#it will suck in the interim! but it will pass.

[eevees-hobbies]

Hello my beloved. I know you are very backed on requests but I am thinking perverted thoughts rn and wanted to share. I am thinking about Suo’s girlfriend. And how he likes to share her with his friends. How do you think the Furin boys would each react getting 1 minute each with the her/1 minute each to get her to cum. And how do you think Suo would react?

Author’s Note: Hey, Violet! Thanks for letting me continue the, “Suo and his girlfriend are kinda kinky” universe thing I got going on! I love your mind for even thinking about something so torturous! I know I could have made this into a thirst, but you know I’m always on my bullshit.

Content Warning: Fem!Reader experiences Haruka Sakura, Akihiko Nirei, and Toma Hiragi but separately and in different ways :) Sexual activities with an audience (i.e. your boyfriend). Girlfriend sharing. Edging. Fingering. Singular Mention of Breeding. Cursing. Teasing. Suo’s turned on, and I fear for you but that’s for part two for another day. Minors Don’t Interact.

Word Count: 2.9K

Divider by Saradika. Banner by me.

“Isn’t the game called ‘7 Minutes in Heaven?’” You growl through clenched teeth.

The scene set forth in front of you would be considered absurd and debauched by ordinary standards—but you and your boyfriend, Suo, are anything but ordinary. 

A melody of skin slapping against skin, groaning wood straining under the weight of bodies, and primal grunts are the only sounds that echo through the open space you all occupy.

Suo, Nirei, Sakura, and yourself are on the empty roof that houses Umemiya’s garden with only each other and the various plants bearing witness to your sins. You’re panting as you straddle Sakura in a simple, wooden chair commonly used to keep the rooftop door ajar. His hands are gripping the love handles of your pelvis as he pistons his hips upward into your sopping wet–but abused–cunt.

Suo is standing nearby with a stopwatch—his choice of instrument serves as dramatic flair since the timer on his phone would be far more convenient. His eyes dart between the descending countdown displayed on the electronic watch face and back to you, the woman who holds his obsession and love.

He can’t help but think of you as beautiful in this moment, his eyes crawling all over every exposed inch of your naked body as you engage in a lurid affair with Sakura. 

His eyes flicker to various parts of you that have him entranced; his friend's dick continuously impaling your pussy, and the way you’re hanging on to Sakura for dear life as he fucks you with one mission in mind: to win. And the stakes have never been higher. The prize for whoever can make you cum gets to fuck you however they want, for however long, and cum inside of you. That prize? All your idea.

Oh, right, you had asked a question. 

“Yes, you’re right. The game is commonly called 7 Minutes in Heaven, but did you really want Sakura to fuck you for seven agonizingly long minutes, Dove? He can’t even make you cum now.”

Sakura, emboldened by Suo’s words, grits his teeth and thrusts into you harder. His thighs are burning from the continuous motion, but he refuses to think about it—no pain, no gain, or whatever they say. His increased intensity makes you bounce faster and grip his shoulders so you don’t tumble out of the rickety, wooden chair. 

Sakura sucks in as much air as his lungs will allow to fight off the looming and genuine threat of passing out. “H-how much time do I got?”

At that moment, Suo presses a button on the stopwatch.  “Times up! Nirei, would you like to try again?” 

Sakura goes limp in the chair, and your body sits flush against him, hilting his hard dick within yourself, so very close to the spot that would have made your eyes water if he had taken a different approach to his strokes. 

Suo shoots you his notorious closed-mouthed smile in the interim of Sakura trying to wrangle his heartbeat and Nirei trying to find his courage. Who knew his dove was so good at getting fucked by his friends? 

You huff, and your body shakes, but adrenaline and spite keep you from showing any other signs that you might be tapping out soon. 

Truth be told, you’re fucking tired. You’ve been going at this for ten minutes without even so much as a single orgasm. And ten minutes may not sound like a long time, but ten minutes of start-and-stop action has you feeling so frustrated that you might grab the nearest boy by the neck and throw them off the roof. 

Five minutes between Sakura and Nirei, and neither can make your body writhe and coil into absolute fucked out bliss? It’s maddening. It’s pathetic. It’s—Fuck, maybe Suo’s touch has ruined you.

Nirei, despite feeling like this is a losing game, can’t refuse the opportunity to have a turn with you again. He can admit that his first few attempts were lackluster; chivalry got the best of him, and he only ended up kissing you, hands shyly playing with your breasts with his face buried in the crook of your neck. 

And while the experiences were good for him—so good that he has tucked the memory away for those especially frustrating lonesome nights—he hung his head in shame as Sakura and Suo snickered to themselves when the watch signaled that his time was up.

“D-don’t start the clock yet! She’s still on top of Sakura,” he whines as he looks back at Suo.

Sakura lifts you off his dick, allowing you to shimmy away so he can remove himself from the chair.

Nirei approaches the hot seat again, determined to give it his all. Still, as he walks past Sakura, his eyes finally connect with yours—those beautiful eyes that say you’ll eat him whole and then regurgitate him back up because he isn’t worth your time—and he almost turns around. 

“Fuck, why is this so hard,” Sakura grumbles; his tone is more accusatory than you think is fair, considering that you’re the one who’s suffering the most. 

How is his inability to make you cum your fault? You return the same scowl he’s giving you.“Don’t blame me, Sakura! Your technique needs some work.”

“Tch. Not my fault you’re broken.” Sakura folds his arms over his chest. 

“Now, now, don’t fight, kids. Nirei wants a turn again.”

As you sit back in Nirei’s lap, he looks at you, golden-brown eyes shining, and you almost feel bad for him that this was probably his first time being so intimate with a woman, but the thought seems inconsequential as he looks up at you as though you’ve blessed him personally just by sitting naked in his lap. 

“C-can I suck your nipples?” 

You smile and lean into him until your lips are against the blonde's ear, “you can do whatever you want to me, cutie.”

Nirei’s thighs immediately clamp shut, and his hands shoot to your waist and squeeze you, a low, shakey whimper passing beyond his lips.

Suo laughs incredulously, “Did she almost make you cum? You better watch that pretty tongue of hers; it can set you off if you aren’t careful. Time starts now.”

With the added vigor of someone who has something to prove, Nirei’s mouth latches onto your nipple and suckles. And sure, it feels okay, but it could feel sooooooo much better. 

“You can suck harder, Nirei, it’s ok.”

Suo raises his eyebrow at your instruction. He knew you were enjoying this, but helping them win? Devious. 

Nirei gets more aggressive with the sensitive bud in his mouth, his teeth rolling it around until it perks up and hardens between them. You let out an intentionally dramatic, sensual moan while making direct eye contact with Suo.

You begin to rock your hips against Nirei, dragging your wet cunt against the pitched tent in his boxers, “Oh, Nirei, that feels amazing, baby.”

The blonde moans, his brow furrowing with a mouthful of breast and his cock painfully hard for you. 

You run your hands through his hair and arch your back, his jaw practically needing to dislocate to take your entire tit into his mouth. But god is he determined to cover every last inch of your breasts in his saliva; his hand reaches up, and grabs a fistful of your ass and squeezes.

Suo’s eyes narrow at your attempt to get a reaction out of him. He almost feels bad for Nirei, but not that bad since the lucky bastard had a massive tent in his underwear.

“Times up.”

Your head snaps up, suddenly brought out of whatever the fuck was happening right now, “I didn’t hear the timer go off?”

“Too busy enjoying yourself, I suppose,” Suo offers a simple shrug as though he didn’t just crush Nirei’s dreams.

You open your mouth in protest but are quickly stopped by an unmistakable sound: the door leading to the rooftop scraping against the floor as it’s pushed open.

You all, including Suo, share a panicked look. 

“What in the hell is going on here?”

Hiragi pauses as his eyes land on the four of you. “W-what?” 

He’s taking it all in—you, naked as the day you were brought into this world, surrounded by Suo and Sakura as you dry hump Nirei.

Hiragi immediately turns around to shield his eyes from your nudity, but that doesn’t stop his booming voice from sounding any less imposing. 

“Someone better explain, now!”

The boys glance at each other, sharing silent glances, willing the other to speak first. 

Cowards. 

You sigh and speak up, “We’re playing a game. Whoever can make me cum in one minute gets, um..a prize.”

“Aren’t you all too old to be doing something so ridiculous??”

You all blink because that sounded rhetorical?

“And why on the roof?!”

Ok, that was a question that requires a response. 

Suo shrugs, “it was unlocked, and Umemiya is on vacation. I mean, this was spontaneous and started harmless.” 

You glance at the stopwatch in Suo’s hand which is still blinking at 0:00 on the screen. Spontaneous? What a liar.

“We weren’t planning-“

Hiragi holds his hand in the air, “Stop! Talking! How do we get you idiots off the roof?”

You can see the cogs turning in Suo’s head—of course, he would love this—it’s right up his depraved alley. Suo’s eyes travel over to yours, and a wicked smile spreads across his face, “Make Y/N cum.” 

And despite how batshit crazy this is, you swallow thickly, bite your lip and give a nod.

Hiragi sighs, walking over to you while rubbing the bridge of his nose. He can’t help but pity you as he looks past his fingers. Your eyes are practically rabid, obviously chasing an orgasm that Sakura and Nirei can’t give you. 

But damn, you look good like this. Hair plastered to your forehead, lips, and nipples swollen from all the abuse, eyes churning with something that makes him wary but turned on at the same time; you look too good to be left like this. 

Hell, you look good enough to breed.

Fuck, Toma, focus. 

Hiragi can’t believe he’s considering doing this—putting his hands on someone else’s girlfriend on top of a roof in front of the idiots he used to mentor. 

But the more he lists the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this, the more likely he’s to talk himself out of this, and god, does he not want to talk himself out of it. “One minute?”

“One minute,” you and Suo say in unison.

Suo has never had a problem with sharing you—with stipulations. He likes sharing you with his friends; they can’t even fathom how voracious you truly are. Your body is so conditioned to his touch that it takes a considerable amount of technique to make you cum—let alone truly reach that sexual high he often gives you. 

And you may wonder, “what does Suo get out of this?” It has nothing to do with Sakura or Nirei; it has everything to do with the fact that when you come back to him, so desperate to cum, that you’re practically clawing at his clothes, begging him to mercilessly use your greedy little cunt. 

And he’s certainly never been intimidated by Sakura or Nirei because they didn’t know they were in over their heads when they took on this challenge, but Hiragi? Hiragi might be a problem. 

You, however? You can feel your clit twitching at the idea of Toma Hiragi, the Heavenly King Toma Hiragi, attempting to get you to cum in one minute. And just like Suo, something tells you he can do it. 

“Show me how you’ve fingered girls at those metal shows you go to, Hiragi.”

And there you go, right out the fucking gate. 

“That’s…you have a mouth on you.”

“She does,” Suo chimes in, his gaze dreamy as he can’t help agreeing aloud.

“Fucking match made in heaven with you two then. Start the clock.”

Nirei, who was trying to be as invisible as possible, flails under you. “G-guys, I’m still under her?!”

“Don’t worry. I won’t need long.”

And it’s that self-confidence—Hiragi’s confidence in his ability to make you cream in the palm of his hand that was the start of your undoing. 

Suo begins the timer, and Hiragi’s hand glides in between your thighs, two fingers already zeroing in on your sensitive clit and rubbing the fleshy bud with wide, quick circles. He watches intensely as your mouth goes slack and your eyes roll back immediately. 

It’s almost funny; he doesn’t know how long you’ve all been on the roof, but whatever the boys were doing to you obviously wasn’t working. He can tell by how wound-tight you are; being teased over and over with no release is torture, and the way your hips are bucking against two of his fingers pressed against your clit remain a clear indication that you were tired of that edging bullshit. 

Your eyes go wide, and your core immediately tightens; you haven’t felt this good since this morning when Suo had you cumming on his fingers in the shower, which feels like eons ago. 

“Filthy mouth but a sweet pussy,” Hiragi mumbles as he uses his other hand to dip two fingers inside of you. You buck your hips and let out a moan that practically sounds like a laugh because fuck, finally, some dirty talk!

“Mmm, the sweetest pussy, Hiragi. Wanna taste?”

The corner of his lip twitches upward. Who the fuck is this forward girl? Have you always been like this, and he hadn't noticed? 

“We only have a minute, babe, and I’d much rather take my time treating you right. Maybe another time.”

Your pussy is gulping at his fingers, sucking them in so good for him. He can only imagine the way you’d gulp down his dick, and it makes his cock strain against his skinny jeans. 

“You needed this, huh, baby girl?”

“Needed this so baaaad!” You’re bouncing back onto Hiragi’s fingers, his large frame standing near you so you don’t feel like the chair could topple over. And fuck, even if it did, you’d climb back on his fingers and ride them right on the ground if you had to.

Nirei, still pinned beneath you as Hiragi finger fucks you, lets out a small yelp as your breasts bounce in his face.

“N-no interference.” Suo’s voice is low as he watches you fuck Hiragi’s fingers. Something in his brain is firing off on all cylinders. As he watches your face contort into pleasure, eyes closed and mouth in the cutest ‘o’ shape, he can’t help but grunt as his dick begins to ache. He so desperately wishes it were his fingers you were slutting out on. 

Hiragi continues to pump his thick fingers into your cunt, “You boys did a good job, but sometimes it takes a special touch to get them over the edge, ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

You’re practically mewling as Hiragi rubs your slick bundle of nerves, your pussy squeezing around his digits as your cunt personally thanks him for stuffing you full. 

“There she is. There’s the spot, right baby girl? Look at you dripping like a fucking faucet.”

He’s not even pulling his hand back enough to fully pull his fingers out, they’re buried so deeply inside you, and he’s pushing into you so hard, and fast you can feel his knuckles against your cunt’s lips. 

You dig your nails into Nirei’s shoulder as Hiragi’s words and expert touch finally careen you over the edge. Clear droplets ooze down his hand and wrist, splattering onto Nirei’s thigh. And as Hiragi removes his finger, the remnants of your clear cum that were being plugged in by his fingers drip down like honey cascading from a honeycomb.

Nirei shives, “O-oh god.”

Sakura suddenly shouts, out of breath for some reason, “Not fair! We did all the work!”

Hiragi eyes your drooling pussy one last time, hoping to commit the sight of it to memory in case he never gets the chance to look at it again.“Get off the roof, idiots.”

As Hiragi walks towards the door, Suo’s eyes can’t stop looking at the thick cream coating his fingers and palm. As Hiragi lifts the digits to his mouth, licking them clean before descending down the stairs, Suo feels his jaw clench. He’s not upset that you just came on Hiragi’s hands; no, he’s upset that something so mouth-wateringly precious to him isn’t on his tongue. 

While you catch your breath from the orgasm, the stopwatch beeps, signaling that Hiragi–who is already out of sight–won.

Nirei lifts your arm so he can slide out from underneath you. “I-I’m going to leave, guys,” he turns to you and gives you an awkward bow. “T-thank you for letting me, uh..”

Sakura clamps a hand down on his shoulder. “Just stop.” 

As they get dressed and leave, you also begin to gather your clothes; you stop as your hand reaches for your panties, which are strung across a tomato plant. The air feels unmistakably tense, and you understand why as you look over your shoulder. 

Suo is using the chair to jam the roof of the door closed. “You and I aren’t done here. Put those panties on and you’ll regret it.”

And the way his ruby-toned eye is looking at you, you believe him. 

[notbecauseofvictories]

Longtime follower and I love seeing your insights, so wondered if you had thoughts or advice on this:

I live alone and I'm not in a relationship, though I do date. I'd say ninety percent of the time I really enjoy my life, seven percent I'm a bit sad or annoyed about not having a partner yet, and three percent I get tossed into the Pit of Despair. That three percent can be tied into hormonal cycles, bad timing, etc - even when I know the cause, it still needs to be lived through. Has that happened with you? If so, how do you manage it? I do okay, but it feels like I could do better.

