#ironed lapels

[alastors-left-lapel]

Incorrect Character Quotes

Alastor: *knocks are Y/n’s door* Are you decent?

Y/n: Never!

Alastor: Are you dressed?

Y/n: Yes!

Alastor: *nodding and opening the door* That’s the answer I was looking for.

[felidaeng]

been thinking about it

[ashleabechaz]

WE’RE OPEN AGAIN BABY!

After a long break I’m finally back and the shop is chock full of NEW GOODIES and LOADS OF RESTOCKS!

https://ashleabechaz.etsy.com

[darkstaria]

Yandere Batfam - Soulmate Soul Animal Au.

Chapter 6:

Summary: After being ambushed previously in Gotham's streets, you awake alone and afraid, in a strange building.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 7.

----

A furious pounding beat at your skull, a liquid of some kind dripped down from your head. You blinked your eyes open, greeted by what could only be some kind of warehouse.

You were in a daze, barely recognising what was in front of you. What vision you had was muddled by pain and your hearing was drowned out by a piercing beat in your ears.

What...?

You could hardly think.

The world was a messy tsunami of pain and confusion. That is... Until a flash of green, white and red beamed into your eyes, a sneering smile on its face.

You gasped. Breath caught in your throat, as your chin was caught in his hand.

The Joker.

"HahahahahahaHAHAHAHA!" The laugh echoed throughout the building as your surprise turned into shakes. The hand left go as Joker's chortle turned into a full laugh, but that was hardly a relief.

This was, quite literally, the worst situation you could have ever gotten into. Out of everyone who would have an interest in Batman's soulmate, why must it be him?

You instinctively try to move, but soon realise you've been restrained, ropes tying you down to an iron chair. They don't budge.

The stomping of shoes drew your attention back to him, as the Joker approached you again.

"Well now." He began, a beaming grin stretching his face. "Lookie what we have here. You know, I was having a wonderful night, finally out on the town, able to meet all my old friends again. Then I meet you, and you know what I think?"

He rested a hand on your shoulder. You fought a shiver.

"What a... great new friend?" You try. You go for a smile of your own. You're certain it looks more like a grimace.

A mocking laugh is his response. Then, with a sudden twist, his hands grasp your collar, bringing you to his eye level. The movement forces you against the ropes that constrict your stomach, suffocating you.

"I find... a sniveling little brat, that just so happens, TO HAVE A BAT PROTECTING-"

A screech cuts him off, a flurry of wings diving directly into his face, what you could barely make out as a beak aimed at his eyes. The pain you're under causes you to take a moment to understand what's going on, as Joker swings a crowbar at the flying figure.

It was... Hood. Pecking and clawing at the Joker, doing whatever it could to draw him away. And it was working too.

That is, until Joker pressed down on his flower, causing a spray of gas to surge outward directly into Hood's line of flight. It slowed it down, a pause as Hood squawked in pain. A pause that was swiftly taken advantage of, as Joker swung a brutal arc into Hood, the crowbar sending the bird flying across the room and into a crumpled pile on the ground.

"No!" The scream tore itself out of you, a primal sort of agony you never thought you would ever feel after you had withdrawn from thoughts of your soulmates. It was like losing him all over again. Vigilante or not, Hood was a bird. Birds didn't typically survive a hit from a crowbar. If Hood died here, what would you do? One of the connections that had tormented you all your life, over just like that.

The scream drew Joker's attention back to you, a realisation that sank deeply in your throat. He approached you again, an air of casualness across his figure.

"Birds, what little pests. Good thing I always carry around pest spray." He laughs, adjusting the flower resting on his lapel. "I've always preferred bats." A thunk noise sounded out as he spoke, drawing your attention to a small cage he dropped.

It was a birdcage. Inside that birdcage was...

"Batman?!"

The bat inside was still, its gaze fixed on Joker's movements, but it did shift briefly to watch you for but a second as you spoke its name.

"Hahaha!" Joker's laugh was like nails on a chalkboard. "Turns out all you need to capture a bat is the right bait."

"How..?" You mumbled, the words unconsciously forming on your tongue due to the shock.

"Within a moment of my crowbar's acquaintance with your dear old head, Bats appeared! A bit of a nuisance at first, but a few threats at that neck of yours calmed him right down!" Joker admitted, the biggest smile you had seen yet on his face. He chuckled at the mere memory of it, as you shook in horror.

Two of your soulmates were now down. You couldn't stop shaking, horrified. All your options were dwindling and Joker looked more... murdery by the second.

Your attention was caught by a feeling of feathers brushing against your arms, the shaking making the thing touch you. You paused for a miniscule second, as you tried to think of what it was. Wait.

Was another one of your soulmates here? But rather than fight, this one was untying you? Or maybe gnawing at the ropes, whichever option was more plausible for a bird/bat.

Could you stall long enough to get out? It seemed like the only possibility left.

"Why...why do this? What enjoyment are you finding from this?" Maybe not the best line of questioning, but it was all your pounding head could come up with.

"Why?" Joker echoed, pausing for a moment. "Because I don't take kindly to cheaters. Me and Bats have something special. I dealt with my soul chain long ago, and yet! I find him cheating on me with this lousy excuse for a time waster!" He ends his shout pointing at you, a scowl on his painted face. It's possibly the worst expression you've seen on Joker yet.

"Aren't the other Robins his soulmates too? Why are you only targeting me?"

"I dealt with one of the flying rats long ago, quite a great plan if I may say so, but he just came back! I don't feel like wasting my time with this eternal game of wack-a-mole, so I've decided on a new method."

What's the method...?" You ask, reluctantly.

"You." He smiles.

He steps closer, withdrawing a gun from his pocket. "Thanks for the opportunity to capture Bats, my dear, but I've had enough of his chains getting in the way of our little game. I'll take much better care of little Batsy once you die, well, to an extent anyway! Hahaha!"

He tosses the gun up and down, carelessly as he walks towards you.

Up.

What could you do?

Down.

Hood was still crumpled in the corner, likely unconscious.

Up.

Batman was shaking the cage, unable to do anything else in its rage.

Down.

The unknown soul animal hadn't finished removing the ropes.

Across. The gun meets your temple, a few inches away from your head. You lock eyes with him. He pulls the trigger.

Pop! You flinch, coming face to face with a little Bang! flag that popped out of the gun.

You sigh, a momentary relief. You've been spared. You shift a little, feeling the ropes loosen. Your soul animal was doing its job well. You intake a few breaths, as Joker slaunters away from you, chuckling under his breath.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to regain yourself amidst all the pain.

BANG!

"Agh-!" You jolt, shooting straight up. There's a pain in your cheek, a metallic liquid dripping down.

Turning your head ever so slightly, you spy the Bang flag lodged into the wall. It was a real gun after all.

But..

Why didn't he shoot you?

"Guns are a little too dry, don't you think?" You turn back around, immediately coming face to face with the Joker, an image that makes you flinch.

There's a crowbar in his hands.

"I don't ever repeat jokes, but, my first attempt with this weapon didn't stick too long. I don't want to lower the bar of my comedy, but maybe it'll work this time? Second time's the charm!"

"It's actually the third time.." You speak, nerves causing your words to tumble out. So that's why he didn't shoot you. He intends to make your final moments as painful as possible.

He smiles in response to your quip, lifting the bar up.

"W-wait!" You cried out, desperation pooling into whatever would give you a chance at survival. "Couldn't you do anything else?! Brainwash me, use me as a hostage, isn't it just a waste if you kill me?!" You practically scream the final words, your panic reaching a crescendo of horror.

The Joker's reply is simple.

"Nope!"

He swings.

BANG!

A bullet flies through his hand, forcing him to drop the crowbar as he pulls back.

You both turn, spotting a bulky man in black at the entrance of the warehouse.

He's wearing a red helmet.

"Joker.." The voice is deep, a threatening timbre you'd only hear replicated in nightmares.

"Let. The civilian. Go.” His gun clicks.

“Urgh. Speak of the devil.” Joker complains, unphased. “My plans are being ruined and it's not even by Bats. What is the world coming to?”

“Wait…” The Joker pauses, noticing a fallacy in the vigilantes’ words. “Civilian? Oh, HAHAHA! OHHhhh you have no idea what’s going on here do you?” The Joker snickers in delight, giving you a conniving glance.

“Oh my, oh my. I didn't realise you were also a jokester.” Joker squishes your cheeks, a little too harsh to be anything but painful. He laughs again at the expression on your face.

There's no response from the figure, but the bullet that Joker barely dodges the next second later is answer enough. It grants you and the Joker some distances, so you're grateful.

A flapping of wings draws your attention, a dark blue blur sailing through the room before landing on your lap. Nightwing.

You blink in realisation, finally understanding why not all your soul animals had appeared to help you. Wing had led one of the bats to you. You glanced over. Judging from the helmet, was this Red Hood.

Uh oh. You hoped he didn't notice Hood in the corner.

Or Batman. Or the soul animal freeing you- oh no you were absolutely screwed weren’t you?

You gulp.

“Wait.. You?” Red Hood’s modulated voice didn’t convey any emotion, but it couldn't disguise the hesitance in which he spoke.

Exposed.

“Uhmmm… no?” You tried.

Wing nuzzled your cheek. Hood’s gaze intensified.

“Okay! Okay yes, but I swear there's a reason why I never came to any of you- it wasn't because of you-” Oh dear that one was a blatant lie.

“I.. I mean, I just didn't want-” What could you do, what could you say? You didn't want to lie, but the truth wasn't good either.

In-between your frantic ramblings however, the Joker had snuck up on Red Hood, taking a lucky swing that missed by about a centimeter.

Red Hood’s retaliation was swift, the two suddenly engaging in a battle of force that was very much leaning in Red Hood’s favour. Although, ever so often Red Hood gave a wince of pain. Did Hood’s soul animal form’s state injure him slightly?

That question would go unanswered, as the ropes around you crumpled, revealing Red to be the soul animal that had been bailing you out all this time.

Well. You weren't going to get a better opportunity than this. Pushing Red and Wing off your lap, you rush out, aiming for one of the broken windows.

Batman makes a slight growling noise as you pass his birdcage. You try not to think about it.

“Hey!” A batarang flies past you, the rope attached to it meeting no target as you trip on some broken glass.

“Ah!” You mumble, surprised at your good (?) forture. There's now a cut on your leg. Great.

Red Hood is subsequently distracted from any more attempts to detain you, as the Joker takes another swing that gets a little too close for comfort in response, laughing all the while.

Clumsily falling out of the window, you thank Lady Gotham that the Joker kidnapped you on the ground floor, so there’s no drop whatsoever.

You sigh, injuries now taking a toll as the constant adrenaline was wearing off. You stumble forward.

Red and Wing land on your shoulders. Of course.

You limp out into Gotham’s alleyways, oblivious to the movement of a lithe figure on the rooftop, watching you.

----

Yeah those who guessed Joker were correct! Enjoy a cookie if you did! It seemed criminal to not have a chapter that explored how a soulmate universe would influence Batman and Joker's relationship, so that's what I did!

Oh and yeah, poor Reader. They are not having too good of a time rn. All these injuries aren't really gonna help them plead their case either.

A bit more of Jason this time too! How funnnn. I definitely feel bad for birdy Hood though. Red Hood may be super skilled but it's a little too unrealistic for him to solo as a bird :(

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Tumblr just told me I can't tag anyone else, so the list ends here. Hopefully I can tag the remaining people in a comment!

[ssahotchnerr]

how about hotch fluff with reader who's love language is acts of services?

a bit longer

oh to spoil and love on aaron 🥰 cw; fem!reader, established relationship, fluff <3

You'd do anything to make Aaron's life easier.

He worked tremendously hard, took on a lot - things, scenarios beyond your own comprehension, and still came home as the loving, extraordinary man he was, both as a partner and a father.

You wanted to help in any way you could. Even if that meant setting an alarm for far too early.

He's told you before, and it wasn't surprising either, he would wake up early while on a case, to iron his suit jacket as needed. And while it made perfect sense, you weren't afraid to admit it tugged at your heartstrings in a melancholy, endearing way.

Last night, Aaron had gotten home much later than he would have liked, missed seeing Jack altogether, as he was already asleep. He ate a quick dinner, and climbed into bed with you.

As a result, he hadn't been in the best mood going to sleep, especially considering he had to wake up early to iron the one suit he had at home - he defeatedly expressed as he got comfortable. The rest were at the cleaners, which was closed by the time he left the office. He even uttered the consideration of using the spare jacket he left at the office.

Aaron didn't get enough sleep to begin with. And unbeknownst to him, after he quickly drifted off, you sneakily shut off his alarm and turned yours on.

Six in the morning came fast. The second the tone rang, you shut it off, hoping it hadn't managed to awake Aaron. You laid there silently for a moment or two, just to ensure he hadn't stirred. He was either the world's heaviest sleeper, or the lightest, depending on the day.

When you were confident he hadn't, you slipped out of bed. Slowly. Lifting the arm slung over your waist and setting it gently aside, peeling back the blanket, or Aaron didn't subconsciously feel your weight leaving the comfort of bed. You exited the bedroom just as leisurely - heading towards the laundry room and hoping you didn't stub your toe in the dark hallway in the process.

His suit was already hung and waiting, right where he left it the night before. After blinking several times to adjust to the light, you clicked the iron on, yawning as you waited for it to warm up.

You turned his suit jacket inside out, preventing any potential damage to the material. In addition, you triple checked the heat setting, making sure it was the proper one. You started with the back: laying it flat on the board and gliding it along the surface in a steady motion.

The floor creaked behind you. Glancing behind your shoulder, you saw Aaron leaning against the doorframe, rubbing his eye.

"What're you doing up?" He asked, raspy.

You ignored his question, offering a gentle, lazy smile in return. "Go back to sleep."

His eyebrows furrowed over his eyes as he observed you. He was thoroughly - and adorably - more confused due to his sleep induced haze. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. So go back to sleep." You insisted softly, resuming your task. But contrary to your words, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist. It was all too easy to lean back into Aaron's embrace.

"Ironing my suit?" His voice was closer now, at level with your ear. The proximity enhanced his sexy, deep morning voice. "What time is it?"

"That's not important." You teased with a shrug, flipping his jacket to tackle the front next. Your following few words left you nonchalantly, as if it were no big deal. And it wasn't. "I changed yours, and set mine."

He blinked, still waking up and still trying to comprehend what was happening. "Why?"

"So you could get more sleep."

