pulitzer would like to speak with you.” A slew of responses swam through her mind, every single one of them sarcastic and witty and not particularly cooperative, but they all left as she spotted a figure looking down at her from the office balcony above. Biting her tongue, she followed them silently, keeping her head down. As the doors opened and she was escorted into the room, she faced the mayor, two World staffers, and the infamous Joe Pulitzer who all looked her way.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the lady of the hour,” Pulitzer said sneeringly, newspaper in hand. He unfolded the paper as he stood directly in front of her, holding the print to her face for her to see. “Are you proud of yourself?” Katherine straightened her posture a tad.

“I am. Those boys-”

“Are none of your concern. Clearly, you’ve allowed your bleeding heart to guide your pen.” 

“But-” She went to reach for the paper and explain herself, but he retracted it with an aggressive flick, causing her to flinch.

“Sit.” She immediately backed away and obediently took a seat in the nearest chair. As soon as she plopped down, the other men in the room spoke up, clearly carrying on a conversation she had missed the context for.

“I’ve read your editorials, Mr. Pulitzer. How can you express so much sympathy for the trolley workers and yet have none for the Newsies?” the mayor asked, walking closer to Pulitzer as he addressed him.

“Because the trolley workers are striking for a fair contract,” he explained calmly, removing his spectacles from his face and studying them. “The Newsies are striking against…me.” He tucked the lenses into his vest pocket, focusing his attention on the mayor.

“Well, I’d spare you the embarrassment if I could, but Medda Larkin’s Theater, the Burlesque House, is private property,” he responded matter of factly.

“He can’t order a raid without legal cause,” Mr. Bunsen chipped in, holding his ledger book close to his chest. Katherine felt herself sink into the chair a little more, realizing she was in the middle of a conversation regarding the very rally she had just been optimistic about. Of course, he already knows about it, she thought to herself.

“Mr. Mayor, would the fact that this rally is organized by an escaped convict be enough to shut it down?” Pulitzer tried, stepping up to the mayor, who shot him an inquisitive look, though he stood his ground.

“An escaped convict?” His tone seemed to imply that he didn’t believe Pulitzer’s assertion.

“A fugitive from one of your own institutions” Pulitzer emphasized, pressing the folded-up newspaper against the mayor’s chest in a pointed manner. He started walking back to his desk, everyone shuffling on their feet to follow in his direction. Even Katherine unknowingly shifted her posture toward him, her curious nature peaked. “A convicted thief, at large, reeking mischief on our law-abiding community.” With a twirl, Pulitzer spun his desk chair around to reveal Mr. Snyder as he dropped the newspaper down on the desk. Katherine felt a sinking pit in her stomach. “Mr. Snyder, which one is he?” Pulitzer turned away as Snyder immediately leaned forward and pointed at the picture on the front page, her picture from her story.

“That is him, there.” He stood up and handed the mayor the paper. “Jack Kelly.” Katherine felt her heart stop, slight panic settling in as she tried to absorb the conversation without giving anything away.

“And how do you know this boy?” the mayor asked, taking the newspaper but not minding the picture, simply listening to Snyder speak. 

“His is not a pleasant story. He was the first sentenced to my Refuge for loitering and vagrancy,” he explained, the mayor taking a step back to finally look at the paper. Katherine’s eyes were fixed on his, watching him study Jack with anxiety crawling up her throat. “But his total disregard for authority has made him a frequent visitor.”

“You called him a thief,” the mayor punctuated, lowering the paper before turning to face Snyder once more, “and escaped convict.”

“After his release, I caught him myself, red-handed,” Snyder replied animantly, walking around the desk towards the mayor as Pulitzer took his place, “trafficking stolen food and clothing. He was last sentenced to six months, but the willful ruffian escaped.” Katherine’s eyebrows furrowed. Trafficking food and clothing? As in bringing them into The Refuge? But The Refuge is a government facility. Those children are supposed to be cared for…unless- her thoughts were interrupted by Pulitzer’s voice. 

“So, you’d be doing the city a service, removing this criminal from our streets.” Her eyes darted between the newspaper tycoon and the mayor for a moment.

“If that’s the case,” the mayor responded, emphasizing the if, “we can take him in.” She froze. Jack going back to The Refuge? “Quietly-” No, they can’t, her thoughts voiced at the same time. Her heart skipped a beat with the sudden slamming of Pulitzer’s hands against his desk, grabbing everyone’s attention and silencing her mind.

“What good would quiet do me!” He yelled, an eerie silence filling the room as he stalked around his desk, eyes directly on the mayor. “I want a public example made of him,” he said in a cold steely tone. Just as Kathrine started to catch her breath, Hannah, Pulitzer’s secretary, came rushing in, her breathing slightly erratic.

“Mr. Pulitzer- the boy, Jack Kelly, is here.” Katherine’s eyes went wide, and she immediately launched herself to her feet, fear racing through every inch of her body. What?

“He’s-” she started to whisper, only to be cut off by Pulitzer himself.

“Here?” he asked, sounding quite amused. 

“Just outside. He’s asked to see you,” Hannah added, uncertainty written on her face. Pulitzer started to laugh gleefully, a sound that made Katherine’s skin grow cold. That’s a sadistic laugh, even from him. 

“Ask and ye shall be received.” He quickly whirled around and directed everyone into their places. “Mr. Snyder, if you please.” Snyder clapped his hands with excitement as Pulitzer gestured to Mr. Bunsen over with him. Katherine’s head was swirling with thoughts and anxiety. Run, Katherine. You need to warn him or he’s going to walk into a trap, she said to herself mentally. Just as she made to move, Pulitzer put a hand on her shoulder, suddenly beside her and giving her a passing but icy glare. “Sit,” he commanded with a quiet snarl. Despite herself, she did as she was told, holding tightly to the armrests as he quickly spun her chair to face the wall. She let out a small gasp, garnering his warning glare once more before she heard footsteps enter, pulling his attention away. Her pulse was thrumming in her ears, understanding the look he had just thrown her: behave or else.

“Mr. Jack Kelly,” Hannah announced. The footsteps paced leisurely, and her chest tightened.

“Hey. Good afternoon, boys,” Katherine heard him say, his voice as cocky and confident as ever. It made her flinch, despite how easily it also almost made her heart skip a beat. We just got him back to his usual self. There has to be some way to warn him.

“And which Jack Kelly is this?” Pulitzer stepped away from the chair as she heard a small whistle, clearly coming from her favorite Newsie as she imagined he was taking in the office. “The charismatic union organizer, or the petty thief and escaped convict?”

“Which one gives us more in common? Huh?” She wished his witty comment had made her feel better, but she held onto the arm rests tighter, her brain firing a million miles a minute. The more Jack taunts him, the more likely he is to carry on the act, which buys us time. But he also doesn’t mind the theatrics of it. He still holds all the cards and time may not do us any good.

“Impudence is in bad taste when crawling for mercy.” There was a pause. Jack, don’t take the bait.

“Crawlin’?” Jack let out a chuckle. She nearly huffed out a breath before noticing Pulitzer’s staffer Mr. Seitz standing close by, subtly watching her. She bit her lip instead. “That’s a laugh. No. No, I just dropped by with an invite. No, it seems a, uh, few hundred of your employees are rallyin’ to discuss some, uh, recent disagreements. Now, I thought it only fair to invite you to state your case straight to the fellas. Huh? So what'dya say, Joe? Want I should save you a spot on the bill?” Leave it to Jack to walk into the lion's den just to gloat, she huffed mentally.

“You are as shameless and disrespectful a creature as I was told. Did you know what I was doing when I was your age, boy?” Pulitzer said, emphasizing the word ‘boy’ to get under his skin. “I was fighting in a war.” 

“Oh, yeah, how’d that turn out for ya?” Jack didn’t seem to skip a beat with his commentary as Katherine tried to casually look around. Damned chair, I can’t see any of the doors from here…

“It taught me a lesson that shaped my life. You don’t win a war on the battlefield. It’s the   headline that crowns the victor.”

“Well, I will keep that in mind when New York wakes up to front-page photos of our rally.” She tried not to smirk at his confidence.

“Oh, rally till the cows come home. Not a paper in town will publish a word. And if it’s not in the papers, it never happened.” There was a pause. Right, Pulitzer put out a ban on strike material. How were we going to spread the success of the rally, she distractedly contemplated.

“You may run this city, but there are some of us who can’t be bullied. Even some reporters,” he growled lightly. Her brain stopped for a moment as she bit her lip to hide her full-blown smile. Oh…he’s talking about me… she thought to herself for a moment before feeling the upholstery under her hand and remembering the circumstances. Focus on that later. For now, get back to looking for an escape. 