Ah, but the Pit of Despair and I are best friends now. I've sent pictures from the Pit, all featuring me with an absolutely humorless, rictus grin, which does make me wonder why no one else has noticed yet. I have a timeshare in the Pit of Despair. I spend some time there every six months or so, standing in the middle of my impossibly overgrown, dingy garden, and thinking to myself, how did I get here? how do I get out?

And then, as though endurance isn't enough...then your timeshare in the Pit ends. You emerge in the daylight and immediately forget how grey and hopeless that garden was, the weirdly stained, collapsing furniture in the corner and the crooked yellowing plants and that mean laughter you could sometimes hear over the sounds of waving grass. You think to yourself: that will never happen again! I am free! I am cured!

(This will feel so much worse, the next time you're shoved back into the stupid garden.)

That said, I don't think you're going to like my answer to your next question. This is because I don't like my answer; unfortunately, it remains the only answer I have to this question.

I think having some unsettled sorrow, just a touch of existential despair, is the best we can hope to do in this life.

I think that with both rueful humor and deep, deep disgust, which is typically the combo I bring to musings about being a person. Of course it's a little funny---look at the monkey, it's got anxiety!---and of course it's also frustrating, unspeakable outside of bitter cursing, a problem that will not be fixed because quite frankly it's built too deeply into us to be cut out cleanly and thrown away.

(Look at the fucking monkey, you can tell yourself through gritted teeth, standing in that horrible garden with weeks of dirty dishes in the sink and an inbox of emails and friends blowing up your phone with plans you hate to even think about. It's got anxiety.)

I do not have a cure for this. I manage it with the same sort of humor and ruefulness and bitterness that I mentioned above---I don't beat myself up anymore, when I realize I'm standing in the horrible garden again. I know it too well. Sometimes it has an okay wifi connection? I watch some movies. I get done what I can, and forgive myself the rest. I have been here before; I will get out again. I just need to be patient.

Once I'm out, there will be a whole world, I know there will---full of music I haven't heard before and stories that won't make me cringe and emails I will respond to with ease and conversations where I can be light, amusing even. There is a world beyond the Pit. There is always a world beyond the Pit, I just can't find my way back sometimes.

In the meantime, I take another terrible picture in front of the stained furniture, and caption it "Hello from the Pit!!!" with a bunch of exclamation points to indicate that it's a joke, even though it isn't.

I wait.

[minkdelovely]

love and power

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

chapter ten: part one

“i won’t die for love

but ever since i met you,

you could have my heart

and i would break it for you.”

Alastor x Fem!Reader ; MDNI 18+ ; [y/n] used sparingly ; Alias in Hell is Sylvie

tags/warnings: vibes are not good y’all — it’s a blizzard in this here hotel 🥶 angst, crying, descriptions of sadness/loneliness, valentino mention lol, alcohol abuse and drug usage, mentions of bruising and bite wound recovery, power dynamics

word count: 5.8k

author’s note: okay, i was really hoping to have this all completed today but between some family obligations and graduations i didn’t have all the time i wanted to wrap this up in one go. but i really couldn’t keep this to myself anymore — i am so desperate to share what i have ready for you. i am still hacking away at the rest but for now, please accept part one of this finale with my gratitude and love 🙏🏻💖 @hazelfoureyes & @sugoi-writes come and get it my darlings ❤️‍🔥

prelude ; chapter one ; chapter two ; chapter three ; chapter four ; chapter five ; chapter six ; chapter seven ; chapter eight ; chapter nine ; chapter ten: part one

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The week that passed was long. Undoubtedly the way weeks in Hell were supposed to feel — grueling and bleak, devoid of joy. Hours passing like decades, leaving its casualties wrung out and aged.

Despite the rift only being between the two of you, it was felt by everyone in the hotel. Much to their misfortune, neither of you were spending hardly (if any) time in your rooms. No one knew exactly why, of course, but understood well enough to suffer in silence and bear the brunt for now. The weight of what transpired hanging in the air of whichever room either of you entered. 

Yours took the form of an icy draft, reminiscent of past winters that could only be felt again here in a manner such as this. Wandering the halls of the hotel, save for one, like a specter. Leaving sinners in your wake grateful once you had finally passed through; the natural heat of Hell returning in your absence to soothe their frostbite as if apologizing on your behalf.

And if your melancholy was that of a cold wind, Alastor’s was the storm that bore it. Blustering and wild in its unpredictability, an exposed nerve waiting for a catalyst. Always he was in the eye of it. Not even knowing himself which direction it may take — malice, apathy, vengeance — but claiming victims nonetheless, despite his efforts to maintain his air of refinement around the hotel. The hairline cracks in his guise couldn’t help but leak.

Even Niffty was proceeding with caution; not daring to climb the length of his body as she so often did without care. She had only made one attempt in the interim of the argument and had yet to fully recover from the murderous glare Alastor had threatened her with. His tense, bloody smile was still the first thing she saw when she closed her eyes at night. But she was warming up to it.

Husk was particularly displeased with the whole affair, having to deal with each of you as you took turns sulking at the bar in between bouts of sucking the life out of anyone you passed. Something had to be done about it. Not only for his whiskey supply, but he just also wished Alastor would mope somewhere else. And there was no telling which mood he would be in by the time he was ready to go back upstairs. Making it dangerous for anyone still roaming around in the late hours of the night. 

Asking Alastor about what was wrong was a dead end, and thankfully no one was naive enough to try. But you were still so despondent, nursing your drinks at one of the booths in a dark corner of the bar, that no one dared approach you yet. Though Angel was getting close. In fact, an idea was forming in his mind right now as he watched you sulking from his usual seat at the counter. 

“I can’t fuckin’ take much more’a this,” he grumbled lowly to Husker, frowning over his drink. “It’s startin’ to rub off on me! I’ve been infected.” His histrionic expression of woe only mildly overdone.

It really was wearing on him, as much as he tried not to let it. But between the atmosphere at the studio and now this… Angel could only be so resilient. Though he did his best to ensure it wasn’t bleeding into his work. Not an easy feat, especially when he thought back to that weird voicemail he got from Valentino about a week ago. 

Tell our little Sylvie I said ‘you’re welcome’ — God knows she really fucking needed it. Such a repressed thing… really wish I could have kept her longer.

The implication had actually made Angel lose sleep. Even knowing that Alastor had been with you, when it came to Val the possibilities were endless. And clearly whatever he instigated between you and Alastor had ended in disaster. Angel hadn’t relayed the message, of course. Nor had he given Valentino even a hint of what was going on at the hotel, much to his chagrin. He’d sooner face the Exorcists again than give Val the satisfaction, and it was fun being able to piss him off, whatever the consequence. Still…

“Have you tried talk—”

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” Husk said definitively, an unimpressed look on his face. “I ain’t gettin’ mixed up in this shit. The less I know about what’s going on between the two of ’em, the better.” He shuddered just at the thought.

Angel sighed, but understood Husk’s resistance to the idea as he obviously wasn’t prepared to try and speak to the Radio Demon about it himself. Getting a peak behind Alastor’s curtain was an intriguing, but ultimately deadly, risk — especially for the bartender. Meaning there was only one way out. 

He glanced back over his shoulder at you, taking in the distant look in your eyes as you absently played with the two small straws in your glass. Feeling resolved, Angel downed what was left of his drink and gave Husk a quick wish me luck before walking over. 

“All right, doll face, you’re comin’ with me. We’re overdue for a gab sesh,” Angel said, leaning over the table to grab your drink. His tone of voice was kind, though a little irked, and left no room for argument. “It’s uh… about that time anyway,” he added softly, offering a hand to help you out of the booth when you didn’t move.

That time… There was no need for him to say more; you knew Alastor was coming down here after you went up to your room for the night. Was it getting that late already? The bar didn’t have windows so it was impossible to tell how long you had been sitting there in the dark, counting only the number of drinks you consumed. Four wasn’t too bad. Yesterday it had been more. Maybe almost double. But it was hard to remember.

You took his hand and scooted yourself out of the corner, grateful to feel someone holding you steady again. It nearly brought you to tears in your drunken state, but you managed to blink them back and focused on the impending journey to the elevators. All your concentration going to your feet as your arm gripped his for support, which he didn’t falter in providing. Angel had plenty of experience in this, after all. You weren’t the first drunk he had helped home and you wouldn’t be the last.

A chill ran through you as you crossed the lobby. When you looked over your shoulder you could’ve sworn you saw a shadow flitting across the carpet… but it was gone as soon as you blinked.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Husk groaned as Alastor materialized at the stool he’d adopted at the bar counter — dead center, wouldn’t you know it. Muttering to himself about how Angel had just barely rid him of one problem only to be replaced with an even bigger one; turning to the shelf behind him to grab the whiskey he already knew the son-of-a-bitch wanted. 

“Quit your bitching and just give me the bottle,” Alastor grumbled, rubbing at his temples as Husk unceremoniously obeyed. Slamming it down in front of his keeper and earning a tight, unamused look in response. “Bastard…”

“Never said I wasn’t,” Husk scoffed as he set down an accompanying drinking glass. Amused by the display of decorum Alastor subjected himself to, as if he wasn’t about to drown himself in liquor for the fifth night in a row. 

It was starting to catch up to him, though Husk wouldn’t dream of letting him know. It was obvious if you looked at the Overlord long enough, which most people didn’t. And they were smart not to. 

Husk, however, had no choice other than to spend hours hanging around the otherwise empty bar waiting for Alastor to finish sinking his sorrows bottle after bottle. So finding the tells was inevitable. Dark circles under worn eyes, a few hairs out of place. Counterfeit smile reaching a level of mania the bartender would have thought impossible before this week. 

But that was none of his business.

Alastor ignored him then, pulling the cork out of the bottleneck before pouring into his glass and downing it with a single swallow. He repeated this two more times before deciding to pace himself.

It didn’t take passing you in the lobby to know you had been here. Your scent permeated the room, mingling with liquor and tobacco, smelling closer now to cyanide than your usual floral almond and cherry; surpassing the bitterness Alastor had ever assumed it could reach. He detested how much he enjoyed it, especially when it was hanging fresh in the air as it was now, though he didn’t know whether it was an outward or inner loathing. The aromatics of the bar helped cut through the ache. Made it tolerable. But…

“It smells awful in here,” Alastor sighed bitterly. Eyes faraway as he let his nose hover over the glass before taking another sip. 

If he said it out loud it could be true.

About as awful as you fuckin’ look, Husk thought to himself before casually responding, “Well this is a bar in Hell. None of ’em smell like roses.”

Alastor merely hummed in response; a disconnected sound. Most likely the last sound the bartender would manage to get out of the Overlord for the rest of the night. 

It wouldn’t be wise for Husk to let on that he knew exactly what Alastor meant by the smell, but he did agree. That was part of the reason he was getting to the end of his rope with the both of you. Although you kept to yourself, the scent you were emitting was harsh and it lingered. Husk was beginning to wonder if it had actually started seeping into the wallpaper.

As difficult as it was to stay neutral, especially since he could understand certain aspects of your plight, getting involved was simply too dangerous. He thought he had a good grasp on his keeper’s moods and behavior, but this was all new territory. Tread lightly.

And so, he reserved himself to suffering through your poisoned aroma and Alastor’s moods. Hoping to whatever benevolent entity that could hear his silent pleas that Angel Dust would manage a breakthrough.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

You were sitting crossed-legged on Angel’s bed as he rummaged through his specially made walk-in closet. Doing your best to fight off the sleep that was beginning to weigh on your eyelids, but it was a test of will that you were rapidly losing. The temptation to lay down and nestle yourself into the comfortable pink pillows and duvet growing stronger with each passing second. 

Angel must have been able to tell when he finally emerged, turning on some music to a volume that was just loud enough you couldn’t dismiss it as background noise before revealing a joint from behind his back with a flourish.

“Ta-da! Those bitches really think they got the last of it, but they’ll never find my break in case of emergency stash,” he mused with pride, nearly jumping on the bed to wake you up. 

He wasted no time in lighting a match from a pack on his nightstand, igniting the paper and taking a couple hits until a sufficient burn was glowing in a thin line of red. At which point he passed it to you, exhaling with a turn of his head. So polite.

This was far from your first time, but it had been a while since you last done this with a friend. You opted for a long drag and held in the smoke, nearly sighing as you felt the drug kick in after a second. Welcoming the warm, floating feeling in your head with a lazy smile as you emptied your lungs.

Angel whistled, impressed. “Not even the tiniest cough! My kinda gal. We shoulda done this ages ago.”

You nodded your head, passing it back to him as you laid down; sinking into the plush pillows with a hum. He followed suit, taking another hit and blowing the smoke your way with a teasing look on his face. You couldn’t help but giggle, both from the high and Angel’s comforting presence. Time passed for a while this way, taking turns with the joint and listening to music. Little laughing fits when you made eye contact for too long or muttered Val’s hat. Cuddling with his darling little pet pig, Fat Nuggets.

But once you had taken the last drag there was a shift. He was staring at you, waiting with the most open and soft face. The question on it the one you could no longer avoid. So what happened?

It took all you had not to cry. In fact, you were amazed at the capacity of tears your body had rendered over the past week. How could there still be any more left to give? But there was. At this point you weren’t sure whether they were coming from a place of anger, shame, or heartbreak. When it came to Alastor, you found your emotions had chasms deeper than you ever conceived. And they were more oppressive the further you went.

“Valentino didn’t tell you anything?”

Angel shook his head and made a face, landing somewhere between exhaustion and exasperation. “Sort of. You know how those fuckers like to play their little games. He keeps waitin’ for me to say somethin’, but I prefer to watch him squirm.”

Though you worried for him and hoped some part of Alastor’s deal held up in his favor, starting there would be a good place to start; leading him through the whole affair at the penthouse that you were present for. Not missing the sad look in Angel’s eyes when you finally got around to Valentino licking your neck. 

When you began to tell him about what happened once you got back to the hotel his eyes went wide. The scandalized scoff and I can’t fucking believe you sparkle in his eyes made you blush before you both erupted in a cackle, a form of pride shining through storm clouds of melancholy. You knew he would have burning questions and answered them as they came up.

Is he big? Yes.

Rough? No, until he was. 

Maybe even just a tad over. There were still some decent bruises to show for it. On top of which, the bite was taking a little longer to heal than expected…

You were snapped back by Angel’s next question.

Was it good? …the best. In fact, had you ever experienced that in life you would’ve found yourself here immediately after.

The last one had you both squealing. But he could see the tears blurring your eyes afterward, holding your hands as you continued. From waking up in his bed that evening, what happened in it, all the way through the fight the following morning.

“Fuck,” he sighed, the empathy on his face threatening to make you break down all over again. “Would you have done it without the pheromones?” 

Your lips quivered a bit, and you let out a shaky breath as you fought to remain composed before answering with a nod. “But he wouldn’t have… and now…”

The sob that followed took you by force, fueled by the loneliness you’ve been losing battles to all week. Angel hushed you when you tried to apologize, holding your hands until you were done. He left you momentarily to get you tissues and returned in pajamas; a box and large t-shirt in hand.

You took them, going for the tissues first. Turning away to clean your face and blow your nose. It was not a bodily function you ever cared for, so of course it was something you still had to deal with in Hell. Afterward you undressed and put on the oversized shirt, immediately feeling much better by the time you rejoined Angel in your former positions.

“Keep goin’,” he said, shifting some pillows to get more comfortable. “We gotta get this off that sweet chest’a yours.”

“Are you sure…? I don’t wanna bum you out too much.” 

He waved his hand, and raised his eyebrows. The expectant look on his face practically shouting get on with it. You put a hand up in defeat and exhaled.

“I just… wish he would let me leave, you know? Even though I can’t imagine not being here with you and everyone else but… I can barely make it to the garden before I start to feel the tug.” Your hand went up to your throat as you swallowed. 

You hadn’t meant to, but you didn’t mention the chain during your recall of the fight. He would understand, you knew, but… you kept it to yourself. It was hard to reason why. All you knew was that for now, it wasn’t something you wanted anyone to know about.

