#muse full gigs

[sunburnacoustic]

Muse full gigs

Some full shows that are available, for anyone who wants to partially relive the Muse live experience.

I figured no one's made lists in a while.

La Cigale, Paris By-Request gig 2018

rarities + I guarantee I'm gonna fuck up Space Dementia + water spitting + Matt and Dom playing Grammy hosts in the way they announced the winners of the by-request polls

Some cool and noteworthy gigs:

Live Lounge 2012

The Mayan 2015 (performance wise this gig was stunning)

Royal Albert Hall 2008 (Teenage Cancer Trust charity gig - Megalomania on the pipe organ!)

Reading Festival 2011 (10 years of Origin of Symmetry - played the album start to finish)

AOL Sessions 2006

Reading 2006 (Muse's first time headlining if I remember right. Plus, Matt's moves!)

Glastonbury 2004 (first Glasto headline and a must-watch! Of the iconic mad-scientist, white lab coat era. Muse had called it the best gig of their life so far, at the time) (*Ruled By Secrecy was played live but wasn't included in the concert footage DVD and isn't in this video upload either)

Montreaux Jazz 2002 (height of piano maniac-ery days. Would also recommend Pinkpop 2002 but they don't. have. the footage anymore :( Space Dementia at Pinkpop 2002 was phenomenal. 2004 is also good, but I never found 2002 again. Speaking of which,)

Pinkpop 2004 (most songs are in, a few performances missing unfortunately)

MCM Café 1999 (marvel at what a good live act this young band aged 21 already was—with about 4 years of gigging experience under their belts. Insane how good they are.)

Wembley 2007 (H.A.A.R.P. The first band to sell out the newly rebuilt Wembley Stadium. 90,000 people. You need to understand, seeing Chris lift up and point his bass at the crowd at the end of the slightly modified Jimmy Jam riff before Time Is Running Out was a religious experience that changed me and we're lucky enough to live in an age where you and I can witness it over and over and over again and I'd suggest that you do)

Rock Am Ring 2018, uploaded to the Internet Archive by the Muse Historical Society!

Austin City Limits 2013 Philipshalle 1999 Philipshalle 2001 (all suggested in notes, check out the crystal clear gifs from @hotbellamy! :O )

A few additions I remembered after publishing: Eurockeennes 2000 (opened with a then-unreleased New Born. Matt playing a full gig in red sunglasses. Treat to watch. Link's stretched up to fit modern screens but if you want a bit of clarity and don't mind the late 90s ratio stretch, here's a different link) 2002 (quality's a bit shit but that is literally what telly used to look like)

Shepherd's Bush Empire 2006 (Early gigs are always interesting because over time Muse develop different ways of playing songs that are fresh off new albums. The way they work through Take A Bow live is a bit different here, Dom's the one controlling the opening verse synths! During the Abso tour, Matt would play that bit on the piano as an intro to Space Dementia and if I'm remembering right, he does now on the pianos (correct me—this was on the ST tour as well). Also, Starlight in Bm at this gig)

Big Day Out (Australia) 2004 | 2007. Muse's first tour Down Under, 2004. If you're impressed by Muse's riffage here, know that you aren't alone, Metallica's Kirk Hammett was as impressed as you are. Also I've linked 2007, presented by the V channel, featuring Matt asking a male interviewer, 'Do you feel sexy now?' and famously proclaiming that they'll look sexier in their 40s, which has been true.

Rock Werchter 2023 (Muse play Rock Werchter in Belgium almost every year, except for the pandemic and 2012 I think, but this year's was a bit special. Best performance of Madness I've seen in a while, I love what he does in the outro! MOTP returns to the set. Muse had tech troubles at the end that caused them to restart Knights of Cydonia twice, to no avail. They finally cut it back for a guitar-bass-drum-vocals-only performance of Showbiz, and Matt's voice sounds exceptional on it— the best in recent years)

Bizarre Fest 2000 (BLESS SOMEONE HAS RESTORED THIS FROM VHS TAPE IN HD, this is so much better than back in the day!! If the falsetto at 1:13 doesn't do it for you, you're into the wrong band, nothing else will help. What an electric performance this was!)

Buenos Aires 2019 (livestreamed Simulation Theory-era gig in Argentina, because the set was changed at the last minute because of adverse weather, Muse gave the audience a choice of song between Bliss and Showbiz. The crowd chose Showbiz, which the band played for... the first time since 2006 I think??)

Gigs from WOTP 2022/23 festivals tour last summer:

Nova Rock Rock In Rio Ejekt Fest Isle of Wight ALTer EGO Jan 2023 (as Muse had talked about in that iHeart Radio IG Live) Hurricane Festival 2023 (a festival at which Matt once complained that Muse's set was cut short by... hurricanes. But the audio mixing at this gig was really good!)

These are in no particular order, and obviously not complete, I just realised no one had put together a gig archive in a while so I thought I'd give it a stab!

Will edit and add others whenever, there are obviously glaring omissions still!

[glorious-blackout]

for the opinions ask: indoor concerts are more enjoyable than festivals because they allow for a more intimate emotional experience of the music

hope you’re having a lovely day! 😘💗

strongly agree | agree | neutral | disagree | strongly disagree

I've never been to a festival but I have been to quite a few outdoor/stadium gigs and I have to agree, the vibes of an indoor concert are just so much nicer and the sound quality tends to be a lot better (I'm still sad that I could barely hear a thing when Arctic Monkeys played at Bellahouston 😅). I've definitely developed a deep fondness for smaller, more intimate gigs as I've gotten older. Some of my favourite recent concerts have been in venues with a capacity of less than a thousand people (St Luke's in Glasgow my beloved...)

Also you're far less likely to get pished on by heavy rain when you're in an indoor venue 😂

Thank you! 💖

[purple-obsidian]

I loved your post about sleepy sex with dick. I'd love to see more soft moments with him in bed, pretty plz I need him to smother me 😪

nonsense (18+, dick grayson x gn reader) wc 900

⭓ this post contains sexual content and is not suitable for minors.

"I have a theory."

"A theory?"

"Yeah."

You can't see the grin on his face, but you feel the upturn of his lips against your neck and the soft shaking of his body as Dick chuckles at your sleepy musings.

"Well, lets hear it, babe. Don't keep me in suspense."

Your fingertips graze his scalp, toying with his thick, dark hair that tempts you every time you're together. Its just begging to be pulled at and played with, really. It isn't your fault.

"You and Bruce, your whole gig is that you don't have powers, right? You're just ordinary people, regular humans."

"Well, I wouldn't say ordinary." He chides back with playful defensiveness. His voice is muffled from his proximity, but you can understand him just fine.

"Exactly." You mumble back, staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom. You can just barely make out the outline of the ceiling fan, dimly lit with the meager light emanating from your digital alarm clock on your bedside table, accompanied by an inconspicuous bottle of lube and a half-empty water bottle. "I think it's bullshit. You're meta, one hundred percent. I think you've been fooling everyone all along."

"Huh. Is that right?" He mutters against your warm neck, his soft breath fanning over your skin and sending a sharp tingle down your spine.

"You're telling me I'm wrong?" You whisper breathlessly, struggling to take in a full breath with how his body is crushing you, keeping you pinned between him and the mattress. Dick senses your discomfort and shifts his weight around to take some pressure of of your diaphragm. You cling to him reflexively when he moves, scared that he might try and get up.

"Aww, baby, someone feeling needy?"

You ignore the teasing in his tone, but allow your fingers to grip his raven strands that much tighter, keeping his head in place next to yours. "Don't change the subject."

Dick shifts his bodyweight again, wiggling his hips and grinding them against yours not-so-subtly. There is nothing separating your bodies, all clothes were forgotten hours ago when the two of you first came to bed. The evidence of your time together dampens the bedding below you and lingers in the still air of the bedroom. And still, his arousal that's pressed against your stomach stiffens once again while he slowly moves against you, teasing you, toying with you like he was made to do so, as if the gods sent him here specifically to be your undoing. He's good enough at it that you wouldn't be surprised.

"What superpowers do I have, then? Since you got me all figured out."

You grin, releasing your firm hold on his hair and nuzzling his cheek to get him to look at you. Dick reluctantly removes his face from your neck and blinks the sleep away from his eyes to focus on your face in the dark.

"Isn't it obvious?" The tip of your nose brushes against his, lips almost touching. Your breath is synced up to where you're inhaling as he's exhaling, your chest deflating slightly while his expands, back and fourth, slow and steady.

"Indulge me." Barely a whisper, his gravely voice tickling your eardrum.

Sapphirine eyes slowly come in to focus in the dim light. You snake your hand down between your bodies to grasp his hardening length, which is still sensitive from his earlier performance. The broken moan that chokes him upon contact is like a shot of dopamine to your brain. To you, there is no greater ego boost than being the source of this man's pleasure. With a gentle touch, you stroke his cock languidly, letting out a soft exhale that lacks enough air to fuel a full laugh.

"Stamina." You tell him, letting your mouth brush against his chin as you speak, his stubble feeling harsh against your lips, which are chapped from the endless kisses and fervent promises exchanged in this very bed hours earlier.

He ruts into your hand with another pained groan. "Sh-shit." A tremble shakes his large frame before he braces his forearms on either side of your body, baring more of his weight so he can lift himself off of you and give you more room to stimulate him where he needs you most. "Just like that… dammit, babe, you have no idea what you do t'me."

You lick your lips, chasing him as he pulls away, the few inches of space he put between you far too much for you to tolerate.

"Tell me I'm right." You demand, but you capture his lips in a heated kiss before he can answer you. The sound of his moans mingle with your own as the two of you make out, slow and sloppy, his cock now painfully hard and heavy in your palm.

"Right about what?" He mutters between urgent, feverish pecks to your lips.

"Y-your super-human stamina." You stutter after a beat, almost losing your train of thought. It's so easy to get lost in him. His taste, his smell, his warmth, his love. Its nothing short of addicting.

"Dunno what you mean…mmmm… You're talking nonsense, baby."

Dick swallows up any further comments from you, deepening the kiss and humping your hand with increasing desperation. It doesn't take much longer until your theory is forgotten, cast aside to make room for the love Dick pours into you with every lazy kiss and needy touch.

if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment!

please don’t steal my work. don't upload it to another site, use it to train ai, or claim it as your own.

⭓ masterlist ⭓

[writingwithfolklore]

How to Hold Yourself Accountable as a Professional Writer

              Okay maybe you’re not self-employed or professional yet and writing definitely isn’t bringing in the big bucks, but you’d like it to some day, and you’re working right now on making that a reality. This post is for you, because the best time to practice getting into a healthy writing habit and holding yourself accountable to writing for that future where it’s your full time gig is now—before it’s essential to do so.

