#and honestly it did absolute fucking wonders

[minkdelovely]

I am jet-lagged and emotionally wrought, but nevertheless so fucking thrilled to have finally gotten the time to sit down and read this absolutely IMMACULATE chapter.

Hazel… I feel like I say this all the time, but how you manage to keep weaving this magnificent web of yours week after week is truly awe-inspiring. We’re getting close to the end, but you still make sure to impart as much emotional impact as possible. I believe this is the first time we ever got a solid block of Alastor’s POV, and if I’m being honest, idk if I would survive more 😭😂♥️

The mood of this chapter was so needed — they’ve been going through so much, and something was bound to snap. So to see them get closer on the other side is just so rewarding. I just want them to be happy god damn it! 🥲

I know you don’t typically foray into angst, but I’m not surprised you knocked it out of the park Hazel! I hope you’re just feeling more and more proud of yourself with each chapter! ♥️

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Where had she walked in New Orleans? Where did she meet Alastor’s father? You had to wonder what he had looked like. Surely he was handsome. Was he kind to her, like Alastor was to you? Or had it been a one night stand?

A small smile, she didn’t look like the type but looks could be deceiving. Alastor didn’t look like the kind of man who kissed bloodied cheeks and tossed heads into holes.

ruminating on Alastor’s mom is gonna get me every fucking time tbh 😩 and the second part with Alastor’s deceiving looks… that pretty face and charm will take him everywhere!

You knew he wasn’t a virgin, and he’d mentioned before he’d been happily coupled with others before his preferences became their frustrations.

BABYYY OMG THIS WENT STRAIGHT THROUGH MY HEART 😩

Did they properly express their gratitude? Doubtful. How many times did he acquiesce to his partner’s wants and then be treated like it was the expectation and not an exception of his affections?

no one will care about him the way we care about him — it’s simply not possible

The closer you got, the more nervous you were to see him. Not knowing how he felt, be it angry or worried or a mix of the two, was doing you in.

imagining him angry is honestly so scary; my anxiety just ticked up 😩

From insulted to panicked, you realized you’d forgotten about your face. Pushing the heavy wooden door open to the bathroom, your reflection caught you off guard. Your eyes were encircled in black, scleras red, blush smeared into your hairline, and your lips were soft around the edges from misplaced lipstick. You looked like a wreck in human form.

HONESTLY MY WORST NIGHTMARE

With one more glance at your disheveled appearance you sheepishly returned to the entrance and peeked into the dining room again. Everyone was dressed so nicely. You could imagine Alastor fitting in quite well.

WHY DID THIS MAKE MY HEART CLENCH?? 😩♥️

“I thought you’d be more fatale and less femme. Anyways, your deadweight’s in the alley.” 

MIMZYYYY!! tbh this is such a perfect introduction for her ❤️‍🔥

He turned, smiled, and rushed towards you. Taking your head in his hands he kissed you on the lips, and when you pulled back he leaned in, tongue pressing into your mouth.

BRUV WE ARE IN PUBLIC!!

Parks were different. Parks were made for such things. 

not only for kisses 👀 hehehe

He was drunk. Completely smashed. Normally you wouldn’t care, drunk Alastor could be quite cute. But you’d been prepared for and in need of someone to talk to. Someone to ease the mess of feelings in your gut. Instead you were handed a job as caretaker and impromptu driver. You’d have to wait until the morning for any kind of sympathetic comfort.

the way I immediately feel the frustration and disappointment. he’s not even just drunk, but SLOPPILY so 😩

Alastor pulled his arm from your hold, “At that little park. Audubon.” He pointed west, saying it with a perfect accent. “Anyway, I’m gonna kill him. Maybe right now! Did I tell ya? I know where he lives.” He crossed the street without looking. 

LET THE BABYSITTING COMMENCE 🫠

“Alastor, yes. He’s got two kids, a wife. He stays out late, obsessin’ over us no doubt.”

my cortisol has spiked, but there’s something about this line that just makes me smile 😂🙈

“Who are you to stop me? To tell me,” a pause as he lost his balance and leaned too far to the right, catching himself with a sneer to his own legs. He turned back and continued on his way, “what I can and cannot do.” You stopped. The sound of his mother’s shoes no longer snapping behind him made Alastor pause his clumsy march and look back at you. “Are ya really not comin’?” His sharp tone had shifted down to a whiny, almost pleading one.

so much here… the hurt from his words, but also just how clearly we can see that he’s barely keeping it together. wonderfully executed, my love 🥹♥️

Hiding yourself from him felt like betrayal, so you’d abandoned it some time ago. Your chin quivered, hands gripping the sides of your dress in stress. Your eyes were pleading with him to not do this. To not throw you away so easily. Diminish you with one slurred sentence. It felt like a dare to your pride. A choice, your self respect or his attention. It was a rhetorical question, as the answer would be a revelation to an entirely different quandary. 

UGHHHH IT HURTS SO GOOD!! he really is coming off as so callous right now — it’s brutal 😩

Alastor stared you down, his height finally mattering in a way you didn’t like. 

SHIVERS

The only way he could ever truly hurt you was with that cutting muscle behind his teeth. 

HAZEL OH MY GODDDD 😭🫠

Turning around, you walked the way you’d both just come because truth be told you had no idea how to get home from where you were. You just needed to get away from him before you said something you didn’t mean. Before he said something you couldn’t forget. 

as heartbreaking as this is, I admire that Autumn is walking away before it gets worse and not like~ digging in from the pain. i don’t know that i’d be that strong 😭

You’d barely gotten five steps when you heard a clank to the ground. Turning just enough to see behind you, you noticed the car door key on the sidewalk. Alastor’s grin wide and childlike.

BITCH!! 😭

He slumped against the passenger side window the entire car ride home. You struggled with the shifting stick, and he didn’t offer any help. A petulant brat pouting into the glass.

tbh nothing I hate more than a tense car ride… ALASTOR GOD DAMN IT!! 😩

“Suit yourself. I don’t have patience for this, Alastor. You’re acting like a brat when I’m the one who had the hard night.” You turned to go upstairs before coming back, something your mother always did in arguments that you hated, “And I really don’t appreciate the way you’re treating me. We’ll talk in the morning.”

THE TURNING BACK IS ALWAYS SUCH A KNIFE IN THE GUT

It wasn’t until you were under the covers, alone, did you begin to cry. It was mostly anger, if you were honest. But a good dose of self pity mixed in. Practically running to find him, after thinking about just him for hours before, and to be met with a drunken child was disappointing beyond measure. And the disrespect of tossing his keys…

THE KEYS!!! IT WAS SUCH A SLAP IN THE FACE!! 😩

You could remember the uneasy feeling you had when your mother would leave you with friends when she had work. How every inch moved felt like you were brushing into poison ivy, it wasn’t your space, you didn’t know the rules or the norms. Now you felt you no longer knew your place in Alastor’s home. 

this is truly such a horrific feeling… i hate that we’ve all seemed to feel the sting of it 🥺

Which was fine, you lied to yourself. You just needed to know the parameters so you could stay within them. Not take things too seriously. Not expect too much from him.

Not give too much of yourself. 

this is such a specific form of fear of rejection… I can relate only too well 😩

You couldn’t believe you had wanted to tell him you loved him. How long had you choked back those words for your own personal safety, just to be in a man’s home far from your own with no real way back.

I’M WRITHING OH MY GODDD THE HURT AND THE SHAMEEE WHYY??

A shiny and sunlit movie played of him slipping off your shoes and putting yours on his feet. 

I am honestly never not thinking about the whole thing with the shoes…

Lying down again, you tried to take deep breaths. He’d said he wasn’t mad at you. Was he not allowed to make mistakes? Could he not be angry around you without you taking it personally even when he said it wasn't for you? That was unfair of you. You were expecting a drunk man to speak clearly and with well thought out perception of how he’d be heard. The reasons for his drunkenness were unknown, and when you stopped to consider things more, you’d never just out right told him how you felt. Until you were upset and going up the stairs. Admittedly, to your defense, he was very drunk. 

this is genuinely one of the most emotional mature things I’ve ever read in my entire life — and something I’m gonna try to keep in mind the next time I’ve lost my temper

The idea of him waking up to an empty home and a migraine almost brought you back to tears. Alastor’s distaste for being alone had become clear, in the way he used to go out often just to have dance company, how he so quickly pulled you into his home and lap. You’d feel his heart break from across the river if you up and left while he slept. 

and I’m full circle to wanting nothing more than to cuddle this man… Hazel I swear to fucking god 🫠♥️

The best way to find out if someone was worth trusting was to trust them. Alastor had been worth so much more than you’d expected a person could be. This was just a hiccup. 

NO WORDS JUST MY HEART WEEPING

Alastor, what more could he do? What on earth could he possibly get away with? He had no interest in stepping out, and he couldn’t easily date when his hobbies and home were crime scenes.

GETTING BIG FEELINGS AGAIN FOR OUR LONELY, MURDEROUS BOY 🥺♥️

He would make it better. He would say whatever really happened in the morning and fix it. You could trust that and let your eyes finally close. Alastor hadn’t failed you yet, and you believed he wouldn’t start now. 

Alastor, darling, for the love of god please I’m begging for clarification 😭

When you woke up, it was early. Unnaturally early for you. But stress did that. Whatever the opposite of Christmas morning, that was the mechanism pulling you out of bed as the sun was just beginning to rise. 

BEEN THERE AND IT SUCKS

He was still asleep on the couch when you crept down the stairs. He looked like shit. Which made you feel a little good. If he looked perfect it’d be immensely dissatisfying.

this was such a glorious way to humanize our otherwise ethereal husband 🙏🏻✨

You heard the creak of the screen door and felt the old wood bend behind you as he finally stumbled out. He plopped down beside you, before lowering himself to his right side and resting his head on your lap. He stared out at the greenhouse like you did. Your hands twitched to touch him, but you kept them to your sides. 

AUTUMN I TRULY ADMIRE YOUR STRENGTH

“You are my darling.” He said with a raspy voice hoarse from an intoxicated dehydration. You finally looked at him, but he didn’t meet the gaze. “That’s who you are.”

“You sure didn’t make me feel like your anything last night.” Your tone was cold and sharp, spoken like a stranger scolding another. Stay strong, you thought. Make him understand how he made you feel before, even if you were already cooling off. 

You saw the fabric of your white slip turn a storm grey beneath his face, tears tumbling across the bridge of his nose before seeping into the night dress.

LIKE GENUINELY SO FUCKING STRONG — I WOULD HAVE FOLDED LIKE A WET NEWSPAPER JESUS CHRIST 😭

He nodded, slick and smooth face gliding over the silk. A sob, choked and broken as he buried his head again into your lap. “I’d never felt so helpless, I just…I responded very selfishly. I’m sorry.” 

The heavy and hot indignation finally began to cool in you, and you let yourself run your fingers through his hair. 

AHHHHH THIS IS PRECISELY WHAT I WANT: TO PET THIS SAD LITTLE MAN

You thought for a moment. The safety in Alastor’s killings were the degrees of separation between him and his targets. The plausible deniability. The lack of obvious motive. If you could find that same safety net when killing Brady, then, sure. “When he’s no longer a threat to us. When no one will be shocked to hear he’s dead.” 

YOU BAD BITCH OMGGGG Kenneth must be feeling a chill down his spine as we speak!! 😂

“I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter.” Alastor inched his body closer to you. “I’ve never been a bigger failure in all my life than last night. In every way. To myself and to you.” His head turned, the soft and sharp features alike of his face burying into your lap. A gentle shake of his shoulders as he lost his fight to not weep openly into you broke your heart. He let out a weak and muffled series of sounds, followed by a louder and clearer, “Do you want to leave me?”

I ACTUALLY CAN’T FUCKING HANDLE THIS. THE FACT THAT I CAN’T COMFORT HIM MYSELF IS A FUCKING CRIME!!

You pulled his head up by the back of his collar. With your first good look at him in the crisp orange morning light you could see his lips were red and raw from nervous chewing, his hair lacking its usual shine or form. The right side of his face was wet. Tears new and old began to reroute and slide down his high cheeks and pointed jaw. They met at the very bottom of his chin, for the first time in their short lives, and dropped onto you in little couplings. Falling like they were made to always do just that. Just now. Just for him. A fate you could understand so naturally it was bordering on unnerving. A love story you were sure you were playing out.

HAZEL SHAKESPEARE IS GETTING US GOOD Y’ALL HOW I’M STILL CONSCIOUS DEFIES SCIENCE

How rarely you’d seen a man cry. In the past perhaps you’d have been put off. Cringed. Considered it a pathetic show of weakness and lost respect for them. But all you could feel now was a pain so deep and all encompassing it felt as if your skin was cracking off. A dry river bed in the heat of summer. What had been there before? Disgust? Indifference? Even his tears were of a magnitude more important than anyone else’s. Every piece of him mattered more to you. 

this whole paragraph is a baseball bat to my psyche

You were in that worst kind of love; Unconditional. 

SLAP MY ASS AND CALL ME MEGARA

“Give me a little time. I’ll show you how stupid of a question that is over our first fight,” Your thumbs wiped away his tears. The handkerchief came back to view, so you gingerly took it and dabbed the sacred lacrima from his cheeks. You took his head between both hands and stared unflinching into the sweet, sun kissed brown of his eyes, “I never want to leave you. Even if I do, even if somehow I’m convinced to go, you’ll have to rip your heart out of my cold dead hands or I’ll take it with me.” 

I’VE LOST ANY AND ALL ARTICULATION

Another torrent of tears from him and a reply so earnest and so sure your body leaned back with surprise, “But, it’s not mine anymore. Isn’t that obvious?” He half whispered it into the ether.

HAZEL PLEASE I’M SO WEAK IT’S TOO BEAUTIFUL OH MY GOD

“If you ever speak to me like you did last night again, with that sharp tone and cruel words, sober or not…” you trailed off, begging him to not make you say it. Don’t force you to make threats you didn’t want to keep. Things you’d be ashamed of not following through with. Little self failures you were genetically predisposed of committing. 

