#I WROTE A THING EVEN THOUGH WE HAVE LIKE FIVE THREADS SO FEEL FREE TO IGNORE ME LOL

[dontfeeltoohot]

Have a little 2k thing I wrote for my YTAU. Steve and Eddie are both sick, set in March 2023, 7 months into their relationship.

XXX

Eddie presses his face to his shoulder, rubbing his nose into his black Helloween tee. He’s over halfway done with his second client; some girl in her twenties who wanted flowers on her collarbones- how original. Sniffling, he wipes down the tattoo with his green soap solution and then goes back to shading the side of a leaf. His throat’s worse than earlier back at home, when he’d been curled up with Steve, both of the men sick and tired. 

Sometimes the tattoo artists wishes work didn’t exist, as he scrunches his nose up when a tickle winds its way through his sinuses. Picking up the gun and turning as far away as he possibly can, craning his neck, Eddie brings his arm up to his face. 

“iiHGkSH’ew! hihKTchuhEW! hh’GKtSCH’uhew!” Sniffling soupily, the long haired man grabs a paper towel from his station and blows his nose, wincing at the noise. “Let’s take a five minute break sweetheart, I need to wash up, and it’ll give you a rest from the pain,” he smiles.

“Yeah, sounds good. Bless you, by the way.” 

The way she looks him up and down has him giving her an awkward nod, knowing now that she’s flirting with him. Clearing his throat and wincing as it scrapes, he stands and throws the paper towel and his black nitrile gloves away in the wastebasket, then heads to the back where the bathrooms are. Yanking his phone out, Eddie clicks quickly to his and Steve’s text thread, then hits the voice message button, nostrils twitching. 

“hiKTsch’ew! snf! huhIhGKschEW! eh’IGkTCHew! SNDF!” He sneezes into his shirt so the sound isn’t as muffled, then clicks the stop button on his phone. 

Hope you enjoy, princess. Couldn’t catch a couple a few minutes ago, but hope these make up for them. 

Pressing send, it’s then he notices there’s an audio from Steve, too. Biting his lip, he makes sure his sound is down almost all the way, then puts the speaker up to his ear. 

“huhRESHHH’uh! EISHHuh!” There’s barely a pause between the loud, harsh sneezes, and Eddie squirms, imagining his boyfriend snapping at the waist, completely at the mercy of his worsening cold. 

“Fuck, Steve,” he grumbles, sniffling and scrubbing his nose with his wrist before looking back at the screen and typing. 

Also, bless you. Those sounded like you needed them. Can’t wait till we’re home and I can coax more out of you 😏😏

Peeing and washing his hands, Eddie sighs at the throbbing in his sinuses and the sluggish mess that’s making its way closer to the edge of his nostrils. This cold is by far the worst he’s endured in the string of Steve-born illnesses in the past seven months. 

The walk back to his station includes Peter stopping him and asking him if he’s free tomorrow; his day off, to be an extra set of hands for walk ins. 

“Oh, uh…” Eddie scrubs at his face. “Lemme get back to you? Think I’m comin’ down with something man, don’t wanna spread it around.” 

“Steve really is a germ magnet isn’t he?” Bryson pipes up from his station a few feet down, working on a man’s back. 

“Yeah, it’d be endearing if I could side step getting it too,” the artist jokes, even though realistically he doesn’t mind. 

“Oh well, maybe it’ll end up building up your immunity in the long run.” 

“My immune system was perfect before him,” Eddie chuckles. “But it’s ok. Just means spending time with my boyfriend curled up on the couch. He’s not a terrible patient like Alyssa is,” he gives Bryson a look, referring to the man’s girlfriend. 

“God she’s the worst. Like just rest for twenty damn minutes!” 

Eddie heads back to his area, pulling more gloves on. “You ready to finish up? We should be done soon.” 

“Yeah! But it’s really not that bad. I don’t know why people claim it hurts so much, it feels good to me.” She shimmies her shirt off again, revealing just a bandeau top, easy access to her clavicle. 

“Mm, probably just have a higher pain tolerance,” he explains, not wanting to play into her games. He starts his tattoo gun back up, dips the needles into the ink again, and goes to work. 

An hour and a half later, the musician is saying goodbye to Anna, smiling at the $80 tip she’s just handed him. At least that’s a plus. Shoving it into his pocket, he switches the money for his insulin pump, checking it quickly. When his numbers seem good, Eddie blows his nose again and coughs, shivering. A noise from his phone grabs his attention and he unlocks the screen. 

Audio message- 4 seconds

Audio message- 11 seconds 

Audio message - 7 seconds 

Audio message- 22 seconds

Jesus Christ. 

You trying to kill me at work? I can’t even listen right now. 

Just thought you’d wanna hear how my cold is 😇

Harrington, you little shit, you’re going to be the death of me. 🍆👅🤤

Nose running, Eddie sighs and rips yet another paper towel from the roll, pressing it right to his pink, oversensitive nostrils, blowing thickly. He can feel the paper get wet and grimaces- he finds mess from other people hot, but himself? Not so much. He drops down into his chair and lets his forehead thunk against his table, curls falling everywhere around his face. 

“Maybe you should head home early,” Liz, their only female in the shop, observes. 

“Nah, s’just a cold, don’t need to leave for it,” Eddie picks his head up slowly, feeling congestion shift as he does. “F-Fuck hold ohhhn-“ the tattooist turns away and pulls the neck of his shirt up over his face, aiming downward towards his chest. 

“hihGhKschew! sndf! Ugh, s-sorry that wahhs hehIHGKshhuhew! iiEIshuhew! Fuck! snfSNDF! That was gross.” 

“Yep,” Liz grimaces. “But like, also who cares? You’re sick, what’re you meant to do? Those tiny little kitten sneezes? Gotta at least get that shit out,” she shrugs.

Eddie’s acutely aware of how weird this conversation is. Either the woman is just that vanilla, or she’s fucking with him and into it. Because no regular person is going to just…say those words. Right? He rubs at his nose with the inside of his sleeve cuff, nose too sore to want to bother with another paper towel. 

“Stop germing your shirt up,” the bright pink haired girl rolls her eyes fondly. 

“Quit being a mom, I get that enough from St-sndf! Steve.” 

“Then quit being a bad sick person.” 

“Fuck you, I’m an Angel. I’m the best sick person.” 

“Says the guy who just rubbed snot all over his shirt.” 

Point 1- Liz. 

XXX

Steve’s been holed up in the back office of Not Just Coffee all morning with his tissues and cough drops, trying to reorganize some of their recipe files they’ve been keeping. As he squints at the computer screen, his nose scrunches up involuntarily and he scrubs at it with his knuckles. This fucking cold is going to make him lose his mind. It’s constantly teasing him, buzzing in his sinuses and head in a way that’s keeping him on edge. Slowly he inhales through his stuffy nose, triggering yet another itch to ignite. He taps the record button on his phone that’s been open to his messages all morning. 

“eHISHHooh! hhrIHDSTCHuh!” He rubs his nose harshly with the back of his hand, jiggling the tip and his septum, desperate for even slight relief. Steve’s sure Eddie will hear him rubbing at it. He stops it after a sickly sounding sniffle that makes him cough. 

Robin comes in looking worried a minute later, carrying a large mug full of something steaming. 

“I know you hate tea, but you should drink some. Will even made it special for you,” she says pointedly. “Stop being an idiot and try to not wallow in icky germs.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow, laughing a little. “Icky germs?” His voice is raspy and congested and Robin screws her face up, setting the mug down and backing up dramatically. 

“Just…drink the tea, and try not to infect every inch of the office,” Robin walks out quickly. 

“Great best friend you are!” He calls after her, but starts coughing by the last word. 

Glancing at the tea when his throat throbs, the barista sighs and brings it close, sipping on it. His face still screws up at the bitter taste, but even he can admit it feels good on his swollen throat, the warmth of the cup even feels good on his hands. Throughout the day, he manages to catch several more sneezes, even a few that turn into full blown fits, and the texts he gets back from his boyfriend make him blush. 

The brunette is half asleep in the desk chair when Robin comes in again, holding the till in her hands hours later. 

“Dingus, wake up enough to count the till. I’m not touching the keyboard,” she says resolutely, prodding Steve’s shoulder with her finger. 

“Nngh, fi’de…” Steve sits up and starts going through the task of counting the till, making change, sealing the money bag and putting everything in the safe. 

“You know you’re not coming in tomorrow right?” 

“Honestly? Wasn’t even gonna ask,” he admits, snuffling into a couple of tissues in his hand, blowing his nose and wincing as his ears pop. “Ugh, let’s get out of here.” 

By the time Steve’s walking into Eddie’s apartment; Robin’s up with Chrissy, he’s ready to collapse. Shutting the door behind him, Steve coughs and throws his bag by the couch, debating if he wants to shower or lay down. His boyfriend's big couch and cozy blankets win out, and soon the barista is burrowing under them, sweatpants and sweatshirt now replacing his work clothes. Not ten minutes into Hunger Games, he’s asleep. 

XXX

They need more medicine, Eddie realizes as he backs out of his parking spot behind the tattoo shop. Medicine, tissues, tea, soup. This morning they were sick but sure as hell not this sick. He makes the three mile drive to Target, slipping his sweatshirt on before he heads inside, knowing he probably looks awful. Oh fucking well, he can cough on anyone who might look at him wrong. 

He grabs both DayQuil and NyQuil, Tylenol, sugar free cherry cough drops, tissues, some earl grey tea, and then the musician stands in front of the ridiculous number of soups, staring blankly at it. Steve likes tomato soup and grilled cheese, so they can do that tomorrow. Eddie doesn’t really want anything tonight, let alone soup, but he grabs two cans of chicken noodle and a can of vegetable, head aching too much to try and focus more. 

By the time the artist is heading to the register, a few people around him have given him looks as he’s sniffled and coughed. His nose is running and he can feel the same coldish tickle that’s been bothering him all day start to grow. There’s a couple people in front of him for the self checkout line, so he pulls the neck of his dark grey sweatshirt up and his eyes flutter shut. 

“ihIKtSCHuhew! hh’Igkshuhew! ih’IHgKSHuh!!” The last one is louder than he means it to be, and the sniffle he gives after makes him cringe at how wet it is. 

Twenty minutes and six sneezes later, he’s walking inside his apartment, happy that Steve’s there. All he wants is to cuddle, which, yeah alright, maybe that’s a little sappy but he’s so damn tired and he feels gross and cuddling Steve always helps. When he sees a lump on the couch, he sets the bags down on the table and moves straight for the other man. 

“Stevie…baby I’m home,” he murmurs to the business owner, sitting on the very edge of the couch. “Steve, sweetheart. Come on…there we go, I’m sorry I woke you,” he smiles at Steve’s pouty huff, head barely peeking out of the blanket nest. 

“Y’home?” 

“Yeah baby, m’hone,” Eddie nods, bending closer so he can rub his face into Steve’s shoulder. 

“Mm, come join me. Think this cold is kicking my ass.” 

“Doin’ the same to me. I’ll change and be right with you okay? Don’t fall back asleep till I’m with you.” 

By the time Eddie’s back in the living room, Steve’s asleep, drooling on his pillow. Eddie chuckles and snaps a photo, setting it at his Lock Screen before crawling in next to him. 

[sissytobitch10seconds]

With Teeth and Tongue

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy Summary: Viktor comes back from prom with a ruffled suit and flushed cheeks, and Five just can't but feel jealous. Warnings: ABO Dynamics, underage sex, penetrative sex, and canon-typical child abuse Word Count: 5,570 Ship(s): Five Hargreeves/Viktor Hargreeves

Archive link!

A/N: So I wrote this a while ago and recently found it floating around in my 'to be posted' list and figured that now would be a good time to do it. This is unlikely to be an accurate representation of what it would be like to have a first teenage sexual experience since I have still yet to have sex (asexuality for the win, lol) but I thought that the protective side of Five needed a chance to shine here. Thank you all for reading! Stay sissy and bitchy everyone <3

All six of his siblings must have been waiting for the door to click shut so that they knew he had come home based on how quickly they all filed into the main hall of the house. 

“So? How was it?” Allison asked. She threaded her fingers together in front of her and swayed back and forth excitedly.

Viktor jumped, his hand releasing from the doorknob since it had been wrapped around it rather tightly to try and be quiet when he returned. The last thing that he wanted was a repeat of Homecoming since he was back at the Academy even later this time around “You guys have gone to dances before,” he insisted with a small shake of his head.

“They’re different than public school dances,” Klaus insisted as he mirrored the gesture. “The galas that Dad makes us go to require us to get all dressed up in formal wear instead of the fun stuff that you can get away with wearing and then we just have to stand around and talk to people the whole evening. Sometimes when we’re really good he’ll let us dance but we can only do the stuffy ballroom dancing he drilled into us by the time that we were twelve.”

The omega pursed his lips. He knew that this was a losing battle, but he really wanted to clean up and take a nap. He didn’t want to stand in the foyer of his home, which was drafty and uncomfortable, waiting to get in trouble with his father while he told his siblings what his dance was like. Maybe, though, if they stayed here, then Reginald would find them and make them all go to bed so that Viktor would be free to clean up as he pleased.

“I mean, it was fine. Marie is a really nice alpha and I had a wonderful time with her,” he explained before he realized that he had done. Viktor had been coming out of his shell the more time he spent in his public high school and made friends that really wanted to be around him and weren’t just doing it as a way to get back at their father, as most of his siblings were doing with him. He found that because of his isolation as a child, he had an incredibly low social battery and that often caused him to drop his filter or get snappish when it ran out. After a long night surrounded by people after a day of classes, he wasn’t able to keep some of the secrets he had been previously tight-lipped about.

“Marie? Do go on, brother,” Klaus grinned, wide and cat-like, as he wrapped an arm around Viktor’s arm and began to drag them away from the foyer.

The shorter omega internally cursed him as he was moving them away from the space that would provide Viktor with the ability to have an out in the form of their father. He knew that Klaus had an internalized map of all the best places to hide away so he was going to be in for a very long night as none of his siblings seemed particularly inclined to let this go.

Just as he had suspected, Klaus brought them to the library and thus to a tiny little alcove where none of the cameras were going to be able to find them. Luther and Diego both sat down on the very edge, trying to look like they weren’t interested when it was pretty clear that they very much were.

Allison sat down next to Klaus, beaming brightly as she inched closer to her brother, as if being right next to Viktor would somehow allow her to hear even more of the details about his dance-related escapades. Five and Ben settled down closest to the omega despite the aforementioned alpha’s excitement. The trio had been close even before Viktor had been sent to public school instead of continuing to be homeschooled by Grace and Pogo.

“I mean, it wasn’t that much different than Homecoming was when it came to the dancing,” Viktor shrugged. 

“Tell us about your date!” Allison squealed excitedly. She had always been obsessed with the idea of romance and the perfect love story, so it wasn’t surprising to any of the siblings that was what she chose to focus on.

Viktor flushed. “Marie is an alpha I know from orchestra. She plays a cello, and she’s really good at it too. We had been talking for a while and she asked me to go to the prom with her after our last concert. It was really sweet, she did it with this letter that she wrote that had a bunch of musical puns on it,” he felt his cheeks growing impossibly warmer as he tilted his head down to his hands. It wasn’t like he was totally estranged from his family, but he wasn’t as close to them as they all were with each other so he very rarely had conversations like this with them.

“That’s so cute!” Klaus beamed. “I wish someone would romance me like that,” he pouted.

Klaus and Diego shared a look with each other that Viktor was just barely able to see out of the corner of his eye. He knew that, in much the same way that Luther and Allison were dancing circles around each other, there seemed to be a kind of race between the two betas of the family for the other omega.

“Keep going,” Allison said as she nudged Klaus to make him stop talking.

Viktor thought about what details they might want to hear as he reached up to loosen the tie around his neck. He had worn one of the old Academy ones as a reference to where he came from since the theme of the dance had been something similar to that. “We thought that the limo was overkill so she picked me up in her car and we went to dinner at this really nice mediterranean place. The food was almost as good as Mom’s. Marie got me a boutonniere and I got her a corsage, we went to pick them up at the same time since I didn’t want to risk Mom accidentally throwing it away and it was kind of fun to immediately see what the other had ordered.”

He removed the large-headed pin from the mess of flower stems and ribbon that made up the base of the boutonniere. He let the item fall into his hand and then turned it around so that his siblings could see it. The item was a single blue rose amongst a lot of baby’s breath, but it was lovely and the colors played very well together against he maroon of his tie. 

“That’s sweet! What did you get her?” Allison asked when she finally passed the boutonniere back to her brother.

“I got her three green roses with the same baby’s breath around it. A lot of flowers can’t be used for that kind of thing because they’re too weak and they wilt after just a couple hours without constant water,” he explained. He put the pin back into the boutonniere and then placed it into his pocket to deal with later.

“What was the dance like?” Ben asked, actually intrigued about his brother’s life. Ben tried his best to reach out to the isolated omega when he could, but those that were still in the Academy were so aggressively scheduled that it was hard for them to do so.

“Well it was themed like the past, so a lot of people showed up with either things that their parents had worn in some form or in outfits that someone in the past would have worn,” Viktor explained. “That’s why I incorporated part of the Academy into my outfit. We don’t know anything about our birth parents so it’s not like I could have gotten something from them. Marie was wearing her mom’s senior prom dress.”

“That’s really unique,” Diego commented. “I thought that most proms were supposed to have a stupid theme to them like ‘woodland fairy’ or ‘rustic wedding’.”

“Real life is a lot different than what you seen in magazines and in movies,” Viktor shrugged. He knew that his siblings hadn’t been exposed to a lot of what the real world was like since they were squirreled away inside of the Academy’s walls with no hope of escape until they were adults.

“But anyway,” he sighed. He was hoping that the faster he got through describing everything the faster he’d be able to shower and go to bed. “They played music pretty similar to what they played at Homecoming and the Sweetheart’s Dance, but this time there were more slow dances. They had several different photo opportunities throughout the building where it was being held that were all framed like prom pictures would have been in that decade. It was really cool.”

The siblings were quiet for a moment as they took in the spiel of information he had given them all at once. Allison and Klaus were almost on top of each other, whispering about something that no one else in the group could understand but them. Suddenly they turned towards Viktor, Klaus’ eyes stuck on a certain spot on his shoulder that was turning a mottled red and blue.

The blush that had left earlier when the exhaustion took over returned in full force. He was sure that the majority of the hickey was now hidden underneath the flush of his skin. “What?” he asked, hoping that what they had to say wasn’t what he thought it was.

“How did the end of the dance go?” Allison asked as she stifled a giggle.

“It was fine,” Viktor replied, sinking in to himself a little bit. He didn’t realize just how much he smelled like Marie until that very moment. He shouldn't have removed his tie, even if it was making him uncomfortable, because the lower down on his body someone got the more they would be able to smell his date. That thought by itself was enough to remind him of how embarrassed and shy he felt.

“No fucking way,” Diego gasped. “Tiny shy Viktor gets to fuck before I do?”

“Diego!” Five snapped as he turned towards the beta. There was a kind of fire in his eyes that Viktor had never seen before and it was a little bit alarming yet intriguing at the same time before.

Within in pack dynamics, especially a forced pack like they had, it was common for an alpha, and rarely a beta, to pick an unmated omega that they were going to try and take care of and protect. It allowed both the alpha and omega to have their instinctual needs filled without sex or other such romantic ties with each other. Five had become that for Viktor when they were very young, especially since Viktor had been a shell of a person before he started getting more distance from their father and the Academy.

It made sense for Five to get upset at the insinuation that something had happened that could have hurt Viktor, so the omega quickly said, “Everything that happened between Marie and I was completely consensual and we both very much enjoyed it!”

“So something did happen!” Klaus gasped. “I want details!”

“I don’t!” Luther shouted as he got up and rushed out of the room. They all knew that he would be talking about it with Allison later since each of the Hargreeves kids were starved for any kind of information about intimacy and sex. They had been taught the basics about what happened when two people spent an estrus together or copulated outside of estrus, but it was all very clinical and scientific. They wanted the actual details about what it was like and the kinds of feelings that could or couldn’t come with it.

The door to the library clicked shut when Luther finally disappeared through it. Viktor waited for a moment for anyone else to leave, but Five was stuck next to his side and Ben and Diego weren’t budging until Klaus did. Allison clearly had no interest in leaving despite her disappointment at Luther’s departure

The omega leaned back against the bookshelf that was behind him and blew out a breath. He loved his family dearly but they were very eccentric and that was a lot for him to deal with when he was already this tired. “Do you really want to know?”

“Of course we want to know! If we didn’t want to know then we wouldn’t have asked,” Klaus rolled his eyes affectionately.

He thought about it for a moment, trying to figure out what details he wanted to share and what he wanted to keep just for himself in his mind. “Well, we stayed all the way through the dance but it got over at about eleven. She took me to this place outside of town where no one goes and we sat in the back of her truck to talk. It started really nice, she just kissed me and then it was suddenly really intense. It’s not something that I’ve ever felt before and it was absolutely amazing.”

“What happened next? Did you guys go all the way?” Allison asked, her eyes wide and her mouth hidden behind one of her hands.

Out of the corner of his eye, Viktor saw that Five tensed up when he heard that question. He paid attention to the alpha as he answered it and squirreled that information away in his brain for later use and panicking about. “We did, actually. She had a condom so I felt comfortable with her doing that kind of thing with me. It’s not like I haven’t had sexual encounters with people before.”

“You have?” Klaus asked and for a moment Viktor was worried that his eyes were going to pop out of his head with how wide they were.

“I told you guys that I had a partner when I was in my sophomore year of high school! I mean they were a beta so it’s not like we had a ton of intimate relations because they weren’t being driven by a huge influx in the hormones that drive instincts but we still did things,” Viktor reasoned. “It was kind of weird for a high schooler our age to not have any sexual encounters when they’re interested in it, which we both were.”

Allison let out a whine and folded her arms over her chest with discontent as she pouted, “I can’t believe that you didn’t tell us this before. Like when it was happening.”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “I don’t have to run everything by you guys. I assumed that you would know that kind of thing was happening. I’ve been sneaking movies and books in to you guys for a long time.”

Before anyone had a chance to continue the argument or Five exploded for whatever reason he was getting so defensive and upset, Klaus waved his hands around. “I want to hear more about Viktor and Marie!”

“There’s not really that much to tell. The sex was pretty good but it was uncomfortable because it was in the back of a car,” the other omega shrugged. It took a short while for the others to believe that was really all that had happened, and Allison even drew a few more details out of her brother before she finally let him go off to bed after his long, long night.

---

Days later, Five was still acting weird. Viktor knew that it had something to do with the post-prom talk because even though he was exhausted when he came home and was forced into that situation he had been able to process what the alpha was doing. Something about the way that his posture had changed and his hackles had been half raised the entire time that Viktor was talking about his date with Marie and the experience that the two of them had was curious.

For as long as he could remember, Viktor had had a crush on Five. It might have had something to do with the fact that Five had always made sure to take care of him in the pack. It might have had something to do with the way that he had grown up, how his cheekbones and jawline had become so prominent and the dark way that his eyes shone with a brilliant kind of intelligence. Whatever the reason was, Viktor was more in love with Five than he thought that he could be with any other person.

He had met a lot of people that he really loved and enjoyed the company of, even people that had driven him mad with how beautiful they were. None of them were able to match the attraction that he had felt to alpha that had been protecting him his entire life. He had come to the conclusion right after he had been sent to public school that he was never going to get Five to love him back. The alpha had become a little bit distant after that, so he had assumed that he had no interest in Viktor. It was even more crushing knowing that none of their siblings had problems with dating each other since they knew they weren’t biologically related and they hadn’t been raised as a family in the slightest.

Seeing the reaction that the alpha had had to hearing about all of his sexual encounters made a spark of hope reignite in him again. He thought it might be jealousy for a moment, right after it happened. Those feelings came again when he was alone in his room with arousal flushing through his system after seeing the way that sweat glistened off of Five’s back. He had quickly reassured himself that it was just normal protection instincts from the alpha that was supposed to take care of him.

When the behavior hadn’t changed in the slightest after several days, that was coming into question again.

“What is your problem?”

The words slipped out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. It wasn’t something that he would say normally but he was so sexually frustrated since he hadn’t had the inclination to hook up with anyone since his infatuation with Five was reignited.

They had been trying to have a normal conversation, just trying to complete a bit of their school work in a mutual study session. It was something that they had done more times than Viktor could count after they stopped being assigned the same brick of homework to complete together Five had been avoiding him since the incident happened and been a lot more snappish during their forced encounters, so he was about at the end of his rope.

“My problem?” Five asked, raising his brow at his brother.

“You’ve been acting weird since I talked about what happened at the prom. What, are you upset because you learned I'm a sexual being and not just your demure Number Seven?" Viktor asked, feeling both hurt and betrayed by Five's reaction to a secret he wasn't even supposed to hear. He was also pissed at Klaus and Allison for drawing the information out of him when he would have preferred to keep it for himself. 

"No, Viktor, I'm upset because I was supposed to be your first. You're mine, you've always been mine, and someone was able to romance you first and it pisses me off," Five ground out like it was physically paining him. 

Oh. 

That wasn't what Viktor was expecting.

“What?” he asked, intelligently.

“I’m in love with you Viktor! I have been since we were thirteen at the very least and I didn’t think that I was particularly good at hiding it but apparently I’m so clever that I managed to make you think that I was just being a weird asshole,” he huffed. It was clear that this had something that had been bubbling up to the surface for what must have been years.