1. It will never be easy

It’s easy to think that maintaining a schedule or habit for writing would be easy if only it was your full-time gig and all you needed to do. While it might be easier than trying to cram in writing between classes or jobs, it will never be easy. You’re always going to have multiple things going on, there’s always going to be something you could be or need to be doing other than writing. Developing good habits right now, when it is really hard, is going to set you up far better than just waiting for it to get easy before you fully commit to it.

2. Set a schedule that actually works for you

I did a whole post on making a writing schedule you can actually manage and maintain here:

But the TL;DR is that in order to keep to a schedule, you have to make sure it’s attainable. Fit when you write around your other life schedule. For example, if you’re really not a morning person, planning on waking up at 5am every morning to write for a couple hours is probably not something you’ll be able to maintain. But setting aside an hour before bed may be more manageable for you.

3. Form a habit

To train your brain to make your writing schedule a habit you’ll actually stick to, you should make it into a routine. Similar to how you have a bedtime routine that sets you up to feel sleepy at night, a routine that sets you up for writing will make it harder to turn away from your manuscript, and help inspire a productive writing block.

              You can create a writing playlist with songs that inspire your project you listen to whenever you begin writing, make a tea or other drink to sip on while you write, grab a snack, share your schedule with a writing buddy and write together, put together a document of inspiring quotes, photos, or other muses you can read, or really anything that gets you into the writing mood. By following this routine every time you set up to write, you’ll train your brain to get into a mindset that will make it easier to stick to your writing block.

4. Reward yourself

Brains love doing things for a reward. Maybe after a productive writing block you can spend some time doing something else you love, like watching an episode of your favourite show, lighting a candle, taking a bath, or having a glass of wine, I don’t know, anything that would give your brain the happy juice in response to your good work.

5. Set deadlines and goals

Writing consistently is basically the majority of the battle. I don’t typically worry about word count, but I do know that it can be helpful for others to set wordcount goals and deadlines to ensure productivity. If that sounds like you, make sure your goals are actionable while also being attainable. “Finish novel” isn’t a great goal, but “write 2000 words per week for three months” could be helpful if you know that 2000 words is attainable for you.

              Same as before, you can also set rewards for when you reach your goals. I have a big tattoo upcoming if I complete my goal for the year.

              The last tip I have for this point is to try to find an accountabili-buddy to hold you to your goals and deadlines if you think that would be helpful for you. As a professional writer, you may be held accountable by an editor or agent, so practicing through asking a buddy to help you set deadlines and deliverables will help prepare you for writing towards a date.

The TL;DR is find out what works for you and practice doing it consistently! Anything else I missed?

[jaeyunverse]

the 24-hour dating challenge (teaser)

PAIRING(S) | park sunghoon x fem!reader

GENRE(S) | fluff, crack, mutual pining, best friends to lovers, influencer au (?)

EST. WORD COUNT | around 5k

WARNING(S) | profanity, hoon is a loser and down bad, mc is painfully dense + all warnings to be added in the full fic!

SUMMARY | being a famous youtuber isn’t easy, especially when you have to constantly come up with new ideas to keep your audience entertained. and this time, your viewers want you to date park sunghoon, your best friend of nearly a decade, for the entirety of 24 hours.

TAGLIST | @blank-velvet @soobisms @justalildumpling @xharisrealm @skzenhalove @alicesolengg @yenqa @geombyu @tika-writes-lol @jlheon @haknom @useraerin @hooniessslvrss @flwrshee @rikisly @tobiosbbyghorl @wonkivrse @heeflrs @bambithia @iea-tsand @chaechae-23 @en-dazed @jayfrvr @h-hazwie @moonlighthoon @justanotherkpopstanlol @sseastar-main @seongclb @shoyotime @gerianne @iadorethemskz @sieuneo @hoon0logy @luvistqrzzz @sucrosxi @lzux1 @t4kalcvr @nes-caf @odxrilove @trippy-dejun @arizejkt19 @xuimhao @vizstars @enhacatalog send an ask/comment if u wish!

AUTHOR’S NOTE | I AM COMING BACK!!!!!! (kinda. maybe. idk i get ahead of myself a lot LOL) finals are finallyyyy over and i have some time to write this week so i’ve started this old wip of mine! it’s going to be pretty short and sweet so i’ll hopefully be able to follow through on this teaser but no promises haha :)) i hope u look forward to this fic! inspired by h.j evelyn (♡)

click here for the full fic!

“Your followers want me to do what?” 

Sunghoon was positive he’d misheard you. However, part of him hoped you’d confirm the life-altering information you’d casually uttered without even bothering to look away from the TV screen. 

“Hoon!” you exclaimed, your fingers aggressively moving about the gaming console. “Oh, my God, they’re coming after me! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK—” you screeched— “Nonononono I can’t take them by myself! You testicle-guzzling cocksucker, why did you die when I needed you the most?!” 

Sunghoon watched you struggle warily. Your leg was bouncing with anxiety and your eyes bulging out of their sockets. He wasn’t entirely sure you were breathing. Beads of sweat were clinging to your forehead and your face was scrunched up in a weird, constipated expression. 

There was a good chance you’d utter fouler insults if he disturbed you while playing, but he couldn’t stop himself from broaching the subject. “Are we just going to pretend you didn’t say the thing you just said?” 

“The thing about you being a testicle-guzzling cocksucker?” you gritted. “No.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes. “The thing about your followers wanting us to date for a video.” 

For a few moments, you didn’t deign to acknowledge him. Then, as if a switch inside you had flipped, you pulled the TV’s plug and turned to face him. “Would it be weird?” 

Wow. Okay, Sunghoon mused. I think it would be a fantastic idea and a dream come true, but I don’t trust myself around you. Even as a mere friend.  

However, instead of voicing his thoughts, the boy simply shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been friends for several years now. I’m a regular on your YouTube channel and I think your fans are aware of the dynamics of our relationship. What do they mean when they say they want us to date? Physical intimacy aside, we already do everything couples do.” 

“I think they want us to be romantic,” you admitted. “Go on a date, hold hands, cross some lines.”

“Cross some lines?” Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip curling in a smirk. “Is this you speaking or your subscribers?”

Groaning in exasperation, you shoved his shoulder. He fell back on the couch, laughing. “Shut up, dickface! You know I’ve been swamped this semester. My influencer gig has been seriously lacking. I need to step up—do what they want me to do. Besides, we only have to be girlfriend and boyfriend for 24 hours. It’s really not that big a deal. Are you in or not?”

Sunghoon took a few seconds to mull over your words. Sure, he would love to be your boyfriend for 24 hours. As long as his fantasies were brought to reality, he didn’t care if the whole relationship was fake and short-lived. 

For far too long, he’d pined after you. He thought he was doing an excellent job at hiding his feelings, but then you decided to make vlogs for fun. That’s when shit truly went downhill. 

Within a few years, you’d amassed a following of over 5 million on YouTube and 3 million on Instagram. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say you’d become somewhat of a local celebrity.  

Being one of your closest friends, Sunghoon was often featured in your videos. Initially, he’d baulked at the idea of being filmed, but you’d worked your magic on him. The boy soon found himself being comfortable around cameras. 

Even though Sunghoon never started his own YouTube channel, his popularity grew along with yours. His Instagram had garnered over two million followers, and courtesy of his good looks and attractive physique, he’d been offered a bunch of brand deals too.

You’d scowled at how far Sunghoon’s pretty privilege had gotten him. While you busted your ass coming up with unique ideas and editing your videos to perfection, all he needed to do was show up. 

What you didn’t know, though, was that part of the reason he’d become a heartthrob among the youth was you. 

You might have been dumb and blind, but your followers certainly were not. They’d realised how Sunghoon looked at you—his eyes always twinkled and a fond smile automatically adorned his lips whenever he caught sight of you. 

To add to that, your fans had pointed out habits he didn’t even know he possessed. For example: idly braiding your strands; bringing you snacks whenever he swung by your apartment; saying hey, sunshine and giving you a side hug by way of greeting; disguising his compliments as insults. 

The list was very long.

They’d noticed the elastic he kept around his wrist at all times too—it was one of the two you’d used to tie his hair into little ponytails because you were convinced you could transform him into Boo from Monsters, Inc.   

Sunghoon himself had forgotten the reason he wore the elastic around his wrist. All he knew was that it was yours and it felt right. But when he read the comments obsessing about it, he rushed to watch the video your fans were referring to. 

And damn, they were right. 

Sunghoon didn’t know if you’d seen the comments your fans regularly left on your various social media pages. You’d never mentioned anything about the community calling you “couple goals,” and he was too much of a coward to inquire if you were aware. 

It was infuriating to know how transparent he was. Sunghoon wished he’d never gotten used to the camera and let slip his true self. 

Perhaps this was the cost of gaining the boyfriend material label—his unrequited feelings exposed for the entire world to see. 

Sunghoon would never admit it, but he’d spent the better part of a day reporting everyone who’d shipped him with you. The entire incident had truly made him go off the rails. 

However, today’s revelation was unexpected. It was an opportunity. A chance to experience something he’d desired for many years. Suddenly, he found himself thanking those busybodies online instead of cussing them out for being ridiculously invested in his love life.

Sunghoon knew saying yes to your proposition would bite him in the ass later on. He knew he’d crave more of you once he got a taste of being your boyfriend, and giving this fake relationship a shot would definitely make it harder for him to get over you in the future. He knew he was a massive idiot for willingly indulging in impending heartbreak, but he could always cross that bridge when he came to it.  

“Okay,” he said, meeting your gaze. “I’m in.”  

[auroralwriting]

the master heist

con artist!bucky barnes x reader

bucky wants you to help him get his money back from an old friend.

warnings: violence, light manipulation, kind of dark bucky, based off of seb's movie sharper!

word count: 2.5k!

"What the hell do you want with me?"

You hadn't even learned the man's name yet. He picked you up off the side of the street after a very public and very loud fight and breakup with your now ex-boyfriend. He pulled up in a Mercedes, walking out, grabbing your duffel bag of personal items. He tossed it in the backset, waving you, telling you to come on in. So, you did. It wasn't like you had anywhere else to go.

"What's your favorite movie?" He asked, ignoring your previous question. He was making himself a drink, holding an empty cup to offer you some. You shook your head.

"Uh," You hesitated, "I guess maybe Jurassic Park?"