“You can take my heart with you.” 

AAAHHHHH I CAN’T BELIEVE I GET A SECOND DOSE OF THIS THROUGH ALASTOR’S POV — I am floundering and grateful all at once 😩♥️

- — - — - — - — -

A trickle of fear dropped down his spine. Worst case scenario didn’t quite exist as some ladder of concerns, he just felt tremendous fear you were dead. That was the only rung. Had someone been watching you, that he didn’t notice as he was too preoccupied with watching Brady? 

ALASTORRR I’m not strong enough for this!! 😭♥️

Alastor didn’t move. Hand still in the air between them. Johnny registered the distinct lack of light in Alastor’s eyes. He took a deep breath in, Alastor looked like a photograph of a man before him. There but, just a facsimile of human.

he’s in such disbelief omggg 🥺 this paints such a visual!!

Alastor’s mouth opened and then closed. He swallowed, then smiled, and his head did a little tilt. Ruth looked from him to Johnny. Alastor’s rolodex of canned responses spun infinitely around in his mind. Nothing was catching. There wasn’t a facial expression or comment or body posture in existence he had prepared for this conversation. Because he hadn’t ever predicted such a situation.

baby got the rug pulled out from under his feet 😭

The man he punched? What was his name again? No. He didn’t know where you worked. He didn’t know your name. 

William, for good measure, my darling buck

He was in disarray, a tremble in his hands making him pause and stare at his own body with a loss of recognition.

I love how he’s so immediately ready to pay whatever price while he’s literally floating away from himself… THE WAY YOU MAKE ME LOVE THIS MAN 🥲

“Hey, I was there that night you cornered Tommy into the booth. I saw you two. The night he hit her. Tommy was a real piece of shit. And I’m glad he’s gone.”

JOHNNY!! 😭😭😭

“Well, go have a drink, try to just… try to stay calm.” Ruth’s words barely entered his mind as he stumbled out into the night. Thoughts came so quickly and in such a multitude that Alastor found his head entirely empty, unable to latch onto any single one.

he’s in such shock; I know we’re going through it with Kenneth but damn this is pulling at my heartstrings 🥺

Long fingers gripped the steering wheel, knuckles an uncomfortable white with the force. How much would it take to snap the wheel? Had anyone ever tried before?

blacking out on the drive and now just so fucking angry… he really knows how to get me scared (for him) 😭

There was no fear you’d say anything. It simply didn’t exist. Even trying to conjure the idea of you telling anyone who he was and what he did was ridiculous to him. A dark part of him knew that notion was born out of a blinding fear and not out of true trust. Because if you did such a thing, it’d mean he’d been wrong about everything. That he couldn’t trust his own decisions anymore. What would he do if you did confess?

WHY ARE THEY SO SIMILAR AND SO NERVOUS ABOUT COMMUNICATING?? 🥲

Alastor made a beeline for the bathrooms just past the entrance of the Grano D'oro. His hair was mussed, his pupils constricted. He drew his bottom lip in and began chewing it nervously, hands pushing his hair back into some form of style. A cough to clear out his tightening throat, he straightened his bow tie and suit jacket. Staring at his reflection, he flinched. An unsettling feeling in his bones that if he stared long enough, it would take on a life of its own.

THE PARALLEL WITH BEING A MESS IN THE BATHROOM AHHHH!!!

Alastor offered passing pleasantries to a few people and smiled as he was escorted past them to the private dining section of Grano D'oro.

picturing him going through the motions is honestly so painful 🥺

Through the kitchen, with a smile and another nod to the staff who all sang his name as he walked by, Alastor made it to the barely visible door to the side.

but I am absolutely not surprised the kitchen staff adores him 🥹

“Little late for you isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be at home with your heart.” She dragged out the word, eyes rolling not at the idea of you but at the idea of someone being more important than a night out.

THIS IS SO FUCKING LOADED — HOW MANY TIMES HAS HE COME TO MIMZY TO TALK ABOUT READER AAAAHHHH!!!

“Oh fuck.” Mimzy added two more fingers to the glass. “What for?”

this feels very me for some reason lmao

Nervously he chewed on his bottom lip, biting red lines into the soft pink flesh. Mimzy stared, unnoticed. She couldn’t remember the last time he looked sad. He did sometimes open up when drunk, perhaps smiling through a pitiful story. Or dancing when she knew he was bruised in either his ego or his heart. But, normally, for Alastor, he kept the obvious and plain emotions kept tightly buttoned up. 

I LOVE THEIR FRIENDSHIP SO MUCH — the way she sees him is just… I can’t put it into words!

“And you can’t just,” she made a fist with her thumb stuck out and dragged it across her neck in a cutting motion, “get rid of the issue?”

Mimzy you rascal!!

Killing Brady would solve everything. And it’d feel good. It’d feel….ah, he leaned back, letting his chest open and fill with the shadow of satisfaction, it’d be the best kill yet. How would he do it, he wondered. It’d have to be special. Slow. Perhaps even over the course of days. Oh, or better yet, perhaps he could show Brady exactly how he disposed of his targets. Piece by piece, taking from him and letting him watch as he buried his parts in deep holes. Giving him all the answers to his questions before snuffing out his nagging life. 

as much as I belittle Kenneth, I am no match for the way Alastor wants to belittle Kenneth

No one would believe Brady, he considered. If someone pulled him back into the shadows of his tree lined street with a blade to his throat and gave him the warning of what was to come if he kept this up….Did he have any allies in this at work?

MUAHAHAHAHA I LOVE ME SOME PARANOID KENNETH! Go get him honey 😂❤️‍🔥😈

In fact, as he took a slower sip of his somehow still full glass, he thought she was quite right. Brady was testing his pride. Hurting the closest person he had to get at him. This was villain activity. 

I just love the irony of Kenneth “Clutching Pearls” Brady being painted A VILLAIN (and it’s not untrue)

Either Brady thought Alastor was all bark and no bite, only attacking men alone at night, or, worse, he thought Alastor was using you.

I can’t lie, his masculine pride is really doing something for me lmao

“Don’t try to distract me. I’m in no mood for such trivial things, Mimz. My love was arrested. At work no less. I’m useless.”

ALASTORRRR I CAN’T WITH YOU SAYING THIS SO CASUALLY!!

You looked different than she’d expected. She wasn’t really sure what she was expecting…actually, on second thought, she had just imagined a female Alastor. Alastor with a perm and an empire waist dress. A little out of fashion but classy. 

why is this so endearing to me? 😭♥️

He’d translate his determination into lavishing you. When you made a yelp and pushed him away, he was confused. Why weren’t you happy to see him? 

and the miscommunication begins 😭🙈

Your breath against his body when you and him first entertained affection came to his mind so intensely he thought maybe he had been pulled back in time.

HEHEHE Alastor I was thinking the same thing earlier 👀

Brady had done this. You’d never– He was just trying to clean up his mess. Why did people think they could dictate his life so freely? Why did what he wanted to do not matter, even though he was just trying to be a good man?

I know it’s drunk brain, but I’m so sad that he’s so quick to believe we would buy into some BS from KENNETH FUCKING BRADY 😭

Alastor paused to stare down at his legs. Et tu, crura? Even his own body was betraying him.

An ‘et tu’ will always get me good but this is also just so adorable to me how offended he is by losing his balance 😂♥️

What an odd question. Had you used your stage name so long you’d forgotten your true one. He laughed, what a silly thing to ask! “Now who is drunk?”

omggg he really didn’t realize what else came out of his mouth!! 😭

Your turning and walking back forward the restaurant made his eyes roll. Oh, the keys still. He pulled them from his pocket, fine, have them. I give up. Failure pile growin’ every minute.

Reminder that pity parties are not cute — our guy fucked 👏🏻 up 👏🏻

But when you turned around, he could feel the rage rolling off of your body. Alastor couldn’t pinpoint what it was about your face that was different than usual, but just beneath your skin he could see a you he’d never met before. One he didn’t care to meet. 

case in point 🫠

The pain behind his sternum was akin to a splintering rod; stiff, solid, and biting every time he moved. No one had ever made him feel this way before. He couldn’t put his finger on the feeling though, it was sadness, and it hurt, but there was something deeper. Something underneath these shallow reactions that dredged up a vague sense of mourning.

oh darling your drunk brain got you so focused on the wrong thing 😭

He slammed the car door behind him and fell into the sofa as soon as he could. Nothing went right. The day had started so wonderfully… you’d felt like a part of himself he’d finally found. And now….

SOBBING

He thought it and immediately winced. Not alone alone. Please, if anyone had been listening, please disregard it. That wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t mean that at all.

HE CAN’T BE ALONE AND I’LL NEVER BE OKAY ABOUT IT

His thoughts and the room were liquid and floating up into the atmosphere. Alastor was confident he would follow them up. 

we all float here Alastor 😂🎈

Patience… there it was. You’d lost patience with him. And you’d been so patient for months now. Waiting in bars and cars while he killed. Waiting for him while he threw body parts into holes and snapping jaws. Waiting for weeks beside him for inspiration to strike and for him to seek your intimacy in more serious touch.

I thought I’d be okay in the second round but IT HURTS EVEN MORE??

The yellow pillow was pulled to his face to muffle his scream.

this being one of his coping mechanisms when he feels embarrassed/ashamed of himself just… really cuts through me for some reason. There’s an innocence to it that just makes my heart swell 😭♥️

For all he knew, you’d made up your mind already. How odd. He himself was the cat in the box. He could already be dead and not even know it.

WE GET LATIN AND SCHRÖDINGER’S CAT ALL IN ONE CHAPTER?? IT MUST BE CHRISTMAS

The handle of your bag peeking out from under the dresser. It had been in the closet, he had emptied it and put it there for you so he knew that to be a fact.

OH GOD OF COURSE HE WOULD NOTICE THE BAG

He couldn’t find the courage to check. Rushing past it like it could come to life and grab him by the ankles, he went to the nightstand beside his side of the bed and opened the drawer, the bright yellow of your handkerchief calming him just a sliver. If he kept it, you’d have to come back. He could call you and remind you to come back for it. And then he could convince you to stay. His mother always said he was good with words. If you forgot it at his house when you left he’d have a way to bring you home again. Fresh tears welled, the backs of his hands smearing them into his hairline.

I AM A WRITHING FUCKING MESS ON THE FLOOR!! HAZEL!! 😩😭

Sitting on the second to last step of the house, he took a moment to collect himself. Being so frazzled, so undone, wasn’t like him. That foreignness just added to the panic. Bringing a hand to his chest, he opened his shirt to run his fingers down his sternum and to the left. A beating heart, evidence he was the survivor in every encounter he’d been in. But now, half a house between your and his back, why did he feel the most in danger? Rarely did fight or flight kick in, the last time he felt it was rolling around with that man who’d tried to choke the life out of you. 

No strange man here now. Just strange feelings. 

Hazel I actually really fucking can’t with you right now… ♥️

If you didn’t accept it….Alastor had never begged a day in his life, but he could see himself begging you to stay. Perhaps hugging your ankles and promising things he didn’t have. There was no longer an impossibility in what he would do, which was alarming. The idea of him being so pathetic and pitiful was nauseating, however there was no one and nothing that could stop that if you got up and left. 

OH MY GODDDDD

But that was what made you worth the risk. It began as entertainment, but soon enough the dome of your stage extended out and around him, sheltering Alastor in the warm light of your presence. And now as he looked around the railing of his stairs, he was scared to see the exit lights flicker on. 

AAAAAHHHH!!!! AAAHHHHH!!!!!! I AM A MESS!!! AAAHHH!!!

And he’d made you feel like nothing to him. The mountain of derelictions crumbled under the weight of perhaps his biggest failure of the evening, an avalanche of embarrassment and shame washed over him and he didn’t try to impede his tears. Men were only supposed to cry on their wedding day and at funerals, but he supposed this day could still go either way. Could still be as pivotal to his happiness.

ahhhh you’ve gone with the baseball bat again, I see. Excellent choice, my love 🫠

‘I’m sorry’ was just crystals of salt dropped in the gulf.

HAZEL!!! I CAN’T!!!

“I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter.” He pulled himself closer again. Brady was nothing compared to the threat of losing you. “I’ve never been a bigger failure in all my life than last night. In every way. To myself and to you.” What a joke he was. How high and mighty and curated he tried to be that he forgot the point of it. A shield he turned to you was just a barrier between what he desperately wanted by his side. His tears returned with renewed vigor, the complete breakdown of his manicured image was a tell tale heart he couldn’t smile away anymore, the greatest weakness he was never so happy to call his own. Muffled by your clothing and inviting lap, “I just love you so much…” he choked and then sucked in a deep breath to try and get control of himself, shifting his face to the side again to watch your face for an immediate reaction to his question, “Do you want to leave me?”

A MUTTERED CONFESSION!!! YOU KNOW WHAT HAZEL YOU WIN THE WAR OKAY?? MY CASTLE HAS BEEN SUFFICIENTLY PLUNDERED AND YOU CAN RULE OVER MY SOUL AND DOMAIN AS YOU PLEASE — I WAS A FOOL TO EVER KEEP UP THE FIGHT!

He couldn’t promise himself he wouldn’t keep that little yellow fabric in his hands even after you parted, but he could swear to not try and guilt you back into his arms. 

I really don’t know how I’ve made it this far… I’m being pummeled into DUST

Take his heart back? His mind finally processed the words. It was yours. The morning had proved to him he couldn’t claw it back if he truly wanted, and if he was further honest with himself, he didn’t want it. It was better off with you. He felt the air cooling the once body-warm tears, he whispered what he felt was too vulnerable to say at full volume, “But, it’s not mine anymore. Isn’t that obvious?” His eyes looked down at your feet pointed in towards his own. Was this pathetic display not making it glaringly evident he was a man turned inside out? Guts in his hands and heart in yours?

transforming from dust into vapor…

His body was a tool, and he’d use every tool he had available to make you understand what you meant to him. Would you feel different now, now that he knew you loved him? Would he find your body warmer, more inviting… Could he make you scream your love for him?