He let another beat pass, trying to wrap his head around the idea that Five was in love with him. He had spent so long telling himself that there was no way the alpha could love him, that not a single thing on the planet earth could make Five attracted to him in any way shape or form that now that he was being told different he almost couldn’t believe it.

“You do?”

Five calmed down after that. He turned towards the omega, grasping Viktor’s hands in his own. “Yes, I love you more than I know how to say. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable and I wanted you to be able to experience things like any normal teenager does since none of the rest of us ever got that opportunity but it is killing me to hear you talk about your experiences with other alphas knowing that I never even got a chance to prove my love to you.”

“You’re doing it now,” he giggled. The feeling of shock and confusion had worn off enough that he was filled with an eager giddiness. He was now finally coming to terms with the fact that the alpha he had been in love with for years loved him back. A devious smirk replaced the happy one on his face. 

He reached down and placed his hand on Five’s shoulders so that he was making a fist with some of the fabric in his hand. He pulled the alpha up so that they were a hair’s breadth apart and then asked, “Do you want to replace Marie’s marks and scent with your own?”

Five moaned loud enough that Viktor, for just a moment, was worried the others were going to hear him. “Do I ever,” he growled. Five was the one that surged forward and connected their lips after another moment of hovering a few inches away from each other. 

The kiss was nothing like Viktor had ever experienced before. He had kissed quite a few people during his public high school experience, but no one that he had ever been as in love with as he was with Five.

Their lips met together in the perfect way, like they had been made for each other. The alpha tasted like home, the perfect level of sweet. He also immediately knew when it was time to deepen the kiss, their tongues dancing together in a display of intimacy. He used his teeth in a way that drove Viktor wild, biting and nibbling at his lips whenever the omega needed a second to breathe.

“There are condoms in my bag,” he gasped out. He knew that it was a big jump for them to go from making out to having intercourse, but he had wanted Five so badly for so long that his body was already trembling with need.

“Later,” he grunted. The alpha nosed Viktor’s head to the side and then lathed his tongue over the side of his scent gland. Viktor had removed his scent blocker since they were back in his room as the omega was required to wear them when he was around the house and sometimes even in public.

Viktor let out a small mewl as the erogenous gland on his neck was finally getting some attention. He shuffled down on his bed so that he could wrap both of his legs over Five’s waist. He placed one of his arms over the back of Five’s shoulders so that he could support the angle that he was bent at while the other hand focused on undoing as many buttons on Five’s shirt as he thought that he could get away with.

Five took a bit of the skin from Viktor’s scent gland and then sucked as hard as he could. He rolled his front teeth over the flesh a couple of times to make sure that the dark bruise could bloom without piercing the skin and mating them together. That was something that they could talk about after a long while of courting and finally freeing themselves from their father.

“Alpha, please,” Viktor whined as he squirmed on the bed. “I need you so badly.”

“You’re going to get me, you just have to be patient,” Five promised. He let one of his big hands dip underneath the material of Viktor’s shirt to slowly edge the fabric up. Every single place that Five’s fingertips brushed over felt like they set the nerves there on fire. Arousal was pooling in the omega’s stomach like nothing had before and it was driving him crazy.

He released the hold that he had on Five’s shoulders so that his shirt could be removed from him. While he was bent forward to get the material off of his arms, Five reached behind him and unclasped his bra so that the item fell off of him. The alpha smirked when he saw the tiny, perky breasts rising and falling with each of Viktor’s large breaths.

Five leaned down and sucked a mark just left of the breast on his right before he bit down on the other one. He then took the right nipple into his mouth and began to suck on it while one of his hands worked on tweaking the other so that they were both getting attention.

Viktor felt like he was being undone from nothing more than the small ministrations that the alpha was doing on his body. The feeling of Five’s huge hands against his abdomen and the wetness of his tongue wherever he licked a strip of skin made another shiver of arousal rush through the omega. He was sure that he had soaked through his panties an almost embarrassing amount and yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell Five to get on with it. He was enjoying all of the attention that he was getting and this foreplay felt better than anything that he had experienced before.

“God, alpha,” he whimpered as his back arched. The aforementioned teenager had just grazed his teeth over the other’s nipple to send a shock of pleasure through him.

Five smirked devilishly as he pulled off and then smashed their lips together again. His hands never stopped moving, trialing down Viktor’s body so that they were toying with the edge of his pants tantalizingly close to where the omega wanted them.

“If you don’t hurry up I think that I’m going to explode,” Viktor informed him matter-of-factly when they finally broke apart. While they had been kissing he had been doing work of his own in the form of undoing the last few buttons on Five’s shirt. He undid the button and zipper that were keeping his uniform pants up too, pulling the fabric down needily.

“I really like you like this, so desperate for me that you reek of it,” Five growled against his ear. He was quick to obey though, moving back on his haunches to discard his clothing off the edge of the bed and down onto the floor.

Viktor sat up slightly, rubbing his legs together while mewling at the idea of Five taking him apart like this more often. He was working on removing his bottoms when he paused to watch Five with rapt attention. A little gasp left his lips as he saw the alpha’s cock spring forth from his boxers and hit him in the stomach, right between his abs. It was one of the most erotic things that he had ever seen and he had already been with an alpha once that month.

“Where do you keep your condoms?” the superhero asked as he watched the omega stare at his already weeping cock.

Viktor jerked his head over to his nightstand. “Front pocket of my bag, I think that they should fit you comfortably.”

The alpha raised a brow at the later part of his answer but didn’t say anything. He opened the pocket and retrieved the item that he had been looking for. He held the base of his cock, right around the extra bit of skin where his knot would pop when he was in rut, with one hand and the condom package with the other. He brought one corner to his mouth and ripped it open before he retrieved the circle of silicone. He placed it on the head of his cock and then rolled it down with several fluid motions. 

“Have you done this before?” Viktor asked as he finished shedding his clothing down onto the ground. 

“No, but I’ve practiced,” the alpha blushed. He looked ashamed to be admitting it but Viktor couldn’t think of a sweeter thing. He found it adorable that his alpha had been so excited to be able to share an intimate moment with him like this that he had actually practiced it to make sure that he got it right.

He showed these feelings by dragging Five down for another kiss while whispering, “I love you.”

While their mouths were once again connected in that way, the alpha grasped the base of his cock and traced the covered head up and down Viktor’s folds. The omega let out a needy whine that was quickly swallowed up by the passionate kiss. He broke it with a loud gasp when Five finally positioned himself so that he could breech his partner.

“Shit, oh fuck you feel so good inside of me,” Viktor whimpered as the cock pushed further and further inside of him. He almost felt like he was going to explode with how good it felt, every nerve ending inside of his cunt standing on end and shocking his body with pleasure. He let out a groan as he felt a sudden tightening and then release of every muscle in his body. He had just cum from the alpha merely entering him, not even getting fucked.

He refused to tell Five that had just happened for fear of the encounter ending right there even though he knew that he could cum at least three times in a row before he began to feel overstimulated. He knew Five and he knew that the alpha would prioritize Viktor’s health and well being over his own pleasure. That might mean that he would get so anxious about this turning sour that he wouldn’t keep going.

So Viktor kept it to himself and enjoyed every moment of it.

Five leaned down so that he was peppering kisses up and down Viktor’s neck in between moans. He was moving his hips back a few inches before he rocked forward with a swift movement again. He would bury himself all the way up to the hilt and his cock was curved in just the right way to hit every erogenous zone inside of Viktor’s cunt. “Shit, oh God, it feels so good,” the omega babbled into his shoulder. 

They began to rut against each other faster and faster as the alpha approached his first orgasm and Viktor approached his second. They had completely forgotten what they were doing as they chased after that sweet release. Five let out a dark grunt as he thrust forward one last time, burying himself all the way into the omega’s vice-like cunt and orgasmed. He shot rope after rope of pearly white cum into the condom. 

Even though there was a thin layer of silicone preventing him from really feeling it, Viktor still groaned and cummed for the second time when he felt the alpha reaching his climax.

They stayed like that for a moment as they dealt with the aftershocks of the orgasms. Their foreheads were pressed together and their breaths were intermingling, which was somehow more intimate than the act that they had just completed.

After he had gotten his wits back about him, Five slowly pulled out of the omega. He removed the condom and tossed it into the bin before he pulled out a few tissues to place over it so Grace would be less likely to find it when she came to empty it out that night.

They were both too exhausted to do anything else, even go shower, despite the fact that they both needed it. Five moved back onto the bed and then laid down so that he and Viktor were facing each other. The house was warm enough that they didn’t need to huddle underneath Viktor’s quilt. They were both content to just lay there and stare at each other.

The omega slowly reached down and took Five’s hand into his own. “I have something to tell you,” he whispered as he pressed a kiss to the top of his knuckle.

“Oh?” the alpha chuckled.

“You may not have been the first person to romance me or the person to take my virginity but you were the first person to make me feel this special. And to make me cum twice in one sexual experience,” he grinned wickedly.

It was like his words had short-circuited the alpha’s brain. Five opened his mouth, trying to find something to say before he clamped his teeth shut and gave a small hum as an acknowledgement instead. Viktor giggled and pulled him in for another kiss, though this one was a lot more chaste than the others had been. 

[leedee013]

WIP Wednesday

I'll be once again participating in @kedreeva 's game this week! Let's see how this goes.

It’s WIP Wednesday, time for a little accountability, sharing your work, and getting a kick in the pants.

Here’s how it works:

In a reblog of this post (so people can find you in the notes) or new thread (w/ rules attached) if you want to play on your own, post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to play!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event or gift fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. I’ll be searching the reblogs to find people to send asks to!

If you’re reading this, you’re invited!

If you see someone posting a WIP Wednesday Game snippet, send them an ask! Make them write.

Here is what I have to offer:

1. Silly Little Jean Moreau Fic 2. Etienne 3. Baby Jean 4. Needle AU

Feel free to send multiple asks btw!

Snippet from Chapter 6 of Silly Little Jean Moreau Fic below the cut:

“I’m scared.”

“Jean, there’s nothing to be scared of! It’s just mac’n’cheese, I make it all the time for the team and they've said nothing but good things.”

Jeremy had insisted on cooking for Jean that night, and although it had gone better than he’d expected based on the fact that the kitchen hadn't started on fire. “Why is it that color?”

“Jean, just try it!”

“How do I even eat it?”

“It doesn’t matter, just scoop up a few noodles and try it!”

Jean frowned at the gooey, brightly colored pasta abomination on the plate in front of him. He was pretty sure that saying that there was cheese in the dish that was in front of him was one of the most egregious lies he’d heard in his life. Was there a cheese shortage he hadn’t heard about that made access to real cheese unattainable? How could anyone look at something so aggressively orangey-yellow and think that it was real cheese? Still, Jeremy’s bright blue eyes were trained on him, making escape impossible by pinning him in place. 

With a sigh, Jean picked up his fork, stabbed a few of the poor noodles, and popped the helping into his mouth before he could overthink it. The flavor was less intense than the coloring implied, mostly coming across as a mixture of salty and creamy. He hated that he didn't mind it at all, or that he actually enjoyed it. 

Jeremy smirked across the table at Jean as he scooped his own forkful of the mac’n’cheese into his mouth. “Told you it's good,” he said after swallowing. 

Jean shrugged. “It’s alright.” 

Jeremy grinned, a lopsided, toothy grin that dimpled just one of Jeremy’s cheeks. “I knew you’d like it.” 

“So this is what you ate when you were a kid?” Jean said before scooping up another mouthful of mac’n’cheese. 

Jeremy nodded. “At least, this is what we ate when Daniel used to make dinner for us, when we were all little.”

“Daniel’s your older brother, right?”

“Yeah. Our parents worked weird shifts back then, so my grandparents took care of us when neither of my parents could make it home in time for dinner. Daniel kept asking them if he could help though. So once he was old enough, grandma let him help cook dinner every now and then. Mac’n’cheese was his go-to those days. He taught me to always make it with a few tablespoons of sour cream, actually.”

“What do your parents do for work?”

Jeremy ate a few forkfuls of the noodles before answering. “Well, back then my dad worked as a lab technician at a hospital while my mom was doing meteorology work for a local news channel. Nowadays they pretty much do the same thing, but now they have seniority and positions higher up. What about you? Any siblings?”

Jean was grateful that he’d eaten the last of his plate of mac'n'cheese before Jeremy spoke, or else his last bites would have felt and tasted like cardboard. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, trying to force himself to take a deep breath.

[prentissinred]

Life in Pink

Rated T (mild suggestive content) Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Emily Prentiss Word Count: 2.5k AO3

Hi friends! Guess what? This past weekend marked one year since I posted my first story! How crazy is that?!

I’m so utterly grateful to this community for being such a bright spot in a difficult year. To everyone who’s taken the time to read something I’ve written, thank you for being so kind and supportive. It means more to me than I can express in words. To the brilliant, lovely, talented people I now get to call my friends, I love you all so very much.

To commemorate the occasion, I wrote a little something. This is set in the world of The Wonder of You, which was the first story I’ve ever written – but you don't need to have read that to understand this :)

I hope you like it <3

--

“I mean it, JJ. Whatever happens, do not call us.”

“Yes, Emily. For the hundredth time, I promise not to call you.”

Aaron slipped his free hand into his wife’s and squeezed. “Sweetheart, it’ll be fine. Strauss knows we’re away, and our backlog is miraculously clear. We’ll be okay.”

He returned to packing up his things on his desk while Emily huffed and quietly muttered something unflattering about their superior under her breath. JJ chuckled and embraced her friend. “Go. Have a fabulous time and make us all incredibly jealous. We’ll see you in a week.”

After another round of goodbyes and poorly-veiled suggestive comments from Morgan and Dave, Aaron and Emily were in their car and on their way to Dulles, suitcases already packed and in the trunk.

It had been her idea. A holiday in Greece to commemorate their first wedding anniversary. There hadn’t been time to plan a honeymoon, their wedding in Dave’s backyard coming together with relative expediency. They had spent the weekend after the ceremony in a hotel, indulging in champagne and room service for 48 hours before returning to work the following Monday.

Neither of them thought much of it after that, swept up in both work and newlywed life. They moved into a new home, a classic Colonial in Arlington with extra bedrooms and a white wrap-around porch, and adopted a dog at Jack’s insistence.

And before either of them had realized it, it had been a year. Aaron had remembered the upcoming date over Saturday breakfast as he cut bacon into little pieces for Jack, which were then promptly fed to Boo who waited patiently under the table next to Jack’s chair. Emily and Aaron shared a look of bemused surprise as they came to the realization that neither of them had planned anything to celebrate the occasion.

“We could take a trip,” Emily suggested casually. “We haven’t been away before, just the two of us.”

He’d been doubtful at first, unsure if they could really manage to get the time away with such short notice. But it was clear how enthused Emily was by the prospect, though she hid it well under masked nonchalance. Though she always insisted she was more than happy to spend her time at home, appreciative of the roots they had cultivated after all the travel and displacement of her past, Aaron knew there was still a part of her that missed that heady thrill of exploring an unfamiliar place for the first time. And truthfully, he could think of little else that he would enjoy more than having his wife all to himself for a few days.

So they settled on Greece, a place new to them both, and, with some luck, managed to clear a full week on both of their calendars.

They had nearly reached the parking lot at Dulles — having already checked in with Jessica, Jack and Boo over the phone — when Emily’s phone pinged with a text message from JJ, “I’m so sorry.”

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath.

Before Aaron could question her, his phone rang, Chief Strauss’s number on the front screen. Panic flashed across both their faces before he reluctantly answered. Emily could hear brief snippets of the conversation as the pit in her stomach steadily widened.

“...apologize...New York...fourth suicide bomber in three weeks...escalating...need everyone…”

Once he hung up the phone, Aaron took the next exit off the highway, pulling up to the curb once it was safe to do so. They both sat in silence for an extended minute, disappointment heavy in the air. Finally, Emily attempted to break the tension, “Aren’t you glad I convinced you to get the refundable tickets?”

Aaron let out a weak, sad chuckle and leaned over the center console to kiss her, “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” before starting the car up again to head to the airstrip.

When they walked onto the plane, the team was uncharacteristically silent, looking on at their boss and colleague with poorly concealed apology, as though they were personally at fault for this unfortunate turn of events.

It took five days for the case to come to an end, the team finding the next bomber with minutes to spare, leading them to the ringleader of the group orchestrating the attacks. The date of their anniversary came and went, with nothing to mark the day except a quickie in the shower before they left their shared room. Objectively, both Aaron and Emily knew they had made the right decision, compulsory or not. Lives were saved, and the team functioned at their best when they were a complete set.

Still, while Aaron wrapped things up at the precinct after sending Emily back to the hotel, he couldn’t help but feel sorry that the first year of his marriage had passed in such a benign manner. As he drove back to the hotel, watching people shuffle and hustle about their weekend, an inkling of a plan formed and he picked up the phone to call JJ.

He found Emily in their room, her back turned to him as she hunched over the bed in the final stages of packing. He leaned against the wall, taking a moment to admire her before asking, "What are you doing, sweetheart?"

She jumped a little, the close of the door too quiet for her to hear him walk in, then raised a brow at him. "Packing? Don't we have to be at the airport in an hour?"

"Change of plans." Aaron sauntered up to his wife, pulling her in by the waist so he could kiss her. "We're leaving tomorrow."

“Since when?”

"Since I decided that you and I deserve a night to ourselves." He chuckled softly at her confused expression, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ears. "I'm sorry we couldn't get our time away. I thought we could spend the night out here instead. Celebrate the best year of my life with my beautiful wife."

She softened in his arms, molding herself to him as she pushed up on her toes and threaded her hands in his hair, kissing him breathless. “What about everyone else?” she asked, mouthing along his jaw, nosing the length of his neck.

The blood promptly rushed south from his head, a familiar occurrence anytime Emily’s hands ran over him as they were doing now. He swallowed, breathing in deeply to ensure he retained some semblance of control. "I told them to leave tonight; we could fly on our own tomorrow. But they offered to stay the night.”

She laughed against his throat, hot and ticklish on his skin, feeling almost giddy by this unforeseen development, “Okay then.” The hands on her hips tightened as she began kissing down to his chest, and she grinned up at him, lightly palming the front of his black slacks. “Are you sure you want to go out? We could just lock ourselves in here for the night.”

He narrowed his eyes, playfully pinching her cheek, “Cheeky, Mrs. Hotchner. But I have a plan and, tempting as you are, you will not sway me from it.” Knowing her go-bag always contained a nicer dress in case their work called for it, he added, “Now, get dressed,” swatting her ass lightly for good measure.

“Aaron, it’s Saturday night in New York City. You realize we’re not getting in anywhere halfway decent,” Emily pointed out while she unbuttoned her blouse.

“Ye of little faith, my dear wife. I told you, I have a plan.” Aaron also rid himself of his jacket and tie, replacing his shirt with a fresh white button-down and rolling up the sleeves. He went to clean himself up in the bathroom, and when he returned, he found his magnificent wife attempting to zip up a one-shoulder red dress. The same dress he’d slid off her shoulders in his bedroom after dinner on their first date. “Is that…”

"Would you believe I didn't plan this?" she grinned, turning her back to him. "Help me?"

Instead of doing as she asked, Aaron nudged the zipper, skating a knuckle up the length of her bare back and planting a kiss at the top of her spine.

“Aaron..." she breathed, tilting her head back against his, "if you don't cut that out, we're not leaving this room." He groaned into her neck, reluctantly admitting she was right, finally zipping her up and smoothing her hair back over her shoulder.

When they emerged outside their hotel ten minutes later onto the bustling streets of Midtown Manhattan, they walked the few blocks to Grand Central Station, just barely catching the subway headed downtown. Despite her initial doubts, Emily’s smile hadn’t left her, cheeks flushed with excitement.

Aaron led her by hand out of the subway when they reached their destination, climbing the stairs onto the southwest corner of Washington Square Park. The air was hot and muggy, New York in August, even as the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon. Music filtered through from the park, mixing with the din of the crowds enjoying the first stage of their evening.

“Do I get to know what we’re doing now?”

“Not yet. Come on, this way.”

They crossed the street, turned the corner, and Aaron finally stopped outside a red awning.

“Pizza?” Emily looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise as she took in the pizzeria.

“Or hot dogs, or Indian, or Greek, Italian, Vietnamese...We can go anywhere you want in the world in the next 10 blocks.”

She beamed up at him, catching onto his plan, and her grin was infectious. “Can we do them all?”

He laughed, “Lead the way.”

They started with pizza at Joe’s — a pepperoni slice for him and a Sicilian slice for her. Then a stuffed pita filled to the brim with fresh falafel, tomatoes, and hummus. A chicken tikka kati roll. And finally a shared plate of chicken and rice drizzled in white sauce from the halal food cart next to the park.

Their hands never strayed far from the other, the blissful anonymity of the city prompting more affectionate displays from both of them. Aaron stood behind her, hands on her hips or around her waist, as they waited in line. Emily ran her fingers through his hair as they sat on barstools, so smushed together from the crowd that she was practically sitting in his lap. They stood on the sidewalk waiting for their food to be prepared, their arms wrapped around each other and their lips moving together in languid kisses as if they had all the time in the world. To any stranger who could be bothered to look their way, they looked like any other couple smitten and blissfully in love, hiding every scar, hurdle, and hardship they had overcome to reach this point. Two figures floating amongst a sea of millions.

“I’m so full,” Emily moaned, clutching her stomach dramatically as they wandered hand-in-hand down Houston St. “I think you’ve killed me.”

“Not yet, sweetheart. We haven’t gotten to dessert.”

Two spoons and one cup of salted chocolate ice cream later, they made it back to the park, still lively as if the night had only just started. The marble archway was lit up, the Empire State Building in the distance peeking through the gap. People sat around the edge of the fountain, dipping their feet into the cool water.

Aaron and Emily walked through the students and artists and skateboarders and tourists, dipping intermittently into their shared dessert absorbing the infectious energy. They reached the other end of the park, stopping for a moment to watch a street performer, and turned down a new street, neither of them wanting the evening to come to an end.

The unmistakable sound of a piano floated out of a bar as two patrons exited, catching Emily by surprise as they walked past. She jerked to a stop, captivated, then tugged Aaron's hand to the door. He followed her lead, descending down a narrow flight of stairs that led into a darkened lounge. Tufted couches and armchairs in jewel-toned velvets lined the walls, dimly lit by rounded art deco sconces. Two bartenders seamlessly crafted elegant cocktails behind a lavish bar that took up the back wall. And in the center, a jazz quartet illuminated by a spotlight as couples swayed around them on a dance floor. Even in the dark, Aaron could see the way Emily's eyes lit up, entranced by this unexpected discovery, and he discreetly asked a waitress if they could be seated.

They nestled into the corner of an empty couch, Aaron's hand resting on Emily's knee as they both sipped their respective cocktails. Truthfully, he spent very little time watching the band, his eyes trained on his wife. He took in every secret smile, every small part of her lips when the melody soared to a peak. She was breathtaking, and she was his, and not for the first time in his life did he wonder how he had ever gotten quite so lucky.

The song shifted into something he recognized, a string of notes from the saxophone eliciting an audible gasp from Emily. He grasped her hand and tugged her up from the chair, smiling at the delight on her face. He pulled her in close, one hand low on her back, his cheek resting against hers, as they began to gently shift amongst the other couples.

After a minute, Emily’s voice came in whispers in his ear, her tongue curling beautifully over the French he couldn’t understand.

Quand il me prend dans ses bras Qu'il me parle tout bas Je vois la vie en rose

Il me dit des mots d'amour Des mots de tous les jours Et ça m'fait quelque chose

Il est entré dans mon cœur Une part de bonheur Dont je connais la cause C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie Il me l'a dit, l'a juré, pour la vie

She pulled back in his arms, her gaze locking on his. A droplet tipped over her lash and onto her cheek. Her love for the man who held her — her husband, hers — bubbled and popped and diffused in her chest, filling her until she felt like she was floating. Aaron brought his hand up from her waist to her cheek, his thumb wiping away the errant drop on her skin with enough tenderness and adoration to warrant a fresh bout of tears.

Emily shakily rose to press her lips to his, tightening her hold of him, just as the song trailed to its conclusion. Applause erupted, but at that moment, the world around them didn’t exist.

“I love you, Aaron Hotchner.”

“And I love you.”

--

Song: La Vie en Rose by Edith Piaf

Translation (thank you Google):

When he holds me in his arms He speaks to me softly I see life through rose-colored glasses

He speaks words of love to me Everyday words And that does something to me

He has entered into my heart A piece of happiness The cause of which I know It’s only him for me, and me for him, for life He said that to me, swore it forever

[its-mellohi]

Sleeping At Last as the Dream SMP Playlist

because i like combining my sources of comfort. Link Here

[the connections of each song and my interpretations under the cut]

PS. these are purely my interpretations of the songs and of the events-- feel free to disagree!!!

Mars: The First L'manburg War

We were full of life We could barely hold it in We were amateurs at war Strangers to suffering

Let the brokenness be felt 'Til you reach the other side There is goodness in the heart Of every broken man Who comes right up to the edge Of losing everything he has

Woodwork: The Rebuilding of L'manberg

All our love came out of the woodwork. All our strength came out of the woodwork. We only notice light When darkness crashes against it. We only notice light Deep in the woodwork.

It's a cruel, cruel trick How we find ourselves When we lose everything else. Like a train wreck, The sound of your breathing hits my ears. Our world reappears And it breaks us new.

