#and others probably alive things on the background

[silentscrying]

🎸 out of my mind ! 💿 track two: kowalski, status report

guitarist!ino x drummer!reader

summary: it's the annual battle of the bands at the fix, your college campus's iconic live music bar, and this year you're taking the stage as the drummer for indie rock group cursed technique. you know the competition is strong, but no part of you is ready for lead singer and guitarist takuma ino. you lock eyes at the edge of the stage, and something starts—something that might make you feel alive even more than the beat of the drums.

warnings: language, alcohol, mentions of drugs/drug dealing, toge bullying, unbearably cute dogs. || sfw. 9k words.

"I SHOULDN'T CUSS in this, right?"

It’s the day before the other four artists premiere their sets at Battle of the Bands, and you haven’t been home since six in the morning. You’re running on caffeine and spite and the pursuit of the story, parked on a high stool across the bar from the one and only Ieiri Shoko.

Toge leans on the counter beside you, opting to stand. He’s agreed to pay for the next snack run in return for you letting him be your partner. You both know you’re going to end up doing most of the writing, but you don’t really mind. Toge would if you asked him to, but you love this kind of thing in a way he just doesn’t. Plus, he’s better with a camera than you, and he’s taking photos tomorrow night.

You laugh, pulling out your phone to record. “You can say whatever you want as long as it’s honest. Be candid.”

“You might regret saying that!” Gojo calls from the back, and Shoko silences him with a glare.

“Are you coming or not?”

Gojo grins and finishes up whatever he’s putting away in the storage room, then strides out and leans his elbows on the counter.

“Do you mind if I record?” You point to the open voice memo app. “Makes it easier to quote you correctly.” You also just hate running interviews when you’re scribbling hand-written notes the whole time. You’d much rather have a genuine conversation and worry about the details later.

Shoko waves a hand airily. “No problem.”

“Absolutely,” Gojo says. “You can probably sell that for thousands.”

You set the phone on the counter, next to one of the tiny pumpkins scattered across it in celebration of the beginning of October. You and Toge bounce back and forth as you run through the standard start-of-interview checklist, having them spell out their names, getting their ages, hometowns, degrees, all that jazz. And then you launch into the stuff you really care about.

“So, you opened The Fix about ten years ago now, correct?”

Shoko nods. “Yeah, a little over two years after we graduated.”

You look at Gojo, whose eyes are even more alarmingly blue in the daylight. “And you were hired right away?”

“Utahime first, then me,” he nods. “Best for last, y’know.”

Shoko snorts. “We knew each other in school. I just took pity on him.” She smirks as Gojo’s jaw drops. “You can quote that.”

“Right, so all of you were friends in college. And you came together to start this place—what was the idea behind it?” Toge chimes in. “You said you studied nursing, Shoko?”

And you sit and listen as Shoko explains. Back in college, she was at the top of her class. By graduation, she’d been accepted to basically all the best med schools. She had her pick. She could do whatever she wanted. But she realized that what she wanted wasn’t that at all.

The medical field is brutal, she tells you. It’s all late nights and emotional burnout. People yelling at you, misplaced anger when you give them the bad news. Getting attached to people only to watch them waste away.

“I needed to get out before I got too far in. Maybe it was selfish,” she admits. “But I wasn’t cut out for it. I have so much admiration for medical professionals, but I couldn’t be one of them. A few clinicals and I was already feeling the consequences of giving too much of myself and getting nothing back.” She shrugs. “So I named it The Fix, as some kind of homage to the medical background. And I figured I’d just make sure it’s safe.”

Something sits heavy in her gaze as she stares at something behind you, middle distance, like she’s remembering.

“Why a college bar?” you ask, nudging the phone across the counter to pick up her voice better. “I mean, the extra security, thinking about underage drinking, dealing with a bunch of broke university kids. You could’ve just as easily opened a different bar in a more lucrative area. What was the appeal?”

She smiles crookedly. “Appeal. Well. My senior year, I was working in the local ER. And I saw… god. So many kids came in there needing their stomachs pumped, or kids who’d done laced drugs, gotten roofied, harassed, it was… I mean, it was a city university club scene. They weren’t safe. And I just felt like I needed to give them that. I couldn’t stay there as a nurse or a doctor. But I could do this.” She shrugs. “Sorry. That was probably way too much.”

“No,” you say quickly, smiling at her. “That was—that’s what we came here for. Shoko, that’s amazing. And it’s not selfish, taking care of yourself. You’re still here taking care of others.”

You don’t know Gojo well. Most of your stories about him come secondhand from Nobara, who knows him through Megumi. She paints the picture of a flamboyant, obnoxious bartender who’s more like a weird uncle to her than anything. From what you’ve seen of him at The Fix, you know this to be mostly accurate—he’s rarely serious, always taking flack from the students and giving it right back, ragging on Utahime, begging Shoko to play his playlist instead of Geto’s and knowing she’ll never cave. But now, as he listens intently to Shoko, you think you’re seeing another side of him.

There’s something troubled on his face as she speaks, like he wishes he could reach into the past and help. Like he regrets it.

The bar’s not the only thing that has a different side in the daylight.

“She’s right,” Gojo tells Shoko. It’s not much, but she looks up at him a bit surprised, something in her expression softening. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, not quite there but not quite not. “You’ve got a pretty big heart under all that RBF.” Shoko rolls her eyes, the moment over.

“What about you?” You turn to Gojo, nudging the phone his way. “Why a college bar?”

Shoko turns toward him, leaning a hip against the bar, just as curious as you are. “I think kids deserve to be kids,” he shrugs. “And if I—if we—can create a space where it’s actually safe for them to do that, it feels important.” His gaze shifts from you and Toge to the empty bar, the stage and floor and high-top tables that tomorrow will be full of music and laughter and students knowing they’re allowed to let loose here.

“There aren’t a lot of places out there that are exclusively for students,” he continues. “It’s this weird phase, college, where you’re figuring out who you are, trying to take risks without losing too much. It’s a lot. And you look at the crime rates, date rape drugs, theft, DUIs, in the city, and it’s just—this place gives them the room to learn and grow and mess around and have a good time without the danger of the… I don’t know. The outside world. Does that make sense?”

He drums his fingers on the countertop, then seems to abruptly remember the recording and stops. “I think it’s just… well, no one’s allowed to take youth away from young people. So that’s why I’m here.”

You wonder what Gojo was like in school. He majored in gender studies, which you’re pretty sure is what Todo is at least minoring in, too—you’re not sure how it’s applicable to anything, but Nobara says he likes to pull his diploma out from behind the bar and say he’s an expert in women. It seems a far cry from this rare, more subdued version of Gojo you’re seeing right now. You’d guess he’s grown quite a bit in the time he’s been here. And Shoko’s been here to witness it.

He’s not a business owner, like Shoko or Geto. And according to Nobara, he definitely doesn’t need this gig to make a living. He’s here because he wants to be.

“These last few years have been nice, in particular,” he offers. “Just ‘cause some of us have kids going here. I mean, you know the Fushiguros. Suguru’s got the twins. And I know Ino’s not Nanami’s kid, but they’re tight.”

“Wait, what?” Nanami is the bar’s primary security guy, a bouncer who never lets a fake ID fool him. He’s part of the reason this place is so safe. Toge spins to look at you as you blurt out the question, caught off guard. “Uh, sorry. I just didn’t—I didn’t know they knew each other.”

Shoko studies you with tired, intelligent eyes, and you can’t help but feel the tables have been entirely flipped. You’re the one being interrogated, wordlessly, by the woman across the counter. You feel like every thought in your head is scrawled across your face for her to read.

“Yeah,” Gojo says, unaffected. “Ino looks up to him a lot, I think. Even though he’s an old man who reads the newspaper for fun.” He snorts. “He’s a good guy, though. And Ino’s a good kid.” He finally clocks the way Shoko’s looking at you and cocks his head, appraising.

Thankfully, Toge cuts in with another question. “So, we’ll be around tomorrow for the bands and to take some photos and observe,” he explains, glancing at you to make sure he’s got the information right. “Will Geto be around?” You’d wanted both owners’ perspectives, and now that Gojo’s reminded you of the twins, you’re even more curious.

“Yeah, Suguru and Utahime will be here tomorrow night,” Shoko says. “And Nanami. Geto would totally be down to talk to you some other time, too, when it’s a bit quieter.”

“Amazing,” you say, pulling the phone back toward you. You’ll need details, follow-ups, but you need to process this first, write some things down while they’re fresh in your mind. ‘Thank you so much for this. We appreciate it.”

“Anytime, kid,” Shoko says, waving you off. “See you tomorrow.”

As you turn off the recording, Gojo and Toge have already devolved into conversation about the bands and predictions about tomorrow night. A few posters are scattered across a low table near the door, and you pick one up, smiling at the blocky lettering advertising Black Flash. There are posters advertising all of the artists, and they look amazing, straight out of one of the alt rock venues in the wider city.

“They’re sick, right?” Gojo calls, nodding to the posters. “I gotta hang those up, actually. Thanks for the reminder.”

You wave goodbye to Shoko and Gojo and lead the way out, Toge just behind you.

“Man,” he says, and you brace yourself, recognizing his teasing tone for what it is. “They said Ino’s name and you look like scared Bambi or some shit.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, elbowing him.

He holds his hands up. “I’m just living in pursuit of the truth! Like Kusakabe would want.”

“Is your camera battery charged for tomorrow?” you say in a blatant attempt at a topic change.

“Who do you think I am?”

“Toge Inumaki, chronically irresponsible student and—”

“Okay, sorry I asked, holy shit.” He sticks his tongue out at you. Then he hesitates, frowning, and then he’s pulling out his phone and calling someone in his favorites list before you can see who it is. “Hey,” he greets. “What? No, she didn’t kick me out. Hey. Hey.” You snicker and Toge glares at you, pressing the phone closer to his ear. “Yutaaa,” he whines. “Do you know where my camera battery is?”

—

Even when you’re not the one on stage, you live for Fridays at The Fix. Tonight you’re doing double duty—because of the dual elimination at the end of the round, all of the competing artists are here. It’s not a requirement, but you want to see what you’re up against, and the sentiment seems to have carried. You and Toge are also in reporting mode for your project story.

The band on stage right now is… well, you can’t say new wave metal is really your thing, but it’s definitely theirs, and the audience is loving it. The Cull, you write in your notes. Look up names.

You couldn’t make out the lyrics if your life depended on it. It’s three guys and a girl, vaguely familiar, but you’re fairly certain they’re seniors and absolutely certain they’re baked right now.

“God, this is loud.” Yuta winces, turning to face you, and then his eyes flicker to something over your shoulder. You divert your attention from the stage and just catch the brief commotion in your periphery. Nanami has a kid by the elbow, and he’s escorting him out the side door, expressionless. The kid’s obviously drunk out of his mind, tripping over himself, shouting something that Nanami doesn’t bother to respond to.

Maki follows your gaze and wrinkles her nose up in distaste.

“Who’s that?”

“My cousin,” she says flatly. You glance quizzically at Megumi, who is definitely standing five feet away and not being escorted out of the bar.

“Dude, how much family do you have at this school?”

She sighs. “Just Mai and Megumi and him. Naoya. He’s a piece of shit.”

“Clearly,” Toge says. “He broke the M theme. No respect for the family alliteration.” Maki kicks him in the shin.

“One last round for The Cull!” Panda calls from the stage, and your ears slowly, very gradually stop ringing with the raging new wave music. The stage techs get to work behind Panda as he introduces the next group.

“Up next, making their debut, we’ve got a sophomore girl pop trio. Give it up for MOTION CAPTURE!”

There’s a big cheer from the bar, and you turn to see Geto grinning. Three girls take the stage, the blonde one grabbing the mic and adding, “All caps!” The girl beside her is very obviously her twin sister, though her hair is straight and dark while the blonde’s is tugged into pigtails. Light and dark. The girl on keys has a long, black bubble braid that she pushes out of the way as she settles in to play.

The blonde plugs in her electric and calls out, “Alright, I’m Nanako.” She tests out a chord, the sound reverberating, filling the bar all the way up to its high ceilings. “That’s Mimiko, that’s Remi, and we’re just here to have a good time.”

“Hey,” a voice says behind you, and you jump. You turn to find Takuma holding two drinks, offering one to you.

“Oh! Aw, thanks, you didn’t have to do that. How much do I owe you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Takuma—”

“Nothing,” he reiterates. “Anyway, The Cull. Thoughts?”

You take the drink and try it while you think on your answer—it’s the same thing Nobara got you last week. How did he know?

“I didn’t really understand any of the lyrics,” you admit, shrugging. “They weren’t bad. Not really my genre. Do you know them?”

Takuma shakes his head. “I had a gen ed once with that Rin kid, but I don’t know the other ones. These girls aren’t bad, though.” He’s right—they’ve launched into an Olivia Rodrigo cover that’s actually decent. They could work on their voice control, but they’re young and fun and having a good time and working the crowd, and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

You sing along, alternating between your drink and exchanging quips with Toge and talking with Takuma. You like this new balance between your band and his, the easy camaraderie.

When the girls wrap up their set, you whoop and cheer and Kirara shamelessly watches Hakari move things off the stage, arms bare in his cut-off tank.

“You’re subtle,” Takuma tells her, and she tugs his beanie down over his face.

“Hey!”

You grab his drink before he can spill it and grin as he yanks his hat off and readjusts it. His hair is a fluffy mess underneath, and it’s kind of endearing.

When the girl pop trio is done, two guys take the stage, one in white and one in black. They’re clearly related, dark hair and pale skin and piercing eyes, and Panda introduces them as the Kamos. You don’t know if they’re brothers or cousins or what. But they’re good—they sing a few alt rock covers, play guitar.

“Damn,” Nobara sighs, a little longingly, her gaze settling on Choso as he takes over the chorus. “They’re…”

Beside her, Yuji wrinkles his nose. “Dude. That’s my half-brother.”

Nobara hums noncommittally. “And?”

He groans, tipping his head back and staring at the exposed beams of the ceiling, run through with colored lights. “Why does this always happen?”

Toge is taking more photos of them than is strictly necessary, considering your story is about the bar and not the band, but you let him have this. Scattered throughout the crowd are more kids with cameras, freshmen from the entry-level reporting classes with big underage stamps on the backs of their hands. Somebody mistook Toge for one of them earlier, and Maki hasn’t let it go all night.

You jot down atmospheric notes on your phone, little things that’ll help set the scene for your project lede, keeping an eye on the bar as much as you can. Geto has jumped in at the bar, which he usually does when the place gets busy, and Gojo is terrorizing Utahime again.

“How’d your interview go?” Takuma asks, nodding at your notes. It shouldn’t faze you so much that he remembers what you told him about your story, but you can’t help the little kick of your heart in your chest at the reminder.

“Good! Really good.” And then you catch sight of Nanami, back at the door after calling a cab for Maki’s asshat cousin. “Actually, Gojo mentioned you.”

Takuma’s brows shoot up. “Gojo? Why?”

Nanami has always seemed incredibly reserved, stony and silent in a way Takuma has never been. You don’t want to pry, but you’re also curious about the relationship between them, how they met, what they are to each other. The journalist in you wants to know.

And then there’s the part of you that just wants to know Takuma.

“Well, he was talking about the twins and the Fushiguros, and he kind of mentioned something about you knowing Nanami?” You try to sound casual, jerking your chin toward the door where Nanami is posted, like a tall, blond guard dog.

“Oh,” he says, surprised, but he shrugs, not seeming too alarmed by the question. “Yeah, I’ve known Nanami for… a long time. He’s kind of a mentor. He’s the reason I met Fushiguro in the first place, actually, ‘cause of him knowing Gojo.”

You’re considering asking how exactly they did meet when the Kamos wrap up, Nobara staring up at them dreamily, and the stage clears out for the final artist.

Whatever questions you had are thrown out the window, because you know who this is. Everyone knows who this is.

Fifth-year student and resident SoundCloud rapper, Ryomen Sukuna. Or D!SH0NORED1, according to the posters.

“Oh, here we go,” Megumi groans.

Despite his reputation on campus, you don’t know anyone who’s actually close to Sukuna, except Uruame. You mostly know that he deals at the skate park and that he’s clean about it.

And that his raps are truly, genuinely horrible.

He lets Panda give a stilted introduction and launches into a verse, mic too close to his mouth, making hand gestures or stepping to the beat of his backing track. His tattoos are even more stark and bold under the stage lights.

“My blood type’s B, your type is me, my zodiac Caprisun, it might be controversial but you’re still lookin’ at me, son!”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Kirara mutters. “I’m gonna bleach my eardrums.”

“Caprisun?” Nobara whispers. “Oh, dude.”

You might be a terrible person for thinking it, but watching this guy’s performance makes you feel infinitely better about your odds of advancing in the tournament.

His final song is a new one he introduces as Frosted Flexin’, and Maki looks like she’s about ready to keel over dead.

“Frosted flexin’, I'm the cereal king, pourin' oat milk in the mix, yeah, I'm doin' my thing,” Sukuna spits in his low voice, swaggering up to the front of the stage. You are trying so hard not to lose it.

“Sukuna being an oat milk truther wasn’t on my bingo card,” Toge says.

“Got the swag of a squirrel and the brain of a dove, call me trash, but you're still showin' me love.”

“Thoughts on the amount of swag a given squirrel possesses?” you ask Takuma. He laughs, loud and bright, and then seems to very seriously consider the question.

“I don’t know if campus squirrels have swag. They live in luxury. They probably eat better than we do,” he says. You can’t argue that—you did once see a squirrel outside your sociology class run by with a full bagel in its mouth. “The wilderness squirrels, though, I think they got a scrappy kind of swag. Like, I wouldn’t cross them.”

You nod sagely. “I want them on my team in the apocalypse.”

He nudges you with a shoulder. “Am I on your team?”

You glance at him, make a show of looking him up and down. Maybe you’re imagining it, but you think he’s blushing a little. “I don’t know. How fast can you climb a tree?”

Sukuna is nearing the end of his song, now, saying, “Off-tune, out of sync, yeah, I know it's a sin, but you'll play it back twice 'cause I still might win.”

He actually, physically drops the mic and Hakari swoops in and catches it, clearing his throat and saying into it, “Yep, friendly reminder that equipment’s expensive! Everyone give our last artist of the night a hand, yeah?”

There’s scattered applause and more than a few confused faces as Sukuna lopes off stage, and Panda hops back up to explain the voting system for anyone who wasn’t here last week. “QR codes to the Google form are posted around the bar,” he says.

Out of all eight artists, the bottom two will be eliminated. You’re nervous. But voting was open last week too. You can’t vote as a member of the band, and it’s all done through school Google accounts to avoid double votes or the link getting sent out to non-students.

“Open until tomorrow morning,” Panda reminds the audience. “Results and second round schedules will be posted on the Instagram at some point tomorrow! That’s it for this Friday at The Fix. Have a great night, folks. Get home safe.”

Gojo whoops dramatically from the bar, and Panda gives him a weird look before getting off stage.

Your friends start heading toward the door, and you grab Toge and excuse yourself to catch Geto at the bar. Gojo sees you first. “The newsies!” he calls.

“Like the musical?” you say in lieu of a greeting. “Banger soundtrack.”

“I could dance on newspapers,” Toge says.

“Geto!” The Fix’s other owner smiles at you, soft and genuine. Part of his dark hair is pulled back and the rest hangs loose over his shoulders, a stark contrast to Gojo—like the Kamos, you think, or like Nanako and Mimiko. Light and dark. “We were wondering if you’d be down to set up a time to talk. Has Gojo told you about our story at all?”

Geto smiles, drying a glass and leaning against the bar. “He told me he’s gonna be the front page of every paper in the city, which I assume is a horrid exaggeration,” he says. Gojo looks affronted. “Shoko mentioned you’re doing a feature for class, though. I’d be happy to.”

“We have our Monday night class time open for field reporting the week after this one,” Toge offers. “Will you be around?”

“I will indeed. Utahime, too, if you want to speak to both of us. And Gojo won’t be here, which might be beneficial for you.”

“Suguru,” Gojo gasps, pretending to stagger back. “You wound me.”

“Mhm,” he says, unaffected. “What time works best for you two?”

You set up a time to interview Geto and Utahime, then say goodbye to him and Gojo and run to catch up to your friends. It’s a nice night, and since you didn’t have to deal with instruments, you all decided to walk.

“How goes the… journalisming? Journaling?” Takuma asks when you fall into step beside him.

“Good, all good. Reporting is maybe a better word, but valiant effort.”

“I like journalisming. Can you just submit words to the official dictionary? I’m gonna do it.”

“No,” Toge says, and you blink. He shrugs. “What? I tried once. But the only submission form I could find was for the Bureau of Linguistical Reality and it wasn’t like, a legitimate dictionary form. There’s all these requirements, it’s horrible.”

“What word did you try to submit?” you ask warily, not sure if you actually want to know.

“Some things,” Toge says solemnly, “are better kept secret.”

The night is hazy, only small rays of moonlight piercing through the cloud cover, and you make your way through the campus roads guided only by the streetlamps and Maki’s reliable sense of direction.

Part of you wants to ask Takuma to come over, or Yuji to insist the band come over to his place again, just so you can keep talking. But you have work to do, things to write and transcribe, lists of follow-up questions to make, and that’s only your workload for this one class. You still have exams this week, and you need to study now so you can balance it with rehearsals. Assuming you actually advanced to round two, that is.

And part of you worries you might be taking this too fast, too. You don’t typically integrate people into your life so quickly. You like spending time with Takuma and Kirara and Yuji and even Megumi, though he’s pretty quiet. You just don’t want to jump in too far too fast.

At your place, you say your goodbyes and head up to your room to get some work done. Toge uploads his photos and puts them in your project folder on Drive. And you spend the night doing what you do best, aside from drumming—writing.