Later, he would have to bookmark that idea. The confession was too fragile still, a crystal figurine too precious to even take out of the box. 

AND THEN YOU END THIS FUCKING MASTERPIECE WITH TWO PARAGRAPHS THAT MAKE ME WANT TO FLING MYSELF INTO THE OCEAN (AFFECTIONATE)

A Doe in Fall (Part 13)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie Part 13 - The Release 📍

Late? Yes. Buuuuut

If ya missed it:

Oct 19th Kinktober Day 19 - Proffer smut💦 Oct 13th Kinktober Day 13 - Handled smut💦

Where we left off: Autumn got released from the station to learn Alastor is at an unknown place called the Golden Dish.

Part 13 The Release

Two idiots meet on a sidewalk, one is drunk and one is stressed. Angst ensues. First Half is reader’s POV, second is Alastor’s POV.

���Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem!Reader, two parts in one, still not smut cuz we’re waiting for the special moment, surprise Latin, Alastor drunkenly remembers his accent, angst, first fights, muffled confessions, bare feet, too much alcohol, Mimzy is her own tag, I promise she’ll be back」

MDNI 🥃 😵‍💫

The Release (Autumn)

Your relief Alastor wasn’t there was clouded by the slight hurt Alastor wasn’t there.

Any ability to mask your true feelings left you with the exhaustion of being arrested at work, in front of customers and companions alike. This was made obvious by Johnny’s slight pat to your shoulder, “Want me to walk you there?”

You shook your head. Everyone already knew too much. 

“It’s not too far, I think… I’ll be fine.” You could imagine Alastor’s panicked face. Had you ever actually seen it though? 

With a wave, you left Johnny and began the walk to, presumably, the Golden Dish. It was cold, already the night bringing a chill. Eyes to your feet, you realized you were still in her shoes. 

Where had she walked in New Orleans? Where did she meet Alastor’s father? You had to wonder what he had looked like. Surely he was handsome. Was he kind to her, like Alastor was to you? Or had it been a one night stand?

A small smile, she didn’t look like the type but looks could be deceiving. Alastor didn’t look like the kind of man who kissed bloodied cheeks and tossed heads into holes.

Flipping the card over again, you lifted it to the light. 

Tentatively you brought it to your nose and gave it a sniff. No perfume. 

The list of possibilities ran wild. 

You knew he wasn’t a virgin, and he’d mentioned before he’d been happily coupled with others before his preferences became their frustrations. But you’d never stopped to really imagine it past a fleeting image. Alastor kissing someone else. Alastor going down on someone else. Did he enjoy it as much as he enjoyed you?

It wasn’t necessarily jealousy, but your stomach did a little flip. Did they properly express their gratitude? Doubtful. How many times did he acquiesce to his partner’s wants and then be treated like it was the expectation and not an exception of his affections?

It wasn’t as late as you had thought and the streets were busy. It made you feel a little safer. Not having a purse helped that.

You weren’t entirely sure where Rosseau was, and after stopping a very lovely looking couple, you got hastily pointed toward the water. Anxiously, you kicked up your pace. The closer you got, the more nervous you were to see him. Not knowing how he felt, be it angry or worried or a mix of the two, was doing you in. Turning left, you practically jogged down the street in search of The Golden Dish.

On the first pass, you didn’t find it. You crossed the street and tried again, getting more of the buildings into sight. Nothing.

Crossing back, you found the door with a shiny golden number three.

The restaurant looked nice, but it wasn’t the Golden Dish. The name above the door was Grano D'oro.

You leaned into the alley, hoping maybe there was a man waiting with a secret door. It was pristine; no men, no trash, no mystery liquids.

Taking a moment to smooth your hair and adjust your dress, you walked in.

The entrance was lavish, the floor a black and white marble and fixtures that shined like gold. A man stood behind a host stand, looking at you expectantly. When you were within a few feet, he asked if you had a reservation.

“Uh, no. I’m looking for Alastor.”

“Does Alastor have a reservation?” He looked down, presumably at a paper of names, and then back up at you.

You looked past the parted red curtains into the dining room. “I don’t think so…ah! I have a card.” You handed it over and he gave it a look, flipping it over before nodding. “Just a moment, miss. Please wait here. You’re welcome to use the ladies room to clean up.”

From insulted to panicked, you realized you’d forgotten about your face. Pushing the heavy wooden door open to the bathroom, your reflection caught you off guard. Your eyes were encircled in black, scleras red, blush smeared into your hairline, and your lips were soft around the edges from misplaced lipstick. You looked like a wreck in human form.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” you grabbed a tissue from the nearest stall and wetted it under the faucet, removing every bit of make up you could. The skin under your eyelashes still had a darkness to them and nothing could be done for the bloodshot eyes, but you let that go. You did away with the lipstick entirely, and most of the blush was out of your hair and off your cheeks. Now you just looked tired. 

Mortified, you remembered the couple you’d stopped and asked for directions from. They must have thought you’d had a fight or were some loon. Hell, maybe that was why no one stopped to bother you.

With one more glance at your disheveled appearance you sheepishly returned to the entrance and peeked into the dining room again. Everyone was dressed so nicely. You could imagine Alastor fitting in quite well. The host returned, not saying a word and sans Alastor. Before you could find the courage to ask him anything, a hand smacked your arm from behind.

“I thought you’d be more fatale and less femme. Anyways, your deadweight’s in the alley.” 

A small woman with bleach blonde hair had snuck up behind you, seemingly from the outside, “He’s got his card back. He’s your problem now!”

She brushed past you and disappeared into the restaurant.

“Have a nice evening.” The host dismissed you. A confused pause, the series of events had been so fast you were left quite literally spun around. 

When you tentatively turned back to leave, you saw Alastor stumbling onto the sidewalk. 

“Hey! Alastor.” You half shouted, Alastor seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Apparent in how he nearly collided into a group passing the restaurant.

He turned, smiled, and rushed towards you. Taking your head in his hands he kissed you on the lips, and when you pulled back he leaned in, tongue pressing into your mouth.

You screamed into his mouth, pushing him off. Looking back briefly before dragging him away, you saw the host staring at you through the clear windowed door. He was not impressed. As much as you enjoyed his kisses, it was out of character and out of class to make out on the sidewalk. 

Parks were different. Parks were made for such things. 

“What has gotten into you? You taste like a fucking distillery.” You reached the corner of the street and stopped, “Where’s your car?”

He was drunk. Completely smashed. Normally you wouldn’t care, drunk Alastor could be quite cute. But you’d been prepared for and in need of someone to talk to. Someone to ease the mess of feelings in your gut. Instead you were handed a job as caretaker and impromptu driver. You’d have to wait until the morning for any kind of sympathetic comfort. 

He hadn’t even mentioned the arrest yet or asked you how you were. Yes, he looked elated to see you. Eyes wide and adoring when he took you by the face. But you needed more than adoration now. And instead you had a mess of a man struggling to maintain his balance.

On the safety of his porch, or perhaps together at a bar, it’d be just fine. 

But this was neither safe nor fine. 

Alastor pulled his arm from your hold, “At that little park. Audubon.” He pointed west, saying it with a perfect accent. “Anyway, I’m gonna kill him. Maybe right now! Did I tell ya? I know where he lives.” He crossed the street without looking. 

You had to run to catch up to him, his long legs carrying him further and faster than you. It took a second to understand who he was talking about, clearly he’d been having a silent conversation until now. “Alastor. You’re drunk. No.” You managed to get in front of him, eyes surely begging.

“Alastor, yes. He’s got two kids, a wife. He stays out late, obsessin’ over us no doubt.”

“Alastor!” He stumbled past you and toward the park. “Hey. You can’t-,” 

He wheeled around on his heels, hand pointing a sharp finger at you. 

“Who are you to stop me? To tell me,” a pause as he lost his balance and leaned too far to the right, catching himself with a sneer to his own legs. He turned back and continued on his way, “what I can and cannot do.” You stopped. The sound of his mother’s shoes no longer snapping behind him made Alastor pause his clumsy march and look back at you. “Are ya really not comin’?” His sharp tone had shifted down to a whiny, almost pleading one.

“Who am I, Alastor?” In the past you’d try to hide when you were wounded, as prey animals often do. But you were different from who you were before. Already, you were changed. Hiding yourself from him felt like betrayal, so you’d abandoned it some time ago. Your chin quivered, hands gripping the sides of your dress in stress. Your eyes were pleading with him to not do this. To not throw you away so easily. Diminish you with one slurred sentence. It felt like a dare to your pride. A choice, your self respect or his attention. It was a rhetorical question, as the answer would be a revelation to an entirely different quandary. 

He laughed, “Now who’s drunk?” Your arms crossed your chest and your eyes narrowed further into slits. 

“I thought you’d stop if I asked. I thought I was your equal in this.”

“Well!” He gawked, “This is different. He isn’t like the others. Mister Detective Kenneth Brady is-,” he practically yelled it into the night.

“Shhh!” You hissed, a couple crossing the street to put distance between you both and themselves, “Give me your key. You can’t drive like this.”

Alastor stared you down, his height finally mattering in a way you didn’t like. 

Your eyes narrowed further, Alastor. Unspoken and yet screamed across the sidewalk. You weren’t scared of him, of his height or his sharp eyes or the fact you knew he so often carried a knife beneath his vest. No. Because he was a smart man and a smart man would never be so stupid as to physically harm you. Not unless he planned to kill you. And Alastor wouldn’t do that unless you were honestly bad.

The only way he could ever truly hurt you was with that cutting muscle behind his teeth. 

He tried to straighten his back to gather some kind of dignity and perhaps a show of dominance but stumbled backwards. He caught himself again with the brick wall beside him. 

Mind racing, you had to think of alternatives. Fight him for the keys? Cut into his tires? Just leave him to his own selfish devices? 

He could afford to fix the rubber tires, you thought. You couldn’t afford him running off the road. 

“If you want me to come with you, I am driving. Make your decision now.” You put your hand out, an indication there was only one answer you expected. When his eyes flitted from your palm to your face and stared blankly, you closed it. “I won’t let a man waste my time when I’m just trying to help him. You’ve got me confused with someone else.”

Turning around, you walked the way you’d both just come because truth be told you had no idea how to get home from where you were. You just needed to get away from him before you said something you didn’t mean. Before he said something you couldn’t forget. 

You’d barely gotten five steps when you heard a clank to the ground. Turning just enough to see behind you, you noticed the car door key on the sidewalk. Alastor’s grin wide and childlike.

Never had you felt true anger for him before. The water rising in your chest raged against your ribs and you were sure you’d drown in your own fury before long. Another second of imagined possibilities — kick them into the storm drain, throw them into a bush, take them and leave entirely.

Before you could pick one he stumbled over while bent in half the entire time, scooping the keys and holding them out for you to take.

A list of names flew over your tongue but stayed behind your clenched teeth, snatching the keys from his hand and leaving him to struggle behind you. 

The walk was silent, Alastor several paces behind you with his hands in his pockets.

He slumped against the passenger side window the entire car ride home. You struggled with the shifting stick, and he didn’t offer any help. A petulant brat pouting into the glass.

As soon as you’d gotten into the house Alastor made a sloppy beeline to the sofa and fell face first.

“You’re mad at me.” You said from the doorway, dropping his keys into the bowl beside the door. It felt odd, you were the one who had every right to be pissed. But he was showing it in a much more egregious way. His anger made the least sense to you. 

“No. I’m mad.” He grabbed a pillow and tucked it under his head. “Full stop.”

Obviously, but why? Not an ounce of compassion could be managed for you? When you were the one who’d been humiliated and dragged from your place of work in handcuffs? 

“You’re acting like a child. Go to your bed. I’ll sleep here.” Sleeping alone in his bed didn’t seem right.

“You’re talkin’ to me like a child.” He closed his eyes, apparently in a fake sleep.

“You really don’t see the connection between those two things?? Atleast— go to the guest bed.” His mother’s old room. You absolutely didn’t want to sleep there. 

“No.” He didn’t look at you. 

You stared for a moment, disbelief painted on your face as your own frustration swelled again.

“Suit yourself. I don’t have patience for this, Alastor. You’re acting like a brat when I’m the one who had the hard night.” You turned to go upstairs before coming back, something your mother always did in arguments that you hated, “And I really don’t appreciate the way you’re treating me. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He didn’t even stir.

After placing his mother’s shoes at the end of the bed, you got undressed and properly washed your face. It wasn’t until you were under the covers, alone, did you begin to cry. It was mostly anger, if you were honest. But a good dose of self pity mixed in. Practically running to find him, after thinking about just him for hours before, and to be met with a drunken child was disappointing beyond measure. And the disrespect of tossing his keys…

The bed felt so big and so foreign now. Just sitting in it made you feel like shit. A stranger, unwanted in someone else’s home. You could remember the uneasy feeling you had when your mother would leave you with friends when she had work. How every inch moved felt like you were brushing into poison ivy, it wasn’t your space, you didn’t know the rules or the norms. Now you felt you no longer knew your place in Alastor’s home. 

If you weren’t scared you’d never see him again you’d have just walked the several hours home. Knees to your chin, you didn’t bother with wiping away your tears. It added to the wallowing you were experiencing.

What did he mean? Why would he say it like that? Had it been a lie the whole time, that he’d stop killing if you asked him to? Alastor had never hissed quite like he had then. 

It felt like a lie, and now you questioned everything. Maybe while you worked he was out killing people. You never pushed him much about what he did while you were away.

A secondary thought simultaneously played with that one. No, you’d have noticed him at night taking care of the body. Your face slipped past your knees and pressed into the tops of your thighs, as quickly as the fear receded your melancholy swept back in.