Eight: Wilbur, Pogtopia (this one's a given obviously)

When I see fragile things, helpless things, broken things I see the familiar I was little, I was weak, I was perfect, too Now I'm a broken mirror

But I can't let you see all that I have to lose All I've lost in the fight to protect it I can't let you in, I swore never again I can't afford to let myself be blindsided

Heirloom: Fundy, from Wilbur

You are so much more than your father's son. You are so much more than what I've become. Long before you were born there was light Hidden deep in these young, unfamiliar eyes. A million choices, though little on their own, Become the heirloom of the heaviness you've known.

When the scale tipped, When you inherited A fight that you were born to lose. It's not your fault, No, it's not your fault, I put this heavy heart in you.

Neptune: Fundy in the aftermath

You let me set sail With cheap wood So I patched up Every leak that I could ’til the blame grew too heavy

Stitch by stitch, I tear apart If brokenness is a form of art I must be a poster child prodigy Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art Surely this must be my masterpiece

Pluto: Tommy, Pogtopia, Exile, Etc..

I've been worried all my life A nervous wreck most of the time I've always been afraid of heights Of falling backwards, falling backwards

One day I had enough Of this exercise of trust I leaned in and let it hurt Let my body feel the dirt When I break pattern, I break ground I rebuild when I break down I wake up more awake than I've ever been before

West: Clingyduo, Exile

Maps stretched out Too many miles to count Let's just say we're inches apart And even closer at heart And we'll be just fine

Another pin pushed in To remind us where we've been And every mile adds up And leaves a mark on us And sometimes our compass breaks And our steady true north fades We'll be just fine

We'll be just fine It's a matter of time 'Til our compass stands still

Earth : Technoblade & The Syndicate

Fault lines tremble underneath my glass house But I put it out of my mind Long enough to call it courage To live without a lifeline I bend the definition Of faith to exonerate my blind eye Till the sirens sound, I'm safe

Meanwhile, my family's taking shelter The sparks send the fire down the wire A countdown begins Until the dynamite gives in

The echo, as wide as the equator Travels through a world of built up anger Too late to pull itself together now

Five: Karl, time travel, the in-between, his memories

It feels like an out of body experience But something gets lost from a safe distance Now I can't put my mind to rest And I can't help but second guess Living behind this one-way mirror

Sorrow: Niki's character arc

It feels like falling It feels like rain Like losing my balance Again and again It once was so easy Breathe in, breathe out But at the foot of this mountain I only see clouds

Slowly, then all at once The dark clouds depart And the damage is done So pardon the dust While this all settles in With a broken heart Transformation begins

Mercury: Tubbo's character arc

No one can unring this bell Unsound this alarm, unbreak my heart new God knows, I am dissonance Waiting to be swiftly pulled into tune

Yet I know, if I stepped aside Released the controls, you would open my eyes That somehow, all of this mess is just my attempt to know the worth of my life

Jupiter: Ranboo.

I wrote it down in the winter of 1610 Just a secret under lock and key until then While collecting the stars, I connected the dots

I don't know who I am, but now I know who I'm not I'm just a curious speck that got caught up in orbit Like a magnet it beckoned my metals toward it, toward it

North: Snowchester, the _ Live family

We will call this place our home The dirt in which our roots may grow Though the storms will push and pull We will call this place our home

We'll tell our stories on these walls Every year, measure how tall And just like a work of art We'll tell our stories on these walls

A little broken, a little new We are the impact and the glue Capable more than we know To call this fixer upper home

South: Sam's Character arc

If truth is north Then I am true south I can't figure it out God knows Always looking up 'Til my eyes give up That's how I lost touch Of who I am and who I was

Some truths are loyal As the shadows we lead Some truths are stubborn as gravity No matter what category you fit into Truth's got its sight set on you

Body: Closing.

No, I don't have a script for this But I know the right words exist Somewhere And I just need more time I know, I know, I'm asking for the moon But I must listen to intuition Believe me, I only want what's right

There's magic in our bones A north star in our soul That remembers our way home God, it's easy to forget There's magic in all of this

Enjoy :D

[marlahey]

under the same roof part one: a stickler for the rules

a harry styles rpf ratings/warnings: references to stalking behaviour by a peripheral character, too many longing looks in a space too small to contain them, she’s clueless sometimes but we love her notes: surprise surprise! it’s good to be back my friends. as far as OG openings go, part one of utsr probably underwent the least amount of rewrites. the most notable change is sylvia’s age: she’s four-ish, going on five. just makes our lives a little easier in terms of continuity and logic! (please visit the masterlist to find all our other writing because I forgot tumblr is a BITCH and hates external links now. ugh.)  utsr masterlist | part 2 (7.12.2020) 

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• tuesday, 1st february 7:48 pm • In spite of the biting chill outside, it’s about a million degrees in this lobby. You wonder if the heater is broken and if it’s always going to be like this here. The hair escaping your ponytail is pressed flat against the back of your neck, and you’re struggling to balance the crate between your chin and the massive box in your arms.

One of the corners is digging into your gut so you raise a knee to adjust it, but the box slips in your grip and you barely manage to hang on. There’s a faint meow from Chowder’s crate. The doors to the elevator whirr open with a ding and you shuffle inside. “Which floor is it again?” India grunts. The box that she’s carrying is lighter but larger—more cumbersome. It obscures half of her face and the way she’s leaning over can’t be any good for her back. “Eight,” you reply, strained. India stretches an arm out to the keypad, struggling to reach the right number. She misses. “Yeah,” you deadpan, “so press four twice.” The sound of a quiet, stifled chuckle turns your head to the back corner of the elevator. A young man leans against the hardwood of the elevator wall with his hands clasped in front of him. He is tall and lean; silver and gold rings adorn his fingers. His hair is wavy and cocoa brown, as though he used to have a businessman’s haircut but has let it grow out. He’s wearing grey tartan tweed pants and black ward lo Vans. Tattoos poke out of the sleeves of his sweater. It’s an arguably strange ensemble, but he pulls it off well. The man pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose with a thumb, gaze trained on the floor. His lips are still pressed together against a smile that flirts with the corners of his mouth. Only then do you realize you’d been staring. You tear your eyes away as heat nips your cheeks and ears. In your tattered converse, mom jeans, and grubby moving flannel, you feel suddenly small. Chowder moews plaintively, like he needs to remind you of his current status in, on, and surrounded by boxes. “Is it just me,” India murmurs to you as the doors ding open on the second floor, “or did that take… is the lift broken?” “It’s the slowest bloody thing,” the man interjects, like it’s the bane of his existence. “You get used to it.” The elevator jolts to a stop on the fourth floor and the doors peel open in silence. Nobody moves. “Sorry, ” India murmurs. The man just shakes his head. The back of the door to the elevator is a mirror so you’re able to privately relish in the invisible threads of your curiosity that reach out to him. “S’ fine, ” he replies softly. By the time you’ve reached the sixth floor, you’re still peering at the man periodically from beneath your eyelashes. He looks up and holds your stare in the reflection of the doors moments before they part, and a ding sounds again through the small space. He smiles at you, poised, before pushing off the wall and stepping carefully between you and India to the hallway. The doors close once again and you are alone with your friend. She drops her box a few inches and bugs her eyes out at you from over the cardboard lid. “Dibs.” You step forward, laughing, and bump your box into hers. Finally, you reach level eight, pile the last two of your boxes by the front door, collapse on the mattress on your bedroom floor still covered in clear plastic packaging, and order pad thai. • friday, 30th march 7:23 am •