Youth for the young: JU alumni run safest live music bar in city limits

You don’t even notice the time until it’s past one in the morning, and you’re nearly asleep at your desk. The dark has crept across your room, the only source of light the desk lamp and your laptop screen. Finally, you push the computer shut and flick off the light, flopping into your bed. A few missed messages pop up when you hold your phone up, wincing at the bright screen.

takuma: just letting you know i made the treacherous journey home safely takuma: many miles of hardship takuma: thought i was gonna die halfway there

You smirk and type out a reply.

you: did kirara have to save you takuma: i resent that takuma: (yes) takuma: wait why are you up it’s so late you: journalisming you: why are YOU up takuma: travel adrenaline takuma: (coding project due monday that i just started) you: TAKUMA

The next text to come through is a voice note, and you can’t help smiling as you hit play and his voice fills the open air of your bedroom.

“Okay, in my defense, I thought it was due next Monday. Which maybe isn’t my defense because it means I just can’t read due dates, or maybe I just can’t read, but I thought I had a lot more time and then one of my classmates texted me asking for help on this block of code and I told him I hadn’t started and he was like oh my god, Ino, it’s due in three days, and I was like no it’s not, we have so much time—turns out we don’t have so much time, so I’m over here staring at my screen until the vessels in my eyes pop—”

He yawns, and it makes you yawn too, despite the screen separating you. “Sorry, agh. Anyway, I have to write this program that uses some kind of randomized generator…”

You find your eyelids fighting gravity, exhaustion washing over you as he explains the project and all the reasons he’s not that worried about getting it done by Monday because actually he’s on a roll and it turns out the code isn’t that different from a similar project he did last year so he can just lift the main blocks over and wow, he’s tired, and you stifle a laugh as the voice memo comes to an end and he says, “Okay, gosh, I should go to bed. You should go to bed. Stop journalisming, Skip, get some sleep. G’night.”

You grin, plugging your phone in and sending him a voice memo of your own.

“I’m done journalisming. Still haven’t written that story on you, though. Night, Takuma.”

The last thing you see before you fall asleep is his reaction to your text. It’s a thumbs up, but after a few seconds, it disappears, replaced with a heart.

—

“I’m gonna die,” Nobara groans.

You’ve been checking Instagram every hour on the hour for the bracket results, but to no avail. The five of you are sprawled out in the living room, a Fleetwood Mac record spinning in the corner, cups of coffee and tea and scattered remnants of breakfast dotting the table and the floor and the windowsill.

You have post notifications on for the Battle of the Bands Instagram page, but you check anyway, as if you somehow missed it.

“Okay,” Maki says. “Cut it out. No phones.”

“Maki,” Toge groans. “How do we live with the suspense?”

“Go around and give a rundown of your week?” Yuta suggests.

“Aw, highs and lows, it’s like elementary school,” Nobara says happily. “I’ll go first! High: annoying slacker guy in my marketing class got a shit grade on the group project and the rest of us got As. Low: Skipper won’t give me Ino lore.”

“Lore,” you mimic. “I don’t have any lore. We’ve known each other for like, two weeks.”

“That’s enough time for lore,” she insists. “What’s your high? Ino?”

“Okay, jeez,” you say. “Maybe it’s that Toge and I had a really good first interview for our project story.”

Toge blinks at you.

“Fine, maybe it’s Takuma.”

Nobara grins in a way you can only describe as malicious. “Okay,” you say, pointing at her. “Low: whatever that is.” She sticks her tongue out at you.

“My low is Skipper bullying me in class,” Toge says. “And my high is she said she’d be my partner, so I’m not gonna fail.”

Yuta nods sagely. “Maki?”

“Uhh,” she says eloquently. “My parents won’t stop pestering me about fall break. But I aced a test on Thursday in anthro, so there’s that.”

“You’re not going home, right?” you ask. She shakes her head resolutely. Maki doesn’t go home unless she absolutely has to—one thing she and Mai actually have in common.

All of your phones go off at once, a mix of buzzes and beeps and Apple watchfaces lighting up, and Nobara screams. “I can’t look!” she cries. “Someone tell me!”

You click on the notification and pull up the post, heart racing.

The first slide is a generic Battle of the Bands announcement with the cool ass graphics you’ve been seeing on the posters. Whoever designs those needs a raise. The second image is the bracket for next Friday, with the first knockout round of three—only one group will move on to the finals. “Who is it?” Nobara asks anxiously, pacing the room. “Oh god, I’m gonna die.”

“Shibuya Incident,” you read off, unable to keep the smile from your face. “Angel.” Nobara groans overdramatically. “And the Kamos.”

You swipe to the next screen, heart in your throat. OCTOBER 18, it reads. THE CULL. CURSED TECHNIQUE. BLACK FLASH.

“Oh my god!” you scream. “Oh my god, we made it!”

Toge yanks you to your feet and starts hopping around the living room, and Nobara shrieks with joy as you pull her into the celebration. Even Maki and Yuta are sporting wide smiles as they watch the three of you bounce around like kids on a sugar rush.

“What, no Sukuna?” Maki teases when you’ve calmed down. Toge clears his throat and does his best impression, going as far as to make his pants sag a little around his waist.

“Frosted flexin’, I’m the cereal king, pourin’… uh, duh nuh nuh, something doin’ my thing,” he says in a deep voice. “Uh… squirrel? Somethin’ fuego, that’s Spanish, uhhh…”

“Oh my god, let me look it up,” Nobara cackles, pulling up SoundCloud. “It’s I’m the king of bad decisions, got a throne made of Legos, took a bite of my mic and said these bars are fuego.”

Yuta physically winces. “Does he really sag his pants like that?”

Toge shrugs. “It felt right in the moment.”

“Wait, who’s the other one eliminated, then?” you ask, running through the bands in your head. Yours, Takuma’s, Black Flash, the Kamos…

“Motion Capture,” Maki says.

“No, it’s all caps. You have to shout it. MOTION CAPTURE!” Toge hollers. Nobara snorts.

You aren’t entirely surprised, but you have a feeling the girls aren’t too put out about it. They’re young, too—they’ll have their time to shine eventually.

You grin, flopping back onto the couch. “Okay, rehearsal when? Tonight?”

“Yeah, I have to go to a friend’s to figure some stuff out for a project, but I’ll be back at like… five?” Yuta says.

“Oh, fuck, I gotta go too!” Nobara says, darting toward the stairs.

“Group project?” Maki asks.

“Shopping! I gotta pick Miwa up in like, ten minutes!”

Maki rolls her eyes fondly. Yuta stands up and grabs his bag, heading toward the entryway, and the rest of you gravitate instinctually to the kitchen. Nobara is out the door moments later with a wave and a shout, and Toge grins.

“What,” Maki deadpans, not a question.

“I printed memes to hide on her Polaroid wall. Be right back.”

You snort, turning your attention to the window to watch Nobara cruise down the block. The view of her sleek, small car is interrupted by Yuta’s jungle of plants.

“I hope they’re not too cold,” he says, frowning as he tugs a jacket on over his white hoodie. “Do they look okay to you?”

“Yeah,” you say, pointing to the one in the white, ovular pot. “Especially this one, it’s getting so big! What’s his name, Snorlax?” Yuta had a phase where he named at least six plants in a row after Pokèmon.

“No, that one’s Rika, after that TV show,” Maki corrects, not looking up. Yuta blinks, looks between her and the plant, whose vines have started to creep up the window. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Both of your eyes on her have her looking up from her phone, expression flat and unaffected. “What?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I didn’t know… anyone paid attention.”

Maki shrugs. “You talk to them out loud.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” Yuta laughs and waves one last time before he walks out, closing the door behind him. You count to five in your head and then whirl on Maki, entirely unable to keep the shit-eating grin off your face.

“Kowalski, status report.”

She blinks at you. “What?”

“I said—”

“No, I know, just—on what? What happened?”

You groan, dragging the heels of your hands down your face. “Maki. Please.” You gesture wildly between her and the door, wondering if she’s genuinely this oblivious or if she’s just as good a liar as Mai. “Are you—did we not just witness the same interaction? Jesus, Maki, put the boy out of his misery!”

Seeing Maki frazzled is not a common occurrence. The most agitated you ever see her is talking about her family or trading passive aggressive jabs with Mai. This is an entirely new sort of disarray—she’s flustered.

“I—what?! I can’t do that! And he’s not miserable. He’s that nice to everyone.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands with your elbows on the counter. “Maki! He likes you. And your face is telling me you like him back.”

She scoffs, turning her head down and crossing her arms defensively. “I’m not messing things up by dating my bandmate. We live together, Skip, he’s my best friend, if things got messy—”

You hold up a hand. “First of all, offensive. I’m your best friend. Second of all, I hear no denial. Also, it won’t get messy. You are the two most mature people in this house and you know how to separate personal from practical. If anything, it’s gonna kill the vibes of the band and the house if you just keep stewing in the sexual tension.”

“Oh my god,” Maki groans. “There. Is. No. Sexual. Tension.”

“There’s always sexual tension,” Toge announces, walking in and jumping up onto the countertop, legs swinging. He looks between the two of you innocently. “What are we talking about?”

“You might be of some help, actually,” you say, turning to Toge with your hands clasped.

“Uh, actually? Not oh, Toge, you’re always so helpful, thank god you live with me and keep my life interesting—”

“Nevermind.”

“No, pleeease,” Toge insists, sticking out his lower lip. “What?” His gaze shifts to Maki, who’s blushing a furious red. His mouth turns into a small O. “This is about Yuta?”

You didn’t think she could get any more scarlet, but here she is.

“Does everyone think that?” she groans, throwing her head back in exasperation.

Toge shrugs. “I thought we were all just quietly skirting around it until you both snapped.”

“Nobara doesn’t skirt around anything,” Maki says.

“Well, there’s no way she doesn’t know,” you point out. “Maybe she just respects both of you enough to leave it alone.”

“Hah!” Toge snorts, poking you in the ribs. “That means she doesn’t respect you. She wants the Ino lore.”

“I’m gonna tell Nobara about the memes.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Abruptly, you realize you never got around to Yuta for highs and lows, what with the chaos of the brackets dropping. “Ah, guys,” you say. “We missed Yuta.” You pull up the house group chat.

you: YUTA DROP YOUR HIGH AND LOW IN THE CHAT you: YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN freak no. 1: yes you are utah: haha aw that’s nice utah disliked a message from freak no. 1 utah: uhh low is maybe that toge keeps leaving memes all over our room. like i keep finding them tucked in my notebooks and everything freak no. 1: SLANDER freak no. 1: LIBEL you: not the same thing freak no. 1: SHUT UP utah: high is someone remembers the names of my plants!! :) nobara: Sorry, using voice text while I drive. Who knows the names of your plants? You and God? utah: maki! :)

“Okay, well, respond,” Toge says, poking Maki in the side. She glares at him and likes Yuta’s message.

“Guys,” she says exasperatedly. “What the hell am I supposed to do? Does he know?”

And you’re not sure, honestly. You don’t know that Yuta is even aware of his own feelings, let alone aware that Maki reciprocates them. You shrug helplessly. “How about… ask?”

“Jesus,” Maki says.

“Not him, Yuta.”

Maki socks Toge in the shoulder and levels him with a disdainful look. “You are the bane of my existence.”

“And the object of all your desires,” Toge proclaims in a horrendous Bridgerton accent. He made you watch all of it with him in two days. Maki refused.

Now, she just shoves him, and he squeals as he falls off the kitchen counter.

“Children,” you sigh. “Do you need to be separated?”

“Yes!”

—

“Why is this so hard?” You stand with your feet planted on Takuma’s skateboard, which is confoundingly, entirely different than balancing atop your longboard. “Oh my god.” You lurch forward as the board rolls a bit to the left, unable to stifle the squeal that comes out of your mouth.

Takuma stops it with one foot.

“Your center of balance is lower on a longboard,” he laughs. “Like, here.” His hands wrap around your waist and you tense under his grip, and he immediately freezes, jerking his arms back. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

“No! No, it’s okay,” you blurt, sheepish. “I just wasn’t expecting it, I—here.” You try to fight the blush furiously rising in your cheeks as you take his wrists in both hands, putting them back where they were. You clear your throat, suddenly too warm. “Um. Okay, so—do you turn the same way?”

“Pretty much. You just lean,” Takuma says, and you shift your weight to your heels, letting him steady you. “It’s a bit harsher than you would on a longboard, though. Unless you want me to send you right into kickturns?” His tone is teasing and you pretend to consider, tapping a finger against your chin.

“Mm. Maybe later.”

You’ve been at the skate park for a while now, and you’ve only recently ditched your longboard for the skateboard. Takuma brought the extra board you saw hanging on his wall the other day, and he uses it to demonstrate while you practice riding back and forth, getting a hold on your balance. After you feel like you can make it a good distance without pinwheeling your arms, you come to a staggered stop beside him.

A flash of blue-green hair grabs your attention, and you watch a kid in a lightning bolt hoodie slip under the ramps. The park has been pretty deserted today aside from a few guys doing tricks in the pit, a chilly Sunday with the sunlight muted by the clouds.

“Ooh, drug deal in action.” You poke Takuma in the side.

“Ah, probably Sukuna. He deals here all the time.” Sukuna’s business is one of those things everyone’s aware of but nobody talks about. He’s consistent and pretty safe, as far as drug dealers go, but he’ll deny any involvement while smoking a joint if he has to.

“Who’s space buns?”

“Uhh…” Takuma narrows his eyes, and the guy slips out again. “Damn, that was fast. Oh, that’s Hajime. Another senior, I think. They hate each other. Fastest deals I’ve ever seen.”

“I wonder how much of his songwriting is just… while he’s really, really high,” you muse. Swag of a squirrel doesn’t strike you as a particularly levelheaded thought, but hey, it’s certainly memorable.

Takuma leans in and says conspiratorially, “I’m pretty sure I heard him dropping bars here the other day when I was with Yuji.”

You snort and look up at one of the smallest ramps, one you think you could handle without falling on your face, and point to it with a raised brow.

“Oh, moving up in the world?” Takuma kicks his board up and starts walking over, and you do the same. Before you put the board down at the top of the ramp, though, you hold it up to the light, noticing a few short, white hairs caught on the surface.

“Is this… fur?” Maybe there was a cat hiding out somewhere when you were over. Kirara seems like she’d have a cat.

Takuma sighs. “Yeah, the dogs shed like crazy. It gets everywhere. I don’t think I even left that on the ground.”

Your jaw drops, and you stare at him until he looks back at you. “Dogs?”

“What? Yeah, Fushiguro’s—”

“Fushiguro has dogs? Dogs plural? In the house?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No!” you cry. “What? Oh my god! Where were they on Wednesday? How many? What are their names?”

Takuma leans back on the rail next to the ramp, grinning. “I can’t believe you didn’t know. Oh my god. They’re so cute. Tsumiki had them Wednesday, I think. Mandated auntie time. Do you wanna meet ‘em?”

“Do I want to meet them?” you repeat, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Uh, yeah. Are they home? Oh my god. I love dogs.”

“I couldn’t tell,” he deadpans, but he’s smiling still. “Yeah, they’re home. And you can meet them if you go down this ramp without dying.”

“You’re cruel,” you say, situating yourself on the board. “But I will. And then I’ll meet the dogs and become their best friend and they’ll love me more than you and Megumi combined.”

“Confident.” He comes up beside you, checking your stance. The ramp didn’t look steep or long at all from your vantage point across the park, but now that you’re atop the board, it feels suddenly very steep and very long. “You got it. Just don’t panic, keep your stance.” He drops his own board and cruises down the ramp, hardly even trying.

“Okay, go!” he calls from the bottom. “C’mon, Skip, the dogs are waiting.”

“Oh, god,” you murmur, the wind catching your words and whisking them away. You ball your hands into fists and push off, planting your foot back on the board and trying to keep your knees bent, but not too stiff, as you careen down the ramp. Don’t panic, keep your stance. You’re at the bottom in what feels like nanoseconds, and the sudden shift from ramp to flat ground has you stumbling off the board with an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak of alarm.

“Nice!” Takuma laughs as he catches you, the board rolling a few more feet ahead. His arm is wrapped around your front, the other holding you up by the shoulder, and this time you don’t tense under his hands.

“Thanks,” you say a little breathlessly, grinning, the tiny spike of adrenaline making you almost lightheaded. He lets his hands drop when you’re steady on your feet, and part of you mourns the warmth a little. But there are more pressing matters at hand. “So, about those dogs?”

You opt for your longboard on the way back down your street, cruising along beside Takuma, who has his extra board tucked under his arm. You’ve got a lot to do tonight, all the last-minute preparation for another crazy week, but you can and will drop everything to pet a puppy. Or two. Always.

And they’re actual angels. Big, fluffy angels on earth, one white and one black, and they’re all over you the second you open the door.

“Hi!” you say happily, sinking down to their level. The white one immediately tries to burrow into your lap. “Oh, hello! You’re so nice, aren’t you?” You glance up at Takuma. “Where’s Megumi?” You grab the white one’s collar and check the tag—Shiro.

“Shiro thinks she’s a tiny dog,” he says, bending down to ruffle the fur behind her ears. “Uh, Fushiguro’s at the animal clinic. He works there Sundays. And Tuesdays, I think.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, he’s a vet student. You didn’t know?”

“I did not.” The black one is licking your face, and you giggle and check his tag, too. Kuro. “Hi, Kuro. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

“He’s got such a soft spot for animals,” Takuma says as he kicks off his shoes. “You should see when they both try to sleep in his little twin bed. It’s ridiculous.”

“I love them,” you say, burying your face in Kuro’s scruff. “Hi, doggies. You’re awful cute, you know that? Mhm. Yes you are.”

When you finally look up again, Kuro’s cold nose nudging insistently at your palm, Takuma is leaning against the wall, looking down at you with his phone discreetly angled your way. “Takuma!”

He laughs, not bothering to hide it anymore, very clearly taking photos of you with the dogs. “It’s cute!” he insists. “I’ll send them to you. Proof for Fushiguro of your master plan to make them like you more than him.”

“And you,” you remind him.

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

You gesture pointedly to the two dogs, who are all over you and not him. It’ll be a nightmare trying to get all of Shiro’s white fur off your black jacket later, but it’s worth it.

“You’re new,” he says. “New scent. It’s the novelty factor. I am their favorite.”

“You sure? I’m pretty hard to compete with.”

He smiles, looking from you to the photos he took of you and the dogs. “Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

—

The first half of the new week goes by in a rushed routine of classes, homework, and rehearsals, each night ending with you collapsing into bed, new and old lyrics fighting for dominance in the back of your mind. Sticks re-taped and drum heads re-tuned, assignments turned in and drafts edited. Your classes are ramping up as midterms approach, and Yuta bounces between his own work and poking his head into everyone’s rooms, making sure they don’t forget about dinner.

Toge follows through on his snack run promise, and the two of you spend hours on Tuesday afternoon trading two different flavored bags of Doritos back and forth, Toge writing photo captions while you edit your story lede.

Takuma, Hakari, and Kirara have offered to help Cursed Technique record a single on Wednesday night, and the five of you have been drilling the new song you wrote up, down, and sideways.

Finally, Wednesday arrives, and you’re all crammed into the recording studio space, instruments set up and headsets tuned in.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Nobara says to Hakari on the other side of the glass. She taps a finger on the mic in demonstration, and you hear it in your own headphones.

“Great,” he says. “Skipper?”

“Skipper? I hardly know her,” Toge says, earning a harmless smack upside the head from Yuta and a not harmless smack upside the head from Maki.

“I will throw these at you,” you tell him, holding up your sticks. Toge sticks his bottom lip out, pouting.

A snicker from beside you draws your attention back to Takuma, kneeling just beside the throne as he adjusts the kick mic. He has you hit it a few times while Hakari monitors the levels. You feel oddly self-conscious like this, him looking up at you, but then he smiles and it’s not strange at all. It’s stupid how fast he can put you at ease with a look.

“Nice,” he says. “Okay, that should work, yeah, Hakari?”

It’s Kirara who answers, “Yeah, you’re good.”

Takuma stands up, claps his hands together once, and looks at you. “Okay. Kill it, Skip.”

“Yessir.” You salute him with a stick and he makes his way to the other room, closing the door behind him.

“All good?” Yuta asks, glancing at each of you in turn before giving Hakari a thumbs up. It’s strange to be on this side of the glass, to think about your music being played back, to think about it on Spotify, out in the world.

“Next Fix,” Takuma says into the mic, locking eyes with you through the window. “Take one in three, two…”

The song starts out simple. You click your sticks together near the mic, on two and four, while Maki lays down a four-bar loop.

Yuta keeps glancing at Maki while she plays, utterly unaware, and the look on his face is so soft you want to shake Maki by the shoulders until she does something about it.

Nobara’s got her eyes closed with the headset over her ears and her hands around the mic, entirely engrossed in the song.

“It’s comin’ on, comin’ strong, spinnin’ up out of the blue, mmm,” she sings, stretching out the vowels. “And I’m on the ground, bleedin’ out, until my next fix of you, ooh.”

Now you start up with a light rock beat, closed hat and a bit of a dragging buzz on the snare hits. Just as you transition into the beat, Toge comes in with some low chords and Yuta moves down the line in syncopated sixteenths.

Hakari is nodding approvingly and Takuma has a wide grin on his face, and you can’t help smiling back.

“I need it like a lung,” Nobara sings, swaying a bit. “I need it like a light. It’s got me twisted up. I need you here tonight, tonight, tonight, oh, oh, I wanna—”

And this part is your favorite—Nobara sings each two-syllable phrase while you pound on the toms twice, emphasizing it with the kick, and then the backup vocals echo her. Get my (get my) next fix (next fix) of you (of you, of you, of you.)

Kirara pumps her fist in the air twice, in time with the beat, and your bandmates can’t keep the smiles off their faces. You’ve got something here, you really do. This might be your best one yet.

When the song’s over, Nobara whoops and tugs off the headphones, jumping around the cramped studio space with a grin on her face. “That was so cool! Oh my god. Guys, we sound good. We actually sound good.”