“Ah. Such as that young woman who made you yesterday’s news?” She froze in place. Forget the escape. Why is he talking about me? Where is he going with this? She could hear footsteps approaching the desk. Pulitzer was, no doubt, setting up for something.  “Talented girl.” She heard him tap on the newspaper and realization struck. This is part of the set up. He meant for this to happen. He wanted Jack to- “And beautiful as well, don’t you think?” Jack was oblivious to all of it as she tried to look for a way out without moving the chair and drawing attention to herself, her hands wringing anxiously.

“Yeah. I’ll tell her you said so,” Jack said in a scoffing manner, turning to leave.

“No need,” Pulitzer said with a smirk. She felt like her heart might give out from how hard it was pounding now as she turned her gaze to him. Her eyes widened when she saw him nod, clearly enjoying the panic in her eyes. Please, don’t do this, she begged silently. “She can hear for herself.” She flinched as he threw down the paper on the desk, not breaking eye contact with her as he made her presence known. “Can’t you, darling?” She stared at him wordlessly before she saw his finger wag. The signal was clear. Get up. With a shaky breath, she rose to her feet in defeat and slowly turned around. Jack’s back was to her, but his head was turning in her direction after seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye. “I trust you know my daughter,” Pulitzer said as her eyes started to mist, “Katherine.” He spat out her name with such venom, but she knew it wasn’t aimed at her. It was aimed at Jack. All of this was to hurt Jack. Congratulations, Katherine. You played the part perfectly, a voice in her head hissed. “Yes,” Pulitzer sang out, clearly enjoying how distraught the infamous Jack Kelly had become, her eyes never leaving his. She could see storms of emotion crashing in his eyes: disbelief, hurt, betrayal, grief. Tears welled up in her own eyes, unable to tear herself from tortured his gaze. “My daughter.” Her father sat at his desk as Jack tried to take a few steps toward her, and away from the door, his only exit. No, Jack you need to run, she screamed in her head, but she couldn’t even bring herself to say a word, much less move her legs as she stood there frozen by sheer panic. This is bad. This is very bad. “You are probably asking, why the nom de plume, and why doesn’t my daughter work for me?” Hearing her father’s gloating tone, she hesitantly glanced in his direction, distraught by how content he sounded with himself. “Good questions.” He clearly didn’t care about her opinion of him as he settled back comfortably into his chair. “I offered Katherine a life of wealth and leisure. Instead, she chose to pursue a career.” She swallowed the bile in her throat as she looked at Jack again, her eyes shining with tears. And guilt. “And she was showing real promise until-” She jumped and flinched at the sound of him slamming his hand against the desk and dragging the newspaper across the wood. “This…recent…lapse,” he said, pausing with each word. Get a grip, Katherine. You have to do something. “But you’re done with all of that now, aren’t you, sweetheart?” An opening. This is an opening to speak. Say something. Warn him!

“Jack, I didn’t mean to-” she tried to explain herself as she took a step towards him, but he was quick to step back, breaking eye contact from her as he held out a hand telling her to stay in her place. You did that to him, Katherine. Now he won’t listen to you. She could see the way he was taking uneven breaths and staring at the ground to keep it together. A part of her broke seeing him like this. 

“Don’t trouble the boy with your problems, dearest,” Pulitzer chimed in, a small smile on his face. “Mr. Kelly has a plateful of his own.” Despite her distraught emotions, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Oh no. Jack, run.

“Jack-” she whimpered, his name just barely falling from her lips as her father cut off her warning.

“Wouldn’t you say so-” No time for warnings.

“Run!” a hiss ripped through her throat as she gripped onto the chair tightly to stop herself from running at him. His eyes just barely flashed up to meet hers as her father uttered the end of his sentence to snap the door on the trap. 

“Mr. Snyder?” There was a pause as Jack’s eyes widened, staring at Katherine. He wasn’t sure what to believe anymore, but the shadow of a figure coming out from behind Pulitzer’s desk made his eyes stray from her and believe her words. 

“Hello, Jack,” he snarled. Jack immediately tried to make a run for it, but Katherine could see the Delancey brothers right behind him, ready to restrain him. She went to throw herself away from the chair to help him, but a hand landed on her shoulder. Mr. Seitz squeezed her shoulder to remind her that they were outnumbered. They had been the entire time. This was the plan from the moment Jack arrived. They beat us. She covered her mouth and grabbed hold of the chair once more, letting the wood brush against her skin as she watched Jack struggle. This isn't a fight we win, Jack. I’m so sorry. 

“Does anyone else feel a noose tightening? Hmm?” The Delancey brothers threw Jack forward. Looking back at them, he realized just how trapped he was, and Katherine watched his back as he struggled to even his breathing. 

“But allow me to offer an alternate scenario,” her father announced from his throne. “You attend the rally and speak against this hopeless strike.” Katherine dropped the hand covering her mouth to her side, biting her lip and squeezing the chair tighter. So, an ultimatum. “And I’ll see your criminal record expunged, and your pockets filled with enough cash to carry you, in a first-class train compartment, from New York,” he paused for emphasis, her hand slacking and dropping from the chair in surprise. How did he- “To New Mexico, and beyond.” Pulitzer then turned his head to his daughter, giving her a sickly-sweet smile as she shook her head in disbelief. “You did say he wanted to travel west, didn’t you?” She let out a bitter chuckle, knowing that he was implying that she fed him information. Of course, he knows about Santa Fe too. She crossed her arms and covered her mouth with one hand, some tears leaking from her eyes. She wanted to say something, say anything, but she knew the second she opened her mouth, it wouldn’t be words coming out as her nausea continued to brew. She hesitantly looked at Jack, his eyes burning into her. I didn’t sell you out, Jack. Please know that I would never do it, she tried to convey through her eyes.

“There ain’t a person in this room who don’t know you stink,” he growled. He meant it towards her father, but she knew that some part of him meant it for her too. He held her eyes with his, anger and hurt swirling in them. The moment was broken though as Pulitzer stood from his seat, demanding attention.

“And if they know me, they know I don’t care.” he responded, making his way around his desk. He stopped to lean against the desk instead, clearly confident in the circumstances. “Mark my words, boy. Defy me, and I will have you and every one of your friends locked up in The Refuge.” Jack stood tall, defiance in his stance. But she’d come to know him well enough to recognize the slight tremble in his fingers before he balled them into fists. He’s scared. But if the Refuge is as awful as it sounds, surely my father wouldn't sentence dozens of children to such a fate...would he, Katherine tried to reassure herself, though she wasn't sure anymore. “I know you’re Mr. Tough Guy, but it’s not right to condemn that little crippled boy to conditions like that.” Jack tilted his head, gritting his teeth. Katherine's head felt like it was spinning. He knew about them. He knew about all of them. Of course he did. “And what about your pal, uh…”

“Davey,” Snyder chipped in. The spinning stopped and her body snapped in his direction. Bringing the Newsies into this was bad enough, but Davey and Les?

“Davey. And his baby brother,” Jack stepped back, staring at Katherine in disbelief. She didn’t bother breaking her glaze to meet his though as fire made its way into her eyes. “Ripped from their loving family and tossed to the rats.” Her father started tutting. He’s taking this too far, she growled internally. She could see the way Jack looked away from the corner of her eye, helpless guilt written all over his face. It was enough to send her over the edge. “Will they ever be able to thank you-”

“Enough!” she yelled, her hands shaking with rage. Her father’s cold fury glared at her, daring her to say more. In shock of her explosion, she diverted her eyes to Jack who had slowly turned his head to look at her, his gaze conflicted with emotions. Katherine swallowed the bile that rose up her throat and tried to work up her courage. Enough sitting silently. I need to say something while I’m still brave enough to open my mouth. “You can’t do this.” She broke Jack’s gaze and stared at her father. His glare burned her, but she fought the instinct to recoil and continued, stepping closer to his desk in an attempt to put them on the same level. "This isn't about the strike. This is about your willingness to throw dozens of boys into a prison for something that isn't even illegal. What kind of person does that make you?" Katherine felt her chest light for a moment. That felt good to say. The relief was short lived however as she watched her father step up to her, casting down his infernal glare. The last time she had seen those eyes so close, a hand followed, the memory eliciting a reaction. Everyone in the room could see the way her assertion dimmed into a plea, her body physically shrinking back slightly with each approaching footstep from Pulitzer. “Please. They’re just children,” she whispered, all of the bravery fleeing in an instant. Despite himself, Jack instinctively clenched his jaw at the way she sounded so small and afraid.

