#is it like a newer word people are using for a pant style or like

[eatember]

is pajamas an indian word???

[sinsofthefather-kulemi]

MEET: Kenjiro Hara

◈Age: 32

◈Job: Proprietor of Club Reign, more commonly referred to as Reign.

◈Relationship Status: Has been single for nearing two years now. He and his ex didn't even date long, the relationship lasted for about 8 months before they passed. They were friends for longer and absolutely dear to him. One of the greatest friends he's ever had. He hasn't tried again. It hasn't quite felt right. In his mind, it's like he never got to properly end the relationship. So, he feels like he'd be doing something wrong if he moved on.

◈Family: His mother was an abusive drunk who prioritized her even more abusive boyfriend over him and his siblings. He had brothers. But he couldn't say where any of them are now, though. He can barely even recall what they look like considering he left his mother's house when he was 14 and he lived on the streets for quite some time after that. He was not in his right mind the majority of the time. Alot of his youth before Hiroshi is a blur and what he does remember, he wishes he didn't.

◈Friends: He's got a couple of guys that he look to that he may call his friend but he's a little shy about using that word. It makes him feel weak. He hates that feeling. But sure, there's a couple people he could call if he's ever low. They're fellow Itou men--plants. But they're captains where they are, so they get him. He'd like to call Hiroshi his friend but deep down, he knows that he's nothing more than a pawn to him. It's alright though. He'd proudly be his chess piece until the very end. Edna is dear to him too. He adores her. He hopes that Arika can view him as a friend, someone that she can rely on but he fears that since she has a boyfriend now, she may not need him as much. Unfortunately for that guy, he treasures her. So they won't be rid of him so easily.

◈Hobbies: Kenjiro used to enjoy dancing back when he lived with the Namikawas as the girls forced him to quite often. However, he's gained an even deeper appreciation for dancing thanks to his job. Plus, how tacky would it look if the owner of the top disco in the city didn't know how to get his groove on? He likes to check out the local competition anyway. Two birds as they say. He's also really fond of cruising through town in his Skyline with windows down and the radio up as he belts his heart out to his favorite tunes. He could easily lose track of time that way. He's a very impressive bowler. His form is almost sort of elegant and he knows alot about the game on a more technical level than just 'knockin down them pins'. The man even owns his own bowling ball. He likes to invite people out for a round of drinks then end the night at the local bowling alley where another couple of rounds awaits. Get you drunk, then kick your ass. That's the Kenjiro way!

◈Favorite Food: His mouth waters at just the thought of karaage. Fresh, piping hot, crunchy karaage with pickled vegetables on the side and a nice foamy beer to finish it all off.

◈Favorite Item: If you know anything about Kenjiro it's that there's nothing on this Earth that he cares more about after the Namikawa family and Itou than his precious, precious 1989 Nissan Skyline GT-R. Back when he used to drive the girls around, he was given the keys to Hiroshi's white sedan, a 1980 Nissan Skyline 2000GT. He'd only ever driven beater cars before then. It was like a dream every day. At some point, he began to fantasize about having one of his own. But he knew that when the time came, he'd have to get something similar just newer, cooler. Something that suited his style better. When the '89 GT-R sports car came out he could've jizzed in his pants. It was exactly what he was looking for all after these years and he had the money to pay for it- cash.

Want to learn a little more about the others?

→ Goro → Hiroshi → Arika → Edna

[fatefulfaerie]

Mortality

Zelink Week 2021 prompt #7/7 @zelinkweek2021

Word Count: 3,684

Incarnation: Breath of the Wild 2 (pre)

Additional Prompts Followed: Forsaken Fates, Lost Eternities

Inspired by this art by @morniae

A big thank you to @braidy-maidy and @linktheacehero for beta-ing!!

He wasn’t expecting a fairytale reunion as his horse trotted slowly, arriving at the Forgotten Temple with next to no fanfare. All sorts of geniuses from every race of Hyrule had gathered to study this place, to pull it from its lost state and unearth its secrets, to discover the reason behind its eternity and maybe even why its fate was to be forsaken and forgotten to all of history.

Link left his horse with the many others that were being cared for on the left side of the canyon and began to navigate the ruckus on foot. It seemed crowds of scientists and historians alike were out here securing their tents, making food, and languishing in a well-deserved rest. Link felt as if he stuck out like a sore thumb with his small brain, but no one paid him any mind, not even her.

In fact, she was nowhere to be found.

Perhaps he was expecting some fairytale reunion as he peered his head around every Sheikah, Goron, Rito, Zora, and Hylian in sight. He didn’t care that there was no fanfare, in fact, that may have made it even harder to spot her if it were a big deal that the hero of Hyrule had arrived. Thank Hylia these ruins were more interesting, that no crowd had congealed into a true tidal wave of obstacles. He missed her dearly, after all, no matter how short a time two weeks was in comparison to a hundred years.

He made his way all the way to the shrine in the back when he finally saw her. Zelda smiled when she spotted him and bounded over, clutching the Sheikah Slate.

“Thank the goddesses you’re here,” she said, pecking his cheek. “They haven’t made anything good for dinner in days.”

She walked right past him. Link’s mouth popped open as she practically flew to another inscription of the ruins being studied. Purah, following close behind Zelda, approached Link as he looked over.

“Two weeks she hasn’t seen me and I get a colder welcome than ten thousand year old ruins.”

Purah clicked her tongue and began to cross past Link.

“Sounds like you better get cooking.”

And so he didn’t see his blur of a girlfriend until dinner, when he was serving a ladle-full of meat stew to everyone who passed by with a bowl, salty chunks of meat and sweet carrots swimming in a broth that radiated a scrumptious scent for at least a mile.

The last person he served came up wearing a forehead beaded with sweat and sticky blonde hair from a hard-days work. As she approached, she lightly hit the empty wooden bowl against her hand, and pursed her lips taut with eyes almost apologetic. Her steps shuffled in the sand.

“Look who it is,” Link said before she could muster an apology. He looked more amused than upset, anyway. Zelda sat on her heels in front of the cooking pot and handed him her bowl.

“Sorry,” she said, “it was just a busy day. We think we’re close to finding--”

Link and Zelda’s eyes met. They both knew what she was going to say. The entrance to the caves. The hidden reason why this expedition was such an extensive operation. Only Purah and Impa knew the true reason, after all. Everyone else was just here for research. Bless their hearts.

They knew they needed to find it, but not finding it meant more of an excuse to not go down there.

Yet.

To not let go of the illusion of peace.

Yet.

To not face their mortality once again.

Not yet.

Link looked down to pour soup in her bowl. With everyone else fed--and Zelda more than likely went to the back of the line on purpose so that she would be the last one to eat--Link poured himself a bowl as well. They soon sat down in front of Zelda’s tent.

“When are Impa and Paya arriving?” Link asked.

“Tonight,” Zelda replied, but she swallowed hard, regretting taking another spoonful with a “mm”. 

“Oh my gosh I almost forgot!” she said enthusiastically. “You should have seen it, Link. The reunion between Purah and Robbie? They just marched up to each other, both short, old, and wrinkled, said each other’s names and walked off. It’s hard to believe they used to be lovers.”

Link choked on his stew.

“What?”

“Did I not...mention that?”

Link was still coughing, eyes tearing up.

“No?” He croaked, before coughing a couple more times. “You’d think I would remember something like that.”

“Believe me I wish I didn’t,” she said, before changing the subject. “Oh yeah, how did the meeting go?”

“Horrible,” Link said between spoonfuls.

“What do you mean?” Zelda inquired, slightly disappointed. She had hoped diplomacy would work.

“If I had known that Kohga had an eight year-old hiding somewhere in that hideout, I never would have attacked him,” Link started. “Apparently we needed him to keep his son in check. The kid is so hell-bent on revenge that he didn’t even read the treaty. He’s determined to hunt us down until the end of our days. Even his guards think he’s taking it a bit far. I could see it in their faces when Sooga was going on and on about his forces being strong and ready to fight. Those poor men and women are tired.”

“I thought the Yiga wore masks?”

Link shook his head.

“Not anymore,” he replied. “Sooga wants them to be proud of themselves, whatever that means. Goddesses, that whole meeting was like getting a child to eat their vegetables. I’m pretty sure Riju was about to slap him at the end, the little runt recycling the dogmas of the Yiga that are ten thousand years old now. Even when I ask him why he said such things about Hylians, he doesn’t give a straight answer. He knows less about history than I do and I had amnesia. He’s just been conditioned, raised to hate.”

“That’s unfortunate, but not hopeless,” Zelda said. “I’m sure Riju and the rest of the Gerudo will be able to work it out if the entirety of the clan no longer backs him. Is there any danger until then?”

Link shook his head and swallowed his current spoonful.

“Not yet,” he said once he could. “The only reason they haven’t attacked here is because he wants to find the entrance of the caves as much as we do. He didn’t say it outright, but he’s waiting for us to do it for him.”

“That’s not frightening at all,” she said sarcastically. “We’ll have to increase security when we do eventually go down there, make sure he doesn’t follow us.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Zelda,” Link said. “He’s only eight years old, and he’s pretty short and lean.”

Zelda smiled as she sipped her soup.

“I remember a little eight year old like that who could best adult knights,” she said with a smirk. “People say he saved Hyrule.”

“Really?”

“Never grew an inch after eight years old though.”

Link scoffed.

“I can and will pour the rest of this stew over your head,” he said as he held it up. Zelda laughed, but put her arms out in defense.

“Don’t you dare!” She exclaimed. She stood up and began to back away “I’m a princess!”

“Not anymore,” Link said, forgetting about the soup and tackling her. They wrestled playfully, rolling down the rocky slope and laughing joyfully until they stopped suddenly in a gulch, Zelda hovering over Link and sharing with him panting breaths.

“I win,” she said.

“By chance,” Link argued. He brought a hand up and lightly coaxed her head to lower. It, however, did not take much effort, as Zelda more than willingly met his lips to his, exploring his mouth and enjoying the sensation. She felt her cheeks warm. Kissing was all they had ever done, so being flush to him was frankly exhilarating, but she didn’t mind it in the slightest.

They both heard the reigns of horses, the clatter of a covered wagon, the jingle of Kakariko-style bells, but it blended too much into the rest of the ruckus for them to think anything of it.

“Paya, you brought us to the wrong place,” Impa said. “I wanted to go to the research expedition, not a mating ritual exhibition.”

Zelda pushed herself off Link and attempted to fix her hair, composing herself as best she could. Link stood up, but he let his messy hair be.

“H-hey Impa,” Zelda said, walking towards her oldest friend. Despite her feeble frame and short stature, Impa hopped off the wagon like a child. “How was the trip?”

“Long,” Impa said, bruskly.

“She’s a bit cranky,” Paya explained as she stepped off and started to untie the two brown horses from the wagon. “Where do these go?”

“Over there,” Link said, pointing over to the mini-stable on the left of the canyon. “And your tent is the one next to ours. If you’re hungry, there’s probably some stew left.”

“Please,” Impa said, allowing the young man to lead the way to the appropriate cooking pot. She even let him help her walk when the terrain wasn’t the smoothest.

They had left Zelda alone, but it gave her the opportunity to help Paya with unloading the wagon, and to catch up with one of her newer friends before they all turned in for the night.

Zelda was surprised to find Paya as reserved as she was when they first met, but after a bit of grilling she admitted to Zelda that Impa had told her of their true purpose here, that sealing Calamity Ganon may not have been an ending they could trust. Her red eyes were sad and apologetic for learning the secret but Zelda wouldn’t have it, insisting to Paya that it was okay, that it won’t be a secret for long, and that Hyrule was going to be okay.

That last one was a lie Zelda thought about well into the night.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Zelda.”

He opened his eyes to the dark tent, the edge where tan cloth met a small patch of dry grass.

Link couldn’t believe a whisper was what woke him up. Still half awake and already turned away from the center flap of the tent, he kept his eyes closed, hoping he could doze off again.

“Zelda, wake up.”

Someone gently shook Zelda’s foot, and Link guessed the voice belonged to Paya.

Link felt Zelda’s arms slide away from holding him and he tried to slow his breaths. They both would feel so guilty for waking him.

“What is it?” Zelda asked, the rustling that followed suggesting that she got out of the tent. “Should I wake up Link?”

Paya must have shaken her head, or said something to suggest that it wouldn’t be necessary, because that was the last Link heard of the conversation.

He inwardly wrestled with the decision to get up anyway since he was, in fact, awake, but his comfort insisted otherwise and he drifted off before he made up his mind.

“Link.”

The sunlight was bright, even through the dulled filter of the canvas tent.

He felt Zelda’s hand on his shoulder, and he rolled over at the gentle prompt. Link found her green eyes.

“We found it,” she said. “An entrance to the caves.”

Link closed one eye and scrunched up his face. Zelda knew he did that when he was both tired and confused but with his messy bedhead she saw it as adorable.

Link moved his arm to the other, pinching his own skin somewhere around the wrist and, once he felt pain, his entire body sighed exasperated. He faced the top of the tent and closed his eyes far too tight to go back to sleep.

He opened the blue gems one at a time and took a deep breath.

“I assume we are leaving as soon as possible?”

Zelda nodded.

Link didn’t say another word when he got up and started getting ready, almost ignoring Zelda and how she sat on her heels in her own silent and undetectable bout of sadness. He even left her there in the tent but Zelda let him have his space, let him breathe his last breaths in this wild, fresh air, let him hear the birds and see the sun before she dragged him down to hell, back down to war, back down to fear and panic and worry and trauma and everything he had worked so hard to heal from.

It wasn’t until they were several steps into the caves that his stoicism really started to wear at her. One statement and all of him was left in the tent. He just…walked, looking forward, not saying a word. Zelda hated it as much as she did a hundred years ago. She tried to remember that he wasn’t really mad at her back then, so he couldn’t be mad at her now…

Right?

She looked over at his profile again.

Right?

“Link?”

The hooves of the large, blue ox behind them clapped along.

“I, uh…” she began when he gave no response. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Link said quickly and briskly.

Zelda’s lips parted. Her pacing slowed to a halt. If she hadn’t stopped pulling the ox along, it would have rammed into her.

Link looked over his shoulder when he realized he was the only one moving, turning around completely to see Zelda with a slightly furrowed brow.

“Why don’t I believe you?” Zelda asked.

He decided to look elsewhere as he hugged his arms close, the stone ground, the cavernous chasm above them, the rocky wall, anywhere but Zelda.

“I’m not mad at you, I...” he said quietly, “I’m just feeling a little off, okay?” He said quietly. “I had trouble breathing when I left the tent this morning.”

Zelda’s expression softened. She closed the distance between them and attempted to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You could have told me that,” Zelda said. “I’m nervous too. We have a right to be. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Yet Link still refused to look up.

“I almost collapsed, I felt so weak,” Link said. “The dread, the fear of facing it all again, the thought of losing you…it gathered, I felt it here.”

He placed a hand on his chest and he started to pant. His fingers began to clutch at the brown leather, the blue cloth and he stumbled to his knees.

“Link!” Zelda exclaimed as she grabbed him under his forearms, kneeling down with him. His breaths were shaky and fast, and he stared down at the ground.

“Link,” she repeated. “Link.”

The next sound from Link was the combination of a spurt of fresh paint and a croaking frog, warm vomit spilling from his mouth in smelly chunks of beef and carrots. It was instinct that Zelda stood up with a yelp and backed away with arms floating up, the gathering of vomit ending up mere inches from her toes. If she had stayed where she was, her pants would have been covered in Link’s partly-digested dinner.

“Oh gosh, Link,” she said once she got over the shock, rushing to his side and drawing circles on his back. He didn’t react though, only staring at the mess on the floor with his weight on his hands.

Zelda’s eyes stung with tears as she ran her fingers through his hair, some drops even lopping onto Link’s mess. She held him as best she could while still giving him the distance he needed, but that could never stop her from the occasional kiss on the side of his head and whispering sweet assurances of love into his right ear.

After a couple fruitless lurches of his back and neck, Link hurled a second time. As ironic as it was for her to hope for anything from the goddess anymore, Zelda prayed it was the last one.

“Zelda,” he said between heavy breaths. It was apparent his lungs were exhausted. He coughed a couple times.

Link looked into Zelda’s eyes, finally, although they veered towards horror, the green marbles conveying desperation for how to relieve this poor young man.

“I know,” she said, trying to smile. She wiped away Link’s tears. “I know.”

Wary of the mess near them, she brought him into a proper embrace, rocking him back and forth and holding him in such a way that she was sure he knew he was held. She wasn’t sure how secure he could feel on the cusp of embarking into danger, but she would try her best.

“I’m scared, too,” she said. “Down here is an untouched wild that was left alone for a reason we know not of. Nothing is scarier than the unknown, especially for us who have been hurt again and again by the unknown. Hope has betrayed us too much for us to readily depend on it, but we have to try.”

Link looked up, tilting his head to see her.

“How?”

Zelda lips parted. She stammered speechlessly. He seemed so hurt by her hopefulness.

“Together,” she said, attempting to fake her confidence. There was still a small question mark at the end of her statement that she didn’t mean to expose.

Link stood up and faced away from her. He crossed his arms.

“Do you know how long a version of Ganon has been terrorizing Hyrule?” Link asked. “How long he has been reincarnating?”

Zelda, who was now sitting on her heels, shook her head.

“No,” she said honestly.

“Do you know what makes us any different from the people who tried to stop him in the past?”

“No,” Zelda repeated, again, honestly.

Link nodded.

“I don’t either,” he said. “And that scares me.”

Zelda stood up.

“Link, we—”

“I can’t lose you!” Link exclaimed, turning around quickly. “I ignored it, okay?! All this time when you talked about there being caves, there being another journey, I ignored it! I put it off! I casted it aside! I focused on us.” His voice broke. “I thought that was all there would ever be…”

He placed his hands on his hips and collected himself.

“This morning it all collapsed,” he said. “Right before my eyes. Everything I could have ever hoped for.”

Zelda scoffed.

“Do you think I was happy to have found these caves?” Zelda asked rhetorically. “To have been woken up in the middle of night and told that this place I saw in my nightmares was indeed real, that I was to investigate a threat that hasn’t been faced in ten thousand years of Hyrule birthing warriors more capable than you? I had to keep a straight face, but Link, I wanted to scream so loud that even Lurelin could hear me!”

Zelda released her residual anger at the world in heavy pants of her breaths. Once she sighed herself calm, she snagged a small rag from the heaps of resources strapped to the patient and by now likely deaf ox.

Zelda stepped forward and washed Link’s stunned face clean of vomit.

“Then I thought of our future,” Zelda continued. “I was angry because coming down here means jeopardizing that. I scorned myself for how selfish that was. I told myself that this wasn’t about me and you, that this is about a peaceful Hyrule. That helped but...do you want to know what really helped?”

“What?” Link asked.

“The people of Hyrule want to live in peace, and so do we. They want to raise families without worrying about another Calamity.” Zelda smiled. “I think we do too, when the time comes.” She perished the thought. That was a long while down the road. “But this isn’t just about a peaceful Hyrule, it’s about our peaceful Hyrule. I’m no longer a princess, distanced from others by a pedestal, and you are no longer a knight, distanced from others by a sword. We actually feel like a part of Hyrule this time. Of course we loved the Champions, my father, but we aren’t acting as Hyrule’s weapons anymore. We don’t feel like cards to be discarded or pawns to be knocked off in a game of chess. All of this is voluntary. We can’t blame a kingdom or a calamity this time. The possibility of losing each other is already giving us stomach-churning guilt because no one told us to go down here. We came down here because we want to preserve peace for all of us, preserve peace beyond even our lifetimes.”

Zelda placed a hand on Link’s cheek.

“And we will,” she said. “We have to believe we will. If we don’t think we’ll get out of here, then there is no chance we will. This is our first on-our-own decision and it’s a damn risky one. We can always turn back if--”

“No,” Link interrupted.

Link’s hand went to hers and his thumb stroked her soft fingers.

“No,” he repeated, however shakily. “We are going through with this. I just need to process it, that’s all. I didn’t think we would actually be doing this. I think we both held on to the fantasy of peace. I definitely held on to it too much.”

He finally let her touch soothe him.

“I’m here,” Zelda assured him softly. “I’m right here.”

She took his hand and placed it on her heart, the rhythm of which pulsated through his own veins.

“I’m not supposed to be alive right now,” Zelda said. “I should have died an eighty year old queen about thirty years ago but here we both are, young and spry. These caves are filled with dangers we don’t know, but with my heart in your hands and your heart in mine I know we can dare to do the impossible again.”

Link met his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. He tried to breathe the way she was, to feel her calm and to adapt it into his own body.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”

[dindjarindiaries]

Collide - Chapter 4

summary: Needing to forget the pain Javier brings her, bella drowns herself with more drinks than she should—and ends up spilling much more than she bargained for.

warnings: angst, mentions of death/drug use, angst, mentions of driving under the influence (don’t do it!), angst, overconsumption of alcohol, did i say angst?

rating: R

word count: 4.555k

masterlist

chapter 4

The first week in Colombia surprisingly flies by. You’re able to work just fine alongside Steve and Javier—thanks to your ability to at least pretend that nothing’s unsolved between the two of you—and though you’ve made no further progress on Escobar, you feel as if you’re finally starting to get something accomplished.

Your truce with Javier has stayed limited, though. You’ve refused to let yourself be alone with him ever since that day at the market. You know that if you continue to spend time with Javier like that, you’ll both completely give in to the urge to move forward like nothing’s ever happened—and you can’t have that. Too much happened that one night, and you know too much has happened ever since. You refuse to drop everything, though you can tell it’s what Javier wants to do. But you still haven’t figured out how to approach it. You’d tried that once, and it’d gone horribly.

It’s the Saturday night officially closing out the week, and you’re wrapping up your day at the office when Steve looks at you with a twinkle in his eye. You’d know that look anywhere, even after only spending a week with him: he’s either excited about something or he’s about to light a flame under someone’s ass. Or maybe both.

“Alright, fuckers, time’s up,” Steve starts, causing you to snort and Javier to sigh loudly. “I’m not spendin’ another minute here when we oughtta be celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Javier scoffs, raising an eyebrow at Steve as he puts out his cigarette. “The fact that I endured this kind of shit for a week and barely complained?”

“No, the fact that she endured us,” Steve corrects him, gesturing to you. Javier continues to raise his eyebrow at Steve. “And the fact that you made it a week without getting laid. Congrats, Peña.”

You feel sick at Steve’s comment, but try not to show it. Javier chuckles and shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. “So, what do you propose?” Javier asks, choosing not to dwell on the last part of Steve’s words as he puts his hands behind his head. You attempt to ignore the way it tightens his shirt around his arms, pulling your gaze back to Steve instead.

“Javi, we’ve spent a week with her in Colombia and haven’t even shown her our favorite spot.” Steve clicks his tongue disapprovingly and gives a shake of his head. “I propose that we go out for some drinks tonight.”

You let out a deep breath, beginning to collect your things in your hands as you wait for Javier’s answer. Instead, he’s looking at you, and he furrows his brow when he sees your attention on him. “What’re looking at me for?” Javier questions.

“I’m waiting for your answer,” you inform him simply.

“It’s your decision,” Javier clarifies.

“Oh, I thought we were waiting on you,” you say. “I was going with or without you two dipshits.”

Steve and Javier both chuckle, and Steve slaps a friendly hand against your shoulder. “Now that’s how you survived a week with us,” Steve reminds you, shaking his head. Once Javier’s also gathered his things, the three of you walk out to your cars, finally escaping the office as you make a plan to meet back in the lobby of the apartment building in an hour’s time.

Once you’ve gotten back to your apartment, you get ready for a night out the way you always have—but perhaps with a bit more effort than usual this time around. You exchange your work shirt for something more fun, and definitely more tight-fitting to your body. You play it safe and stick to wearing pants but choose a pair that sticks more to your legs, satisfied with the way all your best assets are showing off. As far as the rest goes, you let your hair fly free as you style it minimally and touch up your makeup lightly. You don’t want to make your effort extremely obvious, but just enough for a certain person to notice.

No, you try to convince yourself. That’s not the goal. You’re just having some fun with your coworkers.

But you know that’s not the truth. You just hope that if you and Javier get a little tipsier than expected, you’ll finally spill your truths to each other and fix this mess—maybe even enough to admit your truest and deepest feelings. It’s unlikely, but you’re bold enough to continue hoping for it.

The hour’s soon arrived, and you try to ignore the way you feel nervous—why the hell am I nervous?—as you grab your wallet and head back down to the lobby. Steve, Connie, and Javier are already there, and they turn to face you upon your arrival. Your cheeks heat up slightly when you see the way Javier looks at you, and you try not to feel affected by the way his usual button-up’s opened just a sliver more than usual, and his hair’s tussled more messier than he typically has it at work.

“There you are,” Steve greets playfully. “I was startin’ to think this week really made you hate us enough to stand us up.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No, not even you two shitheads could stand between me and a much-needed night of drinking,” you insist, watching as Steve and Connie chuckle at you. Javier, though, seems to shift anxiously, and you raise an eyebrow at his suddenly guarded behavior.

“Well, we were thinking it’s probably best to limit our number of drivers,” Steve informs you. “So, I’ll take Connie, and Javier will take you. Sound good?”

You give him a nod. “Great.”

“Then let’s go,” Steve says, gesturing with his head to the exit. You follow, standing at an awkwardly far distance away from Javier. Your gaze falls on him in slight concern, seeing the way his jaw’s practically clenched shut as his eyes stare straight ahead. A pit forms in your stomach at his change in demeanor. You’ve gotten to know Javier’s newer personality quirks very well this week, and you know it’s odd to see him looking so utterly drained of any kind of attitude or life. Deciding to swallow your own worries in exchange to heal his, you dare to ask him about it once you’re sitting alone in his car.

“Javi, are you okay?” you don’t hesitate to ask. You look over at where his hands are gripping the steering wheel just a bit tighter than usual, his dark eyes narrowing as he watches Steve’s car navigate the roads ahead of you. “You seem… I don’t know, out of it.”

“I’m fine,” Javier insists gruffly.

You hold back a scoff at his standoffish manner. “Are you tired?” He shakes his head, and you try again. “Mad?” He repeats the movement, this time gripping the wheel even tighter. “Annoyed?” You see him clench his jaw more. “Frustr—.”

“Will you just leave it?” Javier snaps, looking over at you with his dark eyes finally widened. You lift your hands in mock surrender, and immediately you see his expression fall as he clears his throat. “I’m sorry, bella, that was uncalled for. I was being an ass.” He lets out a soft sigh, his hands loosening around the wheel as he focuses on the road again. “I’ve just been stuck inside my own head too much lately, that’s all.”

A small flicker of hope makes itself known inside your chest, and you look over at him with a curious tilt to your head. “About what, cariño?”

Javier shakes his head again, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way you easily recognize. He always tended to do that whenever he was struggling with something—or trying to think of a lie. “Escobar,” he finally says, tapping his thumbs on the wheel as he speaks. “I’m driving myself crazy trying to think of where that bastard could possibly be.”

You try not to let disappointment fill you as you nod understandingly. “I know, Javi. I’ve only been here for a week and I can feel that same frustration. But the more patient we are, the more calculated we can be once we get something. He’s playing a game, and that means we have to play it, too—but we’ve got to outsmart him in it.”

Javier nods to agree, looking over to give you a small yet grateful smile as he pulls in behind Steve along the curb outside the bar. “You always know what to say, bella.” He gives your shoulder a pat before he gets out of the car, and you follow suit. Soon, the four of you are inside the rowdy bar, a drink in hand as you attempt conversation over the loud music and dozens of other people already speaking around you.

You take a quick glance around and notice the bar is practically split into two halves: one meant for socializing and talking over drinks and the other for dancing and making out with whoever’s in the closest vicinity. You wonder if the latter is usually Javier’s go-to spot while Steve sticks to the former, but you don’t have to fantasize as Javier soon dismisses himself to start heading over to the livelier part of the establishment.

It proves to be a challenge for you to pretend you’re still engaged in Steve and Connie’s conversation as your eyes beg to follow Javier and see what he’s up to. Every once in a while, you allow your gaze to drift over, and you watch as Javier starts to get close to a beautiful brunette who’s unafraid to show off her assets in a tight-fitting dress.

Good for her, you think to yourself. If you had that kind of confidence, you would’ve done the same to get Javier’s attention. You shake your head at yourself. You don’t want that. But you know deep down what you want, even if it’s a mixed cloud of confusion in your mind and heart at the moment.

Looking down at the now-empty glass in your hand, you address Steve and Connie over the music. “I’m gonna go get another drink!” you tell them, waiting until they nod to walk away from where you’ve been standing to head back to the bar. “Or five,” you add under your breath. You walk up to the bar and ask for a shot of tequila, taking it in your hand as your gaze makes its way back over to Javier again.

He makes the woman laugh. You take the shot and slam it back down onto the counter, asking for another one.

You continue to watch as Javier’s lips approach the woman’s ear, whispering something in it as his hand sneaks its way onto her waist. You take another shot and get it refilled.

The woman bites her lip up at Javier and pulls him by the collar towards the dance floor. A third shot.

Javier’s hands reach for her hips, pulling her against him as they melt together underneath the dim lights. A fourth shot.

In a grand finale, you watch Javier spin the woman around in his arms as his mouth meets hers, his hands going to places you never wanted to see. A fifth and final shot.

You can tell the bartender is concerned at your ambitious intake of so many back-to-back shots, yet you still insist upon getting a rum and coke in hand as you walk back in Steve and Connie’s direction. You can’t feel the impact of your bad decisions just yet, but you wish you could, because all you can see is the burning image of the man you’re still hopelessly in love with melting against a woman he’s just met.

“You alright over there?” Steve asks, chuckling a bit as he gestures towards you. “You were gone for a while.”

“Just deciding what I wanted,” you lie, forcing out a laugh and swallowing hard as you turn your back to the scene you can’t forget.

The longer the conversation goes on, the more you start to feel yourself fade away. Your mind is solely able to see Javier’s hands exploring the stranger’s body, and you match it to the way he’d done the same thing to you once—but in such a gentle, tender, and loving way. You question if it was truly as sacred as you used to think it was. You wonder if that woman’s feeling the same way you did: valued, beautiful, practically holy in the knowing hands of a caring creature. You marvel at the fact she likely won’t care if she never sees him again after this night when all you’ve been able to do is think of him since the moment his hands first touched you in such a manner. And finally, you ask yourself what the hell it’ll take for him to finally treat you like that again—but not just for the pleasure; because it’s the sheer passion that’s fighting its way out of his unrelenting heart.

The last thing you remember is trying to drag a tipsy Connie to the dance floor with you, insisting that you’ve got some moves you need to practice for a future date.

Meanwhile, Javier’s still wrapped up in the moment with the brunette in question. He hates the way he feels fulfilled, finally able to let his mind and heart still as he finds an outward pleasure in a woman who was, luckily, willing to help him. With every sway of her hips against him and feeling of her tongue dancing along his, Javier forgets everything he’s been bottling up inside for not just this entire week, but every single damn day since he left you in Kingsville. For the moment, the world only exists between him and this woman—whose name he either hasn’t caught yet or hasn’t bothered to remember.

Javier feels like shit using her but finds himself justified by knowing she’s also using him. It’s the kind of arrangement he’s used to. He likely won’t ever have to see her again after this, unless she happens to be at the bar at the same time as him. They’ll take out on each other what they need to in order to reap something worthwhile, and they’ll forget it ever happened once they feel better the next day. Javier isn’t proud of it, and fuck, does he wish it could be meaningful to him like it used to be a long time ago, but it’s the only thing he’s been able to find solace in since leaving you. He can forget the pain in your eyes and concern on your face when he knew you were starting to catch onto him by drowning himself in a stranger’s offering of lust—a sacrifice for his darkest demons and deepest worries.

But even that relief doesn’t last long. Thankfully, Javier’s happened to be a step away from the woman when he feels a firm grasp on his arm. He instantly turns to see Steve standing there, raising his voice above the music as he addresses him.

“We’ve got a problem, Peña,” Steve says with a furrowed brow. Instantly, Javier’s mind goes to you, and he looks past his partner to see you practically falling onto Connie’s shoulder as she struggles to support you. “She’s gonna need a ride home, now.”

Javier feels his concern for you strike him deeply, creating a pit in his stomach as he looks back to Steve. He doesn’t even question why he’s been elected to take you. “Alright,” he agrees, looking back to the confused woman with a small pang of guilt in his chest. “Lo siento, señorita, pero necesito irme ahora. Gracias por una noche muy divertida.” He doesn’t wait for her reaction as he follows Steve closely, wondering how you’ve gotten yourself in such a state.

You’ve never been one to enjoy losing control. It’s how he knows the hell you went through when he stepped out of your life—because you weren’t able to control whether or not he would reenter it. In his cruelty at the time, he’d played with it, seeing how far he could push you back until you reached the edge and fell further away from the disaster he considered himself to be. He didn’t want you anywhere near him—not for his sake, but for yours. But now, as he watches you practically stumbling into his arms, he regrets every single thing he’s done leading up to this moment, as if he already hasn’t enough for the past twenty years of his life.

“¿Qué te hiciste?” Javier asks you softly, wrapping your arm around his neck as he begins to lead you back out to his car.

“I’ll do you one better,” you slur back at him, giggling to yourself and taking a deep breath as you meet the cool air of the Colombian night. “¿En dónde está tu novia?”

Javier feels a lump in his throat suddenly appear, and he tries to swallow it back as he responds. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he reminds you, helping you into the passenger seat of the car. He gets you buckled in, making sure it fits right before he heads over to his side of the car.

“No?” You scoff, and Javier’s still disturbed by the way your voice is completely warped by your unstable state of mind. “It sure looked like it, cariño.”