“He’s got me trapped here and I swear it’s like I can feel him all the time even though we’ve been avoiding each other all week,” you bemoaned, squeezing your eyes shut to fight back another wave of tears. The look on Angel’s face told you all you needed to know when you opened them again. He knew. “Is it bad that I miss him? I’m… fucking mad at him too, but… I miss him more than I thought I would…”

It was a painful admission, but an honest one. 

Angel wiped a stray tear from your cheek before running his fingers through your hair. Sighing before he said, just above a whisper, “No. It’s not bad that you miss him. But you know it’s…,” he sighed again searching for the right words. An almost tired look on his face. “Guys like them… they think they can just treat us like toys. But we ain’t. Alastor might be pissed off now but it’s only a matter of time before he’ll want you for something. That’s how it works.”

He practically spat the word out, voice rising slightly with indignant fire. 

“I can’t say I know what he’s thinkin’ — no one understands that mind’a his. But he’s been… different since the fight. We all thought he was startin’ to come around! I think you’ve been a nice little distraction.”

The pinch to your cheek was a welcome dose of levity, and your chest bloomed with warmth at the sight of Angel’s mischievous face. Though his eyes were still a bit somber as his mouth relaxed into a soft smile.

“I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is, as long as you know what you want and what you’re gettin’ into… No one here would think any less of you for it. There’s only so much you can do. I know.”

You let the words sink in as you wriggled closer to him, sighing a thank you into the comforting fluff of his chest as his arms wrapped around you. Not that you needed permission, but his blessing and understanding of your feelings carried a weight you weren’t sure he fully realized. The sun breaking through the clouds.

Angel played with your hair as the two of you changed topics, talking aimlessly about other things going on around the hotel that you had been too tired to notice. Gossiping and laughing until sleep finally crept up on you. For the first time in a week, your dreams had been light and kind. Dancing with static, familiar red eyes, and a radiant fanged smile.

Oblivious to the idea that was hatching in Angel’s mind as you fell asleep, the glint in his eye was wicked and determined. Overlords weren’t the only ones who knew how to play games.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Days of the week didn’t hold the same kind of power in Hell as they did on Earth. But for the first time in years Alastor found himself growing impatient for evening’s approach. Akin to an itch, there had been a persistent irritation running through him. Something he managed to push to his feet at first but was steadily crawling up, leaving pinpricks of restlessness it its wake.

The nervousness was finding outlets in peculiar ways. Mindlessly shaking his leg for unknowable amounts of time, snapping pencils as he tried to focus on work. Clothes strewn about his room like the vines that adorned the radio tower.

Weekends weren’t a concept that existed here, and even if they did, they would mean quite little to the Overlord as his work was never finished. Splitting time between his duties to the hotel and his radio segments kept him more than occupied. Well… when he wanted them too, at least. He had been letting the side down these past couple weeks. Following his flights of fancy was one of the lingering pieces of his humanity that refused to leave him even after all this time. In fact, it was a trait that found more enabling here than it ever had in life.

All of this to say, Alastor didn’t place significance in time or days of the week unless there was an event or some tiresome chore tied to it. 

Tonight was one of those times. 

Charlie and Vaggie had gathered the residents yesterday to announce that they had a surprise planned — a Friday night out, since the pair had missed it the last time due to their appointment in Heaven. Alastor had been listening from the banister a few floors up, watching as everyone reacted with relative enthusiasm. Except for you.

Had he not heard the words with his own ears, he’d have thought you’d been told you were attending a funeral. This hadn’t been the first time he’d eavesdropped on the daily activities gathering, but it was the first time he’d had his interest peaked. Not because he was concerned with you going out — you weren’t allowed that right now. And knew it.

Watching you squirm was something he’d never tire of. It was a subtle tell, which is why Alastor appreciated it. Just a touch of additional tension between your brows and a fiddling of fingers. That perpetual pout and concentrated look in your eyes were distracting enough to maintain focus, easily deterring others from picking up on your nervous fidgeting.

Still marinating in the bitterness of the week, it brought him a keen satisfaction seeing you struggle to think up an excuse as to why you couldn’t join them on their evening out. Would you blame it on him? Or put it upon yourself? 

“I hope you all have a great time! But I think I’ll hang back… I’d hate to be the sad drunk at the sex club.”

Is that what the establishment Consent was? 

If Alastor hadn’t already shortened your leash, he would have done it now. Not even realizing his claws had dug into the bannister until he felt the recoil when he tried to walk away. An irritated growl reverberating in his throat as the heat of his shortened temper fogged his mind. So he melted into shadow to retreat back to the privacy of his room to let off steam.

And so, Friday evening had plagued him ever since. The hotel now empty save for the two of you.

It was a thought that shouldn’t have riled him up the way it did. He was still rather cross with you for instigating that fight, after all. You had laid misery at his feet and he’d be remiss to not return the favor. It had been warranted.

The intention of isolating you from him was supposed to be your punishment, but had somehow become his as well. It was infuriating. Another example of how his plans of late continued to backfire and leave him scrambling to figure out a clean escape.

It hadn’t come to him as easily this time. Drowning his agitation in liquor, hours of pointless gardening in his sanctuary just to keep his hands busy. Listlessly sitting at the bench of his piano, staring at the keys with hesitant hands. Any music he did manage to play, while passionate, was acrid and only further soured his mood. The bitter notes mingling in the air with what was left of your scent. Mocking.

Exhausting.

He felt now very much the same as he had right after the battle with Heaven, recovering from the ghastly wound Adam had landed on him. Alone. Made aimless in recovery. Back to square one. 

Alastor’s antlers branched out at the memory, a snarl on his lips as he paced through trees and shrubbery. It was a low point he thought he’d never suffer again, yet here he was. A sulking menace, same as you.

Despite best efforts, he had combed over the fight more times than he could count these last few days. Which of his actions had mislead you to such a conclusion that the copulation had been nothing but a game? Is that the kind of man you took him for? His blood burned again at the very notion, eyes radiating with such a heat he couldn’t believe the grass in its wake hadn’t shriveled from it.

He had taken advantage of your offer, but his desire to have you was something he had already been struggling with. Was that not apparent in how hard he fought to maintain a gentle touch? At least until he couldn’t? Even if your docile face hadn’t told him how needed that was, it was something he could feel. And something he more than willing to indulge. He had always been a hunter.

But his hand had been forced that time, and that was something he couldn’t forgive. No matter your willingness to participate nor the pleasure he had felt in claiming your body. 

The second time…

That had been his decision. Though your laugh was the trigger. 

Alastor wasn’t lying when he said he thought you didn’t know how. Yet there it was, hiding in your chest, those sweet chords of mirth falling from your mouth with a nonchalance that was almost offensive. Your lips turned up in an equally rare display, eyes sparkling in his partially lit room as you sat in his bed, bundled up in his housecoat.

It haunted him now.

But in the moment, his mind had gone blank, so surprised by the honest show of emotion from you. He himself was prone to a more orchestrated laugh, so he knew. It had been real. You had laughed for him. Let him burrow just a little further into your soul that you kept so guarded, despite the fact that he owned it.

You were the goldfish enticing him behind your glass bowl as if he were a cat that was afraid to get wet. 

He wasn’t.

Honestly, he hadn’t planned to bed you again so soon. In fact, he had felt rather sated from the exploits of the afternoon, despite his reservations for how it came about; more than content to let you sleep while he read his book. Knowing you’d eventually be waking up from the pain of his bite, he kept you close. Glancing over every now and then between passages to look at your sleeping face.

Even in sleep those downturned lips of yours taunted him. He had even touched them. The plush softness under his thumb a sensation he didn’t think he’d enjoy as much as he did with a clear head. He watched as the knot in your brow melted away, the swell in his chest giving him little reason not to do it again. So he did. You looked so peaceful it almost made him want to join you, but he wasn’t ready to entertain that just yet. Eventually rewarded for his abstinence with being able to watch you come back to life, petulance and all. 

And then you laughed. 

Laughter was something he heard all the time around this fatuous hotel. And he had certainly heard more than his fair share of cackles. None of which had moved him. Well… 

Getting Husker to laugh for the first time was an accomplishment. Those were still hard to come by, despite the amount of time they’ve known each other.

But that had been a game Alastor was actively playing. He had never set out to make you laugh (even when he said he was). Being the spoilsport — childish but true — you were, you were too much fun to tease to put an effort into making you laugh.  

What a golden little sound it was; lighthearted but just incredulous enough to make his cock twitch. So… no. It hadn’t been the pheromones the second time.

He wanted that. He… enjoyed that. 

He still wanted that, though he didn’t fully understand why. You just seemed to… set something off in him. A difficult thing to articulate, as he hadn’t ever really felt something like it before. Not this acutely.

Possessiveness, sure. Alastor wasn’t ashamed to admit to that. Was it so wrong to want to hold tightly to what was so hard-earned? He had broken his back to gain the reputation he had, and would never regret the choices made to get here. Save for one. But that was beside the point. For now.

What he felt for you was different, again, just in a way he was unsure of. Not love… he wasn’t a boy. It was much too soon for a word like that. But there was certainly a longing… a fondness. 

It had been your scent that intrigued him at first. He had made his peace with that. Enjoyed his little games in testing how your mood would change it, which aided in his desire to wipe that frown off your face. A flash of how you looked laying beneath him came to the front of his mind then, and Alastor gave his head a harsh jerk to vanish it. Though it didn’t help clear the phantom echos of your cries and moans now ringing in his ears.

You had surrendered to him so completely, given him your trust so fully that afternoon that you even endured that ferocious bite with nothing but a scream into the pillows. Letting him claim you in the way he needed to in that moment was no small feat. But you did. He didn’t whisper apologies on a whim. You had earned it.

Irritation was building up in him again, a growl rumbling in his chest as his jaw tightened and antlers creaked with growth. But he persevered, continuing down his train of thought as his legs kept up their restless strides. It was the closest he had felt to something akin to clarity all week.

While he had definitely enjoyed fucking you, there was more to it than that. He wouldn’t have given himself to you in the first place if you hadn’t appealed to him in other ways leading up to it.

Rigidity, diligence, sullenness. Pride, even. 

Despite the more irksome traits, one thing he could always count on was that you would complete the tasks given to you well. A hard thing to come by in this godforsaken place.

But there was a fierceness hiding underneath that you refused to let loose, unless of course you were giving him attitude. That, in particular, drove him rather mad but he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed it. He had grown rather accustomed to navigating you in such a short span of time. It wasn’t lost on him that you had done the same.

You had shown him quite a few times how willing you were to accept even the harsher side of his moods. That evening in his room when Angel had told him about Valentino was a prime example. You had been absolutely terrified — something he was able to see on your face and smell — yet you still showed up the following morning. Impressing him, in a way, with the gall you had to actually enter his suite without permission. He would have chuckled at the memory if he wasn’t on the verge of punching something.

That morning had been the first time he took notice of how you went about cleaning his room, taking extra care with how you made his bed that he hardly ever slept in. So much wasted effort for the both of you, but Alastor didn’t regret it. Even though that bed had become the bane of his existence, mocking him any time he was in the room.

Why did you care so much? 

Irritation turned to anger at the thought, meaning he was on the right track. You were asking him the wrong questions the morning you fought, but you had been justified on some fronts. He had done nothing but push your buttons since bringing you here. Made you do pointless things just to see if you would and test how long he could get away with it before you snapped; purposeful choices made so that he could in turn punish you for being disobedient.

Not that his desire to punish you was your fault. It wasn’t. And if he was being honest, you hadn’t presented him many opportunities to do so anyway. Diligence.

He wanted to move past it, but he was still so twisted up about how everything happened with the battle against Adam and the Exorcists a few weeks ago. To the point where sometimes he wished Adam actually had taken him out. To be nothing but a discorporated soul clinging to life in some inanimate object, indulging in the peace of such an existence. No more fighting, no more posturing, no more leash. 

But he retreated before Adam could finish the job. His instinct to survive persevering once again. No… It was his ego, not his instinct, that had made that choice. Though if it hadn’t well… He wouldn’t have been able to go to Rosie’s that fated afternoon, would he? You were a burden he hadn’t wanted to undertake and had no choice but to. And yet you fit yourself into his routine as if you’d been tending to him for decades.

Why did you care so much?

Could you tell that he was struggling in the never-ending war against his own vanity? That he was dejected from losing a fight in what seemed like near self-sacrifice from the outside? Some part of you must have. Why else would you let him bully you, only to turn around and address his needs with a consistency that alarmed him. Let him prod and hold and touch you at his whim, much like the microphone that never left his side. 

Another loss he hadn’t recovered from. Its splintered form now buried at the base of a tree in his secondary room. The shame of seeing it lying around his suite or the radio tower while he failed to mend it too much to bear. A contemptuous symbol of who he was and what he had been reduced to.

Exhausting…

He hadn’t even noticed that he was walking to your room before he was standing in front of the door. Alastor would be lying if he said he thought you would be the one to come to him.

You always took the wrong things to heart.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmiccandydreamer, @stardustandbrimstone, @cherry-cola-100, @wonderlandangelsposts, @catticora, @velvette3, @sailorsmouth, @alastorthirsty, @reath-solia, @junieshohoho

[astralisbelle]

Dead Man's Hand 7 - Gotta Look the Part

Dead Man's Hand Masterlist tags: engineer!reader, gambler!reader, loose canon timeline, eventual smut, fluff, action, casino aesthetics, touch starved reader, touch starved din, reader and din get on each other’s nerves, also they’re idiots, defrosting ice king din, cinderella vibes, everybody loves grogu

chapter summary: They eat like royalty and she gets to dress up like one.

note: oh LORDY this one is long (2k words!) but I hope it was worth the wait. Thank you again for all the likes/reblogs. We finally get to gamble after this part!

The door to the bathroom closes with a soft woosh, leaving Din by himself in the wide space of the suite. He waits for a moment, listening to the voices echo on the other side.

She hums while Grogu giggles and water splashes. All clear. He shakes his head, walking over to the console and calling the front desk. “Bring me dinner for two adults and an infant. I don’t care what it is, whatever’s fastest.” If she’s anything like him, she won’t be picky. And Grogu eats anything.

In the interim, Din sits on the couch and deems it safe to take a load off, which in this case, means he can disarm for now. He takes the jet pack off first, being the heaviest and most cumbersome of his tools. Off comes the blaster, the hilt of the Darksaber, and the various blades he keeps concealed. Everything is accounted for.

After about fifteen minutes, there’s a knock at the door – must be the food. He answers it and three waiters greet him with wide smiles, wheeling three trays inside the suite. Din lifts a brow as they set up in the center, uncovering the food and revealing two identical plates of fresh, steaming seafood, a buttery smell filling the air. For the child, there is a colorful bowl of soup, with some mini square cakes for dessert. “And finally,” says a waiter. “A decadent chocolate cake. For you and the lady.”

“Uh.” He is thankful for the helmet hiding his aversion. “She’s not my… never mind.” He knows no one cares in this hellhole, not when thousands of rich men bring their mistresses or escorts to play with them. The last thing he wants is for someone to think that of her. Din tosses them a few meager credits as tips and waits for them to leave. With the sounds of bath time still ringing behind the door and his stomach rumbling, he figures it’s as good a time as any.

He slips his helmet off with a soft sound, breathing in deep to welcome the fresh air into his lungs. All at once, the delectable smell of the food assaults his senses, enticing him to sit down and partake. Such extravagance in food feels almost sacrilegious for the practical Mandalorian, but at least it means she and Grogu will have a decent meal as well. He takes a thick piece of grilled fish into his mouth and makes a small noise of satisfaction. Dank farrik, that’s damn delicious. He eats quickly, downing large gulps of water in between. In the corner of his vision, he eyes that chocolate cake.

She’s probably never had it either.

He finishes his fish, leaving nothing but the bones. Wiping his lips with the cloth napkin, he pours himself a swig of white champagne, just to rinse the aftertaste out. Nothing more, nothing less. As soon as he’s done, he doesn’t linger, and situates the helmet back on.