His hold on you loosened slightly, pleasantly surprised. "You didn't need to do that."

"I know." You simply put it, pressing down on the jacket's lapels. "I wanted to."

"I could've-"

"Honey, you don't get nearly enough sleep as it is. If me doing this," you shook the iron lightly for emphasis, "means you get an extra thirty minutes, I want you to get those thirty extra minutes. And besides, I wanna help. You come home stressed and your job is demanding and I want to make things easier on you. You do a lot for others, for me, and I want to repay the favor."

You hadn't meant to go off on a tangent, but it was true. You only wished you could give him the whole world (But if someone asked Aaron, you already had).

"Watch where you wave that thing." Aaron quipped, his tone a humorous deadpan. A smile tugged at the ends of his lips, his arms retightening around you, squeezing you lovingly. "You're sweet."

You blushed at the simple compliment, "And you work too hard."

"Then it's a good thing I have you to slow me down." He kissed your temple, and you could just feel the love radiating off him, he didn't need to verbally say it. "Thank you sweetheart. Seriously."

"You're welcome, now will you please go back to bed? Or do I need to threaten you with the iron again?"

Aaron laughed, a hand squeezing your hip affectionately. "Only if you join me. I could care less if my suit has one more, minor wrinkle if it means I get to lay with you a bit longer."

[k0yaz]

(I don't do requests often, so I read your rules like three times out of nervousness 😭)

Could you write an Il Capitano x fem!reader where the reader is forced to walk home by her family after a ball. While walking back, Capitano picks her up and offers to take the reader to where she lives. Maybe toss in some soft/kind Capitano?

Thank you so much, I hope this is an ok request!

pitch black.

Pairings: capitano x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, assy family members, written before natlan, so capitano might be slightly ooc, can be read as platonic or romantic, yum frostbite yay, ngl id cry myself to sleep if I was in snezhnaya bc I can’t handle cold weather, probably an iron deficiency, lazy writing at the end again AUUUUGHHHH, freakytano my glorious king, not proofread.

A/N: HIHIHIHI ALSO IM SORRY IF I MISREAD THE FAMILY THING BUTTTT I ACTUALLY WROTE ON A WEEKDAY YAY also guys should I do like a special for 1k cause my followers are eating rn ok but seriously thank u so much for all the support love yall!! 🕯️

Cold swishes of air circled the pitch black sky faintly illuminated by a star or two, ruffling the silky fluff of a heavy coat adorning your figure. You firmly tightened your grasp around the lapels of the large coat, fabric wrinkling and dragged between the clutches of your paling knuckles tinted a soft pink from Snezhnaya’s biting cold.

Hollow crunches of your footsteps simply rang aloud in your years as your father’s words piled up in your mind. They were merely harmless, yet the intent behind your family’s dismissal stung like a sharpened blade spearing into your chest. But of course, it wasn’t anything new. A gust of wind howled into the canal of your ear sharply, ringing the ill memory of your family spitting the venom laced words of ordering you to trudge home in the nation’s burrowing winter. They didn’t even bother to provide a coat or furnish your body in any way, simply shooing you off as if they were desperate to make you keep your distance from them.

You had been awkwardly situated next to them, the chatter making you shift uncomfortably in an off putting stance, similar to that of an upright statue. Their exasperating laughs bellowed throughout the ballroom obnoxiously, catching an occasional glance of a person or two eyeing them. If hunching your shoulders in embarrassment wasn’t enough, their attitude was more than enough for you to have a strong urge to pray for the Tsaritsa’s wrath to be bestowed upon them.

People had noticed your huddled stance, tracing the rim of your glass in circular motions in hopes to distract yourself from the growing oddity of your placement in the ball. And without hesitation, they would of course begin to approach you. Possibly out of pity? Perhaps even the goodness of their heart wanting to accompany the girl who wasn’t very engaged in the celebration. Each person would approach you, friendly smiles stretching their face as they’d attempt to greet you—only for it to be cut short by your parents’ attention snapping to the guest stood before you, slicing the conversation short as they’d beckon the person to come speak with them instead.

Tremors of disdain pooled inside of you upon seeing your family members so obviously attempt to shove out any possible chance of a trail of hopeful socialization paved on your direction. Your isolation only grew more and more frustrating as indistinct chatter bounced off the walls of the ball, your eyes following the sound of the echo trailing from the marble structure to the intricate chandelier and candles flickering. At this moment, you purely felt alone. Isolated from everything as you mentally stood still in a pitch black void, with drowned out voices clouding the lonesome darkness.

“(Name). I think it’s about time you headed home.” Your father rasped out, not even making eye contact with you as his gaze was locked onto the champagne bottle and glass snug between his hands. “The ball is over anyway. We’re only staying for extra drinks. Your mother and I will be out meeting some other relatives at the nearby restaurant.”

“Father, it’s too cold for me to walk back home. You know how-“

“Oh, (Name). You’ll be fine. I raised you to be an independent woman. You’ll find the way home just fine.”

Pushing past your father, your mother pokes her shoulder out as well, casting you a glance as she chimes in to the conversation.

“He’s right, dear. Go ahead and head home for the night. I trust you’ll fare just fine without us accompanying you home.”

“Mother, that’s not what I-“

“(Name). That’s enough. You should head home. End of discussion.”

You knew you couldn’t properly explain to them. They’d always toss you aside and swat off your remarks as such. You bit back your protest, swallowing as you scanned the ballroom for a spare coat anywhere. There were a few harbingers around, so a raggedy stray coat shouldn’t be too uncommon.

“Sorry. I’ll be heading home now.” You submitted under your breath, masking your mixed irritation dissolved into your tone. You only further grimaced slightly as your mother smiled and leaned over to place a faux affectionate kiss to your forehead. With one dismissive wave once more, her and your father turned their back to you to exit the ball, shouldering through the heavy spruce doors packed with people crowding them.

You blinked, fervent shivers making you tremble against each flake of snow that brushed along the exposed parts of your skin as you realized you had just stepped midway through. The searing cold made your head spin as you began to lose yourself, frostbite clouding your senses and enveloping the tips of your fingers slowly. No matter. You could make it home if you simply stopped spacing out and thinking about your shitty parents. Just then, a loud crunch resounded with the howling wind, heavy clanks of metal being heard in addition to the crunches.

The heavy thuds only seemed to become clearer as they grew closer and closer, a light drag of chains shuffling behind you as well. Your heart nearly pounded out of your chest in anticipation, a sense of apprehension overtaking you as you clutched the coat draped over you tighter in a pathetic attempt to shield yourself using the thick fabrics. The thuds came to a halt as your eyes slowly roamed over the man who halted before you. His figure loomed over you, as his towering frame was quite intimidating to the least.

The metal lining of his mask enshrouded his face in a sightless black, cloaking his face completely as it seemed like an empty void bore into the gap of his helmet. Streams of jet black hair along with that adorned along the cheekbone of his mask and down his shoulders, a few stray strands of his long hair edged along the sharp steel edges of his mask. On top of that. A thick white coat with black fluff was draped along his shoulders, the small fabric emblem in the corner pertaining to that of the Fatui. If he was wearing this coat, your best bet was he was definitely a Fatui harbinger. Likely a strong one at that.

Backing up slightly, your eyes wandered over the man’s figure as you stood neatly frozen in place, the wind swaying his streaming hair while the harbinger looked down upon you.

“Is something the matter, ma’am?”

His low voice cast the illusion of protruding through the thickened frozen air, a faint muffle present in his speech considering he had spoken through the hollow opening of his seemingly endless mask.

“I was just walking home..”

“You seemed to be troubled, though.”

You simply wanted to scoff, yet you only tilted your head away from the harbinger in shame. Had your family humiliated you this much to the point where a figure of such high status took pity on you?

Sucking in a breath, you slowly turned your head back towards him, his body frozen in place, and looking down at you like a great statue. His gaze remained locked on you—yet you couldn’t tell due to the hollow blackness pitched into the carving of his mask. “Your name?” He hummed lowly, his body still enveloped by his large coat, and arms hidden under the sides of the thick pale silk.

“(Name).” You replied bluntly, clearing your throat and lowering your voice almost immediately after as to not give a rude impression. “Yours?”

“Il Capitano.”

Capitano seemed to follow your lingering gaze as he spoke, tracing each spot your eyes transfixed on periodically. However, there was one particular spot you couldn’t take your eyes off, and he didn’t take long to notice you focused on the Fatui emblem at the corner of his harbinger coat. “First of the Fatui harbingers.” He added, sensing that you had been wondering his relation to the infamous organization serving under the Cryo Archon dispersed across Teyvat.

Sensing your evident shifts and subtle kicks of your feet, he didn’t take long to pick up on your troubled state fidgeting before him, as if you were afraid of a train of emotional danger clouding your judgement to even think properly—much less walk in such bitter conditions.

“Where are you off to so late, miss (Name)?”

“I’m just walking home…it’s important family business.”

You immediately added that last part as an audible afterthought, not wanting to involve a harbinger in your personal affairs. Capitano wasn’t stupid, however. The clouds of tension and fear were palpable amidst the indifferent expression of yours, flaked white from the occasional crystals of snow fluttering onto your face. Heavy clanks followed your words as he stepped forward carefully, not wanting to startle you as he made his way directly beside you.

The black fur lining the neckline of his coat brushed against your collarbone as he stood closely shoulder to shoulder with you, head kept high. He continued to stare off into the distance ahead of him, as if the burrowing fog wasn’t enshrouding the entire vicinity before the two of you and dimming your line of sight.

“Do you mind if I accompany you home?”

You blinked out of pure surprise. A harbinger? Walking you home? At first it was too much, you couldn’t possibly accept this, much less waste his time like this! However the chilling thought of walking alone at night so late sent a shiver down your spine, and it was definitely not just from the cold.

“Not at all, Sir Capitano.”

He shook his head, stepping forward as he beckoned you to catch up to him.

“No need for formalities. Just Capitano is fine.”

Nodding, you briskly walked beside him to match his pace. The two of you were purely silent as he walked into the swirls of fog patterned along the vicinity clouding the array of homes lined up on either side of the street. Shuffles of chains and howls of wind were the only noticeable sound echoing along the empty night roads, inducing a rush of calmness that replaced your previous anxious state. Halfway through, you proceeded to extend your arm out, pointer finger fixing ahead of you at a slight angle.

“My home should be around there.”

Capitano simply nodded, shifting his path in the direction of your finger’s aim as he slowly headed toward the squeezed space of homes cluttered along the sides. Once reaching your doorstep, he halted at the hardened spruce topped with a silver knocker situated above the center, as if he was awaiting your next words. You delivered him a sincere and thoughtful smile, folding your arms as you didn’t know what exactly to do with them. The freezing steel of the knocker uncomfortably brushed along the exposed skin of your shoulder, which was not effectively covered by the ragged coat, making you hunch over upon contact embarrassingly.

“Thank you, Capitano. I don’t think I could have reached home quick enough before passing out on the streets..”

He let out an affirmative hum once more, looking down at you through his helmet framed by his long hair which was now a bit unkempt from the winds mixed with the fog. But it was only a strand or two off anyway.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss (Name).” He paused briefly, before adding once more. “If you’re in any trouble that requires my assistance, don’t feel afraid to call me.” His words were sweet, yet they made you laugh faintly, making you biting your tongue at his low tone questioning what was so humorous about his statement.

“Ah. It’s nothing, Capitano. It’s just…we met under a few hours ago..”

“It’s not the time we knew each other that’s the matter. Rather, it’s the fact that it’s obvious you’re clearly going through something, (Name). I don’t mean to pry, I just want to do what is just for you. And I can tell you’re a good person.”

His words only brought that faint elated smile back onto your face, an unexplainable disappointment drooping within you when he steps away from the door to head back. You wave to him, and he gives a quick nod, turning his back to you and heading back to god knows where. That smile remained on your lips for quite a bit, even when you rocked open the door slowly into the comfort and warmth of your home.

What a respectable and kind man.

A/N: it’s 1 am and I have a quiz tomorrow morning LOLLL

Anyway I’m so happy I got this done yay

[p0orbaby]

Born to Love You Back

summary: a very important question is on the horizon

warnings: none

a/n: some rich!reader for you all

word count: 1.7k

-

The jeweller’s salon is tucked into a narrow street in the 1st arrondissement, down a street so narrow you almost missed it, the kind of place that doesn’t need signage because everyone who matters already knows where it is. The building itself is unassuming but pristine, a five-storey townhouse with cream-coloured stone, wrought-iron balconies, a double door painted a deep charcoal with brass fixtures that gleam in the waning afternoon sun. Outside, a delivery van idles, spilling faint notes of Edith Piaf from its radio as a man unloads crates of flowers: cyclamen, lilies, eucalyptus branches arranged in bursts of green and white. They’ll likely find their way to the salon’s interior within the hour, arranged with almost mathematical precision to evoke a studied nonchalance.

Inside, it’s quiet—museum-like but less sterile, hushed but alive. There’s a balance between the soft hum of conversation from another room and the faint, barely perceptible scent of lilies and leather. The floors are a herringbone parquet, polished to an impossible sheen, and the walls are panelled in dove grey. Everything about the space is designed to whisper money. Even the receptionist, stationed behind a desk lacquered to such a high gloss that it might double as a mirror. She’s mid-twenties, probably just out of university—Sciences Po, perhaps, or one of the Grandes Écoles—wearing a black crepe shift dress that hits just above the knee. Chanel, you’d bet, though it’s hard to tell from here. Her hair is sleek and straight, parted sharply in the middle, her nails painted in Rouge Noir, a colour so iconic it’s practically shorthand for Parisian sophistication. She greets you in French first, then switches to English the moment she hears your accent, though her tone remains precisely the same—warm but not too warm, deferential but not subservient.

Aurélie is waiting for you on the stairs. She’s maybe late thirties, tall, with that certain froideur that women in her line of work cultivate like a second skin. Her blazer is Saint Laurent—black, sharply tailored, peak lapels—and her silk blouse is an ivory so fine it catches the light in a way cotton never could. Her trousers skim the tops of her Louboutin heels—black patent leather, red soles so subtle they barely register. Her jewellery is minimal but deliberate: a single strand of Mikimoto pearls, their lustre so perfect they almost look artificial, and a pair of matching studs. She smiles when she greets you, her lips painted a nude so neutral it could have come from any number of Tom Ford palettes, but you’d guess Casablanca.