Javier exhales deeply as he brings the car to life. Shit. He’d completely forgotten the fact that you’d probably seen everything he’d done with the woman inside the bar. “It meant nothing, bella, don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” You echo his words yet again and laugh—a crude laugh that makes Javier clench his jaw. “You’re right, Javi, I don’t need to worry.” You pause for a second, and he looks over to see your dazed eyes looking out of the window as if you can’t even face him. “I shouldn’t worry that I was once that same woman to you.”

Javier furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

You let out another laugh, and Javier tries not to let his frustration grow as he tightens his grip on the wheel. “Don’t play stupid with me, Javier.” He feels your gaze land back on him, but he doesn’t have the faith to return it. “You know you’ve touched me like that before.”

Javier freezes, trying to keep his focus on the road as the feeling of icy horror spreads through him. This is exactly what he’s been avoiding—but now he has to face it: at least, to satisfy your drunk self. “It wasn’t like that, bella.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, longer than Javier pleases. He takes a quick look over to see that your gaze is now full of tears, and he curses mentally as an ache starts to fill his chest. “It sure feels like it was.” He bites his lip when he hears you choke back a sob, trying to tell himself this is all because of your drunkenness—and perhaps you’re just emotional when you’re like this. “You wanted to pretend it didn’t happen, like you would’ve with this one tonight.” He hears you sniffle, and he knows you well enough to know that you’re starting to cry. “I felt like a whore for letting it happen, Javi.”

Javier’s heart breaks at your words, and he gives you a quick yet reassuring look. “You aren’t, bella. I just—it was just—.”

But it’s almost as if you never hear his words as you continue, saying the words that knock the breath straight out of his lungs. “I waited so long to preserve myself and finally gave it to you, Javier, and when I realized you didn’t want it—you regretted it—I felt so fuckin’ stupid.”

Javier discovers that he’s having a hard time breathing, now, and so he pulls the car over and puts it to a hard stop. He’s finally free to look over at you completely, his eyes widened to twice their usual size as he sees you practically shrink into your seat. Javier knows you’re not sober, that this could all be bullshit—but it’d be some pretty complicated bullshit to come up with on the spot. His hands are practically shaking at the mere thought of what you’ve just said being true. “You were a virgin?” Javier’s words come out in a haunted whisper, and he’s suddenly aware of how hard his heart’s drumming against his chest.

“I was waiting for you, cariño,” you say through a cry, causing Javier to feel lightheaded.

“You didn’t tell me!” Javier exclaims, horror pulsing through his veins. This would’ve changed so much—it could’ve changed everything. He would’ve never let that happen in the first place, and he definitely wouldn’t have tried to make you forget about it. He slams his fist against the wheel. “Fuck!” When he brings himself to calm down for a moment, he looks back over at you, seeing more tears falling down your flushed cheeks as you shrink back further away from him. “Do your parents know?”

Javier sees you freeze up upon him mentioning them, and he feels cold at the way your eyes fill with even more tears. “I don’t know,” you finally answer.

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?” Javier snaps, feeling frustrated—mainly towards himself. “It’s a yes or no question!”

“I don’t know, asshole!” you yell back at him. “I never told them, but I don’t know what they thought happened that night! And I can’t know!”

Javier frowns at that. “Why not?”

He watches your lips quiver as your gaze falls. “Because… they’re gone.”

Your words hit him all at once, much too fast, and he can’t even process them before he’s spitting out the word of doubt. “What?”

Javier watches as your face contorts into something of sheer pain and hot anger towards him. “They’re fuckin’ dead, Javier! Because a couple of drugged-up motherfuckers thought it’d be funny to drive under the influence and hit them head on! Why the fuck do you think I ended up in the fucking DEA?”

Fuck. It makes sense. Javier knows it must be true—and now he suddenly can’t catch his breath.

It worsens when he hears you hiccup and sees that your sobs are starting to escape your throat. “And… A-And you weren’t even there for me, Javi. Why weren’t you there? I needed you, cariño. I was so alone, I just—I wanted you.” Your next few sobs are so heart-wrenching that Javier can’t stand them, and before he can think it through, he’s unbuckling himself and stepping out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. He rests his elbows against the car as he buries his face in his hands, trying to process everything he’s just learned.

On that night, he took your virginity—only further contributing to the breaking of your heart when he decided to leave you months later. He made you feel like the dirt of the earth instead of the star in the sky he’d tried setting far away from himself. Somewhere along the way between then and now, your parents died, and he wasn’t there for you when you needed him the most. Your parents were like a second set of parents to him, and he didn’t even get to say a final goodbye or support you during the entire process.

Javier always knew he was a piece of shit, but now he feels like the fucking devil himself.

Yes, he’d done everything for a reason—but now he’s not sure if it was worth it. He thought it’d help you, but it’s only seemed to hurt you. Javier hasn’t hated himself this deeply in a long time—or, at least, he hasn’t allowed himself to realize how deep his hatred for himself truly goes until now. Until he has to see you suffer because of him, because of what he makes himself suffer through on a daily basis.

Remembering the state of pain he’s left you in, Javier gets back into the car, seeing you practically balled up into the corner of your seat as you stare out of the window. Silent tears are running down your cheeks, and the cloudiness of your drunken state still fills your gaze as they reflect the Medellín sky. In any other situation, Javier would be musing about how beautiful your eyes look, but he can’t even bring himself to think about something like that right now. He doesn’t even deserve to be looking at you with his own eyes.

Javier brings the car back to life and finally finishes making his way to the apartment building. Not another word is exchanged as he stops, getting out to assist you inside. Upon realizing you’ve fully passed out already, Javier curses to himself and holds you in his arms, hooking one arm under your knees and the other on your back as he carries you to your apartment. He retrieves the keys from your pants pocket and unlocks your door, not stopping until he’s gotten you to lay in your own bed. He considers changing you into something more comfortable, but decides against it, remembering the way you’d said he’d made you feel so horrible about yourself and not wanting you to feel more insecure at the idea of him seeing your body like that again. Instead, he gets your shoes off and sets you under the covers.

Javier runs out into the kitchen and manages to find a glass, filling it with water and setting it on your bedside table for whenever you wake up. He stops, regretful to leave you in such a state but knowing that it’s for the best. Javier still can’t help himself from brushing the loose pieces of hair out of your face, feeling his heart beat in both a pained and a soft manner as he looks down at you.

“I’m so sorry, bella,” Javier whispers, well aware that you can’t hear him. “I shouldn’t have let you get that close to me. I should’ve been there for you. I’m sorry that I was—that I am—nothing but a goddamn fool.” His fingertips gently brush over your forehead as he starts to pull away from you. “I don’t deserve you, anyway.”

With that, Javier finally breaks himself away from you, heading back to his own apartment. As soon as he’s inside, he throws his keys towards God-knows-where, crumbling onto his couch as he holds his face in his hands. The emotion’s welled up so badly inside of him that he can feel the warm tear he’s allowed to escape land on his cheek, and he bites his lip to prevent any more from following. He doesn’t deserve any kind of sympathy. He doesn’t deserve to feel sad.

All Javier wanted was a second chance—but he knows he doesn’t deserve that, either; so, he’ll keep pushing himself away from you to keep you safe.

chapter 5

translations:

Lo siento, señorita, pero necesito irme ahora. Gracias por una noche muy divertida. = I’m sorry, miss, but I need to leave now. Thank you for a very fun night.

¿Qué te hiciste? = What have you done to yourself?

¿En dónde está tu novia? = Where’s your girlfriend?

tags: @tarrevizslas @none-of-your-bullshit @lavenderl3mons @gooddaykate @flower-petal-blooming @stilllivindue2spite @mrsparknuts @fionnthebandersnacc @pisss-offf-ghostt @gaydreamland @longitud-de-onda @literallytrashh @kkgraham @arrowswithwifi @rage-isaquietthing @awesomefandomsunited @theforceofdarkandlight @murdermewithbooks @blushingwueen @rachelloveseveryone @madadlorian @ah-callie @mrsdaamneron @lokiaddicted @arcadianempress @benakenalove @wickedfrsgrl @pascalisperfect @absurdthirst @weirdowithnobeardo @lcandothisallday @sailorflowermoon @engineeredfiction @souls-rain @kaylaylaylayla @cailoleaf @unintentionalwriter @earthtokace

[delicatelyherdreams]

Pragma(tic) 1: Her Morning Takes a Turn

Pairing: Persephone!Bucky Barnes x Hades!Reader

Summary: In a world where the old gods never truly died, you must learn to navigate your way through the ups and downs of immortality. And if living forever wasn’t hard enough, an ancient evil is now threatening to break free after centuries of silence. And as if that still wasn’t hard enough for you, now a pesky and infuriatingly handsome god is trying to wedge his way into your life. Gods, work, love, and conflict—what more could a goddess need? [Hades & Persephone AU]

Word Count: 6217

Warnings: Language

Pragma(tic) Masterlist

Previous Prologue: The Gods Live

The sun was golden against your skin, filling it with warmth and color you rarely ever got. Birds chirped, filling the air with song, and people chatted warmly all around you. You could hear laughter, squealing, sounds of joy and happiness. It was so different from what you were used to.

You exhaled sharply as you opened your eyes, turning your head on a swivel to observe your surroundings.

The open-aired cafe was nestled in a quaint corner of Olympus. Minor gods occupied the tables around you, some accompanied by nymphs or other sprites, others by children, and others still alone. No matter their social situation, everyone looked happy and content. Small children ran between the tables, playing tag and laughing, while their mothers talked and chatted over brunch. You recognized some of the gods and goddesses around.

Peter, a dryad, was at a table with some of his friends. They were all crowded around a phone and laughing to themselves. They seemed to be watching a funny video. If you had to guess, it was probably a silly trend or meme from the Mortal World.

Hope, the goddess of victory, was chatting with her friend Scott, the god of the home and hearth. Both of them had a sandwich and a cup of coffee straight from the Mortal World in front of them, though the food was almost completely forgotten as they talked to each other, deeply engrossed in their conversation.

Small children, nymphs and naiads, ran between the tables in games of tag, squealing as one was dubbed “it” and began to chase the others. They laughed with childish ecstasy, displaying the joy they had in abundance.

The whole area was just alive and warm. It was so foreign to you, but you had to admit that you didn’t mind it. 

The sound of bickering voices drew you from your observations, and you turned your head to the two women before you.

The blonde, your beloved youngest sister, goddess of the sky and queen of the gods, Carol, was sitting up straight, her shoulders rolled back proudly. She had a smug smile on her face; she was obviously winning the argument—something about a dress she said she was going to wear to the Winter Solstice Gala that was coming up in a few months.

The redhead, your younger sister and goddess of the sea, Natasha, was a little more agitated, though it was a sort of playful frustration. She was hunched over with her eyes narrowed at her sister as she insisted, “Carol, that’s my dress.” 

Carol shook her head, her smile only widening. “No, it’s mine. I bought it from a noble lady in London. I remember it as clear as if it was a century ago.”

Nat arched an eyebrow, her lips curling down in a sour frown. “Are you sure you remember it correctly? I could’ve sworn that I bought that dress a couple centuries ago. No, I know I bought it from Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine in 1160.”

You scrunched up your nose. Twelfth-century English fashion? Definitely not your cup of tea. But you remembered the dress vividly. It was a green thing that really complimented Nat’s eyes and hair but with a style that did not meet your preferences.

Your sisters continued to argue about whose dress it was.

You, meanwhile, watched them with amused eyes, shaking your head as they bickered. Your sisters were always ones to fight constantly, though it was always in good nature. They argued about the silliest things that happened millennia ago—who a goat sacrifice was meant for, who got the sea and who got the sky, who got to be the patron goddess of this city-state or that one—and now, they argued about whose clothes were whose. It was comforting to see that some things never changed over the centuries. Every brunch consistently ended with them bickering over the smallest things. Their sandwiches and mugs of their favorite coffees were long forgotten as they got into it. You’d learned to live with it and just let them duke it out; so long as they didn’t actually kill anyone that is.

But listening to them bicker eventually grew boring and tedious and you’d had enough. You groaned and leaned back in your chair, shrugging off your black blazer which had grown sweltering hot in the sun as you went. Now just in a dark grey tank top, your pleated black pants, and a pair of black flats, you felt much cooler and were ready to end the arguing and your misery. “Come on, both of you,” you called, cutting them off. 

They paused their argument and turned towards you, their gazes questioning and demanding as to why you had interrupted them.

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Are you kidding me right now? Guys, this is like the only time I can see you for the next month and you want to fight about something stupid and childish?” You grinned at them, your eyes sparkling with a teasing glint. “I wonder why I let you two pretend to be older when you’re so damn immature.”

Carol gasped with mock offense. “You’re only older than us by a decade or two.”

“A decade or two is all it takes, my dear youngest sister. Don’t let the power of your queenship go to your head; I’ll always have sibling superiority over you. And, as the eldest, I say no more bickering.”

“But—”

“It’s Nat’s dress. She did buy it from the queen. There, argument over and you can stop bickering now.”

Nat laughed with an elated “Ha!”

Carol huffed, the breath from her mouth ruffling the hair that framed her face, and gave you an exasperated smile. “Fine, it’s Nat’s. I’ll give it back. We’ll stop bickering. What do you want to talk about since you’re so opposed to hearing our arguing?”

You simply shrugged. Ninety percent of the time you were cool with any topic of conversation, even if it meant listening to their banter, but not today. 

It was one of the few times you dared to venture out of your realm. Being the Queen of the Underworld gave you little to no time to leave. There were always so many things to do and duties to attend to that you rarely made it out for brunch with your sisters on Olympus. Occasions like this were supposed to be a time for you three to catch up, gossip, and bond, not to bicker endlessly about pointless things.

“I’m honestly not sure,” you admitted.

Carol opened her mouth to respond, probably with a snarky remark about how you ought to know what you want to talk about before interrupting an already started conversation, but Natasha beat her to the punch.

“Hey, how’s Mom doing?” she asked, her eyes curious and her posture hunched in to listen. “You saw her last weekend, right? She doing well?”

You nodded, a fond smile pulling at your lips. Out of all your siblings, you were probably the closest to your mother, Rhea. She made a trip downstairs to see you almost every weekend for brunch and to catch up. You’d say she liked coming down so often because it was out of the way and far quieter and calmer than either the Mortal World or Olympus, but you knew it was because she loved your dog. “She’s doing fine.”

Carol leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the table, suddenly very interested in this new topic of conversation. As the youngest of you three, she probably had the least amount of time with your mother. But, then again, she was the only one who didn’t get digested and got to see Mom the most in the early years. “Is she still working in that mortal hospital?” Carol asked.

You nodded. “Still in the labor ward. She’s the ‘best labor and delivery nurse they’ve ever had’ last I heard.”

“Well of course she is. She is the titaness of motherhood and ease, among other things,” Nat remarked. She shook her head. “I just wish she’d spend more time up here rather than with the mortals.”

“You know that some of the gods don’t like her,” you murmured. “She’s a titan. They don’t trust her. She’d rather be among the mortals who don’t know her for who she is and help them out.” You shrugged. “Anyways, Carol, how’re your queenly duties going?” You wanted to change the topic away from your mother. While you loved talking to her, it was always weird talking about her with your sisters. They didn’t know her like you did; they didn’t know her in the beginning.

Carol hummed. “Oh, you know, they’re going fine. I have to deal with people’s shit all day every day. You’d think that we gods, being as old as we are, would’ve already worked out our problems by now. I mean, Wanda and Pietro still bicker about who’s the better archer, Loki still plays rude pranks, I can barely keep the newer gods in line. I swear, once they find out they’re immortal, it’s a shit-show. They take on the most daring dares and wreak havoc on the Mortal World any chance they get. I know they don’t always mean to be a pain in my ass, but it happens. Oh! But did you hear? The Muses are planning a concert. They’ve got music from…”

And that was about the point when you tuned her out. You didn’t always care about what responsibilities came with ruling Olympus, but you did enjoy seeing her getting excited about the things in her life. She might’ve been a queen, but she was still your baby sister. 

As Carol continued to rant and rave about the concert, you failed to notice Natasha sliding her chair closer to you until she was right on top of you.

“So, (y/n).”

You jumped in your seat. She’d snuck up on you, quiet as the gentle sea she ruled over. You glanced sideways at her, your lips curling back in a sneer. You knew that look on her face and you didn’t like it one bit. “Nat… Don’t you even think about it.”

Natasha smirked, her outward expression cool and collected, but her green eyes roaring like waves on a stormy night with devious plans. “Oh? Think about what, my dearest sister?” Her voice was sickly sweet and practically dripping with honey. 

You narrowed your eyes, your heart dropping in your chest as it steeled itself against what was coming. “You look like you’re trying to play matchmaker and thinking about setting me up with someone again,” you spat. “Well my answer is what it’s been for the past two thousand years: no.”

Carol had stopped talking about the Muses and was now looking at you with pitiful and sad eyes. “(y/n)...”

“Don’t ‘(y/n)’ me, Care. I’ve told you time and time again, I’m fine. I don’t need to go out on a date, I don’t need a boyfriend or a girlfriend, I’m perfectly happy alone.” You didn’t need any of the trouble that came with a steady relationship. You’d had your fill of that over the years. Hands running down your body, lips kissing your mouth, flesh pressed against flesh… You shuddered.

“We know,” Nat said as she tried to placate you, “and we admire you for your strength. ‘You’re a strong independent woman who don’t need no man’ and all, but we think it might be good for you to go out and try to meet someone. That way you wouldn’t have to be so alone down in the Underworld.”

You frowned. “But I’m not alone down there. I have Cerber—” 

“Cerberus,” they finished in unison.

“We know,” Natasha continued. “But we think you’d benefit from some human contact once in a while. We know you still see Mom, and that Clint and Pierce visit you on their errands, but most of the time… You’re all alone down there and we just think you’d be happier if you had someone. I know I’d have already lost my mind underwater if I didn’t have Bruce to keep me company, and Carol wouldn’t be able to stay sane if Maria wasn’t with her.”

Carol nodded in silent agreement, her eyes pleading. “We just want what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for me?” You could feel small bits of agitation rising up in you as you stared them down. The world began to tint red in your sight.

Natasha bit at her lip as she stared you down. “(y/n),” she said, her voice taut and stiff with caution. “Your eyes.”

You turned towards her. 

Her body was rigid and alert, almost as if she was preparing to defend herself. She only took that stance when something made her nervous.

And that something was you.

You sighed and mumbled, “Sorry,” before closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in through your nose. 

In, out. In, out. In, out.

When you opened your eyes again, the world had returned to its normal color and you were a little calmer. “Sorry,” you mumbled, your head dipping down in a nod. You heaved a sigh and pursed your lips. “Guys, look, I really appreciate you thinking about me and my happiness, but seriously, butt out of my love life. I don't need anybody; I’m perfectly capable of ruling the Underworld on my own.” You shifted in your seat and averted your eyes. “Besides, I don’t think anyone could really handle me right now.” Also, you had the feeling that no one could give you the long-lasting love you craved.

Both your sisters went quiet, their eyes downcast and solemn. 

You couldn’t help but feel bad for telling them off again. You knew that they just wanted what was best for you, but at the same time, you knew yourself better than anyone. You knew you didn’t need to be set up and that, when you were ready, you’d find someone yourself.

You cleared your throat and began to pull your blazer back on. “I should probably get going now,” you said, grabbing a black handbag that was sitting beside your chair and pulling the strap onto your shoulder. “Lots of things to attend to down under. It’s time for the weekly check on Tartarus.” You inhaled sharply and rolled your eyes, hoping to convey a feeling of exasperation to them. You had no intention of letting them know that you were over godly contact and ready to go home to peace and solitude.

Natasha chuckled. “I don’t know why you don’t send Pierce to do it. He’s capable.”

“Yeah, he’s capable, but you know how persuasive our father can be if he gets into somebody’s head. And, although Alexander is a great god of death, I don’t necessarily trust his mental strength against him. It’s just best if I do it. I know his tricks, I know his lies, I know how to resist him.” You gave your sisters a small smile. “Take care, you two. Tell Maria and Bruce I said ‘hi,’ and don’t go burning down the world before our next brunch. The Underworld is full enough; we don’t need any early arrivals.” You stood up and pushed in your chair.

Carol stood up and made quick strides across the table to your side. With one fluid motion, she reached for you, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into a hug. She held you tight. “We miss you up here, (y/n). Please, don’t be a stranger, and come back more often.”

You hugged her back tightly. “I’ll try. When things start calming down again, I’ll come back.”

“Just make sure it’s before another half-decade has passed!” Nat called from her spot off to the side.

You pulled away from Carol and shot your other sister a teasing glare. “Then tell the Fates to stop throwing me curve balls and fucking up my life!” You slid over to her and hugged her as well. “Don’t forget, you can always come down to see me instead. I know it’s dark and gloomy down there, but I’ve remodeled my house and I think it’s really nice.”

“So you’re out of your gothic phase?”

You could feel your cheeks heat up. “Gods, I thought we agreed to never speak about that again. I liked the architecture!”

“Mhmm, and the black clothes, and the heavy eyeliner,” Carol began to list, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Oh, shut up! The castle’s gone. No more gothic. Now it’s more modern. Have you ever seen those American houses where they’re an open concept, all sleek and box-like?”

Both your sisters nodded.

“It’s kinda like that.”

Natasha whistled. “Nice. Is it still black?”

“Of course.” You chuckled. “Could you imagine a bright yellow house in the middle of the Underworld?”

“It does sound ridiculous,” Carol admitted. 

“Exactly. The black is there to stay.” You smiled softly and took a small step away from your family. “I’ll see you both later.”

Carol’s lips twitched up in a sad smile as she brought a hand up to wave at you. “See you soon.”

Natasha simply nodded at you, a tiny smile of her own on her face.

And then you turned your back and walked away from them. You made your way to the cafe’s gate and pushed it open, making your exit.

It was a short walk back to the main road of Olympus. It was easy to know when you’d arrived because street vendors crowded the sides and people filled the streets. Gods, goddesses, nymphs, naiads, satyrs, and all other sorts of creatures bustled around, darting in and out from stall to stall. Families with children stopped to chit chat with each other, couples held hands as they browsed, and singular people shopped with a purpose. Everyone had a smile on their face, everyone was happy. For a normal person, the path would be almost impossible to navigate. 

But not for you.

The second you got within five feet of a nymph or naiad, they stiffened and the hairs on the back of their neck stood up. They sensed the death that surrounded you and instinctively inched away. Their heads were put on a swivel as they searched for the source of their discomfort and, when they saw you, they prickled further and took a step out of your way, clearing your path.

It used to bother you how they’d avoid you like the plague but now you’d come to accept it. You reeked like death; they sensed it; they didn’t like it. You learned almost two thousand years ago to not take it personally. They didn’t hate you, they just hated what you were and what you stood for. Besides, you never had to be stuck in foot traffic. 

You sauntered down the opening in the road, going as quick as you could so as not to disturb them any longer, but not in a rush. Though you knew you weren’t welcome by most of Olympus’ citizens, you quite enjoyed the feeling of the sun on your skin whenever you came. The feeling was alien to you, but it was pleasant enough to make you want to bask in it for as long as possible. 

You made your way up the road, slowly climbing closer and closer to the golden palace of the gods where your youngest sister lived. It was in her front yard where you could safely make your way home without pissing anybody off.

After all, the quickest way back to the Underworld was to have the ground swallow you up. The journey didn’t leave any gaping hole behind you—the ground always closed up after you sank in—but it did leave an Asphodel flower in your stead. 

Carol didn’t mind having the flowers dot the lawn of her palace. Most Olympians hated the sight of them and saw them only as a bad omen, but Carol knew there was nothing really wrong with the flower. The reason they got such a bad reputation was that they were linked to you. 

Asphodel flowers only grew in the Asphodel Meadows in the Underworld. Mortals believed they had a positive role in the Greek afterlife, but not the Olympians. To them, the immortals, anything related to the Underworld was taboo, almost like it was death itself. Things touched by death and the Underworld were considered dangerous and to be avoided at all costs. You learned a long time ago that if you let the ground swallow you up and plant a flower in your place, the area where you left would be avoided for decades even after the flower had died. It caused a lot of inconveniences for the Olympian people, so you just decided to avoid public places and go to your sister’s yard instead. It was cleaner and less of a nuisance for others that way.

You strolled into the palace’s yard, treading down towards the furthermost corner of the area. There, a small garden of Asphodel flowers lays perfectly still and undisturbed. They’d grown to be as tall as your waist and they shuffled as you moved about them. You tried to keep the garden as small as possible so as to not “contaminate” a large area. You stopped in the center of the garden and dug into your pocket. Your skin hit tiny seeds—Asphodel seeds—and you plucked one out before dropping it onto the grass. 

The seed sank into the dirt, disappearing almost immediately, and the ground rumbled beneath you as it began to tear itself apart. It caved in, carving out a tunnel for you to sink into.

You simply crossed your arms, closed your eyes, and rolled your neck to stretch. You’d made this journey so many times that the fall hardly phased you anymore. You remembered doing it the first couple of times and panicking as you fell. Now, it was as easy as taking a step. 

You dropped through layers upon layers of rock, finally breaking out into a chasm. Your feet hit the ground and you bent your knees to absorb the impact, straightening up when you were steady. You rose to your full height and stood tall, gazing down a mountain at the whole of the Underworld.

You’d been deposited right on the front stoop of your mansion. Perched on the top of a small mountain, you could see everything from the front door.

At the far reaches of your kingdom, you could see the place where the Cocytus, the River of Wailing fed into the Acheron, the River of Woe, which stood as the border between the Mortal World and the Underworld. The far bank of the Acheron was crowded with souls waiting for passage over the water and the near bank was organized with lines leading up to and disappearing into the judgment pavilion. From the pavilion, three lines branched out and led to the three sections of the Underworld: the Asphodel Meadows, Elysium, and Tartarus.

The Asphodel Meadows spanned the majority of the large chasm that was your domain. The flowers swayed without a breeze, instead moved by spirits who wandered aimlessly. It was a place for those who had led ordinary lives, not good enough to achieve Elysium, but not evil enough to deserve Tartarus. The Meadows were as calm as calm could be, perfect for walking your dog or lazing around on a rare free day. Billions of spirits resided there, all of them calm, gentle, and ordinary.

Elysium, with its warm atmosphere, beautiful gardens, and elaborate homes sat just off to the side of the Meadows, its entrance near the base of your mountain. Sanctioned off by towering gates and walls, it lay separate from the rest of the Underworld. It was the place where the best of the best lived after death, filled with kind, generous, and beautiful souls. The souls that had been reborn and achieved Elysium three times lived on the Isles of the Blessed which were three little islands that sat in the middle of a lake in the heart of Elysium. You loved walking down the streets in Elysium. Everyone was so friendly and not a soul shied away from you. They had no reason to fear death; after all, they were already dead. Some of the spirits that had been there long enough were friendly enough to invite you for dinner on the occasional evening when they’d catch you patrolling the streets or walking Cerberus. Those were the nights you enjoyed the most. Mrs. Thomas made a fantastic roast chicken. It was truly a good place to be.

And then there was Tartarus; the “pit”. You shuddered just thinking about that place. It was where the evil souls went when they died, a place of torture, punishment, misery, and pain. It was mainly managed by three of your lieutenants known as “the Furies.” When they weren’t pursuing the wicked in the Mortal World, they were overseeing the torture of the worst of the worst deep in the pit. It lay just beyond the main body of your realm, accessible only through a cave that carved a hole in the outermost wall of the chasm that was the Underworld. The Phlegethon, the River of Fire, with its angry red flames that leaped out at anybody who dared get close to it, flowed into the tunnel taking up half of its opening. The river flowed deep until the point when the tunnel opened up to a cave. Dark, sharp stalactites hung from the cave’s ceiling, ready to fall at any second and impale those beneath them. There was a hole in the middle of the ground that seemed endless, but really, it fed into the real Tartarus. The river flowed into the pit, turning into a waterfall as it roared down. It was a long way down, said to be “as far beneath Hades as heaven is above earth” if you read that epic The Iliad from some Greek guy named Homer. It was about a nine days’ fall to reach the bottom of the pit where the souls were tortured and the worst beings were imprisoned.

You’d only been down there once, millennia ago, when you locked up the bastard you called “Father” and his brothers Crius, Iapetus, Coeus, and Hyperion, and you never wanted to go down again. It was nothing but red and angry. The Phlegethon was even more violent down there than it was in the main Underworld as it tore through the terrain. Tartarus itself was like a whole new world. It was seemingly endless, but it only had the one exit. One could get lost and be trapped there for eternity if they weren’t careful.

It was at the far reaches of the pit, farther than any soul or spirit dared to venture, that you imprisoned your father and uncles, binding them with the strongest chains you could make and sealing them with every spell, curse, and enchantment that you could think of. Layer upon layer of protection was placed upon them, making it nearly impossible for them to escape. You separated the five of them and placed them as far apart from each other as you could so that they could not feed on each other’s strength and escape. Your uncles, as formidable of foes as they were, were no threat to you anymore. They’d gone dormant after the first thousand years or so, reserved to their fates; but not your father.

Kronos continued to fight against his restraints, trying every day to escape, spending as much strength as he could muster to fight your barriers against him. Over the centuries he had succeeded in breaking some of them, specifically the old ones you had placed when you’d first imprisoned him. He was always chipping away at them, trying to weaken them enough to break free to exact his revenge on you and your sisters.

But you’d never let that happen. That was one of the reasons you made your weekly ventures to the edge of the pit. From up above, you could cast more spells to strengthen and set more layers on his bindings. Every week you added more and more to his cage, replacing those he broke, rejuvenating those he damaged, and adding new ones as an extra precaution.

Your sisters were fair to wonder why you didn’t let your inferiors or lieutenants take care of this task for you, but you had your reasons.

For the first couple of years that you guarded his prison, you did let some underlings take care of it. Peggy, your second in command, best friend, and the goddess of magic, volunteered to take care of it while you worked to get the Underworld under control and install order. She did a good job of keeping the spells strong and watertight, but she wasn’t infallible.

Your father, the extremely powerful titan that he is, found ways to let his conscience escape and make its way up to the surface. He would get into her head and anyone else who got close and twist their thoughts around, slowly turning them to his side and against the gods.

It took you a decade to notice that Peggy was under his control. You’d had your suspicions that she wasn’t herself, but it was when she tried to pull a knife on you and slit your throat that your suspicions were confirmed. It broke your heart to have Cerberus restrain her while you reached into her head and yanked Kronos out. Her screams still haunt you to this day. 

But from that day on, while Peggy was recovering, it was you that took care of the cage. That was how it should’ve been in the beginning, but you’d let her take on that responsibility for you. Never again would you subject another being to that. You did not know what it was like to have him in your head, but you had an idea of what it was like in his, and you couldn’t bear inflicting that kind of pain again. So, in addition to making frequent check-ups on the men and women who worked for you to make sure there wasn’t any trace of his influence, you took it upon yourself to personally deal with strengthening his prison every week.

Which was what you had to do right now.

With a heavy sigh, you turned back to look at your mansion and whistled.

At once, a crash, bang, thud, and whimper broke the silence and you could see a large black mass barreling at you from inside the house. The hulking figure shot through a wide doggy door just to the side of your front door and charged at you. 

Your entire face lit up with a laugh as Cerberus attacked you, jumping up to place his paws on your chest so he could have easy access to lick your face. Thankfully he was in his small form so there was only one head trying to lovingly maul you. If he had been full-sized, you’d have an issue. 

At his full height, Cerberus was as tall as your mountain in the Underworld, with three large heads that could see almost everything. When he wasn’t around you in his small size, he’d stand at the gates of the Underworld, guarding the borders and making sure that the rogue spirits didn’t escape. He seemed ferocious and scary because he closely resembled a large black wolf with deep red eyes, but he was really a gentle giant and your metaphorical baby.

You lifted your head up to avoid his eager tongue, instead allowing him to attack your neck as your laughter rang out in the still air. “Cerberus! Down, boy! Down! Yes, it’s good to see you too.” Once you’d gotten him calmed down, you crouched so you were at his eye level and scratched him behind the ears. “Who’s a good boy?”

He barked as if to say, “Me! Me! I am!”

You simply grinned at him and leaned forward to press your forehead to his, a common gesture of affection for you with him. “I’ve gotta go make sure Father hasn’t done anything stupid in a week, you wanna come with me?”

As if it was even a question. Cerberus always accompanied you on your trips, acting as a good guard dog to protect you from some of the spirits that dwelled on the pit’s edges—not that you really needed it, you just loved his company.

“Let’s go.” You straightened up and started to walk down the mountain path.

Cerberus kept perfect pace with you. He knew the way almost as well as you did.

Down the mountain and through the Asphodel Meadows. Cross the Meadows to the Phlegethon and follow the river to the mouth of the cave. Then it was a straight shot into the pit where you could cast your spells. Simple, easy, quick.

You knew the way by heart, not even bothering to look up as you went. Asphodel flowers crunched under your flats as you crossed the Meadows and spirits parted for you to get through; not that they needed to, they were just being polite.

You and Cerberus strolled through the Meadows, coming up to the Phlegethon and following it towards Tartarus.

You had to force your feet to walk as you got closer, a sense of unparalleled dread washing over you. Shivers crept down your spine and the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. Tartarus was always a daunting place, but today it almost seemed… more so. And as soon as you took one step into the entrance, you knew that something was seriously wrong.

You stopped short, your feet planted into the ground. Your stomach dropped and every warning alarm you had was going off in your head. 

Cerberus had frozen, his ears flattened against his head and his lips pulled back in a snarl. His whole body was positioned to pounce at the drop of a hat.