The man raised a brow, coming to sit next to you. You tensed at his presence. "Yeah, good plot. Stupid people,"

"Very," You mused softly. "Why would you even want to go to a theme park with real dinosaurs?"

"And that man who died at the beginning?" The man nodded.

You turned your body closer to him, "Yeah, it was so stupid."

"I wouldn't know, I've never seen it." The man suddenly said. Well, wasn't he just full of surprises?

The drink in the man's cup swirled as he set it down. "You've never seen it." Your words came out less of a question, and more in disbelief.

"I'm not really a movie guy," He hummed. "And that's what I'm going to teach you."

Your eyebrow dipped up in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

The man gave an annoyed sigh, "I make people believe I'm someone else to get whatever the hell I want."

"So," You paused, shaking your head in disbelief at the current situation you'd gotten yourself in. "You're a con-artist?"

"No," The man replied, "I'm like, an actor, you could say. I'm not hurting people or anything."

Well that was weird. "I never said you did," You argued back. The man rubbed his chin with a chuckle at your reply. "What? Did I say something funny?"

"You've got fire, I like that." He acknowledged. "What's your name?" You told him your name, he nodded, mouthing it like he was getting used to saying it. "I'm Bucky. Look, I need some help. I can't always get the.. customers I need. That's where you come in."

That made you wonder what kind of gig this was. "What's in it for me?"

"Free place to stay, share of money, someone to cook for you," Bucky listed. "Want me to carry on, or do you get it?" Bucky's tone wasn't condescending, nor was it full of malice.

"Why me?" You questioned. "You don't even know me. Also, how do I even know you're a safe individual? You could be, like, some murderer who wants to sell my parts on the black market."

Bucky chuckled at your words. "One, I don't murder or even consider the black market as a viable option for my work. Two, I'll give you every proof of identity I have, hell, I'll even let you run a background check." Bucky paused, giving you a smile. "But, let's be honest, where else do you have to go?"

He was right. You didn't have anywhere else to go. Bucky was your only option as of right now. Plus, you'd be making an income. "Alright," You sighed. "I'll help you."

"My name is Avalon DeClain, I was born in Mississippi, moved to Pennsylvania when I was six for my dads work." You recited. "I majored in chemistry in college, Penn State, graduated top of my class. I have a dog, Sydney, a german shepard. I'm single and my parents died when I was in high school."

Bucky smirked, "What year did you graduate?"

"Class of '16," You replied. "Graduated college early by a year in '19."

"You're doing better than I thought," Bucky smiled honestly. "Really, good job."

You smiled at his words, a small rush of heat going to your cheeks. "Thank you," It had been a month and a half since you started living with Bucky. As promised, he took care of you. He was teaching you all he knew.

"What do you say we celebrate tonight?" Bucky offered.

"Celebrate what?" You asked, your knees pulled up to your chest as Bucky stood up to grab some drinks for the two of you. "Is it your birthday or something?"

Bucky laughed, "No, not my birthday. Just," Bucky sucked in a breath, "A celebration of your wild achievements. I'd say you're graduating top of my class."

"Well, I'd sure hope so." You teased as Bucky walked back over. He handed you a glass of champagne, his own filled with a dark wine. "I am your only student, after all."

"And still my best work," Bucky clinked his glass with your own as you both took sips.

For a while, the both of you talked and drank. Somewhere in the last month, you had gotten Bucky to actually open up. He told you about how he grew up doing this life with some friends. However, he refused to speak about one in particular; Steve. Tonight, things seemed different though.

"Look, we've been doing small stuff," Bucky started, his tone becoming more serious. "You're perfect at the small stuff. But, I haven't been honest with you, doll."

"What happened with him?" You cautiously asked, ignoring the burning of your cheeks at the nickname

Bucky's eyes widened for a moment, his face then relaxing as he released a breath. "I knew you were intuitive." Bucky sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. "Steve was my best bud. We did, well, everything together. Until, well, one big job we found." You nodded, urging Bucky to go on. "It was some old guy, Richard. We both decided to become his assistants until he passed; he was old as rocks, if not older. After he passed, Steve and I said we'd split the money. It was around ten grand each. I guess the old man also had grandkids."

The look on Bucky's face almost broke your heart. "He took it all,"

"Not just that," Bucky continued. "He tried to get me fucking arrested. Damn good thing I was friends with one of the cops."

"So," You began. "How are we getting him back?"

Bucky's face was a mixture of relief, joy, and passion. "I love that fire in you," He sighed contently. "Tomorrow night, Steve's going out on his annual celebration. Something to do with his work successes?" Bucky wasn't sure. "His actual job, conning is a side for him."

"All right," You reassured. "I'm ready for this. What's our plan?"

"You're gonna flirt with him," Bucky explained. "He doesn't have a type, just pretty girls with short dresses. You're gonna explain how you need money for grad school, and of course he's gonna give it to you. He prides himself on being some social saint or whatever."

This plan felt way too easy. "That's all?" You remarked. "That feels.. too easy."

"Steve's girlfriend, Natasha," Bucky sighed, "She's gonna be up his ass all night. You gotta find a way to get her out of there."

You internally cringed. Great, that was significantly harder than before. "What's she like?"

"I really don't have a single clue," Bucky huffed out. "That's the one flaw of this, which is why I need to be sure you can do this."

Bucky looked nearly defeated. It was obvious he needed your help, he couldn't do it without you. "I promise you," You grabbed Bucky's hands. "I can get you that money."

No, you thought. I can get you even more.

Bucky had no way of checking in on you to see how things were going. He left his full trust in you to not fuck this up. You could see it in him all day; he was stressed. His hand kept running through his hair, he couldn't stop tapping his feet against the wood floor.

You walked into the bar, a smooth, tight, black dress on, red heels to match. You looked around for a moment, seeing if you could spot Steve.

It really wasn't hard to find him, bright blonde hair, a boisterous laugh that was actually really cute. That was definitely the man you were looking for.

Bucky gave you a script to follow. Steve once knew a guy, Howard, back from high school. The two had zero connection now, but good old Howard was your way in.

"Excuse me," You asked, walking up behind Steve. He and Natasha both turned around. "Are you Steve Rogers?

Steve gave a smile, "Yeah, that's me. You are?"

"Oh, I'm Avalon." You reached out your hand to Steve which he shook. You followed the same action with Natasha. "I'm good friends with Howard."

Steve slapped the counter with joy, "Howard! I remember that son of a bitch. How is he?"

"Great," You smiled. Natasha scooted over a seat, letting you sit between the two. "He's got a wife, good job."

"That's great. I always liked that guy, such a good man. He deserves a great life." Steve gushed as you awkwardly smiled in return. You ordered a drink as Steve rambled.

You shyly began to comb your fingers through your hair as Steve subtly checked you out. "He was actually the one to tell me about you. He thought, well, maybe you could give me a hand."

The bartender slid you the drink, one you failed to catch as it spilled all over the front of you. Both Steve and Natasha gasped. "Oh my god! Oh, that'll never come out." Natasha gasped.

Steve quickly grabbed napkins to help you try and sop some of it up. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine, just a ruined dress. I just bought it, too." You whined. In reality, this was all a part of your perfectly made plan to get Natasha out of there.

"Sweets, I'm gonna run home and grab her a new dress. We only live fifteen away and there is no way I'm letting her spend the rest of the night in a ruined dress." Natasha fell for the bait. This was perfect.

You quickly feigned guilt, "Oh, no. Please, it's really okay."

"No, I insist." Natasha said as she stood up, grabbing her belongings. "I'll be back as soon as I can, Stevie." Natasha left a small kiss on his cheek and rushed out of the building.

"I'm so sorry about your dress," Steve said, eyeing places it did not spill.

"It's fine, really." You said.

Steve was not subtle with checking you out anymore. "So, what was that favor Howard said I could help with?"

"Well," You bit your lip in a fake shame. Steve was quick to use his thumb to remove it from your teeth. "I have a pretty lousy job. I have this shitty apartment and a dog to take care of. I'm still paying off student loans, and I need to get my masters to get a decent paying job," You falsely admitted to Steve, batting your eyes at him as you sighed deeply. "I just.. can't afford to live. I'm eating a meal a day to afford dog food and groceries. Howard said that maybe you could help me out?"

You'd never seen a man nod quicker than Steve in that moment. "I'll do you one better. I'll help you pay off those student loans and get yo you paid off for grad school."

A gasp left your lips. To Steve, it was shock of his kindness. In reality, it was shock your plan worked. "Oh, God no. I couldn't ask for all of that. I was just gonna see if you wanted my dog-"

"Anything for a friend of Howard." Steve shook his head. "How do you want the money? Actually, no. Let me give it to you cash. You don't need to pay more taxes from that." You didn't even notice Steve had a briefcase with him. He opened it, leaving you in shock. You'd never seen so many hundred dollar bills stacked together before.

Steve counted out some stacks, making a pile. "I'm just gonna spit this half with you. Should be, ah, about maybe twenty grand?"

Your eyes almost popped out of your head. "Steve, I really couldn't-"

"Please," Steve scoffed. "I could make this money back in a day. I insist, you deserve a beautiful life for a beautiful woman." Steve's hand rested on your cheek as he thumbed it over softly. For some reason, his touch made you uncomfortable. All you really wanted was Bucky.

"I appreciate this more than you know." You sighed, leaning into his touch. "Thank you, Steve."

"It's no problem, sweetheart. Here, use this to carry all that in. We don't need you getting robbed." Steve handed over a large pouch from the case, shoving the money in it. "Get home safe, and give me a call sometime."

You nodded with a smile, but deep down you felt disgusted. You couldn't wait to show Bucky what you got.

"Bucky?" You called as you walked in. You walked in the living room to see Bucky jumping up from his seat.

"You look scared shitless, doll. What happened?" Bucky immediately rushed to your side. You hadn't even noticed how anxious you were, but it was a good anxious. "Did he touch you? I swear I will fuck him up if-"

Cutting off Bucky, you opened the bag to reveal the money. "He did some light touching, but I made it work to get you a little something extra."

"Ho-ly shit," Bucky breathed out, his eyes gleaming with disbelief. "Doll, how much is this?:

"Steve said twenty grand," You answered. "I thought I would play it up to get some more out of this."

Bucky looked to you, alarmed. "Did you let him-"

"No!" You cut him off again. "God, no. I just let him eye-fuck me and touch my cheek. That was enough for him. You're right, he is some social saint."