Fine, but if he lied about stopping then you didn’t mean as much as he claimed.

Which was fine, you lied to yourself. You just needed to know the parameters so you could stay within them. Not take things too seriously. Not expect too much from him.

Not give too much of yourself. 

A second wave of tears, chin trembling.

Idiot. 

Maybe Brady had been right. Were you just some dumb dame? You’d done so much for him and now with some liquor you were just another person to him.

Then a sickening feeling made your throat tighten. Had getting arrested made you no longer attractive? Perhaps he blamed you. Being publicly dragged into a police station was the closest he had ever been to being found out and it was your fault. Fuck, even his name. That had been you who said it so casually. 

You didn’t want to be somewhere you weren’t welcomed.

Slipping out of bed, you pulled your bag from the closet and sat it on the dresser.

You couldn’t believe you had wanted to tell him you loved him. How long had you choked back those words for your own personal safety, just to be in a man’s home far from your own with no real way back. You pulled your dresses from the closet, and paused.

Alastor had been lovingly removing your stockings just a week or so ago. 

After tossing innards into the water. He’d showed you where he buried the only evidence of his expansive crimes. He trusted you with things he’d never shown anyone, something you felt sure of given his freedom. 

Glancing up through tear-heavy lashes, you saw your reflection in the mirror and remembered how he kissed your shoulder and undressed you. His promise to keep you warm.

A shiny and sunlit movie played of him slipping off your shoes and putting yours on his feet. 

Your mother had always said you were too quick to give up when things didn’t come easy. You resented that, but now it was ringing painfully true. 

You put the dresses back, tossing your bag to the floor and kicking it halfheartedly under the dresser.

Lying down again, you tried to take deep breaths. He’d said he wasn’t mad at you. Was he not allowed to make mistakes? Could he not be angry around you without you taking it personally even when he said it wasn't for you? That was unfair of you. You were expecting a drunk man to speak clearly and with well thought out perception of how he’d be heard. The reasons for his drunkenness were unknown, and when you stopped to consider things more, you’d never just out right told him how you felt. Until you were upset and going up the stairs. Admittedly, to your defense, he was very drunk. 

He owed you an apology, that was absolutely expected given the way he’d spoken and tossed his keys, but he’d done enough to earn the right to explain himself before you just up and left in the middle of the night.

The idea of him waking up to an empty home and a migraine almost brought you back to tears. Alastor’s distaste for being alone had become clear, in the way he used to go out often just to have dance company, how he so quickly pulled you into his home and lap. You’d feel his heart break from across the river if you up and left while he slept. 

Johnny had said he was a mess before, clearly he did care to some degree. You’d trusted him this long. You’d killed a man for him. You could give him a night to be an ass and hear him out in the morning.

But if he didn’t apologize, if he didn’t seem to understand how selfish and unkind he had been to you… You rolled onto your side and tried to straighten your legs but felt vulnerable like that. Pulling them up again you curled into a ball and focused on deep calming breaths. It would be fine. The best way to find out if someone was worth trusting was to trust them. Alastor had been worth so much more than you’d expected a person could be. This was just a hiccup. 

Thinking back on past relationships, you realized most first fights were also your last fights. If you and someone had friction, it was easiest to walk away and try again. There was no expectation of a picture perfect romance, not at all. But once someone disappointed you, it was hard to see them again in a positive light. Throwing things away had always been simpler than putting in the work to fix them. Once you’ve done that, you’ve shown someone your hand. You’ve shown them they mattered and they could use that against you. 

People who knew they were important to you could hold that over your head and push just how much they could get away with. 

Alastor, what more could he do? What on earth could he possibly get away with? He had no interest in stepping out, and he couldn’t easily date when his hobbies and home were crime scenes.

The person with the most to lose was him, you realized. Maybe not lose you, you didn’t pretend you were that important to him. But his life away from iron bars and cuffs was now dependent on you. If he had always been a few too many drinks away from fucking that all up, he’d have been caught a long time ago. 

He would make it better. He would say whatever really happened in the morning and fix it. You could trust that and let your eyes finally close. Alastor hadn’t failed you yet, and you believed he wouldn’t start now. 

When you woke up, it was early. Unnaturally early for you. But stress did that. Whatever the opposite of Christmas morning, that was the mechanism pulling you out of bed as the sun was just beginning to rise. 

He was still asleep on the couch when you crept down the stairs. He looked like shit. Which made you feel a little good. If he looked perfect it’d be immensely dissatisfying. You tried to open the back door quietly but the old hinges whined and the swollen wooden door snapped against the frame when you let it go. 

Sitting on the top of the porch steps that led to the backyard, if you could call such an expanse that, you tried to take in the wet cool air. It was officially fall. Soon you’d have to pull out your coat. Your toes wiggled against the flaking paint of the steps, you still needed to go home and get your shoes. 

A groan and you doubled over, you were assuming so confidently that you’d still be staying with Alastor. That was a good thing, right? Or…. you weren’t sure. You had no healthy relationships to look to for guidance. Rolling your back up, you looked up at the dark cobalt sky fading into baby blue, a color that matched the ceiling of the porch above you. 

You heard the creak of the screen door and felt the old wood bend behind you as he finally stumbled out. He plopped down beside you, before lowering himself to his right side and resting his head on your lap. He stared out at the greenhouse like you did. Your hands twitched to touch him, but you kept them to your sides. 

“You are my darling.” He said with a raspy voice hoarse from an intoxicated dehydration. You finally looked at him, but he didn’t meet the gaze. “That’s who you are.”

“You sure didn’t make me feel like your anything last night.” Your tone was cold and sharp, spoken like a stranger scolding another. Stay strong, you thought. Make him understand how he made you feel before, even if you were already cooling off. 

You saw the fabric of your white slip turn a storm grey beneath his face, tears tumbling across the bridge of his nose before seeping into the night dress.

“I know. I’m sorry. I was so,” he sighed and you took your opportunity.

“Drunk.”

“Enraged.” He whined, eyelids coming to act as a poor dam, “And drunk.”

“And disrespectful.”

He groaned now, shoulders tightening in shame, “That too.”

You understood he was angry. Did he think you weren’t? You’d been humiliated. You’d been interrogated. 

“I want to split his skull with an ax.” His fingers were playing with something beneath his closed thighs, hands pressed between them.  “I’m sorry. I— you were not wrong.” You caught a glimpse of the bright yellow handkerchief being wrung between sweaty palms with nervous fingers when he finally opened his legs. “I didn’t know what to do with myself when your manager said you’d been arrested. I almost drove my car into the station doors.”

“So getting zozzled and shouting the personal details of a New Orleans detective into the night seemed… the better option? When I had already had a difficult evening?” You felt a flame in your chest again. “When I needed your support? Comfort?”

He nodded, slick and smooth face gliding over the silk. A sob, choked and broken as he buried his head again into your lap. “I’d never felt so helpless, I just…I responded very selfishly. I’m sorry.” 

The heavy and hot indignation finally began to cool in you, and you let yourself run your fingers through his hair. 

“Will you ever let me kill him?” He asked your thighs.

You thought for a moment. The safety in Alastor’s killings were the degrees of separation between him and his targets. The plausible deniability. The lack of obvious motive. If you could find that same safety net when killing Brady, then, sure. “When he’s no longer a threat to us. When no one will be shocked to hear he’s dead.” 

His arms came to hold onto your legs, soft pads of his digits stroking the skin beneath your clothing.

“He went too far.” Alastor muttered, moving his head enough to look at you from the corner of his eyes. 

“And he knows your name.” You added, the arrest being of equal importance if not less. 

“I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter.” Alastor inched his body closer to you. “I’ve never been a bigger failure in all my life than last night. In every way. To myself and to you.” His head turned, the soft and sharp features alike of his face burying into your lap. A gentle shake of his shoulders as he lost his fight to not weep openly into you broke your heart. He let out a weak and muffled series of sounds, followed by a louder and clearer, “Do you want to leave me?”

Wincing, you remembered how close you’d been to doing just that. It was good though that he asked. Indicating Alastor knew how serious you took the way he had acted the night before. 

You pulled his head up by the back of his collar. With your first good look at him in the crisp orange morning light you could see his lips were red and raw from nervous chewing, his hair lacking its usual shine or form. The right side of his face was wet. Tears new and old began to reroute and slide down his high cheeks and pointed jaw. They met at the very bottom of his chin, for the first time in their short lives, and dropped onto you in little couplings. Falling like they were made to always do just that. Just now. Just for him. A fate you could understand so naturally it was bordering on unnerving. A love story you were sure you were playing out.

How rarely you’d seen a man cry. In the past perhaps you’d have been put off. Cringed. Considered it a pathetic show of weakness and lost respect for them. But all you could feel now was a pain so deep and all encompassing it felt as if your skin was cracking off. A dry river bed in the heat of summer. What had been there before? Disgust? Indifference? Even his tears were of a magnitude more important than anyone else’s. Every piece of him mattered more to you. 

Leave him? Of course not. No matter what he did, dead or alive, monster or man, you would never hate him enough. And that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. No, that absolutely wasn’t a good thing. A dangerous something he could never fully be told. 

Oh.

Ruth’s words on the roof crawled from their grave and tugged at your ankles. 

You were in that worst kind of love; Unconditional. 

Fireworks were out of the question but you could manage something for him. You had to tell him. Things were too far gone now and you couldn’t be sure how much time was left now that Brady had a name.

“Give me a little time. I’ll show you how stupid of a question that is over our first fight,” Your thumbs wiped away his tears. The handkerchief came back to view, so you gingerly took it and dabbed the sacred lacrima from his cheeks. You took his head between both hands and stared unflinching into the sweet, sun kissed brown of his eyes, “I never want to leave you. Even if I do, even if somehow I’m convinced to go, you’ll have to rip your heart out of my cold dead hands or I’ll take it with me.” 

“What have I told you? Don’t mention those things. The spirits are listening.” He attempted a gentle smile through his tear stained cheeks and you couldn’t stop yourself from kissing him. How could someone so good with a knife be so soft?

Another torrent of tears from him and a reply so earnest and so sure your body leaned back with surprise, “But, it’s not mine anymore. Isn’t that obvious?” He half whispered it into the ether.

Please, you begged whoever listened when you prayed, don’t weaken my self respect. Straightening your back to summon some form of resolve, you voiced it.

“If you ever speak to me like you did last night again, with that sharp tone and cruel words, sober or not…” you trailed off, begging him to not make you say it. Don’t force you to make threats you didn’t want to keep. Things you’d be ashamed of not following through with. Little self failures you were genetically predisposed of committing. 

“You can take my heart with you.” 

A wonderful reply.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The Release (Alastor)

When Alastor didn’t see you at the side door or back street, he dared to walk around the block to the front of the theater. He was surprised, like many others, to find the doors locked.

A trickle of fear dropped down his spine. Worst case scenario didn’t quite exist as some ladder of concerns, he just felt tremendous fear you were dead. That was the only rung. Had someone been watching you, that he didn’t notice as he was too preoccupied with watching Brady? 

“Alastor?” 

His eyes snapped from the marquee to the young man poking his head out of the doors. 

He nodded, “Johnathon, right?” Alastor moved on autopilot, hand coming to shake your manager’s.

“Johnny. Come inside.”

Alastor didn’t move. Hand still in the air between them. Johnny registered the distinct lack of light in Alastor’s eyes. He took a deep breath in, Alastor looked like a photograph of a man before him. There but, just a facsimile of human.

“She’s okay. Come on.” He gestured firmly, Alastor blinking back to life and slipping in.

Ruth hopped from her seat at the sight of the tall paramour. 

“The bastard arrested her! Prostitution.” 

Alastor’s mouth opened and then closed. He swallowed, then smiled, and his head did a little tilt. Ruth looked from him to Johnny. Alastor’s rolodex of canned responses spun infinitely around in his mind. Nothing was catching. There wasn’t a facial expression or comment or body posture in existence he had prepared for this conversation. Because he hadn’t ever predicted such a situation.

“He did it in front of everyone. He made a real scene of it.” Johnny leaned against the bar and tapped a cigarette, “I told her I’d fill you in.”

Brady had arrested you. You’d been arrested. 

“Prostitution?” Alastor finally spoke.

Ruth shook her head, “Yeah but absolute bullshit. She doesn’t have any want or need for extra money.”

Alastor nodded. It wasn’t his worry. His eyes quickly flitted around the air to the concern of the other two, searching his memory for any sense.

The man he punched? What was his name again? No. He didn’t know where you worked. He didn’t know your name. 

But, perhaps— no. He blinked away his runaway errands list.

“Any idea of the bond? How much should I bring?” He patted his pockets, fingers fumbling when he fished out his wallet. “I could get more, but I’ll need to go—,”

He was in disarray, a tremble in his hands making him pause and stare at his own body with a loss of recognition.

“I’m not sure…” Johnny said it slowly, “Ruth could you grab her bag from the back for me.”

When she was out of ear shot Johnny set his hand on Alastor’s, who was still staring in confusion at his own limbs, and made him lower the wallet.  

“Hey, I was there that night you cornered Tommy into the booth. I saw you two. The night he hit her. Tommy was a real piece of shit. And I’m glad he’s gone.”

Alastor’s eyes met Johnny’s and he wondered what he looked like to the other man. He felt the corner of his frozen smile twitch but he managed to keep from reacting otherwise. How many missteps had he taken?

For a moment, time stood still and he imagined dragging Johnny into the alley by his neck. Then Ruth. Who else needed to go? He’d carry them all away into the dark. 

“I'm no rat! I didn’t tell anyone anything.” A beat as he tried to read the face Alastor was making. A small tight smile and wide eyes that made Johnny’s skin crawl. Was he angry? No, his brows weren’t scrunched up. Was he suspicious? Maybe. Whatever feeling a trapped fox feels when the hound is close. But Johnny didn’t register that. “Just, ya know, I’m glad someone told him off. He was shaking like a leaf after. Anyway,” a nervous clearing of his throat, “I don’t think you should go to the precinct. I’ll go, I’ll pay the bail with some cash from the safe. You two can pay it back.”