You rolled your shoulders back and narrowed your eyes. The world began to tint red at the edges, the color slowly creeping in to cover your entire vision. With this new sight, you could see deeper into the tunnel where you saw figures writhing closer and closer to the pit. Something was in the cave, something that didn’t belong.

You grit your teeth and nodded your head towards Cerberus. “Go get Aunt Peggy,” you commanded in a low voice.

He didn’t need to be told twice and took off running as soon as the words left your lips.

You didn’t take your eyes off the mouth of the cave as you extended your hand, calling forth into being your weapon: a sleek black bident that was as tall as you were. Forged for you by the cyclopes millennia ago when you first fought your father, your vibranium bident was a formidable weapon. It was a lot like your sister’s trident, but with two prongs instead of three that branched out from the spear at the height of your chin. Your bident was your primary weapon used for fighting. It allowed you to manipulate spirits and channel magic, morph terrain, and wield the energy of the Underworld, among other things. Plus it was good for stabbing. 

You tightened your grip around the bident’s shaft and lifted it off the ground, moving slowly into the cave. Your feet never made a sound as you stepped closer and closer to the writhing mass. As you neared the souls, your fingers began to turn white with how tight you were holding your weapon, raising it to strike at any second. You were prepared to fight off a small militia of evil souls trying to escape, but what you found when you reached them was not a coup preparing to strike. 

No, the souls were, instead, swarming around a figure.

You muscled your way in through the crowd, using your bident to shove the spirits out of the way and dissipate them. You got to the center of their swarm and looked down. But instead of seeing an animal corpse or something of the likes, you saw something far more serious: a man.

The man seemed to be about your physical age, but you could tell almost right away from the aura he radiated that, like you, he was probably much older than he looked. His short dark hair was tousled and matted, no doubt from the spirits grabbing at it, and his clothes—what once seemed to be a pristine white shirt and jeans—were torn with claw marks and black with dirt. His shocking blue eyes stared up at the ceiling of the chasm, full of despair and hopelessness. He’d obviously started to lose hope that he’d ever escape the clutches of evil that held him tight.

You didn’t have much time to register who he was or what he was doing in Tartarus. You were just in shock that this man, this very alive man, had made it into your domain without you knowing. Your grip slackened and you stared down at him, surprise rising up in you with rage boiling up behind it as the only words you could manage to speak were, “Oh fuck.”

Next 2: He Becomes a Trespasser

[maple-writes]

Dissidia March 2021: Week One

Big thanks to @onmywaytobe for sharing Leo with me for this! I’m really excited to keep writing these two together :D

and thanks @dissidia-writeblr for hosting again!

the intro got kind of long but I was having a good time so it stays like this lol

###

Warren hit send on their email and quietly hoped the recipient would actually read everything this time before asking another question they shouldn’t have to answer again. At least that was the last they needed to respond to for now. They double checked though, just in case they missed anything from an order, an information request, requests for meetings, or sometimes the odd message sent to the completely wrong email address.

They reached for their near-empty travel mug and downed the last of the coffee as they crossed off email replies from the to-do list they’d drawn up first thing in the morning. Today it wasn’t as long as it could be, but would still be more than long enough to keep them busy until the end of the workday. After that… They smiled to themself as they turned back to the computer screen. The woman at the store tipped them off the other day that pears would probably be on sale today. Older style pears hadn’t been on sale in a long time especially since newer hybrids started coming out a few years ago. The new ones were sweeter, softer, and lacked that weird texture if picked too late, but there was something about the older pears. The new ones were almost too sweet, too soft. They still had some wine from last night too that might go well with it after dinner.

The click of short heels echoing down the hall brought Warren back from thinking about fruit and wine a moment before Indigo poked her head into their office. Her opalescent white hair pulled back in a low pony-tail suggested she was here to check up on the labs. When the light hit just right, the hollow, prismatic strands refracted subtle orange, blue, and even hints of green. Right, it was Wednesday, she usually came in on Wednesdays.

When she noticed Warren was in, she stepped in with a polite nod. “Any word from the Norris Lab?”

Warren smiled. “Yes, actually.” They leaned forward, pulling up the documents on their computer. “I spoke with one of their reps today, and honestly,” they sighed, one hand up and massaging the side of their head at the memory of that agonizingly long phone call, “it was like pulling teeth but I convinced her to send over their manuscripts. I’ve also set up a meeting with a member of their team for the twenty-seventh.”

“Well done Warren,” Indigo purred. She rested her hand on their desk and leaned forward as Warren turned the screen to show her the documents. The way her eyes flickered over the words and tables she seemed to know better than them whatever it was this research was about on anything more than an abstract level. “Oh that’s perfect.” She glanced down at them. “Could you send those files to me and print off a copy of each when you get the chance?”

She’d probably want an extra copy too, one for them to file away with the other hard-copy records. Warren nodded and jotted down a note for later. “Can do.” Paper records and files hadn’t been mandated for decades now but Indigo usually insisted on physically backing up important files. “Anything else?”

“Not at the moment.” She straightened up with a smile, a genuine one rather than the ones they’d seen her give at events and meetings with people she had to pretend to like. “Thanks Warren.” She started to turn, but seemed to remember something. “Actually, if you could do me a favor, I need something confidential ordered along with this week’s deliveries. I’ll send you the info by the end of the day.”

Warren made another note, nodding down at their paper pad. “I’ll see what I can do.” This wouldn’t be the first time she’d asked something off the record like this, but with her position she was bound to have some projects that weren’t ready for public attention yet.

She thanked them, left, and Warren turned back to their computer to update their to-do list. They were already planning on taking a trip down the hall for the printer for some labels so adding a couple copies of the manuscripts Indigo wanted probably wouldn’t take too much longer. As much as her insistence on physical backup copies filed away just in case was a bit of a pain sometimes, it was nothing compared to what some of their other coworkers wanted them to do. Some of the ‘great ideas’ some of them came up with were nothing more than a logistical nightmare, and some of the clerical work they had at the end of the week was usually tedious at best.

A couple of documents proofread later, Warren sent the files to the print server and got up with a stretch cracking some of the little joints in their shoulders. On the way out of their office, they plucked their lanyard with their ID and key card with an outdated photo and a little sticker label with they/them stuck to the casing, draping it around their neck as they stepped into the hall. The one time they’d decided to just stick it in their pocket it fell out and they hadn’t noticed until they found themself locked out of the building in the middle of winter, banging on the door until someone heard. Not doing that again.

They stopped at the coffee maker along the way, leaning against the counter as the single-serve pod brewed and trickled into their travel mug. It was old, the mug, paint starting to chip off around the top and bottom, but it was a gift from years ago and it still worked well enough so why replace it?

Taking a sip of their fresh coffee, Warren reached the print room. They raised their key-card to the scanner, pausing as it beeped and the light turned green. Years ago when they’d started here someone had explained why the print room was locked like this, something about some very fancy and expensive kinds of machines that they’d never had any use for in their work. They dropped their card to dangle around their neck again and opened the door.

This was not the print room.

Warren froze, wind toying with their ruby hair and tugging at the lanyard around their neck. Grasses brushed against the cuffs of their pants and white clouds drifted across the open, unimpeded sky. The air carried the fresh scent of plants and unfamiliar toiled soil. An unfamiliar city rose in the distance behind fields filled with crops and farmers and uniformed people patrolling the planted plots.

This was not the print room, not even close. Warren broke the ice holding them ridged to glance back over their shoulder, twisting to try and find the door. But there was nothing. It was gone. Nothing but more fields and more farms and more farmers and more uniformed personnel. Soldiers maybe? But what were they doing here? They frowned. Better question: what was here?

Someone standing nearby looking nearly as lost as Warren caught their eye. Dressed different from the other farmers and soldiers he probably wasn’t from around here. Although, Warren really couldn’t tell where he might have been from either. He had a very old-timey look, plain dark skin and darker hair with eyes to match. Maybe he came from some remote town in the middle of nowhere, but even then… Odd that nowhere in his ancestry there’d been anything altered to pass down. Still though, he was far more familiar than the people working around them in the farms.

Warren turned towards the stranger with a deep breath. “Hey,” they paused a heartbeat as he turned towards them, “uh, do you know what’s going on?”

The dark-hard main just shrugged and muttered something about all of this just being a weird dream.

A dream? Warren scrunched their eyebrows and took a sip of their still nearly too-hot coffee. Strange. They didn’t remember going to sleep. They woke up like usual, had breakfast like usual, got dressed like usual and as far as they knew had been at work for a couple hours already. Were their dreams really that boring? They frowned. If this were a dream then how come they could still taste? At the same time though, it wasn’t like this made any sense either.

Dream or not, this was the only vaguely familiar-looking person anywhere in this field and he looked almost as confused as they did. They turned back towards him. “I’m Warren, by the way.” It was probably only polite to tell him their name.

The mysterious stranger nodded once. “Leo.” He paused, stealing a glance, then added, “nice hair.”

Hair? He liked their hair? “Oh, thanks.” Warren flustered. “I just kind of brushed it this morning and I guess it’s working out for me today.” Okay, stop talking. They cut themselves off with a very long sip of coffee. Leo just said he liked their hair no need to ramble on and on even if nerves prickled all the way up and down their body.

The sun shone down warm on their shoulders, the air fresh with plants. If this really was a dream maybe it wouldn’t be so bad as long as they were actually asleep and not collapsed and dying on the copy room floor. They frowned. No one really went that way unless that had to, and most people in the office dealt exclusively with digital files. Hell, Warren might have been only one of a handful of people who even knew how to use some of the older model machines.

Were they… Dead?

No, no way. They’d been fine all day why would they be dead now? Leo’s idea of a dream sounded much nicer. Warren sighed and squinted against the sun, staring over the sunny fields. This time their eyes settled on one figure walking between the plots in their direction.

They glanced at Leo. “Do you think that guy’s coming for us?”

“Looks like it.”

Warren shifted from side to side on the soft grass and tightly gripped their mug as nerves built. No question now, the new stranger was headed straight for the two of them. Warren tried to look away, at anything else. They didn’t want to look like they’d noticed, didn’t want to draw his attention more than they already had.

But the stranger wasn’t swayed, stopping in front of the both of them with a bow and a smile. “You two must be so confused.” He said. “My name is Sichoris, and I work for one of the leaders of Ritania.”

He gestured to the city towering behind the farms. Ritania? Warren’s head spun. Sure it’d been a long time since they’d looked at a map or a chart or anything, but they’d sure as Hell never heard of Ritania.

Sichoris kept talking. “If you would follow me, I can explain everything along the way.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started back the way he came. Warren hesitated, but only a moment. Standing around in a field wouldn’t get them anywhere and if Sichoris really did work for some leader maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. As false-faced and draining some of the officials they’d had to interact with every now and then were, it wasn’t like any were usually cruel towards them. At worst a little demanding with no idea how long it actually took them to do the work they wanted but not horrible.

With a deep breath Warren unstuck their legs and followed Sichoris towards the city but paused when Leo didn’t move. He still stood, staring glass-eyed up at the unfamiliar city. Was he just going to stand there? What was he waiting for?

“Hey,” Warren called, catching his attention. “Are you coming?”

Leo glanced between them and Sichoris already paces ahead, then seemed to decide following along would be the best bet. Walking just behind Warren’s shoulder, his eyes wandered, and he reacted strange as if in a dream. Which maybe that made sense, but maybe not. But it wasn’t like they had any kind of better answer up their sleeve.

Some of the farmers looked up as they passed, watching curiously before getting back to their work. Some of the soldiers—they looked like soldiers anyway—did the same. No one looked anything like what they were used to, and they couldn’t help but hunch in on themself just a little. They stood out here, especially the way the sun caught the iridescent structures in their hair, shimmering from red to faint violet and blue where the sun hit just right. As much as they weren’t a farmer either, they couldn’t begin to recognize what exactly grew in the fields, or even why they might have been using so many open air fields like this either.

Warren took another sip of coffee and stole a glance at Leo. So far the only thing they knew were his and Sichoris’ names, and at least Leo seemed to be in the same kind of disbelief as they were. He seemed trustworthy enough. Even if he didn’t seem one for talking, at least they weren’t completely alone.

[theastrophilearchitect]

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming...

Writing journey #4.

15/05/2021 07.22 My break has officially been over for five days, and i have done some writing, but it’s been incredibly inconsistent, so I decided to start this blog post over. Bay Tree has been archived, and though FSB isn’t done, I’ve realised I need to take a step back. It’s why writers leave weeks at a time between drafts--so when they return, they’re in a different mindset, and can improve their work.

For this same reason, I need to take a step back before I finish my outline. My thought process is becoming monotonous, which means I’m losing my excitement. When you start a project, you have the idea in your head as perfect, and when those ‘vibes’ become tangible, it is less exciting. That’s unavoidable. But I just need to take a step back, so when I return, I have fresh ideas, and the plot becomes more exciting to me.

So today, I’m going to start brainstorming a new idea I had, which I don’t have an alias for yet, and I have an idea to essentially bind every project I have together, but not in Grishaverse- or Shadowhunters-style where you need to read ten books just to read the one you want. Just a nod to anyone who does read multiple, like when Aelin falls through worlds and sees Rhys and Feyre for a split second.

So. Let’s brainstorm.

My plan, I think, is to alternate weekly. This week, I’ll work on the new one, next week I’ll do FSB. I could just take this new idea and apply it to FSB, except I just don’t see how that would work. I have different worlds in mind, and this new one is a fantasy where FSB is sci-fi(/fantasy. It’s kinda both).

16/05/2021 07.07 I really wish I was a pantser. Even though I haven’t got to the editing stage, my favourite part of writing is implementing new ideas and making changes, but I’m just not a pantser. I need to know where each part is going. Instead, I have to sit here, brainstorming, for days, to figure everything out.

18/05/2021 07.06 I did a lot of work on the 16th, but I was busy yesterday, and didn’t get any writing done, because, when I was free, I was just reading. So, I’ve decided I’m going to at least write before I leave the house, which gives me about 45 minutes this morning. 

23/05/2021 18.30 Based on the fact it has been five days, I think you can tell how good I’ve been about keeping writing. The problem is that I don’t actually have much past a concept for my new project, so I’m trying to figure out how, precisely, I could merge the two projects. FSB is interesting, but doesn’t have a huge amount of depth, which adding the characters from the new project would absolutely do, while the new project is lacking plot, which FSB (at least the first book I’ve planned) does. So, I’m going to start a new Scrivener project, and consider how I can merge the two concepts while implementing both plots.

Is it too much? I have only two main characters in FSB, but five in the newer one, which gives me seven main characters, divided into three groups. And do I want to write a book with so many separate storylines? I know readers (myself included) always end up favouring one storyline over another, getting annoyed when certain POVs come up. I don’t know what to do.

I could keep the new project, but implement FSB? Hold up. New Project (NP) has two protagonists who could undergo a similar development to the protagonists of FSB... I had a plan for the male protagonist of FSB, his arc, which wouldn’t work for NP’s male protagonist, but would work perfectly for its female protagonist...

Tumblr’s glitching. It wouldn’t let me reblog a post earlier, and now it won’t let me save this draft. Please, no.

Okay, so I had to copy what I’d written for today, disconnect and reconnect to the Wi-Fi, then wait for my drafts to load to paste it. Going great!

21.00 So I didn’t get a huge amount done, because I caught up doing ~evening things~, but I at least have a plan going forward, which is an accomplishment

30/05/2021 09.29 I’ve spent the last couple weeks doing everything I can to avoid writing, but i now have an insane amount of free time, so I have no excuse. I want to use this time in a productive way, and, for me, that means writing.

03/06/2021 10.31 I swear to god, I’ve had ‘writing’ on my to-do list every single day, except not doing it is probably my own fault, because it’s been so far down on the list. Also, I’m doing a buddy read, but am also unfortunately descending into a reading slump, so even reading 50 pages takes me about 90 minutes--they’re not even long pages.

I actually went back onto my old Wattpad account earlier, where I found a load of old, unfinished stuff, but none of it was as bad as I thought it would be, and the ideas weren’t bad. I just really have no idea what it is I’m writing right now, and I hate trying to figure it out.

11.30 There are so many Ss in the word ‘assassin’ this is not okay.

This is actually going so well. I have two storylines in my head, a complex cast of characters, and I’m so looking forward to plotting this.

04/06/2021 08.04 Look at me, two days in a row. Anyways, I’m thinking I ought to name these characters ASAP, because it’ll be easier to shape them to their names than it will be to find a name which fits them once they’ve been shaped.

14.41 Here’s what I’m realising: I like to pants plots, but I can’t do that while I’m actually drafting, so I think my plan is actually to bullet point everything that happens, then revise that, then start drafting, so the story is basically set in the first draft.

I’ve actually gone through a lot of stuff--I have workable plot material!

17.16 So, me being me, I’ve semi-outlined (I say semi-, it’s more like a tenth) a trilogy, meaning I have ideas for three books following this storyline, and it... makes sense. It’s the kind of story where I can follow multiple arcs, a few at a time, instead of several overarching ones, or maybe it’s just that I’m letting myself.

07/06/2021 16.44 I don’t have a damn clue what I’ve spent the day doing. I haven’t done anything in a couple days because it was the weekend and I was busy, but I’m back now. The thing is, I haven’t spent the day reading, watching, drawing, or doing anything, really--it’s escaped me. But, at the very least, I’ve relaxed, so who cares?

I’m not applying story structure to the ideas I’m having quite yet--rather, I’m just developing them to see how they bloom on their own, then I’ll fit it in; it just seems like a more natural and effective way to develop.

Yeah, no. It’s too late in the day for this. I have zero motivation.

08/06/2021 09.49 Maybe I’ll accomplish something today; who knows? Certainly not me.

I’m now applying the 3-act structure, but I’m realising I have way too many details worked out for this--switching to more acts.

22.20 Why am I doing this to myself? I wish I could say I’m not entirely sure, but it’s because I can’t sleep, because this project, and my character Lihan, are the only things I can think about, so here I am. I don’t want to be a night writer, but que sera sera (I wish I could type accents on an English keyboard).

23.22 I accomplished more in the last hour on this project than I have in the last four days.

09/06/2021 - 1,115 words 09.29 I really hope I don’t prove today that night-writing is my sweet spot--I don’t want it to be. Can the world just let me have a functional sleep schedule??

Anyways, so, as I’ve mentioned before, I use Scrivener, which enables me to sort which documents are part of the manuscript from the ones that aren’t. I’ve been working outside of the manuscript, but I think I’m going to move them into it--I have a plan I believe will be more effective for my own drafting. I think I very much need the events to be set in stone before I begin writing in actual prose, so how can I do that? Especially when I also enjoy pantsing, but not in prose?

Here’s the plan: I plot out the main events, then bullet point everything in very high detail, similar to what many people call a zero draft, in which they draft a book in short form. I’ll sort the bullet points into chapters (but not scenes, because as I discovered with Bay Tree, I find scene-blocking makes the narrative less natural), leave it alone a while, then revise, so I can have my plot more-or-less set in stone before I work on prose.

As a result, I’m going to shift my plotting into the manuscript section, because it is, essentially, an early draft, and also I want a word count as a progress metre.

13/06/2021 - 1,611 words 8.18 Alas, I have been busy the last few days, but I’m here now.

9.20 The amount of secrets and who-knows-what in this story is genuinely absurd, but I’m sure I’ll clean it up eventually.

14.01 A few days ago, I came across a post about balancing large casts, which is exactly what I have, and the first thing it mentioned was the two-trait rule, in which every character has two traits completely unique to them, to help both reader and writer differentiate. Which I’m now going to implement.

14.42 I have these two characters, and I know exactly what I want their dynamic to be, except I can’t decide who should be which part of it.

I have made my decision. It probably works better now, but it does alter their roles, so I need to fix that.

I literally swapped them round solely because I decided one was taller than the other and thought it would be more interesting if the short one was the sadist. Why do I make my own life so difficult?

14/06/2021 - 1,574 words 11.08 I didn’t make an enormous amount of progress yesterday, but I did make some, and made notes of ideas for relationship arcs last night, so I count that a victory (forced optimism--surprisingly effective). I’m currently just working through bullet-pointing book one, while making notes of events I want in the rest of the series (I’m projecting three books, and telling myself I will finish them). I’m currently fiddling with one of my storylines to see how I can mould it to FSB’s and OH MY GOODNESS I JUST HAD A GREAT IDEA must take notes, one moment pleaseeee.

Okay, so I have four bullet points for relationship arcs and an idea to adjust one of the storylines--I’d say I have six main characters, two of whom are really the protagonists, two of which are my favourites, and the other two are fun, but in need of development. They’re split into a group of four and a pair, and I’m definitely more into the storyline of the four, mostly because the four contains my two favourites, and it’s more developed than that of the pair.

I’ve been keeping a list of things to add: motivations, loose plot threads, plot points I want to include--I really need to re-organise it.

On another note, I am so glad I named the characters as early as I did. I’m debating having two of the characters swap names, but I don’t think I will, because I will absolutely mix them up, and one of them is part of the perfect ship name.

My mouse isn’t working. I changed the batteries, but it’s not working, so now I get the joy of trying to figure out if the batteries I put in are just old or if the mouse no longer works, which would suck.

Yes, I’m going to describe this. Mostly because when I changed the batteries the first time, it took a minute to stop working, and this will waste a minute. So, first set of batteries, which we’ll call set 1, don’t work. I don’t know if it’s both or just one, but if it’s one, I don’t want to throw away both. I take out set 1, I put in set 2. Set 2 works perfectly. So it’s not the mouse. Now I take out battery 2B, and replace it with 1A, so I have 1A and 2A in here. I know 2A works, but I’m not sure about 1A, but the mouse works, so 1A is fine. Let’s replace 1A with 1B.

Yep. 1B is the problem child. 1A works fine, but 1B doesn’t. Lovely. Crisis averted. It would’ve really sucked it I had to get a new mouse. And back to writing!

12.13 I’m bouncing between documents as I organise, which means my word count is actually decreasing, so I feel like I’m making significantly less progress than I am.

I just realised my two protagonists are cousins. I’ve had it in my head that one’s father was the brother of the other’s father, but somehow I didn’t realise that makes them cousins.

I’m about to delete a list because I’ve reformatted it--my word count is currently at 1,958, but is really about to drop.

AND NOW WE’RE AT 1,572. My session word count is -32. Minus thirty-two. I hate it here, but it’s fine, because we’re ~developing~.

15/06/2021 - 2,113 words 09.39 It’s not even technically summer yet, but it’s too hot, and I hate it here. All the windows are open, so everything’s cool, there’s a nice breeze, and lots of light, but the birds are so loud, and I have to keep all the doors closed because the open windows send them swaying and slamming. You know when you close a door when all the windows are open and it slams? Yep. Not into it. 

I feel like every day I try a new way to organise my plotting. I’m unsure as to whether that’s helping me or holding me back, because it forces me to review what I have, which usually sparks new ideas, but I’m not convinced I’ll ever get to the end as long as I keep doing this.

21/06/2021 13.40 I spent the latter half of last week with zero motivation, then I was busy at the weekend, but I’m here now. I’ve been trying to make myself write basically all day--I have a plan, and a list of things I’ve come up with the last few days, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. I’m not in a good mood, but maybe this will help.

I have, however, just reminded myself that I need to prepare this week’s post, because I sincerely doubt either this or my ongoing Recent reads will be ready for Friday. Actually, if I do quite a bit of writing this week, this post might be, but I’m not willing to bet on it.

And oh, crap, now I just want to write a blog post.

No. No I don’t. I started looking at the list of ideas I had, and now I’m just not feeling it. I’m pretty sure when I open my document for this project I’ll lose all motivation too, but it’s worth a shot.

There’s a specific relationship in an anime I recently watched that I want to pull apart--there’s this ship, and the author of the manga has called the two characters ‘soulmates’. There’s just this huge amount of tension between the two, and I want to re-watch the show because I love it, but also so I can take notes to figure out what was so effective about it.

13.53 I’ve been doing this for 13 minutes, but I do think I need to leave this project/outline alone for a bit, give it an opportunity to ruminate, to evolve. In truth, I may not even come back to it until I’ve re-watched the anime I was talking about so I can tear that ship to pieces.

17.33 So I just learned brainstorming is apparently significantly easier on paper. Hm. I’ve just worked out so damn much, stuff I’ve been struggling with.

18.00 I have successfully tied up so many plot threads, simply by working with pen and paper. This is revolutionary. (I know, not really, but it is for me, someone adamant about working with a keyboard and monitor)

22/06/2021 09.42 Seriously, why did I never try actually working on paper before? Something about holding a pen to paper and scribbling and drawing a mindmap--it just works. I’ve been obstinate about avoiding working on paper because I hate physically writing, yet here we are.

25/06/2021 11.09 I’m really not managing much reading at the moment--since I started reading manga, my attention span has just gone down the drain. I’m currently reading Mister Impossible by Maggie Stiefvater, and I don’t think it helped that I had to stop less than a third of the way in to do a buddy read, but I just don’t have much motivation to read it, though I do so want to. I haven’t been listening much to audiobooks lately either, because when I’d usually listen--when I’m getting dressed, waking up, going to bed etc.--I just want to listen to music, because I also recently fell down the well of k-pop, and the group whose discography I’m getting to know at the moment is BTS. Basic, but they’re the fifth group I’m doing, and they have so many songs. Which would happen after eight years, but still.

I want to read so, so badly, but I just don’t feel like reading Mister Impossible. But I do want to finish it before reading anything else. I think I’ll finish my current audiobook, then if I’m still feeling stagnated in Mister Impossible, I’ll switch to the audiobook of that, then just take a break from reading until I’m ready to actually read. 

But this post is for writing, not reading. I did write on the 23rd, but I just didn’t update this post. The 24th I was busy, but my wall is now covered in post-it notes of world-building, characters, gods, plot points, and a whole load of other stuff.

Also, I had an idea for a book title this morning--not for this one, just in general--and when I went to add it to my list, I found a title that would so suit this project. I don’t want to say it, but let’s just say this project will be called ItLotG--or not. That’s a hideous combination of letters. I promise it is actually a good title.

11.52 I’m having another crisis over these two characters. I’m thinking it would make more sense to have L’s betrayal ‘arc’ initiated before the catalyst, or rather have it be the catalyst, except the problem there is that they’re not in the city they need to be in to receive that offer.

UNLESS,,,, what if this point happens just while they’re in the capital.... I’ve got it. 

17.16 I’ve been taking notes this whole time of everything I want to happen in books 2 and 3, and I have so much now i think they’ll be so much easier to plot than this one.

The downside of working mostly on paper is that my plans on Scrivener have been refined to one document, which is now only 878 words.

Right now, there’s a glaring hole between the midpoint and the ending, but my climax is one of those where the climax itself is a very small part of a bigger event, so if I figure out what I want to happen in this big event which is essentially the whole of the third act, I should be able to fill in the rest of Act Two with the setup for that.

So I’m leaving it there for both today and this post. In the last month or so, I decided to start over and mash two projects together, which created a whole new storyline I love, and now I’m mostly done with the first outline. I want to treat outlines as more than just preparation for drafts, because I find notes so much easier to edit than actual prose, and I hate writing without a clear idea of where I’m going. 

I think I’m going to call these ‘runs’--an outline is a run through, a draft a run through, so I’m nearly done with my first run, and I’m very proud of that, so go, go write the idea you have, drink some water, take a nap if you need one, eat if you haven’t eaten in a few hours, and I’ll be back with another writing update innnnnnn probably august, honestly.

Go write that idea!

[iwantutobehapppier]

Gym Time

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: You just got a job at the Stark Tower in New York’s legal department. After a late shift you go to the company gym hoping not many are there but you do find one certain Avenger there looking to work out as well. Maybe you two can work out together?

Warnings: Oral (for you), unprotected sex, dirty talk (Steve naughty) and cursing in general. 18 an older only, do not read if under the age of 18. This isn’t for everyone, if any of these situations bother you please read no further.

Word Count: 4,153 *I’m too wordie ugh*

A/N: Okay guys so you if you saw my posts earlier I didn’t want to go to the gym but I needed to which made me think about going to the gym and working out with Captain America. Ta-dah! A one-shot was made and THEN I went to the gym like a grown up. Enjoy!

You huffed for what seemed like the tenth time since you came back from lunch to find reports on your desk with a follow up e-mail from your boss stating it had to be done today as it was end of the work week. You weren’t getting anywhere on them and you could feel the tension radiating from your shoulders and down. It was tempting to call out for the rest of the day but you could hear your mother’s voice in the back of your head reminding you what a big opportunity it was to get a job with Stark Legal department right out of law school. Shaking your head you turned your attention back to the work at hand, determined to meet the deadline regardless of the creeping tension headache.

It wasn’t until the florescent in the large open office became the main source of light that you realized it was getting late. Glancing down you blanched at the time, it was almost eight?! At least the work was done you sighed out while attaching the needed information in an e-mail and addressing it to your slave worker boss, almost signing the e-mail ‘You ever indentured servant’ but knew it was a piss poor decision. Rolling your shoulders back you could feel the muscles pull and strain at the stretching after being static for so long. You knew you needed to go to the gym today, having not been since last week but given the time it seemed so daunting, your bed, pj’s and Netflix seemed much more inviting.

Squaring your shoulders you compelled yourself to go, after all the gym in the Stark Tower was state of the art and given the hour it wouldn’t be nearly as busy. Not giving yourself another out you quickly gathered your purse and work bag heading straight to the elevator; after all you had wanted to build some muscle after all the chaos following the Alien Invasion in the City. You knew you couldn’t fight off an army but the desire to be able to defend yourself one on one at most became important to you following the events.

The gym was practically empty by the time you go there, a few people in the cardio area on the elliptical and treadmills but no one was in the weight training area, you could feel yourself getting giddy at having the whole area to yourself. You were doing your warm up stretching when you heard heavy steps come your way a little upset you lost your solitude you decided to not let it sour your mood moving into a standing hamstring stretch, crossing your foot over the other working to loosen the muscles for the grueling work out you were planning to give them.

You made you way to the Lat Pull-Down machine when you caught a glimpse of who it was that had taken up your area. Your steps falter for a moment but tried to play it cool as you sat down at the machine now facing the Steve Rogers while he did an overhead shoulder stretch. You began your reps trying hard to not ogle the clear definition of muscles that rippled with each new stretch he did. You knew a few of the Avengers either frequented the Stark Tower but you had never expected to see any of them in person, let alone the Captain America. You couldn’t wait to tell your dad you worked out with Captain America, he would be practically green with envy and demand you get a picture. However you weren’t going to invade his privacy regardless how happy it would make your dad.

You felt warmth pool between your legs watching him start to bench press an insane amount of weight, the sweat glistening off his face and arms was almost too much. The grunts he made were damn near pornographic and you swore you caught him staring when you moved to the row machine passing by him on your way. It was like this for the next almost hour, the two of you moving to different locations to work out, his eyes trailing along your body when you’d pass by and you nearly drooling as his grey tank top grew dark spots with his sweat. It wasn’t until you were both at the free weights that either of you verbally acknowledged each other.

“Your work out is rather impressive, trying to prepare for anything in particular?” Steve’s voice was rough and smooth, much more different than you imagined it would be in person, his persona on T.V. always so charismatic and damned loveable.

“Just want to have enough muscle built up that I can defend myself. Normally I do Jui-Jitsu but given the hour don’t think they’d have any classes going.” 

“That’s smart choice of fighting style, using the opponent’s weight against them versus depending on your own.” You both began bicep curls, his weights you noted, together were beyond your own personal weight.

“I wouldn’t think you’d know about Jui-Jitsu,” you tried to keep talking, distracting yourself from the fact that he could easily lift you up could mean for a rather enjoyable time together.

“The internet has certainly helped me catch up; rather imperative to know what the newer fighting styles are. I’d hate to go into a situation where someone came at me and I was unable to size up the situation to defend accordingly.”

You nodded your head at his explanation, watching the bead of sweat move down his temple, slipping down his chin, trailing around and down his Adam’s apple to disappear below his shirt. You began breathing through your mouth that warmth you felt before in your work out leggings returning with ferocity; he was sidetracking you from working out. You weren’t sure how many reps you had done but you took a large drink of water and moved to your next work out with the free weights. The silence fell between the two of you standing in front of the wall mirror checking your form, you trailed your eyes to Steve’s and immediately caught him staring right at you, slow smirk slid over his lips and the twinkle in his eyes making you nervous.

“Well I could always be your partner,” You didn’t even realize his spoke at first, the two of you not breaking eye contact.

“Partner, what, huh?” you half got out, before looking back at yourself in the mirror correcting your form. You had been too entranced in his eyes to really understand what he meant.

“A sparing partner for tonight, I don’t know about you but these are not doing enough to get that good work out I need.” You dared to look at him again that smirk still on his face, as if daring you to say no.

“Um,” you paused, fighting Captain America even if just sparing seemed intimidating and preposterous to even imagine you could win that. He chuckled as if he could read your thoughts, your eyes narrowed at him, what all did that serum do to him again?

“I’ll go easy on you, though given that fire I’ve seen all night working out you may give me a good run for my money.” His compliment whether true or not did boost your confidence enough to agree.

Steve Rogers or Captain America was facing you on the blue gym sparing mats a small smirk playing at his lips again, it was taunting almost and you could feel the desire growing to wipe that smirk off his face, regardless of how fucking sexy he was.

“We’re about to spar and I don’t even know your name how rude of me,” He broke your concentration with formalities; he reached his left hand out in offering. “Steve Rogers,” You smiled at him and gave your name, reaching for his hand with your opposite hand. When his smirk turned into a full smile at hearing your name you knew this was an opportunity. Using the other hand you gripped his left triceps of the same arm and before he knew what was happening you pulled his arm across himself and dropped. Wrapping your opposite leg around his left you shoved your hip and chest against his leg locking it out sending him to the ground and you quickly pushing your head against his stomach and then moving up against his body, until you were ear to ear your leg between his legs. He looked surprised and let out a deep chuckle.