Bucky quickly scooped you up, hugging you tightly in his arms. "Fuck, doll! You're a fucking genius. You're actually fucking insane!" Bucky yelled as you laughed. "Why'd you do that? Put yourself through that for this?"

"It was for you, Bucky." You shyly admitted. "You gave me a second chance, so I wanted to give you what you deserved."

Bucky's hands came to rest at your hips as he drew you in closer. "Did you like the way he looked at you?"

"I only like the way you look at me," You breathed out, his face getting much closer to yours. "I just wanted you to be the one to touch me."

"Doll," Bucky muttered, his lips so close to your own you could almost feel them. "You're a fucking dream." Bucky pushed his lips against your own as you wrapped your arms around his neck. You sighed contently into the kiss. "Your dress is also fucking sopping the floors."

You gave a smirk to Bucky, "So take it off, then." He smirked wildly at you as he grabbed your hand, leading you to his room.

"Maybe I will,"

[fluentmoviequoter]

Best (Fake) Boyfriend

Requested Here!

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!reader

Summary: When you receive unwanted attention at a fancy restaurant, a handsome SWAT sergeant pretends to be your boyfriend to help you.

Warnings: pushy man is pushy and mean. Deacon is perfect and pretty. reader isn't rich (not necessarily poor, just usually unable to afford the vacation she's on). lots of fluff!! there's also a Psych reference and if you find it, we should be friends

Word Count: 2.0k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Deacon Kay Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“It’ll be fun!” your best friend insists.

“I don’t know,” you reply.

“It’s just a weekend. This is the hottest resort in LA and we’re never going to be able to afford it again. Besides, it’s an Uber ride away, if you hate it after the first night, just go home. We wouldn’t hold that against you, swear.”

Closing your eyes, you nod. The small group of friends surrounding you cheers. After they force you to pack a bag, you find yourself in the back of an Uber driving through Beverly Hills.

“How did you get a room here again?” you ask.

“I got an insane discount voucher when I went to the grand opening of that new organic restaurant in Santa Monica!”

“And we’re just spending a weekend in the resort? Swimming, relaxing,” you trail off, unsure if you believe the lack of ulterior motives.

“Yeah,” your best friend answers, “plus rich men from the Hills.”

The Uber driver rolls his eyes, and you can’t blame him... not at all.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Save a whole school full of evacuees and you get a dinner reservation at a Beverly Hills resort,” Street muses. “I knew there was a reason I liked this gig.”

“You do know that place will be crawling with rich, single women,” Hicks begins.

“Yeah, we do,” Tan and Street cheer together.

“And badge bunnies,” Hicks finishes.

Street shrugs, and Deacon and Hondo shake their heads. 

“Do we have to attend?” Deacon asks.

“Why? Got better plans?” Street asks.

“A night in the hills isn’t everyone’s idea of a fun time, playboy,” Hondo answers. Deacon nods his agreement.

“Yes, you have to go. Mayor’s going to be there tonight, too. Every week like clockwork,” Hicks answers.

“Hey, Deac,” Street calls as they walk out. “What’s the real problem?”

“Just seems like a materialistic, money-based approximation of the worth of the lives we saved,” Deacon answers. “The mayor’s office just implied all those lives are worth approximately $650.”

“Those meals are over $125 each?” Luca gapes. “Sorry, I know that’s not the point.”

“It’s not the first or last time we’ll receive a monetary thank you, but at some point it becomes more about the reward after the job than the job itself,” Deacon adds.

“Maybe we’ll be there for a reason,” Luca offers. “But I get what you’re saying. We are focused on the job, and that’s all we can control.”

“Then I guess we should clean up. Places like that frown upon dirt covered tactical uniforms."

"Their loss; this is my best look,” Street jokes.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Um, I can’t afford to look at this menu,” you say, pushing it back onto the table. “Maybe I should go find a diner or something.”

“It’s included,” your best friend whispers. “But we’re trying to play the part, so sit up and feel as good as you look in that outfit.”

Sighing, you straighten your shoulders, picking up the outrageously priced menu again and trying not to let your shock show. Indeed, you’ll never live like this again, but you’re not sure you’d want to even if you could.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Would it be wrong for me to say there’s one for each of us?” Street asks, glancing over his menu.

“Yes,” Deacon, Hondo, and Luca reply in unison.

“They’re women, not suits, Street,” Deacon adds.

“Think I could land one?” Street asks.

“Playboy,” Hondo sighs. “You don’t have enough game for half of one of those women, kid.”

“Really? ‘Cause the one in the blue’s lookin’ over here.”

“Probably at Deacon,” Luca says, keeping his eyes on the menu.

“Right,” Deacon agrees sarcastically. “I- honestly, I don't know what's in most of these foods, so one of you order for me.”

He sets his menu down, his gaze wandering to the table of women Street was talking about. One of them catches his attention, and when the four other women get up, giggling as they walk toward the bathroom, he decides he’s looking at a kindred soul.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Mind if I sit here for just a moment? My friends are running late, and the reservation is under another name,” a man explains, smiling as he looks at you.

“Uh, I don’t think-“

“Thanks,” he says, cutting you off as he sits beside you.

“My friends are coming right back,” you state. “So, you should find somewhere else to wait.”

“Sounds like you have time to kill, and I do, too. What’s your name?”

You don’t answer, fiddling with the bottom of the tablecloth as you watch the doorway for your friends to return.

“I can’t imagine someone ditching you.”

The man leans into your peripheral vision, and you turn your head away. When his hand brushes against your covered hip, you stand quickly.

“I told you that I didn’t want to talk, so you should find your way to your own table before I come back,” you say lowly before walking to the balcony entrance.

✯✯✯✯✯

Deacon tunes out his teammates as he watches a man sit beside you. Your obvious discomfort makes him eager to help. He stops at the thought that one uninvited man in your personal space is likely more than enough.

“Deac?” Hondo asks. “Oh,” he adds when he looks at what is so worthy of Deacon’s attention.

“Didn’t think he still had it in him,” Luca whispers to Hondo.

Deacon stands suddenly, his attention on your back as you walk onto the balcony. Hondo notices that the man beside you looks angry, and when he jostles the table in his haste to follow you, he knows why Deacon is so invested.

“Go help her out, Deac, we got your back,” Hondo says.

Deacon nods wordlessly, buttoning his blazer as he follows in your footsteps. His team looks on, sure that Deacon has control of the situation but is prepared to jump in if the situation calls for it.

“Deacon comes back with her glued to his side or that starry far-away look in his eye,” Luca announces. “Trust me.”

“My money’s on the first one. You see how she relaxed the moment her friends left? She’s just like him,” Tan points out.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Looks like you found your way to my table, too,” the man says behind you.

When you turn to face him, you step back. His jaw is tight, and his eyes look darker than they did inside.

“Change your mind about spending time with me, girlie?”

With your side to the door, you notice someone walk out, but don’t expect an arm to circle your waist a moment later.

“Hey, babe,” the man says. “What’s going on? Came back to the table and you were gone.”

Looking up at him, you sigh at the sight of his large, kind eyes. Trusting him, you relax against his side, raising a hand to press against his sternum.

“Sorry, handsome. This guy was waiting for his friends,” you explain.

“You need help finding your table or somethin’? This is a nice place, I’m sure they can help with that.”

The man clenches his fists at his side, looking between you and the man holding you to his side.

“Or do you need a different kind of help?”

The hand on your hip tightens, his touch still gentle as his voice drops. He’s defending you, angry for you, and though you don’t know why, you’re grateful.

“No, I’m good. Your ‘babe’ here might want to learn some manners, though.”

You press your hand against your guy’s chest when he tries to follow the man inside. Whispering your name to distract him, you sigh when his attention returns to you.

“I’m Deacon,” he replies. “Sorry for grabbing you.”

“Don’t apologize. Thank you. I don’t know what I was thinking walking out here alone.”

Your hand is still spread over his chest, his arm around your waist, and his hand rubbing soft circles on your hip. You know the moment has to end, but your desperation to draw it out outweighs your logic.

“Well, thank you, Deacon. You’re a great boyfriend; I’m sure there’s a very happy woman somewhere.”

Deacon’s hand moves to your waist as you move back, and he quickly raises the other to stop you. 

“There is no happy woman,” he responds. “I just- how often do you have to deal with stuff like that?”

“Not very often. Most guys get the idea, even if it takes a few tries. Never had to be saved like this before.”

Deacon sighs, disappointed either in you or the situation. You hope it’s the situation, and Deacon can practically read your mind.

“I’m a SWAT sergeant, and we have to watch for crossfire,” he begins.

You nod with furrowed brows, confused as to where this is going.

“I just will never understand how some men are so okay with not caring how many women they hurt in pursuing their own… whatever it is they’re looking for.”

“How? How is there no lucky woman?” you ask softly. “Between the kindness and the poetic speeches, you’re just begging to get snatched up.”

Deacon drops his chin, shaking his head as he smiles.

“Why’d you follow me?” you ask.

“You were uncomfortable. I noticed you before he sat down, and then when you stood up so fast I couldn’t just sit there. Especially when he followed you.”

“Then you can tell I don’t fit in here.”

“I can,” Deacon agrees before whispering, “because I don’t either.”

“Could you maybe ditch your friends?” you ask. “Let me call you handsome for a while longer?”

“You seem a bit too pleased to have a fake boyfriend who only came out here to scare somebody off.”

“Because my fake boyfriend is better than any real one I’ve ever had.”

Deacon smiles, pulling you against him. “I have to stay for dinner, it’s a work thing. But if you’re still up for pet names later, and tomorrow, and for a good, long while, I think we can work something out.”

“I will be.”

“Have your phone?”

You pull your phone from your pocket, unlock it, and hand it to him. He keeps one hand on your side as he adds his contact, sending himself a text with your name. After he returns your phone, he sighs.

“The moment’s over?” you ask.

 “The moment is on hold,” Deacon corrects.

“Enjoy your work dinner. I’m going to go have a free dinner and listen to my friends pretend they belong here.”

“Feel free to sit at my table if you need a break. I’m sure they’re talking about you already. Trying to decide if I’ll actually act on my feelings or just come back in alone and puppy-like.”

You smile, slowly separating yourself from Deacon. Walking in first, he holds the door for you, and you brush your knuckles against his hand before returning to your table. As you sit, your eyes stray to Deacon and never leave.

✯✯✯✯✯

“That little hand thing counts, right?” Tan asks.

“Counts for what?” Deacon inquires as he sits.

“I thought you’d come back with your arm around her.”

“We’re, uh, we’re gonna keep talking later.”