No response. Alastor’s thoughts a tangled ball of red wool yarn, every time he tried to pull out a coherent reply the knot seemed to tighten and stiffen. He leaned back a little, trying to fit more of Johnny into his view. Wanting all of the smaller man to be seen.

“I feel kinda responsible. I should have spoken up when I learned what he was doing.” Johnny offered a smile of his own, something about it made him look younger than he was. “Just tell me where you’ll be, I’ll send her that way when she’s released. Maybe in the morning.”

“Responsible for what?” Ruth smacked Alastor’s arm with your small black handbag.

“For her arrest. I should have done more.” Johnny thanked her for the bag. “Where should I say you’ll be?”

“I’ll wait in my car.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll go crazy like that, just find somewhere quiet and have a drink.” Ruth turned Alastor around and pushed him towards the doors. 

“The Golden Dish. I’ll be there. Just,” Alastor stopped to pull a card from his wallet and hand it to Johnny, “Tell her to give the host this card and ask for me.”

“Well, go have a drink, try to just… try to stay calm.” Ruth’s words barely entered his mind as he stumbled out into the night. Thoughts came so quickly and in such a multitude that Alastor found his head entirely empty, unable to latch onto any single one.

He was unlocking his car door and then he looked up — he was across the street from the station. How he got from the theater to here was unknown to him. Clearly he had driven, but with what mind he had no idea. 

Long fingers gripped the steering wheel, knuckles an uncomfortable white with the force. How much would it take to snap the wheel? Had anyone ever tried before?

A deep breath, he didn’t remember holding it until his head began spinning. In the mess of thoughts, he saw flashes of what he could do. Questions to narrow down his options. Did the rooms have windows? Could he climb in one and drag Brady out?

But he didn’t know how many people there were. How many rooms. Where Brady was. Where you were.

Deep breath, he was holding it again and the thought of you being grilled by a cop made him involuntarily gasp for air.

There was no fear you’d say anything. It simply didn’t exist. Even trying to conjure the idea of you telling anyone who he was and what he did was ridiculous to him. A dark part of him knew that notion was born out of a blinding fear and not out of true trust. Because if you did such a thing, it’d mean he’d been wrong about everything. That he couldn’t trust his own decisions anymore. What would he do if you did confess?

Well, he was quite sure he’d die. Perhaps not literally. But Alastor as he was would wither and disappear. He’d be someone —- something entirely different.

But he didn’t stop to think about that. Because it wasn’t a possibility. 

With a full body tremble, Alastor leaned back into the seat and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt torn down the center. Half of him was marching into the station and doing…. He wasn’t sure. The rest was just black.

Half of him was driving away to go hide in a glass of whisky until you were released.

What would you want him to do?

He started the car and headed toward the river’s edge, hoping to find a parking spot not too far from the illicit bar.

Alastor made a beeline for the bathrooms just past the entrance of the Grano D'oro. His hair was mussed, his pupils constricted. He drew his bottom lip in and began chewing it nervously, hands pushing his hair back into some form of style. A cough to clear out his tightening throat, he straightened his bow tie and suit jacket. Staring at his reflection, he flinched. An unsettling feeling in his bones that if he stared long enough, it would take on a life of its own.

Something wasn’t right. His nightmares were back and following him around in his waking hours. Terrors of losing his control over himself. Deep seated insecurities about his work.

Alastor approached the host and explained his card was on loan to someone who would be by later. Normally it didn’t work like that, no card meant no entry. But Alastor was a regular. The man nodded and led Alastor into the main dining hall.

Alastor offered passing pleasantries to a few people and smiled as he was escorted past them to the private dining section of Grano D'oro. Separated by another large but closed curtain, the host moved it aside and let Alastor enter. The hall had a few doors but two large doors swung out from the kitchen.

Through the kitchen, with a smile and another nod to the staff who all sang his name as he walked by, Alastor made it to the barely visible door to the side.

Finally, he descended the stairs to the very lively and very lovely bar of his dear friend, Mimzy.

She clapped her hands enthusiastically at the sight of him, taking him by the arm and dragging him to the counter.

“Little late for you isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be at home with your heart.” She dragged out the word, eyes rolling not at the idea of you but at the idea of someone being more important than a night out.

Alastor plopped onto the stool and came to rest both elbows on the bar, “Should be.”

“Fight?” She was already wiping down a glass for him, his head was in his hands which was… a new sight. Sloppily, with some splashing out and onto the bar top, she poured two fingers and slid it to him.

“Worse. Arrest.” His hands curled around the cup and he considered not drinking it at all. His mother warned him to never drink alone and never drink when upset. He fudged the first rule often. But he really did follow the second. 

“Oh fuck.” Mimzy added two more fingers to the glass. “What for?”

He stared into the whisky before taking a large mouthful and forcing it down with a burning gulp, “Prostitution.” He croaked.

“That’s not illegal.” 

Alastor’s stress was momentarily broken and he looked incredulously at who could be called his closest friend, “Yes, it is, Mimz.”

With a hand on her hip she looked up in thought, “Huh…. Well, ya learn something new every day!”

Alastor held the glass with both hands now, “You do know alcohol is illegal, right? Production and consumption?” He watched her face sour, hand moving to gesture at the windowless room they were in.

“Duh. Why else would I be in this makeshift box?” It was rhetorical, Alastor rolling his eyes and lowering his face to his glass. 

Nervously he chewed on his bottom lip, biting red lines into the soft pink flesh. Mimzy stared, unnoticed. She couldn’t remember the last time he looked sad. He did sometimes open up when drunk, perhaps smiling through a pitiful story. Or dancing when she knew he was bruised in either his ego or his heart. But, normally, for Alastor, he kept the obvious and plain emotions kept tightly buttoned up. 

“So, why are you here all long faced? Did you arrest her or something?”

Alastor’s fingers found their way into his hair again, “I might as well have. It’s my fault.”

It was, without a doubt in his mind, his fault. He pulled you in. He killed your boss without any care for what you thought. He made you a shield and a target, stupid. Alastor couldn’t argue against it. 

You’d been forced to lie for him. To sneak and hide from police for him. He was no better than the spineless men he often chased. How could he be so selfish? It stung his chest and his eyes, the thought of you so sweetly sitting beside him just to be dragged into a police station. It was his fault. 

Mimzy hummed, pretending to wipe down the counter, “Then fix it. If you fucking did it, then make it better.”

Yes, obviously, but, “I don’t know how. I-,” Another forced mouthful of whisky, “I roughed up her former guy. For mistreating her. He’s been going around causing trouble now, lying about her. He doesn’t know it was me.” A lie that roughly summed up the trouble. Enough that he could vent, perhaps get third party insight. Though, admittedly, Mimzy wasn’t his first person to turn to for advice. 

“And you can’t just,” she made a fist with her thumb stuck out and dragged it across her neck in a cutting motion, “get rid of the issue?”

Killing Brady would solve everything. And it’d feel good. It’d feel….ah, he leaned back, letting his chest open and fill with the shadow of satisfaction, it’d be the best kill yet. How would he do it, he wondered. It’d have to be special. Slow. Perhaps even over the course of days. Oh, or better yet, perhaps he could show Brady exactly how he disposed of his targets. Piece by piece, taking from him and letting him watch as he buried his parts in deep holes. Giving him all the answers to his questions before snuffing out his nagging life. 

Lost in thought, he didn’t see Mimzy walk away and come back with a different bottle. The big guns, she thought. 

“That a no? Weeell,” She poured herself a glass, “Maybe go talk to the guy. Put the fear of God in ‘em! Let him know if he tries anymore shit,” she waved her finger around, “he’s gonna eat dirt.”

A threat….scare him? 

No one would believe Brady, he considered. If someone pulled him back into the shadows of his tree lined street with a blade to his throat and gave him the warning of what was to come if he kept this up….Did he have any allies in this at work?

“But you can’t do nothing. She’s your gal, right? Arresting her is like….it’s like throwing a drink in your face. He’s embarrassing you.”

A lump rose in this throat, the two large gulps of drink metabolizing and carrying away his ability to remember not to take advice from Mimzy. 

In fact, as he took a slower sip of his somehow still full glass, he thought she was quite right. Brady was testing his pride. Hurting the closest person he had to get at him. This was villain activity. 

If he didn’t reply, he’d be saying he didn’t care at all about you. He’d be the man Brady told you he was. A coward using you until you weren’t convenient anymore. Alastor’s leg began to bounce against the stool’s foothold. Yes, yeah, he had to act. Someone was challenging him. Someone was swinging you around in front of him, taunting how weak he was that he couldn’t even protect you. 

Either Brady thought Alastor was all bark and no bite, only attacking men alone at night, or, worse, he thought Alastor was using you.

Alastor stood quickly, but paused as his head sloshed to the left and he leaned with it. Steadying himself on the bar he looked down at Mimzy.

“Ah, he’s at work.” He stated it plainly, as if Mimzy already knew this. 

“Oh, then just enjoy some drinks and jazz while you wait! When is he off?”

“I don’t know…but, she’ll come get me when she’s released. So….after that?” Alastor was already losing sight of the lie he had told her earlier. He didn’t notice her top up his glass for a third time. 

“Perfect! Now, gossip. You gotta fill me in with the trashy news. You haven’t come by in so long.” She leaned across the bar, swirling her glass clumsily, big eyes blinking.

“Don’t try to distract me. I’m in no mood for such trivial things, Mimz. My love was arrested. At work no less. I’m useless.”

The very notion of thinking about anything but you made his stomach turn. 

As the time ticked on though, that turning was quickly becoming more of a reaction to the liquor and less to do with his stress. 

The only person who knew how much he’d downed was Mimzy, who kept track on his tab with an out-of-character diligence. When the host knocked on the door, she opened it to receive Alastor’s card and knew you must have come for him. 

Getting him up the stairs was difficult, but he was too drunk to let him go through the restaurant. The fine people upstairs had no idea liquor was being served in their fancy dining hall. So Mimzy let Alastor lean on her as she pushed them through the back doors and to the storage room. Opening the trash shoot, she pushed the man out and let him trip through the small opening. 

“This way, big guy,” She tugged him by the lapel through the alley and toward the street. 

She saw you standing there, looking into the restaurant expectedly, and told him to stay put. Mimzy slipped his card into his suit pocket and bee lined to you. You looked different than she’d expected. She wasn’t really sure what she was expecting…actually, on second thought, she had just imagined a female Alastor. Alastor with a perm and an empire waist dress. A little out of fashion but classy. 

She smacked your arm with the back of her hand and left you to him. 

Alastor stumbled onto the sidewalk, the lights blinding compared to the dark and smokey illicit club down he’d just fallen out of. He’d never used the back door, and he decided, somewhere in the mess of his thoughts, he didn’t particularly care for it. 

“Hey! Alastor!”

His head swung around at the sound of your voice, it was you. You were free. Shrugging off his panic like a heavy fur coat he rushed to you, taking your face in his big hands to kiss you. Grateful. He was so grateful you were back. He couldn’t let Brady take you again. How could he show you how seriously he felt?

What did people like? Kisses. People liked kisses. And passion. And touch. 

He’d translate his determination into lavishing you. When you made a yelp and pushed him away, he was confused. Why weren’t you happy to see him? 

Icy cold fear dripped and trickled down his ribs that Brady had said something to make you believe you were just collateral. You pulled him by the wrist, not looking at him, and he felt sure he had made a mistake in not going to the station. 

In the mud that was his thinking, he was sure this was the issue. What an idiot. He never let others tell him how to act or live, and yet he let some manager keep him from seeing you? He let a pissant like Brady take you and whisper poison into your ear. 

He had to fix it. He had to make it better. 

“Where’s your car?”

Ah, his car! Yes! Alastor had the power to make this all better immediately. Why didn’t he do this an hour ago? He couldn’t remember…. Alastor took his arm back, pointing you toward the park, “At that little park. Audubon.” It was a lovely little park, he thought. 

Your breath against his body when you and him first entertained affection came to his mind so intensely he thought maybe he had been pulled back in time. He paused, remembering the last park you both sat in, covered in blood and trembling. 

He needed to make it up to you.

“Anyway, I’m gonna kill him. Maybe right now! Did I tell ya? I know where he lives.” The stalking and studying was part of the fun, it made the meal tastier. And he had been sure to study Brady. When his work ended and you were busy still, he learned everything he could about the nosy cop. 

Unfortunately, most of what he learned was that Brady rarely went home at a normal time and he was relentless in his pursuit of information about you both. Many nights he shadowed the detective and heard Brady pestering and questioning locals about missing people and illegal going-ons at your theater. It wasn’t because he wanted to clean up the streets, that was obvious. Those nightly walks were a pig sniffing around in the mud for a kernel. All he needed was a good enough accusation to rush in and shut shit down. 

“Alastor.” Your voice saying his name pulled him back to the present, he paused for a beat to figure out where he was, he had thought you’d both been in front of the restaurant just a second ago. 

“You’re drunk. No.”

You slipped in front of him, making him nearly collide into you. No? Yes! What did drunkenness have to do with anything? Perhaps you didn’t understand. He did the work! He knew exactly what to do and where to go. Ah, of course. You didn’t know. How could you? He never told you what he did while waiting for you to finish up at work.

“Alastor, yes. He’s got two kids, a wife. He stays out late, obsessin’ over us no doubt.” Raising his head, he felt a swell of pride. Don’t worry, dear. I’ve not made mistakes this time.

You hissed his name as he moved past you, if he was quick he could catch the bastard before he got into his house. His road was lined with trees, shady and quiet. It’d be so easy. Fuck, it was even better suited for his hobbies than alleys and parks. How odd. 