“This way, please,” she says, gesturing towards the stairs with a hand that’s manicured in a soft ballet pink, not a chip in sight. You follow her up, noting the faint scent of her perfume—Chanel No. 19, not a popular choice but a discerning one, with its crisp notes of galbanum and iris that feel both professional and unapologetically feminine.

On the landing, there’s a painting—a still life, maybe Cézanne, maybe a very good imitation. You don’t stop to look, but it catches your eye enough to linger in your mind as Aurélie opens a door to the second-floor where Its quieter, darker. The walls are a deep navy—Farrow & Ball, maybe Hague Blue—and the rug beneath the central display case is thick enough to swallow the sound of your footsteps. The case itself is glass-topped and backlit, the kind of lighting that renders diamonds almost supernatural in their brilliance. The rings are arranged by cut and carat, each one nestled in its own velvet slot, the symmetry of the display both calming and slightly overwhelming.

Aurélie steps aside, giving you space but remaining close enough to anticipate your needs. She stands with her hands loosely clasped in front of her, her posture immaculate.

“Take your time,” she says, standing back with the same attentive grace she’s shown since you arrived.

You nod, your gaze already falling to the rings. You’ve thought about this for weeks, maybe months, but standing here, it feels more real, the weight of the decision settling in your chest. Not because you’re uncertain—you’re not—but because this is a moment you’ll remember, whether you want to or not.

The first ring is a cushion-cut diamond, two carats, set in a band of pave diamonds. Platinum, naturally. The proportions are flawless, the craftsmanship impeccable, but as you turn it in the light, you know immediately it’s wrong. Too ornate. Too eager. Alexia would hate it. You imagine her wearing it for a moment, and the thought feels so ridiculous you almost laugh. She doesn’t like excess, at least not in the obvious sense. Her taste is clean, modern, unfussy.

The second ring is pear-shaped, slightly smaller, but with a brilliance that draws your eye. The stone feels alive under the light, its facets catching every subtle movement of your hand. For a moment, you hesitate, thinking about how it would look on her hand, but then you remember something she said once, flipping through a magazine in bed: “Pear cuts are too delicate. They look like they’re trying too hard.”

You sigh, not quite aloud, but enough for Aurélie to notice. She steps closer, just enough to offer a quiet suggestion. “Does she have a preference?” she asks, her tone light, neutral. “For the setting, or the cut?”

“She likes things simple,” you say, the words coming out more clipped than you mean them to. It’s not her fault, this unease you feel. “Classic, but not boring”

Aurélie nods, her expression unchanged, and steps back again. You wonder if she can sense the weight of what you’re doing—if she’s seen enough of this to know the signs. The third ring catches your eye before you reach for it. A round brilliant diamond, 1.8 carats, set in a plain platinum band. No pave, no halo, no embellishments. It’s striking in its simplicity, the kind of ring that doesn’t need to assert itself because it knows what it is. You pick it up, holding it to the light, and as you turn it, something settles in you. This is the one. You don’t need to overthink it.

Aurélie smiles faintly, as though she already knew. “Shall I prepare it for you?” she asks.

You nod, handing it back, and she takes it with both hands, disappearing into a back room.

While she’s gone, you pull out your phone. You shouldn’t call her—she’s probably still at training, her mind on drills and tactics—but you do it anyway. She answers on the third ring, her voice steady but soft, with that familiar cadence you’ve missed more than you’d care to admit.

“Hey,” she says, her voice clear, grounded, with just the faintest lilt of distraction. In the background, there’s a low murmur of voices, the familiar thud of a ball meeting turf, maybe a coach shouting something that’s swallowed up by the wind. You imagine the sun slicing through the Catalan sky, the kind of relentless brightness that makes the whole city shimmer.

“Hey,” you reply, smoothing nonexistent creases from your blazer out of habit, though no one is watching. Your reflection in the polished glass of the display case looks composed, disinterested, but the sound of her voice pulls something taut inside you. “How’s training?”

“Same as always,” she says, and there’s a pause—just long enough for you to hear her exhale softly, almost imperceptibly. You know she’s stepped aside, moved to some quieter corner of the training complex where no one will overhear. She’s careful like that, never careless, always aware of her surroundings.

“Still exhausting?” you ask, and she laughs under her breath—a low, warm sound that lingers longer than it should.

“Mhm,” she hums, the sound of it makes you smile despite yourself. “But it’s a good kind of exhausting. You know how it is”

“Not sure I do,” you tease, leaning against the edge of the display case, its surface cool against your hand. “I can’t say I’ve run laps around a pitch lately. Unless you count running several businesses as exercise”

“Of course,” she says, dry but affectionate, “such an athlete. Truly inspiring”

The corner of your mouth twitches upward. “I aim to impress”

There’s a faint rustle of movement on her end—maybe she’s leaning against a wall, maybe adjusting the strap of her training bib. You picture her in that effortless way she carries herself: shorts sitting just right, socks perfectly rolled down, hair tied back in that half-loose, half-styled way that only someone like her can pull off.

“Where are you?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know, but because it’s the kind of question you ask when you want the conversation to last a little longer.

“Near Rue de la Paix,” you say, keeping it vague. “Finishing up a meeting”

“You’re always finishing up a meeting,” she says, and there’s a lightness to her tone, but it doesn’t quite hide the subtext.

“You’re always training,” you counter, matching her tone, and you hear her chuckle, soft but genuine.

“Buen punto”

There’s a brief pause. In the background, someone calls her name, a voice you don’t recognise, and she responds with a quick, sharp “Un momento.” The way she switches languages so fluidly—it’s seamless—and yet it reminds you, in a small but certain way, that her world is different from yours. Barcelona, with its golden afternoons and relentless sun, its terracotta rooftops and restless streets, feels a thousand miles away from the polished stillness of this Parisian jewellers.

“You should,” you encouraged knowing full well she’ll make no move to end the call herself.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asks, and it’s a question, but not really.

“Of course,” you say, without hesitation this time.

There’s another silence after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence you could live in, one where nothing needs to be said because the words are already understood. Finally, she says, “Te quiero,” and you hear the faint click as she ends the call.

Aurélie returns with the ring, now nestled in a velvet box so pristine it looks almost untouched by human hands. You slip it into your pocket, the weight of it grounding you, and leave the salon with a nod of thanks.

Outside, Paris feels sharper, brighter. The air smells faintly of rain and burnt sugar from a nearby crepe stand, and the light is just beginning to soften as dusk approaches. For the first time all day, you feel steady.

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 2) part 1

-

The solid hand at your back guides you through the dusty streets towards the courthouse in the middle of town. It’s not an easy walk. Your shoes catch on the skirt of your dress a handful of times in Price’s haste, each time almost causing you to tumble forward before you manage to catch yourself. 

It’s patently unfair. The strides of his long legs would easily have you losing him in a crowd were it not for the way he refuses to leave you behind; every time you so much as slow down a tad to catch your breath, the firm hand on your low back presses you forward again. You’d be snippier if you weren’t still addled from the events of just five minutes previous.

“I beg you, please—” you plead, heart skittering in your chest when you chance a glance up to find Price’s face set. Everything about him feels purposeful now, driven. “If you just—if you would just let me explain!”

“Nothing more to know, darling,” he says, not bothering to meet your desperate eyes. Clearly not in any mood to continue arguing with you on the status of your identity. 

He tugs you along when he takes a right turn down a road leading into the center of town. The belt of bullets around his waist rattles with every step. It’s a constant reminder of who you’re with and why you should not be with him. Every step feels like a step towards your own sentencing, like accompanying your jailer to your cell. It’s perhaps fool’s luck that the sheriff hasn’t inquired further into your identity or your reason for coming into town. Makes you think that perhaps there isn’t yet a warrant out for your arrest. Maybe that’s only to come. 

“Sure there’s more!” you insist. “There’s—there’s—��� It’s like the words fly right out of your head, bucked off like a bronc rider. Too much has happened in too short a time. “There’s the matter of—oh, would you quit that, I am walking!” The last bit comes out snappish, peeved as Price pulls you towards the stone steps of a red-bricked building. 

The words County Court House are inscribed above the second-story door girdled by a wrought iron balcony. It’s a simple building, far from the colonnaded buildings from back home with their cupolas and hand-carved lintels. Even in size it hardly compares, a meager three stories with perhaps a basement. Still, it catches the eye in a town as small as this, by far the most imposing building for miles around.

It’s also the one he pulls you towards, hand moving from the small of your back to take firm hold of your waist. You flinch at the touch and the way his fingers dig in, almost proprietarily. It’s a physical shock to your system. While you’re not unaccustomed to the rougher ways of men, you’ve also been largely shielded from it yourself. By chance or fortune or luck. Men may take an attitude with you, as they’re wont to do, but none have yet manhandled you the way Price feels free to do. 

“Take a big step there now, darling,” he says, lifting the front of your dress for you a tad, to your shock. “No accidents before the wedding.” 

“The wedding?” you shriek, face heating at the heads that turn to look over at the two of you. 

The courthouse is bustling with townsfolk, still not as busy as in the bigger cities back east, but still clearly at the center of all business activities. The few people that pass you by on the way out of or into the courthouse are bold in their perusal, eyebrows lifting when they take notice of Price at your side—and how could they not, with the size of him and the badge pinned to the lapel of his vest that glimmers when it catches the light. 

“If you were expecting something grander, you should’ve turned up last month when I sent for you,” Price says, stern again. In the foyer of the courthouse, you can see the way the long hallway cuts through the building, leading into the adjacent rooms until finally culminating with the courtroom at the very back. You watch as a man slowly closes the door to the last door, shutting the occupants in. “Might’ve been more amenable to it then.”

“I’m not asking for a nicer ceremony—”

“Good, then you won’t be disappointed.”

“—but that’s because I’m not the woman that you intended to marry in the first place,” you finish, quieting to a hissed whisper, conscious of those still lingering close enough to eavesdrop. In all likelihood, the other people milling around probably already know that the sheriff has been waiting for his mail order bride to arrive. They wouldn’t be the first people to mistake you for her.

He pulls you into an alcove off the side of the foyer. When Price turns to face you, no longer just the heavy presence at your side, it takes a moment for you to gather your bearings. He seems larger somehow, with his arms crossed over his chest and feet rooted into the floor, drawn up to his full height. The hair on his forearms draws your eyes momentarily before he steps into your space, forcing you to meet his eyes again. 

He stares down at you with an intensity that makes you flinch. “Now, far be it for me to say that I know my wife-to-be by her demeanor alone, given that we’ve hardly corresponded beyond our initial agreement. But I find it mighty strange that a single, unaccompanied woman would show up in town with all of her earthly belongings as I’m expecting my own woman to show up any day. Hardly seems coincidental.”

“Don’t you think I would have sought you out if we were intended to wed?” you ask beseechingly. “Or that I would put up such a fuss now? What sort of bride would do that?”

“You want to know what I think, darling?” The timber of his voice deepens as he lowers his head slightly, wrapping the conversation in a layer of intimacy despite its public nature. There’s a darker note to his voice now, a thinly-veiled anger. “I think you’ve been keeping yourself housed and fed off the back of men like me and the money you’ve been sent to compensate for the rough journey. I think your guilty conscience brought you here because you know that the Lord doesn’t look too kindly on swindlers and thieves.”

“I’m not a thief,” you hiss in protest, affronted. Ironic that you’d be insulted by his words when the truth is far worse. 

“I’m sure you had your reasons,” Price permits, a reluctant softness in his voice. “But your conscience did you right. Marriage will suit you far better than a life of crime ever could.”

If only he knew. “You’ve still got it all wrong—I’ve never once even glanced at the matrimonial pages or the personals. And I certainly didn’t come to town expecting to be wed.”

You did, however, arrive in town with a guilty conscience. Even you’re wise enough not to mention that, though.

“Then if you're not her, who are you?” he asks. 

It’s clear from his tone that Price doesn’t believe you, but the question itself makes you antsier than even the thought of marrying this man. He still stares down at you in challenge, an eyebrow cocked. If you wanted to, you could easily answer his question and even furnish proof—a letter from an aunt or uncle or a telegram from a previous employer. 

That last thought makes your throat squeeze tight. You could furnish proof, but at what cost? You’re still unclear on how much information has been disseminated or whether you're a wanted woman. Though only weeks have passed since the event that caused you to flee in a haste, there’s no telling whether a warrant has been put out for your arrest, no telling whether word has reached a town this far west. 

“Not that it matters, but I’m from New York,” you say, scrunching up your nose. 

The look he gives you is unimpressed. “I’m sure you lost the accent on the train ride.”

Embarrassment makes you dig your heels in deeper. “I didn’t grow up there, it’s just where I’ve lived for the past few years.”

“And what’s your name?”

“…Elizabeth Smith.” 

It’s the first name that occurs to you, but the moment the words come out of your mouth, you can’t help feeling like you’ve made a huge mistake. Price must sense it too because he draws back up to his full height, lips twitching into a small smirk. 

“You have family or a post back in New York, Miss Smith?” he asks in a patronizing tone. 

“Family.” 

“Alright, then it shouldn’t be too hard to get confirmation and settle this whole issue.” He points behind you to one of the unoccupied rooms. “Telegraph’s office just behind you. We’ll get in touch with the Census Bureau and ask them to confirm your identity. And, if you are who you say you are, Miss Smith, then we can put this issue to rights.” 

Your blood goes cold. “That’ll—that’ll take time though. I can’t marry you today if they only get back to you in a week’s time.”

Price nods, his expression dissatisfied but resolved. “Wouldn’t be proper for you to stay at the house either, but I’ll make sure the inn lets you stay free of charge until this is settled. You’ll be in good hands under the Pattersons’ watch.” 

He doesn’t say it outright, but you hear the implication in his words. You’d be essentially under house arrest, perhaps free to move about town, but certainly not free to take the next train out. 

Your pulse thumps nervously at the base of your throat. Even swallowing takes effort now. The weight of his stare takes root in you, a living coil in your belly. No getting out of it. There’s no getting out of this. You don’t know why you thought you could, how you tricked yourself into thinking for even a moment that a man as formidable as the one set in front of you would simply give in. Let you go. You’ve hardly even moved the needle. 

It’s there still in his eyes. Not even doubt—something quite far past that. Certainty. 

“‘Elizabeth Smith of New York’, was it? Come, we’ll have them start the message and you can give me your birthday as well so it’ll be an easy find—” Price says, attempting to slip around you to head to the telegraph’s office. 

“No.” 