“Damn,” Kirara calls. “Okay, girl drummer. Good shit.”

“Not bad for a first run,” Maki admits, adjusting her bass strap over her shoulder. “Do we wanna try recording backups separately at all?”

“Good call.” Takuma nods. “Let’s run that again without the backups and record them over, see what happens.” He’s in full producer mode, flipping switches, colored lights reflecting in his eyes as he and Hakari talk shop away from the mic. He’s good at this, you realize, running sessions like this, making sure things go where they need to go, that everyone’s heard, that things get done. It’s a little bit like watching him skateboard, or seeing him on stage. There’s a confidence to him here, a smooth, easy energy. He’s in his element.

“Alright,” he says after a minute. “Let’s hear that again.”

And you play it again. And again. And again. And you are so in love with this moment, with your band, with a couple rowdy kids on the other side of the window, the rasp in Nobara’s voice and the expression on Yuta’s face and Maki’s obliviousness and Toge’s consistent, head-banging keys, and your drums and your words and the music, and the lyrics feel right to you.

You need this like a lung.

directory | prev. |

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro @bisforbuse @risararelywrites @idkidk32

a/n: GUYS. loml @shutuppeter is so downbad for soundcloud rapper sukuna that she's writing fanfic of my fanfic😭 credits for frosted flexin' are all hers LMFAO so go check that out (MDNI for that one though).

yutamaki nation rise. also, i kinda love this fic. there may be spinoffs for other characters in the works...

[gay-jesus-probably]

Also speaking of my Fallen London OC's pls look at these picrews I made of the disaster lesbian polycule, because I'm very pleased with how they turned out

From left to right, Professor Izora Gay, unsure how she got involved in the drama but in too deep to quit now, Josephine Knight, creating 90% of the drama with her refusal to chill the fuck out, and Nova Porter, very much aware of the drama but an expert at pretending to be oblivious to it. Don't worry about the candle she's holding, I'm sure it doesn't imply anything ominous about her character arc.

Not pictured: Ezra Hart, the very creatively named protagonist for Heart's Desire, who finds the disaster polycule morbidly fascinating, but you couldn't fucking pay him to get involved. My man is way too aroace for this, he did not survive polio to put up with people's relationship drama. Who needs romance when you have a Victorian Yugioh tournament?

[britcision]

Tbh this is why it’s so genuinely funny to me whenever anyone wants to make a declarative statement that all religion has to be fake or whether or not there could be any kind of deity

This idea that “if I can see it I can touch it it’s real”. The assumption that we now know everything there is to know about the world, and can be sure how it all works.

Anyone who’s studied science past highschool can tell you the entire point is that we still understand very very very little

You can “see” a pathetic sliver of the spectrum of light

You can “touch” on a macro level and frankly the number of times you’ve been surprised to find a mosquito on you should remind you how flimsy a border that is

Your senses perceive a minute fraction of what is going on in the world around you, and your brain filters that even further before letting you think about anything so that you’re not constantly overwhelmed

(It does not always do a good job. Overstimulation is a fucking bitch and for a good reason)

But go on, do tell me all the truths of the universe you’ve distilled

Are atoms the smallest unit of matter? Hmm, nope, we’ve found these neutrons and electrons and protons. Those must be it, right?

Weeeeeell now we’re getting down to quantum physics, and that’s where things start getting even more squiggly and the tops of the field get very excited about just how little we know

It’s just turtles all the way down, from people who think their ineffable truth is in physical laws and chaos theory

People 100 years from now will look back on all the things you thought were so obvious and so real and laugh about how foolish and superstitious you were

Science doesn’t work if you assume that you’ve found everything and it all makes sense. It requires you to look, to question, to find all the cases that aren’t neatly explained

To keep pushing, questioning, testing and retesting to make sure it works every time the same way a baby will knock over a tower to be sure the blocks always fall

Only a very shoddy scientist thinks they have all the answers now. You’ll never find the next piece that way, just like we’re only now “discovering” that acupuncture has measurable, repeatable, observable medical benefits because racists decided it was all superstition

Close your mind and close your eyes and tell me the only things that exist are what you can see

Don’t get me wrong, I’m agnostic, my viewpoint on the universe isn’t very “religious” and I don’t quite vibe with paganism or a defined spiritual belief system, but I still don’t think religion and spirituality is regressive and silly

[greenglowinspooks]

Thinkin about a DCxDP where Danny’s helping ghosts find peace while he’s laying low in Gotham.

Like, he moved away from Amity for whatever reason. Maybe the reveal went badly, maybe he just couldn’t stand staying any longer. For whatever reason, he’s in Gotham, because the rent is cheap and he’s nowhere near the strangest thing there so no one looks at him twice.

However, this city is cursed. Like, cursed beyond cursed. It’s actively alive with how many curses there are, and the ghosts there are extremely unhappy about it.

(Of course, that’s not a problem for Danny. His ghost side filters out the toxic smog and the chemicals in the water, and his human side gives a resistance to the rank ecto and the hexes that are actively trying to devour him.)

He doesn’t really want to do anything about it, to be honest.

He’s sick of playing hero, considering how it went last time, and he’s busy working at Waffle House or Walmart or whatever other store doesn’t bother doing a background check (in Gotham, that’s probably all of them), and maybe trying to find a way to get highschool credits that don’t immediately disqualify him from every college in existence.

Still, the ghosts know he can hear them. They know, and they keep coming for help.

So, hey, why not? He definitely can’t put this as experience in any sort of job application, but he really doesn’t have much else to do.

So, he becomes errand boy for a bunch of ghosts.

Sometimes he’s finding objects that are important to them, sometimes he’s giving evidence they collected together of their murders to the police, sometimes he’s getting them the last meal they never had, sometimes he’s just spending time with them like they’re not dead.

The ghosts don’t always move on, but they’re always more at peace. Occasionally they pay him back in charms and blessings and the locations of valuables that he can keep or pawn for cash.

Eventually, a new ghost shows up.

She looks like a shadow, like all the ghosts of Gotham, but she seems stronger than usual. She asks him for a favor that those who came before him were never able to fulfill.

She asks him to find her engagement ring, and give it to her son.

Easy enough, he thinks. It’s a bit of a pain to buy the ring from the seedy pawn shop it’s in (he would usually just steal it, but he doesn’t want to implicate her kid in anything, which she seems grateful for), but everything’s going mostly alright.

Then, she tells him who her son is, and wow, no wonder no one’s helped her yet.

He’s Red Hood. The guy who is(/was) the crime lord in charge of crime alley. The title sounds a bit stupid to Danny, but he’s still a genuine threat to a living person.

Good thing he’s not one of those.

And so, the next time he sees Red Hood out and about, he goes right up to him. The man seems mostly unbothered, but Danny does notice how his hand slightly drifts towards one of his many weapons.

He tells Red Hood outright that he’s there on behalf of the man’s mother, then just holds out his hand with the ring inside, dropping it into Red Hood’s open palm.

Then he leaves, not waiting for a response.

—

Jason has a mystery on his hands, and he might just cash in some favors from Babs and Tim to figure it out.

He’s got to find the guy who gave him his mother’s ring, and find out everything he knows.

[cressidagrey]

Stars all aligned - Chapter 3

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

Bashing of like...every IC member? Especially the Archeron Sisters, discussion of chronic pain

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

Her father had had three ships. The Nesta, The Elain and The Feyre. 

There had never been The Zahra. 

Of course not. 

She wasn’t truly one of his daughters, was she? 

The ships were reserved for his legitimate daughters. Zahra was a bastard. And bastards didn’t get ships named after them. 

And still…still she had loved him. Loved her father in that stupid way that every child loved their parent. 

She still had yearned for his love, his affection and praise. The praise that only her sisters ever seemed to get.  It was such a stupid, childish thing, she thought to herself. 

And when he had died...it had still broken her heart. Because it had taken from her the...hope. The hope that one day he would look at her with something other than...regret.

He had looked at her with cold distaste, disdain clear in his eyes. Her mother…a common maid, that he had dallied with on a whim during his wife’s pregnancy with Nesta. And she had been the result of that particular choice. 

He had paid the price for it in his marriage, with the woman he had actually loved.

The woman who had hated Zahra…and made it very clear to everyone that Zahra wasn’t wanted or welcome around them. Her half-sisters were beloved. The beautiful daughters of their father. And she was the bastard child. An abomination. 

For Nesta and Elain the years at the cottage had been horrible. They had lost their status in the world, the hope for a match with a man in possession of a fortune.

But Zahra…Zahra had known that she would never marry a man with a fortune. She had hope at all to marry a man from a good family anyway…her options had been thoroughly limited from the time she had been born…because even servants didn’t often want a bastard born wife. 

And after the cottage…

Her options were just further limited. 

Still, she had loved the years at the cottage for one thing and one thing only: She had just been one of the Archeron Girls. 

(Everything else that happened…that was another thing entirely.) 

She had lost that when her father's wealth had been returned...to be thrown back to being a maid, a servant, not a member of the family, but the staff...it had been bitter. And still...still she had hoped. Hoped that one day, her father would...change his mind. Accept her properly as his daughter and not just as...as something he had been saddled with because her mother had died.

But the day never came. He continued to look at her as if she stained the very air around him. As if she was worse than dirt to him.

Maybe she was. 

But Zahra foolishly didn’t give up. She clung to that hope like it was the only thing that was keeping her alive. 

And then he had died. And Zahra had lost that hope.

She had been a fool to hold onto the delusion that one day her father would love her as he had his real daughters.  Such a silly, stupid, little girl she had been. To cling to something that could never be. 

And still, Zahra went and visited his grave. Still, she came there every week and laid some flowers near the headstone...

She never knew why she still did. It seemed….pointless. After all, it wasn’t as if her coming to his grave would bring him. But still, she continued doing it. Every single week. Without fail. 

And this week…this week she wasn’t alone. 

Zahra froze, the flowers clutched in her hands, as she saw them. All three of them. Standing in front of the headstone. Talking amongst themselves.  As if not even noticing that she was there. 

They probably didn't.

"Thank you for coming with me," Elain said softly. “I wanted him to hear it from me.”

"He would be so happy for you, Elain," Feyre said. Her voice was softer than usual, but it was clear that she was happy. "He would be so happy for you and Lucien."

What?

“He would be,” Nesta agreed. “Sad that he won’t be there to walk you down the aisle, but happy that you would be happy.”

Her sister got engaged? And nobody had...nobody had bothered to tell Zahra?

Her breath caught in her throat…the realization hitting her. They didn’t want to tell her…no, they didn’t care if she knew or not. To them…she wasn’t even worthy enough to get an invite for such a thing. They hadn’t…they hadn’t invited her. 

The numbness returned. Full Force.

The numbness she always felt when everything was too much. When all the feelings and emotions got too overwhelming. When she just simply couldn't handle it any longer and her brain shut down.

Numb. 

Numb was good. When she was numb, nobody could hurt her. When she was numb, she could survive. 

Her hand clenched around the stems of the flowers. And then, suddenly, her feet listened to her and she managed to turn around. To turn around and walk away, like her heart hadn't been shattered...like it was completely normal.

Her eyes had glazed over, her mouth was a thin line, but otherwise not betraying any emotion. As quietly as she had walked to the grave…she walked away. Her sisters clearly not noticing the fact that she had even been there, to begin with. 

She returned home to her broken little cottage.

It was probably a good metaphor for her as well, wasn’t it? she reflected weakly. 

That cottage…broken, dirty…a fucking mess. 

Her hands were cold as she clutched the flowers, her heart aching like it had just been pulled out of her chest. And no tears. No tears. Why wasn’t she crying? She wanted to cry. 

She wanted to collapse and sob until she passed out. But no. The feeling of numbness was still around her, like a cloak that just wouldn’t go. The one that always came in situations like these.

It was the only thing that kept her from completely shattering into a million pieces. 

She stumbled through the door, her body moving all on it’s own. She walked over to her small kitchen, and filled a bucket with water. Her hands shook so badly that the water sloshed over the top and on the floor. 

There was nothing Zahra could do against the grime that would cover her for the rest of her days…but she could scrub the floors.  

That's all she was good for, wasn't it? She was a maid's daughter, not a merchant. She would always just be a bastard daughter. Always just be a half-sister, on the edges of her family. 

It didn’t matter what she did, what she had done…what she had given to keep them alive, to keep them fed.

She swallowed the bile back down, forcing herself not to think about what she had done. 

It was over. She should be over it. She should be…

She kept scrubbing the floor, her hands reddening with the harsh lye soap she used. 

Sometimes she wished, she could scrub herself with that as well. 

Why was she even surprised? Was she seriously that stupid? Of course, her sisters wouldn’t bother to tell her. Why would they? She was just a bastard-born daughter. A half-sister. Why would they bother to invite her? 

She was a nobody. She had always been a nobody.

A bastard that no one wanted. That no one loved. It had always been like that. Why did it surprise her now?

Why did it keep hurting her?

A single drop of water landed on the stone floor. Then another. And another. Slowly trickling down her cheeks.

Why did it keep hurting?

She should be used to this by now. Should have gotten used to the pain. But she wasn’t. 

So she kept scrubbing the floors until they were sparkling. Washed off the walls, until they were clean.

She kept scrubbing and cleaning. The floors had to sparkle, the counter gleamed, and the windows shone. 

Something needed to be clean. Needed to be pure. Because it wasn’t going to be her. 

Never going to be her. 

Anything to distract her from the fact that her sisters had just kept her out of a very joyous occasion. Like she wasn’t even worthy of being invited. 

She wasn't worthy of being invited. She should get that into her thick skull. 

She kept cleaning. She cleaned the floors and the walls and mopped and dusted and did her laundry.

She wondered if Azriel knew. The thought came unbidden to her. Did Azriel know that Elain and Lucien were engaged?

She had to stop the scrubbing and she was clenching the brush so hard that her knuckles had turned white. 

Did Azriel know that Elain was engaged? Elain? The one he had...this flirtation with? The flirtation that Rhysand must have put an end to, because nothing else made sense?

She understood completely why Azriel had fallen for her sister…for beautiful Elain. Who didn’t love her? Who didn’t find her beautiful? Elain, who could be sweet and kind to seemingly everybody she came across. 

Zahra looked at the clock she kept in the kitchen. 

There was a family dinner this evening at the River House, just like there was every week. She was expected to attend. Of course, she was. 

Granted, most of the time that meant that she sat through Nesta’s pointed comments and was otherwise ignored. 

But if Azriel didn’t know…she didn’t want him to be alone when he found out. 

Though, maybe he already knew…just Zahra didn’t. 

She didn't believe that though. He would have told her. She was certain of that.

He was a good man. There was no doubt about that. 

She glanced over at the clock, her hands clenching on the brush. 

Zahra had 2 hours. Just enough time to bake a cake to bring along and appear there...to pretend like her sisters hadn't broken her heart.

Two hours to pretend that her heart wasn’t shattered to a thousand pieces. Two hours to act as if she hadn’t been just completely left out. Two 

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. No tears. No tears.

2 hours to act like everything was well.

2 hours to pretend that everything was alright. That she was fine. That her world hadn’t just shattered into pieces. Two hours to shove all the pain to a little corner and not show anything at all. 

She could do that. 

She had done that before. 

***

Azriel would have realised that something was off with Zahra far quicker, if his hands weren't trying to kill him that day.

It was hit or miss if Azriel’s had feeling in his hands at all...and that day...they decided to be far too sensitive. The weather wasn't helping. Velaris had had another cold snap a few days ago and Azriel paid the price.

The bones in his hands and fingers ached, the nerves on fire. The cold had settled deep in his bones and there was nothing he could do to alleviate the pain. It was rubbing his nerves raw.

He had even considered not showing up for dinner at well...but he didn't want Zahra to face the rest of their family alone. 

Granted, most of the time, they just ignored them both…but sometimes they didn’t. 

And when they didn’t ignore her, well, then sharp comments were the norm and quite frankly…he was over it. For both Zahra and himself. 

His temper was on a far shorter tether than normally. 

His fingers were aching and burning. He never wanted to touch anything ever again.

He tried to ignore the pain. It was only a few hours. He could push through for a few hours. 

The first thing that should have told him that something was wrong was the bright pasted on smile on Zahra's face. It was...too much.

The smile on her face was too tight. Too forced. Not like her normal, natural smile.

Something was wrong. He could sense it. 

And then Elain showed off her ring.

The engagement ring. She and Lucien were engaged.

He saw Zahra’s face freeze for a split second before the smile was back to being plastered on again.

“I wish you two every happiness,” Azriel said softly. He found that he was even saying the truth. He was wishing them every happiness.

And this was what they all wanted him to say. It would hopefully get Rhys off his back as well.

Now, that wasn't that difficult, was it? Rhys drawled in his mind. Azriel was half tempted to reach for his shadows and wrap them around his brother’s throat.

But he refrained himself from it.

He was glad that they were happy. He truly was...but Rhys’s smug voice in his head was not something that was appreciated at all.

He could practically feel the shadows twitch with annoyance. But he held back from doing anything...stupid. 

You got what you wanted, Azriel gave back, his voice icy.

Indeed I did, Rhys drawled back. Azriel could practically feel him leaning back in his chair, smugness seeping from his voice.

Azriel very much wanted to strangle him. 

But he didn’t. Because quite frankly…he was more worried about Zahra. Zahra who hadn’t said a word yet. Whose smile was far too tight, her eyes dull. 

Like a mask that was pulled over her face, hiding whatever laid beneath it. 

Something was definitely wrong with her. 

But nobody but him seemed to notice it. 

Especially not when Zahra was very good at making the mask as enthusiastic as Mor on her best days. 

“I am so happy for you! Congrats!” she gushed to Elain. “I hope you have a long and happy marriage.”

“Yeah, because you absolutely respect the sanctity of marriage,” Nesta muttered under her breath, low enough that Azriel nearly wouldn’t have caught it, if the shadows hadn’t snapped it up. 

The sanctity of marriage? From where was that coming from?

But then Zahra continued, her voice too high pitched. Way too cheery. Not like how normally she spoke. But no one else seemed to notice.

Her words were clearly fake, but no one but Azriel seemed to notice. 

"I know Father would be so pleased for you," Zahra continued, Nesta snorting under her breath and making a face like she had bitten into a sour lemon. Elain's face seemed to nearly freeze but Zahra just continued smiling brightly.

Even the mention of their father would usually cause Zahra to falter slightly…but today she didn’t even skip a beat. The smile stayed on her face, even as she continued to speak. Her voice was far too cheery, it was almost painful to listen to. 

Azriel glanced around the table at his family. None of them seemed to notice how...off Zahra seemed. Her cheerful voice and her overly bright smile.

How come no one else noticed? How could they not see how obviously fake she was acting? 

But then, nobody really cared, did they?

The rest of the family dinner was taken up with talking about Elain and Lucien's upcoming nuptials, an nothing else seemed to matter to them at all. 

Nobody gave them a second glance either when Zahra said her goodbyes and he followed after her, minutes later.

He caught up to her on a bridge crossing the Sidra. "Tell me what's wrong," he demanded sharply.

"Nothing is wrong," Zahra said, her voice, smooth and bubbly. He would give it to her: She was one hell of an actress. It was near imperceptively how well she was lying. But the dead look in her eyes gave her away.  "My sister just got engaged, what could possible be wrong?"

"Don't lie to me," Azriel bit out. “I can tell something is wrong. Now tell me what it is.”

His patience was fraying at the edges.

"What's wrong with your hands?" she shot back. "You have been clenching and unclenching them continuously."

“They hurt if it rains,” he gave back tightly. “Now you.” 

She stared at him, obviously not having expected him to actually answer that question. 

And then Zahra crossed her arms, nearly hugging herself as he had seen her do often, whenever there was something…something that brought up memories she didn’t want to think about. 

“Feyre, Elain and Nesta went to visit our father’s gravestone. I wasn’t invited," Zahra whispered, not looking at him. She kept walking, staring down at her feet. Clad in leather shoes that had already seen much better days.  

He could just stare at her. 

"You...you weren't invited?" He repeated back, stopping on the bridge.

She was their sister. And they had just not…not invited her? 

“I went to lay flowers there this morning, and I saw them,” Zahra said thickly. “Elain told him about her engagement….All three were there. I wasn’t invited.” 

He clenched his hands into fists again, the pain returning to them with a vengeance. 

“It’s fine, it shouldn’t hurt me," she said thickly. "They are his daughters. He had three ships named after his three daughters. And then there is me."

He was still trying to process her words. "It’s not fine,” he snapped out, anger rising in his chest. How could they just exclude her like that? “You are his daughter as well. You are their sister,” he continued, following after her. “They shouldn’t have just excluded you like that.” 

Zahra just shrugged, her shoulders caving in.

He felt her wobble on her feet and he reacted without even thinking about it. His hand shot out to grab her arm to keep her upright. He held her by the elbow gently to help balance her.

He watched as she continued walking, her shoulders slumped in. Her voice was quiet, like a whisper. “I know where I stand now...right?” 

They both knew it, didn't they? Rhys got what he wanted and was happy about it and how Azriel felt didn't matter...and Zahra...

Their family had never been normal by any means, but he had never thought...no, he had hoped. He had really hoped that they would never leave Zahra out like that. But they had done that this time. Left her out, like she was nothing. Like she didn't matter at all. 

And he hated that realization. He was used to solving problems. But this…there was no solving this. No way that he could fix this mess. 

"How bad do they hurt?" she asked him suddenly, her voice still broken. Or again.

He was surprised by her question, but he quickly looked down at his hands...his hands were clenched into fists, and his knuckles were turning white. He loosened his fists a bit and grimaced.

“Like hell, but I’ll be fine,” he muttered out. 

“Don’t you have a cream or salve from Madja or something?” she asked him, still holding onto his arm as they made their way to her cottage in unspoken agreement. 