“Hold the elevator!” you call mid-jog, and immediately wince. You need to be better about calling it a lift. You make it through the doors of the lift before they close halfway, but not before noticing an arm outstretched to hold them open for you nonetheless. A cross tattoo and the bottom of an anchor poke out from the sleeve of his suit. It’s black velvet that has a navy lustor in the light. You’re in the same company now as virtually every other morning since you’d moved here—the man with the glasses who noticed you on that first day. You’re pretty sure his name is Harry, unless he’s pinning someone else’s name to his chest every day on a badge beneath red emboldened letters reading, The National Gallery, London. It’s surprising to see him as you get on, however, because he lives below you on the sixth floor. Perhaps he’d forgotten something today and needed to go back up… if this were the case, you’re glad to have caught him by chance. Every so often the cast of characters rotates. Sometimes a stout older man with an emerald green briefcase and a mustache rides down with you on weekdays. A slender woman who is almost always on her headset, hovering by the button pad occasionally makes an appearance. They both live above you. Most mornings, however, are like today. It’s just you and Harry together, without fail, if only for those few measured moments of quiet at sunrise. Perhaps you two are on the same tube schedule. For someone you see so often, you know remarkably little about Harry apart from the observable; he’s not one for small talk, has poor eyesight, and boasts impeccable taste in suits. It occurs to you that you still haven’t had a full conversation with him. You absently wonder if he’s single. You’ve even made progress from polite nods of acknowledgment to a consistent “Good morning,” from him and a nearly unflustered, “Morning,” from you (though realistically speaking, a smile before you’ve had your first cup of coffee is only manageable because India would disown you if she knew that you weren’t taking every opportunity to talk to this stupidly handsome stranger). “Thanks,” you murmur, stepping through the doors Harry’s held open for you. “Sure.” The ride down passes in silence. You can’t work up the nerve to speak until the doors part and Harry gestures for you to exit first, and by then it’s too late. You offer a faint parting smile. But, you reason, there’s always tomorrow. • sunday, 8th april 2:42 pm • The lift stops on the sixth floor in its descent as you look up from your phone. Harry’s voice is audible from the hall as the doors open and it startles you because he’s usually alone. You take a sip of your iced coffee as Harry steps inside, wearing a black knit sweater with pink and orange planets across the front, black jeans, worn leather boots, and wayfarers. In one of his hands, he carries an umbrella and rolled-up reusable grocery bag. In the other—most surprisingly—he holds the tiny hand of a little girl. She’s wearing frog rain boots, rainbow leggings, and a t-shirt that proclaims the future is female. Her dense curls are a shade darker than Harry’s, her eyes are closer to brown than hazel, and her skin is a warmer golden hue—but her smile presses a dimple into her cheek, identical to the one you’ve been staring at for months. He has a kid? Harry pulls her gently inside and she seems disappointed that the button for the ground floor is already lit. “This one pumpkin,” he whispers, pointing at the close doors symbol just beneath. She presses it with a firm clack and beams when the familiar mirrors slide across. “Daddy, can we please, please get bananas?” You almost choke on your cold brew. He has a kid. Is there a ring? Do you see a ring? You’d never noticed him in a wedding band before and he certainly isn’t wearing one now. “Shh, we won’t forget bananas… I wrote it down, remember?” With his free hand, Harry fishes out a folded piece of Hello Kitty paper from his back pocket and holds out her, more than happy to let his child snatch it from him. “Daddy, look at the pretty star!” You almost choke on your coffee again as Harry’s gaze follows his daughter’s waving hand, still gripping the pink, polka-dot paper with cat ears, all the way to the golden star dangling from your neck. “Yes, it’s very nice,” Harry nods down at her, agreeing in a voice that could only be used with a child. “Don’t point, angel… s’not very polite.” He smiles at you, almost apologetic, and gently wraps his hand around hers to lower her outstretched arm. “You have a million stars at home.” The lift stops on the ground floor. You gesture for Harry to exit first, a courtesy he always seems to extend to you, and you melt into a smile as he lifts one corner of his mouth in timid gratitude. He hesitates in the doorway on his way out. “Say goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. He has a dad voice. It makes your stomach flip. Sylvia flashes you those sparkling brown eyes once more and waves, suddenly shy. You wiggle your fingers and she buries her face into her father’s leg. “We’re workin’ on it,” Harry says, like it needs an explanation of some kind. He keeps his tender smile when he glances at you over his shoulder before he and Sylvia disappear out the lobby doors and into the rain, hand in hand. • thursday, 7th june 8:24 am • You’re pinning an earring in as you step into the lift. It stops on the sixth floor and then it’s silent as usual between you, Harry, and the mustached emerald briefcase man. You still haven’t had a complete conversation with either of them, but you hardly mind. It’s gratifying to have a few moments of peace before the triathlon that is your final exams, the gym, then straight into your evening shifts at work. Even though you’re looking forward to drinks tonight with India to celebrate the end of term, you’re weary and your body is stiff. Another sleepless night had come and gone and you’d struggled to cover the bags beneath your eyes with makeup this morning. You frown in your recollection of the nightmare, the same icy stare tormenting you. There is an older man with nearly translucent blue eyes, who you see so often around London that you’re beginning to wonder if he’s a figment of your imagination. Yesterday you’d caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of a shop window on your daily walk home from the tube station. He was staring straight at you, but when you’d spun around to look closer, he had vanished. It had unnerved you so much that you hurried straight home without stopping at the shops for kitty litter. London is a crammed metropolis; at this point it’s likely nothing, but that doesn’t stop you from losing sleep over it. “My daughter has that book,” the man with the emerald briefcase says, pulling you back to earth. You let go of your now fastened earring and hold up the book that was pinned under your arm so that the cover is on display. The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen. “This one?” The man hums, continuing, "I’m ashamed to say I don’t even know what it’s about.” “It’s sweet.” Harry’s eyes flash to the book and then your face as you speak. You flip it over and consider the blurb on the back. “A girl sort of accidentally starts working for this catering company one summer while she’s dealing with the loss of her dad.” The stout man brushes over his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “I never knew you were American!” “Oh, yeah,” you laugh softly through a shrug. Harry looks down to the floor and you catch the last second of his smile. “I am.” “What brings you to London then?” asks the older man. “I’m a student at UCL.” “Impressive. What do you study?” “I’m a third year in Law... um, I have a minor in Art History, though.” You peer over at Harry through the reflection of the doors, but he simply pushes his glasses up his nose. You’re startled by the lift’s ding at the ground floor. “Cheers.” The old man nods at you before exiting. “Cheers,” Harry adds like a reflex, stealing a side glance at you before brushing past into the lobby. You could have sworn you’d seen the dimple forming on his cheek to mask a smile. • thursday, 27th september 8:51 pm • You knead the back of your neck with your fingertips and frown toward the ground as you wait for the lift. You don’t usually get home this late but your research advisor needed you to come in a little earlier to your shift this afternoon, and you hadn’t been able to get in a workout until an hour ago. What’s more, readjusting to London’s time zone after spending the month of August back home is taking a toll on your sleep. You sigh and try to relax your shoulders. The first term in your final year at university seems determined to bury you early. You press the auto-lock button on the set of car keys India had loaned you, then once more for good measure. You managed to finagle a guest spot in the garage beneath the building, though it’s your first time using it. It’s eerie and poorly lit down here; you tread lightly into the lift. You’d seen him again today—the blue-eyed man—and by this point it had just been… too often. You had convinced India to let you borrow her car to pick up some archives for your advisor in Ilford forty-five minutes out of your way. It was the first time you’d been to that part of London, and you were still getting used to driving on the other side of the road, so you were already on edge. You remember crossing the street over to a small brook beside the road and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was there in your wake, watching you. It was the middle of the day but you were alone, so you faked a phone call and took an indirect route to the Ilford Historical Society. It was enough to solidify your suspicions that something more serious is happening. On the drive home, you had mentally worked out a time in your schedule to visit the police department and file a report. The lift stops in the lobby on your way up, and your worries from the day promptly evaporate. You smile at your feet as Harry creeps inside the tiny corridor with a very measured, and even gate. Sylvia is passed out, her arms draped loosely around his neck. He’s in a charcoal grey tuxedo tonight and his usual glasses are switched out for contacts. You reach out to press the sixth-floor button, and Harry thanks you with the beginning of a smile. The two of you are stood at the back of the lift together, shoulder to shoulder facing the mirror, so it’s easy to indulge in your gaze toward the small child in his arms. You don’t try to hide the fact that you’re staring the way you might have a few months ago. Even in sleep, Sylvia’s tiny hand clings to the fabric of Harry’s collar. She nuzzles into his neck when the lift jolts upward. Her cheeks are rosy, and she wears a pyjama set covered in primary-colored dinosaurs. Her dark bob of curls—which have grown longer since you’d seen them last—are spread out across his shoulder, and her bloated toddler belly rises and falls against his chest. You smile absently at the short trail of memories you have of Sylvia, but your reverie is interrupted when you notice that Harry is looking directly into your eyes. It makes you do a double take. Could you have imagined it? Is that a blush? Had you embarrassed him? You’re still staring at each other in the reflection when the lift reaches the sixth floor. Your eyes dart to the floor, and you only allow yourself to look up once Harry is stepping out into the hall, well in front of you. He pauses in the doorway to turn around. “Goodnight,” he whispers. “Night.” You hesitate before adding, “Goodnight, Sylvia.” Harry’s smile only grows wider, as though the two of you had shared some fond inside joke. Something catches your eye when you arrive at your floor. You crouch down and pick up a plush kangaroo toy in the corner, flipping it over in your hands. It’s ratty, and has been washed so many times that the pink cotton on its ears is beading. One of the miniature black buttons for its eyes dangles loose, and the synthetic fur is matted. What was once chestnut has faded into a dull, tawny copper. “S.S.,” you read curiously. The initials are stitched in red to the bottom of the kangaroo’s long feet. The sound of the doors closing catches you off guard. You jump to your feet, tucking the small stuffed animal into your purse as you hurry down the hall and fish around in your bag for your keys. • saturday, 6th october 2:31 pm • You step into the lift, fasten in your earbuds, and tap the button on the keypad for the eighth floor. Today marks your third trip to the Ilford Historical Society this week. Soon you’re going to need to ask your advisor for reimbursement to fill India’s tank, but on the bright side you hadn’t seen the man with blue eyes since the first time you’d made the trip…You just hope that this means he’s retreating and not that he’s getting stealthier. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and increase the volume of your classical playlist by a few notches. A flash of purple, white, and green bolts into the lift as the doors part at the lobby. Sylvia is in a Buzz Lightyear costume today. Harry’s tattooed arm swings through the half-open doors immediately behind her, going for the jet pack wings, but she squeals and escapes his hold. You watch the scene play out like a Tom and Jerry skit with La Traviata in the background as Sylvia darts around the corners of the lift and her father fails to corral her. Harry lunges for her, misses, lunges, misses again, then catches her by the elbow as she screams in laughter, squirming out of his grip. You silently pause your music and press the button for the sixth floor as Harry spreads his feet apart, catching Sylvia in his arms like a goalie as she tries to bowl through the closing doors. It’s fortunate that nobody else is trying to get in. She kicks her legs before adopting that pose children do when they don’t want to be held, and makes a rigid plank with her body. Hair disheveled and glasses sliding down his nose, Harry lurches for the keypad with his daughter wedged under his arm a few seconds after the doors close. “Oh.” He stops in his tracks once he sees the button for his floor is already illuminated. “Thanks.” You flash a quick smile. Harry sets Sylvia down breathlessly and she finds a hiding place behind him, her little arms wrapped around one of his knees. He leans against the back wall of the lift, the smallest backpack you’ve ever seen swinging from one hand with the initials, S.S. reappearing stitched onto one of the straps. You swallow and tug your earbuds out by their chord before slowly crouching down to eye-level with Sylvia. For a moment you look up at Harry because you feel the instinct to ask for permission for some reason, certain your expression is more serious than necessary. He’s frowning but he’s also smiling at you as though to gauge your next move—so are you, to some degree. You shift your eyes back to Sylvia, and reach cautiously into your purse. Sylvia’s eyes widen at the sight of the small kangaroo you retrieve from your bag, her mouth gaping in a tiny, square-toothed grin. It might just as well be Harry beaming at you himself with such a striking resemblance. Both of the kangaroo’s black button eyes are fastened tightly in place now. You make your voice light and ask, “Is this yours?” The sound of a zipper comes from above your head; you glance up to catch Harry pulling another kangaroo out of the backpack. How many kangaroos does she have? He passes the stuffed animal to Sylvia and you see now that it’s quite a bit larger than the one you’d found last week. It’s also different from yours because it has a long white stripe along its front with a wide, empty pouch halfway down its belly. Oh… perhaps it’s just the two. She cautiously approaches you with the larger toy in tow, until you’re close enough to snuggle the joey back into its mother’s pouch. She stumbles backward into Harry’s legs. You sigh in relief before rising to your feet. “Sylvia, can you say thank you?” Harry folds his arms behind his back and leans over to whisper against the top of his daughter’s head, but loud enough for you to hear. Her curls bounce as she bobbles her head in a bashful nod, wrapping an arm around dad’s leg again. “Thank you.” This child, you have to admit, is devastatingly cute. “We tore the flat apart looking for him this weekend,” Harry intones, shaking his head. “Where did you find him?” “In here,” you reply. He makes a noise, like the possibility had only just occurred to him. “Thank you.” “It was the least I could do.” You lean back against the wall opposite them as the lift reaches the sixth floor with a ding and you wave to the two of them on their way out. “Cheers.” Harry nods to you. “Say goodbye, Sylvia.” She gives you a small wave. Harry gently nudges her forward into the hallway with his foot. There is an interim of about ten seconds of quiet before Sylvia is hurtling back into the lift, making a beeline to you, and wrapping her arms around your legs. She beams up at you for the second time with a smile cut-and-pasted from her father. Bubbling laughter overcomes her, and you uncross your legs, unable to help yourself from joining in her smile. “Hello again!” you say, before it occurs to you that you probably shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior. “Vi,” Harry calls from outside the lift. She just giggles and buries her face into your knee. He appears in the quickly closing doorway, one hand keeping it open as he narrows his eyes. There’s something playful in it though, a practiced pretend serious. Your gazes catch and Harry winks, putting a finger to his lips. “Uh oh,” he says, “I think I hear a tickle monster!” Sylvia shrieks, but she’s not faster than her father, who’s crouched low to catch her by the sides, merciless fingers at work until the child instinctively releases you. She laughs and laughs and laughs as he scoops her up into his arms. “So sorry.” Harry’s apology is much less flustered than you would have expected. Sylvia wiggles in his grip, cracking up, euphorically naughty. You simply let out a breathy laugh as they finally both make it out of the lift together. Down the hall, you hear Sylvia’s giggle melt into a screech against gravity; you lean over to catch a glimpse of Harry flipping her upside down on his chest with her belly out, legs flailing back and forward over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re bad. You’re bad.” He does not show his daughter the mercy of waiting until they’re in the privacy of their apartment before the second round of tickling begins. “You’re gonna get Daddy in trouble.” • monday, 8th october 8:23 am • Riding in the lift alone is nice because you don’t have a full-length mirror in your apartment. You brush the cat hair off of the front of your sweater and fix one of the sleeves that had bunched up beneath all your layers. The yarn is a warm, autumnal bay that compliments your thick scarf and the gold buttons of your roomy black overcoat. You hear a ding and your eyes flash up to the floor indicator above the entrance. You almost lose your balance jumping back from your reflection when you see the illuminated number six. The doors separate and Harry steps in beside you, closer than usual. Today he’s in a forest green, double-breasted jumpsuit with faint pinstripes, and you can’t help but find it fitting that he works in an art museum. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Good morning.” You feel something tense pinned to the air between you two. “Did you fix Jojo’s eyes?” Harry asks after a beat, almost accusatory. Your eyes narrow at his reflection in the doors. It takes you a minute to summon to mind what he’s referring to. “Jojo?” He flushes a little, just enough to warm the tips of his ears. “The um—” Harry clears his throat, shaking his head. “He’s… the baby kangaroo.” If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was embarrassed. But as you’ve come to learn, Harry just loves his daughter immensely. “It was nothing,” you reply evenly. Harry lets out a light, almost defensive scoff. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” “I know.” Part of you wonders if he’s the type to make a fuss over what you’d consider an innocuous gesture. You could see how an unsolicited favor from a stranger might come off as undermining to a young, single parent, come to think of it. The thought that you’d been the cause of Harry’s ire—or even his mild annoyance—makes your chest feel tight. The lift stops on the second floor. A group of three enters in staccato laughter, pulling your attention forward. Harry’s eyes meet yours in the reflection of the doors—just two seconds that maybe you could pretend were an accident—before you both glance away as though you’d been caught. The group leaves ahead of you into the lobby. “I just wanted to do a nice thing, you know. For her.” You’d been staring resolutely ahead in your admission, but dare yourself to glance sideways and look directly at Harry. “And for you, honestly.” You brush past Harry into the lobby without waiting for his usual beckoning you to go ahead, but sense him turn toward you at the last second. You do not look back. • wednesday, 7th november 8:23 am • “Ouch, shit―” You jerk your hand from your pocket, staring in disbelief at the tiny pinprick of blood welled on the tip of your pinky. Returning your hand carefully into your coat, you pull out the red paper flower just as the lift doors ding on the sixth floor and Harry walks in. Sucking on your finger is helping your wound, but consequently draws his smiling, vaguely concerned eyes. “Alright?” he asks. You nod with a little hapless shrug, holding up the offending fake petals with a black button center and protruding silver pin out the back. “Forgot I had this.” It’s only a slightly embarrassing admission. Commonwealth countries mark the day of the Armistice, November eleventh, in a particular, unfamiliar way; India had explained the Poppy Appeal briefly to you last week when the pins had begun to appear all over the city, and you finally had a spare pound coin for the volunteer offering you one yesterday after class. You have a scant three seconds to look at the poppy pinned smartly to the left lapel of Harry’s trench coat before he turns to face forward, but in looking down at the one in your hand, you realize you have no idea how he’s done it. Surely it can’t be that difficult? You frown down at your own jacket. A tentative stab of the pin into the fabric is met with an audible chuckle from the other side of the lift. You flush; Harry’s smiling gently with one corner of his mouth. You try a second time, going at it from a different angle. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” You haven’t had enough coffee yet to justify how warm you’re getting. You shake your head, accepting defeat. “Best let me help you before you hurt yourself again.” Despite his offer, he makes no move to take the poppy until you sheepishly hold it out to him. Neither the mustached, emerald briefcase man nor the headset lady have appeared today, but the space of the lift seems remarkably smaller when Harry gently takes the flower and shuffles forward to get a grip on your coat. An impressive array of rings on each of his hands catches the light. You have no idea what to do besides stand ramrod straight. “Trick is to put the pin through twice so you’re not poking yourself on it all the time,” he explains, his eyebrows pulling together in focus. You watch his chest move as he breathes; the scent of Harry’s cologne wraps around you like an invisible shroud. It occurs to you that this is the longest interaction you’ve had since he noticed your careful restoration of Sylvia’s tiny treasured kangaroo. You wonder how long she’s had the pair of them. You also wonder if Jojo’s eye had been falling loose for a reason―if perhaps Sylvia preferred him a little rough around the edges, and it leads you again down a strange rabbit hole of is Harry upset that you did that? “I hope it’s okay that I fixed Jojo’s eye,” you venture. Harry pauses a moment, then laughs once, which draws you inadvertently closer together. “You’re funny. Which you shouldn’t be when I’m holding something sharp.” You almost stop breathing altogether. “Course it’s okay,” Harry continues without looking up. His nose is now scrunched as he pinches the tough wool. “She loves that thing, and I’m shit with sewing.” His eyes finally flick up to yours, a self-deprecating tilt to his mouth, and you smile tentatively. “Glad I could help.” With that, you’re quiet until he’s done and his concentrated frown relaxes into satisfaction. You watch Harry consider his handiwork, tracing the side of a petal with one of his fingers. “That should do it,” he says, stepping back. Your eyes meet again. You’ve reached the ground floor, but the doors simply sit open. “Looks nice.” He’s talking about the poppy. Your cheeks warm anyway. “Thank you.” Harry smiles slowly, as though he’s trying to pace the expression. “That’s alright.” He turns and ushers you out of the lift. “Have a good day.” “Same to you.” The edges of your poppy flutter as you turn the corner out of the lobby. Don’t turn around. Don’t ruin the moment. Who are you kidding? A quick glance over your shoulder reveals Harry loitering outside the lift, watching you. He starts a little, lifting a hand like he’s going to wave and dragging it over his hair instead. Harry turns abruptly. You almost feel bad for catching him out. You’re too busy walking faster and failing to smother a stupid grin all the way to campus. • thursday, 20th december. 4:11 pm • You’re thankful that everyone else in the parking garage has ruddy cheeks and runny noses from the storm—nobody would be able to tell by looking at you that you’d been crying all afternoon. Just when you thought you’d never see those blue eyes ever again, you’d felt a hand brush against yours on the crowded tube just hours ago. You turned to see whose pinky was resting atop your knuckles as he clutched onto the pole directly above your hand. The fear was immediate and visceral; every follicle of hair above your shoulders prickled, your lips went cold, and you couldn’t get yourself to start breathing again before stumbling back into the chest of some other unsuspecting passenger. How long had he been standing there? You bolted out of the doors the first chance you got, a good seven stops from home. You didn’t think you were followed but of course you couldn’t be sure, so you ducked into a coffee shop instead of jumping straight onto the next train. You used up all your data to call your parents, hardly able to hold your cell phone steady with the sheen of sweat on your palms. The police had no record of such a man you described. He was middle-aged, taller than you could have imagined so close up, and had a deformity or some sort of scarring on his upper lip. You would have recognized him if you stumbled across his photograph, but you’d gone through every headshot on the books within a ten-kilometer radius of London at the police station. You’d lost sleep combing through the online database of sex offenders in your area without any luck. And since you didn’t have a name or a concrete instance of harassment, they could only add the encounter to the file you’d started in October. Once you’d managed to get a hold of India, she immediately came to rescue you from the coffee shop and dropped you off at home. You insisted she pull into the gated underground garage rather than letting you off by the front doors. With a hand on your shoulder, she offered to stay the night. You had declined. There were some days when you swore you were going crazy, but all it took was one last look into his eyes on the tube today for you to know in your gut that he was real, he was watching you, and you were right to be afraid. You hadn’t heard the ding of the lift but you notice when the people around you begin to huddle on. It’s a tight squeeze inside. You sigh when you see that nearly every floor up to ten is illuminated on the keypad. You sneak into a corner by the doors and try to distract yourself by focusing on the overwhelming smell of rain carried into the lift on everyone’s rubber boots. A faint buzzing noise thrums overhead, and the light seems dimmer than usual—one of the bulbs in here must need replacing. The lift comes to a stop at the lobby. Your eyes are on the carpet, but you recognize a familiar pair of black leather boots ambling through the doors. You look up to catch Harry shaking the rain out of his curls with one hand. He licks his lips and scans the lift briefly, only moving from the entrance once he sees you by the keypad. His eyes change, the corner of his lips quirking up. Harry parts a few people to stand in front of you, chest to chest, carrying a box of Legos almost as tall as you, covered in fire trucks and construction vehicles. They’re the bigger, softer type of plastic blocks that come in lighter shades made for toddlers. You didn’t even know they made sets with so many pieces. It doesn’t seem necessary. The thing could be a column. Harry rests the box on the floor against his hip and even more people pack inside behind him, so many that you have to give up your corner spot which was already tight, and sandwich yourself in between Harry and the wall. And why is the person standing directly behind Harry trying to leave a voicemail? The two of you share a small laugh, looking down at your feet and shifting to get comfortable as the lift vibrates into motion against your back. Ding. Level two. Someone to the rear of the lift needs to get to the entrance. In order to let them through, Harry actually has to press up against you and prop his hand on the wall behind your head to avoid crushing you completely. “Sorry,” he says, strained. “It’s fine.” Ding. Level three. The last thing you need is for your heart to race like this after the mess of a day you’ve endured. To make matters worse (or better), Harry is close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. You’re struck by the most staggering urge to just… lean forward a few inches. It would be so nice to bury your face in his sweatshirt, to be engulfed in the embrace of his arms, and to let yourself cry about your afternoon until you feel empty and full at the same time. Ding. Level four. You choose a button on his open black overcoat to stare at, flustered and humiliated by your own sensitivity. If it were any other afternoon you’d be having a field day with this but you’re too much of a coward to look anywhere near his face in your state. A single drop of rain falls from the end of Harry’s chin and lands on your collar. Ding. Level five. Your eyes are dry and puffy, your breathing is still ragged, and you seriously consider holding your breath altogether until you reach the sixth floor. You’d known since the coffee shop that you were going to cry the moment you stepped foot into your apartment tonight, but you hadn’t considered the possibility that it might happen sooner than that. You shake your head. Ridiculous. You look up idly to find that Harry is watching you. His expression seems serious now, oddly focused. You tilt your chin up incrementally. Harry licks his lips. Is anyone looking? How is nobody looking? You take a small breath and Harry’s gaze flashes again to your lips. Your palm brushes the back of his hand, hidden by the toy box, and he tilts his wrist toward you, spreading his fingers just enough to fit the tips of yours between his knuckles. His hand is cool from the rain and yours is warm from the car. How is someone still leaving the same voicemail? There’s space enough now in the lift for him to give you a few inches of distance so why is Harry drawing closer to you? Why is he leaning in? Ding. “It’s you,” you blurt, and swallow before adding more quietly, “This is your floor.” A few people stuff their cellphones back into their pockets, making their way into the hall. Harry clears his throat and leans over to lift the toy box. Your hands fall apart but he reaches out to gently brush the side of your arm in goodbye—unable, it seems, to meet your eyes. You watch him as he turns on his heel to shuffle out behind someone else, carding a hand through his hair. You close your eyes and exhale without a sound. You only open them in time to catch him glancing over his shoulder at you before rounding the corner. Neither of you had smiled. When the lift reaches the eighth floor, you almost forget to step off. You lean on the back of your door and sigh once you’re in your apartment, dropping your keys to the hardwood with a clatter. Alone in the dark, after one of the single most distressing days of your life, you press two clammy palms to your face and laugh—giddy—like a fool. • tuesday, 1st january 2:33 am • You swing your leg inelegantly out of the cab. Your foot slips on the road’s thin polish of ice. The ankle strap of your stiletto comes undone at the clasp as you only just remember that you began taking them off in the back seat. You laugh at yourself, nearly dropping your half-empty bottle of Prosecco, hobbling to the sidewalk through the rain with one shoe in hand. “Thanks—thank you, goodnight!” You wave your shoe in the air as the cab speeds away after having left a fifty-percent tip—it’s half past two on New Year’s Eve for Christ sake—and turn toward your building. Have the doors to the lobby always been this heavy? Perhaps it isn’t the best idea to try and hop back into your shoe while shouldering through the doorway, because you bang your head against one of the large, protruding handles with a metallic thud. “Fuck.” It hurts a little but the jello shots and bottle of Sangiovese you’d guzzled with India earlier are helping. You squint up because the lobby is spinning, and spy the outline of a man facing away from you with his hands in his pockets. He looks over his shoulder as he waits for the lift, lackadaisical. It’s a familiar profile. The half of his face visible to you is in shadow apart from the crescent moon-shaped hollow of his dimple sinking in as he smiles. “Hi,” Harry drawls with a chuckle. You step into your shoe without bothering to fix the ankle strap and wobble over to the lift. All night you had glided so effortlessly in your four additional inches. Now, you feel as though you’re walking a tightrope in flippers. “Hello.” You enunciate too much in your efforts to sound sober. You and Harry look at each other and smile until you laugh, at absolutely nothing at all. There’s no sign of his specs tonight; his hair is sopping, and the shoulders of his burgundy suit are damp. Harry gives you a once over. “You alright?” He’s slurring a little. You bob your head in a nod. “M’good.” The lift dings and you both lurch forward to step between the doors before Harry stumbles backward and gestures for you to go first. You almost fall forward again in your shoes and have to grip the wall on the way in to steady yourself. These need to come off. Harry moves to his usual corner, leaning against the back wall with a hand on either railing and you do the same in the next corner over. You shimmy off your heels to hold them in one hand while balancing your half empty bottle of Prosecco against your hip with the other. The carpet is coarse beneath your bare feet. You take a gulp of wine and the curled silver ribbon around its neck tickles your chin. You and Harry glance sideways at each other at the exact same moment, both of your heads leaning against the back wall of the lift. You have to lean forward and cover your mouth with the hand holding your shoes so you don’t spit out your drink in laughter. It’s not even funny, really. How many times had you both accidentally caught the other staring over the past year in this very room Harry’s chuckle builds into a laugh and the echo of it reminds you of Sylvia the day she’d clung to your legs. You’ve noticed that Harry’s eyes crinkle like hers, too, if he finds something especially funny. The laughter melts and you stretch the arm holding the bottle out to Harry. He looks down at it, then back up at you before taking it gently from your grasp and helping himself to a swig. “You know wha’s not fair? I’ve—” he hiccups. “I’ve got to wear a badge t’work. With my name on it. And I see you everyday—” “Almost,” you correct automatically. “Almost everyday… so you probably know my name.” Harry’s eyes narrow. “Do you know my name?” You nod, a bit delayed. He passes the bottle back to you and you admire the intricate embroidery on the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve got a pretty good guess.” “What’s your name?” Harry asks after a beat, rolling his back off the wall to lean on his shoulder and face you. “Charles doesn’t know either.” You tilt your head, frowning a little. “Who’s that?” Harry rests his pointer finger on top of his upper lip. You grin slowly before answering his question. Harry echoes you with an equally slow smile, his voice italicizing the sound of your name. It sounds like he’s saying someone else’s name—a person you’ve never even met. He says it again, like he needs to introduce himself to each letter. Your heart is about the only part of your body able to move quickly. Harry smiles widely. It’s as though every other one he’s given you before had just been practicing for this moment. “Nice to meet you.” You wedge your shoes and Prosecco beneath one arm, taking a step forward with your free hand outstretched. Harry shuffles to meet you halfway in a handshake and the height difference between you feels staggering barefoot. You remember the feeling of his hand in yours when it was hidden by the Lego box. It would be so easy to just shift a little and clasp them together the way you had before. You can smell the memory of whiskey on his breath and see the flush of his cheeks close up. “You look like a disco ball.” You laugh and he releases you, like the sound had awoken his sense of propriety. His eyes take you in again, almost reflecting the shimmer of sequins scattered across the fabric of your dress before he looks back up at you. “Yeah,” you agree, tugging the hem an inch down your bare legs. “My best friend dragged me to some formal thing the other American students were trying to throw together. Really random.” Harry nods so you go on after a pause. “You’re handcuffed to someone and have to finish a bottle of wine, but India and I didn’t coordinate beforehand so we both brought one.” “Seems like fun.” “It certainly was.” You raise the Prosecco and it sloshes up against the neck of the bottle in tiny waves. “And you,” you raise your eyebrows, “look like a Turkish rug.” Harry grins, inclining his head as if that were the highest compliment. “Where’s Sylvia tonight?” His face is full of mock surprise. Harry pats the breast pocket of his jacket before running his hands over the front and back of his trousers. He looks over his shoulders, comically frantic, scanning each corner of the lift until you begin to laugh. Harry smiles wider, a little too pleased with himself. “She’s with her mum and her mum’s fiancé this week—so I guess her, um… soon-to-be other mum… They were having a little gathering at their new place tonight and we did the countdown a few hours early for her.” “How sweet.” Without a second thought, you inch closer and begin reaching for a stray piece of confetti in his hair. You can tell you’re drunk because you indulge a little in combing your fingertips through one of Harry’s curls, though it’s probably subtle enough for him not to notice. He goes very still. “Did—did you press the thing?” Harry stammers, his attention jerking to the keypad. “I didn’ press the thing.” “Oops,” you laugh, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the doors as you turn to watch Harry hit the sixth and eighth floor buttons. Though the rain has offset India’s efforts to tame your hair, what surprises you more is the bright-eyed expression on your face. It’s out of character for you to feel this exhilarated over a simple drunken conversation. But something delightedly nervous hums beneath your skin all the same. “Why are you so wet?” you ask as Harry returns from the keypad. A tad closer, you note, than where he’d been standing before. You lean on your shoulder to face him and he slouches a little to meet your height. “Walked home,” Harry replies. Your jaw drops. “In the pouring rain?” “S’like ten minutes—really not bad.” Harry shrugs. “I didn’t mean to get so pissed tonight. My New Year’s resolution was to go a little easy on the booze.” He shakes his head in a chuckle. “I can’t really handle what I used to since the little one came along. M’not much of a drinker anymore.” The lift jumps as you reach the sixth floor and your arm flies out to balance yourself in the same moment that Harry offers both hands to catch you. You clutch his forearm and then immediately let go. “Sorry,” you murmur, taking one last look at him. “Well, goodnight Harry. Happy New Year’s.” The look he is giving you is peculiar—on the verge of resignation, but not quite letting go of all hope. As though the last sober part of him is leaning forward on its elbows, asking if you agree without telling you first what it wants. Harry cranes his neck around to look down the stretch of hallway, his head falling back against the wall with a gentle thump. “You know, New Year’s isn’t really over until you finish all the champagne,” he declares, and you laugh a little in surprise. “Prosecco.” He waves away the correction. “Fine, all the Prosecco.” “New Year’s isn’t over until you get every last piece of confetti out of your hair,” you challenge. Harry raises his eyebrows, looking back to you. If he doesn’t get off soon, the doors are going to close. “New Year’s isn’t over until your shoes come off in the lift,” he shoots back. You burst out in a laugh. “New Year’s isn’t over until you’ve broken your resolution two hours into January.” Harry rolls his eyes. He smirks a little and it’s annoyingly charming in the dim, golden glow of the lift’s broken light. He’s stalling. All at once, you’re acutely aware of the lingering smell of rain and the faint hum of the light fixture overhead. You swear you can hear the echo of that never-ending voicemail from the day you’d slotted your fingers into his like it was a secret, just an arm’s length away from where the two of you stand now. He had tried to kiss you once before and you had stopped him. But now, in this moment, with your heart in your throat, you desperately want him to try again. Harry starts to speak and you don’t wait for him to finish. “Well, New Year’s isn’t over—” “—until you kiss someone at midnight.” You’re hyper aware of your own breathing in the daunting silence that follows. The lift doors seal closed. Harry is close enough for you to see the flecks of hazel in his eyes like sea glass. He floats his hand up as though he’s going to cup your jaw, but traces the tip of his middle finger in a line up your cheek to push back your hair so lightly it tickles. His jaw flexes and just when you swear he isn’t going to, Harry leans in. It’s gradual, as though he’s waiting for you to change your mind, but your heads are tilting and then the tips of your noses brush. If you turn, even minutely, the corner of your mouth will meet his. You can feel your pulse thumping in the side of your neck. It dawns on you that you’re both simply waiting to see who is going to do it. “It’s not midnight,” Harry breathes. “Don’t tell me you’re a stickler for the rules.” The warmth and dew of his laugh grazes your cheek. With that, Harry brushes his mouth against yours. It feels painstakingly tender, like he’s never kissed anybody before. You’re so spellbound that you’re hardly even sure how to reciprocate something so soft. Harry’s bottom lip hovers over the very tip of your cupid’s bow just before he pulls away. Was that even a kiss? The very edges of your mouths had met, but only just. You still feel the tingle of where his lips had been moments ago. You open your eyes and Harry is a few inches away now, looking down at you. His hand is still ghosting the side of your face, like he’s afraid he might break you. When had your own hand slid flat against his chest beneath the lapel of his suit? “Is this a good idea?” you whisper, sliding your hand out to trace one of the round, fabric buttons with your fingertip. He swallows roughly. “Maybe not.” “Okay.” “Okay,” he yields. But neither of you move away. “Maybe this should just stay between us,” you suggest after a beat, heart sinking in your chest. “Well then if it’s just staying between us…” Before you have the chance to inhale, Harry presses his mouth against yours, harder, like he means it this time. His lips are warm and soft as they move with yours. You’re on your toes as one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, the other snaking around your waist to pull you into him. It still isn’t close enough. It’s surreal to be kissing him after a year. How much time had lapsed in total since you’d seen him that first day you moved in? How many mornings had been spent beside each other in silence? You’d spoken through side glances and subdued smiles from opposite corners of a crowded lift more than you ever truly had with words. But this… this feels like threads made up of every intimacy you’ve ever shared in this tiny room pulling you together at last. You pull apart just before the lift dings on the eighth floor. You’re both somewhat winded as you rest your foreheads together, and you release two unintended fistfuls of his jacket. Harry slides his hands down your bare arms to cup your elbows, his thumbs stroking circles in the soft crook of your forearm. “Have some water before you go to sleep.” “I will,” you chuckle. You’re unsure why either of you are speaking so softly, there’s no need. “Goodnight, Harry.” “Goodnight.” He says your name like a promise—like he’s determined to make up for all the days he didn’t get the chance to use it. You didn’t know it could sound like that. “Happy New Year’s.” You smile over your shoulder before padding barefoot into the hall as he reaches out to push the sixth-floor button for the second time. The last thing you’re able to see through the closing doors of the lift is Harry rubbing a thoughtful hand over his stubble, smiling down at his feet. (part two)

[plaidbooks]

Hard Hits and Fatherly Advice - “The Big Leagues” baseball AU (part 1)

(Moodboard by the ever lovely @witches-unruly-heart )

A/N: Oh boy is this a long one. It’s mostly dialogue, so hopefully it reads quickly.  Anyways, this picks up basically right after the last chapter. I hope you all enjoy, and as always, feel free to send any questions about baseball terms!

(After feedback of liking shorter chapters, I split this one in two. Part 2 is out tomorrow)

Tags: light angst with a happy ending (in the next part), nightmares (in the next part), head injuries, near death experiences

Words: 2672

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

Though Sonny was upset about not winning a ring in the World Series—as was the rest of the Mets clubhouse—the misery was short lived. You both only waited until February before you were married, and he got a ring much more valuable. It was a decently sized ceremony, in only because you both had big families. And true to your words, you were still on birth control. You both agreed that during the All-Star Break, that’s when you’d try for kids. But until then, you were enjoying each other as husband and wife.

The few months before Sonny would have to report to Florida were the happiest of either of your lives. You still wrote articles, and Sonny still did his workouts and training. Outside of that, though, you spent your time together. It’s like you couldn’t get enough of each other, couldn’t learn enough about each other, even though you’ve been together for five years now.

You went on trips—both in the city and out—rearranged the loft, laughed together, cried together, did everything together. It was like you were both trying to shove a year’s worth of quality time together within the two months he was home.

But soon enough, Sonny packed his bags, gave you a passionate kiss, then got on a plane to report to Spring Training. You talked to him every night, asked how his day was. He was incredibly excited for this season, working harder than ever. You understood why; this was the last season in Shea Stadium, before the Mets moved to Citi Field, and ol’ Shea would be demolished.

 ***********************

“And you’re sure they want to interview me?” you asked your boss. Your phone was shaking in your grip, your nerves going everywhere.

“They do! This is a big step for you; you won’t be working just the Mets anymore. If you get this hosting job with ESPN, you’re going to rocket to the top!” she replied.

You swallowed; this was a huge opportunity. But the Mets were your team, your home. Though, you could always do this interview now, make a final decision later. If you were picked up by ESPN, would you still be around home, though? Would you have to move, live away from Sonny? And you wouldn’t be working strictly within the baseball season anymore; they could have you do any sport they wanted. Were you really ready for this?

“So? Are you in?” your boss asked, and you realized you’ve been silent for minutes now.

You cleared your throat. “Y—yeah! When and where’s the interview?”

“It’ll be during Opening Day, in the SNY booth. You’ll be off for the night for it, of course.”

During the game? But Sonny was set to start, and you wanted to watch your new husband out on the mound. “Okay…yeah, okay. I can do that,” you replied, albeit a little less enthusiastically.

“Great! I’ll let them know to expect you!” She went quiet for a moment, before saying, “listen, I know this is scary, that it’s a lot of change. But this will be good for you. Trust me.”

 ***********************

You were fidgeting in your chair, dressed in your most professional outfit. The interview with the ESPN exec was…odd, to say the least. It wasn’t like a normal interview; no, he wanted to see you in action. So, after introducing yourselves, he turned his chair to look out at the field, inviting you to do the same. He asked you questions—everything from technical questions about a player to more general questions about the sport.

The game started, and Sonny Carisi took the mound. The ESPN exec smiled, motioning to him.

“I heard you two got married in the off season,” he commented.

You unconsciously ran your thumb over your ring. “We did, yeah.”

“So, I assume you know everything about his form and pitching style?”

Your eyes traveled to Sonny; the SNY booth was on the second level, so he looked very small down on the field. You watched him start his windup, pitch, get a called strike, and you smiled. “I do. But I knew his form before we were married. I remember first hearing his name when he was tearing up Triple A.”

“Yes, I’ve read your articles from that time. You were very prolific, and I think you’ve only gotten better with experience.”

You were flattered with the praise, giving him a smile and a thanks.

 *******************

You weren’t sure how long this interview was supposed to go. It was the top of the fourth, and you never really loosened up around the man. But the questions seemed easy enough, and you were hoping you were doing well, whether you took the job or not.

As Sonny took the mound again, you leaned slightly forward to watch. The first pitch he threw, however, was crushed. The ball flew off the bat, and the whole world stuttered to a stop as it went right up the middle. In the blink of an eye, Sonny went from the end of his windup to flat on his back, the batter crouched on the ground with his head in his hands, and a group of trainers and coaches rushing to Sonny’s body.

***

Sonny was focused; it was the start of the fourth, and he was having a great game. Duca gave him a slider, but Sonny shook it off. Duca tried curve, shook off again. Fastball, right across the numbers? Sonny nodded before setting. He gripped the ball, as he had so many times before, and he threw. He knew as soon as he let go that he missed his target, that it was lower than he wanted it. He just hoped Pujols wouldn’t hit it out.

Sonny heard the crack of the bat hitting the ball. His glove moved of its own accord, going to block his face—from what, he did not know. There was pain, then nothing.

***

The ball hitting Sonny in the head replayed over and over again in your mind as you stared at his lifeless body. Move, your mind yelled to your legs. MOVE!

You felt your mouth move as you turned—muttering out a soft “excuse me”—before you were bolting out the door of the booth, racing to the locker room, the field, you weren’t sure, nor did you care. You needed to get to Sonny; that’s all you knew. You thundered down the stairs to the ground level. You could now hear the crowd cheering, and you felt the briefest touch of relief; Sonny was up, getting off the field. He had to be. Right?

You pushed past anyone and everyone who was in front of you, desperate to get to him. You were panting, your legs burning by the time you made it to the locker room door, but you didn’t feel it. The security guard asked for your id, and you ripped it off your shirt, throwing it at them as you pushed into the locker room.

You heard the crunch of the cleats on the floor before Sonny was on the stairs, four trainers guiding him. He had a dazed look in his eyes, his legs wobbly as they helped him to a bench. He had a huge bump on the right side of his head, his skin already discolored with a nasty bruise.

“Sonny, babe, are you okay?” you asked with bated breath, trying to catch his eye between the trainers hovering over him.

His glassy eyes glanced around until he found you. “D—dizzy,” he mumbled. Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed forward. The trainers caught him, laying him gently onto the bench while one went to call for the paramedics.

 **********************

While Sonny was in the recovery room, you tracked down his doctor, determined to make sure your husband was going to be okay. He had regained consciousness in the ambulance, but barely. His eyes couldn’t focus on anything, flitting around the cabin. You tried talking to him, reassuring him, but his words were slurred, and he eventually passed out again.