It slips out of you inadvertently, high and panicked. He pauses at the word. More than just your words. When you look down, you notice your fingers clenched in the fabric of his sleeve, bringing him to a halt. It pulls taut against the muscle of his forearm. 

Softness bleeds back into him at your touch. You can see it smooth out the lines of his forehead and the jut of his brow. He ignores the onlookers still hovering by the double doors to twist back to you, now obscuring their view of you. The breadth of his shoulders nearly blocks the rest of the foyer from sight when he looms over you like this. Down the hall, you can hear a gavel pound down on wood and a litany of raised voices in unison from behind a shut door. 

“You don’t have to make up stories,” Price murmurs, drawing a hand up to cup your cheek, holding it like a precious thing. “I told you before—all’s forgiven.”

His words remind you of being trapped in his office, drawers stripped down your ankles and skirt pulled up to your waist. Your bottom still smarts from the palm of his hand, still hot and sore to the touch. It’s hardly been long since then and yet it feels like an age ago, like trying to find your way in a dust storm. 

You open and shut your mouth, lost for a way out. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Marriage or a jail cell. You swallow. Both sound like a sentencing. 

But there are the cold, metal bars of a cell, and then there’s John Price. The first man in an age to elicit more than a passing glance from you. Deep blue eyes crinkled with the folds of old laughter, wide shoulders, and barrel chest. In another time, you think you would’ve jumped at the chance to be courted by a man like him. Keeled over at the very thought of being chased the way he hunts you down now. 

“Alright,” you say instead, giving in. The hand fisting his sleeve shakes. “Alright.”

It’s not a pleasant giving in. Your permission is handed over with shot nerves. The coil bunched up in your core burns white hot, hissing and spitting like a rattlesnake. 

Still, when he drags a thumb over the slope of your cheek, you fight not to let your eyelids flutter shut. “Good girl. We’ll make it work, love. Won’t be easy, but it never is.”

You don’t anticipate that it will be, but your mouth stays shut. Price must think you mollified, soothed rather than resigned to your fate, because he passes his thumb once more over your cheekbone, this time so tenderly that you wait for his lips to descend upon yours again, sure from the heat in his eyes that he won’t be able to keep from stealing another kiss. You lick your lips out of habit—not just to see the way his eyes follow the motion. 

Then the door at the back of the building bursts open to a cacophony of shouts and hollering voices. The moment broken, Price drops his hand away from your cheek, only to take your hand in his this time, pulling you down the hall towards the register’s to await the circuit preacher. He makes you walk on the side closest to the wall, shielding you from the men that burst out of the courtroom, surging towards the doors. You think that someone must have been found guilty because the lot of them look joyous, clamoring over each other for attention. 

You think that you might be spared another minute or two, enough time for them to clean up and reset the courtroom, but you’re shocked to find the circuit preacher ready to conduct the ceremony in the cramped register’s office. He and Price shake hands enthusiastically, the preacher turning to you to grasp your hands in welcome before turning back to the sheriff. They have a camaraderie that speaks of old friendship. 

The cramped room where you’re married smells of patchouli and moth wings, like holes burrowed into sweaters at the back of a closet. The bookshelves along the walls are stacked with books old enough that you know they’d crinkle deliciously if opened. You try to listen as the preacher begins the introductory prayer. Behind you, another man slips into the room, a witness. He hardly bothers to introduce himself for such a brief affair. 

You haven’t been to many weddings, but you always imagined that yours—if you were privileged enough to have one—might have more fanfare. The wedding you actually get is a brusque affair, a brief recital of vows that ends only when the preacher enjoins Price to kiss his wife. 

His wife. 

Your eyes go wide when a hand flattens along your spine and pulls you into a hard chest, John dipping his head down to kiss your mouth again. His kiss is less chaste this time, not restricted by convention as earlier. This time, his tongue licks hot into your mouth, like no kiss you’ve ever had before, beard scratching your face. His mouth tastes like something you’ve never had before, like heatburst. Hot and wet. Soft and suckling. Any kiss you’ve had before pales in comparison—juvenile fumbling, all dry and half-humiliated, unsure of yourself. Nothing like being kissed by your husband.

Your husband. 

He only pulls away when the preacher finally clears his throat, a tad embarrassed. You’re too dazed to feel the same, fingers still sunk into the lapels of Price’s vest, clutched there. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up and your hands to unclench. You feel Price tug your hands away and slip something onto your finger.

The few documents needing to be signed hardly takes any longer. You finally notice the man that had slipped in behind the two of you, a masked man even larger than Price, who nods at him before glancing at you only long enough for you to notice that his eyes seem curiously blank. 

“Thanks, Simon,” Price says as the man—Simon—signs under your names, but he only grunts. The ink is still wet when he leaves. 

“How was it so fast?” you ask absently, staring at the papers as the ink sits drying and the preacher takes his own copy before handing John his. 

“Everything’s practical out here, darling.” His hand holds you by the waist again, relaxed this time. Not worried about whether you might run. “Even the weddings.”

“You don’t…you don’t even serve dinner? Invite guests over? No gifts?” The questions are irrelevant, but you ask them anyway because it’s a way to focus on anything other than the preacher handing you the final copy of the papers and Price leading you back down the hall and out the doors. 

There’s a ring on my finger, you think, looking down. It sparkles when you twist your hand from side to side. Topaz, instead of diamond. 

“Maybe if you’d showed up on time,” Price reminds you. He no longer sounds upset about it, but it still seems to come out as an admonishment. 

You don’t respond to that. Perhaps you’re still shell-shocked, looking at the world through new eyes. It feels unreal that in the span of less than a day, you’ve been plucked up and married off, to the sheriff no less. The one man you would’ve tried your hardest to avoid crossing paths with. 

No chance of that now. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, still in a daze. The sun makes you squint when you leave the courthouse, making you miss the hat back in your room at the inn. Maybe you can convince Price to let you go back to collect your things.

“I think we’re due for a honeymoon, don’t you, darling?”

You go doe-eyed at that. When you look up, your husband is already smiling down at you, crow’s feet wrinkling at the sides of his eyes. 

“Let’s go home.”

[lee-laurent]

Under the Radar - Matthew Tkachuk

Summary: Matthew Tkachuk elopes with his secret lover, the biggest issue... she's Luke Hughes' twin sister.

Content: marriage, secret relationship, age gap (it's legal!!), angst, unsupportive family, mentions of sex, fighting, physical violence (not between couple!)

WC: 3.45k

notes: i listened to "Archie, Marry Me" by Alvvays on repeat while writing this and "Please Please Please" cause that's how freya feels about matt here lol i've been watching the stanley cup finals and my love for matt tkachuk has grown hehe enjoy!! :D obviously idk anyone in this story personally, so it's all for the drama !!

Freya giggled as Matthew placed kisses on her exposed shoulder. She was standing in front of the full body mirror in her boyfriend's room, flattening out the silky white dress that she'd chosen for the occasion. The white silk fell mid thigh and had small slit on the left side, a small bow adorned the corseted top.

"Fuck, you look stunning, love," Matt whispered in her ear, goosbumps forming on the back of her neck.

"I just need to do my hair, then we can head out," Freya smiled, giving Matthew a quick peck as she walked into his bathroom. He followed her, watching as she took the heated curling iron and spun a piece of her dirty blonde hair around it. After finishing some loose curls and setting them with hair spray, Freya did a once over in the mirror.

"What d'you think, Matty?"

"Hottest girl on this planet," he smirked, trailing kisses along her neck.

"Stop! We've gotta get to the courthouse."

"Right, right. But after..."

"Matt!"

"We've gotta consummate the marriage, Frey."

She giggled, hiding her face in his neck. He placed a kiss to her head, spinning her around so he could admire them in the mirror. She grabbed her phone, snapping a quick mirror pic.

"That one's getting framed," she nodded, zooming on her boyfriend's face.

"Are you sure you don't want me to shave? Just for the photos?" Matt offered.

"No! The scruff is soooo hot! Jess said we have to look hot for our photos!"

"Okay, okay. Can't believe Jess knows we're getting married, but our families don't."

"We'll tell them when it's time. Plus, Jess is good at keeping secrets."

That was true. Freya's best friend, Jessica, had been keeping the couple's relationship a secret for a year and a half now. The girls had met at University of Miami two years before and had been best friends ever since.

"You got your ring?" Matthew asked, placing the small velvet box in his suit jack.

"Yes, sir! I'm so excited!"

"Me too, baby. Can't wait for you to be Mrs. Tkachuk."

"Sounds so hot when you say it," she flirted, placing a hand on his lapel.

He winked, "Sit on the bed. I'll help you with your heels."

Freya complied, bouncing as she sat down. Matt grabbed the strappy, white heels from his closet. He guided her feet into them, gently doing up the buckles. She ran a hand through his hair, fixing it the way she liked it.

"Shall we, Future Mrs. Tkachuk?"

"We shall," she giggled, interlocking their arms as they walked to the parking garage.

"And Miss Hughes, do you take Matthew Tkachuk to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the man behind the counter asked.

"I do," she beamed, holding Matt's hands tightly in her own.

"Do you, Mr. Tkachuk, take Freya Hughes to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"You may now kiss the bride."

The couple met in a sweet kiss, not wanting it to be too long in the public courthouse.

"If you'll both just sign here and here," the man smiled, sliding the paper and pen towards the couple. "Pefect! You two are now legally married. Congratulations!"

Freya's smile was so wide, it hurt her cheeks. She was practically jumping as they exited the building. Matthew was smiling just as brightly, tightly gripping onto his wife's waist.

"Jess!" Freya exclaimed, throwing her arms around her best friend.

"There's Mrs. Tkachuk! Always knew you two would end up together, Frey. I've been telling you since we met," Jess whispered. Freya blushed, pushing her best friend.

"Let's go take some photos!" Matthew guided the girls into his car, driving them down to a small, very private park. They snapped some cute photos together, before Jess handed Freya a bottle of champagne. She shook it, spraying the alcohol all over herself and her husband. Jess got some amazing candids of the couple, especially as they met in a passionate kiss that she snapped a few shots of.

"Enjoy your wedding night!" Jess shouted, waving goodbye.

Freya couldn't stop giggling as they entered Matt's bedroom, "We're married! I'm married to the love of my life!"

"Did you chug a bunch of that champagne when I wasn't looking? Or are you just drunk on love?" Matt teased.

"Matt! We're married!"

"I know, love! Freya Tkachuk. God, that sounds so hot," his voice was gruff as he pulled her on top of him on the bed.

"I love you so much," she pressed kisses all over his face.

"I love you too, Frey. Now... shall we make this marriage official," he smirked, placing his hands on her hips.

"Any cute boys at school?" Ellen asked.

"What? No, Mom. I told you I'm focusing on my degree," Freya giggled, helping her mom to make dinner. They were at the cottage that Quinn and Jack had purchased. The Hughes family had invited the Tkachuks for a weekend and Freya was desperately trying to hide her excitement, having not seen her husband in just over a month.

"I know, I know. Just thought maybe some would've caught your eye. Who knows... maybe when Luke's friends come you'll find one of them cute."

"Mom!"

"Sorry, sorry. But, Luke told me that Dylan's little brother is single."

"MOM!"

Ellen laughed, continuing to cut up the fruit in front of her.

"We're home!" Quinn shouted, placing his keys in the bowl in the front hall. Ellen quickly wiped her hands off, running to meet their guests.

"Chantal! Keith! How've you been?"

The two families immediately started chatting away, Freya biting her lip when she saw Matt wink at her. She was pulled into a conversation with Chantal about school and if Matt had helped her out at all while living in Flordia.

"Oh, yeah. He always asks if I need anything. I even went to a few games first semester," she smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Look at that ring! So cute! Where'd you get it?" Taryn squealed.

"My best friend Jess bought it for me!" Freya lied. That was the excuse that the couple had come up with. Matt had 'bought his own ring' and 'Jess' had bought Freya's.

"It's beautiful! Could be a wedding ring!"

"Yeah. She's the best."

"You live with Jess?" Chantal asked.

"Yeah, yeah. We've lived together this past year."

"Before we get too far into conversation, let's show everyone their rooms," Ellen smiled, unknowingly saving Freya from crafting more lies.

After a dinner full of catching up, Matt and Freya sat around the fire with the rest of the kids. The adults had called it a night an hour before, but the young adults were still buzzing with excitement. Freya was clasping a seltzer between her hands, sitting between her twin and Taryn.

"No boyfriend?" Taryn asked, taking a sip of her White Claw.

"Hm? I'm too focused on school."

"Lukey's been trying to set her up with Tyler Duke, but she's not interested," Quinn snorted from beside Brady.

"He's just... not my type."

"Not your type? Tyler is like the definition of your type, Frey! Curly haired, hockey player? You'd marry him on the spot if you hadn't convinced yourself you're focused on your studies," Luke laughed.

Freya's eyes looked around the fire, meeting with Matt's, who had his eyebrow quirked.

"Tell us more about this Tyler kid," he mused, taking a long drink from his beer.

"He's a sophmore at Umich. Is madly in love with Freya and has been since I started doing hockey with Dylan. They even kissed when they were like 14."

"Luke! Stop!" Freya hid her face in her hands. Matthew looked unimpressed, chugging the rest of his beer, before cracking open another one.

"Maybe Freya doesn't like younger guys," Jack joked, making Matthew cover his smirk with his new drink.

"Can we stop talking about my love life? Please!"

"It's okay, Frey. Matt's is just as sad," Brady joked, patting his older brother on the back.

"What can I say? Baby brother got married before me, and all my hopes and dreams went down the drain," Matt retorted, staring directly at Freya. She swallowed harshly, now reaching for another drink. She couldn't do this sober.

After the awkward conversation about her love life, or lack there of, Freya was silent. She didn't want to accidentally say something to out the face that she was married at 20, especially with all the alcohol running through her system. It wasn't until the next day that things really went down hill.

Everyone was paying Quinn to get more alcohol for that night. Matt opened his wallet when a photo fell out, not noticing he fished out a ten dollar bill and handed it to the eldest Hughes. Luke bent down, grabbing the photo that had fallen on the floor. His brow furrowed as he studied the image. His sister in a Panthers jersey, her arms wrapped around a sweaty looking Matt.

"What's wrong, Rusty?" Jack laughed, "What's that?"

Luke handed the photo to his brother, who also took a moment to study it.

"Is that Freya?"

"What're we looking at?" Freya smiled, pushing her way between her brothers. Her face fell, "Where'd you get that?"

"Matt dropped it," Luke's eyes narrowed at his sister.