“As are you,” he responded coldly. He raised his hand towards her face, causing her to flinch. Jack went to step toward them until he saw Pulitzer's hand simply take her by the chin and force her to meet his eyes. Seeing the fear in them, he scoffed and let her go, turning his back to her and approaching Jack, a twinkle of humor back in his eye. “Time’s running out, kid, so what do you say? Cowboy or convict, I win either way,” he hummed softly, a menacing tone to his voice. Jack's eyes were bouncing back between Pulitzer and Katherine, part of him getting over the fear he had for her as fear for himself settled in once more, remembering the trap he had found himself in, the trap she had a part in springing. Katherine stared at him, once again frozen in place. That did nothing. All of that was for nothing, she scolded herself. “Your abject surrender was always,” he broke into chuckles before sharply delivering the end of his tune, “the bottom line.” Without skipping a beat, he waved over the Delancey brothers. “Gentlemen, escort our guest to the cellar so he might reflect in solitude.” The boys started pushing Jack around just for him to throw up his hands and follow on his own will. Katherine, to her surprise, was quick to follow, her feet trying to keep up with Jack. The Delancey brothers, however, knew she would try to join them and quickly blocked her off.

“Jack,” she shouted breathlessly, trying to make her way past them. When he kept walking without even a glance back, she tried again, more loud and certain. “Jack!” She watched the way he shook his head and she processed the gesture. Oh…it was on purpose. She hurt him and he’s ignoring her. She stopped at the steps of the stairs and tried to hold it together. She was brushed aside as her father followed, leading them to the cellar. In response, she followed, though she knew there was nothing she could do anymore. By the time she had made it to the cellar entrance, her father was already turning to leave with a grin on his face. As soon as he registered her presence however, the quirk of his lip fell and he rather gruffly grabbed her arm and pulled her away. He dragged her back into the office and only released her once the doors had been closed and it was just the two of them. She watched as he went back to his desk silently, rubbing her arm where it had been grasped harshly.

“I called The Sun. You can go retrieve your things in the morning.” She stared at him blankly, hoping she had misheard him.

“...what?” He shook his head and picked up the newspaper once more, lazily glancing over the front page. Her story.

“Come now, darling, you’re smarter than this. I didn’t just blacklist you. I had you terminated. Clearly, journalism is too much pressure on you-”

“You had no right. That article was my best work, my big break-” she argued, stepping forward to be at the foot of his desk.

“The entire story was a hyperbole. There weren’t swarms of children, just a handful of Newsies. And they didn’t storm the gates, the Delanceys opened the gate for them to come in for work. You misguided your readers and gave those boys false hope.” Katherine tried not to let the hurt shine through her eyes as she stood her ground.

“Of course you’re hypercritical of the piece, you have a conflict of interest in all of this, Mr. Pulitzer,” she hissed.

“And so it seems do you, Ms. Plumber.” This time, she can’t hide the shock on her face. “What, you thought I wouldn’t know about that Kelly boy being sweet on you? I’ve been keeping an eye on you for longer than you think. You’ve clearly taken to him far beyond what your writing suggests. Dare I say you found a muse in that riffraff?" How dare he insinuate such things.

“Just because he’s a flirt doesn’t mean my nonpartisan integrity as a journalist is compromised,” she said, straightening her back despite his claim. Jack Kelly is a lot of things: handsome, cocky, witty, brash, charming, and loud, just to name a few. But he is not and has never been a distraction, she told herself.

“Maybe. But you’ve too emotionally grown attached to your subject. Luckily, I stepped in when I did before you considered anything you’ll regret.” Ignoring his implications, she leaned forward on the desk.

“Don’t pretend like this is about me. You’ve refused to so much as look at my way since I decided to pursue journalism.” He looked up from the paper and decided to put it down, waving a hand for her to speak. Finally. “This strike is happening because you up-charged the Newsies and have refused to treat them as anything more than children-”

“They are children-”

“Working class children that work for you. They should be treated as employees.” He scoffed and folded his arms. “The upcharge may not seem like much, but those boys barely have enough to live off of as is. And all of this for what? So you can pocket more money?” He rolled his eyes, agitating her a bit more.

“It’s not about the money, Katherine. It’s about the principle. I need more circulation and we need to cut costs somewhere to make more papers, so the newsies pay more for each paper they sell. The more papers they sell, the more readers I have. The more readers I have, the more people listen to my opinion. The more people listen to my opinion-”

“Then it’s a matter of pride.” Her father’s eyes harden, but she doesn’t stop. “You care more about competing with the other big names of the city and increasing the power of your voice than the livelihood of those children. And when they raise their voices, you want to stomp them to the ground.”

“Those children are gutter rats. Most of them won’t even live to become to adults-”

“No thanks to people like you.”

“I’m teaching them a lesson: the world isn’t fair.” She chuckles dryly. No, The World isn’t.

“You act as though they don’t know that. Those kids have been dealt some of the most unfair hands in life. I don’t understand why you don’t just-”

“Of course you don’t understand. You are still a child learning about the world. I made it so you wouldn’t have to face hardships, but again and again you choose to make life more difficult-”

“Because I want to understand the world!" Katherine snapped. "How am I supposed to learn anything when I’m trapped in a comfortable bubble of wealth and privilege, which I never asked for? I am 17! It’s time for me to go out and work for a living and learn about the world, away from this easy life you keep trying to impose on me!” Her father’s face turned red at her words.

“It's a matter of maturity, not age. Why must you be so difficult? Lucille understood such things and she never had these-these outbursts! She understood the price of this life, that these are benefits she could never gain elsewhere, no matter how much hard work and effort she put in, so she was obedient and grateful. Why couldn’t you be more like your sister?” The air cooled as she stepped away from the desk slowly. He really went there…he really brought her up just to get back at me.

“I know I’m not the daughter you want me to be, and I miss her too, but you don’t have to throw Lucy in my face every time I don’t measure up.” He stared at her and sighed. Instead of apologizing though, he merely picked up the paper once more, keeping his eyes off of her.

“Go home and freshen up. I want you there when Mr. Kelly gives up on this union nonsense tonight.”

“You don’t know if he will-”

“If he’s as much of a hero as you painted him out to be in your article, then I’m positive he will.” She’s silent. He’s right. Jack is the type to bite the bullet, but only for himself. For others, he'd make himself the human shield. And to add money on top of that…he’s getting paid to walk away from all of this, something he’s wanted to do since the beginning…would he? Sensing her uncertainty, he turned around in his chair so that his back was to her. “You should pick out something nice to wear. This will likely be the last time you see Mr. Jack Kelly.” She stared at the upholstery blankly, her emotions too jumbled to sort through. “You’re dismissed,” he emphasized with the crinkling of paper. Without another word, she turned and walked out the door, her eyes prickling with tears. It wasn’t until she had made it down the front steps of The World that a thought occurred to her: Jack. Is he still down in the cellar? Should I go see him? Would he…would he want to see me after everything? Insecurity crept up her spine and she decided to focus on making it to the rally. The only way now is forward. If I’m early enough, maybe I can warn Davey and them about what happened just in case Jack… Her trail of thought sputtered out. She didn’t want to think like that. Jack Kelly was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a sell-out. She knew that.

By the time Katherine made it to the rally at Medda’s, she could see the discussion was in full swing. To her reassurance, they had over triple the numbers of Newsies than what they had been working with. It seemed to be going well with all of the boroughs. She found herself a nice spot to watch Davey speak from behind a group of Newsies from Flushing up on one of the risers. It almost made her smile…until she saw Jack coming around from the backstage area with his jaw set. Oh no… she thought to herself, bringing her thumb up to her lips as she started to bite on her nail.

“You wanna be talked to like an adult? Then start actin’ like one,” Jack grumbled loudly, cutting off the applause Davey had conjured up.

“Jack-” Davey said, catching Jack’s tone and trying to ease him up. Jack however was a man on a mission, so he gave Davey a small push to let him know he was taking over, not once stopping his grumbling

“Don’t just run your mouth. Make some sense.”

“And here’s Jack!” Davey announced with enthusiasm, though his face showed some concern. The Newsies started chanting his name and Katherine could see him fighting himself. Come on, Jack. Do the right thing. These boys need you.

“Alright.” They didn’t stop. “Alright,” he said a little louder, but to no avail. “Alright!” he shouted, finally getting the boys to simmer down. He took a moment to think, his eye catching his artwork on display. Katherine followed his eyes. He could do so much with talent like that…is that what he hopes to do when he goes to Santa Fe? Katherine startled herself out of her thoughts. She didn’t mean to imply that he was leaving. It had always been an ‘if’, not a ‘when’ and something about that realization made her stomach sink. “Pulitzer…raised the price of papes without so much as a word to us, and that was a lousy thing to do.” The Newsies murmured in agreement. “So we got mad and we showed ‘em we ain’t gonna be pushed around. So we go on strike! And then what happens? Well, Pulitzer lowers the price of papes, so’s we’ll go back to work!” More murmurs of agreement came. Katherine felt a little better and pulled her finger away from her lips. Maybe I shouldn’t have doubted him. And then he held his hand up to silence them, a look on his face that brought the pit back to her stomach. “And a few weeks later, he hikes the price back up again, and don’t think he won’t. So what do we do then? And what do we do if he decides to raise his price again after that? Fellas, we gotta be realistic here.” Davey realized where Jack’s going with his line of thinking and walked up to him to try to calm him down. Katherine’s finger was back to her chin, her teeth preoccupied with her nail once more. “If we don’t work, we don’t get paid.” Jack turned around to see Davey standing right beside him, looking at him with concern on his face. “How many days can you go without makin’ money? Huh? Believe me, however long, Pulitzer can go longer.” Suddenly the crowd started vocalizing their confusion.