“Well then, guess we’re starting.” He started and in a flash he had you pinned below him, sitting on your lower abdomen but not giving his full weight while holding your hands down to the mat. He could only get out a word before you moved one of your legs outside of his bent leg bending both your knees you shoved your hips up dislodging him from on top of you, you crawled back and stood up, waiting for him to stand up, keeping yourself light on your feet. He stood up, his height towering over you but you kept your pep up determined to hold your own but you could feel the tiredness of the working out before setting in.

You two grappled, threw fists and blocked for a few minutes. It wasn’t long until you two were back on the ground of the mat; you knew you had to keep him low else he’d use that upper body strength. He was between your legs, hands holding your shoulders down this time. You could feel his warm through his sweat pants and your leggings, you tried not to think about what appeared to be a growing boner push into you. You pivoted your upper body to the right, raising your leg up into his arm pit wrapping around his back taking the other leg you pulled it to the other side of the arm your other leg sat under and shoved him to his back taking his arm with both of your hands, holding him in an arm bar. Your outer leg over his face other braced over his chest trying to keep him down.

You looked at him holding his arm tight between your breasts trying to look triumphant but uncomfortably aware of his hot breath on your leg. His free hand gripped the inside of your thigh, while he gently began kissing up the calf at his face. Your eyes widened in shock immediately feeling the heat in your cheeks from a blush and not just the redness form physical exertion. When he felt your grip slacken he moved to sitting on his knees pulling you to him without any effort into his lap, your legs resting on either side of him, chest to chest with one arm wrapped around your lower back. His display of strength made you aware of just how easy he was taking it on you, this had been purely foreplay.

Experimentally you pushed your hips down on his hard cock and he groaned deep. He gripped the back of your head and pulled you into a rough kiss, lips, teeth and tongue clashing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, running your fingers through his hair with one hand. He continued running his tongue long your mouth, committing it to memory, when he finally pulled away you two panted, breath moving from one to the other.

“Tell me you want this too,” His voice was a lower octave than before and it made you roll your hips into him, in response he gripped your hips stilling your movement growling out your name between gritted teeth he looked you in the eyes. “Tell me.” His tone desperate.

“I want this-” you barely finished the last word when his lips were on yours again, controlling your hips to roll against him as he raised his hips up. You could feel his throbbing cock against your heat and you couldn’t even find yourself worried about having sex at your work’s gym. All your thoughts focused on getting him naked you trailed your hands up under his shirt, bunching it up above his pecs.

He pulled his lips from you once more “Wait, wait.” You whimpered at that, grounding your hips down against him causing him to groan out in response. “Not here,” he continued but you didn’t care anymore. There was a fire growing inside you and it had to be put out, only one super solider could extinguish it. You began kissing down his chin to his neck and bit down on the bulging muscle between his neck and shoulders, he gripped your shoulders almost painful. He pulled you from him and you whined at him with a pout.

A soft chuckle came out, “There’s rooms up on the top floors. Just hold on for me doll.” Your face brightened at the nickname. He pulled the both of you up to your feet, setting you down he gently cupped your chin tilting your head up. “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of that sweet needy pussy of yours.” Your knees went weak at his words, pressing your palms to his hard chest to steady yourself. You could not believe Steve Rogers, Captain America was talking like this.

You both quickly grabbed your items, ignoring the two people left in the gym making way to the elevator.

“Top floor,” Steve smiled down at you innocently as if he hadn’t said such nasty things a moment ago. “Top Floor, Clearance Approved, welcome Steve Rogers.” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied and the elevator took off at its accelerated speed to reach the top quickly. You stumbled at the momentum, Steve’s arm shot out around you pulling you to his side. You looked up at him, his face already turned down to you he leaned further down and locked your lips to his once more. The kiss passionate once more, his tongue sliding along your lips demanding entrance that you welcomed. The hand around you slipped down to your ass, groping and with a gentle smack, you moaned into his mouth. Your noises spurring him on, he slipped fingers between your cheeks gently tapping your pussy. You gripped at his tank top in desperation, you dropped your bag and gave to thought if you damaged your company laptop with the loud clang the bag made on the elevator floor. He pulled himself from your lips long enough to grab your bags with his free hand when the elevator doors opened and led you to wherever he wanted to take you. You were well pass caring.

He sat you down on a couch, you barely noticed the bar across the way or the beautiful view that the ceiling to wall windows certainly provided. You could only see him; you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as he peeled his tank top off. You followed his lead pulling your work out tank off and tossing it aside, he watched with hooded eyes when your breasts spilled out of your sports bra next. Once you had tossed that aside he fell to his knees between your legs, pressing his face to your breasts his speech muffled you pulled his head back and looked at him curiously.

“I knew you’d be perfect.” You blushed at his words, lowering your head to your chest feeling very shy all of a sudden.

“You kept pushing yourself as you worked out and I couldn’t stop staring. I didn’t even care if you saw me; you were insatiable working out down there. I wanted to see that same passion focused on me.”

Your eyes widened, he had been trying to get you here that soon? You had thought it was only from the sparing. He didn’t allow you to think any longer, taking a nipple in his mouth he rolling his tongue around the nipple before gently taking the nipple between his teeth and gently pulling. You cried out, your hands gripping his head, legs wrapping around him pushing yourself into him for some much needed friction. He kissed his way to your other breast distracting you from his hands moving between your legs. The loud rip of him pulling the seam of your leggings apart gave you a startle.  He gripped the underwear revealed underneath and ripped them off with barely any resistance to his strength.

Before he could do more your feet began to push his sweat pants off, taking your clue he pulled them down to his bent knees, pulling himself up a bit you could see his cock. You idly thought he should really go into porn with how thick and long his cock was. The size was intimidating and you swallowed loudly you wanted it so bad but feared it would hurt.

“Steve I don’t know if” he shushed you and kissed your lips softer than he had before.

“Don’t you worry at all. I’ll make sure you can take every inch.” You stared up at him with wide eyes his tone cocky and self-assured. He began to trail his fingers up and down your lips, then pulling them apart a full face smile took over his face, he looked so satisfied at what he found.

“Is this all for me? You’re soaking wet doll.” You meekly nodded your head, his dirty talk make you unable to think and talk back.

He devoured you whole, his tongue diving into your pussy, the slurping noises only proving his previous statement. You were soaked and certain he wanted to drown in you at his actions, you came up off the couch moaning out when he wrapped his lips around your engorged clit and began his torturous menstruation on you placing a hand over your lower abdomen keeping you down.

“Now now, don’t interrupt my meal.” His eyes twinkled with mischief you weren’t sure you were capable of handling anymore. He experimentally inserted two fingers and groaned feeling your tight heat around his fingers.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. Gonna have to stretch you out a bit.” He looked back up at you. “That okay doll?” You couldn’t even respond before he attached his lips to your clit again and began to push his fingers in and out of you, pulling them apart to stretch you. It wasn’t long before he added a third finger, you were a little uncomfortable at this stretch, his fingers so big. He noticed your discomfort and began to hum sending vibrations through your clit causing you to cry out and flood his fingers. Feeling the smirk around your clit he continued to thrust his fingers into you, curling then slightly pressing on your g spot.

Your hands slammed against the couch, and if not for his arm holding you down you would have shoved him off, thrashing your head back and forth you felt the telling sensation begin to pool in your abdomen.

“Steve, Steve,” you chanted as the sensation continued approaching, he added a fourth finger and you felt yourself spin out of control calling out his name. When you regained your sense you saw him licking and sucking his fingers clean. His eyes caught yours and the sinful smile that he gave you was downright illegal. You shuddered with a whimper, leaning forward your wrapped your hand around his cock, satisfied at the hiss he made when you began to stroke him up and down.

“You gotta stop that or I won’t last much longer.” He pulled your hand off him and pouted.

“Now don’t look at me like that.” He pulled you down the couch a little bit more, lining his red flushed cock with your entrance. Slowly he began to press himself into you, throwing your head back at the feeling of him stretching you, it felt so good that you began to press yourself towards him but his hands stilled you. “Gotta go slow, else I’ll hurt you doll.” You looked at him, his eyes soft trying to get you to see reason within your lust haze. How was he able to be so in control when you felt like every part of your being was on fire?

He stopped half way and began to circle your clit with his thumb; you bucked against him moaning out his name.

“I know, I know it feels so good doesn’t it?” you whined out, your hands gripping at his waist and legs wrapping around him tightly trying to pull in more but he only moved a little bit at your movement.

“I want more,” you begged and he chuckled. “You’re such a greedy little thing.” He responded by pushing himself in further, you bit your lower lip as you breathed out heavily he was stretching you in ways you had never felt before. It was almost cruel at how good he felt inside you. Impatiently you rocked against him slowly moving more and more in. Catching on to your schemes he put both his hand on the couch either side of you and thrust himself the rest of the way in. You cried out gripping his forearms and throwing your head back. He stayed still, panting heavily above you trying to restrain himself, his calmness gone as he felt you wrapped around him entirely, squeezing him tightly.

“You feel so good,” he gritted out between his teeth between controlled breaths. “It’s almost too good.” You whimpered out and contracted yourself around him, his eyes shot open and both hands went to your hips. He took in a ragged breath as he tried to steady himself but you were having none of that, you swiveled your hips as much as you could within his grip. He looked down at you with grim smile, suddenly not so sure pushing a super solider a good idea anymore but it was too late.

Holding you in place he began to piston himself in and out of you at a steady pace. His groans mixed with your moans and whimpers, both of you lost in the feeling of each other. When his rhythm became staccato he suddenly pulled himself completely out of you grunting and panting, his eyes closed tight.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, trying to regain some composure. “You make me feel like a teenage boy again.” You felt pride swell in your chest at his words but the empty feeling between your legs took over and you tried to pull him back to you with your legs around him.

“Just a moment doll,” His breathing was forced as he tried to calm himself down any way possible. He pulled you up to stand with him and walked you back until you felt the cool glass pressed up against you. He smiled down at you before tasting your lips once again in a kiss. He pulled one of your legs over his hip gripping your ass and rubbing himself against your stomach as you continued to kiss. When you pulled away you spoke up.

“From behind,” you was all you could muster to say, shy about you request. His eyes shined with pleasure and nodded his head vigorously.

“Oh fuck yes, turn around, quickly.”  You did as he commanded and he gripped your hips once more but from behind, pulling you slightly from the window he lifted you up barely off your toes, you laid your arms against the glass as he pushed forward shoving himself all the way back in bending your back down he curled into you. You cried out and he groaned into your neck begging to swing you back and forth on his cock.

“Look at yourself.” You looked at your reflection in the glass, your flush face lips parted and eyes dark was entrancing. You had never looked at yourself in this state before. “You’re so gorgeous taking my cock,” he caught your eyes and pushed you against the glass side of you face and breasts pressing against it as he started to push and pull at a fierce pace. Your moans and cries fogging up the glass as the coil began to tighten again within you; he panted and let out groans each time he was fully in you.

“I need you to come on my cock,” He groaned out as his pace became frenzied. You felt the release crash over you as if his words governed your body, wailing out at the intensity of it you felt him freeze inside of you and pulse. The feeling of him flooding your insides made you whimper out. Steve kept himself inside you stumbling back until he sat on the couch you on top of him, his cock nestled within you as it slowly softened.

It was awhile before either of you could catch your breath. He broke the silence.

“Time for a cool down stretch?” You popped his thigh with the back of your hand as you laughed at his absurdity. 

[the-awkward-outlaw]

could you maybe write something about Arthur falling in love with a rival gang member? like a bit like romeo and juliet or something, you can choose the ending, thx :)

I tried to keep this one short but then I puked out like thirteen pages, so have fun, Anon! Thanks for sending this in! 

You’ve been running with the O’Driscolls for many years. Most of your life, really. Ever since you were a young teen. You’d been living with your parents and older sister in a cabin on the border of Ambarino and New Hanover. When you were thirteen, you had a habit of dressing like a boy even though you’re a girl. You just preferred the more comfortable, free moving clothing that boys wore and you kept your hair short to spite your mother. She’d been trying to push the woman’s lifestyle on you and you were just not having it. In order to rebel against her, you cut your hair so it was only a few inches long. 

Your father didn’t care how you looked or dressed, he thought you should do what felt right. He taught you how to hunt and shoot a gun when you were young, and he did this with your older sister as well. She didn’t take to it as well as you did as she didn’t like getting her hands dirty. She was too much like your mother and you were like your father. He was the one who bought you pants and button-down shirts to wear and a hat to shelter your eyes and head. 

It was the combination of your clothes, hair and that you always seemed to be covered in earth or dust from the road that saved your life. At the age of fourteen, the O’Driscolls came to your cabin one night. It was only a small group of them, but Colm O’Driscoll heard a rumor that your father was wealthy and just pretended to be poor for the sake of appearances. 

This was true as your grandfather had been a railway magnate until he’d been forced out of his business and decided on a simpler, less stressful life. He’d left his fortune to your father, who decided to hide his inheritance. Your family lived on a small ranch, which made it easy to pretend like you had just enough to get by. But somehow word had slipped out about your family’s money and Colm came to steal it. 

Colm and seven of his men barged their way into your cabin. They shot your father only seconds after breaking the door down, then your mother. Colm’s men grabbed your sister and dragged her off into the night. You never saw her again, though you still sometimes hear her screams when trying to sleep. Colm looked hard at you and thought, because of your appearance, that you were a boy. 

“You’re gonna be one of us, boy,” he said in his oddly soft voice. “You’re gonna be one of us or end up like your daddy.” 

You just nodded and went with them. You were forced to join the gang but you knew the consequences for trying to run. Of course, you also continued to dress like a boy. As you grew, you started growing your hair out to respect your mother in her death. Luckily plenty of Colm’s men had longer hair, so they suspected nothing. That changed when you started to grow older and parts of your body visibly changed. You had to wear a tight wrap around your chest, but there was nothing you could do about your wider hips. You managed to threaten a tailor to make a duster with padded shoulders to make them look bigger and hide your feminine figure. 

Years passed from when Colm destroyed your family and you stayed in his gang. You would have left when you were close to twenty, but you knew what would happen if you deserted. One boy made this mistake and Colm hunted him down and within days of him leaving, Colm killed him. The matter of his death was neither easy or quick, so you knew if you left, the same thing would happen to you. 

Of course it wasn’t easy being in Colm’s gang. Since you were smaller than most the others, you got picked on a lot and you got stuck with some of the more unpleasant tasks, like shoveling horse shit and cleaning up after the others. 

Shortly after you were incorporated into the gang, you’d heard of Dutch Van der Linde and his boys. You only knew his name and that he and Colm were rivals. Every once in a while, you’d hear about them interfering with one another’s work, but whenever you asked why Colm had such a fury towards Dutch, the others would just tell you to shut up. You thought for a long time that Colm detested this Dutch just because he was another gang leader and they happened to cross one another frequently. 

You’ve been in the gang more than ten years now. Ten long, miserable years. You want nothing more than to get out, but to do so means your inevitable death. You also know it can take mere seconds for Colm to figure out you’re a woman. He doesn’t like women in the gang, says they only slow the gang down. If and when he finds out, he’ll happily put a bullet in your head. 

Colm has never liked you much. You think the only reason he brought you into the gang was because you were a child. Maybe Colm has something against killing kids or maybe he just thought you might have potential. You don’t take his malcontent personally. He doesn’t like most the men he runs with, only keeps them around because they’re good with guns and sometimes manage to pull a score successfully. 

You’ve climbed up in his ranks though. You had no choice. In order to survive and to hide your gender, you learned quickly. Even though you knew how to shoot a pistol and a varmint rifle, you had to learn how to shoot a bigger gun. So you taught yourself. Colm’s boys taught you the craft of acting mean, targeting people and robbing them. You were good too. Perhaps it was just your feminine intuition on how to play people since you couldn’t physically fight too well because of your size, but you had a knack for tricking people and robbing them blind. Colm appreciated this and you moved up quickly. 

You hate him though. No matter what he does or how much money you get through him, you hate him. You’d like nothing more than to slit his throat while he sleeps. But you’re afraid of him too. The first time you’d ever seen him was putting a bullet in your father and then killing your mother. You know he had something to do with your sister and there’s little doubt in your mind he ravaged her and then killed her too. Only a monster could be capable of that, to orphan a child and then force them to work for the one who killed their family. 

You walk into the bar in Valentine, thirsty and sore. The past few days have been hell. For some dumb reason, Colm decided a couple weeks back to move the gang up to some fallen apart town near Colter. Then you all got trapped there during a blizzard. He’d been out with some of his boys when the blizzard hit. He came back with his right hand man, a fat man with a bushy beard named Hoskins. The others never returned, but Colm figured the idiots had gotten lost and died in the snow. 

He told you and some of the other higher ups that you were all up here to rob a train owned by Leviticus Cornwall. You’d heard the name of course. He was a big, but impossible target. Cornwall was known to go after any idiot who robbed him with a vengeance. Colm told you all to stay up here for another couple of days before the robbery. Then he sent one of the newer members, some fidgety nervous guy named Kieran, out to scout for the train. He left and told you and some of the others to go hunt some game to keep everyone fed. 

You split off from the others and managed to find a deer grazing out in the frozen wilderness, but when you came back to the hideout, it was littered with corpses. Only a few men were left standing. When Colm returned and found out the plans for the train robbery had been stolen, he lost it. He hit one of the other men right in the face. Only you seemed to notice that the kid, Kieran, hadn’t returned, but you said nothing. 

Colm set his hands on the back of a rickety chair and glared into a lamp. 

“There’s only one fella stupid enough and bold enough to steal a score from me. Goddamn Van der Linde. Well, I have a surprise for him. This is the last time he steals from me. I heard he and his bunch are wanted in Blackwater. Hoskins, you’ll help me find a way to get him.” 

You rarely saw Colm after that, but he moved the gang to Hanging Dog Ranch in Big Valley. He ordered you and the others to hunt for new scores and for the whereabouts of Dutch and his boys. 

You’ve been riding for days with hardly any sign of either gang. That’s why you’re in this shit hole of a town Valentine. Always muddy, always smelling of shit. You rap on the bar and order a beer. You’re in need of a bath, but you need to go back to camp tomorrow. You’ve been gone long enough and they might start to think you’ve deserted. Despite your hatred towards Colm, you do feel a strange sense of obligation towards him. Despite him having destroyed your family and livelihood, he taught you how to fight, how to rob and how to get away with it. Perhaps that’s just a lie you tell yourself. Maybe the only reason you’re loyal to him is because you’ve been part of his gang most your life. 

Just as you’re finishing your beer, the doors swing open and a man walks in. You only glance at him for a second and spot his leather hat and blue shirt. He stalks towards the barber’s seat and gets his hair and beard trimmed. After he’s done, he comes and leans on the bar not too far from you. He orders a beer as well. 

Something about him intrigues you. It’s rare for you to take an interest in men, and in this town he’s not out of style. Hell, he’s covered in dirt and his clothes are years old, from the looks of them. Still, he has this force and presence that drags your attention to him. You study him for a moment. 

He glances over at you and your eyes meet. He’s got stunning blue eyes. You blink and look away. You both ignore each other and buy a few more drinks. After your third, you decide that’s enough and start to head out. Just as you leave the bar, you collide with the man. 

“Sorry,” you say, forgetting in that split second to make your voice sound deep and gravelly. You’re usually so careful, but when you’re not around the gang, it’s harder to maintain. 

The man lowers his brow, clearly confused. “It’s alright, mi… well, can I call ya miss?” 

He looks you up and down, clearly confused. After all, your disguise is very convincing. 

“Sure,” you say. “Long as you don’t tell no one else.” 

He huffs a small laugh. “And who’d I tell that I met a young woman who looked just like a young, very small man?” 

You smile. “I guess no one.” 

He tips his hat. “You have a fine day, sir.” He gets on his horse and rides off. 

************************

You’ve bumped into this man a few more times since that first meeting. You found a mutilated corpse under the railroad and he did too at pretty much the same time. Another day, you stumbled upon a strange rock carving near the Cumberland River and he showed up only seconds later. Another time, you were just heading back to Hanging Dog Ranch and you saw him in the big meadow skinning a pronghorn. You’ve never crossed paths with a stranger so often. 

You’re in Valentine again and just heading over to the train station. A couple months back, you bumped into some annoying feller who offered you money for bundles of cigarette cards, and you’ve finally found enough that they might be worth something. Hopefully this idiot wasn’t pulling your leg. Just as you’re about to reach the doors, they open and the man you’ve met a handful of times comes out. 

“Excuse me, sir,” he says, then stops. His eyes rake over you and he smiles. “Again? How many times you and I gonna cross paths?” 

You smile. “Don’t get the impression that I’m following you, that’s not what’s happening.” 

He smiles back. “Course not. Well, don’t let me keep ya.” 

You’ve never been a big believer in fate or destiny, but the fact that you’ve run into this man so often has got to be more than mere coincidence. As he starts walking over to his horse, you turn. 

“Sir, we keep bumping into each other. Now I don’t believe in divine interference when it comes to people and their lives, but… there’s gotta be a reason we keep running into each other. Let me buy you a beer.” 

He grins. “That’s awful kind o’ ya, miss. Guess I can grab a drink. Though not Smithfield’s. Bar owner ain’t too keen on me right now.” 

You agree and go to the smaller, quieter saloon in Valentine. You make good on your promise and buy him a drink. There, you both get to talking and introduce yourselves properly (though not entirely honestly). 

“So tell me,” Arthur says, setting his bottle down. “Why’s a girl like you dressin’ like a man? Judgin’ by how well you do it, my guess is you’ve done it a long time.” 

You sigh. “It’s…. It’s a long, boring story. Let’s just say it’s safer for me to dress like this than a woman. No offence, but men have a disgusting habit of targeting women because we’re the weaker sex.” 

He smiles a bit. “Yes we certainly have a habit of doin’ that. However, I know you’re leavin’ somethin’ out.” 

“How would you know?” 

“Because,” he says, “you’re way too vague and you’re the only woman I seen dressed like this. So what’s the real story?” 

You know you can’t tell him about Colm’s gang, but perhaps you can just tell him a vague bit of the truth. 

“I run with a bunch of boys who aren’t too keen on runnin’ with women. Guess they don’t really like us, I don’t know. In order to keep on runnin’ with ‘em, I dress like this. They buy it well enough.”

“Don’t seem like a particularly good bunch if they can’t handle you bein’ a lady. Why don’t you just leave?” 

“It’s… it’s complicated,” you say, hiding your eyes beneath your hat. “Let’s just say they ain’t keen on people abandoning them.” 

He doesn’t press further and then he thanks you for the drink. You kind of hope you don’t see him again, he already knows too much about you for your own safety. 

Just as you’re leaving Valentine, Colm and Hoskins bump into you. 

“There you are, you son of a bitch,” Colm snarls when he sees you. This is a usual greeting so you think nothing of it. “Saddle up, boy. We gotta go to Six Point.” 

“Why?” you say, mounting up on your horse. 

“I left Lowman and McCann up there with some of the others. They were supposed to stash the money from that stage robbery and meet us at Hangin’ Dog. I ain’t seen hide nor hair of ‘em. Little bastards better not be dead drunk.” 

You ride with the two to the cabin Colm sometimes uses as a hideout. You find the other men scattered around, dead but not drunk. Colm’s furious again and he kicks a bucket halfway across the site. He investigates the cabin and finds the money gone, as well as a double-barrelled shotgun he had mounted up on the chimney. 

“You, boy,” he points at you. “You stay here. Get this shit cleaned up, and stay here until I come for you in case the shits who did this come back.” 

“You want me here alone in case a possible group of expert gunman come back?” you say, not liking the odds. 

“Yeah, don’t be yella. Just do what you’re told. I’ll come get ya in a few days.” 

***********************

What Colm said would be a few days has turned into a few weeks. He’s had you stake out places like this before, so you know the drill: sniff out any possible leads from the closest town. While you’ve been trying to dig up clues, you bump into that Arthur Morgan time and time again. 

The first time you did since buying him a drink, he offered to buy you one. After that, whenever you meet, you both go for drinks and get to know one another a little better. It isn’t long before you start to feel a sense of friendship towards him. He’s just as vague on his lifestyle as you are, but you don’t push out of respect. Before long, Arthur asks you to meet him in places to go hunting. He seems to like the company. 

After one particularly long day, you part his company in Valentine and return to Six Point. You spend the next couple of days missing him. You miss him more than anyone else you’ve ever known and that’s when you’re hit with it: you like him. 

The next time you meet, you try to keep things cool between you and him, but you can’t help but stare at him. He is handsome after all. Plus you know that while his temper can be quick to flare up, he can be incredibly gentle and caring. There was one time you both stumbled into a cabin where the occupants had died due to a fire. The cabin was relatively intact and it looked like they’d died from the gas. Arthur picked up a pen and a children’s book. When you questioned him on this, he just smiled. 

“I have a couple of friends who mentioned they wanted a pen and a book like this.” 

“Ah, so if I was to ask you to fetch me somethin’, would you get it?” you ask before you could stop yourself.

“Of course. Anythin’ in mind?” 

You were almost surprised, but happy. “Now that you mention it, I wouldn’t mind a watch. I accidentally dropped mine and it broke a couple days back. Haven’t had the chance to replace it.” 

He smiled and promised to bring you one. The next time you saw him, he had it. When your fingers brushed his, he blushed. Was it possible he had something for you too?

From then on, your relationship with Arthur changed. There was just a sense of electricity between you both, like you were magnetized. You went from purposefully bumping your hand into his to touching his upper arms and shoulders to brushing his hair when he had his hat off. It wasn’t long after that when you had your first kiss. It had taken you completely by surprise.

You’d both been drinking heavily that night and you were doing everything to control yourself with him. You’d been more attracted to him than ever, but you weren’t sure if he liked you too. However, in your drunken phase, the candlelight hit him just right and you just leaned over and kissed him. He was taken by surprise, but when you started to pull away, he stopped you and crashed his lips to yours. 

After that night, the two of you met almost daily, even if it was just for five minutes. Arthur kissed you as often as he could. It didn’t take long before the two of you finally made love. You’d been out hunting and it rained hard, chilling you both to the bone. You were both forced to strip down to your undergarments as your clothes had been soaked. You nestled close to one another and one thing led to another and you ended up sleeping with him. Arthur was more than satisfactory in bed, he knew how to push buttons you weren’t even aware existed. He seemed pleased with your performance as well. 

After having sex with him, you start to feel guilty for hiding so much from him. You’ve made love to him several times now and you feel incredibly close to him. More than anyone else you’ve known. He makes you feel like you don’t have to hide, you can be yourself. Perhaps now is the time you open up about your past. 

You meet Arthur in the saloon, where you always arrange to meet. You’ve made up your mind when you walk up to him. He smiles when he sees you and wraps an arm around you. He kisses you softly, not caring who might be around to see. 

“Well, should we go off huntin’ or do you wanna hit the hotel first and have a little fun?” he asks with a small growl. 

You blush a bit. “I’d love to go have some fun, but… we need to talk first.” 

His smile fades, but he nods. You feel even more guilty, the poor man probably thinks you’re going to break up with him. You take his hand and lead him outside to your horses and mount up. You lead him away from the town where you won’t be overheard. 

You dismount and Arthur follows suit. He walks over but doesn’t touch you, clearly under the impression you’re going to end things. 

“Arthur I… I feel I owe you an explanation,” you say, looking at your feet. “I haven’t been honest with you. Most of the things I’ve said have been little less than lies.” 

He furrows his brow, clearly taken aback by this. You look up at him. 

“I don’t want to lie anymore, Arthur. I’m….” you prepare yourself for the worst. Most men you can think of would be upset at dating an outlaw. “I’m an outlaw. The boys I run with are a gang.” 

He sighs and smiles. “Jesus, darlin’! You nearly scared me to death!” 

You look at him in shock. “What?”

“Honey, I don’t care that you’re an outlaw. You wanna hear one of my secrets?” He grabs your hands and leans in. “I’m an outlaw too. I run with a gang. Men, women, even a kid. Not my kid, course, but he’s a good boy.” 

You smile up at him, your gut feeling considerably lighter. “Oh thank God. Can I ask which gang?” 

He scratches the back of his neck. “I run with Dutch Van der Linde.” 

Your heart skips a beat. “Van der Linde?” you say.

He nods. “Somethin’ wrong?” 

You swallow. “Possibly. Arthur, I… I run with the O’Driscolls.” 

He lowers his brow and his eyes widen. His hands let go of yours. “The O’Driscolls? You run with those assholes?” 

“Arthur, I can explain. It wasn’t really my decision and-” 

“Save it,” he growls. “Your gang has caused nothin’ but heartbreak and anger for my gang. Van der Linde is like a father to me and Colm killed his girl.” 

“And Van der Linde killed his brother!” you say. You’re not really sure why you’re getting defensive, but you know one thing: Arthur has a huge problem with your truth. 

“Word is Colm hated his brother more than anyone else,” Arthur snarls. “But he killed Dutch’s girl. They were gonna get married! And you run with those fools? I can’t even tell ya how much trouble you’re bunch has caused us?” 

You blink away some tears. “I thought… Arthur, I thought you wouldn’t care. Just because I run with them doesn’t mean I’m like them. I hate Colm more than you can know, but I can’t get out.” 

“No one’s forced to do nothin’. You can leave whenever you want. But I’m gonna tell ya somethin’, Y/N.” His eyes darken and he squares his jaw. “If you choose to stay with them, you and I can’t be together no more. I refuse to be associated with a goddamn O’Driscoll.” 

You lower your head and look down. You want nothing more than to leave, but if you do, Colm will butcher you. “I want nothing more than to run away from him, Arthur. But… he’ll kill me.” 

He sighs heavily. “So you’re gonna choose to be a coward. Well, forget about things with me then, Y/N. I refuse to waste my time on an O’Driscoll.” 

His words sting and he marches over to his horse, mounting up and leaves. Out of all the things that could have happened when you decided to come clean, this was not it. Your chest suddenly tightens painfully and your stomach just feels like it’s gone. You take a step over to the cliff’s edge and sit down. You’ve never despised your gang more. They’ve taken everything from you. Your family, your freedom, and now your lover. You can’t say you blame Arthur for leaving and you can understand his loyalty to his gang. He’s also right about you and you feel like a coward. 

After a bit, you get yourself up and ride off to Six Point. When you get there, you finally let yourself cry. How can you go on with your gang now? You’d been so happy with Arthur, happier than you’ve been in years, and now it’s gone. Life with your gang seems even darker than before. 

*************************

The next day, Colm comes, but he doesn’t want you to return to the gang’s hideout yet. 

“Turns out Van der Linde was behind the massacre here,” he says. “Only one way he could’ve known about this place. That coward Kieran must’ve been behind this. I also heard a rumor.” He glares at you. “One of my boys said he saw you talkin’ with a fella named Arthur Morgan. You know he’s one of Dutch’s boys, right?” 

You swallow. “Yes. I was merely telling him this is our turf and he should get lost.” 

“I see, though I doubt it. From what my boy was tellin’, you looked like you were friendly with him. More than friendly even. I can handle one of my men feelin’ attracted to other men, as long as they don’t act on it. But I will not accept anyone falling for a Van der Linde, you got me, boy?” 

You nod your head. “Yes, sir. I am not attracted to Morgan, but I understand.” 

“You always was a bad liar. Now I need to go somewhere for a few more days, but when I come back, you’re comin’ with me. Now if I hear you’re fraternizing with any more of Dutch’s boys, you ain’t gonna like what I do to ya.” 

With that, Colm stomps out of the cabin and rides off. You’re left shaken. “Goddamn it, Arthur,” you say quietly. “Why must you be… you?”

****************************

Two days later, you’re still at Six Point. You haven’t left the cabin since Colm threatened you. You’re sure he’s staked out some of his men in Valentine to keep an eye on you. As far as Arthur goes, you’ve heard and seen nothing. You miss him more than you care to admit, but you’ve already given up on ever seeing him again. He made it perfectly clear how he feels about you. 

You’re beginning to wonder if running and taking your chances would be worth staying with Colm. After all, it’s not like you get much money from his jobs and you’re no more safer staying than you are running. He’s turned around and shot his men several times over stupid things. You weren’t one of them out of mere chance. More than that though, you’re tired of hiding. Hiding who you are and what you look like. 

Just as you’re beginning to think of a plan of escape, where you’ll go and what you’ll do, a knock comes on the door of Six Point. It’s not Colm. He never knocks. Perhaps it’s just a weary traveller in need of shelter from the torrential rain outside. You readjust your high bun and put your hat back on, pulling the masculine disguise back together. 

When you open the door, you don’t find a traveller. Arthur’s standing on the porch, his hat in his hands. 

“What are you doing here?” you say quietly, trying to cover your emotions. Your voice is surprisingly steady. You fold your arms around yourself, waiting for his anger. 

“I came to apologize for the things I said, Y/N,” he says softly. “I know I made some assumptions without botherin’ to ask you if they’re true. I know you ain’t runnin’ with Colm out of affection. He’s the reason you gotta dress like a man, I’m guessing.” 

You nod and take your hat off. “Yes. If he ever finds out, I’m dead.” 

Arthur purses his lips a bit. “Well, darlin’, I… I’m wonderin’ if I can propose somethin’ to ya.” He waits for you to respond. When you don’t, he goes on. “I was thinkin’ you could abandon Colm, come with me into my gang. You’d be the safest there.” 

You look up at Arthur. “Does Dutch know? Does he know that I’m an O’Driscoll?” 

He sighs. “I told him about ya. He knows. He… weren’t too happy when I told him how I feel about ya. But I told him you’re little more than a prisoner with Colm. You’re only loyal out of fear.” 