"Oh. Hm, that's... huh," she trailed off.

"Quinn! Come look at this!" Jack waved over his brother, who was chatting with Brady. Matt had disappeared off to the kitchen to talk to Jim.

"Why? Oh... Frey?" Quinn shot her a questioning look after being handed the photo.

"Why's everyone so upset? We're friends," she tried to smile.

"Then why's it in his wallet?" Luke sneered.

"Because... we're really good friends?" she shrugged, sounding unsure of herself.

Quinn huffed, pushing the photo into Jack's chest. He stormed off to the kitchen, followed by the rest of the kids. He harshly pushed Matt, making the taller boy stumble.

"Wow. What the hell, Quinn?" Matt turned around.

"You're fucking my little sister?! She's barely legal, Matthew! And you're fucking 26!"

"Quinn," Ellen warned, but her son didn't listen. He pushed Matt again, this time getting a shove in return.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but you need to calm the fuck down," Matt attempted to keep his composure, knowing he could easily overpower the Hughes' boy.

"Don't even pretend to be innocent! You've been sleeping with Freya!"

"Freya? What's Quinn talking about, dear?" Ellen asked, moving away from the boys.

"I- I don't know, Mom."

"Bullshit! Look at this, Mom!" Jack handed the photo over. Ellen looked it over, a confused expression covering her face. She met Freya's pleading eyes, biting her bottom lip.

The fight between Quinn and Matt was escalating. After a particularly harsh push from Quinn, Matthew tackled him to the floor. The kitchen broke out into hysterics. Everyone was shouting, telling the boys to stop. Freya had started to cry, Taryn holding onto her tightly. Even if Taryn was a little upset she didn't know about her childhood friend's relationship with her brother, she was still going to support her.

"Enough!" Jim's voice broke through the noise, he and Keith wrangled Mattew off Quinn. "Everyone in the living room, now!"

Freya stood next to Taryn, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Quinn and Luke were fuming. Jack appeared to be a bit upset, but he wasn't as protective over his little sister.

"Someone, please, explain what the hell is going on here!" Jim boomed.

"Matt's been taking advantage of Freya!" Quinn exclaimed.

"Matthew," Chantal looked towards her oldest.

"He- he's not taking advantage of me," Freya wiped her nose on the sleeve of her hoodie.

"Let's hear what Matthew and Freya have to say before we jump to conclusions," Ellen mediated.

"I-" Freya started.

"We're married," Matthew cut her off. Silence filled the room.

"You're what?!" Jim asked, anger covering his face.

"We- we got married at the end of the semester," Freya explained, more tears leaving her eyes. Taryn rubbed her back comfortingly.

"Why?! Are you pregnant?!" Chantal gasped.

"No, Mom. She's not pregnant. We- we love each other."

"She's 20!" Luke yelled.

"This... this does seem a bit sudden, Frey," Jack mumbled.

"No! Matthew and I are in love!" Freya sobbed, standing up and moving towards him. Jim stopped her before she could, handing her over to her mother.

"I think it's best you leave, Matthew," Jim sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"You're kicking my son out for being in love?!" Chantal screeched, "No way!"

"She's practically still a teenager!" Quinn retorted.

"She's an adult! And they made an adult decision. Although, I would've appreciated an invite."

"It was private, Mom. Just us at the courthouse."

"You got fucking eloped to him?!" Quinn growled at his sister. She sobbed harder, hiding her face in her mom's shoulder.

"I think it's best if we all leave," Keith sighed, patting Jim on the back.

"No! Matty," Freya cried, but Ellen pulled her back.

"Shh, love. It's okay," she cooed, running a hand through Freya's hair.

Matthew nodded solemnly. And just like that the Tkachuks were gone.

"Freya, why did you think it was a good idea to get eloped?" Jim asked, sitting across from his daughter at the table.

"I- I love him. We just... it felt right."

"We... we just would've liked to know, Frey. That's a big decision to make."

"I know, Mom. I'm sorry. We were just happy living in our own little world. We were going to tell everyone later."

"We're happy that you're happy, Freya. You just need to get your brothers to feel the same way. I'm sorry for kicking Matthew out, I just didn't want the boys to fight anymore. And it is Quinn's house," Jim sighed.

"Thanks, Dad. It's okay. I'm sure Matt understands. I love you guys."

"We love you too, Freya," Ellen smiled, pulling her daughter in for a hug.

Freya knocked on Quinn's door, getting an exasperated "WHAT?!" in response.

"It's Frey. Can we talk?"

"I'm not sure I want to," Quinn replied.

"Come on, Quinn. Hear me out."

"Fine. Come in."

Freya sat on the edge of her brother's bed, him sitting next to her. The air in the room felt thick, and it made her anxiety even worse.

"I'm- Freya, I just want to understand what your thought process was when you decided to get married to a guy you've been with for a year."

"I'm in love. Don't people say love makes you do dumb things?"

"He's 26."

"I know. But I'm an adult too. It isn't illegal. And it's not like I married some random guy. You know Matt. You've known Matt forever."

"Doesn't mean I'm happy about it. Are you sure this wasn't a shotgun wedding?"

"I'm not pregnant! We're always safe when we-"

"I don't want to hear about your sex life. Especially your sex life with Matthew Tkachuk," Quinn groaned. "But I guess I'm relieved you aren't pregnant."

"Yeah, me too," she giggled.

"Look, I'll get over this, Frey. I just need time. I'm your big brother and I'll always love you, but... I don't know how to feel about this."

"But it has nothing to do with you, Quinn. It's my life. I decided to get married."

"Nothing to do with me? Freya, you're my little sister. And you kept this secret from the whole family. I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to be pissed! Especially when you married my best friend's older brother!"

"I- I'm sorry, Quinn. I'll give you the time. But please remember that I... I am an adult."

"I know, Freya. I know. I- I love you."

"Love you too, Quinn."

"Cracking Luke isn't going to be this easy. He's really upset," Quinn sighed.

Freya entered Luke's room, "Leave."

"Luke."

"No. Leave. I don't want to see you."

"Luke-"

"Leave, Freya! I don't want to talk to you! You betrayed my trust."

"I'm not leaving, Luke."

He sat up in his bed and if looks could kill, Freya would be dead.

"Fine. You want to hear what I have to say? I'm pissed. I am so fucking mad at you. You're my twin! You... you've always told me everything! And I tell you everything! Then I have to find out through a photo that you're not even just dating Matthew Tkachuk... you're married to the fucking guy! Would've been nice to know! Like I don't know... when you started TALKING TO HIM!"

"Luke-"

"No, Freya. I don't want to hear your side of things. Leave. NOW!"

Freya returned to her room with tears in her eyes, clicking on Matt's contact and holding her phone up to her ear.

"Hey, baby. Everything okay?"

"Mom and Dad are happy for us. Quinn said he'll get over it. I don't think Jack even cares. But Luke... Luke is really mad at me. I don't think he's been this mad since I broke his Sidney Crosby mini stick when we were kids."

"I- I can come get you, love. Go for a little drive."

"I want to go home, Matty."

"Home? Like Florida?"

"Yes," she sobbed.

"Okay... okay, baby. We can do that. I-"

"Come get me."

"Okay, yeah. I'm coming. I love you, Freya."

"I love you too, Matt."

A week later, Freya felt like she could finally breathe. Matt wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back flush against his chest. He rocked them back and forth, whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

"I love you."

"I love you too. You wanna get ready for bed? It's been a long couple of days."

She shook her head, spinning to wrap her arms around his neck.

"What do you want, Frey? Anything you want."

"You," she whispered, meeting their lips in a sweet kiss.

The next morning, Freya woke up to her phone ringing repeatedly.

"Hello?" she answered sleepily. Matthew groaned, rolling over and pulling her body closer to his.

"Hey, Frey! Luke's kind of miserable. D'you think you could talk to him?" Jack's voice broke through the speaker.

"Um... he said he doesn't want to talk to me."

"Who is it?" Matt mumbled.

"He's just being dumb! Frey, you're his best friend in the whole world. He's all mopey without you."

"Then he can apologize for yelling at me and then I'll think about it."

"Frey-"

"Now if you don't mind, I'm trying to enjoy my alone time with my husband."

"Ew-"

Freya hung up, placing her phone back on the nightstand. Matt sighed, throwing her leg over his hip. He buried his head in her neck, his breathing falling into a steady pattern as he fell back asleep. Freya couldn't sleep though, she just wanted Luke to accept that she was happy, why was it so hard for him?

Luke had typed the message to his sister out at least 15 times, but he couldn't find the words to describe how he was feeling. Quinn and Jack, with the help of their parents, had talked some sense into him. He understood that he had the right to be upset with Freya, but he had taken it too far. Now, he just needed his apology to seem sincere and heartfelt.

"Just tell her exactly how you feel," Jack shrugged.

"Ew, you're making it sound like I'm confessing my feelings to a girl."

Jack rolled his eyes, "Shut up, Luke. Just text our fucking sister."

Hey, Freya. I know I shouldv'e done this sooner, but the way I reacted to the news of you and Matt was immature and unfair to you. You were already feeling so much stress and I just added to that. I have the right to be a little upset, but you're right... you don't have to tell me everything. I love you, Frey. Text me when you see this

When Freya saw that text, she couldn't wipe the smile from her face. Rolling over and pressing kisses all over Matthew's exposed skin.

"Hm," he groaned, "What's got you in such a good mood?"

"Luke apologized! Everyone is happy for us!"

"That's good. Now sleep. You look exhausted, babe."

"I can't sleep now! Everything is the way I always wanted it to be!"

"Mmm, yeah. That's awesome, Frey."

"Matty! This is the best!"

He laughed, watching sleepily as she straddled his waist. He placed his hands on her hips, running his thumbs over the smooth skin.

"I'm happy that you're happy, baby."

"I'm so happy! Almost as happy as when we got married," she smirked.

"Nothing can top that."

And with that Freya leaned forward and connected their lips. Morning breath or not this was the man she loved, and now she could share him with the world.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Jade Leech: J is for...

J word—

Twst devs: How can we fuck’m up real good

Intern-kun: J word bird’s eye view cleavage shot

xhjsvwiwkw Jokes aside! I love how much care he takes in maintaining his appearance, right down to ironing in the morning and purposefully styling the black strand into the “J” shape 😂 Whatever it takes to look like a gentleman, right… And he’s meticulous about his SPF just like me, frfr🧴💕

Rise and Shine!

Jade’s hands, you decided, were made for delicate efforts.

You had watched those hands a number of times, performing like skilled trapeze artists in a circus. Serving food and drink at the Mostro Lounge, rinsing the grime off of foraged mushrooms, drawing decisive graphite strokes upon a page. The terrariums sitting upon his shelf were the result of his handiwork—minuscule biomes, carefully constructed with a magnifying glass and tweezers.

Now he handled his hair with the same deadly precision. Fingers on the end of his singular black strand to keep it in place, he ran a hair straightener along the length. When the tool pulled away, the strand bounced back into a slight curl.

A perfect J to hug his handsome face. J for Jade, as he often said.

You had observed the times when a J hadn’t been the result. Too little, and the strand was an I. Too much, and the strand rebelled into a S.

“You’re so detail-oriented,” you commented from your place by the doorframe.

The response, a quiet, almost musical, chuckle. It seemed to echo off the cavernous walls of the Octavinelle washroom, bathed by sunlight-infused waters.

“It is important to maintain one’s appearance.”

“To make a good first impression?”

You knew why.

To lure his victims into a false sense of security. A neat suit, a disarming smile, and anyone would be willing to part with the treasures Jade fished for. Information, valuable information.

“That is part of it.” He didn’t look directly at you, but instead met your eyes in the reflection of his vanity mirror. “One can also glean a great amount of information from observing how another presents themselves. For example…

“You must have had a small baked good for breakfast on your way to Octavinelle this morning. A muffin, a croissant—something of that sort, yes.”

“H-How did you…?!”

His eyes trailed to your necktie, done up just the way you liked it. “… There are crumbs there.“

Your hands flew to your chest, hurriedly dusting yourself off. Jade’s small, pointed teeth showed from behind his mouth.

Amused.

“When I first came to land, I thought it strange that humans dressed differently depending on the occasion. You dress formally for strangers—work, interviews—but dress casually for your loved ones—friends, family. But I see now… It sends a message to the world about who you are and what your place in it in that moment in time is.

“Our school uniforms signify that we are students. Pajamas mean that someone is about ready to sleep or to prepare themselves for the day. A tidy appearance implies a tidy mind, and a slovenly appearance, a slovenly one.”

“Your mind scares me sometimes,” you joked. “I feel like it’s full of sharp things that could kill me”.

“Oya, is that because you are complimenting how sharp my attire is?” Jade pinched the lapels of his pajama top. “… Though I’m afraid this can hardly be called sharp.”

"You will be once you've changed." You glanced away, indicating that he should.

“Very well. Then, please excuse me."

There was the ruffle of satin coming off, the flap of fabric as it was folded and tucked away. More rustling as a new set of clothes fell over his body. The same old vest, blazer, and slacks.

"... You may look," he called softly.

You did.

And there he was, Jade Leech in his school uniform. It was perfectly tailored to fit him, dyed a simple and sleek black. His earring was in place as well, three diamond-shaped scales dangling from his left side.

A regular sight, yet it made your heart sigh all the same.

"Clothes really do make the man," you murmured, a finger at your lip.

"Fufufu. I will happily accept your praise." Jade drew himself beside you. His shadow stretched, a suit in of itself folding over you. An open hand, held out. "Shall we be on our way?"

"Yes, let’s.” You shyly slipped your hand into his, and it fit like a glove.

The black strand—coiled into a J—leapt with your shared first step.

Too little or too much. His words, running both hot and cold. But this felt…

You searched for a J word, like the shape of that stripe.

J for… Just right.

[pipwasreal]

Day 16: knives + mind control

Characters: Charles Rowland, Edwin Payne

Content warnings: betrayal (sort of), mind control, mental confusion, knife violence, injury, iron burns

Now with a comic by technically-human!

"Charles look ou-" Edwin yells.

But it's too late, the unfamiliar spell hits him right in the face and ripples through him, locking each limb rigid, then releasing them one by one. Charles sways and shivers, then drops back into his ready stance. He draws his iron knife, then turns to Edwin.

"Are you alright?" Edwin asks quickly, glancing between Charles and the fairy. She's keeping her distance, but grimacing in concentration, her gaze locked on Charles.

