#I got prints of her produced but the colors got messed up so hoping to try another company cuz i like the design

[fantazyys]

EYE CANDY

[romrombot]

My Heartstrings: Seola

* kim hyunjung x fem! - fluff scenario 

“ can you write a scenario where seola is a songwriter who is struggling to write a song and visits a café to get some inspiration. amazed by the barista’s beauty (reader), she visits the café often and also suddenly having lyrics flood her head. after some time, she asks for the reader’s number in hopes of having to tell her about the song that she wrote. thank you so much :D “

a/n: my first scenario! sorry it took so long, but i hope you still enjoy! thank you for requesting :)  [GIF NOT MINE]

“Hey, the water dispenser broke- whoa what happened here.��� Eunseo gasped as she saw the mess that flooded her friend’s studio. ���This stupid album happened.” She could hear Seola mutter out from her position. 

Hands on her face as she sighed out, she chuckled to herself as she realized what Eunseo had informed her. “The water dispenser broke down?” She repeated, her expression almost scaring the grey haired girl that was leaning on her studio’s doorframe. “Yeah, uh, one of the janitor’s said it broke this morning.”

Kim Seola could feel her sanity slowly fading as the minutes ticked by. How could the water dispenser break at such a bad time. 

“Uh here why don’t I bring you to that one coffee shop Soobin and I passed by the other day,” Eunseo suggested. To be honest, she was more concerned about what Seola could do to her seeing as her coffee seemed like a life and death situation. “It’s fine, I’ll just go home.” Seola mumbled out, her face now back on the palms of her hands. “No, come on, get yourself up. You look like you haven’t eaten anything.” The grey haired girl pushed as she walked towards her friend and turned her chair around. 

There were crumpled up pieces of paper on the floor, various pens and pencils and tons of post its everywhere. Eunseo helped the girl clean the room up, reading a few of the things that were on the post its and chuckling as she realized they were unfinished lyric ideas. “You’ve been struggling, huh.” She joked as she threw the last piece of paper in the bin.

“I’ve been writing since last week and the only thing I’ve got is a half finished song, please I think I should just quit.” Seola replied. Of course, these were just jokes. She could never quit her job, and even if she quit writing songs and producing professionally, she could never not write. It made her happy, no matter how stressful the process was.

“Mhmm, then let’s get going our genuis song writer, you have been lucky enough to be treated out for dinner by the infamous Son Eunseo.” 

The walk to the cafe was short, stepping out of the company building, they took a turn to another road and kept on walking until they saw a well lit building, it’s name in an icy white as it contrasted well behind the metallic grey color of the cafe. It was modern themed from the inside out.

“What do you wanna eat?” Eunseo asked as she set her bag down on her chair and stood up. “Uh, anything really. I just want an iced americano.” The girl replied back, her eyes looking around at the people that were in the room. As Eunseo walked towards the front desk to order, the black haired girl slipped her laptop out and placed it on the table. Turning the device on, she sighed out. She only had a couple of weeks left until she needed to present her work in a meeting with her company. Along with the song she was working on, she had to revise a few blue prints for a music set she was an assistant director for. She definitely underestimated the work she had to complete when it was first suggested to her.

“Mhmm.” She hummed out, reading the lyrics she had written down from the morning. Her fingers typed slowly, her mind playing with her surroundings, creating an imaginary music video in her head. As she did so, she slowly could picture what she wanted to write about. “I ordered you a sandwich and got us a cake. The worker said it was their best seller.” Eunseo informed the girl as she sat down on her seat and placed a pager down in front of her. Seola nodded at this and thanked the girl. The grey haired girl muttered out a small “no problem” before she pulled her phone out and started scrolling through her social media. This was refreshing, Seola needed this.

13 minutes after they had ordered, the pager lit up and started vibrating. As Eunseo was in the bathroom doing her business, Seola took the device and stood up from her seat. She quickly stretched her back before walking towards the cafe’s counter to receive their order. The black haired girl cleared her throat as she stopped for a few seconds to stand a good distance between the person who was struggling not to spill their order in front of the coffee bar. She waited patiently and smiled at the young customer as their eyes met before they turned around to walk to their own table.

“Hello, here’s your order.” The barista told the girl, her voice loud enough to subdue the noises in the background. Seola’s breath hitched in her throat. For a second or two she couldn’t feel her senses. There was an angel in front of her.

“Ma’am?” The barista called out to the girl. Y/n was confused, her first thought suggesting that the customer couldn’t hear her, so she called for them again. “Here’s your order, uhh, is there anything else you wanted?”

But Seola was star struck. She was glued to the ground, her face still plastered a shocked expression as she stared at the barista in front of her. Thank the universe everybody else was in their own little worlds as they drank their coffees, if they had all turned their heads, they would’ve seen a drama scene taking place at 10 in the evening in Cosmic Cafe.

How romantic was it, the way the pager was beeping and vibrating felt like Seola had ripped her heart out for the girl in front of her. But as perfect as it sounded, she was brought back to reality by Eunseo. “I’m so sorry about her, I think she was just looking through the menu. I told her to get us another drink before I went to the bathroom, so uh can we add a mango shake with this.” The grey haired girl ranted out completely embarrassed. Y/n nodded at her, still confused, but took her order nonetheless. “I’ll just bring it to you once it’s done.” She informed the two as she gave Eunseo a table number to hold on to. The now stressed out girl thanked her and gave the worker a tight lipped smile. “No worries.”

“What the fuck was that, Kim Seola!” Eunseo yelled through a whisper as they finally sat down with their order. “I-” “Do you know how stupid you looked! The only thing left to master your little pervert act was drool dripping down from your mouth!” The girl scolded. Both of their faces were a tomato red at this point.

“Hey, I’m no pervert...” The song writer pouted out. “You looked like one, you dummy.” 

As the two ate their meals, Seola couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was being watched. She knew it was from the barista she had practically made uncomfortable a couple of minutes ago. “You couldn’t have made it more obvious.” Eunseo sighed out, her eyes on her friend. “Huh?” The black haired girl asked taken aback.

“She is pretty.” And as if on cue, Y/n was at a short distance from their table. Who was she to lie, the barista was beautiful. Quiet but determined, you could see she was a veteran at this place. She stood at an average height, strands of hair would dance on her face as she moved, she held this warm smile on her face at all times, anybody could fall from the first talk.

"Here's your mango shake, is there anything else I could get you?" Y/n asked as she placed the tray down softly on the table and took the mango shake off it. "No that's al-" "Your number." Seola suddenly blurted out. Eunseo's eyes almost popped out her face, she could feel her face warming up. What the actual fuck, Kim Seola.

The grey haired girl glared at her friend, giving her a look to tell her to stop whatever else she was going to say. "She's joking." She butted in, trying to fix the now tense and awkward atmosphere. The duo laughed out loud, obviously embarrassed. But this caused Y/n to laugh as well. Seola swore she could see the heaven’s gates open up for her.

There was a red tint on Y/n's face as she walked away to continue with her work. ‘How cute’ she thought, giggling softly as she replayed how the black haired girl apologized to her. 

“Ya, I think I’ve fallen in love.”

-

For the next few days it felt like Seola was on a roll. She had finished the track she was working on, she had completed her tasks as an assistant director for that one music video she was assigned to, she’s even created a setlist for the amount of songs she’s managed to finish. This was all thanks to Y/n, the barista who made her fall in love from first sight. The black haired girl couldn’t help but take more looks and more inspiration from the worker, so she spent some of her hours from the past 3 weeks just sat on a table at Cosmic’s. There, she would order anything Y/n would recommend, and as she consumed her order, it seemed like more ideas would pop in her head. She had nobody else to thank but Y/n, well maybe Eunseo, but it was best not to bother the singer since she was still mad about the whole mango shake incident. 

So there she was, back at Cosmic cafe.

She was even more nervous this time than previous times she’d gone there. ‘11:11‘ her watch read, there was only a few minutes left until the cafe had to close. “Hey, I know we had a very awkward first meet, but I wanted to ask for your number- no no. Uhhh, hi, my name is Kim Seola, I was wondering if I could get your number,” She smiled, looking at the imaginary version of Y/n she had created in front of her. “Fuck.”

The more Seola rehearsed her words, the more nervous she got. It was no help either that she was slowly losing time. 

“- you actually inspired me to finish a song I had to present to a big company, thanks to you I got a lot of compliments and they said they’d buy it from me... what am I doing.” The girl huffed out stressed. She had 10 minutes left until she was going to get told to exit the cafe, and there she was, still rehearsing what she wanted to say. Her leg couldn’t help but bounce as she took deep breaths in to calm herself down. “How can I even show her the song if I can't even talk to her like this.” She thought, her determination slowly depleting.

Good thing Y/n had heard her little practice scenes perfectly. The whole time Seola was focused on the imaginary version of the barista in front of her, Y/n was behind the girl, cleaning the tables up from previous customers. The moment Seola started rambling to the air, she had been listening intently and giggling to herself.

As this went on until the last 4 minutes before closing time, Y/n had cleaned all the tables up and gone back to her station. There, she had prepared a slice of cake- the same one Seola had been ordering since she first recommended it to her. She gently placed the slice inside a small carton box and wrote her number on one of the flaps. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears, how could she not have fallen for the song writer as well.

In the same time frame, Seola had gained back enough courage to bring herself to her feet and walk towards where she saw Y/n was. She fumbled with the sleeves of her blazer, her hands subconsciously fixing her clothes as well as her hair. "Oh h-hi." Y/n stuttered out surprised. "H-hey." Seola managed to spit out. There was a second of silence before the two chuckled at each other with pink on their cheeks. "Uh did you want anything? I could take your order still." The girl asked, her hands slowly pushing the cake box behind the register where Seola couldn't see it.

"Ah no, I actually uh wanted to ask you something," The black haired girl trailed off. They were both shaking as they conversed, knowing what was about to come, Y/n couldn't help but push it a bit longer. She wasn't ready just yet.

"I mean, I get to leave in about 10 minutes, if you don't mind y'know waiting..." "Oh yeah sure, no problem! I'll just wait outside."

It was beautiful outside Cosmic. The breeze was chilly, there was a trail of a coffee scent in the air from the cafe, and stars plastered themselves on the dark night sky. “It’s now or never, Kim Seola.” The black haired girl told herself.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." Y/n apologized as she finally stepped out of Cosmic. "It's no problem, don't worry." Seola chuckled out at her. As Y/n fixed her jacket and the things in her bag, Seola took a breath in and licked her lips.

"Look, I know this is gonna sound weird, I mean I'm just a customer y'know so I'd get why you would think that. And ah gosh, when we first met I literally stood there in front of you just staring, I'm really sorry I know you felt uncomfortable which is why you probably feel bad and that's the reason why you've been so nice to me and stuff. I'm not trying to be weird either for eating at the cafe like 5 times a week or something, I really just wanted to see you and I think it's so cute that you recommend me different things when I enter every time and-" "Seola, I like you."

"W-what?" The song writer choked out in shock. "I like you too, Seola." Y/n repeated, her fingers fumbling with the zipper of her jacket. 

The two girls stood there in silence, the only noise in the air from the cars passing by and the strangers that were walking to get home.

"I- How'd you know I liked you?" She spoke, Y/n’s previous words still not hitting her. "I heard you when you were doing your little rehearsal thing." The barista answered, now feeling shy. Somehow confessing to her made her feel like she was in the wrong.

"I-I'm so sorry about that." Kim Seola mumbled out embarrassed. How could she turn herself in. But it was cute. Y/n thought what was slowly unveiling in front of her was cute. It was only now that she had realized how scared the girl actually was to confess to her. "It's fine, please. I wouldn't have suggested to meet out with you if it wasn't." She assured the woman, giving her a warm smile. Seola looked up at the girl, a grin slowly making its way to her face. She couldn’t help it, she had now absolutely fallen for Y/n.

"Ah shit, I need to leave now, I've got a bus to catch." The barista felt bad as she had to break their little romantic display so soon. She shuffled on her feet and quickly gave Seola the cake box she had in her hand. "Oh okay sure, be careful!" The song writer bid as she took the gift confused. "Thank you, Seola-ssi." Y/n exclaimed flattered. She flashed Seola one last tender smile, before waving her hand.  "W-wait! I never got your number!" 

"Don't worry, I gave it to you!" Y/n yelled back at her, cracking up at the way they were communicating. She gazed back at Seola for a second before giggling at herself and running away.

There was a puzzled look on Kim Seola’s face as she watched Y/n’s figure slowly turn into nothing. Thinking about it again, she had an epiphany. “You’re too smart, Y/n.” Seola praised as she opened the box the barista had given her. The musician couldn’t help but laugh. Her heart was full.

"Today's recommendation: Kim Y/n~ 02252016000″

“P.s. come by Cosmic if you ever want more <3″

[pwarkluv]

❝ electric love ❞ - pjs

park jisung x reader | fluff | 2k words

WARNINGS | lowercase is intended, too fluffy because it’s my fav genre to write about, kinda strangers to lovers au, idol au, idol!jisung, itzysixthmember!reader, I’M SO SORRY TO MY CURVY AND THOSE TALLER THAN JISUNG READERS y/n is called small and tiny in this fic (i still love you though), mentions hair color but just pretend it’s dyed like lisa’s hair in the hylt era, shy!jisung and shy!reader because y’all are babies who don’t know how to approach someone who you like

SUMMARY | when itzy and nct dream meet on weekly idol, one member of itzy catches a certain maknae’s eye.

AUTHOR’S NOTE | inspired by “electric love” by borns :P yes it’s a tiktok song but it’s a good tiktok song so bite me >:( i disappeared for a bit so enjoy this trash imagine because i lost the will to write for a bit. also not edited really well i’m sorry for mistakes :(

your palms become sweaty as you nervously sit in the chair, the makeup artist diligently working on your face. wannabe came out about a month ago and the overwhelming popularity and support came flowing through, especially with ryujin’s shoulder part in the beginning. 

itzy’s fandom grew and so did the group as a whole, the six of you continuing to learn more about being an idol. 

but the one thing you were lacking in was interacting with other idols. 

itzy debuted in early 2019 giving you guys a little interaction with others like your brother group, stray kids. but when the whole pandemic hit, causing you all to isolate in quarantine to protect each other, talking to others outside of your company became rare. 

you were extremely awkward when it came to other idols. sure, you could talk to fans. you knew how to act and talk to them since that was a part of your training. but talking to idols, another person who wasn’t a fan, was different. 

unfortunately for you, on the episode of weekly idol you are about to appear on, another group was going to be present. and of course they just had to be one of your favorite boy groups of all time: nct dream.

you’ve always looked up to nct as a whole, but nct dream has always been your favorite because they were young when the six, originally seven, first debuted. you were twelve when you saw their debut stage. dancing has always been a passion of yours. it made you feel free and alive. music has always been a part of you as well. you taught yourself how to write songs and produce them, even releasing music on soundcloud under an alias. 

so ever since you saw nct dream debut, you decided you wanted to be an idol too. three years later and you’re in itzy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. but now that you were going to be in close proximity to the people you’ve looked up to for so long, even talking to them made your head hurt. 

ryujin bumped your hip teasingly as the six of you prepared to go on screen, knowing how you felt about nct dream. she was casted during a got7 fansign so when she first met them after her debut, that girl was a statue (though she would never admit it). 

“don’t worry y/nnie, i won’t mention your crush on park jisung.” ryujin slyly said before moving to escape your wrath. 

“ryu!” you whined, trying to smack her moving body. your face flushed, the heat rushing to your cheeks at the mention of the older boy. though you’ve never said it outloud, you’ve always had a thing for the maknae of nct. how could you not? he’s tall, polite, has a really good voice, and is the main dancer just like you. his style and the way he moved was beyond impressive, causing you to fall for him even more. 

the girls found out about your so-called “crush” (quotation marks to make you feel better even though you’re head over heels for him) when you saw nct dream in an award show. yuna saw the way you blushed and how your eyes strayed to the tall then pink haired boy a couple tables away from the six of you. since then they’ve all teased you about it whenever they can, making you whine in embarrassment every time. 

you shakily wipe your hands on your outfit, a stylist making a sound of disapproval before you turn to give her a small smile. moving towards a small mirror, you examine how you look with a worried face. your pale blue paper bag jeans were slightly baggy and you cringed knowing you were gonna perform wannabe in those. you adored the flowery top you had on though. it was white with tiny black flowers printed all over, the puff sleeves adding to the look. your hair was slightly curled, the blonde highlights peeking through from your jet black hair. 

you let out a worried breath as the management ushered you to hurry. showtime, you thought to yourself as you anticipated for the words “action”. 

in the middle of the room was the iconic white stage where weekly idol have always held their episodes. on one side was itzy waiting to enter and on the other was nct dream. 

“today is a very special episode for we have two awesome groups joining us today!” one of the hosts exclaimed excitingly, adding on to your nerves. lia sensed your distress and reached to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. 

“give it up for the hottest girl group of their generation, itzy!” the other host yelled before the six of you partied onto the stage. each of you had an excited expression on your face as the two hosts continued on before introducing nct dream.

“let’s warmly welcome one of our favorite teams to have on this show, nct dream!”

your heart raced as you saw the six of them walk on stage goofily, trying not to laugh at how awkward jisung looked. as if he sensed your eyes, jisung’s gaze met yours causing you to look away in shock. suddenly the floor became more interesting than the boy you’ve been crushing on for almost a year. 

“all in us! hello, we are itzy!” the six of you greeted towards the screen. unknowingly to you, the boy you were caught staring at was looking at you too. 

❝ baby you’re like lightning in a bottle ❞

jisung likes to think he’s a simple boy. he doesn’t like breaking the rules and is mostly a good kid. but gosh from the moment you two made eye contact, the brown haired boy was ready to run away then and there. you were pretty. like beyond pretty, and he’s never felt this way before.

sure it was a little creepy and slightly concerning for his image seeing as he currently has heart eyes for you while the cameras are rolling, but jisung couldn’t help himself. that flowery top of yours made you look soft and small, as if he could scoop you up in his arms like a child. jisung knew he was tall but dang, seeing you from afar made him think he was extra tall. the boy chuckled under his breath seeing you wear boots, knowing that gave you an extra boost.

she’s so small, he thought, smiling a bit.

renjun nudged him, noticing the younger was spacing off before following his eyes to a certain member of itzy. the elder smirked a bit as they all did their introductions.

“to the world here is, nct.” 

the boy smugly looked at their maknae who was currently blushing at being caught by his hyung for looking at you.

young love, renjun thought before turning his attention back to the hosts. 

❝ i can’t let you go now that i got it ❞

“so you guys have two main dancers in itzy right?” one of the hosts asks as the 12 idols sit together on chairs. yeji nodded and spoke up.

“yes it’s me and y/nnie but y/n’s a better dancer than me.” she replied, pointing a shoulder to you. you quickly rebutted and waved your hands in disagreement.

“no way~” you denied, turning red. “yeji unnie is the best.” you replied shyly, an awkward thumbs up to try and back up your claim. 

everyone cooed at your shy face. although you were the second youngest in itzy, 4 months older than your maknae, yuna’s much taller than you which made you look like the youngest. because of this everyone, including yuna, tended to child you because you were just so baby. 

“weren’t you a part of a highlight reel?” the other host asks you, once again embarrassing you. the girls laughed, the other six boys looked at the host in confusion.

“y/n unnie was apart of bts sunbaenim’s love yourself highlight reel!” yuna exclaimed. although she too was in the highlight reel, yuna always thought you were much cooler because you got selected for your dancing skills. 

everyone gasped in surprise (the hosts a bit more fake since they already knew that) at the revelation. 

“i was able to dance with j-hope sunbaenim and jimin sunbaenim for that highlight reel.” you responded, smiling a bit at the memory. the boys were beyond shocked knowing this must meant you were good. 

“how was it?” a host asks.

you marveled at the thought. “they were such good dancers and really really nice!” you said with a happy expression. “i would definitely love to dance with them again if i were given the opportunity.” the look on your face was clear you loved dancing and loved working with the pair. 

“can you show us the dance?” the host asks and just like that you immediately become a shy mess.

���o-oh um i mean yeah i could do that.” you stuttered as chaeryoung softly pushed you off your chair and into the middle of the room. she smirked a bit at your timid form, knowing what she’s doing. from the moment you walked in, the maknae of nct seemed to be head over heels for you and she knew he was the main dancer just like you.

i swear if they don’t end up together after this i’m suing, chaeryoung thought as she looked at the starstruck boy watching you expectantly. 

❝ and all i need is to be struck ❞

jisung wasn’t surprised to hear that you were one of the main dancers in itzy but to hear that you worked with bts’s j-hope and jimin? he was beyond impressed and (though he would never admit it) was lowkey really excited to see you dance. 

he watched as you timidly walked towards the middle of the stage, calming down your nerves. jisung watched with a faint smile until the music started playing, and just like that he was a goner. 

❝ by your electric love ❞

the way you moved, your technique, your facial expressions. everything was mesmerizing. the whole room watched in awe as you danced to the routine you burned into your mind as a trainee, knowing that this was one of your biggest projects ever. in that moment jisung completely fell for you, and everyone in the room except for you knew that. 

“and that’s the end of today’s episode of weekly idol!” you all cheered with the hosts, jisung’s heart beating fast knowing he wanted to talk to you after this episode but not knowing how to. 

“cut!” the director yelled out, a little excited to know what was to come. they of course noticed jisung’s lovestruck expression and the way your eyes lingered on the boy, and of course they didn’t catch it on camera. knowing you two were young and idols, they didn’t want to ruin what you two might have since they were all rooting for you two. 

“if you don’t talk to her i swear i’ll tell her embarrassing stories of you.” donghyuck threatened. just like the others, he too noticed jisung’s attraction to you throughout this whole episode. the boy’s eyes widened in shock, yelping as chenle pushed him towards your way with a small smirk. 

“unnie no.” you cried out, beyond terrified as you watched jisung walk towards you. as soon as the episode ended you were pulled away by the girls who quickly explained to you that jisung “had the hots'' for you (ryujin’s words, not yours). 

your mind was going at a million miles per hour, heart racing as jisung came closer and cleared his throat.

“h-hi.” he said, his voice never not taking you by surprise. jisung was towering over you, looking down at you nervously.

“h-hello.” you smiled and jisung could’ve sworn he melted just a little. 

“get together already!” lia and jaemin yelled out together, making the two of you blush and unconsciously lean closer. 

❝ electric love ❞

“wanna hang out sometime soon?” jisung asked, his sudden confidence taking you and him off guard. you bit back a smile before holding your hand out. 

“give me your number.” you replied, jisung’s smile he let out making you fall even more for him. 

[mammoney-honey]

Summoning Circles: What to Offer the Brothers GN!MC

MC doesn’t need to set up anything to summon them since they have their pact but sometimes its just nice to add a bit of drama. It’s also a good way to get the brothers to accept Just Because gifts. So what would would MC lay out as an offering for their favorite demon in their pentagram?

Lucifer

Lucifer is hard to get gifts for because hes a man of few words and fewer guilty pleasures

MC does their best to keep an eye out for things he does like and finally sets things up when they feel that Luci needs a bit of a break

They mostly offer things that would make for a good date night but with one small exception: special gourmet dog treats 

He won’t admit it, he says Cerberus is just a well trained guard dog, but that big boy gets only the best and MC knows that Lucifer will appreciate the gesture

The rest is all about setting the mood so Lucifer couldn’t possibly say no to staying

The first thing to accomplish this is the finest bottle of hellfire aged wine, a special request put through to Diavolo for whatever he thought Lucifer would like most

And to accompany a good drink you need some good food as well. A charcuterie board supplied with recommendations from Barbatos and Luke. The little guy should be called a mouse rather than a dog with how much he loves cheese. It took a long time for him to stop talking about it

One of the things that MC looks most fondly on of their time with Lucifer was quiet nights in listening and dancing to new music. They didn’t always share the same tastes but they were always willing to give it a go

So MC would find a vinyl, the only thing Lucifer would listen to the purest that he is, of their most recent favorite song or band so that they could share it with him

The last thing offered is that which Lucifer would want above all else as his own, MC

They can think of nothing else that would gain Lucifer’s attention more than offering their full and complete self. His pride could never allow him to deny taking MC when they offer themselves so willingly

He appears in full demon form, he can’t think of who would be ballsy enough to try and summon him and he has to pull back on his full power once he sees its MC

“MC, my dearest love, the pageantry is appreciated but overall unneeded. All you ever have to do is call my name, all I wish is to hear my name on your lips. But now that I’m here lets make sure you are screaming it”

Mammon

He is another one who is hard to gift things to but for the opposite reason as Lucifer. He likes too many things, wants everything and so it makes it impossible to tell what would actually mean something to him

MC tries their best to lay out things that will show how much they love and appreciate their favorite demon

Money of course is the first thing that is set out but not just spare Grimm or human cash

No, MC will put gift cards out for Mammon’s favorite places or for a date that they can have together. It feels more personal that way and they hope it shows that they pay attention to the things he likes

Mammon has a wardrobe to rival Asmo’s but he insists that it all has to do with his job as a model. Gotta keep up appearances and all that yanno. Hes just a label whore though and everyone knows it

He also just melts at the idea that MC might be thinking of what he would look good in so if they put out a new outfit or accessory, even if its just new sunglasses or a belt, he just about explodes

He will scoff and say that hes not sure if human styles are really his thing but of course puts whatever it is on quickly

Next would be a very special edition of the TSL dvds, a directors cut that even Levi couldn’t get his hands on. He has watched it with MC so many times he could practically recite it but they were always borrowing from Levi so it was about time to start wearing out their own copy

The last two things are more personal, something that shows just how much MC thinks of and misses being with him

The first of that is MC’s favorite set of pictures they took with Mammon, a silly photo booth strip that captured their first kiss. MC had surprised him on the first snapshot and it showed a progression of him getting redder and redder before finally kissing them back

Lastly is a page from their diary, as intimate an offering as they can possibly give. Its from a day where the longing for Mammon was at its strongest and filled with sweet words of how much they miss their first man

Mammon is freaked out at first thinking he is being summoned by another witch and is confused to see MC before taking it all in

“H-hey you don’t have to go through all this. I mean of course The Great Mammon won’t say no to the the things he deserves but ... b-but you only ever need to say my name, there is no where I’d rather be than with you”

Levi

Levi has a bad habit of just buying whatever he wants but considering that he has so many fandom’s its not hard to find some piece or another he doesn’t have 

MC feels like his brothers don’t give much thought to his gifts though, just typing in a name they know and getting whatever they find. They want to give him something more personal and can’t just be bought and shipped in two days

MC starts to watch a lot of craft, cooking and cosplay YouTubers to try and put everything together themselves. It felt more genuine that way at least to them

MC tries to keep things diverse, hitting a couple of Levi’s favorites but mostly avoiding anything Ruri related since they are afraid of messing it up lmao

Instead they focus on the anime’s and games that they watched and played together. Almost like a collection of inside jokes that they are using to summon him

The first thing MC sets out is a prettily decorated plate of macrons, doing their best to replicate the colors and flavors described in the one bakery time management game they always played

MC also went through Levi’s super secret fanfiction accounts I will fight you he is totally a fic writer because he has so many self inserts and fix it fics  and wrote out comments for every single thing he had written. They printed them out not because they didn’t think he read them but to show that they were the ones that left them

Along with the comments MC also created art for Levi’s most beloved OC, creating cute enamel pins of them in chibi form with the cannon character he paired them with

 The last two things came as a sort of combo, a couples cosplay from the romance anime they had watched together. The protagonist had been a shut in otaku who had found his soulmate when they were reborn into his world and Levi had latched onto him immediately 

It had taken a lot of blood sweat and tears trying to get both of the outfits cannon perfect but damn it MC was not going to settle for anything less

At one point they forgot they were making it for Levi and just got caught up in the the drama that was finding the perfect buttons and trim color

Overall they were so proud of the sewing skills they just wanted to call on him the moment they were done so he could see but they got a hold of themselves so they could set up what they had planned

Levi was summoned into the circle still wearing his headset and fingers tapping at a controller that had been left behind

His demon side comes out at having been cost a serious match from the sounds of it but his anger turns to confusion at seeing MC and then into wide eyed amazement at all of the things in front of him

He started to gush about every single thing he saw before he realized that MC was there beaming at him 

“You went through all this trouble to prove that you aren’t a normie and yet you summon me this way?? J-just say my name like you’re supposed to! I kind of like hearing you say it anyway ...”

Satan

Satan surprisingly doesn’t like being the center of attention and thus doesn’t really like surprises or receiving gifts. He also doubts that anyone understands him enough to give him what he wants cocky ass that he is

The idea for the things to set out in his summoning circle came to MC when discussing love potions with Satan and Solomon one day. They were talking about how smell plays such a strong part and Satan let slip some of the things he might smell after MC listed some of theirs

So while MC doesn’t have much, well any, experience in magic or potions they do want to try to stir up those feelings those smells produce in Satan

The first thing he had said came as a surprise to no one, the smell of parchment and ink

MC used each of them as their own separate offering on the pentagram. They used a fancy new calligraphy quill dipped in green ink that matched his eyes to write a long love note for him

The ink was still wet on the parchment that they set down and left the quill and remaining ink as the second gift

The next thing he mentioned was another one MC expected: tea leaves

So MC just walked into their local tea shop and let their nose lead the way. Anything that caught their attention or made them want to keep smelling they bought, creating their own special blend just for Satan

It wasn’t necessarily something that Satan would say for himself but MC had started to burn different candles in their room when he would come to rant when he was angry, trying to find a scent that he could associate with being calm when they helped him work through the anger

Whatever candle seemed to work the best is the candle that MC sets out for him. Probably something woodsy, pine or balsam or even sandalwood. It brings back good memories for MC, kissing all those worries of his away and hopes it does the same

The last item is one that made MC blush when they heard Satan admit it, he had liked the scent of their shampoo

He hadn’t said that specifically but he had closed his eyes and described a scent that he couldnt place but that he adored and when MC was taking their shower that night it clicked 

It might have been a little lame, leaving a bottle of shampoo out for Satan but MC knew that when he realized what that scent he loved so much was that he would get the cutest blush

They weren’t disappointed when they summoned Satan. He hid his shock of being summoned this way well, taking his time to walk around the circle and examine each offering. He immediately knew where they had gotten the inspiration and teased them about being such a sap

He stopped when he got to the shampoo though, not sure how that fit into the equation until he smelled it. It dawned on him and there was that blush that he tried to hide by turning his face away

“You always did like to make things difficult on yourself didn’t you? I’m only ever a call away for you kitten. Now come here and let me really breath you in, you’re simply intoxicating to me and I can’t stay away.”

Asmo

Asmo is never shy about when he doesn’t like gifts that people have given him but he has only ever cherished what MC has gotten him. Every small trinket and gift he has on full display in his room and he will wear something that MC got them when he misses them the most

He also will do it when he wants to bother his brothers and show off that MC simply lavished him in gifts (Mammon and Levi are the only ones who fall for it lmao)

So MC decides to offer Asmo things that will allow him to parade around their love for him, things to keep them close when MC isn’t there

The first thing that MC gets Asmo is new nail polish, a color that they agonized over finding because they wanted it to match his eyes perfectly

Asmo has a very organized planner, its how he keeps track of all the events he is invited to, when he has dates, who hes slept with, who hes going to sleep with and everything in between

MC commissions custom made stickers for him so he can decorate the pages of his planner even more. Specifically a whole sheet of cute stickers of them together he could use for when they planned date nights

The next thing was something for Asmo’s room which he was always changing and refreshing so it looked forever interesting for Devilgram pics

MC gets a large print of Asmo’s favorite picture of them together and puts it in a beautiful frame that perfectly matched his favorite decorating style. Perfect to show to the world that Asmo was their favorite demon and that they looked so good together

And so they can take even more pictures of themselves together MC buys a Polaroid camera for Asmo. His phone will always be his favorite thing to take pics on but this way they could have them printed instantly and it continues to let him be trendy

Lastly MC gets Asmo a necklace. A dainty rose gold chain that he can wear with practically everything and with a diamond accented heart shaped locket that could easily be tucked away if needed. It was an enchanted locket, thanks to the help of Solomon, and it warmed when MC was thinking of him

Its the first thing Asmo grabs and quickly puts on, showing it off for MC

“Oh MC you are simply the cutest thing I have ever seen~ I’m sorry I don’t have something to give you in return. I hope the fact that my heart beats only for you will make up for it, now come here I’ve been without kisses too long.”