“Atta boy, Deac!” Luca cheers.

“Why didn’t you invite her over?” Hondo asks. “This may be a work thing, but that doesn’t mean it has to be boring.”

“I did. If she gets tired of her friends, she’ll be over.”

“Yeah,” you interject, pausing at the corner of their table. “I’m tired of my friends and your table seems like a better fit.”

Street, Luca, and Tan rush to pull a chair over for you, arguing over who gets the credit. You laugh at their antics as Deacon tells you everyone’s names.

“Nice to meet you. And thanks for letting me crash your dinner,” you say.

“So, what do you think of our Deacon here?” Luca asks, smiling kindly.

“I think he’s great,” you answer honestly. Turning toward him, you whisper, “And handsome.”

“Are pet names our thing now?” he asks.

“Hey, you started it, babe.”

Deacon dips his chin before his eyes rise to yours, and you think ‘beautiful’ might be a better fit for him. Luckily, he promised plenty of time to try all the pet names you can think of.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 6

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I had the worst Monday that could have ever existed. Onto Tuesday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"I trust this should be amenable to your work," Mr. Laufeyson holds open the door along the east wall of his study. One you've never opened before though you're familiar with the space within. The library also opens into the hallway and keeps you busier than many of the other rooms. "When you should require it. I expect much of your work will keep you afoot."

You peer past him, his tall figure like a second shadow. You clutch your kit tight and nod. You didn't exactly bring the tools for this new role.

"I should have a blank ledger somewhere, oh and a pen of course," he advises, "given our new... arrangement, I would require a contact point."

You nod and tear your attention from the full shelves and luxurious velvet chaise. You won't get to enjoy those but they give the space a much more welcome feel than the rest of the house. You face Mr. Laufeyson as he keeps the door propped open with his foot. He slides out his phone as if it's a task. 

"Never to worry, I wouldn't bother you much so long as you do your work adequately," he assures, "but in case of... emergency."

"Oh, erm," you sputter and reach into your hoodie pocket, revealing the tiny flip phone.

"Hm, vintage," he muses, "as you would."

He holds his phone, gesturing to it with his other hand. You teethe your lip before you recall the digits of your number. Your plan doesn't include a lot of talk minutes but he doesn't promise much of that. He keys them into his screen.

"You'll have mine," he taps his thumb and your phone chimes. "In case."

"Thanks, uh, Mr. Laufeyson."

"Mmmm," he hums again. "Suppose you would need some sort of proper device, a computer of sorts." He clucks and checks his watch, dropping his arm with a huff, "I've an important event shortly, I'll try to venture by the electronics shop before I return.”

You nod and fold your phone, slipping it away as you peek back into the library. He inhales deeply, "suppose you should begin. The list is on the writing desk.”

You accept the command easily. You’re even thankful for it. It gives you a proper reason to find distance. You go to the desk and look over the typed list. You don’t sit, hesitating as you wonder if it would seem lazy, maybe even presumptuous.

“Let me fetch that ledger,” he says before letting the door drift closed.

You run your finger over the top line. ‘Create a schedule’. Hmmm. You look over the bullets that fill the paper. You can only assume he refers to all of that. It’s straightforward, you can handle a schedule. It’s everything that comes after that gives you doubt.

“And you’ll have to review what my wife, ex that is, left in shambles,” Mr. Laufeyson interrupts as he pushes through again. “Her little folder is here. She was always fond of order, even though she left me in much less. This is what’s left of her handiwork,” he approaches coolly and sets down a plain fawn coloured ledger, a fountain pen, and a white folder with golden flowers on it.

“Thanks,” you eke out as his hands linger on the edges.

You sense his gaze, discerning and weighty. He leans forward slightly and you nearly take a step across as he points to the list. You follow the line of his arm and his extended finger.

“Another point to add, ‘acquire work attire’,” he instructs and turns his hand over, flippant flicking his finger in a gesture to your plain hoodie and worn gray denim. “I trust my pay should afford that necessity easily, however should you require a write-off, I suppose it could be argued as a professional expense.”

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson,” you frown in embarrassment, “I didn’t…” You look down at yourself, wanting to hide behind your arms. 

“You wouldn’t think of it, just a maid,” he dismisses, “very well, I think you have more than enough to begin. I should be some hours.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you agree. He is correct, there is more than enough to keep you busy.

“I will review the schedule upon my return,” he affirms. “Should you require refreshment, you recall where to go.”

You nod and cautiously reach for the ledger, sliding it closer as he backs up. You slowly sit, hovering before you let yourself rest. He lingers by the door as you roll the pen aside and put the ledger and folder parallel. You open the former and line up the list inside the cover, resuming your perusal of the bullet points.

The door closes and you keep your attention to the paper. You don’t dare a glance up until you hear his muffled footfalls cross his study. You feel as if he’s waiting for you to make a mistake. You think you might be too.

🧹

A clunk sharply pierces the tenuous peace of the empty house. You hadn’t heard the door or his approach, not even right next door, not until the hefty thunk. You listen but keep your nose down. 

You’re just about done with the schedule. Two cleans throughout the week to spread the duties evenly. The main floor on Mondays, and the upper on Thursday. You’ll be able to fit in an unexpected tidying between your other to-dos.

You flutter through the pretty white and gold folder. The embossed suede speaks of a sophisticated owner. You wonder why she would ever abandon it, though you assume, a separation may not inspire sentiment.

You turn over another note. This one about the gazebo. A blurb on a repair. You’ll have too go out and check to see if it was actually done, there’s no confirmation of the job. You stop to admire her loopy writing, as elegant as the folder.

The door opens without pretense. You sit up and wiggle the pen between your index and thumb. Mr. Laufeyson as a flat white box in his hand, along with a smaller one on top. He does not near you, instead place his lot on the square table by the window.

“Here,” he orders shortly.

You rise and leave the pen in the centre of the ledger. You cross to him as he moves the smaller box aside and unfolds the two smaller flaps from the large one. You can’t help but watch curiously.

“This should suffice,” he shimmies out the cardboard insert, revealing a sleek silver laptop, “hmm?”

He shifts it towards you and lets you look it over. You put your hands behind you to keep from touching. You lean in just a little.

“It looks nice, Mr. Laufeyson. Thank you.”

“For your work, of course. These days, it is a requirement. And this,” he takes the smaller box and offers it up, “a proper work phone. It is more professional. Any calls on my behalf, you will make on this. That relic you have won’t do much.”

“Uh, yes, Mr. Laufeyson, that’s really thoughtful.”

“Thoughtful? Practical. Company property, of course,” he insists, “another point to add. Set these up. They should be functioning by the end of the day. You’ll need them to keep up with the rest of your tasks.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson. I will put it on the list.”

“Mm,” he circles around you, striding to the writing desk before you can react. You follow at a few paces, not wanting to crowd him. He takes the pen and uncaps it. He adds the bullet himself. “There you are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Laufeyson,” you recite again.

He snaps the lid on the pen and his lips twitch, not quite curving, “I’ll review,” he snatches up the open ledger, your schedule open to see. You almost rush forward. You meant to rewrite it before you handed it over. It has scribbles all over it. You won’t argue.

“Go on,” he steps around the desk, waving to the side dismissively.

You return to the table and gather the laptop and phone, along with the stray box. You bring them back to the writing desk and stay standing as you free the laptop from the insert. You let your eyes edge along the top of your vision as Mr. Laufeyson sits on the chaise and browses the ledger.

You refocus and investigate the cord buried in the box as a collection of booklets fall out. You sort through them and find the one in English. You start on the front page, reading over the different buttons and features. The diagram is especially helpful. You’ve never had a computer before, not that it belongs to you.

You squint as you read the precautions. Your mind flits back and forth between your current task and everything beyond. You would go to the library sometimes and spend an hour on the PC, and in school you did all your work in the resource room. This is much fancier than any of the boxy computers you’d used before.

It says you should plug it in and charge to full before booting. You unravel the cord and search for an outlet against the wall. There’s one not far. You hook up the cord to the port on the side of the slender laptop then trail it to the wall. The little light on the side glows yellow.

Then you take the little box. A phone. The flip phone was second-hand but this is shiny and new. You’re like a kid at Christmas, not that you got much for the holiday, even when you were younger.

You slide out the small device. Your hand is unused to it. It’s not clunky like your phone. It feels easy to drop even if it’s bigger than the flip. You peel off the plastic film around the border and across the screen.

You take out the booklet and read it as closely as the first. Same thing; charge before use. You don’t want to mess up any of this. You plug it in above the computer and place it on the closed lid. You carefully sit in the chair, careful not to jostle the cords.

You peek up and find Mr. Laufeyson looking at you over the top of the ledger. His green eyes gleam and flick back down to the page. You hope he doesn’t see how clueless you are. This stuff that’s all so normal to everyone else is new to you. A job alone is a novelty still.

“You may ask it,” he says abruptly.

You wince and shrug. You don’t know what he means. His brows tweak in amusement.

“You’ve not asked about time off. I am unaware of your previous commitment, what days you had to yourself.”

You didn’t think of it but he does seem to think of everything. You twiddle your fingers on the desk. You would work as much as you need to. You still haven’t seen the final hospital bill.

“Mr. Laufeyson, I worked three shifts per week, but I was on probation,” you explain carefully, “I can work more than that.”

“How much is more?” He wonders, his thumb tapping the corner of the ledger.

You blink. You don’t know what’s appropriate. You don’t want to say too little and come off lazy, or say too much and seem ignorant. 

“Six?” You utter, “six days, Mr. Laufeyson?”

His thumb stills, “per week?”

You nod. His eyes narrow and his lips thin in consideration.

“Should do,” he accepts and his eyes fall back to the page.

You think you got the right answer. You look down at the bullet points. It seems like a lot written out but surely it can’t be. Besides, the more you think about it, the more exciting it is. This house is so beautiful and this list means you get to explore it.

You don’t sink too deep into the moment of optimism. Mr. Laufeyson stands, still intent on the ledger. He paces blindly around the library, a click of his tongue as he reviews your handwriting.

“There will be some nights,” he intones, “other occasions where I require you in the evening.”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you accept as you flutter the pages of the laptop instruction booklet.

“Mm,” he hums flatly, “I do think the cook liked you, didn’t she? Suppose we might retain that service for the time being.”

You nod and make a note in the corner of the list; simply, Corissa. He shuts the ledger and grips it tight. He walks around the table then turns back, coming back to you. He lays down the book on the desk.