Charles doesn't answer, but starts moving slowly toward Edwin. His expression is... strange. Not at all how he normally looks. Edwin frowns in confusion.

"Charles, what are you..." he begins, then trails off.

It occurs to him that perhaps the reason he has never seen this look of grim determination before is because whenever they are in danger Edwin freezes, and Charles plants himself squarely between Edwin and whatever means them harm. He faces it down, he does whatever is necessary to keep them safe.

It's... disconcerting, being on the receiving end of that expression, that wary advance. He ought to run, he supposes, but it's Charles. He does not know how to be afraid of Charles.

"What have you done to him?" He asks the fairy.

She glances at Edwin, fear and anger warring in her wide grey eyes, then whistles a rapid five-note trill.

"Oi!" Charles says, drawing Edwin's attention back. "She hasn't done anything to me. She's my best mate and I won't let you drag her back to Hell."

Ah.

Charles lunges at Edwin, slashing out at chest height with the iron knife. Edwin stumbles backward just in time, but the tip still catches his lapel, leaving a long scorchmark across it. It smarts, of course, but he has more pressing concerns.

His mind races, trying to remember how to draw someone out of magical confusion... and also trying to remember anything Charles had shown him over the years, about blocks and binds and generally avoiding being stabbed.

"Listen to me," he says, circling away from Charles while keeping the fairy in his line of sight. "You are under an enchantment. I do not mean you any harm. Please put the knife away."

Charles laughs, and it's an ugly, bitter thing.

"Nice try. Don't lie to me. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you don't leave us alone."

He slashes as Edwin again, but this time Edwin puts out a hand and catches the blade through his palm. It blackens and smokes something awful, but at least he can wrench the knife out of Charles' grip.

"Right. That is quite enough of that," he says, turning to the fairy. "Kindly release my friend, and we shall leave you in peace."

"What the fuck are you?" She breathes.

Edwin sighs. "Not a threat to you. We apologise for trespassing."

She nods warily. With a whirl of her grey cloak, she disappears.

Charles shivers again. Then he sees his knife in Edwin's hand and loses his mind.

[alastors-left-lapel]

We've Found Ourselves In Quite A Situation Pt. 2

Author's Cut: I didn't think i would do a part 2, but here you go. I will be writing a part 3 to the series. If you have anything to add or suggest, please feel free to message me so.

The following story contains Trigger Warnings: It's hell so there are mentions of demons, all characters mentioned are in Hell for a reason, mental trauma, anxiety, violence (mention of a single punch), blood kink, all fluff no smut (yet)

Plot: AFAB Fox!Reader from part 1 is dealing with the minor fall out from her previous one on one with Alastor. He reflects on their encounters in the past and comes to a realization he may think of her differently, and she of him. Is it worth risking their friendship to find out?

Word Count: 5K +

Part 1

It had been nearly a week since Alastor and Y/n encountered at The Butcher's Room. Nearly a week had passed, and y/n couldn't believe she had given Alastor information about her Earthly situation. However, she still had a little bit of power over his questions about her as she hadn't told him the details of what exactly she had done to be sent to Hell. With each passing day, she grew more anxious, knowing sooner or later he would find out. Most sinners were never afraid to say what they did that landed them in the realm of Hell. Murders walked around proudly, thieves either thrived or perished quickly. Any ill-willed predators were quickly hunted for sport as they were not the type of people others wished to live their eternity with.<p>

All Y/n could do was continue with business as scheduled at the hotel. She steadily cleaned her desk before going on her break. She had been looking forward to refreshing her tea and to having thirty minutes to sit in one of the library sitting rooms that were often empty. Nifty was quick on Y/n's tail, following behind the much taller sinner with her sewing needle in hand. "Whatcha doing, Y/n? Going somewhere fun? Does it have bad boys?! I love bad boys."

The woman laughed looking down at Nifty, gently shaking her head. "Not today, Nifty. I'm just going somewhere quiet for a few minutes to drink my tea."

Nifty huffed, mumbling about it not sounding like fun before turning back around and heading toward the main lobby where Husk had been talking with Vaggie and Charlie. The woman continued her way toward the staircase, silently passing by Angel. She still hadn't spoken to him in a week after their prior discussion. It wasn't necessarily out of spite, but she hadn't been sure how to react to him calling her a nickname based on her death. He was either put off by her presence or was genuinely a good actor as he also ignored her, diverting his eyes away from her and scrunching his nose. Her face remained the same, with no change in any facial features. Yet, Angel acted as if he was disgusted by her presence. She turned around to look at the lobby once she was at the top of the staircase, watching how blissfully everyone had been acting, despite residing in Hell.

Maybe they were better without her at the hotel. It wasn't like she had any intentions of redeeming herself, having found comfort in her second life as a sinner in Hell. She had friends here who actually cared about her, like Rosie. Nifty was like a little sister to her but was still someone she could rely on if she needed to. But did the others even need her around here?

Exhaling the breath that was hitched in her throat, she continued on her small journey to the sitting room, planning on resting for a few minutes. It was a calming thought to have, a wishful one even. Yet, the afterlife often had other plans. As she walked into the sitting room, a shadow cast an eerie feeling as the familiar form of Alastor was found sitting on one end of the couch. She jumped a little, gripping her mug as the tea threatened to spill over. "Alastor! Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." her hand gripped the door handle as she attempted to leave.

"Oh, don't be modest. There's plenty of space here to share a quiet place with good company." His voice beckoned for her, a slight hum of radio static could be heard toward the end of his sentence. His microphone cane had been rested on the coffee table in front of the couch, his hands neatly folded in his lap with his legs crossed. He looked almost as if he was expecting company as if he had anticipated the room to be used.

Resigning to her original plan, she walked through the door, shutting it behind her as her blackened fingertips lingered on the door knob. It was a residual body feature from her death, along with the faint lines of black on her lips. The only light being emitted in the library was from the fireplace, and as Y/n passed from the door to the chair facing opposite Alastor, her eyes shined for a moment as they caught the light from the fire. One eye was considered typical, as most sinners had red scleras, and her pupil was yellow. Her left eye was mostly black with a white to off-grey pupil. If Alastor was asked, he would say she almost had a lightning pattern in her sclera that matched the hue of her pupil. However, that was a little too personal of a question.

Alastor watched as the woman carefully took a seat in the chair, prim and proper as most women of their shared collective time. She ran a hand under her as she sat to make sure her skirt would not crinkle. Her posture was nearly perfect, and not a single hair was out of place. In a way, she almost reminded him of his mother, if only in the little daily habits she exhibited. Thankfully for Alastor, Y/n was nothing more like his mother. She was somebody of true value, beyond what she would have ever imagined. "You look exhausted, my dear. Are you experiencing issues with sleeping? Is your room environment not up to your standards?"

It was rather odd that he had asked her this, she thought to herself. Her face was as puzzled as she was. "No, no. My room is fine. The mattress has been the softest I have slept on, dead or alive." She brought her hands together in her lap, setting her tea down on the coffee table in front of them, careful not to bump his cane.

"Hmm." Alastor crossed his legs as he observed her, a slight hum of radio static filled his audible response. "Your statement seems a little exaggerated, wouldn't you say?"

Is he trying to get a rouse out of me?

No, certainly not. Alastor would know if I was fibbing... wouldn't he?

Y/n took out a deep breath. Would he have known about her troubles here in Hell? Of course, he would, she sold him his soul in exchange for his protection. "Maybe your excellent showcase of pure demonic prowess worked a little too well? There hasn't been a single threat of a turf war or any type of altercation in front of the hotel in a week. Maybe the lack of Carmine weaponry and questionable war crimes has affected one's sleep." She raised an eyebrow as she smirked, then crossed her legs in a duchess slant.

Alastor had always admired her ways of deflecting the situation in the most complimentary of ways. He often remembered the time she had complimented Susan's new fox wrap, asking her from which designer trash can she found it. Oh, how the ornery old bitch was fuming at the back-handed compliment watching as Y/n and Alastor, The Radio Demon, walked down the streets of cannibal town with their middle fingers pointed at her.

"Speaking of Carmine weapons," Alastor spoke, "there is an overlord meeting occurring today. Usually, these things are only meant for Overlords and are top-secret topics of discussion. I could hardly fathom being there myself these days, and Rosie has some business she is taking care of in the Wrath Ring today. Please make this meeting easier for me and attend with me... as an unofficial understudy to Rosie. Or go on the basis of being my note-taker. Whichever makes you happier."

There it was, more time working for Alastor outside of the hotel. What could she do? Say no? Then be reminded he owns her, literally, and has no other option as long as she wishes to live her nefarious second life?

"I am no Rosie, Alastor. I do not possess the amount of charisma or style Rosie exudes. Well, except for the stylish skirt she gifted me on my most recent death day."

Alastor then stood up, swiftly grabbing his cane in the same motion. "Then it's settled. Now, please go change your outfit, and may I suggest wearing something that will allow for plenty of movement? These meetings can sometimes end in battle, and I couldn't let something happen to... you- wearing constrictive clothing can be a rather pain in the ass."

Y/n watched him as he stood, caring for his cane as if were a pet. She didn't want to read into it very much, but she thought she could hear the slightest change in his voice toward the end of his sentence. Why did it sound like that? As if his tone changed, like the comma in a sentence. He didn't say I couldn't let something happen to you.

He said I couldn't let something happen to You.

After an awkwardly longer moment than what it should have been, she grabbed her mug, nodding. "O-okay. I'll be but a few moments." She parted from Alastor in the library, leaving the room and swiftly making her way to her room. Her mind was still pondering his sentence and how different it sounded in her mind. Maybe she had listened in a way that wasn't the targeted audience. Maybe he was torturing her as part of his dealings with owning her soul. Yes, that must be it. He was a little bit of a sadist, so it would make sense that he would value his contract with her over the decades of years they had known each other before she sold her soul to him.

Yet for Alastor, who was still in the library, he was fighting with himself. He normally would care less about the contracts he had with others. He was quick to put his subjects into place by destroying a soul on the air, broadcasting their screams for everyone to hear. Y/n did have quite a tone on her at times, however, he found their banter something to be cherished. He found their conversations refreshing, and having her in the hotel among the residents gave him somebody else he could relate to. His fingertip tapped on his cane a few times as his eyes searched back and forth, wondering where his mind was leading him. He hadn't been necessarily the kindest to her within the last week, making her share her personal life experiences with him in a public place. He could make that up to her.

Yet, he was an Overlord. He didn't have to make anything up to anybody under his control.

But... he wanted to make it up to her.

He wanted to make it up to Y/n, because she deserved it.

-----

About twenty minutes later, Y/n appeared in the lobby. Her new change of clothes and freshened-up appearance caught the eyes of those who were in the commonplace; Husker, Charlie, Vaggie, and Angel Dust. The spider demon had been sitting at the bar, slumped slightly with a drink in his hand. Husker was nursing a bottle himself while Charlie and Vaggie were discussing the plan for the next lesson plans for the residents. Alastor had appeared out of the shadows, quite literally as he manifested a few feet away from Y/n. She had been used to him popping up from time to time so it hadn't caught her off guard when he manifested. "Oh, Al, perfect. I hope this is fine. I've never been to one of these meetings before."

Alastor looked at her, taking in her choice of outfit. A sweater top with a high-waisted skirt that ran down to the middle of her calf. The top was a deep red color, the skirt was black. She chose black oxford high heels and a similar red shade belt. She wore a black pearl necklace as well to round off her outfit. He met her eyes again, smiling his typical toothy smile. "You look like a proper representation of a resident of Cannibal Town."

Y/n hummed in amusement, smiling at Alastor as she adjusted the turtleneck collar. "Lucky enough for us, I still happen to have my apartment above the women's parlor room in Cannibal Town, so I may still claim it as my residence." After making sure her outfit was up to her liking after meeting with Alastor again and looked at him. Others would see his normal smile and relaxed eyes as typical Alastor, yet his eyes were not relaxed. He looked lost in thought, his pupils appearing dilated. "Al? You ready?"

This comment seemed to have pulled him out of his thoughts as he nodded, giving his cane a spin before turning about-face. "Certainly. I suggest we take the express route, seeing as we have maybe ten minutes to find our seats at this meeting." He offered her his arm, always mindful to keep his female companions safe when they were with him. He still felt this time that the offer came from a different sense of feeling.

Y/n carefully placed her hand on the inside of his elbow before he gently brought his hand back to his side. He tapped his cane to the ground once, then used his shadow mastery powers to teleport both him and Y/n to the front of Carmine Industries tower. As they manifested on the sidewalk, Y/n gave a little shake of her tail. Her appearance in Hell had altered much beyond her facial features. Just as Alastor had appeared with a human-like face and normal hands with the ears and antlers of a stag, Y/n had the aspects of a fox. Her ears were almost the same size as Alastor's, mostly matching her hair color and a distinctive off-grey pattern inside of her ears and at the tips. She also had an off-grey long and bushy tail, the tip of it matching her hair color.

Alastor paused as his companion settled after their express departure from the hotel lobby to the outside of the tall skyscraper. Once everything appeared to be settled, he guided them down the side of the building, making sure to flash a distorted smile and image to the cameras as they passed by, all in spite of his former acquaintance. The pair of friends walked up to an elevator, hopping in to go to the meeting. "I am assuming nobody knows about your sudden plus one to this super-private function?"

"Precisely, my dear." He looked over at her, his smile was thin, not showing any teeth. The most relaxed he had been around her recently. "Anything and everything that is mentioned here must remain here. Not a single soul will ever hear these conversations unless they are Overlords."

She looked up at him, arching an eyebrow. "But I'm not an Overlord, remember?"

"You are under my protection here. You must do anything I ask of you here, as I will be your token in. Now, when we enter, remain quiet. Seen, but not heard."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "It was already implied, as it is not my typical scene. However, I thought you would have thought better of me. Did you forget we both had similar upbringings? All children, and all women, should remain seen and not heard."

Alastor looked down at her, pausing for a moment. "It's not that I do think you would speak and interrupt. I know that the other overlords will either speak lowly of you or try to rouse you any way they can once they sense if it bothers you."

Y/n normally wouldn't challenge their friendship or debate her contract with him. However, her free hand moved up to rest on his chest long enough to give it a couple of small pats before she could realize what she was doing. "A wise man once told me a smile was a valuable tool to use in every situation. Something along the lines of keeping one's self in control, I believe."

At that moment, the air shifted around the pair. Alastor could feel something rip inside of his core. Or had it inflated? What was this feeling, and why did it occur in such a normal setting, such a normal situation?