“Mr. Carisi suffered a massive concussion and hemorrhaging; he’s lucky to be alive,” the doctor said after you found him. “A few inches to the left, and he would’ve died instantly.”

You tried to swallow past the lump in your throat. “But he’s going to be okay, right?”

“Oh yes; he was very lucky. He should recover fully, as long as nothing unexpected happens,” he replied. “Head injuries can be tricky.”

You nodded. “Does that mean he can play baseball again?” You knew that Sonny would want to know, that he’d want to make sure he could still play.

The doctor gave you a hard look, judging why you were prioritizing a game over your husband’s health. “Will he play again? Yes, I believe so. But not any time soon.”

“How long?” The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them. Maybe you were becoming more like Sonny than you thought.

He seemed to think about it for a moment. “Maybe 6-8 months, if he follows the physical therapy correctly.”

Your stomach dropped. “O—okay…. Do me a favor and let me tell him, please?”

“Of course. But I suggest not telling him anything too shocking when he first wakes up; he’s going to be disorientated.”

 *****************

After speaking with the doctor, you retreated to Sonny’s room. He was still out, a bandage wrapped around his head, holding an ice pack to the spot he was hit. You sat next to him, taking his warm, limp hand in yours, threading your fingers through his. As time went by, you flipped on the TV. But the first thing you saw was a replay of Sonny getting hit, and you quickly turned it off, feeling sick to your stomach. It had looked…so bad. And it was; he was incredibly lucky to not be paralyzed, brain dead, or worse.

You wanted him to sleep as long as it took for his body to heal. But you also wanted him to wake up so that you could make sure he was okay. Though, you were dreading the inevitable talk about baseball, and you didn’t want to see the hurt in his eyes when you told him how long he was out for.

Eventually, Sonny slowly stirred. His eyelids fluttered, his breathing picking up. You had made sure to dim the lights so that his eyes wouldn’t get strained. He flexed his hand in your hold before giving you a light squeeze, which you returned. Once he finally opened his eyes, they focused onto you, his gaze still cloudy from medication.

“H—hey doll,” he breathed, voice raspy.

You quickly poured him a glass of water, holding it to his lips. “Hey, Peanut Butter Cup.”

He smiled at you, the action causing him to dribble water all over his chest. You put the glass down, reaching for napkins. “Sor—sorry,” he muttered as you patted him dry.

“Don’t be; you’re still on heavy medication—”

“I meant for getting injured. Making you worry.”

You gave him a soft smile, tossing the wet napkins on the table. You offered him more water, but he shook his head. “It’s okay, Sonny. I’m just…I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah…. What—what happened? Last thing I remember is…” he closed his eyes in pain as he thought.

“Don’t hurt yourself, love—”

“I was pitching,” he muttered, opening his eyes to look at you. “We were playing St. Louis on Opening Day…. I threw a fastball to Pujols; I knew I could make him chase up high—”

“He hit a comebacker, Sonny. Caught you right in the head,” you said softly.

Gently, he brought his free hand up to the side of his head, gingerly feeling the bandages. “I—I only remember throwing the pitch, then opening my eyes to the trainers and coaches leaning over me. Then nothing until right now.”

You nodded. “They helped you off the field. I made it to the locker room before you did. You passed out shortly afterwards.”

“But I’m okay?” he asked with big eyes, filled with trepidation and worry.

You tried to give him a reassuring smile. “You got hit pretty good. But you’ll be okay; I know you will be.” Like hell were you going to tell him about how close his brush with death really was. The thought made you slightly queasy.

“And I can get back out there, right? Pitch again?” His voice was filled with hope…and fear. When you didn’t answer right away, the fear took over. “I’ll be able to pitch again, right doll?”

You gripped his hand. “You will, yes. But Sonny, my love…your season is over.”

You didn’t think he could look more devastated than if you told him his whole family had died. Tears filled his eyes, and he looked away, pulling his hand from you and trying to wipe away the tears before they fell.

“You’re going to take this time to heal, babe. Then you’ll come back next season and kick some ass—”

“This is the last sea—season in Shea…. I’m never going to pitch in my home again…” he muttered, hiccupping.

Your heart broke for him, and you wanted nothing more than to somehow fix this. But there was nothing you—or anyone—could do. Head injuries could always take a turn for the worst; there was no fast tracking this recovery.

“This was already going to be your last season there. So, we start taking care of you, start working towards your healing. That way, you can pitch again for your team, your second family,” you said gently.

You found a clean, dry napkin, and handed it to him. He wiped his eyes, then turned to look at you, opening his mouth to say something. But then his eyes flicked over your shoulder, and you turned to find the doctor there.

“Is it true, Doc? Am I done for the season?” Sonny asked, voice desperate. It’s not that he didn’t believe you; he just didn’t want to believe the news.

He nodded. “Yes; you’ll be off for the next 6-8 months at minimum. You’re very lucky to be alive, Mr. Carisi.”

“I am? Was it that bad?” he asked, looking between you and the doctor.

The doctor also glanced at you, silently wondering why you told him the fact his season was over, but nothing else. “Why, yes, it was. You had a massive concussion and severe hemorrhaging. You avoided death by a few inches.”

You looked into your lap in resignation, eyes burning from unshed tears. Sonny saw the motion and turned to look at you.

“Did you know this?” he asked, voice hushed. You nodded, unable to look at him, and he sat there, dumbfounded, his mouth dropping slightly open.

The doctor did his checks, then left you both once again, sitting in silence.

“I—I can fight this, make it back before the postseason—”

“Sonny, no you can’t. Please. You need to think about yourself right now, your health. Not your team. Think about your own life—”

“But baseball is my life!” he yelled, exasperated. He looked to you, eyes pleading, and you gave him the same look back.

“Please, Sonny. Think about when we have kids. You want to be healthy for them, don’t you?” you asked.

He flinched as he thought about it, eyes scanning his bed. “Y—yeah…I do.”

“Then please take care of yourself. Pushing yourself can only hurt you in the long run.” You took his hand once more, bending down until he was looking at you. “Please, take care of yourself. For me? For our future family?”

You could see the fight drain out of him; it was one of the hardest things you’ve watched…and you hated that you caused it. But he nodded slightly. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll take it easy, heal from this 100% before I come back. For you. For our future children.”

[cliffordchick]

Author’s Note: Wow, it’s been a long time since I’ve done this but here goes. I originally wrote this as a writing exercise with different characters in mind but decided it would be the perfect piece to test out my fic writing skills again. Please be kind but also don’t be shy with the criticism or love. 

“I never imagined myself in a wedding dress,” you say. You study your reflection for a moment in the floor-length mirror before your eyes drift towards Calum. He’s kneeling on the floor in front of you, pushpins balancing dangerously in between his lips. You can tell he’s trying not to look up at you, his eyes trained on the hem he’s working on. You stifle a sigh and push on. “I always thought if I got married, I’d just show up at the courthouse in jeans and a t-shirt. Oh! Maybe a bikini fresh from a dip in a hotel pool!”

The pushpins scatter, flying in all different directions as Calum lets out a hearty laugh. “You’re something else, you know that?” He drops the hem of the gown and runs his now free hands through his hair.

“You’d be so bored without me,” you pipe. 

Bored doesn’t even begin to describe it; he thinks as he steals a glance at you for the first time. He thinks back to the moment he first laid eyes on you, all those years ago. You guys were seven, and you were hanging upside down on the monkey bars, pigtails grazing the wood chip-covered ground in the breeze. He was drawn to you instantly, even when you let out the most menacing, Wicked Witch of the West style laugh.

Calum’s so lost in the memory he doesn’t even have time to process what you’re doing until it’s too late. You’re on your hands and knees, helping him pick up the stray pins. His heart nearly stops when the delicate lace on the bodice catches on the crystal appliqués of the floor-length mirror.

“Would you please just stand there and look pretty,” Calum hisses, shaking his head.

His words may be harsh, but you know there’s nothing but love underneath them. There’s never been anything but love underneath his words. Even that time he told you to “fuck off” when you barged into his dorm room freshman year, moments before he lost his virginity. You shake your head, willing the memory to go back into its box in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind.

You stand, looking down at Calum with a pout forming on her face. The Y/N Pout™ as Calum has come to refer to it as. “Am I not always pretty?”

Calum lets out an exasperated sigh. This is what he gets for asking you to fill in for a bride-to-be who had to cancel her fitting for a “venue emergency.” As if the wedding venue was more important than the wedding dress that cost the same as several month’s worths of rent at his shitty studio apartment.

“You’re gorgeous, Y/N; you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it,” you say, sticking your tongue out. Truthfully, he’s the only one who has ever called you gorgeous, but you’re not about to tell him that. It’ll just make him blush. And if there’s one thing you can’t resist, it’s a blushing Calum. Instead, you make a big show of getting back onto the pedestal, picking the bottom of the gown up as if you’re an eighteenth-century Princess who has just let the love of her life walk out on her. “How does she expect to dance in this thing?”

Calum reclaims his spot, kneeling in front of you. One hand holding the delicate fabric, the other working a pushpin through it for the seamstress. “She won’t. That’s what the reception dress is for.”

“A reception dress?” you choke out. “But she spent,” you pause, looking at the receipt on the small side table. “$10,000!” You fan yourself and turn around. “Ty, I don’t think I should be wearing this dress.”

Calum grunts in response, pushpins back between his lips. If there’s anyone who should be wearing this dress, it’s you. He quickly shakes the thought away, steadying his hands as he works the pushpin through.

“What kind of monster spends $10,000 on a dress she’s not even going to wear the whole night! I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Don’t you dare,” Calum warns, working the final pushpin through the fabric, securing the hemline. He stands, wiping his hands on his pants before offering you his hand. “Come on queasy, let’s get you out of that dress before you do something stupid.”

“I don’t think anything is stupider than spending $10,000 on a wedding dress,” you say, accepting his hand. You try to ignore the static shock that jolts through your body at the contact. He’s helped you up millions of times, and this should be no different. Before you have time to dwell, you carefully make your way back to the small dressing room.

Calum cleans up as you wrestle with the gown in the dressing room. A thread of profanities falls from your lips before you emerges a moment later in a bright pair of jeans and a polka-dotted sweater. You gently hand the gown to Calum, who gingerly hangs it back up on a rack full of white dresses — none of which sparkle quite like this one.

“I feel human again!” you shout, dancing around the room. “Next time you need a fill-in bride for a fitting, do me a favor and don’t call me.”

It’s Calum’s turn to pout, brown eyes growing three times the size. “But whatever are best friends for if not for trying on ridiculously expensive wedding dresses?”

“Fine,” you say, giving in. “But I expected a proper proposal next time. None of this five am emergency text nonsense.”

Calum grabs your hand and immediately drops to his knees; a playful glint dances across his eyes. You look at him wide-eyed, lips tugging up at the corners. “Y/N Y/L/N, will you be my fake bride from now until eternity?”

You clap your free hand over your mouth. “Oh, Calum,” you say, taking on a British accent for reasons not even she knows. “It would be my honor.”

Calum laughs so hard he loses his balance, sending you both tumbling to the pearly white floor. “What was that accent?” Calum manages to get out between laughs and gasps for air.

“I don’t know!” you shout, eyes brimming with tears from laughter. “It sort of just popped out.”

“Don’t you mean it, popped out?” Calum says, delivering the last part in his own take on a terrible British accent.

You shove him away before quickly pulling him back towards you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck. “I hate you.”

“Hate you too,” he says as his smile spreads across his face revealing a dimple on his cheek.

You stay like that for a moment. A tangled web of limbs, laughing and enjoying each other’s closeness. It’s been a while since you’ve just reveled in each other’s company even though you both live in the same city. Calum’s been busy, working crazy hours to prove himself at Something Blue, the wedding gown boutique that specializes in outrageous, occasionally blue-dyed wedding gowns. And you’ve been holed up in random libraries, working on your dissertation. You do text throughout the day. You send him various gifs of a person jumping off a bridge, and Calum responds with various pictures of glorious diner food items you’d miss if you did it. And you try to FaceTime at least once a week, but it’s not the same as being in each other’s presence. When the two of you are together, it’s almost like you’re two sides of the same person. You complete each other.

Neither of you is ready to pull apart, but your stomach doesn’t get the memo, sending an echoing growl through Something Blue. You move from the crook of Calum’s neck and instead muffle your laughter in his chest. Calum does his best to keep his heartbeat under control.

“Come on. I think I owe you and your Hungry, Hungry Hippo stomach breakfast.”

“Frankie’s breakfast extravaganza?” you ask, pulling away from Calum so you can look up into his eyes. It takes all your might not to reach out and poke the dimple on his cheek.

Calum gasps dramatically, “I’m offended you have to ask!”

Just as quickly as you fell, you’re back on your feet and standing a safe distance away from each other. The loss of contact is immediately felt between both of you but neither wants to admit it, out loud or to yourselves. Calum runs a nervous hand through his hair as his cheek dimple disappears. You tug at your sweater that had ridden up before you turn towards him, smiling again.

“Shall we,” you ask, British accent back in full force.

Calum shakes his head before offering you his arm, “Lead the way, m’lady.”

[blazed-memories]

Rambo Continued

@slystallone

Sorry my mind went out during out chat. I wrote 14 pages in two days.

AN ACT OF KINDNESS

The car ride is dead silent. Her nerves are getting to her and Rambo both senses and sees it. Knuckle-tight grip on her left hand, she squeezes and squeezes, having numbed out her right-hand minutes ago. Rambo silently peels his right calloused hand from the steering wheel and takes her right hand and squeezes. Hoping to help.

“Police come. I can put a gun to your head, you are my hostage. No harm, no foul.”

She gasps. “I am NOT leaving you!!”

“This is too much for you.” Rambo states coolly.

She exhales heavily, shoulders slumping. Unfortunately, she untangles their hands to run her hand through her hair. Rambo looks at her from the corner of her eye. The streetlights highlight her high-cheekbones and sweet feminine face.

Prettier than he remembered.

Strong as he remembered though.

There is an innocence to her and her face that he is desperate to hold onto, to protect.

“John. I am staying with you.”

“….”

“John!”

Rambo looks fully at her now, and sees the same determination as before.

Rambo’s jaw tightens. “Fine. Address?”

She rambles off some address that she is not even sure is correct. Her blood runs cold when she hears the mocking whining battle-cry of the police sirens. Rambo’s hand returns and squeezes harder than before. Smoothly, he pulls into the driveway of the home and begins to move.

She watches as he goes to the back of the car and covers the duffel bags of weapons with her old sweater. He even unbuckles her seatbelt when he gets to her and pulls her to her feet. She thaws at his touch and guides him inside.

Again, a heavy silence breathes between them.

Was she doing the right thing?

“They attacked you first?” She asks.

“They drew first blood.” Rambo replies sternly. “I will shower. As I do that, you gather whatever you would need. Take your social security card and birth certificate. I will burn them. Take whatever else you need; we will be gone in ten minutes.”

“You need to eat.” She states, her words simple, yet threaded with a concern Rambo only heard from his mother as a child. A shield over his heart inches free, and he swears his heart is beating harder.

The sweet earnestness of her voice is something to remember.

“Quick.” Rambo whispers lowly.

Rambo suddenly closes the gap between them and shifts to press his lips tenderly to her right cheek. The harsh stubble warms and scratches her cheek, while the warmth rolling off of his body is intoxicating. Whatever doubts she harbored have been successfully slaughtered by Rambo.

The scent of gun-smoke, sweat, blood and adrenaline suffocate her, while she drowns in the unending kindness of his eyes. She tilts her head to the side and places her hand on the side of his face, slipping her fingers down to his granite jawline. She traces it with a practiced ease, as if they have been lovers for years.

His brown eyes soften further, reminding her of the melted chocolate she gave him for winning a board game.

Gathering her courage, she gets on her tip-toes to press her lips gingerly to his, bracing her hands on his massive muscular shoulders. Kindly, Rambo kneels down slightly to meet her and kiss her back. Their chaste and pure kiss leaves her heart pounding fiercely and unforgivably, as if damning her to recognize her desires.

Rambo’s tighten jaw doesn’t show her that he feels the same, if not more. She is suffocating and he is being stabbed to death.

This is not normal.

“Bath.” Rambo utters in a growl, then steps into the bathroom to his right.

With him gone, and her mind split in half, if he likes her, if he doesn’t, she decides to make sandwiches with cartoon proportions. After that is done, she is off to her bedroom, gathering her social security card and birth certificate, then clothing and money. She forces all of her doubt away, but finds tears in her eyes at the prospect that Rambo doesn’t want her.

She is doing this for HIM, what then, if does not want her? What is the point?

There is no time for her to break into pieces. Rambo appears in the doorway, lightly damp and with a towel wrapped around his waist. A bleeding cut on his shoulder grabs her attention, along with the bruises up and down his neck. There is a cut on his left forearm as well that she stares at.

“Sorry. No clothes.”

She nods, then steps into her closet and pulls out a pastel-colored paper bag.

“Everything in there is for a man.”

“Who?”

“My ex. I kept it… not sure why. Mind as well take it with us.”

Rambo nods stoically and politely returns to the bathroom. A minute crawls by as she triplet-checks her bag and Rambo returns in black pants, new black socks and steel-toed boots. She did not remember buying the boots until she saw him in them.

Rambo remains shirtless for help with his wounds. Her eyes roam the massive expanse of his chest, the stacked and tense muscles of his barrel-chest and thick toned arms and biceps. Not a single hair is to be found on his chest. Rambo appears as if he would not bleed when cut, as if no bullet could rip through him mercilessly. She hopes desperately that he is bulletproof, that he is as strong and stone-like as he appears. He quietly takes a seat on the edge of her bed and faces her.

When she sits in front of him, the exhaustion carved into his eyes and face stun her. He looks like all he wants to do is rest for a year. She didn’t remember the first-aid kit she had taken out and placed on her bed, but is grateful for her planning.

She drenches a white rag in alcohol and presses it to the cut on his shoulder. He doesn’t hiss. The blood automatically seeps into the rag, and she frowns.

“It’s okay.” Rambo whispers.

She nods again, deciding to focus on him. Taking a new white rag and drenching it again, she moves to his forearm. His teeth clink together from the pain.

“It’s okay.” She whispers to him.

Rambo gives her a forced small smile. He shifts and she sees a gap on his right side, something he had burned shut. The skin is tender to even look at, purple and bloodied. She grits her teeth on his behalf. Almost ridiculously, she drowns the white rag in alcohol and looks at Rambo for approval.

He nods, slight apprehension in his eyes.

Swallowing harshly, she presses the rag to his wound and he groans animalistically. If his mouth wasn’t welded shut, she would see the white of his teeth bared in agony. After five seconds, she pulls away and examines the rag, now pink.

“…. John,” she breathes sadly. “I…I have to do it again.”

Rambo visibly swallows, sweat breaking out on his tan face, but nods nonetheless.

She wants to encourage him, tell him something, but a wailing siren invokes fear in her. She presses the rag after another alcohol bath and devastatingly watches as Rambo squirms and grimaces in pain.

“Enough!” Rambo hisses after she let it sit for ten seconds.

She jumps away from him, not out of fear but regret. He tears through the first-aid kit for a bandage.

Rambo pulls free a white sterile sticky bandage. Rambo is absolutely at the end of his rope. An emptiness enters his eyes, and she sees it is defeat. He is exhausted and drained beyond her understanding.

“John, we can do it. There is no other option, okay?”

“…never had any.”

“Well, then we are used to this, aren’t we?” She tries to remain optimistic, but the more she thinks of this, the worse her mind spirals.

John’s eyes meet hers thoughtfully and she can’t help but blush. She is thankful for this dark room, and finds herself hoping the Green Berets didn’t teach him how to see in the dark. She can only see his eyes because of the moonlight.

Rambo shifts a bit so she can reach his side. He had cauterized it with something hot, so all of it should be closed? Thankfully, yes. Her fingers graze the wound and she shivers at the tenderness of his flesh. The heat and blood bubbling beneath the surface sadden her.

“Go by instinct.”

“I will do my best, John.”

“Thank you.”

She wishes she could close her eyes and had time, but she nothing seemed in her favor, just the muscle-bound outlaw was on her side. She was on his. Always. She frees the bandage and places it lightly on his side.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his hand fly up and land in his mouth. He bites down with a hot groan.

“I am sorry!” She exclaims as he shakes his head.

“Stay quiet!” Rambo urges lowly as adrenaline violently rushes through her. The sirens wail, closer now. They are maybe two blocks away…

The prospect of the police sobers them both up. He takes another bandage and finishes the job, placing it down on his wound, still gritting his teeth. He moves rapidly now, as if he is not wounded. Rambo shrugs into a dark brown button-down shirt. She moves and quickly fasten his buttons, wishing she could enjoy the false domesticity of this.

Perhaps in another world she is his wife, and they met up after the war, and simply want to rush to bed to ravage one another, but have some mundane party to go to first.

No.

The smell of a flame alerts her. He takes a zippo lighter to her birth certificate and social security card, then flushes the remains in the bathroom toilet with ease.

“Got everythin’ you need?”

“Yes.”

He nods, takes her hand and goes to the kitchen. The sandwiches are taken and stacked into his hands. She moves with him, taking napkins then deciding to take a roll of paper towels. He rummages through her utensil drawer and takes a collection of cutleries. He is not done; he even snatches some medicine from the cabinet above them.

“John…”

“Stay here.” Rambo whispers softly, looking down at her. The gentleness in his eyes reminds her of a lost puppy. “Don’t want you in this. You have done enough for me.”

She hardly feels when he leans down to press his lip to her temple, an act of purity. She takes both his hands in hers, a show of strength. She squeezes both tightly.

“You know my damn answer, John. We run.” Her voice shakes with her, and tears fill her eyes. “Damn it, John! I waited for you, forever! Please!”

His stone jaw jumps as he stares down at her. One final glance around at this lived in home, the smell of clean clothing, detergent, a stocked fridge… could he, do it? Could he prove for her and keep her alive, keep her well?

The tears rolling down her face are enough to rip his heart in half.

Drawing in a shallow breath, Rambo leans down elegantly and kisses her on the lips, but this kiss is not as innocent as their first. A fire brews and burns between them, her heart thundering and his replying.

The sound of nearby footsteps rips them apart. Rambo guides her to the car in silence. Everything is settled into the car, and they see that the police are two houses down. Rambo drives by the house calmly, coolly, as if nothing is wrong. It takes her a second to understand he is being inconspicuous. Rambo runs his hands through his damp hair and spikes it up, ruffling it. There is a difference in his appearance, sure enough.

She doesn’t breathe when a police officer wanders up to the car. Without thinking, she wraps her arms around his neck and drags him into a kiss. This kiss could burn the car down, her hands are desperate, moving and dragging down his chest, feeling all of the warmth and flesh waiting for her. Rambo moves with her, kissing her back feverishly, his hands now on her lower back. Their lips meld together, unifying.

The police officer whistles lowly. “Well, well, man-hunts turn you on?”

She plays the part, gasping lightly and tittering to take his attention off of Rambo.

“He asked me to marry him!” She titters again, lightly running her hands through her hair. The police officer eyes her maliciously. She feels sick.

“Real cute. Say…” The police officer leans into the car and looks Rambo dead in the face. “You look like Rambo!”

Rambo doesn’t even blink, he simply stares back, allowing the fury to leave his body. He softens his eyes to look dumb as a stump. It works.

“Please! Rambo doesn’t have a woman! What man would leave me?!” She exhales, running her hand down Rambo’s chest, drawing hearts lazily. “Can we go?” She pouts.

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon!” Rambo lightens his morose tone and slurs light-heartedly. “Gotta get to a motel, only the best for my best girl!”

Her heart beats wildly now, a screaming animal set free. Her smile is convincing as it is true, wild and unbridled love drowns her features. She radiates an unnatural love for him, and that is enough.

WHO WOULD LOVE A DEAD MAN WALKING?

The police officer eyes them one final time. A thin man with brown hair and a long horse-like face.

“Be safe.” With a nod he taps the roof of their car and Rambo drives off cautiously.

Once they are out of sight, she exhales.

“Get new plates, need a haircut.” Rambo sounds as if he is speaking out loud, but he turns to her and smiles. “You did great.”

“Can’t believe it worked!”

“Great point. Rambo has no woman. You were the cover. Work’d.”

“Worse comes to worse I am going to take your knife to your hair.” She plans, secretly hoping she can cut straight with all these nerves.

Rambo nods. “Do that.”

To her surprise, Rambo frees his knife from the sheath on his side and hands it to her. She holds onto it, relishing the kiss of warmth from it. The weight of the jagged blade is heavy, and for a moment she feels fear. Something about the peaceful look on Rambo’s face settles her.

“…I… kissed you.” She pieces together out loud, then blushes.

Rambo, watchful as always, catches it out the corner of his eye. A small innocent smile lightens his face. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“…I am a woman. We desire passion.” She tries to explain, but her face only grows redder.

Rambo laughs. “Ain’t so sure I got passion.”

“…wouldn’t you have some?”

“For you. Owe you my life.”

“Huh?” She gasps, almost fumbling his knife.

“Remember the police?” Rambo asks lightly, grinning at her.

She rolls his eyes at his dry humor, but shares a smile with him.

“… you like me.”

“When I came back, had a woman I want’d to marry. Go to see her, got the ring and everythin’. She had another man and kids…. I should have found you. Wouldn’t be here. Pawn’d the ring, bought more bullets.”

There is no sadness in Rambo’s voice, it is simply factual. As if he is reading off of a piece of paper. She offers her hand to him and he takes it, holding it securely. She had never felt safer in her life.