“What are you saying, Jack?”

“So what do we do, Jack?”

“Oh no…” Katherine mumbled to herself. 

“But I have spoken with Mr. Pulitzer!” She shook her head as the boys quieted down. Jack, don’t… “And he…” Jack was fighting himself to finish, “he has given me his word.” His voice cracked at the end. “If we disband the union-” All hell broke loose with those words. All of the boys started coming down the risers and yelling. Jack was trying to hold firm on his stance, but he was in the thick of everything. Katherine shook her head in disappointment, moving up to the railing to have a better look at the scene below. However, her eyes stopped on a figure on the opposite riser from her. Snyder. So, they made good on their threat after all. She watched as he threw his hand down on the railing in what seemed to be disappointment before he left. Katherine wanted to make sure he was gone for good before letting her eyes fall to the mess on the stage. All these boys don’t even know how close to hell they just were, she thought, her eyes prickling with tears once more. Jack was still being drowned out by the voices of the other Newsies and looked up for some relief just to meet her eyes. He froze in his place as she watched him with misty eyes for a moment before taking off, unable to stomach the scene in front of her anymore. He did it. He took the money, and will no doubt leave as soon as he can. No goodbyes, no apologies, just burned bridges. She walked the streets of New York, her emotions becoming less of despair and more of defiance as she wiped her tears away angrily. No, she thought to herself. This doesn’t end like this. I need to talk to him. I need to… Just then, Katherine remembered something one of the Newsies had told her about: Jack’s penthouse. Picking up her skirt, she hurried over to the fire escape accessible rooftop she had heard about, fully aware that if she didn’t beat him there, she may never see him again.

By the time she made it up to the top of the ladder, she could see she was alone. There were still some things lying around so she took that as a sign that she just might have beat him back. At least, that’s what she had hoped. Taking a moment to catch her breath, the first thing she noticed were the stars above.

“Jack Kelly, the stargazer. The ‘Go West, Young Man’ theme continues,” she whispered to herself. She started pacing the area before noticing rolls of paper in an air vent. Hesitantly, she picked one up and unrolled it, her breath catching in her throat. Is this…Snyder is supposed to take care of them. This…this is unacceptable. She continued to study them until she heard the metal creaking of the ladder. Turning to face the ladder, she continued to fiddle with the drawing, though her eyes were switching between the boy she had been waiting for and his art.

“That was some speech you made,” she said dryly, despite knowing she shouldn’t be too hard on him. He didn’t have much of a choice, really…

“How’d you get here?” he grumbled before he’d even made it up the steps fully.

“Well, Specs showed me.” His eyes found the papers in her hands and he quickly rushed up to her, snatching one of them away quickly.

“What, he say you could go through my stuff?” he snapped at her. She flinched away slightly as he came around behind her and rolled it up.

“I saw them rolled up sticking out of there. I didn’t know what they were,” she defended herself gently, staring at his back as he tried to ignore her. She looked down at the paper still in her hands. “These drawings…these are drawings of The Refuge, aren’t they?” Jack didn’t respond, taking the other drawings and storing them away in a poster tube. Don’t stop, Katherine. This may be your only chance to get some answers. “Is this what it’s really like in there? Three boys to a bed, rats everywhere, and vermin…”

“What, a little different from how you were raised?” he spat out bitterly, snatching the page from her hands. She jumped and looked at him in surprise, but instead of fighting back, her eyes softened. He’s processing a lot. You can’t blame him for being upset after everything, Katherine. He made eye contact with her and held it for a moment before turning his back to her one more time to roll up the paper. 

“...Snyder told my father you were arrested stealing food and clothing. This is why, isn’t it? You stole to feed those boys…” When he kept his back to her, she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Jack, I don’t understand,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. He scoffed to himself.

“’s not that surprising,” he mumbled under his breath. Her cheeks went red. Why does everyone keep throwing that back at me today, she thought to herself as she flung her hands up in frustration.

“Then help me understand! If you were willing to go to jail for those boys, how could you turn your back on them now?” That triggered his fight instinct as Jack turned quickly and shoved the tube back into the air vent to face her head on.

“Oh, I do not think you,” he asserted pointily, finger directed at her, “are one to talk about turnin’ on folks!” She took a quick breath to keep her voice level again. 

“I never turned on you, or on anyone else,” she said, but he was quick to refute her.

“Oh, no, you didn’t. You just-just double crossed us to your father. Your father!” he yelled venomously, brushing past her to get to the other side of the railing. Despite herself, she raised her voice and followed him over. 

“Despite how it sounded, I never told my father a thing about any of you. My father and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.” Jack rolled his eyes at her. That little-

“Oh yeah? Then how did he-”

“He has eyes on every corner of this city! He never needed me to spy for him, not that I would even agree to!” She stopped just short of him as he turned to look her in the eyes. He wants to believe. “And to be clear, I never lied.” His gaze shifted to disbelief, making her a bit nervous. “But I didn’t…tell you everything.” He let out a frustrated groan, the hope in his eyes gone again.

“If you weren’t a girl, you’d be trying to talk with a-a fist in your mouth!” He turned to face the railing, leaning against it. Katherine huffed to herself. What a stubborn boy. 

“Look, I told you that I worked for The Sun, and I did. I told you my professional name is Plumber, and it is. You-you never asked my real one,” she said, immediately wincing at her choice of words at the end. Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair. Jack seemed to agree because he whirled around exuding frustration.

“I wouldn’t think I had to unless I knew I was dealing with a backstabber!” She blinked and tried to manage her frustration. Keep your calm, Katherine.

“I already told you, I’m not a backstabber or a liar!” she hissed. Okay, that wasn’t very calm, she told herself, clenching her jaw to fight the desire to yell again. 

“Well, you sure as hell ain’t a fan of the truth, now are you?” She glared at him and felt heat rise up her cheeks. You know what, screw calm!

“Oh, if I was a boy, you’d be looking at me through one swollen eye!” she yelled, raising a fist up at him.

“Oh yeah?” He grabbed her wrist and pulled it under his chin, incidentally pulling her close as well. What is he- “Don’t let that stop you, huh.” He let go of her wrist and leaned forward, ready to accept an uppercut. Jack, you infuriating boy. “Give me your best shot!” He stared her in the eyes. That’s when she saw it. Guilt. He thinks he deserves this. Her breathing was just as erratic as his as she stared at his face. His infuriatingly handsome face. Her eyes flickered down to his lips as he let out puffs of air that tickled her forehead…

…you know what? What the hell. She grabbed onto the base of his neck and pulled him forward, raising herself up on her tiptoes to meet his lips with hers. To her surprise, he was quick to react, grabbing hold of the railing to steady himself and meet her lips. Her hands naturally slid down to hold his face as they melted into the kiss together. After a few moments, they pulled away, foreheads still pressed together. Did I just… Their eyes met and he leaned back in for another kiss. Katherine wanted to stop him but allowed him to pull her in by the waist for a moment to share in another kiss before she felt a thought take over. The deal. She suddenly pushed herself away with a gasp and covered her lips, taking a few steps back. In the following moments, Jack seemed just as frazzled as she was, but she felt the need to say something, unable to stand the silent tension.

“I-I…”  An apology might be a good start. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything. But I know how my father is and I just…I don’t want to be attached to him.” She turned to lean against the railing, a shadow passing over her eyes as she remembered his words. “He’s already made it very clear that I will never be enough to make him proud as a father, so why…” she hesitates with her words. “…why pretend to be someone I’m not?” Jack stared at her, trying to take in her vulnerability. 

“So…you made a fake name to make a name for yourself?” She fought the urge to chuckle. Nice word play, Kelly. 