“Hey. You can’t-,”

The word set something off in him. Can’t? Why do people keep telling him what to do or not to do?! Why were people always fucking giving him limitations? 

Brady had done this. You’d never– He was just trying to clean up his mess. Why did people think they could dictate his life so freely? Why did what he wanted to do not matter, even though he was just trying to be a good man?

“Who are you to stop me? To tell me,” He whipped around, losing his balance as he tried to recorrect. Alastor paused to stare down at his legs. Et tu, crura? Even his own body was betraying him. Saying his desires were moot points. Fine, fuck it. He barely needed legs to drive anyway. If he could just do things the way he always did, you’d see how capable he was. Brady would see how fucking stupid he was. Tommy could rot in hell harder if that was an option. 

Ah, it was quiet. How long had he been in his head? Had you said something and he didn’t hear? Oh you had stopped walking. “Are ya really not comin’?”

You had told him to not go alone, to always have you nearby when he killed. You not coming made no sense at all. 

“Who am I, Alastor?” Your voice was high pitched, he could hear your throat constricting. The reason wasn’t known to him though. People often did that before he killed him. 

What an odd question. Had you used your stage name so long you’d forgotten your true one. He laughed, what a silly thing to ask! “Now who is drunk?”

When your arms crossed and you glared back at him, his head cocked to the side. He wondered if you were playing around. You often pretended to be cross with him to make him pull you close and make you smile. 

“I thought you’d stop if I asked. I thought I was your equal in this.”

Not a joke. Well yes, of course you were. But this wasn’t that. 

“Well!” Alastor searched the sidewalk for the words, “This is different! He isn’t like the others. Mister Detective Kenneth Brady is-.” He was getting mad. Not at you, persay, but at the entire mess before him. 

“Shhh!” You seethed, “Give me your key. You can’t drive like this.”

What? 

Oh, so now he can’t drive? Your trust in him had been so eroded with just one private meeting with Brady. And did you shush him? 

Alastor, don’t go to the station. 

Alastor, don’t clean up the mess you made for me. 

Alastor, don’t drive. 

He didn’t want to fight with you. To argue or assert dominance, but…he stood up straighter to simulate sobriety. It failed, his hand jutting out to brace against the wall for stability. A failure that added to a growing pile of failures.

He caught himself and stared back at you. No. It was his car. Alastor was putting his drunken, clumsy foot down.

“If you want me to come with you, I am driving. Make your decision now.” 

When your hand came out for the keys he looked down to it and then back to you. What was that? What were you doing? 

You closed it,  “I won’t let a man waste my time when I’m just trying to help him. You’ve got me confused with someone else.”

Your turning and walking back forward the restaurant made his eyes roll. Oh, the keys still. He pulled them from his pocket, fine, have them. I give up. Failure pile growin’ every minute.

He tossed them into the space between you both, smiling to himself. You wanted the keys, he thought, there you go.

But when you turned around, he could feel the rage rolling off of your body. Alastor couldn’t pinpoint what it was about your face that was different than usual, but just beneath your skin he could see a you he’d never met before. One he didn’t care to meet. 

Fuck. 

He’d fucked up.

A flash of embarrassment sizzled in his stomach before he lurched forward and grabbed the keys, offering them to you properly.

He followed behind, too stubborn to show you the way but unwilling to be without you. 

Leaning into the window, he stared at the city as it rolled by, until it turned to water and then to woods. The air was stiff and suffocating. He hated it. Why were you so mad at him?

Alastor couldn’t understand what had happened. He was so happy to see you but immediately you pushed him away and dragged him off like a child being taken to the headmaster. What had happened at the station, he wondered. There was no way to ask now. The mood was too heavy, and he was too insolent to be the first one to speak. You were mad at him. You didn’t trust him. You, probably, we’re fed up with the complications of his company.

The pain behind his sternum was akin to a splintering rod; stiff, solid, and biting every time he moved. No one had ever made him feel this way before. He couldn’t put his finger on the feeling though, it was sadness, and it hurt, but there was something deeper. Something underneath these shallow reactions that dredged up a vague sense of mourning.

Regret?

He slammed the car door behind him and fell into the sofa as soon as he could. Nothing went right. The day had started so wonderfully… you’d felt like a part of himself he’d finally found. And now….

“You’re mad at me.” He heard the keys hit the bowl. Thank you, he thought. 

Yes. No. Not at you. Not with you. Just, mad. Mad at Brady. Mad at Tommy. Mad at liquor as a general concept. And, the most upsetting, mad at himself. Had he ever been mad at himself before? 

“No.” He sucked in a breath, “I’m mad. Full stop.” He hugged a pillow, he just wanted to be left alone now to wallow in the expanse of these new and awful sensations bleeding into his guts.

He thought it and immediately winced. Not alone alone. Please, if anyone had been listening, please disregard it. That wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t mean that at all.

“You’re acting like a child. Go to your bed. I’ll sleep here.” Your voice was stern, talking down to him. 

“You’re talkin’ to me like a child.” He felt small and stupid. Closing his eyes, he sighed and tried to settle mind. Everything was swimming. Literally. His thoughts and the room were liquid and floating up into the atmosphere. Alastor was confident he would follow them up. 

“You really don’t see the connection between those two things?? Atleast— go to the guest bed.” 

Connection? Yes! You were treating him like a naive child, talking to him like a confused child, pulling him like a disobedient child, holding out your hand to him like he was a selfish child.

“No.” If he opened his eyes he was 90% sure he’d vomit. If he could just bear through the spinning he’d be okay.

“Suit yourself. I don’t have patience for this, Alastor. You’re acting like a brat when I’m the one who had the hard night.” 

He turned his head into the pillow to conceal the frown. 

Patience… there it was. You’d lost patience with him. And you’d been so patient for months now. Waiting in bars and cars while he killed. Waiting for him while he threw body parts into holes and snapping jaws. Waiting for weeks beside him for inspiration to strike and for him to seek your intimacy in more serious touch.

He heard you make it three steps before returning, “And I really don’t appreciate the way you’re treating me. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Alastor’s eyes welled with tears that soaked into the soft yellow pillow. He held his breath until he heard the floor creaking upstairs to let his body shiver with the sob. He’d had you all morning. And he’d kissed you goodbye at work… and then he came to get you. But you were gone. 

He was scared, and angry.

And he got angrier and angrier and now— he couldn’t piece anything together.

Rolling onto his back he held the pillow to his chest. 

Eyes fixed on the ceiling he listened to you prepare for bed. The water ran. The bed groaned. As the liquor took him away the floors creaked again and he hoped maybe you’d come join him on the sofa. Even in silence. Even angry. Just be there so he knew you weren’t done with him entirely. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

When Alastor woke he was alone, the sound of the back door shutting startling him into consciousness. The only evidence he had slept and not just shut his eyes for a couple minutes was the light through the curtains. 

For the briefest, sweetest second he felt excited to see you. It was eclipsed near immediately with the nauseating reality that you’d had a fight the night before and you’d told him…. It was hazy. Clenching his eyes shut he searched through the drunken darkness of the night before.

He had to work backwards. You said you’d lost patience. He was treating you poorly. You’d driven him home. He’d thrown his keys at you.

Alastor groaned, feet kicking the end to the sofa in anger. He had tried to make you pick up the keys off the ground, when all you had done was try to take care of him. 

He remembered you tugging him along the sidewalk, before that… you kissed. No, he kissed. He could distinctly remember trying to lick his way into your mouth. On the sidewalk. In front of a very nice restaurant. The yellow pillow was pulled to his face to muffle his scream.

Drinking was the first mistake, continuing to drink was the second. And now you were upset with him.

He was to blame. It was so obvious now. Not just for the arrest and the negative attention but for the entire evening going tits up. 

Throat tightening, a tingle began in his fingertips and worked its way up his wrists. 

Stupid.

Selfish.

Useless.

Throwing the pillow into the chair opposite the sofa he tossed his legs over and sat up. He couldn’t breath, chest heavy. As his lips began to feel like they were stung with tiny needles, he spread his knees and lowered his head between them.

Not now, he yelled at himself, you’re making this about yourself again. Just like last night.

He’d wanted to fix the problems he’d made so badly but stupidly he’d just burdened you further.

There was no future in that moment. All the little daydreams of you and him were suspended and in jeopardy. Until he spoke to you, had the talk you told him was required, he had nothing. 

For all he knew, you’d made up your mind already. How odd. He himself was the cat in the box. He could already be dead and not even know it.

Alastor couldn’t stand another second of not knowing his fate. Lost in the panic he hadn’t considered at all what Brady had said to you. Taking the steps two by two he found the bed empty. Before turning, vaguely remembering hearing the screen door earlier, something caught his eye and made the world spin again with renewed terror.

The handle of your bag peeking out from under the dresser. It had been in the closet, he had emptied it and put it there for you so he knew that to be a fact.

He closed his eyes, bile rising in his throat. Was it full of your things? Were you just waiting to tell him to take you home?

He couldn’t find the courage to check. Rushing past it like it could come to life and grab him by the ankles, he went to the nightstand beside his side of the bed and opened the drawer, the bright yellow of your handkerchief calming him just a sliver. If he kept it, you’d have to come back. He could call you and remind you to come back for it. And then he could convince you to stay. His mother always said he was good with words. If you forgot it at his house when you left he’d have a way to bring you home again. Fresh tears welled, the backs of his hands smearing them into his hairline.

The handkerchief smelled faintly of you still. His bottom lip was sucked between his teeth and the skin picked and pulled. Still carrying the piece of fabric, he leaned over the stairs railing to see you as you sat on the back porch. 

Sitting on the second to last step of the house, he took a moment to collect himself. Being so frazzled, so undone, wasn’t like him. That foreignness just added to the panic. Bringing a hand to his chest, he opened his shirt to run his fingers down his sternum and to the left. A beating heart, evidence he was the survivor in every encounter he’d been in. But now, half a house between your and his back, why did he feel the most in danger? Rarely did fight or flight kick in, the last time he felt it was rolling around with that man who’d tried to choke the life out of you. 

No strange man here now. Just strange feelings. 

The pounding under his fingerprints became sonorous. It was becoming harder to ignore the obvious. 

Deep breaths, he had to prepare his responses. The only way to begin was with an apology, but after that he wasn’t sure where things would go. So he had to make a plan. 

Alastor hoped you’d forgive him, and accept the apology. At which point he would love to imagine himself doing something respectful like kissing your cheeks and thanking you for your mercy. 

If you didn’t accept it….Alastor had never begged a day in his life, but he could see himself begging you to stay. Perhaps hugging your ankles and promising things he didn’t have. There was no longer an impossibility in what he would do, which was alarming. The idea of him being so pathetic and pitiful was nauseating, however there was no one and nothing that could stop that if you got up and left. 

There was no way to run his lines for this. Like many other interactions with you he couldn’t bring the usual tools with him to battle. Either with your wit or point of view, or perhaps today your wrath, you always disarmed him. 

But that was what made you worth the risk. It began as entertainment, but soon enough the dome of your stage extended out and around him, sheltering Alastor in the warm light of your presence. And now as he looked around the railing of his stairs, he was scared to see the exit lights flicker on. 

Walking out the backdoor, he wondered if he would be allowed back in or if the door would lock behind him. 

He knew the exact moment he fucked up, and knew he had to begin there. Barefoot, still in yesterday’s clothes while you were in your night dress, he let himself drop to the space beside you before tentatively bringing his head down to your lap. He avoided eye contact, not yet ready to confront his adjudicator.

The pain in your words from last night were just now beginning to sting his eyes. 

‘Who am I?’

“You are my darling,” It wasn’t until he said it that he realized he hadn’t opened his mouth and spoken yet, his voice was harsh and throat dry. Who were you? It would be easier to list who you weren’t to him now. “That’s who you are.”

No unit of time existed small enough to measure the pause between what he said and your reply, but it felt like a gorge separating his breaths. 

“You sure didn’t make me feel like your anything last tonight.”  He couldn’t remember ever hearing you take such a tone; cutting and cold. Was there no longer warmth in your heart for him? He had been so drunkenly blinded by his own feelings he hadn’t stopped to think about how you were viewing his little tantrum. Maybe he hadn’t ever really had anyone around whose opinion mattered very much.

And he’d made you feel like nothing to him. The mountain of derelictions crumbled under the weight of perhaps his biggest failure of the evening, an avalanche of embarrassment and shame washed over him and he didn’t try to impede his tears. Men were only supposed to cry on their wedding day and at funerals, but he supposed this day could still go either way. Could still be as pivotal to his happiness.

“I know. I’m sorry. I was so,” what word could sum it up?

“Drunk.”

“Enraged.” a high whine caught in his throat, clenching his eyes now as the embarrassment took over stronger than he had thought possible. He felt stupid now saying he was just angry, “And drunk.”

He couldn’t entirely blame the alcohol, but he wouldn’t disagree with you now. 

“And disrespectful.”

Alastor folded in on himself, shoulders drawing in to try and curl up small enough that he ceased to exist in any meaningful way. Disrespectful. He had, he’d disrespected you in public and in private. The stunt with the keys came back and he thought he may just die from the mortification of what he’d done. 

“That too.” His hands nervously wrung the handkerchief beneath his closed thighs. What a terrible morning juxtaposed with the prior day’s bliss. A sigh, soft and weak. He remembered who was the catalyst for his buffoonery. “I want to split his skull with an ax.” 

Argh, it wasn’t about him. “I’m sorry. I— you were not wrong. I didn’t know what to do with myself when your manager said you’d been arrested. I almost drove my car into the station doors.” He was beginning to wish he had.

“So getting zozzled and shouting the personal details of a New Orleans detective into the night seemed… the better option? When I had already had a difficult night?” He flinched at the rising anger in your voice, the rhetoricals were scolding and biting his pride like a nun’s ruler to his knuckles. “When I needed your support? Comfort?”