“I won’t know until the day in question. You understand, this would be on-call. I’ve a busy life and so will you,” he girds, leaning on the book as he bends over the desk. “You will be doing more than watching little birds flapping around the garden.”

You nearly recoil as he plucks the memory out so precisely. That was careless of you. You should’ve kept your head down and just got to work. It’s a warning you’ll remember.

“I won’t, Mr. Laufeyson, I understand,” you assure.

“Not to say that you can’t,” he stands and pushes the bottom of his jacket back, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, “but only when there are no other pressing matters.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He sighs and tilts his head back, “you must resist distractions. You are prone to it. I’ve noticed.”

You chew your lip and accept the remonstrance. You’ll take it instead as advice. He is right, you do find yourself bewitched by this place at times.

“Like that man,” he says staunchly, “don’t think I forgot. I will warn you, he is my brother… regrettably. He is well above the staff and he knows it.”

You take the hint. It’s improper of you to stare. Even if he had touched you. Or maybe, you misinterpreted an accident.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Hear me when I tell you, he is not interested in the likes of you,” he sniffs, “with any luck, he won’t be much around for you to believe anything of the like.”

You nod and pick up the pen, nervously rolling it between your fingers. His reproach scalds your cheek. To think he assumes you would ever think of something like that. That you might encourage a stranger in that way.

He watches you for a moment before he spins away. He checks the time on his wrist as you reach for the ledger.

“Very well, I must be at my own work,” he declares, “as I trust you will be diligent in your own.”

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — DON'T WASTE YOUR HEART IN MOURNING ME (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — left to grapple with moira's sudden departure from your life, you spend a harrowing afternoon reminiscing on the good, the bad, and the deliciously bittersweet . #. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — angst, liberal use of curse words .

#. word count! — 6.1k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw), @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

The apartment feels larger now than it did before. It’s quiet in a way it never was when Moira was around, —always with her little tics, tapping her long, ever-manicured nails on the kitchen island or pacing about in one of the rooms. . . She did that latter thing a lot near the end, with more dramatic touslings of her hair than in the time before. For a moment, you fear the downstairs neighbors must be celebrating her departure, and the thought of it almost makes you laugh. The silence is laden with memories in every nook and cranny of this place, and it dawns on you now that it feels much like it did back when she and you were moving the first of many boxes in, ready to start a new life together.

Only this time, there’s no promise of eternal love or any of that other bullshit that she always warned you was a fool’s game to play with. 

Moira, Moira, Moira, ever the pragmatic one. . .

There’s a faint scent of lavender-heavy perfume that lingers throughout, reminding you that she wasn’t just some figment of your imagination. At one time, she’d been the love of your life. Or, she was who you thought would take that title, anyway. Nowadays, you just aren’t so sure, and perhaps that’s been the hardest pill to swallow thus far. The scent reminds you of her, —of the way her brows would furrow deeply when she was displeased, of how she always took her coffee black and poked fun at you for the additives you refused to drink it without. It reminds you of her arms wrapping ever so sweetly around your waist, her chin coming down to rest on the crown of your head.

You blink and try to focus on something —anything— else. It’s hard enough to deal with it all, but you’re just torturing yourself with it at this point. Your eyes sweep the room, the cream-colored walls, landing on a painting you’d created several years ago. It was lackluster now in terms of honed skill, but there was something so endlessly passionate about it, so full of vibrance and promise. Reaching out, your fingertips graze the glazed canvas, and it’s like you’re right back there again. . .

The gallery buzzes with excitement, the sounds of light, casual conversation and clinking wine glasses echoing through the wide halls. You stand before your own work, amazed that it’s hanging here in this exhibit of your prowess, even if this gig had been a long time coming. To see it actually displayed here made your heart soar. It was the biggest step you’d taken in your career since moving to this city and it felt so incredible that your sacrifices were finally paying off.

You’re caught up in the whirlwind of congratulations, thanks, and small talk, —but none of that is enough to keep your eyes from drifting over to her; a tall, ginger-haired, sophisticated woman standing a few feet back from one of your pieces, staring at it intensely enough to feel unnerving and intriguing all in the same breath. Dressed in a finely pressed suit the same color of the wine in her glass, her sharp, calculating gaze turns to you as you approach her nervously, feeling small both physically and metaphorically standing beside her.

“I can’t quite tell if you like it or not,” you muse, trying to sound playful, even if the real intent was just to have her offer her unfiltered opinion so you could stop guessing what she thought of it.

The way she was staring at it made you feel like she thought there was some kind of hidden message carved into the paint strokes. When her eyes flicker to you, you notice that they’re different colors, —one red, one blue, both deeper shades, and you get lost in them for a moment before she laughs softly, and you have something else to fall into. 

“Oh, I like it quite a bit,” she answers.

There’s an accent clinging to her words, but you haven’t quite placed it just yet. That doesn't stop it from making your stomach twist itself into knots though.

“It’s quite captivating.” 

You almost blurt out that you could say the same of her, but you let that sentence die on your tongue before it has the chance to see the light of day.

“I’m glad you think so,” you smile softly, “it was my favorite of the bunch. That’s why I placed it in the center of the exhibit.” 

“I’m inclined to agree,” she nods. “How much would it cost to purchase?”

Your eyes widen. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for paintings to be arranged to be sold during these events, but that tended to come with recognition from the local art collecting scene that you just didn’t have at the moment. For you, this exhibit was more about reaching a wider audience and allowing the public to see your pieces than it was making any kind of profit. . .

“Um. . . I— I don’t know, how much would you be willing to pay?” You swallow, at the risk of sounding unprofessional.

She gives the painting another glance over, then turns back to you.

“Does a grand sound fair?”

Your jaw almost dropped to the floor.

“S-Sorry?”

“Two?”

Holy shit. All of this seemed to have gone from zero to a thousand (or two. . .) in the blink of an eye, and you have to take a second to collect yourself, lest you seem anymore clueless than you’ve probably already come across as.

“Does. . . fifteen hundred work?” You dare.

“Certainly,” Moira nods decisively.

You give her your information so she can send the money your way in a few days time when she comes to pick the painting up at the end of the exhibition. And when the time comes, you walk away with one less painting to lug back to your apartment, fifteen hundred dollars richer, and with a new phone number added to your contacts with her name attached.

It was almost funny. Maybe you’d have laughed if you weren’t already on the verge of tears. All of this has really come full circle, and you’re just not sure you appreciate the irony of it all in the moment. Here you are, standing in front of this goddamn painting, the one that had acted as a catalyst to meeting Moira in the first place. . . And it’s back in your possession, because she couldn’t even be bothered to take it with her. As much as you love it for what it represents, there’s a part of you that wants to pluck it off the wall and slam it out the window right about now. Or maybe beating it with a baseball bat or something would feel more satisfying.

Whatever the case, you’re getting tired of looking at it, so you avert your gaze elsewhere and let your back touch the wall beside it. Stupid painting. Stupid apartment. Stupid Moira and her stupid decisions that have plagued your life for the past five years, and those stupidly long nails that traced perfect shapes along your hip at night, and her stupid lips with that goddamn orangeish gloss that always stained yours when she’d kiss you—

“Ugh!” You groan.

All this reminiscing has reminded you of how electric it felt to be in her presence back then, how magnetic she’d been from the start. Those sharp eyes that matched her wit, those clever jokes she’d throw your way (some of which went over your head, admittedly), —and the sweetness of her voice when it came to you. She was kinder with you in subtle way, would place her hands on the small of your back in public, taking care to tuck loose strands of your hair behind your ears if the need arose. You hate that this fallout has left you wondering if it was ever truly affection at all, of if she was simply protecting her own self-image.

You’ve questioned a lot of things about her over the years, but whether or not she was genuine in her love for you had rarely been one. But now, that conversation is back on the table, and it’s woefully one-sided this time. 

One text lead to many. At first, it was hard to tell if she was simply interested in you as an artist or if that interest expanded to you as a person, but she quickly put your worries to rest when she began flirting with you in a way that even you, in all your obliviousness, had to acknowledge was more than playful banter between friends. Slowly, your life became intertwined with hers, and looking back, it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. One late night date at a fancy bar and you were practically groveling at her feet, so desperate for her to see you as her equal. She spoke with you about science and philosophy, —her words acting as a forewarning for what was inevitably to come, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.

She was very hush-hush about her working endeavors, but you knew she was employed by Overwatch. That alone explained why she couldn’t divulge all the information of her duties to you, and you were okay with that. The secrecy got worse as time went on. Especially after she was publicly shamed for her “poor regard for the ethics of the scientific community” or whatever. The city isn’t small by any means, but it wasn’t large enough to spare you the fate of being tied to her name. You’d been seen attending various events with her, and many of the wealthy clientele that purchased paintings from the local galleries soon put two and two together. At that point, your paintings began selling at a much slower and much less financially liberal rate.

Moira insisted that it was okay. That it would pass eventually as she became involved with a different organization, —or. . . A different branch of the same organization? You weren’t sure. She never explained much, and you didn’t like to pry. If Moira wanted you to know something, she would tell you. Anything beyond that was best left alone.

Equally mesmerizing and maddening all at once, she insists that all is well. That everything will be okay. That all of this heat on her name is a fad, that once she proves herself, the tides will turn in her favor. . . And you believe her. You take smaller, more intimate jobs and refrain from showing your face at the local galleries for a while, waiting for the heat to die down. She talks you into moving in with her, taking you from your one-bedroom studio apartment to the top of the most affluent building in the city. You tell her it doesn’t feel much like anywhere you could call home, and she brushes your concerns away.

“It’s all the empty space,” she says. “We’ll decorate.”

You do, and somewhere along the line this apartment begins to feel exactly like you insisted it couldn’t. You sleep on sheets that smell like her, bury your face into her pillow to breathe her in when she gets up at ungodly hours of the morning to leave for work. She hangs that painting she bought from you about a year ago by now up on the wall near the kitchen and the living room, and she glances at it often when she sits at the counter. When she manages to make it home in time for dinner, you sit together and eat. . . Sometimes she’s just shy of talking your ear off, and others, she doesn’t say much at all.

She cups your cheeks and insists that everything will be okay when you get overwhelmed. She learns how to be gentler with you, learns how to be more sensitive. You learn how to trust her more and how to avoid stepping on her toes when her days are hard. Sometimes, you convince her to turn that magnificent brain of hers off and watch something stupid on the television with you, —trashy reality TV that she doesn’t really get, but likes to watch you giggle at more than anything else. If you’re lucky, she won’t wake you when you doze off in her lap, she’ll just gently massage your scalp and let you rest against her.