“I do,” he agreed with a sigh. “It just doesn’t help much.” Or at all. A drop of water onto an inferno. 

“Let’s go home and try that,” Zahra said nonetheless. “I  have a hot water bottle you can have as well…does warmth help?” 

“It does,” he answered, surprised by how…much she was trying to help. Even now. Even when she had the most horrible day he could imagine…she was still trying to make him feel better. 

Her cottage was sparkling clean that evening…spotless and immaculate. 

The shadows fetched the salve as he sat down heavily at her kitchen table. Zahra returned just seconds later, bandages in her hand. 

He had expected her to hand him both and was startled when she grasped his hand.

Azriel had been expecting her to just hand him the salve and the bandages. He had not been expecting her to actually just take his hand in hers. To not even hesitate. 

To touch the scarred skin like it didn’t even matter.  People flinched back from the scars. they didn't just...He had people flinch away from his scarred hands before. He had never had someone just grasp them in theirs and not even blink at the sight of the scars. 

But she wasn’t done shocking him. Not when she started spreading the salve over his hands, gently and thoroughly.

Her fingers spread the salve over his skin with gentle, circular motions. The salve was warm on his skin and it brought immediate relief. He could feel his hands slowly relax under her touch. 

He felt it more than he saw it at first...though then it became visible as well. Her hands warmed up against his skin, something like a prickling sensation under his skin, but the feeling was....nice. soothing. And then he could just stare at the glowing golden light that radiated from her skin as she cradled his hands.

"Sorry," she apologised meekly, the light stuttering. "Normally it's just sparks."

He was staring, mesmerized almost at the light.

It was only after a moment that he finally processed her words. “Sparks?” He questioned, his voice much softer than usual. 

Zahra nodded. 

Seconds later, sparks started to dance across her skin. Tiny, golden sparks. Like little stars, dancing across her skin. 

“It’s beautiful,” he found himself saying, his voice sounding a bit raspy. He was completely transfixed as he stared at the lights dancing across her skin. 

Azriel had never seen anything more beautiful in 500 years of life. 

It was…utterly mesmerising. 

Only then he realised that his hands didn't hurt anymore.

No ache, no burn, no stiffness. Nothing. It was just...the soft, gentle touch of her hands on his.

"Since when...Since when can you..." he asked, his voice raw.

He could not even form a proper sentence as he looked down at his hands. No stiffness, no ache, no pain. For the first time in years, he was feeling...nothing in his hands. 

He gently flexed the fingers of his hands, curling them. He felt nothing. Just the smooth, pleasant glide of the skin. Not a single throb or ache. Nothing. It was completely...incredible. 

He continued to stare at his hands, still completely and utterly speechless. His hands...the pain he had been dealing with in his hands for as long as he could remember...it was just gone. 

The scars were still very much there. Visible, and the sight of them would always cause his heart to ache. But the pain he had come to know so well...it was gone. 

The scars were still visible, but the pain…

He slowly looked up to her face, still completely, mind-numbingly stunned by what had happened. “How...what did you...? How?” He managed to ask, his voice breathless. 

"What?" Zahra asked him, her voice shaky. "I didn't hurt you accidentally, did I?"

He quickly shook his head “No, no, you did not hurt me at all," Azriel quickly assured her. “Quite the opposite, actually…” He said, flexing his hands again. He still felt no pain.  “They don’t hurt me anymore.”

He flexed and curled his fingers again, watching as they did so easily. No stiffness, no pain. He felt...nothing. 

"The sparks came after the cauldron," Zahra answered quietly.

“The cauldron?” He repeated back. The cauldron. 

Of course. 

"Can't see the future or be pure death, but I do have sparks," Zahra quipped weakly. “Useless, I know.“

No. Not useless at all.

Pure Golden Light. Healing Light. Similiar to Dawn’s gift maybe…but then he saw the sparks still dancing around Zahra and corrected that. 

No. Not similar. Completely unique to her. Cauldron-wrought. 

"No," he disagreed, unable not to stare at her. "Not useless at all, sunshine. You are pure light."

[hazard-symbols-that-fuck-hard]

Okay time for the PBS Kids essay

Read it under the cut!

:readmore:

In 1968, before there was PBS Kids proper, there was Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. While it came several decades before the children’s block, it laid the foundation for the themes and values present in every facet of the network’s history.

Mr. Roger famously hated children’s programming at the time. To him, it all was droll and useless. But he didn’t dissuade the medium entirely— he saw potential. Potential that led to a few smaller television jobs, and eventually the creation of Mr. Roger’s neighborhood.

Rogers didn’t invent educational TV for children, but he did perfect it. He poured real heart and soul into probably the most sincere, heartfelt program in history.

Honestly, he could have his own essay. The more things you learn about the real man of Mr. Rogers, the more you’ll like him.

Anyway, the biggest thing that makes PBS different is the fact that it earns money through grants, fundraisers, and private donors— not through sponsorships and merchandise sales. This way, PBS Kids can push programming that it feels is important, rather than programming that merely sells well.

This also means PBS is less afraid of pushing social boundaries. Money doesn’t go away when their shows become subjects of debate— and Mr. Rogers took full advantage of this.

For context, this was 1969. The Jim Crow era had just barely, barely ended. Pool segregation was still very much legal.

Mr. Rogers sharing a pool and a towel with the Black Mr. Clemmons was a pretty big deal at the time— especially on a show made for children.

Rogers was far from the untouchable sacred cow of today. When he was alive, he had a large number of detractors. Let’s just say that scene didn’t fly nicely by everyone.

Just one year after the debut of Mr. Roger’s came Sesame Street.

While Mr. Roger’s was made for all children, Sesame Street had the explicit goal of supplementing the education of underserved communities— especially inner-city Black (and later Latino) children.

While it was made to be accessible to children of all races and income levels, they definitely went the extra mile to make it something special for inner-city Black and Brown kids. (Why do you think it it’s “Sesame Street” and not “Sesame Cul-de-Sac”?)

At the time, a wholesome, sweet show set in a brownstone street was practically unheard of.

Jon Stone, the casting director, deliberately sought to make the cast as rich with color as he possibly could, bringing on a huge amount of Black talent such as Loretta Long, Matt Robinson, and Kevin Clash, as well as featuring Black celebrities as guest stars. Later, the show would expand its horizons, bringing on actors from Latino, Asian, Native American, and many more backgrounds.

White actors were and still are a minority on show.

In addition to letters and numbers, the purpose of Sesame Street is clear: make kids of color know that they’re smart, beautiful, and loved.

It doesn’t get more explicit than this.

I want to point out this comment because it’s funny

You’re telling me this bitch isn’t Hispanic???

Anyway, these two were followed up by Reading Rainbow in 1983. And guess what?

That’s right. Non-white focus.

These three shows, (along with other, lesser-known programs like Lamb-Chops Play Along, Newton’s Apple, and Shining Times Station (who featured Ringo Starr himself?? seriously how did that happen and why does no one talk about it) and some other nostalgic favorites like Bill Nye the Science guy, The Magic Schoolbus, Arthur, and Thomas the Tank Engine) aired on the new PTV block, which evolved into PBS Kids in 1999, bringing along Between the Lions, Dragon Tales, and many more.

Arthur is another stand-out that I’d like to talk about— it doesn’t have the same racial focus of Sesame Street, but it does focus on different income levels. The characters have various housing situations, from apartments to mansions to no home at all.

It also takes cues from Sesame Street and Mr. Roger’s in regards to talking about tough topics, though as Arthur has a slightly older target audience, it discusses things through stories rather than talking directly to the audience.

Cancer, religion, workplace discrimination, along with current (at the time) events such as 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina are all discussed on the show.

Another big focus on Arthur is disability. For once, they don’t stick a character in a wheelchair and then pretend he’s not in a wheelchair. A striking number of major characters either develop or get diagnosed with physical disabilities and/or neurodivergences, such as asthma, severe food allergies, and dyslexia, and they deal with them in very realistic ways.

A handful of minor characters have more obvious disabilities, and THANK GOD they go beyond the trite messaging of “disabled people can do everything abled people can do! everyone clap now!”

One episode in particular has the awesome message of “holy shit stop trying to help me all the time— it’s patronizing as fuck. I can get around just fine without you stepping on eggshells and trying to be the hero all the fucking time”

There are sooo many other shows I could talk about, but I can’t write about them all. I’m definitely gonna point out some more standout ones, though.

Sagwa, the Chinese Siamese Cat

Created by Chinese-American woman Amy Tang

Dragonfly TV

Features a multitude of female and non-white scientists to foster an interest in science with kids in those groups

Maya & Miguel

One of the network’s first Hispanic-led shows

SciGirls

I shouldn’t have to explain what the goal of this one was.

Molly of Denali

When was the last time you saw a show that treated Native Americans as people? Much less a children’s show? 90% of the cast is Athabascan, and the show revolves around Athabascan culture, not shying away from topics like boarding schools and modern-day racism. Most of the writers are also Athabascan, and the show even has an official Gwich’in dub!

It’s this commitment to real, authentic social justice that makes PBS Kids so much different from its competitors. Could you imagine the Paw Patrol dog looking at the camera and earnestly discussing what happened to George Floyd? I don’t think so— but Arthur talked specifically about it, Sesame Street did an hour long special about race in general, and the network itself made a 30 minute special.

Disney Jr. could never. (Other than trying to teach colorblindness, of course.)

I’m gonna have to cut this into two parts, since I just hit the image limit

[penny00dreadful]

So does anyone remember that post that was like "Robin and Eddie meet when she does that thing that's like 'hello, please pretend you know me so I can get away from this person' then Steddie happens?" Because I do. I cannot for the life of me find it. If anyone knows the post I'm talking about please let me know so I can link it, this is very much not my idea, it's that persons idea but the brain worms got me so here we are. 🤷‍♀️

We found it! It's this post by @wynnyfryd Thank you Anon! Obviously I went in a different direction with it but this post was 100% my inspiration so thank you for helping me find it!

AO3 link for those asking! 🖤

Robin should be royally pissed off with herself right now. She would be if she wasn’t so damn scared.

That guy was still trailing behind her, no matter the twists and turns she’d taken down different streets trying to lose him and the only thing she’d gained from it was to get totally and completely lost. It could be something completely innocent, the guy might be coincidentally going in the same direction as her but she wasn’t willing to give him the benefit of the doubt if it meant keeping herself alive.

The distance between the two of them was slowly closing as she was followed through the dark and empty streets of the city, hoping, praying for some kind of shop or restaurant or something to make an appearance so she could hide inside but apparently Robin was able to find the one street in this city where everything was either closed for the night or boarded up.

Her heart was pounding in her ears and the beginnings of tears were starting to sting her eyes and all she could think of was how sick with worry Steve was going to be in the morning when he woke up to no missed calls, no missed texts and no Robin. She’d scoffed at him hours earlier when he’d offered to go to the ‘work thing’ with her but she'd told him she was a big girl and she could look after herself and not to be such a worrywart mom.

And now she had no idea where her phone had gone, if she'd left it behind or dropped it somewhere, no idea where she was and no idea of what she was going to do.

If she’d been a bit more present in her head she probably would have noticed the loud, braying, male laughter coming from just ahead of her and crossed the street to avoid them before it was obvious she was avoiding them. But as it was she could barely see straight through her tears and panicked tunnel vision while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on the slowly encroaching guy behind her. She was practically already in the group’s space and one of them had definitely already seen her though he didn’t pay her any attention.

But even through her blurred vision and panic, she finally registered what exactly she was looking at. Four men standing around the entrance to what looked like the diviest of empty dive bars, chain smoking and being as loud as humanly possible, but that’s not what caught her eye.

Long hair, chains, leather, denim, tartan, rings, tattoos, subculture. If Robin had to choose a group of men to approach, any kind of subculture would be the best option. They knew what it was like to be other. There was no guarantee these guys were safe, but they were probably safer than a group of frat boys.

The next thing that caught her eye that nearly made her cry in relief as she got closer were the patches and pins.

A rainbow ‘A’ against a black and white striped background pinned on one guys collar, a yellow-white-purple-black patch on another's arm, a pink-yellow-blue patch over the third guys heart and a progress pride flag pinned to the largest guys pocket.

Her people.

Without a second's hesitation she made a bee-line for them, planting herself firmly next to yellow-white-purple-black patch person who had a mess of thick light brown curls that reminded her of Steve’s hair. They fell painfully silent at her arrival.

The four of them blinked down at her, with her tearfilled eyes and wild aura of panic around her they were probably, understandably freaked out.

“Hi guys!” She called out to them, probably a little too loud, hoping her voice carried back to the fucker following her, tensing as she could actually hear his footsteps approaching now.

The guy with the longest hair and the pink-yellow-blue patch standing directly in front of her glanced quickly over her shoulder before returning his gaze to her. His face split into a wide warm grin, tapping her shoulder lightly.

“Hey girlie. We thought you weren’t coming, we’ve been waiting.”

The footsteps behind her audibly slowed down. Robin laughed, a little maniacally, keeping her frantic gaze on him, not daring to turn around. “Yeah, I uh- g- got sidetracked.”

“Eddie, what-”

Pink-yellow-blue patch guy, Eddie she supposed, slapped ‘A’ patch guy lightly on the stomach with the back of his hand, shutting him up as her pursuer passed them by, giving the group a wide berth.

“Hey, no worries. You’re here now, right?”

Pride patch guy kept his eyes on the guy who’d been following her the whole time, only looking away when he eventually turned the corner, disappearing into the night.

Robin immediately felt her posture slacken now that he was finally gone, the full weight of everything coming down on her. Her tears began to spill over and her whole body shook as hysterical sobs started to pour out of her body.

“I’m sorry. I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I think I left my phone behind and I don’t know where I am. We only moved here a couple of weeks ago and I got lost trying to get away and- and-”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Yellow-white-purple-black patch person squeezed her shoulder lightly, keeping their distance. “You’re okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“We can call someone for you, if you want?” Eddie asked, crossing his arms tight like he was trying not to reach out to her, probably worried it would freak her out more. “Boyfriend or girlfriend-”

“Or romantic partner.” The person with their hand on her shoulder interjected lightly.

“Alright Baron from the Baronies.” Eddie snorted. “But fair point, Gareth. Romantic partner or friend or whatever?”

“Um,” Robin’s voice was still shaking. “I don’t… I’ve never been good at memorising numbers…”

“Me too, terrible at them.” Eddie smiled again, pulling his phone from his pocket. Robin’s fear and panic was almost entirely gone now even though she was still hiccuping and sniffling underneath their concerned gazes. They were all firmly keeping their distance, keeping any touches short and fleeting, not moving too suddenly, trying their best to make sure she knew they weren’t a threat and it was really helping her to start feeling safe again. “But we could try to find them online? Instagram or something?”

“Yeah. Yeah we could try that.” She wiped her eyes roughly against her sleeve as she shuffled over to Eddie’s side. “My best friend, Steve, he uh- he’s probably asleep and I don’t think you can call him if you don’t have him added…”

“You can send him a message.” Eddie replied easily, handing his phone over. “And if he doesn’t wake up, we’ll try something else.” 

“Don’t worry we’ll get you home.” ‘A’ patch guy smiled down at her while pride patch guy nodded along.

Robin sniffed again. “Thanks.” She was able to conjure up a small watery smile as she opened the app and found Steve’s profile, shooting off a quick message begging him not to freak out and explaining the situation as concisely as she could.

“Here.” She handed Eddie back his phone who glanced down at it for just a second before his eyes widened slightly as he scrolled through Steve’s profile.

“Oh shit. This is your friend?”

Robin nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“He’s… he’s really pretty.”

That managed to pull a startled laugh from her. “Oh god, don’t tell him that, you’ll give him a big head.”

“Let me see?” Gareth asked, whistling low when Eddie turned his phone around showing a photo of Steve and Robin at their last pride parade cheering with the crowd, Steve with the pink-purple-blue of the bi flag smeared across each cheek and Robin with the pinks, oranges and white of the lesbian flag draped around her shoulders. “He is really pretty.”

Eddie snatched the phone back, cradling it to his chest. “Fuck off, Gare. I saw him first.”

Robin smiled again. “Any response from him?”

“Hm?” Eddie asked distractedly, scrolling through Steve’s photos before pride flag guy punched him in the shoulder. “Ow! Wh- oh, sorry!” Eddie frantically scrolled back up before clicking into his messages again and shaking his head. “Nothing yet.” He held the phone out to show her.

“Okay.”

“What’s your address? If he doesn’t respond, we'll find a way to get you there.”

“Uh…” Robin was drawing a complete blank, only able to remember her parents home address hundreds of miles away.

“Or tell us something nearby.” Eddie added, not missing a beat, clearly picking up on Robin’s lack of an answer. “What’s on your street?”

“Um,” she closed her eyes, trying to picture it in her head, “there’s a couple of Chinese take outs, Asian food store, paint store… there’s… I think it’s a tattoo parlour? There’s designs painted on the window, a tower on either side. I think they’re from Lord of the Rings?”

“Inklings? Is that the place?”

Robin opened her eyes. Eddie was grinning at her conspiratorially. “That’s it. You know it?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I work there?”

“No way.”

“Way.”

Hope was starting to grow feathers inside Robin’s chest. She could go home, she didn’t have to stay out all night waiting for Steve to wake up and never let her out of his sight again, she could hug her best friend and drink coffee out of her favourite mug and curse at their finicky fridge and steal his hair products again. She could go home.

“Is it far?”

“Nah, only a few streets away. Ten minute walk, tops.”

“D’you- I mean… do you think you could-” Could she really ask them to walk her home after they’d already done so much for her? Would she be asking too much? Could she be putting herself in more danger?

“I can take you there if you want? Let you get back to your… Steve.” There was a slight blush dusting over Eddie’s cheeks. Maybe he did have an ulterior motive, but it wasn’t an ulterior motive involving her. If she wasn’t so wrung out and aching to crawl into her own bed she’d be thinking up teasing material to lambaste Steve with. But as it was, she was desperate to get home.

“Would that be okay?”

“Yeah.” Eddie replied, bright and easy. “It would just be me and you though,” he held his hands up in surrender, “and you can totally say no, like if you're uncomfortable or whatever. Gareth is Grant and Jeff’s ride home and you’re still on the clock, right?” He turned to Gareth towards the end of his sentence.

“Yeah, but I get off shift in about an hour so could come in if you wanted, wait around in the back room until then if you wanna go as a group?” They answered. 

“I think… I think I just want to get home.”

“Okay, cool. No worries I’ll get you there safe and sound. Here,” Eddie pulled his phone out again, “I’m gonna message Steve to let him know we’re on the way in case he wakes up,” he showed her the short message only sending it off when she gave a nod, “and I’ll get you to navigate just so we don’t get lost.” 

He handed his phone to her with the maps app open, directing them towards Inklings tattoo parlour. He was playing it off like an easy joke, instead of another way to assure her she was safe. He was making sure she knew exactly where he was taking her at all times, he was making sure she had the ability to call the police or whatever if he turned on her, he was making sure she knew he didn’t need or want her address if she didn’t want to give it. 

This fucking guy.

He definitely wouldn’t be the worst choice Steve had ever made if it did go that way.

“I don’t know how to thank all of you, seriously. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t run into you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Grant smiled at her before hesitating. “Uh, I just realised we don’t have your name.”

“Oh!” She laughed at herself, feeling lighter. “I’m Robin.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Robin.” Grant held his hand out, shaking hers once she took it.

“Likewise.”

“And don’t worry about thanking us, just pay it forward, yeah?” Jeff said.

“Plus.” Gareth took on a nonchalant tone even though they had a smirk plastered over their face. “We’ll see you again at Steve and Eddie’s wedding.”

“Shut up!” Eddie scowled but didn’t hold onto it for long in the wake of Robin’s giggles.

She sighed once the giggles subsided, a weight lifted off her shoulders. “I look forward to it.” She raised her hand in salute as the three of them headed back inside, turning to Eddie as he held his elbow out.

“Shall we?”

Robin tried to suppress her smile but took Eddie’s arm anyway. They only made it down one street and around one corner, Robin clutching tight to Eddie’s phone before he finally asked.

"So."

"So."

"Best friend Steve." Eddie twirled his rings around his fingers. "Is he…"

“He’s single.” She answered lightly. “But you might be arriving into his life at the wrong time. He’s recently sworn off men.”

“Well we’ve all sworn off men once or twice. Men are terrible.”

“Agreed.”

“Is it because of a bad ex?”

Robin threw her head back with a groan remembering the giant breakdown that had finally finally ended it. “Tommy was the worst. He’s the reason we even moved out here, there’s nowhere to get away from an ex in a small town, you know? They’re everywhere. I’m not going to go into what happened, it’s not my business to say but it was bad.”

Eddie nodded, his eyes down on the ground, running through everything in his head.

Robin could see the tattoo parlour up ahead, the glorious sight of their apartment building just a few buildings away.

“Do you think… with time… he could open himself up to men again?”

Eddie had such a tentative hope in his eyes, it was adorable really. Looking over him, she thought about the type of people Steve would constantly thirst over, blip in the matrix Tommy Hagan notwithstanding.

Lithe bodies with full lips and giant eyes, hair he could run his fingers through and something unusual about them. Something odd.

He’d never explicitly gone for someone so heavily into a subculture before but he’d never turned them down either. And based on Eddie’s job at the tattoo parlour and the way he was dressed, he almost definitely had some ink on him. That alone would be enough to make Steve swoon.

“I think he might. Will you walk me up?” Robin asked, holding the door to the building open, offering Eddie the same kindness under the guise of doing a favour that he had offered her so many times tonight.

“Yeah, sure.”

They’d managed to make it up to the third floor, walking down her hallway before Eddie’s phone started to ping incessantly.

She turned the phone over in her hand, looking at the screen. “He’s awake.”

Robin, where are you?

Are you okay?

I’m on the way.

Please be okay.

