#it keeps quote narrowing unquote

[anris-resurrection]

Nothing is funnier to me than getting DNA "updates" and being told more and more that I am as new mexican as pyhisically possible lol.

[thirtysomethingloser92]

1. And If I Get Burned, At Least We Were Electrified.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

A deep yawn slipped from your lips as you descended the creaky wooden stairs, each step bringing you closer to the dimly lit bar area below. The comforting warmth of the takeaway coffee in your hand did little to fully shake the lingering sleep that clung to you. With your crossbody bag pressed tightly against your chest and your phone occupying your other hand, you navigated the sudden shift from the bright, sunlit morning outside to the bar’s shadowy interior. The contrast was jarring, momentarily disorienting, and you found yourself squinting, blinking a few times as your eyes adjusted to the low light.

The faint smell of stale beer and cleaning products hit your senses, and you paused briefly, the familiar atmosphere slowly wrapping itself around you. Just another day, you thought, taking a slow sip of your coffee to wake up a little more. Your footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor as you made your way further inside.

“You’re late,” came a voice from behind the bar, breaking the silence. You glanced up to see James, your friend, leaning casually against the counter. His signature smirk was plastered across his face, his arms crossed in front of him. A white cloth was carelessly slung over his shoulder, a familiar sight after years of friendship and shared shifts.

Without missing a beat, you held up your coffee cup as if it were a shield against his teasing, “There was a line,” you replied defensively, trying to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. You could already tell this was going to be one of those days. You slipped your phone into your bag and moved to the side office, the small room barely big enough to hold the essentials. The bag hit the floor with a soft thud, a sigh escaping your lips.

As you stepped back into the bar area, you noticed one of your colleagues struggling to maneuver a trolley full of alcohol bottles into the storage area. You made a mental note to help them later, but for now, your attention was fixed on James, who was watching you with an amused expression, his arms still crossed.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Well, in the spirit of full disclosure,” he began, “we just had Remy Lebeau’s crew here.”

You froze mid-sip, the coffee catching in your throat as you swallowed too quickly. You coughed, eyes widening as his words sank in. “Why?” you rasped, narrowing your eyes suspiciously as you glanced around the bar. “Who owes him here?”

James straightened up, unfolding his arms but keeping that smirk on his lips. “No one, apparently. They’re looking for a—quote—neutral spot for a meeting—unquote.” He paused for emphasis, eyeing you as if to gauge your reaction. “So they gave the boss lady a shit ton of money to close the bar down for the night. They’ll be here for some kind of meeting.”

You blinked, the implications hitting you immediately. “Thank fuck I wasn’t here,” you muttered under your breath, relief washing over you. “And thank fuck I won’t be here! It’s Friday, I’m off at 3.”

James’ laugh was genuine this time, the deep, rumbling sound filling the quiet bar. But there was something in that laugh that made you wary. He leaned back on his heels, arms once again crossing over his chest in that way that told you bad news was coming.

“And that’s where I rain on your little parade.” His grin widened, almost gleeful now. “Kate called in sick.”

Your heart sank, the coffee now feeling like a lead weight in your stomach. “No...”

“You’re replacing her, 10 to 10,” he said, the words like a hammer to your carefully laid plans.

Your face fell as the reality of your situation settled in. “I had plans,” you mumbled, the words barely audible even to yourself. Visions of a quiet evening at home, maybe catching up on that show or finally finishing that book, all crumbled before you like a house of cards.

“Not anymore, you don’t.” James’ laughter followed you as you stared at him in disbelief. He didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. Instead, he turned back to the dishwasher that had just beeped, signaling the end of a cycle. He reached in to pull out the dozens of hot, steaming glasses crammed inside with the same casual ease, while your mood plummeted further.

You stood there in the middle of the bar, still holding your now lukewarm coffee, mentally kicking yourself for not calling in sick yourself this morning.

As you and James cleaned up the bar, the sound of heels echoed from around the corner, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the silence like a knife. Abigail emerged, a folder in her hands, her expression as unreadable as ever. She came to a stop in front of you, her gaze flicking briefly to the takeaway coffee cup still in your hand. Abigail Norman was not a woman you forgot easily. Even before she spoke, her presence commanded attention with a force that could quiet a room. She was older, though you could never quite pinpoint her age—somewhere in her mid-fifties, perhaps—but the years had done nothing to soften her sharp edges. Her dark brown hair, carefully styled into loose curls, framed her face in a way that might have made someone else look approachable, even warm. But for Abigail, it only sharpened her already severe appearance. Her features were angular and precise: high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and hooded eyes that always seemed to be calculating something just out of your reach.

Her makeup was meticulously applied, but not overdone. The crimson lipstick she wore was a signature of hers—bold, unapologetic, and a signal that she was not to be trifled with. A soft brown eyeshadow and a thin line of eyeliner emphasized her dark eyes, which, despite their cosmetic enhancement, remained cold and distant, like two polished stones. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much and trusted too little.

She dressed in business attire that was both elegant and intimidating. Today, it was a tailored gray suit, the pants perfectly hemmed to reveal the iconic red soles of her Louboutin heels. The suit accentuated her slim frame, adding to the impression that she was not just a businesswoman, but a force of nature. Every step she took echoed through the bar, the sound of her heels against the floor an almost ominous reminder of the authority she wielded.

Abigail was not known for small talk or pleasantries, and she had little patience for anything she deemed frivolous. You’d once cracked a joke about money laundering, given the sheer number of businesses she owned—bars, restaurants, and even a high-end boutique or two. But one sharp glance from those cold, steely eyes had shut that down fast. It wasn’t just that she didn’t find it funny; it was as though the mere suggestion that she could be anything but above board was an insult she wouldn’t tolerate.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” she commented, her tone clipped, not bothering to hide her irritation.

You forced a smile, already bracing for the lecture. “Traffic. You know how it is in New Orleans,” you lied smoothly, though you knew it wouldn’t land.

Her eyes shifted to the cup in your hand, and a small, knowing smirk tugged at her lips. “I’m sure it was.”

Abigail’s gaze lingered for just a moment before she moved on, her sharp eyes scanning the bar. As usual, she missed nothing. Her presence alone was enough to make you and James fall into line, though you both tried to keep things light with your usual banter.

“I suppose you’ve heard about tonight then?” she asked, not really waiting for an answer.

You nodded. “I have.”

“And that you’re working 10-10 now. Kate’s called out,” she said, barely looking up from the checklist in her hands.

Feigning concern, you put on your best sympathetic face. “Oh, that’s a shame. Is she okay?” you asked, handing your cup to James, who silently tossed it into the bin behind you.

Abigail didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You know what Kate’s like. She cries about wanting the shifts, so I give them to her, and she never shows up.”

Her eyes flicked up from the checklist, pinning you with that steely gaze. “I know how much you two enjoy making running commentary about our guests,” she said, motioning to you and James, who was now trying to suppress a grin. “So for tonight, I suggest you both shut the hell up. Make Mr. Lebeau and his friends comfortable, or I’ll make sure neither of you work in this city again.”

You and James both nodded, the threat as real as the woman standing before you. It wasn’t the first time Abigail had reminded you of the precarious position you held, and it wouldn’t be the last.

As she turned to leave, she paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Also, neither one of you are very subtle,” she added, her eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement, though her face remained perfectly neutral.

Once she was out of earshot, you and James exchanged a grin, the tension lifting slightly. You both knew better than to push too far, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun in the meantime.

“Think she’s planning on making herself the queen of New Orleans?” you asked, grabbing a bottle of cleaner and spraying down the benches.

“Oof,” James scoffed. “If she is, she’ll be making the mad dash to her hairdresser in about thirty minutes.”

You chuckled, as if this was a conversation you’d had before. “Maybe we should be protecting Remy Lebeau from her,” you commented lightly, reaching for a bottle of top-shelf whiskey and pouring three shots in quick succession.

“Here’s to 11 a.m. shots and Remy Lebeau possibly becoming our new boss daddy,” you laughed, raising your glass. James and your other colleague snorted in response as they grabbed their own glasses.

You all knocked back the shots, the burn of the alcohol barely registering, before a voice called out from the back room.

“You’re paying for those.”

You winced, but couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. <><><><><><><><><>

The clock on the wall ticked over to 8 PM, and the bar was eerily quiet. You and James had been killing time for the past hour, throwing crumpled paper into a small recycling bin behind the bar. It was a poor substitute for the bustling Friday night crowd that should’ve been filling the place with noise, laughter, and chaos. Normally at this time, the bar would be packed, with bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the hum of conversation and clinking of glasses filling the space. But tonight, it was dead. The absence of life felt unnatural, and after a while, the silence started to crawl under your skin.

“So, what were your plans for tonight?” you asked James, taking another shot at the bin and missing by a mile.

He lazily handed you another crumpled paper ball, shrugging as he took a long sip from his water bottle. “I was gonna take Nat out to that new Italian place by the river, but, well... as you can see, that all went to shit.”

You winced slightly, knowing how hard it was to get a reservation at that place. “Is she at least understanding about it?”

James chuckled, retrieving the paper you’d missed and making the shot himself in one smooth motion. “Yeah, when I told her the reason, she said it was fine. She’ll just hang with her sister tonight.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “It helps when you’ve got someone understanding.”

James raised an eyebrow at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “What about you? Any hot date I need to know about?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you tossed another paper ball. “Not even close. Honestly, I think I’m done with dating until the men of New Orleans decide to pick up their game.”

James laughed, a low, amused chuckle. “Ouch. That’s rough.”

You grinned, pointing at him. “Oh, you’re definitely included in that Barnes.”

Before he could respond, both of you froze at the sound of Abigail’s voice echoing from the hallway. You exchanged quick glances, panic flashing in your eyes, and immediately scrambled to clean up the mess of paper and empty cups you’d left behind. It was a mad dash to make the bar look like a professional establishment again, both of you trying to act like you hadn’t just spent the last few hours goofing off.

Abigail entered the bar, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, followed by a man in a white suit and four others trailing behind him. The man in the white suit was large, with a thick neck and broad shoulders, clearly someone used to commanding respect. Abigail stopped in front of you and James, her cold eyes flicking over you both with an air of disapproval.

“And this is our bar staff,” she said, her voice dripping with an almost forced politeness. “If you need anything, feel free to ask them, and they will be happy to provide it.”

You and James forced smiles, but yours felt more like a grimace, especially when Abigail shot you a brief but pointed glare. The men nodded silently, then moved toward the large circular table for twelve that had been set up in the far corner of the bar. The man in the white suit took his seat at the head of the table, while the others flanked him, standing like silent sentinels.

Abigail leaned in close to you, her voice a low, icy whisper. “Try to be a bit more pleasant when Mr. Lebeau arrives.” Her tone left no room for argument—it was a warning, and a familiar one at that.

You exchanged a quick glance with James, both of you tensing slightly. The red-haired waitress was already at the table, nodding furiously as the man in white pointed to various items on the menu. You could tell by her expression that she was nervous, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to keep up with his rapid questions.

And then, as if on cue, you heard it—the loud, fake laugh that Abigail reserved for only the most important guests. It echoed through the quiet bar, signaling the arrival of the man you’d been nervously anticipating all night. You were midway through complaining to James about how hungry you were when the door swung open, and your head automatically turned.

Remy Lebeau walked in, and the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. It was as if all the air had been sucked out, leaving only the weight of his presence. He was the kind of man who didn’t need to announce himself—his mere existence did that for him. He wore a dark blue suit, perfectly tailored to his lean, muscular frame, with the top button of his white shirt left undone, giving him an air of casual confidence. His hair was dark and not overly styled, it fell slightly on his forehead. His face was sharp, angular, with a jawline that could probably cut glass. Five men walked in after him, each dressed in a type of calm and casual neatness that if you didn’t know any better, you would say it was a group of friends having dinner after a day in the office. But of course you knew better.

If New Orleans had a king, his name was Remy Lebeau. In the underworld, he was a legend, a figure whispered about in dark corners and back alleys, where people knew better than to speak his name too loudly. He was the kind of man that everyone respected—whether that respect was born out of admiration or fear depended entirely on which side of his temper you’d found yourself. Few dared to cross him, and those who did rarely lived to tell the tale.

Lebeau wasn’t just any mobster. He had clawed his way to the top with a combination of sheer cunning, brute strength, and a ruthless disregard for anyone who stood in his way. His nickname, "The King of New Orleans," wasn’t just a title; it was a statement of fact. Every racket, every scheme, every underhanded deal that went down in the Crescent City had his fingerprints on it. And if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before it did.

Behind his suave, charming exterior—and he was charming, that much was undeniable—was a man with an iron will and a heart as cold as the Mississippi in winter. His reputation for cruelty was well-earned. A hard hand and an unforgiving nature defined him. If you owed him money, you paid. If you crossed him, you disappeared. And if you made the mistake of underestimating him, well, you didn’t get the chance to make that mistake again.

Lebeau was a master of contradiction. He was known for his impeccable manners, his smooth Cajun drawl, and his love of fine things—tailored suits, expensive bourbon, and even finer women. But beneath that polished exterior was a man capable of terrifying violence. He could be laughing with you over cigars one minute and have you dragged to the bayou the next, never to be seen again. His crew was fiercely loyal, but not because they loved him—because they feared him. And in Remy Lebeau’s world, fear was the currency that bought loyalty.

He was also a man who understood the value of appearances. He kept his hands clean, at least on the surface. His legitimate businesses—clubs, restaurants, even a few high-end hotels—were fronts, a way to launder the dirty money that flowed through his empire. But everyone knew the truth. No one got that rich, that powerful, in New Orleans without getting blood on their hands. And Lebeau’s hands were soaked.

In moments of generosity, he could be magnanimous, even charming. He’d be the first to buy a round of drinks for the house, to shake hands with the mayor, to slip a generous donation to the church. But that charm was as much a weapon as the gun tucked beneath his tailored jacket. It disarmed people, lulled them into a false sense of security, right before he made his move.

But it wasn’t his appearance that struck you the most—it was the way he carried himself. There was an undeniable magnetism about him, an aura of control and danger that radiated from every step he took. His movements were smooth, deliberate, like a predator who knew exactly where he stood in the food chain. His smile was charming, almost disarming, but his eyes told a different story. They were dark, calculating, like he was constantly sizing up everyone around him, deciding who was useful and who was expendable. He had the kind of eyes that could flip from warmth to ice in an instant.

When those eyes finally met yours, you felt a chill run down your spine. Though he was smiling, you could see the darkness beneath it—this was a man who didn’t get where he was by being nice. He was dangerous, and you knew it. Every instinct in your body told you to be cautious around him. This wasn’t someone you wanted to cross; this was someone who could ruin you with a single word, and you wouldn’t even know it was coming until it was too late.

As Remy walked further into the room, the men at the table all stood, their posture stiffening as if his presence alone demanded respect. He gave them a nod, his smile never faltering, but you noticed the way his eyes flicked back to you and James for just a second longer than necessary. It was a glance that made your stomach tighten.

Abigail greeted him with her usual over-the-top enthusiasm, her laugh grating on your nerves even more than usual, but you were too focused on Remy to pay much attention. The way he commanded the room without even trying was unsettling, to say the least. You’d heard the stories about him—the King of New Orleans, the mobster with the iron grip on the city’s underworld—but seeing him in person was something else entirely. He was more than just a rumor, more than just a name whispered in hushed tones. He was real, and he was right in front of you.

James nudged you lightly, pulling you out of your thoughts. You quickly tore your gaze away from Remy and focused on the task at hand, your heart still pounding in your chest. The night had just begun, and already it felt like it was going to be a long one.

As you moved behind the bar, you couldn’t help but glance back at Remy one more time. He was talking to Abigail now, his voice low and smooth, though you couldn’t make out the words. The way he stood, the way he moved—it all screamed power. And for the first time in a long while, you felt completely out of your depth. This wasn’t just another high roller or VIP. This was someone far more dangerous.

And tonight, you were in his world. <><><><><><><><><> Laughter rippled through the large table, catching your attention as you and James busied yourselves tidying up the bar. Remy clapped one of his men on the shoulder, saying something that sent the whole table into another round of chuckles. So far, the evening had remained friendly, the mood around the room still light. But beneath the surface, you could feel something else—something tense, something electric.

You’d been working overtime all evening, and the exhaustion was starting to creep into your limbs. The idea of the weekend, of not having to come back here for two full days, was practically the only thing keeping you going. You’d lost count of how many times Abigail had swanned in, fluttering her lashes at Remy, each time asking with exaggerated sweetness if he and his entourage were enjoying themselves. You and James had exchanged plenty of glances, barely holding back your amusement every time she left the room.

You kept your voices low, but it didn’t seem to matter. Every time the two of you snorted in laughter or made a quick quip at Abigail’s expense, Remy would glance up from the table. His eyes would lock onto yours, that ever-present smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he could hear every word you were saying. His gaze pierced through the dim lighting of the bar, and each time, it felt like he was looking right into you, like he could read your thoughts. The intensity of his attention was unnerving, and yet… there was something magnetic about it. You couldn’t help but feel drawn in, as if some invisible current connected the two of you across the room.

“We’re so getting fired by the end of the night,” James muttered, crouching down to grab a few bottles from the drink cupboard. His voice was light, but there was an edge of real anxiety behind it. “Might need to learn how to make our feet look real pretty, ‘cause that’s the only way we’ll be paying rent this month.”

You laughed, but the tension in your gut didn’t dissipate. “Speak for yourself. I’m more worried about getting killed before the night’s over. If not by the guys in here, then by Abigail herself. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.”

James stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. “You think Abigail sleeps?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You didn’t notice the subtle shift in the atmosphere as you continued stocking the shelves. “Yeah, upside down on the rafters, like a bat,” you joked, letting out a laugh just as you felt a slight nudge at the back of your feet.

The laugh died in your throat as you turned and locked eyes with Remy Lebeau, leaning casually against the bar. That smirk—the one that had been haunting you all night—was wider now, more pronounced. His presence sent a jolt through you, and you immediately looked down at the floor, your heart racing. You knew you were in trouble. A man like Remy didn’t sneak up on people without a reason.

“Abigail’s y’ boss, right?” Remy’s voice was smooth, with that thick drawl that rolled off his tongue like honeyed whiskey. He wasn’t even acknowledging James, his eyes fixed solely on you, that grin never leaving his face. There was a playfulness in his tone, but underneath it, you could sense the weight of his power—a reminder that playful or not, he was not a man to be taken lightly.

You swallowed hard, trying to salvage the situation. “She’s a great boss,” you managed to say, though your voice sounded a little too high-pitched for your liking. “Really,” you added, though the word trailed off awkwardly as Remy raised an eyebrow, his amusement deepening.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the silence stretch between you, making you feel more and more like a deer caught in headlights. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he handed James a large bill, his eyes still locked on you. “Grab me ‘nother bottle of wha’ we been drinkin’,” he said, though it was less of a request and more of a command.

James took the money, but you were already moving, grabbing the bottle from the shelf with shaky hands. As you passed it to James, Remy gave you a small wink. “Keep th’ change,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. Then, without another word, he pushed off the bar and strode back to the table, leaving you standing there, breathless.