“I…I guess so.” She hesitantly looked over at him. His eyes were still hazed over slightly from the kiss…es. Plural, Katherine. She shook the thought from her head, fighting off the blush that tried to creep up her cheeks. “I never lied to you about who I was. This is me. This…” she took a deep breath and turned to face him fully. “This is the real me. It’s the only me you’ve known, and it’s the only me there is.” He nodded slowly. She wanted to enjoy the moment, but her thoughts interrupted her once again. Ask him about the money. She shifted on her feet and looked away. “Jack, I…” he stepped a little closer to her, hanging on her words. Swallowing thickly, she looked at him again and hesitantly laid a hand on his chest. “I need to know that I wasn’t wrong about you. I…” his hand wrapped around hers, giving her the strength to continue. “I need to know that you didn’t cave for the money.” He tried to read her face before letting out a sigh and turning to the railing, leaning on it with both hands as her hand slipped out of his grasp.

“No, I-I spoke the truth,” he started, turning to face her. “You win a fight when you got the other fella down eatin’ pavement. Alright, you heard your father. No matter how many days we strike, he ain’t given’ up. I don’t…I don’t know what else we can do,” he whispered, clearly feeling hopeless. She came up beside him and leaned against the railing with him in silence for a moment. There must be something we can do. Another rally, another article, another…wait. She remembered the paper she had stowed away in her pocket when she changed at home, a new piece she had been working on before she had realized she was blacklisted. Maybe it doesn’t end here after all. With a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, she turned to him, her hand in her pocket reaching for the paper.

“Well…I just might have the solution to our problem.” He let out an exhausted groan.

“Oh, come on, Katherine. It’s-” She stopped to shoot him a challenging look.

“Really, Jack, really? Only you can have a good idea?” He drew back a bit, looking at her baffled. “Oh, I know, is it because I’m a girl?” He pointed a finger at her with a defensive look.

“Hey now, I did not say nothin’ about-”

“This would be a good time to shut up,” she cut him off, holding her hand up to silence him. He closed his mouth and tried not to let out a smile at her antics “Being boss doesn’t mean you have all the answers. Just the brains to recognize the right one when you hear it,” she says, pulling out a folded paper from her pocket and waving it in the air for emphasis, a wide smile on her face. Jack silently stared at her before dragging his hand down his face.

“...okay, I’m listening,” he felt the need to announce. She gasped playfully.

“Oh, good for you.” She could practically hear him roll his eyes as she started unfolding the page. “Look, the strike was your idea. The rally was Davey’s. Now my plan will take us to the finish line.” She held the paper up in front of his face. “Deal with it.” He snatched the paper from her hand, trying not to quirk a smile at her spunky attitude. He started looking it over, pacing around her.

“The Children’s Crusade,” he read aloud. Too excited to stop herself, she recited the words herself from memory, hands clasped in front of her.

“'For the sake of all the kids in every sweatshop, factory, and slaughterhouse in New York. I beg you…join us.'” Jack looked at her in shock, pointing at the paper.

“This…”

“With those words, your speech,” she emphasized with excitement. “The strike stopped being just about the Newsies. You challenged our whole generation to stand up and demand a place at the table.” He was silent for a moment, mulling over his words. He didn’t even realize his potential as a leader back then, she smiled to herself.

“The Children’s Crusade…” he repeated in disbelief. He didn’t want to admit it, but it was clear in his eyes every time he looked at her: this girl never stopped amazing him.

“Just think, Jack! If we publish this- my words…” the gears were turning in her head. Pictures sell. “-with one of your drawings!” she squealed, quickly reaching for his art as he stood there, watching her bounce around with hope. “And if every worker under twenty-one read it and stayed home from work…” she tossed him the tube of sketched as she stopped her words, a new thought popping up. Or we could make it a public stand! He shook his head in disbelief. “Or better yet, they came to Newsie Square for a general city-wide strike!” She broke out into giggles, feeling like a mastermind as she took her piece back from Jack and looked it over again as she twirled around. “Even my father couldn’t ignore that.” When Katherine looked at Jack, she could see him hesitating. She stepped over to him, her smile dimming. “What is it?” He sighed, trying to give her a small smile that just couldn’t reach his eyes.

“This is…I mean, it’s great, but…we have one…small problem. We got no way to print it.” She rolled her eyes with a groan. Of course that would be a problem. Stupid ban.

“Well, there has to be one printing press my father doesn’t control.” Jack sighed and leaned against the railing, deep in his thoughts before he paused. 

“Oh no,” he groaned playfully. She quirked her eyebrow, reading the stress melt off his body as a good sign.

“What?” He let out a gruff laugh, fully recognizing the irony of what he was about to propose. The sound reminded her of the Jack Kelly she’d come to know and appreciate, and it brought a smile to her face.

“I know where there’s a printing press no one would ever think we’d use,” he smirked. Leave it to Jack to find a way! she squealed in her head.

“Well, then, why are we still standing here?” she squealed out loud, skipping with excitement towards the fire escape to get to work. He watched her with a smile before feeling the need to rewind and address the elephant in the room, just as her shoulder brushed past his.

“Hey,” he tried gently, but she kept walking. “Hey, wait!” His voice didn’t carry enough as she went to take a step down the ladder. “Stop! Just…” She looked up and froze in place, surprised by his outburst. He looks flustered, she noted. He quickly put his tube of sketches back in the air vent and turned to face her fully, struggling to find his words. “Wha-what is this about for you?” he asked, gesturing between them. Katherine tilted her head in confusion, but she stepped back onto the rooftop to give him her full attention. “And- and I’m not talkin’ about the Children’s Crusade. What’s this about?” he pointed between them once more, emphasizing the word ‘this’ as he did. Her eyebrows furrowed. What is he…does he mean us? She asked herself nervously. “What-am I…am I kiddin’ myself…or is there something…” He sounds so…nervous. I make Jack Kelly nervous? she thought giddily, a small flutter in her chest. 

“You mean…us?” she asked, stepping towards him. He shyly nodded his head, afraid to look away. “I mean, yeah, I like to think there is. We did kiss, so-” she said in a slightly teasing manner, giggling to herself as she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“Well, don’t say it like this happens every day!” he shouted in a panic, catching her by surprise. Oh, he’s actually wound up about this. She came closer, trying to calm him down.

“Wait, Jack, I didn’t mean-”

“No, no, I’m not an idiot!” he yelled, flustered as he stared at her. “Look, I know girls like you don’t wind up with guys like me. And I don’t want you promisin’ nothin’ you gotta take back later.” She stared at him, uncertain of how to react. Part of her felt like she should look away, but she couldn’t, not when he was staring at her with such an intense look in his eye. Hesitantly, Katherine opened her mouth and started fiddling with the cuffs of her sleeves to calm her nerves, eyes still on him. Here goes nothing.

“I...I wouldn’t have come after you if there wasn’t something. Not after all that happened today. I just…I couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go without seeing you one more time.” He stood there, trying to find the words to convey his emotions. Please, say something, her heart begged.

“Standing here…tonight, lookin’ at you, I…” He stumbled over his words, but those words were enough to make her heart soar, her hands brushing her skirt and folding behind her back as she bit her lip. “Look, I’m…I’m scared tomorrow’s gonna come and change everythin’. If there was a way I-I could…grab hold of something just to make time stop, so’s I could just…keep on lookin’ at you.” Katherine couldn’t fight the smile on her lips as she watched this boy bare his heart to her under a thousand New York stars. She didn’t even realize she had tears falling from her eyes until she felt one roll down her cheek. Out of instinct, she went to duck her head to wipe it away, but Jack came up to her in an instant. “Hey, hey.” He slotted a finger under her chin and lifted it up so he could see her face. “What is it?” His hands cupped her cheeks, thumb brushing after the stray tear. She laughed softly at his concern.

“No, I just…” She stared up at him. “You snuck up on me, Jack Kelly,” her voice wobbled. “I never even saw it coming.” He pressed his forehead against hers.

“Fo’ sure?” he whispered, his accent thick. She let out a breathy chuckle and nodded.

“Fo’ sure,” she mimicked him softly. He smiled and slowly brought her lips to his, giving her a chance to back away. Not a chance, she smiled to herself, pulling him into the kiss.

[michanvalentine]

Notes: I went with the flow (and the poll result! xD) and wrote this fanfiction. It is the retelling of the events we already know, from the point of view of the most lovable scientist in the world. <3 (x°°°D) With the addition of various and possible missing moments, of course. I particularly focused on the psychological aspect of Hojo, on how a person like him can experience falling in love. With everything that entails. In this case, naturally, it is the poor Vincent (and not only) who pays the price. There are no explicit scenes of violence and a lot is left to the reader's imagination, but I think the result is still quite disturbing. Normally I dabble in the comedy genre, but when I decide to change I don't have too many scruples. And Hojo remains a disturbing character in his own right. Below I leave a preview of the fanfiction, until I finish translating it and my account on Archive of Our Own is up and running. Be patient with me, I'm an old woman! xD

You look at the Turk sideways, his tall, slender figure silhouetted against the bright glass window. The image - or the light - hurts your eyes and you turn back to the steaming coffee in your hands. It was that silly hen who prepared the drink - for everyone, including you. Your mouth distorts into a grimace of impatience: you didn't need a break. But Faremis found it a splendid idea. To you it's just a useless waste of time, however, and you tremble leaning against the wall, when you could instead be concentrating on the lenses of your microscope. “…I took them home, their parents didn't know where they had ended up,” the dude sent by Shinra is saying.