Beel

Its SO hard not to just grab whatever is in the kitchen at the time and throw it in the summoning circle and call it a day for Beel

But he is more than just his hunger and MC is always striving to show him that they understand that 

It was harder than expected, just because asking anyone what Beel might want always got them food answers. They thought Belphie might be helpful but only got told “he probably just wants a nap ... its what I would want”

MC starts to think of all the most special moments they had with Beel, trying to think what about them made them so memorable and they knew for a fact that it wasn’t the food

The first thing they come up with is a banner that MC made to cheer him on at one of his games. It had gotten a little tattered and torn because it had rained that day but they just couldn’t let it go

Mostly because Beel after winning had ran up into the stands and kissed them for the first time. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t ever kissed but they had always been the one to make the first move but this time Beel had come to them. Of course in the biggest gesture possible

It was cheating a little bit offering a cookbook, it was still food related, but it felt better than putting in actual food 

This particular cookbook was special to MC too, they had spent several months trying to recreate one of the recipes from it down in the Devildom when MC didn’t have it. Even their D.D.D had been no help in finding the human world dish they were trying so hard to recreate

It had finally been Beel who had found someplace that sold the food they had been craving. He had even been able to bring it back completely untouched just so that they could have it all though he didn’t complain when they offered him several bites from their fork

MC pulls the next thing from their own shelves at home, a well read copy of Lord of the Flies. The spine cracked and little notes about their favorite parts scribbled in the margin

It was one of the human novels that Satan had and one of MCs favorites from school. Beel had caught them reading it and thought the title was ironic but the more he watched MC get engrossed in reading the more curious he got

He eventually asked MC to read it to him, he actually liked books even if most didn’t take him for the type it was just that he had a hard time actually reading himself. He always got distracted by food but audio books always worked well for him when he was working out, it turned out to be even better when MC read to him when he was eating

It was the best of both worlds for him and he found the story actually pretty funny, slightly worrying MC but they figured they couldn’t blame a demon for getting enjoyment out of a story like that. He did find their lack of food concerning though so at least there was that

One of the things that Beel often complained about when MC was living in the devildom was that when he went to go eat they weren’t always there. Sure Beel would ask them to tag along whenever possible but it didn’t always happen. He would call them from the kitchen at times and tell them that he missed them

MC was sure the other brothers would have something to say about it but knew that Beel would genuinely enjoy the next thing MC offered. Amagnet with his favorite picture of them. It was MC caught in a candid he took, mid bite in a dessert he had made them and his hand could just be seen wiping some whipped cream off MC’s cheek

It was a way that Beel could have MC with him at his favorite place every time

The last thing that MC laid out was something that was inspired by Beel. He had once given them a coupon for a free meal by him and they had thought it was just about the cutest thing ever

They made him a whole coupon book of favors ranging from cooking any meal he wanted to recording his workouts for him and of course lots of coupons for hugs and kisses

Beel isn’t used to being summoned at all so hes slightly disoriented when he finds himself suddenly in the human world. As soon as he sees MC though its nothing but smiles and he doesn’t even notice the gifts until after

“MC did you know I was thinking about you? Sometimes I just say your name and hope you will appear ... so if you ever think of me just say my name. I want to be here, even if its during dinner” 

Belphie

Belphie is not one to beat around the bush at all. He is a creature of habit and just wants more of the same things that he already has. Dont fix something if its not broke right?

So its fairly easy to fill his summoning circle with things that he loves, just adding to his ever growing collection of happy nap time things

That isn’t to say that MC just grabs whatever blanket or pillows they have laying around, they still want it to be special for him

So yes the first two things they offer to Belphie is a pillow and blanket, there was never going to be anything else but MC spent a long time putting their love into finding just the right ones for him ... and still couldn’t find what they wanted

MC used this as an excuse to create something themselves for their sleepy boy. They dived deep into youtube and pintrest and spent more money than they care to admit on materials until finally they made what they wanted

The first was a quilt large enough for three cause the twins like to make MC a sandwich in a cow print pattern that matched his pillow and demon form marks, lined with the softest fabric she could find that was the same purple as his eyes 

His pillow was another quilted design, this time of a cloudy night sky with a sleepy cow jumping over the moon. MC stitched his name in pretty gold thread on the back long with a sweet ‘I love you’

There was one last fluffy thing to give to him, this one MC knew he would probably scoff and tease them about but they couldn’t help it. They saw the angry looking cow plushie and just could not walk away 

They have actually been sleeping with it when they miss him most and even if he doesn’t like the plushie the fact they have slept with it so much will make him a bit fonder of it

Even though they were pretty sure that Belphie knew every star in the sky MC couldn’t help but get a book with stories about the constellations. He might already know them all but they thought that he might still enjoy hearing them read to him as he drifted to sleep

The last thing MC has to offer him is also star related. A star map of the day that they made their pact. It was the day that MC had fully forgiven everything that had happened before and their relationship had truly began

When Belphie was summoned he was half asleep but knew who it must be even in his sluggish state. He gave a big yawn and looked around at all the things around him 

“At least things are already set up for the perfect nap, including having you. MC next time just say my name alright? Its much more of a drag this way ... and I want to know when you are dreaming of me”

[suituuup]

shine

Beca and Chloe meet during Pride

Word count: 2,7k

Rating: T

ao3 link

inbox open to prompts!

*

It was Stacie’s idea. 

 Of course it was. Everything that leads to Beca asking herself what the fuck she’s doing here can often be linked back to Stacie fucking Conrad. 

 Beca’s got a few examples to argue her case. That time she ended up in the ER on New Year’s Eve because Stacie thought riding a Segway while being drunk would be super fun, or when they got stuck in a snowstorm while driving up to Vermont that one year and nearly froze to death. 

 So when Stacie suggested a few days back that they go to the Pride parade, Beca initially said no. Don’t get her wrong; she’s all for the event, she just doesn’t do well with crowds. That Friday before the parade happens to be one of Beca’s worst days at work probably since the start of her career though, so when Stacie insisted she should tag along with her and Amy, Beca rolled her eyes, huffed, and eventually agreed, because  what the hell. 

 She doesn’t know it yet, as she stands in packed 7th avenue that hot and humid Saturday afternoon, but she’ll be  so glad she decided to go to Pride.

Right now though, she’s struggling for breath as panic slowly creeps into her body, tangling around her limbs and making her legs feel as heavy as lead. There are people  everywhere, the music is pounding against her skull and it’s just too fucking  hot. 

 “I’ll be right back,” she tells Stacie, curling a hand around her wrist to get her attention. “Check your phone if I lose you guys?” 

 “Yeah, you got it.” 

 Beca uncomfortably weaves through the crowd, muttering various apologies to the few people she bumps into as she keeps her eyes fastened on the sidewalk. The knots in her chest tighten when she reaches an adjacent street, leaning against the wall and tilting her head back. She’s focused on her chopped breathing and willing her heart to slow the fuck down when a voice cuts through the fog clouding her brain. 

 “Hey, you okay?” 

 Her eyes snap open to find twin twinkles of bright blue staring at her in concern, standing out despite the colorful rainbows painted on the woman’s cheeks that should steal Beca’s attention.

 “I’m uh,” Beca winces, bracing a hand on her chest when her breathing derails even more. “Not really. I’m having a sort of panic attack.” 

 “Oh shit, okay, um--” The redhead glances around them, then focuses back on Beca. “Anything I can do?”

 Beca shakes her head, her eyes screwing shut as she goes through the 5-5-5 breathing technique a few times, until her lungs don’t feel as deprived of oxygen as before. 

 The redhead is still standing there when she opens her eyes. She fishes into her tote bag, pulling out a bottle of water and extending it to Beca. “Here. It’s still capped.” 

 “Thanks,” Beca mutters, taking the cool bottle from her and drinking a few sips. She takes a few beats to observe the other woman as she hands the bottle back. She’s wearing a white shirt with a cute dinosaur waving a pride flag, faded denim shorts and sneakers, and has got a camera slung across her chest. “You’re a photographer?” 

 “Yeah. Well, not professionally, but hoping to become one someday.” She extends her hand, that genuine smile still in place. “I’m Chloe.” 

 Beca flushes, knowing her hand is probably clammy and disgusting compared to how soft Chloe’s feels. “Beca.” 

 “First Pride?” 

 Beca nods. “Yeah, and kinda regretting it.” She scrunches up her nose when she realizes how that might come across. “Not because of-- I think it’s great that it exists, I mean, I’m not straight so of course  I don’t have anything against Pride itself.” God, just  shut up.  “I just don’t like crowds. Or the heat.” 

 Chloe hums, seemingly barely able to keep her amusement at bay. “I kinda need a break, too. Wanna come check out the Stonewall exhibit at the public library with me?” She raises an eyebrow, then adds, “Less people and AC…” 

 Any other day, Beca would have probably said no. But the journey back to Brooklyn if she goes home now will most likely be slow and painful, and she kinda wants to hang out with Chloe, for reasons she can’t explain as they’ve only ‘known’ each other less than five minutes and Beca is usually wary about strangers. 

 “Sure, why not. Let me just shoot a text to my friends.” 

 Once she tells Stacie not to worry about her, Beca follows Chloe through the crowd, Chloe’s hand finding hers before they get in the thick of the crowd. 

 “So we don’t lose each other,” Chloe says over her shoulder, winking softly. She doesn’t let go even when they reach quieter streets, but weirdly Beca doesn’t mind.

 She chuckles at herself, shaking her head softly because this is so unlike her. 

 “What?” Chloe asks, a mixture of curiosity and confusion swirling in her eyes. 

 “Nothing, I just…” Beca shrugs. “This is not how I expected today to go, at all.” 

 Chloe’s head tilts to the side as she stares at Beca’s profile. “In a good way?” 

 “Yeah, I really think so.” 

 Chloe smiles in response, then emits a soft gasp, letting go of Beca’s hand. “Hold on, one sec.” She crosses the street before Beca can say anything, stepping up to this drag couple and asking them if she can do a mini photoshoot. 

 Beca watches on in amusement, grinning when Chloe walks back to her after thanking the pair. They fall back into step, and Beca resists the urge to slide her hand into Chloe’s once more. 

 She lets out a sigh of relief as soon as they step inside the cool building.

 “Better?” Chloe asks. 

 “Yeah,” Beca breathes, nodding. 

 They hike up the staircase, Chloe coming to a stop to snap a picture of the  Love & Resistance  neon sign above the door leading to the exhibit. As they stroll about from one picture to another, Beca finds herself glancing at Chloe often, finding Chloe’s clear love for photography endearing. 

 “That was really cool,” Chloe says when they step back under the scorching sun after spending about an hour inside. They stopped at the gift shop, where Chloe purchased a few prints of the photographs exhibited. “Did you like it?” 

 “I did, yeah,” Beca nods, smiling softly. “Those people were really fucking brave. It’s inspiring.” 

 “I think so, too.” She licks her lips, glancing at Beca. “What are you doing now?” 

 “Not sure yet,” Beca says; one thing she’s sure of is that she doesn’t want to part ways with Chloe just yet. “Why? Wanna whisk me away again?” 

 Chloe’s soft laughter sends Beca’s heart for a spin. “Maybe.” A soft hand emcompasses hers once more. “Do you trust me?” 

 Beca cocks an eyebrow, a smirk ticking the corners of her lips. “Kind of a bold question seeing as we’ve known each other for an hour. You could be a serial killer for all I know.” 

 A giggle flits past Chloe’s lips, and she tugs on Beca’s hand. “Come on.” 

 “I’m low key concerned you didn’t try and correct me on the whole serial killer thing,” Beca teases, catching up so she falls into step with Chloe. “Or maybe you’re just a stalker? Would explain the fancy camera.” 

 “Stop,” Chloe requests with a chuckle, shoving Beca with her shoulder. 

 “I’m kidding,” Beca assures her, lacing their fingers before she can think twice about it. “So where are you taking me?” 

 “There’s a street fair a couple blocks away with crafts, food and drinks. Should be less crowded but still festive.” 

 “Sounds cool.” 

 They get there about twenty minutes later, Chloe stopping a few times along the way to snap a few street shots. The fair has a family-friendly block-party kind of vibe, with various vendors displaying their arts and crafts. Live music is drifting through the street, and Beca instantly feels more comfortable than she did during the parade.

 Her heart swells at the sight of a family just ahead of them; two women and their two young kids with rainbows painted on their cheeks. Beca is filled with hope that someday she’ll get to have that, too, that being gay won’t prevent her from building a family and finding happiness, like her dad said it would when she came out to him a couple years ago. 

 “Where’d you go?” Chloe’s soft voice once again cuts through Beca’s thoughts. 

 “Nowhere,” she murmurs, glancing towards her new friend. “I just really like it here.” 

 After strolling about the different booths, they grab a bite to eat and settle down at a picnic table near the makeshift stage where the live band is playing. 

 “Do you know if there’s a face painting booth somewhere?” Beca finds herself asking once she’s finished her fries. “I wanna get flags on my cheeks, too.” 

 Stacie offered before they left the apartment, but Beca turned her down, preferring to keep it low-key. Chloe’s rocking it though, and Beca is definitely more ready to embrace her identity than she was a few hours ago. 

 “Oh, I can do it!” Chloe reaches inside her bag, producing a small paint palette and a brush. 

 Beca chuckles, shaking her head in amazement. “Of course you’d carry that around.” 

 As Chloe settles down next to her, straddling the bench, Beca mirrors her position and gathers her hair up and out of the way, piling it up on her head in a messy bun. She inhales sharply as Chloe takes her chin gently and leans closer to apply the first stroke. 

The cool brush sliding over her heated skin makes her shiver, and the sudden proximity has her heart thud harder, and she feels a bit overwhelmed by the sudden urge to tilt her head up and forward just slightly to brush a kiss across Chloe’s mouth. 

 She doesn’t though, because she’s never kissed a girl before and that urge is soon suffocated by the nerves that sprout in the pit of her belly, shackling those butterflies back towards the ground. 

 “There,” Chloe murmurs, backing away to check her work. Beca realizes she hasn’t been breathing properly and sucks some air into her lungs, blinking. “Cute.” 

 “Thanks,” Beca croaks out, clearing her throat. She takes her phone to see it for herself in the reflection of the screen, and a bright smile spreads across her features. 

 “You’re rocking it.” 

 Soft blush coats Beca’s cheeks as she meets Chloe’s gaze, quickly averting her eyes because those striking blues are really messing with her ability to function properly. 

 “So I’m supposed to meet a couple friends of mine at this cool bar in an hour or so, I was thinking maybe you and your friends could tag along? No pressure, though.” 

 “Yeah, um, I’d like that. I’ll text my friends to see if they’re down.” 

 Cue to Beca being a bit more drunk than she initially planned in a gay bar in Soho a few hours later. The scorching heat probably (definitely) got to her head over the afternoon, so the two cocktails she had really feel like four. 

 She doesn’t mind, though. That pleasant buzzing thanks to the alcohol loosens her up a little and makes her second guess a lot less. 

 “So what’s up with you and Red?” Stacie asks over the music as they stand by their table. Chloe’s friends Jessica and Ashely are currently dancing, and Chloe’s gone up to the counter to get water. 

 Beca wonders if her attraction to Chloe is that see-through, or if it’s just Stacie being Stacie, and poking Beca has always been one of her favorite things. “What?” 

 The tall brunette rolls her eyes. “Come on, you guys have the hots for each other.” 

 Beca is thankful for the dim lighting as her face flushes hard. “You-- you think she’s into me?” 

 “Duh,” Amy confirms with a twin eyeroll. 

 Stacie slaps Amy’s arm. “Oh, here she comes. Let’s go dance, Ames.” 

 Beca’s eyes widen and her jaw drops when she realizes her friends are abandoning ship. “Guys!  Seriously?? ” 

 The confirmation that Chloe’s attracted to her only makes Beca all nervous again, and she jumps slightly when Chloe shows up beside her. 

 “You alright?” Chloe asks, gently cupping Beca’s elbow. 

 “Yeah, yes. I’m grand.” Grand?  Grand??  God, it’s like she can hear Stacie cackling in her head. Beca slams her eyes shut and wrinkles her nose as Chloe giggles. “Ugh. I mean good. I’m good.” 

 “Good,” Chloe echoes, her smile teasing. “So why are Stacie and Amy staring at us?” 

 Mortified, Beca glances in the direction of Chloe’s head tilt to find Stacie and Amy both innocently looking away as they stand across the room. She groans in annoyance. “I’m gonna kill them.” 

 Chloe laughs again, and Beca realizes her hand is still on her arm, her thumb stroking Beca’s skin back and forth. “It’s okay. I’m glad they’re looking out for you.” 

 “They’re not looking out for me,” Beca grumbles. “They’re just having the time of their lives because they know I’m a terrible flirt and I don’t know how to act around a beautiful woman.” She chuckles, her blush flaring up once more. “Oh wow, I can’t believe I just said that out loud.” 

 “Which part?” Chloe asks. “You being a terrible flirt or calling me beautiful?” 

 Beca wets her suddenly dry lips. “Me being bad at this,” she replies, sucking in a sharp breath. “I definitely meant the second part.” 

 Chloe licking her lips like she does in the next beat makes Beca’s knees wobble. “You wanna dance?” 

 Beca’s phone lights up with a text from Stacie before she can respond.  We’re heading somewhere else. Coming or staying? ;)

 She throws Chloe an apologetic smile as she grasps her phone. “Sorry, let me just reply.” 

 Beca

I’m gonna stay. 

 Stacie’s reply is instant.  Happy scissoring. 

 She makes the mistake to glance towards the pair, catching Amy doing a V with her fingers by her mouth and flicking her tongue between them. 

 “Oh my god,” Beca mutters, setting her forehead on the table. “Any chance you didn’t catch that? My friends are an embarrassment.” She eventually straightens, shaking it off. “And yeah, I wanna dance.” 

 Chloe doesn’t beat around the bush, setting her hands on Beca’s hips and tugging Beca closer once they’re facing each other. Beca’s top doesn’t quite meet her high waisted skirt, and Chloe’s touch sends an electric jolt down her spine, its aftershocks echoing in the tips of her toes.

 Her arms loop around Chloe’s neck and it’s only now they’re standing so close that Beca notices how blue Chloe’s eyes are. She also notes the want and passion burning in those irises, and feels another chill travel her body. Chloe moves flawlessly to the beat, and Beca matches her rhythm, gradually crushing the sliver of distance between them until her own hips are swaying flush against Chloe’s. 

 The song blends into another one, but Beca doesn’t really register it; she’s slowly being consumed by the desire to kiss Chloe, and this time doesn’t let her damn insecurities get the upper hand. Leaning in slowly, she captures Chloe’s lips in a kiss, a delighted hum mingling into it as Chloe kisses her back instantly. One of Chloe’s hands leaves her hip to hold her face gently, warm and reassuring over her skin. 

 The kiss is slow and tender, exploratory on Beca’s end, and probably the best Beca’s ever had. Her head soon spins from those wonderful, foreign sensations spreading through her body, and she finds herself needing a break shortly after. She pulls away just a bit, her lips tingling as Chloe’s breath skates across them. 

 When Chloe asks her if she wants to get out of there, Beca should probably tell her she’s new at this, that she’s never been with a girl before, but the words never surface from her throat. She does admit it half an hour later as they’re heavily making-out just outside Chloe’s place, but not to put a stop to it. 

 She wants this more than she’s probably ever wanted anything else, but she’s afraid of not knowing what to do. 

 Despite their palpable desire, they slow down once they eventually make it to Chloe’s bedroom, and Beca’s grateful for that. The next couple hours are a blur of yet unparalleled pleasure and Beca sleeps hard afterwards, waking up a bit confused the next morning. 

 She flushes when memories from the night before surface, explaining the wonderful aches her body’s experiencing when she stretches. She’s alone in bed and the apartment is silent, but a note lies on the pillow next to her. 

  Hey you. Had to run to work and didn’t want to wake you up. Help yourself to coffee and a shower, if you’d like. Yesterday was pretty awesome. I hope we can see each other again soon. Here’s my phone number: 917-695-8691. Have a good day. :)

Chloe xx

 Beca fails to keep her smile at bay and she might even squeal a little bit as she flops back against her pillow. 

 She guesses she should thank Stacie for dragging her to Pride, after all. 

[thatotherfooltheycallweaver]

Another test

A completely different fic that im working on

Tuesday afternoons are always oddly slow, regardless of the location Cordelia found herself in. Earlier that morning, her brother had asked her to take on the role of his receptionist for a few days, as the woman who usually worked at the front desk of his office was unable. She sat at the desk, reorganizing papers out of complete boredom. Men had been coming in and out all day, but she felt like there was nobody she could talk to. She was more than happy to help whenever she was needed, but it was, in her mind, ridiculous that there was nothing to do. With a sigh, she tapped her fountain pen against the loose papers--schedules, notes, and other things--it almost took on a pointillistic look on the page. She leaned on the desk before noticing that her hair was a bit of a mess and started trying to pin stray strands back into place--she knew she should have been more careful when she was doing her hair that morning. She hated having her it pinned up, but attempted to be more professional, for her brother’s sake. She had heard rumors of a baronet all the way from England--she couldn’t remember if they had specified from where in that country--would be visiting Buffalo for the time being. A baronet, no less. That title was uncommon enough to warrant questions, as nobody she spoke to understood exactly what it meant. She made it a point to ask her friend, Edith, later--she would likely know. Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the door open and shut. A tall man dressed in all black walked in, carrying a wooden case. The only other visible color on him was the silver chain of a pocket watch. He removed his top hat as he approached the desk, revealing short, dark, slicked-back hair under it. His eyes met hers for a moment and he smiled.

“Good afternoon, miss. I’m looking for a Mr. Baker. I have an appointment, though I suspect I’m a bit early.” Cordelia looked through the papers to find if there was something written down. “It’s for Thomas--ah, I’ve a card, my apologies.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket. Printed across it, in neat black ink, was the name ‘Sir Thomas Sharpe’ and the title of Baronet under it. She had no idea how accurate the rumors would have been, but each of them mentioned he was attractive. They were inaccurate, as none of them could accurately capture how handsome the gentleman before her truly looked. Though tempted to keep him in the lobby until it was time for him to go back to speak to her brother for answers--she was curious, wanting to know more about him--she decided against it.

“My brother wouldn’t mind if you went back early, actually. If you’re ready to, of course.”

“Really?” He asked, a bit surprised. “Yes, miss, I am ready. Where do I go?”

“I can show you.” She stood, deciding against prying for information and resigning to interrogating her brother later--she didn’t want to risk seeming nosy or inconsiderate. “My name is Cordelia Baker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Baker.” He nodded with a smile. They reached the end of the hall and she knocked on the doorway.

“I’ll be right there.” A voice from within called.

“I wish you the best of luck.” She looked at Thomas, smiling.

“Thank you.” His eyes met hers for a moment. “I might just need it.”

“I have full confidence that everything will go well for you.” There was a look in his eyes; as if he was unused to warm smiles and genuine words with no hope of recompense--no cynicism or idle words. He was unsure, for the moment, if it was how America simply operated...or if she was one of those rare, kind souls. The type that would set him free from all the horrors, all the burdens--he pushed the thoughts away from his mind, reassuring himself that he needed to take things one step at a time. Thomas brushed off his coat in an attempt to make himself at least feel more presentable. The door opened, and a man a little shorter than the Baronet was standing there. He had strawberry blonde hair and was wearing a blue shirt with a tawny vest over it.

“Sir Sharpe.” He held out his hand to the dark-haired man. “I’m Anthony Baker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.” Thomas shook his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, I truly appreciate it.” He let go, the shorter of the two opening holding the door to his office open, motioning for him to follow. Cordelia left, wanting to give them privacy if they wanted.

“Please, just call me Anthony.” He said with a smile, gesturing to the chair. “I don’t know what you plan, but do make yourself comfortable.” Thomas found it odd. Other investors had not been anywhere near as considerate, or kind. He did not understand it, but he wasn’t going to waste such an opportunity.

“I have a model. May I?” He asked, gesturing to the box.

“Of course.” Again, much to his surprise, Anthony actually picked up some of the papers and things to make a bit more room for him to work. He was ready to take notes and already seemed interested. As if he was half-expecting the redhead to change his mind, the baronet quickly set the small model up, taking the jar and box that was inside. The man across from him watched, allowing him to concentrate. Taking a breath, he did his best to steady his sudden nerves.

“The Sharpe clay mines have been royal purveyors of the purest scarlet clay since 1796. In its liquid form, it is so rich in ore and so malleable that it can produce the strongest bricks and tiles.” He gestured to the jar, left of the machine model.

“May I?” Anthony asked, gesturing to the smaller wooden box with a clay tile in it. Thomas nodded. “I've never seen anything that vibrant a shade of red in my life.” He mused, letting him continue explaining.

“Excessive mining in the last 20 years has caused most of our old deposits to collapse. This is a clay harvester of my own design. It transports the clay upwards as it digs deep.” He turned the machine on. “I have absolutely no doubt this machine will revolutionize clay mining as we know it.” Anthony looked at the machine, amazed.

“This is very impressive.” Thomas looked up, a bit caught off-guard, unused to compliments. Now he had to wonder if it was those two siblings, or it was the country.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have you had a chance to test it, full-scale?”

“Not yet, but we’re very close. We’re hoping that with funding, it will work. I've built the harvester on my estate, but more parts would be needed to keep it running smoothly.” He explained.

“Of course, of course, my apologies. Do you happen to have schematics? Sketches?” He asked. “I would like to look into this more before I make a decision. I believe it will take a bit of time. Research and all that, I hope you understand.” Thomas nodded, a little surprised he got this far.

“Of course.” He nodded, grabbing a folder from the case. “I have everything right here.” He handed it over--inside were schematics, other information that would hopefully be useful.

“This is genuinely impressive--I apologize for repeating. It's just so well designed.” Anthony smiled for a moment. “I will have to look into it, though I can't make any promises.”

“I understand. It is a bit risky but I wholeheartedly believe it's worth it.”

“I will do what I can to respond quickly. How long are you still staying in Buffalo?"

“I believe we are--my sister and I--staying until autumn. I’m unsure of the exact dates. My sister hasn’t told me anything, yet.” Anthony nodded.

“Well, I can at least guarantee it won't take that long to get an answer.” He chuckled softly. “I'm sorry to cut this short, but I do thank you for being here.” He stood. “It was nice to meet you. I'll have my sister…” He said that as if trying to show a bit of solidarity, or they at least had something in common. “...show you out." As if on cue, there was a rhythmic knock, a code of sorts. He got up and opened it. Cordelia was there. Thomas felt a little less uncomfortable...something about her, something about the way she carried herself.

“I swear I wasn't eavesdropping,” It was honest, but she was a bit nervous about how it came across. She pulled on her sleeve, letting out a soft snicker. “I just came by to drop off some letters for you. Including one from a certain Miss Cushing." She teased Anthony, who blushed a bit in embarrassment.

“Had it not been for witnesses…” He hissed. “I’ll trade you. Would you please show Sir Sharpe out?”

“Do I have to give you the letters?” He gave her a look and she handed them over, begrudgingly. Not that she didn’t want to spend the time with Thomas, she just wanted to see Anthony’s reaction.

“Shall I leave anything here for you to examine further?”

“No, thank you; if you want to take it, please do.” Thomas nodded, packing up the machine and carefully stowing the jar and box.

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

“And thank you for yours.” Anthony smiled, looking over his notes. The baronet looked at Cordelia with a soft smile. Her presence was almost comforting, in a way, he couldn’t quite explain it. She shut the door behind them both.

“Hello.” She greeted as she began to lead him back to the lobby. “How did it go?” She asked gently.

“I believe it went well--at least it seemed to.” He looked at her, tilting his head slightly. “Your brother is much kinder than others I’ve gone to.” He mused, finding the situation rather refreshing, in a way.

“Anthony loves listening to people talk, and their ideas. And from the look at the machine I got when you were putting it back in the case, it was rather interesting.” The comment caught Thomas off-guard. He wouldn’t have guessed a lady like her would have found his clay harvester fascinating. There was a level of intrigue they both felt, curiosity between strangers. The tall Englishman who dressed in dark clothing and spoke with a gentle elegance she was unfamiliar with; the American woman in rich lavender who took an interest in his work, unprovoked, not to just be polite--each unusual to the other, and yet it felt captivating. “So...you've got an accent. English, right?” She asked. “Sorry, I don’t know many people from Europe…”

“No, no, Miss Baker, you don’t need to apologize. I don’t mind answering...though I suppose others will have the same questions, no doubt.” He looked at her with a small smile. “I am from England.”

“Is it nice there?” She asked, looking up at him with a curious smile.

“Where I’m from, it’s rainy and dark in some of the most beautiful ways.” He smiled at her, finding the curiosity endearing. “Not like Buffalo.”

“It sounds beautiful, really.” She smiled, listening intently. Cordelia definitely loved his accent, though she knew there was more to him than what everyone else might care to ask about. High society had a tendency to gloss over personality, beyond the obvious and surface level. “I’ve always wanted to go to England. Everyone I know who’s been there speaks highly of it.” He looked over, a little intrigued. Her smile felt...reassuring, in a way. Her curiosity was almost comforting.

“I think everyone should go to London at least once in their life. It’s quite amazing--the art, architecture…” He looked over. “Perhaps I could be the one to show you, someday.” She looked over, unable to tell if he was subtly flirting, or if he was just being kind. She didn’t know if she was misinterpreting things.

“How could I possibly refuse an offer like that?” She looked over. “If you want, I could show you around Buffalo...make things even?” The idea of spending time with her was inexplicably something he wanted--no, needed. He was drawn to her, he needed to find out more about her. The fact that she would even suggest that she’d give him a tour was astonishing--nobody else he met up until then had brought it up.

“That sounds like a fair deal. I would love that, actually.” He admitted with a smile--it made her blush faintly. It was unexplainable...she had no idea how this man had an effect on her already. They reached the lobby, the door in sight. The soft evening light started filtering in through the glass.

“You know...I’m hosting a party on Friday night--this Friday…” She got irritated with herself, internally, wondering if she was embarrassing herself by talking too much. “...if you would be interested, you are more than welcome there.”

“Really?” He sounded a bit stunned. “I would very much enjoy that. Would it be alright if my sister came along with me? I’d hate to leave her out.”

“If she wants to, of course she can.” She looked at him with a soft smile.

“Well, that’s great.” He smiled back, brightly. “Until then, Miss Baker?”

“I’m already looking forward to it, Sir Sharpe.” He took his hat, putting it on and chuckling softly as he left. With him gone, she sighed. There was something about him that she couldn’t describe. Cordelia immediately set off to bother Anthony for information. She knocked on the door and opened it. Her brother had a completely smitten look as he was reading over the letter. “So...how’s Edith?” She teased, amused.

“She’s fine.” He muttered, closing the letter and putting it on top of the papers.

“Have either of you told the other, yet?”

“No. Stop asking.” He looked at her, half-glaring. “And don’t ask about the baronet. I’m not giving you anything, yet.”

“Fine, fine.” She shook her head. “Then I’ll get back to planning the party.”

“Alright. Have fun.”

[angelic-kisses13]

Sunstone

Authors Note: A little drabble that took me forevvveeerrrrr write. Omg! But I finally finished it!

Warnings: None. FLUFF

He was nervous, sweaty palms, and gut-churning nervous. His forehead had beads of sweat at the temples and he wondered, not for the hundredth time, if the flowers were a good enough present. Maybe he should just give up the ruse and tell her it’s him. What’s the worst thing that could happen? 