Their apartment door was flung open just as they reached it. Steve was standing there panting and terrified, his hair a mess, his glasses askew, his jacket and shoes thrown haphazardly over his pyjamas.

“Robbie.”

Steve slammed into her, holding her tight before immediately letting go to inspect her face and running his hands over her body, checking to see if anything was wrong.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened? What do you need?”

“Steve.” Robin caught his fluttering hands in hers and squeezed, nearly crying out in relief just to have him with her again. “I’m okay. Eddie and his friends helped me.”

“Eddie-” Steve looked to the side, noticing her saviour for the first time. “You’re Eddie.”

“I’m Eddie.” Eddie gave him a short little wave and a dazzling smile that quickly dropped in shock as Steve pulled him into a crushing hug, his blush returning with full force.

“Thank you, thank you so much. I don’t know what I would’ve-” Steve took a big breath in and loosened his arms from around Eddie’s shoulders. Robin saw his eyes slowly trail over his face before very briefly flicking down to the pink-yellow-blue patch then back up. “Come inside, the two of you. Can I get you anything? Tea? Decaf coffee? A glass of water? Like, literally anything to say thank you.” He asked, ushering the two of them into the apartment.

Steve caught Robin’s eye behind Eddie’s back and mouthed ‘oh my god he’s fucking gorgeous!’

Robin snorted and thought to herself ‘sworn off men, my ass.’

[jinxs-gf]

Black Cat!Reader x The Team Headcanons

Black Cat!Reader x The Team

note: just because you’re in place of Black Cat doesn’t mean this is fem!reader! this is very gender neutral besides the mention of lipstick briefly…even then that’s not lady exclusive :)

content/warnings: this is seemingly set during s1 like my other yj fics but I imagine everyone being way older 😔🙏🏽 it’s weird but just roll with it pretty please. also…a bit suggestive??

word count: 3.6k

a/n: I wouldn’t have done this but this anon gave me the idea and I HAD to expand on it unfortunately

THE TEAM (platonic)

Lots and lots of flirting from reader, OBVIOUSLY. do y’all even KNOW Black Cat????? it would be relentless. and no matter how annoying and probably overwhelming it got, you wouldn’t back down

with even the toughest/hardest to crack team members

it’s not even like you’re attempting to lure them in…or get romantically involved (unless…), it’s just how you are. who can blame you! flirting is fun

you started off as just another “villain of the day.” Someone they could take on easily. They thought of you as a pity mission. An bad guy as small as a simple thief? What fun was that?! They’ve taken down Gods, magicians, robots…and Red Tornado assigned them a thief??? It was a joke.

until it wasn’t. until Batman saw potential in you (because of course he did. Robin was not happy about this.)

You earned the nickname Cat, which was a nickname in itself for Kitty Cat (Wally's idea, not yours, you gave him hell for it)

your first mission with them was definitely something. messy, to say the least

it was weird, the whole mind link thing. you made jokez and flirted through the link as a way of coping because…well you felt out of place

everyone was so close with each other, not to mention they didn’t come from a background of “bad guy shenanigans”

you felt like an outcast for the longest time, until everyone was revealing vulnerable secrets with each other before a mission. you finally spoke your insecurities with your place on the team

you and Artemis had the same worries (more or less) and bonded over that

you finally were able to let loose and just…be yourself around them

you became soft

the flirting and teasing was still there, however it was saved for missions

you preferred to keep Black Cat’s reputation

individual relationships

ROBIN (romantic)

He was very much against the idea of you being on the team. Sure you weren’t a crazy villain that hurt people (maybe not physically…but you were definitely a heartbreaker, Robin concludes)

You were still a thief at the end of the day. A bad person. And he didn’t like that.

It was Batman’s idea—and usually Batman had great ideas. This was a very bad one. He hated every bit of it.

…until he got to know you better

Taking you down was easy. “Easiest job I’ve ever had,” Robin boasts.

You pout, “that’s not very nice.”

Ha. He knocked you down a peg. Good. You needed a little humbling-

“-How come you’re lying to me, Robin? I thought we had something.”

Uh oh. He absolutely hated when you used that sickeningly sweet voice on him.

Of course you didn’t believe his lie. Of course you could tell how difficult that mission really was.

It’s not apart of his proudest moments. He hesitated to stop you on the mission, completely caught off guard by your flirtatious behavior. I mean, who wouldn’t be?!

In a moment of weakness, he let you go. Awestruck by the kiss you left imprinted on his cheek. Something he got teased relentlessly for.

The rest of the team finished the job for him after that.

In the back of his mind he knows the only reason he didn’t like the idea of you being on the team was because he…knew it wouldn’t end well for him. He was sure to be on your long list of broken hearts (a list that was never confirmed to even exist)

It made sense in his mind…he was Robin. A bird. And you were a cat. A right recipe for disaster. You’d trap him in your greedy little claws and eat him alive.

Over time that perspective changed.

Robin hates to admit it, but he’s softer now. Softer around you. For you.

“I know who you are,” he says with that arrogant smirk.

“So why can’t I know who you are?”

“Only…really important and trustworthy people know. The only person who knows besides Batman is Wally. He’s my best friend.”

“Why doesn’t that include me?” you’re practically purring, rubbing a finger down his face, “am I not important enough to you?” You pout for show

He looks dejected, like he was having an internal battle with himself. And you could tell which part of him was losing.

Your fingers inch slowly towards his mask, ready to lift-

“Robin.” And the stupid, stupid monotone voice that belonged to Batman interrupted you.

You’ll get him back for that.

Robin was now being scolded, but he was having none of it.

“It was a moment of weakness.”

“It will not happen again. No more moments of weakness. You’re growing, your body is going through a lot of different things. Keep it in your pants-”

“Whoa old man! Whoa! That’s going too far. And what about Selina?! You’ve had many moments of weakness because of her. You can’t scold me for this one time.”

“It’s because of my experience with Catwoman that I know better. I’m trying to stop you from…getting hurt.”

Robin calls bullshit on that. What could you possibly do to hurt him? (Thoughts that completely contradict his first impressions of you)

The next time he sees you he’ll spill everything. He’ll let you know that he does trust you and that you do matter. That you’re important to him.

Just to spite Bruce. And maybe because he really likes you and wants you to know it.

It was his idea to bring you onto the team anyways…he’s just giving Bruce exactly what he wanted. A warm welcome to a new teammate.

WALLY (romantic)

Wally was so happy someone FINALLY reciprocated his advances. And especially with a catch like you? Black Cat?! He was over the moon.

At first.

It quickly came to be too much. He's been waiting, praying for someone to match his energy, but now that he's got it? He's not exactly sure how to handle it. He's gotten so used to being blown off, teased, and scolded for his flirting that it was weird when you flirted back.

He was of course the first to tease you when you officially joined the team. He gave your your nickname, Kitty Cat. You despised the name and him for the longest time.

Wally was annoying. Taunting you at all times. Calling to you as if you were an actual cat.

He'd click his tongue, "here kitty kitty."

And for that, your flirting was meaner towards him (compared to how you treated everyone else). Which is the exact reason why he couldn't handle the teasing from you. It wasn't the normal way Robin would, "oh yeah, Wally can't phase the way Flash does. Otherwise he gets a nosebleed. Right, loser?" Or the way Artemis would, "ugh, you flirt like a divorced 40 year old who's desperate for a rebound. Loser."

No, your teasing was quite different. You laughed cruelly, throwing your head back for show, "Come get it before it's gone, loser."

So. He was still a loser to you, but it seemed you actually liked that about him. Maybe.

Wally didn't like it as much as he thought he would. It ruined his cool guy facade (one that didn't exist, Robin would say). It was humbling, the way he suddenly tumbled over his words, face flushed red and all.

More than humbling. It was embarrassing.

You bring him down to the mat with a loud THUD. Much like the time Black Canary beat him during their first time training. Except you used your weight, tumbling on him (and straddling him in the process. Great).

Embarrassing embarrassing embarrassing.

The only person that was able to truly catch him was his best friend, Robin. And that's with years of experience with the speedster. You'd know him all of a few months and you're able to do it?!

"It won't happen again,” referring to his teasing of your name, naming you Kitty Cat and clicking his tongue at you.

“Or I’ll have to teach you a lesson. Much different from this one.” And you casually walk away.

Wally desperately wanted to get up, to humble you back. But he couldn't. He felt physically incapable of doing so.

You had really done it. You slowed down the (second) fastest man alive.

Wow.

"Wow. That was extremely painful to watch," of course Robin had something to say about it.

"Shut up man."

KALDUR (romantic)

It was "unprofessional," he said.

Unprofessional your ass. It was perfectly professional. A lot of people on the teams had partners within those same teams. Black Canary and Green Arrow, Superman and Wonder Woman (exes—but that still counts for something), Conner and M’gann acted like a couple and no one said anything! So what was the problem?

Well apparently there wasn’t a problem…seeing as this “relationship” was more welcomed—as in, Kaldur didn’t tell the Black Cat off when they made advances towards him. Besides when he called their behavior “unprofessional.” That was once. He didn’t say a word of it after that.

In fact, he allowed—dare anyone say encouraged it.

On missions you were attached to his hip. Even if he assigned you to be by Artemis’ side or assist Robin, you wouldn’t listen. And he didn’t say anything about it, instead informing the team to continue on with the plan.

His professional act as the team leader never faltered, not even you could break it down. He merely tolerated your flirting (his words, though you knew better. He loved it).

The team was each in their individual positions scoping out the area, ready to attack at a moments notice. Kaldur was squatted down and you decided it was the perfect opportunity to pounce on him (as you usually did). You wrapped your arms around his neck, now on his back.

“Does the team leader have time for some sweet talk?”

“I, we have a job to do, Cat. Focus.”

You hum, “What are we doing here again?”

He starts relaying the plan to you, you taking note of the way he doesn’t scold you (he repeated the plan to the team multiple times on the way over, he surely would’ve berated one of the other guys for not listening). You never had any intentions of listening, only wanting a chance to annoy him.

“Blah blah blah, is this your version of sweet talk?” You squish his face between your fingers and plant a kiss on his cheek.

He only sighs, “Later. After the mission is complete.”

For once, your find yourself surprised. He’s promising to reciprocate your advances?

This should be fun.

CONNER (romantic)

M'gann was more subtle with her flirting (not really, especially with the way she blushes), more timid and on the nose about her feelings. You? You got straight to the point. Kind of like how open Artemis was when she first joined the team. She had no shame letting the team know telepathically how attractive she thought Superboy was. Seriously, what was it with new recruits and taking an immediate liking to Conner? Why not the other three boys? What did he have that they didn't!

Although Artemis gave up on that crush at first sight almost immediately

You? Not so much. it was very noticeable that the Black Cat was adamant on cracking the boy of steel. it seemed like an impossible mission, but with a little determination and a couple sultry words? it was pretty damn easy

This is very much an enemies to lovers type relationship (kinda):

At the beginning, when you first met, he was open to new relationships. Getting to know people he could count on within the team, though that openness completely died down. Your flirting was nonstop. Even on missions! How was he supposed to concentrate on the task at hand when you found time to graze his arm or speak soft words to him?

You annoyed him, sosososo much it wasn't even funny. Even more than M'gann did. Both of you were insistent, that's for sure. But one was more bold than the other. He tried telling himself it was because he didn't like you: at least with M'gann he wanted a relationship to come from it (not necessarily romantic)

But with you...he hated you. No. He hated the way he reacted to your advances...he hated admitting to himself that your words affected him. That he felt something not so platonic for you. Damn you and your stupid flirting. It was surely going to be the death of him. And that's saying something: the clone of the man of steel actually breaking down? unheard of.

But you managed to do it. Unfortunately.

Conner finds himself thinking about you, more than he'd like. Another reason to dislike you. You take up his mind. Every waking moment and every dream. It's infuriating.

And now he was starting to worry about you during missions. He saw you get knocked down, away from the rest of the team. The fall looked nasty, and with the way you seem to lie there with no intention of getting back up, he's sure you've been knocked out

Conner tries to ignore the way his heart clenches at the sight, kind of like the way it does when concerning you in different context

It gives him the courage to voice his worries, he calls out to you, and as expected: he gets no response

The enemy leans down to your level, ready to do more damage. Conner is quickly snapped out of his daze and starts running over to you

Until he abruptly stops. Because you open your eyes to wink at him, jump up, and take the enemy down with ease.

It's right then that he takes back every thought of admitting he doesn't hate you. Because the stupid smirk you're sending his way reminds him of every reason why he dislikes you.

Everyone is home or in their respective rooms already, leaving you and him. You're behind him, massaging his shoulders gently (your touch wouldn't have persisted if he showed any signs of discomfort, he leaned into it in fact, allowing you to continue)

You bring your head down, cheek to his,

"Oh come on. You can lie to everyone and yourself. But you can't lie to me. I know you were worried back there. Just admit it, Loverboy."

He can only roll his eyes. And blushed. You were never going to live this down.

"I wasn't. Now leave me alone." If only his actions were as convincing as his stern words. Words that would've scared off the likes of M'gann had she been in your position. But you knew better, knew that his shaking hands and quickly warming face meant that his words had no meaning.

Your hand dragged from his shoulder to his chest, right over his heart. Yeah, his words were meaningless with the way his heart was beating for you.

Conner was finally warming up to you and you had him right where you wanted him.

And so you let go. "Whatever you say, Loverboy," and with a kiss to his pink cheek, you leave him alone to ponder his complicated feelings.

Feelings that were in fact not complicated at all. Because Conner was finally, finally ready to admit to himself and to you that he wanted you. So badly.

If only you hadn't pulled away so quickly, he couldn't reciprocated the kiss or two...it would've been an easier, showing you how he feels instead of saying it out loud.

He'll kiss you next time.

M’GANN (romantic)

The Martian can't hide her liking towards you for the life of her. She could’ve even if she tried.

It was near painful, you pitied her. You almost felt bad and stopped teasing her. Almost.

It was fun though, how could you stop?

M’gann would actively seek out your approval and attention when you joined the team. It was only natural, she did it with the rest of the members, so you were no exception.

Besides, the only teammate she was kind of close with was Artemis. Was it sooo wrong of her to want to get close to you?!

Nope! Though she does wish you weren’t so…forward sometimes. Not that it’s unwelcomed, she’s just unsure of how to act because of it. Is she supposed to reciprocate? M’gann has never seen nor experienced such a dynamic on Mars, much less on Earth. So she awkwardly blushes and smiles.

Eventually she gets used to it. And gets very much into it. She won’t vocalize her feelings, instead she’ll mind link and talk that way. Often times it’s easier to communicate through touch. Which says a lot, M’gann would rather use touch?? Not the mind link?? Which was the main source of communication on Mars? Whoa.

It was mainly because…she didn’t want to reveal all her feelings to you. She’s usually able to control what goes through the mind link, having done it since childhood, but you’ve made her mind a complete mess. She all but short circuits when you’re around.

Can anyone blame her?

"You know what I'm thinking?"

"No."

"Well you can read me, can't you Martian girl?"

She giggles at herself, how could she forget? "Hello Megan!"

Her smile turns timid once she reads your mind.

"Oh."

ARTEMIS (romantic)

It was honestly unfair how fast the blonde caught your attention. Her voice. Her stupid raspy voice.

Unfortunately for you, Artemis wasn’t exactly buddy-buddy with you at first. Well, she wasn’t really with any of her teammates. But with time she’s learned to get along with everyone.

“I just wanna get to know you, Blondie. What’s wrong with that?” You asked in the sweetest voice you could muster up, one that usually made everyone fall.

Yet she rolls her eyes.

So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh? Fine.

It was right after a mission, everyone was surrounding Red Tornado, relaying the events to your mentor.

“You know we could’ve took that guy down way faster had you not been on Robin the whole time.”

“Jealous Blondie?

“Stop calling me Blondie!”

You had sleepovers, movie nights, and other hang out outside of missions. With or without the rest of the team. They were fun, the first time you were alone with her is what really got her to warm up to you.

“Ugh! Of course literally everyone else canceled but Cat.” She really seemed to hate you.

You were outside her window, watching as Artemis complained to no one but herself. She once offhandedly commented on how her place was off limits for hangouts (refusing to explain why, which was okay with the team).

You were definitely crossing a boundary doing this, but she seemed upset in the group chat. You couldn’t just leave her by herself.

And then…the Sportsmaster walks in her room. One of the team’s enigmas. A thorn in their side. What the hell?

He does nothing but berate her for not “joining them.” Joining who? Then proceeds to say he’d be happier if she ever thinks to change her mind

“I’m never going to be apart of your messed up team, dad.”

Oh.

And then he’s just…gone.

You’re stunned, and only then does she finally notice you. She ushers you into her room, now berating you for your actions and spying and breaking her boundaries and…

“Your secret is safe with me, babe.” It was meant to be a term of endearment to reassure her,

Friends called each other babe, right?

“Babe?”

“You’d rather be called Blondie?”

She rolls her eyes, “whatever.” And as annoyed as she wanted to seem, she smiled and hugged you gratefully.

It was the only time you allowed yourself to be any kind of vulnerable around her. Or any of the team for that matter.

Once she got over her high horse, it was a very reluctant friendship turned…something more? That’s to be determined. But with the way she now flirts back? You’d say that was a good sign.

“Hey Blondie.”

“You calling me Blondie is the equivalent of Wally calling you Kitty Cat. Maybe I’ll have to teach you a lesson this time around.”

“I like the way you think, babe.” (You say not so platonically this time)

ROY (romantic)

You were on him as soon as he rejoined the team. How could you not be? He was even grumpier than Conner was when he joined, making him extra fun to mess with.

You had no chill when flirting with him, he decided immediately that was annoyed with you. And did not want to be friends.

Because his actual friends brought him joy, they made him laugh and they listened to him when he had bad days. You? You made a bad first impression, therefore he refused give you the chance to do any of those things.

Often telling you to buzz off and if you didn’t he’d “choke you with a hair ball.” Kinky, you replied.

He hated it.

Until you found out about his girl, his other Cat. Cheshire. That’s when things changed. You were less…on him.

"Me and her were never a thing!"

"Getting defensive there. Afraid I'll get jealous?"

"I could care less about your feelings."

“Oh really? Is that right?”

His eye twitched. He couldn’t believe he was trying to…reassure you? Was that what he was doing?

He was trying to make sure you knew he wasn’t with Cheshire. That her feelings were one sided. It’s something he shouldn’t be doing, he tells himself. In fact, he should be doing the opposite. Tell you that she means something to him, or maybe stay quiet and insinuate that they had something going on.

To get you off his back.

You seemed to back off completely when you found out Cheshire flirted with him often on missions when the goal was to take her down. Much like how the team’s predicament when they first met you.

It made you…upset?

And for some reason that made him upset.

“So you’re my Roy Toy? Mine completely?” Wally and Robin had originally griped about the nickname until it eventually made them laugh. They came to appreciate it.

“I’m no one’s. Not yours, not Cheshire’s, not the Justice League’s nor the team’s.”

“You will be mine one day, Speedy. And you’ll love it.”

Roy doesn’t respond but he feels like…there is some truth to your playful statement.

Maybe one day.

bonus:

THE TEAM

They all slowly turn towards you.

"...you've kissed all of us?"

You only shrug, “wasn’t that obvious?”

you can tell I got lazy lmaooo

I hate how I formatted this omg

[gravegroves]

Okay, little stream-of-consciousness-moment:

Billy, who's mind is like a steel trap, who isn't a scared little child, but a healthy, angry young adult. And the mindflayer doesn't even know what hit it. One second it's infiltrating grey matter, overtaking neural pathways and becoming one with this new vessel and the next second it's burning alive, it's crumbling and shrinking and screeching in agony as the human body does what is does best to foreign invaders: try to kill it.

I've always loved the posts on tumblr that explore how deeply weird humans would be to aliens. Our physiology, our mentality, when spoken of as animal traits they are all deeply disturbing. We're persistence predators. We're built to last. We can survive unimaginable horrors (and also die from the stupidest, most everyday things). Our main predator, is ourselves. A bite from a child can kill another human just from the bacteria alone if left untreated. Our bodies are designed to kill entities both within and without.

Humans are fucking terrifying.

So the mindflayer is so unprepared for an adult human who's been through too much shit already. Not just a tired little slip of a kid, but a healthy, entering-his-prime human and is eradicated with extreme prejudice by nothing more than a good immune system going into overdrive.

But it's too deeply imbeded, so the body again does what it can to protect itself, it encases it. Within the body, but separate. Calcified. Caged.

So here's Billy, who has a rather spotty memory of a car crash and feels like he has a head cold for a couple of days before he gets on with his life. Only weird shit keeps happening to him, now. Like that time he encounters a pack of dogs while out drinking by the quarry, except they look really fucked-up the closer they get, not like any dog Billy's ever seen before, and just as he's prepared for an attack from these things, they just walk up to him and sniff around a bit with their weird flower heads blooming and closing, but otherwise leaving him unharmed. And Billy's just this side of drunk where terrible ideas seem kinda brilliant and he tells the things to sit. And they do. Amazed, he tosses his beer bottle and tells them go fetch, and again, one does.

And then when it's time to go home Billy offhandedly tells them to get lost and they run off back into the woods, and when he wakes up in the morning it's easy to rationalise it away. Probably the beer had been rolling around in the car for too long and it went bad and fucked him up. Should just have thrown the whole sixpack out. Those were just regular dogs, for sure. Except the next day, when he's out behind the pool building trying to find a good spot to smoke, he steps onto soft soil or something and falls down into a weird ass tunnel and a bunch of those same monster dogs just appear out of nowhere and pile themselves on top of each other for him to be able to climb out. And a couple of days later when Neil smacks Billy around for being out late again, one of those dogs honest to God comes crashing through the living room window to shred Neil's leg up and leaves just as quickly at the first sign of panic from Billy.