“Luckily they didn't get hurt,” observes the female, the hen to whom you owe that annoying interruption.

“Good job, Valentine,” Faremis adds, and takes another sip of coffee.

A sound of annoyance comes out of your mouth, and you haven't even touched your coffee yet. Good fucking job, you think. He is paid to protect you, to repel and eliminate threats, not to babysit. It doesn't matter that it was a bunch of curious kids who attempted the break-in.

“Excellent indeed, now the villagers of Nibelheim will think that crossing the borders of the Shinra mansion and putting our jobs at risk is a simple joke,” you observe.

Everyone's eyes fall on you, as if they had only noticed you at that moment. Crescent even puts a hand to her mouth in surprise. But you barely notice, because you're focused on the Turk. On the still look, on the regular features of the face, on the crimson eyes that convey no hesitation. It irritates you, but you can't exactly say why. Meanwhile, from the photo on his CV you hadn't understood how tall he was. And to look him straight in the face you are forced to raise your head. He looks like Grimoire Valentine, you notice again - even if that charlatan has been dead for a while and you don't remember him well. But Vincent Valentine also inherited from his mother. Genetic traits don't lie, no matter how pleasantly mixed they are. He may wear an elegant dark suit, enjoy an excellent education and all the training necessary to stand out among the Turks, but he remains a dirty half-breed. A bastard from Wutai.

“I didn't think it was appropriate to do otherwise,” he says - he contradict you, in fact, and without hesitation in his voice, “Scaring the children more than necessary would have alarmed the entire village. I imagine that to work you need quiet and concentration, not eyes on you.”

“I understand the concern, Hojo, but everything is under control. Our security guard knows what to do,” adds Faremis, unsolicited.

You let your gaze go from one to the other and grit your teeth. Valentine's insolence, Faremis's condescension. You feel outraged deep inside and a little voice suggests to you that they both think they are superior to you, that they can silence you. Clench your fists as well and keep quiet. Take the insult - for now. At least the hen saw fit to stay out of it and keep quiet.

“Well,” you state dryly, “I hope so. In the meantime I believe that this," waste of time, useless theater crosses your mind. “Pause,” you say finally, “it lasted long enough. This is a very important project, Faremis, you should know. Or would you rather our diligent bodyguard also invite the Nibelheim brats here for a coffee?”

You don't wait for an answer, you have paid far too much attention to the issue and to those present, when there are many other things to do. Data to analyze, results to achieve. You throw the still full paper cup into the dustbin and walk away towards the lower floors of the mansion, towards your laboratory. There you will no longer have to listen to useless chatter, nor stumble upon Valentine's profile silhouetted against the window. Or in his steady red eyes that pass through you. Despite yourself, irritation follows you into the basement and you can't say why. He is nothing. Yet everyone in there seems to appreciate him. He is nothing, repeat in your mind; yet even you cannot ignore his simple existence. And you can't stand this.

[sivon-acidwyrm-collections]

Oh right, I forgot I made reference sheets of my

Krang OCs!

That's right! A species of aliens from my favorite media, RoTTMNT, is one of my favourites, and thus has a bunch of OCs from the species! Only four of them are really developed, and I'll introduce you to them!

(Ignore the height measurements where I mention the turtle brothers, because it's now outdated! This is also a very big post, so there's a lot of text, and even in some of the images too.)

Now let's get introduced to... Petrol!

(2023 April 7th)

Right, he looks more or less... Basic for a Krang at this stage. I have developed them way more now!

(2023 April 9th)

Now there he is! A young Krang with a kind heart, he isn't much of a threat like a singular Krang, but he's a swimmer! A formidably quick one too, and CAN fight while swimming, though their vision is unfortunately so bad they see the clearest at 2 centimetres away, almost one inch vision! Which is why he has goggles whenever he typically goes out to explore.

As he grew up within multiple generations of his raccoon family, he slowly forgot more about the Krang species, and because he was very young when the Krang were sucked in the Prison Dimension. He also gained markings resembling a raccoon's and is able to communicate with raccoons fluently. Yes, Petrol is capable of chirping, growling, barking and hissing, like an actual raccoon does.

Oh, and the easily combustible part? He pretty much combusts into flames whenever he gets scared. Mostly because he digests a lot of oils and gasolines, the perfect ingredients for bursting into flames.

"Where is his exosuit?", you may ask. Well, back when he narrowly escaped from being sucked in along the many other Krangs, he just abandoned his own exosuit, and in return being destroyed in the Prison Dimension from the chaos that happened where only three Krangs managed to survive from the aftermath. Now he has a custom one, made by none other than Nix. Or Kaos as an alternative.

(2023 April 8th)

No, wait, this is the wrong Nix.

There they are!

(2023 April 11th)

As expected and obvious from their looks, Kaos is the inventor of the four Krangs. Oddly enough, he distances himself a LOT from Krang technology, to the point he would only use that technology only if necessary. Quite a feral yet impish Krang, they love to bring their explosives with them no matter if it's a mission or any relaxing activities. And no wonder they made the bomb 💣 (Uxitron or UX∅3) by themselves, as they like inventing! They've made customized exosuits, machinery, weapons, and never forget, the littlest things like their own goggles, the artificial antenna they added in their own head and bombs.

They invent so much and experiment things, though sometimes not all of it was a success. Because of one failed experiment exploding into pieces, Kaos gained a permanent and thick scar on their face, especially affecting their left eye to the point it cannot constrict no matter the lighting conditions. Essentially, Nix has mydriasis in this case. In order to make it easier for themselves while working, they made goggles which both the lenses are adjusted with filters in order to allow them to see microscopic bits and inventions more easily, as well as controlling the amount of light that enters in the left goggle.

Despite their markings resembling explosions, one of them resembles a flower. A time where they first lived on Earth. They love hills covered in pretty flowers, and even still loves them, as they have pots and vases of plants in their shared home. Not in their own laboratory, of course.

Back when they used to be apart of Krang 01's/Leader's army, they admired him to such an extreme extent that they would do ANYTHING to please him, make him satisfied with their own actions despite not being seen as anything but an engineer. But nowadays they haven't forgotten Krang 01/Leader entirely, but doesn't even bring him up in a conversation other than to mention how they used to admire him.

Who else would be quite disappointed for Nix to admit they used to admire Krang 01/Leader?

Vemirath, or Ven for short.

(2023 April 11th)

A powerful and formidable ex-warrior, Vemirath is NOT someone you should underestimate. She isn't feared for no reason by her opponents. She can clearly pin down her opponents who are almost the same size like her, as well as tear open buildings with ease. Despite this, like a rattlesnake, she also has a tender side of herself despite struggling to show emotions other than anger. She is a primary caretaker of Petrol, as well as his role-model. She cares deeply for her allies and family, but does she spare some for Krang 01/Leader?

None. She would find it better if she could've killed him with her own tendrils, tear him apart and stab him repeatedly. If she wished something to never exist in the universe, she would immediately say Krang 01/Leader with no hesitation. The only other thing she dislikes heavily are pickles. Pickles. 🥒 How? It reminds her of Krang 01/Leader for some reason.

And to talk about her third eye, it has miosis. Constantly a vertical slit, not even dilating at all. It doesn't improve her vision and visual depth too much other than a slight change. It's not much of a bother for her either, so she still kept it even when she was young.

It was clear Krang 01/Leader didn't like her much either, so it was a mutual feeling, though Ven's was more extreme.

The only one who managed to reach Krang 01's/Leader's ranks and role is Forth.

(2023 April 15th)

Despite being blind, she has sonars implanted on the sides of her head, allowing her to see her surroundings in a way she never had done before.

This made her more formidable, even as she is a very quick fighter. She can now be more precise in fighting her opponents and targets, yet smart enough to act like she can only hear, not "see" her surroundings. She clearly is strong after all, and has a lot of potential for her future in the army.

Despite being the highest rank of most Krangs, she loves getting herself into dangerous situations, as it's thrilling for her but also a bit more exciting than being a potential leader together with Krang 01/Leader. But the stress and concentration she tried to muster in order to focus more better has made her tendrils unable to relax naturally like others, always in a similarly jointed shape. It hurts for her to truly straighten her limbs, even if they're quite flexible.

She is also a constant smiler, rarely frowning at all mostly because she feels more relaxed smiling.