A few minutes pass as he hears the bath drain, sucking in the water. The door slides open and a cloud of steam escapes. She emerges, a towel wrapped around her head and a silk robe tied around her waist. The robe is shorter than Din expects, halting just above her knees and showing off a stunning pair of legs, shiny and unmarred by any layer of dirt. Even her face glows, renewed and fresh. Grogu has a child’s robe on that is far too big for him, the sleeves dwarfing his arms. A soft chuckle escapes Din.

“Oh my stars,” she says, eyes closing as she inhales deeply. “That smells divine!” She scurries to the couch, setting Grogu down beside her as she gasps at the plate of food before her. “I-Is this all for me?”

“Already ate.” Din holds Grogu, spoon feeding him the soup. “C’mon, you little womp rat. Time to eat.”

She watches them for a moment, her heart skipping a beat at the sight. It’s so odd seeing a bounty hunter, unafraid of blasters in his face, feed a small creature all without an ounce of embarrassment. Noble and caring… Ah, but she isn’t distracted for long, not when a decadent meal waits for her. Her mouth waters as she cuts a piece of the fish, popping it into her mouth.

“Mmgh.” The sound she makes is loud, enough to make the Mandalorian’s head turn. “...Sorry.” She giggles, covering her mouth, and continues to eat. He shakes his head, but a quick chuckle tells her that he isn’t annoyed by it. When she finishes, she looks over and notices the chocolate cake still sitting pretty, completely untouched. “What’s that?”

“Cake.”

“Who’s it for?”

“...You and the kid can have it.”

She shrugs, leaning over to bring it towards herself. The plate has two forks, so she takes one and cuts into it, shocked at its softness. After sniffing it, she brings it into her mouth.

Then, she really moans. Her eyes rolls back and a hand falls onto her chest. “Stars.” She shakes her head. “Oh my, Mando, you have to try this. I’m serious. I’ll leave right now.”

“It can’t be that good.”

She grins, cutting a little piece onto the fork. “Grogu,” she coos. “Open wide. Pbrrr. Here comes the speeder!” He drops his jaw and accepts the cake in his mouth. His ears wiggle and his arms stretch towards the cake, clearly begging for more. “Told ya.”

The Mandalorian pulls Grogu back. “Finish your soup.” After reining in the child and pivoting his focus back to the meal, he speaks. “Fine. Just… finish half of it.”

She digs in again. “I could easily finish this whole thing. You’re lucky I’m being so nice.” Half of the cake remains once she finishes. Once Grogu is done and munching on one of the smaller cakes, the Mandalorian hands him to her.

“Don’t turn around under any circumstance.”

“I won’t.” She sits in a way that turns her back towards him and all she can stare at is the front door while Grogu eats calmly in her lap. Then she hears the hiss of air depressurizing. It’s off. Her head wants to turn, to see what he looks like, but she knows not to betray his trust. So she listens, listens to the clanking of the silverware, listens to the teeth hitting the fork. She holds her breath.

“...Mmm.” Oh, now she desperately wants to see his face. He doesn’t say anything, but she hears the silverware against the plate.

“Told ya.” The plate is set down and the helmet hisses as it covers his face again.

When she turns around, she takes the rest of the plate and finishes whatever he left. Stars, she can’t remember the last time she felt full and heavy. She’s ready to lie down on the couch and take a nap, but that would be hard to do while in a robe, would it?

Speaking of clothes…

“Hey.” She pulls down on the hem of the robe, trying to hide her skin. “So, what am I supposed to wear to the tournament? I can’t wear my usual clothes… right?”

The Mandalorian takes a moment to think, his fingers tapping on the cushion of the couch. He stands and goes up to the console, calling the front desk. “Can you bring me a dress?”

A feminine voice responds. “Do you mean a stylist, sir?”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

“That easy, huh?” she comments. “Is there anything they can’t bring you?”

He sits back down. “Doubt it. This place caters to all of your vices, legality be damned.” He crosses his arms and rests his ankle on his knee.

Her eyes trail up and down his form. “...Are you going to get anything for yourself?”

“Like what?”

“A suit or robes. Or… are you just going to go in that.”

He exhales. “I don’t go anywhere without my armor.”

“That’s what I thought.” She sighs, hugging a knee against her chest. Out of common courtesy, she tries not to let her eyes wander towards him, but after all of the stories her mentor told her, it’s hard not to. The Mandalorian. A bounty hunter of high renown, belonging to a deadly people that few get to see and even fewer survive an encounter with. He who never takes off his helmet in front of another, who never goes anywhere without armor or weapons.

But he has a child that he feeds with his own hands. And he enjoys the taste of chocolate cake. And he sucks at sabacc.

Some time passes and then a knock at the door alerts them on the couch. “I got it,” she says, getting up to open the door. Standing in the door frame is a tall woman, slender with sharp features in her cheeks and bony fingers. She has the paint that the girl noticed earlier, black lines outlining her eyes as her lips shimmer with gold.

“You poor thing,” says the stylist, taking a chunk of wet hair in her hand. “My goodness! I do have my work cut out for me. Chop chop!” She claps her hands and a swarm of assistants flood into the room, carrying racks of clothes, stacks of shoes, and boxes of tools.

The Mandalorian stands up. “Hey, what is all this?”

“Oh, don’t mind us, sir,” says the stylist. “We’ll just use the bedroom. Come, everyone! You, girl, with me!”

“What the--” She finds herself being tugged by the tall woman, flashing a brief look of fear towards the Mandalorian before they all disappear behind the door of the bedroom.

Alone again.

Din groans and rolls his head, cracking his neck and shoulders. Remember. This is all for the beskar. He rubs the back of his neck as he glances down at Grogu, still in his robe. “...Right.” He finds ways to pass the time like dressing Grogu and freshening up in the bathroom himself, washing his face. It feels like hours before the bedroom door slides open.

The stylist walks out first, followed by her posse of assistants. “Ah… I am a genius.” She grins and steps out of the way. “Come on out, dear!”

Din stands up immediately. Placing one foot in front of the other, she takes small steps out of the room. Light silk sways around her feet like flowing water. The dress hugs her best features while gold jewelry jingles around her wrists and biceps. Drop earrings twinkle and bounce as she walks. Her lips are painted red and her eyes are brushed with similar colors to the dress: blood wine and fiery oranges. At the sight, his shoulders relax, his lips part, and his eyes dare not blink.

She walks towards him, a bashful smile on her lips. Just as she is about to say something, she steps on the hem of her dress. “Oh--!” And she falls forward. Din darts forward, catching her before she can face plant onto the floor. Her jewelry clanks against his armor as he helps her regain her balance.

“Are you okay?”

“Y-Yeah.” She lifts her face. “Sorry. I-It’s these shoes, I can’t…”

“You must!” says the stylist. “I believe my job is done. Let’s go, everyone.” She claps her hands again and as fast as she arrived, she makes a swift exit. Once she is gone, Din realizes that she still clings to his arms as she readjusts herself.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“It’s fine…” He takes his time pulling his arms away from her, just making sure she can indeed stand. “You… you look great.”

“Oh.” She laughs, pushing hair behind her ear. “Um. Thanks. Is this really what rich people wear? It’s so… uncomfortable.”

He lets out a fast breath of air as he laughs. “It’s… It’s just for a few days. Once I have the beskar, I’ll take you home to Tatooine. You’ll never have to wear this stuff again.”

“Right.” She nods, albeit with a degree of hesitation. “Back to Tatooine. That’s… that makes sense.”

[sparklepocalypse]

A whole bunch of you tagged me for Six Sentence Sunday and I empirically failed to actually do the thing. So here's the thing on Not Sunday! Not tagging anyone because, you know... it's not Sunday. 🤣

Today, you get six sentences of that fic I'm writing instead of my Big Bang because, whateva whateva, my muse does what it wants. It now has a title — Graceless Heart — which is useful considering one of the words I'd been using for the title placeholder has since gone through the fandom discourse wringer, and, eesh.

Anyway, six sentences from Graceless Heart behind the jump!

Henry’s panting and loose-limbed and tugging Alex upward for a kiss when he asks breathlessly, “How do you want me to...?” “I can wait,” Alex says, grinning. He nuzzles a little kiss against the ridge of Henry’s collarbone. “Five more minutes of driving until we’re back at the villa, and then we can negotiate terms.” “It’s not a corporate merger,” Henry drawls, even as he marvels that Alex had sucked him so thoroughly he’d lost all sense of time, and the majority of the drive had passed in the interim. “It’s an orgasm.”

[pigtailedgirl]

So I spent all day writing Victoria's Secret AUs...it could have been worse edition.

I have an angst problem yo.

Victoria is a ghost

When you are lonely and feel guilty, the mind can offer all kinds of refuges.

Fraser hadn't left his apartment in three days, huddled in like the memory of before, he and Victoria. Except for that brief phone call the consulate had for him, that call that-- No matter, for the roses had appeared that afternoon, in sympathy and get well and provided the perfect reason to go back. The Forget Me Nots. Sick leave he had in abundance after all, so he returned to Victoria's embrace.

Until that night, well past midnight, Ray knocked on the door. Whether it was sleep deprivation or worry Ray too would leave, he made the mistake of inviting him in. “Do you wanna meet her?” and though he'd hestitated, Ray did cross the threshold, like an unseen hand had given him push.

And looked around a disheveled and empty apartment.

“Fraser?”

There was no woman in sight. To his eyes anyways. To Fraser, Victoria sat draped in his bed, an icy smile now gracing her features, as if more proof his guilt was earned eternally.

He leaned against the partition of his bedroom, looking between them both, and as he cracked like the thaw of ice in a pass, laughter bubbling to tears, sinking him into the cold as he sank to the floor despite Ray's efforts to try and catch him in grip, he knew.

“I'm sorry to inform you Constable, a Miss Victoria Metcalfe was killed in an auto crash two months after her release from prison. Her will requested you be informed in case of her death.”

Fraser and Victoria go to Texas

It shouldn't be so easy. Maybe it isn't. Maybe the sun of Austin won't be bright or will burn him out faster than here. But she doesn't care, and he, he can't say no. He'd asked for the transfer, entirely prepared to resign if they'd said no. Moffat had given him an odd look, like pity, but also considering his general problematic work, he was approved. He would use his sick time as leave in interim.

There was hardly anything to pack. His father's trunk, which Victoria assured would fit in a small rented U-Haul. All that was needed for them. Dief could stay in there as well. They'd stop during intervals to check on him. He seemed so displeased, Fraser half considered leaving him here, maybe with Willie?, but couldn't voice it anymore than he could say he'd prefer Dief in the car with them. Yet, Dief was loyal, so he watched and was going along silently, perhaps caged just like his master.

That left Ray. Something, and someone owed alot more than Fraser knew he could ever give.

It had ended as it should have if he'd truly been as cowardly or stupid as when he'd first come to Chicago. As it could've when he'd first left but hadn't really wanted to say goodbye.

A phone call from a payphone, outside the limits of town. Yes, your money is with Mr. Mustafi Ray. I'm sorry, you see, I have to go. I can't let her go. You friendship has meant so much to me. I know it doesn't seem it but...my regrets... I have to...I'll try to keep in touch. Of course, as a friend.

No forwarding address or number ever came.

Victoria and Dief killed by Jolly

The gunshot echoes in the night air. And the second.

He's already winded from chasing Ray, so he doesn't have much head start. The stairs and climb are daunting.

The door is wide open. Dief lays in his pool of blood near the cupboards, near the window leading to the fire escape, also thrown wide.

Victoria's crumpled by the bed, and the ransacked trunk, like she'd made a last ditch effort to retrieve his fire-arm within.

He doesn't bother to check Dief because it doesn't matter does it.

She's clearly dead.

Victoria's lawyer sucks and she goes back to prison

She'd been granted bail on the condition of being watched by two officers of the law. She'd languished in his little hell hole apartment for months untils trial. She'd followed the lawyers advice and dressed demurely and acted contrite and frightened for her life.

She saved her remaining rage for Benton in private. And though it still binds them, it wasn't enough. She's doesn't feel guilty like him.

She'd still refused to say where her portion of the money Jolly was stalking her for went. Root of all her evils, it damns her again.

The sentence is only five years. This time.

Fraser's eyes as he stares at her in shock as she's lead from the court in cuffs, after she'd turned from the verdict to pound his chest, or was it to go for his friend Ray's side arm and end this ... Well, 5 years isn't worth it, but at least he's getting the life sentence.

So damn him and his plea deals.

Fraser doesn't find the key at Ray's house in time

IA had taken ten minutes to get from the station to the Vecchio home. They didn't bother to think on the why of the anonymous call or record it so there will be no way to trace it as evidence later. Perhaps guilty conscious explains why he told on himself. No one will bother to remember it was a call from a woman.

Welsh, Huey and Louey were only two minutes behind. Ray Vecchio flagged by a rookie, who was radio-ed by Elaine, won't even make it to the scene, won't get to see or understand because he'll be redirected. He'll be once again staring at Fraser, blocked by glass, from the other side of the holding cells phones. Fraser won't pick up the receiver to answer him.

So Ray won't know the loss and what little it will be to what could've. Fraser's versus his own imprisonment or loss of bail and home. It's all Fraser feels he can do, but of course Ray doesn't understand him. Fraser doesn't want him to. But still Ray Vecchio sees the sad and forlorn and determined after confession, and refuses anything else.

That full confession makes easy conviction. What IA walking in saw.

A manic faced man amongst the ruins of the Vecchio's house. Rooms upheaved in mad search. A man who seemed caught frozen on the stairwell, phone left dangling over the bannister. Who greeted them with odd, flat words as if spoke to the air;

“I couldn't...I can't find the key.”

And the long poignant pause, his mask slipping on as Welsh stepped through the torn front door, as he finally registered them and added “The key, which I had previously planted. I would like to confess to the murder of Jolly Roberts for money from a former robbery, and attempted framing of my work colleague Ray Vecchio before I could flee with my portion of the cash. I believe cuffs are in order gentlemen.”

He paused again as he stepped through threshold and said to the three former friends standing agape "Can you tell Ray... I'm sorry about the mess."

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [26] chapter vi, part iii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

-

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

-

chapter summary : astrid gathers her allies, and draws the attention of her enemies. loki pays a heavy price for a victory.

recommended listening : let's get it started, måneskin

-

tag list: @femmealec, @mischief2sarawr

-

special thanks to the lovely @mischief2sarawr: when i had to rewrite pretty much all of this, their encouragement helped me get it done within a matter of days, instead of weeks. (thanks for the virtual tea, sarah <3)

-

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

-

Actually- Ophelia wasn’t even her second appointment.

During daylight hours and early evening, the tight-woven alleys of Shinjuku’s Golden Gai were almost serene, lined with potted plants, faced in pale stone. By nightfall, however, the countless micro-bars that hemmed the narrow passageways threw open their doors and exploded into neon light and colour and conversation, entrances plastered with stickers, interiors crammed with patrons, walls pasted with advertisements and unique theming, spilling with the smell of beer and charcoal smoke, electric signs and sandwich boards and utility boxes jutting out like soliciting hands over the stone stoops.

Each establishment only had a tiny footprint- two storeys high and barely large enough to host more than a dozen patrons at a time- and therefore tended to be selective, some only catering to regulars and refusing tourists.

Fortunately, Astrid had been introduced at a few of the bars before- and she was due to meet someone there.

She had been waiting outside, carefully tucked out of the way of passing foot traffic- the same wool coat from Cornwall now arranged as a cape over her shoulders, draped over a black cocktail dress with one sleeve artistically falling off her shoulder, polished up with her favourite pair of blush-pink heels, filigree golden hardware glinting- when she felt a familiar presence storming up from behind, Manolo Blahniks snapping on the pavement.

A hand seized her elbow, dragging her into the bar with a hiss.

“You suck, ‘Strid.”

Astrid heard the annoyance, and general insincerity beneath it, and grinned.

“Hisashiburi, Miko-chan,” Astrid said in sugar-coated, casual Japanese. “Genki desu ka?”

“I hate you,” the voice groused.