Clark shook his head as he placed the flowers down on her desk, looking around him as if he was going to get caught. He laughed to himself as he remembered that he was the only one left. He had volunteered to stay behind to make sure that the bug story got to print the next day. No-one ever complained so it became part of his routine. Until she became part of the staff, Clark could remember seeing her for the first time and how hard his heart thumped. He distinctly remembered that his cheeks had flushed and he had knocked over his coffee cup in his haste to shake her hand when the two were introduced. She had giggled as she bent down to help him clean up the mess. He had managed to catch a whiff of her perfume and a quick peek at her breasts as her shirt fell open slightly. 

He swallowed thickly at the memory before gently placing the flower down, he had typed a quick poem from the old typewriters in the basement of the Daily Planet. He didn’t want her to accidentally see the file on his computer one day and figure out. He needed to be the one to share the news. He had been so intent on not getting caught that he hadn’t caught the footsteps coming towards him until it was too late. 

“Clark?” He felt his body tense, shoulders tightening up, jaw locking, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. 

Of all the people it had to be her, why couldn’t fate be kinder? 

“What are you doing here?” Her words were laced with concern and she stepped towards him, her hand raising to rest on his forehead. 

“You’re flushed, are you okay? Do you need me to call someone for you? Or even a taxi? I can probably take you home if you prefer. I know I wouldn’t want to take a taxi this late at night. Lord knows what those backseats have seen today.” He felt his lips pull up into a smile at her rambling, her hands moving back and forth with each word. She was so precious and she had no idea. 

“I’m alright, what are you doing here? I thought you left hours ago.” She bit her bottom lip, her hands falling down to rest in front of her stomach, fingers tangling together and picking at the skin. She was either nervous or embarrassed, perhaps both. 

“I accidentally, left my new story here, I thought I had saved it to my email but I didn’t. I wanted to get it finished so the Chief could review it tomorrow. I’m hoping it makes the front page.” The gleam that entered her eye made his breath catch. This woman was going to be the death of him. Before he could distract her with another question her eyes fell from his to her desk, and he felt his world tilt. Her body went stiff and her eyes widened, he watched as her head jerked up and her eyes darted around the office. 

“Clark, did you see who left the flower here?” He was so relieved that she hadn’t put two and two together that his knees buckled and he had to slam his hands down onto the back of the desk chair to steady himself. 

Her eyes fell on him, concern coloring her features. 

“Clark, maybe you should go home, you can barely stand up.” 

“I...um yeah…okay.” Her lips stretched into a grin before she turned from him, her fingers closing around the stem of the flower. 

“Clark, how do you think these are made?” He stood there for a few seconds, his mind trying to come up with the right answer. 

“I’m not sure, actually, it looks like crystal though. Maybe glassblowing?” She hummed to herself, lost in her thoughts. 

“It’s pretty though, suits you.” A serene smile touched her lips and he felt his chest tighten. 

“Did you see a poem? There’s always a poem, it's my favorite part.” Her words were hushed, almost reverent with her confession. Clark felt his cheeks hurt at the bashful grin that he shot her. 

“I believe it's here?” Clark said as he pointed to the little stock card, the poem he had spent hours on peeking out from under her flash drive. An excited glint entered her eyes as she snatched the poem up, her eyes greedily reading every letter. Her lips moved as she mouthed the words aloud, it was one of his favorite things about her. 

“What’s it say?” His words were hushed, not wanting to disturb her, but still needing to know what she thought of it. 

“Camellias

Softly Delicate

Cherishing, Hoping, Fulfilling

My Destiny is Yours

Fate.”  

Her voice was soft as she read the last line, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Clark’s heart ached when she looked up at him, her eyes glimmering in the light. 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t be this choked up over a poem.” She wiped her hands over her eyes, embarrassment coloring her voice. 

“It’s quite alright, I’d probably react the same.” A laugh bubbled past her lips as you cradled the crystal Camellia to her chest. 

“Give me a few minutes and we can get a taxi, yeah?” He nodded, his voice caught in his throat at the thought of spending more time with her. She set the flower down on the desk, before rifling through a drawer and producing a little push pin. He cocked his head, as she picked up the poem and pinned it to her desk cork board. 

That was when he noticed all the other poems he had written her, decorating her little space. Pride swelled within him, his chest puffing up. His girl was surrounding herself with his words and love and thoughts. She was creating a safe place with him as her beacon. 

“Okay, I’m ready.” She gathered all she needed and placed them into her bag, before holding her arm out to him. He blinked down at her gesture before shaking his head. He grabbed the few folders from her arms, so she could hold the flower, this time he held his arm out for her to take. The two of them made their way out of the building, he raised his hand, trying to flag a taxi down. Several taxi’s sped past, splashing water up onto the concrete and dirtying his pant legs. 

He didn’t mind though, he had the girl of his dreams behind him, he was finally going to be able to get to know her. Not from overhearing their coworkers talk about her, but by her willingly sharing with him. It made his head spin and his hands shake at the excitement. Finally, a taxi pulled over and they clambered in, Clark nearly dropping the files on the taxi’s floor. She giggled at the actions, her fingers coming over to brush against his as she helped steady him. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his cheeks burning. 

“Sorry.” She waved him off and a comfortable silence engulfed them. He could hear her heartbeat, steady and quick in her chest, he counted each one of her breaths as she looked out the window, the lights bouncing off her hair. He watched as a drop of rain trickled down from her hair and onto her cheek, gliding over her jaw. 

He was already reaching out before he could stop himself, his fingers brushing her skin softly. His fingertips tingle when he finally makes contact. Her heart raced, her head turning into his palm. Their eyes met, time slowing as they read the hidden emotions in their eyes depths. 

The two of them had moved closer together, breaths mingling, eyes fluttering down to the lips and back. He could feel her heat, taste her on the tip of his tongue, just a few more inches and he could finally, finally have what he had wanted since he saw her. 

The taxi came to a jolting stop, startling both of them from the trance, she quickly ducked her head down, her fingers twisting into the material of her bag. Clark’s fingers fell away, his throat clearing as he straightened himself up. He glanced outside to see they were at an unknown apartment building, hers then. 

As if reading his thoughts her voice broke through his stupor, “This is me. Thanks for seeing me home, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow?” He could only nod, not trusting his voice. She smiled at him and climbed out, her body turning around to grab the folders from his hands. She waved at him one last time before closing the car door. He watched as she raced through the ran and up the steps of the building. Just as he was about to give to the taxi man his address, there was a knock on his window. 

He turned and came face to face with her, her hair was plastered to her cheeks, her eyes bright. He opened the door, stepping out, trying to shield the rain from her little body as much as he could. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, I just forgot something.” In her hands was a crystal flower, the purple peony glimmering in the streetlights. His breath catches at the impish smile on her lips. She drew closer, her hands pushing the flower into his breast pocket. Her hands then grabbed his wrists, pulling him down to her height, her lips resting at his ear. 

“Peony

Classical Vibrancy

Blushing, Worshiping, Treasuring

Admiration for You

Bashfulness.” 

“How did you?” Her eyes took on a playful look. 

“You, my darling Superman, forget I’m a reporter. I knew from the second flower you left me. There aren’t many crystals made from Sunstone.” 

“You never said anything.” Her face softened, hands coming up to cup my cheeks. 

“You weren’t listening hard enough, silly man.” Lips met in a wet, unrushed kiss. Both needing to reaffirm that the other was here, in their arms. Her body fit against his perfectly and he felt safe. An impatient horn blaring broke the two from their kiss, both laughing as they broke apart. 

“See you tomorrow?” She nodded. 

“Great, I’ll pick you up at seven, we can go and have breakfast before we go in.” 

“I look forward to it. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

The next morning had the couple giggling over cups of coffee and half eaten french toast. On the breakfast table sat two crystal flowers, two poems lay under the stems. 

“Salvias

Red Beacon 

Healing, Protecting, Saving

You are Forever Mine

Home.”

“Matthiola Incana

Blooming Spirituality

Purifying, Living, Thriving

Beauty that never Fades

Contentment.”

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[gold-and-rubies]

@theartofblossoming here’s part two as promised. I didn’t include Ingram, Saxon, or Strong, because I had no idea what to do, but everyone else is there. I hope you like it.

Hancock: Hancock leaned back in the couch he was sitting in. The high of the mentats he had taken was starting to wear off. Sole had left to go get something. They hadn’t told him what they were up to, but he didn’t doubt they could handle themselves. But he was starting to miss them. 

Just as the feeling was starting to settle in, they walked through the double doors that led from the hall to the room.

“Hey sorry it took me so long to come back. It was hard to find what I wanted,” they greeted. They were holding a longish box.

He got up from his seat, and strode over to them to pull them into a hug. He was careful not to squish whatever they were holding. 

He pulled back slightly, still holding them, “It’s alright, Love, just glad to have you back.”

They pushed the box up and into his chest, “I got you something.”

“Now I’m not one to turn away a gift from a beautiful person, but what’s the occasion?” he asked.

“It's your birthday. Isn’t it?”

He smiled at them, “Guess I just lost track of time spending it with you.”

They scoffed at him, “Just open the present, John.”

He took the box from them, and set it on the coffee table. Sitting on the couch, he took off the lid. Inside was a very ornate, and very old-looking musket.

“It’s supposed to be from the Revolutionary War,” they explained, “don’t know who it belonged to or anything, but I thought you’d like it.”

“I’d like any gift from you,” he winked, “but this is really nice. Thank you.”

He was reading through a Grognak comic as he waited for Sole to return from Minutemen duties. Shuan wanted to teach Duncan some stuff with tools. He had never been a hammer and nails sort of guy, but luckily Sturges had offered to watch them, and teach them some stuff. Bringing Duncan up to Sanctuary was one of the best ideas he had ever had. Agreeing to work for Sole was arguably the best.

MacCready: MacCready was sitting on the couch in Sole’s old house in Sanctuary. No, it was his house now too. And the boys’. Boys, plural. This was going to take some getting used to. Not that he was complaining. Things were the best they had been in a long time. 

As he reminisced they walked through the front door, causing him to jump a bit.

“Hey, Mac!” they greeted cheerily, “Where are the boys?”

“They’re with Sturges. Figured it would be nice if they learned something new, or at least new for Duncan.”

“I should see about getting a school set up,” they shook their head, “Anyway, I got you some stuff.”

“You did?” he asked.

“Yeah. Hold out your hands with your eyes closed,” they ordered.

“It isn’t going to be something weird is it?”

“No,” they smiled, “You’ll like it I promise.”

“If you say so,” he closed his eyes, and held out his hands. He was nervous. He remembered kids playing pranks on each other like this back in Little Lamplight.

He was relieved when she placed what felt like a stack of papers in his hands. It at least didn’t feel gross. 

“Open your eyes.”

He opened his eyes to see a rather large stack of comics. He looked from the stack to Sole in disbelief. 

“Where… How…?” he tried to ask. He had no idea how they managed to find so many.

“There’s an old comic store in the city. There was an infestation of ferals we had to clear out, and I may have… liberated a few comics. Thought they might be a nice anniversary present, even if it’s a bit early.”

He set them on the coffee table, and hugged them. I think they’re a damn good gift. I have no idea if I’m going to be able to do any better,” he laughed.

He didn’t look up immediately when the door to the agency opened. He simply greeted the person with a polite, “Hello.”

Nick: Nick sat at his desk at the agency flipping through cases. The pop culture of the old world made the detective life look so glamorous. It really wasn’t.

“Hey, Nicky,” they said.

Nick looked up to see Sole standing in front of the desk. They looked cleaner than usual. Their hair was styled, and they were wearing rather fancy clothes. He realized just how late it was. It was his and Sole’s anniversary, and they had made plans. Work had other ideas it seemed.

“Hey doll, I’m sorry. I know we had plans, but,” he gestured to the stack of papers on his desk.

“It’s alright,” they smiled gently at him, “I figured that that was what’s up, so I thought that we could just have date night here. Besides, looks like you could use some help.”

“I don’t want to make you work,” he tried to argue.

“And I don’t want you to, just let me help.”

“Alright. Here you can look through this,” he said, handing them a file.

They grabbed it from him, but immediately set it down. They reached into the bag they had brought with them.

He raised an eyebrow at them, or he would if he had one. They produced a long thin box.

“I got you something, by the way. I hope you like it.”

He took the box from them, and opened it. Inside was a dark blue, almost black, tie that had tiny gold dots on it. It was definitely pre-war, but it looked like it was in great shape. It had either cost them a fortune, or they had gotten lucky.

“I thought you could use a new one,” they shrugged.

“It’s beautiful, thank you. Just wish I had a reason to wear it.” 

“Then we’ll just have to make a reason.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Piper: Piper wiped the sweat from her brow. The printing press inside Publick Occurrences had broken down. Again. At least it had lasted longer this time.

She heard one of the doors open, but she assumed it was just Nat, so she didn’t say anything. Unless McDonough or Diamond City security were bothering her, Piper was sure she could handle it on her own.

Then the person spoke, and it was definitely not Nat.

“What? I don’t get a hello?” Sole said. 

Piper set down the wrench she was using and stood up. She cleaned her hands off on her pants before turning to them.

“Sorry, I thought you were Nat,” she said.

“It’s okay, printing press break down again?” they asked.

“Yeah,” she sighed, “Needs new parts, but I don’t want Nat to say I told you so.”

“Want me to go get parts, that way she doesn’t know?”

“No, I’ll take care of it, but I certainly wouldn’t mind the company.”

“And I wouldn’t mind providing it.”

PIper blushed slightly. She wondered how Sole was so good with their words.

“What’s that?” she asked, noticing the bag they were holding. It wasn’t their normal pack.

“Your birthday present,” they smiled, handing her the bag.

She took it and peered inside. It was filled with a crimson colored cloth. She set the bag on the ground, and pulled out the cloth. Her eyes widened when she realized it was a dress. A beautiful one at that.

“I hope it fits. Do you like it?”

“Do I like it? Blue I love it! It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“I saw the color, and thought it would look great on you.”

“I’m sure it will,” she realized her hands were still a bit dirty, “It’s a good thing I wiped my hands off.”

“Happy birthday, Piper.”

“Thanks, Blue.”

Speaking of calmness, the Commonwealth was the calmest it had been in a very long time. It was all thanks to Sole. From the moment they had come out of the Vault they had changed everything, and everyone for the better. Including Preston.

Preston: Preston stood on one of the walls of the Castle overlooking the ocean. He understood why there were so many pre-war writings on how calming it is. The sound of the crashing waves were incredibly soothing.

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching him. He turned to see it was Sole.

"I thought you weren't supposed to get back here until tomorrow. Though, I'm not complaining," they greeted him. They're hands were behind their back.

"I managed to speed things along. I wanted to make sure I got back in time for our anniversary."

"Speaking of which, I got you something."

"You did?" He asked. He had gotten them something too, but he still got a bit nervous. 

"Yes," they removed their hands from behind them to reveal a box. He was unsure how they had managed to hide it for as long as they had. 

He took the box from them, and opened it. Inside was a brand new hat just like the one he already wore, but beneath it were a pair of gloves just as new as the hat. He had needed a new pair for a while. His fingers were going to wear through at any point. He picked up one of them. It was high quality leather, and at the hem was the Minutemen symbol stitched with gold string.

He looked up at Sole, who was smiling shyly at him.

“Do you like them? I know they aren’t the most romantic gift, but you need new ones, and a new hat never hurts.”

“Of course I like them, babe. Thank you. What matters is that you got them for me.”

“I’m glad you like them. Meet me for dinner?”

“Of course.”

“Raider again?” Sole asked from behind him to his left.

Sturges: Sturges was working on a turret that a raider had been taking potshots at. Luckily the other turrets had been able to take him down before he hurt any of the people, but he had done substantial damage to it with just a pipe pistol.

It was a good thing he didn’t startle easy, as he did not hear them approach.

“Yeah.”

“You think they’re ever going to learn to not mess with the turrets?”

“Not as a whole.”

“Damn raiders. Sorry you have to spend our anniversary doing this.”

“‘Salright, long as I’ve got you by my side I’m a happy man.”

“Well, hopefully this will make you happier,” they said, placing a box on the table next to the destroyed turret.

“Aw, you didn’t have to get me anything,” he said sweetly.

“No, but I wanted to. You need it anyway.”

He opened it, his curiosity piqued. Inside was a welding mask. He had been looking for one for a while now. Welding goggles did a good job at protecting his eyes, but didn’t do anything for the rest of his face.

They leaned against the table, “I know you’ve been keeping your eyes out for one, and I want to protect your pretty face.”

“You know you can relax, right? Have a seat,” they said from their seat at the dining table.

He chuckled, “Thanks darlin’. It’ll be put to good use. I’ll make up the lost time to you later, yeah?”

X6-88: X6 stood stiffly inside Home Plate just in front of the door. Much to the chagrin of the scientists, Sole insisted on visiting the surface every now and then. He wasn’t complaining though.

“Yes, I know,” he said. He knew he didn’t need to finish the thought. Sole was slowly but surely easing the way the scientists treated the synths. They were fully aware that synths were fully able to think and feel, and realized the best way to keep them from escaping was by treating them right. Though they held all of the power, they could be kicked out at any moment.

He sat at the table with them, “So, why are we here exactly?”

“I was looking through some of the terminals, because I was wondering if they kept track of when synths were created,” they explained, “and it turns out they do. So, I brought you here today, because today is basically your birthday, and I knew the scientists wouldn’t be fond of me celebrating it.”

He didn’t respond. Not because he felt uncomfortable showing how touched he felt, but because he didn’t know how to respond.

“And,” they continued, reaching into the bag they had brought with them, “I got you these.”

They placed a package of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes on the table between them.

“These are for me?” he asked.

“Yes,” they smiled.

“I, well, thank you, Sole.”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Dragon Egg (Parts 19-25)

Another set of chapters for @secrettunnelatla’s event.

Chapter 19 Leather For Sequin

She should be eating better, should be better hydrated, should bathe more,  should exercise more, should be sleeping better. She finds it harder to do these things at all, much less to an optimal degree. Sleeping is especially hard, having favored doing so on her belly. It helps little that the baby seems to be particularly active when she is trying to sleep with its kicks and squirms. She still can’t get used to it, she doesn’t think she will. It leaves her feel queasier than the morning sickness ever had.

Even if she were as physically comfortable as possible she doesn’t think she’d sleep. Her mind is stuck on Seicho and on all of the articles she has scrolled through during the past few days. Articles that drag her name through the mud and articles that praise Blue Talon for things she should be credited for. She lies awake, staring at the ceiling, hands clasped over her belly. She finds the baby’s foot--or maybe it is a hand--and rubs over the spot, a fruitless attempt to get her to settle down. All the while her mind runs in circles over the headline, ‘Fire’s Reign’s Fire Lord Ozai Denounces Pregnant Daughter’. She didn’t think that he would so publicly condemn her. She should have; he does, afterall, have an image to protect. As if he hasn’t already tarnished it with his binge drinking. She imagines that Zuko is probably getting a good kick out of it. She brings her rubbing to a stop and closes her eyes.

She gets little sleep, but enough of it that she has to be woken by Zhao. She doesn’t know why he bothers, it isn’t as though she will make use of the day. But the man is annoyingly persistent, refusing to leave the living room until she declares that she has to get dressed.

She slips into one of Koemi’s dresses. Eventually she is going to have to pester Zhao to help her buy at least one outfit that suits her aesthetic more, his wife’s attire is absolutely gaudy. Today’s disaster is orange with a sunflower print, which might not have been so horrible if the sunflowers weren’t purple and pink in color. She feels more ridiculous than usual when she emerges into the kitchen.

“I have some good news for you.” Zhao smiles.

“You’re going to take me back to that volcano you hated so much and pitch me into it.” She mumbles.

The man looks horror-stricken. If she weren’t so low she certainly would have laughed.

“I managed to get you a record deal under a new label.”  

“Please tell me that it isn’t Uncle Iroh’s sketchy basement recording studio.”

“It isn’t. It is another label that I work for.”

“And which one is that?”

“WSLSE.”

Apparently her reaction isn’t satisfactory.

“Wan Shi Tong’s Library Of Sound Entertainment.” He clarifies. “You left a good impression on the man. Raava has also been speaking fondly of you.” He slaps a print out onto the table and pushes it to her. “You have been visiting the wrong websites.”

Her brows crinkle. “You have no right to…”

“Monitor my children’s browsing activity?” He asks. “My children still listen to Happy Hei Bai and my wife doesn’t follow music news. That leaves one person who would search up Blue Talon over and over again.”

She folds her arms. “What of it?”

“You’re making yourself miserable.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “All of this talent is just...confined to a couch.” He pauses. “Which is why I took it upon myself to get you signed to a new label…”

“With what band, Zhao!”

“You’re a soloist now.”

“A soloist?” She sputters.

“You don’t exactly mesh well with people.”

No doubt he had overheard her screeching at Seicho. “And yet, I can’t seem to do without them.”

He chuckles. “That’s where we disagree. You have a divine voice, to have it buried under wailing guitars and pounding drums is a shame. The idea I pitched is to have you go acapella and truly showcase your voice for everything that it is.”

Azula’s face pales. “In other words, there’s no room for error. Mistakes are easily detectable.”

“You aren’t one for mistakes and error.”

She frowns rather deeply and gestures to her bump. Ever the gentleman Zhao tiptoes his way back a statement or two. “You won’t be alone, you’ll have a team of fantastic producers and a very talented manager.”

Azula inhales through her nose.

“I dropped Blue Talent to focus on this new project…”

“Me.” Somehow she manages to frown more deeply still. “You dropped a band with a perfectly flawless trajectory for me. Since when do you take risks?”

“Since I found someone worth placing a bet on.”

“That’s what I am to you, a bet. A product.”

“A child.” Zhao cuts in. “I’ve known you since you were as young as my own little ones.”

She massages the bridge of her nose. “Zhao, Audio of Agni is a battle of the bands.”

His smile falters. “I am working on that.”

“Spirits, Zhao! What’s the point of putting me back  in the studio if--”

“You don’t need Audio of Agni to make it big.” He mutters. “I don’t know what it is with you youths and hinging your entire careers on it. We didn’t have battle of the bands when I got into this industry. The Tui La’s didn’t part-take until the fourth event.”

“Zhao…”

He cuts her off once more, the audacity of the man. “We’re going to make a name for you regardless of Audio of Agni. And we’ll do it on raw talent alone.”

“Acapella artists never do well.”

“Acapella artists seldom do well. Most of them are generic. Their voices don’t stand out without instruments.”

“I’m known for metal music…”

“And you’re capable of ballads and operatics. With this project we’re going to put emphasis on your clean vocals. Once that takes off, we can take more risks--you can try doing acapella with those screaming vocals…”

This time she cuts him off. “What about piercings and tattoos says, ‘acapella and opera artist’?”

“Your vocals don’t have to match your looks. But if you must have it that way, we can swap out some of your piercings for less...bold ones. We can cover the tattoo. Your pregnancy might help with this new image.”

She cringes though she isn’t entirely opposed to a more elegant style of dress; she enjoys the glitz and glimmer every now and again. But, Agni, she can’t pull it off not when she has let herself go like this.

“Your first session will be tomorrow, I’ll send my wife shopping with you, you could use a wardrobe for photoshoots and what not.”

She only agrees so that she won’t have to beg the man to buy her better clothes.

Chapter 20 Dragon Tongue

It is daunting to see one of her monikers in the headlines again. To see it there in a more neutral, speculative light. ‘Blue Talon Vocalist Flies Again as Dragon Tongue’. She wishes that she could feel something other than dread, a growing sense that she is only building up momentum for a mightier, more embarrassing fall than her first one.

The announcement of her new single is daunting. And attempting to record a whole new extended play before Audio of Agni and the birth of her baby is twice that. Hama is adamant that she should be taking it much easier, especially since finding out that her baby might be born with an unusually low weight.

She thinks that she should be taking it slower. And yet she can’t afford anymore slacking. She has already wasted so much time sulking and moping and making a deeper mess of herself.

And so she is in the recording booth again and with new material. Material and lyrics that are so much rawer. So much more painful to sing through. They are confessions of shame and inadequacy. Laments of betrayal. And ballads of loneliness. And she can’t hide any of the pain behind indistinguishable growls or loud guitar shreds. It is all crisp and vivid. Open. Naked. She isn’t sure that she wants to do this anymore. Not when every session brings her closer to tears. Closer to a total meltdown.

Every session reminds her of what she lost. Every session reminds her that what she is doing now is nothing compared to what she could have been doing. Every session reminds her of Mai and TyLee and of Seicho.

And when her mind isn’t ailing, her body is aching. Aching in ways that she hadn’t anticipated. Her feet hurt so bad, they hurt when she is sitting down. Her ankles are swollen--Hama assures her that this is normal. As normal as the persistent ache in her back and the odd nose bleeds and congestion that she gets every now and then. On those congested days, she can’t even work.

On other days she finds herself short of breath. Her growing baby is pushing against her lungs. On those days her voice is so weak and breathy. She records regardless. Perhaps she would have allowed herself a break if Zhao weren’t so adamant that the breathy quality gives her a one of a kind sound. An ethereal sound.

She is inclined to disagree. She just sounds weak and weird. She pushes through, she always pushes through.

She promises herself that, whatever she does, she will not read the critiques of her new work. Her self-esteem is already in tatters. They talk more about her pregnancy and what it is doing to her body than they do her work. In that regard she almost hopes that Dragon Tongue is such a flop that it will eclipse that sort of talk.

It is well into the evening. The studio gets so much quieter in the evening. And in the silence her loneliness is emphasized. She remembers late nights of purposely poor vocals and drinking. Of idle chatter between songs. She remembers the crashing of a drumsets when Chan forgets to watch where he steps. She remembers stupid cover songs when they had time to kill. She remembers laughing. She remembers happiness. She remembers friendship.

Chapter 21 A Phoenix In The Winter

His world is in a perpetual winter. A little is no longer enough. He no longer needs food or love or inspiration. He no longer needs a band. He only needs a white winter and his presents come in pouches and needles.

He is losing his senses; of time, of himself, of everything really. One day is the same as the next and none of them bring him any closer to true stardom. His bursts of artificial energy only result in disjointed lyrics and half-assed ideas.

There is no organization and no real attempt to turn them into full songs. He has missed shows to the point of his tour being cancelled. It is so much money down the drain that even Iroh has turned his head. And when the word ‘rehab’ falls from his lips, Zuko runs. Perhaps not literally, but he hasn’t spoken to his uncle since, snubbing all attempts at conversation.

He is perpetually twitchy and agitated and Iroh makes a mistake. He enters the room, guns blazing, “Zuko, get in the car.” It is firm but not firm enough for him to put the needle down. The man sighs, “alright, nephew…”

The minute his hands take him by the shoulders, he is on the ground and Zuko is standing over him seething. “Don’t tell me what to do! What are you, anyways!? A fat, lazy, washed up rockstar! I don’t need advice from you!” But he does, he needs it more than ever. He yanks Iroh up and drags him to the door. He knows that uncle is holding back. He would be flat on his own ass if he wasn’t.

“Zuko, don’t do this. Let me help you get off of this path.” He hears as the door slams.

He is already too far down this path. His only option is to keep on walking. Walking down his cracked and lonely, frigid path. It is desolate now that drumsets, guitars, and microphones no longer clutter the street. He doesn’t pass many people. It is just he and the snow and it is falling thicker than ever.

Iroh hasn’t dropped him from the label yet, but he isn’t making anything of it and so it comes as no surprise to him when TyLee informs him that she would like to try her hand at the school’s gymnastics squad. He lets her go because she can have something. She can make something of herself.

He is less surprised when Mai declares that she is going to write a few poems or, “maybe just focus on school.”

It is fine with him, he doesn’t want to drag them under with him. And so he sits alone in the dark, huddled in a corner rocking back and forth, enveloped in a drug induced anxiety. A state of panic and paranoia that he can’t seem to stave off.

He is deep into it when his phone rings. “We need to talk.” Says the voice on the other end.

“Not right now, Mai. I can’t talk right now, Mai.”

She exhales long and audibly. “Yeah, that’s just it, Zuko. You never want to talk. You never want to do anything…” she backtracks some. “You only want to do one thing. You’re high right now aren’t you?”

“Yes...no?” He doesn’t remember. He isn’t sure if he is coming down or in the middle of a bad trip. “Mai? Mai, are you there.”

“I was there, Zuko. But I’m not now. Not anymore. I can’t be.” The line goes dead.

Phoenixes aren’t meant for snow. It is no wonder he is dying.

.oOo.

The school has been closed for hours now. The windows are as dark as he feels within. He scales his way up the roof. Up to the place where his hopes were born and discussed. He can practically taste the cigarette smoke, the anticipation, the energy that came with a dream in the making.

In its wake is a stale taste, he will drown it with another. He pops the cap off of his beer and gives it a good chug, music blasts loudly and aggressively through his headphones. He drapes them around his neck so that he may hear the cars below and the wind around him. It rustles his flannel shirt.

It’s a nice night, clear and warm. Spangled by a vast array of stars that he can’t seem to reach no matter how high he climbs, no matter how far he reaches. He lays back, he wishes he could relax but he doesn’t have enough coke in his system for it. He sits up for another good drink and then another until he feels a buzz. He doesn’t have enough bottles to take him any further. He supposes he doesn’t really need the help, he has his own woes and hopelessness to propel him the rest of the way.

He stands up and makes his way to the very edge of the roof. He swings his arms back and forth in preparation. He takes a deep breath, the song drones on. He takes another breath. Swings his arms. He’ll finish the song and that’s it. Then he’ll take flight.

He inhales deeply as the song fades out. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out, inclined to throw it as hard as he can; at this point, Mai can go fuck herself. But it isn’t Mai’s name that decorates the screen. It isn’t TyLee’s. It isn’t even Iroh’s.

He doesn’t know why, but he picks up the phone. For a moment he only hears breathing, breathing and perhaps sniffling. It takes him a moment to realize what he is hearing, but before he can make anything of it, she speaks, “Zuzu?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Zuzu, I really need someone. I need you.”

Chapter 22 The Dragon & The Phoenix

His chest constricts and he grits his teeth. “I need someone too.”  He turns off his music and kicks the empty bottles, they shatter upon the pavement below. “Where are you?” The line goes dead and a text comes through.

By all means, he shouldn’t be driving, but he climbs behind the wheel of Iroh’s car. Spirits, he hopes that he doesn't wreck it. Iroh is already furious.

Truth be told he hadn't known what to expect. Throughout the drive images flashed through his mind, each of them involving a drunkenly enraged Ozai and Azula huddled in the corner. When he reaches the studio he does fine her in the corner. But she is alone.

Alone and very heavily pregnant. He thinks that he remembers reading about that somewhere but, like many other things, it had slipped his mind. For a moment he thinks that he got the wrong address, he doesn’t recognize her with her belly so big and her expression so tired and defeated.

Even if he did have the wrong address, he wouldn’t have left. He couldn’t have. He can’t remember the last time he had sobered up so abruptly. With fumbling fingers he ties his headphones tightly around her arm just above her wrist.

Her other hand comes to squeeze his own wrist. “You don’t have to, it’s not that deep.” She mumbles softly.

“Not that deep!?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I changed my mind. It’s...it’s really not that deep, I just need a bandage.” She gestures vaguely towards the door. “There’s a first aid kit in the lobby.”

He gets up to leave and hesitates, casting a look back at her.

“Go on, Zuzu. I’m not going to do anything else. I...I don’t want to die.”

He wishes that he could say the same. He comes back with the first aid kit and begins bandaging her wrist only to have her slap his hand away with a curt, “I can do it myself.”

He scoffs, “then what the fuck am I here for?”

She flinches. “Nothing, never mind. You can go.”

He rubs his hands over his face. He hasn’t spoken to her in so long, he’d forgotten how she can be. Even when she’s asking for help she can’t swallow her pride. Even when she’s asking for help she’s intolerable. He almost does leave but he thinks that if he does she might just change her mind a second time. He sighs, “why did you ask me to come here if you don’t want my help?”

She holds her silence until he is on the very edge of frustration. “I want you, Zuzu. I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

“So I’m your last resort?”