Perhaps the death blow. All he could do was nod and accept his mistakes. But, it hurt. Not to admit them, but to confront them. Another tidal wave of emotion hit and he had to bury his face back into the cool silk of your nightwear. He couldn’t understand how he had fucked it up so badly. 

No, he had to find words. “I’d never felt so helpless, I just…I responded very selfishly. I’m sorry.” Two words did nothing, they tumbled from his mouth like feathers. Weightless. When the heavy guilt in his chest was threatening to drag him to hell with one misstep, ‘I’m sorry’ was just crystals of salt dropped in the gulf. Actions were all he had left and he wasn’t sure yet you’d give him the time to show you. 

When your fingers grazed his scalp and combed his hair from his ears he shook with relief. A tender touch that promised you didn’t hate him, and his cortisol levels immediately plummeted. He felt safe again, enough to ask what was pestering him still. 

“Will you ever let me kill him?” his lips ghosted over the mercy of your thighs.

As you thought, his fingers ran along the edges of your handkerchief. Feeling the stitched edges with precision as a distraction from the stress of waiting. 

 “When he’s no longer a threat to us. When no one will be shocked to hear he’s dead.” 

No longer a threat… what did that mean? When Brady moved on from you both, or was simply made incapable of doing you harm. He could expedite that, somehow. He was sure of it. 

His arms wrapped around your legs and caressed your thighs through the silk, “He went too far. Turning his head up, he got you into his peripheral. 

“And he knows your name.”

Oh. That … was expediting, wasn’t it? It was bound to happen. 

“I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter.” He pulled himself closer again. Brady was nothing compared to the threat of losing you. “I’ve never been a bigger failure in all my life than last night. In every way. To myself and to you.” What a joke he was. How high and mighty and curated he tried to be that he forgot the point of it. A shield he turned to you was just a barrier between what he desperately wanted by his side. His tears returned with renewed vigor, the complete breakdown of his manicured image was a tell tale heart he couldn’t smile away anymore, the greatest weakness he was never so happy to call his own. Muffled by your clothing and inviting lap, “I just love you so much…” he choked and then sucked in a deep breath to try and get control of himself, shifting his face to the side again to watch your face for an immediate reaction to his question, “Do you want to leave me?”

He didn’t want the answer. He knew better than to ask. But – if you did, he didn’t want to keep you there. He couldn’t let the moment pass without finding out if you were just putting up with him. If you felt trapped, like Brady promised you that you would. When you told him those things, the silly things the detective had said before, you always laughed. You said it was so ridiculous. But, now, there was nothing funny about the idea. He couldn’t promise himself he wouldn’t keep that little yellow fabric in his hands even after you parted, but he could swear to not try and guilt you back into his arms. 

When you lifted him off of your body by the collar he couldn’t understand the emotion behind it. You were inspecting his face so carefully, but there was no sign of disgust or anger or even adoration to signal how he should feel. The teardrops tickled his cheeks and chin and fell unimpeded to your legs. 

Your eyes kept moving over his features, until a small tug of your lips to the side crept into a smile. Soft and obviously natural.

“Give me a little time. I’ll show you how stupid of a question that is over our first fight,” The pads of your thumbs were soft as they slid down his cheeks and gathered the moisture there. When he pulled the handkerchief to his lap, you took it and used it to further dry his face. He exhaled a broken breath when you took his face in your hands and stared into his eyes. “I never want to leave you.” His body again trembled with relief, blinking away the nth torrent of tears, “Even if I do, even if somehow I’m convinced to go, you’ll have to rip your heart out of my cold dead hands or I’ll take it with me.”

Stop. Don’t say that. “What have I told you? Don’t mention those things.” Death. Leaving. Goodbyes. “The spirits are listening.” They were always listening, watching, hoping to grab a hold of anything you said without precision and deliver you the reality you mused. He didn’t want to lecture, but he couldn’t let it go. Shh, don’t say such things. He could feel the dried tears crack as his eyes crinkled with his smile, a smile that he nearly failed to switch up to return the kiss when you pressed your lips into his. A first fight? He’d never had one of those. Typically he never got that far. Things fell apart the second someone was unhappy or unsatisfied. 

Take his heart back? His mind finally processed the words. It was yours. The morning had proved to him he couldn’t claw it back if he truly wanted, and if he was further honest with himself, he didn’t want it. It was better off with you. He felt the air cooling the once body-warm tears, he whispered what he felt was too vulnerable to say at full volume, “But, it’s not mine anymore. Isn’t that obvious?” His eyes looked down at your feet pointed in towards his own. Was this pathetic display not making it glaringly evident he was a man turned inside out? Guts in his hands and heart in yours?

You sniffled and sat up straight, bringing his attention back to you. 

“If you ever speak to me like you did last night again, with that sharp tone and cruel words, sober or not…” Your words got slower until you stopped, an almost wild look in your eyes he could read as pleading. He shook his own head subtly, unconsciously swearing he wouldn’t. 

If he ever forgot himself and you again, like he had let his rage and weakness do the night before, he didn’t deserve your forgiveness or grace anymore. A woman too good for him.  

Because he couldn’t ever get it back now, “You can take my heart with you.” 

A sickening fact. 

His body was a tool, and he’d use every tool he had available to make you understand what you meant to him. Would you feel different now, now that he knew you loved him? Would he find your body warmer, more inviting… Could he make you scream your love for him?

Later, he would have to bookmark that idea. The confession was too fragile still, a crystal figurine to precious to even take out of the box. 

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia @catticora , @angelicribbons , @xalygatorx

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @moonmark98

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog ,

@thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies

@howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @fizzled-phoenix , @star-kujo-platinum

, @a-case-of-attachment, @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk , @bontensbabygirl @smoky000

@hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain

@harley2223-blog , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby

@dontfuckbutimfab @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is: thisapplepielife! @thisapplepielife has 37 works posted to AO3 in the Stranger Things fandom and 24 of them are in the Steddie tag!

Our anonymous nominator recommends the following works by @thisapplepielife:

Tuesday's Gone With the Wind

Take the Money and Run

You Oughta Know

Never Not Mine

Let the Boy Be Merry

"They are my favorite Corroded Coffin writer. I found by accident their fic “Tuesday's Gone With the Wind” and loved everything they wrote since!" -- Anonymous

Below the cut, @thisapplepielife answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

Steve Harrington. I found myself not connecting with S4 when it premiered, and decided that I probably just needed to rewatch the other three seasons again first, since it'd been a while between seasons. Well, Steve was always my favorite, but I left that re-watch with his voice fully lodged in my brain. So, I had to write something for him, just for myself. That was You Oughta Know. We all knew Eddie identified as a runner, and that just felt like the story to tell. Then somehow, for some unknown reason that I still cannot possibly explain, I decided to actually post it. I still don't know what possessed me to do that, honestly.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

I love a good second chance fic: A divorced couple that eventually rekindles. A missed first chance that they get to take another crack at, later in life. I also like a good heartbreaker of a fic. I know, I know. Don't get me wrong, I still love happy endings, but I don't require them. Break my heart. Do it.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Slice of life? Is that considered a trope? I know I like to write about things we all deal with in real life, from the small and inconsequential: a mattress with a bad spring. The delight of clean sheets. Or the bigger: the real life heartbreak of unavoidable loss and grief.  And older Steddie is my favorite, I think. I love to spend time writing for them. These boys that turned into men, who made a full life together, and it's great. Maybe not perfect. But they wouldn't trade it for the world. That makes me happiest.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

The One in Which a Time Loop is Fucking Exhausting by badpancake is the one I think of that grabbed me first, and did not let go. I still need to read the final part of the trilogy! My fic TBR is so, so long because I definitely struggle with writing and reading at the same time. I know there is amazing work out there that I've just never read yet. But I look forward to it, absolutely. It's just something I've never figured out how to manage well. Joining Tumblr has helped that immensely, though! Reading the shorter fics here has been wonderful, and I've enjoyed it so much. There are amazing things being posted every single day! And I gotta say that don't start (too late) by Ark is one of the best "first time" fics I've ever read in any fandom. Eddie's inner voice is wonderful. I believe every word he thinks while he experiences this brand new thing with Steve.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

It's not brand new to me, but there's a found family one that I've been tinkering with for a very long time, and that excites me.  And I do love events for tossing me situations or prompts to write for that I may not have thought of, independently. @steddiemicrofic especially has been so, so fun. I think it was the very first event I wrote for on Tumblr, and the challenge of having a very limited amount of words, but still trying to make it feel like a whole story has been told, has been a blast. Thanks to @wynnyfryd and @steddieas-shegoes for challenging us all each month!

What is your writing process like?

I don't outline or anything. I just write, and edit, as I go. And I'll edit obsessively. I'll tweak and change small things over and over, ad nauseam. And even then, I know I still miss mistakes. But my mistakes are my own, I have no beta, because I kind of like being solely responsible for anything I write. Right or wrong. Here it is, take it or leave it. I also talk things through things in my own head a lot, especially dialogue, or I'll open a document, and just see where that takes me. And if I'm writing a long fic, like Tuesday's, I write totally out of order when scenes come to me. I wrote on every single year of that fic all at once. Then kept writing until they'd stitched themselves together into a full story. That's my last part of writing. Putting in the transitions from one scene to the next, when needed.  Sometimes ideas are more fully formed before I start putting words to the page, and other times I literally just start and figure it out as I go. There's one fic I wrote for Steddiemas last year where I sat Steve down at a mall food court and then just started writing. I had no idea what that was going to be. (It was Eddie turning up as the Mall Santa.)  Also: Research, research, research. I love the research aspect of writing. I'm curious in general, and if I can even think to look something up to see if it's true, or of the right time period, I will. And I like to add mixed media to my fics. That was a huge part of Take the Money & Tuesday's. All the newspaper articles and such. I felt like they were needed to make it feel like this really happened to these characters we all love so much. I did newspaper articles all throughout writing Tuesday's. In fact, I think that main article, the one at the top, was written and designed very early on in the writing process. They weren't all done at the end, they were done as the story needed them.

Do you have any writing quirks?

Short paragraphs. I love 'em. You'll pry them from my cold, dead fingers. Also see: Long sentences.  Honestly, I do like to throw out the rules, a bit. I write by feel. How does it sound, to my own ear? If it works, for my character, my fic or just me in general, I'll use it. "Don't use two "ands" in a sentence." Okay, but sometimes I'm gonna when that flows the best. Or: "That's a run-on." Okay, but I like the way it reads. "You don't need a comma there." But, I like the way that it breathes, so it's getting one. All this is especially true if writing from someone's POV. I know I don't always think in proper grammar, and I don't expect them to either. I don't want things to feel hard to read, but I do want them to feel natural. If that makes sense. I walk around, pacing as I write or edit on my phone, as if the moving somehow lets me see it differently. I think it does! And I don't know if this is a quirk, but some of the characterizations formed while writing Tuesday's have stuck, hard. Gareth is Gareth Jones, and where you find him, you'll probably find Di. Freak is Goodie. Jeff is Jeff Williams. These things have been decided in my brain, and now I feel compelled to take them with me, fic-to-fic. I didn't intend to build a headcanon I wouldn't be able to shake, but here we are.  I feel like I can transplant Steve and Eddie anywhere, into anything, and be comfortable changing things up. But the Corroded Coffin boys are cemented, as they were created, for the most part. Maybe that's because I did have to do so much shaping for them. Steve and Eddie, we know. We're all working off a decent amount of canon content. Corroded Coffin only had a few moments on screen to help flesh any of us flesh them out into real characters. And now that I've made my choices, for good or bad, they're here to stay.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

Finished, definitely. My three long fics were all mostly written before I started posting, and I still struggled to get the last part of All of Across the Universe out in a timely fashion. Tuesday's was posted over one week, one chapter per day, and I really enjoyed that fast schedule. It didn't give me any extra time to overthink the finished product. It was going out, and that was that. I had to trust that I knew what I was doing when I deemed it finished.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Tuesday's Gone With the Wind. I truly thought I was done after Take the Money and Run. And then this idea slapped me in the face, and I spent five months just lost in their world. These versions of the characters came so naturally, and they are still with me today. I feel like most of what I've written since then is shaped by those versions. Also, that was the last fic I wrote without anything else coming down the pipe. The last one before I joined Tumblr. The last one that had my full, and utter, undivided attention. It's really special to me, and I'm beyond grateful to everyone that has embraced it and recommended it to friends. I know it's got some scary warnings, but for those that have dove in and let me know that it spoke to you in some way, you've made me so happy. It spoke to me, too.

How did you get the idea for Tuesday's Gone With the Wind?

By watching the documentary "If I Leave Here Tomorrow" about the band Lynyrd Skynyrd. As I was watching it, there was an interview section where one of the band members spoke about their assistant road manager, saying: "He was like a bartender roadie. Where he took care of us really good, you know? Anybody who was sick, or needed a little more attention, he was just there for you. He was like the big brother, and sister, and your mama and everything." My brain whispered, Steve Harrington.  And that was that. Corroded Coffin were going to get Road Manager Steve Harrington, and he was gonna take care of them as they headed towards this unavoidable disaster. I wrote like 5k words the first night. It was just in there, waiting to spill out, somehow. And I think it's also an anomaly for me, but I'm fairly certain I started that fic with what turned out to be the opening. That first bit of Eddie's first interview section. I think that's where I started telling the story, and it held throughout. That's pretty rare for me. (Fun fact: I wrote all the interview bits in a separate document, and then just fit and tweaked them into the story, as needed. But not that opening. That was the launch pad into everything else.)

When writing Tuesday's Gone With the Wind, what was something you didn’t expect?

It's not exactly a Steddie answer, but - Gareth! Gareth Jones, my beloved. I wasn't on Tumblr when I wrote Tuesday's or any other social media in a fandom way. I was in my own bubble, doing my own thing. So, I didn't know the fandom had given him a fanon surname. I chose my own, and now he's just Gareth Jones to me, and always will be. He's also Eddie's best friend. I've pondered on more than one occasion on if Take the Money and Run would be different if I knew that first, lol. Just exploring my version of a character that had so little screen time to work off was incredibly fun. And has remained fun. Gareth is definitely gonna show up again in my future works. He's to Eddie, as Robin is to Steve in my head now and forevermore.