He…wanted me…. Always…

The thought settles on her heart like a warm blanket in a snowstorm. She rests into the car-seat deeper, wishing it was Rambo’s arms.

Is this love?

“My ex beat me.” She admits weakly, trying to be as factual as he had. She fails.

Rambo turns his head calmly, but an eternal fury whirls in his brown eyes. His face stone, his jaw drawn tight enough to slice cement. “Where is he?” Rambo growls tensely.

“Last I check, somewhere in Texas, drinking his life away.” She whispers gently.

Rambo curtly nods. “Let’s pay him a visit.”

                           DEAD MEN WALKING

She expects Rambo to stop at the first motel. He doesn’t. Rambo says nothing as they drive past the fourth hotel, the sandwiches are gone by then. It is three in the morning and she can’t help but to recite Our Father, for both their sakes. She has not killed like him. She has lied however, and that is a sin and against the law.

She hopes one day they end up on the right side of the law. It won’t be any day soon. It the seventh motel that Rambo picks, two states away. Rambo pulls into a dying motel; the walls appear to be made of cardstock. The parking lot is mostly vacant, just two cars for them to worry about. Rain lightly falls from the sky and she hopes it is a miracle, and not an omen.

A tan two-story building stares back at her as she swallows hard. He parks off to the far-left, far away from the red MOTEL sign that casts a soft red-light. She knows he is staying away from the cameras as well.

“Hair-tie?” Rambo asks, cutting through her rambling mind.

She pulls one free from the glove-compartment and ties his hair without thinking. The final smell of her dead freedom greets her, her coconut shampoo. The soft smell almost relaxes her. His hair is silk soft to the touch and thick. It will take some time to do all that she has to.

Maybe this is just a long date gone wrong.

No. Damn it.

No, this isn’t.

She ties his hair up and slices at the excess, going as far as to as lovingly as possible shave away at the back of his scalp to give him a fade with the flat of his blade. She marvels how not once does the red-light from the motel sign kiss the blade. They truly are in darkness. He moves when she dictates and they fall into an intimacy she never had.

“You trust me. I just realized you gave me your knife, you meant it as death.”

“Both,” Rambo’s voice is low and warm. She feels as if she is sinking in a hot bath. “If we got caught, woulda pretend’d I kidnapp’d you, remember?”

“Yes, John.” She is shocked at her obedience, yet finds herself at peace with him.

She finishes, running the blade once more across the center of his skull. She presses the blade back in his hand over his shoulder, and he slips it into his holster.

“…need somethin’ to cover my knife.” Rambo says.

She turns around and sees a .99 cent store behind them, but is closed. They ought to go in the morning and get clothes. She needs to dye her hair. They need to find a license plate… steal one, something.

“Take your knife off, I will hide it in my…” She blushes and puts her face in her hands.

Rambo chuckles warmly, setting her on fire.

“You put it…okay…” Rambo replies bashfully. Despite his stone face, there is still as sweetness about him.

Holster and all, he hands her the knife to put it in her bra. Her chest has never been ample, and she always wondered if that held her back from finding a husband.

He was at war his whole life…. She thinks, glancing up at Rambo, who watches on, not at all malicious or depraved.

She fiddles with the knife and finds it is best to just shove it down and be quiet about it. Rambo fetches the duffle-bags and hands her the sweater.

“For now.”

She puts the sweater on and steps out the car. Rambo once more, takes her hand and guides her into the motel.

The motel has the odor of cleaned clothes put away for years. It is not refreshing, but what was she to expect? The puke green carpet crunches with every step they take, and the grey-brown walls make her feel sick.

She wants to lie down for a year with Rambo. His grip on her hand is eternally comforting and tight, the safety brings her some snippet of peace.

There is an older guy at the front desk, in a sweaty once white tank top, shining bald head and scowl. He palms dirtily at an adult magazine, pure filth as he loudly opens the centerfold and groans luridly.

Rambo guides her quickly to stand behind him as he approaches the guy.

“Need a room.” Rambo states coldly.

The older guy looks up with a low grunt. “One room left, 109. Guy across from you is mean.”

“Mean?” A whiskey baritone enters the fray.

She turns at the sound of the voice and sees a tall man, taller than Rambo by three inches. A slightly bigger physique than Rambo’s, his barrel chest sticks out more, his arms tighter. Eyes dead. Electric blue eyes and blood red hair, cut short. By his impeccable posture, she has to believe he was in the military somehow. His masculine face is stone, slightly more youthful than Rambo’s and a shade lighter. His ears stick out.

“Darling.” A woman enters, appearing to his left. She wears a red dress, topped by red heels and a sweet red ribbon. Her small hand weaves through his and for a moment there is glimmer of tenderness in his eyes. All of this offsets her platinum long blonde hair.

He turns slightly to look down at her, leaning down to press a warm kiss to her cheek.

“Told you to stay inside, this is a dangerous place.” He whispers to her, nothing less than loving.

“Yes, yes,” she sighs. “I do not want to be in that room without you. Swear, place is haunted.”

He nods. “Won’t be here long.”

“I know. And my husband is not mean!” She snaps at the older guy, who eyes her almost violently, chewing at his lower lip.

Her blue eyes shift and raise to her husband’s face, calm for a second. He releases his wife and steps forward, his massive hand outstretched. When his palm smacks the guy in the face and when he pulls away, the guy’s nose gushes a river of red.

The guy’s dark eyes cross as he snatches the guy by the back of his head and slams it down on the table in front of him. One more thundering crash and he pulls away to snatch the key that is hanging behind the guy. A plastic white square is connected to the key, marked 109.

The man turns and hands it to Rambo, going as far as to grab the clipboard to write his name.

“Need a name.” The man states.

“…. Foreman.”

The man nods as he writes down the name, yet hands the clipboard to Rambo. “Sign it.”

Rambo does, looping his letters to make it not look like his own handwriting. He would have to remember how he did it. Maybe he can snatch it on his way out.

The man returns to the guy at the desk, and opens the water bottle at his side and dumps it on his head. The older guy shakes awake gasping.

“I dare you to look at my wife.” He snarls, his massive calloused and scarred hands yank at the guy’s shirt front and raises him in the air, several feet off the ground. He slams the man back down into his chair and simply laughs.

“Go.” His wife whispers to them, and that is when they both see recognition in her eyes.

Does she know?! Does he?!

They both move off to their room, only stopping to hand the woman a couple hundred dollars. The last they see is her placing it on the table.

Rambo is tense, his massive back motionless as he opens the door to the motel room. He ushers her in, but she is stunned when his guiding hand becomes a shove and the door slams behind her.

“John?!” She asks in a low gasp.

“What do you know?!” Rambo’s low rumble brings her some peace, but the shock in it doesn’t.

“A Marine knows a Green Beret when he sees one.” The man from earlier replies with such a confident ease that it is almost laughable.

She finds herself laughing, almost tittering out of her nerves fraying. She presses and leans against the door, feeling Rambo doing the same, pressing all his weight against the door to prevent anyone from coming it.

“What else?” Rambo urges lowly.

“Lot of people want you. Not me. Not my wife.” The man replies easily. “Vietnam was rough enough. I know you are just protectin’ yourself.”

“…you sure?”

“Ain’t about to lose my wife, no amount of mon’y in this world exists for me to let her go. One piece of advice, marry her if you love her…plus she ain’t gonna have to testif’. G’night, Foreman.”

“…goodnight.” Rambo utters after a pause. The weight on the door eases and she steps away, trying to appear not worried.

It is not convincing.

Rambo’s hands cup her face as he leans down to kiss her slow, but passionately. It is as if they are breathing life and relief back into one another. When he pulls away, pure understanding and relief is in his face.

“He helped you…” She whispers, grabbing onto his hands.

He nods, and takes another kiss that she is more than glad to give. She pulls away this time, to breathe and rest her head on his chest. His heart slams away in his chest, and she is afraid it will burst.

“Got to rest and get ready for tomorrow.” Rambo mutters, then picks her up as if she is his bride. Her arms lock around his tree-trunk neck and stay there, feeling content.

She blushes, but allows herself to stare at him and see the gentleness in his eyes. He looks so different with short hair.  Even younger and sweeter. This will work, he looks as if he should be handing out flowers. If he keeps his eyes soft…

His bangs need a slight trim. When he places her on the hard springless bed, she fetches his knife, glad she is past being 100% shy around him.

There really is no time for nerves.

Is this what trauma bonding is?

Rambo sits on the bed and she props herself up with the rotten pillows to hack away at his bangs. When a handful is collected by Rambo, he burns it all with his lighter, going to flush the remains like he did with her documentation.

He lays beside her in silence, pressing his hand on top of hers.

“Darling.”

Rambo rises up naturally when the woman’s voice from earlier is heard, near the door. Motels always have paper-thin walls and sin.

“Hm?” Her husband replies, and there is an envelope shoved under the door.

“Forgot something.” Her voice is light and pleasant.

“Oh.”

The sound of bullets clinking in a worn palm greet them. Five bullets are also slid under the door, then there is no sound. Rambo moves to the envelope in a mastered light step, making no noise. He opens envelope haphazardly, then shows a wad of cash, all hundreds.

She bolts upright and moves to Rambo’s side.

“Three thousand.” He states.

Her eyes widen and she gasps. “What the hell?”

Rambo shows her the bullets swimming in his palm and smiles. “Y’see, these fracture off, break off in the body… these are fun. Note says they will kill demons. Some might chase us because they like havoc. Well, how kind.”

Rambo is smiling just like he has after every kiss. He takes a seat at the edge of the right side of the bed. It takes a moment for her to understand that the husband takes that side, closest to the door to protect.

“John?” She shifts and takes a seat beside him, feeling comfortable enough to lean on his massive arm.

“This is enough money for us to be okay. More money than I ever held…” Rambo marvels, feeling the heft of the stacked bills in his hand.

“Why do you think they did it?” She asks.

“Suppose… we both served, so comradery?”

She nods. “That brotherhood I remember. Did you serve together?”

“No.”

She frowns and he catches it. “What if those bullets are a tracking device?”

“…. hm.” Rambo fiddles with the bullets and examines them. “Too small, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but if they have money...?”

“No time!” The man replies from behind the door.

Rambo simply stands and goes to open the door. The man cracks his neck in reply and then points to his oversized ears.

“These ache in a helmet but work well otherwise. No tracking in anythin’. Just want’d to help you.”

“Why?” Rambo demands.

The man shrugs. “You go craz’ or were you attack’d?”

“Attack’d.”

“Exactl’.”

“Weren’t we attack’d in Vietnam?”

“…yes.”

“The war never ends.” The man says, his voice hollow for a moment, his eyes dead. “Came back home to nothin’, just sick, sick, sick and had to wait to get better. Wakin’ up screamin’, achin’ to kill. That don’t die. Figur’d… demons would maybe attack, if not, use it on whatever. But at least you got somethin’.”

Rambo rolls a bullet between his fingers. “Works on both?”

“Yes. Those bullets are spok’n over to be able to fight off demons though.”

His wife appears at his side and glances at her husband, then Rambo.

“Surprised you two didn’t meet.”

“Stuck with my broth’r.” He answers.

She shrugs nonchalantly. “Still, honey. Come to bed.” She takes his massive hand and funnily, he guides her off without another word.

Rambo exhales and lays down, putting the money in her bag and slipping the bullets in his shirt pocket.

“Rest.” Rambo whispers, then turns to face her. His arms naturally slot around her waist and pull her flush to his massive chest. The warmth and beating of his heart slow and kill her nerves. She combs her small hands through his hair.

“What do you think of them?”

“What?”

“The couple, John.”

“In love.”

She looks up at him, enjoying how the dim lighting in the room drenches his strong cut cheekbones and masculine jaw.

“You think?”

“He beat that guy, didn’t even flinch.”

“She would have flinched…”

“Would have.”

Exhaustion shuts her eyes for her and he follows, not before grabbing his gun and slipping it under his pillow. It is a dark and dreamless sleep for both.

[aaetherius]

Get To Know The Writer!

———  BASICS! ♡

(PEN)NAME: Noise

PRONOUNS: They / Them 

ZODIAC SIGN: Virg.o

TAKEN OR SINGLE: I am a single parent to a gremlin cat. I also have a dog and another cat, but when do I ever talk about them sorry my fur children I should not have a favorite, but I do.

———  THREE  FACTS! ♡

I am fairly/decently tattooed (verging on heavily tattooed, I think most would argue)? I think that’s something most people don’t know or assume about me (unless you’ve seen me, then, of course, it’s the first thing everyone notices). I have a lot of tattoos so I won’t describe/go over all of them (most of them are nerdy though). But the most obvious/largest one I have is my full sleeve (entire left arm), and that one is of Ok.ami! My favorite one, though, is on my thigh because I’m biased, and it’s a decently sized heart with a scene from K.iki’s Delivery service in it/things that reference it, but Lily and Jiji (the cats from Kiki’s) are colored/drawn as my two cats instead (their names are Elise and Bella and I love them very much gfheudhg)! And my most recent one is a pretty large Sailor Moo.n (Luna) inspired one on my calf (I got it done, unintentionally, like the day before we went into lockdown here and I still think about how that’s the last time I left my house other than to walk the dog and for the essentials, obviously dshjgjfy).  

A lot of you know this already, but I sew/know how to sew (largely self taught)! I mainly do cosplay stuff for myself now, and sometimes make cosplays for friends (if I love them enough ghufdihrudk). But there was a period of my life where I was doing it professionally/as a job. I had my own business, and used to make and sell plushies (mainly at conventions, and would do several conventions in a year. Free fun fact from that, but my best con was actually in Canada, of which I am not from nor do I live in, but because of that I have a business license/Tax number in Canada. Used to get invites to events in Canada all of the time and I had to tell them I don’t live there gfudrkugfgrfdr)! 

This is so very difficult. I’m out of facts and trying to come up with things you guys don’t already know ifdshliuf. Uhhhhh, on the more personal side/less fun side I guess, but I was on a learning plan (I honestly forget the actual term for it - basically it’s for when you struggle with a certain subject and have to take extra classes for it or are given accommodations for it because it’s difficult for you) throughout most of school/prior to college for - writing, actually (believe it or not gifdljhgkgrt)! I was often told how terrible I was at it/that I would never get better at it because the school system can be awful, but I enjoyed it, and was a very stubborn child so I kept at it anyway! Eventually I was taken off of it in high school entirely because of my own efforts. So, I just want to say: never let people tell you that you’re incapable of something/can’t do something/don’t let people bring you down! If you love something, and get enjoyment out of it, you should do it regardless of what others think/believe! And be kind/supportive to creatives (including yourself - so very much including yourself, you’re wonderful and deserving of respect and praise for doing what you do). It can take so much courage to write or draw or sew or sculpt a single thing (and you should be proud of that thing, even if it doesn’t live up to what you wanted, because what really matters is that you had the courage to do it at all)! There’s often so much going on behind the scenes that you’re not aware of, and you never know where, when, or how someone started off in something (so even if something seems easy for someone now, it likely wasn’t when they started and still might not be)!  

———  EXPERIENCE! ♡

I can’t recall when I started role-playing exactly (I’ve been writing, in general, since I could hold a pen). It’s been years, but I started with OCs on forums and with friends (in high school I had a group of friends that I would trade around a physical notebook with where we would write replies - one time, for a friend’s birthday, I had owed them a reply for a really long time, so we wrapped it up and them put it in five or so boxes, all of which were also wrapped, and gave it to them. It was a good time haha. Gosh I’m so old). Before eventually moving to tumblr. Most of my older/oldest OCs are still around on my general multi (August being the oldest, but a decent chunk of the OCs on that blog are pretty old). The first canon character I wrote was, I believe, Steven St.one from P.okemon. As far as Lucifer is concerned, I’m a few days away from this blog being seven months old!

———  MUSE  PREFERENCE! ♡

I’m not quite certain what my preference is to be honest! I enjoy writing both OCs and canon characters. I tend to favor characters I’m more emotionally invested in since I tend to be on the shy/more withdrawn side of things so it’s easier for me to interact with others/reach out to others when I’m more invested in a muse! A lot of it can depend on my mood as well, certain characters are easier for me to write depending on how I’m feeling ( but there are muses I find easy to write regardless of how I’m doing). And how comfortable I feel with/on my dash also plays a fairly decent role in my preference, as well! And I enjoy running both single and multi-muse blogs, though most of my blogs are multis (but having a single muse blog is so nice). As far as archetypes go, I think I don’t favor one as much as I used to, but I still write a lot of white-haired muses haha. As far as gender goes, I tend to write male identifying muses most often.        

———  FLUFF / ANGST / SMUT! ♡    

FLUFF: I love and adore all things soft. Obviously it’s easier with certain muses than others (Lucifer lends himself well to fluff, but I have muses, like L.ucilius, who do not). I’m always down to write fluffy things, and very much enjoy it! I like and favor happy/soft content! I like seeing muses get closer, and living their lives and I’m always excited to see characters happy/finding out what they enjoy/spending time with others and learning about them/letting characters live their lives (especially in Lucifer’s case because, well, you know haha. If Cy.games won’t let him be happy I will simply have to do it myself).

ANGST: I like angst to a certain extent. I’m not into super heavy angst that has a bad/unhappy outcome, and doesn’t serve much of a purpose beyond being angsty. But angst that allows characters to develop is wonderful, and expected. And I love the recovery period. Writing muses addressing and living with their actions or learning how to cope with them - how their past or how what’s happened impacts their day to day lives and how they think/what bothers them/their actions/how it becomes a part of them, and what it takes for them to grow. Or how it deepens their relationship with another, and the comfort that comes with it. I enjoy angst that has a happy/meaningful ending. 

SMUT: It tends to be very case-by-case by with me. I may write it with certain muses (of mine) and not with others. I may be open to writing it with certain ship partners, and not with others, as well. I will/can write it, but it depends on my comfort level (and it is by no means a deal breaker if you chose to write or not write it). Generally speaking, it largely depends on how comfortable I am with the mun I’m writing with, and with my own muse that’s involved. So I might write it from time to time/it could come up, and there might be other times where I’m not comfortable/confident (and fading to black/time skipping is also a-okay with me, especially if you’re interested in exploring the aftermath/comfort that follows it, but not actually writing the smut part of that out). Though, keep in mind, when it comes to actually writing it out on my end, I’m more invested and interested in the emotional aspect that intimacy tends to bring with it/how it impacts the relationship (before, during, and after), and that does tend to be what I focus on when I write it (because I just find that part of it interesting to explore because my favorite things to write are character and relationship development). So, long story short, I’m selective with it.

PLOT / MEMES: Both are good! You’re always welcome to turn an ask or meme into a thread, and I find that it’s easier to start threads through asks/memes than it is through starters/a starter call so I very much enjoy them! But plotting is also nice, and I enjoy it! Sometimes, though, I have a million ideas, and it goes super well, and other times my head is completely empty and I have no thoughts whatsoever. But plotting also tends to make writing a starter/interacting easier, and also leads to interesting threads! So, I’m open to both!

tagged by: @cirocchio (thank you)!

tagging ( if you want to do this, but no pressure if you don’t! ): @cxffexngel, @anamnaesis, @hartblooms, @shymaidxn, @unladylikc, @whisperonn, @dcpraved, @synnthos, @caelumsaltator, @againthemartyr, @eternalwhite!

[shadow-scenarios]

Hello~ may I ask for something slightly specific? I wanted to ask about a scenario in which the reader recently obtains the Meta-Nav but instead of the PT finding out first, Goro does. See, the reader and Goro have recently become acquaintances and reader thinks that the Meta-Nav is something related to illegal activity so she goes to consult their detective friend on this mysterious app! Haha, sorry if this is too specific ;-;

Hey there simulationone, this isn’t too specific!! I like creative ideas that change the plot & this has been my favourite request to write so far.

However, I did change the request slightly. I made it so that the Reader awakened to their Persona & gains the MetaNav!! I hope that’s alright with you. If not, feel free to message me again and I can rewrite it.

{ Post Writing Note: Well, I wrote way too much!! Sorry if there’s less Akechi content than you thought, I got hyperfixated on how it would affect the plot. I’d love to write a Part 2 full of angst with this, so feel free to request it!! }

- Nexus.

Dance with Justice | Goro Akechi

Life at Kosei High was predictable. Like a metronome. Constant pressure to be the best & high achievement boundaries, it was a wonder how she was ever accepted without some sort of moonlighting as a prodigy. These stories of mental shutdowns & psychotic breakdowns made the world look grim & everyone seemed desperate to escape it all.

Comfort was found in the Phantom Thieves and how they manipulated hearts. Dancing the line between immoral & illegal, it was a grey area where the who was less significant than the how. Society grasped onto them as miraculous saviours as they solved cases faster than regular forces ever could: Kamoshida, Madarame, Kaneshiro, Medjed. The world was taken by storm, these renegade rogues looking to change the world & it seemed they were no longer an urban legend.

Their downfall was unexpected, to say the least. Okumura was murdered in cold blood, his mental shutdown playing onscreen during an important meeting where he was about to reveal an important factor in solving this buck-wild case. A calling card was found at the residence, the sigil of their misdeeds. Just when the mystery was about to unravel, the threads gave way to a bigger problem: Did the Phantom Thieves cause the very shutdowns everyone was trying to escape?

Swiftly, the media capitalised. Labelling them as criminals, demanding their arrest. Everything shifted so quickly & she was caught up by the egregious claims of both sides. There was one thing for certain: The Phantoms Thieves had killed someone and regardless of their previous deeds, they needed to be brought to justice.

Naturally, the first viable suspect she found was Yusuke Kitagawa.

He was of the eccentric sort, gaining a scholarship through art. Everything the strange man did was usually for the sake of ‘ Finding true beauty! ’, which was slightly melodramatic. Before Madarame’s case, he was fixated on art singularly. Now? He seemed to have other priorities. Whenever someone would discuss the Phantom Thieves in an art lesson, there was a glimmer in his eye & the paintbrush that had been on the canvas stopped in order to listen in.

A victim of Madarame’s plagiarism, which gave a plausible motive. Despite this, nothing was concrete. She thought about her friend, Akechi. Was this how he solved crimes?

Obviously, the next step was to follow Yusuke around. Sneaking around was rather easy, all she had ever been known as by the student populace was ‘ the girl who was friends with Akechi! ’, so standing out was not much of a problem. There was not much abnormal. Despite being somewhat of a social outcast, he had a small circle of friends. Six in total.

Five of them were clearly wearing the Shujin Academy uniform on the day she spotted them. One was tall in stature with fluffy black hair & thick framed glasses. Reserved in nature but he always appeared to have some sort of witty comeback. Soon he became known as Akira.

Another one was a blonde, around the same height. He wore the uniform much like a delinquent alongside a yellow graphic tee. Obnoxiously loud, as it was never difficult to hear what he was saying even from far away. The person closest to him was Ann. She had platinum blonde hair tied back into pigtails & features of an American.

Makoto was next. Clearly more of a calculating type, she wore the uniform immaculately. Wearing her hair in a French-braid styled headband, she had maroon coloured eyes & was around average height. Most of the time, she was commenting on the boy’s behaviour.

Haru Okumura was someone recognisable due to the news about her father’s death, which was saddening. In her uniform, she wore a fluffy pink turtleneck alongside white tights with flower patterns.

Futaba was just as strange as Yusuke. She used a mixture of gamer jargon whenever she spoke and was never seen in a uniform. About middle school age, she carried around a set of headphones everywhere that regularly rested atop her maple coloured hair.

Stuffed inside of Akira’s bag was also a cat that they tried to hide. Key word: Tried. Six of them & a cat.

They frequented a local cafe in Shibuya, LeBlanc. It was a nice location & she had even gone in there once to listen in. Boss was kind, to say the least. He served coffee with a warm smile & the curry combined perfectly enough to encourage a smile out of her.

On a Friday, the cafe was busy. They had gathered at one table & chatted casually. Most of them looked forelorn. Akira eventually gestured for them to take the conversation outside, where they would disturb fewer people.

Following behind them, she paid Boss & followed, attempting to seem casual. They never noticed. Conspicuously trailing into an alleyway, Ryuji pulled out his phone. Listening in was difficult so she opted to pull out her own phone and record. One of them, presumably Akira, simply said “ Mementos. ”.

Mementos. That singular word triggered something & changed everything. As the world began to violently shift in a strange phenomena, hues of vermillion & mauve dotted her vision. It was hypnotic. Eventually, she snapped out of the trance.

Concealed by masks & flashy outfits were the suspicious group she had been following. It was blatantly obvious by their hair colours. However, the animated cat creature was a surprise. It was reminiscent of the cat Akira carried around but even stranger was that it talked. Then it turned into a bus. Which did not seem all that strange.

Inherently familiar with their environment, they sped off down the escalator, leaving her alone with her thoughts. There were so many reds & greys. Thick red veins ran through the sides in mangled forms. The wall behind her was dilapidated & the only way to proceed was the escalator in front of her.

A fatal mistake, really.

Recalling the details of the awakening are fuzzy at best. These lumbering creatures formed entirely out of shadow began to take notice of her unwanted presence. Cornered, desperate and alone. Insurmountable pain; the voice of someone almost familiar; then freedom & rebellion.

With the pact of her Persona, everything was clearer. Life had previously moved in rhetorical patterns, it was now a whimsical dance. Eliminating the so called enemies with a weapon in hand, she eventually found a way back to the surface. The door at the beginning looked to be a way out, so she threw caution to the wind & took the chance.