Laughing quietly, Astrid allowed herself to be shoved into the tiny space, and towards a perilously narrow staircase, climbing to the second floor to seek out one of the small booths.

She had barely lowered herself into her seat, shrugging the coat from her shoulders, when the other person dropped heavily into the chair opposite her, unceremonious and pointed.

Socialite heiress, fashion icon, and sole grandchild of the chairman of Fujikawa Industries, Rumiko was confident, intimidating, and the consummate, catty epitome of the rich bitch archetype; she was Regina George’s grasp on social capital, thrown into a blender with Heather Duke’s utter ruthlessness, topped up with Cher Horowitz’s fashion sense. Overdressed in a silk Givenchy slip dress, complete with Cartier earrings and a matching watch, her satin-gloss hair tumbled to her waist and wisped above her downturn eyebrows, jaw locked in a scathing disapproval that would make a lesser being curdle into themselves.

“What are you even wearing? You could have at least worn that Dior piece I got you.”

Astrid smirked at the familiar barb, electing not to point out that her dress was Valentino, and the shoes were Ralph and Russo.

“Good to see you too. Am I buying the cocktails?”

“Fuzakenna yo, kora! You disappeared for two years, yes, you’re buying the cocktails-”

“It was eighteen months, I gave you the heads up, and in my defence, I was abducted for fourteen of them,” Astrid rattled off, already slipping out of her seat and pulling out her wallet, stuffed with freshly obtained yen. “I’ll be back.”

Rumiko jolted. “What?! You were abdu-”

“Later. Long story. Drinks first.”

“You’re a dead woman, North, I swear-”

Astrid hid her grin.

Predictably, Rumiko had loosened up enough to listen to her by the time she reached the bottom of her first drink. If they had talked over coffee, or brunch, Astrid wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgeways. Rumiko was incorrigible when her temper was piqued, and Astrid had expected her disappearance to be an issue.

The two of them had met by chance, years ago. Rumiko’s paternal grandfather was Kenjiro Fujikawa, the CEO of Fujikawa Industries, a tech company with a niche in sophisticated surgical robotics. While she was merely expected to marry whichever worthy successor Kenjiro selected for her, Rumiko was still regularly pulled to attend medical conferences, and various industry-based galas and dinner.

It was at one such event that Astrid- as Astrid North, not as Alethia- had met her.

The two had become friends, in the kind of half-accidental way that might have happened if they had attended the same school. But they had become close enough that Astrid had expected Rumiko to be a little sour, when she returned, even with the warning that she would be disappearing for a while. Rumiko hated being left in the dark, and Astrid had told her nothing.

She hadn’t expected the sourness to be masking masses of pure, trembling relief.

So as Rumiko guzzled down her second sidecar, Astrid gave her the truth.

It was far from everything, but it was enough- and more than Astrid volunteered to most- either those who knew Astrid, or those who knew Alethia.

When she was finished, Rumiko set her half-empty coupé glass on the table, not quite slamming it down, faintly disconcerted.

“Okay. If it wasn’t for New York, I’d be getting out the straitjacket.”

“If it wasn’t for New York, I wouldn’t be telling you this,” Astrid rejoined, swallowing a mouthful of her espresso martini. She felt oddly drained, brimming with endorphins, like the aftermath of a workout.

“That’s fair,” Rumiko said dryly. “You sound insane. It’s literally like the plot of Men In Black- wait. ‘Strid. Could you be an alien?”

“Maybe.” Astrid admitted blandly, shrugging one shoulder. “I haven’t eliminated the possibility.”

Rumiko blew out a breath, head dropping forwards briefly. “Okay. We need beer. And fried chicken.”

“Mm, good call.”

Once their table was packed with piping-hot plates of fried izakaya dishes, their glasses refilled- Rumiko switching over to a frothing plastic pitcher of beer and Astrid taking up sake- Rumiko was significantly calmer, hardening over with the kind of ruthlessly practical, efficient composure that would have made her an excellent successor to FI, if her grandfather had been an ounce or so less of a misogynist.

“Okay, so- let’s figure out where you stand.” Rumiko said efficiently, picked up a piece of karaage with her chopsticks, grease and sesame seeds glistening on the batter. “I mean, it all depends on what you want, but either way-” she pointed her loaded chopsticks at Astrid, before popping the fried chicken into her mouth, “this agency.”

“This agency,” Astrid agreed with a dip of her head, sipping on her sake.

“You’re off their radar right now, but it sounds like they have the sheer resources and numbers to just keep looking, so, that’s likely temporary.” Rumiko tapped her nails against her glass, leaning forwards against her elbows. “Okay. Do you have any backchannels you can use? Anyone who seemed sympathetic, or might hear you out if you got in contact? You might be able to cut a deal, if you can figure out some leverage. It’s either that, or you’ll need a deterrent. Some way to make the cost too high, or the gains too low, to keep coming after you. Again, you’ll need leverage for that. Where are you staying right now? And how long can you lay low? If we can buy you some time-”

Astrid’s expression had cleared, focused as a lens, and Rumiko paused.

“What?” She prompted.

One shoulder lifting, Astrid bought her cup to her mouth.

“You really need to start that PR crisis firm, Ru.”

Startled, Rumiko reared upright from her casual slouch. “The fuck, ‘Strid?”

“Well, I have just told you that I am wanted by a secretive multinational agency,” she pointed out, dropping her voice low enough to blend within the camouflaging ambient chatter of the tiny bar, “who abducted me and has been covering up the existence of magic and monsters since the forties- and you acclimated within fifteen minutes, then launched straight into working out how to handle it. Remind me again why you’re not making bank from this? Aside from your grandfather being a jackass, I mean.”

“Oh my god, we’re so not doing this right now,” Rumiko muttered into her glass, followed by an unladylike gulp of beer.

One corner of Astrid’s mouth curled.

There was a subtle, telling flatness in Rumiko’s scowl, as the words and their sentiments sank in- like water soaking into soft earth, swiftly and undramatically, absorbed and drawing itself down.

Setting her cup aside, Astrid let Rumiko ignore it, for now. “Are those my only options? Bargain, deter, appease?”

“What, you have another plan?”

The question wasn’t quite rhetorical, but it was tinted with a rational scepticism.

If Astrid had been anyone else- anything other than truth incarnate, or someone who had gone up against SHIELD for years with nothing but her wits and her ability to arm her, fallen in love with a demigod, and promised him everything- she might have agreed.

“If the world doesn’t work for you,” she said, taking up her chopsticks and plucking a cube of fried tofu from one of the plates, swiping in through the dipping sauce, “then change the world. Right?”

Rumiko froze, looking from under her fringe to glare at her incredulously.

“You’re not fucking serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because that’s insane.”

“Is it? The world already broke in New York. I would just be rearranging the pieces.”

“I take it back,” Rumiko said bluntly, dropping her chopsticks and topping off her beer glass. “I’m getting the damn straitjacket.”

“Good luck with that,” Astrid answered breezily. “I’ll give you a clean number, later, so don’t worry about me disappearing again. Not completely, anyway.”

“You’re insane,” Rumiko reiterated.

“But you think I can do it,” she stated neutrally, meeting Rumiko’s eyes, the words tasting golden and hot in her chest, metal and bright.

Rumiko stared back at her for a long, fierce moment.

“You’re serious.”

Astrid picked up and popped one of the mayo prawns into her mouth. “Yes.”

Rumiko hissed out an exasperated breath, worry creeping into the crimp of her perfect eyebrows.

“’Strid.” She said grimly. “Seriously. Going up against a multinational spy agency. Is this really worth it?”

“Yes.”

The heat in the word burned like a brand.

Rumiko looked back at her, despairing and incredulous and impressed.

“You’re insane,” she said resignedly.

Astrid laughed. “If you set up the scaffolding for that PR firm within two years, I’ll give you a gift.”

“I am not starting a-”

Rumiko paused.

“A gift?” She echoed, intrigued and sceptical. “What kind of gift?”

“That would be for you to find out. You know I give the best gifts, Ru,” Astrid pointed out. “Remember when I gave you the wing mirror from your ex’s car?”

Rumiko’s mouth tilted into a nostalgic smile.

“That was a really nice present,” she conceded fondly, before grimacing, reaching for the pitcher to top up her beer glass. “But tonight, all I want is alcohol.”

Astrid laughed, and leaned in to clunk her cup again Rumiko’s glass.

“Ah, fine. I suppose I owe you that much,” she agreed easily. “But in that case- shots?”

Rumiko’s eyes glinted.

“Karaoke?”

-

An hour later, as they stumbled out of the bar, arms linked and heading out to get into trouble somewhere in Kabukicho, Astrid dropped her notebook into her pocket with its second entry.

Ink pens.

-

Ophelia would be deeply insulted if she ever found out that she wasn’t even Astrid’s third port of call.

Astrid was tempted to tell her. It would be good to regulate her ego.

The taste of alcohol was still sour in her mouth, swilled with water, the tang masked by the fresh espresso and gelato that was gently melting in a glass bowl in front of her.

The afternoon air in Rome was cool, despite clear sun-soaked skies and the heat of the crowded streets. Clouds of chatter and the clink of plates and glasses reflected against the warm, pale-yellow brick, the buildings carved with classical ornamentation, spilling with artfully cultivated vines, stained with graffiti. The sett-block pavement was hemmed with café boards, parked motorcycles, and folding wooden-slat bistro tables; cream parasols and restaurant awnings created pockets of deeper shade, between arched shopfronts.

Astrid spooned up the last of her affogato with a swirl of silverware, lips sealing over the spoon.

Seated at the café bar, she was twisted side-on against the counter, watching the passing foot traffic and outside tables through the windows. A cross-breeze drifted over her every so often, cutting in through the entryway and seeping through her clothes, refreshing her overheated skin.

“Propiro l’affogato, sì?” The ageing server behind the counter prompted, briskly pleasant as he calculated her bill. “The, ah- qual è il nom inglese-”

Astrid swallowed a melted mouthful of vanilla, cream, and espresso.

“It’s affogato in English as well,” she told him, startling the waiter. “Il mio Italiano è pessimo?”

“No, no, per niente! Il tuo accento è- your accent, it’s very good! Molto bene. Ma- in Rome,” the server bought a wrinkled hand to cup his ear indicatively, “you hear it, sì? I can tell you’re English, a little.”

Astrid nodded, setting her spoon down and gently pushing the empty glass bowl away from her.

“Ah, vedo- è il tuo orecchio, non la mia bocca, sì?”

“Sì, esattamente! Ho sentito che- I can hear, that you learn it when you are grown,” he said with a grin, “not when little.”

“Ah, vedo- ciò ha senso. I did a summer at Sapenzia,” she explained gamely. “I had a friend who used to say the same thing. That my cadence gave me away.”

“Aha, bene, bene! You’re here to visit your friend?”

“Sì, ma- as a surprise,” Astrid admitted, unsnapping her wallet from where it rested at her elbow, before glancing towards the windows, and the bistro tables arranged within their sight. “Ah- do you see the two women seated under the vines?”

The waiter paused, looking up and leaning to see. “Sì- la bruna e la rossa?”

“Sì. La bruna? Quello è il mio amico.”

His dark eyes widened demonstrably. “Veramente?”

Astrid grinned at him, resting her chin on the hell of her palm. “She doesn’t know that I’m here.” Slipping a credit card loose from her purse with her free hand, she rapped it against the bar top. “Do you think I could pay their cheque, signore? Come una sorpresa?”

His mouth formed a silent exhale of understanding, tapping the side of his aquiline nose before returning to the register. “Naturalmente, signorina- ah, you want me to tell her it was you? Or will you tell her later?”

“Mm.” Astrid watched the server pull up the order details of the table. “Do you have a serviette, signore?”

-

Less than five minutes later, Astrid left the café, stepping out into the sunlight just in time to see the same server pausing at one of the al fresco tables.

As Astrid had observed on her way into the bistro, two women were seated underneath the arch of a vine clinging to the outer wall, with several half-finished plates on the table between them.

The first- a redhead, the coppery tresses cropped into a flattering pixie-cut, broad-shouldered in an olive jacket and white capris jeans- had her back to Astrid, the slight curve of her face in profile just barely visible. The second woman was facing towards her, torso leaned askew and head tipped up, mildly annoyed askance painted across her face like a fresco as she spoke to the server.

Arms folded forward onto the table, the fall of her black hair almost bleeding into her tank top, Vittoria Montesi hadn’t changed much from when Astrid had last seen her. She was still model-lean, as though she subsisted solely on coffee and cigarettes- which was probably accurate, if her on-call diet hadn’t changed since residency- with a full, sceptical mouth, poised to argue and drive and diagnose.

Astrid waited just long enough to see the server hand her the napkin, before melting into the crowd with a grin and a lilt in her weaving steps, escaping towards the tourist trap of the Fontana di Trevi.

A new addition was jotted into her notebook with a borrowed pen.

Coffee grounds.

-

Several hours later, Astrid departed from the Gallery.

Arriving back at the Madripoor penthouse, she stripped out of her clothes, changing into a comfortable camisole, jersey shorts, and thigh-high socks, and retrieved her notebook from the breakfast bar.

New shoes, Astrid wrote onto her list- before flipping the cover shut, tossing the pen down, and collapsing into the sofa with a soft groan.

Four.

It was a start.

Lying in the demi-dark, cheek pressed into the arm of the couch, impatience hummed under her skin like an electric current, settling in the roots of her teeth. Her heart drummed hard and impatient against the adipose-softened wall of her breastbone, eyes open.

The silver light of the city rinsed through the windows, across the apartment, pooling across the floor like the shallow waterline of the incoming tide. Her synapses were slowing, sloping into a long-overdue caffeine crash- but four felt like not enough, not enough, not enough.

She had done more on less sleep.

Four would need to be hundreds. Thousands. Tens, hundreds of thousands.

Four was not enough.

It had only been twenty-four hours, but it had been almost natural, for her to slip into the mindset that she had lived in for years: keep moving, keep working, don’t stop, don’t hesitate, be smart, be quick, be relentless, use your greed, use your selfishness, next step, next step, next step-

Everything else became easy to ignore. The storm within her, whatever doubt and anger and loneliness and turmoil broiled inside, pressing behind her eyes like to urge to sob, became simple fuel, like glucose, until she was done.

None of it would matter, once she got what she wanted- and if it did matter, she would deal with it then, when it was safe.

It was easy, because Astrid was her father’s daughter. He had taught her how to use her worst traits as a whetstone, to make herself scalpel-sharp.

Her flesh was cooling, the cushions were warm, and her limbs grew heavy and slack with every passing moment.

And she suddenly remembered Loki’s parting words to her, as she had finished the dregs of their rose tea at the Cornish tea parlour.

I should get up, darling, he murmured reluctantly. I must get to work. But make sure you take your rest- I want to see you later.

Astrid sighed into a smile, defeated.

Sly bastard, she thought fondly.

She shouldn’t keep him waiting.

Lifting her head just long enough to set an alarm on her phone, Astrid dropped the device on the coffee table and sank back into the sofa, limbs sliding across the upholstery in a drag of wool and cotton and bare skin, as she let sleep claim her- just for a little while.

-

54 weeks and 6 days out

“I’ve walked the deserts for miles Swam the waters for a tide Searching places to find A piece of something to call, mine A piece of something to call, mine- Coming closer to you-”

You will be careful, won’t you, Astra?

“Hm?” Astrid paused her singing, fingers still strumming at her keyboard, the click of the keys weaving her response into the comment box like a shuttle in a loom. “With what?”

She clicked post, watching the response box disappear.

The text popped up within the thread, slotting into place in the conversation, sealed into format. Astrid clicked away, skimming the rest of the forum.

This, Loki replied, with the mental equivalent of an expansive gesture. Whipping up a group over which you do not have full control.

“Mm, you’re one to talk, alderliefest,” Astrid commented, eyes unmoving from the screen of her laptop, reaching for the plate at her side, “with what you’ve been doing through- Brunn, was it?”