You sigh and turn around to face the interior of the cabin. “I’m guessing it’s not enough to convince this Dutch to let me in. He’ll probably question my loyalty to him as well.” You turn and look at Arthur. “If I stay here, I’ll remain a prisoner. But if I go with you, I’ll still be a prisoner. Arthur, I’m trapped no matter what I do.” 

He walks in after you. “Not if I have anythin’ to say about it. It ain’t like I’m bringin’ ya in against your will. I got a lot of weight in my gang, Y/N. If I say you’re stayin’ and you’re alright, Dutch will listen to me. It’ll help a lot when he sees how useful you are to have around. Just help with the work and you’ll be accepted soon enough. I ain’t sayin’ it’ll be easy, but it might be the best chance you have.” 

He waits for you to respond. He’s right, of course. You know you’re already walking a thin line with Colm and it’s only going to get thinner. Arthur may very well be your salvation and, like he said, within the ranks of Colm’s greatest enemies is where you’ll be safest. 

“Do I have to keep on disguising myself?” you ask. 

Arthur smiles. “Absolutely not. We got plenty o’ women in camp and none of ‘em are ashamed of looking like women.” 

You smile and reach up, undoing your bun. It feels good to let your hair flow down just past your collarbones. You run a hand through it, aware you need a shower. You quickly change into a set of more feminine clothes, which you bought with Arthur a few weeks back. After washing your face, you look hardly recognizable from the man the O’Driscolls think you are. You’ll be able to slip past them easily enough.

“Okay, Mr. Morgan,” you say. “Take me to Van der Linde.” 

[ivyveil]

Truth or Drink

the one where it's worth a shot, but is it worth the truth?

A/N: Hi! This fic is based off of this video series by Cut (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auBSJIJ_C_8) . I fell in love with the idea and I thought I would do a piece on it. I hope you enjoy! 11.4k

It hadn’t seemed real until you were there.

The set was more professional than you had expected. Considering how much time you had spent with Harry’s old circle of friends, you had anticipated a low budget, maybe with the setting being a friend’s house. But it was genuinely in a production studio warehouse, with props and expensive equipment. You kept forgetting that Harry was doing much better for himself now.

They even had a snack tray, for Christ’s sake.

A sizable crew of people milled around the outskirts of the set, their shoes crinkling up the paper that cascaded down two poles, creating a white wall and floor in front of the camera. The director’s seat was empty and the camera was given a wide berth.

A wooden table had been set up in the middle of the paper floor, with three bottles of alcohol, two glasses of orange juice, and two shot glasses on top. The set-up was cute, probably ‘aesthetic’, but regardless, it sent shivers down your spine. Two chairs sat beside the table, angled out towards the expectant camera and muttering crew. Waiting for you, waiting for him.

It hadn’t seemed real until he showed up.

In a sweater colored with muted hues of greens and tans, and sunglasses pulling back his hair, Harry looked unbearably familiar. In an unsettling way, like you had watched a movie starring him at 3 am and woke up the next morning, dusty and vague memories of him coating your tongue and settling against your pillows.

It even fell down to the way he was walking, how his stance lingered more on the left than the right, and how his eyes swept the room. And how he could make you feel like the only one in the world, when his eyes landed on you and he smiled. He smiled as if you both had a secret no one else could understand, because that was partially the truth.

His boots sounded crisp on the paper. He was clipping his microphone against the collar of his shirt, ducking his head down momentarily to eyeball whether it was right. Which was a reminder of how this was all to be made public, how you two were to broadcast your conversation to countless of strangers who never asked for it, but would readily comment.

And that hadn’t seemed like something Harry would normally be willing to do, but to be fair, you hadn’t spoken to the man for almost a year.

It hadn’t seemed real until it was.

The two of you didn’t properly acknowledge each other, not in the way you would’ve if the meeting had been a casual one. Not riddled with anticipation and nerves.

Instead, you two chose to settle in the chairs and keep your attention on the objects around you. There had been smiles exchanged but the air was still thick, feeling like starch against the back of your throat. You both invented itches on your arms, a sudden interest in how your sleeves were rolled, etc, and ignored that the other was doing the same.

Harry shifted the shot glass so it was closer to him, as if anticipating the inevitable slosh of drunken choices he’d make soon. It was more likely than not, that you two – usually fairly private – would rather drink than confess anything.

“Looks like whiskey, vodka, and-” Harry opened up the third bottle, grasping onto the lid as he held up the bottle to his nose. “-maybe tequila?”

He glanced over, eyebrows raised as he tilted the bottle, presumably for you to smell as well. Perhaps there was hope in his eyes that you two could proceed with grace and without properly acknowledging the iceberg of problems between you.

The fact he could sit there and treat the situation so casually, was so frustratingly Harry that you weren’t sure how you had expected anything different. It had been a long while since you had been near him, but he still knew how to try and make you feel at ease. Like he could still read your mind as well as he had a year ago, that he could feel your discomfort and wanted to make amends.

The problem had been, and still was, that he tried to make up for whatever had gone wrong, without fully acknowledging what had actually gone wrong to begin with. His words never laid out flat what the issue was, and so you had often been left dissatisfied, searching for a resolution that he wasn’t offering.

You sniffed the bottle, because of course you did, wrinkling up your nose as you nodded. Tequila. Some strangled noise came from your throat, and Harry was clearly expecting it, for he giggled and plugged up the bottle again.

You hated tequila.

“Thanks fo’ coming, by the way. Didn’t think you’d agree to it,” he confessed, his fingers lingering on the sides of the bottle as he feigned interest in organizing them. As if a straighter line of liquor would wash away the tension, how quiet you had been, and how strangely surreal the next half hour would be.

Shifting in the seat, you crossed your legs and flexed out your foot. Getting comfortable in a situation that was anything but was not your forte by any means. It was your job as an interior designer, for Christ’s sake, to make every environment graceful and cozy.

But the tension between you two had another layer on top, which was your inherent nature of despising the something not being positioned correctly.

In this case, it was the fact you were even in the room.

“No problem. Sounded interesting. Thanks for-” you paused, unsure of what to say but feeling as though you ought to thank him back, “-thinking of me?”

Harry let out a laugh, unexpected by you, and apparently from him as well. Not that you had anticipated a change, or were even trying to notice, but his nose still wiggled when he smiled.

For the first moment since your friend had dropped you off in the parking lot ten minutes prior, you felt settled. Perhaps not confident enough to last through the list of questions without a single tear, but confident enough that you were both in the same situation. You and Harry could make it work and be alright.

It was a situation set up with the consent of each of you, after all, although that didn’t take away the nervous butterflies and worms writhing around in your chest.

Harry poured each of you a shot of whiskey, holding out the glass like a sense of a peace offering. Alcohol had never been your safe havens, but you figured it was alright to pitch a tent for a day.

You accepted it gratefully, making sure your fingers wouldn’t graze against his as you took the drink. Knocking it back felt like a rude awakening, but a necessary one, to approach what was coming.

The wall of paper rustled behind you, and the director popped his head around the corner. His name-tag read Chris, and you recognized the name as one of Harry’s newer friends, not one of the friends who would recognize you, which was a relief.

Chris was the reason Harry was doing the show, it seemed, as voluntarily airing past relationships was slightly out of character for Harry. His sense of duty towards his friends seemed to outweigh his typical cloak of privacy, and you couldn’t say you were altogether surprised. It didn’t clarify why he had asked you to be the ex on the show, though. He had a handful of others who were more likely to generate “viral content” with their outlandish drama, you knew, yet he had asked you.

“Thank you both for getting here on time. We can go ahead and get started if that’s okay,” Chris clasped his hands together, strutting past the table and towards his director’s chair. He was wearing plaid pants that swished against his legs as they moved, and that was the only noise in the room for a few seconds. Harry and you looked at each other, a bit uneasy that the moment had come upon you both so quickly. He quirked an eyebrow, as if to say there was no reason to delay it any longer. You took a deep breath and nodded.

“Okay, here’s how it’ll work. Martha will put these cards on the table. One of you will read out the question and the other will answer. If the person answering chooses not to, that person will have to take a shot. Easy enough. If you wanted to elaborate with your answers, we encourage that as well. And if you need to take a moment, let us know, but the camera stays rolling.”

It was a lot of information at once, and you found yourself nodding without comprehending as Chris rambled on. Your mind, ever the traitor, was stuck on how a week ago Harry had texted you. It was truly out of the blue, since your break up hadn’t resulted in a good, or even shaky, friendship, and you had felt certain he had deleted your number.

Hey, it’s Harry Styles. Know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I have a favor to ask. My friend is doing a new Internet series where exes get together and talk about their relationship, and he wanted to know if I would be willing. Thought of you. Interested? Xxx.

At first, you weren’t sure. The situation seemed like a disaster waiting to happen, if you were being honest. Darkened skies and trees blowing enough to the point their trunks swayed in the wind - that sort of disaster.

There was something about seeing his face that would send you spiraling off, bubbling anger and frustration swelling up your chest when you stumbled on his Instagram those few times. And then those times when you looked him up. And then those times when you took a screenshot the particularly good photos and went back to them when you were in a pit of self-despair. But only those many few times.

“Sounds good,” Harry was saying, and you chimed in with similar agreement. Martha, presumably, moved forward and put the cards on the table. There were a sizable number of questions, enough to keep you two interested in the game and not to be tempted to drink on every one.

Which had been your plan.

“Alright, just introduce yourselves to the camera and then go ahead,” Chris gestured outwards, smiling, before settling back in his seat.

Chris’ facial expression shifted into something more serious, the friendly facade morphing into a professional stare, which made you feel incredibly aware of how awfully slouched you were. You felt like you were in front of your parents, or a teacher, like you were a kid again and had to present yourself well.

Sitting up, you turned towards the camera. It was a large, black pit of emotionless indifference. It was going to record everything and wouldn’t have the decency to look away, if tears were to fall or if blood were to be shed.

Which didn’t feel too melodramatic, if you were being honest.

Harry introduced himself as Harry, an art teacher, and gave a gentle wave paired with one of his charming smiles. You followed suit, opting to just fold your arms against the table, as you introduced yourself as an interior designer.

The truth extended a bit beyond that for the both of you, with Harry also owning a popular photography Instagram working to introduce inner-city kids to film tech. And you were working with the local homeless shelters in the area to improve structural efficiency, as well as beginning your line of eco-friendly furniture.

But the two of you had become wrapped in the other’s threads of intimacy when you were merely an art teacher and an interior designer, and it would be easier to hark back a year ago if you were no longer attached to today’s version of yourselves.

Perhaps it was a hope for the past to emerge once more.

“How long did you two date?” Chris prompted.

“Two and a half years,” Harry answered.

“And how long ago was that?”

Harry looked over at you, raising his eyebrows silently asking you to be the one to answer. You knew he knew, that the wounds were still fresh and it wasn’t some ex-relationship lost in the foggy realm of his mind. So, you obliged, replying steadily and only taking your eyes away from Harry’s for a brief moment.

“About a year ago.”

And then, abruptly, it was simply you and Harry.

The crew faded away, when you two settled in against the backs of the seats and looked at each other. Harry seemed to be toying with some type of smile, probably more out of discomfort than genuinely finding humor in the situation.

“Should I go first?” Harry offered, reaching over towards the pile.

“Yeah, go for it.”

You shifted your legs once more, crossing them so the other was on top. Your fingers rested on the edge of the table, curling against the wood and waiting for Harry to speak.

“Describe how you feel about me right now.”

Harry began chewing on his lip, not harshly, but enough for you to pick up on his nerves. His eyes shot over to the bottles, thinking you’d immediately cop out, but you began to respond.

“I feel like...” you sighed, dropping your gaze from his inquisitive eyes as you collected your thoughts, “I feel like you’re an ex. And that’s not saying a lot but that’s the best way to describe it.”

You nodded, satisfied with your answer.

“Is that a bad thing?” Harry asked.

You shrugged.

“It just is. Feels like an ending brought back up.”

And it did. You had grown a lot since you two had left the other as a broken shell, and meeting up again felt like a continuation that wasn’t supposed to be. Unnatural was a word to describe how your eyes settled on the small parts of him, deciphering what was different now, yet there was a thread of normalcy in how you two could understand the other like an instinct buried deep away.

“Ah, it’s the bad sequel,” he mused, with a grin that deepened against his cheeks when you laughed. With a smirk to himself, he put down the card in the discard pile.

It felt a bit easier than you had expected, to sit across from him. The bitter words you two had left stewing in the other’s mind had apparently evaporated for the time being. Texting Harry back your confirmation while drunk and alone on a Friday night could maybe be chalked down as a good life decision, if the goodwill carried on throughout the video.

“What about you?” you prompted. You weren’t sure if that was allowed, if the game permitted for you to turn the question onto him. But you were intrigued by the ability to ask him whatever, to find out the depths of Harry you never thought you’d be privy to again, under the guise of something that could be easily excused.

“Me?” he asked, needlessly, for there was no one else you could be asking.

“I feel kinda the same,” he spoke as if it were a question, but continued on with building confidence, “I dunno much about yeh life anymore. Remember how we’d go out on the fire escape ‘n just talked-” you smiled at that, because it was one of those things that couldn’t be remembered without being cherished “-but I also remember how we fought. Especially on tha’ last night. But it doesn’t feel bad to be here. Not wha’ I expected.”

You nodded as he spoke, already feeling the analysis of his word choice kick into gear in the depths of your brain. Nothing he said rose red flags, though, and to a sad extent, you understood him. It hadn’t been as painful as your friends had tried to convince you it would be when you were leaving the apartment that morning.

“Alright, my turn?” you looked over to Chris, who nodded towards the pile. It seemed a bit ominous, with Harry being the one to potentially answer now. Because you had control over what was said a moment ago but now it was truly up to him. It made you nervous

“Did you ever have the chance to cheat on me, and did you?”

Time almost seemed to stop, an unbearable delicacy in the way your eyes held contact with his own. An impressive acknowledgment that whatever he said, and especially the moves his body would make, held the potential of ripping a shred into the both of you.

“I had a chance.” Harry nodded slowly, and his fingers began to twist around themselves on the table. “With...with a mutual friend.”

You nodded, not even needing him to go on further. You knew who it was.

Melanie.

You valued female support and girl love for one another, but Melanie was just a straight up bitch. In the ways that men never could see, because the complexities of female language would twist around the way she eyed women up, the way her lips would curl around each false compliment, as if snapping its neck. Her words had a double meaning that only girls could decode, a simple system that carved knives down their back as she manipulated situations to her fancy.

She was in a ‘game’ no one else was playing, but she was in it for blood.

Perhaps insecurities could be an excuse, maybe there were lingering traumas in her childhood that had morphed her into the beast she was today. But it was easier for you to shut down those ideas and accept her in the monstrosity she had become, one way or another, and keep your hand firmly in Harry’s whenever you all were out together.

She had a thing for Harry.

She would sidle up next to him in the booth, when the lights were low enough to mask her demon-slit eyes and let him be blind to the venom-soaked tongue that flicked out of her mouth with two prongs.

(You were being dramatic, but that’s neither here nor there).

She would be cuddly with him, and Harry would insist to you that they were just friends. When his phone went off with her name splashed on it for the fifth time in ten minutes, he’d make up excuses. Say she was interested in his record collection, that she had sent him a link to some obscure new photography magazine that Celtic porn stars had created downtown. It was nothing incriminating but Melanie had her code, and it seemed only you knew how to read it. He was protective over her, almost, and it had bugged you to no end.

You never called him out with direct accusations, though, because you had never thought of him as the cheating type.

You’d always assumed Melanie was in it for the attention and would stop before any buttons could slip out of their hold.

It seemed you had assumed wrong.

“When was it?” you found yourself asking, the question bursting through before you could have enough time to address whether you wanted to know.

“A week before we broke up.” Harry had the decency to look unsettled, clearing his throat and glancing around the room. “I was taking her home after that night out, the one when we went to tha’ bar and we fought so yeh left early-” you nodded, so he cut to the chase, almost gratefully “-and she wanted me to kiss her when we reached the door.”

“Did you?”

Harry shook his head, his lips pursing together as he swallowed.

“No, didn’t.”

You nodded, feeling a swoosh of satisfaction dipping into your lungs. Even though you couldn’t call him yours anymore, the fact that you both had stayed honest made you feel better.

Made you realize that even though your break up felt like exposed film, negatives that could never be altered into something bursting of color, you two still had the foundation of respect. The pictures were still beautiful, even if you couldn’t see what they were.

“You?”

Glancing up from the card to Harry, you noticed his head was tilted down, his eyes up. He was the one who was unsure, now. The delicacy remained and your head tilted to the side as you replied evenly.

“No, never.”

“Ever had the chance?”

You paused, letting the question sink in.

“I guess from random guys at bars ‘n stuff, but I always said I was with you.”

Harry nodded, leaning back somewhat, as if the answer had lightened some burden.

“Was never sure about Shawn, to be honest. Thought he had a thing for you,” Harry confessed with a shrug, a light smile on his lips. His eyes were still honest, still serious, still had the heaviness that you felt in your soul.

You weren’t sure what to say, with the bright lights and the rolling camera, so you just put the card down and nodded up at him.

It was his turn now.

Another card drawn.

“What do you miss the most about us?”

“Our friendship.” Your answer was immediate, no thinking required. “We had so much respect for each other. I remember feeling so in awe about how persistent you were - like the time you crashed the governor’s party to debate school board funding?”

Harry grinned at that, his eyes crinkling more than usual at the memory, as you continued.

“We knew everything about each other, always had the other’s back, and now we just...”

Your hand waved off towards the crew, although it was meant more as a general ‘nothingness’ gesture, but Harry nodded. He almost looked relieved. A more permanent smile was on his lips, and you knew there was one on yours. It was impossible not to look back on that aspect without a consuming sense of fondness, an adoration for what had been.

“Feels weird tha’ I see still yeh face everywhere now, but like...I don’t even know how your family is doing,” Harry said and he glanced up at you, a slant to his eyebrows that spoke more than he could on camera.

“He’s fine,” you murmured, and Harry’s eyes glimmered somewhat. You could tell he was happy for you and you wondered if it were your imagination misleading you when he readjusted on the seat, and his hand went out on the table. Not close enough to be against yours, but it was possible he was trying.

“Did tha’ fucker kick you out?” Greg yelled towards the street, as if Harry were lurking behind a streetlamp watching you shuffle on the doorstep. The street echoed quietly back Greg’s words, without a reply, not even an indignant shout from the neighbors.

“No,” you sniffled, and Greg’s attention was brought back to you. He opened his door wider so you could step out of the rain, looking once more up and down the street, as if still unsure of Harry’s location. Then, he stepped inside as well.

“I just needed someplace to go. C-can’t stay at the apartment. Everything’s j-just a mess right now, y’know?”

Your eyes had kept on the floor, but Greg lifted up your chin with his fingers. He was staring at you in some odd type of way.

Somehow comforting, you supposed, but not having spoken to Greg in forever, you weren’t particularly sure if it was judgment or sympathy he was feeling towards the situation. He hadn’t seemed to approve of Harry the one time they met, but the entire evening hadn’t gone well for your family, so it was impossible to tell.

“I understand. Stay as long as you need, ‘kay?” His answer surprised you and also didn’t. You knew he wouldn’t have let you past his doorstep if he was still angry.

It seemed the pain left by Harry was enough to forgive the harsh dispute that had cracked open your ribcage first, the fighting that had stirred up your temper to high enough levels to really go at it with your boyfriend. Or ex, now, it seemed.

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t.” Greg’s voice cracked at the end, and you blinked in surprise. “We’re family. Beyond the blood or marriages or what-fuckin’-ever, that’s what we are. I love you, and that’s not going to change. All that shit doesn’t matter right now, ‘kay?” You nodded.

And that was the first conversation you had with Greg in all twenty-five years of your life, that didn’t end with screaming. It was the first time since you could remember that your half-brother hugged you and told you he loved you.

It was the first step the both of you took towards healing.

“And I have no clue how your pet fish is getting on,” you replied, as if your drama with your half-sibling would appropriately compare to Harry’s fish episodes.

You two had bought a pet fish, about a year and a half ago, for one of Harry’s projects – back when he was paying for all of the supplies but was still determined to get the kids what they needed – but Goldie kept dying, and every one of Goldie’s descendants died, as well, none lasting a month and most not seeing it through a week.

Harry laughed.

“No more fish, actually. Decided to stop trying,” he explained, and your lips formed some sort of tight smile. At least, you hoped they had succeeded in doing that, and there wasn’t some sort of disfigured grimace that would be captured on camera.

A feeling of something close to comfort draped over your shoulders as you moved to pick up the next card. The questions had been easy, almost too easy, and you were falling into a lull of belief that you could take on all the twists and turns of the segment. Being honest wasn’t feeling hard.

But it seemed like God suddenly had a call to take, or the Goddess of the Moon had her attention elsewhere, for the easy questions came to an end.

“Do I ever pop up in your head when you masturbate?”

Several of the crew laughed at your reaction. Your jaw had dropped slightly, eyebrows furrowed at the card as if the ink could apologize and scramble into a more appropriate question. You hadn’t expected that at all.

Nor did you expect the familiar swooping feeling in your stomach, because you had the all-too-vivid memories of being with Harry. Knowing his moans, the grip he prefers, the words that, when murmured against his throat at the right second, could send him over the edge.

Harry didn’t seem to mind too much, only looking like a deer in headlights for a moment, before he reached out towards the bottle of tequila, an unsure chuckle mixed with a light hysteria coming from his lips.

“Gonna need to take a few shots for that one,” he joked, shaking his head, before drawing his hand back in. Your heart started thumping rapidly.

Inhale. Exhale. You could feel your cheeks burn, even if the red wasn’t noticeable it was still felt, and the light-headed spin within your mind increased.

But it was going to be alright, you weren’t going to die, despite feeling it in your heart that it could possibly happen, once your friends saw the video in a few weeks time. Telling it to yourself over and over, you blinked at Harry and your face squinted together, in a ‘hell, you gotta answer’ type of way.

Harry was looking at you, his eyes a shade more serious than before. A flicker of confusion registered within the green, as if he weren’t accustomed to seeing you calm down so quickly (despite your anxieties not being apparent to the rest of the room, it seemed as though Harry hadn’t lost his knack for picking up on it) but he persisted on.

Fuck. You realized he was actually going to answer.

It wasn’t that you minded. The thought of him using the memories of you two wasn’t a slap in the face by any means. But it was more the confrontation of it that you were struggling to break through, escaping the ocean waves of wanting to know, while definitely not wanting to know. The waves were lapping up against the sides of your neck as you looked around, but no land was in sight.

You two were there, and the threat of drowning was imminent.

“I mean, yeah. Together almost three years, we had some good times.” His voice quietened by a fraction, as if the words would remain private. A cheeky grin still dug into his lips, a flush sort of pink dusting his cheekbones as he shrugged. But you know what he meant, beyond the clothes draped against half-done canvases and wallpaper samples.

You both knew how it felt.

“An apartment...all to ourselves,” Harry whispered, his fingertips stretching up against the bare mattress towards its edge. The sheets lay, arranged as if by a Greek sculpture, around your legs and Harry’s waist. His arm was around you, his palm laying on the small of your back to cuddle you in closer. He felt warm, smelled like coconuts. His chest rose slow, his breath evening out.

The empty space was now, indeed, yours. Your mind had been whirling ever since you first saw the structure with ideas for patio design and kitchen layout, but Harry had managed to distract you for a quick “house-warming party for two, love, gotta do it right” that had lasted all afternoon.

The sun was dipping lazily against the skyline, streaming golden and orange rays down into the home. Because it was a home now, with Harry and you in it.

“You still awake, love?” Harry tapped his fingers against your back, and you lifted your head sleepily. It felt like a thousand pounds, with your eyes fluttering closed while your mind was trying to open them. Harry chuckled.

“Tired yeh out?” he teased, and you managed to peep your eyes open enough to roll them properly, before propping your head up on his chest.

“Just sleepy. Had a long day moving in boxes. And then again tomorrow...but you’ve got work, yeah?”

Harry made an affirmative noise, soft and gentle as he looked down

His hair had just grown long enough for him to be satisfied; curls caressing his collarbones and laying against the mattress like an angel’s halo. You didn’t have to open your eyes to see it, the image was painted across the skies of your eyelids after a year of admiring him.

“Gonna be another long day tomorrow,” you mumbled around the upcoming yawn, and you felt Harry brushing your hair back. His fingers got caught, at times, against the messier curls, and he would untangle them. You’d do the same for him, if the positions were reversed, but your eyes only felt real when they were closed. Like the genuine rest would start when you weren’t looking around the room, wild ideas forming upon the walls.

You and Harry spent the rest of your first night in your first apartment cuddled. He didn’t even bring out his camera when the sun hit your cheeks just right, instead feeling in his heart like the moment was best at the time it was happening. Never to be seen again, never to happen again, it was yours, and you were his.

“Had some good times,” you agreed, gesturing for Harry to pick up the next card. It sent your heart racing once more, the thought of Harry turning the question on you. The words were in his eyes, anyway, and it went beyond crude nights spent alone with lube and memories, and into something deeper. Something about whether you treasured those times still, whether they had been tarnished by an ending.

The truth was, you did. On the romantic nights when your bed felt empty, an ocean of sheets and cold pillowcases, with that itch of needing something to bring you higher, that you recalled the good times. It felt like in public eye, you had to maintain the appearance that you and Harry weren’t compatible, that something tragic had occurred, something was wrong within the relationship, and it was irreparable. And perhaps that was true, but your feelings had a nasty tendency to not align with the truth. Contradictions galore, your mind would go to Harry and feel something deeper than an ending.

Harry gave a short nod, cleared his throat, and picked up the next card. The opportunity of waiting allowed for you to glance around the room, making eye contact with one sounds-person who seemed particularly apologetic in the way they smiled.

“How long did it take for you to get over me?”

Before you could even think, he put the card down and shook his head.

“I know this,” he claimed, and your eyebrows rose in surprise, “You hooked up with Shawn two months after we broke up.”

It was what you had been trying to avoid in the conversation earlier, how the topic of Shawn had elicited jealousy and concern from Harry, and it was not entirely unfounded. You and Shawn had ‘hooked up’, but not to the extent Harry was perhaps expecting. Shawn had kissed you after a particularly rowdy rendition of Love Shack during karaoke night. It had ended there, because the guilt welling up in your throat felt like bile and you needed some air immediately.

It still felt wrong, even when the person you thought was ‘right’ was across the city, wanting nothing to do with you.

Harry finding out about that night wasn’t a surprise, since your friend group was still, a year later, overlapped in a few areas. What was a surprise was how Harry had taken that one kiss as a sign of you officially Moving On, as if a Facebook relationship status change and a quick peck could alter almost 3 years of passion and commitment.

Three months ago.

The night had begun with dark purples and blues around your figure, the way your curtains draped against empty windows and the pillows were untouched on one side of the bed. Your friends were blowing up your phone, rattling against the side table persistently, trying to call you out of the depressing apartment and into the club life they were thriving within.

You had already decided to join them but didn’t have the fancy of responding yet. The outfit needed to be perfect, you wanted to feel like you were alive through someone else’s light for the night, before making it official. It was a process of shedding who you had been the week prior and stepping into the greasy, sweaty club as if it were an ocean of opportunity.

Through this endeavor, you found yourself deeper in your closet than you typically were. And that’s where it was, a small brown case with a white tag in the corner, gold stitching around the edges. The tag read “Harry” and your heart made a distant noise, six stories below, as it crashed through the floor.

The moment quickly altered itself, adapting a more serious tone, and the thoughts to color-coordination drifted off like smoke from your mind as you crouched down. Picked off the lid. Looked inside.

There were Polaroids. Dozens of them, stacked against each other and looped together with multi-colored rubber bands.

Photos of you, photos of him, photos of the two of you together. Some were dirtier than others, some made you blush as you fingered through the stack, but others made you pause. Like the one where you were snuggled against Harry’s neck, with Harry’s smug smile peeking out in the corner. It was taken on your first anniversary with him, when the two of you were so broke you had to spend the celebration cooking each other mac’n’cheese with flowers from the Dollar General out on the table.

Or the one where Harry was laid out on the bed, his hair curling against the pillows, shirtless and sleepily looking into the lens. You remembered taking the photo, standing up with your feet on either side of his hips, his hands wrapped around your ankles to hold you steady. You had taken your time getting the position right, making sure the light fell across Harry’s chest like cage stripes along the butterfly. Harry seemed absolutely smitten that you wanted to take a photo of him, cheekily asking, “Lookin’ good, hm?” in between shots.

You cried that night.

More than you had in months, you cried over what was lost. Even the happy moments made you cry because of their fleeting nature, how quickly they had become distant. You cried because you felt like you were mourning all over again, with the box of photos you had forgotten about in the back of your closet.

Your heels were kicked off, your dress was splotched with mascara from wiping at your eyes, and you sat against the closet wall, your knees brought up to your chest.

Within the tears held the question of what it all meant, why you hadn’t felt cried out over the entire situation. Why there were wracking sobs echoing against the walls, why the apartment suddenly seemed like a graveyard and you were a tombstone.

And within the tears held the question of whether you had let go at all.

“I’ll take the shot,” you gestured towards the vodka bottle, and Harry’s body stilled, somewhat unnaturally, somewhat in shock. He was obviously stunned at whether that was confirmation of you genuinely having gotten over him within two months, which he had said more as an accusation than a sure fact. But you couldn’t find it in you to confirm or deny. It just was, and no matter what the truth had been or was still, you weren’t going to touch on it.

“Alright,” he muttered, and with how his head was turned away as he kindly poured you what would be your second shot, you couldn’t distinguish whether he was still shocked or had made the leap to upset. And you weren’t sure which you wanted him to be.

It was bitter going down, searing your throat a bit, and you shook your head immediately, feeling the racks of shudders going down your spine as you powered on through the shot. Several of the crew members laughed at that, and your head tilted up, leaning back into your neck as you cringed.

“Fuckin’ hate that,” you whispered, eyes squeezed shut, and you heard Harry chuckle quietly.

“Alright, your turn, love,” he gestured towards the stack, and on came the next question.

“Is there anything you want to apologize for?”

The silence extended beyond the two of you, into the scope of the room and surrounding the walls like a thin layer of lace. The itchy kind.

“I didn’t know how to talk to yeh. About what I was feeling, ‘n stuff. Figured we’d be okay, no matter what.” He took a deep breath in and his eyes settled on a particularly dark knot in the wood of the table, eyebrows furrowed as her continued. “I’m sorry for tha’. Shouldn’t have assumed yeh knew.”

“Knew what?”

“How much I loved yeh. How much I wished I could’ve solved things, early on before they got to be too much.” He was choking up at the end, nodding quickly and blinking his eyes. It took a moment before you realized he was close to tears, at the memories and at the loss.

You couldn’t say you felt any different, with your own throat closing up around your words.

“We tried our best,” you said, feeling your lips wobble around the smile as if unsure. Harry shrugged, like he didn’t quite feel the same but wasn’t going to argue. The emotions ebbed upon you both quickly and remained, a wave over your heads that didn’t return back to the ocean like it should’ve.

The final fight between you two could have been avoided. It was the cumulative frustration over months of miscommunication, of Harry always being at work, of him putting his school kids first, of you needing someone there with you, of you never knowing how to speak the words of that question, of both of you deciding to be stubborn instead of empathetic. It was a disaster, a war zone marked by scowls and hot tears and rattling doors.

“You can’t take one day off to fix this?” Your voice was shattered, glass shards etching themselves into the walls. It was quiet, as it always was when Harry had something to say but refused to get the words out. He’d just shut down again, seethe in his frustration, never confess to being pissed off, as if denial in itself could create a false reality where you were Okay.

“I’ve got work,” he said it pained, as if he were powerless.

Perhaps you’d been privy to too much of his loveliness, saw too much of his bright sun, because you no longer believed in that. You knew he could do so much, that perseverance was nothing compared to his willpower, and yet you were never on the receiving end of his dedication and work, just an observer.

It was watching him fight for everything but you that sealed the deal, in the end. You had enough empty spots in your heart from people who had left without a second thought about commitment, who took your love for granted and assumed it would last for miles (and it had, which was the worst bit). You couldn’t allow for Harry to make his mark like that. He didn’t have that power over you like he had for others, you had decided.

Which was why you moved in with your brother the next day. Which was why Harry showed up the next night, still in his work clothes, with his teacher’s briefcase in one hand and your apartment key in the other.

“The fuck is this?” he spat, once you had stepped out onto the porch. The streets were slick with rain, the tree branches were weighed heavily upon one another, and Harry’s eyes were the scorched lightning setting it all ablaze.

“I’m done.”

“What yeh mean, done? Done with wha’? Done with us?”

A stunned silence.

“I said we’d work it out.”

He was trying to speak patiently now, talk down as if you had simply forgotten the way he had made you feel cozy and warm again, with promises and soft smiles, before leaving you once more.

“I asked for you to stay.”

“When have yeh ever needed someone to stay?”

It was blunt, harshly spoken, his eyes unfocusing as he furiously blinked the rainwater from his vision. You didn’t move back, you never invited him beyond the porch gate, somewhat afraid of what you’d do if he came closer.

“In the past two years, not once have yeh ever asked for me. Never asked for my advice, n-never told me yeh needed me. What the fuck ‘m I supp’sed to do with that? Know magically that this one time is when you’re actually gonna open up, genuinely gonna talk things out? Not just take whatever path yeh want, without thinkin’ of me?”

“I asked for you to-”

“Stay. Yeah. You asked for me to stay.” He sighed and whipped his head to the side, attempting to sniffle discreetly. You knew that his hay fever was acting up, and you knew he was trying to pretend it wasn’t. A sub-drama within the original, a dialogue stupidly unspoken.