Fatigue came first in this dingy alleyway. Adrenaline had been fuelling the push to leave alongside her newly granted power and once that was gone, nothing would spare her from raw exhaustion. Checking her phone in the hopes of finding evidence, the video taken was still there, though it cut off as soon as anyone disappeared.

Even without evidence, she knew that this group was doing something illicit. So she texted the one person she trusted with this secret: Goro Akechi. He was a detective, surely he would have answers.

;; I must speak with you in person as soon as possible. It’s regarding the Phantom Thieves, I have some evidence for you. You’re investigating them, correct?

Knowing full well that Akechi lived a busy life, she did not expect a response for a while. After gathering the strength to stand once again, she headed home. It was the most exhausting experience ever, physically & emotionally. A few minutes after returning home, there was a response from Akechi.

I am indeed investigating them. If you have any evidence regarding them, would it not be more convenient for me to receive it via text? ;;

;; Yes, it would be, but I can barely even believe the evidence presented to me. It’s better for you to see it for yourself. Are you attending school tomorrow?

Indeed I am. Pulling away from the public eye has benefits. If you are free during lunch, we can meet on the rooftop and discuss the supposed evidence that you have found. Does that sound like a compromise? ;;

;; Alright. I’ll see you on the rooftop tomorrow.

The next day was filled with trepidation. Everyone seemed to be mulling about & with how slowly the clock was moving, it was if the school was in a state of chronostasis. Although she did not share many classes with Akechi, there had been a moment where she saw a mop of hazelnut brown hair amongst a crowd, so he was likely to be there.

Sitting on the rooftop alone was slightly boring but she understood why he was late. Every time lunch began, Akechi would be surrounded by people who wanted his attention. It must have been rather annoying.

5. 10. 15. Minutes ticked by. During the winter, it was exceptionally cold so not a single soul came up. The chilly winter breeze nipped at her skin & for a moment she wondered if it was Akechi that she had seen. The brown hair easily could have been mistaken—

The creak of the door announced his presence. With a formal apology, he recalled how his teachers were intent on swarming him with catch up work that he would inevitably never complete. Dismissing it all & moving along with the subject, Akechi got straight to the point:

“ What was it you wished to speak to me about? ”, he asked.

“ I believe I have ascertained the identities of the Phantom Thieves, ” was the only reply she gave.

Looking astounded, he shifted his glove via force of habit & looked directly at her.

“ That’s quite the bold claim, ” he returned to a neutral expression as the mask of the Detective Prince slipped back on, “ Do you have any evidence? ”.

Recalling the story to the best of her ability was tedious. From the suspicious behaviour Yusuke had been demonstrating to the video evidence taken from her phone. Throughout the entire story, he maintained a neutral expression so she was never quite sure what to think.

“ Usually, I would disregard such stories as a strange dream or a vision you had & declare your footage as edited. However, I have... also had an encounter in this strange phenomena as well. ”

Everything began to make more sense as it was explained. Akechi rattled off about the cognitive world, Palaces, Personas & even how ‘ stealing someone’s heart ’ was possible. He explained that his plan was to lend the Phantom Thieves a hand in their next assignment & catch them in the very act. Specifically, their leader.

“ That explains a lot. Let me help you. I have a Persona as well & I can fight in that other world. I want to bring the Phantom Thieves to justice. They killed Okumura & many others if they are the ones behind the mental shutdowns. Tampering with the heart of another is wrong... ”

“... Alright. I suppose it will make things easier if it is the two of us. I hope you are a very good actor,” Akechi extended a reluctant hand for her to shake. His gaze was calculated, cold. Much different from his tone of voice. However, she took his hand & shook it.

With that, a contract was signed. Both herself & the detective would bring about the end of the Phantom Thieves.

Word Count: 1.9k

Publish Date: 27.09.20

[merelliahallewell]

An Order of Embers Roleplay Primer

Hello, friends. A while back I wrote a not-so-brief guide to Order of Embers roleplay that seemed to help a few people. MG’s Kul Tiras community has been growing lately and I’ve also founded a new guild and RP project set in Drustvar, and so I figured I would update this for clarity and ease of reading. In other words? I... am back on my bullshit.

This primer will be headcanon/fanon free, and only reference quest text or other information that can be found in-game in Drustvar. If headcanons are your thing, I’ll be releasing an in-character guide to Kul Tiras’s monsters and dark magic soon. I hope. It is the endless writing project. 

Drustvar’s Woes

On Kul Tiras’ western side lies the mountainous region of Drustvar. It provides most of the island kingdom’s ore, some food, and some of their strongest warriors.

In recent times, a civil war raged across Kul Tiras. A secessionist, N’zoth-aligned faction run by Lord Stormsong in the north and an attempted coup led by Lady Ashvane in Boralus itself nearly toppled the Proudmoore Admiralty, but were stopped by brave souls. Drustvar was strangely absent from these conflicts, and many refugees spilled out into the rest of Kul Tiras telling frightening tales of “wooden demons” who had driven them from their homes.

Most of the land west of the mountains had fallen to a group of terrifying magic-users who enslaved the minds of all they came into contact with... if they didn’t kill them for sport or use them as reagent for foul and perverse rituals. The land east of the mountains was on the brink, as well. Corrupted wildlife roamed the woods freely and witches practiced their dark spellcraft freely, driving the remaining desperate souls into worship of the wickermen or into frenzied attempts to prosecute innocents for the crimes of the terrifying Heartsbane Coven. All of this happens before the player even arrives in Drustvar.

The Order of Embers

During the zone’s storyline, the player and Lucille Waycrest discover that the magic being used against the people of Drustvar is that of the ancient Drust, who were defeated thousands of years earlier by a group known as the Order of Embers. The Drust were a seafaring clan of Vrykul that eventually settled on Kul Tiras sometime after the Sundering. They developed druidic ways that brought them in tune with the land and even earned them the blessing of nature spirits, but those ways were perverted by a sorcerer-king who set the Drust upon the path of death and domination.

The old Order were comprised of those who took up arms against their far more powerful foes, exploiting weaknesses in Drust magic uncovered by scholars. The Waycrests were members of the ancient order, and it was Arom Waycrest himself who led the charge to defeat the Drust king Gorak Tul. In the cavern Gol Var, once a Drust stronghold, they recover an ancient tome known as the Tome of Silver and Ash, a treatise which contained all the old Order’s knowledge on combatting their magic.

In the town of Arom’s Stand, some of the Waycrest Guard’s finest remaining soldiers were recruited to become the reborn Order’s first Inquisitors. The newly-anointed inquisitors brought the fight to the Heartsbane from there.

The Order’s battles with the Heartsbane Coven play out over the latter half of the Drustvar questing experience and also the zone’s world quests. They add new members to their ranks, create new weapons for use against the Coven, and push back against them on all sides. Eventually, they storm Waycrest Manor, cutting off the head of the snake and defeating the Coven’s leadership. Gorak Tul was forced back into the death-realm of Thros, prevented from returning for the time being. (Tul was later killed in Thros during the Pride of Kul Tiras questline.)

It’s unclear how long it took to purge the Heartsbane from Drustvar- if the task was truly completed at all. Blizzard rarely addresses zone stories after the fact, which means the plot thread has been left hanging and was not addressed in any subsequent patches in BfA. The Order of Embers also assisted with the fight against the Horde during the Drustvar invasion.

It may be a reasonable inference that Drustvar is being repaired and de-cursed in the aftermath of the war, but that is not an easy task.

Who leads the Order of Embers? Does it have a hierarchy?

Lucille Waycrest- now the ruling Lady of Drustvar, and the last of her house, is in charge of the Order. All inquisitors are raised to their stations by the authority of House Waycrest. Other important figures are the remaining original inquisitors (Sterntide, Mace, Notley, and Yorrick), the quartermaster Alcorn, and Marshal Joan Cleardawn, a former inquisitor that was given new leadership over the Waycrest Guard.

The Order seems to lack much of a formal hierarchy- most of the named NPCs are simply titled with inquisitor, working together as a team rather than issuing commands to one another. They also seem to be adept at handling missions alone and on their own or with the aid of local allies. 

Can I roleplay an inquisitor or other member of the Order of Embers? Is it lore-abiding to do so?

Sure! The Order didn’t stop at five inquisitors- a world quest boss for the Horde during the invasions has them facing off against a new Inquisitor named Erik. They also have a quartermaster and a cleric, which means there may be support staff involved that do not bear the big title but are still part of the group. The Order is probably not handing out inquisitor garb like candy, but there’s no reason to assume that a worthy and trusted individual wouldn’t be made an inquisitor.

However, it is worth mentioning that the Order of Embers might not be too trusting of those wielding or even infused with darker powers, given the devastation of their homeland by spellcasters wielding terrifying magic. That is just a guess on my part, but an educated one. Drustvar as a whole has a very low-magic culture.

Could a non-human join the order?

I don’t see why not, but there are no non-human methods ingame. I would never say that it is lore-breaking to roleplay a nonhuman as an Inquisitor, just that there’s no real in-game basis to make this judgement on either way. If you want to roleplay an inquisitor that’s not human and you think you have solid IC reasoning: go for it!

Obviously, the Order of Embers may be more hesitant to accept, say, a void-infused elf with tentacle hair or a worgen warlock as an inquisitor than a race they’re more familiar with such as a sturdy dwarf or genius gnome. Ability to serve House Waycrest and being of aid against the Heartsbane are likely strong factors in joining up- they may not make a person an inquisitor if they’re a night elf sorcerer that’s been in Kul Tiras for two weeks and hasn’t ever seen a witch in his life.

Initiation Ceremony

To become a member of the Order of Embers, the initiate undergoes a short ritual where they are presented with their garb.

Brothers and Sisters, today you become the searing fire that burns away the darkness.

Today you become the shining blade that cuts through the wicked.

Today you become the beacon of hope against the endless foe.

By the authority of House Waycrest, I name you inquisitors of the Order of Embers!

Clothing and Armor

Upon being appointed to their new stations, inquisitors are offered a set of garb inspired by drawings in the Tome of Silver and Ash of what the ancient inquisitors wore. This armor seems to be dark brown leather gear and also has a feathered cap involved- though only one of the inquisitors seems to have chosen to wear that accessory. The specific in-game set is the “Armor of the Dashing Scoundrel,” which comes from Antorus. It drops from the heroic difficulty of the raid. It should be noted you don’t need the whole set- each inquisitor wears different pieces of it and matches them with other clothing or armor pieces. The hat also has a chance to drop from the Commodore Calhoun rare in Vol’dun. Not sure if it would drop for non leather users, so be careful.

Don’t feel like you have to be a rogue to play an Inquisitor- going for tones of brown with some silver or grey mixed in will likely net you a pretty good-looking set. There are Kul Tiran questing and dungeon plate sets that look fantastic and are worn by Waycrest Guard/Marshal NPCs that would work great as an inquisitor’s battle armor.

The Order also has a tabard, which is worn by the quartermaster who sells it. While no inquisitors actually seem to wear it, it’s one of the better-looking tabards added that expansion and has a distinctive look. It matches well with just about any gear that has brown or tones of silver/grey.

If you’re looking for some transmog ideas, this is a link to the Order of Embers mogs on /r/transmogrification. There is a super sweet plate set OoE set on there that actually won Best Dressed of 2018 for that armor class.

If you’re looking for a great Order of Embers-type transmog, the Leather PvP set from Shadowlands’ first season really hits those vibes. It has a very witch hunter theme to it, is colored largely brown, and the belt has fucking potions and silver spikes on it for use on... enemies. I cannot understate how badass this set is. The best part? It is not class locked, meaning that this armor is available to anybody that can wear leather gear, if you toggle the vendor pane to show “all classes.” However, it does cost Conquest points (and a lot of them), so you may want to be picky with what you grab unless you don’t intend to gear through PVP this season. We don’t know if it will be available after the season ends, so you may want to pick that up soon if it’s your thing. Also, it’s just a nice-looking coat and we don’t have a lot of those in-game. 

Weaponry

The inquisitors of the Order of Embers wield a number of different weapons, taken from their prior occupation as members of the Waycrest Guard. Everything from two-handed swords to crossbows are used by them- and that’s just primary weapons. Their armor features throwing knives as well. Inquisitor Mace even carries a trio of daggers sheathed at her belt- it seems they have no shortage of tools for dispatching foes with.

Players who have completed the zone’s Bleak Hills Mine quests also have a buff called Silvered Weapons. Silver can disrupt the magics of the Drust, and stun abberations, elementals, and undead in the zone. This is an inference, but it may be because all of those monster types in Drustvar are powered by this magic. The silver recovered from one of the region’s mines was used to begin producing weapons for the Order such as the silver-plated hand cannon Witchrend, which seems to shoot silver shrapnel to great effect against the Heartsbane.

It should be pointed out that silver is a shitty metal to make a weapon out of. It is not half as strong as steel or whatever else they make weapons out of in Azeroth. The original Order of Embers got around this fact by making weapons with a steel core and covering them with a layer of pure silver- you find one of their long-abandoned knives out in the world.

Other universes have done similar things with silver weapons- D&D has a ruling about silvered weapons, and The Witcher series has a whole class of silver swords created with special forging techniques. It may be wise to take a page from the latter universe, as Witchers face the same issue regarding silver’s weakness as a weapon. They get around that by carrying two swords- one for men, the other for monsters. I’m not telling you that you should roleplay a Witcher but I am saying that’s kind of half the reason we’re here, so it might be okay to borrow that idea since they face that very legitimate problem with a smart solution.

Storm Silver is a metal found abundantly in Kul Tiras, and is used for building ships, making armor light enough to swim in, and consecrating for various uses by Tidesages. It is likely not the same as pure silver, but we don’t have explicit confirmation either way.

Alchemical fire is also a potent weapon against witches and Drust alike, crafted by Master Ashton. The original text specifically says it was used to “burn away the Drust.” This concoction is tricky to make, requiring the reagents Heartbloom, Saltpeter, volatile sap, and Sulfur. The fire is carried in a reinforced flask that is made to withstand the test of time, able to hold the volatile components without igniting. Inquisitors use alchemical fire to pour over dangerous objects or to shift into more breakable containers for throwing. This is seen in the Gorak Tul fight, when alchemical fire is put into flasks which are shattered over the corpses of his minions to prevent them from rising again. 

It isn’t addressed whether magical fire has the same effect as this alchemical concoction. A fire mage, destruction warlock, or priest wielding holy fire might be a neat character concept to bring to the table for an order that doesn’t have a lot of magic.

Rowan wood is also useful against Drust magic. However, it is not specified how exactly it is helpful. Rowan trees don’t grow in Kul Tiras, so an inquisitor seeking that wood would need to travel overseas for such a reagent. It could, however, be extremely helpful and far cheaper than making a silver weapon. 

Non-inquisitor Roles

If you find the Order of Embers cool, but don’t think you like the idea of hunting witches all day, they have more than just inquisitors. The witch hunters rely on specialists to help them get the tools they need to beat back the Heartsbane, and even simply through the questing experience they gather new allies. The blacksmith Angus Ballaster and the alchemist Master Ashton both are essentials. As mentioned before, they are also joined by a cleric, Loriette. A skilled smith or alchemist could find work alongside the Order of Embers, perhaps helping to craft more weapons for them or concocting potions for use in the field.

Allies

The witch hunters are not the only ones out to defend their homes- they are joined by a plethora of others trying to protect the region. Whether you believe the Coven is still an active threat or not, these are still the most common friends an Inquisitor may find in the field.

Waycrest Guard - The Waycrest Guard are Drustvar’s chief protectors, but lost many of their members to the mind-enslaving curse of the Heartsbane. They work alongside the Order of Embers in the Drustvar quests. The original inquisitors are all drawn from the Waycrest Guard, so the Order has deep ties with them. It appears largely as if the Guard protect the settlements, and the inquisitors are the ones striking deep into enemy territory. They could be called to do heavier lifting when the Order alone cannot do the job.

Town Militia - With much of the Waycrest Guard falling under the control of the Coven, the towns of Drustvar were forced to look to their own defenses, such as in Falconhurst and Fletcher’s Hollow. Ordinary citizens have bravely taken up arms in defense of their homes, and the aid of a skilled inquisitor would likely be welcomed. Even with the witches defeated, it’s likely some militia still protect their towns.

Thornspeakers - The Thornspeakers are a faction of Drust and human druids that live out in Drustvar’s woods and mountains. They are led by Ulfar, the last living Drust and the leader of the faction that sided with the humans against their own kind. The Thornspeakers seem to congregate at Ulfar’s Den along the eastern side of the mountains, but watch over all of Drustvar and Tiragarde. They work hard to maintain the balance in nature, and have allies in the mysterious pair of stags that roam the forests...

Drustvar Rangers - Though they only appeared in a few brief quests supporting the Thornspeakers, Drustvar seems to have a number of woodsmen trying to do their part to protect their home. They do not seem to be magical or anything, just some normal folks 

Notes, RP hooks, Excess Lore, etc

The Order of Embers is based out of Arom’s Stand in central Drustvar. The building Lucille occupies is possibly their headquarters. They also may use Gol Koval as a base of operations. 

Onions seem to be anathema to the witches and their servants. 

Witches have been observed to call upon Drust magic without the Coven’s assent- once by a rejected witch in Drustvar, and again in Tiragarde at the Algerson Yard. This could open up the possibility of inquisitors venturing outside Drustvar to battle new threats. Additionally, it seems as if there may be some witches left as of the Shadowlands quests that take you back to Drustvar, so the hunt may not be over.

The Drust themselves have invaded Ardenweald from Thros. Whether it’s Drust artifacts/contraband making their way into Azeroth of the Drust themselves trying a full-on invasion through the yawning portal into Thros that was left unresolved in BfA, there’s a ton of possible plot threads that can be picked up related to them. A journey into the afterlife wouldn’t even be out of the question, since common citizens make it to Oribos and there is talk of mortals being able to join covenants. The Night Fae would be in dire need of a bold soul bearing flame and silver to drive back their foes and protect the cycle of life and death.

The Holy Light may be used by some members of the Order of Embers. Inquisitor Erik uses holy spells for his attacks when engaged by Horde players, and Cleric Loriette casts a fiery blessing on players who have unlocked her, a spell type usually reserved for priests. She’s also a cleric which usually implies the Light in this universe. A Light-wielding inquisitor is not out of the question, it seems, especially since Drustvar seems to have some ties to the Light if you look into it. 

Despite the possibility of Drustvari Light-wielding inquisitors, this is not the same situation as the Scarlet Crusade. The Order of Embers is not a holy or religious order. It owes allegiance to House Waycrest. Religious zealotry is not on their menu. Per the faction description, the Order of Embers fights with knowledge guiding their blades. 

It’s unlikely the Order would be suspicious of magic-users such as druids or shamans, given that they share a continent with Thornspeakers, Tidesages, and even mages (even if those are offscreen). They would have to be a pretty poor inquisitor to confuse the magics of their allies with that of Drust magic, so don’t go inquisitioning random magic users. 

This isn’t really anything to do with canon, but please don’t use the Order of Embers to live out really fringe stuff with purging ‘heretics’ or being racist at elves or what have you. The community has a history with seeing that sort of stuff in inquisitor characters and it is unlikely to earn you a super great reception if you choose to roleplay that. 

Further Reading (Fanon and out-of-WoW information)

This blog post goes over some potential processes for silvering and what happens when these weapons are used on creatures averse to silver.

Matt Mercer has created an interesting Dungeons & Dragons class called the Blood Hunter (which used to be called Witch Hunter.) It provides some interesting ideas that could be brought into an inquisitor character, especially one that might be interested in wielding darker magics to counter evil powers. You can view the class on D&D Beyond, or read the old Witch Hunter PDF which is a prior draft.

I recently did a huge series of writeups on the Drust, the Order of Embers’ perennial foe. If you’re wanting something to face off against or just want to know your lore, you can give these a read!

The Drust Background  - -  The Drust in BfA  - -  The Drust in Ardenweald

Night Fae Campaign (1)  - - Night Fae Campaign (2)

- - - - - -

I hope this post was helpful to anybody who’s feeling like trying out this sort of roleplay! It’s terribly long-winded but I wanted to do my best to cover all of the information out there. If you’d like to reach out to me about this topic or roleplay with an inquisitor, I play the character “Inquisitrix” mainly on both Moon Guard and sometimes “Merciella” on Wyrmrest Accord. 

If you’re looking for Order of Embers-themed roleplay and you play on Moon Guard, the guild <Silver and Ash> might be what you’re looking for, as they roleplay a group of inquisitors! On Wyrmrest Accord, there is a small interguild community called the Hex Hunter’s Society that I believe may be active still. If you’re looking for other Kul Tiran-type roleplay or want to put an inquisitor in a different environment, there are a few other guilds out there that utilize Kul Tiras on both Wyrmrest and Moon Guard. Happy hunting!

[carpetreveiws]

Helluva Boss Episode 6 Review

It's Saturday, the twenty-first of August. I wake up at ten. This week has been, to say the least, taxing. My morning routine has fallen into a lull lately. I wake up, find something to eat (usually nothing more than a slice of bread). I open my phone, and the rather rigid itinerary continues:

Open discord

Open twitter

Open instagram

Open snapchat

Open youtube

Open any games that give free daily rewards (though I barely play them anymore).

This routine is borne not out of a personal need for structure, but purely out of apathy towards anything I see. I don't care about updates, I don't scroll through social media, I very rarely type in comments sections. I am done in five to ten minutes.

So, I had kind of forgotten about Helluva Boss. As a matter of fact, it didn't even appear in my youtube recommended, which it has unfailingly done for its past 5 episodes. I had said, a few months ago, when I wrote my last review, that I was losing faith in the series. I didn't think Vivenne had the right mindset for writing, visible in the series' basic structure and frankly cringeworthy sense of humour. By this time yesterday, I had no expectations left for Helluva Boss and no concern over what its future was going to look like. About a year ago I bought a funny little Hazbin Hotel merch t-shirt that I am wearing right now (Ironically, I was wearing it before realizing a new episode had been released. I put it on this morning because it was Saturday and I don't have to see anybody. I like the colors).

So fast forward. It's now around five-thirty in the evening, and I am checking my twitter again. There's an image on my feed, captioned by somebody (I can't remember what the caption is). A Helluva Boss screenshot. I close the tab instantly, and go to youtube, typing into the bar "Helluva Boss episode 6". There it is. I look at the timestamp, 22 minutes, and immediately think to myself: Oh shit, it's review day.

And it is. So here's my review. This intro was a joke, and most of it's made up.

Summed up: This episode is a step in the right direction. All these random character points, that felt too simple, or too back-seated in previous episodes get to take center stage (finally). It's focused only on Blitzo and Moxxie, but by the end of it, they actually feel like fairly complete characters. We start in the center of the action, which works perfectly for a show like this. Even though it's been two months, I am pulled back into the show almost instantly. It opens with some clever animation, of the tv screens, but these aren't the best visuals we'll be seeing this episode by any stretch of the word. In a few quick lines, each character is not only placed into their element: Blitzo's vulgar admonishments, Moxxie's sardonic reproach. Millie is aggressive, but we're again reminded how much she cares for Moxxie. She shouts at Loona to open the gate, and Loona refuses, citing her knowledge of Blitzo, and how she knows he's serious. It's perfect. I love it.

From here we have Moxxie and Blitzo restrained in a high security facility, as some agents begin to question them. The next scene is my personal favorite, of possibly the entire series, because we finally get to see Blitzo and Moxxie acting in sync, being friends, I guess, when we've only gotten bits of that before. They've mostly just bounced off of each other, so it's some nice character development. Good job.The rest will come in a bit. Rogers also gets to show off a bit his knack for the snappy dialogue. Though, every silver cloud: the scene ends with a "your mom" "my mom's dead" joke, that would hardly be funny in a reddit thread. It is downright awful here.

Loona and Millie are infiltrating the facility for a violent intermission.

So here's the real meat of the episode: The agents release into the room a "truth gas" that does exactly what the name implies (oddly enough, they never bother to question the imps before the gas dissipates). After realizing what the gas does, both Moxxie and Blitzo enter musical hallucinations, in which they confront each other, and the personal issues in each of them that contribute to their flawed relationship. Before, I continue, I want to note that the music and animation here are stellar, but again, the episode has better visuals still on the way. This number is essentially what all those bits of development between them were leading up to, and it's great. All of it is paying off. The series will change from here on out, hopefully: We'll get to see a healed Blitzo and Moxxie taking on all the villains that were set up. I was going to mention it later, but I guess I'll just awkwardly shoehorn it in now: Each episode has set up a new villain and none have recurred yet and that is not at all a good thing. I have no idea how Vivienne gonna get through all of them in a meaningful way. Back to the scene at hand: We're going through Moxxie's natural submissiveness, and Blitzo's fear of both intimacy and of being alone (does some of the dialogue here feel too imitative of Rick and Morty? I don't know. That's your call). When it's over, Blitz realizes his love for Stolas (romantic) and for Moxxie (platonic) (probably). They agree to be better friends. Congrats. We did it. The payoff is here.

Let's celebrate with a big ol beautifully animated fight scene that's just as edgy as these 2012 deviantart furries (Loona is back as a wolf, thank you). It's fast, bloody, at one point Blitzo pulls out a comically large rocket launcher labeled "MY DICK" and it shoots a missile labeled "PUSSY DESTROYER" and to my absolute shock, I laugh. That's right: This episode made me laugh one time. But honestly, that doesn't matter to me too much, because this isn't trying nearly as hard as the other episodes to be comedic. It's focused on other things, and I can appreciate it for that. As a twist, the original two agents escape, and slam that big red button. They're locked inside, guns pointed at them, and when it seems as though all hope is lost, Stolas arrives, which a demonstration of his power. Yet another piece of this episodes that fills some previously teased aspect. He's possessing people, raising dead in here, and his "true form" is what I mentioned a few times earlier: the most beautiful visual in the series yet. Or maybe I just like owls.