And yeah okay, by this stage Billy's figuring out things are kinda fucky around Hawkins, and so it's just Billy having his own little side adventure in the background while the rest of the gang are running around Hawkins trying desperately to find the Mindflayer, not knowing that Billy unknowingly trapped it within himself and is just living his life, teaching these weirdly obedient alien dogs to do tricks because they keep helping him or seeking him out.

Anyway, upside down is doomed because their leader is literally trapped inside Billy and Billy is just teaching these dog-things to steal cigarettes from the gas station and volunteering for the closing shift at the pool because he can just get the dogs to bring the pool noodles back into the shed.

[gatitties]

War & crack II

—Task Force 141 x young!reader

—Summary: more headcanons with your team as you being chaotic

—Warnings: none

Part One / Halloween special

yeah, I didn't finish my brainstorm and I bring more things from this sudden idea 🫣

─ Listen, you have a lot of problems.

─ And we are not talking about your jokes about death biting your ass anymore.

─ Price's going to go bald before he retires, how the hell are you still alive today? It is a mystery to them.

─ Everyone noticed during a mission where they had to stay in a safe house for a few weeks that you had the same concentration as a fly, empty thoughts behind your eyes lost in a distant point of reality.

─ You looked like another person when you were a simple civilian, Gaz had to pull you so you wouldn't get run over a couple of times for not looking at the traffic lights.

─ Price needs to put on videos of crunchy slime or Subway Surfers so you could hear what he was saying, (Soap won't admit that it also helps him focus).

─ They discovered that you can sleep in any position, seriously, whether it's standing up, in the bathtub, your body bent in an unusual way, now they understand why you complain so much about back pain.

─ Everyone looks in silence when they give you little impulses to do stupid things, like, last time you were walking to see the area and you found a woman walking her dog, you asked her if you could pet it and when she said yes you pet the woman instead of the dog, Ghost dragged you away murmuring an apology.

─ The following days they decided that you would stay at home, they simply fed your stupidity, every time they arrived you received them with the phrase 'where have you been, loca?' while playing a wolf howl in the background.

─ Luckily it was time to return to the base, during the trip you were listening to music, despite having your headphones you had the volume so high that everyone could hear it, Soap stuck to you because he liked what you were listening, the others decided to drown out the noise with some light talk.

─ Once you returned to the base you relaxed, returning to your working state, you focused again, which relieved all.

─ One day they decided that you needed a nickname since everyone had it except you, so they began to investigate your record as a cadet and even your years in the military school.

─ You kicked and fought because you were something else a while ago, but it was inevitable to find an old report where it said that you were violent with some classmates.

─ And in your anger for probably some nonsense, you ended up biting the ankles of a guy, or a group of guys, or even one of your lieutenants...

─ Soap and Gaz cried with laughter because there was a video of what was evidenced and you looked like a rabid chihuahua attacking its worst enemy.

─ Nibbles, at least it was temporary because you didn't entirely agree with the nickname.

— Since you were now known like that, you went from friendly punches to friendly bites.

─ Once you got kidnapped and you returned to the base the next day because your captors couldn't stand having you sing old Justin Bieber songs or listening to you talk about all your obsessions, they tried to cover your mouth but you just kept making too much noise, the information was not worth it.

─ You arrived in the middle of the meeting they had to prepare the rescue, having the courage to enter the room asking who they were trying to rescuing.

─ Price casually replied that they were looking for you until he did a double take, realizing you were there.

─ You were buried in a mass of muscles after the realization.

─ When you're depressed at random times (because you don't understand how your brain works and you feel bad out of nowhere), everyone will quickly notice, like even though you're not the most talkative person all the time, you usually drop some stupid comment, but on your bad days you are simply a piece of flesh and bones that walks without knowing where it's going.

─ The first time they saw you like this they tried to do something to cheer you up, Price gave you a few days off hoping your mood wasn't due to work overload, he even wrote some of your reports.

─ Soap bought stickers and decorations to your liking to decorate your prosthesis, he also told you that he could draw you a design to have your personalized arm.

─ Gaz tried to talk to you but you just didn't want to open your mouth, he chose to just keep you silent company, maybe you hug him, you need a little physical support.

─ Ghost will leave objects scattered around knowing that you would find them, knowing that they were things that you liked or had been looking for (because the poor guy always has to pick up what you forget around the common room).

— Nothing seemed to work until a stray kitten snuck in and lit up your face, so the easy answer was any baby animal would brighten your day, it was free therapy.

— You once dyed the boys' clothes pink by accident, but at least you told them that now they could go see Barbie with you.

— You promised you'd take them to see Oppenheimer, and that's why they agreed.

— You created a group chat just to send shitpost and teach them the meme path.

— Price just leaves it on seen, Ghost has the group muted, Gaz answers from time to time and Soap is the most active, he learns fast about today's shitpost.

— You really resist the urge to trim Price's beard to make it heart-shaped.

— You use the radio to sing parts of songs when you take too long to jump into action, Price scolds you for it.

— You complain that he seems constantly in a bad mood and you open a profile for him on every dating app you know, even on Grindr.

— You found Ghost's profile browsing Tinder and Soap's profile on Grindr... you decided to use it as a weapon in case you needed any favors.

— Gaz caught you red-handed, but you made a deal and he wouldn't say anything if he can profit from the manipulation.

— You hide it like you're hiding war crimes.

— Why does Price have so many likes from single moms?

[pinkeoni]

Will is Going to Die by Sacrificing Himself

...and come back to life. To me, it seems pretty obvious, but I'll explain why.

Will has been characterized as someone who puts others before himself since season one, even if it means costing him his life. The entire series starts off with Will casting fireball instead of protection during their Dungeons & Dragons game, putting his character in danger for the sake of the rest of the party.

This self-sacrificial nature is echoed in season two, but two a much more extreme end, when Will instructs everyone to close the gate to stop the Mind Flayer, despite knowing that doing so will kill him.

While we don't see this same self-sacrifice from Will in seasons three and four, we do see two related characters make their own sacrifices, possibly hinting at Will's future fate.

First we have the other character named William, Billy, sacrifice himself at the end of season three in order to stop the meat flayer.

Then in season four, we have Eddie sacrifice himself while the same song that played for Will after he came back to life in season one plays in the background— "When It's Cold I'd Like to Die" by Moby.

There are also little ways that we are told/shown of Will's selfless nature, such as giving a girl his tonka truck because she was sad, or giving Mike his painting under El's name. While this trait could be seen as admirable, I think it will ultimately be his undoing.

But why would Will need to sacrifice himself?

Well, we know that despite all of this time, Will still holds a connection to Vecna, and likely to the Mind Flayer and the Upside Down himself. Putting a stop to all of these things is going to be intrinsic to Will's arc next season.

I don't know how many people know about Noah's letterboxd, but he has been rewatching the Harry Potter movies.

Perhaps for personal enjoyment, or perhaps to study for his character?

The comparisons between Will/Vecna and Harry/Voldemort have been made before, and the Duffers are derivative of other sources if anything.

I think that this could be likened to a horcrux situation. At the end of season four, we saw Vecna be totally flambéd by the older teens, and yet, he's still kicking, and Will is the one to tell us this.

If the brain dies the body dies, but also, could the brain latch on to another body in order to keep it alive? Similar to how Harry had to die so that Voldemort could be defeated, I believe Will might have to die (at least temporarily) in order to take down Vecna/MF/UD.

We know that the show is bringing back "Should I Stay or Should I Go," which is going to prompt an important question that Will needs to find the answer to, should he stay or should he go? While this could also relate to his romantic endeavors for the season, I think that the song could be alluding to Will's choice to sacrifice himself in order to save everyone else.

What I think will probably happen is this: At some point in the season, Will is going to learn what has to happen, and he is going to go off to sacrifice himself without telling anyone so no one can stop him. (I'm guessing that Will can't just off himself, there's probably a specific way that it needs to be done).

Something I realized while making this post is that Mike is always the one who figures out what needs to be done, or brings up Will's sacrifice to others. My guess is that Mike is going to find out what Will is up to, and try to stop him. Emphasis on try, because I think this death is inevitable. However, bringing the show back full circle to season one (and because ST can never keep a main character dead), he will come back to life.

[lilia-calderus-pet-goat]

Found-Family headcanons for a³'s coven of chaos, part 1: (because they all deserved more time with each other)

(part 2, here.)

(part 3, here.)

Agatha learned spanish for Rio, obviously—and spices up her dialogue with Spanish phrases out of habit. I assume she also knows other languages, being alive for as long as she has.

But I'd also like to think that language-learning gradually becomes something they all surprise each other with. And this is definitely super self-indulgent, because I'm always ecstatic when my native English-speaker friends are interested in learning my language.

For example, I definitely think Billy would ask Alice to teach him korean—and she'd be really excited for that. Not to mention, I feel like Billy just has the vibe of someone who'd be interested in learning different languages. (and korean in particular I think he'd definitely find interesting.)

I also definitely think Jen would try learning Sicilian for Lilia, considering the effort she makes to understand her and keep her comfortable towards the end. Lilia would be so moved, because she probably hasn't spoken to anyone in her mother-tongue in centuries. Like, it's literally considered an endanged language. (“Currently considered a “vulnerable” language by UNESCO, Sicilian faces increasing pressure from standard Italian, though it remains stronger than nearly all other Italian language varieties.”)

Mrs. Davis loves making food for all of them, always trying to diversify her cooking to suit their appetites, their cultures, the things each of them can eat, etc. It's a lot, but she doesn't mind!! She's a grandma!! She loves feeding people—and she missed having someone to cook for.

She grows her greens all by herself, too. Rio occasionally helps her with weeding and stuff. Mrs. Davis is freaked out by her rancid vibes at first, but ends up saying she's a “very sweet girl,” to which everyone responds by staring at her horrified.

Mrs. Davis would also definitely make a chore chart for everyone, but it never works out for a NUMBER of reasons.

First or all, Agatha always skips her turn with cleaning, saying that “she forgot.” She knows that either Billy or Sharon will just take care of it anyways. (Jen refuses to do any of Agatha's chores. “She can either do it by herself or drown in her own garbage-”)

Lilia always gets distracted and leaves her chores unfinished. She can only ever remember laundry, for some reason—she does everyone's laundry. But other than that, jeez. My girl is messy and that's okay. She has her very own unique way of finding where she puts her stuff, but others would merely call it chaos. Jen always picks up after her—and Lilia always huffs and puffs about how, “well now I can't find anything!”

Alice is the sort of person who accidentally creates messes everywhere, then stuffs everything wherever she finds. In drawers, under beds, you name it. Very, “out of sight, out of mind.” Like, she probably has “a chair” where she throws all her clothes.

Billy is very responsible, always abiding to the chore chart and oftentimes doing Agatha's chores too.

Jen is a total neat freak. She wants everything to be organised and under control—and she needs everything to smell nice.

She always makes the others scented candles. Agatha claims they're “useless garbage,” but uses them anyways.

Jen is also the one who usually keeps track of the bills and expenses, since she earns the most through her, “real job.”

Lilia is the sort of person to get lost in the mall, or even just the super-market. Alice has needed to look for her more than once.

Agatha loves crushing Jen's videos by appearing in the background and doing whatever bullshit she feels like.

Alice and Billy are everyone's mediators. Whenever someone gets in an argument, they're the ones who force them to work it out.

Alice is very protective of Sharon and Lilia, because she has mommy issues. Agatha has the opposite sort of mommy issues—but Sharon and Lilia treat them both like they're their kids.

The first time Billy brought Eddie to meet his coven, they literally put him through trials to decide whether he's worthy to date their son. Eddie is surprised he's been coven-approved.

“These women are insane, Billy—but then again, so am I for sticking around anyways.”

Eddie is very tired. His favourite coven members are Jen and Alice, who he considers the most normal. I REALLY think he'd fuck with Jen, because they're both so done with everyone else.

[rebouks]

Forever In Between - Invictus

Robin appears to have stumbled into a rather nightmarish situation and it’s up to you to ensure he makes it out alive. If he dies-.. well, maybe that’s it, or maybe he just wakes up, or maybe he won’t die at all?! Probably best not to find out the hard way though, right?

Invictus is a multiple-choice Halloween special based on Until Dawn, various other classic horror games, a teensy bit (read: a lot) of brain rot, and an overactive imagination; mine or Robin’s, you decide.

I know that creepy, slightly gory things aren't for everyone so below is a list of potential trigger warnings and if you want to sit this one out you can block the tag "fib invictus" and we'll pick up where we left off storywise in November! 🖤🧡

creepy dolls, various monsters, weapons, blood, death, murder, corpses, fighting, injuries, needles, electrocution, experimentation (not the good kind) and general peril!

As a side warning: I will be continuing with regular previous/next links as it's still technically part of the story, though I will provide a link to skip past it all when the time comes, so look out for that when normal posts resume! My usual mon-fri schedule will probs go out the window too as some posts will have votes that last a day so I'll either take the day between those off or post later than usual idk we'll see what happens 🤸‍♀️

Last but not least I'd like to give some shout outs to those that've helped me during this process 🖤

Props to @softpine for some of the Until Dawn assets used and for inspo from this post! 🧡

To @sirianasims for helping me find ridiculous amounts of disgusting, amazing cc and generally spit balling ideas with me from the very start 🤸‍♀️

A big thank you to @zosa95 for being my beta reader, listening to me witter about this project since fkin forever ago and sharing my excitement 🤗

Thanks to everyone in the story server for putting up with numerous out of context screenies and for enduring my whinging about how tired I've been recently skdjsk.. particularly @lynzishell @hannahssimblr @madebycoffee @daniigh0ul and @sirianasims for consistently cheering me on when I was pooped 💩

Okok last LAST but not least, some rambling.. I've been busy with this project in the background since the end of July and keeping up with regular story nonsense whilst working on this and adulting in between was NOT it 😅 (if you noticed my regular posts lacking in their usual vibrancy no u didn't.. but ur also right cos i've had to be super lazy with it recently to keep up with two things at once, so SORRY! fkjfk)

Anyway, hopefully it's worth it, I had a lot of fun making this special and I'm pretty proud of it so I hope everyone enjoys our October shenanigans this year! Maybe I'll find some time to make some gifts for simblreen but I'm not promising anything cos I'm eepy.. maybe my gift this year is just danger and violence instead ehehe 👻🔪

[alastorss]

𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑬 — 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 𝑿 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑬𝑹

𝑨𝑪𝑻 𝑰 — 𝑻𝑶 𝑫𝑬𝑽𝑶𝑼𝑹 ☽ series masterlist | other works

syn. The Radio Demon gathers your wrist and presses kisses along your pulse, stopping when he feels it racing beneath his lips. Gently, he sinks his teeth into your flesh just above your vein, enough to draw a taste of blood, before lapping at the spillage like nectar.

He’ll let you frolic around in his daydreams a little longer—allow you to sip from the chalice and taste mortal life again. It would make your flesh all the sweeter when he finally digs in.

“You are strange,” he murmurs against your skin.

“And you bite too hard,” you complain.

warnings: literal and metaphorical cannibalism, non-sexual biting, soul selling, blood and violence, co-dependency, probably slightly toxic relationship, alastor is a whole walking warning. wc: 5.7k

𝑰 𝑺𝑯𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑬𝑨𝑻 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑻

The Devil is beautiful beyond comparison.

Wrapped in silky red and black from head to toe; drenched in the colour and stench of blood; he’s dressed to the nines as if tonight will be his last. He stands seven feet tall—eight or nine if you trace all the way to the tips of his antlers now strung with the flesh and sinew of freshly slaughtered buffalo. 

You think for a brief moment that he is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, hypnotized by the twirling of his cane. Only divinity could dare to be this breathtaking, yet here he is before you defying all heavensent rules. Unsure of whether you’ll ever stand so close yet so far from Heaven again, you reach out to touch him just to test if he is even real.

The Devil has a suave smile that makes his eyes crinkle in joy, teeth yellow and baring at you. A threat, you think, but you don’t care. His smile shrinks and grows in an endless cycle as you run a hand up and down the front of his coat, corduroy smooth beneath the pads of your fingers.

You recognize this look he’s giving you: who do you think you are? A filthy sinner begging The Devil for salvation? How pathetic.

And yet he seems equally entranced by your touch, as if you are the first. Somehow, he pierces you with his eyes but you can tell that he’s looking straight through you. A silly, powerless fool like you isn’t even worth his eyes.

Despite his apathy, he was the one who intervened with your early demise when he could have just as easily been on his merry way. Venison is best when fresh—that’s what he told the butcher. But it was spoiling in his hands the longer he stood there between you and the door, urging you to leave and simultaneously gluing you to the floor.

The Devil saved your life framed in the harsh red of the underworld.

Light pours in through the door he has blocked, illuminating his frame in warm shades of amber and crimson. His eyes shimmer in the shadow it casts on him, you realize. They glow like fireflies—yellow and flickering.

“You are wounded,” he suddenly points out as he towers over you. At first he seems taken aback by his own observation, as if he hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts into existence, but then it mellows into something along the lines of morbid amusement. Amused by your mortality—the mark of a demon.

Sinners were nothing more than sacks of meat and blood, after all. No less than they were when they were alive on Earth.

The question drifts dangerously through your mind: is he not a Sinner just as much as I am?

Static cracks in his throat, an eerie jazz tune faintly floating through the air, and you know then that you must be wrong. Regular Sinners do not know souls like the dozens you can hear screaming in the background of his smooth jazz.

“Help me. Please?” Your fingers dip into your wound and you cry out weakly in pain. His smile only grows.

Poor little lamb, so sweet and trusting. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought you waltzed right into this shop knowing that the butcher wanted to flay you open.

“Unfortunately, I am not interested in…” He leans down so his face hovers just above yours. “Charity.”

From this angle, he can see the subtle widening of your eyes. The way your pulse jumps in your throat, deliciously afraid. You reek of fear and something else he can’t quite place. It makes him salivate.

The Devil is cold to the touch—death incarnate. You hadn’t noticed until your hands were on his face, his neck, lathering down his chest, nails raking deep marks into his skin.

“I’ll give you my soul.”

“I have plenty of souls, my dear. More than you could possibly imagine! What good would yours do in my collection, hm?”

Yes, what good would your soul be to someone like him? At the end of the day, your name would be drowned out by the endless sea of his other contracts. Forgotten and abandoned, the last piece of your identity. There’s only one way you could be more than those before you.

“I can do anything. I can be anything. Just name it.”

“Oh?” He hums with a raised brow, intrigued by the offer of the soul and body. “And if I said I wanted you to be my dinner tonight?”

You swallow nervously. “Then I would present myself to you on a silver platter.”

He laughs at this, clearly humoured by your answer. “You’ve got yourself a deal!”

And that is how it came to be: a lowly Sinner and an Overlord of Hell—forever intertwined by the messy entanglement of your souls.

Forevermore, you used to joke with your fingers braiding marigolds into his hair. Oh, how he misses that laughter so.

𝑨𝑺 𝑫𝑬𝑽𝑰𝑳𝑺 𝑫𝑶

The four walls of Alastor’s radio station become your only friends.

You learn that there isn’t much to talk to besides the walls anyhow, since the microphone and anything else on Alastor’s sprawling desk is off limits. Even he himself is not around very often, sometimes disappearing for days on end and coming back stinking of rotten flesh and blood, of which you have become acquainted.

You also learn that he likes things in a particular way.

For example, you may only see your reflection once every day. I hate it when my food has an ego—that’s what he had told you once. And you are only allowed to eat whatever he hand-feeds you. That is the life of a pet, after all, and you are nothing but a glorified domestic animal he has chained to his wall.

One day passes and he does not devour you like he originally intended. Then two. Then five. Eventually, you lose space on the wall to make another tally mark, so you resort to counting in your head until you forget how to track time.

“Usually people take their dogs for walks,” you once jested to him after he signed off his morning broadcast and sat there staring at the wall for a while.

He only gazed at you lazily from across the room for a moment before rolling his chair over to you and tilting your head back by the chin. He dipped his thumb between your teeth until you chewed on him and told you:

“How convenient it is that you aren’t a dog, then!”

You never brought it up again, not because you were afraid of him swallowing you whole where you stood, but because he tasted of death itself and you would rather avoid having his thumb in your mouth.

The third thing you learn is that he’s not all that scary so long as he deems you entertaining and obedient enough. Overlords—that’s what Alastor calls the ones who own souls—come and go and usually never return.

You earn raised brows and questioning looks. He often challenges them with his eyes: go on, ask me! Ask about my new pet so I have a good enough reason to dirty my coat with your filth.

The ones who pipe up about your presence are the ones who end up as wavelengths in his show. Alastor is quite protective of his pets, you see. What’s his is his, and what isn’t will be his one day. In his own sadistic, twisted ways, he is actually quite a good owner.

You’ve learned the loneliness that comes with being his pet, too.

Loneliness so empty that it swallows your lungs until you can’t breathe. A loneliness that crushes your ribs to dust. The familiar hum of jazz music became your most cherished companion.

Solitude is a funny thing. It plays tricks on the mind, drives people mad. Even Alastor can’t be immune to it, in his defense. You wonder if that’s why he’s opted to do nothing but stare at you from his desk for the night.

Soft whispers and laughter fill the room, voices enchanting you with their poetry. They buzz from the demon’s radio which is perched by his head where it rests on the table.

The room is illuminated only by the tiny lamp on his desk and the artificial glow of moonlight. He has decided to grace you with several blankets after weeks of your complaints of the radio tower being too drafty. They’re wrapped unceremoniously around you.

“What?” You ask him from the sofa after he’s been staring for far longer than he usually would.

He offers you a moment of relief as he tears his eyes away from you, like he had not even realized he was staring so intensely. But then they’re back on you in an instant, boring through your soul.

The soul he owns.

“I’ve never…” He trails off, seeming as if he can’t decide whether or not you are worth conversation.

Your head tilts to the side in confusion, watching him carefully consider his next words. Finally, he goes back to listening to the whispers and chattering from his noisy radio, pretending as if you no longer exist.