But the situation wasn't normal.

Is this what Rosie described to him when she told him the story of how she fell in love with her first husband? Why did his stomach feel warm and fuzzy?

The pair had locked eyes with each other, and Alastor's hand reached up to cup the hand Y/n had on his chest, catching both of them off guard. Y/n's tail waved back and forth subtly while one of his ears slightly dropped. Alastor opened his mouth to respond to her but was cut off when the elevator stopped on the proper floor. As the doors opened both individuals let go of one another, quickly picking up their facades. Smiles were on, people were ready to be greeted, and the meeting would be the best buffer to their previous encounter.

-----

Alastor led Y/n to the board room, taking his usual spot and gesturing toward the seat next to him for Y/n to sit in. She nodded quickly, taking her sit and getting adjusted as she normally would in any situation. Her hands remained in her lap and crossing her legs. The first person to mention Y/n was Carmilla. She shot a brief look at Alastor. "I wasn't aware you were bringing in unauthorized personnel today, Alastor."

Alastor chuckled. "Oh heavens, no. In Rosie's absence, I wanted to bring in another set of reliable and vigilant ears and eyes, just in case I miss any information from today's meeting."

"I didn't need an explanation. Although, if you say she is reliable and you can attest to her being discreet about the meeting, that's all that matters." She replied as her daughters took their seats next to her.

Alastor nodded simply, falling silent as the meeting started. Carmilla had been tasked with keeping the Overlords up to date on potential threats to Hell from the exorcists and any Overlords who posed seismic threats to the balance of Hell. As she was speaking about the latest numbers of projected soul casualties during the next extermination the door of the board room opened wide. A loud and boisterous voice echoed through the room. "My apologies, there was an issue with the latest VoxTek updates. You know how it is, business as usual and all."

Y/n let out a quiet breath upon seeing Vox in the boardroom. Had Alastor known about this all along? Did Vox have enough backing to even be at the meeting in the first place?

Vox took a seat, inconvertibly across from Y/n. He adjusted his lapels as everyone stared at him. Everyone except Y/n, whose eyes diverted away from Vox and to an empty space in the wall just to his right. Vox's stare was blatantly drilling holes in her soul. Alastor took note of this quickly, being very familiar with their past. He cleared his throat before speaking. "Interesting seeing you here, Vox. I wasn't aware the Vee's had any business in the official business of Hell's Overlords. Certainly, you must obtain a substantial amount of souls to even be considered Overlords."

Vox then looked to Alastor, smirking as he spoke. "Oh, and do tell me, is that number affected if an Overlord obtains those souls through various gambles?"

Alastor furrowed his eyebrows. "Need I remind you of who won those gambles? Or rather who lost those gambles?"

Carmilla was quick to shut down the showdown, continuing with business. Y/n had pointed her chair slightly to the left in Alastor's direction. He was mindful to keep an eye on her and Vox through the use of his shadow companion. The meeting remained mostly boring as the Overlords discussed the topics that consumed their lives. Alastor could have skipped it, but with Rosie out he had no choice but to attend it. As soon as it had been officially over he was quick to guide Y/n out of the boardroom and head towards the elevators.

It was then again that Vox made his presence known. "Now, now, what's the rush Alastor? Afraid you'll miss the next newspaper printing? I can pull it up for you on your phone... Oh, that's right. You don't use modern technologies." His attention was brought back to Y/n, grinning with a thick layer of minacious intent. "Y/n, my once faithful assistant. How many years has it been now? Ten? Do you really have nothing to say to your former boss? I thought we were closer than that."

Y/n remained as stoic as she could, keeping Alastor's words in mind. Vox was excellent at stirring the pot, expertly identifying an individual's breaking point and using it to his advantage. She finally brought herself to look at him since he had arrived, hiding any evidence of her true emotions from everyone in the room, including Alastor. "We both know that you don't get close to your employees. Well, except for the moth and the princess. Where are they, by the way? being lef tin the dark as usual?"

Vox's screen glitched a little at the comment. Alastor chuckled. "Careful Vox, the screen is buffering. You don't want to be caught in the middle of another update, as you so delicately called it earlier."

Vox looked between the two observing them once again. "Oh, and your signal never never goes out, right?"

Alastor's pupils shifted to dials as he spoke. "Unlike some people, I do not need the troubling complexities of modern technology to be entertaining for the public of Hell."

Vox gave a little nod. "Let me guess, none of this has to do with little Miss Sparky over here?"

The other Overlords in the lobby gasped as they watched as the previously quiet woman pulled a hand back, then threw her fist at the televised Overlord. Her hand connected nearly perfectly with Vox's screen and it cracked, leaving a couple of small cuts on her knuckles. Alastor then took a step between both Y/n and Vox as the other man began to grumble. "You will see me again, Y/n, and when you do it will be when you are least expecting it." Vox took a couple of steps back before disappearing into a nearby camera. The other Overlords watched as Alastor tugged Y/n into the next open elevator, then descended.

Y/n shook her head a few times, noticing a small amount of blood running down her hand. "I'm sorry, Alastor. I will make this up to you. I let him get to me, and I should have known better."

Alastor reached out for her injured hand, carefully holding it as he brought it up to his mouth. Without warning, his tongue began to run over his cuts, lathing up the blood that escaped. She looked at him as he cleaned her hand, not sure how she should feel. She wasn't scared, and she wasn't confused. What he had done was generous and kind. Her cheeks began to flush as she felt her tail once again sway.

Alastor felt the job was done, as he straightened up again. He had a little handkerchief in his coat pocket, pulled it out, and placed it on her hand, tying a delicate yet firm knot in her palm before letting her hand go. "No need to apologize. Vox is rather vulgar and doesn't quite understand the rules of society down here. He believes adding the cost of his employee's souls to their contracts makes him evil enough to rise to our level. Besides, the meeting was over, and after the meeting ended, everything was considered free range. However, I am sure Carmilla will mention something about altercations occurring in the lobby."

He looked down at the fox sinner before him, noticing her disposition had changed. "I want this to be clear, I did not know he was coming. Or any of the Vee's. They are not invited to these meetings, yet always find a way to weasel into them. Had I known, I would have never brought you here."

Y/n had originally thought it was another mindless torture tactic, yet hearing the tone of his voice told her all she needed to know. He had been sincere about his unawareness of Vox's presence. She nodded, meeting his eyes. "I know you wouldn't. I'm just sorry you had to see that interaction."

Alastor led them off the elevator once it stopped. "I know, though I should have intervened before the situation came to that rather interesting turn of events. No doubt Vox will brag about this to his cohorts." He once again used his shadow magic to teleport them to the hotel. Specifically to the hallway of Y/n's room. "Do you have any type of technology in your room? Vox could easily navigate to the hotel and drop in for an unwelcomed visit."

The woman shook her head. "No, I don't. The only item in my room is a radio, aside from the furniture of course." She had been happy to be back at the hotel and away from the aftermath she may have caused in Alastor's business ring. Not to mention what Rosie will be told by Alastor or the other Overlords.

The pair had stopped right in front of Y/n's room, the woman spinning around to face Alastor. "Besides the obvious eyesore of the afternoon, I enjoyed it. Oh, and thank you for... cleaning my wound."

Alastor chuckled a little, "It was my pleasure." That it certainly was. He watched as she reached for her doorknob, and against all instincts, he placed his hand over hers, stopping her from opening the door. "Y/n, I-" How to articulate what he had been thinking about during the meeting's entirety. "I've was thinking about what you said in the elevator before the meeting. How a wise man once offered you advice. If this is the same supposed wise man, I believe we have conflicting thoughts about his actions."

Y/n looked at him confused, her smile dropping as she stared up at him. His presence normally brought her a sense of comfort, hardly remembering a time where she wasn't happy around him. Alastor was almost a walking embodiment of a warm hug, feeling like the sense of security a child's blanket brought them. "Al-"

"Please, just let me speak." His demeanor seemed level-headed, though the upbeat tempo of his chest rising and falling brought more concern for Y/n. Her breaths almost mirrored his. "A true friend would never keep another friend's soul on the swift promise of protection, among other stipulations. It brings about room to allow doubt and anxiety to grow."

"Yet, after today, I feel as if our friendship has been thrown into quite a situation." He stuttered for a moment before bringing their hands in front of them, holding her hand firmly in his, then taking his other hand and covering it. "I need to put my theory to the test. If you will allow me."

Y/n could nearly count the inches between her face and Alastor's as he begged her. The inches slowly turned into centimeters as she gave a single nod, his face lowering and moving closer to her.

"I am sorry, my dear. I need to hear your answer."

Y/n's eyes shifted constantly between his eyes and his lips, watching as he paused right before their noses could touch. "Yes... yes," she whispered between them. Alastor tugged on her hand to pull it toward his chest as their lips met, gently mashing with each other. She could feel her cheeks flush again, and he could feel his stomach doing flips. They paused for a moment before meeting each other's lips again, now one of his hands cupping the side of her face as her hand reached up to cup his wrist.

They shared quite an extended moment with each other before pulling their lips away from the other, their noses and foreheads resting against each other as they caught their breath. It may have been the most serene moment Alastor has experienced in Hell since his arrival. For Y/n, it was the most blissful she had ever felt in her entire life.

"I think I have my answer." He responded, pulling away from her before letting her hands and face go. He adjusted his jacket, smiling down at Y/n. "I'll leave you to the rest of the day. Don't worry about the hotel duties tomorrow. You deserve a day off."

Without a chance for her to interject, he turned around and took a few steps forward before disappearing again. Y/n was a blushing mess as she opened up her door, closing it softly before slowly walking over to her bed. She wrapped her arms around herself before spinning around and collapsing on the blanket. A sane person would believe they were going to be sick, while Y/n had believed she knew what was going on.

She fell in love with Alastor.

And Alastor chose to have some type of feelings for her.

He chose her, out of all the other souls in Hell, and the ones he knew when he was alive. Why her? Should she be concerned? What would people say if they had seen them in the hallway? Had anybody seen them?

Suddenly everything changed for both of them. Both positive and negative responses would eventually be felt by both of them. What impacts would this have going forward?

Well, Alastor could control at least one aspect left unopened. He had never broken a contract before, and with the recent events at the meeting, it could be deemed he failed to uphold his end of the deal to protect Y/n from any potential threat or harm. It would open up doors that were currently left in the unknown. His impulse on his actions today could be more bothersome than what they were worth.

Though as he appeared in his room on the opposite side fo the hotel, he had a realization.

Y/n was worth the risk.

Y/n was worth learning to get out of his previous comfort zone.

Y/n was worth it.

[ashleabechaz]

IT’S MY BURPDAY TOMORROW!

In celebration I’m doing a 25% off dealio on my Etsy RIGHT. NOW.

It includes everything from my pins, patches and earrings to my art and stationery! It ends sun Nov 26th at MIDNIGHT aest! 🎉🎊🎈🎂

https://ashleabechaz.etsy.com

[intothedysphoria]

Billy crawls out of the Upside Down in the end. In theory it isn’t hell but that doesn’t explain why some prick kept playing Agadoo.

He feels stronger now. It’s not like he’s been able to work out in a nightmare dimension but killing monsters must have made a fine substitute. His hearing, eyesight, smell. Everything is elevated.

The thirst for human blood is new.

Neil is the first to die. Bummer. He was hiding out in Texas somewhere, but Billy knew it was him.

Billy doesn’t fully remember but he’s pretty sure he kills Karen too. Maybe a cop.

It makes him feel shockingly revitalised. Like the Sunday roasts that would wait for him after Church on a Sunday, before the move to America.

That whole damned thing is bullshit though. Billy can wear his pendant just fine.

Seeing the state of his Camaro is the first time in over a year where he actually cries. The state it’s in. Undrivable.

The twenty pack he hid in the glovebox is still intact. Smoking doesn’t give him the same buzz anymore annoyingly. He just does it out of habit.

A hum of conversation makes Billy’s ears perk up. He chases the route of the conversation to it’s source and sees him. Steve.

He’s dragging a carcass of one of those hell monsters over his back, talking to Buckley and Munson. They all have their heads buried together and snippets of conversation drift over to Billy’s hiding spot.

“Neil Hargrove…………throat torn out……..”

“No it definitely wasn’t a demodog”

“Who in the fuck could have done this?”

Steve’s still beautiful. He always will be. Being covered in blood isn’t a dealbreaker for Billy, far from it. His big, brown eyes are darting around, staring down corners and alleyways. He’s got hair on his chest now which is intriguing. And he’s wearing a jacket with patches on, which is more so.

Billy remembers the last time they talked. The night before the thing got him. Steve had been on his lap, playing with his jacket lapels and they’d been talking about college.

Steve had kissed Billy and told him they would never be brought apart. Ironic.

He waves away Buckley and Munson and walks back down the street, whistling a grim little tune to himself. Billy’s a madman so he follows.

The logistics of climbing up into Steve’s bedroom are shockingly easy. It’s a matter of seconds before Billy’s climbing through the window and Steve’s staring at him with a baseball bat clutched in his hands.

“HOLY SHIT!”

Yeah, holy shit works.

Steve creeps closer to him, cautious but curious. Billy permits himself to be inspected, Steve looking this way and that until he’s convinced he’s not hallucinating.

“Is it…………..I mean, is it really you Billy?”

Billy makes an attempt at smiling, which is really quite hard with a set of fangs that don’t want to retract yet.

They also make it pretty hard to talk, so Billy just gestures to his pendant.

Steve’s still suspicious. Billy doesn’t blame him. He smells scared and two years ago Billy didn’t even know that fear had a smell.

When he does answer, it feels clumsy. Billy’s voice is raw and hoarse and unused to communicating with humans, rather than bats.

“Harrington”

That seems to seal the deal for Steve.

He practically leaps into Billy’s arms, kissing all over his face and Billy can hear his elevated heart rate. Blood rushing.

If it had been anyone else, bar Max and the weird kid that had saved him, Steve probably would have been dinner. As it was, Billy just pulled Steve down onto the bed, soothed by the familiarity.

Steve lies there, in his arms and finally stills, asleep. Billy doesn’t know how this is going to work, this relationship, finding Max, how he was going to feed.

Those were tomorrow’s problem. For now, Billy had the love of his life back and he was happy once again.