Brunnhilde, Loki confirmed- but immediately becoming distracted by what Astrid had bitten into.

Cut thick, the slab of pain pavé was spread with unsalted butter and honeycomb- treacly and faintly earthy with clouds of unprocessed pollen

It tasted of late summer and wildflower meadows, and dirt on her skin, a shock of calories into her system.

Over the weeks, Astrid had been narrowing down Loki’s preferences. Within his sweet tooth, it seemed that he had a particular weakness for anything that featured honey, or chocolate; honey reminded him of Asgard, of better memories and better days, of the royal city at golden hour and light-hearted laughter, of his brother’s broad grin and of a flash of pale-bright hair that always sent Astrid’s stomach swooping with something unidentifiable whenever it flickered into her mind, through his.

Chocolate seemed to provoke thoughts of Midgard. It made him think of city cafés, of her bed in the penthouse, of cold mornings as she went through her morning routine, of the warmth of the crook of her neck and the view of snow-capped mountains through broad windows.

Astrid had gained a new appreciation of chocolate.

And touché, Loki conceded, his thoughts still humming with pleasure at the taste of the honeycomb.

She tongued the soft film of beeswax from her teeth, quietly content for a precious, ephemeral moment.

It felt better, at least. The ache of their separation- and the omnipresent lack and malcontent that she could live with, but never quite ignore- was less when he was there, and she was reminded that she was doing something, moving closer.

Coming closer to you, Astrid hummed the sweetly-lilting bar.

A warm breeze swept over her, as she glanced up over the top of her screen.

They were in Chile today- on a rooftop amongst the soaring metropolitan clutter of Santiago. Astrid had positioned herself to gaze out at the distant summer-red of the Andes, looming above the basin of the city, hazy through the sun-bright smog; the building she was perched atop was within view of one of the city’s many green spaces, the lush foliage a shock of emerald against the concrete, a faint rush of traffic carried up on the thermal lift.

She changed where she worked every day, cycling through a roulette wheel of hemispheres, climates, continents, countries, the only prerequisites being a stable internet connection and a good view. But she had noticed that Loki liked mountains, and cool open air, and she had begun peppering them in as often as possible.

I, however, am far more removed from my work, Loki pressed, edged with caution. And circumstances leave me beneath suspicion. You are far closer to the fire, songbird.

“Mm.” Astrid traced her collarbone absently. “True.”

Her gaze dropped to the screen, sucking a smear of honey from her opposite thumb.

“But these ones are less the fire, more the firestarters.” She added lightly.

The forum was thick with activity.

The hacktivist group known as the Rising Tide was a hornet’s nest- a collective that had sprung up in the wake of Culver, devoted to dragging SHIELD from the shadows into the cold light of day- and one that Astrid had repeatedly agitated, pointed in the right direction, and watched swarm SHIELD’s most recent project.

With New York, they had been galvanised, by a publicly validated raison d’être.

The corner of her mouth folded up ruefully.

Their organisation was an ad hoc nightmare, and they were incapable of communicating with the general public without coming off as uncredible, melodramatic, conspiracy theory whackjobs - but the Rising Tide were her first true allies, arguably, and incredibly skilled at what they did.

They had given her the lead in New Mexico. Astrid would always owe them a debt, for that.

“Anyway,” Astrid said, straightening, arms extending above her head, feeling her shoulders and spine click and realign, “arguably- if anything is the fire, it’s me. It’s only a matter of time before they try to extinguish me. Before the inevitable, I should burn as bright and hot as I can- don’t you think?”

She felt Loki sigh, fondly exasperated.

As long as you don’t burn out completely.

“Completely?” She noted the specificity.

He smirked, and nipped at her shoulder. A little destruction is good for the soul. Cathartic. You deserve a little of that.

Astrid laughed softly, and imagined her own fingers running through his hair.

From his shiver, it seemed that practice was slowly beginning to pay off.

“Well, I have heard that volcanic soil is amongst the richest and most fertile in the world.”

Ah. You do have a rather volcanic temper, beloved.

“You think so? Interesting. I would call yours glacial, prince.”

She felt his eyebrows steeple in askance, faintly sardonic.

Passive and slow to act?

“Quiet. Patient. Underestimated,” she listed, leaning back slightly, feeling the illusion of him catch her weight. “Ruthless, and relentless. And with the power to reshape the world while no one is paying attention.”

Loki breathed out a laugh, and planted the sensation of a kiss behind her ear, eliciting a pleasantly startled noise from her.

Such shameless flattery, he murmured against her nape, mood warmed beneath the teasing. What am I to do, in the face of such an assault?

Astrid sighed, sinking into him- and willed herself not to think.

“Surrender,” she suggested breathily. “And believe me.”

The phantom of his arm curled around her waist, mouth nestling at the shell of her ear, folding himself around her.

His mood was tepid, opaque.

The anxiety she felt was a pit, somewhere behind the wall of her abdomen.

She refused to dwell on it, and risk drawing the keen edge of Loki’s attention onto it.

Her laptop gave a chirp of distress, and she looked up. The internet connection had dropped again.

Grateful for the distraction, Astrid sang the signal back into strength.

“I’m moving, I’m coming Can you hear what I hear? It’s calling you, my dear Out of reach-”

The bars rocketed up back up, Wi-Fi boosted from a café several dozen feet below.

Astrid exhaled a smile, propping her chin on her palm. “Take me to my bea-each…”

Old songs- ones that she had listened to and re-loved thousands of times over- were best for weaving magic as she multitasked.

Combing her hair back behind her ear, Astrid flipped through her tabs, refreshing each one, keeping up the melody under breath.

“I can hear it, calling you I’m coming, not drowning Swimming closer to you-”

One of her dummy social media accounts reloaded.

Astrid scrolled through her feed at a reflexive skim, idly liking a few posts to keep up her account activity. She was keeping track, but not sincerely expecting to see a moving of the needle, just yet.

It was something that the Rising Tide, for all their skill and drive and passion, hadn’t quite recognised yet: they could afford to lay out the trail, prompt the question, and wait.

Slow is fast, Astrid reminded herself.

Ah. Stark is trending, Loki observed idly.

“Hm?”

Astrid paused, glancing at the trending topics sidebar.

“Ah. Hardly surprising, beloved.” She lifted her shoulder. “Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. And the world’s first modern superhero.”

Loki rearranged himself nonchalantly, like draping satin.

Is your heart still set on him, as an ally?

Astrid hummed through a sigh, leaning back slightly more, lounging against him and tipping her head to the skies, propped on the strong ledge his shoulder.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that not even trying to work with him would be like shooting ourselves in the foot, with our last bullet, while in the middle of a firefight, and then amputating the limb with an unsterilised knife and no anaesthesia.”

Graphic, Loki remarked dryly. But I take your point, my heart.

“Can I take that your approval?”

Why should I withhold it? Stark appears to be a wise choice. And the best option, amongst the Avengers.

“Damningly faint praise, prinsinn minn. We’re not exactly spoilt for choice.”

He snickered. Astrid couldn’t ignore how it sublimated at the edges into wistfulness, and a resignation that had fermented from frustration and outrage and hurt, like wine in a cask.

They both knew who Loki was thinking of- the one who should have been the better option.

It was a wound and a rift that Astrid hesitated to touch, for now.

“Still,” Astrid redirected, straightening on the palm of her hands, “I value your opinion. I want you to tell me if you think it’s a bad idea.”

I don’t, truly. An arm slipped around her waist, its weight comfortable and comforting. Astrid had to bat away the reflexive desire to feel the lean muscles flex against her abdomen, as Loki dragged her flush back against him, pinning her to the length of him. Stark listened to you, is aware of the threat, and offered me a drink, he teased. You can keep him if you wish, songbird.

“I have to obtain him, first,” Astrid riposted. “Or have him decide to obtain me.”

Just talk to him, sweet thing. How could he possibly resist?

She grinned broadly, shaking her head, the sickness in her abating. “Now who’s flattering?”

Refocusing on the trending bar, her head cocked as she caught up, wondering whether it was a personal scandal, a Stark Industries development, or a cheap editorial that had put the name in people’s mouths today.

Trending Topics #christmaseveeve #tonystark #mandarinbombings #happyfestivus

Mandarin, Loki noted, reading through her eyes. As in standard Chinese, the fruit, or the bureaucrat?

“None of the above- I think.” Astrid said distractedly, the pixels beginning to split in her vision. “It’s the supposed head of a terrorist organisation. They’ve claimed responsibility for a series of bombings, over the past few months.”

Supposed head? Loki echoed shrewdly.

She twitched her shoulder upwards wearily. “Someone is appropriating a name that doesn’t belong to them. I saw one of the videos, after the most recent incident. I know enough about the Ten Rings to know that this is someone dressing up in their colours. Especially with that moniker they-”

She halted.

Loki went still with concern.

Astra?

Gaze blank, her tongue was numb as she answered.

“The Ten Rings.”

What about it?

“Three years ago. Afghanistan. Do you remember what I told you? The incident created Iron Man.”

Loki froze.

And what better way to bait Stark, he said, quiet and sharp, than to use the name of an organisation that almost killed him?

Astrid’s hand darted out, clicking on the tag, hoping that it was just a coincidence of the algorithm-

BREAKING: Tony Stark’s mansion bombed in suspected terror attack – Iron Man missing

“Fuck!”

-

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

[tobiasdrake]

This place is beautiful. I wasn't sure beauty like this could still exist on Mesa Island. I hope I get to meet the Butterfly Matriarch. She sounds pretty cool.

To be fair, she wasn't wrong. Shopkeeper said the contrast between time periods was pretty cool here. Credit where it's due, it super is.

OH MY GODDESS YOU'RE SO BEAUTIFUL

The little spots of turquoise on your give just the lightest splash of color contrast to the browns and yellows and EEEEEEEEEEEEEE

You are. I am at maximum jealousy right now. Envy levels through the goddamn roof.

I am about 80% sure you're actually a moth, not a butterfly. But I don't fucking care, because you are killing it either way.

With gusto. I--

Oh fuck me

Thanks, uh... Navi?

So the giant bat monster exists in the past but is temporally corrupting her here in the present, even though that one Messenger in the interim already slew it at some point in the interim. I have so many questions about how this works.

Time travel is so fucking trippy.

Oh, this is going to be way easier than I thought it would. I figured Firefly was going to zoom around and I'd have to attack only when the temporal bubble is illuminating your face.

But if we're just going to throw down trailer park-style, that's super easy. @ me, bruh; Let's fucking go.

Ha! Bat monster doesn't have shit. These screeches are trivially easy to dodge. What else have you--

Oh. Well. Uh. Okay. I'm sorry I insulted your--

RED IS DOWN AND UP IS LEFT

It's fine. It's fine. Just. Drugged. I can deal with this. Just have to stay perfectly still and wait for the nausea to pass.

TEAM EFFORT LET'S GOOOOOO

Nobody is ever prepared for the twirly-doos. Twirly-doo is the ultimate technique of the Messenger lineage. I'm a fucking buzzsaw in flight.

Thank you, Shopkeeper, for this wingsuit. It's so-so in mobility but crazy powerful as a weapon.

There's a lot of value in beauty. It gets the short end of the stick because the good parts of beauty are so immediately evident that it makes the bad parts more conversation-worthy. Not a lot of morals out there like, "Beauty is a great thing and you should appreciate it!" because everyone already does by default.

But it is complicated. Beauty is like a work of art. It takes blood, sweat, and tears to manufacture an aesthetic precisely to the (often unreasonable) standards of society - and once it's done, it has to be cared for and maintained lest it begin to degrade over time.

And no one appreciates it. They think it just happens. Like it emerged fully formed into the universe one day. It's easy to fall for a pretty aesthetic painted over a rotten core because we're already so busy taking beauty for granted that nobody ever engages with what it means in the first place.

...

So, I guess what I'm saying is: Sucks about the bat thing. Sorry you had to live with that. But also, I see you. The clean waters and vibrant grasses and towering, living trees are a testament to the volume of work you've put in over these last centuries, and I see you.

Oh, a time bubble firefly of my very own? Thanks! I'm sure she'll come in handy.

Hold up, your Messenger was MONKSHROOM!? HOLY FUCK. I know exactly what curse I want to lift.

What's up, best buddy? I brought you a friend! I think she can help with your, uh, condition.

Oh yeah, Navi is definitely going to sue someone.

You don't remember?

Shit. Well. Um. Short version: You're not expected to deliver the Scroll anywhere anymore. Missed the boat on that one. But I might have some good news for you. How do you feel about the color blue?

Inexplicably, negative some-odd hundred years. Not sure how or why you time traveled again after failing and getting cursed but it's temporal metaphysics. Shit's fucked on a good day.

Yeah, not gonna sugarcoat that one. You fucked this place up so bad that they changed the name. Which, admittedly, isn't hard to do when there's only one bastion of civilization left in the world and it keeps being periodically destroyed. Endlessly repeating incursions of catastrophic destruction make preservation of world knowledge difficult.

It's like having a library that self-immolates every 50 years. At some point, you get used to starting over from scratch.

Wear earplugs.

I'm sure. I'm just happy that she's finally rid of this curse. I've invited her to Game Night twice. Maybe this time, she'll actually come.

[sequinsmile-x]

Hey can I request for your follower celebration:

No 19 from hand holding, no 20 from hugging, no9+6 from kisses please

And congratulations on this milestone you deserve ur completely!!!

Thank you so so much!! <3

These prompts are: Hand-holding 19: playing with each other’s fingers / Hugs 20: cuddling / Kisses 6: slow kisses / Kisses 9: first kisses

Mondays suck, so I hope this makes anyone who needs it smile :)

-x-

Reflecting Light

The first time they kiss, it’s an accident. 

aka: The one where Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss go on their first date.

Words: 2k

Warnings: Rated T, some suggestive themes

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

The first time they kiss, it’s an accident. 

Later they’d argue about who leant in first, who took the step they’d both been avoiding for years, but ultimately it doesn’t matter. What they both remember is the desperation they felt for each other. How their teeth clashed because of it, how he tore her shirt open because he wanted to touch her. Remnants of their night together left on each other's skin in the form of fingerprint bruises on her thighs, and red tracks left by her nails on his back. 

It was only afterwards, both of them still heaving in breaths that didn’t quite fill their lungs, their sweaty skin making them stick to each other, that he asks her on a date.

Any fear Emily may have had that it was a mistake, that this would ruin things between them, disappear as Aaron seemingly blurts out the invitation against her collarbone without thinking about it. She’d pulled back to look at him, the slightly nervous look on his face endearing, as if she’d say no. Her response had been to kiss him, tasting the relief on his tongue as he correctly takes it as a yes. 

It takes almost two weeks for them to arrange their date, and Emily thinks it's the longest two weeks of her life. He turns into the gentleman she’d always known him to be, refusing to go any further than kissing her in the interim between their night together and their date, as if he hadn’t fucked her on her kitchen counter. Her skin tingles whenever he’s near, the memory of his touch, how he’d taken her apart so expertly, enough to make her lose concentration at the most inconvenient of times. More than once someone else on the team had caught her drifting off at work, her mind blank of anything except him. 

The only comfort she found in it was that he was just as affected as she was. That she’d somehow got under his skin, making a man who was usually so reserved slightly on edge, as if the memories of their night together were also on a loop in his head. Doomed to play on repeat until they could be together again. 

She smiles at her reflection in the mirror, pleased with what she sees. The black dress was similar to the one she’d worn to go undercover with the Viper, a fleeting memory of how Aaron had looked at her that day flashing across her mind as she chose what to wear. Her heels are black too, the red sole matching the new underwear she’d bought specifically for the evening, well hidden under her dress. She adjusts her hair, letting it lay naturally over her shoulders, and hears a knock on her front door. 

She makes quick work of walking across her apartment, opening the door without delay, and smiling widely at him as he comes into view. 

“Hi,” she says, her eyes meeting his, her stomach flipping as he smiles too, handing her a bunch of carnations, expertly organised in a bouquet she knew would have set him back a fair amount. 