She nods. At least he can commend her for her honesty.

“I think that I need to talk to you specifically.”

His brows furrow, “why do you think that?”

“Because you would understand.”

He tilts his head.

“What failure is like.” She elaborates.

He feels as though he has been punched in the gut. “Seriously, you called me here to insult me? I don’t need this shit right now, okay!”

She shakes her head vigorously. “I--no, that’s not what I meant.” She rubs her hands over her face. He cringes at the smear of blood she leaves behind. He doesn’t think that she has noticed. If she has, she doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

“What else can you mean?”

She thinks for a moment, “Empathy. I’m empathizing?”

He has to laugh. He face falls. It is his turn to clarify, “we’re a pathetic duo, aren’t we?”

She nods, “very.”  She wipes the remaining tears from her eyes. “I suppose that it’s the rockstar lifestyle. The parts they don’t talk about…”

“Or it’s the father that raised us.” He grumbles. For once she doesn’t protest this. He wonders just what the man did to her. “What happened? You were doing so good.”

“So were you.” And with a shake of  her head she adds,  “no I wasn’t.”

“Neither was I…” He trails off.

“What happened…” she repeats the question back to him and then she rubs her good hand over her baby bump.

“Right. Yeah. That’ll do it.” He frowns. “Chan’s?”

“How’d you know?”

“He’s a total tool.” Zuko shrugs.

She laughs, a very quiet and sad sort of chuckle but a laugh no less. “What about you, Zuzu. I haven’t heard a thing about From Ashes To Phoenix since…”

“Since I went berserk and got arrested at my own concert? Yeah. Because there hasn’t been a thing to talk about since.”

“Not even one new song?”

“There’s no time for songs when you’re...when you’re…”

“On drugs?” She finishes. “Zuko, what happened to us? How did this happen?”

“It just did, I guess.” He frowns. It is much more complex than that. “Are you still with father, I’m sure that Iroh wouldn’t mind letting you stay with us. He probably needs a break from me.”

“I’m staying with Zhao. He got me a new record deal and…”

And Zuko is once again furious. Even when she’s falling, she’s still on her way up. She still has something going for her. She’s probably still getting good publicity. Hell, even bad publicity can take her far. It’s all about the spotlight and she decided to open her wrists. And with a baby in her belly. Perhaps that is why she changed her mind so quickly. Perhaps it is why she had made her initial decision. The anger passes as quickly as it had come over him. “I’m angry all the time.” He doesn’t mean to cut her off, it just falls from his lips. He hasn’t really gotten a chance to get it out.

“I can tell.” She replies. “It’s in your eyes.” She seems to hum to herself. “But you have Mai,TyLee, and Iroh, right?”

He shakes his head. “They’re all disappointed, mad, both?”

“Everyone, except Zhao--I guess--is angry with me.”

“For being pregnant?”

“For being...unbearable. You don’t even want to be here, Zuzu. I can tell.” “I don’t want to be anywhere, actually. It has nothing to do with you. Really, it doesn’t.” He pauses. “I was about to jump.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“I was interrupted.”

She nods and then her eyes widen, only briefly, with understanding. “Why didn’t you call me?”

He almost tells her that it is because she is her. Instead he responds, “I didn’t think about it, I guess. Drugs do that.”

She nods again. And then her eyes light up. “You can record things with me! I won’t be alone anymore and you’ll be able to get back on track!”

“I can’t focus on music right now.”

And her face falls again.

“But you can still talk to me. I can go with you to appointments.” He offers.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Can I come with you to rehab?”

He rubs his hands over his face. “I guess. If Uncle is still willing to take me there.”

“He’s uncle. Of course he’ll still take you.”

Chapter 23 Life In The Embers

She feels both better and worse all at once. In a sense it had been liberating to let her emotions flood over, to get them out, to let herself reach the very bottom. There is a sense of calm that follows in its wake. A sense of calm that has compelled her to call Seicho and ask her if she could meet her in the recording studio. Only after the girl had said that she would think about it did Azula send her, her schedule for that week.

At the very least, she can talk to Zuko now. Even if much of their conversation has been getting him through the first stages of withdrawal. Truthfully it was nothing like she had expected.There was no shaking, no vomiting nor sweating. If she didn’t know him she would say that he wasn’t going through withdrawals at all. But she does know him well enough to know that he isn’t himself.

It has been six days since he’d found her with her bleeding wrists and five days since she’d accompanied him to his first rehab visit. Five days since Iroh, for the first time, looked at her with care and trust.  Five days since she realized that she might not be left on her own with this baby. Five days and she is due to check in on Zuzu, if only to intimidate him into keeping on track.

She removes her studio headphones, hangs them up on their designated rack, and exits the recording booth.

“Done for the day?” Zhao asks.

Azula nods, “I promised Zuzu that I would meet him at The Serpant’s Pass Cafe. I’m ahead of schedule anyhow.”

“Very ahead. You’re only a song away from a full setlist.” Zhao agrees. “How about you take the day off. If you’re up for it, I can try to get in touch with a director and we can discuss a music video. It doesn’t have to be fancy…”

“I think that simplicity will work well for this new sound.” Azula agrees. “We’ll talk, Zhao.”

For the first time in a while, she leaves the recording studio with a smile. A smile and a sense that things will come together as they used to. She slips her sunglasses over her eyes and makes her way across the street as hastily and discreetly a possible. People are paying her attention again and it comes in the form of photo op and autograph requests and an occasional paparazzi intrusion. For now she evades their lurking.

She finds Zuko sitting at the corner most table of the cafe’s patio, already well into an appetizer. She slips into her chair only to find that it is not an appetizer at all, but spicy wings. “You started eating without me?”

He shrugs, “want one?”

She shakes her head.

“But you love spicy food.”

“The baby doesn’t.” She frowns.

“Well I already ordered the rest of our food.”  He gestures to the waiter heading for their table with a rather absurd amount of platters. Between her pregnancy and his withdrawal cravings, she and him are a horrid duo in this regard. She thinks to question it only until Zuko begins tearing into his meal.

She rolls her eyes, “don’t be sloppy.” At least she can handle her liberal appetite with poise and grace.

“Don’tell me whadda do.” He grumbles through a mouthful.

She cringes. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He repeats himself. When he finally swallows the rest of his food he asks, “how have you been holding up.”

Azula sighs deeply, “I can’t breathe properly and I’ve had this annoying itch.”

“An itch.”

“On my belly.”

“Is that...normal?”

“Hama, my physician, says that it is. Something about skin expanding and dryness.” Nevermind the technicalities, the results are very mildly agitating. “And you, Zuzu?”

He frowns, “it’s hard Azula. You can’t even imagine.”

“You look better.”

“But I feel...restless and anxious. And depressed--I’m not sure if this is the drugs though.” He pauses. “I’m tired all the time and the nightmares don’t help.”

“What sort of nightmares?”

“They’re intense. Everyone is reminding me that I’m not going to amount to anything. Dad is always there. He...does things to me in these dreams. Worse than the real stuff.”

Azula nods.

“And Mai is there. So is TyLee, but she’s...weird. She contorts in ways that are crazy even for TyLee. I also had a dream that Aang, you remember him, right?”

“The neighbor kid with the big dog who liked to eat glue? I remember him, yeah. Why?”

“In one of my dreams he had these wild powers and there was this comet and Aang had to stop our father from using it to set the whole world on fire.”

Azula blinks, “Zuzu, there are corners of your mind that disturb me.”

He laughs. Admittedly it is nice to hear him laugh and nicer still to know that she has helped him laugh--a far cry from the distress she used to cause him.

“I suppose that I wouldn’t sleep easily either if I was dreaming about the glue kid getting superpowers.”

He laughs again. “Thanks for coming here, Azula. It’s nice to have someone to keep me company while I go through this.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, Zuzu.” She roll her eyes. She knows that if he does and starts hitting the right cords that she’ll probably start weeping, a humiliating mess of chaotic hormones. “I suppose that I share the sentiment.” She taps her fingers nails against the tabletop, they have grown increasingly long as of late. “You should try to get in good graces with Mai and TyLee again.”

“So should you?” He quirks a brow.

“They’re your bandmates and you still have a chance if you get it together. You already have enough material for Audio of Agni, you just need some publicity. Good publicity.” She pauses. “Of course, you’ll need a band first.”

“Azula, I’m still going through withdrawals.”

“All the more reason to do it. You could use a distraction.”

“You’re a distraction.”

“A bigger distraction. I can’t be here all the time, I have doctor appointments and a career to keep on top of. I’ve only just started getting back on front pages…” for good reasons, she nearly adds, “I need to keep my momentum.”

“So you’re choosing your career over me.”

“I’m choosing my well-being, my baby’s well-being. I don’t really have many other options, a successful solo project is my best chance to provide for this baby.”

“Have you considered adoption?”

It comes like a slap to the face, though she doesn’t think that he means it as such. She bites back her initial scathing retort. “I’m not going through all of this discomfort, disowning, and humiliation just to give the baby away. It’s mine. I want her.”

Zuko lifts his hands, “alright, sorry.”  He puts them back down. “I was just really hoping that you’d be here more. I know, I’m surprised too; you’re insensitive and kind of the worst.”

“You’re a funny man, Zuko.” She responds dryly. “I’m not going to abandon you, not when you’re this pathetic. I just think that you should have more support than just me.”

“Do you have any other support?”

“Seicho, hopefully.” She pauses and pushes her final plate aside. “I’d also like to speak with Mai and TyLee again.”  She stands up and pushes her chair in.

“I’ll try to talk to them.”

“Make sure to mention that you’re in rehab and that you know you’re an asshole. The asshole bit is especially necessary with Mai.”

“I’ll call you and let you know how it goes?”

“It better go well.”  She wishes herself the same luck.

.oOo.

Azula looks much better now, happier, healthier, stronger. There is a radiance about her, something subtle but still present. And it is no wonder; she is back in the press again and much of the headlines predict a groundbreaking and unexpected comeback. The boast of a fallen vocalist whose flame is rising again despite it all. Seicho wonders if the girl is even aware.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Seicho, it is nice to see you again.”

Seicho nods. “Sure, Azula.”

Her gait is rather awkward as she walks alongside her. It prompts Seicho to inquire, “are things going well with the baby?”

“Mostly, yes. Hama has a few concerns.”

“You look a lot better.” Seicho remarks.

“Ugg, if only I felt that way.”

It comes to Seicho then, that the girl is breathing quite heavily, “do you need me to slow down.”

Azula nods, “a little bit yes.”

Seicho chuckles and slings her arm over Azula’s shoulders. She wishes that the girl weren’t so endearing, maybe then she could have drawn her resentment out longer. As things are, Azula is quite precious with her semi-clumsy gait and that genteler twinkle in her eyes. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I would like you to consider not being angry with me anymore.”

Seicho bursts out laughing. “Azula, that is the worst peacemaking opener I have ever heard.”

“How am I supposed to do it?”

“‘I’m sorry that I went off on you for no reason’, would be a good way.”

Azula’s cheeks flush. Seicho thinks that hers might be growing pink as well. She’s adorable, unquestionably so. “I...don’t usually...apologize to people.”

“I can tell.”

Her entire face is red now.

“You’re doing pretty alright.

“Does that mean you are considering my proposal? To not be mad at me?”

Seicho rolls her eyes. “Yes, that’s what it means.” That hopeful little smile seals the deal. “You wanna tell me about your new song ideas? This new concept is...different.”

“Do you like it?”

“I think that it suits you well.” Seicho replies. “You have a pretty voice. I didn’t realize that you had that kind of range. The breathing techniques are really bizarre but they sound neat.”

“Oh, those aren’t techniques. That is me suffering while I try to sing with this baby crushing my lungs.” Her eyes go wide for a flicker. “You’ve been listening to my new music?”

“N-no, well, it’s been on the radio so I couldn’t avoid it!”

She shakes her head, “you listened enough to be able to give me a review.”

“Fine, I’ve been listening to your new material. But I was still mad the whole time, okay? I was listening with resentment.”

Chapter 24

With a new digital album release and a highly anticipated music video in the works, Azula is growing confident again though Audio Of Agni still seems to be far out of her reach. If she makes the right moves and if her pregnancy doesn’t spring up any surprises, she might just be able to make it without the competition. It isn’t ideal and it is terribly frustrating, but at least she doesn’t feel so helpless anymore.

Mostly she feels drained and achy. Her sides stitch from time to time and her entire lower body is growing sore from carrying so much extra weight around. She exhales, she isn’t sure how much more of this she can take.  Hama had warned her about the small contractions but they still take her by surprise every time.

They happen now, and when she could really use a break from them. She is just thankful that she is through with recording. From the looks of it, she will have to find a way to shoot the music video mostly sitting or laying. She has passed several ideas onto Zhao, her favorite being a trip to the local theater where she can perch herself on a stool and sing to an empty venue. They can make use of dramatic lighting and add glitter or glow effects electronically. It is simple and will rely on old time Noh theater aesthetics and a stunning costume. She anticipates that the mask will be the most expensive piece. The simpler, one location video will leave plenty of room in the budget for that.

She casts a look at the door. “They’ll be here soon.” Seicho assures her.

“But what if they decide not to come? Mai, TyLee, and I haven’t parted on good terms.” She rubs her hand over her belly.

“You’ve been helping Zuko out so much, you practically saved their band, how mad can they be?”

She isn’t sure that she wants to find out. Not that she has the chance to retract her invitation she hears a knock and climbs to her feet. Her bump lightly knocks against the table as she does so and she curses to herself. “I can get it, you know?”

Azula waves her hand dismissively. “I’m pregnant, not useless.”

.oOo.

Zuko hadn’t realized just how much a few weeks could change a person. Her cheeks are rosier and the bump is bigger still. In spite of it all, her look of prowess and determination has returned. She wears her pride as though it had never slipped from her grasp at all. Frankly, he hadn’t realized that it was truly missing until having seen it returned.

“Oh wow, you’re so big!” TyLee comments,clasps her hands, and holds them to her lips.

Azula’s face, already flushed lightly, grows redder still.

“How far along are you?” TyLee asks.

“Month six.” Azula huffs as she gestures them inside.

“Congratulations?” Mai quirks a brow.

She clears her throat, “thank you.”

He watches her make her way to her seat. She backtracks to fetch her water bottle and semi-clumsily saunters her way back to her seat.

“Still adjusting?” Mai asks.

“Constantly adjusting.” Azula grumbles before taking a drink. She rests her free hand on the bump. “You’re mostly done going through withdrawals, yes, Zuzu?”

He nods. “Sometimes I still really want to use again. Badly. It’s unbearable...it would be if I didn’t…”

“Take my advise and get back into the music industry? Yes, I am aware. You are welcome.” He has to laugh at her audacity, at least these days it is somewhat endearing. “You look a lot better Zuzu. Your eyes don’t have bags that reach to the floor anymore.”

“I don’t know if you’re trying to compliment me or insult me.”

“It’s a compliment, I’m saying that you don’t look like a walking corpse anymore.”  

Somehow, he does feel a sense of pride in that. It is progress. Progress that he has made. Progress that he is still making. And she isn’t the only one who has noted these changes. Azula has certainly changed radically in the past few weeks, but he can’t deny that the changes in him have been just as dramatic even if they are less outwardly perceived. He does feel better about himself; he feels more inspired than ever, more creative and, for a change, it isn’t synthetic. It is all him, his mind, his...brilliance. He thinks that he can consider himself smart, at the very least he can consider himself not dumb.

She pulls out a pen and a sheet of paper. “So let’s start talking about music. I read over some of your new lyrics, they are rather solid they can just use some fine tuning and better penmanship, I don’t know what this is supposed to say.” She gestures to the worst of his chicken scratch.

He finds himself beaming regardless. She had given him a real compliment. He has written something worth singing. He could cry...

“Azula, can we just...be friends again first?” TyLee asks.

Her brows furrow, “you want to be friends again.”

TyLee smiles and nods. “To be honest, I don’t really even remember why we were fighting.”

“Because she kept picking on my boyfriend and working us to exhaustion.” Mai shrugs.

Azula’s expression darkens again.

“To be fair, she’s been working herself to exhaustion.” Zuko steps in.

She shrugs again, “I suppose that I don’t know many other people who work this hard six months in.”

“I have a lot that needs to be accomplished.”

“And you only have until battle of the bands to do it?”

“Solo artists can’t join.” She frowns, only to perk up again when adding, “but I’ve already written a setlist and a few ideas just in case.”

Zuko laughs, “of course you did.”

“Who is this?” TyLee points to Seicho.

She looks up from her phone, “I’m Azula’s girlfriend.”

“You are?” TyLee and Azula ask at once.

Seicho looks at Azula, “I thought that you knew that.”

“Azula is clueless.” Mai rolls her eyes. “You can take her on as many dates as you’d like, you can kiss her several times--”

“I have! Mostly in the recording booth between songs.” She declares.

“--And she still won’t put two and two together until you tell her that you’re dating.”

Seicho drapes her arm over Azula’s shoulder and pulls her closer. Her other hand reaches for Azula’s. “I go with her to her appointments too. I figured that she can pretend like I’m the baby’s father since Chan is an ass.”

“It’s Chan’s?” TyLee gasps. “He said that--”

“He lied. It is easier to make me out to be...dangerously promiscuous.”

“Oh Azula, I’m sorry.”

Azula offers only a dismissive wave. “Enough baby and drama talk. We need to start discussing music before the studio closes for the night. They lock up on Mondays for cleaning.”

.oOo.

All in all the night has been a success on a musical level and on a social level. The departure of Mai and TyLee is such a stark contrast to their last one. They part with an offer to team up with and do vocals for From Ashes To Phoenix should they make it to Audio Of Agni as well as an offer to invite her to game night at Iroh’s.

“I don’t know, card games, potato chips, and a super campy horror movie sound great!” Seicho declares. “Do you think that they’ll be down for basement tattoos?”

“Probably.” Azula answers nonchalantly. “Exactly how do you plan to get this past your parents? The last time I checked, they said that they didn’t want you hanging around some tramp.”

“They’re never home.” She shrugs. “And when they are, they don’t really pay much attention to me. They didn’t even know that I was a tattoo artist until I came home with a sleeve.”

“I see.” She replies. “Am I dropping you off at home or are you coming with me to Zhao’s place?”

“Zhao’s place! He makes a bitchin’ yakitori!”

Chapter 25 A Phone Call

If Iroh has an issue with the blearing music, he keeps it to himself. Azula reaches for another chip. “Hmmm...truth or dare, Azula?” She puts down the chip.

“Dare.”

“You’ve been picking dare all night!” She frowns, putting her hands on her hips.

“What can I say, I’m a daring person.”

“You just don’t want to tell the truth.” Seicho nudges her.

“I dare you to pick truth next time someone asks you to.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Mm mm, it’s not.” TyLee shakes her head, “we didn’t establish that rule when we were establishing the other rules.

“Truth or dare, Mai?”

“Dare.”

TyLee puffs out her cheeks. “You guys never pick truth!”

“I dare you to be the first one to get a tattoo tonight.”

“I’ll get one right now.” Mai shrugs. “I’ve had one on my mind for a while now.”

“Kickass! What can I get for you?” Seicho asks. “You can sketch it out while I get set up.” She leans in to kiss Azula on the forehead before getting up.

“Truth or dare, Zuko?”

He glances at TyLee before choosing dare.

“I dare you to…”

Azula leans over and whispers in her ear.

“I dare you to prank call Zhao.”

He punches Zhao’s number into the landline pinpad. “Hello, is this Zhao?”

Azula, Mai, and TyLee lean over his shoulder.

“Yes, this is Sokka. I am interested in getting a record deal.” He clears his throat. “Sorry, I’m nervous, I’ve never asked for a record deal before. But I have this great concept its...uh…” He looks at Azula. “It’s uh...okay, picture this, seven minutes of dog barks with occasional bursts of that noise you hear when you’ve lost TV signal.” He listens. “No, no! This is a totally serious pitch! I’ve even named the track it’s called, ‘Bark At The Static’ and I think that I’d be great touring with that guy who dresses up as a cabbage and Yodels.”

TyLee snickers.

The line goes dead and Azula sits down to finally have her chip. She dips it into the salsa.

“Okay, truth or truth, Azula?”

She rolls her eyes. “Truth number two.”

“Hmmm, do you miss being in Blue Talon.”

“A little, I suppose. I don’t think that I’d like to go back to them though. They lack integrity.” She scoffs. “They’re using my story to sell the band.”

“Your story?”  Mai asks.

“I wrote about father before I was kicked out of the band.”

“I write about him too.”

“Yes, Zuzu, I’ve been helping you write those songs.”

“Right.”

“Everything’s all set up. You didn’t sketch, did you?”

Mai fishes through her bag, “I did a while ago.” Azula looks it over. It’s a darkly alluring sketch of a hand holding a punctured heart, weeping roses and thorns. “I want it on my left shoulder blade and a simple throwing star on the right one.”  

While Mai gets herself comfortable in Seicho’s makeshift chair, Azula reclains and reads through the newsfeed. Blue Talon is still soaring high as ever, but From Ashes To Phoenix is already garnering heavy attention with their new single announcement. The whole thing was rather sappy story about Zuko’s recent rehab struggles and an apology for acting out on stage. And for herself, Dragon Tongue is finally being praised for her stunning vocals and her soft, divine sound.

Azula is still rather conflicted about how quickly they were to turn from accusing her of pregnancy being obscene and raunchy to them gushing about how a baby on the way is the finishing touch on her new, soothing sound. She supposes that she should be thankful that they are speaking well of her again, regardless of hypocrisy. She wonders if her father is reading these headlines; wonders if her is proud or if he is seething--fuming because she is still rising despite his efforts to snuff her flame.

“What sort of tattoos were the rest of you thinking of getting?”

“I just want a cute little cherry blossom on my pinky!” TyLee answers.

“A broken chain.” Zuko replies. “On my bicep.”

Azula thinks for a moment. “I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out. I have to wait until after the baby is born.”

“Oh, right!” Seicho replies. “Maybe I can help you design one.”

Her phone vibrates in her hand, the number on the screen is unfamiliar. “Hello?”

“Azula?”

“Yes.”

“This is Raava.”

“Raava!?”

She hears the tattoo gun flick off and four heads turn in her direction.

“You have a gift and it will be heard at Audio Of Agni. I’d like to talk with you about a loophole that I found.”

“What sort of loophole?”

“You have done work with From Ashes To Phoenix, yes?”

“I will be recording with them soon.”

“I am going to extend a formal invitation to From Ashes To Phoenix. Given their cooperation, you will perform two of three songs with them and one solo.”

She hadn’t expected to cry that night, but she does. She feels like a fool crying in front of all of them, but she is so relieved. Relieved and hopeful. She hasn’t lost her dream.

It will be an absolute treat to see the shock and horror radiate off of Blue Talon when she makes her appearance. And a larger treat to show her father that her worth is beyond what he can give her.

[rhetoricandlogic]

By: Catherynne M. Valente

Art by: Thais Leiros

Issue: 7 September 2020

9199 words                                                                                   

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Variations in Luminance

Big Edie was a useless piece of shit.

Johanna Telle found the most significant relationship of her life on a Saturday afternoon in late May, sitting on one of those excruciatingly handmade quilts crafty stay-at-homes used to make out of their precious baby’s old clothes and putting a deep, damp dent in the buttercup-infested lawn of 11 Buckthorn Drive, Ossining, New York. A four-pointed Arkansas Traveler star radiated out around her, each of the four diamond patches so exquisitely nailing the era of the quilter’s pax materna that Johanna pulled out her Leica and snapped a shot before the homeowners could stop her: The Pretenders, Captain Planet Says No Nukes, Got Milk? and a Hypercolor tee subjected, as so many had been, to the indignity of a commercial dryer until it finally gave up the thermochromic ghost, its worn cotton-poly blend permanently stuck on a sad blown-out pink.

And Big Edie in the middle, ugly as all the sins of man, with a box of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Second Edition modules on the eastern point of the compass, a mint condition Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Sewer Lair Playset to the west, a working laserdisc player up north, and down south, one beefy hardcase Samsonite in Executive Silver with a handwritten sign on it promising a complete set of signed first edition Danielle Steel hardbacks inside. A steal at $300, suitcase included.

Still life with late 80's/early 90's. Johanna loved it.

But she only had eyes for Big Edie. The absolute and utter trashbeast technological abortion winking up cheekily at her from within a nest of vanished childhoods.

She’d driven all the way out into the golden calcified time-bubble of the Hudson Valley after the ephemeral promises of an estate sale. The people here had so much money they never had to grow or change or evolve past the approximate epoch of their children’s most precocious years. That’s how Johanna had gotten a Hasselblad for $90 and a fake phone number a couple of years ago at a fuck-Gam-Gam-just-get-rid-of-this-junk free-for-all in Stonybrook. You just crossed your eyes and hoped the kids were the type to tell everyone who never asked that social media was a disease and didn’t sully themselves with Google or eBay.

This was clearly the case on that late-May Ossining afternoon. The card balanced against Big Edie’s case read:

Does Not Work. $50 OBO.

Johanna Telle smiled in the perfect post-processed sun. The EDC-55 ED-Beta Camcorder retailed for a cool $7700 in 1987. Just over sixteen grand in 2015 funbucks. It could produce over 550 lines of resolution in an age where high definition was barely even a phrase. Automatic iris control, dual 2-3 inch precision CCD imaging, Fujinon f1.7 range macro zoom, on-the-fly audio/video editing, capable of recording in hi-fi stereo and most impressively for its time, native video playback. Angular black and matte silver bug-ugly design. The last glorious 13.5-kilogram gasp of the Betamax world, still in its hardcase shell, that particular shade of tan that meant Serious Business for the Terminally 80's Man.

In digital terms, Big Edie was prehistoric. Big Edie was fucking Cretaceous. If there was a camera set up on a tripod to record what happened when the primordial soup stopped being polite and started getting real, Big Edie would have been a top-tier choice for the discerning prosumer.

Big Edie was archaeology.

Johanna whipped her faded seafoam-green hair to one side and hefted that machine corpse onto her dark brown shoulder. She was comically heavy. The weight of a dead world, its concerns long quieted.

Johanna Telle, when she was paying attention, when she was happy, in those moments when she was most definitively Johanna, saw down to the deeps of things. It was all she was really good at, in her estimation. She saw that world, le regime ancien, projected onto the back of her skull like a drive-in theater screen.

When she was little, she’d sat criss-cross applesauce in her mother’s lap in a kind of mute blue nirvana, watching a crew send an unmanned submersible in a metal cage down the icy miles to find the HMS Titanic. Before her father left them, before they lost the house, before the hundred little fatal cuts of getting from one end of childhood to the other. Long beams of light broke the black water of forgetting and scattered across that ghostly bow and found what had been lost. Impossibly lost. Forever. Johanna had barely been able to breathe. She knew herself then, in that terrifying way you know things when you are small. The warmth of her mother’s chest rose and fell behind her, an entire universe of protection and presence. A gentle little prick of the aquamarine pendant she always wore against Johanna’s scalp. The familiar smell of Pink Window, her mother’s signature Red Door knockoff, pulsing off her clavicle. The tinny voice of a rich man floating out of the blue ocean. Later, when the neighborhood kids played games on their unforgivably Spielbergian suburban streets, hollering I’m the Incredible Hulk or I’m the Pink Ranger or I’m Tenderheart Bear, Johanna would call out something nominally culturally appropriate but whisper the truth to herself, which never changed, no matter the game or the streets: I am the exterior lighting array on Robert Ballard’s Argo ROV unit.

Johanna put her eye to Big Edie’s viewfinder. The black cup pocked gently against her cheekbone. Such a nice feeling. Like holding a girl’s hand for the first time. She stared into inert darkness.

“It only takes these weird old tapes,” someone said from outside Edie’s warm lightless innards. A friendly, well-hydrated, nicely-brought-up male voice, full of solicitude, exhausted, heartbroken, hanging in there, like the orange kitten in the old poster.

Johanna didn’t look up. She amused herself picturing the kitten putting its paws on its hips and whistling regretfully through its sharp teeth at the $50 OBO paperweight before them. She suppressed her not-very-inner snob. Yes, dear, ED Super Beta II and III series cassettes. You can still get them, anywhere between $35 and $50 a pop. You can still get anything if you don’t care what it costs.

“There’s one stuck in there. Made a nasty sound when I tried to lever it out. I don’t have any others, though. Dad didn’t stick with this one for very long. I put his digital cameras around by the hydrangeas, way better. You want me to show you?”

“Does it turn on?”

“Nope. Well, not unless it’s a Tuesday and the moon is in Pisces and you’re standing on one foot or some shit. I keep the battery charged up, though. I heard you have to do that or it degrades. I’m Jeff, by the way.”

Of course you are. That’s what they always name soft orange kittens like you.

Johanna’s fingers slid down Big Edie’s flank and found the raised plastic goose-pimple that marked the power button as easily as a practiced accordionist settling onto C Major. She pointed the lens at the bereaved child of its former owner and hit the big red square.

A firehose of light white-watered through the generous 1.5” black and white viewfinder into her cerebral cortex. In the middle of it stood, not the hang in there kitten, but a tall handsome guy in his late twenties or early thirties. Big emotive eyes, tennis shorts, dark polo shirt, with a shimmer of beard-stubble six or seven hours deep, hair the cut and style of debate team and law school and firm handshakes and warm decades ahead in a secure center-right Senate seat.

A shard of glass punched through his chest. Black monochrome blood sheeted down over his shorts and his long, grey, summer-muscled legs. His neck whipped hard to the side, like he’d suddenly seen an old girlfriend and was about to call her name, but when he opened his mouth, a jet of dark liquid spurted onto the quilt of his so-loved childhood clothes. It cut across the white block-print Pretenders in a clean spattered line.

“What’s the verdict?” Jeff asked. That voice like a clean fingernail cut through Johanna’s attention. She yanked her face up off the viewfinder. Jeff’s fine blond eyebrows arched curiously before her in full color, waiting to find out if that old Betamax monster still had juice. If the moon was, in fact, in Pisces. He shoved his hands in the pockets of a paint-splattered pair of jeans.

Johanna glanced back down into Big Edie’s gullet. It was waiting down there, that death-image of silver and ichor.

“I like your shirt,” she said. The walls of her throat stuck together. Inside the camera, that charcoal polo dripped silent-film blood onto his new white tennis shoes. Outside, he wore a slim-cut celery-green tee with Newport Folk Festival 2010 stamped across his chest in a faux-rustic font. She could look back and forth between them. Back and forth. Black and white. Color. Black and white. Grey and green. Green and grey. And wet, dripping jet-onyx blood. All that faded thermochromicity blazing back onto the scene to react with the not live but definitely Memorex heat-death of Jeff from Ossining.

Big Edie went down for the count.

The image guttered out like a pilot light, a sound both grinding and whining shook through her, and she rather ungracefully peaced out.

“$30?”

“All yours,” Jeff grinned.

He took Johanna Telle’s money and strode off across the mown lawn, through the labyrinth of his late father’s obsessions, the sun on his shoulders as though it would never leave him.

Aliasing

It’s much easier to pry a stuck tape out of a machine when you’re not that bothered if you break it. Get a screwdriver and a Sharpie and believe in yourself. It came free with significant but impotent protest, trailing a tangled mess of ropy ED Supra Beta II behind it. Johanna wound the mistreated tape back through the cartridge with the pen the way kids would never do again, and she would have been perfectly content for the rest of her days on this maudlin, over-saturated planet if she could have said the stupid suburban sun got in her eyes and that’s all she really saw.

But Betamax tells no lies.

Johanna sat on the floor of her apartment like the kid from Poltergeist all grown up, heavily medicated, and a cog in the gig economy. A massive daisy chain of converter cables hooked Big Edie up to the living room flatscreen, each one coaxing the signal five or six years forward from 1987 to the slick shiny present day.