Slowly but surely, the apartment is filled with lots of things. Books, trinkets, little pieces of decor. . . Love. She doesn’t declare it often, but every now and again, she’ll get the urge to remind you. Usually it’s just before you fall asleep, her long arms pulling you against her chest, mumbling a confession so quiet only you can hear it above her heartbeat; like it’s a secret she’s keeping from the rest of the world.

You feel bad that sometimes you wish it was.

“Do you even understand what’s happening?” You ask one afternoon, frustrated and angered by her continued neutrality towards it all. “To me?” You add. “To us?” 

Those eyes that you’ve always loved so much flash with anger and a hint of something else, something you don’t really recognize on her. . . Guilt?

“What is there to understand?” She challenges. “My work is important. I thought you understood at least that much.”

“And mine isn’t?” You counter.

“I never said that,” she shakes her head. “I’ve never not supported your career choices, —need I remind you how we met?” 

She says that and gestures to the hung painting on the wall. You nearly scoff.

“It’s one thing to support me, Moira, it’s another to be proactive about it.”

She frowns.

“I’m sorry our relationship has caused you so much distress,” she hisses.

“That isn’t what I’m saying,” you bite back.

“Then what exactly are you saying, y/n?” She questions, but you can tell by the way she says it that she’s not really looking for an answer.

You still offer one anyway.

“I’m asking you when enough is enough, Moira.”

Her expression hardens, a shield silently snapping into place.

“Enough is never enough in science,” she says to you, like you’re some underling in her lab she’s giving a lecture to.

There’s a cold, detached sentiment in her tone, —one that makes your heart ache. Because you love her, in spite of all this.

“Progress requires sacrifice.”

You laugh, but it sounds so bitter that you hardly recognize it came from you.

“Sacrifice? You wanna preach to me of all people about sacrifice? —What about us, Moira? What about the sacrifices I’ve made, endless ones, mind you, to be here and stand with you and back the things you do? This kind of mindless complacency because I care, and I only ever want to assume the best of you. But what about me? What about the life we’ve built together? Does that mean nothing to you?”

Moira’s eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place. Regret, maybe, or something like fleeting sorrow.

“Of course it means something to me,” she says softly.

You hurt her, and you can see it on her face. A part of you wants to reach out, take her by the wrist, kiss this better. . . But you don’t. The argument hangs heavy in the air, a chasm widening between the two of you. She turns away and leaves the apartment for a while. It’s nearly midnight when she returns, and she sleeps in the guest room for the next few days. You catch brief glimpses of her every now and again when one of you is coming or going, but there isn’t really anything to say. It’s a stalemate, and you’re both a little too stubborn for you own good.

Moira cracks first after four days, a rare showing of compassion on her part. You come home to a nice, home cooked dinner, and she coaxes you into sitting down and eating with her. It’s not like it takes much convincing. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her cook, but you’re reminded of how much you’ve missed it as you eat what she’s prepared. After some awkward small talk about what you’ve both been up to over the past few days, and you holding your tongue on any snarky quips, she sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she tells you. “About us.”

In the back of your mind, a part of you steels for a breakup. For some dissolution of everything you’ve put your heart into, and somehow. . . It feels like something that was bound to happen. And that’s the worst part. Still, you nod and put your fork down, giving her your full attention as she speaks with careful measure. It’s the first real conversation you’ve had with her in over half a week, and you’re determined to make it count for something. 

“My work is very important to me. You must know as much by now. But I do understand your frustrations, and I’m sorry that my career has interfered with yours. There isn’t much I can do about it, but I acknowledge your frustrations, and if I could make this easier for you, y/n, you know that I. . .”

You sigh.

“I do,” you say softly. “I know.”

She nods.

“I also know that I can be difficult to be with at times. I know that I get so caught up in my experiments that I fail to leave time for anything else, but I try. Because I care for you very deeply, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose what we have together, what we’ve built. . .”

“I know,” you repeat. 

Moira sighs.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“I am,” you admit. “But I appreciate that you’re trying to make things right, and I. . . Should apologize to you too. For what I said. I know that you care about me, and about our relationship, and I’m sorry that I questioned that. It was wrong.”

She seems pleased with this, —more than willing to let it be water under the bridge.

Things admittedly don’t get much easier in the fallout. Not in terms of your career, anyway. Your works are tainted by the woman you call a lover, and your name is blackballed across the community. It’s a constant struggle to reconcile your own morality with the dubiousness of her’s, and yet you really can’t imagine life without her. So you stay, and you sleep in her bed; —your bed. The one you’ve built with her. You stuff it down and vent your frustrations to the walls of your painting room.

You glance to the door but make no move to go near it. God, all this shit those walls have heard over the years. . . You don’t even wanna think about what kind of therapy they’d need if they were sentient. It’s almost enough to make you shiver. This entire apartment, for that matter, is like some kind of twisted mausoleum of memories; good and bad. The bed you’ve slept alone in more nights than you can count over the years is the same one she undressed you so many times on, picking you apart like you were perfectly cooked ribs just sliding off the bone, and fuck it makes you so mad that she’s just thrown everything away like this. That couch you’ve cried on out of sheer overwhelming frustration is the one where she urged you onto her lap, the one she covered you up with a blanket on those times she came home to find you napping there.

It’s been three years since that argument was settled at the table. It’s been three days since she sat you down in the same chair, in the same room, at that same goddamn table, to tell you she was leaving. That she didn’t know when or if she’d be coming back. That Overwatch was just too stifling, that she needed to get away, to explore. . . And in the process, she’s left you alone. Again. The echoes of that last conversation haunt the empty space. You’re mad. You’re so, so angry that this is the way she left things, and it’s eating you up like boiling water in your veins.

All that time you’d spent making sacrifices, letting your art be devalued so she could search for some secret key to humanity’s shackles while keeping you chained in this fucking apartment. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling just didn’t fix everything the way it should have for the way it raised the rent of this goddamn place. You check your phone, knowing there won’t be any kind of message or call from her, but silently hoping there might be. That maybe, just this once, she’ll prove you wrong. . . That she’ll just come back and say she’s sorry, that she made a mistake and wants to make it right again.

But there’s nothing.  You choke back a sob and train your eyes on the apartment walls again. They’ve seen nearly everything from start to finish, and yet you just don’t feel like you can let them watch you weep now. They held your back when Moira pressed you against them, her hands traversing you with more muscle memory of you each time, and they held it again the night she said she was departing while you slid down it, heart heavy enough to pull you like gravity itself.

Now, these walls bear silent witness to your grief. The silence wraps around you like a cold, unwelcome blanket, frigid on your skin like her hands tended to be. It amplifies every thought in your head, every memory of her, all the things she’s just left behind now like it was easy. Like it was all meaningless fodder for her when to you, it was just shy of everything. It was what you fought for the hardest, what you sacrificed for the most, what you were willing to crawl on your hands and knees for above anything else. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone, just like that, but the absence of her presence now, the absence of her things, makes it all too real. 

You let your head tilt upward, catching the barest sight of the painting just up and to your left. The thing that started it all, the beginning of the end, and it feels like such a cruel joke now, —like a reminder of everything you’ve come to lose.

More than anything, you want to be angry. You want to tear this place apart with your bare hands, destroy every reminder of her, every piece of her that still lingers in this god forsaken apartment. . . But you can’t. You just can’t bring yourself to do it, and not just for the fact that the costs will be far too much to repay in the aftermath. Instead, you simply slump further against the wall, letting the tension melt into exhaustion, and letting all this weight crush your spirits in way only something uniquely Moira ever could.

The love you held, the love you received, the dreams you shared, —all of it and more is tangled up in this place, in the memories that permeate every room. You’re surrounded by it, but even if you leave, you know all too well that it’ll just travel with you. There’s no escaping this, and that’s the scariest part. Your hand drifts to your phone again, almost involuntarily, as if by some miracle there’ll be a message from her; something to explain that her hand was forced, that she’s sorry, that she didn’t want things to end the way they did either. Maybe there’ll be a goodbye that doesn’t feel so goddamn final, maybe she’ll ask you to wait for her because she knows you would if she requested it.

But there’s nothing.

Just the same void that’s been growing since she walked out the door.

The tears come before you can stop them this time, a pent-up release of all the emotions you’ve been stuffing down for three days. Anger, sorrow, confusion, frustration, all of it and more, mix together and spill out through your eyes as you curl up on the cold floor, folding in on yourself, trying to feel as small as possible in hopes that you might just disappear altogether.

You can almost feel her hand atop your head in a comforting gesture, the way she used to pet you like a cat because she wasn’t sure what else to do when you cried. You can still hear her voice ringing in your ears.

“We should talk,” she says, a sense of hesitation present which was wholly uncharacteristic of her. . . Moira wasn’t the type to hesitate.She never had been. 

Her usual confidence has been replaced by something tentative, and that cut deeper than any words ever could. 

“Is something wrong?” You ask softly, because something surely was, even if you didn’t know what just yet.

“Just sit, please,” she requests, and you do, ignoring the sense of deja vu.

“Moira?” You utter, and she cringes visibly at the desperation on your tongue.

“I’m leaving.”

Your mind stills. There’s no way you heard that correctly, or perhaps you just need to clarify what she means, maybe she’s going somewhere for a time, but surely she’ll return, surely she’ll come back—

“L-Leaving?” You repeat after a few moments of silence. “What do you mean leaving?”

She looks to the floor, like she’s searching the grooves of the tiles for the right way to explain.

“Overwatch. . . Has made a fool of me for too long. And I’ve stupidly allowed it for the sake of access to their equipment and their people, but no longer.”

This wasn’t news to you. She’d always shown a slight disdain for her employers, but her relationship with her superiors had gotten notably more hostile in recent months. She spit more venom when speaking of them now, scowled when she saw anything to do with Overwatch in the media. . . But you never thought it was this bad.

“So you’re leaving your job?” You seek to clarify.

“Yes, but. . .” she pauses. “I’ve been presented with an opportunity that I cannot pass up.”

“A job offer?”

“Something like that.”

You frown.

“This is way too cryptic for my taste, Moira, can you please just—”

“I’m going away.”

Another pause, this time from you as you let her words digest.

“. . . going where?” You ask eventually.

“I cannot tell you,” she replies decisively, and for the first time, you’re tempted to ask why.

For so long, you’d been fine to simply accept what she couldn’t divulge to you. It was what it was. But not this time.

“Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation for all of this?” You question, raising your voice slightly. “You can’t just tell me you’re leaving, that’s not how this is supposed to work, Moira, we’re partners—”

Her face tightens, uncertainty morphing into resolve. Her tone is pointed as she cuts you off.