You take the opportunity to observe. It’s not like you hadn't had chances to discreetly watch him before—you live under the heel of his boot, after all. But to see him off of his show, face tired and dark despite the permanent smile that paints it, something stirs in your chest.

The final thing you learn is that the only soul more lonely than yours is the one which belongs to the demon who holds your heart.

He keeps friends in his shows. Voices to keep him company. You suppose that before you showed up, there wasn’t much else to talk to, and Alastor is a man of habit. He never stopped collecting those voices, no. Not even with you right there.

Thinking back, you wonder if he ever went as mad as you did when he first brought you here. If he counted days on the walls he talked to. If he would sit in deafening silence after his broadcast ended until deciding he wanted venison for dinner.

If he ever appreciated your presence, even as nothing more than his pet.

It was the only explanation for your beating heart. Why he had not devoured you down to the marrow yet.

You slowly shimmy off the couch and drag the blankets along with you, trailing behind you like a cape. The sudden movement makes his head turn at lightning speed, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

His body is impossibly rigid—it’s the first thing you notice when you drop to your knees by his side to rest your chin on his thigh. Alastor’s claws are threading through your hair before he can stop himself, feeling your warmth beneath his palm.

A dog and their owner. Only this pair could know silent adoration this way.

It’s twisted, you think, that he still holds this spell over you. That he’s still the most beautiful being in all of Hell.

It doesn’t matter anymore, though. Without him, you were nothing more than a plate of dinner that sprouted legs to all the other demons. You may not have your soul, but for some reason, you find comfort being seen by a monster like him.

“You look ridiculous, darling.”

“It’s not my fault you keep me suspended twenty feet off the ground,” you grumble, eyes drifting shut under the gentle smoothing of your hair.

“That’s what the blanket is for!”

“You’re about… five months too late,” you deadpan.

If it were any other Overlord, such a badmouth would have gotten you eaten already. But he only chuckles in response, quiet and lovely.

A long beat of silence passes before realization crashes down on you. Your eyes fly open as you peer up at him in curiosity. His voice is missing its usual lively buzz of static, as if a switch had been turned off. He sounds…

“Beautiful,” you breathe.

The demon raises a brow at you in question. You quickly shake your head, embarrassed by your sudden declaration. His hand stops atop your head. Laughing at your flustered expression, he suddenly removes you from his lap to stand.

“Come. It’s a nice night for a walk.”

“A walk?” You repeat, dumbfounded.

Alastor smiles ear to ear.

“That’s what dogs do, is it not?”

𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑨 𝑹𝑶𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑵 𝑫𝑶𝑮

The difference between you and Alastor is that the only soul you’ve ever known is your own.

You’ve memorized its shape, the way it flickers like a flame within your chest. Like it has its own tiny heartbeat—a separate being residing in your body. You know its colour and its tendency to leap when adrenaline courses through you. You know every part of it. Even then, it had taken all of your afterlife to grasp.

Alastor understands something you cannot.

He has long since memorized the collective weight of a thousand souls. The way they all sigh at once, like waves in the ocean bellowing and sinking.

He is an Overlord of Hell. Someone destined to be greater than you. You’ve known this all along.

He’d always been involved in shady business, coming back to the tower stinking of new souls, meat and booze. You remember that he once boasted about his skills in gambling.

“Isn't it just luck?” You asked.

He laughed at your question, “It’s never just luck, dear. That is why you sell souls, and I own them!”

You resented him for those words, even if they were true. Reminders that your soul was sitting in the palm of his hand. That your entire life was that tiny, flickering flame he could blow out at any moment.

At the same time, you were strangely relieved. Alastor offered you more than just protection. He gave you a home, regardless of how boring, and gifted you whatever your heart desired so long as you were obedient.

And no matter how much he denies it and pretends it isn’t so, he’s also a friend. A companion. You have the nights you’ve spent awake talking to him until sunrise to prove it.

Perhaps that is why ugly guilt bubbles in your stomach when you see his bloody body and the first thought you have is:

Does this mean my soul is free?

You’ve smelled blood before. At some point, it became a comforting scent. The smell of Alastor—the scent of home. But you had only smelled the blood of others as it stained his clothes and skin. Never the demon’s.

His shady business was bound to catch up with him eventually.

Your first reaction is to panic. To turn his body over and scour his torso with your hands until you find where the bleeding starts.

“Alastor? Alastor!” You call his name over and over to no avail.

Again, the terrible thought crosses your mind: I should leave him to die. But then he groans in pain, and the thought vanishes just as quickly as it came.

To wish for him to die after all he’s done—you couldn’t stomach that. You would be no better than he who owns souls for his own amusement.

He had stumbled all the way home in the end. To you. There had to be a reason for that. For him to crawl back to you despite his animal instincts.

“I’ll fix you,” you promise with shaking conviction.

You piece him back together with your own two hands, however clumsily. You’ve never stitched together skin before—only sewn fabrics and crocheted yarn that Alastor brought home to keep you entertained.

It’s disturbing how easily your needle threads together flesh. How it writhes under your touch and how much blood really comes out of it.

Alastor bleeds red.

For some reason, you had always thought that he didn’t bleed at all. But he does. He bleeds the same colours as those that stain his face when he returns from long nights out. It smells the same, too—nauseatingly metallic and rotten.

You do your best to piece him together fully, clean the wound, and bandage him up despite his weak efforts to struggle and the bile that pushes up your throat.

“Stop moving!” You yell in frustration.

This is the last thing Alastor remembers from that night: your arms flung around him to stop him from squirming around; your pounding heart pressed against his while you carefully pin him down whilst trying to avoid disturbing his wound; your lips beside his ear as you chant—please, just go to sleep.

When he wakes in the morning, he’s delirious.

At first, he isn’t sure why he’s asleep on the sofa. Your sofa, as you’ve claimed. His head lolls to face the window to gauge the time of day.

Bright morning light sears his eyes and momentarily blinds him. Groaning, Alastor brings his hand up to cover his eyes. There’s a sudden white hot pain from that action that shocks his system awake.

He hisses, body involuntarily curling in on itself to ease the pain, but it only exacerbates it.

His hand changes route from shielding his eyes to feeling for the spot where it hurts the most. To his horror, he can feel bandages sloppily wrapped where his skin should be.

“The… Hell?” He mutters, trying to push himself onto his elbows to see his stomach better. But he freezes halfway up, propped back on his elbows when he finally catches sight of you. 

You’re seated on the floor with your head in your arms, seemingly sound asleep by his side despite the ruckus he’s caused.

The demon slowly pieces the puzzle together, eyes drifting to the trail of blood smeared from the door to where you’re sitting. He assumes the sofa under him fares no better than his floor, and he groans in disgust.

He takes a minute to stare at the ceiling, trying to remember whatever else he can from last night. But the ache deep in his skin is too pressing to ignore, and eventually he returns to moaning and hissing in agony. Again, he turns his head to you.

You look peaceful this way. Drool pricks at the corner of your lips and as mundane as it is, Alastor can’t help but be a little endeared.

It’s strangely human. You are strangely human.

One hand falls atop your head and the other on his bandages as he watches you slumber. Perhaps it was in your human nature to help him, your terrible captor, when you could have just as easily left him for dead.

You look like an angel basking in the orange glow of the Underworld. His saviour. Beautiful and human.

Fondness boils in his stomach at the idea and he quickly retracts his touch, instead laying an arm over his eyes.

It’s too bright. He can’t think straight.

He considers counting this as an eye for an eye. Your life for his. It would only be fair to set you free now that you’re even.

Dread creeps up his spine at the thought of spending his days in lonely silence once more. You were originally meant to be nothing more but a companion for entertainment. But he was growing quite attached to you as pathetic as it was.

He had gotten used to your witty remarks and dry humour. The way you laugh before you tease him. How you sit on the floor and rest your chin on his thigh even though he’s told you before that his lap is available. And he finds your flustered and exasperated expression after his comments to be more amusing than death.

It would be a shame for it all to end, even if it were the right thing to do. He’s a demon, after all. Hell was for those who knew right from wrong and still became Sinners.

His silent reverie is interrupted by your shuffling. You groggily straighten up, blearily wiping the sleep from your eyes. It takes a minute for the realization to kick in, but when it does, you’re blinking at him in bewilderment.

You’re on top of him in seconds, clinging to his neck and wailing like a child. He hisses in pain, doing his best to sit upright for you and grimacing though his smile.

“You’re okay!” You exclaim, hugging him tighter and tighter.

“Darling—” He grunts, trying to shimmy away from you despite the warmth blooming in his chest. “My stitches!”

You scramble away from him, retreating as if he’d bitten you. Your back hits the other end of the sofa by the time he sits up. “I’m so sorry! I just…”

He watches as your face dims considerably. His heart drops to his stomach for a reason he can’t explain.

“I thought you were going to die,” you whisper. It’s followed by sniffles, and he can tell even without looking that you’ve broken out into tears.

“Come now, dear. Don’t cry. I’m very much alive, thanks to you.”

You nod, using your sleeves to pathetically wipe at your cheeks.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you quietly admit with an embarrassed laugh.

Alastor also can’t explain the relief that floods him at that moment. Relief that you’re smiling. That you’re still by his side. That he’s alive. That you saved him.

If he had died, would you have blamed yourself? Even if he hadn’t returned home, would you have waited by the door for him until your soul came back to you?

Would you be sad then, too?

It’s a strange feeling that rises in his throat. He’s never been so grateful to be alive before.

“But you did it,” he tells you. “See?”

You nod again. From the other end of the couch, he can see your shoulders relaxing. It settles him, too—calms his fraying nerves.

He understands, then, the spell you have cast over him in return. He would do anything to see that smile.

Trust is not his forte. Demons are not to be trusted.

However, he can’t help but think that you’d save him over and over again if you needed to. And at that moment, he swears you have a halo glowing atop your head.

An angel in a Sinner’s world.

𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑨 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹, 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑨 𝑩𝑬𝑨𝑺𝑻

You wake up to the familiar stench of blood, as you do most mornings.

It isn’t what makes you jolt awake. Rather, it’s the other smell wafting through the air. Mixed with the iron sting is the soft smell of flowers and the deep earthiness of grass and soil. Stirring, you blink the blurriness out of your eyes and take in your surroundings.

Dewy grass pricks at your palms as you sit up. The outline of your body has flattened the moss down and packed it into the earth, downy shrubbery now crushed beneath you.

Alastor sips at his mug, lips nursing the rim as he watches you slowly wake over the top of his newspaper.

“Someone slept well,” he sings with a cheshire smile, ears flopping from one side to the other with the movement of his head. You blink at him from the ground, legs curled under you.

“Where are we?”

“My room, darling.”

You take another look around. A gentle breeze shakes the trees weeping with leaves and vines, tousling the branches so they appear to dance in the wind. You’ve learned never to be surprised when it comes to this demon. He’s a bottomless well of them, after all.

“It doesn’t look like a room,” you observe flatly. He only laughs, shaking his paper flat to continue skimming through the morning column. Dissatisfied by his lack of an answer, you press on

“Does your room come with air conditioning? It’s too humid.”

Alastor snorts. “I prefer it when my dinner marinades without complaint.”

“It’s been months and you have yet to eat me up for dinner,” you point out.

“Tonight will be the night,” he replies nonchalantly, as if it were just any other day. You can’t help but notice the slightest hesitation in his conviction. Like he hasn’t yet made up his mind.

Silence follows his statement and you can only stare at him in response. After he shows no signs of elaborating, you sink back down to the earth with a thud and a sigh. Watching the dark, eerie sky as clouds float by, you pipe up again.

“The sky’s dark. Isn’t it morning?”

“I prefer the night. Calming, isn’t it?”

Your nose scrunches up into a playful sneer. “The big, scary shadow man loves the dark. Who knew?”

“Sarcasm isn’t very cute on you, my dear.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “I think I’m hilarious.”

The Radio Demon sets down his paper and peers at you from his seat at the garden table, chin propped on his knuckles. “Entertaining, yes. Hilarious? Not quite.”

“It’s apparently my last day alive,” you grumble, rolling over onto your side so your back is turned to him. “Let me have this.”

Your eyes drift shut as another breeze washes over you. The smell of grass and mossy waters—you never thought you’d have the chance to remember what this was like. What it’s like to be alive. How it feels to have grass between your toes and listen to the distant cries of insects and birds.

When you blink your eyes open again, you expect it all to vanish. To be back in Alastor’s radio tower, banished to your own little corner where he can watch you and entertain himself. To feel the rattle of the chain around your neck while he pulls you closer just to have a taste of your soft flesh.

But when you finally allow your surroundings to sink in again, you’re met with nothing but open night skies freckled with globs of stars. It feels free. You had forgotten what that felt like, too.

“I don’t enjoy it when my dinner feels sentimental, either,” he suddenly hums. You roll onto your back, head lolling to the side so you can glare at him. Slowly pushing yourself up, you haunch back on your palms with your legs outstretched toward the flowing water. 

“I’m not sentimental,” you argue.

“Oh? Is that so?”

You scoff in lieu of a proper reply. On your hands and knees you drag yourself toward the luminescence hovering just above the water. You come so close that your hands sink deep into the mud of the riverbank, surely dirtying your clothes in the process.

Fireflies swirl in the air and make the surface of the water shimmer like the stars in the sky above you. You carefully collect a firefly between your muddy palms.

It flicks around in a panic, knocking against the tiny cage you’ve built with your hands until it finally settles down in defeat. You can’t help but feel a little sorry for it. 

Trapped. Like you.

Alastor watches you curiously, your face dimly illuminated by the glow of the firefly. He’d usually prefer enjoying his swamp alone, but in a final act of mercy had decided to allow you in just this once. Perhaps he had made a mistake, however. There was a reason he killed swiftly.

He never did like getting attached to his food.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The demon blinks at you. “Fireflies?”

You shake your head.

“Life.”

But it’s not alive, he wants to say. This is all just a grandiose daydream, after all. Soon enough you’ll offer yourself up to him and he’ll devour you without second thought. The dream will end and reality will come crashing down.

He’ll be alone again, the way a monster like him deserves to be.

He slowly rises from his seat and makes his way to your side. Sinking to his knees, mud cakes his pants and his coat. You look at him in confusion, hands unclasping to release the insect to the wild once more.

“Are you that impatient for dinner?” You ask jokingly, albeit with a shake of nervousness underneath.

The Radio Demon gathers your wrist and presses kisses along your pulse, stopping when he feels it racing beneath his lips. Gently, he sinks his teeth into your flesh just above your vein, enough to draw a taste of blood, before lapping at the spillage like nectar.

You suck in a sharp breath, perfectly still beside him. Your free hand comes up to cup his face carefully, causing him to release his bite. Thumb smearing mud along his cheekbone, you look at him in wonder.

It causes him to withdraw, recoiling from you as if you just burned him. The weight of your eyes is too heavy—like you know every part of him at just a glance. He loves being the center of attention, but with you it’s too much.

You always did look at him like he was beautiful. Like he was life itself.

He can see it in every inch of your expression—some kind of twisted longing. It awakens something burrowed deep in his stomach, primal and wanting.

For all these decades he had been utterly alone. And for once in his afterlife, he had felt what it was like to be wanted. To be worshipped.

Does it really have to end so selfishly?

He’ll let you frolic around in his daydreams a little longer—allow you to sip from the chalice and taste mortal life again. It would make your flesh all the sweeter when he finally digs in.

“You are strange,” he murmurs against your skin.

“And you bite too hard,” you complain.

He only licks at your wound apologetically.

𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑵. 𝑹𝑨𝑽𝑨𝑮𝑬. 𝑬𝑨𝑻.

The word devotion does not exist in Alastor’s dictionary. The fiery depths of Hell incinerated whatever meaning it held for him long ago.

Nothing is forever—that’s what his mother said to him with a quiver in her voice and trembling fingers captured in his. Her final words to him, not that he was all that sentimental about it anymore.

If you took a peek into Alastor's heart, you might expect to find some select choices of rye from the speakeasies he danced at in his youth. Or perhaps you would see the endless bog of contracts for every soul he owned, the names signed on them lost as if they were nothing more than grains of sugar in his coffee. 

He does not know how to love.

To be honest, he can’t quite remember if he ever learned how to love in life. He remembers what it was like to have his head in his mothers lap after he quit his first job, sobbing pathetically while she hummed to him about how proud she still was. He remembers running his hands over the smooth wooden desk of his radio station in New Orleans, the feel of fresh lacquer under his fingers.

Love was not something foreign to him. He was surrounded by it—the way rye burned in his chest; the feeling of his mother’s hands in his hair; the smell of coffee and wood lacquer. And even in death, he was surrounded by love. By you.

The scent of your blood. The vulnerability of your skin and how easily he could pierce it with his claws. You were fragile and sweet, something strange in a place permanently stained with blood and reeking of death.

Before he had memorized the pattern of your snores, or the way you cradle his face when he bites you like an untamable beast, or the racing of your pulse beneath his lips, amusement was all he ever pursued. His next plaything, whatever would keep him entertained until they inevitably joined his broadcast.

But you had overwritten his heart too long ago to remember what that was even like. The thought of your voice screaming in the back of his show only makes his stomach turn until he feels like he is about to vomit. 

The thought of losing you—his single treasure in the underworld—was more than he could bear. Amusement and a good meal were not worth your life.

Once, too many moons ago to count, you had promised yourself to him on a silver platter. In all that time you had kept him company, regardless of your sarcastic quips and your disinterest in his hobbies of killing for fun. You had become something worth cherishing. Worth protecting.

He hadn’t accounted for the fact that the only one he needed to protect you from the most was himself.

Here's what you would really see if you looked into Alastor's heart: you, with your jaw slack and eyes squeezed shut so tight that your brows are furrowed. Blood—lots of blood—spilling from your skin like liquid gold.

You, and those tears that he hates so fucking much. Don't cry, he would tell you, and you would listen to him because you adore him. Your flesh between his teeth as he sinks them deeper, plunging his fangs into your skin. A devouring so slow that it's agonizing, and finally your blissful little sigh.

He loves you so much that it aches, that it burns in his stomach. He's ashamed of it, of your effect on him—the spell he can't break.

No, that's wrong. He doesn't love you. At least, he doesn't think he does. Monsters do not love.

That's why you are being swallowed up whole, isn't it? Because he's a monster?

Your hands collect his face just as his mind starts to wander. You gaze at him so softly, so tenderly, as if he isn't all claws and teeth and blood soaked antlers. He wonders if you even realize what's in your arms.

"Alastor..."

His name is a whisper of a prayer on your lips—sweet and beautiful like you. If he could devour you like this he would, just to immortalize you. The iron stench of blood fills his nostrils as you cradle him. 

Ah, he's gone too far.

Slowly, he laps up the blood trickling down your skin. A silent apology. And you forgive him—you always do. It's just in your nature to trust monsters. To trust him.

"I love you."

He realizes, then. He's no monster in your eyes. He's just the devil. A beautiful, charming demon who you signed your soul away to.

Alastor doesn't say it back, but he loves you. He's sure he does. He would love you into flame if he could.

☽

notes: this series was inspired by this post from like 2 months ago that i finally got around to!! shoutout to too sweet by hozier and morbid cannibalism poetry on pinterest for getting me through this

taglist: @the-lake-is-calling @dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice @averylonelysea @bri22222 @cxrsedwxrlds @amarokofficial @anae-naea-zacheria @for-hearthand-home @fantasy-is-best @angixyc @th3-st4r-gur1 @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it @dilemmaiscool @concentratedconcrete @squiword7 @clarakainda @princekeerys @iicarused @lillylovesalastorsm1 @veroneverleft (send an ask to be added to the taglist!)

© ALASTORSS — DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, MODIFY, OR DISTRIBUTE TO OTHER SITES.

[alastor-simp]

Why? - Alastor X Powerful Fem Overlord Reader Part 1

❥Summary:The war with the Heaven was about to begin. The residents of the hotel plus the cannibal colony were ready. Alastor was at the ready, microphone stand in hand, as his eyes targeted his next prey, Adam.

❥Tags: Powerful overlord, Alastor vs Adam, Hazbin Hotel episode 8, spoilers, The Show Must Go On, Grim Reaper Demon, Death Demon, Adam is an a✪✪hole, Hell vs Heaven, Alastor fights adam. Reader is dark and mysterious, Hazbin Hotel Extermination.

❥Notes: This series is probably going to be 2 or 3 parts. I will decide later on. This is also going to my take on how episode 8 was, so don't be confused if some parts are different. Enjoy:)

*Character Background*

Y/N or Overlord name "Raven" is a grim reaper demon, and the only one that existed in Hell. She was human when she lived and worked in a morgue, until she was murdered heading back from work. Her body is shrouded in darkness, resembling a cloak. Her face resembles a skull, yet she still maintains her feminine appearance from when she was alive. She appears very dark and mysterious, but she is a kind soul and only acts when provoked. Her powers extend to necromancy, darkness manipulation, telekinesis, soul manipulation, and immortality. Similar to a grim reaper, her weapon is a large scythe. Her reasons for coming to the hotel were still unknown, but it appears she believes in redemption, as through her time in hell, she is aware some demons have arrived in hell for reasons that don't qualify as sins, so she remains at the hotel and provides support. Everyone at the hotel was unsure about her, but they soon consider her part of the hotel as time went by, including a certain deer demon.