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest. James, who had been watching the entire exchange with barely concealed amusement, finally let out a snort of laughter. “Well, that was something. Should I start looking for job openings now, or wait until morning?”

You shot him a look, though the humor in his eyes made it hard to stay irritated. “Oh, we’re definitely screwed. I’ll let you know if I find a job that’ll take us both.”

Before you could say anything else, the red-haired waitress wandered over, her eyes following Remy as he walked back to the table. She glanced between the two of you, curiosity written all over her face. “What was that all about?” she asked, leaning against the counter.

You shook your head, trying to shake the lingering tension that clung to you like a second skin. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be spending my weekend job hunting after tonight,” you muttered, finally tearing your gaze away from Remy and focusing on the waitress. “What about you? What brings you into the lion’s den?”

She glanced toward the kitchen, then back at you, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Abigail wants me to cover you while you take your break. Vis has made something for dinner in the back.”

“Oh, thank god,” James groaned, handing over the white cloth he’d been using to clean the bar. “I was starting to think I’d have to start nibbling on the bar snacks.”

The waitress listened as he gave her a small list of tasks that needed handling, but you were only half-listening. You couldn’t shake the feeling of Remy’s eyes still on you, even from across the room. Every time you let your guard down, every time you let yourself slip into the rhythm of the evening, there he was—watching. Observing. Every smile he flashed at his men, every laugh he shared at the table, felt like it was tinged with something else. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but there was a dangerous edge to his presence, something that made your skin prickle with nervous energy.

As you and James made your way toward the kitchen, you cast one last glance over your shoulder. Remy was leaned back in his chair, his arm draped casually over the backrest, and his eyes were still locked on you. That smirk was back, curling at the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the room disappeared—just you and him, caught in that charged silence, where everything seemed to hang on the edge of a knife. His gaze was intense, like he could see right through the bravado you wore like armor, right down to the nerves fraying underneath.

You turned away quickly, your pulse kicking up as you tried to steady your breathing. Vis, the older cook, handed you a large burger with fries on the side. The comforting smell of sizzling food and the clatter of pans usually made the kitchen feel like a safe haven, but right now, it was a sanctuary from the tension simmering in the bar.

“How’s it going out there?” He asked, his voice low and gruff, as if he knew exactly who was still on your mind.

James grabbed his food and shook some salt over the fries, leaning casually against the counter. “Well, in the space of several hours, we’ve watched Abigail try and find herself husband number—what is it again?” He glanced at you with a knowing grin.

“Four,” you mumbled around a mouthful of fries.

“Four,” James repeated, drawing out the word with exaggerated exasperation. “We’ve been dying of hunger all night, and our lovely head barmaid here has been making bedroom eyes with a certain mobster.”

You choked, spluttering and coughing as you struggled to catch your breath. “I’ve been what now?”

James waited patiently as you recovered, his expression not unlike that of a cat who caught a canary. He turned back to Vis, who watched the scene unfold with quiet amusement. “Anyway, Remy overheard us talking smack about Abigail, and now we’re pretty sure we’ll be fired by tomorrow. He’s definitely gonna tell her.”

You nodded, your expression grim as you took another bite. “He’s absolutely gonna tell her,” you agreed, though the thought of Remy tattling on you seemed oddly out of character, “Anyway, I’m going to go eat this out the back. Its getting a bit too stuffy in here for my liking.” “It’s cold out there,” Vis pointed out, “Don’t forget a jacket.”

You gave the chef a warm smile as you told him you’ll be fine, you just need a bit of a breather. But all you could feel was the weight of the evening pressing down on you. The kitchen was too warm, too stifling, and the thought of Remy’s lingering gaze still made your skin tingle uncomfortably. Grabbing your plate, you pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night, the clamor of the bar fading as you settled onto an old crate against the wall. The night air was a welcome relief, crisp and biting against your heated skin.

You were midway through your burger when the door creaked open again, and Remy stepped out, his presence as effortless as ever. He gave you a nod of acknowledgment before fishing a cigarette from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, he lit it, the glow briefly illuminating his face in the dark. He took a long drag, then held the pack out to you.

You shook your head, feeling awkward now that the bustling bar was behind you. Out here in the cool night air, the streetlights casting long shadows, there was nowhere to hide from Remy’s sharp, knowing eyes. The way they seemed to take in everything about you—every nervous glance, every fidget—it made you feel exposed. Vulnerable, even. You were used to fading into the background when things got too intense, blending into the noise and activity of the bar. But now, with just the two of you standing outside, there was no escaping his attention.

Remy shrugged casually, slipping his cigarette pack back into his jacket pocket and leaning against the brick wall beside you. He exhaled a plume of smoke, the scent of tobacco mixing with the crisp night air. “Should really quit, I know,” he said, his voice carrying that lazy, Southern drawl that somehow made everything sound like a suggestion rather than a command. “These things gonna kill me ‘fore I even see my next birthday.”

You smirked despite the tension crawling up your spine, popping another fry into your mouth as you tried to keep things light. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, and when you glanced over, his eyes were still on you, unwavering. “So, it’s no’ jus’ reserved fo’ the staff, huh?” he teased, his voice warm but edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “This is jus’ who y’ are.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, your heart picking up pace. His gaze had that effect on you—like he could see past the words you were saying, right into the truth of you. Unsettled, you looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the few remaining fries. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I’m overtired and not really thinking straight.”

Remy tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet, intense way of his, like he was weighing your words carefully. “Then why y’s till here, if y’ wasn’t suppos’ t’ be?”

You shrugged, your fingers nervously picking at the edges of your half-eaten burger bun. The question hit a little too close to home. “One of the other bartenders called in sick, and…well, rent’s due.” The words came out casually, but there was a weight behind them, a kind of resignation you hadn’t meant to let slip. You quickly looked down, embarrassed by how vulnerable that admission felt.

There was a beat of silence, and when you dared to glance up, Remy was nodding slowly, his expression thoughtful, as if he understood more than you had said. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. “That’s fair. Gotta keep the lights on somehow.” His eyes flicked back to you, assessing, but not unkind. “You like workin’ here?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. No one ever really asked you things like that. You paused, really thinking about it for the first time in a while. “Yeah, I do. It’s not so bad, you know? Except for the occasional rowdy customer or—”

“—or Abigail,” Remy finished for you, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His laugh was soft, but it caught you off guard, and despite yourself, you found your own lips curling into a smile.

You rolled your eyes with a half-laugh, the tension beginning to ease from your shoulders. “She’s not always that bad. Just… selectively intolerable.”

Remy’s smirk deepened as he flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the pavement, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Selective’s one way t’ put i’,” he said with a chuckle, his tone light but carrying that ever-present edge of danger. “Y’ got some guts talkin’ about her like that when she’s just inside, though.”

You laughed, but it was a nervous sound, the kind of laugh you let out when you’re caught off guard but still trying to play it cool. “Yeah, well… I’m learning to live dangerously,” you teased, though the irony wasn’t lost on you. You were standing next to the most dangerous man in the city, and yet somehow you felt more at ease with him than you did with your own boss.

Remy’s eyes softened, just a fraction, but enough for you to notice. “Danger, huh? Don’t seem like th’ type t’ go lookin’ fo’ it.”

You shrugged, your fingers still toying with the edge of the burger wrapper, trying to keep your hands busy so you wouldn’t betray just how on edge you felt. “I’m not, usually. But tonight’s been…not my normal clientele.”

He didn’t ask what you meant by that, but the way his gaze lingered told you that he understood more than you  were saying. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled you in even though every rational part of your brain was screaming at you to keep your distance. He was dangerous, yes, but there was something else there—something that made you want to know more.

Remy took a final drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. “Different ain’t always a bad thing,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. He pushed off the wall, standing a little closer to you now, the space between you growing smaller, more intimate.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his presence. The way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world worth noticing in that moment—made your skin tingle with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. You weren’t sure if you should say something, or if the silence between you was enough. The air felt charged, thick with unspoken words and possibilities you weren’t sure you wanted to explore.

But Remy didn’t push, didn’t rush. He simply stood there, the smirk on his lips fading into something softer, something more genuine. “Y’ got more goin’ on than people give ya credit for, don’tcha?” he asked, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugged, but his eyes never left yours. “I can tell. Not jus’ anyone can handle a place like this. Or people like me.” His words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

You felt your heart skip a beat. The way he said it—so casually, so matter-of-factly—made you realize that he wasn’t just talking about the bar, or the job, or even Abigail. He was talking about you. About what he saw in you. James poked his head out, eyes flicking between you and Remy, noting the flushed cheeks and the lingering grins. “Duty calls,” he said, his tone casual but his gaze curious.

You nodded quickly, grateful for the excuse to escape the intensity of the moment. But as you turned to head inside, you felt Remy’s gaze on you once again, and when you glanced back, he gave you a slow, knowing smile.

“See ya ‘round, chérie,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. And as you walked back into the bar, your heart still pounding in your chest, you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly that smile meant—and what it might mean for you.

As you walked back into the bar, the door swinging shut behind you, your heart was still racing. The cool night air clung to your skin, but inside, you felt flushed, like you were carrying the heat from that encounter with you. You could feel the remnants of adrenaline, the way your pulse hadn’t quite settled, the way your mind kept replaying his words, his smile, the way his eyes had looked at you like he saw more than just a bartender.

You slid behind the bar, grateful for the familiar rhythm of your work, hoping it would ground you. But even as you wiped down the counter, as your hands moved through the motions of stocking bottles and refilling glasses, your mind kept drifting back to him. To the way his presence had a gravity all its own, pulling you in despite every logical part of your brain telling you to be careful.

James sidled up next to you, his posture relaxed but his eyes still sharp. He wasn’t going to let this slide, not without at least poking at it a bit. “What was that about?” he asked, a smirk tugging at his lips, his voice light but his curiosity palpable.

You shrugged, trying to play it off like it was nothing, even though you felt like you were still vibrating with the leftover tension from that moment. “Just talking to the customer,” you said, feigning indifference as you wiped down the already clean counter. Your heart was still beating a little too fast, and you weren’t sure if it was from the adrenaline or something else. “Same as any other night.”

But it wasn’t the same as any other night, and you both knew it. This felt different—charged, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the usual rowdy patrons who came in and out. This wasn’t just about serving a drink, or even dealing with a VIP customer. This was about you and Remy, the way he looked at you, the way his words seemed to carry more weight than they should have.

James raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying your attempt at nonchalance. He didn’t say anything, though, just gave you that knowing look, the one that said he had seen plenty and understood more than you were letting on. But to your relief, he didn’t push. He just turned his attention back to the bar, though you could tell his ears were still perked, waiting for whatever was going to unfold next.

You tried to shake it off, to focus on the task at hand—anything to distract yourself from the way your mind kept circling back to Remy. But it was hard to push it away. Every time you closed your eyes, you could still see his smirk, could still hear that low, teasing tone in his voice. You couldn’t help but wonder what that smile meant—what he had seen in you that had made him linger, that had made him stay out there with you just a little longer than necessary.

And what did it mean for you?

This wasn’t just a flirtation, a passing glance with a handsome stranger. This was Remy Lebeau—the man who held the city in his hands, the man whose name alone made people straighten up and walk a little faster when they heard it whispered in the streets. He wasn’t someone you could afford to get involved with, not in any way. But the way he had looked at you, the way he had spoken to you, made it feel like maybe you already were involved, whether you liked it or not.

The truth was, you had felt something in that moment. Something more than just the usual anxiety that came from dealing with someone dangerous. There had been a spark there, something electric, something that made you want to know more, even though every instinct in your body told you to be careful.

And that terrified you.

Because Remy wasn’t just a man. He was a force. He was the kind of person who could change your life in an instant, for better or worse. And right now, you didn’t know which way that scale was going to tip.

You glanced back toward the table where Remy had returned, his posture relaxed, his attention seemingly back on his men. But even from across the room, you could feel that pull—the magnetic tension that seemed to hum between you, even when you weren’t speaking, even when you weren’t looking at each other.

James was saying something, probably making a joke to lighten the mood, but you barely heard him. Your mind was still on Remy, on that smile, on the way he had said your name like he knew you, like he was already planning the next time you’d cross paths.

And deep down, you knew that wouldn’t be the last time.

“Hey,” James nudged you lightly with his elbow, bringing you back to the present. “You okay? You’re zoning out.”

You blinked, forcing a smile as you nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… tired.”

But you weren’t good. Not really. Because now that you had felt that spark, you weren’t sure you’d be able to ignore it. And as you glanced back at Remy once more, you couldn’t help but wonder what would happen the next time you found yourself standing alone with him.

And whether you’d be able to walk away as easily.

The steady hum of conversation and bursts of laughter from the table in front of you kept pulling your attention. You glanced up again, eyes instinctively seeking Remy in the crowd. But this time, he wasn’t looking at you. Instead, his head was turned slightly, focused on the man beside him. They sat close, their postures loose and comfortable, like old friends sharing stories over drinks.

Remy’s mouth curled into a small, easy smile as the man spoke, his hand moving to gesture lazily at something across the room. Whatever it was, Remy let out a low chuckle, a deep, gravelly sound that sent a ripple of warmth through the air. His usually sharp, predatory gaze had softened—just for a moment—as if he had let his guard down in this pocket of calm.

It was almost unsettling, seeing him like that. You had grown used to the intensity that clung to Remy like a shadow, the way his presence always demanded attention. Even when he wasn’t looking directly at you, you could feel him, like a storm brewing on the horizon. But now, in this moment, it was like watching a different man altogether. He seemed... normal. Like he could be anyone sitting at that table, sharing an inside joke with an old friend, without the weight of everything else he carried.

Your fingers drummed lightly on the bar as you watched them, an unexpected knot forming in your stomach. It was easier when he kept his distance, when there was that invisible line between you—barmaid and mobster. Simple. Clear. But the way he laughed now, the way he seemed so at ease, chipped away at that separation. It made him feel closer. More real.

James nudged you with his elbow, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You staring again?”

You blinked, heat rising to your face. “I’m not staring,” you muttered, shifting your focus back to the glass in your hand, though you couldn’t resist sneaking one more glance.

“He’s off duty,” James teased, his voice laced with amusement. “You don’t have to be so on edge. You know, the guy probably eats breakfast just like the rest of us. Maybe reads the paper in the morning. Hell, I bet he even feeds the pigeons.”

You snorted, the mental image of Remy LeBeau sitting on a park bench, casually tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons, almost making you laugh out loud. “Yeah, sure. Right after he settles some ‘business’ with those same pigeons.”

James shrugged, grinning. “I’m just saying. Maybe he’s not as dangerous as he looks.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts lingered on what James said. There was truth to it, as much as you didn’t want to admit it. Remy had a way of shifting between worlds—one minute he was the dangerous, unflinching mobster who could snap a man’s neck without blinking, and the next he was... this. Calm. Collected. Human.

A sudden bout of laughter from Remy’s table broke your train of thought. You glanced up again, almost instinctively, and this time, your gaze collided with his. It was brief, but unmistakable—his eyes locking onto yours for just a heartbeat before he turned back to the conversation at his table. It sent a spark of electricity down your spine, and you quickly looked away, feeling foolish for even thinking it meant anything. But then, like a needle scratching across a record, a low comment from one of the men at Remy’s table cut through the noise. The words were muffled, too quiet for you to catch, but the effect was immediate and unmistakable.

The entire table went silent.

The tension in the room thickened, settling like a storm cloud about to break. You could feel it in the air—everyone could. It was the kind of silence that pulled everyone’s attention, even the staff at the far end of the bar who hadn’t heard the comment. All eyes flicked to Remy.

He sat perfectly still, his body unnaturally calm. But his jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck flexing as he stared up at the ceiling, his eyes narrowing as though he was silently counting down, trying to rein in whatever fire had been lit inside him. For a moment, you dared to believe he might let it pass.

But you were wrong.

In slow-motion clarity, you watched as Remy stood up, the chair scraping against the floor in a sound that made your skin crawl. His calm was terrifying—more menacing than any shout or slam of fists could have been. His movements were smooth, deliberate, as if every action had been calculated long before the man had even opened his mouth.

Without a word, Remy reached across the table, his hand moving with deadly precision. In one swift motion, he grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of his seat like he weighed nothing. The man barely had time to react before Remy slammed him against the wall, the sound of the impact echoing through the bar with a sickening thud. The force was so great that even the picture frames on the wall rattled, one of them dropping to the floor with a sharp crack . Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the heat rising to your face as you tried to process what you were seeing.

Beside you, James shifted nervously, his voice barely above a whisper. “Should we… step in or something?”

But you both knew better. This wasn’t a situation where stepping in would make any difference. This wasn’t a bar fight you could break up with a few words or a polite request to “take it outside” like you usually did. No, this was something else entirely. This was a warning. A lesson. A reminder of who had the power in the room.

Remy held the man pinned against the wall with one hand, his grip firm and unyielding. The man tried to muster some semblance of defiance, but his bravado crumbled under the weight of Remy’s gaze. You could see it—the transition from anger to fear, from cocky to desperate. His eyes widened, darting around the room as if searching for someone to save him, but there was no escape.

You couldn’t hear what Remy was saying, but you could see his lips moving, his face inches from the man’s. His words were quiet, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of a death sentence. Whatever Remy was telling him, it was enough to drain the color from the man’s face. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he tried to stammer out an apology or explanation, but the words sounded hollow, useless against the force that was Remy’s quiet fury.

For a moment, it looked like Remy might go further—that he might actually snap the man in two, right there in front of everyone. His knuckles were white, his muscles tense, and you could feel the room collectively hold its breath, waiting for what would come next. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Remy released him.

The man stumbled, his feet awkwardly finding the ground as Remy let go. He nearly collapsed, his legs shaky, his breathing ragged. But before anyone could fully process the shift, Remy’s demeanor changed—like flipping a switch. His cold, calculated anger melted away, replaced by a smile that sent a chill down your spine. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator toying with its prey.

Remy wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, pulling him close in what would have looked like a friendly gesture to anyone who hadn’t just witnessed the violence a moment earlier. The man flinched at the contact, but he didn’t dare pull away.

“After this, mes amis,” Remy announced to the table, his voice loud enough for the entire bar to hear, “we’re gonna take a little drive.” His tone was light, almost jovial, but the menace was still there, just beneath the surface. The kind of menace that didn’t need to be shouted to be understood. He guided the man back to his seat with a firm, almost fatherly pat on the back, forcing him to sit beside him like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just slammed him into the wall with the force of a hurricane.

The other men at the table nodded stiffly, their expressions tense, eyes flicking between each other but not daring to meet Remy’s. They knew better. They understood. Whatever unspoken rule had just been broken, Remy had laid it down again, and none of them were going to challenge it.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, your hands trembling slightly as you grasped the edge of the bar for support. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Part of you wanted to look away, to pretend you hadn’t seen it, to go back to the safety of serving drinks and keeping your head down. But another part of you—some darker, more curious part—couldn’t stop watching.

Remy’s control was absolute. He didn’t need to raise his voice or make a scene to remind everyone who he was and what he was capable of. He had made his point in a way that was far more effective than any outburst could have been.