The reflected video image washed her face in color. A forgotten pleasure, like the taste of ancient Egyptian beer. You used to always see your shot in black and white when you looked through the viewfinder. You only got to see the colors when you reviewed the footage. Inside the camera was another planet. Color was a side effect of traveling from that world to this one. Step from Kansas into Oz, cross your fingers for fidelity, saturation, hue, hope those shoes still look as red as they did before you crammed them through a lens.

So. No more black and white artsy viewfinder image. Now it was straight outta Kodachrome. But this tape sat in Big Edie’s time-out box for thirty years. Chromatic degradation slipped and popped all over the image, sickly green blooms, hot orange halos, compression artefacts, uncanny edging that rimmed this and that object in weird chemical colors.

Johanna watched a factory-direct 70's mustache-dad with tennis socks up to God’s chin helping his small, yet unmistakably Jeff, son unwrap a record player on Christmas morning. Big Edie came standard automatic fade-in and fade-out, so everything transitioned elegantly, creating a subtle sense of deliberate editing where none truly existed. Fade to black, then a slow melt into a hopeless lacrosse game, small children running nowhere, hitting each other with sticks too big for them to hold properly.

Another bloom of darkness.

A school play, reedy, vulnerable pre-adolescent Jeff dressed as a cloud fringed with silver tinsel rain, twirling and twirling, technique-free, his arms stretched out. Then another and Johanna presumed this was Jeff’s mother, the maker of the T-shirt quilt, 80% Diane Keaton, 20% Shelley Duvall, a white-wine flush on her cheeks, smiling up at the man with the camera in frank, unguarded affection and not a little desire, her shoulders bare above a strapless summer dress the color of the hydrangeas she probably hadn’t even planted yet.

Such wildly un-special moments, clichés of heart-beggaring authenticity, carefully cut out of the flow of time and pasted into the future, selected for immortality for no particular reason, random access memories transfigured into light that cannot die—but can get stuck in a metal cage for want of a Sharpie and a flathead.

Time travel. The only real time travel, unnoticed and uncredited because it was so unbearably slow. In the present, you use this astonishing machine to freeze the past. And you send it to the future. One second per second.

The image cut to black and then it was 2015 and Jeff selling off a lifetime of his father’s lovingly dragon-hoarded objets d’American masculinity. Standing on a lawn with catalogue-ready light and dark green stripes in the grass. Talking not to the man who produced and directed his childhood but to Johanna. She can hear her own voice on the recording.

Does it turn on?

He makes a joke about the moon and tells her his name. Sitting alone in the dark, Johanna realizes he was flirting with her, and she has a second to wonder what his mustached father’s name was before the glass smashes through his sternum again and blood streams down to soak a just out-of-frame blanket stitched together from mass-marketed polyester and lost time.

Johanna ran the tape back. Then she watched it again.

Back. And again.

She was still doing it when the morning broke into her apartment without announcing itself.

Five weeks later, she’ll be down to two or three run-throughs a day. An article will swim across her feed.

Late Night Four-Car Pile Up on I-84 Leaves Two Dead, Seven Injured.

Jeffrey Havemeyer of Westchester County, NY, 34, remains in critical care.

Johanna will feel nothing. She’s seen it a thousand times already.

Overclocking

“Sit there,” Johanna tells her cousin’s daughter, pointing at a cracked leather barstool.

Anika is nineteen, in her second year at Columbia. She is everything Johanna is not: mentally stable, tall, good hair, vegan, grounded by parental encouragement and affection, prone to healthy relationships, able to commit to an exercise regimen. The twenty-first-century girl. Johanna has always found her fascinating. Scientifically. It’s like hanging out with an alien. Your whole ecosystem is based in carbon and abandonment and trash, and you just always assumed those were the essential building blocks of life, but it turns out they’re totally unnecessary and sentient beings can just as well be made out of palladium and love and sensible choices instead, look at this actual good person right here, you have the same nose.

Johanna’s arthritic Great Dane watches them coolly from his massive fluffy bed.

“Your hair looks like a badger,” Anika says.

It’s been some time since Ossining and quilt and the hydrangeas and what Johanna has come to think of as the glitch. Technical difficulties. Runtime error. It’s late summer. Sweat darkens Anika’s hairline under the expected carefully messy topknot. The boroughs are one long incessant screech of twelve million window-mounted air conditioners and the smell of warm garbage bags, round and shiny on every doorstep.

Seafoam green softheart mermaid look out; icicle-white collarbone-length brutalist bob with black tips in.

“I like to think of it as ermine. You know, royal cloaks and all that.”

“Did you know ermines are just regular stoats with their winter coats on?” Anika helpfully informs her. “Not special at all. Fancy weasels. Glam weasels.”

“That’s perfect. I myself am a decidedly unspecial glam weasel.”

Johanna adjusts the tripod under Big Edie. It took Johanna weeks to gut the old girl, order parts, and convince her that modern life truly was worth living. Nothing really wrong with her at all, other than the audio-visual equivalent of osteoporosis and a bad back. Johanna loved the work. Data was invisible now. Stored on sand, transferred on air, transcending physical form. Light talking to light. But not Big Edie. She was very visible. Gross and awkward and tangible. The girl would never be good as new again. But she was good enough.

“No you’re not, you’re amazing,” Anika says softly, and Johanna can hear the little girl she’s known in that grown-up, gonna-save-the-world-with-believing-it-can-be-saved voice.

Johanna ignores this obvious lie.

They’ve already done a few shots with the Hasselblad, the Leica, a couple with her phone. She doesn’t really know why she’s putting on a show. Anika wouldn’t question just sitting in front of an old Betamax camcorder for a few minutes and then heading off for Hungarian pastries and a good full-body-cleanse political rant. But it feels important that today has the appearance of a plausibly professional kind of thing. Not that Johanna is using her.

Which she is.

Johanna doesn’t have access to a lot of people at the moment. They find her offputting. Not user-friendly. An unintuitive interface. Carbon-based.

“Can you let the blinds down halfway?” she asks.

Anika does. Slats of August light and dark slash down her face and torso (like glass slicing through skin) like an old pre-lapsarian end-of-programming test screen. It would be a gorgeous shot even if the shot was the point.

“I mean it. This apartment, your work. Margot. Mapplethorpe.” The Great Dane’s floppy black ears perk up at the sound of his name. “I love it here. You’re living the dream.”

Johanna hesitates with her forefinger over the record button. God, she remembers how much she hated it when people told her college wasn’t the real world and she had no idea what it was like out there, as if studying and working full-time wasn’t more work and less fun than the barren salt flats of adulthood between your twenties and death. But she wanted badly to shovel the same shit for Anika now. The only way you could look at this place and see a dream was through a lens that had never touched reality.

This is fine, she tells herself. The Havemeyer Glitch is not a thing. Just a shill for Big Coincidence. It’s not like he died. And besides, nothing bad can ever happen to Anika. She is a palladium-based life form. So this is fine. It’s for science. You will take beautiful footage of your beautiful niece-once-removed, and buy her a walnut kolachi, and she will tell her mother what a nice time she had.

“Margot moved out last week,” Johanna says without emotion. Margot moved out three months ago. She left a purple brush in the bathroom. Long black hair still tangled up in it. Johanna can’t bring herself to move the last cells of Margot that exist in proximity to Johanna’s cells.

“Oh,” Anika replies gently. “So that’s why you changed your hair.”

Johanna hits record.

For eighty-seven seconds, the only thing Big Edie has to say is that Anika Telle was born for the camera, a portrait of her generation, artlessly artful, a corkscrew of loose dark hair hanging forward to catch the light, one grey bare leg tucked up beneath a billowy sack dress with small elephants printed on it, the other not quite long enough to touch the peeling floor. Her expression genuinely, infinitely, but entirely temporarily sad for the misfortunes of someone else. See? This is fine. Tell her to say something. Recite Shakespeare. Or Seinfeld.

Deep in Big Edie’s viewfinder, Anika’s left eye crumples in a wet gush of pearl and black. Her head rockets back, shrouded in mist. She coughs, gags, tears streaming from her remaining eye. She’s still sitting on the barstool in Johanna’s apartment with silvery botanical wallpaper behind her, the tall window, the August sun, the half-drawn blinds. But the Anika in the camera wears black leggings, a puffy black winter coat, a black surgical mask. White duct tape criss-crosses the back of her jacket to form the words: #NOJUSTICE. She’s older, the lingering baby softness in her jaw gone, her hair a buzzed undercut. The cords on her neck stand out as she runs, her face ruined, blind with pain, stumbling, looking over her shoulder as she bolts on the video feed from one end of the living room to the other. Out of nothing, a cop in riot gear steps out of Johanna’s kitchenette, grabs the back of Anika’s skull in one hand and shoves her down. Anika-in-black falls to her knees, sobbing, puking into her mask, holding one hand to the hole where her eye used to be, screaming silently into Johanna’s (Margot’s) red paisley rug.

Johanna yanks her head up out of the sucking desaturated pit of the camera.

Mapplethorpe snores loudly. Trucks beep in reverse outside the apartment building. Anika sighs softly, bored but not rude. She scratches a mosquito bite on her knee. “I really am sorry. I liked Margot. She was good for you, I think. Got you out of the house.”

All the blood has either rushed to or drained from Johanna’s head. She can’t tell which. All she can hear or feel is her own pulse slamming itself against her eardrums.

“Do you … want me to do something?” Anika asks uncertainly.

Johanna shuts the camera down quickly. The image at the bottom of the viewfinder clicks out of existence. She tries to talk, but there’s no talk to be found. Just the burning hot green-on-red afterimage of a crystal brown eye collapsing in its socket, over and over.

“Come on, Auntie J,” Anika says finally, hopping lightly off the stool and bending down, scratching Mapplethorpe between his spotted shoulder blades. “Dinner’s on me. Malaysian okay? Maps can have a curry puff, can’t you, baby?”

Test Pattern

An experiment that cannot be repeated is evidence of nothing.

Johanna establishes a beachhead in Owl’s Head Park. Back supported by a black walnut tree. Bare toes clenched in a sea of tiny white flowers and clover-infiltrated grass. Big Edie propped against her breastbone, lens stabilized by knees on either side. Mapplethorpe’s yellow lead loops around her ankle, but the big fellow has long passed his days of running off after unsuspecting children. He munches philosophically on a pricey organic broth-basted rawhide shaped like a braided ring.

She finds a target, hits the button, rolls footage for a few minutes, tracking them as they throw frisbees for far-inferior dogs or kick soccer balls or kiss on picnic blankets or drag giant wooden chess pieces across a giant board or just walk aimlessly, whatever Saturday afternoon moves them to do. She doesn’t look through the viewfinder into that hellworld of black and white. Just presses buttons.

Turn it on.

Shut it off.

Find someone new.

Repeat.

She chooses at random. No more Anikas. No one is special, or unspecial. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they look like. They’re just data. That man, that woman, that child, that set of twin babies, those skaters, that guy sleeping with a James Patterson book over his eyes. Compressed data to be converted later.

Johanna’s brain checks out and begins a speed run through the five stages of grief over the death of a reliable reality. Denial: you’re losing it, change up your medication, girl, it’s not real, it’s not anything, just a stupid old camera that you bought because you are stupid, at best it’s old footage coming through on an old tape.

Stop recording. New person. Girl in green skinny jeans with a sketchbook.

Anger: fuck this, fuck you, fuck estate sales, fuck Robert Ballard, fuck the Columbia School of Law, fuck sad elephant print fabric, fuck hydrangeas, fuck curry puffs that make my dog poop out his soul, fuck Betamax you dumb drooling obsolete idiot tech, fuck me, fuck my dad, fuck Jeff Havemeyer’s dad, fuck I-84, fuck Margot, fuck the linear flow of time, fuck everything, life is garbage and this is proof. Why is this happening to me?

Stop. Scan. Record. Lanky white-dude dreds fuckboy in a vest but no shirt.

Depression: Of course it’s happening to me, because I am garbage and this is proof, and whatever cosmic hazmat disposal dump site got its back end trapped in my camera would only open the gates to a warped maladjust like me.

Stop. Scan. Record. Old man on the bench with god-tier eyebrows and a yellow plastic sunflower in his lapel.

Bargaining: I’ll just watch this back tonight and whatever happens, afterward I’ll tip Big Edie in the bin and never tell anyone. And then I will straighten up and clean my apartment and go on Tinder and eat leafy greens five times a day and see Anika more often and make amends and buy an exercise bike. Okay, Elder AV Club Gods? Deal?

Stop. Scan. Record. Kid on a dirt bike with (elephants) puffins on her dress.

Acceptance.

Acceptance.

Acceptance is Johanna sitting cross-legged (criss-cross applesauce) on Mapplethorpe’s bed while he snoozes jowlfully on the couch. She braces herself for red slicks of gore and bone. For Jeff and Anika redux. Once is luck, two is coincidence, three is a pattern … or at least time to wake up and smell what your inevitable descent into psychosis is cooking.

But that’s not what Big Edie has for her.

Not entirely, anyway.

Entropic Coding

Gloppy August sunlight washes out the image. Everything is overexposed, too bright, unforgiving. His thin chest rises and falls with his breath. He watches a small blue and white bird hop nervously down the iron rail of his park bench. A cerulean warbler, Johanna notes with supreme irrelevance. Closer to him, then further away, then close again. He crumbles a crust of brown bread on his tweedy knee and waits knowingly. This goes on long enough that Johanna starts to relax. It isn’t going to happen again. The bird will give in, and eat, and Johanna’s life will resume the program already in progress.

Then the sunlight cools, then it darkens, then it is a dim nothing-watt lamp with a tacky early 60's cherry pattern on the shade. The branches of black oak and Dutch elm in Owl’s Head Park still reach into the frame like kids who’ve spotted a news crew, showing off in the background, dying to get on TV. But the bench and the octogenarian perched on it have become a mustard-colored corduroy sofa and a young man with his head in his hands. Vaguely Scandinavian mid-century wooden end tables bookend the couch. A clock with thin brass spikes radiating out around it ticks over a clearly decorative fireplace. Above the man hangs a proto-Bob Ross painting of standard-issue lake/pines/mountain/lonely boat in a dizzying array of shades from brown to brown. Children’s toys cover the floor. At least one boy and one girl. Maybe more. Wooden blocks, a rocking horse with yellow yarn hair, green plastic army men. Donald Duck and Bugs Bunny and Snoopy staring lifelessly at the ceiling in a triple rictus of frozen grimaces. A book of Connie Francis paper dolls with most of the smiling valium-glazed Connies already carefully cut out hiding under the formica coffee table. A Funflowers Vac-U-Form Maker-Pak Johanna recognizes from a box of crap her grandmother let her play with the year they had to live with her because, no matter how she tried to pretend it was an adventure, her mother had no options left. You squeezed out perfumed lucite goo into molds and made “Daffy Dills” and “Tuffy Tulips” that looked like crystals in the sun until you got bored and broke a vase just to get some attention. A Spirograph and stacks of spiralled paper, scattered across the avocado shag carpet like ticker tape after the parade has gone. Like mystic offerings before the massive, inert cabinet television that probably weighs more than everyone who lives here put together. The kinds of toys you lift off a flea market shelf with joy and reverence, despite the peeling paint and chipped edges and missing vital organs.

But these are all new.

A wind moves through Owl’s Head Park and dappled shadows in the jaundiced light of the living room move across the man, the sofa, the table, the TV, the toys, the cherry lampshade.

The man on the yellow sofa looks up.

He is so young. Perhaps thirty-five, perhaps not even that. His incredible, architectural eyebrows are dark brown now; he has all his hair. He’s still wearing a suit, but this one has wide lapels, no tie, a plaid pattern that will crown endcaps in Goodwill until the sun burns out. He looks exhausted. Someone’s been smoking all night and it was probably him. maybe not just him. Butts overflow a pink pearlescent ashtray under the cherry lamp. About a third have frosted coral lipstick prints glowing on their filters, each one fainter than the last.

Johanna braces herself for the shard of glass or the ruination of his eye or gunshot or gas leak, whatever is about to break this poor soul in half. Her heart rate spins up into the rhythm of a jet propeller carrying her into nothing and nowhere. Her stomach muscles clench for impact.

But: the man gets up. Wipes his palms on his wrinkled pants. Walks across the room. Stops. Bends down to pull one perfect yellow Vac-U-Form Funflower out of the pile of misshapen attempts. Slides it into his lapel. The man leaves the house. He closes the door behind him so gently it doesn’t even click. No sound at all until his car engine starts outside, and then that’s gone too.

In the margins of the image, the cerulean warbler flies off with a cry. The shadow of his little body flickers over the empty room.

Fade out.

Fade in on the girl in the green skinny jeans and peasant blouse lying with her sketchbook under the willow tree.

Johanna makes it five people and ten minutes sixteen seconds deep by the overlarge alarm-clock-style timestamp before she scrambles off the dog bed and shuts the whole rig off.

An hour later, she gets out of bed and pads back to the living room on tiptoe, as if afraid to wake Margot’s brush. Blue light washes her cheeks and her hands and her walls and Johanna doesn’t move until it’s over.

Then she hits rewind and starts over from the beginning.

Image Burn

Mapplethorpe makes it another year before turning his creaky back on that big dog life. Since Johanna got to keep him through the quiet post-apocalypse of their union, they agreed Margot could have his ashes.

She looks the same. Just the same. As if Margot stepped out of the day she left and into today with no interruption in continuity. Johanna knows that dress, the navy blue vintagey thing with white piping and a little too much room in the torso, but that she refused to take in or give up on, because at thirty-seven, she might still have some growing left in her.

“Your hair,” Margot says softly. She steps gingerly over the map of cables and playback devices that have replaced living breathing life for Johanna and sits uncomfortably in the old bisque-colored armchair (falls asleep re-reading Harry Potter in it during a snowstorm five years ago; Johanna drapes a crocheted blanket over her and squeezes the bare foot hanging over the overstuffed arm gently, fondly). She sits as though she is trying to hover, as thought it might burn her to stay.

“What about my hair?”

“It’s … shocking.”

“It’s my hair.”

“I assumed you would have gone puce or checkerboard by now. Your actual hair hasn’t seen the light of day since high school as far as I know.”

Johanna only dimly recalls that she used to care about things like wilding her hair. It seems like a fact about a stranger. Like something she would see on Big Edie and use to pinpoint a date.

They make small talk. Margot is leaving the city soon. She’s bought a house in Providence with her wife, two blows Johanna absorbs expressionlessly as a cascade of words concerning Victorian architectural flourishes and small, private ceremonies patter down around her ears like raindrops. Mrs. Margot was apparently called Juniper, because of course she was, bet you call her June-bug too, gross. She was joining the obstetrics team at Rhode Island Hospital. Margot would teach very well-scrubbed scions of the even-better scrubbed at a private prep academy in the fall. Plant heirloom squash. Adopt three-legged rescue Labradors.

What are Johanna’s plans? If she has a gallery show before September, Margot would love to come. Anyone new in her life? How is Anika?

Well, Marge, I plan to shoot weddings and graduations and bar mitzvahs in which the cakes have significantly more artistic value than my entire self until I die alone pitched face-first into my takeout massaman with no dog and no stomach lining and no friends except a magic camera, can I get you a 40%-off Pinnacle buttered-popcorn-flavor vodka straight up, because that’s where I am right now.

But she doesn’t say that. She would never say that.

Instead, she decides to ruin Margot’s life. And in that moment, she genuinely believes it’ll work.

“Can I show you something?” Johanna says.

“Of course. Always.” Margot brushes her hair out of her eyes, now and a hundred thousand times in that chair, in this light. “New work?” Miss M was always her first audience, first viewer, the only other eye she trusted.

“Sort of. Mostly I just want you to tell me I’m not crazy.” And she doesn’t realize how entirely true that is until it’s out of her mouth and loosed on the dusty air.

Margot frowns. “You don’t look well. I didn’t want to say. Are you still drinking?”

Johanna laughs bitterly as she flips through the input options on the flatscreen. “Why would I not be drinking? Drink is friend.” She shoves delivery detritus off the couch to make a space: receipts, plastic bags, black takeout containers, breath mints and fortune cookies and after-dinner toffees.

And they watch together. Side by side. Just the same. Like it is before. Like she will pick up her purple brush again tonight and run it through her hair and come to bed and tomorrow will be years ago and the film of them will run forward from the splice.

Rather, Margot watches. And Johanna watches Margot.

The colors waver on her face like she’s underwater, staring up at the parade of strangers fading in and out before her.

The old man/young man on the park bench and the mustard-corduroy sofa.

The girl in the green skinny jeans under the willow and sitting at a bistro table with fake electronic candles as a man walks in, says her name uncertainly, kisses her cheek, orders an old-fashioned.

The guy with white-boy dreds and a vest with no shirt steps off a bike path and into a gorgeous apartment in no way decorated by a man who would wear a vest with no shirt even once, all minimalist monochrome, and a woman in pajama pants and jade chip earrings sobbing get out get out not one more minute I’m done get out.

A kid in a Spider-Man hoodie swinging upside down from a jungle gym and lying on his couch, a teenager, playing Madden on XBox, yelling to an invisible mother that he’ll mow the lawn, yeah yeah, just one more game.

And worse. A boy’s face fades into his forties on the subway. He asks why he’s being pulled over. A gash blooms on his beautiful brown neck. A student drinking alone in a bar ages fifteen years and loses twenty pounds between sips of house red. She waits for someone with frantic energy and when somebody shows up, gives her a little wax paper packet, leaves her to it, her fingers start to turn the color of corpses on the wine glass. A volunteer museum docent grows red rings and bags around his eyes but loses his wrinkles. Somewhere between the Ancient Greeks and Mesopotamian pottery, gets out of a Camry, locks it, and runs toward an appointment, wholly unseeing the baby in the backseat, asleep in a puffy lavender knitted hat.

“What is this?” Margot says. “Glitch art? Datamoshing? Like Planes and Jacquemin? What program did you use? It’s really seamless.”

“No program.”

“What do you mean ‘no program’? This is a practical effect?” Johanna chuckles mirthlessly. The screen shimmers. “Where did you find all these actors?”

“No, look, you’re not seeing. You have to look. The calendar in the apartment. The clothes the girl in the bistro is wearing. Do you recognize any of the players in that Madden game?”

“You know I don’t care about sports. I wouldn’t recognize any player’s name five minutes after I heard it.”

“Okay, fine. The song on the radio when the guy gets stuck in traffic.” She pauses it, waits for Margot to catch up, to see the faint cursive 2026-At-A-Glance calendar on the inside of the pantry door in that perfect sleek flat, the unfamiliar controls on the car dash. “I’ve never heard that song. You’ve never heard that song. Because that song doesn’t exist, on any service, in any catalogue, anywhere.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Come on, you couldn’t possibly know that for certain, Jo.”

But Margot doesn’t see. Margot isn’t Robert Ballard’s submersible lighting array. She doesn’t know how to crawl into an image and live there. What she does glimpse in Johanna’s pleading eyes is the weight of time. Time she has spent searching for these things, for connections, hoping, honestly hoping, to find that song buried on some indie compilation CD with some revoltingly photoshopped jacket art and a discount sticker. And a thousand other objects like it. Books on televisions, limited edition toys, tie-widths, license plates, worse, more scattered, atomized, randomized information that never coalesced into anything but Johanna’s increasing silence and solitude. She vibrates so intensely it looks like she is sitting still.

And so, slowly, knowing how it sounds, hating how it sounds, Johanna explains about Big Edie as more strange moments unfold before the not-really-that-long-lost love of her life; naked bodies, and there are a lot of them, in embraces violent and lovely or both or neither, strangers meeting, over and over, in different clothes, different hairstyles, different seasons, a child abandoned in an airport in Reno, calling for her mother, surrounded by slot machines ringing in cherries and oranges, tears rolling down her face. And at the end of the reel, Jeff and his glass heart, Anika and her shattered eye, the long staircase into images that has become Johanna’s life.

Margot says nothing for some time. It is a terrible, sour nothing that lingers far too long in the air between them.

“So you think your camera shows … what? Death?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. But not always, not even often, really.”

“Then what if not that? The future? Like the calendar.”

“That’s closer, I think. Better. But at least a third of them are the past.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, the man in the living room is 1970. You can tell by the Updike book on top of the TV. That was the first edition cover, and it’s pristine. You can figure it out, sometimes. If you care about these things. If you know too much about garbage. And you know I know too much about garbage, M.”

Margot smiles faintly, but it is very faint.

“But also I went back to the park and talked to the guy. His name is Antony.” Johanna scratches at the back of her hand. “Antony left his family. In 1970. Just up and walked out on Grace, Walt, Irene, and Amelia, who he’d married when she was fucking seventeen. The proverbial running out for a pack of cigarettes. Left them like they were just … a skin he was molting.”

Margot looks for a way to shut it off, but Johanna doesn’t help her find it. Why should Margot get to turn away from it? Why should she escape?

“Fine,” she says coldly. “What is it then?”

Johanna takes a deep breath. “So whenever you transfer or transmit or store data, especially a lot of data, like audio or video or both, it gets compressed, and in the process, you lose a little bit of it. Maybe a lot, like MP3s were always straight garbage compactors for sound. Maybe only a little bit. Maybe so little you wouldn’t even notice. But in order to fit the storage device or the bandwidth, in order to save information or share it, you have to … you have to harm it. And that creates distortion. Halos. Noise. Warping. Busy regions in the image. Blocky deformations called quilting, and visual echoes called ghosts. They’re called compression artefacts, and that’s … that’s what I think these are. Distortions created by the present and everything else getting compressed, crushed into one stream. Halos and noise and warps and quilts and ghosts. A lot of words for damage. Just damage.

“But the answer is: I don’t really know what it does. Technically speaking, it’s a problem of parallax. Catastrophic parallax. A vast difference between the apparent object and the actual object. And for awhile, I thought it showed the worst day of your life. Which, odds are, for some percentage of people, is going to be the day you die. But not for everyone. Not for Antony. See, nothing ever went right for him after he left. Two more divorces and a dried-up retirement fund. Grandkids he isn’t allowed to meet. Lung cancer he picked up working a big gorgeous free man’s HVAC repair shop. But it took him almost his whole life to understand any of it. To process where he fucked up. What he lost when he thought he was barreling down the highway to a big gorgeous free man’s life. Big Edie knew it in an instant. She had his number faster than a speeding therapist, and that number was 1970. So it seemed to make enough sense. When I shot old people, Big Edie usually spat out the past. Young people mostly turned up older on playback. The future. That kid playing Madden. Madden 23, to be exact.” She points to him on the projection. The hole in his sock. The length of his hair. The name on the Patriots’ QB jersey.

“Do you actually expect me to believe your camera recorded something in 2023? Jo, come on. I’m really busy, and frankly, I’m not in the mood.”

“Just listen. Because then there was this. A wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel and Lucy Vaclavik.” She fast-forwards through scene after scene. Johanna can tell just the sheer number of them is starting to look bad on her, and the manic sizzle in her voice isn’t helping, but she can’t stop herself.

The creams and golds and pops of understated rose-shades of a high-end matrimonial spread flood the screen. The bride waves her lily-dripping bouquet in the air. The Hudson River throbs with sunset behind her. Her hair sparkles with carefully applied glitter. Eyeliner and brows that date her nuptials as surely as a library stamp. Her new husband, in a grey tux, bends down to kiss her expertly neutral-frosted lips and their unified families clap like a gentle river of approval. The picture flows smoothly to the edge of the frame. No ghostly picture-in-picture. No shadows cast from other places, other times.

Margot smiles politely. Johanna knows she is losing her (has lost her). “I don’t get it.”

“I didn’t either,” she confesses softly. “I shot this no differently than the others. But what you see is what I saw. What Big Edie saw. No parallax. No difference in images. I rolled tape and the wedding marched right through the lens and back out again and it was just a wedding, no more or less. Nothing else has been like that. And the next day we got right back to business-as-horrible. I couldn’t figure it out. Why was it special? What was different? The thing is … he killed her. It made the news for about thirty seconds in April. They found her in the woods in Connecticut. But, you know, hedge fund guys aren’t that good at forensics, even if they’re 100% current on all CSI franchises, so they caught him pretty fast. So maybe … maybe Big Edie doesn’t record the worst thing that ever happened to you. Maybe it’s something so much smaller than that. The moment when the worst thing that ever happens to you sees you coming. Turns toward you in the dark. I think, once she married him, he was always going to hurt her. Because that was in him, an egg or a seed or a tumor, whatever you want to call it, a future that no longer has the option of not happening. The flowchart flows until you meet that person at that conference and then there’s no more choose your own adventure, you’re going to fall in love and they’re going to bankrupt you or betray you or just … disappoint you until there’s nothing left but cynicism swirling around at the bottom of your heart like tea leaves. Or leave you in the woods in Connecticut. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a huge ugly regret machine. And mostly I will never understand these. What happened to the Madden kid or the girl in the bar or why getting stuck in traffic on that particular day was so important to that man’s whole trajectory, or any of them, because that stuff doesn’t come across the AP like Mrs. Vaclavik. They’re just moments, unconnected, pulled free of every other moment.”

The wedding fades out and the two women wince together as a man they do not know pushes a woman they have never met against a wall. Blood trickles down her temple where she hit a picture frame and she looks up at him with unbelieving eyes.

“Enough,” Margot says. She grabs the remote. Shuts it all down. Turns to Johanna and touches her face. Touches her. No one has touched Johanna in a year. It is an alien burn. It is Margot. It is the past and the future and death, stroking her hair and making enormous eyes at her while the constituent atoms of their dog look on from the coffee table.

“I miss you so much,” Johanna whispers, and wishes she could have thought of something better, more elegant, more memorable, but her need banishes pretty words.

“Don’t,” Margot answers with finality. The finality of Providence, Rhode Island and heirloom squash varietals and Harrington Preparatory School and June-Bug and poor Mapplethorpe in a box.

“What do you think?” She cannot help that either, the need for her approval, her regard, the perfect full absent moon of her gaze on Johanna’s work, Johanna’s self.

“Honey … I think you need help. This is … this is nothing, J. It’s a bunch of slice of life shots of nothing in particular and three or four gory jump-scares. You taped over some movie of the week with a lot of nonsense. And I’m supposed to believe it’s what, magic? It’s you stalking strangers. Listen to yourself. Catastrophic parallax? You’re manic, you need care.”

But Johanna can’t hear that. “Okay, but that’s just exactly what I mean. Do you know what catastrophe means? It’s Greek. It just means a turn. A turn down or a turn under or a turn inside. A turn away.”

“Jo, this is basically a conspiracy theorist wall and you’re unspooling more red yarn. This is not an X-File. This is you not coping. As usual.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ll show you. Just stand over there, I’ll shoot you for a few minutes, a few seconds, and you’ll see.” And what will Big Edie see? Margot leaving that hot, humid, unretrievable night, Margot packing up boxes for Providence, Margot right now, right here, telling Johanna she will never believe her? One of them, maybe, surely. What else was even possible?

“No,” Margot whispers firmly. “You don’t need me. And you definitely don’t need to ride that camera any harder. I’m not going to enable this. You just need help, baby. Professional help. That’s all. I have to go.”

“Wait—”

“I have to go.”

There is a disentangling, a hurry to go back, edit, remove even the idea that physical contact was made. Margot excuses herself to splash water on her face and Johanna sees herself in the mute black monitor, sees as the ex-moon of her night sees: a woman so thin her clothes don’t fit, who smells sour, whose hair hangs limp and unwashed, whose face has grown lines it didn’t have even a few weeks ago, degradation lines, juddering through the frame of her face.

Margot emerges awkwardly, chagrined, her familiar elfin face not one cell altered from the day she left, her voice echoing against every surface: I’m so fucking lonely, Jo, I’m lonely even when you’re here. Especially when you’re here. I’m lonely right the fuck now and I’m looking at you.

She holds up something in her hand. Something purple. Something precious.

“Forgot my brush,” she says softly.

And then she is gone.

Ghosts

Johanna puts it off for a long time.

Why bother? What use could it possibly be to her? What use is any of this? You couldn’t do one single thing with it. The shot was too tight to predict the future. Fight crime? Protect the innocent? No. The camera crowded the subject, an unbearable idiot intimacy that took away everything but the seeing itself.