(Found on Pinterest, credit to original artists)

**The Night before the extermination day- Alastors POV**

Alastor is walking, hands folded behind his back as he moves across the hotel's mezzanine. His crimson eyes gaze down on the other inhabitants of the hotel. Charlie and the others are all chatting amongst themselves, laughing and cheering for whats to come tomorrow. "Ah, the celebratory night before a courageous last stand. It's been a surprising thrill to witness these wayward souls find connection. Almost makes one sentimental, eh, Niffty?" Alastor smiles widely, before his eyes turn to Niffty, who is sitting next to him, smiling sweetly. "I really like them, Alastor. They let me put on roach puppet shows without booing!" Alastor chuckles at that answer, before leaning against the bar of the mezzanine. "Ah, an enjoyable collective to be around. I admit one could get accustomed." Alastor hated to admit it, but he enjoyed everyone's company in the hotel. True, he did clash with some of them, specifically Vaggie, but he slowly grew attached to them, though he prefers that to be kept a secret. A small object was then placed on his head, causing him to look up a bit. Niffty had placed a roach flower crown on his head, smiling while dubbing him "King Roach." Alastor leaned back, laughing at Niffty's antics. "Oh, to understand your twisted little mind! Both him and Niffty then started to maniacally laugh together, and then slowly calming down. Niffty then jumped off and zipped closer to the others, to join in the celebration, leaving Alastor alone.

**Your POV**

"Not going to join them, Alastor?" a soft voice spoke behind Alastor, causing him to turn around. You were standing behind him, clock shrouding your body, but leaving your face to be seen. Your skull like face was drew into a soft smile. "Sadly not, my dear! I fear my presence would dampen the mood!" He saw you give a small chuckle, before walking next to him, copying his position of him leaning against the bar. "You sure about that? You are part of this group, Alastor. Besides, you always try to be the life of the party for things like this." Alastor laughed outloud, before leaning against the bar as well. "Aww, trying to flatter me, my dear?" Alastor leaned a hand on his cheek, smirking at you. You just smiled back at him, stating you were just speaking the truth, before turning your head down to gaze at the others. Alastor copied you, the both of you standing next to each other in silence. Alastor then turned to look at you, eyes widen a bit to see you wearing a melancholic expression. "Something troubling you, my dear?" One of his hands, placed itself on your shoulder, giving you a sense of comfort. "Sigh...I'm just worried for tomorrow. Yes, the angels can be hurt and killed, but I'm still worried. Not only that, Adam possesses strong angelic power, and I know he is bound to be highly troublesome during the fight." Alastor threw his head back in laughter, "There is no need to fret, my dear. I will personally fight that poor excuse for an angel myself." Alastors powers surged for a bit, thinking of how exciting it would be to sink his claws and teeth into Adam. Turning your head, you gave a worried look. "Will you be okay?"

Alastor turned his head back towards you, raising an eyebrow. He noticed the gentle expression you wore, and he gave you a soft smile back. He had gotten close with you after a few weeks of you being in the hotel. He knew the power you possessed, but you never flaunted it or used it for personal gain. The more he spent with you, is when he got to see that behind that cloak and darkness was a soft kind soul. "I will be fine, my dear! I am the radio demon, as you know. No pathetic little angel is going to get the better of me, I assure you." He gave a kind smile, without his teeth showing. You still wore a worried expression before giving a smile back. You extended your hand out to Alastor, causing him to tilt his head at you in confusion. "Gimme your hand." Alastor hesitated a bit, and extended his hand out, appearing as if he was trying to give a handshake. You chuckled and grab his hand, interweaving your fingers together. This caused Alastor to tense a bit, seemingly not use to stuff like this. "I know how strong you are Alastor. But, if worse comes to worst, I will be there to help you. I promise." Alastor felt a tightness in his chest after you said that, he couldn't quite figure out why. He was going to say something again, but you had blended with your shadow and disappeared, leaving him alone.

**Day of the Extermination- Alastor POV**

The fight between Heaven and Hell was about to commence. Everyone was gathered around the entrance of the hotel, wearing battle gear and holding weapons. A portal soon opened up in the sky, with Exorcists flying out of them, including Adam and Lute. Charlie and the other released a war-cry and began to battle the Angels. Alastor was standing on the roof of the hotel, smiling wickedly. "Let the slaughter begin. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Using his microphone, a large force field began to form around the hotel, providing protection for everyone, and preventing the angels from getting through. It was very effective in halting the angels advances as well as providing damage as the shield was able to sprout tentacles and kill some Exorcists. This, did not last long, as Adam as able to destroy the force field, allowing the hotel to be exposed once again.

Alastor glared at the Adam, as he saw him make his descent to the roof of the hotel and landing on it. "Adam! First man, next to die." Alastor continued to look on at Adam in front of him, looking unimpressed. Adam then asked who the fu✪✪ Alastor was. "Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure. I'm about to end your fucking life." His microphone cane hit the ground, causing black tendrils to arise. Adam just snarked at Alastor: "Nice voice. Don't you know jazz is for PUSSIES!" Adam summons his guitar, and slashes away at the tentacles before approaching Alastor. Alastor stepped back, wagging his finger. "Ah ah ah!" Alastor was able to dodge Adams attacks, sending some of his tentacles at him. "You really think you can take me on? A mortal soul is no match for me, edge-lord." Adam yells back at Alastor. "You should know better than anyone what a soul can accomplish when they take charge of their own fate." Extending out his shadow, it formed a crack in the hotel roof, allowing one of Alastor's shadow monsters to punch him. Adam was now getting pissed off as he killed the shadow monster, with Alastor mocking his strength.

Adam kept swinging his guitar, with Alastor dodging them effectively. "You lack discipline, control, and worst-

His demon form had manifested, sending his shadow monsters to attack Adam and crawl all over him. Adam was sent flying upwards, as he stuttered on trying to insult Alastor back, making Alastor to laugh and swing him into the hotel sign with his tentacle "Ha ha ha! Poetry!" Adam was furious that he was getting bested by Alastor, swinging his guitar, causing a shockwave and yelling out, "I'm going to wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, CAUSE RADIO IS F✪✪✪ING DEAD!" Alastor looked around, surprised he was out of his demon form: "What just happened?" He then saw his microphone snapped in two, "Fuck!" Alastor then looked back up, then was sent flying back. Adam had managed to get closer, and swing his weapon at him, causing a large wound to form on Alastor's chest. Alastor was on his hands and knees, trying to get up, but failing to do so. Adam was much stronger then he realized. He needed to get out of there now, before Adam had the chance to hit him again. A heavy kick landed on his stomach, causing him to go flying back, and cough up some blood. Alastor leaned back, grasping on his chest to stop the wound, while staring at Adam with pure hatred in his eyes. "HAHAHA! Not so tough now, huh bit✪✪? Time to die!" Adam raised his guitar again ready to strike at Alastor again. Alastor was trying to manifest his powers to teleport, but he was far too weak! He shut his eyes, bracing for the impact. A loud CLANG was heard, causing Alastor to open his eyes, shocked to see you standing in front of him. Your large scythe was drawn, having swung against Adam's guitar, stopping the attack. "Get away from him!"

*TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2**

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[troublesomesnitch]

Phonesex with Aemond

Modern!Aemond x Reader

Modern AU - Aemond calls you after the dinner fight, and you cheer him up in the best way you can.

Contents: some quick smut. New relationship, mentions of oral sex, p in v sex and brief anal exploration (f receiving).

Warnings: brief mention of terminal illness.

Words: 3300

Thank you @arcielee for test-reading, tidying and generally helping out with this little experimental fic!

It has been six days since Aemond kissed you goodbye and shoved his skis and his snow gear and his aluminium suitcase into the back of a taxi. Six days, and you haven't heard from him since, not a single message, and no indication that he's read yours either. Six days, and the farewell kiss was just a sterile peck on the side of your mouth, because the driver was watching, and Aemond was in a foul mood already.

You suppose the thought of two weeks with one's extended family can do that to a person. And especially when one's family is as messy as Aemond's.

They're in the tabloids sometimes, Aegon with a model on his arm, Rhaenyra spotted topless in Ibiza, Viserys leaving the hospital looking more dead than alive. Old money, and every bit the stereotype too, with their luncheons and country estates and public feuds over inheritance. And the incident, of course. But Aemond never talks about that.

The family trip is solely his father's idea. Or, his father's command, really. His final wish; that they should all spend one last Christmas together at the chalet, eating venison and going cross-country skiing and whatever else rich people do on their alpine retreats. It is all very Town & Country, so far removed from anything you know. They have a coat of arms, for fucks sake, and Aemond wears it engraved on the back of his watch; on the cufflinks that sit in a velvet box atop his dresser. For special occasions, and you'd be lying if you said the thought had never crossed your mind: Aemond in coat and tie and cufflinks, yourself decked out in white and his mother's antique veil. Champagne fountain and monogrammed napkins and an article in Vogue Weddings. Double spread.

But you're getting way ahead of yourself. You have only been seeing each other for about three months, and it is still very new and foreign. Terrifying as well, and your heart leaps to your throat when your phone starts ringing and Aemond's name lights up on the screen.

Six days, and it's a quarter to midnight now, so that almost makes it seven.

"Hey," he says softly. "Did I wake you?"

"No!“ you exclaim, a little too excitedly despite your efforts to sound casual. “I was just watching something. How's St. Moritz?"

"Fine," he says, but it doesn't sound at all convincing, and there's a faint sound in the background. Like a scraping noise, and you imagine that he's picking at his cuticles; at the little chips in his nails.

"Aemond," you call, somewhat alarmed by the silence. "Is everything okay?"

The scraping gets louder before it finally stops and Aemond says sort of.

There was a fight at supper, apparently. An actual fight, with punching and shoving and everything. Straight out of Real Housewives, only even more insane, and Aemond started it, because of course he did. And all because of a stupid joke his nephew made.

"Isn't he like, fourteen?" you ask, and Aemond sighs on the other end of the line.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Something like that".

Jesus.

You are tempted to ask him why he would do such a thing, but you kind of already know. Because of his father, because of his sister, because of the incident. Because Viserys would rather dote on his grandsons than his own children, and because Aemond has chronic pains, and the prosthetic gets itchy, and he dented his car when he couldn't see how close that concrete pillar actually was.

And probably also because he doesn't hold his liquor very well.

"Aemond, you're a grown man," you begin, and your voice is kind and gentle, but you can almost hear how he's pinching the bridge of his nose. "I mean, I understand why you'd be upse - angry, but like. He's a child."

"I know," he sighs, shuffling around with something. "I shouldn't have done it.”  

There's the click of a lighter and then a deep exhale as he blows out smoke, and it reminds you of when you first met. You used to watch Aemond all the time before you worked up the courage to talk to him. He would lean so leisurely against the wall, cigarette in hand and that haughty smirk on his lips; leather jacket, black jeans, hair artfully tousled and tied back. Tall and handsome and just so fucking cool.

"Thought you quit," you tease, and it sounds a little chiding, but it isn't meant like that.

"I did," Aemond says. "I got this one from my uncle - it would have been rude to decline.”

He is quiet then, but it's a sort of contemplative silence. Like somehow you can feel there is more.

"It pisses me off," he finally says. "This whole charade - it's exhausting.”

Yes, you think. It must be. All of his family trapped under the same roof, forced to confront so many painful memories, yet act as though none of it ever happened. Smile and laugh and play house, and all so Viserys Targaryen can pretend he was a better man. Go to his grave with the comfortable illusion that he did not create the rift that tore his family apart.

If Aemond was with you right now, you would wrap your arms around him and kiss his face and his lovely hands, but all you can do at this moment is give a weak yeah, I understand.

"It has been the most miserable week," he moans. "Although - Aegon did fall off a lift today. He's fine, it was just a T-bar. But that was fun."

You giggle. "Oh, poor Aegon.”

"It was his own fault," Aemond snorts. "He had Jägerbombs for lunch. Anyway - " he clears his throat, back to the brooding mood and somber voice. "I'm sorry I called you so late. And for not being in touch. And for... everything else.”

"It's fine," you shrug. "I don't mind. But, Aemond - " you pause, thinking of how best to word the next part, "I think you should at least consider apologising to -"

"No." he cuts in. "Absolutely not.”

There's an awkward silence then, and you worry you might have overstepped your boundaries. He is so difficult to read sometimes, so elusive. You never quite know what he needs from you, sympathy, or flattery, or reassurance, or nothing at all.

You can, however, think of a way to distract him from his brooding. And maybe sex isn't the healthiest way to cope with one's issues, but still. It is miles better than beating up family members.

You twirl a lock of hair around your finger, even though he can’t see it. "What are you doing right now? Are you alone?"

“Yes,“ he says, curious. “Why?”

"What are you wearing?"

"Same thing I always wear," he responds, but then his voice turns coy and teasing, and he asks "what are you wearing?"

You look down at your fuzzy socks, your faded shorts, the worn-out knickers underneath.

"Honestly? Not anything nice."

Aemond laughs, a real laugh this time, and then he tells you just make something up.

The first thing that comes to your mind is that dress you saw the other day. Aemond would like it. He is not into extravagant lingerie and things like that, always likes it best when you are just you. Dry patches on your lips, bruises on your legs and all. Natural. 

But he is still a man though. So, not too natural.

"I'm wearing - I'm wearing a little slip. Silk, and it's the prettiest colour. It is soft to the touch," - you run a finger up your thigh, imagining it - "and it is very short. My legs are out and everything. And my tits look so good in it.”

"They always do," Aemond says, and he sounds a little husky when he asks what is underneath?

"Those panties you liked last time. With the little bows on them?"

"Yeah," he breathes. "I remember.”

"Good. Just the panties, and nothing else. And the dress is so thin - it feels like nothing when you touch it."

You lay back on top of your bed, your hand working its way down the waistband of your sleeping shorts, phone pressed to your ear. 

"I want to touch you," Aemond sighs, voice all soft and gentle. "I want to feel your body against mine.”

You blush. He is quite the romantic sometimes. Jesus, Aemond is so out of your league. You can hardly believe he'd even look in your direction, let alone kiss you and hold you and let you sleep with your head on his chest.

"Aemond" you whisper, slowly stroking your between your legs. "I'm getting all wet. All wet for you".

His breath hitches, and there's a faint oh, followed by the rustling of fabric as he palms himself over his pants. Lowering his voice and breathing touch yourself.

"I already am" you purr. "I wish it was you, though. Wish you could feel how much I want you."

Aemond says fuck, he wishes that too. You're getting him so hard. So hard just thinking about your pretty cunt.

"I'd like to suck your cock" you sigh longingly, and he immediately responds with a sharp breath that makes warmth spread in your stomach.

"Wait -" he mutters. "Hang on".

You hear the metallic clink of his belt, the sound of his zipper, and you bite your lip thinking about what he's doing. Taking his stiff cock in hand, brushing slender fingers along the shaft, running a thumb over the tip to collect the little drops that have already leaked from it. He has the prettiest cock, long and thick and veiny. Uncut, and blushing red at the tip when you slide his foreskin back. 

How you wish you could feel it in your mouth.

"Tell me how you'd do it" Aemond pleads, and there's a slight strain in his voice that suits it so well. 

"I'll start out slow," you whisper, "with just my tongue and my hand. Get your cock big and hard before I take you in my mouth. And then I'll wrap my lips around the head, and I'll press my tongue against the little slit there. And - and I’ll lick the tip of your cock until you’re begging me for more.”

He sighs, and you can hear how his hand settles into a steady rhythm, up and down over his hard cock. Filthy. 

You close your eyes and continue.

"I'd take you so deep, all the way to the back of my throat. And I would tease you - I'd be real fucking mean. I want you leaking in my mouth, all needy and desperate for me. Like, so you can barely hold it back anymore. You'd be ready to explode.”

"Don't stop - " he pants, still keeping up the stroking, pausing just briefly to spit into his hand.

"I'll edge you before I let you come. So many times, you'll be desperate for release. I want your balls so tight and heavy - all tender from how much you need to come - ”

Aemond moans, and he's stroking himself faster, tugging and tugging and filling his bedroom with damp, lewd noises. You know how he likes it; firm grip when he moves up, slack going back down, slight twist at the tip.

"And then?"

"I'd let you come in my mouth."

"No," he breathes. "I want to come inside of you.”

You give a little giggle; he always wants that. Occasionally he’ll finish all over your breasts, or in your mouth, but mostly he likes it the old fashioned way. Your bodies molded together and his cock pulsing deep inside of you. Pressing his forehead to yours or moaning into the back of neck. 

You like that too - but there are other things you might like to try as well. 

"You should come on my panties," you say coyly. "Like, inside them. And then I'd wear them all day, and just walk around with your cum between my legs.”

Aemond groans again, loudly, hoarse and strained and so fucking hot.

"You'd like that?" you tease. "I would feel it there all day. All wet and warm in my little panties. Right against my cunt."

"Fuck," he moans. "Fuck - I'd like that so much."

The sounds of his tugging get louder and faster, and you picture him laid out on his bed, cock throbbing in his hand, hips thrusting up and up into his own grip. Lone eye closed and mouth falling open. 

He lets out a soft moan, and a whine - and then the stroking abruptly stops. Close call, that one. Aemond curses, and you can hear him taking deep breaths, calming his body, halting the mounting need to ejaculate. Too soon.

“Can't wait to have you,” he mutters, and you give a quiet hum in response. 

“Please tell me how.”

He takes a slow, steadying breath.

"I want to be on top of you" he whispers, low, so no one will hear.  "Don't care if you're on your back or what, as long as you're underneath me".

"I'd be on my stomach. You can fuck me from behind".

“Yes,” he sighs. “I want to put my cock so deep inside you. I want you to feel how hard you make me. And I'll pin you down - I'll hold you in place when I take you" - his voice goes all ragged as he starts to slowly stroke his cock again - "fuck you're so beautiful when you're under me."

You mewl, and Aemond’s breath hitches.

“Yeah, and I'll fuck you slow, but hard. I want you squirming on my cock…”  he trails off, and for a moment there is only the sound of heavy breathing, his and yours. 

You had paused your own ministrations before, too focused on finding the right words, but now you begin your gentle stroking again. Underneath your knickers, fingers massaging right over your clit, so good that you let out a little whimper. 

“I love feeling you inside of me” you breathe, “I love it when you lie on top of me - ”

“Yeah?” He gasps, and you bite your lip. 

“Yeah. And I love it when you touch my - ass. Oh It feels so good when you touch me like that…”

Just saying it makes you a little flustered. You would not consider yourself very prudish, but there are some things that make you feel bashful, and this is one of them, the things he does to your backside when you’re together. And Aemond knows, and maybe that makes it even more arousing for him, the filthiness of it, the taboo. 

“How” he moans, his tone urgent and so incredibly intimate. “How do you want me to touch you -”

You have to take a very deep breath before you continue - you feel so sheepish, talking about that, but you are a woman in love, so for Aemond you’ll do your best. 

“I want you to slide your hand down my back and in between my cheeks,” you whisper, blushing all over. “It makes me so wet… feels so good when you caress me there - when you brush your fingers right over my tight little hole while you’re fucking me - maybe next time I’ll let you slip one inside…“

Aemond gives a strangled groan at that, quickening his strokes and hissing oh fuck. He is so close now, you can hear it. 

“Say my name” he begs, breathing so fast and tugging frantically on his cock. All hard and swollen now, his hips thrusting up, his balls pulling tight; oh you can imagine it so easily. 

“Aemond” you whisper. “Aemond, my love” - he moans louder, strokes harder - Aemond, I want you to fuck me, I want to feel your big, hard cock - 

Aemond chokes out a sob, and you say his name one last time as he reaches his peak. 

He holds back when he comes, muffling the helpless groans and grunts that you always love so much. But you can hear his strained sighs, his ragged breaths, and the sound is only slightly distorted through the speaker. If you close your eyes it's like he's there with you, gasping right in your ear. 

Oh you can’t wait to see him again, to get to touch him, cuddle up to him at night and run your finger down the perfect angle of his nose.

"You didn't come," Aemond says, accusingly, and you hold back a chuckle because he doesn't like it when you laugh at him. But it is as amusing as it is sweet, this need of his to do everything to perfection. Like if every time he is intimate with you isn't the BEST sex of your life, then he has failed as a lover; as a man.

“I did it on purpose” you reassure. “I'm saving it for you. All for you. Only for you.”

Aemond gives a somewhat dissatisfied hum, but he is occupied with something else now, moving around and fiddling with things. Cleaning himself up, you suppose. If only you were there to do it for him, you'd lick his cum right off his skin.

There is a loud noise in the background all of a sudden, someone knocking on Aemond’s door, and he scrambles to make himself presentable and tells you to hang on. The sounds are muffled - you assume he is covering the microphone - but you can hear another man's voice, and Aemond saying yes, I'll be right down, and then just fuck off, will you when the intruder won't take a hint.

"Sorry about that," he says awkwardly. "Aegon wants to go out. I should go with him".

You giggle at the thought - it is difficult to imagine Aemond at one of those tacky aprés-ski bars, glow stick and vodka-cranberry in hand. “Sounds fun!”

"Yeah, well, my mother would want me to,” he says sullenly. "You know, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.”

"What's the age of consent in Switzerland?" you jest, but Aemond just gives an exasperated sigh and mutters too bloody low.

You pause, unsure of what to say next, and again there's that loaded silence until he clears his throat.

"I will tell them about you. My family - I'll tell them soon. I promise.”

You can feel heat rising in your cheeks. 

Aemond purposely keeps you far away from his family, and he’ll go to great lengths to avoid running into them when you’re together. In fact he prefers not to go out at all, and you have never questioned it or complained. He’s got you hook, line and sinker - could tell you right to your face that he was embarrassed to be seen with you, and you would still be at his beck and call. 

You shrug. “It's fine. Don't worry about it. You don't have to tell them. It's fine.”

“No it isn't,” he says gravely. “You're important to me. So I should treat you as such.”

He says something else after that too, but you aren't listening, still stuck on the words you just heard. You're important to me. You're important.

It makes your heart leap with joy, and you are only pulled back to reality when Aemond calls out your name, and then sweetheart?

He doesn't call you that very often. It is always so nice when he does.

“Sorry” you blush. “I zoned out. But - I've missed you. I miss you. It's nice to hear your voice again.”

There's no way to tell, but somehow you feel like Aemond is smiling.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yours too.”

You tell him to have fun with Aegon and whatever horrid establishment they end up at, and Aemond tells you goodnight and says he'll call you as soon as he's back home. He doesn't say he misses you too, but that's okay. You know he does.

Because you're important.