Beside you, James let out a shaky breath, his voice barely a whisper. “What the hell just happened?”

You shook your head, still trying to process it yourself. But deep down, you knew exactly what had happened. Remy had sent a message—a reminder that he wasn’t someone to be crossed. And the man he had just tossed around like a rag doll had been lucky, if you could even call it that. Because whatever was waiting for him on that “drive” Remy had promised, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

You glanced over at the table again, your eyes catching Remy’s for a brief moment. He was seated now, his posture relaxed, his arm draped casually over the back of his chair. But his eyes were still sharp, still watchful. He caught your gaze, and for a split second, that smirk returned, the one that made you feel like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

And in that moment, you realized Remy hadn’t just sent a message to his men.

He had sent it to everyone in the bar—even you.

From your vantage point behind the bar, you watched the scene unfold, your heart pounding as you tried to process what you’d just seen. Remy’s easy laughter and casual arm draped around the man were a stark contrast to the tension that still clung to the air. It was a performance, you realized—a carefully crafted show of dominance that ensured everyone in the bar knew exactly who was in control.

James nudged you again, his voice a nervous whisper. “What do you think he said to him?”

You shook your head, unable to tear your eyes away from the table. “I don’t know. But whatever it was…it wasn’t good.” You could see it in the way the man sat rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead as if afraid to move, afraid to breathe wrong in Remy’s presence. Remy, meanwhile, carried on like nothing had happened, taking a swig of his drink and engaging in light conversation with the others.

But the atmosphere was different now, the easy camaraderie that had existed before was replaced by something darker, something that hinted at the dangerous undercurrents that ran just beneath the surface. You watched Remy, the way he settled back into his chair, his arm once again draped casually over the backrest, that same smirk playing at his lips as he caught your eye from across the room.

It was a reminder, you realized—a stark, unmissable reminder of who he was and the world he navigated with such ease. And as you returned to your work, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of intrigue and caution pull at you. Because for all the light-hearted banter and stolen moments, Remy LeBeau was still a mobster, and the line between charm and danger was thinner than you’d ever imagined. <><><><> As the night drew to a close, the clock ticked past 1 a.m., and the once-boisterous group began to quiet down. Abigail, her smile as wide as ever, finally made her way over to Remy. They exchanged words in hushed tones, their conversation a murmur that contrasted sharply with the occasional clinking of glasses and the fading laughter of the last few patrons. Abigail’s eyes kept darting toward you and James, her gaze narrowing slightly as if she was calculating something behind that carefully maintained facade.

You shook your head slowly, dreading the inevitable fallout. You could feel the tension in the air like a charged current, waiting to discharge. The bar had mostly emptied, with only a few lingering stragglers remaining—those who seemed to follow Remy wherever he went. The man Remy had thrown against the wall was still around, standing with one of the stragglers, but you knew better than to think Remy would let him leave just yet with the rest of them.

You let out a loud yawn, the exhaustion of the night weighing down on your shoulders like a heavy cloak. It had been a long shift—longer than usual, or at least it felt that way. The hum of the bar had finally quieted, and the last few patrons had trickled out, leaving behind the faint smell of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke. You placed the final glasses into the washer, the repetitive clink of glass on metal soothing in its predictability.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a familiar figure moving toward you with that easy, confident stride. Remy.

You straightened instinctively, your muscles tensing in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the strange, magnetic pull that seemed to exist between the two of you. His presence had a way of making the air around you feel heavier, charged with a kind of energy that made your skin tingle. It was a subtle thing, but undeniable. You could feel it in the way your pulse quickened whenever he was near, in the way you were hyper-aware of his every movement.

He noticed Abigail’s hawk-like gaze following the two of you, her suspicion palpable even from across the room. Remy, ever perceptive, gave you a reassuring nod, a silent message that said more than words could. His demeanor had shifted again—gone was the edge, the danger that had simmered beneath the surface earlier in the night. Now, his voice was softer, almost kind, as he stopped in front of you.

“Ge’ some sleep, chérie,” he said, his accent curling around the words in that warm, lazy way that made them sound like a personal invitation. “Migh’ come back ‘nother day.”

Your lips curved into a tired smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The exhaustion was hard to mask now, and you could feel the weight of the night settling into your bones. “It was lovely meeting you,” you replied, your voice polite but lacking the energy to match his charm. The words felt mechanical, like something you were supposed to say in a situation like this, but they didn’t quite capture the knot of emotions tangled inside you.

Remy’s smirk widened just slightly, the kind of smile that made you feel like he could see right through the veneer of formality you were clinging to. There was something almost predatory in the way his eyes lingered on you, but not in a way that made you feel unsafe. No, it was different. It was like he was waiting, biding his time, knowing that whatever tension simmered between you hadn’t been fully explored yet. And maybe, just maybe, he was as curious as you were about where it might lead.

He slapped the top of the bar twice in a casual farewell, the sound sharp in the silence of the now-empty room. It was a gesture that felt oddly intimate, like a private joke shared between the two of you, even though nothing had been said. Then, with one final glance, he turned and walked away, his movements unhurried, as if he knew he’d be back.

As he strolled toward the door, you felt the strange pull of chemistry hanging in the air—an invisible thread connecting you, even as he put distance between you. There was something unspoken between you, something that hummed quietly beneath the surface. It wasn’t just attraction, though that was certainly part of it. It was more than that—a kind of recognition, maybe. Like he saw something in you that you hadn’t fully acknowledged in yourself yet.

Abigail’s eyes followed Remy until he disappeared out the door, her expression unreadable. You braced yourself for whatever sharp remark she was about to throw your way, her usual cutting tone still echoing in the back of your mind. But instead, she surprised you.

“Go home,” she said curtly, her voice devoid of the malice you had come to expect from her. It wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t cruel either. More like… resigned. “Have the weekend off. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

You blinked, taken aback. That was unexpected. You exchanged a quick glance with James, both of you waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Abigail to say something that would tear the moment apart. But she didn’t. She just turned and walked away, her silhouette disappearing into the night with the same cold efficiency she always carried. Her departure left a strange silence in the bar, like the calm after a storm.

James let out a low whistle, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Looks like your flirting saved our asses tonight,” he said, though his words were more playful than accusatory.

You turned to face him, arching an eyebrow, though you couldn’t help but smile at his ridiculous conclusion. “How does Nat put up with you?” you asked, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. The sarcastic remark was half-hearted, more reflex than anything, but it was enough to cut through the lingering tension that had wrapped itself around the night.

James chuckled, shaking his head as he grabbed his own things. “You know, I ask myself that question every day,” he replied with a grin that softened the mood.

But even as James’s lighthearted banter faded into the background, your mind kept drifting back to Remy. The way he had looked at you, the way his presence seemed to linger in the space long after he had left. There had been something between you tonight—something more than just polite conversation or casual flirtation. It was like a spark had been struck, and now you couldn’t help but wonder if it would catch fire the next time you crossed paths.

And deep down, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

As you and James locked up the bar and headed out into the cool night air, you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation swirling in your chest. The night was over, but it didn’t feel like the end. Not really. There was something unfinished, something unresolved between you and Remy.

You could still hear his voice in your head, soft and teasing: “Migh’ come back ‘nother day.”

The question wasn’t if he would come back—it was when.

And when he did, you weren’t sure if you’d be ready for whatever was going to happen next.

But you couldn’t deny it anymore. There was chemistry between you, that much was obvious. And the more you thought about it, the more you realized how much you wanted to see where it would lead. <><><><><><>

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your small apartment, a sharp contrast to the dim, muted atmosphere of the bar from the night before. Your home was modest—cozy, even—with mismatched furniture that you’d accumulated over the years. A secondhand couch, a coffee table you’d found at a flea market, and a few pictures on the walls that gave the space a touch of warmth. It wasn’t much, but it was yours, and after nights like last night, it was a refuge.

You barely had time to adjust to the daylight before your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound cutting through the quiet like a knife. Squinting, you glanced at the screen. Abigail. The clock read exactly 11 a.m., and you groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you answered.

“Get your ass to the bar now,” Abigail’s voice was sharp, no prelude or explanation.

Still groggy, you sat up, the weight of the previous night settling in your chest. The encounter with Remy had left you rattled, though you hadn’t fully processed why. There had been a strange tension between the two of you, something unspoken but potent. And now, with Abigail calling so early, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were about to find out exactly what that something was.

You fumbled out of bed, grabbing the nearest comfortable clothes you could find—a well-worn hoodie and sweatpants. It wasn’t the kind of outfit you’d be proud of in public, but right now, you were barely awake enough to care. After a quick rinse of your face, a splash of coffee into a travel mug, and a hasty brush of your teeth, you grabbed your keys and headed out the door.

The drive to the bar felt like a strange déjà vu of the night before. The streets were quieter now, the sun casting long shadows as you passed by familiar landmarks. When you arrived, the bar looked different in the daylight—less of a shadowy haven and more of a place that had seen its fair share of stories. The kind of place where, if the walls could talk, you might not want to hear what they had to say.

You pushed through the door, the familiar ding of the bell echoing through the empty space. The bar was eerily quiet, devoid of the usual clatter and hum of conversation. You made your way upstairs to Abigail’s office, your unease growing with each step.

Her office was a stark contrast to the dim and worn bar below. Sleek, modern, and cold. The minimalist artwork lining the walls and the polished chrome furniture gave it the feel of a high-end corporate boardroom rather than a place where bar brawls were settled on a nightly basis. Abigail sat behind a large, imposing desk, her posture perfectly composed as always, her gaze assessing you from the moment you walked in.

“Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite her. You obeyed, sinking into the chair, though its stiff, uncomfortable leather only added to the tension coiling in your gut.

Abigail wasted no time. She reached into a locked drawer, pulling out a large envelope and sliding it across the desk toward you. “I don’t know what the fuck you did last night with Remy LeBeau,” she began, her tone clipped, “but one of his men dropped this off for you early this morning. Of course, you weren’t here, so I said I’d make sure you got it. They called it a ‘tip.’ Just for you.”

Your eyes flicked down to the envelope. It was bulky, the edges slightly crumpled, and your name was scrawled across the front in messy handwriting. You hesitated, the weight of Abigail’s gaze heavy on you, before gingerly opening it. The soft crinkle of paper filled the silence as you pulled out its contents.

Bundles of hundred-dollar bills all wrapped with a security seal.

Your heart raced as you counted the bundles—four of them. Four thousand dollars. More money than you had ever seen in one place, let alone held in your hands. But it wasn’t just the money that left you reeling. Tucked between the bills was a hastily scrawled note, the handwriting jagged and hurried: Now you won’t need the hours for a while.

Your stomach twisted. The note was simple, but the implications were anything but. Why had Remy given you this? What exactly had you done to deserve such a generous “tip”? And more importantly, what did he want in return?

You looked up at Abigail, who was watching you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something else—something darker, more knowing. She tapped her pen rhythmically against the desk, a small, satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

“He’s even booked a table for him and some friends for lunch next Wednesday,” she said, her voice light but tinged with sarcasm. “So call us even for your constant shit-talking about me.”

Your eyes narrowed at her, but the knot of anxiety in your chest tightened. “So, he told you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure of what you were even asking. Did Remy say something about what you said about her?

Abigail’s smirk widened. “No, he didn’t have to. But when I spoke with him after you left, he had nothing but good things to say about you. And James, too, though,” she paused, her eyes flicking to yours with a hint of something like approval, “especially you.”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing. The way she said it, the way Remy had apparently spoken about you—it left you feeling off-balance. What exactly had he said? And why did it feel like there was something more behind his compliments?

“He really enjoyed your company,” Abigail continued, leaning back in her chair, her tone almost casual now. “He said you handled yourself well—better than most. And that’s not something he says lightly.”

You bit your bottom lip, your mind swirling with questions. Was this all just a game to him? Some kind of test that you didn’t even know you were taking? And what did it mean for you that you had somehow passed it?

Abigail’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Have a good weekend,” she said, her tone signaling that the conversation was over. She leaned forward, turning her attention to the paperwork on her desk as if you were already dismissed.

You stood, the envelope clutched tightly in your hand, the weight of the money feeling both like a gift and a burden. As you walked out of her office, the door closing with a soft click behind you, the sense of foreboding that had settled in your chest deepened.

The drive home was a blur. By the time you unlocked the door to your apartment, your hands were trembling. You tossed your bag onto the couch and sank down next to it, the envelope still in your lap, staring at it like it might explode. Four thousand dollars. It was a lifeline, no doubt about it. That money could cover rent for months, give you breathing room you hadn’t had in years. But it was also a tether. A thread that tied you to Remy in a way that you hadn’t asked for, but now couldn’t escape.

You looked around your apartment—the small kitchen with its chipped countertops, the worn rug that had seen better days, the cozy couch that you’d collapsed onto after countless late shifts. This place had always been your sanctuary, your escape from the chaos of the bar. But now, even here, the weight of last night lingered.

As you sat there, the events of the previous night played over and over in your mind. The way Remy had looked at you—like he saw something beneath your surface, something deeper. The chemistry between you had been undeniable, even though you’d tried to ignore it. And now, with this money in your lap and his voice still echoing in your head, you couldn’t shake the feeling that last night had set something in motion. Something that you weren’t sure you were ready for.

The envelope felt heavy in your hands, but not as heavy as the unspoken question that hung in the air:

What would Remy want from you next?

[byrdtrollsunoreversearchive]

Funeral for Hikaru Akarii

It’s a beautiful day for a funeral. The night is calm and quiet, the two moons shine shamelessly through a thin veneer of cloud. It’s common practice, when a troll is famous enough, to have two funerals, one for the quote unquote ‘industry’, fans, others, usually in a much larger building, and then a smaller, more personal wake for close friends and family. The industry funeral had been a few days ago, it had been shit weather then, trolls crowding into a venue to say their goodbyes in the pouring rain. But it’s been two days, and the rain is gone, and the earth is in bloom. 

Tonight is clear, and pretty. And a good thing too, it being outdoors. A crowd of thirty or so close accolades is making conversation in the graveyard, giving well wishes. A key few are struggling to keep the somber tone of the event. Most importantly, Verula’s quadrants, the ones Gihyun had invited in the hopes of susing out her location. To the side of the fresh dug grave, a confused Hascha Demork is nursing a bottle of wine, squinting at the people around him. 

“Okay” He says finally. “Who invited you?” The violetblood accuses, pointing at The Reverend Mother. Anyita is staring at the grave in a not quite dissimilar look of confusion and contemplation. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” She says. 

“Aren’t you the murder?” Hascha says. 

“That’s why you won’t believe me.” She repeats. 

“Spit it out” 

“Gihyun” The Reverend says. “I got an email from Gihyun.”

He stares at her with squinted eyes for a long moment, and then looks back at the grave. 

“Yeah,” He says. “Yeah, okay. I don’t believe you.” He says, taking a drink straight from the bottle. 

“Did she invite you as well?” The Reverend Mother asks. 

“Well” Hascha looks away. “Yes.” 

“Perhaps?” Says a tiny little troll, stepping out of the shadows. “Gihyun wanted to bury our grudges with her grief,” Eponin says. 

“Ha Ha. Fat chance” Demork retorts. “She’s up to something. I just want to know what. I was so baffled by the invitation I actually showed up here.” 

“Or maybe” Eponin says. “She had the same idea I had.” 

“Which is what?” Gihyun says, finally making her way over and into the conversation, dressed in a plain black suit. 

“Why are we here, Gihyun” Demork asks. 

“Solidarity. I don’t know.” She curses. “Thought maybe you all could get your heads out of your asses long enough to show a little respect.” She accuses, and then glances at them. “Guess I was wrong.” The jadeblood says, taking a drag of her cigarette. 

Eponin straightens up, glancing back at the crowd to see if the few of them are being listened to. There's only one young purpleblood and jade nearby. They then turn to the tight circle of ancestors, eyes flitting from Anyita, to Gihyun, to Haggis, and back to Hascha. 

“Is he the only one who doesn’t know?” They say. Instantly, Gihyun and Anyita’s eye’s narrow, and glance towards Hascha, whom the rust had just gestured towards. 

“Doesn’t know what?” Hascha blinks. 

Eponin stares for a moment, and then chuckles, pushing up their glasses. 

“It’s funny” They say. “To see you be the last up to speed, Hascha” They grin, and then the smile is replaced by something more somber, they glance at the trolls in their little circle. 

“I know The Reverend knows.” They say, with a nod towards their old friend, “I know Gihyun knows” They say, and the jade narrows her eyes back at them.”I know Hikaru knew.” They conclude, gesturing at the grave.

“Verula Dentry is alive.” Eponin says.

Hascha nearly drops his bottle. 

“Can’t we, all of her quadrants, agree that she was better off dead?” They say, with a gesture, straightening out their gray sweater vest“Won’t you help me kill her?” The rustblood proposes. 

Gihyun watches contemplatively, thinking on it. “I’m not a quad.” She says.

“In law.” Eponin dismisses, upset she was more preoccupied with their word choice than the content of their request.

“I’m also not Verula’s quadrant.” Hascha says, raising his hand. 

Eponin pinches the bridge of their nose. “Well maybe not officially but if we’re counting affairs, Hascha.”

“Wh- fjksd. Okay.” He says, holding up his hands. “I… never fucked the geneticist. That was a tabloid rumor.”

“Oh I’m sure you never did, and neither did Hikaru!” Eponin says sarcastically, once again gesturing at the grave. The rustblood fumbles in their pockets for a moment, pulling out a newspaper. 

“Will you can it! There is concrete proof that you fucked Verula Dentry and everyone here has been seeing nothing but her face on television for the past sweep! She looks just like both of you!” They accuse, gesturing to Twitch Monark on the cover of it.

Hascha inhales, glancing away. “Okay. Add it to my list of sins. Whatever. In tiny print at the bottom of the list made the same mistake as everyone in this room. Shocker. I mean didn’t you too?” He decides, flipping Eponin’s accusation back at them. “What’s her name- Hanagi. Seems awfully apt for the sciences.”

Eponin, seeming supremely unhappy with the turn the conversation has taken, retorts, 

“Me and Verula never had sex.”

“Sick, is she ours then?” Demork muses. 

“You wish. I cannot believe I ever dated you.” the rust retorts. “You’d truly be so flippant right in front of Haggis!”

Haggis, upon hearing her name, looks up from her wheelchair. “I’m sorry. Who are you people?” She asks. “Whose funeral is this?”

Eponin sighs frustratedly, and then turns back to Hascha.”Still! What kind of man has a red affair with his moirails matesprit.” They say through gritted teeth, gesturing at Haggis again. 

Hascha stares blankly for an age, before commenting. 

“Gonna disrespect the time honored profession of being a Verula Dentry mistress over Hikaru Akarii’s fresh dug grave? Really Eponin?”

“You’re one to talk.” The rust says. “What is it, 10am and you came here clearly intoxicated with a bottle to boot? When did you become so shameless. This is a funeral.”

“Cheers.” Hascha says, lifting the thing. “It’s what Hikaru would have wanted. Also you’re the one suggesting we form a death squad to go hunt down your supposedly undead ex at funeralllllll Eponin.” Hascha says, trailing off as he points his finger at his ex. 