“And you didn’t.”

“What would I be stayin’ for?” It was a serious question,

“For us? To make it work, to talk about what we haven’t-”

“Okay, fuckin’ fine. Talk. Tell me what yeh want me to know.”

You opened your mouth and closed it several times, unable to know what to say. It was a contradiction of overwhelming emotions and the realization that you had no idea. Everything had piled up on each other and digging through the past had no effect on the future, at that point, and you felt as though you had made your mind up the moment you left your key out on the dining table, a night bag stuffed with your everyday things, and your mind blank, to stop yourself from surrendering to him once more.

You’d never forget how he looked, at that moment. In his loose button-up and jeans, with paint on his knuckles and his hair piled in a bun, he looked helpless.

“I’m waiting.”

After a few more moments, he shook his head.

“I’ll move in with Liam next week.” It was a shuddered statement, as if he had come up with that plan on the way over. And that was the way you two ended, because the cliff had been seen for miles and neither one of you pulled the damn car over.

He paused, his body shifted back towards the gate. His hands were by his side, limp, already having given up far before his mind had, your apartment key loosely between two of his fingers.

A minute later, you were back inside. Sliding down the back of the front door, letting your hands immediately rack through your hair, your vision blurry with the loss and the lack of focus, now that he was gone. Because you were gone, and everything was right, but it felt like devastation.

“Our best,” Harry repeated, but that didn’t even sound like enough.

The studio was silent.

“Kiss on the mouth or take a shot each.”

Approximately thirty seconds later, two shot glasses hit the table. You had downed your third of the day, as Harry scrunched his face as he got down his second. Neither of you had hesitated, both realizing that it would bring the level of discomfort to excessive levels. Perhaps if you two were at a friend’s house, wine bottles being passed around in front of the fire, a brief kiss wouldn’t have been seen as much of anything. But not for a camera. Not for the Internet.

The crew was amused how the two of you were on similar tracks of mind, and if you were sober you wouldn’t have found it as funny. But when Harry had his face all squishy like a boy who just ate a lemon, you couldn’t help the giggles that manifested themselves against your lips.

“Okay,” Chris interjected, and it was the river of smooth liquor that kept you two from jumping at the interruption. You had almost forgotten about where you were.

“Just a quick question,” Chris continued, “One we’re asking all the couples.” He paused for dramatic effect, perhaps waiting for the right camera shot, before asking, “Do you feel you have closure?”

The director was bent forward, as if he were brought to the edge of his seat by something that wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Of course neither of you felt you had closure, and of course neither of you would confess to that. Whether the lack of a proper good-bye still haunted your bedposts was another ordeal, one you didn’t feel particularly keen to jump into.

“Uh,” Harry spoke with the stumbling eloquence you had somewhat missed, “Um-well, I-” his eyes flashed over to yours, and then to the side of the table, “Drink. I’m gonna drink.” You gestured with your hand to the bottles, as if inviting him to it, not quite expecting anything less.

His cheeks were flushed as he poured himself another shot, obviously quite upset that he had to further his count. He was an embarrassing lightweight, which you knew, and Chris most likely knew as well.

But Harry must’ve felt more comfortable with risking himself getting drunk on camera, than answering the question, or else he would’ve just confessed that you never let him have the opportunity for closure. And he had treated you similarly, it was a relationship destroyed like frayed clothing, feathering off near the end and getting caught in every sort of mechanism known to mankind.

You never quite understood metaphors.

Harry took the drink in one swoop, without a second thought, and despite you hoping he’d be the one to pour you a shot again, he was obviously needing a moment or two to adjust. So, you poured your own, saluted Chris with it, and drank.

Another truth avoided, and you were feeling like the haze of life had descended upon you. Warmed up and ready to strike.

It hadn’t occurred to you much, at the time, how drinking could speak volumes louder than an answer, one you could elaborate on. But no man ever said vodka brought him sense, so you continued on with the game, under the assumption that the shot glasses would be there for you if all else failed.

“Your turn,” Harry reminded you gently, nudging the cards closer.

You drew.

“Would you be with me again?”

There were flecks of gold in his irises, which felt cliche and overrated, but you were struggling to find anything else in his eyes. There they were, gold and glistening, and the gold was shifting around as Harry glanced away.

It didn’t quite sink in, the implication of his stance, how heavy the air became to everyone sober in the room. Harry nodded slowly at the question, more in the process of thinking over his answer than the nod genuinely being a response.

He started biting his lip again.

“I’m gonna have t’ drink.”

Particles of the air shifted in that fraction of a second. They turned on their sides and pierced the nothingness surrounding them until there was an invisible knife pricking against your chest. It felt hot and unwelcome, and under the gaze of the entire crew, you were speechless for a few seconds.

“I can get why not,” you mumbled after a while, your fingers fixing your hair, the collar of your shirt, anything but how tightly wound the rope was around your neck. “If it didn’t work once, probably wouldn’t work again.”

“Just don’t know who you are, now.” Harry was nice enough to cover his true intentions as he poured the shot. The glasses clinked as they were rearranged and you noticed they were no longer in a straight line. Perhaps Harry was done with easing your tension, maybe this was it. The real pair, the couple of exes with nothing but honesty, a year too late.

“I’ve changed a lot,” you agreed. “Us ending definitely showed me where I needed to work on myself. Took a while, definitely took a while, but I’m getting better.”

Harry, his lips still pursed and his eyes squeezed shut from the nasty aftershock of the shot, managed to nod. When he was able to focus again, he spoke.

“Exactly. I think what was important for the two ‘f us to learn was tha’ we had areas to work on. And we did do tha’ work, but we can’t relive the past. No take twos.”

His words had become a touch more slurred, his head was nodding more from a gradual lack of balance than a genuine agreement. But Harry’s lips were still poised in a smile, in the dopey way his heart would grow whenever he was pleasantly warm.

You couldn’t say you were feeling that sort of happy high, tipsy warmth and giddy love, but you certainly were trying to keep yourself more put together than he was.

“I’ll go, then.” Harry’s hand reached out for the card, accidentally knocking one out of place. Shuffling them back, he drew up the top one again.

“What should I change about myself for future relationships?”

You were shaking your head before Harry was even finished with the question. Which wasn’t altogether impressively fast, because his speech was slower than normal. And he seemed confused by the words - perhaps more apprehensive - and each vowel was elongated.

There was no way you felt you had a right to answer. It had been too long since the break-up. If it were six months ago, maybe, you would’ve jumped through rings of fire to be able to tell Harry what you thought about him. But the truth was, you felt like you were a million miles away from how you both had coexisted a year ago. It was likely life had done Harry the same justice, and any advice you had that wasn’t founded in bitter resentment would simply be irrelevant.

In addition, if the question had been the other way around, there would’ve been no way Harry would’ve answered. There was a possibility you would’ve just died on the spot if he did - it would’ve been hurtful, to hear what he found was such a fundamental flaw within your character that it simply had to be changed in order to make anything work with another person. Some self-problems were designed to be discovered by the individual, not by their angry exes.

“Why not answer?” Chris spoke up.

“Can’t tell him what to do, he’s perfectly fine. Was both of us that made it not work, y’know?” your words felt like syrup in the way they glided from your tongue.

“Yeh gotta drink,” Harry reminded you, a sloppier grin appearing on his face. He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table and putting his forefinger and thumb around his lip. Sparks of fire ignited in your chest, from his eyes and how they consumed you. Once more, you were reminded how Harry could make you feel like the only person in the room, and how addictive feeling special could be.

“Know I do, Haz.”

You readied the glass and popped back open the bottle, feeling like that noise would forever be associated with this video, with your heart racing and your fingers moving restlessly.

“Called me Haz, just then.”

You simply nodded at his observation, not bothering to look up at see his reaction. A momentary slip of tongue, but it didn’t mean much. A nickname was all, and you refused to think about it for longer than that.

You drank and then quickly picked up the orange juice. Harry, at the same moment, seemed to realize there was a chaser next to the bottles, and picked up his own glass. There was a momentary break so you both could ease down a little, not feel the punch of alcohol and postpone the gentle sway of future regret and public restroom vomit.

“You ready to continue? Just a few more questions,” Chris gestured towards the last two cards on the table, and you nodded, bleating out a question.

“Who’s turn is it?”

“Yours,” Harry answered, pushing a hand down and moving the cards towards you. You snapped finger guns at him, humming with your lips to indicate that you were impressed by his memory.

It all felt smooth. A gradient of emotions, piled on top of another until the feeling was general existence. And it was nice, sitting across from Harry, seeing him after so long, knowing he was doing okay and he had been trying to improve. The harsh feelings were still there, but they were concealed by the concern of catching up, with the hopes of appearing fine on the camera would translate into actuality.

“Do you think I’d be a good wife?”

Harry’s head dropped down to his hands, his palms supporting his forehead as he moaned something unintelligible. It was a quick change of atmosphere but nothing grossly out of place for two drunk people, as the alcohol had a way of gliding over the rough patches.

You weren’t sure about marriage, in how/if it would come into your life. The topic had come up now and again during your relationship with Harry, especially when he had proposed the idea of moving in together. But the conversation was usually vague on both sides, more in the tone of possibility than probability. It simply wasn’t a major point within the way you two interacted, there was no planning or waiting for a one-knee-kneel and velvet box.

“’F course yeh would,” Harry moaned, and your eyes scanned his face, but the majority of his head was still tucked away.

“Fuck, thought yeh’d be mine, didn’t I?”

Silence.

A blank silence, a blanket of nothing cloaked your mind and your tongue. The thought had never crossed your mind, that he would be planning on proposing. He had never seemed the type to want to settle down quickly. Sure, in the deepest corners of your mind, you had thought what it would be like to take on his last name, or to have him take on yours, and to hold a ceremony to make your love ‘officially’ public, to have the societal relationship cemented by expectation and the ring to physically prove it. But it hadn’t felt realistic.

But there he was, sitting across the table from you, drunkenly confessing he had planned on making you his wife.

And all you could feel was the wet clothes on your skin again, the heavy rain that drowned away your relationship, the sopping weight of an apartment key left behind, the hollow carcass of an apartment that became too empty too soon, the rough edges of Polaroids with scratched handwriting left behind.

Near the end, you had started to think he wasn’t fully committed to the idea of your relationship. That there was a chance he was still looking - not actively, not by any means - but looking in the sense that if someone were to stumble along, someone who made his heart feel like it were floating a million miles in the sky, he would leave. Like he wasn’t completely tied down to you, because he simply was never there. That sense of loss before it had even manifested had brought you towards the edge of neediness, shoving you into desperation without knowing the language of asking for reassurance.

It felt logical at the time. If he wasn’t going to work at the relationship, if there weren’t signs of him planning in the future to cement your love more firmly, that meant he was losing interest. That he would leave, like so many others had, and you were going to be lost in another forest with dense trees of ‘not enough’. So you had lashed out before he could, you had burned the bridge before he had even set foot on it.

Your fear had brought you further away, until the crumpled bedsheets and pillowtalks had faded into sullen silences and avoidance, all while he had thought everything was going to be okay.

Harry lifted his head and dropped his hands onto the table. He looked at you warily, sensing the silence had extended beyond what could be a good thing. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were wet and the golden flecks were magnified.

“Oh.” It was all you could think to say.

Harry sniffled, his eyes batting away briefly as he raised a hand to wipe under them. A curl of hair shifted around the edge of his sunglasses as he moved, falling against his cheek. He brushed it behind his ear.

You were sitting as more an observer than an active member of the moment. It still felt surreal, amplified by the sensation of being drunk and feeling like nothing had a consequence, yet understanding at the core of yourself that this very much had a consequence.

“I’m gonna pick the next one,” Harry whispered, as if the microphone wouldn’t pick it up. You felt a flash of anger at how this moment would be exploited, because you knew it would, and his tears would become a part of the Internet. Floating between particles would be his confession, his vulnerability you hadn’t seen before.

He picked up the last card. You held your breath.

“Do you still love me?”

Despite the studio not having made any noise, a deadly quiet resettled itself into the air like a thick dust, gripping away the oxygen from your lungs. It seemed to affect Harry too, for when he was reading, his voice broke at the end. As if cut off by something other than his choice. His eyes went up to the ceiling, praying for you to not answer.

Your hands were in your lap, your fingers curling around the other nervously as you continued to sit through the worst drinking game of your life. Nothing could’ve saved that moment and it seemed the crew knew that as well. Many of them looked away, others couldn’t tear their eyes off of your quivering lip and wide eyes.

Any response seemed it had the potential to break him, but you couldn’t have him not know. He must’ve known anyway. People can’t wash away their first love like a stain, those kinds of relationships were never meant to fully end.

“Don’t think I’d ever stop. Just who we are.”

Harry’s eyes moved from the ceiling to meet yours. Underneath his eyes was a fine shade of pink, as he was trying to hold back the onslaught of hot tears, and after a moment you realized your eyes must have been the same.

The edges of your vision were clouded, the bottles on the side of the table had been washed out with a visible slur.

He looked at you silently, his lips moving without making a noise. It was clear he was trying to ask you again for confirmation with his own words and not the ones written on a card.

But he was still Harry and the words didn’t come out.

Do you love me?

“We grew up together, y’know? In all the adult ways,” your voice wobbled and a few tears slipped out, painting a fine line down your cheeks. “Can’t not love that. You’re a part of those moments, cherish them and I’m cherishing you.”

Harry made an odd light noise, somewhere between a whine and a noise of agreement. He was clearly caught between lines of emotion, unable to lift his intoxicated head above the waves. The drowning had begun.

You had accepted your fate a while back in the game, but it seemed it was only now that Harry realized the long-term impacts these questions could have. His hands were still on the table, palms down, the card between his fingers. You gently reached forward and plucked the card, placing it on the stack. As if that would help ease his pain.

And it was painful, there was no way around it. The immense loss you two had suffered, alone and unable to grieve with the other, irreparable slashes down your hearts caused equally by yourselves as by the other. It had just been a fuckery. The endings always were.

“Do you love me still?” you whispered, the whole spectrum of concentration you had left in your veins solely resting on the slope of his brow, how his eyes gazed into yours, and settled somewhat. Like it was comforting for him to see you.

Your head tilted to the side as you waited, and in the fog of your mind, you realized you had started holding his hand at some moment. Your fingers were wrapped around his outer palm, but he slowly turned his hand over. Threaded your fingers together. Moved his thumb against the side of your hand in slow, small movements.

His heartbeat could be felt through his hand, a steady rhythm like a song you used to play on repeat for days. You had forgotten what it felt like to dance to it, but your heart remembered the tempo.

“I thought I didn’t, but now,” he paused, a sudden hilt in his throat stopping him from continuing momentarily, “Now I’m not sure.”

No one spoke.

No one moved.

His eyes scanned your face. His lips were slightly pursed, in thought, and his eyebrows were low. His thumb continued moving against your skin, as if it would be a comfort to you, but you knew it was mostly for him.

Chris cleared his throat softly, and whispered something to one of his assistants.

“Okay, you two,” he spoke louder to the two of you, but you were the only one to look over. Harry’s eyes stayed on your face, before dropping to the table. Harry’s thumb moved against your skin once more, slowly but with enough pressure that it was clear he had done it consciously.

“I think we’re good, that’s a wrap. Gonna run through some clips, check audio and lighting, but then you’re free to go.”

You nodded, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat, trying to snap back into reality.

His thumb stopped moving.

You looked over at your hands clasped together, wondering what it would feel like to no longer be holding onto Harry, now that the video was over.

The camera turned its ugly head away, the red light on the edge powering off like a suction of tension being lifted from the room. Chris and a few other of the crew started talking at normal volume, perhaps writing over the moment the best they could by avoiding looking at you two.

Harry sat back and cleared his throat, reaching his free hand up to wipe away at the growing collection of tears within his eyes. His hand began to untangle from yours, as you readied yourself to move on, to get over him again, to feel the impending loss with each step towards lot where your friends would pick you up.

It almost hurt more, losing him a second time.

Perhaps that was why you did it. Maybe it was the instinctive reaction to not ache again, to protect yourself by removing the hurt.

His fingers were barely in your palm when you reacted, leaning forward again to lock your fingers around his. Firmly, with your eyes flashing up to him, a question in your eyes but not yet on your tongue. Harry looked at you, confused but more wary than anything else, before his gaze settled back on your joined hands.

“I would like it if we could go somewhere and talk.”

You hadn’t been able to ask him to settle down to have a serious talk for the past three and a half years, but the words slipped out as naturally as if you were asking him for the time of day. Harry’s confusion deepened before he realized that yes, you had spoken and yes, you had asked for him. Asked for him, after being so vulnerable and stripping away your false sense of brutal independence in order to get together with him for a half hour.

His soft smile indicated his answer was yes, but he accompanied it with a verbal confirmation, a nudge that he was headed in the right direction. Harry was hardly ever shy, but the rosy flush on his cheeks was only partially from the drink, and mostly because of your smile back at him.

Maybe you two wouldn’t talk things out and find that elusive ‘resolution’ nestled between the vast gap where closure was supposed to take root. Maybe you two would flare up in old arguments again and end up storming out, thunder and lighting booming again in your hearts and bitter resentment welling up in your throats.

But at that moment, Harry squeezed his hand around yours, and you felt your chest slowly rise up, the butterflies, forgotten but not gone, stretching out their wings.

Maybe you two could not let go, this time.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! This has definitely been a dear piece to me. Let me know your thoughts here, and check out the rest of my works if you’d like!

[kathyprior4200]

Hazbin Hotel: That’s (Alastor’s) Entertainment!

“The Pilot is here! Follow Alastor, the Radio Demon as he pursues his goals of taking over Hell and messing with demons to keep his reputation intact. After seeing Princess Charlie announce her plan to rehabilitate sinners at her hotel, he arrives at the hotel to assist her. Along the way he meets porn film star Angel Dust and Charlie’s devoted girlfriend Vaggie. While Alastor seeks out new forms of entertainment, he also seems to have more sinister plans in mind.”

 The scene started with black curtains opening to a silhouette of a city. The words SpindleHorse Presents was written in white cursive before fading away.

 The building shadows were against a gray background with eye designs on it.

 A man with a radio voice sang a song.

 “At the end of the tunnel, there’s craziness.”

 A figure of a person was falling downwards through the darkness until ending at a tunnel of light. Shadows of demons falling into Hell were shown: Baxter, Angel Dust, Sir Pentious, Niffty, Robo Fizz, and others.

  “And to meet me, how often one dies…”

 A silhouette of a human man with glasses and short hair looked to the left, speaking from a microphone with one hand while using a knife in the other. To the far left were cowering human silhouettes.  A white smile shape was shown were the man’s mouth was.

 The man turned to the right in a running motion where a shadow of a policeman, a hunter and a growling dog were staring at him. The dog bared its shadow teeth and the two men aimed long shadow guns at him. Black splatters appeared from near the shadow man’s head and the figure collapsed to the ground.

 “Yes my life is a game

 Just a quest for fame…

 And my foes all smashed up like flies…”

   White spinning silhouettes of Exterminators, weapons pointed, flew around the shadow city, as a glowing pentagram was created in the center.

 The shadow of the killer man appeared again, this time growing shadow deer ears and little antlers. His eyes were glowing red and a shadow staff appeared in his hand.

 The killer stood small within the towering shadow of a man with large antlers and glowing red eyes: his father. A woman wearing a dress and her hair in a bun stood off to the side with a hand on his shoulder: his mother.

 “Why have I always been such a killer?”

 “What can the reason be?”

 Tentacles and sharp mouths overtook the scene.

  “I wonder if the world’s to blame

I wonder if it could be me…”

 A spinning globe was surrounded by large watching white eyes. Rising up were silhouettes of the Exterminators, grinning faces, xs over their right eyes, stained with blood, holding swords and spears. One Exterminator grinned as its white face, eyes, smile, and halo glowed in the darkness before fading.

 In Hell, a small planet had a glowing pentagram on it in the crimson colored sky. “Fuck you Heaven!” and “cleanse!” were written in red graffiti by a broken window. A paper with an Exterminator drawing blew away. Other red signs read “Punishment” and “Your days are numbered,” in big letters. Spears stuck out of dead demon’s mouths in the street. A light spun around from a tower.

 Another Extermination had ended. Dead bodies of demons and horned creatures littered the streets. Some of them had spears through their open mouths. Charlie had sadly strolled on her balcony and shot fireworks from her finger to signal that it was safe. Everyone gradually emerged from inside buildings and other hideouts. Already, turf wars were in full swing as demons fought over new territory. Other denizens disposed of the bodies while the more sinister ones ate them.

 One sinister demon was tall and slender, with grayish skin. He wore a red suit, red dress coat and wine colored pants. His shoes were black with red hoof prints on the soles. The dress coat was dark red and decorated with small vertical lighter red stripes. His undershirt was lighter red with a black upside down cross design. A black bow-tie with a red center was below his long neck. Finally, his thick hair was red and black, with fluffy deer-like tuffs poking from his head like ears. Two small black antlers were between them. He even had a red and black deer tail, which was hidden under the fabric of his suit. An oval monocle was under his right eye, connected by a chain. His large glowing red eyes and smile of sharp yellow teeth was enough to scare even the toughest demon away…and for good reason.

 He was Alastor, the Radio Demon, one of the most feared and powerful overlords in Hell. Possessing supernatural abilities and shadow manipulation, he had conquering many areas of Hell and defeated overlords who had been in power for years. Using a red vintage style microphone staff, he could broadcast his carnage and victories at will, hence why sinners called him the Radio Demon. He thrived on domination, trickery, and deceit…always in search for the next entertaining event. Alastor’s dark qualities were balanced out by his love of music, dancing, singing, and the finer things in life.

 Emerging from his underground lair in the shadow spirit realm via portal, Alastor sang a merry song as passerby cowered when he approached. It was around the same time when Charlie sang her lament.

   “At the end of the tunnel, there’s craziness

And to meet me, how often one dies

Yes my life is a game

Just a quest for fame

And my foes all smashed up like flies”

  “Why have I always been such a killer?

What can the reason be?

I wonder if the world’s to blame

I wonder if it could be me?”

  “I’m always seeking power

 Basking in light, for the show

 My schemes match up to my dreams

 No one else shall know”

 “Some people mope and find sadness

 I always laugh and show my grin

 Some people fail and rest in their sin

 With that I’ll always manage to win

 Believe me”

  “I’m always seeking power

 Waiting to hunt the gullible brown deer

 Again”

  Several signs read “Welcome to Hell: population, a fuck ton.” There were advertisements of drugs, food, casinos, weapons, and porn everywhere. Demons of all shapes and sizes roamed the streets, one flying demon caught a smaller one in its talons. Vox, Valentino and Velvet sat together in a Porn Studios building. A scientist and a wild haired demon picked up weapons to sell on the black market. Rosie crossed out the name “Franklin” on her emporium sign with a grin. It was now Rosie’s emporium. More demons picked up the dead remains and put them in shopping carts.  

   The clock tower rang out as the counter changed from 0 to 365 days until the next purge.

“Next cleanse” was over the counter in fancy letters.

 Against a black screen, the title “Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel” appeared on a pink sign. A black winged key made up the letter T in “hotel.” A red eye was in the circle of the key.

  Sadly, the other characters didn’t get as much screentime as they did in the original episode. Instead of Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb fighting Sir Pentious in turf wars, we see Alastor and Vox in an intense argument before blasting each other with electricity, moving wires and tentacles and exchanging insults. The scene cuts to Angel Dust fighting Sir Pentious and the Egg Bois in the background as Alastor shakes his head.

 In fact, the blue demon that says “I’m alive!” gets immediately run over…but by a different vehicle owned by the self-proclaimed main character.

 And it’s not Charlie.

 Yep, the Radio Demon did have a car. A blood-red 1929 Packard modified and slightly modernized. Thanks to magic, it could go at fast speeds and even morph into shadow. It had regular tires instead of the typical wheels for the model and a metal step to get inside (though Alastor didn’t need it). The round headlights in the front hummed with bright red light, making them look like angry eyes that could stare into your souls. At high speeds, black radio dials would appear and move in the headlights. Since Alastor was so tall, there was no square roof overhead, just nice leather seats inside and of course, a car radio. Small Voodoo symbols decorated the sides of the vehicle and sometimes glowed in the dark.

 There was a metal grate in the front between the headlamps and below that was a row of sharp yellow teeth, reminiscent of Alastor’s smile. A little gold metal deer head was displayed and attached over the grate. The license plate in the back read “RDO DMN 666” for Radio Demon 666.  The car could also morph into newer vehicles as illusions. It wasn’t uncommon for demons to grow envious when they spotted the Radio Demon cursing around in a cherry colored convertible, sneaking around in a burgundy limo, or racing around in a crimson Porshe.

 That is until they saw the headlights and the Radio Demon’s grinning face before facing a harsh crushing impact before seeing darkness.

 Alastor would smirk like a bigshot with Rosie, Mimzy and several demon women in their seats.  Of course, he would hold open the door for them when stepping in and out. He would take them to clubs for dancing or to theaters at night. Other times, his shadow would appear in the seat next to him and shoot people from the shotgun spot. It was one of his classic jokes he liked to make.

    “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m opening the first of its kind! A hotel that rehabilitates sinners!”

 The audience stared in stunned silence after Charlie had finished talking. Not even the flesh-eating crickets were chirping through the awkward quiet.

 A bloodstained logo “Radio Hack” was displayed above a window which provided a stack of dozens of TVs inside. One demon watching had deer antlers and a flaming blue face, one of the many cruel overlords. Crymini, the 90’s hellhound, stood with a little demon wearing a jester hat upside down. Two hellhound twins stood nearby, one with dyed red hair, the other purple. A neon sign nearby read “Bar” “Klub Kanji,” and “used TVs.”

 In a bar, dark demons wearing cowboy hats were playing pool, not even paying attention. The lead demon wore a cloth over his grinning face and had a large barrel gun for an arm. His friend looked like a demonic bug, and another looked like a mustached villain from an old film. Meanwhile in a bar, purple and blue dragon-like demons sat and drank while casually watching the TVs overhead.

 Charlie stuttered, “Ya know…’Cause hotels are for people passing through…temporarily…”

 A tattooed dark blue reptile demon stood up and let out a loud laugh.

 “Is this girl for real? She thinks, you hear what she thinks? She…heh, heh, heh, oh she’s nuts.” The demon walked away with a small lavender creature and a tall maroon being wearing punk rock clothing and crazy neon hair.

 Charlie added, “I figure it would serve a purpose…a place work toward redemption!” She weakly added, “Yay.”

 With a tapping of his shoes, Alastor walked and stopped right behind Crymini, the flaming deer overlord and a demon with eyes and a couple mouths on his face. Hatchet, the white skinned red-haired Zoophobia dragon, smartly left the scene.

 He had heard of the demon princess before, but he wasn’t expecting her to appear on TV. He certainly never heard of an idea so crazy before. Making sinners good people was even less likely than making pigs fly (which was one magic trick he could do on occasion).

  Charlie stared around her, concerned. “Look, every single one of you has something good deep down inside. I know you do.”

 A light bulb went off into her head as she smirked. “Maybe I’m not getting through to you…”

 Vaggie face palmed, knowing what was coming next. “Oh no…”

 Charlie snapped her fingers and her bodyguard demons appeared. One sat and began to play a grand piano.

 Alastor stood behind two hellhound twins wearing crop tops and a hanging jester. Next to him was a poster that showed him in his demon form terrorizing the circus, demons trapped within flames inside the tent. His army of voodoo horned imps carrying knives and skulls on pikes surrounded the tortured sinners. The words were bold and full of warning: “BEWARE HIM!” “DO NOT FUCK WITH HIM!” In tiny letters off to the side on the wall read: “for a good time: 666-373-9494.”

 Alastor tilted his head to the side in curiosity. His shadow appeared off to his right, morphing into a snarling wendigo deer-like creature. He couldn’t help but tap his foot and hum along as she sang.

 He even started to sing to himself, making his own version of the song.

 “Inside of every demon is a lost cause

Inside of every sinner is a foolish failure

Inside of every godforsaken drug addicted manic…”

 Dude,” moaned a stupid demon with a boar head, “I’m trying to watch the show.”

 “Here’s a show I’ll give you,” Alastor thought as he snapped his fingers and sent the boar flying through the air and into a lava pit.

 “They’ll turn around

Dead in the ground

With just a little time

Down at her crappy hotel…”

 He did feel a bit unnerved at the part where she cuddled with a dog and then threw the dog away.

  After Charlie had finished singing, Alastor laughed out loud. That was quite the performance he had seen! He particularly enjoyed Charlie’s demon transformation and her conjuring of fire for the special effects. And he had to admit that she was a good singer too, despite her ridiculous idea.

 But his favorite part came up next.

 In the blaring red lights, Charlie and Katie fought each other on the desk. Katie was in her insect demon form, crawling on her hands and limbs. She briefly held Charlie down, who dodged and then leapt at Katie, knocking both of them off the table.

 “She’s pretty and has a feisty spirit,” Alastor thought.

 “Why won’t anyone help me?” Tom Trench yelled as flames rose from his body.

 “You’re on fire, Tom Trench!” Alastor exclaimed, while laughing at his own joke.

  Befriending the princess, and doing something different seemed like a good idea. He glanced over at a faraway Happy Hotel building.

 He knew where he would go next.

  After following the white limbo to the hotel in his car, he got out and made his way up to the double stained glass doors with the apple designs on them. Upon further inspection of the hotel, he noticed it was a unique design if not a bit under wear and tear. From the Titanic-like ship off to the side to the hanging carousel that made up a balcony…and perhaps his favorite part, the circus tent overhang in the front decorated with eye designs.

 He had never actually met Charlie before but he heard that she was powerful and different among the demons. For one, she was born in Hell, and two, she was the daughter of Lucifer and Lilith, king and queen of Hell.

 He would have to tread carefully around members of the royal family. Though he thought of them as amusing, he knew how powerful they were.

 Sweat formed on his forehead and he found himself glancing around.

  Why was he suddenly…nervous?

 Somebody like him couldn’t afford to let any sign of weakness show. Of course He wanted to make a good first impression, plus he was sort of curious as to why she would pursue this rehabilitation idea. His nervousness faded away when he imagined Charlie as naïve. Maybe he could easily trick her and not have to be caught by anyone?

 The best thing he could do for the moment was be polite and offer to help. As any good charmer and manipulator knew, first impressions and the process were everything…

 And a nice big smile was the crème de la crème.

  Puffing out his chest, he knocked on the door.

 It was a very slow “Shave and a Haircut knock.”

  The knocking from outside interrupted Charlie’s thoughts. She opened her eyes.

  An ice cold feeling of dread spread through her veins. No other demon would ever do that kind of knock.

 Unless…

 She tentatively reached out her hand to the door handle, and quickly pulled it open.

 Sure enough, the most feared demon in Hell was standing right outside her door. A couple of shadow spirits poked their heads through.

 Charlie’s face morphed into sheer terror, eyes wide as saucers.

 Yes, there she was, right in front of him. Alastor opened his eyes as they glowed red, a radio sound emitting from him. His eyes dilated playfully as he raised a finger in greeting.

 “Hell…”

 The door abruptly slammed shut.

 Brief silence.

 Charlie opened it again…

 “…oooo!”

 Slammed it again.

 Alastor could hear Charlie’s muffled voice from inside.

 “Hey Vaggie!”

 “What?”

 “The Radio Demon is at the door!”

 “What?!”

 “Who?” asked Angel.

 “What should I do?!” Charlie asked.

 “Well, don’t let him in!” Vaggie said.

  A growl formed in Alastor’s throat.

 He stood there, shocked in front of the stained glass door, smile still plastered on his face, hand and curved claw in the air.

 “Well… that was…rude,” he thought. “Usually people are too sacred to answer when I come by. Or they rush to try and please me because they know I could slaughter them at any time. I’ll just wait here then…or maybe break this door down…”

 He had been turned down not once but twice by her! If she had been an average demon, she would’ve been a bloody heap on the floor. The princess should know better than to reject anyone like that, especially a prideful demon like himself.

Any offense to his pride would not go unnoticed.

 Charlie opened the door again.

 “May I speak now?” Alastor asked, hiding his anger.

 “You may,” said Charlie.

 Alastor held out his right hand to her, which briefly glowed. He half expected her to reach out and shake it right away…which would’ve proven her naïve nature…but instead she just stood there.

  “Alastor, pleasure to be meeting you, sweetheart, quite a pleasure.”

 He eagerly grabbed her wrist and leaned his face close to hers before strutting inside. Charlie stood, dumbfounded, her hand still out.

 “Excuse my sudden visit,” he went on, “but I saw your fiasco on a picture show and I just couldn’t resist. What a performance!”

Audience cheers came from his staff as he turned around.

  “Why I haven’t been that entertained since the stock market crash of 1929!”

 He bobbed his head side to side and burst into laughter. He glanced back at Charlie who was by the door. “So many orphans!”

 A sharp spear was suddenly pointed at him. He froze in fear, his smile still on his face.

 “Stop right there!” It was Vaggie.

 She swore in Spanish under her breath: “Carbon hijo de perra! (Son of a bitch!) I know your game. And I’m not gonna let you hurt anyone here, you pompous, cheesy, talk show shitlord!”

 Alastor’s eyes narrowed and glowed. He made a low noise of warning.

 “You have a lot of nerve to stand up to me like that, girl,” he thought. “You don’t know anything about me, and you certainly aren’t going to stand in my way.”

 Alastor merely laughed slightly and nudged the weapon away with his fingers. Charli and Vaggie were in front of him.

 “Dear, if I wanted to hurt anyone here…”

 He added in a low creepy tone, “I would have done so already.”