“Hi,” Aaron replies, leaning in to kiss her cheek, her heels making them almost the same height.

“Thank you for the flowers. Come in,” she says, taking a step back and letting him pass her into her apartment, “I’ll put these in water before we go.” 

Aaron nods, closing her door behind him, and it isn’t lost on him that the last time he was here was when everything changed between them. He swallows thickly, suddenly feeling unsure about everything. His outfit, the flowers. Insecurity he wasn’t used to washing over him like a wave. 

“Sorry if the flowers are too much of a cliche,” he says, watching as she pulls out a vase and puts water in it, turning to look at him with a curious look on her face, “It’s been a long time since I went on a date and I forgot what the protocol is,” he explains, and she simply smiles at him, placing the flowers in the vase, “And I know you like lilies, but I read somewhere they were poisonous to cats, and I didn’t want to start this off by killing Sergio.” 

As if he knew he was being talked about Sergio meows from the couch, popping his head up so he was in view before he settles back down. 

“Aaron,” Emily says, drawing his attention back to her, now much closer than she had been when he’d been distracted by the cat, her hand on his chest, “I love the flowers, thank you.” 

She smiles as he nods, his nervousness still obvious, and she finds it endearing. It was something she never could have predicted he’d be like when they first met. She knew enough to understand the last time he’d asked someone out had been when he’d asked out Haley, and he’d been a teenager then. Young and full of confidence that life slowly draws out of you, the answer to the question ‘what could go wrong’ one they both knew a little too well. 

She grabs the lapel of his jacket and pulls him closer, pressing her lips firmly to his, smiling when he responds immediately, his hand finding its place on her lower back. The dip there as if it was made for him. When she pulls back her eyes meet his and she bites her lip, a failed attempt to contain her smile.

“Usually when someone is nervous I tell them to imagine the other person naked,” she says, her smile transforming into a smirk, “But you don’t have to really imagine me naked.” 

He chokes out a laugh, the tension in his shoulders lessening slightly, “Em.”

“It’s true,” she shrugs, stamping her lips against his again, her face becoming serious as she pulls back, “You have nothing to be nervous about, ok? We both want this.” 

Aaron doesn’t understand the power she has over him. How she’s so easily placated the concerns he’d been secretly harbouring since he asked her out, endorphins still flooding through his system as she lay naked against him. He doesn’t understand it but he’s grateful for it, pleased that for the first time in a long time, someone cares enough to notice. 

“Ok.” 

Emily smiles and he leans in to kiss her, pulling her slightly closer. 

“We should get going,” she whispers against his lips, “You promised me dinner.” 

___

They’d been to dinner countless times before. Their friendship built into something new after she returned from Paris, his level of understanding of what she’d survived the closest anyone could get. 

He’s grateful that this doesn’t feel any different. That the conversation between them flows just like it usually does, the air between them light and free from awkwardness. The only differences are how close they sit to each other. Emily slowly got closer throughout the night, scooting in the booth towards him. He places his hand over hers on the table, linking their fingers together as they finish their wine. 

She’s on him as soon as they get into her apartment, the embargo he’d placed on anything more affectionate than making out lifted the moment they pay the bill at the restaurant. They make it to her bed this time, a trail of their clothes left throughout her apartment, Sergio watching them with a mix of confusion and judgement as they close the bedroom door, leaving him in the living room. 

Their first time had been fuelled by passion. A spark turning into a flame, a fire engulfing them both as they gave into the feelings they’d both pretended weren’t there for years. 

This time it’s different. 

It’s slow, pleasure creeping up on them both as they explore each other again. Slow and steady like a tide making its way up a beach. Love they wouldn’t name washing each other as they curl together under her sheets, spent and breathless. 

Emily cuddles up to his side and places her head on his shoulder, smiling into his chest when he wraps his arms tightly around her.

“Worth the wait?” He asks, kissing the top of her head, and she chuckles, not able to find it in herself quite yet to even try to take him down a peg or two. 

She hums in response, reaching out for his hand and linking their fingers together, “Just don’t make me wait another two weeks next time.” 

She plays with his fingers, marvelling at the strength he held in his hands as she runs her thumb up and down his skin. He touched her like she was made of something precious, revering her in a way she didn’t remember experiencing before. It was strange to think what she’d seen him do with them over the years. How a gun would look like nothing more than a toy in his hands. 

How he’d once beaten a man to death with them, the scars on his knuckles still there now, rough beneath her fingertips. 

She enjoyed the duality of him. How he was hard and soft at the same time. His rough edges different to hers, and she liked to think that's what made them fit together so well. 

“So there’s definitely a next time?” 

She stops her study of his hands and looks up at him, her palm pressed into his chest so she can sit up a little straighter. She frowns at him, but any annoyance she might have felt is gone before it can catch light, the same nervousness she’d seen in her kitchen when he gave her the flowers visible on his face. 

“Of course, there’s a next time,” she says, sitting up and encouraging him to do the same. She throws her leg over his lap, making sure they are chest to chest, and she loops her arms around his neck. Aaron’s arms wrap around her, his hands finding her back automatically as if magnetised to her. She leans forward and kisses him slowly, her hands moving up into his hair, holding him in place as he pulls her impossibly closer. She pulls back and smiles at him, “Why wouldn’t there be?” 

He doesn’t know how to put it into words, how to explain to her that he felt inadequate. That everything about her made him wonder what she saw in him. He wasn’t sure how she could see past his baggage, all of his scars both mental and physical when he couldn’t do that himself. 

“Don’t you think you could do better than me?” 

It surprises her, and makes her pull back just enough so she can see his entire face to see if he was joking. When she sees he’s serious she frowns, her hand leaving the back of his neck to push the hair from his forehead, messing it up even more than she had earlier. 

“There isn’t anyone better than you,” she replies, and he laughs humourlessly, making her frown deepen, “I mean it, Aaron,” she says, firmer this time, “You’re handsome and funny and kind. And really fucking good in bed,” she smiles when he laughs, the vibration of it passing from his chest to hers, “And you got me flowers. You’re…” she pauses, briefly worried she’s about to say too much, but she carries on, “You’re everything,” she cups his cheek, “And you’re not the only one with a past.” 

Aaron leans forward slightly, shaking his head at himself because of course she’d figured it out. She was incredibly good at her job. At reading him. He lifts his head again and looks at her, shifting her closer again.

He kisses her this time, holding her in place as he presses his lips against hers. He takes his time, imprinting this, her, into his memory. Well aware that this was the start of something special. The start of them. 

She pulls back when she’s breathless and leans her forehead against hers briefly before she looks at him. She didn’t need to say the words, and he didn’t need to hear them. Affection and love neither of them would confess to yet reflecting in her eyes. 

He knew she could the same reflecting back at her.

-x-

Tag list:

@ssa-sparks, @lukeclvez, @lyds102, @glockleveledatyourcrotch, @hotchnissenthusiast, @danadeservesadrink, @ssamorganhotchner, @emilyprentissisgod, @notagentprentiss, @freesiasandfics, @emilyshotchniss, @thecharmingart, @paulitalblond, @hancydrewfan, @camille093, @whitecrossgirl, @moonlight-2-6, @rawr-jess, @florenceremingtonthethird, @jareauswife, @ms-black-a, @beebeelank, @aubreyprc, @zipzapboingg, @psychopath-at-heart, @criminalmindsgonewrong, @fionaloover, @kinqslcys, @prentissinred, @ccmattis22, @denvivale317, @thrindis, @hotchsguccitie, @cmfouatslota77, @alexblakegf, @aliensaurusrex, @prentissxhotch, @emobabeyy, @victoiregranger, @stormyweatherth, @wanderingdreamer009, @ssablackbird, @luhconh, @lex13cm

Join my tag list here!

[brightgnosis]

My Husband's stayed home today, so that's a no for my Heart Meditation both Friday and today. I'm definitely noticing Results™ from nonparticipation, which I'm not particularly enjoying (more aggression, more snap judgements; the very things I'm trying to get rid of through this exercise). But it encourages me to keep up the practice and solidifies that there is change happening. So I'm very happy about that.

He's not feeling too good, sadly. I think I might've picked up some kind of bug with all our traveling about the last 2 weeks and not realized it. Because I had his exact symptoms (within reason) at some point last week and just ... Didn't think anything of them again- just like I didn't with the Norovirus- for a number of reasons.

I don't vomit anymore; barely have a gag reflex anymore; I basically contribute all weird gastrointestinal things to either my Gastritis or IBS because it's usually a fair bet. So without active nausea, I notice that I just don't clock illnesses like this anymore now. Which means I've passed it on again, on accident. But thankfully it doesn't seem like it's Noro this time- or if it is, it's a much more mild case than we had during Hannukah.

I feel so bad about it. And bad for him, honestly. Especially with everything else going on right now with his Mother. the last thing he needed was to be ill on top of it. And worse, we've visited his Mother several times in the interim. So I'm desperately hoping we didn't pass anything off since her room at the Rehab Clinic's quite small.

Ah well. Not much can be done about it for now. I think I'll make the Deconstructed Shishkabobs for Dinner tonight, though. With any luck it'll be easy enough on his stomach that it won't make anything worse than it already is; everything else that I put on the menu for the week seems like it'd be too much on the system. This one's simple, though. Just a bunch of Veggies, and a simple Steak Marinade on the meat. Nothing too serious.

The big suck is that while it is a lovely drizzly day, my body has decided that the weather pressure patterns are A Problem™ again; my knees and other joints have been killing me all day- the first time I've had solid joint pain in a long time. And it's incredibly unpleasant. Especially while being right in the middle of a Fibro flare on top of it. Because now instead of the usual pain I get, I get the fun explosive pain 😭

Baruch HaShem we switched to easy meals and he's home today.

This blog belongs to a «Multi-Neuroatypical + Multi-Disabled» «Queer» «Childless» «Jewish + Pagan» «NonTraditionalist» Homemaker. TradWives are unwelcome.

This account is run by a Dual Faith «(Converting) Masorti Jew + Traditional NeoWiccan» & «Ancestral Folk Magic Practitioner» with 20+ years of experience as a practicing Pagan and Witch. If that bothers you, don’t interact.

[blazehedgehog]

a lot of what i dont like about ian flynn's recent stories are more so attributed to the sega mandates thing, like shadow not having friends and such. but i really dont vibe with the idea of sonic being a super hero with constant one to one battles and thats like a lot of what's seen in idw past the metal virus saga

Well, yeah, because there hasn't been a big threat in a while. Like, The Metal Virus was a world-ending kind of thing. It concerned the lives of everyone on the planet.

Post-Metal-Virus, it's been a lot more inter-personal stuff. Characters going on (well-deserved) vacations and smaller-scale threats. One gets the impression Eggman is gearing up for his next big plan (after all, we've seen he's experimenting with pocket dimensions), but in the interim it's going to be a lot of stuff like dealing with Surge.

You gotta have contrasts. Small, medium, and large stories. I know we just passed 50 issues, but really, IDW has only had maybe three story arcs to date?

The return of Neo Metal Sonic, The Metal Virus, and now Surge (With a bunch of smaller stories between major arcs).

I'm sure there'll be things for Team Sonic to do together as a group again some day. I personally appreciate the diversity in stories being told, and that we can't just always have Eggman threatening the fate of the entire planet every single time.

But yes, the Sega mandates stuff does suck. Though I wonder if they're going to be given more leeway soon, given that Ian Flynn (and Tyson Hesse) seem to be moving more in the direction of becoming secondary loremasters under Takashi Iizuka. They might be able to push or pull things more now.

[thessalian]

Council Deputies vs Aer Alai

Temple of Einar, with a lot of dead Soraks

Astrid: ...They got the crown!

Mychae: Looks like they left their secret passage wide open, though.

Jallira: If no one knew about this thing, it has to predate the Cataclysm. It’s not a rough-hewn tunnel so it must link to someplace else in the city that’s pre-Cataclysm...

Astrid: Do we have time for a history lesson?

Mychae: Since she’s basically telling us that this might go directly to the teleportation gate, sort of yes because it means we know what to expect but also sort of no.

Alisaie: All right, all right, let’s go!

Teleportation gate, currently being attacked by Soraks

Arwin: Oh, hey, you guys made it down here too.

Alisaie: You really caught the heroism bug off us, didn’t you.

Arwin: It was in remission for a long time and you -- yeah, look, we need to fight Soraks before they tear down the gate!

Mychae: Nice to see you join the party, but ... that’s an army of Soraks. Like, an army. We can’t kill an army.

Alisaie: Well, part of that army’s about to try to kill us so FIGHTING SEEMS LIKE A GOOD IDEA AND-- waitwut.

Scatty Princess: Hi. Let me handle this.

Arwin: All right! Time for the old lady to show off!

Scatty Princess: *is a beautiful young woman*

Jallira: I ... think I can cure blindness, if--

Scatty Princess: *becomes a very large silver dragon*

Deputies: ...whaaaaaaaaat the f--

Scatty Princess: *kills basically every Sorak in the room*

Jallira: Um ... okay ... that happened. Thank you, your majesty.

Arwin: Bastards got away with the Crown, though, I hear.

Scatty Princess: And they have all the gems, so are probably going to try to open the Rift again and let their evil god in. You really need to stop them.

Mychae: Well, hopefully this stuff we got from Summer’s mansion gives us the ‘where’ because we haven’t got time to have the Crown pull Astrid around like a dog on a leash--

Astrid: Hey!

Scatty Princess: Oh good; I know Aer Alai. There’s a gate near there. I’ll open it for you and stop time in a sort of bubble around you for a few hours. Get some rest, then go after them. I’d go with you but the Badlands kill dragons really, really fast, and I need Arwin to help clean up Caer Cyflen because it’s kind of on fire right now.

Astrid: Wait you’re going to what?!? That’s going to be so weird.

Alisaie: That’s war. Eat when you can, sleep when you can.

Mychae: But in a magic bubble? Okay, trancing in this situation’s just going to suck. I get four hours sitting in a bubble watching you people.

Jallira: I suppose you could make some poison arrows and crossbow bolts in the interim...

Mychae: You’re the only one of us who really uses a crossbow. I thought you didn’t like poison.

Jallira: Just because I don’t use them doesn’t mean I don’t understand how soothing you find ... making ... things.

Astrid: We had a wonderful philosophical discussion about her tendency to be like that, by the way; I could--

Mychae: Just ... no. Sleep, trance, whatever you do; we’ve got one last big adventure.

Some hours later that did not actually pass in the real world

Jallira: I wish we had more of an idea of what we’ll find on the other side.

Mychae: This is dumping us in the heart of the Badlands. It’s going to get weird. But how bad could it possibly be? *steps through*

How Bad It Could Possibly Be: *is pretty bad in the realm of lava*

Alisaie: Oh goodie. Fire spiders.

Astrid: ...Goodbye, fire spiders! *Thunderwave*

Fire Spiders: *fall into lava and die*

Jallira: That will never stop being bizarre to me. They’re immune to the fire we throw at them but not immune to the lava they apparently live in?

Alisaie: Don’t look a gift-paradox in the mouth, Jallira. *shoves another fire spider into the lava*

Some dead fire spiders and a hopscotch over lava later...

Mychae: This is a boneyard. Full of dragon bones.

Alisaie: Why are they yeeting dragon bones into lava?

Astrid: All the old magisters were dragons. I mean, we’ve met magisters and they’ve all been dragons. So ... maybe they’re trying to get rid of the bones of the magister whose Crown they stole?

Jallira: They should not, therefore, be allowed to keep doing that. Also that’s not a nice way to treat the remains of sapient creatures and I cannot pray over them if they’re melting in lava--

Mychae: *hand over Jallira’s mouth* Look, we need to take them by surprise for once, okay? Now let’s just sneak into position and--

Alisaie: COME GET SOME, YOU UGLY MOTHER--

Mychae: ..............I need to stop hanging out with a barbarian.

Stabnation: *ensues*

Several dead Soraks and multiple attempts at bone-digging later:

Alisaie: Got it! A tooth should do, right?