Finally, Gihyun is sick enough of watching this trainwreck she pauses to speak. “I cannot stand literally all of you but I think Eponins onto something.”

The Reverend Mother pauses, before piping up. “I agree.” She says. 

Gihyun fixes her with a death glare that would have killed birds. 

“What? I’m not allowed to agree?” The nun retorts. “She cheated on me.”

“I would literally rather eat glass than work with you bitch” Gihyun hisses.

“We all have a common enemy.” The Reverend Mother insists.

“I don’t care.” Gihyun says. 

The Reverend Mother stares back at her, as if brewing some witty retort in answer, but instead bites her tongue, and sighs. 

“I’m sorry, Gihyun.” She says. “If you asked me why I killed him, I honestly couldn’t tell you. I thought I was older and smarter and wiser than I was 50 sweeps ago when I was young and insecure and heartbroken and angry at the wrong people. I had a lapse of temporary insanity. I wouldn’t know what else to call it. I know I did it but I could not fathom why. I had long since forgiven him.” She describes looking at the grave conflictedly. “But I guess what’s done is done. And I only hope you can set aside your grief enough to do the world of good by taking Verula down with him.” 

Gihyun stares at Anyita, as if utterly unsure how to process or feel about what she’s heard. Were this death real, it would be a pitious and feeble apology. That she cannot accept at the risk of blowing her moirails cover. But knowing what she knows, it’s probably the best one The Reverend Mother could have given. She had never paused to wonder if the woman would or could have grown out of her hatred. Something like the traces of guilt stir in the back of her mind. She seems so genuine, and confused. 

“I’ll kill you when this over” she settles on. “But I guess I do wanna kill that bitch more” 

“We have a common enemy” Eponin repeats.

Hascha stares at the group of them, as if believing them all insane.

“I don’t.” The violetblood says. 

 “Why does she deserve to die again?” He says. They seem to have forgotten- Hascha was the only one in this circle who didn’t know about the grub experimentation.

”I know cheaters burn and all but Eponin I thought you of all people liked her. How’d she come back to life in the first place? Did she fake it the first time? I don’t have enough information.” He says, throwing up his hands.

Eponin turns back to him venomously.

“Then why don’t you go sit someplace else while the adults talk Hascha.”

.

.

.

.

.

Only a few feet in front of them, a young purpleblood peaks over the grave with a morbid curiosity in his open eyes.

“So no open casket?” Sunset asks. Leaving you to wonder how he even gained admission to this private wake.

“I mean he was a hemoanon.” The jadeblood next him deduces. “There’s probably blood on the corpse.”

“Could be. Does The Gravedigger seem awfully cheerful to you?” He says, nodding his head ever so slightly toward Gihyun, calling her by her ancestor name.

“Gihyun? Didn’t she break up with him?” Tonine replies.  

“That could explain it.” Sunset says, like he doesn’t quite believe that’s the case. “Why do you recon she’s not at Anyita’s throat right now?”

“Consumed by grief?” Tonine guesses.

“Maybe. Even the Reverend mother seems confused by it. She seems confused in general.” The young man sighs.

“I don’t know, she’s old?” Tonine guesses, again, struggling to keep up with his employer.

“She is old.” the purpleblood says in a low tone. “How do you think she managed to get the jump on Hikaru, a trained acrobat?” He says, glancing back at the crowd. “None of the people at this wake really seem to care about the man. Why would Anyita show up if she murdered him? She doesn’t look like she’s gloating.”

“Boss, what are you implying all that means?” Tonine says. Wishing he’d just cut to the chase as always. 

“Nothing.” Sunset says. “I’m just thinking.” He says, glancing back to where the circle of ancestors has started arguing again, digging up sweeps old dramas to throw in each other's faces. He turns back to the grave with an ever so slight look of contempt.

“If no one else is going to be doing it.” The young crime lord muses. 

Tonine sighs. “Don’t you think there’s more, I don’t know, productive things we could be doing then flying halfway around Alternia for this guy's funeral? “I mean why are we here?” 

“Oh Toni” Sunset sighs, walking over towards the podium, where eulogies had been made mere hours ago. He steps up onto it, picking up the mic and holding it toward the speaker. There’s a shrill, sudden and disarming feedback sound, and the small crowd of people at the funeral immediately look up- 

oh no. 

What is it they say about voodoos and eye contact? 

Sunset clears his throat, leaning into the microphone. 

“I was never here” he says to the crowd, voice layered over with power and resonate. A wave of amnesia snakes through the crowd, leaving no troll untouched. 

Suddenly, everyone looks confused, as if wondering why they are even looking at the stage in the first place, and go back to their conversation. If asked later, about a young man attending this wake in a cropped three piece, they would not be able to recall the stranger. Sunset steps off it, exiting the graveyard, dragging Tonine behind him. 

“Christ, boss” Toni says, hand going to his head.

“Shit. That must have been. At least thirty people.”

[daydream-cement]

Lake Date

Brienne of Tarth x Miranda Hilmarson

Brienne and Miranda have been officially dating for three months and now it's time for their first Valentine's day <3

Authors Note: This was written in collaboration with @bri-sonat. THIS FLUFF IS OFF THE CHARTS

Narrowing her gaze at her girlfriend in the driver’s seat, Miranda shook her head at Brienne, inquiring once again about the plans she had for the evening, “Why won’t you just tell me, Bri? Where are we going? Don’t tell me we are going back into work for an extra shift on Valentine’s Day?” 

The knight didn’t take her eyes off the winding road in front of her to look at her passenger, the large number of trees around them making it difficult to make out any landmarks. “Because it’s a surprise. That’s why I won’t tell you.” Brienne prayed to the old Gods and the new that Miranda couldn’t see how nervous she was, or that she looked in the rearview mirror every fifteen seconds. “No, we’re not. That I can tell you.”

Rather than pester Brienne with any additional questions, Miranda stretched a hand to rest at the back of the knight’s neck, fingers playing with her hair as she spoke softly, “Well, whatever it is... I’m sure I’ll love it.” The constable turned her eyes out the passenger side window, absentmindedly continuing to play with Brienne’s hair as her mind reeled at the possibilities of what Brienne may have planned for their first Valentine’s Day together. 

Brienne’s fingers anxiously tapped the steering wheel as she tried her best to not let her mind fall into the deep abyss that was her doubts. “I really hope you will.” The possibility that Miranda would hate her plans was at the forefront of her mind, but she really hoped that her cliché date would be romantic. She had never done this before, but she hoped that it would be adequate enough. “Do keep in mind that I have never planned out a Valentine’s before… and this date idea may be really outdated, like, people could do this in my time. But I hope you’ll enjoy the thought I’ve put into it despite that… I really tried to come up with something original but I got so caught up in my head that I didn’t have time to plan out an intricate date, I’m sorry...”

“My sweet Bri-Bri... I haven’t been on a Valentine’s Day date where I haven’t planned it myself, so this is monumental for me. And have you ever paused to think of how your quote-unquote outdated-ness is one of my favorite things about you? You know how I adore the way your brain works...” Miranda pulled over her words, wondering if they would actually be comforting to the knight. Her head swiveled back to the knight, her final words spoken with a sweet smile, “I’m so excited to see what you have done as I really, uhm, like you and everything you do.” 

Taking a moment to think over Miranda’s words, Brienne’s finger movements stilled on the wheel, no longer nervously tapping. “I suppose I have not considered that… thank you.” The knight began to slow the car down; the road she was supposed to turn onto was coming closer with every passing second. “I really like you too.” Removing one of her hands from the steering wheel to place it on the shift stick to shift down a gear.

“Of course.” The constable gave a curt nod and turned her attention out the window once more, maintaining her teasing of Brienne’s hair and light scratching of the knight’s scalp, a purely selfish habit she developed to bring herself peace on long car rides. 

Brienne switched on the turn signal to turn left down a slight slope leading down to an empty parking lot, not many people out here at this time of day. “Close your eyes, please.” The knight really didn’t want Miranda to see where she was taking her, knowing it could possibly ruin the surprise before she had the chance to set it up.

“Oh, okay...” The constable shut her eyes, a smile growing on her face at the thought she knew was going into all of this, “Do you need me to help with anything?”

“No. Just keep your eyes closed until I tell you it’s okay to open them, please.” Brienne quickly parked the car and turned it off before pulling the parking brake. The knight turned her head to look at her girlfriend, to make sure her eyes were really closed and that there was no peeking.

“Yes, Lord Commander.” The constable giggled, bringing her hands to cover her face as well to prevent her curiosity from getting the best of her. 

Unbuckling her seatbelt, Brienne hummed before reaching back into the backseat to grab the items she had brought. “Stay here. I’ll be back. And no peeking.” The knight opened her door and closed it after her, swiftly setting everything up so she wouldn’t be away from Miranda longer than she needed to be.

Brienne technically ran back to the car when everything was done, needing to collect her girlfriend. The knight opened the passenger seat door and held out a hand for Miranda to grab onto so the Lord Commander could guide her to where she had built up their date spot. “Your carriage awaits, M’Lady.”

Holding back a smile by biting her lip and dropping her hands to her lap, Miranda tilted her head up towards the voice of her knight, eyes still squeezed shut. The constable raised her hand up, moving it about to find Brienne’s, latching onto her girlfriend’s hand when she made contact, “Brienne, I better not trip and fall because my eyes are closed. I think we both know I can easily trip with my eyes open.” 

The knight chuckled slightly at the constable’s words, she was aware of how clumsy her girlfriend could be. “I wouldn’t dare let you trip. Trust me.” Brienne took a small step back so she could signal Miranda to get out of the car and give her the room to do so, her hand still firmly holding the constable’s.

Ducking out of the passenger seat, Miranda’s one hand glided along the top of the car door, searching for Brienne, who stood nearby for additional stability, “Okay, I’m ready. Take me on a date, honey.” 

Brienne closed the passenger door and quickly locked the car before she started to lead Miranda away to the little spot she had found for them. Truth was, she had come out here a few days earlier to scope it out to find the perfect place, working as a probationary constable had definitely made the knight more prepared than usual. “Watch your step here. There’s a small curb to step over a few meters in front of you.”

“Oh, Brienne of Tarth... The things I am willing to do for you.” Miranda whined in anticipation, knowing if there was a way to be clumsy, she would find it. Her hand had Brienne’s in a vice grip, not wanting to let go for any reason and her opposite hand reached across her body, holding onto Brienne’s bicep as an additional anchor. With cautious steps, the constable searched for the curb with her foot, stepping over the object when the toe of her shoe came in contact with the curb. 

“Marvelous…” Brienne mumbled as Miranda stepped over the obstacle, she led the constable down onto a grass plain, walking towards a large tree that would provide them with the shade needed on an Australian February day. “We’re almost there. Just a few more steps, darling…”

Giddy laughter rose up through Miranda as the anticipation was becoming almost too much to handle. She shook Brienne lightly, needing the other woman to know how excited she was about the entire premise of this date, “Oh, I’m so excited. I can’t believe you have something planned out like this...” After a few additional steps, Miranda felt Brienne stop and the constable went still, awaiting further instructions. 

“You can open your eyes now,” Brienne almost whispered, really wanting Miranda to like her surprise. She had worked her ass off in the kitchen to cook all the things she knew her girlfriend liked, she had also taken advantage of her partner’s best friend being her not-so-new boss.

Hands still clinging to Brienne, Miranda finally opened her eyes, now greeted with the sight of a picnic spread out under a large red river gum tree, whose branches dipped low as if they were reaching out towards the water’s edge. The constable looked to Brienne, to the picnic, and back again, “What is all of this? You- You planned a whole picnic for me?” Never able to help when she became emotional, Miranda felt her eyes fill with tears, the Aussie biting her lip and leaning her head against Brienne’s shoulder as an attempt to stifle her crying. 

The knight took a seat on the blanket she had laid out, still holding the constable’s hand as she gently tugged it as an indicator for her to take a seat next to her. “I’d do anything for you. That includes interrogating our superior for some of your favorite meals and then spending many minutes in the kitchen making them for you. I also made some dessert.”

Wiping the tears from her eyes, the constable took her place near the knight, eyes examining the picnic spread before her, shaking her head the whole while. Miranda’s blue eyes met Brienne’s, more tears threatening to spill as she spoke, “No one... has ever done something like this for me before. Brienne... I- I-” Every aspect of dating Brienne had been absolute bliss for Miranda and from past experience, the constable had been waiting for ‘the other shoe to drop,’ where she figured out something terrible about her relationship. This was just an additional instance where Miranda knew Brienne was the only person for her, “You are just so- Thank you, Bri... It’s perfect.” 

“It’s my pleasure, and I’m so gleeful you like it.” Brienne smiled at Miranda before opening the picnic basket and pulling out a Tupperware box. She took off the lid before reaching it toward the constable, offering the food for the Aussie to take. “Don’t shed any tears, my love. Have some spring rolls instead, they’re homemade.”

Miranda went quiet, watching the knight’s every move. There was no one else in the world the Aussie could imagine spending a Valentine’s Day with for the rest of her life. Years ago, Miranda thought she was in love, but when she was with Brienne, she knew her feelings for her ex-boss could never compare to what she felt for the knight. No one had ever supplied her with the feelings of endless love, admiration, and safety. Without thinking, Miranda began to speak, stopping herself from finishing the sentence when her mind caught up to the drastic statement she was about to make, “Brienne, I-'' She couldn’t tell the knight those dreaded three words. At least, not yet. 

Putting the box with the rolls down onto the blanket, Brienne moved to take the rest of the things out of the basket but snapped her head up when Miranda started speaking. “Yes?” The knight pulled a thermos with iced tea out of the container and poured some for her girlfriend into a cup before offering it to her.

“I- I-” Miranda knew she was fumbling terribly, the sight of all her girlfriend’s planning making the frightful amount of emotions she felt worsen all at once, “I just- I really like you is all...” 

“I like you too, Mir…” Brienne responded before nodding down to the spring rolls. “Now eat. I spent a lot of time on those you know. As well as this iced tea.” The knight motioned to the cup in her hand that she was holding out for the constable to take. Her tone was teasing, she was desperate for her girlfriend to taste what she had made especially for her, but she didn’t want to sound like it, so she settled for playfulness instead.

“Thank you.” The constable gratefully took the cup and pulled a spring roll from the container, pushing any more thoughts of love to the back of her mind. As she continued trying different foods and sipping on her tea, the Aussie’s jovial nature resurfaced as she began to tease Brienne, “Since when do you know how to cook?” 

Brienne released a small laugh, knowing that this was new information to Miranda. She had never brought it up, and this was the first time the knight had ever cooked for her girlfriend. “I cooked a lot back on my travels but there weren’t many meals to make out in the wild. The best you could get in terms of a cooked meal was some bread, or a kidney pot pie. Supply was what you made or collected yourself. If you wanted meat, you had to go hunt for it yourself, or at least I had, and et cetera. Then when I permanently moved here and saw all the new cooking techniques, all the recipes, a stove, an oven? I got so intrigued, so I had to indulge and invest in the knowledge. So I have used all of my free time to master the ‘art of cooking.’ Has my time been well spent?”

“You are incredibly talented. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be a chef over a constable?” Miranda teased before taking another bite of her spring roll, deliriously happy to be eating some of her favorite foods while sitting in such a beautiful place with a beautiful person, “Or maybe you could do both, my fair knight?” 

“Heh, no. I’d rather it be a thing on the side. I’d much rather have a job where I get to help people, and serve justice, just like I had back in Westeros.” Brienne smiled at her girlfriend before taking a spring roll herself. “I could do both. I could definitely do both.”

Finishing with the spring roll in her hand, Miranda paused for a moment to chew and swallow, taking another drink of her tea. The constable cradled the empty cup in her hands, settling them in her lap, “Perhaps you can just be my personal chef then? The pay is good and so are the benefits.” 

Taking a bite from her roll, Brienne nodded as she finished chewing. “Whatever it is my Lady wishes, I shall be. I’ll cook for you whenever you wish. Even without the pay and benefits.”

“The pay and benefits aren’t that great anyway. It’s just my endless love and adoration with the occasional kiss, but I can hold off if you prefer.” Miranda was already giggling wildly at her own joke, reaching into a nearby container for more food. Gazing up to Brienne, the constable took a bite, her usual smile present as she gave the knight a wink. 

Brienne lifted her cup to her lips, looking at her girlfriend over the rim of it as she hid the smile Miranda’s wink had caused by taking a quick sip. “You drive a hard bargain, those are some benefits. I am inclined to accept them. I think it’s only fair for the work I’ll put in.”

The two women continued their meal, teasing and chatting as they ate, primarily soaking up the presence of the other and enjoying a bit of quality time. As the sun set over the pond, Miranda felt compelled to spend some time on the dock before darkness fell upon their date, “Let’s go look at the water, hon!” Jumping up from her place on the blanket, Miranda held her hands out to the knight, inviting her to take them to help her girlfriend up. 

“Sure.” The knight smiled up at her girlfriend before taking hold of her outreached hands. That’s when Brienne remembered there was still one more thing to eat, and she thought it would be perfect to consume, as they consumed the sunset with their eyes. “Would you like to have your dessert as we do? I think it could be nice…”

The constable mulled over the question in her mind, not quite ready to relinquish her grip on Brienne’s hands, “Do you mean actual dessert or are you being all cute and asking me for a kiss? You know I appreciate both.” She asked this question knowing full well, it was rare for the knight to ask her for physical intimacy like a kiss.

“I mean actual dessert. It’s just some strawberries dipped in white and milk chocolate… nothing special. Though I really like that other option you suggested.” Brienne felt shy all of a sudden, perhaps it was the setting or the idea of kissing Miranda in such a romantic spot on such a romantic day. Whichever one it was, the knight couldn’t deny the way her voice seemed to quiet down, almost shrinking.

“Both options sound wonderful. Which would you like first? It is your Valentine’s Day too, after all…” Miranda used her grip on the knight’s hands as leverage, pulling the woman closer, bringing the knight’s arms around herself, and holding Brienne’s hands tightly in her own behind her back. More often than not, Miranda preferred not to make the knight more nervous than necessary, but today she was enjoying the power she had over the Lord Commander for a few moments.

“The kiss, please,” Brienne whispered, head subconsciously leaning in so she could ghost Miranda’s lips with her own.

“Good choice.” The words came out quickly, only serving a seconds-long barrier from the women’s lips being separated any longer. Her hands relinquished their grip on Brienne’s when their lips made contact, one winding its way around the knight’s neck to hold the woman close for a few seconds longer. When she parted the kiss, Miranda kept Brienne close, their foreheads and noses still touching.