 His red eyes briefly turned to red radio dials and radio static filled the room. He tilted his head slightly, letting his chaotic magic roam. Vaggie and Charlie were frozen in fear as they caught glimpses of red Voodoo symbols, static, and warped reality.

 Then just as quickly, the noise and magic ceased and Alastor shook his head, eyes back to full red. For a brief moment, they had been small red pupils inside black sockets.

 “That scare should teach them to remember their place,” he thought.

He bowed. “No, I’m here because I want to help!”

 Charlie was sure she hadn’t heard him right.

 “Say what now?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

 “Help!” he responded with another laugh, leaning in close before moving back.

 He held up his microphone staff.

  “Hello?” he asked with a laugh. “Is this thing on? Testing, testing…”

 He tapped it and a glowing red eye appeared in the center. “Well, I heard you loud and clear!” the microphone responded, eye shaking in fear.

 “Um…you want to help?” Charlie asked.

 Alastor appeared behind the demon girls, hands on their backs, switching from a shadow to his regular self. Both Vaggie and Charlie flinched.

 “With…” he mentioned in an imitation of Charlie’s voice,

“…this ridiculous thing you’re trying to do!” finishing in his normal voice. “This hotel!”

 Charlie could hear the call bell ding twice on the table, even though no one was there to ring it.

 “I want to help you run it.”

 “Uh…why?” Charlie asked, confused.

 Alastor laughed again. “Why does anyone do anything? Sheer absolute boredom! I’ve lacked inspiration for decades!”

 He placed his elbow on an annoyed Vaggie’s head.

 “My work became mundane...lacking focus…”

 He then shoved Vaggie aside. She was clearly an inferior little doll he could push around.

 “…aimless!” he continued. “I’ve come to crave a new form of entertainment!”

 He laughed again.

Charlie looked downcast. “Does getting into a fist fight with a reporter count as entertainment?”

 Alastor laughed again.

 “It’s the purest kind, my dear! Reality! True passion! After all, the world is a stage! And the stage is a world of entertainment!”

 Charlie brightened a bit. “So, does this mean that you think it’s possible to rehabilitate a demon?”

Alastor help up a hand and laughed. “Of course not. That’s wacky nonsense! Redemption, oh the non-existent humanity! Nononono, I don’t think there’s anything left that could save such loathsome sinners!”

 He glanced at Vaggie and Angel Dust sitting on the sofa, mischief in his eyes. They would be fun to mess with.

  “The chance given to them was the life they lived before; the punishment is this!”

  He spread out his arms, turning away. “There is no undoing what is done!”

 His eyes glowed red, pupils constricted. There really was no way to change the past. All the sinners were destined to suffer in a matrix of pleasure, illusion, and the threat of a second death. For Alastor, every demon was a lost cause…and paradoxically, that also included him.

 He had dealt with authority figures before in his previous life…those racist religious folk who believed that God and the elite had complete control over his fate and the fate of everyone else. Now here it was again, in the form of God, the angels, Vox, Lucifer pretty much anybody he hated. It wasn’t his fault he killed and ate all his victims. If certain people hadn’t pushed him over the edge…

 He glanced over when he heard Charlie’s voice.

 “So then, why do you want to help me if you don’t believe in my cause?” Charlie asked.

 Alastor smirked and looked at Charlie over his shoulder. “Consider it an investment in ongoing entertainment for myself!”

 He pulled her close to him with his arm and twirled her around in a quick dance. Charlie narrowed his eyes at him and gave him a look. He ignored her. “I want to watch the scum of the world struggle to climb up the hill of betterment! Only to repeatedly trip and tumble down to the fiery pit of failure.”

 His eyes glowed red and his left eyebrow raised slightly. Just the thought of having the fates and lives of demons in his hands was enough to get him excited…or perhaps even aroused.

“Right…” Charlie began, slowly removing his clawed hand from her shoulder. Alastor’s hand flinched at the sudden touch.

 Alastor chuckled and took her aside for a walk. “Yes indeedy! I see big things coming your way, and who better to help than I.”

 He impressed her further with some charm and making his staff appear in his hand.

  Vaggie walked up to Charlie and pulled her aside.

 “Charlie, listen to me. You just can’t believe this creep! He isn’t just a happy face! He’s a dealmaker, pure evil! He can’t be redeemed! And is most likely looking for a way to destroy everything we’re trying to do.”

 Alastor drummed his fingers against his palm, listening in on their conversation with a grin.

 “I…” Charlie began. “…we don’t know that. Look…I know he’s bad, and I know he probably doesn’t wanna change, but the whole point of this is to give people a chance! To have faith things will be better! How can I turn someone away? I can’t. It goes against everything I’m trying to do. Everything I believe in.”

 Alastor stared in fascination at a family picture on the wall. It showed Lucifer dressed in white, Lilith in a dark purple dress, and Charlie as a little girl wearing a brown and white dress in the middle. The picture border consisted of branches and yellow eyeballs and a dried rose in the upper right hand corner.

 “Such a lovely portrait! A picture of perfection! It’d be such a shame if something awful were to happen to them…”

 “Just trust me,” Charlie added placing comforting hands on her girlfriend’s shoulders, “I can take care of myself.”

 Charlie,” warned Vaggie, “Whatever you do, do not make a deal with him!”

 From a distance, Alastor opened up the palm of one hand, claws curled inward, hand glowing. From his viewpoint it looked like he was grabbing onto both girls. They glanced in his direction, worry on their faces.

 “I’ll have these two in the palm of my hand…”

 “Don’t worry, Charlie replied to Vaggie. “I picked up one thing from my Dad…” she spoke in a manly voice, “Ya don’t take shit from other demons!”

 Gathering her courage, Charlie marched over to the Radio Demon.

  “Ok, so…Al. You’re sketchy as fuck, and you clearly see what I’m trying to do here is a joke. But I don’t.”

 Charlie turned away. She was so close and so vulnerable.

 Red Voodoo symbols floated around Alastor as his eyes glowed.

 “If you could stay turned around so I can knock you out…” he thought.

Charlie narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously and the symbols vanished.

 “So close,” he thought in frustration as she turned around to face him.

  Charlie continued. “I think everyone deserves a chance to prove they can be better. So, I’m taking your offer to help. On the condition that there be no tricks or voodoo strings attached.”

 Alastor twirled his cane and held out his hand. “So it’s a deal then?”

 Flashes of eerie green light surrounded him, electricity snaking up the walls.

 “Nope!” Charlie yelled, holding out her hands. The energy stopped. “No shaking! No deals!”

 Alastor’s eyes constricted. “She rejected my deal,” he thought. “This will be more challenging than I expected.”

 He walked forward a step.

 Charlie continued.  “As princess of Hell, and heir to the throne, I uh, hereby order that you help with this hotel, for a long as you desire.”

 A moment of pause…he brushed his hair back.

 “Sound fair?” she asked.

  “Hmm. Fair enough. Cool beans.” Alastor shrugged, walking on and making his cane disappear. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and even did a thumbs up.

 Alastor stopped and spotted Vaggie off to the side. How pathetic she was, frowning like that. He smirked in a way outside observers would describe as lecherous. He tickled her under her chin with a finger.

 “Smile, my dear! You know you’re never fully dressed without one!”

 Alastor hummed happily on his way, while Vaggie growled in disgust and rage.

 “So…where is your hotel staff?” Alastor asked.

 “Uh, well…” Charlie began. Alastor peered at Vaggie through his monocle. “Oh ho ho ho, you’re going to need more than that.”

 He walked over towards Angel.

 “And what can you do, my effeminate fellow?”

 Angel grinned. “I can suck your dick!”

 Alastor could almost scream in disgust after hearing that.

 “Ha! No.” Alastor deadpanned.

 “Your loss,” Angel said with a slight laugh. Alastor summoned his cane.

“Well, this just won’t do!” Alastor exclaimed. “I suppose I can cash in a few favors to liven things up!”

 The spell came easily in his mind: “dife sèvitè, reveye.”

  He snapped his fingers and a fire sparked to life in a small circular fireplace. Animal skeletons decorated either side of the wall. The wall and fireplace were repaired.

 A dark figure plopped down onto the chimney floor.

 Alastor walked over and picked up the creature with his hand. A large single yellow eye was revealed. Angel, Vaggie, and Charlie peered at the creature. In a puff of smoke and a squeak, the creature revealed herself. A cute cyclops girl was wearing a pink dress with a poodle on the front, her short wide hair dark magenta with a streak of yellow.

 “This little darling is Niffty!” Alastor introduced, before dropping her. She landed on her feet. She was an adorable little thing.

“Hi! I’m Niffty!” she greeted with a wave. “It’s nice to meet you! It’s been a while since I’ve made new friends!” She laughed slightly and her pupil grew smaller, darting in circles.

 “Why are you all women?” she asked. “Have any men here?! I’m sorry, that’s rude.” She missed the fact that Angel was male, for obvious reasons.

 She briefly picked up Charlie, while Vaggie held her spear defensively at her.

 “Oh man, this place is filthy!” she exclaimed, running around and lifting up couch cushions. “It really needs a lady’s touch, which is weird, because you’re all ladies, no offence.” She chewed on a black spider she found, then rushed toward some stained glass windows.

 She darted around, using a dust ruffle to clean them. “Oh my gosh, this is awful! No, no, no…Nope!”

 She raced around, removing cobwebs, then poking at a piece of a voodoo doll. Well, it was actually a live blue beetle doll that Alastor had stabbed with a clothing pin for Niffty to play with. Alastor looked amused, while the others stared in disbelief.

 “So fortunate of me to have met her in Hell. A former chimney sweeper in the 20th century. Heard she died from too much smoke. Services are still good! Though, I didn’t give her much of an option to begin with…” he thought.

   Meanwhile, at a casino, a cat demon placed a joker, an ace, a 2, and a fourth card down on the table. He had black and white fur, wore a black top hat and had red wings with card suits decorated on them. He also had long red eyebrows and wore a red bow tie.

 “Ha!” he declared in triumph. “Read ‘em and weep, boys!”

 He suddenly felt himself being forcefully pulled out of the room through space and time.

  “Full…whoa!”

 “Transpòte ganbadeur la.”

 He ducked as a curtain of red energy surrounded the existing space. Voodoo symbols flashed in the background along with eight yellow eyes, a creepy voodoo skull and a purple skeleton of a worm-like creature. Another voodoo skull with horns appeared for a moment not too far from tan ghost-like spirits with creepy faces and a row of jagged teeth.

 The cat demon figured he must have had too much booze to drink.

 “…the hell?”

 As the images faded, he soon found himself at the hotel bar, not in the previous room at the casino. A large “Come and play Blackjack” sign took up much of the wall behind him. Most peculiar, the gray wood walls were missing halfway up, replaced by the red themed décor of the hotel. Husk was sitting in a portion of the casino he was in. It felt like he was in a house with no roof surrounded by the outside world.

 “What the fuck is this?”

 He saw Alastor and pointed an accusing claw.

 “You.”

 “Ah, Husker, my good friend!” Alastor cheerfully greeted. “Glad you could make it!”

 Husk could have at least been polite for once, but Alastor decided to let it slide.

 Alastor’s head briefly had the appearance of large antlers sticking out from either side. When he moved it, it was revealed to be an antler skull with glowing green eyes hanging in the background. Snakes were wrapped around one of the white curtains supporting a bar stand. “Big Booze,” “Welcome” and “Big Soul” signs were placed overhead on the stand. Neon green card suits consisted of the designs at the bottom of the stand.

 “Don’t you “Husker” me, you son of a bitch!” Husk spat, and swiped Alastor’s hand aside from his shoulder. “I was about to win the whole damn pot!”

Husk stared in anger as the stacks of money and chips on the table vanished in static.

 “Good to see you too!” added Alastor.

 Husk face palmed. “What the hell do you want with me this time?”

 Alastor grabbed hold of him, startling him so much that cards fell from his hands.

 “My friend, I am doing some charity work, so I took it upon myself to volunteer your services! I hope that’s okay.”

 Husk was taken aback. “Are you shittin’ me?!”

 “No, I don’t think so,” Alastor replied. He casually brushed off his sleeves.

 Husk shoved the Radio Demon off him. “You thought it would be some kind of big fuckin’ riot just to pull me outta nowhere? You think I’m some kinda fuckin’ clown?”

 “Maybe.”

 Audience laughter emitted from the microphone.

 “I ain’t doin’ no fuckin’ charity job,” Husk protested.

 Alastor appeared next to him, startling the cat demon. “Well I figured you would be the perfect face to man the front desk of this fine establishment.”

 He pointed toward the bar stand with the staff. The sound of audience clapping came from his radio staff.

 “With your charming smile and welcoming energy…”

 Alastor spread the corners of Husk’s mouth upward into a demonic smile of yellow teeth. Husk frowned seconds after he let go.

 “…this job was made for you!”

 Alastor strutted over toward the bar stand, the soles of his shoes revealing red hoof prints as he walked.

 “Don’t worry, my friend,” Alastor continued, “I can make this more welcoming…if you wish.”

 With a curve of his fingers, a green bottle of cheap booze appeared on the counter.

 Husk stared with wide eyes, suddenly very thirsty. He swore he could hear the sound of a slot machine.

 “What, you think you can buy me with a wink and some cheap booze?!” He took the bottle on anger. “Well you can!”

 He immediately guzzled it down and walked away.

 “Too easy,” thought Alastor.

 By this time, Charlie, Vaggie and Angel Dust had arrived to see what the commotion was about. Vaggie rushed toward the bar, furious.

 “Hey, hey, hey, hey!” yelled the moth demon. “No, no bar, no alcohol. This is supposed to be a place that discourages sin! Not some kind of…mouth, brothel, man-cave…”

 Angel lunged himself into her, knocking her to the floor.

 “Shut up! Shut! Up! We are keeping this.” He pointed at Husk with multiple gloved hands.

  He slid up to Husk. “Hey,” he said in a flirtatious voice.

“Go fuck yourself,” Husk deadpanned, drinking his booze.

 “Only if you watch me,” Angel retorted.

 To make matters worse for Husk, Charlie leaned in close to him, excitement and red stars in her eyes.

 “Oh my gosh! Welcome to the Happy Hotel! You are going to love it here!”

 “I lost the ability to love years ago,” Husk replied, gulping down more booze.

Alastor walked in, an ever-present grin on his face.

 “So, what do you think?”

 Charlie ran over to him. “This is amazing!” she beamed.

 Alastor’s eyes blinked rapidly at the sweet sight of Charlie rubbing her cheeks and smiling at him. He could watch it all day.

 “It’s okay,” Vaggie said from nearby, arms crossed.

 Alastor laughed and pulled the two girls close to him. “This is going to be very entertaining!”

 He shoved Vaggie again and his laughter mixed with the sound of an old radio.

 Alastor conjured fire in his hand…Charlie stared in wonder at the flames and the voodoo symbols. He threw the flames in the air, distracting Charlie from him shoving aside her friend hard. Alastor then changed his attire with magic. He now wore a fancy red suit with a white undershirt and a black bow tie. A red top hat appeared on his head, complete with small spikes along the black band and two needles sticking out from the top. He twirled Charlie around in a dance, the princess looking stunned. Pointing his finger over her head, he transformed Charlie’s outfit. Her blonde hair was now short and wavy. She wore an elegant black and red dress, black gloves, a pink hat with a small black bow and black heels. She looked like a dapper lady from the early 20th century.

 Charlie stared at her conjured clothing in amazement.

Vaggie was on the floor, fuming.

 Alastor began to sing as he danced with Charlie, a new spring in his steps.

 “You have a dream

 You wish to tell

 He turned to the fuming Vaggie on the floor, letting her know that he thought Charlie’s idea was silly.

 “and it’s so laughable…”

 He turned back to Charlie.

 “But hey kid, what the hell!”

 Alastor picked Charlie up and threw her into the air. She yelped in delight and landed gracefully next to him. Two glowing apples and a skull with deer horns flashed in the background.

 Reality had been altered to the Radio Demon’s liking. The entire room was lit in psychedelic colors. Voodoo symbols and shapes were etched in every nook and cranny, including a pair of pink claws reaching for the door. Alastor and Charlie waltzed in the spotlight as electro swing music began to play in the distance. The all-encompassing noise, though, was the signature radio-static sound.

 Charlie found herself sliding down one of the apple-etched railings, Alastor leading the way. They landed on the lower floor as Alastor continued his reprise.

 “Cause you’re one of a kind

A charming demon belle!”

 Deer statues and painted antlers were everywhere.

 Back at the bar stand, Husk sat looking bored. Vaggie hissed at Angel grabbing onto her shoulder, while Niffty stared in wonder. Alastor snapped his fingers and their outfits changed as well.

 Angel was wearing a neon pink suit, Husk a pink bow tie, Vaggie a dark dress, with her hair now smooth and long, and finally Niffty, with a cute top hat with small flowers.

 “Now let’s give these burning fools a place to dwell

(Take it, boys!)”

 Alastor snapped his fingers once more and shadowy imps rose to life from a hole in the ground. The happy spirits played a trumpet, a tuba, and a drum set. Charlie snapped her fingers to the beat, while Vaggie watched with worry. She reached out to her friend but was pulled away by Alastor. He enveloped the group into a tight hug with a laugh, followed by glowing images of dark spirits staring at them. Niffty watched in amazement, but not the other three.

 “Inside of every demon is a lost cause…”

Alastor pulled Husk and Angel close again. He rubbed Angel’s head with a white hat and went on his merry way. Husk gave him the bird as he left.

 “But we’ll dress ‘em up now with just a smile!”

(With a smile!)

  Vaggie stood, annoyed in the spotlight. Using his cane, Alastor added a feathered peacock hat and a white fox fur to her outfit. She looked ridiculous. Then out of nowhere, he slapped her butt.

 Vaggie seethed in rage after he walked away.

 Alastor danced some more, kicking a horned skull to the side. In the background, Niffy happily swept up the bits of bone.

 “And we’ll chlorinate this cesspool

With some old redemption flair

And show these simpletons some proper class and style!

(What’s in style? Oh!)”

 He made his way to the circular fireplace, where he waved his staff. Shadows arrived to join the party, including a shadowy version of himself, with large antlers and fangs. He made it disappear in a poof, then snuck toward Charlie. He led her in an upbeat dance, spinning her around, helping her match her steps to his. Charlie blushed when Alastor toyed with her cheeks. As Charlie was led away, Vaggie stood in the background, horrified and disgusted. What was happening to her friend?

 Charlie and Alastor laughed as they danced, the princess locked in a happy trance. Alastor was in his element, his pupils dilated, a joyful demeanor.

 Maybe this could turn into something more? Could it even be…love?

 “Here below the ground

I’m sure you’re plan is sound!

They’ll spend a little time

Down at this Hazbin Ho…”

  Alastor was about to finish his song, when an explosion burst apart a window behind him. He stood frozen, pupils constricting, his body going alert.

 Whatever, or whomever had interrupted his song was going to pay dearly.

 Niffty stared in amazement, shouting “Whoo!” before she was blasted backwards, the door hitting her in the face.

 Alastor’s spell soon wore off and everyone was back in their regular clothes. Alastor, Husk (still drinking), Niffty, Charlie, Angel, and Vaggie, peered out of the hole to see what was going on. Vaggie had her weapon at the ready.

 Looking skyward, the group saw a cracked blimp in the air. It had a small random band aid with a sad face on it along the rim. A familiar snake villain popped out of his hideout.

 “Ha!” Sir Pentious laughed. “Well, well, well, look who it is harboring the striped freak! We meet again, Alastor!”

 Apparently, he was also rivals with Alastor.

 But Alastor simply asked, “Do I know you?”

 The snake boss looked disappointed. Then he said in anger, “Oh yes you do! And this time, I have the element of…surprise!”

 The villain raced toward his pink velvet chair and pulled a lever. A metallic cannon lowered to the ground. The cannon fired up with pink energy as pink smoke appeared around them.

 “He laughed manically. “I’m so evil!”

 Then he added, “I have an Egg army!”

 “Well, we have an Alastor,” Charlie responded.

 Alastor snapped his fingers, red tendrils of smoke rising from his hand. The weapon froze in mid fire and a fiery portal opened up below the blimp.

 A horde of black tendrils rose from the hole, latching onto the ship. One tentacle ripped off the cannon and threw it into another smaller portal, causing it to explode in pink smoke. One of the tentacles had already smashed a hole in the large round window.

 Sir Pentious looked on in shock as his Egg Bois slammed against the wall (one of them read #Ouch.) One of the eggs cracked open, spilling out yellowish brains and small organs among the stains of yok. Sir Pentious and another minion were thrown against the wall.

 “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he screamed before he was slammed against the ceiling by a black limb.

 “Oh, that hurt!” he cried.

 Sir Pentious screamed as he was dragged along the floor and lifted up slightly. He was held in place, surrounded by the wrapped up tendril. At once, the tendril shrunk and squeezed the helpless snake. The Egg Bois ran around screaming as black cracks appeared on the floor and walls.

 From the outside, more black tendrils were closing in. Red voodoo symbols appeared around the blimp.

 “Ede m 'sèrviteur.”

 Four horned shadowy spirits with red auras floated around, wearing toothy grins.

 The tendrils were now wrapped around the entire blimp, holding it in place like thick black vines.

 Red radio waves filled Alastor’s eyes as he circled his fingers and worked is magic. Voodoo symbols appeared all around him as he altered the state of reality. Radio static consumed the air.

The vines thickened and completely enclosed the blimp. The spirits swooped around it in excitement, with echoing shrieks. The aura around the tendrils glowed a fiery yellow, the same color as the portal rim.

 “Kalfu! Destriksyon pa bra nwa.”

 Alastor closed his four-fingered hand which began to glow. A red drop of blood fell from his glowing hand. The tendrils proceeded to crush the blimp. Pink rays of light shot from the center and the blimp exploded in a loud BOOM!

 Pink smoke spread everywhere as the spirits sped away. The tendrils broke into severed bloody pieces that rained down to the ground. Alastor smiled victoriously, while behind them, the group of five stared in utter terror and shock. (Save for Niffty who had a small smile on her face).

 Alastor’s angry, bloodlust eyes spoke volumes.

 “And stay out of this hotel and from my friends you pathetic excuse of snakeskin.”

A sharp pain throbbed on his hand and bags appeared under his eyes. Magic had taken some work from him…and it also made him hungry.

 “Well, I’m starved!” Alastor exclaimed, turning around to face the group, happy again. “Who wants some jambalaya?” He spread his arms out. “My mother once showed me a wonderful recipe for jambalaya! In fact, it nearly killed her!”

 He laughed as he led the way back to the hotel. The others followed.

 “You could say the kick was right out of Hell!”

 He added while laughing at his own joke, “Oh, I’m on a roll!”

 From up above, the hotel looked like a mashed-up haunted house. An old dark train was perched on a balcony, with some monstrous faces carved in. A ship, reminiscent of the Titanic, was leaning upwards against the building as part of the structure. An old carousel served as part of the upper balcony and windows. Skull designs decorated the small windows in a row. Finally, on top of a giant yellow eye, was the sign “Happy Hotel” supported by pillars of worn wood.  

Alastor continued, “Yes, sir, this is the start of some real changes down here! The game is set! Now…”

 He glanced up and pointed his finger toward the sign. Pink electricity shot out and made contact with the sign.

 The sign now read “Hazbin Hotel.”

 “Stay tuned,” he finished with a low sinister laugh.

[ladyloggy]

Home - John Constantine x reader

I also posted this on my wattpad. Everyone over 18 as there is smut, hope y'all enjoy!

For (Name), it had been months since she had last seen John. The two had worked together since the Newcastle incident which John had blamed himself for ever since, but (Name) had stayed with the demonologist and their friendship had evolved into casual sex and then finally a relationship that neither of them had planned for. Like John, (Name) was in control of the dark arts, and along with their friend Chas, had encouraged John to go and work with the Legends for a while, whilst (Name) stayed in the US to help local exorcisms and other demon issues.

But, here (Name) was getting ready to go out on a date with John for the first time in three months. She had missed John as her partner - in both meanings of the word. She loved working with Chas, but she missed John desperately. He knew her inside and out, and she always felt safe and comforted working with John, even in unfamiliar or cruel circumstances. Of course, (Name) also missed John romantically - she missed waking up with him in the morning, going to sleep snuggled in his arms and wearing his shirts and obviously the more intimate part of their relationship. As (Name) hadn't seen John for a while, she wanted to impress him, so she decided to wear some new lingerie that she knew John would appreciate and the outfit that he often complimented her on. With the finishing touches on her outfit, (Name) started to style her hair and fix her makeup, doing her best to cover the bruises that she had gained on her last job so John didn't freak out. By 7pm, (Name) had finished getting ready and just as she grabbed her bag, there was a knock on the door to what (Name) classed as now her apartment. Looking through the peep hole, (Name) couldn't help but smile when she saw the face of her boyfriend holding some flowers and a pack of beers.

"Hi there, stranger." (Name) said, smiling at John as she opened the door.

John smirked, extinguished his cigarette and looked (Name) up and down, "You look stunning, love."

"Not so bad yourself, mister. I've missed you Johnny, come in. How long has it been for you?" (Name) asked, putting the flowers in a vase and the beer in the fridge.

"Couple of weeks love, you know time works different in the temporal zone." John replied, taking a seat on the sofa.

"So you've said." (Name) laughed and offered John one of the refrigerated beers that she had purchased prior to the night. "I got your favourite!"

John grinned, grabbing the beer and reclining as (Name) took a seat next to him on the sofa, her own beer in her hand.

"To date night." John clinked their bottles together before taking a swig.

The two chatted for a while, catching up and reuniting. They told each other stories of the Legends and Chas, and after an hour, (Name) was sat on John' knee as the pair kissed. (Name) had her hands in John's messy blond hair whilst John's had settled on (Name)'s ass, grabbing and squeezing in what was a very John Constantine way. (Name) groaned as they parted, resting her head on John's shoulder.

"I missed this," she confessed, biting John's neck playfully. "I've missed the way your arms feel around me and your unique charm."

"Is that what you're calling my prick now, love?" John teased, wicked grin on his lips. "My charm?"

(Name) laughed, swatting the man on his shoulder. "Head in the gutter as always Johnny."

"Mmm, only for my bird. You said something about food?" John asked.

"I said nothing about food, you hungry bastard, but I was thinking we were going out to your favourite pub." (Name) told John who nodded.

"That'll suffice, love. Come on, I'll get my coat and we'll go."

Conveniently, (Name)'s apartment wasn't far from John's favourite pub, and they were seated at a private booth with drinks and food menus in front of them rather quickly. It wasn't too long before John had his usual beer and (Name) had her drink of choice, as well as their favourite meals. (Name) was happy and content, tucking into her dish with gusto, laughing and joking with John as she ate.

All was calm.

Until it wasn't...

When they had finished their food, the pair moved to a different seat. Whilst no longer a secluded booth, the table was still for two but had a good view of the bar and the live singer.

"I'm just going the men's, love. Get us another round, will you?" John asked.

"Of course Johnny, the same again?" (Name) said, smiling as John nodded with a grin.

"Bang on, babe."

So (Name) went over to the bar, watching as John walked away. His golden blond hair instead was illuminated a shade of emerald green by the fire exit sign above the toilet. Of course, he was wearing the same white shirt as ever, but his red tie had been replaced with a newer one with a slightly lighter shade of red. He looked tired but his smile was genuine when she made him laugh, and other than a few flecks of gray put there by stress and a couple of healed scratches, John looked better than (Name) had seen him in a long time. These Legends people were good for John, maybe even better than she was for him.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing here all alone?"

The voice broke (Name) from her thoughts and with a glare, she fixed her gaze on a stranger.

"I'm not alone, mate. I'm with my boyfriend." She replied.

"Then where is he?" The strange man countered with a cocky smirk.

"If you have to know, he's taking a piss." (Name) rolled her eyes as the man recoiled slightly.

"Language like that doesn't suit a beautiful girl like you." He continued.

(Name) ignored him, instead speaking to the bartender who passed (Name) her drinks. With her two hands full, (Name) made her way back to their seat where John was waiting for her.

"Thanks, love." He said. "You alright?"

"Yeah Johnny, just some idiot at the bar." (Name) replied, taking a sip of her drink.

John's face darkened with what (Name) could only assume was a look of possessive jealousy. She knew the look well, as even before they got officially 'together' and were still just casual sex partners John got jealous if other strange men tried it on with (Name). That look on John's face often resulted in more rough sex than usual, and (Name) looked forward to their homecoming, as after two months apart, she had missed sex with John.

"Come on love, drink up. We're getting out of here." John declared, leaving half his beer.

The walk home from the pub was silent but the proxemics held a festering sexual tension. John's arm was around (Name)'s shoulders and his hand clutched her arm tight enough to be possessive but not painful. (Name) unlocked the door quickly and as soon as she had closed and locked it again, John's hands were all over her. They kicked off their shoes into a heap by the door as they kissed heavily, the man's hands roaming over (Name). Before they reached the bedroom of the apartment, John had gotten rid of his tie and a trail of (Name)'s clothes had been left behind as she was slammed into the bedroom wall.

"Bloody hell John, ease off a bit there." She muttered, moaning as John bit down on her neck.

"Be a good girl and hush for me love, I've waited a long time for this." He replied. "Wanking to your pictures just isn't the same."

(Name) laughed softly, doing her best despite the onslaught of kisses to rid John of his shirt.

"Mmm if you carry on like that, you'll have to do the same to me in real life. I get enough bruises from this bloody business without you carrying on." She said, gasping as John slipped his hand down her underwear.

"You can be in charge next time, I'm on a mission tonight to make you scream my name."

A shudder of pleasure coursed though (Name) at those words and she felt her knees buckle as John worked his magic. Crying out as she was brought closer and closer to the edge, (Name) grabbed John' naked torso as her whole body shook.

"Oh! John I'm gonna-"

"No you're not, pet. Let's get you all bare for me, lie down on the bed and spread those legs of yours - I want what's mine."

(Name) slid of her knickers and discarded her bra before lying on her back and opening her legs, baring herself to John who removed his pants and walked over to her. His eyes were focused on her, hungry with lust and desire as he approached her almost like a predator stalking its prey. He pried her legs open with his hands, squeezing slightly before lining himself up and entering her.

"Oh my God!" She cried, back arching.

"That's it love, just relax."

John let go of her thighs, trusting them to stay open for him and he grabbed her hair into a handle in one hand and gripped her thigh tightly with the other. He got into a rhythm and before long, (Name) was writhing and bucking wildly. She closed her legs slightly by accident and John brought the hand holding her hip down hard on her right thigh. The sensation triggered (Name)'s scream of John's name, and half triumphantly John groaned hers in return.

(Name) lay still, feeling John lie down beside her. He kissed her shoulder and wiped her hair from her sweaty forehead.

"I've missed you, love."

"I love you too, you big softie."

(Name) knew what John meant, and she knew that he couldn't say those three little words due to his turbulent past but the look in his eyes and the tone of voice conveyed what he really meant.

Here, they were both home in one another and safe to fight another day.

[illfoandillfie]

Thief

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Female Reader

Summery: Roger wants his shirt back

Warnings: Smut (but nothing especially kinky)

Words: 2327

A/N: Most of this was written between midnight an 2am on my birthday when it was sad lonely bitch hours so it’s self indulgent as heck. Just some soft fluff with a little soft smut at the end. 

(the shirt in question, i love it so much)

Taglist: @idontbelievethiss

Roger’s walk-in wardrobe was your guilty pleasure. You loved exploring it. Could happily spend hours running your fingers over all the different fabrics in there. Most of the clothing that was hung up or folded neatly in the draws was stuff he used regularly – every day shirts, jeans, a section for stuff he’d take on tour – but towards the back of the wardrobe was a collection of his older stuff, split between a row of hangers and a number of boxes. That was the stuff you really loved rummaging through. He’d been collecting it for years. Most of it was stuff he kept for sentimental reasons, he’d worn it at such and such show or so and so and given it to him. Some of it was stuff he’d had for so long it felt wrong to get rid of it. A lot of it was still in good condition too, just out of style. A relic from his youth, bold and bright and totally him. That was the stuff you loved best and whenever the opportunity arose to go digging for treasure you took it.  

You took the treasure too, sometimes. One time, while Rog was away on tour, you’d been having a particularly rough day and hadn’t been able to contact him. Desperate to be wrapped up in his arms, you’d taken a large glass of wine and started going through his clothes. You’d found an old beaten up hoodie which you couldn’t believe he’d held on to. It must have held some significance for him because it was faded and frayed and nothing particularly special next to everything else in there. But it was warm and soft and still smelt faintly of Roger even though it must have been years since he’d worn it. You’d slipped it on over your head, breathing deeply, trying to control your emotions but had ended up crying yourself to sleep right there on the floor of the wardrobe. Since then you’d pulled it out whenever Rog was away for an extended amount of time. It was comforting and reminded you of one of his hugs and you loved it.

Another time you’d been throwing together a last minute costume for a party Freddie was hosting. Roger pulled you into the cupboard exclaiming he had something perfect to finish off your costume if he could only find it. In the second box he opened was a pair of rainbow suspenders which he handed to you with a giant grin on his face. They were just what you needed, though you did make fun of Rog a little for owning them in the first place. At the party a few people had commented on them, asking you if they were the same ones Rog had owned, and when you said yes, they told you stories, reminiscing about a time before you knew him. Freddie managed to find a few photos of Rog wearing the suspenders and told you how they’d called him Rainbow. It led to you being shown a bunch of photos of Rog as a young man and you’d laughed in disbelief at how long his hair was while he insisted it had been very fashionable. You loved hearing those stories from the people who knew him best and when you’d finally got home you put the suspenders back in the box carefully, feeling a little closer to the man you loved.  