But eventually, she was always going to do it.

Johanna watches herself on the flatscreen. Watches herself get up in Big Edie’s face. Fix the focus, back up to sit on the same barstool that held Anika all those ages ago, shifting awkwardly as she looks into the lens like an actor breaking the fourth wall.

She knows what she will see. She is calmly certain of it. She shouldn’t have bothered running the tape back for this little screening. She saw it the first time, when she was seven. When she was thirsty in the middle of the night and padded quietly out of her room to get a glass of water. Out of her room and past her father sitting alone in his armchair, the moonlight crawling in after him through the window, grasping at him just before he shot himself and her life … turned. There never was any hope for her. She was turned before she got one foot in the world. It wouldn’t be a prettier shot now.

The compression artefact burns out from the center of her nuclear-powered selfie. Her stomach muscles seize up the way they do when she just barely reaches the tipping point of a roller coaster and enters freefall, down the rails into her old house, the rugs, the stain on the ceiling, the off-kilter hang of her bedroom door. Her father’s face. Her mother’s soft snoring from the bedroom.

But that’s not what she sees.

No moonlight. No armchair. No 3 a.m. drink of water in a seven-year-old girl’s hand. It is just Johanna, seafoam green hair and all, walking on the lovely light and dark stripes of green on a lawn in Ossining, in sunlight direct from a photography lab, approaching a quilt made of old T-shirts and the objects it carries. She bends down and presses her warm thumb into the patch of Hypercolor shirt, waiting for the fabric to change color, to unsuffer the damage of too-constant exposure to the very thing that it was designed to react with, which of course it will not, can not, ever again.

Johanna touches her own face on the television, that seafoam green girl who still had Margot and Mapplethorpe and opinons about everything, that familiar face, yet better-fed and better-loved and almost obscenely untroubled. An ancient version of herself, suddenly unearthed at the bottom of the sea.

Finite State Machine

Johanna puts Big Edie up on Craigslist, all her specs laid out like a personal ad: enjoys long walks on the beach, getting lost in the rain, composite video output, and turning everything you point me at into an avant-garde film-school short. If you can’t handle me being haunted, you don’t deserve me being way more work than the camera app on your phone.

She lowballs the price. She means it. She can change her artefact. She can let it all go, like Margot said. Get care. Be normal. Cope. She can take that moment in Ossining and make it nothing. Make it just another random memory on a compilation tape of the decades fading in and out, like the little tinseled cloud boy turning and turning on his forgotten school stage, meaningless, untethered, beautiful and sad and without connection to anything before or after.

And then anyone could. The boy who doesn’t want to mow the lawn. The girl meeting that man at the bistro. Lucy Vaclavik. Antony. Jeff. Anika. Anyone. The long white beam of the Argo’s exterior lighting array sweeping through that dark and missing the great hulking skeleton in the blackness, brushing gently by, just barely, just by inches, finding nothing but open water.

She doesn’t answer a single query.

Six months later, Johanna doesn’t even remember what it’s like to leave the house without Big Edie. The pockets of her original-issue carrying case bulge with new tapes.

[onthevirgeofdestruction]

Dreaming While I Wake

Sanders Sides Foster Care AU - Roman-centric Angst & Hurt/Comfort & Abuse Recovery

Roman tries to be upbeat and hopeful despite all the shit that’s happened to him. And a lot of shit has. Luckily, his new foster home is with two literal rays of sunshine (and a sarcastic asshole).

Words: 3,263 Warnings: Food, Food Insecurity Mention, Forcing Self to Eat Something Mention, Negative Self-Talk, Negative Self-Image, Video Game Violence, Dogs Characters: Roman, Thomas Universe: Dreaming While I Wake Genre: Vibing™ too hard and a bit of angst, as a treat

Chapter 24

chapter 1 for new readers - ffn mirror

   Roman kicked off his shoes at the foot of his bed and dropped his backpack next to his desk. He was tired, what’s new. His feet finally hurt less, at least. He was also immensely grateful to say that for once he didn’t have to spend all night on homework. He had something due at the end of the week, but he didn’t have to do it tonight. He was terrible at starting homework early anyway, so there was no point in trying today.

   Part of him was glad that the Sanders didn’t kick him back so he wouldn’t have to be doing this all over again at a new school. He’d only had two families that returned right away, but he did much less awful shit at their houses than he did here. It only made sense that they would send him away, but he didn’t mind still being here. They’d probably see reason eventually, so Roman shouldn’t get his hopes up or anything.

   A snack and breaking out the art supplies sounded like a pleasant way to pass the time. He’d sketched something he really liked in English, and he wanted to give it a proper go and not on thin notebook paper. The coffee table was glass, so he could transfer it to his sketchbook with that. He gathered the supplies he needed and headed back downstairs, dropping off the stuff on the coffee table and heading into the kitchen for a bite to eat.

   The pantry didn’t really reveal anything appetizing. He’d had mostly chips after school lately so he didn’t want those, and they’d long since finished those peanut butter filled pretzels much to Roman’s dismay. Roman scanned the fridge and freezer. He could have a healthy snack of an apple or something… or he could make some of those biscuits made entirely out of cheese they had with dinner last night and dip them in pizza sauce. The answer was obvious. He pulled out the cheese biscuits and lined them up on parchment paper in the toaster oven on the counter. He cooked a few extras in case a wild Virgil appeared. He seemed to have junk food sensing powers.

   Roman went to the coffee table to clear off some space to use it. The more he removed, the more it revealed it hadn’t been cleaned in a while. Spills and fingerprints would mess with his ability to use the table as a lightbox, so he grabbed the glass cleaner and a rag to clean it off. After cleaning both sides of the coffee table, he noticed the other glass in the living room was a little smudged up. The cabinet windows on the entertainment center had doggy nose prints on the lower parts, along with the windows. He already had it in his hands, so why not? Roman passed through and cleaned up all the glass in the living area, the mirror in the front hall, the microwave and stove door, and the window in the kitchen.

   The toaster oven dinged and distracted him from cleaning off the front of the dishwasher. He had completely forgotten he’d put those in. Roman wiped the last corner of the dishwasher and washed the ammonia off his hands, leaving the cleaner and rag on the counter. He grabbed a plate and served himself half of the biscuits and dumped a little pizza sauce from the jar on his plate. Some part of his mind registered that they were fresh out of the toaster oven, but he picked one up to dip like an idiot and burned his fingers, anyway.

   Roman grumbled while he ran his fingertips under cold water at the sink. He pulled them out to check if they were better yet, but they were still hot, so he kept them under the water a little longer. Virgil appeared as expected, which cheered Roman back up a bit. The idea of Virgil having junk food senses was funny, and he loved it when Virgil proved him right.

   “I made you some, too,” Roman motioned with his head to the toaster oven. Virgil grinned wildly and just stole Roman’s plate and left the kitchen. Roman laughed out loud at the audacity of this bitch and shook his head. He pulled his fingers out again, and they felt fine now, so he served himself the other half in the same manner. He had the good sense to get a fork this time. He threw out the parchment paper and sat at the table, pulling out his phone to wait for his food to cool down. He saw the date and realized he probably needed to do laundry, so he got up to head upstairs and grab his basket.

   He long since hasn’t needed to sort out his clothes into loads. His brights and darks were already all faded, and he only had a few whites, not enough to do a load with bleach. He just dumped the entire basket in the wash and put in some laundry sauce, starting the wash and bringing the basket back upstairs.

   Roman stared around his room, not remembering what he was doing last. He paused and concerned if there was anything he needed to do. Probably clean his bedroom? There wasn’t much to pick up, just a few art supplies were out for some reason. He didn’t have that many things in his name to mess up. His loose stuff like old keepsakes or hobby items all fit in one drawer in the dresser, so it was easy to keep clean. But he should come back up to wipe off his desk with an all-purpose cleaner and dust. Roman yawned and returned downstairs for some water and to grab the cleaners.

   He put away the filter pitcher and drank water, noticing his snack on the table. Oh. Roman chuckled to himself and sat down at the table, eating his four cheese biscuits and pizza sauce. He had completely forgotten he made them. They were at an edible temperature now, though. Convenient forgetfulness, for once.

   After rinsing the dishes, Roman grabbed the duster and all-purpose cleaner to go handle his room. He dusted some shelves in the living room as he passed, just because he had noticed they were dusty and covered in dog fur. They mentioned they got a maid service once a month for that. How could Lita possibly produce this much wiry fur? Baffling. Roman headed upstairs to clean his bedroom.

   Dusting the bookshelf in his room revealed that Lita must not come in here much since there was barely any dog fur on it compared to the downstairs. He was relatively certain Lita just napped in Thomas and Patton’s room until Patton appeared or something fun happened. Roman dusted off the books, his dresser, the desk, and the nightstand, then wiped down surfaces. There were plenty of eraser bits and broken pencil leads after the cluster-fuck of homework he had to do. Cleaning off the homework wreckage and such from the desk made it look much nicer, despite his pile of books and papers he hadn’t quite gotten around to organizing into something nicer looking yet. He organized his colored pencils by the rainbow in the organizer and took the cleaners back downstairs to put away.

   What the hell was he doing again? Roman put the cleaners back on the shelf in the laundry room. He swore he was doing something. He had no idea what he was doing. The washer was going, which reminded him he started that. Maybe that was the thing. He clearly still had time to wait, though. Video games? Video games. Roman headed out to the living room and paused to make sure no one else was coming in to use the TV. Virgil didn’t reappear, and Thomas wasn’t even in his office. Seemed safe enough to him. There were quests to be had and demons to slay. Roman switched the TV input and turned on the game system to play, settling down on the floor in front of the TV to kick some lich ass.

   Having free afternoons was a weird experience. Weirder than the forced days off, since he was kind of stuck in a room with Thomas for those. But this was totally up to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had so much free time completely to himself. It was… wrong? It felt wrong. But also nice. It was wrrice. No. That was dumb. Whatever. He had an amulet that unlocked a labyrinth. Fuck real life. He made sure he had enough healing items and repaired his armour, absolutely raring to go venture into it.

   Something warm pressed into his thigh while he was fighting some goblins and jumped. He paused the game and glanced down. Lita had laid her head on his lap and was looking up to him pleadingly. Roman couldn’t help himself from melting a little and cooing, dropping his controller to scratch her behind her ears. Lita’s tongue bleped out and Roman could have died. He pet her a few times and she got up and trotted over to the back door and stared longingly at Roman. Roman got up to let her outside and followed her out. Lita bolted into the yard and ran it in three loops before stopping to sniff around near the tree in the backyard and used the restroom. She stuck her tongue out and happily cantered back over to the door. Roman headed back in and returned to his game when Lita went to go get some water.

   Things in the labyrinth were going well, but they were intense. He went into a room that had a bunch of greater liches in it and he nearly bit the dust fighting them all. He got plenty of potions from the room, but it miffed him that he didn’t get something cool like a weapon or rare item. Single-handedly killing four evil wraiths at the same time should have at least gotten some new boots. He saved and continued forward, anyway.

   “Hey, Roman,” He vaguely heard someone say while he was eyeballing a hallway that looked like it might have a trap.

   “Hey,” Roman responded automatically. Traps meant the game was protecting something, probably. He was tempted. Roman made sure he healed up and put poison immunity on and headed down the hall. The poison immunity paid off, but he should have done something to resist fire damage since he killed three potions from all the burn damage. He was rewarded with a giant skeleton monster and a better sword, though. Vindication! He saved again and kept going forward.

   “Do you want anything for dinner?” Someone asked and Roman chewed on his lip while he thought and killed a small army of evil rats.

   “Roast boar would be helpful,” Roman suggested after pondering it for a second. He could use a fortitude boost right now. The rats didn’t do a lot of damage, but it was impossible to dodge them all.

   “In the real world, Roman,” The voice sounded bemused. Oh shit. Roman paused the game and rubbed his incredibly dry eyes.

   “Sorry,” Roman muttered, wishing for moisture to return to his burning eyes.

   “It’s fine,” Thomas sighed and laughed a little. “I can relate, honestly. But I’m just about to cook dinner and want to know if anything sounds good,” He said genially.

   “Oh, um, ask Virgil,” Roman supplied and rubbed his face again. When was the last time he blinked and how long were his eyebrows furrowed?

   “Is there a reason you’re not wearing the gloves?” Thomas inquired. Roman turned around and saw Thomas leaning over the back of the couch. Roman froze and looked at his ungloved hands. Whoops.

   “Uh, I forgot to put them back on, honestly,” Roman replied sheepishly. “I promise I didn’t freak out about anything while they were off, though,” Roman added. Well, maybe he did a little at school, but his arms were untouched, so he must not have panicked badly enough to do any damage. Gym class was stressful again. He hadn’t gotten back grades on his packets and he hadn’t attracted a random bully or anything yet, so things were mostly okay. The people in his morning English class even friended him on twitter. Though he hoped he had implied he took the gloves off more recently than after he got to school in the morning.

   “All right. Do you mind putting them back on?” Thomas requested, sounding less peeved and more concerned. Roman nodded hastily and leaned back to get them out of his jeans pocket to slide them on. Thomas sighed with relief. “Just for my own mollification, show me your arms?” Thomas made a twisting motion with his finger. Roman turned around and held them straight out and rotated them for Thomas to see. Thomas smiled and nodded, apparently mollified. “Thanks. I appreciate you putting up with them for me. So, dinner? I already asked Virgil. I want to know if you want anything,” Thomas said pointedly.

   “I’ll eat anything, it’s fine,” Roman said dismissively.

   “I know you’ll eat anything, but I still don’t know what food you actually like to eat,” Thomas urged, looking inquisitively at Roman.

   “I like your cooking. Patton’s is seasoned oddly sometimes, but it’s all been fine,” Roman replied with a small shrug.

   “Patton’s cooking used to be significantly worse. I made him take a few cooking classes. He used to think five tablespoons was a reasonable amount of seasoning for anything. The grill incident wasn’t the only time we had to throw food out because we couldn’t eat it,” Thomas responded and shook his head with a light chuckle. Roman stared at Thomas in amazement. Did they actually throw out edible food?

   “That… why?” Roman asked incredulously. “That’s… food,” Roman stammered out, completely baffled by this information.

   “If it’s too disgusting to eat, then it’s too disgusting to eat,” Thomas raised his eyebrow and said something redundant.

   “I can’t… even,” Roman felt like his mind was melted. If it was turned into a charcoal brick by a fireball, that was one thing. But trashing it just because something was seasoned badly? That didn’t make any sense.

   “Okay,” Thomas drawled curiously. “Well, is there anything you hate then?” He inquired and motioned towards Roman.

   “Um, there are some textures I don’t like, and I’m not a fan of brussel sprouts, but I won’t waste food,” Roman answered him, still feeling really confused.

   “We had brussel sprouts last weekend, and you ate some,” Thomas said, furrowing his eyebrows at Roman. “Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked, looking upset.

   “I already said I won’t waste food,” Roman repeated and looked curiously at Thomas.

   “So say if Patton made peas and there was half a container of pepper flakes in it, you’d eat it?” Thomas posited incredulously, looking at Roman intensely.

   “… Yeah?” Roman replied, not following what Roman was trying to get at. It was food. The texture from the flakes sounded awful, but he wouldn’t waste the food.

   “You are a braver man than I. Okay, so. No brussel sprouts. What about those textures?” Thomas questioned and drummed his fingers on the couch.

   “Oh, uh, how… Gritty stuff and stuff that is mushy when it… shouldn’t be? There are also some things that just sort of… hit my palette weird, but I don’t have any idea how to describe that,” Roman supplied. “It only makes me kind of sick, it’s fine, though,” Roman said, shaking his head.

   “You shouldn’t force yourself to eat food that makes you sick, Roman,” Thomas said emphatically and leaned on his arm while he looked a little frustrated.

   “I’m not that used to having options, Thomas,” Roman replied blithely and sighed. Even with the Finleys he just made what they bought him, and sometimes there wasn’t enough for him to eat a complete meal. He’d always take what he was given. It was better than starving.

   “Kid, I swear every time you open your mouth I feel the need to hug you and tell you that things are going to be okay,” Thomas exhaled hard as he held his head and shook it lightly.

   “I’m… sorry?” Roman apologized, not understanding what Thomas was trying to say. He didn’t know how Thomas put up with Roman annoying him all the time.

   “It’s not your fault. Is there anything we’ve made you particularly liked?” Thomas asked, running his hand through his hair and seeming a little discouraged. Roman paused for a moment while he waited for a further reaction, but Thomas just exhaled and patiently looked to Thomas for an answer. He didn’t seem as frustrated anymore, and Roman loosened back up.

   “That pizza you made was probably my favourite thing,” Roman responded brightly. “The stuffed chicken breasts were fantastic, too,” He added.

   “It’s even better if we let the dough rest overnight,” Thomas said temptingly, holding up a finger.

   “You’re kidding,” Roman eyed him curiously. He didn’t think he’d ever had pizza as amazing as Thomas’s in his life and he couldn’t comprehend how it could possibly be tastier.

   “Nope. How about I make some tonight so we can have it for dinner tomorrow?” Thomas offered with a small smile.

   “Show me how!” Roman nearly jumped up right there but caught himself, gripping at the floor.

   “Only if you pick what’s for dinner tonight,” Thomas pointed at Roman. Roman chewed his lip. He didn’t know what to choose. His shoulders slumped a bit, and he grabbed one of his fingers nervously. “Too hard?” Thomas asked softly.

   “I just don’t want… to pick wrong,” Roman admitted quietly. “What did Virgil say he wanted?” He inquired, hoping for at least a starting point.

   “Spicy and crunchy,” Thomas reported. “Picking meals is hard for him, so he usually just gives flavours or something like that. I read that choice paralysis is common with PTSD. Is it the same for you?” Thomas prodded and looked pointedly at Roman. Roman rolled his eyes and sighed. He managed to not say ‘I’m fine’ this time, at least. Maybe it was true for Roman, maybe it wasn’t and he was just dumb.

   “I, uh, I am completely blanking, to be honest,” Roman replied impassively, trying to think of dinner. He desperately wanted to learn how to make pizza dough. But he didn’t want to pick wrong.

   “Yeah, I assume it would have to be some sides or something. We don’t have the stuff for the things I usually make when he asks for that,” Thomas shrugged, tilting his head to the side.

   “Uh, tortilla soup?” Roman suggested. It was the easiest one to make of what he thought of. “I mean, it’s a bit hot for soup, but it’s spicy and crunchy,” He added a little sheepishly. Maybe that was stupid.

   “Oh, that’s perfect! I didn’t think of that. We can make that quickly in the pressure cooker, even. We’ll chase it with ice cream to cool down. Pat will be pleased about that, honestly. Save the game and I’ll show you how to make the pizza dough,” Thomas smiled and stood up straight. 

   Roman nodded rapidly and turned back around to save the game as fast as it would let him. His knee bobbed impatiently while he waited for the saving screen to finish processing. He didn’t know how to bake bread, and pizza dough was probably the coolest place to start. Roman nearly tripped as he rushed into the kitchen after Thomas.

Personal Taglist: @bunny222 @elizabutgayer​ @prinxietyforever @kanene-yaaay-o-retorno @the-sympathetic-villain @croftersjam15 @ollyollyoxinfree @xytiiko

the taglist repository (ask to be removed):

High school:  @dragonwithproblems @starlight-era @averykedavra  @potatsanderssides

Roman Angst:  @k1ngtok1

Hurt/Comfort:  @callboxkat @nonasficcollection @supernovainthenightsky @evoodo123

Roman-Centric:  @smileyzs  @robinwritesshitposts @thatgaydemigodnerd

Fostering AU:  @i-am-not-a-dinner-roll

literally everything sanders sides:  @katelynn-a-fan @dwbh888 @grouptalekindnesssoul @the-hoely-bleach @anvil527up @fanficloverinthesun  @brain-deadx0 @the-grounded-raven  @ananonsplace

[lordeasriel]

fashion recap: his dark materials

hello there! once again i am procrastinating instead of doing things i should be doing, but nonetheless, i’m here today to rant about the fashion choices we’ve seen in the trailers so far. i am, by no means, a fashion expert, i’m more like an aesthetic enthusiast (and as a former literature major, i over analyse everything), and i’m just here to say some of my thoughts on the outfits in general.

i apologise for any definitions of outfits i may have gotten wrong, but writing in english about clothes is tough lol special thanks to @parslow and @cozcat for their help when getting some of the clothings names because my english knowledge does not fare that well.

also, a side note (two, in fact), i talk a lot about colour in here, but something i’ve noticed is that some of the editing makes the same outfit look differently in different scenes, so i’m just pointing out how i see the colours, so it can be divergent in some places and although i did some editing in the photos, i didn’t mess with saturation or vibrancy, only brightness and contrast. another thing, i did my best to make sure the detail were visible, but in some cases the quality of the images were reduced drastically, so sorry for that too. there’s also a chance the read more is broken on mobile, i did all that i could to avoid that, but it keeps on happening and i don’t know what else to do, i’m sorry. here we go:

LYRA’S FASHION JOURNEY

There has been this subtle similarity between the outfits Lyra wears in the show and the ones she wore in the movie, and I think that’s nice, especially how they drained away what they didn’t like about the movie outfits and stayed with what they liked, toning down so it matched their ambiance. The show is, by no means, pale, in fact, it is quite vibrant when we actually look at it, but Lyra stands out beautifully in her colours, be it blue, grey or red.

On Jordan, we see a casual and carefree Lyra, a child used to running around the campus and playing on the roofs, but a kid that was raised in a somewhat backwards society. In Lyra’s world, women do not wear pants under most circumstances, for example, and despite her extremely feral behaviour, Lyra’s fashion abides closely to the social rules.

She wears a red pinafore dress (very similar in tone, perhaps a bit less bright than movie!Lyra) that keeps her feminine label on, visually. Underneath, however, there’s this blouse in a very light sea-green, almost a neutral tone, with a very simple yet delicate print on it.

It’s almost like a coarse fabric, simple, we can see the folds it has and it’s a very large piece of clothing, if we consider it’s very loose on her arms and on her neck. She’s not portrayed as tomboyish (thankfully! the term in itself is very odd) and it’s clear she dresses to be able to play and to run wildly through Jordan in a way that’s comfortable.

We can’t see much, but she also wears white socks and boots or boot-like shoes. Her entire outfit feels as if her clothes were donated to her, such as the boots that don’t seem to be for children, the over-the-top large socks and the blouse; the only thing that seems to fit “correctly” in Lyra is the pinafore dress. Her whole look, even the short, messy hair, screams “neglected child raised by servants when they have time to look after her.” That’s a very Lyra-y mood.

We only see this outfit once, but I’m mentioning it here because it really made an impression on me. This is a dress she wears, apparently, for her dinner with the scholars and Mrs. Coulter. I’m guessing it’s a dress because they wouldn’t dress her any other way for a dinner of such importance. It’s a simple, very worn-out dress, in the most unflattering colour they could possibly find and it also feels like she got it from one of the servants, who got from one of their cousins, who got it from one of their siblings. Her hair is brushed and she looks tidy, in an unflattering dress that is buttoned up to her neck, which I think suits the whole thing (her mother is with the Church and is a fashionable woman, so they wouldn’t dress her in a way Mrs. Coulter could point out as disappointing or inappropriate, although the outfit wouldn’t be to her taste). It’s often pointed out how difficult it was to keep Lyra clean and tidy, and how much effort it was put to keep her good looking for Mrs. Coulter and I love what they’ve done here. Mrs. Coulter died a little when she saw her child in that outfit.

I love Lyra’s dress for the Arctic institute lunch, the patterns are beautiful and colorful, in pastel tones, but still inside the palette. It’s a looser dress, with shorter sleeves, and her hair still hasn’t been done in a more fashionista way, so this is a point of transition, where we still see Jordan’s Lyra while she slowly is falling into Mrs. Coulter’s Lyra and the way their outfits relate is just… it’s just so beautiful. I particularly like the collar, and I did some quick research, apparently it’s a peter pan collar but I can’t be a hundred percent sure of that. We see blues and light yellows/browns, dirty pale pinks but no reds, as if Mrs. Coulter is washing Lyra with bleach hoping to not make the girl a sinner (as in being a worldly woman, if that makes sense, not the fact that Mrs. Coulter wanted Lyra to kidnap children with her - that’s not sinful, that’s entrepreneurship lol).

For all that is worth, Lyra’s outfits tell great things about her as her story progresses. In London, she is slowly being shaped by Mrs. Coulter, turned into a doll and manipulated into her little pet project, and we see it on many levels, but mostly and more importantly, in the way she dresses. The blue satin dress is by far the most glamorous of Lyra’s outfits and it echoes Mrs. Coulter in many ways, from the colour to its cut. The fabric is similar to shot silk, producing a fierce iridescent aspect to it and much like Mrs. Coulter’s, her dress goes a few centimeters below her knee. It’s a high neck collar, and the sleeves go up to her elbows, it’s a demure look, almost church-like if it wasn’t for the flamboyant fabric. It’s like seeing Mrs. Coulter’s imprint all over her, twisting and tainting her child. Lyra never loses her childish appearance though; although the dress feels a bit mature, her shoes bring back a boarding school innocent-like aspect to her, the white socks that are up to her ankles adds to her looking young. She never seems to wear any sort of jewelry too, when compared to Mrs. Coulter who relies on extravagant rings and earrings, or delicate necklaces.

At this point, Lyra is already tired and worn-out, probably because of her confinement to a London apartment. Her hair is done in a tidy, classic way, in a style similar to Nicole Kidman’s Mrs. Coulter (and I did some quick research, it’s inspired on 20s/30s hairstyles), which gives her a certain air of… aristocracy? Maybe a certain flair? One way or the other, when we see her in the mirror, beside a reasonably dressed Mrs. Coulter, it’s easy to notice how she is being manipulated and moulded into her “employer’s” image. Because she is young, her hair is shorter than Mrs. Coulter’s (or the other women) and her dress is longer and definitely less revealing. She evokes the image of children who are forced to behave like tiny adults, you know? These traits in her outfit are opposites for Marisa’s green dress.

When she finally runs away, the dress has some tweakings, around the neck and her waist. They’re frilly, childish and girly embellishments (?), further visual proof of Marisa puppeteering Lyra to shape into her model daughter, washing away any sights of common folk/servant clothings or less feminine pieces.

She is in the distance here, so we can’t sort out many details, but it’s a simple, navy blue/deep dark blue, with a spread collar. It looks very angular, we can almost see the folds with precision, and she wears the same shoes as in the gala dress, with the same white socks, so I’m guessing this happens after she tries on the gala dress (or they’re just using the same shoes, which further scenes seem to back up). Her hair, plus the rest of the outfit, make her look so tiny and childish, with its short sleeves showing what’s left of her carefree mindset, which is so pleasant because that way she fits so well in the large apartment, trapped there whether she knows it or not, slowly becoming something she is not, yet. The white bag contrasts nicely against her dark dress, it stands out. I loved how they mirrored Lyra and Marisa, how their colours echo each other, especially when they live together. It’s creepy. @parslow pointed out the same mirror pattern in her post about Lyra’s fashion in the movie, and it’s honestly the best thing they could do, not only because it makes sense that Mrs. Coulter and Lyra dress similarly due to Mrs. Coulter’s meddling, but also because it shows how they are similar in general. Even as Lyra leaves her mother, their colours and outfits still relate to each other.

The cut on the purple dress is, wow. Look at how we can see the wrinkles (?), how angular and super straight it is. That horrid peter pan collar is a monstrosity on Lyra, when we think of that wild girl running through Jordan, in loose and second-hand clothes, this outfit is a cage on itself. Now she looks like she frequents a Catholic school and it unnerves me. The collar is delicate and chaste, and quite a contrast with the dark purple of the dress. It’s possible to see she wears the same shoes with the purple dress, and there is also a white detail on her sleeves, that also go up to her elbows.

We’re working with partial imagery here, but there’s a lot to say about Lyra’s gyptian clothes. This is after Lyra leaves Mrs. Coulter and once she is with the gyptians, she returns to her original behaviour: proud, careless, picking comfort over glamour. The blouse makes a comeback in a nice pattern, and the red colour from the beginning. Note that she never wears red when she is with Mrs. Coulter, a colour that is often associated with sin and hell, but once she is away from her controlling proxy parent (lol James McAvoy), the red makes a comeback on this shirt and later on her hat/cap/hood.

She wears a blue, denim overall, but I’m guessing it’s another pinafore dress since she doesn’t wear pants or so we assume (I’m not revising all of this, but recent behind-the-scene photos showed us Lyra in very loose pants, so maybe she moves on from her conservative world in season 2, but it’s also possible she wears pants here). So this is a mix of her original look, in darker colours, with a deeper red in a more simplistic pattern. Her outfit comes from the gyptians themselves, who suffer a lot under the tyrannical gaze and influence of the Magisterium, so their fabrics are of lesser quality, their colours are darker but less saturated, their clothing is focused on practicality over extreme quality. Her hair is back to loose and messy, as it was before. Her shirt is just as loose on her neck as the green/neutral one was too, as if it’s borrowed from someone larger than she is (maybe it’s from Billy or Tony, or even some gyptian girl - it’s a tough guess).

I accidentally forgot about this outfit lol but there isn’t much left to say about it. This is Lyra’s uniform from Bolvangar, and this is likely the cabin scene because of the lighting (it’s the same as Asriel’s shots with the blue lighting and the evil talk). Once again, Lyra makes a change of outfits, and once she is back to her actual journey, she has another pinafore dress/overall. This is thinner and is clearly worn-out, but considering she left Bolvangar and got stranded n Svalbard, it’s interesting that they made the choice of giving her another set of overalls. This one matches in colour the blouse underneath, except it’s darker, and the cold tones maker her stand out in the warm lighting of the room.

LORD ASRIEL’S “LESS IS MORE”

I was joking recently about Lord Asriel and his one and only sweater, but truth be told, this isn’t a man who either can afford to or would like to have a varied wardrobe. Asriel is a man that worries about theories and philosophy, he couldn’t care less about what shirt he is wearing and the show seems to get that nicely, and he also doesn’t have much money. As far as we can understand, this is his arrival at Jordan, he has a large bag and an aviator-like jacket, that doesn’t look very formal or indicative of his title. His sweater and shirt are in dark tones, along with the jacket, but he wears warmer tones than the other scholars, who wear dark (if not black) but colder tones. (Except the master and his burgundy gown and that dude with the red stripe (?) like, please sir, I am trying to make a point!). Compare him to Boreal, for example, who is another Lord and the discrepancy is loud and clear, through fabric, cut and style.

He dresses more stoically and more adequately, but we can still see his entire outfit is a bit rough and messy, like Lyra’s. It’s possible to perceive how he stands out amongst the scholars, especially because in the books, he even says to Stelmaria, “There’s probably some ancient etiquette that allows them to fine me a dozen bottles for coming in here dressed improperly”. So although he still is well-dressed, he doesn’t fit in as he should.

Despite mocking his only sweater, he does change his shirt after what I’d say is post-meeting with the Master. He is agitated, eager to leave, and he now wears a light-blue shirt with a darker red tie; he either took a bath or it’s a continuity problem, either way he still has a sweater lmao but this time it’s grey and not a desaturated navy-blue (and closer to the one in his shots in the cabin). Something I noticed about the navy blue sweater scene is that the greys in his hair also seems blueish, so I’m willing to bet he doesn’t necessarily change his sweater and the colour difference is happening because of colour correction on that particular scene. I noticed that the sweater doesn’t look blue anywhere else, so it’s a possibility, but I’m still rolling as if he has two sweaters.

I’m not joking lmao I swear he has like two outfits, three if we take the winter gear into account, which is just him probably wearing a coat over - guess what! - his second (or his first, I don’t know anymore) sweater. He looks messier here, this is the grey sweater, but it looks darker than his second one, but also less blue. My theory is that he lost his clothes during the flood lol He does seem to be wearing a jacket over his sweater, but that seems to be made of the same fabric or something similar, and its collar is larger than the original sweater. It makes sense, though, since he is the middle of Svalbard.