“Thank you…” The knight kept her eyes shut, savoring every second that she could still feel the flavor of Miranda in her mouth. A mix of spring rolls, iced tea, and an assortment of other small snacks together with the ever-familiar taste of her girlfriend. The last time Brienne had been kissed like she just was, was the day she had made the decision to stay here. The time she had done the most uncommon thing of kissing the constable with such vigor that caught her off guard. Since then, it had only been the smallest pecks, but after being kissed like that, the Lord Commander realized that she really likes it and that she wants to be kissed again. “I also wish to state that I have a pavlova in my fridge at home if that would earn me another kiss equally as wonderful as the one you just gave me…”

Biting her bottom lip, Miranda shook her head, finding Brienne to be unbelievably wonderful, yet again. Her next kiss for Brienne was more intense than anticipated, her other hand extending to Brienne’s face, deepening the kiss further. The constable exhaled with a small groan when she parted their second kiss, “Oh, I love pavlova…”

The Lord Commander whined when the constable broke the kiss once again, but giggled when Miranda spoke. “I know. Robin told me. Baking was a new venture for me, but I think it went well… you’ll just have to taste it and see, if you wish to end the night at my apartment, that is.”

“We can have another slumber party and you can tell me more bedtime stories.” Miranda kept the offer lighthearted, retracting her hands from the knight, not wanting the knight to think she would ask for anything she wasn’t ready to give. The constable knew she would wait forever until Brienne was ready to move forward with their relationship’s intimacy, “Now we can watch a movie too!”

“Sounds perfect,” Brienne breathed before pressing a quick kiss against Miranda’s soft lips. “Would you like to watch the sunset now?”

The constable watched Brienne’s lips as she spoke, wishing deep down the kissing didn’t have to stop where it did. Her eyes flicked up to Brienne’s when she spoke, her tone soft yet excited, “I would love to.” 

[spidermanifested]

this is not my usual type of post but ive been rotating some thoughts and i guess my blogs as good a place as any to get them organized. okay so this is basically my take on the entire discourse surrounding the "feminine (presumed cis lets be honest) women are uniquely oppressed for being feminine/making female characters quote unquote Less Feminine is antifeminist" thing. which i keep seeing come up. on this internet of ours

context being im a trans guy. grew up largely seen by others as female, probably, sort of. was about as far from a cishet womans feminine as you can imagine. not in a cool tomboy way. not in a way that society had a box for. and thats the thing, is that when you fail at gender, whether youre conscious of it or not, theres this extremely profound loneliness that comes with it. part of it was the autism but i made like 6 real-life friends total from ages 4 to 18 and there were no examples of anyone with an even remotely adjacent experience i could find in the media or irl. anytime a female character skirted a little too close to actual masculinity in a tv show or movie shed get that makeover eventually. i was bullied by both boys and girls but the girls who bullied me were uniformly very feminine.

and so i see people talking about how hard feminine women and girls have it, how the world hates them for being beautiful, and on the one hand its like okay, Misogyny Exists. thats not really refutable thats just the reality of it. society hates women. and as for eurocentric femininity specifically i understand its a hard tightrope to walk!!! you have to put on all these masks BUT make them seem natural, youre forced into these narrow boxes of acceptable behavior and appearance and desires, and if you under- or over-shoot then people get reminded the whole thing is a farce and get mad (often violently!) at YOU for it

........but then my thing is, that on one side of the tightrope, the "overperforming eurocentric femininity" side, the tradwife or girlboss or blonde bimbo side, theres an entire history of structural trope-crafting to break your fall, right. like its a shitty box but its the box society WANTS you to be in. they look at you and go "yep thats a woman. we dont like those but that sure is one". there are known social niches to carve out. theres a script.

on the unfeminine side theres just. nothing. its stone cold concrete down there. and apparently twitter would have you believe its actually that the "more masculine" somebody presumed female appears the more society respects them but that to me is the wildest and most nonsense take on the planet because if people see you as a woman or girl who has not taken the needed steps to justify your place as one of those things you might as well be an alien, or even a monster. theres no script at all. and i feel like this is one of the major experiences that trans and gnc people of every gender share-- god knows trans women get the brunt of the vitriol-- and from my knowledge a lot of nonwhite people too, and also fat and disabled people, like. there are SO many things that affect your ability to achieve even a fraction of success at this aspirational femininity.

ive had to see people for real make the argument that princess peach making an angry face is masculine. i think the most masculine woman anyone on twitter can imagine right now is like a businesswoman in a form-fitting pantsuit and light mascara. maybe the struggle of succeeding at femininity under patriarchy deserves exploration, ive seen plenty of coherent and reasonable points, its not without worth as a discussion. but i do not trust the general public with the topic without immediately sliding into bog standard gender policing and transphobia, and so in closing, when the mainstream feminist take on the whole thing seems to be "the more you perform the femininity expected of you the worse you have it", i get the sensation that nobody told me it was opposite day and im about to feel real silly

[hermionegalathynius]

Sweet Sixteen (2/11)

Second chapter, lets go!

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Warnings: not any that I can think of.

Sirius Black Masterlist

Main Masterlist

First Chapter

Next Chapter

The library was even quieter on Saturdays. 

  Y/n suspected it was because no one ever felt like doing school work on the weekends, even though it was statistically the most efficient time to get stuff done. That was why she was getting stuff done. The past week had been... busy, to say the least. She had five essays due on Monday, two of which had to be a maximum of ten inches. Along with that she also had to draw up two charts for Astronomy and learn how to do Expelliarmus non-verbally by Tuesday. It was a lot, but she was used to it. In fact, she welcomed it. Academics had always been her strong point, and she intended to keep it that way.

  "How would you describe Golpalotte's Third Law?" she mused to Remus, her usual study partner when he wasn't off galavanting with his friends.

  He looked up from his own Potions paper, brown hair unusually messy from running his hands through it, "Well, Golpalotte said that the antidote to a blended poison isn't simply the antidotes to all the separate poisons in the blend mixed together. Instead you must find that one ingredient that will transform the poisons in to a combined whole, which will counteract the entire blended potion. As the textbook states, the true antidote to a blended poison is more than the sum of its parts."

  Y/n smiled at him bemused, "I was trying to find a way to put it quote-unquote 'in my own words', but you've just recited the textbook."

  Remus's cheeks went a little pink as he glared playfully at her, "Doesn't knowing that what I said is how it's written in the textbook also a sign that you know that paragraph as well as I do?"

  Y/n narrowed her eyes at him, "Well done Sherlock. 10/10 detective work, I must say." 

  He chuckled softly and the two of you went back to work. 

———

  Sirius yawned contently as he trudged up the stairs to the boys dormitory with James still chatting on excitedly behind him. 

  "... didn't even glare at me today, Pads! Not once! Maybe she's starting to fall for my Potter charm?" That last sentence he said with a cocky smirk on his face as he wiggled his eyebrows. Of course, Sirius wasn't looking at the time, but he knew his friend well enough to be able to guess. 

  He snorted, "Yeah right, Prongs. That's as likely as Dumbledore getting a girlfriend."

  James punched him in the shoulder playfully, "Oi! Don't knock my hopes down! Especially when you might be in the same position as me very soon."

  Sirius paused in front of the door into their dorm, "What's that supposed to mean?"

  James strode past him, patting him on the shoulder, "I mean, your soulmate is the one girl in this school who doesn't swoon at your mere presence. She is also the one girl who you've never dared to try to charm because she makes you nervous."

  Sirius glared at him, "Thanks for the reminder."

  "Hey, I'm only stating it as I see it. You gotta admit it's a little ironic, mate. I mean, she's Y/n L/n, top of our year and the most Ravenclaw Ravenclaw I've ever seen. And you... well, do you get my point?"

  Sirius sighed and flopped onto his bed, throwing an arm over his face, "Yes, I get your bloody point Prongs. Did it not occur to you that I've probably been thinking the same thing ever since I got her bloody name on my bloody wrist?" 

  James chuckled, "Alright, relax. I get it. You don't want to be reminded of the irony of your situation. I'll just sit here looking pretty then."

  Sirius rolled his eyes even though James couldn't see them. His friend really was the most dramatic person he knew. 

  Then, as if to break Sirius out of his spiralling thoughts, an owl tapped on the window.

  Sirius took his arm off of his eyes and sat up as James walked over to the window to let the bird in. 

  "That's odd," he said as he twisted the latch on the window, "We've never received post in our dorm before."

  The owl flew straight to Sirius and perched on his bedside table, sticking out it's leg. Sirius quickly untied the letter from the bird's leg and gave it a little scratch behind the head as a thanks before it flew off again. 

  "Who's it from?" James asked.

  "How am I supposed to know? I haven't opened it yet!"

  "Then open it!"

  "What do you think I'm doing?" 

  Sirius shook his head in exasperation as he broke the seal and pulled the piece of parchment out. The writing was small and neat, looking as if one of those muggle pinter things had made it. 

  Dear Mr Black

  I would like to inform you that due to our conversation being cut short, I have taken your silence as agreement to go ahead with the tutoring sessions. Miss L/n has also been contacted and will be expecting you in the Library every Wednesday afternoon at 3 o'clock to dinner and every Sunday morning from 10 o'clock to 1pm. If you have any problem with the times of your sessions, please send me a letter explaining when you are free. 

  Sincerely, Professor Sikander

  Sirius swallowed, his gut clenching. Not only was Y/n L/n his soulmate, but she was also supposed to be his tutor?

  It was going to be a long year...

  ———

  "Why do I have to tutor him, Sienna? The last time I spoke to him was in first year when I apologised for bumping into him on the train and he tried to flirt with me." Y/n complained as she got ready for bed that evening. 

  She had left the library at closing time after having spent the whole day there finishing all five essays and two charts, so she was knackered and in no mood for the letter she received upon arrival back in Ravenclaw Tower. 

  Sienna shrugged, "I don't know. But what I do know is he's cute and every single girl in this school would kill to trade places with you."

  She wiggled her eyebrows at Y/n who grumbled, "They don’t need to kill anyone, I'd trade places with them in a heart beat if I could."

  Her friend rolled her eyes, "Come on, Y/n. It can't be that bad? It's not like you have to socialise with him. You only have to teach him."

  Y/n climbed into bed and gave her friend a small smile, "You're right, as usual. I'll survive. Goodnight."

  "Goodnight."

Tag list:

@obscurilicious

@hphufflefan

[tenderlyrenjun]

new axis [preview]

summary: Baseball Player Lee “Haechan” Donghyuck is not afraid to admit he wants it all: the trophy, the legacy, the pro-athlete career. And he isn’t about to let KU’s rival school undermine that. Joshua Hong’s younger sister constantly camps out at their practices and games, and no matter how many times Haechan has called campus security on her ass, she keeps coming back. One night, under the bright headlights, he finds her on his field, running laps. He stops her at second base, aiming a whiffle ball at her leg, but surprisingly, she catches it and throws it back at him. He barely catches it. 

a/n: okay, repost ... hopefully this sucks less idk ... eta 3/25/2022 (hard deadline) ... will eventually include ... enemies to lovers, friends with benefits (less emphasis on the friends), smut, angst, fluff, etc. etc. 

Haechan matches your glare, briskly stalking his long legs across the baseline. And when your head tilts up, he finally notices it: you stand on top of second base, on top of his spot. He pokes his tongue through his cheek, jaw tightening with it. You really do covet every space. 

“I’ve already told you,” he starts, toes landing just before the large rubber base, “and as I’m sure campus security reiterated: You. Don’t. Have Access.”

“Gotta have access,” you mock him, rasing two hands with lazy quotation fingers, “Without it, you can’t enter.” You pull down four fingers and flip him off, then jab that finger in his chest, bouncing back immediately when he puffs it out. “What a joke,” you sneer, “As if non-students don’t come here all the time, Lee.”

During game days!

Haechan rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, Hong?” he bites, throwing your brother’s last name in your face, almost slicing your hair even shorter. It comes under your shoulders now - probably another quote-unquote disguise to get you into his university, not unlike the KU basketball jersey you stole from Juyeon last year (granted, Haechan hardly saw you at the courts, but everyone knows that Joshua’s best friend, Jeonghan, was on the Yonsei basketball team, so you probably used Juyeon to camp out on their practices, too). “Your university is so boring that you have to sneak into mine?” Haechan scoffs, “What happened? Couldn’t get into KU? Couldn’t even transfer here?”

You lean forward on your toes, almost falling off the rubber base.

Haechan resists the urge to balance you again. He won’t have another batting cages incident again.

But his fingers still twitch at his sides. And you still roll your eyes.

“As if,” you repeat, “Everyone knows that Yonsei has the better baseball team anyways. You haven’t won a championship since Dongyoung left.”

“Then explain why I see you more than I see my own teammates.”

“Maybe you like me,” you taunt, wiggling your way into his face, breath warm and foggy and obvious, in the cold night. His gaze, for just a second, falters from your narrowed eyes to your narrowed lips, then blinks up again, meeting you with equal emotion. “It seems like you look for me.” You tiptoe onto him, clawing your way on his shoulders, holding him steady. He almost thanks Mark for making everyone on the team go to the gym regularly (though not as regular as Jeno or Jaemin). You smirk, snorting sarcastically. “Remember the batting cages?”

Haechan rips one of your hands off his shoulders, barely letting you keep the other one there, however brief or long. He steps onto the plate with you, officially looming over you now.

“We said we wouldn’t mention that. Ever.”

You roll your eyes again. Haechan wishes you would just look away, make a goddamn decision. 

“No, you said that no one can know.” You recoil from him, taking a step backward, a step off the plate, but he catches your hand, grabs you, pulls you back up. And you scoff again, turning your gaze to the bright LED light poles still on from the game earlier. “It’s not like you didn’t know what school I go to. I was wearing a giant Yonsei target on my back, literally,” you mutter, “Or is it that you single me out?” You look up at him, frown deepening in your pout. “For what? To yell at me when everyone is around? You like that? You like the screaming matches in public?” You punch his chest again, but he doesn’t back down. “’Cause I can do it, and I can criticize your form while we do it too.” He inhales sharply, and you take advantage of it, pushing him off the base. “Your hips don’t follow through when you swing. Your shoulders push your hands forward too far. Your head tilts up when y-”

Haechan grabs your face, his fingers latching under your jaw, and kisses you.

“Shut up,” he mumbles before starting a new embrace, tongue shoving down your throat, hands frantically feeling your body, searching for your hips. When he finds what he wants, he yanks you close, almost falling back on the ground had you not pulled back enough to stay balanced.

“Thought you said we weren’t going to do this again,” you whisper breathlessly. 

But you return the kiss anyways, stuffing your hands in his back pockets, meshing his pelvis with yours, unwinding between his arms. 

Neither of you actually said that, said you were never going to do this again.

“Technically,” he mumurs on your lips, ghosting little kisses, making you follow the further he retreats. You only stop when he starts grabbing at your shirt, sticking his warm hands, warm hands even in the late autumn air, against your cold skin, making you shive. “We’re not doing that again.”

“Okay, smart ass,” you glare.

Haechan unclasps your bra. But it doesn’t fall. He is too close, too tight against you, for it to fall completely.

“You don’t sound convinced,” he says with mock empathy, then kisses down your neck, bending his knees to reach your chest. “We’re doing something more.” Your hands slide out of his pockets, and his slide into your pants, slide under your panties as he kneads your ass. “Do you not want this?” He reattaches his lips to yours, unflinching without your hesitation. “Because I want you. Now.”

[ezlebe]

prompt: rule 63 tomgreg?

Greg watches Tommy bully around the designer, or owner, or whatever he is, with a dubious slant to her mouth. She had sort of awkwardly mumbled a question to Shiv about Kendall’s birthday – what should I wear? – not expecting a lot, maybe to be coldly told not to try too hard, after everything else she’s paid for in the appearances sense, recently, but… instead, Shiv had called Tommy, for sure just because she’s tall, who Greg hasn’t really been alone with a lot in any capacity.

She’s been around her, for sure – Tommy is around in general. She had sort of been from the beginning when Logan died, because she is some… quote unquote friend of Shiv’s, and had sort of been when Kendall accepted money for a bad bank thing, because she also works as some corporate mercenary for Stewy Hosseini, and is sometimes around at like galas and parties, but other than that…

Like. Mostly, the first impression hadn’t been… It was a bit divisive, one might say, if they were Greg.

Tommy had made a joke that had seemed like pretty badly off-color, involving kissing and kinky boots, something like that, which had made Greg feel seen through and about half a meter tall, but… by the third time they saw each other, she realized that Tommy had no idea what she had said to her and probably didn't to anyone a lot of the time. It didn't exactly excuse it, but how she wasn’t pointedly nasty, really, not in that way sort of did; she always wandered over whenever they were at the same place to try to get Greg involved in whatever her cousins had dragged them both into, or to just gossip with her, or now she’s started to jokingly, like probably, ask Greg if she’s tired of being the assistant to Kendall’s assistant yet.

Greg hasn’t ever asked about what Tommy might’ve really meant that first misunderstood conversation; she has somewhat put it down between Tommy just being generally cringy, most likely, or honestly hitting on her in the worst way, because it is kind of like what she wants to imagine, nowadays? Tommy is like a real life mythical Amazon – really pretty, and really big, and really touchy, so Greg is like really comfortable in making it not really her own fault and just like a natural progression. She can even point to Shiv as a fellow victim of the influence.

She mostly has been able to keep that packed in behind her imagination, before now; she hasn’t even seen Tommy in a while, not in the social sense, and not counting since Stewy brought her with Sandi Furness to sneer at the shareholder meeting and they’d barely been in the same room.

“Are you like, um…” Greg says, lifting her hand and sweeping a piece of loose hair from her braid back behind her ear. “Going with Shiv… to Kendall’s thing?”

“If I were, it would be in a purely platonic capacity,” Tommy says, yanking a shirt off of a rack with a narrow look and a shake out of non-existent wrinkles. “I don’t out people.”

Greg wets her lips with a bob of her head.

“But also actually very platonic,” Tommy says, voice flattening, reaching out and considering a dress, low cut and strappy, so hopefully not something she’s actually thinking to put on Greg. “I believe she is in some throuple situation with that… reincarnated spirit of a used car salesman, Sofrelli.”

Greg lifts a hand and lightly scratches at her upper lip with her thumb. “That’s sort of outing her.”

Tommy rolls her eyes over her shoulder, mouth flattening, “You don’t know who the third is.”

“Probably his wife,” Greg says, raising her brows with a slight tilt to her head. “Yeah?”

Tommy doesn’t answer beyond looking back down with a couple of low tuts.

Greg steps a little closer, as she takes off her jacket and folds it over her arm. She reaches out and touches at one of the shinier dresses, feeling it give cool against her fingers, and wonders if she could be a woman who wears silver silk, glimmering under club lights, or if… she should stick to a neutral. Or a pattern? She does enjoy a good pattern, but there aren’t any she can see in the selection.

“They look great, by the way,” Tommy says, voice thinning and pitching, while drawing out another dress and gesturing for the stylist to bring out the next rack with a wag of it. “In case anyone hasn’t said.”

Greg blinks wide, brow knitting above her eyes. “Um, what?”

“Your tits, to be a totally crass fuck,” Tommy says, turning and framing her own bosom with a pair of lifted palms, then pointing at Greg’s chest. “I assume two of the reasons you asked Shiv about designer dresses for this shindig, rather than your usual modest schoolteacher getup?”

“Oh… oh,” Greg intones, only barely managing to ignore an urge to look down, as heat flares across her cheeks; no, no one really has said so, and seem mostly to pretend nothing changed. She’s part of the problem, though – it’s been months, but she’s still not quite used to them being much more than just impression and a good bra. “Yeah, uh… Thanks. Roman was, um – was the only one who really like addressed it? He said I should’ve done more of a porn star thing.”