Sometimes you felt a little like a magpie, stealing things from him. Big things like an old fur coat you’d worn around the house constantly one winter, or a gorgeous velvet jacket which you couldn’t stop running your hands over when you’d first found it. Small things like a pair of aviator sunglasses, one of what seemed to be a hundred different pairs of sunnies, which made you feel like a rockstar even though they were prescriptions and turned your vision wavy. Or the necklace you hadn’t taken off since its discovery, a simple silver band which, you knew from photos, Roger had worn tight like a choker, but you preferred a little looser. For Christmas last year Rog had surprised you with a delicate circle charm to add to it, the back engraved with both your initials.

Your interest in his old clothes was something that bemused Roger. On more than one occasion he’d found you on your knees digging through a box and had rolled his eyes at you. But whenever he saw you wearing one of your stolen items his eyes lit up and he’d give you a soft smile that made your knees weak. Sometimes he’d remark that he’d completely forgotten he still had said item and then proceed to tell you why he’d kept it. Sometimes you’d convince him to try whatever it was on himself. If it still fit enough that he could put it on he’d pretend he was on a catwalk as he strutted away from you before turning around and posing, and if it didn’t, he’d pull it on as best he could and ask you how he looked. Either way you’d both end up on the floor laughing, sometimes with Roger half stuck in a too small pair of jeans or jacket.  

Your most recent acquisition from your magpie habit was one of his newer shirts. It was blue with an orange check pattern and Roger hadn’t noticed you’d stolen it yet. Not that you’d stolen this in the same way you’d stolen everything else. This one was a complete accident. You’d gotten out of bed early one morning and felt around in the dark for the shirt Roger had so kindly discarded for you the night before. You’d slipped on the first shirt you found and made your way to the bathroom, not worrying about pants since the shirt fell down over your thighs. That should have been a clue that it wasn’t yours but it was much too early for your brain to be working. You didn’t notice it was Roger’s shirt until you were washing your hands and caught your reflection. Any trace of sleepiness left you as you examined your reflection, admiring the way the shirt fell around you. You spent a few minutes undoing and redoing buttons, comparing how much cleavage was shown off each way and wondering what it’d look like if you were wearing your favourite bra underneath. It felt so soft and light against your skin and it was warm even as you stood on cold tiles. You could understand why Rog wore it so often. When you got back to your room you pulled it off again, catching a whiff of Roger’s aftershave as you brought it over your head, before snuggling back into Roger’s arms, hoping to squeeze in round two before either of you had to be up for real. Since then you’d worn it whenever the chance arose, mostly just around the house when Roger was out. You knew he really liked the shirt and wore it fairly frequently so it wasn’t really one you could steal but you couldn’t help yourself, it just felt so nice to wear.  

This morning you’d woken to find Rog already gone. The band were deep in Live Aid rehearsals and today was their last before the big day so you weren’t expecting him home till much later. You got up and straight away switched your own shirt for his, your new favourite, rubbing your hand up and down the sleeve a couple of times just to feel the fabric. You you’d wear it until you had a shower and then you’d put your own clothes on. You headed to the kitchen to make coffee and find something to eat. You were examining the contents of the fridge when a voice in the hallway made you jump. “Hey, hon, you up?” “In the kitchen!” You called out over your shoulder, “How come you’re back so early?” “We did a couple of run throughs which went well enough that we decided to take the rest of the day off. Don’t wanna overwork ourselves,” his voice trailed off towards the end as he caught sight of you bent over as you looked in the fridge, “is that my shirt?” You looked down, the shirt having slipped your mind in favour of food.   “Oh, yeah it is. Wanted something comfy and this was the first thing I found,” you shrugged, turning and shutting the fridge behind you. “How was a shirt that was hanging in my wardrobe the first thing you found? I was gonna wear that tomorrow.” “Busted,” You’re a little thief,” his tone was playful but it still sent a shiver down your spine. “Am not,” you pouted “Fur coat. Necklace. Hoodie,” he started counting on his fingers, “should I keep going?” “No, you’ve made your point, but I prefer the term pilferer.” You rocked back on your heels, “Can’t you wear something else tomorrow? This shirt is ridiculously comfy,” “I could, but I don’t want to.” “Well, I s’pose you can have it back. Gonna have to catch me first though,” And with that you took off, running out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Roger’s legs were longer than yours and he took the stairs three at a time, catching up to you fast. You squealed as he caught you around the waist, pulling you into him as he entered the bedroom backwards. “Gotcha. Now can I have my shirt back?” he said softly, his breath tickling your ear. “Only if you take it.” Roger turned you around to face him. He began to unbutton the shirt slowly, your skin breaking out in goose bumps whenever his fingers brushed against it. “As incredibly attractive as you look in it,” he said, his warm breath ghosting over your face as his finger continued their descent, “I really have to insist.”   His touch was torturously light and slow, and his lips so close to yours, but you were frozen, completely unable to close the distance between you. All you could do was look into his eyes, occasionally shifting your focus to his lips, and try to remember how to breath properly.  

When he’d finally gotten all of the buttons undone, he traced his finger up your stomach, through the valley of your breasts, and up your neck until he was able to press his fingers to the underside of your chin and tilt your head up. He pressed his lips to yours, softly, and you melted into him. You opened your mouth willingly, inviting him to deepen the kiss. As he did so, he pushed his shirt off your shoulders and down your arms till it was a puddle on the floor. He kept kissing you, sighing into your mouth as he walked you backwards towards the bed, only breaking the kiss to push you onto it. You scooted back to be more comfortable and he followed until he was hovering over you. His fingers brushed over the necklace lightly, the cool metal contrasted against your warm skin. You looped your arm around his neck, pulling him back to your lips, as his hand ran down your side, coming to rest on your waist.  

Every brush of his fingers, every swipe of his tongue had your stomach tightening with anticipation and need, until you couldn’t bear it any longer. “Rog, please.” you breathed out against his lips. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, then to your neck. He crawled down your body, leaving a trail over your chest and stomach, your skin burning with desire in his wake. When he reached your hips, he slowly peeled your underpants down your legs, pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh, making you whine. When he’d finally freed you of your underwear, he began removing his own clothes, much faster than he had yours. Without his hands on you, your skin felt bare and cold. You sighed as he crawled back over you, his touch restoring peace to your world, his lips finding their rightful place against yours. He slipped a finger into your wet core, followed by a second making your back arch into him.   “Ready love?” He asked softly withdrawing his fingers from you. “Rog, y’know when I said please earlier? Yeah, I’ve been ready since then. Hurry up and fuck me already.” “Christ, I love you Y/N,” You could feel his body shaking with laughter as he grabbed your hand and laced his fingers through yours. “I’ll love you a whole lot more when you let me cum,” “Whatever my little thief wants,” he replied, lining himself up and pushing into you. You would have rolled your eyes at him but you were distracted by how full you felt, squeezing his hand as he began slowly rocking his hips against you. He kept a steady rhythm, drawing soft ‘oh’s and gasps from you with every thrust. His voice was low and raspy as he told you how good you felt around him, how irresistible you looked wearing nothing but his old necklace, how much he loved you. You felt your orgasm approaching and could tell Roger was close from the way he was panting against you. You chanted Roger’s name like a prayer as you clenched around him, pulling him into his own release.  

Roger rolled onto his side, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. You pushed some hair, damp with sweat, out of his face and traced your finger down his nose. “What’re you doing?” “Admiring you,” you pushed the end of his nose like it was a button, “boop.” He stuck out his tongue, making you giggle. “I do love you Rog,” “I know.” You hummed happily, content to stay like this forever. “I’m going to have to buy you your own shirt, aren’t I?” “Only if you want to keep yours.”

[bearly-writing]

For the bthb, would do gunshot wound for Dick with a healthy dose of either Bruce or Jay (or both!!) taking care of him?

So, normally I try to post these in the order I get them, because I write them super slowly and I don’t think it’s fair to do newer ones first. But I’ve been really struggling with writer’s block recently and felt like doing a Batman prompt! Don’t worry everyone else - I promise I’m still working on your prompts!

Bite the Bullet

Fandom: Batman

Prompt: Gunshot Wound

Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd

Warnings: Violence, Blood and Injury, Gun Violence, Hostage situations

Summary: If they were in costume, this wouldn’t even be a workout – Jason could probably take the three of them down without breaking a sweat. But they aren’t in costume and they don’t have any of their gear and no amount of martial arts training is going to stop a bullet – not the way that Kevlar does.

Read it on AO3 here!

Dick isn’t even supposed to be here. He should be in Bludhaven, on patrol or relaxing in his little shithole of an apartment – not crouching under a grubby, fast-food restaurant table, face pressed uncomfortably close to Bruce’s, the hard frame of his seat digging into his back. But, then, when has anything in Dick’s life gone the way it’s supposed to?

The only reason he’s here is because of Jason. Because it’s the kid’s birthday, and Jason had asked, and whatever Dick’s feelings towards Bruce at the moment, he couldn’t refuse when the kid had so genuinely seemed to want him there. So, he had spent an awkward evening playing tenpin bowling and watching a movie. And it had been worth it to see the happiness on Jason’s face, even if Bruce had spent the whole night being tense and gruff and obviously unhappy. They had finished it up with chili dogs at some godawful fast food joint that Bruce wouldn’t have been seen dead in if Jason hadn’t begged him. Then they had followed that up with an armed robbery turned hostage situation, because wasn’t that what every thirteen-year-old dreamed of?

Bruce had seen them first, because even as a civilian, he couldn’t turn off his paranoia-induced hyper-vigilance. He had gone stiff and pale – well, stiffer and paler – then he’d growled “Down” and disappeared under the table, dragging Jason with him as he went. Dick had obeyed automatically - because of course he did, even though he hated himself for it - and then they’d all been crowded under the table, bracketed on either side by the low booth benches, pressed right up against the table support and each other. The gunshots had followed less than a few seconds later.

Get under the table. Keep your head down. Do exactly what they say and don’t make any trouble. Don’t try to be a hero. You can’t rely on the police, but if you’re lucky the Bats will turn up and then all you need to do is keep out of the way and make sure you aren’t caught up in the crossfire. Almost everyone in Gotham knows the drill. Hell, Bruce had given Dick his own version of the instructions just weeks after he had taken him in. You never know when you’re going to be caught up in some supervillain scheme, or a hostage situation, or even something as mundane as a robbery gone wrong.

They aren’t going to be lucky tonight – all of the Bats are here, conveniently collected all in the same place, and not a single one of them with their suits. Well, Bruce probably has at least a few gadgets hidden on him right now, but there’s not much he can do with them as Bruce Wayne. Batman isn’t likely to turn up tonight.

The gunshots stutter to a halt. No screams, no crying - so most likely no one’s hurt. Just warning shots then. Dick huffs out a relieved breath, feels Bruce relax almost imperceptibly against him. In the silence that follows, he can hear his father’s low, slow breaths, the shallow pants that Jason is making. Can practically hear their hearts beating.

“Everybody out!” Loud and rough. A thick, Gothamite accent. Nobody moves. “I said everybody get out here right now, before I come ‘round and blow you out.”

Not the word choice Dick would have used, but it spurs the diner into action anyway. Dick moves first, unfolding himself from under the table, but keeping low. Takes a deliberate sweep of the room before dropping his eyes back to the tile again. Three guys. Five guns. An easy fight for Nightwing, but there’s not much chance of Richie Grayson taking them out if he doesn’t want to blow his cover. Jason emerges behind him, followed closely by Bruce, looming protectively over him, even from his knees. The kid is small for his age, but it still strikes Dick exactly how bigBruce is. For some reason, it seems more noticeable in his civilian clothes, even without the bulk of his armour – or perhaps because of it.

“Get over here,” the gunman snarls, gesturing at the circle of open space by the counter with his rifle. “On your knees.”

They aren’t the only ones in the diner: there’s an elderly couple, the man clutching a cane and clearly in pain as he shuffles along on his knees; three teenage girls; a woman and her young son; and the kid from behind the counter, young and awkward and pimply and obviously terrified. Jason’s gaze zeroes in on the little kid as soon as they start shuffling towards the counter, and, honestly, Dick doesn’t know his new little brother as well as he should do, but he recognises the look on Jason’s face. This isn’t good.

Bruce positions himself mostly in front of the two of them, and Dick jostles Jason even further back with his shoulder, pressing him close behind Bruce and shoring up the other side. It’s not a guarantee of Jason’s safety, especially if the kid decides to make trouble, but it eases some of the tight, not-quite panic in Dick’s chest, knowing that he’s not in the direct line of fire. Jason doesn’t seem to appreciate it much, though, if the glare he sends Dick’s way is anything to go by.

“Phones. Money. Jewellery. In the bag.”

One of the girls beside Dick whimpers and Jason tenses. So, does Bruce, huge shoulders shifting. It’s mostly an act, Dick thinks, because Batman might be calm under pressure, but Bruce Wayne isn’t supposed to be.

Masks cover the gunmen’s faces – generic balaclava style – but Dick gets the distinct impression that the guy who steps forward, a canvas bag clutched in one hand, and a gun in the other, is pretty young. There’s a hesitant quality to the way he moves. When he shakes the bag in the elderly couple’s face, he doesn’t speak.

No one else speaks either, as they deposit their valuables into the bag. No one tries to play hero. The tension in the room is almost a physical thing, but Dick thinks they might get away without any injuries. Even the little boy, too young to really understand what’s happening, is silent – you have to learn quickly in Gotham.

Then the gunman circles around to them, and Dick and Bruce both start systematically shedding themselves of their valuables, and the masked man in front of them says: “Holy shit, it’s Bruce Wayne.”

Shit. Bruce hesitates, the hand currently dropping his expensive watch into the bag hovering mid-air. The tension in the room snaps taught. This has just morphed from a simple robbery into something else, and everyone around them knows it.

“What?” One of masked-man’s friends steps forward, gun hefted in his hand, to cast a critical eye over the three of them. “No way. What would Bruce Wayne be doing at this place? He goes to fancy restaurants and shit.”

“I’m telling you, that’s Wayne,” the first guy argues. Definitely young, if his voice is anything to go by. “Those are his kids right: circus kid and the little street rat.”

Another once over, more considering. Bruce’s shoulders shift again. Not an act this time.

“Damn, you’re right. I can’t believe it, Bruce Wayne in a fucking fast food place? We hit the jackpot.” He leans forward and snatches the watch out of Bruce’s slack hand. Shakes it in his face. “Think you could get away with giving us this old shit, huh? Sitting on mountains of cash and that’s all you can spare us?”

“I’ve given you everything I –“

“Shut up,” the guy snaps and Bruce falls silent. It’s difficult to tell whether the little tremor of fear in his voice is real or not. If they were in costume, this wouldn’t even be a workout – Jason could probably take the three of them down without breaking a sweat. But they aren’t in costume and they don’t have any of their gear and no amount of martial arts training is going to stop a bullet – not the way that Kevlar does. And even after all his years as Batman, Dick knows Bruce still has a hang up about guns. Whatever his and Dick’s relationship is like right now, having them pointed at his kids must have Bruce feeling some type of way.

“Bet you could get us some proper money in a heartbeat, huh? Call up your butler, or whatever, and have it transferred?”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. In front of them, the young guy shifts back and forth in a way that has Dick’s skin prickling. Nervous guy holding a gun is never a good combination.

“Are you sure we should-?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure.” Behind the mask, Dick sees his eyes flicker over both Dick and Jason and Dick’s skin prickles again. “You need some motivation, Wayne? You gonna make me hurt your kids?”

Then he’s reaching for Jason and Bruce shifts, but the gun is right there and –

“No I don’t -“

Fingers close around Jason’s arm.

“Woah, wait –“

He’s yanked off of the floor. Jason grunts in pain.

“I don’t think we should –“

And, like an idiot, Dick reaches for him and –

Bang.

The gunshot is loud enough to set Dick’s ears ringing, reverberating through his skull and pressing against his ears with an almost physical sensation. The man holding Jason’s arm lets go as if he’s been electrocuted and Dick falls back on his ass, clutching Jason protectively against his chest. Nobody screams – not Dick, not Jason, not Bruce, not any of the people clustered around them. In contrast to the ring of the gunshot in Dick’s ears, the rest of the room is deathly silent.

Warmth splashes against Dick’s chest, as if someone’s thrown their coffee over his shirt, or he’s gotten into a shower still dressed.

Jason’s hit. Shit, Jason’s hit.

The world narrows to the kid in Dick’s arms. Jason’s lying half-across Dick’s lap, still and silent, face pressed into his older brother’s shoulder. Dick shifts onto his knees, holding Jason tight against him with one arm, turning his face away with the other so that he can get a better look at him. There’s blood already soaking Dick’s shirt. Dark red slashed across Jason’s arm, splattered over his neck and cheek.

“Jason? Shit, Jason, where were you hit?”

Wide, white eyes blink back up at him. Around them, the room is silent, the air drawn taught and shivering, fragile as glass. A hand presses against the back of Dick’s neck, huge and warm and – Bruce, Dick had almost forgotten he was here. When he looks up, Bruce is very close.

“Let go of him, Dick. It’s OK.”

Only, it’s not OK, because Dick has never seen that sort of fear on Bruce’s face – not without the cowl to cover the worst of it. His face is so white it almost glows, his eyes a dark counterpoint, his mouth a tight black line. Dick almost flinches under the weight of that gaze.

“Holy shit! You shot his kid. You fucking idiot!”

“Nah, it was an accident. It was an accident. I didn’t sign up to shoot nobody.”

“You just did, asshole. I can’t believe this.”

Dick’s ears are still ringing. The voices seem simultaneously too loud, as if they’re being shouted right in his ear, and very far away. The hand on the back of his neck tightens. Beneath him, Jason makes a soft, frightened sound.

Bruce’s other hand lifts to press firmly against Dick’s shoulder and Dick rocks back with the movement, surprised by his body’s acquiescence. Jason struggles against him, but Dick just tightens his grip. Why is Bruce worried about him? It’s Jason that’s hurt. It’s Jason that might be dying.

“Let go of him,” Bruce says, softly, as he lowers Dick to the ground. “We need to put pressure on the wound.”

Right. They need to get Jason into a better position. Need to find where he’s been hit.

“Shut up! Shut up and stop moving.”

Above him, Bruce goes tense. He doesn’t lift his hands from Dick, just goes perfectly still. His mouth twists - anger and fear and, if he was in costume, Dick would be honestly worried for the thugs.

But he’s not in costume. He’s Bruce Wayne.

“Please,” Bruce begs, voice low and tremulous. And it’s difficult to tell how much of it is his rich idiot Brucie Wayne persona, and how much of it is real. “Please let me call him an ambulance. He’ll die if we don’t do anything.”

Die. Jesus, they can’t let Jason die. That can’t happen.

The gun presses hard into the back of Bruce’s head, bows him forward under the pressure. Bruce grunts. Grits his teeth. Keeps his eyes on Dick.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I’ll give you as much money as you need, just let me help him.”

“Shit…we can’t…shit!”

The gun disappears and Dick can see the way Bruce relaxes – the droop of his shoulders, the flex of his jaw. The hand on his shoulder slides over to Dick’s chest and presses firmly and -

Heat flares through Dick’s chest. Burns like fire through his lungs, his ribs, his throat. It takes him utterly by surprise. Knocks the breath right out of him. It’s as though he can feel the path the bullet took, burning molten lava right through him, setting every nerve and vein and muscle alight. Dick chokes. Feels blood bubbling at the back of his throat. Wants to scream but can’t even drag in a breath.

Oh, oh. It wasn’t Jason that was shot – it was him. Through the shock and the adrenaline, he hadn’t even felt it.

He feels it now.

“It’s OK, Dick,” Bruce murmurs above him, pressing relentlessly against Dick’s chest. Dick writhes, lets go of Jason to press sweat-slick fingers against Bruce’s wrist, trying desperately to push him away. “It’s OK, I’ve got you.”

“B?” Jason’s face swims into Dick’s view - now that he’s released him - pale and scared and still splattered in blood. Dick’s blood. “Is he -?”

“I need you to call an ambulance,” Bruce interrupts. “I need to keep pressure on this.”

“I don’t-“

“No!”

Jason flinches, eyes flickering to the man suddenly looming over them, pressing himself closer against Bruce’s side almost automatically. Bruce shifts his weight but doesn’t take his hands off Dick’s chest. Fear throbs through Dick, a strange, cold undercurrent to the fiery pain.

“No one is calling anyone, OK? Not until we have our money.”

“I can’t get you the money without calling someone,” Bruce grits out, in a poor approximation of calm. “And my son needs an ambulance right now. Not once the transaction has gone through.”

At least, that’s what Dick thinks he says. The world seems to swim around him, people’s voices oddly distorted, filtering in and out of focus. Dick’s vision is strangely blurry. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s breathing too shallowly, chest constricted beneath an iron band of pain. His head feels too light. Someone touches his cheek, too soft to be Bruce, too small, and besides, Bruce is still pressing relentlessly against Dick’s chest.

“Hey Dickface, don’t pass out on us now.”

Maybe it’s not just the fear that’s cold. Maybe it’s his whole body, because Jason’s hand feels too hot against his face. Dick shivers. Doesn’t have the energy to protest the stupid nickname. He’s too heavy, too tired, too out-of-his-head.

Above him Jason frowns, then he pats his cheek, hard enough that Dick winces. “I said don’t-“

Heavy footsteps. The flash of a gun. Another flinch, cutting off whatever Jason was going to say. Dick wants to reach for his brother. Wants to pull him close and protect him, but his arms are too heavy to lift, and his chest screams at just the thought, burning like a wildfire through his throat. He whimpers.

Bruce leans over them both, shifting, forcing Jason close against Dick’s chest, and Jason lets him, his face pinched and too pale. Small hands press against the mess of blood coating Dick’s front, sliding through the slick liquid pooling on his chest. Then there’s more pressure, more pain. Dick chokes.

“I’ll get you the money,” Bruce is saying, somewhere far away. His hands waver across Dick’s vision - hands up or I’ll shoot - dripping red, like too-bright birds. But his eyes are fixed on Dick. He can see them behind Jason’s head, laser-sharp. Dick shivers again. He’s so cold his teeth are chattering.

“Stay with me,” Jason murmurs, closer and more real than Bruce, and Dick blinks, struggles to focus his vision.

“’M tired,” he tries to say, but he’s not sure if the words actually come out. His tongue is a dead thing in his mouth. Jason’s face seems very far away, floating like the moon somewhere above him.

“I know,” Jason says. “But you have to –“

Only, Dick never finds out what he has to do, because his eyelids are too heavy to keep open any longer, the fog in his head too thick, and Dick slips into the black without any resistance at all.

***

Dick comes back to consciousness as if he’s swimming through treacle. Everything seems slow and sticky. Strange lights waver above him, oddly distorted and too bright. He blinks, tries to turn his head away, but his body doesn’t seem to want to respond to his commands.

“Dick?” The voice is soft, but loud enough for Dick to make sense of it, even through the strange fog in his head, and the steady, rhythmic beeping somewhere beside him. Dick recognises it, in a distant sort of way. “Hey, chum, are you awake?”

Yes. Dick is awake. He thinks. There’s a pleasant heaviness to his body, a warm current through his veins, dragging heavy on his eyelids. But he blinks again and his vision clears a little, and Bruce Wayne’s face materialises above him.

“B?” he manages and, Jesus, his throat is dry. He chokes. For a moment, he can’t breathe, throat contracting painfully around nothing, rough and cracked, as if he’s been swallowing sand.

“Careful,” Bruce murmurs, and a hand presses lightly against his shoulder. For one bright moment, Dick expects pain. But there’s no flash of fire in his chest, just a heady numbness. “Jay, will you get some ice chips for him, lad?” Then, to Dick: “Your throat dry?”

Dick tries a nod. Mostly, his head just lolls, loose, against his pillow. He’s not entirely sure what’s happening – Bruce is here, and Jason, apparently, but he doesn’t know where here is. Maybe the cave? Did Dick get injured on a mission? It wouldn’t be unusual, but, then, he should be in Bludhaven, in his safe house – not at the manor with Bruce. Beside him, the beeping speeds. A rapid, throbbing, pulse.

“Hey, it’s OK. Do you remember what happened?”

Does he? Dick strains, fighting through the fog, struggling against himself. He was – Jason – that’s why he’s in Gotham. It’s Jason’s birthday. They were on patrol – no. That’s not right. There were…chili dogs…a fast food restaurant. A robbery. Guns.

Jason was shot.

Ice pours down Dick’s spine. His chest throbs, heart ricocheting against his ribs.

No. That’s not right either.

“We were at a fast food place.” God, his voice sounds bad. “Somebody - somebody tried to rob it and they shot…oh, they shot me.”

Right. It was Dick that was shot, not Jason.

As if thinking it is some sort of permission, pain throbs through Dick’s chest. Maybe it’s psychological - because he must be hopped up on an absolute shit-load of drugs right now - but that doesn’t stop Dick gritting his teeth against the burn. Doesn’t stop his hand flailing out, looking for purchase on something other than the pain, or maybe just trying to release some of the energy rushing through his veins.

A hand catches his. Dry and warm, enveloping Dick’s fingers easily. Another hand presses through his hair and Dick can’t help turning his face to it.

“It’s OK, you’re OK.”

He doesn’t think he is, but he’s not going to fight Bruce on it.

“Hey - Oh, sorry. I got the ice.”

There are light footsteps, then Jason is beside the bed, clutching a cup of ice chips in one hand, looking unusually awkward.

“Thanks, Jaylad,” Bruce says softly. Softer than Dick has heard him for a long time, and Jason doesn’t bristle the way he half-expects him to. Then he takes the cup from Jason and spoons a chip carefully into Dick’s mouth.

It’s heaven - melting slowly in the desert of Dick’s mouth, trickling down his sore throat. Dick grips Bruce’s wrist and Bruce chuckles and indulgently spoons another one out of the cup.

When his mouth is wet enough, he manages: “Where am I? What happened?” And it comes out as actual words.

Bruce’s face tightens. “You’re at the hospital. You were shot in the chest.” A pause. “You’re very lucky to be alive.”

Beside him, Jason makes a small, unhappy sound.

“Everything OK, Jay?” Dick asks – or wants to. What comes out is more like “K?” on a long exhale of breath. It takes too much energy to form proper words. Jason’s face gets impossibly tighter.

Jason shrugs and his face is tight and unhappy. There’s tension in the set of his shoulders, his tightly crossed arms. “No.”

OK, that’s…surprising. Not surprising that he’s not OK, perhaps - because being caught up in a situation like that is tough on anyone, let alone a kid - but surprising that he would admit it. Dick flicks a glance at Bruce, and it’s difficult to read his father’s face, but there’s a little furrow between his brows that Dick is more used to seeing directed at him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Jason continues, and his voice is tight with anger.

A long beat of silence. Dick isn’t entirely sure what Jason is talking about – done what? Gotten shot? Asked him if he was OK? Eaten the ice chip? He feels too slow and tired to figure it out. Already, he can feel the drugs and the pain tugging him back towards sleep.

On the other side of the bed, Bruce is a statue, cool and unmoving, his face still blank besides the little wrinkle of concern. Or maybe confusion? Either way, he offers no help.

“Done what?” Dick asks, and manages to squeeze it through the tight ache of his chest.

“You shouldn’t have –“ Jason’s face crumples and Dick is shocked to see the shine of tears in his eyes, welling against his lashes and spilling over his cheeks. It feels a little like Dick’s been punched, the shock an almost physical blow. Jason turns away, scrubbing a hand angrily over his face. “You nearly died, Dickface.”

That was not what Dick was expecting. None of this is. Dick feels strangely adrift.

“Jason,” Bruce starts, voice a low rumble, and Jason spins away from him too, landing heavily against the bed, but avoiding Dick’s injuries in a way that suggests intent behind the motion.

“You don’t need to protect me. I can handle myself. You don’t have to.” His voice is rough, angry, but there’s something else there – a fragile waver that makes Dick’s chest hurt. Dick drags his arm up, against the heavy pull of gravity, and rests it against Jason’s curls, resting close beside him.

“OK,” he says and his eyes meet Bruce’s over Jason’s head. “OK.”

But he does.

[vspideycaptain]

The Real War (Part 1)

Reader x Tom Holland x Chris Evans (not a 3 way)

A/N: You’re a newer member of the MCU as you were and actor cast in Guardians of the Galaxy vol. 3. Through the shooting process you have come to know the other actors in the MCU and some have even taken an extra liking to you… You find yourself in a love-triangle with Tom Holland and Chris Evans and all the secrets break out at the MCU Reunion party hosted by RDJ. Oh and it’s a karaoke party!

So I’m not new to writing fanfics but I am new to posting them so please please let me know what you think but I will say that I won’t be taking suggestions. I can only write when I’m truly obsessed with an idea. With this first release I’m going to post other stories that spin off of this one so stay tuned!

Warnings: Angst, such angst    WORD COUNT: 1,212

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There was a MCU reunion party at RDJ’s LA house tonight. This night’s theme was a ‘typical old karaoke party’ but I knew at this point that if Robert Downy was involved nothing was ‘typical’.  Since I had been staying a Zen’s for the past few days we had gotten ready together after my day of shooting. She was free during the day so she went out and bought us new outfits for the event. She was in one of her signature pant suits, an emerald green with pinstripes. As we got ready I only told her about 20 times how much I admired her for being able to pull the suits off. Each time she deflected my self-deprecating compliments by shushing me with more beauty products and accessories. She had styled me head-to-toe and wouldn’t let me leave until she had finished her masterpiece. I walked out of her house and into the car in the final look: A black sheer front-tie crop top with embroidered roses and beading details with High-waisted black jeans with distressed slits right at the knees snatched at my waist with an all-black Gucci belt paired with satin ruby kitten heels and matching clutch. After a long working day feeling a little inadequate in my acting skills it was this makeover done by one of my best friends that I really needed. It was the perfect thing to boost my spirits for the party.

We rolled up to RDJ’s place at about quarter after nine. Zendaya knocked on the door and Robert himself answered the door and let us in instantly like the gracious host he was. “Welcome Ladies” He spoke as we did a round of air kisses and he gestured in the different directions of the house, “Bathroom is down this hall, food is in the kitchen over there and the drinks and showbusiness is in the garage. Make yourselves comfortable!” Zen instantly head for the kitchen and I followed her like a little puppy. I had been to two other MCU parties since I’ve joined the group but I still felt like a newby at the start of each of them. I needed some time to warm up to the party atmosphere not to mention I was nervous to see the guys… The guys meaning Tom Holland and Chris Evans.

You see since being cast about a year ago I had come to meet every actor working with Marvel and had gotten close to a handful. And it is because of this ‘closeness’ that I have landed myself in a little bit of a pickle. I’ve kind of caught feelings for both Tom Holland and Chris Evans….

I met Tom first as RDJ thought it was a good idea to introduce me to the MCU actors that were my same age. You know, so they could show me the ropes and we could gossip about all the “old people”, as he put it. That’s also when I met Zendaya and Jacob Batalon and the four of us did become fast friends. Only for Tom and me things were always shy and awkward. Whenever we ended up alone together something would almost happen between us. But because Tom just got out of a relationship he’s still a little bruised from the whole thing and has put some walls up. The tension between us was apparent but we never spoke about it. It was like we were waiting for the right moment. Zen and Jacob knew there was something there too. They teased us about it all the time…

But then there was Chris. He came out of nowhere and I think I came out of nowhere for him too. I met him at the first MCU party I attended and Chris Pratt introduced us. I met a lot of people that night as it was my kind of coming-out party to the franchise but the whole night I caught Chris’s eyes on me. He wouldn’t let me leave the party without exchanging numbers and since then he has being hanging out on set and taking me out to lunch on my breaks… Yes, there is an age difference there… about 16 years… but for some reason when we were together it was almost like it didn’t matter… Well until it did matter because we were both in the public eye and don’t even get me started on the unknown of what Marvel/Disney would do if they found out. So nothing was ever acted upon.

Tonight was the first night since the first party that both of them and me would be under the same roof at the same time. And to be completely honest because of all the barriers I had no real idea how I felt about either of them. I knew that with both of them there was a sexual tension there but I had no gauge on which one I had stronger feelings for. Not yet anyway. So this party was quite nerve racking for me and so when I started stuffing my face with cheese cubes from the buffet display in the kitchen Zendaya rushed over to me and stopped me (of course she knew everything about my situation), “(Y/N) try to chill. They’re not the only two people in there so for all you know nothing could even happen tonight.” She said trying to reassure me but putting the idea that nothing would happen only threw me into more of a panic and she retracted quickly, “Okay. No. Something will happen. You’ll get some sort of answer tonight and that’s good right? Clarity is what you want! So going in there is exciting not stressful.” She put both of her hands on both of my shoulders and coaxed me away from the edge of my panic attack and guided me into the garage.

Oh and the garage! Of course RDJ throws karaoke parties in his fully finished and furnished garage. Remember how I said nothing was typical with him? Well the garage was filled with a few cars but it also had a full bar, tables and chairs, party lighting, and a stage… So could he even really call it a garage at this point? But I digress… We enter the room and realize that literally everyone showed up for this reunion. Everyone from Black Panther to Guardians to all the Avangers movies. And just like in the movies a strobe light lands on Zendaya and I walking and our plan of subtly was immediately blown to shit. And low and behold there were two hands waving us down from either side of the party. Tom waved like an excited little boy standing near the stage with Jacob, Anthony Mackie, and Sebastian Stan. He was clearly on his second drink as he bobbed his head to the music in his own little world waiting for us to meet him… But on the other side of the party Chris has flagged us down with a casual raise of his hand as he sat at a table with Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston. Hemsworth was clearly deep in telling the two of them a story as he gestured wildly but the second he caught my eye he didn’t break his focus.

To Be continued…. (part 2)

[reallyxstrangexthings-blog]

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