MRS. COULTER’S FASHION ODYSSEY (I mean it)

If there’s a person who needs to be dressed appropriately, that person is Mrs. Coulter. From what we have seen, she arrives at Jordan during daylight in a silky trench coat-style, but there is also a darker scene where she is dressed the same way (from my point of view, I can’t really be sure it is the same outfit) and we can see the Master blurred when she is rising from her chair (I had to cut him out of the photo because of the zoom in, but he is there). I mean, we’re talking about a woman who would NOT wear the same outfit two days in a row, it’s why I’m guessing these happen in the same day, she probably intimidates the Master before having dinner with him and Lyra, because by the end of the dinner he is already aware she wants Lyra. We can see she wears a small, delicate gold necklace, in both these scenes, and I find her coat to be very slick and it has that silky glow to it that fits her so well. It’s flamboyant and nonchalant at the same time, if that is possible.

She comes in a very formal (I’m tempted to even call it frilly) and demure outfit, her heels look simple and humble, black (@cozcat pointed out they could also be navy) and basic, if there was ever anyone brave enough to call Mrs. Coulter basic. She wears a velvet/suede jacket over her silky dress and in the earlier teasers it was hard to notice it, but here we can see it. Then we have Marisa walking down the hall, and a much closer shot where we can see how ABSURDLY detailed the jacket is. There is a very, very flamboyant embroidery with tiny gems all over, in colours that vary from light-blue, turquoise, yellow/golden, and there is some hint of pink and purple, if not red and @cozcat also pointed out there is some beading in it. It’s a very detailed pattern, one that we can see from a distance and that screams “Extra” and “wealthy” from a woman who tries to dress in a very demure manner. It’s beautiful and classy.

The golden necklace, however, is gone or at least we cannot see it, but she wears the same jacket (it’s possible to see the embroidery slightly blurred) on the scene she is speaking to Lyra for what it looks like it’s the first time. There’s something so charming about the way the collar is set, the entire look is very Church-like in my opinion, and I think the colour is just so beautiful and it suits Ruth’s complexion perfectly. (There is also a divergency in colours here, in some scenes the outfits are closer to aqua blue/light teal and in other it’s closer to a deep, dark and saturated blue, but I’m guessing this has more to with lighting other than colour correction).

Here is likely moments before Lyra and Mrs. Coulter leave Jordan College, their creepy dialogue is about Roger, probably. Mrs. Coulter wears an actual trench coat, over her light-blue dress, and she is more earthy toned this time. It’s a very simple outfit, probably a change of colours to make her more relatable to Lyra before London. She still wears her wedding ring, apparently, we can see the gold band in that scene here and when she touches Lyra’s face. After some research, @cozcat found out widows tend to wear their ring on the opposite hand to indicate their status, so maybe that’s what they tried to achieve here, after all she still uses her married name, so it would make sense for her to wear her ring as a widow.

We can see the blue dress underneath the trench coat when Lyra and Mrs. Coulter arrive at her apartment (I tried zooming in, but I basically destroyed the image, so no pictures here). By what I could see, this is the same dress from the scene where she attacks Lyra, or it shares the same colours at the other one at the very least. It seems Mrs. Coulter is carrying a bag on this scene, perhaps they went shopping and this is their arrival, since Lyra wears the same outfit as she did in Jordan and we know a least a day passed between the dinner and their voyage to London.

This is a beautiful, simplistic and classy dress, with a low cut v-neck. Mrs. Coulter entire wardrobe has been toned down quite nicely as opposed her version in the film - hell, even her version on stage. This is a darker, slightly more down to Earth Mrs. Coulter (I’ve stated this multiple times, but it doesn’t hurt to say it again). She doesn’t need to exhale glamour here because her apartment does it for her; hence the softer fabrics, the lighter, pastelish colour, the modest pattern and the minimalist accessories.

Most of her dresses have been below-the-knee length, and I did some research, this is recurrent on 1940s fashion. I like how simple and straight this dress is, her delicate goldish watch (it looks like a watch, anyway) and the subtle necklace are beautiful additions to it all. She also seems to be wearing earrings, but it’s hard to say if they are also golden. Her shoes are also very simplistic, a high heel in snake skin in the most neutral colour she has worn so far. I like the pendant on her necklace, it’s delicate and it resembles a compass rose (or windrose or whatever it is called, I found multiple terms) which makes me quite happy. It’s an ode to her scholarly aspect, and despite her entirely demure and subtle outfit, her jewelry is made of gold. That alone speaks volumes.

I’d like to just make a remark on Mrs. Coulter’s dress in here, because we don’t see it again in the trailer: it’s about the same length as the others, with a slightly similar cut, her v-neck remains and so do the accessories. It’s so minimalist I find it insulting lol but it’s beautiful and very classy. Her sleeves are shorter here and with frilly details, though, and she has a thin belt in snake skin or something similar, that helps make the dress more shape-defining. Storywise, I believe this is the point where Lyra begins to distrust Mrs. Coulter, so they don’t have to conceal much of her nature. She seems less virtuous and demure, she shows more skin, even if she is just with Lyra and two random women. Actually, there seems to be an exponential situation when it comes to showing more skin as the story progresses: the closer we get to Mrs. Coulter’s reveal as “the villain”, the less demure she looks, the more skin we see, concerning her London appearances. (She can’t show her shoulders in the North because, you know, it’s cold).

The amount of thirst generated by the green dress is beyond human understanding lmao It’s honestly the most beautiful outfit Mrs. Coulter wore this far in the trailer, but I’m guessing this is the most Extra she is going for this season. A great deal of her outfits, as far as we’ve seen have a more classy, stoic and chaste approach, even though is all just a ruse to deflect people’s attention from Mrs. Coulter’s nature, be it her shameless seductive behaviour or her nasty temper. This dress has us all fucked up beyond all reason, says @cozcat, and I wish sometimes I could disagree lmao It’s a beautiful cut, the fabric in itself is gorgeous, it’s lustrous and reminds me of satin. The colour is beautiful, it really makes her pop, but I honestly think they should have made it copper or gold, it would really make her stand-out and as Ruth is a brunette, warm tones are just a beautiful match. But the green and gold are classic complementaries of each other, and the embroidery on her collar (?) is just one of my favourite things. It’s pretty yet very simple, and very similar in patterns to her blue jacket from the beginning.

We can’t see its length, but I’m betting on below-the-knee length, as the others, and while talking to @parslow we thought that dress seems to be open in the back. This is the most revealing outfit so far, and if it really is open in the back, even if just slightly, there’s a nice contrast to the long and loose sleeves; it’s a way of her compressing her true intentions and nature. This Mrs. Coulter conceals herself in her wardrobe, plain and simple. Her hair is just as it was before, and there is no necklace here. Instead, she trades her gold watch and necklace for a very big middle finger ring (which I love, by the way, it’s one of my favourite ways to wear rings) and it’s dark gold, similar in saturation and brightness to the embroidery on her dress, and so it’s her earring. For all her simplicity before this moment (this is likely the scene where Lyra runs away), this entire outfit is a change of personality in how Mrs. Coulter is translated to the audience. At this point, Lyra knows she is no saint, in fact she is quite the opposite, so she dresses in a more flamboyant way (also for the party), with lustrous fabrics and exuberant jewelry, honestly, Iorek Byrnison saw that earring from where he was, I can tell you that. Her colours are darker, more vibrant, including the nail polish that becomes a rich dark red as opposed to her vibrant red one when she tells Lyra children just disappear. (They don’t, Marisa, mind your business.)

Now for the red sweater, I have to say, I’m eager to know what kind of pants she is going to wear, because I doubt that outfit is a dress and I doubt they are going to make her wear a skirt in the snow. In the movie she wears a long dress and boots, but they favoured fashion over realism, and the show seems to be going the other way around. It’s why it makes sense for her to wear pants, in my opinion. Mrs. Coulter in red is just sinful, literally and metaphorically; it just suits her to wear red. I love the turtleneck style, and it looks like the sleeves are up to her elbows too. There’s just something beautiful in portraying overly sensual women in demure outfits, because it shuns away that idea that someone needs to be revealing to be sexy and that’s nonsense. And adding to Mrs. Coulter being an agent of the Church, it just fits her character to dress in a more chaste way and still fuck around like she does. Her entire persona is a façade and it can be read through her fashion. We can see the gold ring on her finger again, and she also wears golden earrings, I couldn’t identify if they’re the same as the other ones she wear, but it’s possible. (Except for the green dress one, since that one is bigger).

Lastly, it’s the Royal Arctic Institute outfit, I see it as either a two piece suit or a dress and a matching jacket (would that classify as a two piece? I don’t know, I did some research but found nothing conclusive). This whole scene is beautiful, the colours all harmonise with each other, and Marisa’s light blue, almost teal, it’s breathtaking, I really love that colour on its own, but on her it just… glows. There’s a slight shimmer to the fabric and the fluffy collar gives her an air of quirkiness and sweetness it feels uncanny for someone who knows her entire arc, but translates beautifully how she is seen by most people.

PAJAMA PARTY

Here’s one of my favourite things so far: from all the teasers and trailers, we get to see Mrs. Coulter twice in pajamas, different ones at that. The first one is the white, silky pajamas that she wears in the teaser. It has a strip/ribbon around the waist, tied in a similar way to the blue one, but this one feels more angular, as we can notice on her shoulders and how her arms feel like straight lines from the cut of it. She mirrors Lyra’s pearl pajamas when it comes to fabric, but her outfit seem more like a nightgown, as opposed to Lyra, who wears a two-piece pajamas, with buttons and a spread collar. Her pajamas also feels like a robe, I like how slicky it is.

The second pajamas Mrs. Coulter wears is the dark blue one, in the same fabric or similar to the white one, slightly lustrous. This scene is probably after Lyra left, so her colour palette is consistently getting darker and with more vibrant colours. She seems to fit better in this one, which is a simpler piece of clothing than the white nightgown and it’s just visibly more comfortable, and more suitable to her personality. It’s as if she is finally allowed to be herself at her own home because Lyra is no longer there.

THE WINTER GEAR

We can see almost Lyra’s entire outfit from all of the scenes and it is bulkier than the movie version, clearly intent on keeping her warm in the North, which is, you know, the point. The red colour goes to her hat and gloves, in deeper tones, but not as saturated, yet quite visible and these two items are what make her stand out in Trollesund’s white ambiance. She wears a yellow scarf, in a very mustardy tone, and her coat is similar to Mrs. Coulter’s, as in the same details and the same colour, I dare say even the same cut. Asriel’s seems a bit darker, but it’s probably also the same beige, neutral colour. But Lyra’s coat resembles John Faa’s coat more, especially the clasps (?) in front, while Mrs. Coulter’s coats relies on buttons and a thick belt, which is a more feminine choice.

As Lyra goes to the North, saturation is left behind, traded for darker colours and neutral ones, as if to blend in with the landscape, but the colorful items really make her pop and it’s a nice way to identify your main character without trying too hard. She wears a very robust pair of boots, and we can see she has very thick socks (?); her pants are also very thick and of second-hand fabric, but it looks warm. Her red gloves have nice, colorful patterns, and underneath her coat we can see she wears some sort of blue sweater or maybe a cardigan (we can the tip of her sleeve in the square).

There’s nothing special about Asriel’s or Marisa’s winter gear, they both seem to wear similar coats, Asriel’s is a bit more rustic, but probably because it’s tailored for a man or because he got it in the North instead of Brytain. He also has goggles, which is honestly too cool for me.

A REMARK ON HAIRSTYLES

Taking into consideration what we’ve seen so far, Marisa’s hair stays the same throughout the first season. It’s a beautiful hairstyle, very classy and demure, but it’s the same. Asriel’s hair changes in length but I wouldn’t say it changes much in style. Lyra is the only one who suffers from a change during her time with Mrs. Coulter, then she returns to her old Jordan style. They seemed to have gone opposite to the movie: while Mrs. Coulter had shorter hair there, indicating maturity and she also had a constant 20s/30s hairstyle of a glamorous woman of that time, and Lyra had longer hair, curly and loose all the time, the show goes the other way around. Mrs. Coulter has longer, more voluptuous hair, that takes longer time to get done and it’s always done in an impeccable hairdo, while her daughter has a shorter, playful and childish hairstyle, that it’s easier to wash, brush and to keep tidy for her uncle’s visits, whenever necessary, because it is a necessity.

BOLVANGAR’S COLOUR PALETTE

This is just a quick note; the nurses all wear aquamarine blue and white caps, while the children wear light-teal pajamas, in soft and thin fabric. Lighter tones, especially blues, tend to mean innocence and purity, which is why all of Bolvangar’s victims wear variations of blues and light colours (light teal for the actual victims which is the children, darker blues for the brainwashed nurses who are also victims, in a sense). We can’t see the doctors, but I’m guessing they wear grey or black, which is a neutral position, underneath the white coat (that means purity, in this case a false purity to cover their darker, shady intentions), while Mrs. Coulter wears a deep red outfit, which is a colour associated with sin, wrath and hell, as I mentioned before, but also fierceness, passion and lust. A quick reminder that Mrs. Coulter also only wears red after Lyra is gone, and she also wears red in a Magisterium building, like, come on, that had to be intentional. They put a sinner dressed in red in the middle of a religious building where everyone is dressed in black (she is also besides a priest lol).

I also wanted to talk about Mrs. Coulter and her red outfit, but because it’s so distant, we can’t see much, so I’d rather wait for better footage than just ramble about her red hat now lmao.

And this is it. I only focused on the main trio because they have more footage and I’d rather have more on Lee and the gyptians to have more to talk about. Sorry for the long ramble lmao give Lord Asriel a new sweater 2k20 (please make him wear a linen shirt with rolled up sleeves, i never asked for any fucking thing).

[theonyxpath]

Pirates of Pugmire, from which you see the awesome beach duel by artist Pat McEvoy above, launched last week and is over half-way to its funding goal!

Thanks to everybody who has backed so far, and please check it out and spread the word! Pirates of Pugmire is a sourcebook that expands on the entirety of the Realms of Pugmire, and contains new rules and info on piracy on the Acid Sea and the port city of Waterdog Keep, new callings for dogs and cats, new player character types with the birds and lizards, gunpowder weapon rules (originally imported from other lands where the lizard-folk trade), and contains new and connected adventures.

It really has just a ton of new stuff for all of the Realms of Pugmire, but a lot of times folks will hold off on backing supplements – which we know from long experience – but this time it’s so much more than just that.

Plus, we’d really like to get this traditionally printed and in stores like Pugmire and Monarchies of Mau, but we can’t OK that unless we get over the funding goal (and into all the cool Stretch Goals). So, give it a looksee, me hearties! Don’t be scurvy dogs! https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/200664283/pirates-of-pugmire-a-realms-of-pugmire-tabletop-rpg

Trinity Continuum: Aeon art by Gregor Pedrycz

Most of our talk in today’s meeting was setting everything up for our trip out to UK Games Expo. Mighty Matt and I are headed out in order to get there Wednesday, and Eddy will meet up with us and Matthew on Thursday to set up the booth and welcome Steffie de Vaan, John Burke, Chris Allen, and Klara Herbol, as they all roll in throughout the day.

Then, it is demos and chatting to folks in the booth – and directing those interested in purchasing our stuff to our friends at the Leisure Games booth. Matthew and I were enthusing about recreating entire scenes from Miller’s Crossing, in character and voices, or maybe doing Dueling Walkens if we get left alone at the booth – so watch out.

Like I said a couple of weeks ago, we’re experimenting with different booth/demo/sales arrangements depending on the con, and we’re starting with this one.

If you missed it before, here’s the UKGE hall map:

We also finalized the prizes for the Contagion Chronicle “tournament” our creators are running that culminates in a final round for all the declared winners of the previous Chronicles of Darkness games. Really looking forward to seeing how this event plays out!

Also really looking forward to Curry Take-Away if we can get it, but that’s just my personal thing I’m fascinated by. We do not have it around these parts.

Shunned By The Moon art by Leo Albiero

Since I’ll be gone still next week, our own Dynamic Dixie Cochran will be guest-writing this blog! So please make her feel welcome. Other than the updates, I have no idea what she’ll choose to write about, but I’m sure you’re all in good hands.

I hope.

Speaking of Dixie – thanks to all of you who left questions for her interview with me for the Onyx Pathcast. Some guy named Eddy Webb was there too, and they posted it last Friday. The link’s below in the Onyx Path Media section of the MMN, and I had a great time chatting with the Trio (minus Matthew).

Both of them (but mostly Dixie) were great at keeping me on point as I do love to ramble on, and their questions tended to deal with the olden days – although we got into the future of our projects and the Pathcast itself, so it wasn’t all lookin’ back stuff.

The other big category of questions, and I get these all the time, were of the “What is your favorite X” kind. Where most of the Xs are Clan, or Book, or Game Line, sort of subjects. Which are so hard for me to honestly answer since I really do have a lot of favorites in those categories for different reasons. But it’s also really rough to say that I love X as your bashful publisher.

If I name one thing, the folks who love all the others may think I’m not necessarily going to push anything but the one I said was my favorite. Or the creators of the others now think I think they didn’t do a good job. That’s not really something it’s worth risking.

If only people asked non-work related questions like Favorite Color (purple), or Favorite Inker of Gene Colan’s Comic Book Pencils (Tom Palmer). Favorite Novel Set On A Desert Planet, even (Dune). Those I can answer!

One question I have received a fair bit these last couple of months that we didn’t cover, and that I now can answer, is when is Scion going on sale to non-KS backers? Well, we’ll be putting the PDF and PoD versions up for sale next Wednesday, June 5th on DTRPG to match when retailers should have the traditionally printed books to sell.

Trinity Continuum: Aeon art by Gunship Revolution

Finally, I’m told that the D&D sale at DTRPG is featuring our Scarred Lands books until the end of the month with super discounts. Which is cool, because our 5e Scarred Lands plans are really heating up! Here’s a link: https://www.drivethrurpg.com/featured.php?promotion_id=2019SlarecianMay

I’ll be finalizing plans for the new 5e Creature Collection with Jon Hodgson, who is handling the creation of the book and running the Kickstarter, at UKGE, and we’ll be announcing a new developer for the line and the projects they are overseeing once we get back. Plus, on the Scarred Lands Community Content site, the Slarecian Vault, the beginning of July marks the start of a phenomenal linked adventure series you will not want to miss!

Just to give you one more teaser before I leave the country, the beginning of July will also mean the start of something folks here also ask me about all the time, but before then – on June 13th even – we’ll be starting a little treat for everyone that leads into the July event. Keep your eyes peeled, and tally-ho, old chap, right into our

Many Worlds, One Path!

BLURBS!

KICKSTARTER:

Our Pirates of Pugmire Kickstarter is more than half-way funded, so swing over to our ship and check it out you sea-dogs!

Pirates of Pugmire is a chronicle sourcebook for both Pugmire and Monarchies of Mau. It’s usable in either game, or as part of a joint experience. Some highlights include: * Two new species for players to enjoy: lizards and birds * Six new callings, including two for dogs and two for cats * Rules for building, sailing, and sinking ships * A trove of new allies, enemies, and treasures * Information on Waterdog Port and Port Matthew * “Going on the Account,” a chronicle of three new adventures, taking characters from 1st through 6th level

You can also hear Eddy discuss the writing and design of Pirates of Pugmire on this week’s Onyx Pathcast podcast on your favorite podcast venues, or here on : https://onyxpathcast.podbean.com/)

ONYX PATH MEDIA

Illustration by Charles Bates

This Friday’s Onyx Pathcast is the first episode in Dixie, Eddy, and Matthew’s actual play of Scion!: https://onyxpathcast.podbean.com/

And Here’s More Media About Our Worlds:

The Onyx Path News will return later this week with more than one exciting release announcement!

In actual plays, as Matthew ran Scion: Origin for Eddy and Dixie live last week! The video is in two parts and will be edited for the Onyx Pathcast, but here’s part one of the Miami Hotel story for your enjoyment: https://youtu.be/uEzgr74CfOE Don’t steal from Poseidon!

It’s actual plays a-go-go, we have uploaded parts one and two of our Pirates of Pugmire playthrough, run by Travis Legge, to our Onyx Path YouTube account! Travis is a superb author and a fantastic Guide for the players, and we sincerely recommend you check these two videos out. Here’s part one: https://youtu.be/fU9y3tl77GM and here’s part two: https://youtu.be/rSzjLVW1rnQ

Fandible have uploaded the second part of their excellent They Came From Beneath the Sea! actual play, and it’s available for listening right here: http://www.fandible.com/they-came-from-beneath-the-sea-the-things-that-slither-2-of-2/ Please check this one out!

They Came from Beneath the Sea: The Things That Slither 2 of 2

We can’t get away from the superb talents of Travis Legge, as here is his Scarred Lands actual play on the Myths & Matchmakers series: https://youtu.be/zq4Uw1YaS9g

The Story Told Podcast have reached episode six of their Dragon-Blooded actual play. This episode closes out the dinner party at Kai’s villa and follows the Dragon-Blooded into the evening. https://thestorytold.libsyn.com/

Caffeinated Conquests are picking up a good number of viewers for their actual play of Scarred Lands‘ Gauntlet of Spiragos (they have gone totally off-piste by this point) and they’re incredibly entertaining to watch every time: https://youtu.be/lD7V7fm3cso

Twin Cities by Night continues with their Hunter’s Hunted II actual play, reaching an impressive episode 16! If you’re into long-form plays, give this one a go! https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-rg9ye-b19cb0

And of course, Red Moon Roleplaying, podcasters extraordinaire, have uploaded another episode of The Great Vilhaim Heist, a Scarred Lands game run by Matthew Dawkins: https://www.redmoonroleplaying.com/ Keep your eye on Red Moon Roleplaying, as soon they’ll be running The Sacrifice, from Chicago by Night!

Please check any of these out and let us know if you find or produce any actual plays of our games!

ELECTRONIC GAMING:

As we find ways to enable our community to more easily play our games, the Onyx Dice Rolling App is now live! Our dev team has been doing updates since we launched based on the excellent use-case comments by our community, and this thing is both rolling and rocking!

Here’s an update from the App devs:

We’ve been having trouble fixing the android bug that messes up the resolution for newer phones. I think we have a fix for that.  It was also brought up that the store display is wrong on most tablet devices, so that is getting fixed too. That should all be soon!

ON AMAZON AND BARNES & NOBLE:

You can now read our fiction from the comfort and convenience of your Kindle (from Amazon) and Nook (from Barnes & Noble).

If you enjoy these or any other of our books, please help us by writing reviews on the site of the sales venue you bought it from. Reviews really, really help us with getting folks interested in our amazing fiction!

Our selection includes these fiction books:

OUR SALES PARTNERS:

We’re working with Studio2 to get Pugmire out into stores, as well as to individuals through their online store. You can pick up the traditionally printed main book, the Screen, and the official Pugmire dice through our friends there! https://studio2publishing.com/search?q=pugmire

We’ve added Prince’s Gambit to our Studio2 catalog: https://studio2publishing.com/products/prince-s-gambit-card-game

Now, we’ve added Changeling: The Lost 2nd Edition products to Studio2‘s store! See them here: https://studio2publishing.com/collections/all-products/changeling-the-lost

Scarred Lands (Pathfinder) books are also on sale at Studio 2: https://studio2publishing.com/collections/scarred-lands

Looking for our Deluxe or Prestige Edition books? Try this link! http://www.indiepressrevolution.com/xcart/Onyx-Path-Publishing/

And you can now order Pugmire, Monarchies of Mau, Cavaliers of Mars, and Changeling: The Lost 2e! http://www.indiepressrevolution.com/xcart/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=296

DRIVETHRURPG.COM:

On Sale This Week!

This Wednesday, we have both our regular monthly Exalted 3rd PDF offerings AND the Advance PDF release of The Realm all on DTRPG!

CONVENTIONS

UK Games Expo: THIS WEEK! May 31st – June 2nd From the US comes Eddy Webb, Matt McElroy, and Rich Thomas to join with Matthew Dawkins, Steffie de Vaan, John Burke, Chris Allen, and Klara Herbol! Gen Con: August 1st – August 4th Save Against Fear: Oct 12-14 GameHoleCon: October 31st – November 3rd We’ll also be back at PAX Unplugged later this year.

And now, the new project status updates!

DEVELOPMENT STATUS FROM FAST EDDY WEBB (projects in bold have changed status since last week):

First Draft (The first phase of a project that is about the work being done by writers, not dev prep)

M20 Victorian Mage (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

Geist2e Fiction Anthology (Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2nd Edition)

Exalted Essay Collection (Exalted)

Scion: Demigod (Scion 2nd Edition)

Trinity Continuum Jumpstart (Trinity Continuum Core)

Wraith20 Fiction Anthology (Wraith: The Oblivion 20th Anniversary Edition)

One Foot in the Grave Jumpstart (Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2e)

Dragon-Blooded Novella #2 (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Exigents (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Terra Firma (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Titanomachy (Scion 2nd Edition)

Crucible of Legends (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Redlines

Monsters of the Deep (They Came From Beneath the Sea!)

Tales of Aquatic Terror (They Came From Beneath the Sea!)

Scion: Dragon (Scion 2nd Edition)

Kith and Kin (Changeling: The Lost 2e)

Masks of the Mythos (Scion 2nd Edition)

Second Draft

Tales of Good Dogs – Pugmire Fiction Anthology (Pugmire)

Dragon-Blooded Novella #1 (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Across the Eight Directions (Exalted 3rd Edition)

TC: Aeon Ready Made Characters (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Mummy: The Curse 2nd Edition core rulebook (Mummy: The Curse 2nd Edition)

City of the Towered Tombs (Cavaliers of Mars)

TC: Aeon Jumpstart (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Legendlore core book (Legendlore)

Development

WoD Ghost Hunters (World of Darkness)

Oak, Ash, and Thorn: Changeling: The Lost 2nd Companion (Changeling: The Lost 2nd)

M20 The Technocracy Reloaded (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

Creatures of the World Bestiary (Scion 2nd Edition)

Heirs to the Shogunate (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Scion Companion: Mysteries of the World (Scion 2nd Edition)

Deviant: The Renegades (Deviant: The Renegades)

Chicago Folio/Dossier (Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition)

Let The Streets Run Red (Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition)

Cults of the Blood Gods (Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition)

Heroic Land Dwellers (They Came From Beneath the Sea!)

DR:E Threat Guide (Dystopia Rising: Evolution)

DR:E Jumpstart (Dystopia Rising: Evolution)

Manuscript Approval:

Trinity Continuum: Aberrant core (Trinity Continuum: Aberrant)

Pirates of Pugmire (Realms of Pugmire)

Memento Mori: the GtSE 2e Companion (Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2nd Edition)

Night Horrors: Nameless and Accursed (Mage: the Awakening Second Edition)

Hunter: the Vigil 2e core (Hunter: the Vigil 2nd Edition)

Editing:

Spilled Blood (Vampire: The Requiem 2nd Edition)

CofD Dark Eras 2 (Chronicles of Darkness)

Lunars: Fangs at the Gate (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Blood Sea: Crimson Abyss for 5e (Scarred Lands)

Post-Editing Development:

M20 Book of the Fallen (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

V5 Chicago By Night (Vampire: The Masquerade)

V5 Chicago By Night Screen (Vampire: The Masquerade)

CofD Contagion Chronicle (Chronicles of Darkness)

Witch-Queen of the Shadowed Citadel (Cavaliers of Mars)

Distant Worlds (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Scion Ready Made Characters (Scion 2nd Edition)

Indexing:

Trinity Aeon

ART DIRECTION FROM MIRTHFUL MIKE:

In Art Direction

Ex3 Monthly Stuff  

They Came From Beneath the Sea! – Art notes in.

EX3 Lunars

Hunter: The Vigil 2

Contagion Chronicle

VtR Spilled Blood – Contracted.

M20 Book of the Fallen – More sketches coming in.

Dark Eras 2 – More sketches coming in.

Pirates of Pugmire – KS art in, the rest has been contracted.

Trinity Continuum: Aberrant – KS art notes and contracts going out.

Scion Ready Made Characters

TC Aeon: Distant Worlds

Marketing Stuff

In Layout

Trinity Continuum Core

Cavs – Witch Queen of the Shadowed Citadel

V5 Chicago By Night

Proofing

Signs of Sorcery – Inputting final Dev note changes.

Aeon Aexpansion – In 2nd Proof.

C20 Cup of Dreams Novel

Scion Jumpstart

Dystopia Rising: Evolution

Shunned By The Moon

At Press

Scion Hero – Shipped to backers, PoD coupon out to backers.

Scion Origin – Shipped to backers, PoD coupon out to backers.

In Media Res – PDF out to backers, gathering errata with new sheet.

Geist 2e – PDF out to backers, gathering errata with new sheet.

Adventures for Curious Cats – PoD proof ordered.

Tales of Excellent Cats – PoD proof ordered.

Dragon-Blooded – Deluxe printing.

Dragon-Blooded Screen – At printer.

Trinity Core and Aeon Screens – Files at printer.

The Realm – Advance PDF on sale on DTRPG this Weds, Backer PDF already to backers, errata gathering from both.

TODAY’S REASON TO CELEBRATE: 

Today is Memorial Day here in the US, where we honor our fallen members of the armed forces. It’s a national holiday, and it’s also important to reflect on the sacrifices many have made that ultimately allow us to have lives where we can make and play games.

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dead Ivy | Chapter Three

CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

The house never looked that big before, it was a small two bedroom that was enough for Jason and his wife. He had repainted the gray finish into a pearly white that matched the picket fence. He had replaced the grass and drew little designs on the mailbox to make it look more like home- but now the grass was rotting to a deep brown, and the mailbox’s flag creaked as sticky wind hissed past.

Beca knew she should have grabbed the keys before she got out of her fathers’ truck.

That would have saved her from digging in her messenger bag. There were a lot of papers from the funeral in there, different documents and legal stuff that she would usually pay people to do that for her- which, of course, left a sour taste in her mouth. She hated people like that, but she hated not reading the fine print even more.

They had given her Jason’s things in a plastic bag that reminded her of prison. Beca just remembered staring at the doctor, dry-mouthed and silent against the buzzing fluorescent lights. How could her brother not survive but the set of keys in the ignition were salvaged? It left a thick feeling in her veins.

There was a CD that wasn’t labeled, something they had pulled from the wreckage. A couple of receipts and a picture of his ex-wife that he had, still clipped to the visor. Her father refused to take any of it, so she shoved everything except for the keys into the bottom compartment of her dresser. Of course, now, she couldn’t’ find them.

“Whatever you’re selling, he doesn’t want it.”

The voice startled her into gasping. If she was holding keys, Beca would let them fall to the ground. She had placed the cleaning supplies down by the front door and turned slightly within the bounds of the picket fence. A woman, probably three times her age, was leaning with her garden sheers, way too close to the barrier. She had on a large floppy hat the shaded her ghostly eyes and her pants were coated in grass stains.

“I’m sorry?”

“The young man that lives there, he doesn’t want what you’re selling. We have a strict policy against solicitors, and you can see that there is no car other than yours in the driveway.”

Beca blinked a few times at the woman. She didn’t’ think people like this actually existed. When she was growing up her father would get letters in the mail from the HOA talking about how they needed to trim their hedges or repaint their shutters or else they would get fined for tainting the neighborhood. She never understood people who looked out for that type of thing, but one was standing right in front of her, mouth pressed into a hard line.

“I’m not selling anything.” Beca felt the need to defend herself to this small-town southern belle of the ’50s. “I’m looking for the key.”

She went back to pawing around her back, shoving aside a half-eaten granola bar that was at the bottom. It left crumbs over everything and made it smell like peanut butter, but she supposed there were worse things.

“This place has been vacant for a week now.”

“He’s dead.”

Beca paused in her own movements. She hadn’t said it out loud. She had mulled over it again and again. Her older brother, the kid who used to pick on her about her hair, and her grades, and the fact that she couldn’t pass her driving test on the first try was dead. She had been preoccupied. Busy with arranging his service and keeping up house for the rest of the town. She finally found the key and looked up at the woman, who was quiet for what seemed like the first time in her life.