Even while she is the one who frequently explores and encounters more living beings than her fellow family (excluding Petrol), she still likes being in Nix's laboratory, listening to the machines working and moving to function. She finds the sounds relaxing.

(2023 April 17th)

Here are some personality notes for my characters in case you write them! Unfortunately I do not know how to properly write dialogue, so you can pretty much feel free to write dialogue in a way that you think could fit them!

More information the better!

Unfortunately I can't add any more images, BUT I can write even MORE information! So here is incoming bonus information for the four Krangs!

Petrol: He would absolutely adore being around Michelangelo, as he's the bubbliest, friendly and loveliest turtle he has ever met. He hasn't tried drawing before, but he will gladly practice together with Mikey!

Nix/Kaos: They are easily capable of fighting four opponents at the same time with a melee weapon. And he would love to work alongside Donatello with inventing things as well as blow things up for FUN!

Vemirath: She will slowly lose her patience and herself if you keep talking about Krang 01/Leader. She will snap if you dare say a word that implies or even means that you admire him. She would rather hear him say he's a gift rather than hear someone else think he's a good Leader or someone admirable.

Forth: She has a thing for Vemirath. (Not elaborating.)

And that's what I have for my Krang OCs!!

[lunarrolls]

uhh 27 with the little robot guy and the old one from the retirement home that u told me about

i took care of a TASK and now i can WRITE! liz i love you thank you for referring to chetney as the retirement home one <3 it’s what he deserves <3 27 is the modify memory spell!!

•

Modify memory is a 5th level enchantment spell on the bard, warlock, and wizard spell lists.

You attempt to reshape another creature’s memories. One creature that you can see must make a Wisdom saving throw. If you are fighting the creature, it has advantage on the saving throw. On a failed save, the target becomes charmed by you for the duration. The charmed target is incapacitated and unaware of its surroundings, though it can still hear you. If it takes any damage or is targeted by another spell, this spell ends, and none of the target’s memories are modified.

While this charm lasts, you can affect the target’s memory of an event that it experienced within the last 24 hours and that lasted no more than 10 minutes. You can permanently eliminate all memory of the event, allow the target to recall the event with perfect clarity and exacting detail, change its memory of the details of the event, or create a memory of some other event.

If a suggestion is illogical, the target’s mind smooths out any gaps. This effect can be ended by a remove curse or greater restoration spell.

•

Chetney really thought ignoring that demon would work, but eh, whatever. He tried. They won the fight. Whatever the fuck it was, it’s gone now, and he and Grass are striding behind the rest of their friends, lagging a little because this stupid forest didn’t seem to take their wheel and his old-ass joints into account. Which is fine, because at least they’re still walking together, so if anything pops out at them, Chetney can stab it immediately and F.C.G. can alert the others. If they even need to be alerted. Not many things can withstand the ol’ one-two from C-POP himself.

Chetney glances to his left, where F.C.G. was just rolling, and does a double take. The chipper yellow robot is gone.

Fuck. Ashton’s gonna string his guts out and wear them like a necklace.

Chetney spins around, scanning the mildly terrifying underbrush for any glinting metal. He’s not gonna call out for anyone else just yet, in case it’s a false alarm (and because he likes his guts right where they are, thank you very much), but he’s preparing the breath to do so.

A twig snaps off to his right.

Chetney whips around to face it, scrutinizing the impenetrable shadows. “Grass?” he hisses, hopefully not loud enough for anyone else to hear. “That you?”

“What was that, Chet?” Orym calls. Chetney flinches, glancing to the halfling currently leading the party’s trek. Of course Orym’d hear.

“Uh,” Chetney says, “I’m not really super sure where F.C.G. is.”

“What?” Imogen says. “Weren’t they just walking—er, rolling, next to you?”

“How do you lose a robit?” Laudna asks incredulously.

Fearne mumbles something like, “you forget to cherish them,” but Chetney’s preoccupied, because—yeah, Ashton’s going to murder him. They shoot him a truly terrifying look, no hint of their usual mirth when threatening him, and start calling for their friend, caution thrown to the wind.

Chetney turns to keep searching with the rest only to spot a glint of familiar yellow and silver farther back on the path.

“Grass!” he yells, taking off toward the figure. “Hells, don’t scare us like that, man, we thought—“

His words trail off. F.C.G.’s eyes are the closest to unfocused they can get without pupils, their little hands preoccupied in nervous fidgeting. His body almost seems on the verge of those jitters he gets when he freaks out and goes all murder-y.

“Hey, hey,” Chetney soothes, staring up into his friend’s lenses, “what’s wrong? What happened?”

“I have to leave,” F.C.G. says, and they truly sound petrified, conflicted. “F.R.I.D.A. messaged, they sent a sending, they’re in trouble—“

“What? Already? Really?” Chetney exclaims, perplexed and concerned. “They—they did?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding on the verge of robot tears, “they—they said they needed my help, that Deanna had been hurt and Prism didn’t know how to fix it with the spells she had, and—and they needed me to get there fast.”

“Shit, Letters,” Chetney says softly. “Okay, we can tell the others and talk about how to get you over there. I’m sure Imogen could use her new staff, right? Did F.R.I.D.A. say where they were?”

F.C.G. shivers. “Yios, somewhere in Yios. I gotta—I haveta help them, Chetney, I—“

“I know,” Chetney says, “yeah. We’ll get you there. C’mon.”

Chetney starts towards the others, but he hesitates for just a moment. “Isn’t sending still malfunctioning?” Chetney asks, his brows furrowing. “And—F.R.I.D.A. can’t cast sending, can they? They’re not a spellcaster.”

F.C.G. nervously rocks back. “Huh. Yeah. Well, sending must be working again, then? We could have gotten lucky. And—and Deanna must have sent it then—or, F.R.I.D.A. had that telepathy like Imogen, right? That could have been it.”

Something’s weird about this. Chetney frowns. “Imogen’s telepathy has a short range on it, and the only sending spells we’ve been able to get through have been close ones. They’d have to be really close by for any of this to work, definitely not in Yios.”

“I must have misremembered, then,” F.C.G. responds faintly.

Chetney doesn’t think they’re trying to lie to him. F.C.G. isn’t the best of liars, and he’s not sure what they’d get from it. They want to help Keyleth and the injured Ashari as much as everyone else. But something’s going on, here—something must have happened while Chetney had his back turned.

There are all sorts of weird creepy-crawlies wandering this fucked up forest. Something could have grabbed Grass and messed with his wiring in the minute Chetney wasn’t looking.

“Hm,” Chetney says, “F.C.G., you got a spare spell?”

“Sure, why? Do you need healing? Are you alright? D’you think—oh, you must mean for F.R.I.D.A., they’re gonna need all the healing I can give them, and what if Deanna and that shady elf are hurt, too—“

“Slow down,” Chetney says, gently taking their fidgeting metal hands in his. “I’m gonna have you cast something on yourself, okay?”

“What? Why?”

“Just humor me,” Chetney says, “I have a hunch. And my hunches are never wrong, are they?”

He waits for the impending dissent. It, surprisingly, doesn’t come. He shrugs. “Right. I need you to do a greater restoration on yourself. Just to remove anything that mighta fucked you up while I wasn’t looking, okay?”

“Okay,” F.C.G. says, “but what if I need the spell for F.R.I.D.A. or Deanna?”

“Fearne can help us out, then,” Chetney says firmly. “You saw what she just did to that shadow thing. She’s kicking ass out here.”

“Okay,” F.C.G. mumbles, placing their hand across the coin inlaid in their chestplate, “okay.”

Their hands glow softly, eyes flaring a holy white, as they mutter an incantation reverently, and it does warm Chetney’s heart slightly to see them so comforted for a split second in commune with their goddess before their eyes blink back to their usual bright blue.

“So?” Chetney prompts. “Anything weird happen?”

“What?” F.C.G. stares at him. “What’d’you mean? We’re just walking through the forest.”

Chetney pumps his fist through the air. “Yeah, baby, I’m always right!”

“The fuck are you doing over there,” Ashton growls from behind him, “where’s Letters?”

“Found ‘em!” Chetney crows proudly, skittering to the side to gesture to his robot friend. “Something weird had tried to mindfuck him into leaving. I saw right through it, of course, but the rest of you’d better be careful! Can’t have another slip-up like that.”

Imogen frowns. “Weird. You two’d better walk closer to us, then. Don’t want anyone getting abducted like that again.”

Chetney nods and joins the group, F.C.G. wheeling close behind him. The urge to be a little shit about this is very present, but for once, he suppresses it. He’s not going to be rude about F.C.G. being subjected to something so stressful as thinking their loved one was in danger. If he hadn’t seen through the weirdness of their account, he might have been similarly freaked out about Deanna, honestly. So, for once, Chetney keeps his mouth shut, and they continue their way through the forest.