Tommy makes a pinched face, shaking her head with a suck at her teeth. “That is... actually really unsurprising.”

“I’m really happy with, like… what I chose, though,” Greg says, swallowing thickly and trying not to let herself feel too affirmed… by Tommy, of all people. It had just been something she had agonized back and forth on for as long as she can remember; if it was worth doing at all, or just stick with what she had, while imagining what would look right – what would look great.

She rubs her palms together, then shoves them under her arms, trying to instead distract herself with the dresses that Tommy’s got piling on the bench. It’s a lot more color than the prior racks – she kind of actually really likes the darker orange. And the green. She probably shouldn’t try both at once, or like she might just look like a… a pumpkin, or something.

“Less back problems, trust me,” Tommy says, belatedly around a cough. A hand lifts to cup against her chin, as she rounds a rack of markedly fancier dresses with a tilted head. “How short are you willing to go with your skirt?”

“Uh,” Greg says, dragging her teeth along her lower lip with another glance down at herself. “I don’t usually go very – ”

“Like an Old Believer, I know,” Tommy says, eyes rolling, as she looks up with a quirk of a brow. “I’ve seen. It’s very cute, very flowy, but are you attached to that?”

“Kind of?” Greg says, rubbing at the back of her neck with a slight hunch.

“Oh, fine,” Tommy says, throwing her hands up, then out, sweeping her palms away from each other. “And up top, then – low cut, allowed, but is the public permitted to see your shoulders?”

“I guess… if it’s lacy, or something,” Greg says, drawing her hand back to rub now at one of her button-up-covered shoulders. “Maybe?”

Tommy claps her hands onto her hips. “Stu!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stu says, stepping forward from just near the door.

“How long would it take to tailor a six and a half foot wedding dress for Miss Hirsch?”

Greg makes a noise of protest. “A wedding – ?”

Tommy rounds on Greg with those open arms. “That is what you just described!”

“Is it – um?” Greg says, rolling her lips together, then tilting her head with a weak shrug. “Not if it’s a color? I like that orange.”

“Oh, she likes that orange,” Tommy repeats in a taunt, reaching out and picking the dress up with a tut. She looks at Greg, then down at the dress, shaking it out to hold up to her front; she seems to notice it is lacking other qualifications, but her brow furrows in thought. “It does suit you…” She looks toward Stu, shooing him, “Get us everything close to this color.”

~

Greg lingers at the entrance of the venue, checking her phone, and looks up at familiar voices to see Shiv and Roman, then more importantly Tommy, who’s peering dubiously up at the pink tunnel that touches her head. She’s in the navy mermaid dress that Greg had seen her put aside a week ago, but hadn’t given any hint how it would make her look so comely, and her short hair neatly swept close to the side of her head with an elaborate pin. Greg is vaguely aware of some comment from Roman to the nurse-hostess, but barely hears it, instead focusing on the way Tommy immediately marches toward her when they make eye contact.

“Holy moly, look at those eyes,” Tommy greets, peering up at Greg over one of the hospital bassinets, then rounding it with her hands drifting up in a way that is probably not supposed to be sort of threatening. “Who did your makeup?”

Greg feels heat crawl up to her ears. “I-I did?”

“You did?” Tommy says, eyes glancing twice more across Greg’s face with a different sort of assessment. She reaches out further, clapping her hands on Greg’s biceps. “You look like an autumn princess – take my arm, tonight I am your winter knight.”

“You look really nice, too,” Greg says, hesitantly grabbing at Tommy’s elbow, slipping her fingers around the offered crook; her arms are bare, skin soft and warm.

“Thank you, girlie, I couldn’t let you show me up,” Tommy says, as she gestures down at her dress with a sweep of her other hand and a sidelong wink. “I like that it looks like a stripper version of a power suit – I mean, look at my girls, they look perky as they did in college! You would almost think I’ve got a rack better than Shiv’s.”

Greg slowly furrows her brow, taking advantage of the permission to look down and admire. “You like do?”

Tommy looks shocked for a beat, making Greg hurriedly look away, but then bursts into a huffy snort. “Thank you for that ego boost, but methinks you don’t notice because she’s your cousin.”

Greg offers a shrug, but she doubts it.

Tommy leans into Greg’s arm, fingers sweeping up against her curved knuckles, as they walk deeper into the party. “I didn’t know you knew how to do more makeup than that faux au naturale you always have on.”

“I, uh – I used to practice a lot,” Greg admits, hearing her voice briefly weaken, looking down at the shiny floor passing under their feet. “Like, when I was younger. It was easy to take off, you know, an-and my mom never noticed.”

“Ah, and now you’re an expert,” Tom says, patting at her fingers, leaning briefly even heavier into her side with a pitchy bark. “I’m terrible with it; I always go to a professional for these things.”

Greg glances over, sweeping her eyes from Tom’s vague smoky eye to barely-lined lips. “You do?”

“I used to,” Tommy says, brightly, winking with a taunting sort of smile. “Now I know I can make you do – ” She comes to an abrupt stop, gawking through an open doorway on the other side of Greg. “Oh, Jesus… Is that a fucking crib?”

Greg looks over her shoulder in the same direction. The room is… set up like a nursery, but if it had inside a crib that was… bigger than adult size, even bigger than like Greg-adult size, with a bottle and stuffed animals to match. “Uh, um… y-yeah?”

“You’re related to this man,” Tommy says, flattening her voice into a stern, quiet seriousness, as if this is now an interview for like maybe Dateline. “How does that make you feel, Ms Hirsch?”

“Like, um…” Greg takes a breath. “He isn’t over the death of his father?”

Tommy is silent a beat, then sucks at her teeth. “That is way too far down the rabbit hole for me. You were supposed to say he’s too bizarre to function.”

“He’s always been nice to me.”

Tommy scoffs against the back of her throat. “I’m not sure that’s a good metric.”

Greg offers a thin hum, looking over to Tommy, who is arguably in the same category of a bit weird, for sure, but generally good. “It’s been okay, so far?”

“Oh, come on,” Tommy says, rolling her eyes, but somewhat abashed about it, so likely catching onto the implication. “Let’s try to find the exit to this Freudian nightmare and find a drink… that I hope isn’t dressed up in fucking juice boxes and milk cartons.”

Greg wonders if Tommy missed the swaddled champagne bottles at the entrance.

It takes far too long for Greg, between mocking Kendall’s choices and picking up party favors, to realize that Tommy is sort of acting like this is a date; she thinks, anyway, she hasn’t been on a date in a really long time, but it feels like it. She swallows her nerves and risks a grab for Tommy’s hand, at her next chance, as they turn a bend within the aptly named compliment tunnel. The whole setup visibly puts Tommy on edge, looking at every cheerful deliverer of a compliment through the decorated trestles with sneering suspicion, but Greg sort of likes getting told that she’s great – even if it’s just a weird party game.

Tommy doesn’t shake her hand off, though, which is even better. She actually tightens her grip, shifting her fingers to thread them through Greg’s clammy ones, as they slowly approach a roar and thump of music at the center of the party. She does let her go, as they pick up drinks at a bar along the length of the wall, head bobbing to the beat of the music, but she heavily leans into Greg’s side.

“Do you dance, Greg?” Tommy asks, her drink half gone, looking over with a slight cock of her chin.

Greg feels her expression twist and fold, glancing away from the bar toward the dance floor. “Not, like… really?”

“Too bad!” Tommy crows, as she puts her drink down, then reaches out with the same hand to wrap tight around Greg’s wrist in a tug. “Just think: you can’t embarrass yourself more tonight than the birthday boy.”

Greg bites at her lip and manages a weak shrug, as she’s yanked along into the shifting throng of other guests. She thinks she sees Shiv going a little nuts, a few meters off, but is promptly distracted from that when Tommy grabs at her waist and drags her into a sort of dance that… kind of lacks any rhythm. It definitely seems like Tommy doesn’t really dance, either, though it looks really good on her, but really, by this point in the night, Greg can admit that she might be biased.

The song shifts from on the stage to one at a slower pace, making Greg’s ears burn, as Tommy looks up at her with a slow blink and a smirk. It’s definitely a, like – yeah, she has stumbled into a date.

Tommy shifts forward, groping along Greg’s lower back, then sliding her hands up, and she’s nearly as tall as her with tonight’s choice of heels.

Greg does her best to answer the broadcasted kiss in earnest, worrying a little that it’s too dry, nose bumping in the wrong places, but Tommy doesn’t seem to realize it. She’s actually just grabbing at Greg more, tugging her in so she’s pressed all the way up along her body while they move with the music.

“I’m really glad Shiv called me,” Tommy says, grinning up into Greg’s face, fingers sweeping over her ears and down into her hair. “You look so hot on this dress I chose, you really do, but I’m fucking ecstatic I could get to take it off.”

Greg chokes a little on an agreeable hum, nodding with a hard drop of her head.

Tommy leans in for another kiss, a hand still wrapped at Greg’s jaw while the other roves down her body, then around to grip at her ass. The music drops into a heavier beat, surrounding them with heady, throbbing bass, and she grinds against Greg, thighs strong and thick, foot slotting against Greg’s instep, using a moment of shock to slip her tongue into her mouth.

It a little difficult for Greg to keep up with, mostly because she is so unfamiliar with this sort of club-esque writhing to the music. She lets a bit loose to grope her hands against Tommy’s ribs, holding her close and copping her own feel with a curve of a palm around a rounded breast and brushing a thumb down exposed cleavage. She flushes worse when Tommy moans approval against her lips, head tilting and tongue sweeping along the inside of Greg’s lip. It’s lewd and insinuating, making Greg burn with a startling want, arousal bolting to her groin, and she can’t help her own moan, loud enough, it seems, to earn an evident laugh against her lips.

The song jerks abruptly to a stop, and Greg is near panting, one hand having found it’s way to curl into Tommy’s palm and feel the soft thud of her pulse. She thinks Tommy looks breathless, too, but not in anyway that seems as embarrassing, but actually more attractive; her brow sweaty and her hair threatening to loosen over an ear.

A mumble comes from the stage that Greg only half hears, followed by a click and whine of speakers. The voice that replaces it is nothing like the previous performer, instead it is low, masculine, and horribly familiar.

“Oh my god,” Tommy says, voice pitching, turning tragically away from Greg to stare up at the stage.

Greg watches as Kendall begins to move up and down, attached to some apparatus, and between this and kissing Tommy, she’s no longer sure she’s awake. “Where… where do I know this song?”

“It’s Billy Joel,” Tommy says, lifting a hand to cover her mouth, theatrically aghast, wobbling backward on her heels into Greg’s arms. “He’s singing Billy Joel to himself for his birthday.”

“He, um – ” Greg manages, watching Kendall’s performance on stage; his voice isn’t bad, but the whole thing… is definitely still the CEO of Waystar Royco suffering some weird breakdown about having no closure with his dead dad. “He is sort of too bizarre to function…”

“Thank you, girlie,” Tommy says, glancing over with a quick bark of laughter, though the humor fades again into disbelief when she looks back at Kendall on stage. “I feel like I’m some lobster stuck in a pot while the cook croons above me.”

Greg huffs and shifts her palm to fully fold her fingers in Tommy’s against her hip. She hasn’t managed to say it, but she’s really glad she asked Shiv about dresses, too.

[arielmagicesi]

writing my quote-unquote “fix it” fic and wanted to share an excerpt

“Gizmo? Is that you?”

Guillermo let out a long, frustrated sigh, then rolled down the window. Laszlo was holding several shopping bags in his arms.

“I’ve just been to the Home Depp-oh, and I wasn’t relishing the thought of flying home with all this shit,” he said. “Care to give me a ride?”

Of course. Because why not.

“Why don’t you just shove yourself into a shipping container and ship yourself back home?” Guillermo said, way too tired to give a shit anymore.

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“You know what, Laszlo, I’ve kind of had my heart broken and my entire life is in shambles right now, so maybe like, could you not make me do shit for you for five fucking seconds,” Guillermo said, looking straight ahead at the view of the darkened parking lot through the window.

Laszlo didn’t say anything in response, and Guillermo thought maybe he’d left. Then the trunk opened and Laszlo put his bags in. Fucking of course.

The passenger door opened before Guillermo could think to lock it and Laszlo sat himself down. Guillermo didn’t say anything. He was just so tired.

Finally, Laszlo said, “Well, all right, then. Out with it, boy.”

“What?” Guillermo asked, looking at him.

“It’s something Nandor did, isn’t it? What did he fucking do? You can’t keep this shit bottled up.”

Guillermo narrowed his eyebrows.

“Are you… offering to talk to me about this?” he asked.

“Well, what the fuck else would I be doing? You said it yourself, you’re heartbroken. Best to talk about it before you lose your shit and go on a killing spree. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of your stake.”

[mikauzoran]

Marigami: Immaculate (One-Shot)

@purplerose244 requested Marigami. Thanks for the suggestion! ^.^

Summary: With Marinette’s support and encouragement, Kagami finally decides to be true to who she is.

Read it on AO3: Marigami: Immaculate

“Is everything okay, Kagami?” Marinette called out over the murmur of the other party guests as she approached the little table on the edge of the room where Kagami was standing.

Kagami blinked, eyes coming to focus on Marinette’s strapless, light pink cocktail dress with its tiered skirts and cute little bows: one at the waist in the center and the other at the top left, right over Marinette’s heart, drawing Kagami’s gaze to Marinette’s chest.

“Kagami?” Marinette called again, setting down her champagne flute on the table and gently reaching out to press her hand to Kagami’s forehead.

She delivered her verdict: “You’re a little hot.”

Kagami let out a snort of laughter. “Only a little hot? I thought you told me I, quote-unquote, ‘rocked the pantsuit lesbian look’.”

Marinette rolled her eyes and gave her girlfriend a playful hip-check. “Forgive me. I meant to say, ‘you’re a smoking hot fox’.”

Kagami shook her head, a mix of pleased and amused, but then her smile gradually petered out as her former thoughts nudged back into the forefront of her mind.

“Are you okay?” Marinette asked again, eyes narrowing in concern. “I know parties aren’t really your thing. Do I need to take you home? You’re looking kind of out of it.”

“No. That won’t be necessary,” Kagami assured. “I’m fine. Please go back to schmoozing with industry contacts. This is an important event for furthering your career.”

Marinette pursed her lips, gingerly brushing a stray bang back behind Kagami’s ear. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Kagami nodded. “I was just thinking. That’s all.”

Marinette arched an eyebrow. “About what? You looked troubled before I came over here.”

Kagami bit her lip. “…Adrien had me read this manga the other day. There’s this one character who all the other girls think is perfect. They’re so sure they know who she is that they don’t give her the opportunity to define herself, so the girl tries her best to be the person they think she is, but it makes her miserable.”

Marinette nodded for Kagami to keep going as she tried to follow the thread of Kagami’s thoughts.

“Things come to a head when the girls are doing this play. In the end, the girls’ characters all sling mud at each other, but they don’t want the one girl to participate in the mud throwing because they don’t think it suits her—or who they think she is, rather,” Kagami continued. “But the girl doesn’t want to be the only one left clean. She doesn’t want to be excluded. She finally tells the truth and shows them her real self…and they accept her.”

Kagami looked up at Marinette searchingly. “It made me think about myself. I’ve spent most of my life letting others define who I am without ever fighting it and telling people who I really am.”

She swallowed and kept going. “I wonder if I need to metaphorically sling mud and get dirty like everyone else too. I wonder if I should be more honest…if that would free me from the box I feel like I’m stuck in.”

“How would you want to go about that?” Marinette tentatively pressed.

“First off, I think I’d like to stop hiding our relationship,” Kagami realized. “I think I’d like to be the real me outside our small circle of friends.”

Marinette bit her lip, uncertain. “Your mother won’t like it, but…if that’s something that will make you happy, I support you. Are you sure about this?”

Kagami nodded, lacing her fingers through Marinette’s. “I have the most beautiful, talented girlfriend on the face of this earth. I’m proud of you, proud that you chose me. I’ve wanted to share that with the world for a long time. I’ve just been too afraid.”

A sparkling grin spread from one side of Marinette’s face to the other, and she gave Kagami’s hand a squeeze.

“Okay. I’m ready whenever you are,” Marinette assured, unable to contain her excitement.

Kagami leaned in and pressed a long, firm kiss to Marinette’s lips, for once heedless of whomever might see.

“I’m ready,” Kagami announced. “I’ve kept myself clean and neat and safe for far too long.”

[secrettastemakerland]

@fictober-event

Prompt day 10 - "It's so quiet."

Fandom: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations

tags: birthday parties, quote unquote "surprise" birthday party, family fluff

Pairing: implied NarutoxHinata/NaruHina

A Not Surprising Surprise Party (mini sequel to This Following Friday)

Summary: Kawaki comes home from a mission only to find the house unusually quiet...

Kawaki let out a content sigh as he walked through the gates leading up to the Uzumaki house, his eyes taking in the building he hadn't seen for only a couple of days.

The teen chuckled at his reaction to seeing his home again. Sure, he had missed sleeping in an actual bed over the last few days, but he wasn't exactly excited to see the actual house again, but more so the people inside waiting for him.

And pets, too, of course! Couldn't exclude the pets he and his siblings had smuggled into the house!

(Nor the surprise one, if he remembered the date correctly.)

Trying his best to contain his excitement, Kawaki grabbed the house keys from their hiding spot (under the third flower pot) and unlocked the door.

Closing the door behind him, Kawaki placed his bag onto the floor, moving to remove his shoes.

"It's so quiet," he said in his best faux confused voice.

WAY too quiet for a normal day but not for today, he thought smugly, trying to conceal his smirk as he walked the connected living/dining room.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY WAKI!!!!" His family (and the banner on the wall) shouted as they jumped up from their hiding spots. Himawari ran over to give him a hug and placed a birthday crown on his head as Boruto blew a noise maker and gave him his birthday punches.

Naruto and Hinata followed behind, walking up their son to welcome him home, the former holding an equally excited Lion and the latter holding a tray with a cake on it.

As soon as he was within his reach, Lion started smothering one side of his face with happy happy birthday kisses, everyone letting out a chuckle as Hinata did the same on the other side.

The bunnies were excited as well (though they looked like they couldn't care less) and were spread out in relaxed positions all over the floor.

A few minutes later, when they had gathered to sit down to sing, cut, and eat the cake, Naruto paused, making everyone stop their celebrations.

"Hey, Waki... why were you so quiet when you came in?" The tall blond questioned with a tilt of his head.

Kawaki's eyes went wide and he mumbled a quiet "Huh?"

"When you came in, you were so quiet. You didn't even call for us or anything..." Blue eyes went narrow in confusion.

"Umm..." Kawaki trailed off, trying (and failing) to come up with an excuse. Apparently, he needed to work on his acting skills.

"Almost like-" Naruto continued, trying (and succeeding) to connect the dots.

"-you knew about the party..." Hinata's eyes widened as she finished her husband's sentence, surprised that she hadn't realized that until now.