“He was so young. That’s tragic.”

“It is,” Beca let out a deep sigh and turned the key in the lock. She nodded briskly at the woman before pushing her way into the stifling heat of the house. She was hit with an instant scent of rotted food and stagnant water. The electric had been cut. It left her with the dusty darkness of a bachelor pad.

The house groaned in her presence and she drew in a cloying breath, pressing her back against the door. There were envelopes on the floor, scattered against the hardwood after being shoved through the mail slot. An instant brine of sweat began to adhere her clothes to her skin. Her brother's house looked normal.

Jason’s coat was still hanging on the hook by the front door. There were movies lining the shelves next to a vacant television. A throw moved against the back of the sofa and another picture of his wife was situated by the end table. Beca never understood why he left that there. But then again, she had never been over here to turn the smiling face to the mahogany that it rested on.

She let her boots echo against the flooring as she wondered through everything. There were two bedrooms, one converted into an office, the other had an unmade bed. The dining room was void of a table instead a worn Steinway piano was in its place. She ran her fingers over dusty cover but decided against listening to the notes.

They were both forced to take piano lessons as a kid. Jason wanted to go out for the basketball team instead, and he eventually did. But for three long years in middle school, they both sat with their backs straight and fingers hovering over alternating keys. Beca supposed she did have her father to thank for her affinity in music. Her understanding was owed to Miss Beale.

Beca walked over the fridge and frowned. That same rotted scent of decaying vegetation coated her lungs and she knew she would have to peel open a trash bag and get rid of the food first. It should have been done days ago- all of this had. Instead, she stared at the fridge.

There were letter magnets that were blocky and in primary colors. There didn’t seem to be any combinations that could be read, but they did hold up different poloids. Easter, 07’. Key West, 04’. Honeymoon, ll’. The one that stood out to her was Christmas of 01. Jason was behind Beca, his cheesy smile matching the onesies they both wore in front of a tree too covered in tinsel to ever be considered pine. She leaned into him and they both grinned like they were instructed to.  

Beca jumped when her phone buzzed in her back pocket.

She gulped back the rancid air and blinked away whatever moisture formed in her eyes before frantically fishing her phone out of her back pocket. She didn’t recognize the number, but she welcomed the distraction. “Mitchell.”

“It’s Stacie, I’m so glad I had the right number.” Beca didn’t ask her why, or how, she had gotten it before Stacie spoke again. “Listen, I was serious about getting together. You busy?”

Beca glanced around and brought her fingers up to her collarbone. She instinctively scratched at where a necklace had once been. A nervous habit, she supposed. “No, not at all. What did you have in mind?”

Beca Mitchell ended up at the Snake Eye, the very place she didn’t want to find herself in while staying in the sleepy little town. The music was too loud, and there was an undeniable thickness to the air that culminated in half-rate nachos and open mic nights. High school Beca would have loved this place- hell, college graduate Beca would have loved it too.

“I got you a beer!” Stacie called over the music, shoving a cold amber bottle into Beca’s hand. “I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s perfect, thanks!”

Beca would have taken rubbing alcohol at this point. Anything that would drown out, or at least dull, the sound of the pulsing music. Every seat was taken at the bar, and the few tables that the place had were occupied. Some college girl was mumbling her way through Bohemian Rhapsody, probably on a dare from her friends sitting a few booths down.

Stacie pulled Beca into a vacant corner of the bar. It was oddly quieter on the plush leather seats. She set her beer down on the table and tried to distract herself by reading whatever was on the menu. It was tailgating food and all of it was a greasy mess, yet, Beca found herself craving jalapeno poppers.

“Sorry, this is such short notice. All my residents ended up coming down with the same flu that they were treating last week.” Stacie took a long gulp of her fruity drink. “I feel bad, but I’ve got the night off, and you probably need an escape.”

“I do, yeah, though, I refuse to get up on that stage.”

“What? The singing bug finally left your bones?”

Beca snorted and shook her head. She wasn’t much of a singer, to begin with, sure, she had a voice. Almost everyone from her childhood did. She remembered the after-school jazz band and the concerts that the school would put on.  “I’m more a behind the scenes type of girl.”

“Right, right. Bigshot producer now, I bet a few of your songs are in that book up there.”

Her cheeks heated at that, but she knew the doctor meant well. She was sure there were a few that she had helped produce. Big pop songs that let her top the charts without giving her the fame. Of course, she still found herself pulling her baseball cap down, or looking away from whatever cameras had spotted her. Not here, though. No one knew this place existed.

“That’s pretty cool, Mitchell. Getting out of this place and making a name for yourself.”

“Please, you are literally a doctor. You save lives daily.” Beca took a swig of her own beer, letting the sour liquid sooth her nerves a bit. “That’s dope, dude.”

“Not always. I pull more marbles out of asses than I do bullets.”

Beca frowned at the statement, scrunching up her nose before the two of them burst into laughter. If felt like it used to: she could remember sitting in the refinished garage that Stacie had converted into somewhat of a man cave. There was a fold out couch, and the hum of the dryer would lull them into placid conversation. Stacie stole a beer from her father, and they drank it in there. Two years later she produced a sloppily rolled blunt, and they smoked it there, all while making crass jokes and cracking up. It felt normal.

They both let out an involuntary groan as the first three notes of a Toni Braxton song filled the bar. Beca pressed her forehead against the table and Stacie shifted in the booth to get a good look at whoever had chosen a ballad like Unbreak My Heart.

“No fucking way,” Stacie mumbled, setting her sloshing drink down. “Mitchell, you wouldn’t believe…”

Though, when the first ballad started, Beca did believe. She had heard that voice a million times and had more than enough nights where she fought to forget it. Right now, it was shockingly crushing one of the hardest songs humanly possible to sing- though she had no doubt.

Chloe Beale. Restaurant owner. Single mother- and oh god, wearing really tight jeans.

There weren’t many lights that illuminated the half-baked stage in the karaoke bar. But that didn’t’ seem to matter. A mix of blue and white shaded Chloe while the whole place seemed captivated by the words of a heartfelt breakup song. Ouch.

“She’s crushing it.”

“Mm,” Beca could only hum in agreement as she traced Chloe’s body. Of course, a deep acid still burned against her veins from their curt interaction earlier that morning. She looked so different- so freeing with the mic in her hand and all eyes on her. “I think I need some air.”

Before Stacie could interject Beca pushed herself away from the booth and walked through the crowd that had all turned to face the stage. She didn’t blame them. Her whole body was on fire, like the atoms that made up her God complex were struggling to pull her back. She didn’t know if the hot Georgia air was doing her any favors, but it muted the song.

She let out a dull sigh and pressed her body close to the brick, closing her eyes. She could hear the crickets mix with the low croaks of bullfrogs. She used to find it odd when both were quiet. When she could only hear her breath- but she was used to LA traffic, a different type of loud and never that unsettling silence.

The music picked up again when the door opened and closed. A couple that was sure to move on to their next destination for the night. Stacie coming out to check on her. A bartender coming out for a smoke while they sat on an old plastic carton.

Beca let her eyes shoot open once more when the warmth of another cut through her focus. She steadied herself, hands grasping at her arms. Familiar. “Oh my god, I am so sorry, I-“Chloe Beale wasn’t alone, her breath scarce. She was still riding the high of the stage. “Beca.”

The girl that was with her was tall, towering with those brown doe eyes that could melt the sharpest hearts encased in ice. She wore a floral sundress, loud colors that somehow worked on her lanky frame. A leather coat was against her shoulders to counter the cold of the bar.

“Twice in one day, wow.” She said.

Beca scanned the stranger up and down, not taking her eyes off of her. She was pretty. Very pretty. “It’s a small town- I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Oh, we haven’t.” She said, chipper as ever. “My names Emily. And you’re Beca, Chloe has told me all about you.”

She raised her eyebrows, giving a slight tilt of the head towards Chloe. Her cheeks were red and Beca couldn’t’ tell if that had changed from before this topic of conversation was brought up. She hated the heat that licked at her own throat- she had no right, none whatsoever, to feel that surge of jealousy towards this tall stranger. They had forgotten each other. Forgotten the way they felt against each other. Forgotten how they loved, and how they hated. How they hurt.

“You did very well up there, Chloe.” Beca finally conceded. “Just like old times.”

“Sure,” Chloe’s eyes were hard, that signature blue not shining as it had before. Was it anger? Was it betrayal? Was it both? Beca couldn’t tell before Chloe looped her arm around Emily’s middle and lilted her head. “We have to be going. Have a good night, Beca.”

They walked past and Beca pretended not to get overwhelmed by the vanilla scent that both girls carried. Instead, she simply mumbled dejectedly. “You too, Chloe.”

[unholyhelbig]

Based on the anon ask, prompt: “Aubrey Posen believed in lots of things, but love was not one of them. That is, until she met Emily.”

SEND ME PROMPTS HERE

Aubrey Posen believed in a lot of things. When she was ten years old, she started to believe in ghosts. Her mother was driving down a long-winded path and fog seemed to take up every inch of spare expanse that North Carolina had to offer. It was cliché, really. But the man she saw standing on the side of the road dressed in a slate grey uniform convinced her that ghosts were real, as real as the clothes on her back and the blanket that was covering her lap. She didn’t’ say a word, but she knew her mother had seen him too.

When she was sixteen she believed that things happened for a reason. A letter coming in the mail stating that her father was going back into the infantry. He would travel and see the world. He would write, and he would stop writing. And she would sit between her two older siblings, blindly reaching for their comforting touch when they got the news that he was coming home. But only to pack his things.

She crashed a car when she skidded on black ice at nineteen, learning to believe that it was okay to make mistakes. Her older brother pulling her into a minty embrace instead of screaming about his wrecked jeep. He wasn’t angry, instead, he squeezed her shoulders and hastily warned her never to scare him like that again.

Aubrey Posen believed in a lot of things, but love wasn’t one of them. That is until she met Emily.

She had felt the light like never before that day; a star that hung high in the sky pressing heated rays against exposed skin. It was a warmth that she couldn’t ignore, the atmosphere clear despite the musty scent of rain taking up home in her lungs. Aubrey loved the smell of the rain and the even sharper scent of incoming snow. That thankfully didn’t present itself this early into October.

Booths lined her on either side, some of them boasting signs that were carved expertly. They advertised peaches and corn. Sweetgrass baskets that had been so expertly woven in the spare time of their crafters. Aubrey bit into an apple, her teeth pressing past soft green flesh as sticky juices dripped down her chin. This was home, for her, this had always been home.

Aubrey didn’t’ miss the stuffy suits or the smog that coated New York Cities risen air. The cases that stacked against her desk were long forgotten as her mind buzzed with nothing other than making her way carefully through the farmers market. Everything was muted and enhanced all at once. She loved her visits home and loved the stillness of them even more.

“Oh, shi-“The voice pulled through the low buzz of the market, not many people looking up from examining their tomato’s, poking and prodding until it looked bruised enough to beg for a discount. But there she was, struggling to lift a case of mason jars from the back of a rusted old ford.

They dripped in a golden syrup, bubbles catching a certain aim of lighting from the very sun that warmed Aubrey’s cheeks. She could practically taste the sweet substance as it barely sloshed around. The booth simple stated: Honey. Little symmetrical combs were slathered in yellow at the corner of the board. It was simple, and at this rate, it was going to lose all of its merchandise.

“Here, let me help you,” She said.

Aubrey wasn’t one to rush towards a stranger. She wasn’t one to try and show off by lifting something that was a little too heavy, even for her. She could feel the subtle burn in her arms, and the moisture that collected against her collarbone. None of that could make up from the bright, almost impish, smile she received in return.

She set them down on the shaded countertop, rolling her shoulders back as she looked at the stranger. She was tall, even with mud-stained converse on, sporting a worn t-shirt and a flannel. The girl’s features were soft and kind, and damn, did they feel like the sun. The flower that bees were drawn to driven by the very nature instilled upon them.

“Thank you so much,” She panted, pulling the red baseball cap from her forehead, she dragged her forearm against it, smearing dirt and sweat. “You have no idea how much trouble I’d be in if I dropped those.”

“It was really no problem.” Aubrey just chuckled at the girl’s frantic words, she was still panting in the heat. Watching as the stranger ripped into the box that she had just set down. “What are you-?”  

“Here,” She produced an amber colored jar. “It’s on the house. Assuming that you actually like honey, this here is the best stuff. Homegrown. Well, home harvested.”

“Thank you,”

Aubrey absently ran her fingers over the printed label. It had that soft yellow background that her booth occupied. The same logo too, but up close, Aubrey could see the tiny script of Emily’s right above the bulky text. She glanced up, Emily suited her. She started to take the rest of the mason jars out of the cardboard box, humming along to an odd tune that the lawyer couldn’t quite place.

She walked away that day, the weighted glass of honey still prominent in her hand as she shifted its contents. There were little flakes of yellow pollen swimming in the stagnant warmth. A certain heat pressed against her abdomen, an odd place for the sun to reach, but she swallowed it back.

The coffee coated her throat, it’s bitter edge never too strong. Willow Heights was never known for an intoxicating brew. Instead, she settled for the burnt flavor and the washed-out white mugs that used to have logos sprawled against them. Now it was just little black spots where the paint hadn’t exactly faded yet.

Still, Aubrey gulped it down hungrily to wash away the taste of the pie that she had eaten, nothing but crumbs were left on her plate and the waitress dressed in a sickly mint green ensemble took that as enough of a sign to clear it and refill the mug with little conversation. She almost liked it that way, the quiet.

There was a mother watching her son destroy an ice cream Sunday in the corner of the diner. He was missing his mouth, coating his fingers in a sugary mess of black syrup and cherry juice. She winced at the thought of how sticky he would be, but the woman seemed not to fret too much. She gave her a knowing glance. It practically screamed kids will be kids.

There was, of course, the cook, but his focus was on spraying clean dishes in the back of the house. The waitress smacking her gum like the blood that rushed past Aubrey’s ears. It was rhythmic in a gross kind of way. The bell above the door was accompanied by the deadpan cold that ran through town when the sunset.

The girl from the farmers market.

It had in fact rained. She was quick to peel off her soiled jacket and hang it on the small coat rack by the door. An unused umbrella rested against the glass door frame. A missing cat poster with eminent water damage dog-eared at the excess of wind.  

“Hey, Em” The waitress mustered a sunny disposition. “The usual?”

“You bet,” She rubbed her hands together in the heat of the restaurant. Aubrey couldn’t help but stare, her expression was soft and captivating all at once. She had seen beauty before, really, she had. But Emily had a certain rawness like unsweetened honey. It was smooth but had a bitter kick that she craved the taste of. “Oh hey,”

Aubrey blinked dumbly for a second, licking her lips. They tasted burnt, the coffee still lingering as she registered that she was actually being spoken to. “Hi”

“Mind if I?”

Emily gestured to the stool next to hers. There were other seats available at the counter, but Aubrey had the feeling that if she had taken any of those, she would be caught staring violently at the girl. Not out of lust (Not entirely anyway) but out of pure captivation. She gulped down the sour taste in her mouth as she nodded.

The waitress eyed Aubrey as she set down a big glass of what smelled like root beer in front of Emily. The girl denied a straw before downing a quarter of it in one fail sweep.

“I’ve never seen you around before, stranger.”

“Stranger? Oh. I’m not from round’ these parts.”

She laid on the southern accent thickly, a hint of a smirk pulling at her lips. Emily seemed to redden at this. Aubrey supposed they did sound a little too dramatic for her taste, almost as if she could reach into her belt and find a pearl embossed pistol at the ready. All she would have to do is spin the barrel and hope she didn’t’ load it.

“Very funny,” Emily nudged her shoulder. She smelled like rain. “I just don’t know what a girl like you is doing in a town like this one.”

“I’ll have you know, I grew up here.” Aubrey straightened her back and raised her own mug to her lips, taking another long gulp of stale caffeine. “What gave it away?”

“That you haven’t been home in a long while?” Emily quirked a brow “No one in Willow Heights has a manicure.”

Aubrey’s grey stare flicked to her nails instinctively. They were painted in a nude color, but they had been done professionally. Half of her wardrobe was pressed and trimmed and tailored just to fit the standards of a courtroom. A small farming town like this one didn’t’ even have a nail salon. But Aubrey liked it that way.  

“You’re very observational for a beekeeper.”

“Thank you,” she straightened her stance, drawing in another gulp of her soda like the heat of the carbonation didn’t bother her at all. “You kind of have to in my position.”

Aubrey could only imagine. One false move and little insects with sharp stingers would find their way past a strong suited woman. It wasn’t like dealing with slimy defense lawyers who had slicked back hair and venom dripping past their teeth- no, this was something delicate.

The waitress chewed her gum silently as she set a large plate of chocolate chip waffles in front of Emily with some silverware. Whipped cream was stacked to the very top, a few strawberries made dents in the mountain. “Thanks, Erica!”

She hummed in response and filled up Aubrey’s cup once more, earning a grateful nod in response before she went back to playing some matching game on her phone. The mother in the corner of the diner hastily tried to wipe away the syrup on her sons’ fingers.

“Oh my god, how can you eat that?” Aubrey chuckled into her cup.

“What? You mean this?” She shoved a strawberry into her mouth, chewing happily “Easy. Breakfast for dinner is the best.”

Aubrey cocked a brow, sitting back in the bar stool as she watched the woman slather her food in a coat of maple before cutting it into small little pieces. Breakfast was something that was limited to a protein bar, lunch a lack-luster salad, and dinner was something from the vending machines at the office. Certainly not a mountain of cornstarch and syrup. Emily didn’t’ seem deterred in the slightest as she shoved her fork into the bite she had just cut.

“Open.”

It was a demand, not a question, Emily holding up the fork as she watched Aubrey expectantly. The blonde let out a heaving sigh, close to rolling her eyes as she leaned forward and took the bite that Emily so easily offered. She could barely stop the moan that slipped past her lungs, blood rising to her cheeks as she got a triumphant smile in return.

“The secret is the honey in the batter,” Emily wiggled in her seat, letting the fork drop onto the plate as she beamed “Technically it’s mine so I’m biased but-“

She was interrupted by a fit of giggles, her body turning to face Aubrey, almost completely. Emily beamed, covering her mouth to muffle a snort. “What? Seriously?”

“Nothing, it’s just” She leaned forward.

 This moment wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. The chairs that they were sitting in creaked and groaned under their weight. The light in the far corner of the restaurant was buzzing away like the very moths that they attracted. The rain was pressing against the window and blurring the downtown streets. And Aubrey had whipped cream all over her nose.

“Here, let me get it.”

Emily’s touch was soft. Her fingers cold against Aubrey’s cheek as she brushed her thumb easily against the whipped cream on Aubrey’s nose. The sugary substance coated the pad of her finger. She brought it to her lips, licking it clean with a stray smile and a simple shrug.

“Thank you,” Aubrey rasped.

Aubrey Posen believed in a lot of things. The ghost that she saw on the side of the highway in North Carolina. The way her father still sent Christmas cards every other year, still containing blatant wishes and a twenty-dollar bill. How her older brother still laughed at the wrecked jeep that he let her borrow for one night too many.

Most importantly, Aubrey Posen believed in Emily.

The way she would tell the story of how they met for years to come. The box of honey would grow in size and the jars in weight. She would change the small storm outside to a monsoon and the kid in the corner digging into an ice cream Sunday had vanished altogether.

She had bought Emily a bouquet of sunflowers. Then a waffle maker, even a dog. But the most important thing was a ring. A simple gold band with two green stones and a flashing diamond. Because she made Aubrey believe enough to drop down to one knee, to envision a future never imagined.

Yeah, Aubrey Posen believed in a lot of things, but love was not one of them. That is until she met Emily.    

[sushigirlali]

Bellarke + "Well that's pretty rude of you to say" and/or "Do you trust me?"

Prompt: “Well that’s pretty rude of you to say" and/or “Do you trust me?”

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x Clarke Griffin [Bellarke]

Continuity: Modern AU

Rating: T+

A/N: I had way too much fun with this one lol See if you can pick out all the references XD

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For: @craniumhurricane​

Love: sushigirlali

Ride Or Die

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Clarke’slong legs burned as she barreled down the street, determined to evade capture. She’dalready been busted for graffiti twice, so if she got caught again, there was areal possibility she’d go to jail. Judge Jaha would just love that. He’sbeen looking for an excuse to lock me up for years.

Slingingher heavy drawstring backpack over her shoulder, Clarke briefly contemplatedtossing the evidence but knew she’d have a hard time defending herself in courtif the cops were to find it; her prints were all over the bag and its contents,after all.

Chancinga look behind her, Clarke realized that she’d managed to lose the officer who’dchased her from the scene. If she could get out of the area before he called inthe cavalry, she’d be home free.

“Now’syour chance, Clarke, move it,” she huffed, dodging pedestrians as she zoomeddown the crowded sidewalk. No one seemed to be paying her any mind, likelybecause her black leggings and mocha tank top gave the impression that she wasjust an innocent jogger, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Cuttingbehind the next building she passed, Clarke crossed the road and entered adeserted alleyway, intending to put as much distance between herself andpotential witnesses as possible. But no sooner had she turned the corner than afigure in all black smacked right into her, taking her to the ground.

“Oof!”Clarke groaned, dropping her bag and landing flat on her back.

“Oh,shit!” a husky voice swore. “I didn’t see you there! Are you okay?”

“I—am—not,”she wheezed, trying to catch her breath as she stared up into the softest browneyes she’d ever seen. The guy who’d collided with her was braced above her onall fours, his wavy coffee colored hair flowing free around his handsome face. Well,hello.

“Sorry,”he said again, more softly this time, clearly doing some looking of his own,“I’m—“

Thecrackle of a nearby police radio stunned them both into silence. “This isOfficer Miller, requesting backup. We have two suspects on foot, heading westtowards Logan Circle. My partner and I were separated while pursuing them. Pleaseadvise.”

“They’reafter me!” they hissed in unison. Then, “Wait, they’re after you?!”

Confused,Clarke opened her mouth to start doling out questions, but her fellow criminal beather to it. “Looks like they’re after us, Princess, so what’d you do?” heasked with a conspiratorial grin.

“Princess?Really?” Clarke shot him a look, but answered anyway to expedite the situation.“All I did was tag some asshole’s car,” she said shortly, nodding toward her backpack.“You?”

“Swipedsome food from a fancy grocery store,” he replied. “Unfortunately, I dropped itall on the way here.”

Shecould tell there was more to the story, but now wasn’t the time to makefriends; there was no telling when more cops would show up, or where theofficer’s partner was. Coming to her senses, Clarke grunted, “Get off me!” andshoved the stranger backward.

“Hey!I said I was sorry!” he yelped, scrambling off her and holding his hands up insupplication. “You alright?”

Clarkedusted off her clothes and put her backpack on. “Yeah, just peachy.”

“Here,”he said, shaking his head in amusement, “let me help you.”

Hesitantlyaccepting his offer, she tried not to notice how warm his skin was as he leaneddown and pulled her to her feet. Stop it, Clarke, you don’t even know him.He could be a total creep.

“OfficerMiller?” The tagger and the thief froze as a dispatcher responded to the policeofficer hovering just out of sight. “Back up is on the way. What’s your preciselocation?”

“Thanks,dispatch. I’m on the corner of…”

“Wegotta move,” the man said quietly, still holding her hand.

“What?”she snapped, shaking him off. “What do you mean ‘we?’ ”

“Forsome reason they think we’re together, so it’s probably best that we team upfor now,” he explained. “I can get us out of this, but you’re going to have totrust me.”

Therewere a thousand reasons to refuse, to knock him down and run in the oppositedirection, but something told her that she could put her faith in this man. Somethingfoolish, no doubt. “Alright.”

“Thisway,” he instructed, leading her back the way he’d come. They jogged down thealley between two huge apartment buildings until they reached the next road.Her newfound accomplice peaked out from behind the closest building, makingsure the coast was clear. “Come on, it’s safe.”

“Whichway now?”

“Right.The cop said they were tracking us west, so let’s head north for now.”

Keepingon his tail, Clarke instinctively knew that if she wanted to get out of thisjam, she’d have to stick with the man in black. He carried himself like asolider, tactical and quick on his feet, but he looked pretty young to alreadybe ex-military. If they managed to get away, she’d have to ask him about it.

“I’m Bellamy, by the way,” hecalled over his shoulder.

“Clarke,” she returned.

“Clarke,” he repeated. “I likeit.”

“I don’t care,” she said wryly.“Where are we going?”

“I parked my bike in an alley onfifth,” Bellamy panted, picking up his pace. “It’s close, so if we can just getthere…”

They were on third now, only twoblocks away. Hope bloomed in Clarke’s chest. “Okay! I’m right behind you!”

Bellamy ducked down a side street onthe left, sprinting past the dumpsters and debris littering the way. Matchinghis hurried steps, Clarke ignored the stitch in her side as they neared theirdestination, unwilling to be the reason they got caught. Anything you can do, I can do better… she hummed to herself.

“We’re here!” Bellamy said scantminutes later, sliding to a halt in front of a large wooden palette. “Give me ahand, will you?”

Clarke nodded, moving forward toassist him as she tried to control her harsh breathing. “What do you want me todo?”

“Lift the left side and I’ll getthe right.”

“Got it.” They worked together tomove the heavy palette out of the way, dropping it to the ground a few feetaway. “That’s your ride?” Clarke said dubiously once the shoddy lookingmotorcycle was revealed. The dark purple paint was scraped off in severalplaces and the kickstand looked like it was one good day away from snapping inhalf.

“Yeah,” he said, swelling withpride. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She’s something,” Clarke saiddryly.

Kicking his leg over the frontseat, Bellamy rolled his eyes at her lack of enthusiasm. “Do you trust me?” heasked, reaching behind him to produce his gloves and headgear.

“What?”

Bellamy held out a sleek blackhelmet. “Do you trust me?”

“Not on your life, street rat.”

“Well that’s pretty rude of you tosay,” he grinned, tossing the helmet at her before pulling his gloves on. “Kindof childish, in fact.”

Clarke caught the safety gear withease. “Says the man quoting Aladdin.”

“Yeah, yeah. Stop complaining andget on, Princess,” Bellamy commanded, whipping his keys out of his back pocket.“We gotta go.”

“But—”

“Now, Clarke.”

“Fine!” she said indigently, dashingforward to mount the bike. “But only because it’s the expedient thing to do. Don’tthink you can get away with ordering me around under normal circumstances.” Settlingin behind him, Clarke tugged on the helmet and braced her feet on the back pegs.“Happy now?”

“Almost,” Bellamy smirked. “Wrapyour arms around my waist.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he said a littlegruffly.

Was he embarrassed? Because shesure as hell was. “That’s okay, I’ll just hold onto the seat.”

“It’s safer if you hold onto me.” He looked over his shoulder at her.“Please, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Clarke bit her lip, trying not tonotice how attractive he looked with his dark hair falling over one soulfuleye. “Okay, whatever.”

“Thanks, Princess,” he chuckled,twisting the key and revving the engine.

Just then, sirens blazed behindthem.

“Oh, shit! Go! Go!” Clarke cried,wrapping her arms around his waist and holding on for dear life.

Bellamy zipped out of the alley,racing onto the main street and through several red traffic lights. “Holdtight!” he warned, taking a hard left immediately followed by another jerk tothe right.

“If I fall of this motorcycle anddie, I will kill you so dead!” she shouted over the wailing wind.

“Deal! Now shut the hell up andlet me focus on not killing us!”

Clarke pressed her cheek againstthe middle of his muscular back, tightening her grasp until she felt moresecure. Putting all of her trust in a relative stranger was a hard pill toswallow, but for some reason, it was easy with Bellamy. Maybe it was becausethey shared the same occupation and dry sense of humor, but Clarke had neverfelt so in tune with another person before. Whatever the reason, she wassuddenly, inexplicably dreading the end of this little escape attempt. What is wrong with me?!

Swerving to avoid a semi that waschanging lanes, Bellamy swore at the near miss. “Shit, sorry! Looks like trafficis backed up ahead!”

“It’s okay! Just take the nextleft!” Clarke instructed, recognizing a shortcut she’d used a few times toavoid pileups.

Following her directive without hesitation,Bellamy shifted his weight to guide the bike onto the side street and out ofsight of the main road. Clarke let out a breath as the police sirens abruptlydulled to a low hum, indicating that the law had veered off in a differentdirection or were stuck in the mess they’d just avoided.

Bellamy and Clarke rode incompanionable silence for another ten minutes or so before he decelerated to acrawl in front of a shady looking walkup. Pressing a button on the smallcontroller attached to his keychain, Bellamy turned the bike around and linedit up with a set of faded tire prints on the pavement. Amazingly, a basementelevator gradually rose before them, large enough for two people and amotorcycle to squeeze into.

“What the hell?” Clarke gasped.

“Impressed?” he said good-naturedly.

“Getting there.”

Walking the bike forward, Bellamyhit the button again once they were securely inside. It was a littleclaustrophobic, but a few minutes later they were standing in a dimly litbasement.

“Please tell me this isn’t yourmurder room,” she said drolly.

“Not hardly,” he laughed, pluckingthe helmet off her head.

Stepping off the bike, Clarkeshook out her long blonde hair, looking around with interest. “Lights?”

“One sec.” Bellamy lowered thekickstand and stowed his equipment before hitting a switch on the wall.

“Whoa!” she exclaimed when theoverhead lights flickered on, surprised by his high-tech setup. There werecomputers and electronic equipment strewn across several large desks, forming ahalf circle in the center of the room.

“Welcome to the Batcave,” he joked.

“Is all this yours?” she said inawe.

“If only,” he said wistfully. “Thisis actually my friend Monty’s place.”

Clarke raised one pale brow. “Andhe won’t mind that we dropped in unannounced?”

“Nah, he’s family,” Bellamydismissed, striding to the other side of the room and flopping down on abeaten-up old couch.

“Do you do this sort of thingoften then?” she inquired, joining him on the sofa.

“This sort of thing?”

“Rescuing strange women and bringingthem home with you?” she teased.

“Definitely not. I actually have abit of a reputation for avoiding unnecessary entanglements,” he shrugged. “Notthat I don’t care about people, it’s just…hard for me to connect sometimes.”

“I know what you mean,” Clarkesighed, recalling her last few disastrous relationships. “Sometimes I wonderwhy I even try.”

“No kidding,” Bellamy agreed. Histone was odd, stirring her memory of how they had ended up here in the firstplace.

“Bellamy, who were you stealingfood for?”

“Oh, uh, my little sister,” he stammered.“It was stupid, really. I got caught like a rank amateur, but she’s been havinga really hard time lately, and I just wanted to make her happy.” Bellamyfrowned. “Am I making any sense?”

“Yeah.” She knew all aboutirrational behavior. “That car I tagged earlier? It was my ex’s. We’ve beendone for a while, but I guess I needed to get all of my anger out to truly moveon.”

“And…have you?” He looked like hewas holding his breath.

Clarke debated on making him waitfor an answer, but his puppy dog eyes were too irresistible. “Definitely.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“In fact, Bellamy, I think we—”

“Make a pretty good team?” he finisheduncertainly.

Stunned that he’d literally takenthe words right out of her mouth, Clarke stared at him for a space of seconds.“Um. Well, yes.”

Appearing galvanized by heranswer, he continued, “Any chance you’d like to stick around for a while then, Princess?No pressure, but I’d like to get to know you.”

Searching his sincere expression, Clarkefelt compelled to take a chance. “Yeah, I think I would.”

Bellamy slowly covered her handwhere it rested between them, as if testing her reaction. “How about we cleanup and grab some dinner then?”

“Sure,” she smiled, threading herfingers through his. “But you’re stealing.”

-FIN-

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A/N: Get it? “But you’re stealing” instead of “But you’re buying!” Ilike to think I’m funny sometimes lol My other Bellarke fic is called “NewBlood” and it’s a grounder AU where Clarke and Octavia battle for the title ofCommander while Bellamy looks on helplessly from the sidelines. Check it out!