[beechersnope]

short preview of a thing that's in itself a small part of a longer thing

***

They'd decided to do fully matching costumes this year instead of contrasting costumes with a similar theme. Lando had splurged on them, hiring someone on Etsy to handmake shimmering metallic bodysuits with glow-in-the-dark circuitry and fully functional LED buttons that littered the colored panels of both the front and back of the suit, along the breastplate and hips, down each arm, and along the length of the spine. The only difference between the two is the color: Lando’s bodysuit is a pearlescent fuchsia while Oscar’s is a shimmering teal.

The silvery face paint and white iris contact lenses pushes it over the top—in Oscar’s opinion, Lando has gone so far that even with the skintight bodysuits, they are firmly in the realm of scary versus sexy.

“I don’t think you’re going to get laid this year,” Oscar tells Lando honestly, turning to find a matching cyborg face staring back at her.

“There’s a zipper in the crotch,” Lando counters, the implication going miles over her head. “Easy access. I planned ahead.”

Oscar just turns back to Lando’s vanity and lets out a soft sigh.

The party is in full swing by the time they arrive at Daniel’s mountainside—well, Oscar still doesn’t like calling it a mansion, but calling it a McMansion seems worse, even if that’s exactly what it is. Regardless, they have to park halfway down the narrow street at the very end of a line of cars that spills out of Daniel’s already outrageously expansive driveway.

Oscar eyes Lando’s beat-up Toyota with a dubious frown, slightly worried that the parking brake won’t hold its own against a seven-percent incline.

Lando doesn’t seem similarly concerned, locking the doors with a carefree whistle and then tossing her keys as well as both their cellphones into her purse. Their bodysuits might have crotch access, but they sure as hell don’t have pockets.

By the time they ascend the foothill Daniel’s house sits atop, where it overlooks the tiny city in the valley below, Oscar is somehow sweating from exertion and yet freezing all at the same time.

The front door is wide open, and inside, the soft orange overhead lights that Oscar remembers from her previous visits have all been switched out with black light bulbs instead. The décor is different, too. It looks like Daniel plundered an entire warehouse full of Halloween kitsch to achieve the effect he’s gone for, which seems to be turning his entire house into a walk-through haunted house experience.

Oscar follows Lando closely as they move from the foyer—which has ghoulish portraits that shift between scenes, reminiscent of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland—into the living room—which is now a museum of cryptid taxidermy, around which partygoers converse with glowing concoctions in their hands, though Oscar spies more than one couple with their hands down each other’s pants as she and Lando traverse the room.

They finally find Daniel in the kitchen: presently, a mad scientist’s laboratory, complete with bubbling potions and blinking machinery lining the walls. And of course, Daniel, as the host and de facto bartender, is dressed as none other than the mad scientist himself.

He looks elated when he glances up to find Lando and Oscar standing in front of him at the island in the middle of the room after waiting for the half-dozen people in front of them to be served first.

“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” he asks with a broad grin. “I don’t mean to brag, but I make a mean mojito.”

Oscar’s heart jumps a beat. It’s impossible to tell from Daniel’s expression or tone whether he meant to use the phrase they agreed upon previously, but just in case he had— “Yes,” Oscar says emphatically as she scoots a bit closer to the bar. “I’d love something to drink.” She’s aware of Lando giving her a strange look, but Oscar ignores it, focused entirely on the brief flash of recognition that crosses Daniel’s face. Even if he hadn’t intended to ask her permission, he now knows he has it.

[lollytea]

ms. lolly i'm getting glasses and i'm afraid i'm going to look uglier than usual in them. i don't want people to make fun of me (esp. not the guy i like. i dont think he will bc he's sweet but im still anxious) but. i'm afraid that people are gonna tease me. idk what to do and im super nervous bc i'm not attractive and i think the glasses are gonna just bring that out. do u have any tips on getting over that, as a glasses-wearer? (at least im assuming by your pfp)

sorry to disturb u with my silly ask but i hope u have a great day <3 love ur writing and huntlow posts

Hello! This kind of thing is hard to give advice on but I'll try my best :D! It's kinda like asking what kind of clothes will make you feel the most confident when only you know for sure what makes you comfortable and what doesn't. But I can definitely give you my opinions on glasses and what I feel best in and maybe you can take it into consideration.

(EDIT: OH MY GOD. I wrote a good bit about choosing glasses to feel nice in but I just read the ask again and it's possible you've already gotten them. Just scroll down to the bottom of the ask and I'll talk a bit about that if it's the case.)

You worry about not liking the way you'll look with glasses. That's okay, I've been wearing them since I was little so I feel really ugly without them. It's fine to feel a little insecure. But hopefully you'll find a pair that you think you like nice in!!

For the first ten years of wearing glasses, I had really small, thin wiry ones. Blegh. No wonder I felt so ugly during that time. They were not it. Was looking like this bitch.

But just cuz I didn't like the way they looked on me doesn't automatically mean you won't! Everyone's face is different.

Size matters (HAH) to me. I feel more happy and confident with the way my face looks with glasses depending on how big they are. I like how big glasses look. So when I was 18 I got THESE frames

And I liked them a lot!! I decided I like big wide glasses. So any frames I got from this point forward would look kinda like this.

However!! I kinda regretted the colour. It's like having a big big blocky border around your face dulls it a bit. So when I got new ones a few years later, I wanted them to be lighter. To brighten up the face area. These ones!!

They're pink!!! Or red maybe. But they're pink to ME!!! They are also EVEN BIGGER than the black pair I had. They're HUGE asgdbjnk. And I love them huge. The bigger the better. They're not really circular but they're also kinda roundish and I like that too.

So I guess think about the size, shape and colour. Would you like something more subtle like a small pair? Would you like them big and round? Getting them in a colour that you like Would definitely help!!

The thickness of the frames also matters. Maybe, since you're a little worried about how you'll look wearing them, you'd like something thinner? More subtle? Something in a pale colour/or without much of a border at all? Something that doesn't hide your face

Maybe something similar to this?

(I mean the frame thickness, not the size ahsbdjnk. We don't know what size you'd like yet.)

I kinda want glasses that look like this. I want thin gold ones like Miss Willow Park from hit Disney channel show the Owb Houb. However I don't really have that option. I'm borderline blind so I need the thick plastic frames to hold the thick as fuck lenses ahsbdjnk.

But since this is your first pair your eyes probably aren't nearly as bad and you have way more options!!

OKAY!! So if you've already chosen your glasses and are still worried about how you're going to look in them.

Alright, there are never any easy answers to this problem. How to get over not liking the way you look. People definitely like to pretend it's easy, that "Love yourself! Everyone is beautiful! :)" are these magic words that will suddenly rewire our brains into being happy and content with ourselves after a lifetime of feeling like the odd one out. When some people are put on a pedestal for how they look and some are not. It's hard to say physical ugliness doesn't exist when it's been beaten into everyone's heads that it does.

Despite everyone's best efforts to dismantle the concept of beauty standards, they persist relentlessly. They're roots in our brains, roots in society, and they're roots made of iron. So it is nobody's fault for being unsatisfied with themselves even after trying for so long to forcibly inject some girlboss confidence into their bloodstream. Its hard. It will always be hard.

If self love isn't easy at the start, aim for self neutrality. Just not hating is a good place to start.

It seems like you're not comfortable with yourself without glasses, so maybe if we start with that, your face with glasses will be way easier to accept.

In the end, you only have the one face to get you through this lifetime. And it's a lifetime you will waste if you spend it wishing it was different.

Everyone's face is a rearrangement of facial features, none of which are inferior to anyone else's, no matter what we've been mentally trained to believe.

You're a masterpiece all on your own. Every feature on your face belonged to someone in your family who came before you. Every feature you have was once adored by someone else. Specifically because it was a feature that belonged to a very wonderful person.

One day there will be someone who loves you more than anything. They'll love you so much than when they see a face that even looks remotely like yours they'll think that it's beautiful.

If it helps, mess around with your appearance a little. What colours do you like? Patterns? Skirts? Button up shirts? Long hair? Short hair? Dyed hair? Cardigans? Jangly jewelry? Figure out what's the most beautiful to you and add them to yourself. If you don't like your face, drown it out with what you do like. Until it gets to the point where its so distinctly you that you couldn't imagine this whole look without your face attached to it.

If you get to that point where you can feel happy with how you look as your default, then sliding a pair of glasses on and off shouldn't make much of a difference.

Thank you for telling me you like my writing and my posts. You seem sweet. I'm sure that's what people think when they're reminded of you. I'm sure that's what the guy you mentioned thinks. How can a person really be ugly if you associate their face with warmth and kindness?

Stay kind to others. Be kind to yourself. There's not much else I can say.

Good luck, love <33