Himawari lowered herself into her seat, trying (and failing) to disappear as Boruto looked away from his parents' questioning eyes and whistled (not at all) nonchalantly. Even Lion, who couldn't even talk, hid under the table in a supportive matter.

Seeing as he wasn't being questioned anymore (and being the helpful brother that he was), all Kawaki did was watch and stuff cake into his mouth. No need for it to go to waste... mmm! Chocolate. He loved chocolate.

"Geeze, I wonder who told," Naruto smirked at the scene, turning to Hinata, who wore an amused expression.

"You guys know I can't keep a secret! I just got so excited that it came out! I'm sorry!" Himawari spit out from her place half on/half off her chair.

"I was so excited to see Waki's reaction to the super cool gift I got him that I spilled the beans." The blond looked down with his shoulders slumped. "And I kinda told him about his gift, too."

(Neither dared to bring up the incident that had occurred the Friday before Kawaki's mission. They would cross that line when they got there.)

The adults chuckled. (Kawaki was too preoccupied eating his cake to notice the joke.)

"Actually, he was talking about Lion," Hinata said, hiding her laughter behind one of her hands. "But we're happy you told us the truth." She gave Lion a pat on the head as he came out from under the table.

"Guess this means we can't have any more surprise parties, huh?" Himawari said as she sat up correctly, trying to fix her hair out of her face.

"Aww, that's too bad because someone's birthday is coming up..." Naruto poked Hinata in the side and laughed when she squeaked. He laughed harder when she smacked his chest.

"Oh great, we messed it up for everyone." Boruto said in a sarcastic tone.

"That's not true! We could still plot for Lion's!" Himawari pointed out as the dog in question straightened up and wagged his tail. Hinata couldn't help but giggle at his cute action and gave him another pat on the head.

"As cute as that would be, I think we should get back to celebrating before Waki eats all the cake." Naruto laughed, shaking his head. Boy did their son have a sweet tooth.

"Huh?" The teen looked up from his fourth? piece of cake to see everyone laughing and smiling at him.

"Oh, nothing. Enjoy it, Kawaki. You deserve it."

[therealvalkyrie]

Through the Mirror: Part 1

my body, my music

Pairing/setting: Detective!Levi Ackerman x Female!Ghost!Reader, modern!AU within the Walls

Summary: When you’re murdered one Tuesday morning, can Levi piece together the true circumstances of your death with your help from beyond the grave?

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: dead body, descriptions of blood, swearing, mentions of violence

AN: Welcome to my new series because I have no self control and can’t finish projects before starting others! Lemme just start off by saying updates may come pretty irregularly because I do have a lot of other WIPs to work on, but! I’m really excited about this idea and have a whole lot planned:) I seriously hope you enjoy. After all, who doesn’t love a good murder mystery? Drop into my DMs/askbox/comments/reblogs to let me know what you think! Be kind to yourselves and others. ~valkyrie

“Ah, shit! Hello!? I’m standing right here!”

The woman completely ignores you, stepping carefully over the puddle of blood and across your tiny living room. You cross your arms and pout. She ignores that, too. 

“‘Scuse me, boys, let the experts take it from here,” she quips, gently pushing past the two detectives and crouching next to your body on the ground. 

It’s ugly, but she’s probably seen worse, you muse from where you’re leaning against the door jamb. It’s only been lying there for a couple of hours, so at least you haven’t bloated to something out of an NCIS episode. Must smell horrid, though, judging by the mask the head detective has pulled over his face.

“So, you said the landlady called at about 7 am?” the ME inquires, cocking her head up to look at the detectives, nylon gloved hands held at the ready.

“7:07 exactly. Said a neighbor made a noise complaint, she came up to check it out, found signs of a forced entry, and called us.” It’s the taller blonde who speaks up, reading from an off-brand pocket notepad in his left hand. The kind you’d find on sale at Staples after Back-to-School season.

Interesting. You lean your head against the wall, eyes trained on the trio. You’d pegged the ill-tempered shorter one as in charge. Maybe he’s just the quiet type. 

“Hmm, alright. Moblit, get off your ass and come take the pictures before we move her,” the woman calls to someone behind you, and you turn just in time to get a face full of Moblit’s chest as he walks towards you. 

You cringe back with a “God, seriously?” to no response.

“Yes, sorry, right away, Hange!” Moblit hurries past- no, through -you, sidestepping the ottoman and the blood. It feels weird, like a strong wind, but not altogether unpleasant to have someone walk through you, you suppose. You look down at your chest to watch your misty body re-settle into itself before looking back at the group in your living room.

Were it not for the gruesome accents of blood flecked up the walls and your body riddled with stab wounds, you’d chuckle at how all four of them struggled to navigate the space. It’s cramped enough when it’s just you, fitting only a couch, a chair, a coffee table, your fern (Boris), and a narrow IKEA bookshelf. With the four of them plus a dead body, it’s like watching a freaking clown car.

“Sorry, excuse me, Captain, oh, was that your toe—?” Moblit’s struggling the most, having to move to capture different angles with his bulky camera. When he steps on the shorter man’s toe, he positively blanches, fumbling over himself to apologize while the ME laughs openly.

“God, alright, just,” the Captain pinches his delicate nose between a thumb and forefinger, then decides it’s better to wait in the kitchen. “C’mon, Gin, let’s chat in there.”

The Captain and the blonde detective both pass through you on the way back to the kitchen, but you only sigh and shake the tingly feeling of being incorporeal out of your fingers before following them.

“So,” the man called Gin takes the initiative, flipping back through his notebook and standing by the fridge. “I got statements from the landlady and two of the neighbors, numbers 303 and 304 down the hall. 301, directly across the hall, didn’t answer, but I got contact info from the landlady.” He pauses to read and scratch at his whiskery beard. “It was 304 who made the noise complaint, said she heard yelling this morning at around 5:45, and that she normally wouldn’t’ve said anything but it was, quote, the fourth goddamn time this week and I work the goddamn night shift, I deserve some fucking rest, unquote.”

You grin. Mrs. Sheffield was never one to mince words, something you appreciated when your ex-boyfriend got too loud and she took it upon herself to give him a piece of her mind. You catch a glimmer of a smile on the ornery Captain’s face above where he’s pulled his mask down before he gestures for Gin to keep going, keeping his thoughtful gaze fixed on the floor and his back against your countertop.

“Then after she called the landlady, she went to bed, only to be woken by us two hours later.”

“You said she called the landlady at 5:45 and that she works the night shift?”

Gin double checks his notes. “That’s right.”

“And she works at the hospital?”

“Yes, as a scrub nurse on the night shift.”

“But the night shift at the hospital ends at 6:30.”

“It was her night off,” you and Gin say at the same time before you catch yourself. They can’t hear you, anyway. This’d be a lot easier if they could.

Gin plows ahead. “But she says she keeps the same sleep schedule so she doesn’t, ah, fuck up her circadian rhythm.”

The Captain practically snorts at this, itching for a second under his silk cravat (can someone say pretentious) before settling back into a listening silence.

“303 says he didn’t hear a thing. College kid, looked exhausted. Said he was asleep the whole night after he got in at,” a page flip, “11 o’clock last night. Wasn’t much help, but looked genuinely upset when we told him about the murder. Wanted to know if there was anything he could do. Oh, but he did, uh, hang on,” more page flips, “He did tell us that he heard her and her boyfriend arguing a lot. Which is consistent with what Mrs. Sheffield told us.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” you correct into thin air. 

“A lover’s spat gone wrong, then,” Mr. Pretentious Captain muses. You huff in annoyance. A lover’s spat. If that’s all that this is written off as you’ll have some serious PD haunting to do. Chris may have been an angry, loud, disruptive manipulator, but he wouldn’t murder you. He didn’t murder you. “Any info on the whereabouts of the boyfriend?”

“Ex-boyf—!”

Blondie cuts you off, “Not currently, but we do have a name: Chris Henderson, works in admin down at the University. Lives across town closer to the Bridge.”

“Send some uniforms to bring him in for questioning. No arrests yet, tell ‘em to keep it friendly.”

“Right, I’ll put Dreyse and Bodt on it.”

“Dreyse, really?” Captain Cravat gives Gin an incredulous look. 

“Hey, she may look like a ditz but she gets the job done. And she might get him to let down his guard,” Gin argues, grinning. 

“Fine. I’ll meet them at the station, you stay here and make sure that mousy-haired dunce doesn’t fuck up my crime scene.”

“Hey, who’re you callin’ mousy-haired, short stack?” Hange actually sticks her whole head through yours this time, to butt into the conversation, and you shriek and jump away to the other side of your tiny kitchen, now sandwiched between Blondie and Shortstack. The latter twitches and swats at the air by his ear, as though to dislodge a fly, narrowly missing yours. You give him a weird look then turn back to listen to the ME. She’s leaning into the kitchen at an alarming angle, one hand on the doorframe and the other on the end of the gurney you assume is carrying your body. You shudder at the thought of being toted around in a dark, musty, humid glorified coat bag. Ugh. 

“—takin’ this baby”-she slaps the gurney twice and you flinch-“back so I can get started on the autopsy, Moblit’s staying to take more pictures and collect forensics. If Eld’s stayin’ here with Mob, does that mean you’re catching a ride with me, Levi?” The question is addressed to Captain Grump on your right, who gives a heavy sigh and pushes off the counter. 

“I guess so. I get to choose music though.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she’s wagging a finger, grinning. “My body, my music!”

“How about my body, my music?” you suggest, following Levi. “I deserve it after the day I’ve had.”

Again, Levi twitches and swats aggressively by his ear, nearly hitting you full in the face this time. 

“You hear that, Gin? This place got a mosquito problem or something?”

“I do not have a mosquito problem!” and “No, sir, I don’t hear anything.” overlap in the air. 

Captain Levi only grunts, then starts spouting instructions, which Gin notes down. “I want footage from any cameras in the building, and from the shops next door and across the street. I want statements from residents both upstairs and downstairs. I want names, addresses, and numbers of next of kin on my desk by noon, and lastly, I want no one, save for myself, you, shitty glasses, and mousy-hair, in or out of this apartment. Are we clear?”

“Crystal clear, sir.”

“Good. I’m leaving you Braus to help and to show her the ropes of this kind of thing. Even though she’s on the case, she will not set foot in this apartment. I don’t trust her not to leave breadcrumbs in the bloodstains.

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect an in-person report before shift-change this evening. See you then.” Then, he’s sweeping out of the kitchen in pursuit of Hange and the gurney, leaving you to scurry after. As you exit your home, he shoots a young auburn-haired woman in a crisp white blouse and wool slacks a look. “Braus. You’re with Gin. Don’t go in the apartment.”

She straightens up from leaning against the wall with a jolt and brushes croissant crumbs off her front. “Yes, Captain Levi, sir!” It’s slightly muffled by the pastry stuffed into her mouth.

“Tch.”

It’s fascinating watching how Levi and Hange manage to navigate the gurney down the narrow, twisting stairs of your walk-up apartment building. They’re both clearly used to this sort of thing, communicating only in short phrases and grunts when they encounter an obstacle. Occasionally, you offer up a pointer and watch as Levi becomes increasingly irritated. 

“Watch out for Mr. Laslow’s cat, he likes to sneak up on ya!”

“Hange, do you hear— shit!” Levi hops to the side, narrowly avoiding the tabby tail as Tubbins McGee whisks past.

“It’s only a cat, Levi, dunno what’s got you so worked up today,” Hange teases, grin echoing your own as you chortle from the landing above them. 

Eventually, they spill out onto the sidewalk and into the bright mid-day, and Hange groans loudly, stretching with both hands on her back.

“Ugh. Remind me not to die in there, I’d hate to put someone else through that.”

“Boof, tell me about it,” you commiserate. 

“Noted,” Levi snarks. 

Hange removes jingling keys from her pocket and unlocks the ME’s van parked along the sidewalk with a beep, then opens the back doors and steps in. You follow, leaning against the cool metal siding to watch.

When they both load into the front seats and the engine turns over, you lean forward between them to listen in.

“So,” Hange starts, smoothly pulling out into the road behind a silver minivan. “I’ll be able to give you a more solid answer in a couple hours, but my initial estimated time of death would be around 5:45 this morning.”

Levi nods, staring out the passenger window while he answers. “That lines up with the neighbor’s story.”

“Theories so far?”

“Well, there’s the boyfriend,” he muses, lifting a hand to rub his chin.

“Too obvious,” you say dully, not bothering to amend the lack of “ex” yet again. “Next theory.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then mutter, almost too quietly for you to catch: “Too obvious, hmm? Next theory....”

You’re momentarily flabbergasted, hand falling through the faux-leather seat back in your shock. Can he actually hear you? You shake out your hand while it re-materializes, tuning in to the conversation as Hange’s responding. 

“—a little far-fetched, don’t you think? I mean, has there been any of that activity in this area recently?”

“Mm, I’ll have to touch base with Petra. If there has been, I think it’s worth looking into.”

“What is? Wait, go back,” you frantically plead, leaning further into his airspace. But Hange plows on. 

“Oh, it’s Petra, now, hmm? Not Raggedy Anne anymore?” Her tone is teasing, and she glances over to Levi for a reaction. 

He doesn’t give her one, just stares out the window pensively before reaching for the radio dial. The stereo blares up into an Oldies station, and you make a disgusted face along with Levi. 

“You listen to this shit?”

“Hey, my dead body, my music, sweetcheeks. Don’t like it, you can thumb it back to the PD.”

“How about my dead body, my music?” you suggest again, reaching for the dial at the same time as Levi does. Just as his slender fingers touch it, your hand passes through the whole front console and the oldies are replaced with a terrifyingly loud static screeching. 

“Christ, Levi, what’d you do?” Hange shrieks, lunging forward to punch the radio off as you remove your hand. 

“Nothing! It just went berserk!”

They bicker while you stare at your offending palm. “Huh. Didn’t know I could do that.”

If you can actually interact with objects, at least to some degree, and if it turns out Levi can hear you.... This whole thing might be easier than you thought.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens one-shot - “When God Closes a Door, She Opens a Window, But It's Up to You to Find It” (Rated T)

Summary: Crowley goes through unconventional lengths to escape a bad blind date...

... and ends up finding an angel in an unexpected place. (2770 words)

Notes: This is a re-write of an older story, but I think I like this version better. Human au. Fluffy as heck. CW: If you get squicked out by being covered in food trash, proceed with caution.

Read on AO3.

"Bollocks... bollocks... bollocks... bollocks... " Crowley mutters as she paces back and forth, simmering behind her eyeballs with so much anxiety she's about to tear her hair out by the roots. The only plan she can come up with to solve her current dilemma grows hotly in her mind, but she's searching for something - ANYTHING! - to take its place. 

Maybe something along the lines of acting like an adult, womaning up, and admitting this isn’t going to work? Be upfront about it and say it to the man’s face, for Heaven's sake! 'Go on, Crowley!' she thinks. 'Go ahead! One foot in front of the other. Steady on! You can do this!'

But she’s become so tired of the grind – going to bars, faithfully tending her online dating profile, endless blind dates set up by well-meaning friends, the rejecting and the rejections. She can’t face one more. It physically hurts, knots her stomach muscles until the pain turns her world monochromatic.

Crowley had had high hopes for this one, too. Her date Steven is the new doctor of the boy she nannies. He and Crowley have plenty in common – a love of theater and fine dining, and an appreciation for fashion. Crowley thought dating a pediatrician would be fascinating. After summarizing the pertinent details of her own life, perhaps her date would talk about getting through medical school, toss in a few whimsical stories about the joys (quote/unquote) of working with children - baby’s first shots where the parents cried more than the infant, or the tale of a precocious little girl who demanded he put a Band-Aid on her teddy before he helped her (the way Crowley's young charge had with his first doctor when he was around three). They could swap war stories, bond in that way.

But Steven’s favorite part of his profession is pediatric surgery, and, unfortunately, he loves to talk shop. Every morsel of conversation has been inappropriate for dinner and graphic in nature - appendectomy this and tonsillectomy that, abscesses and pus and untreated sores - until Crowley’s face turned as green as her salad and she couldn’t look at her steak anymore.

Neither could their neighbors, who flagged down a passing waiter and requested a new table. They've been sat near the kitchen, which most diners would loathe, but they look heaps happier.

Crowley excused herself as delicately as she could and raced to the loo, needing to escape any more gruesome talk. 

That was over fifteen minutes ago. 

She’s trapped with no way out.

She pictures the layout of the restaurant in her head. There has to be a back way in and out of this place. All restaurants have an exit through the kitchen, right? But the toilet, the kitchen, and the front door are all in full view of their table. Steven is sure to spot her sneaking out no matter how stealthy she is.

Crowley turns on the cold water and splashes her face, scolding herself to think, think, think! She’s an intelligent woman. She can come up with a way out of this. Could she phone someone to come down to the restaurant and make an excuse for her? Not likely, not on short notice. Her friends Anathema and Newt wouldn't be able to find a sitter - ironic, seeing as Crowley is a nanny, and if the tables were turned, she'd be more than willing to lend a hand.

Could she phone her employers, ask Mrs. Dowling to claim an emergency at home? No. She doesn't want to get them tangled up in her personal woes, especially when they concern a man they think of so highly.

She could look up one of those services that make fake calls to your cell phone to get you out of sticky situations, but that would mean going back out there to make the ruse believable. And from the way her hands lock around the lip of the basin every time she thinks about taking a step outside the door, she knows that isn’t happening.

Crowley looks at herself in the mirror, looks into her eyes, and reminds herself to calm down. Slow her breathing. She’ll find a solution. 

And suddenly, there it is. 

In the reflection of the mirror, she sees what might be her only way out.

A window. 

The only window in there, propped open enough that she’d be able to fit through. 

It’s kind of high, sort of narrow, and definitely a last resort. But what other choice does she have?

Loads, in reality. It just doesn't feel like it.

But does she really have to resort to jumping out a window? She’s already been in there for (she checks her watch and her eyes open wide) twenty-five minutes! And her date hasn’t come to check on her once. Maybe the man got the hint and left (hopefully after paying what should be close to a hundred-pound check). 

Crowley tests her luck, opening the door a sliver, praying silently don’t be there, don’t be there, don’t be there...

But there is no God - not one on her side, anyway - because there sits Dr. Steven Malory, talking to the waiter, telling him about another fascinating surgical procedure. He makes an exaggerated cutting motion across his stomach with a butter knife. The poor waiter, weighed down by a tray of soup bowls, nods politely, but looks like he may vomit in the tureen.

She winces. That poor waiter. Who knows how many times he's been called upon to lend an ear since her absence, or how many more times he'll be forced to endure another gory tale before Dr. Malory realizes she's gone. She peeks over her shoulder at the window, then back to the table, where Steven has his phone out, Googling something to the waiter's dismay. She slowly closes the door and backs away.

Window it is.

Crowley shelves the nagging feeling that she's perpetuating the most pathetic trope in the dating world and starts constructing a platform. There’s not much available – a small stepstool underneath the sink; a short, square, plastic rubbish bin that looks less than steady; another taller rubbish bin, dented along one side, looking like someone else already used it to make a break for freedom; and the toilet and basin, both miles away and completely unmovable.