Bones: ...let me ... touch ... the Crown...

Mychae: Well. That’d be why they wanted to get rid of this guy’s bones. I mean, I dunno what’s supposed to happen when bone touches Crown but it’s got to be better than Soraks and their evil god. ...right?

Jallira: Maraike deserves better than to share a pantheon with that ... that...

Mychae: *sigh* Let me help. The word you are looking for is ‘asshole’.

Jallira: Thank you. We should move on.

A lot more hopscotch later

Alisaie: I could almost understand the lava river. Lava’s in the ground, right?

Astrid: Yes.

Alisaie: ACID IS NOT IN THE GROUND. SO WHY WERE THERE RIVERS OF ACID?!?

Jallira: I’m surprised you weren’t more concerned about the floating rocks in that spot with the air elementals.

Mychae: She remembers that library. Floating bullshit is kind of a thing.

Astrid: Honestly, the sideways manor was the biggest nope for me.

Mychae: It wasn’t that big a deal...

Alisaie: You wear shoes that let you stick to the walls, Mychae. For you, walking along a wall parallel to the ground is a regular thing. For the rest of us? NOT SO MUCH.

Jallira: In any case ... oh dear. That looks like where the Rift was.

Alisaie: Doesn’t look like they got it open yet. Oh, except that one’s got the Crown and seems to be making a good stab at it.

Mychae: Okay, while they’re distracted, can we please--

Alisaie: I know, I get it; sneak into position quietly and--

Astrid: TAKE THAT CROWN OFF, YOU UGLY PIECE OF EXCREMENT! IT’S NOT FOR YOU AND LOOKS BETTER ON ME ANYWAY! *chucks a Fireball*

Jallira; Mychae; Alisaie: ................

Alisaie: At least it wasn’t me this time...

Mychae: Well, a fireball can do a lot of damage, but that’s an army again. How the fuck--?

Gold Dragon from Tower of Shield: Hi! Told you I was resting up for one final hurrah!

Black Dragon (apparently Creepy Necromancy Guy from Creepy Castle): I do not believe I’m doing this...

Jallira: But ... this place will kill you!

Gold Dragon: Eh, it’s lonely in the world today anyway; not my time anymore.

Black Dragon: You said you were coming to kill a god. I’m helping.

Mychae: But I was lying-- never mind, not looking a gift-dragon in the mouth because way too many teeth and probably acid or poison or something let’s do this.

Stabnation: *ensues along with dragon-stomp*

A bit later

Alisaie: You know ... if they hadn’t spent so long looking for that Sorak you Banished, they might have got out of here before they died.

Jallira: I’m sorry I left it Banished for too long! It’s habit!

Astrid: *touches dragon tooth to Crown*

Ghost of Magister: *materialises* Hold.

Alisaie: ...Hold? Hold what?

Mychae: The line, I think. stupid Rift’s still open and more shit’s coming!

Jallira: Well, I suppose we’re doing this fight without dragons either way...

Astrid: I had a vision of something like this ... fighting waves of Soraks while he closed the Rift ... but there was only one of me.

Alisaie: Four of us now. GET WRECKED, SORAKS!

Stabnation: *ensues again some more*

Rift: *eventually closes*

Story: *ends ... for now*

A Lot Of People On Steam And Reddit: *complain about Dragons Ex Machina ending*

A Lot Of People On Steam And Reddit: *can get fucked as far as I’m concerned; it was fun*

[pryings]

november activity check !

activity check : passed!

skill points 5 –> 8

monthly skill point reason C –> C+

skill points from threads: heavy armor E -> E+

skill point from arena participation reason C+ -> C+

completed/dropped threads:

if we catch one of my wife’s students cheating: w/ arvis ! (complete; heavy armor point)

calling backup: w/ byleth, veyle, marth, pelleas ! (complete; 2023 fall arena)

well that sucked shit: w/ veyle ! (complete; arena interim)

is that the fucking grim reaper?: w/ veyle, marth, pelleas ! (complete; 2023 fall arena)

boys only despair: w/ veyle, marth, pelleas ! (complete; 2023 fall arena)

incomplete threads (for personal reference, ignore this if you aren’t me, though if we have a thread and it's not on here or something is mistakenly marked as your turn when it's mine please lmk!!!):

ashes to ashes: w/ andrei ! (my turn)

and if it came to pass: w/ l'arachel ! (my turn)

it's gonna take you people years to recover from all of the damage: w/ arvis ! (my turn)

what night does whisper: w/ eldigan ! (my turn)

shapeless in the dark: w/ griss ! (their turn)

if made to hold it, i would break it: w/ lyon ! (their turn)

within the harp of the wrists: w/ ayra ! (their turn)

[pscottm]

GOP Lawmaker Says 2/3 Against Temporary Speaker

“Leaving a closed-door GOP meeting to determine the way forward, Rep. Pat Fallon (R-TX) estimated that about two-thirds of the House Republican conference opposed the idea of electing the caretaker speaker, Rep. Patrick McHenry (R-NC), as an interim speaker,” the Wall Street Journal reports.

Said Fallon: “The mood of the room was clear. Because of this ugly process, what has this party done? It has enabled the Democrats to determine the way forward in part, because if all 212 Democrats vote for this resolution, it will pass. If all of them oppose it, it will fail. So we’re in the majority and we don’t have a say as to what happens with this resolution. It was completely up to the Democrats. That was not smart.”

Sure does suck to be in the majority and have the minority controlling things doesn't it?! **cough... Cough... Electoral college.... Cough.... The Senate.... Cough

[princessslut6969]

--k but really? This was me 2008-9. Abusive ex-bf, cut off from every single classmate especially friends. Lowest lowest low. Moved out to live alone. Better that way...

Except I'm still human. Literally afraid of the dark. And the only people I could risk talking to, were his friends he left behind. They basically had enough power to not be included in the threats to not talk to me, but if they ever wanted, they could turn me over to him. And that level of anxiety became my new normal, that it didn't even register most of the time. One of those friends said he didn't agree with even what he knew that he'd done & said, & was even aware that hearing only 1/2 the story was not the whole picture. So I took the risk of going over, telling him everything, in the hopes of not just sinking to the bottom, even if it blew up in my face, at least something would happen, which meant there was a chance for it to be something good. A resolution to fix this terrible threat I was living under. Maybe he'd talk some sense into him for me. (Hope sucks.) The first time he invited me to a party, I again jumped at the chance, for anything, even if it was a horrible idea, even if anything bad happened. Just something to keep trying, keep living, anything to feel something. A short burst of normalcy & fun. (I was enrolled in my own college still, but basically not attending & if I did, didn't do any work.) Only --unrelated-- one of the guys who lived at the apt it was at, was high on some kind of rx drugs, and drinking, and started fighting. Lil guy, though, but everyone else was like, whoa, not okay. Most people had left already, then he caused the last few to leave. That friend who invited me, called the cops on him. THEN told me after the fact. "Uh, then I need to leave. I'M NOT 21!" (20.5) Cursing ensues, he hadn't realized, but we left immediately. He was in an awkward interim between moving out of the dorms & into the apt we were actually just at. But at the moment, his stuff was still at someone else's place entirely. Where there was only a blowup mattress... for the 2 of us. I wouldn't say we had even flirted at all. But shared bed (omg human connection), turned into snuggling (omg touch starved), turned into kissing (omg it'd been so long), turned into him cleeearly reaching to finger me. Thaaat, I wasn't sure about. I was clearly shirking away from that. He clearly got that, so while he didn't advance, he also wouldn't retreat. I panicked for only the prospect of having nothing in me but actively seething hate for relationships & dating, etc. Terrified I'd get invested & emotionally broken further than I had ever thought possible again. "I'm not really looking for a relationship right now." "Neither am I." Oh, good! But, still not sure for some reason about the fingering. Until, that is, he said the magic words. "I wanna eat you out." OH, WELL, WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY SO!

No way I was passing that up.

And I got hooked. Within a week, I asked to come back for more. And more, and more. Virgin still, but only for 3 more months. It became routine. I didn't pay towards drinks at the parties & sometimes he paid for food. On nights I was there, & sometimes only for the night, he'd drive me back into the city the next morning. Once I, too, moved out of the city to nearby him + co, but was still attending college in the city, he would drive me back and forth. Instead of paying for a $230 railpass. Which was explicitly negotiated. ...so it was a different type of "railpass." And I secretly loved that aspect of it. It was awesome sex every night, that he wanted. I could certainly ask, though, but while he'd sometimes say no, I felt like I couldn't say no. Not that that was ever a problem, actually. Him simply asking/starting something, with me having that in mind, would instantly turn me on, without fail. I mean, I probably did refuse sometimes, if I had a very good reason. He was extremely chill, very staunch on etiquette, generous & accommodating. But really, I loved *feeling* like I couldn't say no. It would get & keep me so turned on constantly. Like, I had to have sex with him, to pay for my rides. Instantly wet & cock hungry. There were lots of times while hanging out around other people though, where he'd do or not do something to be rude to make a point to them that we weren't dating. During parties we never stayed around each other. Other people did try to tell me like, that when i wasn't around, he talked like we weren't dating, etc, he'd be flirting with other girls. At least these convos happened when I was drunk, so I just felt extra naughty in giggling, "Oh, we're NOT dating, no." Only a couple times I remember him being like, hey, it's been a lil while, where's mine? You want me to drive you, then, ya know... Well that was enough itself to remedy it. Loved being a slut with safe consistent dick & no relationship to worry about, cuz, god I was so lonely & hopelessly depressed otherwise... . . . P.S.- While we were in that routine of him driving me to & from every single day, & specifically even in the routine of anal every night... That was when I was working on editing a short film in this same computer lab, same computer, same times, same days, all quarter long. When, week 2, this guy came in... "Is there a class in here?" Now, HIM-- First of all, I didn't even hear what he had said cuz my brain was literally screaming YES so loudly. No, there wasn't a class in there. He got embarrassed, thinking I was laughing at him, but as he ducked & quickly headed through the room to the back, my brain next went, Oh, there you are. Only, I had never seen him before in my life. Again, I shook it from my head, cuz relationships BAD. Those thoughts of recognizing a soulmate like that - all bs that my subconscious just spit back out randomly. Stupid, doesn't mean anything. And this guy? Oh, I instantly knew I wouldn't be able to FWB this guy. If I let this go 1 neuron farther, I would ruin something wonderful. Didn't make sense, but felt like, DO NOT TOUCH, both for my own good, & I would break him. He kept showing up at the same time, every same days, same times, sat at the same computer with a perfect view of me from behind. Always asked ME if there was a class in there. But the quarter ended with nothing else happening. ... NOWADAYS, 😏 he says that what he was thinking during that period, was: 1. "You intimidated me. I saw you flying around [Final Cut Pro], like, oh god she's so smart and talented!" 🤩 2. "Besides the sexy librarian look you had going on - that was obvious - but I could tell, too, that girl looks like she takes it up the ass." 😅 "And ya know, for any of those nights during that period, you were right." 😅

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Biden admin orders an end to surprise billing

Of all the dysfunctions of the famously cursed US healthcare system, few are so obviously a total scam as “surprise billing.” Here’s how that works: you go to a hospital (often its ER) that is covered by your insurer, and then, despite this, you get a giant bill. Surprise!

How can a hospital covered by your insurer hit you — and not your insurer — with a bill? Simple. A private equity company has convinced each of the medical professionals you interact with to secede from the hospital’s payroll and form an LLC.

The hospital contracts with your anesthesiologist’s LLC, your trauma surgeon’s LLC, the radiologist’s LLC — sometimes the WHOLE ER is amputated from the hospital and then grafted back on in LLC form, under contract to the hospital as a standalone independent business.

Your insurer has a deal with the hospital, but all of these artificial persons that have been Frankensteined together by private equity have no deal with your insurer. What’s more, they can charge many multiples of the “negotiated rate” for your care and bill you for it.

So after the ambulance brings you, bleeding and unconscious to the hospital and you wake up and ascertain that they lucked into bringing you to an ER that has a deal with your insurer, you’re still in for a surprise. Surprise!

The surprise keeps on coming. First you get a bill from the ER itself as a “facilities fee,” like the cover charge at a bar, except it’s hundreds or thousands of dollars and it applies whether you got any care at all.

Then you get the radiologist’s bill, which might be $12 or $200, depending on some invisible, inscrutable negotiation between their LLC and your insurer. Then comes the aneasthesiologist. Then the orthopedist.

Despite outward appearances and the sign over the door, the hospital isn’t a unitary entity. It’s a colony organism, a kind of rich Galapagos of intertwined, symbiotic, standalone entities that somehow produce care as an emergent property.

It’s like a hollow, rotten log, teeming with independent, variegated lifeforms that trickle bills into your mailbox without end, for months after your trauma, adding up to hundreds or thousands or tens of thousands of dollars.

Even the $12 invoices take an hour to pay as you set up an account with the exotic payment processor that contracts with the chiropodist’s LLC, whose website and phone-tree were designed by a GPT-3 procedural dungeon generator.

This is a system of absolute and manifest terribleness, and it’s also illegal. US medical practices are legally required to be run by licensed doctors, but the doctors who get sucked into these scams quickly discover that they’re only nominally running the business.

The PE “investor” actually calls the shots, and any doctor “owner” who bucks the system gets fired from their own medical practice.

This worked well for PE companies during the pandemic, as they raked in millions in federal PPP loans while slashing doctors’ pay and denying medical staff access to PPE.

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2020/04/what-wall-street-doesnt-want-you-to-know-about-hospital-emergency-rooms.html

All attempts to end surprise billing, were sabotaged by the PE giants who created it — Blackrock, KKR and co. They were long on surprise billing and spending millions to keep the racket intact was a rational investment.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/02/21/pluralist-a-daily-link-adose-21-feb-2020/#sickening

Surprise billing was a 2020 election issue. The same PE-backed LLCs (who’d cut doctors’ pay and demanded billions in bailouts) found vast sums to spend on astroturf campaigns where “patients” insisted surprise billing was great, actually.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/21/all-in-it-together/#doctor-patient-unity

And they pumped huge amounts to support the campaigns of ghouls like Richie Neal, whose progressive primary challenger was sidelined via a homophobic smear campaign, and who rode to office on promises of maintaining surprise billing.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/13/youre-still-the-product/#richie-neal

For those of us who despaired of ever being shut of this predatory scam, the news that the Biden administration is issuing an interim order barring surprise billing could not be more welcome.

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2021/07/biden-administration-issues-interim-rule-barring-surprise-billing.html

“[The rule] bars surprise billing for emergency services and high out-of-network cost-sharing for emergency and non-emergency services… out-of-network charges for ancillary services like those provided by anesthesiologists or assistant surgeons…”

https://www.modernhealthcare.com/finance/cms-bans-surprise-billing

But the rule still offers a chance to do some price gouging. It follows the contours of the No Surprises Act (which passed the House in Dec 2020), “with baseball-style arbitration to settle payment disputes between providers and insurers.”

We got hit by a wave of surprise bills last year after our daughter broke her wrist, with dozens of bills totalling thousands arriving in the mail for months after. The experience prompted us to switch from Cigna to Kaiser in January.

Kaiser is as close to the Canadian and British health care I used for most of my life, but every now and again you’ll get a reminder that the best for-profit health-care in America is much worse than the state-run care elsewhere.

Just yesterday I got a letter from a private insurance investigator deputized by Kaiser to investigate the circumstances of an “injury” I experienced to see if someone else could be sued or threatened to pay for the resulting care.

Not only is this seven kinds of fucked up, but I don’t have a knee injury. I woke up with a mysterious pain in my knee, and, after it persisted for a week, I had a telephone call with a Kaiser doc to determine whether I should be worried. He said it was fine.

The letter from Kaiser’s bounty-hunters was plastered in dire warnings to the effect that I’d lose my health care if I didn’t cooperate with them in their hunt for someone to terrorize into recouping the cost of this phone-call.

Ladies and gentlemen, the efficiencies of the free market.

An executive order is a nice start here, but we need actual legislative reform.