@shieldofiron @dragonflylady77 @oopsiedaisiesbaby @harringroveobsessed @thatgirlwithasquid

(The person playing Agadoo on repeat was totally Steve in s4)

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

The Lookalike (Part 4)

☒ Summary: The first thing you remembered after your death was an argument. “No, this isn’t one of my fucking sluts.” The man behind you exhaled, frustrated. “This is a present for you. Something to help you work through your Alastor fixation.” You awaken in Hell as the near-spitting image of a certain infamous radio host. Unfortunately for you, you immediately fall into the clutches of his nemesis. Even after your escape, Vox continues to obsess. 

☒ Warnings: hermaphrodite!reader, deer!reader, crying!reader, they/them pronouns used, explicit sexual content, reader is in Hell for a reason, Valentino, canon typical scenarios.

☒ Series links: Part I Part2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6 Part 6 BONUS SCENE Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Epilogue

Ironically, at his console, surrounded by the feeds of thousands of cameras, was one of the few places Vox could be guaranteed privacy. Ignoring the emails that pinged in, and clearing his schedule for the next half hour, Vox loaded up the footage that had been tormenting him for the past week.

The camera wasn’t quite at your eye-level, but close enough. Alastor, leaning over you, his voice low and salacious, picked up crystal clear by the microphone at your lapel.

“Sweet little pretender, you are going to lay quite still and let me tend to you.”

Just the sound of Alastor’s voice was enough to send chills through Vox’s spine, and he swallowed, plugging the feed for the video directly into the back of his head as he unzipped his pants, his cock already hard, sore from the times he’d already beaten off to this. With the feed plugged into his head, the video was a true first person view. He couldn’t really feel Alastor’s body against his, but he could imagine, he could watch the Radio Demon getting hard, could listen to the soft, sticky sounds of kissing. Vox’s hand closed over his cock, pumping up and down as he watched. His arousal was a sick, dirty ache, but still it needed release; the tip of his cock wet and weeping.

A fake Alastor had been a sublime thing, hearing how Alastor would succumb, seeing from your expressions the way his ears would fold back when he was on the cusp of orgasm, hearing a voice that could double for Alastor’s whimper Vox, Vox, Vox. That had been great, but it wasn’t the real thing. It wasn’t “Are you really going to climax, just from a little kissing?” said in Alastor’s teasing tone. He’d heard that tone a hundred times before, paired with a sly tilt of the head, but never, not in Vox’s wildest dreams, had he imagined this. Alastor over him, the hard length of Alastor’s cock pressed against him, as Alastor teased.

“Fuck yes. Fuck yes, I’m gonna cum.” Vox swallowed again, his movements becoming more frantic as he played the footage again from the beginning. The Alastor in the video didn’t reply, but Vox was beyond caring. Shit, this was hotter than anything.

“I suppose I don’t see the harm. Hold still, now,” said Alastor, as the kissing noises began, the soft suckling and little distorted whimpers, all against the urgent plap, plap plap of Vox’s hand around his erection, close to the precipice despite his self-abuse. He imagined himself in your place, beneath Alastor, in Alastor’s fucking bed. Damn. The thought of that alone was enough to drive him wild.

“Fuck,” groaned Vox through gritted teeth as he came over his console, cock pulsing almost painfully in his hand. A thick line of cum hit the panel in front of him, spatter hitting the screens on each side.

Alastor had destroyed the camera, but he still had those few moments of footage. A sliver of what there might be. Alastor and you, sharing a soft, sensual embrace. The sound of kissing. Your breath hitching. Alastor’s breath, hitching in the same way. The hiss of static and the soft whine of a faulty capacitor discharging, the animal bellow of a stag in rut. The thought of all of these possibilities, of any of these possibilities was a fire in the corner of his mind. He wanted more. He needed more. But he couldn’t even get you back, let alone Alastor.

“You mean you didn’t make them sign a contract?” Valentino peered at him over his big pink glasses.

“What? No! I thought you did! Fuck!”

Valentino waved an arm dismissively. “Just send someone to go get them, they can’t have gone far.”

“They’re in the fucking hotel, Val.”

“What? With Alastor?” Valentino laughed to himself.

“Yes with fucking Alastor.” Vox felt a spark run from his antenna to his neck, his eye twitching. “Fuck!”

Vox thought of himself a resourceful man, however. When he needed something this badly, he always found a way to make it happen. Setting up a meeting with the King of Hell wasn’t easy, but it was the best way to get what he wanted. More.

He’d set up the meeting in the Voxtek boardroom, the most impressive meeting room he had, the long table in the center of it overshadowed by the windows on each side looking into his aquarium.

“Your majesty,” Vox beamed at Lucifer, hands folded behind his back. “Welcome to Voxtek. Can I offer you refreshments?” He inclined his head to the trolley he’d had brought in, loaded with carafes of drinks, plates of cake and fresh fruit.

“Yeah, I guess.” Lucifer returned none of Vox’s unctuousness, pacing to the meeting room table and sitting down. “Let’s get this over, shall we? I’ve got important… stuff.” He waved his hand.

Exactly what Lucifer’s important stuff was wasn’t clear to Vox, but it didn’t really matter. The important thing was that everyone at the hotel was either a friend or an employee of Alastor, except for Lucifer. Vox had it on good authority that Lucifer and Alastor had beef. And that was something he could use to his advantage.

“Nice sharks, by the way.” Lucifer gestured to the tank against the east wall of the boardroom, where Vox’s pets swam as Vox fetched him a coffee.

“Uh, thanks.” Vox took the seat across from Lucifer, the pitch for his proposal in his hands. “I raised ‘em.”

“Maybe I should get a pet,” said Lucifer, looking past Vox as he narrowed his eyes at the tank.

Maybe you should go fuck yourself, thought Vox, but he fixed his face into a smile instead. He really needed to win Lucifer over. “About the project for your daughter’s hotel,” he said.

Lucifer perked up at the word daughter, and Vox felt himself relax slightly. “I’ve put together a few proposals,” he continued, spreading the documents on the table. For someone younger, he would have done a powerpoint presentation, but bitter experience told him that the older generations were unlikely to sit through such a thing. Paper or bust. And unlike some people, Vox wasn’t entirely inflexible on the media he used. “Here we have the sinstagram banner ads, of course the targeted marketing, the sinfluencer sponsored content.” Vox spread out the glossy full-page promotional photos under his claws. He’d had his marketing team compose the entire pack, sparing no expense, and was pleased to see a spark of interest in Lucifer’s eye as the king looked at the bright, glossy images. “Then of course on the more traditional media, we can run newsreels, maybe even a docudrama!” He pushed the paper towards Lucifer, large text reading Hell’s Greatest Hotel.

“This looks very nice,” said Lucifer, pushing the paper back. “But what do you want for it?” Nothing in Hell was free, after all.

“A little favor,” said Vox.

Lucifer’s mouth twitched to the side. Doubt. “How little?”

Vox weighed his options. If he pussyfooted around the matter, that was likely to make Lucifer more suspicious, not less, and if Lucifer thought he was some kind of voyeur, he would never be allowed the hotel with Lucifer’s daughter in it again. “I want you to install some cameras and microphones in the bedroom of your facility manager, Alastor,” he said, as if this was a normal thing and not something he had been furiously masturbating over half an hour ago.

“What?” Lucifer made a face. “Why?”

“He’s my business rival,” said Vox, which was true.

“He’s Charlie’s friend,” said Lucifer, turmoil showing on his face.

“What your daughter doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“But if he loses his business…” said Lucifer, with a complete lack of understanding of how Hell’s media industry worked. Vox let it slide.

“Then you can swoop in and save the day,” said Vox, keeping his tone encouraging. “It’s a win-win.”

Lucifer’s gaze slid to the glossy photos, and Vox let him stew on the offer a little before he spoke again. “Just think of how many guests this would get you.”

Lucifer nodded slowly, biting his thumb. “Charlie would be pleased…”

“And it would be because of you,” said Vox, leaning in a little closer. “Like it should be.” And not because of Alastor, he left unspoken.

“Yeah.” Lucifer nodded again, with more certainty this time. “You’re right, TV man. It should be because of me.”

“We’ve got a deal, then?” asked Vox, with a sly grin. “Because it’s sounding to me like we’ve got a deal.”

[inky-duchess]

Etiquette of the Edwardian Era and La Belle Époque: How to Dress

This is a new set of posts focusing on the period of time stretching from the late 19th century to the early 20th Century right up to the start of WWI.

I'll be going through different aspects of life. This series can be linked to my Great House series as well as my Season post and Debutant post.

Today will be focusing on the rules of clothes with this time period.

A Cut for Every Occasion

As you may know, the wealthy elite and their servants lived extremely regimented lives and every aspect was governed by careful rules. They would be expected to wear the right outfit at the right time, every minute of the day. Any misstep would be noticed at once and be subject to scruntiny.

In the circles of the elite, one would be expected to change for every occasion. One simply wouldn't wear the same outfit they've been lying around the house in to attend tea at somebody's house. Fashion in this era was dictated by the clock and by the event diary of the wearer.

Ladies

Women of the upperclass would be expected to change at least six times a day. When she would rise for a morning of repose around the house, she would simply wear a house gown or a simple blouse and skirt. If planning a morning stroll, she would change into a walking suit which is a combination of blouse, skirt and jacket along with her hat usually of tweed. If running errands or paying a visit to friends, she would wear another walking suit. If riding, she would wear a riding habit and a hat. If hosting tea or taking tea in her own home, she would change into a tea gown with is a lighter more airier gown more comfortable for chilling in. If attending a garden party, one wears a pastel or white formal day gown accompanied by a straw hat and gloves. For dinner, she would change into an evening gown which would be more elaborate and show off a little more skin than her day wear. After dinner and ready for bed, she would change into her nightgown.

Female servants had an easier time of it. A housekeeper and lady's maid would simply wear a solid black gown for the entire day. A cook and kitchen maids would wear a simple day dress for working with an apron. Housemaids would usually wear a print dress with an apron and cap, changing into the more formal black and white attire you would associate with a maid.

Gentlemen

The gentlemen had an easier time but they too were subject to changes throughout the day. Men were expected to wear a suit. The most popular day time suit was a sack suit. These were comprised of plain and loose fitting jackets, worn over a starched shirt with a high collar, waistcoat and straight trousers with ironed creases. These suits were exclusively wool with cheaper ones made of a wool and cotton blend. Grey, green, brown, navy were usual but sine younger men preferred louder colours such as purple which was a trend for a time in the 1910s. These suits were worn about the house or in the city accompanied by a coat. Men would change into tweed if shooting or walking. For garden parties, a gentleman would wear a light coloured suit, usually white and a straw hat. For dinner, a man had two choices: his tails or his dinner jacket. A dinner jacket was for less formal suppers say if dining at home. This was a collection of a jacket, trousers, waistcoat, a bow tie, a detachable wing-collar shirt and black shoes. Lapels of these jackets were edged with silk or satin. Tails were worn at a formal dinner party, at White Tie events. This was made up of a tailcoat, white piqué waistcoat, a starched dress shirt with a pique bib and standing wing collar with a white bow tie. Trousers were lined with trim to hide the seams.

Male servants were soared changing. Footmen would wear their livery around the clock which would resemble white tie to a certain extent or mimic court dress of palace servants. Butler's would wear a variation of a gentleman's evening suit throughout the day. When a male servant is dressed, he usually stays that way. However, a valet or a footman may be taken to pick up during shooting parties where they would wear tweed walking suits.

Jewellery

Jewellery was an important sign of status in society. Upperclass women of this time has access to untold caches of sparklers but there were rules concerning their use and meaning. Earrings were usually clip ons as women of high status would not pierce their ears. Simple, understated earrings were worn during the day with more ostentatious sets were worn in the evening time. Broaches were popular at this time, usually worn at the throat of a gown or blouse or walking suit or affixed on hats. Large stoned rings were worn over gloves while slender bands were worn under. Jewellery was intricate and understated amongst old money whole the nouveau riche went for chunkier stones and larger settings. Tiaras were only worn at White Tie events, held after six pm and almost never by unmarried girls. One would not wear a larger tiara than that most senior lady present. Men would wear tie pins, cufflinks and pocket watches to match any occasion be it for a jaunt on the town or at a formal evening party.

Hats

Hats were a staple in this period. Anybody respectable from any class wouldn't venture out of the door without a hat.

Men would wear hats when heading out but always remove them when entering a building, and never wear one without removing it for the presence of a lady. The bowler was seen as more a servant's headwear while a top hat was reserved for gentlemen. Flat caps would be only seen on gentlemen at shooting gatherings or in the country, they were popular among the common class for any informal occasion.

Women had more stricter rules concern hats. Hats for women were more a day accessory worn while out and about. A woman would not wear a hat in her own home even when entertaining and nor would any of the other female occupants if joining the gathering. A woman would not remove her hat when attending a luncheon or tea or any activity. Hats were held in place by a ribbon or sash tied under the chin or by a hat pin, which is essentially a large needle thrust through the hair. This was the period where women's hats became more ornate and rather large, leading to some critisism. Among servants, housekeepers and lady's maids would not wear a hat while indoors and working but a housemaid or cook or kitchen maid would cover their hair with a cap with housemaids changing into a more elaborate one come evening time. Male servants would not wear hats unless travelling or outdoors.

Gloves

Gloves are a staple in this period and worn only at the opportune time. Among servants, only footmen would wear gloves and usually only when serving. Butlers would never wear gloves. Female servants did not wear gloves.

Men did wear gloves, usually woollen or leather while outside or riding gloves when out on horseback.

Women wore gloves whenever outside. Day gloves were usually wrist length, with evening gloves stretching to the elbow. During dinner, evening gloves would be removed at the first course and laid across the lap, replaced at the last course when the ladies leave for tea and coffee after where the gloves are then removed again. Gloves are always worn when dancing and at the theatre or opera. If one is sitting in ones box and sampling some chocolate, one can remove their gloves for that.

Hair and Makeup

Make up was a no-no amongst the upper crust and for their servants in England and America, as it was seen as licentious but in France, the use of rouge was accepted. Perfume and cologne were acceptable but excessive use was frowned upon.

Hair was dressed by one's lady's maid. Bouffant updos were popular in this time period for married women. During the last years of this period, women began adopting the 'bob' but this was seen as radical and sometimes scandalous. Unmarried girls could wear their hair down, often with accessories like a bow to adorn their tresses. Servants would always tie up their hair and never be seen with it down or uncovered (though this depended on their job).

Men would comb their hair, slicking it back for dinner. Most men were clean shaven but if they wore beards, they were usually well groomed. Hair was kept short for grown men and teenagers but young boys may wear their hair longer whilst in the nursery.