Crowley does some quick engineering in her head and figures that if she turns the small bin over onto the stepstool, she might gain the height she needs to grab the lip of the window and hoist herself up, which would eliminate using the dented bin. She doesn’t like the odds that she won’t slip, fall, and crack her head open. She’s not so much worried about doing any permanent damage, but of having to explain to her date why she’s lying on the floor, covered in trash, and bleeding profusely.

With her luck, he'll giddily insist on stitching up any gashes, drawing a crowd of bystanders around to watch.

Crowley pushes the stool up against the wall with her foot. She dumps the trash from the small bin into its larger counterpart and sets it on the stool, centering it as best she can to keep it from sliding. With a hand on the wall for support, she puts a foot on the bin and attempts to pull herself up. It wobbles back and forth, then gives one backward lurch that nearly sends Crowley flying. 

She determines quickly that this isn’t going to work the way she had planned and makes a desperate leap for the window, using all her upper body strength to get her halfway through.

Crowley shudders when the cold air hits her skin, shocked by the drop in temperature, but mostly from fear of death. She looks down. 

A huge mistake on her part.

A horribly placed streetlamp keeps her from seeing into the alley, but she’s pretty sure she remembers a dumpster underneath this window. She had parked her Bentley in the lot across the way and saw it on the walk in. She looks out into the rows of cars and spots her vehicle. She sighs with relief. 

Now she’s a little more sure, but still not 100%.

Worst case scenario, she lands in food muck, probably not rotten since it’s still actively dinner, and ruins an expensive designer outfit.

Of course, that’s not actually the worst-case scenario, is it? Worst case scenario, she misses the dumpster altogether, hits the pavement, and breaks her leg, but she’s determined to remain optimistic. At this moment, when her anxiety-ridden brain has her convinced that the only logical route out is through this flippin' window, that’s a chance she’s willing to take.

She swings her right leg over, grateful that she chose slacks over a skirt tonight, till she’s straddling the narrow sill, bent in half by the metal lip of the window frame. She balances there, the dull edge digging into her sternum, her belly, and her crotch, but she can’t make herself jump. 

She’ll need to trick herself into it. 

She forces herself to relax, teeter-tottering back and forth, not dwelling on the possible outcome, just trying to work her way to the right far enough that she knocks herself off-kilter.

Fate lends a hand in the form of a drunken passerby yelling, “Oi! Oi, lookie there! There’s a big bird... human... thing hanging out that window!” 

Crowley panics, afraid she's about to be mistaken for someone breaking into a busy restaurant and not out. She fumbles, flails, starts falling head first, scrambles to get a hold. She hears a distant, “No! No, wait!” as her fingers slip. There are three seconds of cold wind and a sinking feeling in her stomach before she lands on her bum, thankfully in the dumpster, surrounded by the smell of not-too-rank food, the squish of something under her body that she thinks might be mashed cauliflower... 

... and a scream.

“Ouch!”

“Oh my God! I’m sorry!” 

Crowley yelps when her body lifts, something extraordinarily strong underneath pushing her up. She reaches around the slippery mess and wet plastic bags, struggling to pull herself off whoever is in the rubbish under her while trying to ignore the gravy seeping into her slacks, or the rice pilaf embedding itself beneath her freshly glossed fingernails. She knows she's broken two at minimum. 

How much worse could this evening get?

“I’m sorry!” Crowley scrambles to her knees, crawls away a few feet. “I’m so, so sorry!” 

“It’s alright, my dear.” A voice underneath her chuckles, its owner emerging from a layer of poached fish and au gratin potatoes.

Crowley turns in time to catch a glimpse as they move into the light. A woman wearing a vintage-inspired emerald gown covered in Hollandaise sauce and ranch dressing smiles sheepishly at her. The white light overhead gives a halo effect to her silvery-blonde hair, and her blue eyes almost glow.

She's quite breathtaking. 

“I thought I had reserved a private dumpster,” she jokes. “I’ll need to have a word with the maître de."

Crowley stares at her, stunned. “I… I don’t understand. What are you doing in here?”

“I suspect I might be here for the same reason as you,” she says, wiping mayonnaise off her hand before offering it to Crowley. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“Crowley. I’m sorry I landed on you.” She takes Aziraphale’s hand, forgetting to wipe hers off before and smushing creamed spinach between them. Crowley groans in embarrassment, but Aziraphale laughs.

“No worries.” Aziraphale doesn't let go immediately the way Crowley thought she would, her smile becoming brighter the longer she holds on. “It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened all evening.”

“So... I take it you’re running away from a bad date, too, huh?” Crowley asks, regretting when Aziraphale finally lets go.

“I'm afraid so.” Aziraphale glances down with a long sigh. “A friend set me up, but I swear, the only men she knows are unemployed, torpid, and skeevy.”

“Wow. That’s some A-plus word usage right there.”

“Yes, well, the written word is my passion."

“Does that mean you're the one who wrecked the silver rubbish bin?"

“Did I?” Aziraphale looks up at the window and grimaces. “I should probably offer to replace that then, shouldn't I? What about you?” Aziraphale turns her soft blue eyes back Crowley's way. “How bad was your date going?”

“I can now perform an appendectomy with my eyes shut.”

“Yikes. I take it that’s not a turn-on for you?”

“Not in the slightest. I appreciate medicine as much as the next gal, but I’d rather not know the gritty details." Crowley stares at Aziraphale until Aziraphale notices, then the two look away, blushing like giggly teenagers flirting in a coffee shop instead of two adults stuck in the trash. Crowley can't help herself. Regardless of the stench of curdled butter and cheese that will probably be with her for life, Aziraphale is a calming presence. And she looks like an angel. An honest-to-God angel! 

And Crowley found her in the trash. 

What are the odds?

“You know, we might want to get out of here before anyone else drops in,” Aziraphale suggests, rising to her feet and lending Crowley a hand.

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees. "Guess that's my night over. Though... " She looks down at her blouse and trousers, positively caked with sweet potatoes, chicken grease, tomato sauce, and chutney "... I’m not looking forward to driving home like this.”

"How far do you have to go?"

"I'm in Mayfair."

"Oh!" Aziraphale gasps. "Isn't that a lovely part of town?"

"I enjoy it," Crowley replies, never having felt quite so proud to live in Mayfair as she does in this moment. "And you?"

"I have a shop in SoHo."

"Lucky. You're just a hop, skip, and a jump, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am... " Aziraphale chews the inside of her cheek as her words hang, balanced in the air between stopping a thought or continuing it. “I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but if you come back to my shop, I have a shower. We could clean up there... " Aziraphale sputters when Crowley's eyebrow arcs sharply upward. "S-separately, of course! A-and order in some pie. I know a great spot nearby. I dare say they have the best pie in the world! And they deliver.”

“I don’t have a change of clothes,” Crowley says, wary of taking Aziraphale up on her invitation. Garbage notwithstanding, meeting her has definitely been an improvement to the way things were going. 

"I might have something that would work for you." Aziraphale sizes Crowley up, but not in a creepy way. In a surprisingly nurturing way. "It would be nice to salvage the evening, don't you think?"

"It would." But one disastrous date is plenty for the night. Should Crowley jump straight to another with a woman she met in a dumpster? Then again, it would be wrong for her to assume that spending time with Aziraphale would be disastrous. Plus the story of how they met is way too fantastic to waste on self-doubt.

Crowley took a chance on jumping out a window with only hope to guide her. She’d be stupid not to take a chance on this.

“Sure,” Crowley says, confident with her decision. “Your car or mine?” The words slip out before she considers the fact that she's talking about her baby. A vintage car that she, due to an extreme case of sheer luck, has been the sole owner of. She won't even wear muddy shoes in her car. Or rayon! On top of her own ruined outfit, which will need to be dry cleaned twice and then set on fire, if she lets Aziraphale in her car, she'll have two sloppy, food-stained seats that she’ll need to have scoured. 

Maybe Aziraphale will laugh her off and offer to take her own car. Why would she want to leave it behind, anyway?

“Oh, I didn't drive,” Aziraphale says, looking down sadly at her own destroyed dress. “I took the bus.”

Crowley's heart clenches. There's that decision made. There's no way she's going to suggest Aziraphale take the bus while Crowley drives her car. She just prays that, with time, her baby will forgive her.

“My car it is then.” Crowley loops her arm covered in soup through Aziraphale’s arm covered in whipped cream and leads the way. Aziraphale smiles, holds Crowley's arm a wee bit tighter, and Crowley becomes certain this new development will be worth the money she'll spend detailing her car in the morning.

[seecarrun]

“Your Pace or Mine?”

a Reddie snippit/ficlet

"Eddie has a nemesis!"

Stan looked up from his puzzle to raise an amused eyebrow at Patty and Eddie as they burst through the door, flushed and sweaty from their run. "I mean, it was bound to happen sooner or later," he drawled. Patty snorted out a laugh as she headed into the kitchen while Eddie rolled his eyes.

"I do not have a nemesis," he scoffed, untying his shoes. "A rival, maybe. But I'm not a fucking supervillan."

Patty fluttered past the couch with two glasses of ice cold water and kissed Stan on the forehead, handing one of the glasses off to Eddie, who took it gratefully. "There's this guy on the neighborhood Strava group that keeps beating all of Eddie's PR's by like, three seconds," she explained. "It's actually impressive."

"It's not impressive, it's annoying," Eddie grumbled. "I go out running every single day and have never seen this guy, yet he's out there running all the same routes I run exactly three fucking seconds faster than me? Bullshit. He's gotta be cheating somehow. Hacking the app or something."

"Or," Stan offered, "crazy thought, but maybe he's just better than you are." Eddie glared at Stan's smirk, so he shrugged back casually, just to be an asshole. "What's his name? If he's from the neighborhood, maybe we know him."

"Oh! That's the other thing!" Eddie cried, pulling out his phone to, Stan assumed, open up the app. "He doesn't even have a real name on his profile! It just says Dick Toes."

Stan narrowed his eyes, mouthing the name to himself and trying to place why it sounded so familiar, when the realization clicked. "Dick Toe—? Oh, no fucking way." He reached over and yanked Eddie's phone out of his hands.

"What?" Patty asked, plopping down next to him to read over his shoulder. "Do we know him?"

"Dick Toes," Stan sighed, holding up the enlarged profile picture: a picture of an old, dirty, rusty trash can. "Richie Tozier."

"Richie Tozier?!" Eddie snapped. "That comedian friend of your that kept hitting on me at your barbecue?!" Stan nodded. "The ones who's never ran a day in his life?"

At Patty's slightly defensive look, Stan turned to her, explaining, "Yeah, that's literally what he was telling Eddie. The most he runs is, quote, 'to the shitter and back during commercial breaks' unquote." Patty wrinkled her nose, mumbling, 'Oh Richie' under her breath.

Eddie, eyes blazing, sntached his phone back from Stanley. "Give me this asshole's number," he seethed. "We're getting to the bottom of this, if it's the last thing I ever do."

To be continued...? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[joeyjoeylee]

Hey :) can't wait for the final chapter of "both sides of the law"... do you know when do you plan to release it?

( No pressure 😬 )

Hi Anon, this is really nice, thank you! I'm back on my usual bullshit re: angst over word count yada yada yada substantially complete but edit! needed! blah blah, etc. Best case scenario with the holiday weekend I'd say Monday but more realistic scenario (lol) later next week! (Completely pessimistic scenario - I'll tinker with it forever, finger hovering over but never actually pushing the post button.)

In penance for blowing yet another deadline and because I have missed tags for the last couple WIPs tag games - I'm gonna kill two birds with one stone AND also include a snippet (but under a thingie for mild spoilers/sheer ridiculous length).

“Who’d the judge appoint to represent Eddie?” he asked, concentrating on spearing a piece of fish with the end of his chopstick. These little fuckers were so slippery sometimes.

“One of the best litigators in Detroit, even if his practice isn’t primarily criminal,” Gretchen answered, after a pause.

He looked up and made an impatient keep going motion with his chopstick when she paused again. Gretchen actually had the nerve to wince at that as though he was flinging rice all over her pristine oak desk.

She didn’t say anything. Just kept regarding him thoughtfully, in a way he recognized was her trying to figure out the best way to proceed – to try to manage him.

Finally, she closed her eyes for a long moment in resignation, put-upon and martyred, as if this all was just going to be so so very difficult.

“Eugene Katz,” she said at last.

For a second, Rio couldn’t place the name or why Gretchen would say it with such a long-suffering sigh, like she was bracing herself for a reaction from him that was going to be nothing but unreasonable.

Then.

Eugene…Katz?

Katz?

Professor Fucking Katz?

He dropped his chopsticks with a clatter, earning him another wince, and sat back in his seat incredulous.

“You ain’t actually being serious right now, Gretch –” he began, scowling, but she cut him off immediately.

“I know, I know, you had him at school – me too, by the way – and you think he is quote ‘crazy’ unquote, but the fact remains that he’s been litigating almost as long as we’ve been alive. Yes, his practice is predominantly family law but you can’t run a small litigation firm for 30 years without doing your fair share of criminal and personal injury work too.”

He was still shaking his head no. Violently. No. No.

Gretchen narrowed her eyes at him. Then she steepled her fingers together and sat back in her own chair to do battle.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she mocked, pointedly, “I thought we had agreed these kinds of decisions were my department? No?”

Rio ground his teeth. She was right and he hated that.

He’d learned to defer to Gretchen’s expertise and counsel on issues like this. She was the one over at the courthouse every other day, the one who was vice-chair of the Criminal Law section of the Wayne County Bar Association, the one with all the connections with the criminal defense bar, not to mention the prosecutors, the bailiffs, the sheriff’s deputies.

Still, it annoyed the shit out of him to concede to her on this, especially since Gretchen knew exactly how he felt about that lunatic. So even though he already knew he was probably going to end up agreeing, he still made her work for it.

“Yeah?” he lounged back even further in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach, “well, convince me then, Counselor. Lay out your case.”

Gretchen sighed dramatically. Then started to tick off the reasons one by one on her manicured fingers.

“First, it’s not like this is going to difficult for him, the prosecution’s case is mostly circumstantial and it’s just a simple possession charge, a felony, yes, but the most baby felony of felonies,” she held up her index finger for Reason 1, “next, your unreasonable prejudices notwithstanding,” she dropped her index finger and held up her middle finger – Reason 2 – then held it aloft alone for just a beat too long until he snorted, “we wouldn’t be able to find anyone better connected. His ex-law partner from back in the day is Judge Cuccinelli and Judge Berry worked as his associate 20 years ago – they’re both on the bench over there now. And he’s taught at least half the rest of the judges on that court at one time or another, either at school or in continuing legal education classes.”

Rio rolled his eyes. All that all of that proved, in his opinion, was the very sad state of the Wayne County judiciary.

“And Reason 3 – the most important one – juries love him.”

He sighed and shook his head again, but without the heat from before.

“Rio, Eddie’ll be fine, trust me. And it’s not like I’m not going to be involved,” Gretchen’s tone had switched to sweet and conciliatory now that she sensed victory in her grasp, “I’m drafting up a joint defense agreement to be couriered over to his office. We can share thoughts and strategies and still maintain the appearance of separation between our respective clients.”

He knew he’d lost by then but he had to get one last dig in.

“You sure he can handle the workload, Gretch? Ain’t gonna drop dead before we get to trial? He gotta be 100 years old by now.”

It was Gretchen’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Exaggerate much? He can’t be more than 65 or so, and from what I’ve seen in court, still well in possession of all his mental faculties.”

That was a very low bar in his opinion, but he let it go.

Gretchen tilted her head, then leaned forward and put both elbows on her desk.

“Besides,” she said, and it seemed to him that suddenly she was watching him intently, “he won’t be handling it alone. He’s hired a new associate.”

Rio picked his chopsticks and bent back over to concentrate on wrangling his sushi again. He had already exhausted what little interest he’d ever had in talking about Professor Katz.

He expected Gretchen to keep on with her nagging and lecturing and low-key gloating about getting her way.

But there was only silence.

He looked back up to find her watching him still, her chin now resting on one hand.

She looked expectant.

“I bet you’ll never guess who it is,” Gretchen prompted. Her voice sounded a little odd to him. Almost gentle somehow?

Rio shrugged. That was a good bet on her part. It wasn’t like he gave a shit any which way, other than the passing thought of God help the poor little bastard who was going to be working for that lunatic.

Gretchen still didn’t say nothing. Just kept regarding him thoughtfully.

Damn, she could be so dramatic.

“Well, I’m definitely dyin’ of suspense over here now, Gretch,” he told her sarcastically, “so tell me – who?”

She was watching him so carefully, with such laser focus, that the second before she said the name, he knew who it was going to be and he almost, just almost, had time to brace himself before –

“Beth Boland.”

[wellnoe]

Thoughts on how Hank is currently being written? How do you feel about the character arc he’s been on?

i am barely keeping up with current x-men. i just haven’t had a lot of time to read new comics, and have been reading a lot of older stuff that i think is more to my personal taste. also, my experience with post 2000s x-men is VERY spotty. so put simply: my thoughts are very vague and based a lot on very little information.

i think something important to remember about hank is that he’s genuinely friendly. he likes people, and wants to be liked in return. i think it really matters to him. he’s an x-men who’s spent a pretty fair amount of time with other teams, such as the defenders and the avengers. the first time he left the x-men, in the silver age, it was because he was sick of the whole “defending those who hate and fear them” bit. he didn’t want to keep putting himself in the line of people who would know they hated him bc his team’s mission statement included being open about the fact that they were mutants. i think a canon that forgets his desire to interact with people (including publicly as a mutant!) while being well regarded is forgetting an interesting aspect of his character. in the same vein, i think a canon that forgets his friendliness toward his friends, and particularly toward children, who he seems to get along very well with, makes him a less well rounded character and into more of an ethically dubious scientist archetype.

semi-relatedly, i do think it’s fair that he and scott are the two of the o5 that have a big split. in theory, i think it makes sense. scott is totally totally committed to the quote unquote x-men mission, and while hank does genuinely want to help people, he’s maybe not as attached to the specific team and narrower mission statement of the x-men. also, i can see hank being very wary of plans that he thinks could lead to greater anxiety about/retaliation against mutants (especially because he’s a very visible mutant), considering his character history (and also his involvement with x-factor, and how that broke bad). as to how it actually played out in canon, eeeeehhhhh, not so much my thing.

also just as a personal preference, i prefer hank‘s fuckups to be made on the basis of inquisitiveness. i think it’s interesting to have him as a good dude who sometimes lets his intellectual curiosity run away with him, in a way he knows is an issue, and in a way that actually carries repercussions. his confidence and his intellect should be what causes problems (such as with his turn to the blue beast) and not his capacity for evil. i think that’s interesting, and provides space for plot problems that are his fault without making him irredeemable, or shifting his moral standing in ways that are difficult to come back from without excising swathes of canon. i think hank should be allowed to be petty, but pettiness and selfishness can be two different beasts, so to speak, and i’d prefer if one didn’t turn into the other.

i guess my point here is i, personally, find hank less fun to read and less interesting overall, generally, in recent comics. but again, that’s based on spotty reading and a general, personal dislike for a lot of recent x-men stories.