What inspired Take the Money and Run?

These lyrics from the song "Me and Paul" by Willie Nelson: Almost busted in Laredo But for reasons that I'd rather not disclose But if you're staying in a motel there and leave Just don't leave nothing in your clothes I had a literal shower thought that made me laugh. And thought, well, why are they even in a motel? Oh, they must be on a road trip. So, I wrote that little scene mainly in my head, but jotted it down, just in case, and assumed that was the end of it. But then I just kept writing it. Until I was knee deep in maps and mileage and research trying to figure this road trip out from a logistics standpoint. All because I thought it'd be funny if Eddie left weed in his pants and Steve got all put upon because of it.

What was your favorite part to write from You Oughta Know?

I loved getting to include all the fun 90s things, since that's when I was a teen, and can remember a lot of it very distinctly, first-hand. And I loved getting to use El's powers to look in on Eddie, so while they might not know where he is, they did know that he seemed to be doing okay out there in the world. Also, if I could go back and change one thing about it, I'd fix that I said Eddie's never had an acoustic guitar. I didn't notice his acoustic in his room until my re-watch. Oh well. This version of Eddie didn't, I guess, lol. (This might be from the second part, Eddie's POV. But still. It's my Roman Empire. I think of this mistake at least once a week and beat myself up. If I'd been on Tumblr at the time, I feel this would have never happened, because someone would have blogged about it, drawing my attention to it, surely.)

How do/did you feel writing Never Not Mine?

This one is heavily inspired by the Taylor Swift song imgonnagetyouback. It was fun to dig into a slightly angstier world for a bit. Because things don't always work out, or if they do, not always the first time around. I like to think they'll find each other again, in any universe, but they might not take the easiest path. They aren't perfect, and that's realistic.

What was the most difficult part of writing Let the Boy Be Merry?

Crying while writing it. This one slapped me around a little while writing. Life isn't always as romantic as fic leads us all to believe which, the audacity, honestly, lol, but the kind of love and relationship in this fic? That feels real to me. Old, and familiar, and even as well as you know a person, you can't read their mind. You don't always get what the other needs immediately, you don't get how important things can be to them, but figuring out how to compromise is love. Real, lasting love.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

This question was hard! I'm gonna pick two from Tuesday's: For the first, I cried while writing and then cried again while editing the scene where Eddie and Steve hash out how serious their relationship is, and realize they've kind of been on different pages. There are two scenes in Tuesday's that got to me, and made me cry while writing them, over and over, and I don't even know why. (The other is Gareth picking that fight with Steve. Yeah, yeah, I know. Neither of these parts are the saddest parts of Tuesday's. But they stripped me raw, for whatever reason.) And a second, more fun, favorite: I'm gonna go with the scene where Eddie's naked and tripping on mushrooms in the backyard while Steve hangs out with him, and Eddie thinks they've written "Tom Sawyer" by Rush. That was so fun, and just a feel good write, if that makes sense. That whole summer they spent at the lake I look back on writing fondly. They are so in love there. They are all happy. And this scene is carefree in a way that they won't always be, due to circumstances coming down the pipe.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

I run @corrodedcoffinfest and I've got a whole list of planned pop-up events coming up over the next few months for that. Steddie is absolutely welcome, so if anyone would like a little more Corroded Coffin works in their life, consider coming to join us! I also finally updated my masterlist, so everything I've written for Stranger Things is finally gathered together. There's a lot that's still only on Tumblr and not on Ao3 at this point.

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Thanks so much for including me and my works in this! And to the person who nominated me, thank you, thank you! You really made my day. It was fun to think about these fics again, and answer these questions. I've really enjoyed writing for Steddie, and I've also enjoyed making friends in the fandom. Thanks for welcoming me. Thanks for showing my fics love, and commenting or leaving kudos or reblogging. Just, thank you all so much. And I'm sorry if these answers were too long, lol. As a habitual "end notes" kind of writer, that's just the way I roll. 

Thank you to our author, @thisapplepielife, and our anonymous nominator! See more of thisapplepielife's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[glisten-inthedark]

No but the way Mike IMMEDIATELY softens with an “shit, shit” look on his face the second he sees Will’s expression after “it’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” like he would not do that with Lucas or Dustin

(for one thing he wouldn’t have even said that to either of them—if either of them was single he would’ve said “it’s not my fault you can’t get a girlfriend”)

but softening like that? Mike only does that with Will. Even right when Will first got upset and turned off the music, Mike immediately went “no wait let’s continue the campaign it’s super cool what happens next” with no hint of sarcasm or frustration, he genuinely was gonna continue the campaign if Will hadn’t left

And let’s not forget him biking out in the rain (and Lucas too, tho I suspect Mike was the one pioneering this effort bc only Mike followed Will outside) and going all the way to Will’s house to apologize and calls himself an asshole and says he wants to talk, something Max said he’d do for El after the breakup but he instead does for Will

Poetic cinema

Hello!

Oh point number 1: Mike always softens whenever he's talking to Will (I love how the fandom coined it as his Will voice) and you could see the instant regret on his face as soon as he said it.

Point number 2: He absolutely would not have anything like that to Dustin or Lucas and I wonder why.

Point number 3: That's why I think people can be a little bit harsh to Mike. Did he hurt Will? Absolutely! He should not have said that, but he did drag himself and Lucas to Will's house in the middle of the pouring rain to apologize.

And can we talk about how that went? Like Mike runs downstairs, and it's like:

"We gotta go!"

"Go where?"

"After Will, Lucas! Where else?"

"Why? What happened?!"

"I– he just ran off and we have to find because if something – If he – let's just fucking go!"

And Lucas dead ass must have been like "God dammit 😤 Mike, fine!"

Honestly Lucas deserves a fucking award for being a good ass friend. Justice for Lucas Sinclair

[whorrorbvby]

Happy thong Thursday hope your doing well

not a thong but my dog destroyed one of my favourite undies and i refuse to get rid of them

[ihhfhonao3]

Look, I love a good media theory as much as the next guy, but so many of them, especially theories for kids shows, are lowkey ableist.

“Dark things you never knew about Fairly OddParents! Number one: Timmy is schizophrenic!”

“Dark fact: Owl from Winnie the Pooh has NPD!!”

“Scary theory says that Sandy from SpongeBob has Borderline Personality Disorder!”

Like I’m sorry if you maybe overlooked the implications of what you were saying, but are you implying that disorders, disabilities and divergences are “scary” and “dark?” Because I’m not sure that’s a hill you want to die on.

[monty-glasses-roxy]

Went to that post to see about installing Into the Pit and I got curious so I looked at the books and. Guys.

In the recipe book, Glamrock Chica has three recipes. Food is her whole thing, the original Chica got a good amount at least, but neither of them have the most recipes. All the other Glamrocks have five or more recipes.

They made a cookbook. And gave the food animatronic. Three recipes. They gave the food animatronic. Three. Recipes.

Like, at what point does the lack of care for Chica specifically just become insulting? They even gave her fucking maze to Monty in the new interactive novel. The recipe for Cupcakes is in Roxy's section now. Not a single one of the Glamrock recipes are Glamrock Chica themed.

They really just can't give her anything can they?

[avernusfuries]

The wonderful gift of touch. ENDLESS KARLACH EDITS. 4 / ∞ non-rp blogs dni.

[the-kipsabian]

@thetimecrystal asked: 10 -  Make a gifset of a wrestler I don’t talk much about but I really like.

seth rollins & buddy matthews

[rottingcompost]

the fact that at this point i dont even feel depressed or scared or anxious whenever i get reminded of my abuser and i instead get angry and start thinking and sometimes even saying the most venomous shit about her and wishing death on her. shes not really in my life much at all anymore but it still pisses me off and i still have to see her occassionally and at this point i feel like next time she tries to come to my apartment i wont even let her in and tell her to play in traffic or something.

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: March 17

"I Like It" by Cardi B, Bad Bunny, J Balvin

[abyssalpriest]

oh and in case it isnt clear, i dont necessarily blame anyone on this plane for believing the stuff i said in the first posts tags? like. eve if youre an incarnated "demon" like i am as much as eh yeah im sick of that term like. its hard to get info across from fuckin anyone, but you add to that how their/our plane works requiring so much damn energy to get up here..... Its hard. yes.

HOWEVER. the fucking "demons" coming here being like. well. this

and fucking talking about how all evils are Actually (chrxstian and ''angelic'') and we're soooooo good and innocent like. you know what youre doing. i see you. shut the fuck up

[todayisafridaynight]

I should be studying right now, but… do you ever think about how Arakawa didn't have to die?

Not even in the meta sense that it's RGG "tradition" to take faceclaims/father figures/antagonists out of the picture and that traditions should sometimes be broken, or that Aoki would've changed his mind, or that Ishioda or Tendo could've been stopped. But because Jo is the captain (and later second patriarch) of an organization specifically stated to specialize in faking deaths. A practice that originated in the Bubble Era years after Jo had already joined, and that Jo was no doubt intimately familiar with.

Like, isn't that why Arakawa was able to take that risk shooting Ichi? It just feels like things could've gone so much differently had Jo "accepted" Aoki's orders and "confronted" Arakawa with some kind of escape. Perhaps the Ijincho homeless camp would be off-limits, having drawn too much attention recently, but an assassin would surely know how to lay low for a while.

And maybe Aoki, Ishioda, and Tendo would've been undone by their own ambition anyway. And Arakawa could've kept his word and ran the security company with the pillars of the Tojo and Omi, while Jo could've been the chairman of the Tokyo Omi Alliance; light and shadow, opposite to their respective sons. And so many more yakuza wouldn't have been left with nowhere to go.

And hell, maybe none of it would've worked out in the end, maybe it would've all folded like a house of cards, but wasn't it worth a shot? Perhaps it was Yokoyama he who didn't think of it (or couldn't/didn't pursue it even if he did), perhaps it was Jo. But there's something so tragic about being so fundamentally opposed to lifting a finger in violence towards your co-parent and patriarch that you decline the opportunity to save him.

I wonder if the thought has ever occurred to Jo.

I wonder how much he regrets it.

UGH RIGHT IT'S SOOOO....

Like of COURSE I'm upset about Arakawa's death in that we lost a wonderful character and father figure in the franchise, but also it's cause it's just... for all the scheming Arakawa and Jo have been doing behind Aoki's back this entire time, Jo folded on this opportunity to get Arakawa out of Aoki's radar for good this time- or for at least the time being.

It's a testament to the humanity he convinced himself he threw away, and that's why it especially makes me want to scream. From our understanding, Jo is supposed to be very pragmatic and tries to deal with matters as efficiently as possible and generally seems emotionally detached from his work (of course we know that's not the case, but just from a surface-level perspective that's how it appears). So the one time Jo does show an ounce of humanity, it has the greatest consequence.

[demonsfate]

idk what's funnier jin talking to himself with no one there or zafina talking to her fucking hand

[abluehappyface]

She's always the first to say "It's not what you say, but how you say it" only to immediately chew us out over something that could've been a simple conversation

[cleolinda]

AITA for banning my husband and father in law from the delivery room due to their intensely stressful/creepy behavior during my pregnancy?

There’s a famous Reddit post from 2020 where a pregnant woman wrote that her husband and father-in-law were a little too comfortable with their certainty that she was absolutely going to die in childbirth just like her husband’s late mother. It was to the point where her FIL was insisting that she go ahead and put all her clothes into storage, because she was obviously going to die in the hospital and it would save them the grief of packing up her things afterwards. Like. It was WILD.

When I tell my husband [that she feels suspicious of her FIL], he calls me paranoid, but I feel like my FIL WANTS me to die; his whole life identity for the past 35 years has been “amazing single dad” (never dated or had close friends or even hobbies really), and it seems like he’s looking forward to being able to guide my husband through what he went through. At this point, I’d honestly be happy to never see my FIL again, and I certainly don’t want him in the delivery room, especially since he told me he was “putting [his] foot down” about me not being “allowed” to have an epidural…. My husband, in addition to backing his dad on everything, acts like my due date is my death date, and has completely pulled away from me.

The commenters (and me, honestly) were convinced that the husband and FIL were either going to kill her outright to fulfill this expectation, or just make decisions about her care that might conveniently let her die.

And then she never posted again.

Over the last four years, people have frequently mentioned that post, always leading to a thread of people saying, “Oh god, I still worry about that woman.” I did too. It became one of those famous unresolved posts that people always wondered about.

Until yesterday, when someone on r/BestOfRedditorUpdates dug up a 2022 update she had posted on a different account:

TLDR; I had a beautiful and healthy baby girl, and I divorced my ex-husband. I lived, obviously.

She writes that she put her foot down about having her own mother in the delivery room rather than her FIL (!), and she WOULD be getting an epidural. Her husband lost his shit. And in his outburst, he let slip--

I admittedly lost my temper, and told him that I wasn’t going to die- it wasn’t my fault his father’s trauma wormed it’s way into his head, and that he needed to fix it without taking it out on me. He yelled at me that he didn’t need therapy. That caught me a little off guard; I asked him why he went to his therapist and was given advice about my death if he felt he didn’t need it. His expression gave it away, and he caved not long after. It turns out there was no therapist. It was just his dad. During the times he was supposed to be at therapy, he was with his dad. I’m still fuming.

And that was when she got the fuck out.

I’ll wrap this up- I’ve got an adorable little toddler tugging at my leg atm. I’m alive, I’m happy, and I’ve got my baby in my arms. Life is good.

I truly never thought we'd see a resolution to this, and I feel like there's probably a good number of people who remember it, so I thought you might want to know.

ETA: Brilliantly, I put the link in at the top; here it is again for convenience.

[stuffandwonder]

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