The episode is over, and I close the tab, thinking about how I'm going to write this review. I'm astounded. I had legitimately lost hope for this series. And just when I least expect it, Vivienne comes with an episode on par, maybe even better, than the second. Each character is realized, the animation is stunning, it feels like it's exactly what it wants to be. To put things into perspective though, I still don't think this episode nears the series' hypothetical full potential. It's certainly not on par with the best of some of the shows it recalls. The comedy still suffers, and the character development doesn't have a ton to work off of, and I that age warning at the beginning still feels misplaced. But you know what? Vivenne has made something half-decent here. And I can appreciate that. If the show keeps this up, hopefully even getting better, and minds bringing back one of those six or seven villains that have already been set up, then the future looks bright. It is with pride, joy, and definitely definitely tears in my eyes that I give this episode a 6/10.

[corpsentry]

behind the taylor swift gundam was in fact another, smaller gundam: a brief inquiry into the events of june 2020

so back in june this year june and i got together and we made this motherfucker of a story with this motherfucker of a thread to keep track of it all. but you already know that! and i’ve already got one foot and three elbows in my grave, so i’ll spare you the long-winded stuff. you wanna know how i wrote 93,035 words in 4 weeks? i’ll tell you how i wrote 93,035 words in 4 weeks-

-by linking you guys to copies of my planning documents because i feel like those words speak louder than any words i can offer in the present day. these are long documents. but they are also historical artifacts. very interesting. very weird. very, uh, full of cussing. so anyway, here’s

BIG DADDY: THE ORIGINAL PLANNING DOCUMENT

for those, like me, who have no motivation left in life to do anything and rely on summaries from others to acquire new knowledge, it all started with a single line.

prince of a fallen kingdom atsumu tries to kill hinata but falls in love with him instead

june, april something, 2020

with that in mind i tested the concept out with a few paragraphs of text, which you can find at the bottom of the Big Daddy document in the graveyard segment, accidentally sold my soul to the image of hinata with epaulettes, and then worked backwards, structuring an entire plot around two images:

a) hinata getting the shit beat out of him, with snark b) hinata and atsumu dancing in an empty ballroom under the stars

if you want a betrayal, you have to have something worth losing. if you want to fall in love with someone you don’t know, you have to meet them. if you have to meet them, there has to be a reason for that meeting, and so somewhere in between atsumu became a sword instructor and hinata the prince with daddy issues. june and i used this method of glancing anxiously over your shoulder to see what you’d missed to fill out the blanks in the story, after which i tacked up a bunch of post-its, typed out the plot, consulted june, typed out the plot again, and then broke the characters down into a bunch of questions, like ‘what do they want?’ and ‘what do they have?’ and ‘what are they afraid of?’

with the plot more or less ironed out, i decided it was time to start writing, and then i decided that i was actually too scared to start writing after all, so instead i set a couple of timers using classroomtimers.com (15-20 minutes long) and i sat down and i wrote about the world that hinata and atsumu inhabited.

each warm-up was 300-500 words long, and for the first few days, i’d write one before getting into writing the story proper. later these evolved into simply picking a scene from the story and launching straight into it, which became useful for opening those scenes later when i got to them organically.

then i got lazy! so i stopped. but these shitty little exercises were really useful for me because, unfettered by plot, convention, or any kind of tradition hovering over my shoulder, i was able to fuck around loosely enough to realize what i wanted this story to be. it was a very contrived kind of trial-and-error, an exploration of the characters, the story, but most importantly, the tone.

RESEARCH, PLANNING, AND VICTORIAN BOUGIE FASHION

this is a loose map of the castle and Important Locations within it, which i drew up at the start so i could keep track of where everything was and how i could get my characters from point A to point B. i wanted the story to have Some kind of internal logic, you know, even if that logic amounted to ‘a compass would function normally in this world whereas kageyama tobio would not’.

99% of my planning and organizing within those five weeks took place in this lovely dotted cat journal which my sister gave me for my birthday and i repurposed into a metaphorical Diary of Suffering while working on juno. i used it for everything from keeping track of narrative threads to clothing consistency checks, but the main purpose was this: each day at about 10 pm i’d crack open the cat book to a fresh page, stamp the date and the day of suffering at the top, and then write down a list of things i wanted to write, address, or fix today. then i’d sit at my laptop and write like a madman until about 7 in the morning. with breaks, of course, for sitting in the bathroom and staring at the wall and sitting in the kitchen and staring at the wall, but mostly i was writing. and complaining about writing. you were there, you probably remember that.

anyway, here are some pages from the cat book.

aside from the fact that my handwriting is complete shit, you can see that i made zero effort for any of this to be presentable. it was mainly a way for me to keep track of my thoughts because i have the attention span of an ikea wardrobe and tend to forget things as soon as i think of them. the lack of structure also mirrored the way that i went about writing juno. while i did proceed, for the most part, in chronological order, i had a lot of weird and useless revelations during lunch, which by this point was happening around 2 am, and in the 5 minutes before the exhaustion finally hit and carried me down to hell. i changed A Lot. again, to understand exactly how much the story evolved from day one onwards, please consult the big daddy document.

in the meantime, here’s something else.

once june sent over hinata and atsumu’s character designs i sat down like the fucking fool i am and spent 2 hours poring over a document about victorian and other fashion movements of the past so i could assign a noun, adjective, and verb to each element of their outfits. i don’t know why i did this. i certainly could have not, but i attempted to make sense of their ‘fits from a logistical perspective and that went into the cat book too. everything went into the cat book. the cat book is a relic of the past now, stuffed with artifacts such as the birth of oikawa tooru, and also his demise.

MEDIUM DADDY: EDITING, PROOFREADING, AND CREEPY MURDER CATS

i finished writing on june 26th, 2020, approximately a month after i’d first started planning, somewhere around may 27th or 28th. at that point i had about 90,000 words’ worth of story and no sanity left whatsoever, so i took a day-long break to stare at a wall and listen to taylor swift’s enchanted on loop.

and then i made a new document, which you can look at using the link above, and i laid out everything i had to do. i’d discovered a fuck ton of plot inconsistencies and general errors while writing and lying awake in bed at 9 a.m., sleepless in seattle, and now that i was free of the demon egging me towards the first finish line, it was time to Deal with them. i speed-scrolled through the draft, which was 200+ pages compressed into one google doc, because i like to tempt god’s wrath, and fixed up all the plot issues over the course of a few days. this was the fun part.

the actual, hard editing was the extremely un-fun part. i reread the entire thing, paragraph by paragraph, line by damn line, from start to finish, paying especially close attention to awkward phrasing, incomplete dialogue, and moments which had fallen flat in my haste to get on to the next one. this was really fucking terrible. i spent more time lying facedown on the floor than actually editing anything, but after a long time (about a week), that, too was done.

SMALL DADDY: TITLES, SUMMARIES, AND GOOD FUCKING BYES

i spent a good eighty days thinking about the title, though hilariously enough we ended up with something that was a blend of our names. june + elmo = juno, which is, all things considered, pretty perfect, but the process of picking the title was Hell, and i Did Not Come Up With The Title until about 2 hours before posting. you can take a look at the haphazard clusterfuck of my title-selecting process in small daddy, which is linked above.

so the title was a last-minute choice. so was the summary. and the chapter divisions. and actually all the songs in the playlist for juno. the day we dropped juno onto planet earth like a newborn baby pitched out of the sky, i spent an hour hunched over my laptop, cutting my 213 page google doc into chapters based on nothing more than a Vibe. two days before that, i also attempted to voice-act the entirety of juno, an affair which ended at the 20,000 word mark with a sore throat and the kind of exhaustion one typically wants to sleep in a coffin for 23 years to get rid of. so in all honesty, i did very little editing, which is why there are definitely minor typos and/or mistakes hanging out somewhere on that chunky ao3 webpage. but whatever.

my attitude by july 5th (was it july 5th? or 4th? somewhere around there) was basically whatever. anything so i could get finish this damn thing, chuck it out of the window, and never see another google doc until the next century. i’ve been asked a few times how exactly i wrote at a rate of roughly 2000-3000 words per day for four weeks straight, and my answer has always been this: i died. what died, you ask? my soul. my spirit. my Will To Live. i’m a creature of fixations, and juno was my fixation for june. will i ever be able to do this again? would i recommend this experience to anyone? is god real? the answer to all of the above is probably no. juno was a fever dream, and so is my cat book. and so are all the lattes i had. and so was my 9 am to 4 pm sleep schedule.

but what we made is real. the research, oikawa tooru, the 4 am conversations in which i was like ‘how the fuck do i end this’ and june was like ‘jade proposal’ (the proposal was her idea. all rise for twitter user atsuhinas. she is the mastermind behind all of the Inch Resting moments in this story; i just flapped a korok leaf in her direction and made sure the air circulation was working properly) are real as fuck, and looking back, there’s a lot i’d change, but i’m lazy. and college is starting. and anyway, i did write 93,035 words in just under five weeks, four if you don’t count the week of Editing Hell, so i think that’s pretty cool.

thank you for reading this to the end, and for following us on our journey through the enigmatic taylor swift gundam fic which quite literally consumed my entire twitter account for the five weeks i spent working on it. retrospectively speaking i really was butt-obsessed so i am frankly incredibly impressed with everyone around me for putting up with a Husk of a Man for a month. thank you for doing that. thank you for indulging my vague tweeting, and our butterfly dns, and for reading 93 thousand words of gay fanfiction set in a high fantasy world with epaulettes and galettes. on behalf of june, once again, we are incredibly grateful for all your support.

if you have any questions about specific aspects of the writing process, or anything you’d like to know in general with reference to JUNO, feel free to drop me an ask through my tumblr inbox, or through my curiouscat over here. i’m aware i didn’t cover everything, but there’s frankly too much to put in a tumblr post without passing away somewhere around the 56% mark, so let me know what’s on your mind, and i’ll try to answer that to the best of my abilities. but anyway, before i go, here are some

TAKEAWAYS

one: don’t try to write 93,000 words in five weeks. seriously don’t fucking do it you will end up jittery and sleep-deprived and you will leave all your friends on read for a month. pace yourself. set realistic goals. you wrote 2k this week? that’s fantastic. you wrote 4k in a day? you absolute motherfucker. i hope you’re taking a long fucking break tomorrow. your story will not run away from you, but if you run too fast, you will get tired, and then you will pass away.

two: you don’t have to know everything about your story before you start writing. in fact if you have a single camera shot of two characters holding hands under a rose garden awning, i think that’s fucking wonderful. if you look at big daddy, you’ll realize that my initial plot draft, and all the ones following that, are not perfectly aligned with the final version of juno. i improvised over half of the scenes in this motherfucker, and to be completely honest, some of the improvised scenes were the best. fucking oikawa tooru was improvised out of nowhere. he only got written in way later, around chapter 8 or something, because i realized i needed a plot device and a source of information to keep the playing table from toppling over. i Sat Down one day and was like ‘okay, it’s time to write oikawa into the introduction. because he matters now. he didn’t matter last week but now he does, and soon he’s going to be the fulcrum of the entire story, because it’s like that with oikawa tooru’. it’s okay to change your mind halfway. it’s okay to go back and rewrite entire scenes or segments. it’s okay to highlight 4 pages of fresh, sentimental writing, and hit delete. writing is a fluid process, and you Will make discoveries as you progress through your story alongside your characters. be understanding of that iterative process. be kind to yourself.

three: You Are That Motherfucker. you, me, your dog, your dog’s friend, your dog’s enemy, all of us are that motherfucker. i never thought i’d be able to write anything longer than the great big map, which was a much simpler, linear story in which the other main character did not appear in the current timeline until like the eighth chapter. juno was different. juno was the motherfucker, and i was scared shitless of it, and to cope with that fear joked constantly while writing that it’d never see the light of day.

but it did. it was a rocky process, and i was awake for 48 hours after posting it because of the sheer adrenalin stuck in my skull, but i got through it. and i wouldn’t have been able to do it without june, who stepped in when i flopped over facedown on the floor and dragged me to my feet like the badass friend she is, and without everyone else in my life, who put up with me talking about The Thing that i couldn’t really talk about, but juno’s up there now. forever, or until the internet collapses and civilization goes extinct. and if the nineteen year old clown with the attention span of an ikea armchair and an a level certificate from hell wrote the 93,000 word long thing, so can you. i mean this completely unironically and with every ounce of genuine emotion i can summon from the cracked asshole of my heart.

writing is hard. writing is scary. writing is an investigation of the world around you and therefore, by extension, yourself, and that kind of honesty is freaky. it’s like going skinny-dipping next to the president’s mansion. who’s going to see you? what if they take a photo? what if you lose your spot at university?

but don’t think about that. our world is overrun with stories the way cereal bowls are full of cereal, but it’s those stories that keep us all sane in the disgusting day-to-day muck of reality, so think about your story. what’s haunting you today? what message do you want to leave printed in font size 666 comic sans across the southern hemisphere of the planet? what will you be tomorrow?

a writer. you’re going to be a motherfucking writer.

[trumantomlinson]

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[punkscowardschampions]

Edie & Billie

Edie: You’re not at home, are you?

Billie: Why?

Edie: ‘cos Rih has to babysit and you are the last phone a friend that needs to be eliminated 👾

Billie: 💀🔋 if anyone but you is asking

Edie: that’s the 👻

Edie: Even convinced Jun to get the fuck out

Billie: with what 👻? 👽 ?👾 🤡 ?🎃 🤖? madness

Edie: 👻 ish

Edie: there’s some exhibit at some museum, idk, it actually wasn’t my idea so I can’t take cred

Billie: 🦖 🦴 🦕 was next guess

Billie: safe that the 👻 🔮 came through with a plan

Edie: 👽 more like

Edie: that’s the best I can do with emojis anyway

Billie: 💬 💬 💬 💬

Edie: I met the most perfect boy

Billie: Dude not you catching a dose too 🚱

Edie: I’ve gone outside of the gene pool so it is not the same thing at all

Billie: 👍 start

Billie: Go on, what else has he got going for him?

Edie: Only everything

Edie: he’s perfect, I just said

Edie: You know that really tall, ridiculously good-looking boy in Rih’s year

Billie: 🤨 💭 ?

Billie: it’ll come to me

Billie: Aha! The one who [some rave story she’s heard of something wild he did]

Edie: I don’t know how you didn’t just KNOW but yeah

Edie: that sounds like him 🤩

Billie: he’s been working at ⛽️ [the location of said petrol station like whatever road it’s on] nights I’ve gone in

Edie: That’s good to know

Edie: I can go in too now

Edie: 💡

Billie: 👻

Edie: It’s so weird how we met actually

Edie: the thread has 90k people on it, what are the chances, how does that happen

Billie: spooky how many posts you could’ve missed before, weird if he ain’t wrote any til today & then replied to yours 🔮 🛸 🧲

Edie: He’s deffo been on there before, I recognised the username

Edie: but he mentioned somewhere in Dublin so then I knew he was at least from around here

Edie: I’d have never talked to him before, it’s deffo fate

Billie: fated if he agreed the monster was a copout reveal

Edie: He’s not 12, so duh

Edie: He’s so cool

Billie: It’s defs him?

Edie: Come on, like I’m gonna get catfished

Billie: this is wild odds, all I’m saying

Edie: It would be weirder if they worked out where I went to School, and then picked some boy who also went to that School to use

Edie: anyway, he’s sent me stuff today so I know it’s really him

Billie: he does look like someone to use for 🎣 but I can picture him on that thread loads

Edie: 🤤🤤🤤

Edie: Do you think he’ll come see me

Billie: yeah, why not

Edie: Aforementioned hotness, he could get ANY girl

Edie: I don’t know who he has gone out with before

Edie: didn’t he go out with one of Rih’s friends for a while?

Billie: [a pause while she has a convo with her friends about this because she has many and they’re mostly lads so at least some of them must know him or have some info]

Billie: Last seen with Lexie but that was time ago & nobody since

Edie: Hmm

Edie: I’m nothing like Lexie

Billie: he ain’t still with her & wasn’t for long, I’d assume he’s looking for different

Edie: and that’s me 🥴

Edie: charming 😏

Billie: 👽

Billie: She hasn’t said anything ☢️⚠️ I’m hearing now, that’s chill

Edie: she’s a bitch anyway, I wouldn’t trust her

Billie: if Blips is accurate on his timeline, even she couldn’t be that much of a bitch

Edie: ?

Billie: Everything with his sister was fresh then, apparently

Edie: Oh

Edie: I remember her, she had a nice smile

Billie: I don’t think I ever met her, it’s gone out my head if I did

Billie: the memorial he made for her is sicker than anything the teachers would’ve though, we hang there constantly

Billie: Take this info with 🧂 yeah? the source is Blips

Edie: She was a lot older

Edie: would’ve been, your paths probably didn’t cross

Edie: makes sense

Edie: he would’ve wanted someone around

Billie: makes sense he’s not thinking straight to pick Lexie to be that someone, but idk man, you can have your fill of pity quick enough

Edie: Maybe someone in her family died? I can see that and making that connection

Edie: not a sibling obviously or we’d know but she’s pretty dramatic, like all Rih’s friends are

Billie: not above milking a dead nan, bet

Edie: 💭 exactly

Edie: Poor Liam, that’s kinda fucking gross

Billie: bad taste in my mouth from being the messenger

Edie: I won’t say it was ages ago because that’d feel a bit like spitting on her grave but you know

Edie: fuck Lizzie or whatever her name is

Edie: she’s probably had 100 lads since then

Billie: Yeah, fuck Lizzie

Billie: what’s next for you & him?

Edie: I don’t know

Edie: I sort of asked him to come ‘round but not just like that

Edie: so his answer was as open-ended, I guess

Edie: I really hope he does though

Billie: he doesn’t know you’re unshockable & didn’t wanna freak you out by coming through the window on a real dark & stormy night

Billie: tracks if Lexie is his point of ref, she’s known for saying what she don’t mean

Edie: ugh, she’s really fucked that up for me

Edie: I should go cockblock her too

Edie: that’s a good idea actually

Billie: You could roll up if he’s working, let him know you’re not alike

Edie: If I roll up on her, he will 😈

Billie: 😶 cos idk how he rolls

Edie: You think he’ll be 😱 / 🤬

Billie: He could think you’re jealous, which would put you looking like her 🤡

Billie: lads always go to that headspace

Edie: most lads

Edie: like your mates who can’t spell their own names without checking with their ma first

Edie: I don’t think he’s like that

Billie: I’ll bite, what’s he like?

Edie: emojis weren’t covering it but I dunno if I even can with actual words either

Edie: he’s like no one else I’ve ever spoken to, I wasn’t bored, and he wasn’t weirded out

Billie: You weren’t even a bit bored?

Edie: nah

Edie: I felt like I was barely keeping up

Billie: 🤯

Edie: but he wasn’t trying to be impressive how lads do, because that isn’t

Billie: he was waiting for whatever he sent to impress you, which worked

Edie: he sent me lots of stuff

Edie: not 🍆 pics

Billie: he looks like he’d be a fuckboy

Edie: right?

Edie: he’s got too much about him though

Edie: I would’ve gone with it if he wanted, he had the chance

Billie: 🤯🤯

Edie: come on

Edie: you can see him

Billie: & I can hear you, you don’t say this kinda shit about anyone

Edie: I know, I’m deadly serious

Edie: 💀💀💀

Billie: What a day

Edie: Don’t tell anyone else yet though

Edie: I think he feels it too

Edie: but just in case

Billie: 🤐

Billie: he blatantly does, but that’s up to yous two to broadcast if you want, how you want

Billie: I’m just excited for the reveal 🎟 🍿 📺 🕹 📷 💻 📼 💿

Edie: He makes films too

Edie: and I’m writing a song right now

Billie: link me

Edie: [do, at least the ones that are clearly not private or whatever]

Edie: 😍

Billie: Cool, I’m gonna check these while you go 😈 on Lexie

Edie: If you hear her scream, no you didn’t

Edie: 😘✌️

Billie: not her 🩸 🦷 🦴 got it

Edie: only partly

Edie: she’s only 3rd on my shit-list, after-all

Billie: if I give you away with a new tic, no I didn’t & they’ll never convict 🤪✌️

Edie: so lucky you can shout ableism if it comes down to it

Edie: ADHD is an excuse for nothing except maybe being five minutes late 🙄

Billie: I’m not going for that with a free pass to shout out at the law 🐷 🐽 🐖 🥓

Edie: you can brag about your free pass, I only get caught when I want to ☠️✊

Billie: not a humble brag you can throw out to your new man, going off these locations I’m recognising, he’s got skills at never getting caught

Billie: How’d he get into [somewhere he should not be]?!

Edie: that’d be telling 🤫

Edie: I told you, he’s really smart

Billie: How didn’t we have a clue about him pretty much?

Edie: because he looks like a fuckboy, I suppose

Edie: you know Rih is gonna act like he’s a decade older than me because she thinks she’s so mature

Billie: 🙄

Edie: I can’t wait to call her out on her bullshit again with something new to add

Edie: can’t wait for the opposition like she’s got a leg left

Billie: She’ll run out fast, he’s cool

Edie: She’s not

Edie: but whatever, she can’t do anything

Billie: No chill, but he’s barely older, so if that’s her only 🔫

Edie: and he went out with Lexie ages ago, well, basically

Edie: she can’t act like she’s really good friends with him, I KNOW she isn’t

Billie: & she wasn’t in Lexie face not to go out with him, couldn’t cos there’s nothing wrong with him 🤷🏼‍♀️

Edie: you act like she’s rational but yeah

Edie: I don’t care, I know this is right

Edie: and what I want

Billie: She’s not, like, irrational enough to be hating on your happiness

Edie: I hate on hers

Billie: that’s different

Edie: not to her

Billie: Yeah but in terms of you & Liam

Edie: If she tries to be nice that’ll be even worse 😷

Billie: minding her own business isn’t gonna happen

Edie: I wish she’d keep hers to herself

Edie: I can’t stand it when he’s here

Edie: I’ll kill Lizzie and steal her bed

Billie: least you can stay at his soon

Edie: 😋

Billie: [frames of one of the videos cos the location is some end of summer event, why not] & you’ll be there together this year

Edie: You really think?

Billie: I don’t think you’ll be dumped quicker than Lexie

Edie: Damn fucking right

Edie: even if he was after one thing, I could do it better than her

Billie: [deletes that message like I don’t wanna read about your sexcapades thank you]

Billie: 🎧 🔊

Edie: [retypes it more vividly which I won’t subject you to lmao]

Billie: NAH

Edie: 😂😂😂

Edie: you’re alright, I’ve got another level to my mission now

Edie: [deets of the scavenger hunt thing]

Billie: Did he sort it for you?

Edie: Yep 😍

Billie: this lad

Billie: unreal

Edie: I think I’m in love

Billie: Someone offer to make him for you in a lab? getting sus otherwise

Edie: That would make sense

Edie: he’s way too perfect

Edie: not that I’m mad

Billie: 🏩 💕 💐 🧸 💞

Edie: 💍💒👶

Billie: [deletes that like calm down lol]

Edie: 👶👶👶👶👶👶👶 maybe

Billie: When’s the [some meteor shower or comet that’d feel very fated and cosmic and therefore we must]? invite him to that first

Edie: 🛸

Edie: I just need to think of a way to tell him where and when

Billie: You’ll be looking up for it, makes sense if he has to 👀⬆️ to find out

Billie: I’d put something on his roof

Edie: About the only place he’d genuinely have to look up to see

Edie: might be less literal

Edie: 💻

Billie: that’ll work too

Edie: plus if you reckon he’ll think I’m mental for hitting up Linda, finding out where he lives without asking will really tip it

Billie: romantic gestures are mental, less of a public ambush than most are

Edie: Everything fun is

Billie: Yeah, but nothing’s fun about getting asked out in the hallway between lessons or whatever 💩 is meant to pass for 😍

Edie: Well yeah, that’s too American teen drama for words

Edie: are his friends gonna be standing there pissing themselves at you believing it even for a sec

Billie: if it’s me his mates are stood about meowing cos some tics refuse to 💀

Edie: That’s cute

Edie: at least you aren’t saying some embarrassing untrue shit

Billie: my true form is 🐱 🐈 & I’m saying the truest shit since 👶🏼 🧒🏼

Edie: I know enough not to throw out suggestions for your head to grab but I’ve seen people saying wild things that you’d get eaten alive for

Edie: but duh, how else did we end up with you

Billie: I know not to watch that shit & maybe 🐦 it but yeah, love to my non-verbals 😝 😜 🤪 ✌️ 🖕 👍

Billie: & to ma for never meeting a stray she didn’t love

Edie: I’ll wait ‘til you wrong me ‘fore I add you to the shit list and send ‘em your way

Edie: tRIGgeRd ❗️❗️❗️❗️

Edie: 💗

Billie: Well I ain’t gonna develop a convenient new 👊 one OR pull a Lexie & wheel out my dead relative to steal your bf 💚

Edie: Ha, don’t

Billie: wouldn’t know what to do with him after using him as a 🛹 ramp & 🚴🏼‍♀️ jump

Edie: I’m the only one allowed to jump him tah

Billie: 😷

Edie: Okay I need to focus on this last one

Edie: see you at home

Billie: k

Billie: see you soon 🏴‍☠️