“I know it’s not fair,” she tells you bluntly, voice steadier than before. “But this isn’t about fairness. This is something I need to do for myself.” This only makes you angrier.

“And what about me then? The person you’ve, I don’t know, —built a fucking life with? What about me in all of this, you can’t just throw me away and give me no explanation! If you need space, just say that you need space, you don’t need to play a cryptic game with me, I know you! Why the secrecy with me of all people?”

The woman you’ve always known to be so confident now seems so vulnerable before you, and it almost makes you feel guilty for being upset.

“It’s not about secrecy. It’s about protecting you, protecting myself and my work. . . If I told you everything, it would compromise too much. I will not put you in danger.”

“But putting the woman I love in danger is just fine by you?” You hiss. “Don’t tell me you’re protecting me, don’t make this out to be some noble act on your part. What are you so afraid of telling me?” 

“The information you’re after is something I cannot disclose to you.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a stranger meddling in your affairs, we are partners! We’ve been together for half a decade, we share a home, you can’t just leave!” You shout. “Don’t you think I deserve a proper explanation after everything we’ve been through? After everything you’ve put me through?” 

“What you deserve and what I can give you are rarely the same thing, and you know this.”

You scoff.

“This isn’t about you,” she continues. “This is about protecting the things I value, which includes you, whether or not you believe as much right now. If I were to reveal details, it would jeopardize everything: my work, my safety, your safety, and I’m doing what’s necessary to prevent that. I’m not willing to risk it. Because I know you as well, and I know how stubborn you are. I’m doing everything in my power to keep you out of a situation that puts you in harm’s way.”

“And what about the risk of losing me, huh? The risk of losing everything we’ve built together? You’re just walking away without giving me any proper closure, —dropping this bomb on me and expecting me to take it in stride? Just swallow this like it’s not going to turn my world upside down?” 

Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks.

“How is this any better?” You demand.

“It has nothing to do with you,” she retorts. “It has nothing to do with walking away from you.”

“Yes it does, because that’s what you’re doing!” You argue. 

“I am making a choice that I believe is best for my career and for both our safety. I’m ensuring that my choices don’t put you in danger. You of all people must understand that by now.” 

The silence stretches after her words and you feel the weight of them mix with your mounting frustrations. 

“You think you’re protecting me by shutting me out like this?” You question, hurt evident in your voice. “By just up and leaving without giving me any real explanation? How is this supposed to make anything better?” “I never said it was supposed to make anything better.”

You laugh, bitter and sarcastic. Her frown deepens. 

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” she tells you in earnest, but it’s hard to believe it in the moment.

What do intentions matter in this case if it hurts you all the same?

“What about us?” You question, voice breaking. “What about the life we’ve built together? You can’t just erase it all and pretend like it never happened. You can’t do that.”

Her eyes flicker with a brief flash of something like guilt, but she masks it quickly.

“My decision wasn’t made to erase our past—”

“Our past?” You interrupt.

She runs a hand down her face in frustration.

“My decision is not about erasing you,” she revises. “It’s about ensuring that my actions don’t put you in a position I can’t protect you in. I’m taking the steps to ensure that my choices don’t harm you.”

“You’re harming me right now!”

“And you can heal from this!” She snaps. “But there’s no guarantee you’ll heal from what could happen to you if I don’t make the choice I’m making right now. I’m taking the necessary steps to protect what’s important, and that includes making tough decisions.”

You feel your hands start to tremble. Because of what, you’re not sure. . . Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s anxiety, maybe it’s grief. 

“Don’t try to justify this to me,” you shake your head. “Don’t try to pretend like you’re doing this for anyone but yourself. After everything I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices I’ve made, you’re throwing everything away like it’s worthless? How is that protection?”

Her gaze hardens.

“You know well and full that I do not make uncalculated decisions. This is no different. I’m making a choice that keeps you safe, even if you don’t recognize that right now.” 

“It’s not about what I do or don’t understand!” You shout. “It’s about trust! It’s about being fucking honest with me! You’re not even giving me a choice in this, and that’s not fair! You’re making choices for the both of us alone that we should have been making together!” 

“I’m not asking you to like or agree with what I’m doing, I am telling you what’s taking place because I care for you, and I believe you deserve that much,” she states. “But this conversation does not change what has to be done.”

“So that’s just it then?” You question in disbelief. “You’re throwing me away and I don’t even get a say? You’re just gonna up and go and leave me to pick up the pieces by myself?” 

The rest is a blur. She gathered her things while you sit around in a daze, pinching yourself every so often, convinced that you’ll wake up and it’ll all just be a nightmare. You’ll tell her about it when you wake up and she’ll tell you you’re ridiculous with a lopsided smile on her face, and she’ll roll her eyes when you wrap your arms around her waist and bury your face in her chest. It’ll all feel better when she kisses the crown of your head and mumbles that she’ll see you when she gets home from work. 

But she doesn’t.

“Moira,” you practically whimper as she emerges from your shared room with items smushed into a travel case. “Don’t. Don’t do this.” 

She pauses, unable to meet your gaze completely. Like she’s ashamed in all of this, as much as she wants to hide that away.

“This isn’t easy for me either,” she tells you.There’s a twisted coolness to her voice, like she’s rehearsed these exact lines so many times before now.

“But I’ve made my decision. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Please,” you choke out, not caring how pathetic or childlike you sound as you beg for this woman not to exit your life and leave you high and dry. “Please don’t do this, don’t leave, please don’t go, we can figure something out—”

“We can’t,” she shakes her head. “I’m leaving, and I don’t know when I’ll return. I don’t even know that I’ll be coming back at all.”

“But I love you,” you utter in desperation. 

“I know,” she says, her voice colder than you ever thought it could be. “But love isn’t enough right now. This is bigger than us, and I can’t ignore that.”

You reach out and grab the sleeve of her button-up shirt.“Don’t do this to me,” you plead.

But when you look into her eyes, all you see is resignation.

“I wish things were different,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, but still laced with that same finality. “But I can’t change what I have to do. This isn’t about us, it’s about something far bigger, and I need you to trust me like you always have.”

“Moira.”

Her thumb strokes your cheek in a tender gesture that feels like a cruel contrast to the words she’s saying. 

“You’re stronger than you think, and you’ll be okay,” she continues. “And maybe there’ll be a day when I can come back. But for now, you have to let me go.”

You feel sick to your stomach, hand clutching so tightly around her’s that it likely hurts, but you can’t help it. You shake your head as your throat squeezes and you open your mouth slightly to speak, but nothing comes out.

She pauses in the doorway, her back to you, and for a moment you think she might turn around. But she doesn’t. Instead, she simply says, “Take care of yourself.” The memory fades and you feel hollow. Raw, like the wound has been ripped open all over again. It stings like it’s been covered in salt. You blink, realizing now more than before that you’re alone, on the floor in this cold, empty apartment. The echo of the door as it closed behind her for the last time rings in your ear, over and over, a sound you can’t shake no matter how hard you try. So you don’t. You sit and let it fester. And maybe you’ll wait around for her and she’ll come crawling back some few odd years later. Maybe you’ll move on and search for her in the face of every potential partner you sit across from at warm cafes. As you sit there, the painting looms in your vision, its once comforting brushstrokes now a bittersweet echo of a time when everything felt whole. It’s a reminder of what was and what might never be again and it makes you nauseous just to stare in its tainted direction. But you’ll keep it hung no matter where you go, and you know that. . . Because Moira loved it. And you love her. 

[sunburnacoustic]

Okay but ^

[klausinamarink]

Oop let's try this again; for the birthday fics: “Because you’re a jinx!” angsty Steddie established relationship, chasing fame Eddie and some guy Steve who gets discovered while Eddie's band keeps being passed over? Platonic hellcheer and platonic Stobin.

I couldn’t find a way to put in the platonic ships but it’s still Steddie. Enjoy the angsty flavour electric boogaloo.

It was supposed to be Eddie’s lucky day.

This was supposed to be his time. The moment when the rich suits would look at Eddie and immediately offer him the contract that finally pushed his music to fame.

But it was just another fucking mediocre performance. Only a few people out of the dozens in the crowd cheered, but that was worse than getting no response at all. Nobody even went up to them for an autograph, their numbers, Instagram handles, music samples, anything that would’ve made the night worth it.

Eddie stayed silent and seething for the whole drive home. The rest of the band left on their own respective vehicles, though Jeff had lingered longer to say something that Eddie mentally filtered out. Probably some shitty encouragement or a call to quit. 

His hands tightened around the wheel. Eddie felt the pulsing headache crawl to the back of his eyes. Goddamnit, he needed to sleep.

Maybe in Steve’s arms, but for once, Eddie just wanted to be alone for tonight. 

After he parked the car and trudged the stairs back to his apartment, Eddie bit his lip until he tasted the sting of copper. 

He was so tired. Not just physically, but in very foul shape that took its claws into him. It was the apathetic crowds and uninterested advisors. How the rest of the band delayed practice more and more. The bland methodical act of cutting up another piece of his shrinking soul as a muse for his lyrics. 

But still. He was close to that single star of recognition. Eddie had to taste it.

Unlocking the door, Eddie kept himself from collapsing until he dropped his guitar case and landed face-first on the couch. 

In the bedroom, he could catch some muffled conversation, the floor creaking as Steve paced back and forth inside. 

Eddie frowned and checked his phone for any missed messages. Steve hadn’t texted him since five,  soon after Eddie had left for the worst night of his life. It was almost eleven now. So why was his boyfriend still up and talking to someone?

Before Eddie could try and get up, the door opened and Steve came out, his phone in hand. Steve glanced up and stopped in his tracks when he saw Eddie. He gave a bright smile.

“Hey, babe! You okay?” 

Eddie groaned. If he had the energy, he could scream into the pillows.

The floor creaked as Steve approached and gently laid a hand on his back. “Was the band okay?”

Eddie groaned again, unable to hold himself back from pressing against Steve’s hand. He could really use a fucking massage. Or some quick, stress-relief sex. “It’s fucking awful. It’s always fucking awful.”

Steve made a sympathetic noise, “I’m sorry to hear that, Eds.”

Eddie lifted his head up and peered at Steve. Despite his words, there was an odd light in Steve’s eyes and his lips were fighting desperately not to smile.

“What is it?” He asked.

Steve had the nerve to look spooked, “Uh, well, I don’t want to ruin your mood-”

“What is it?”

Steve stared at him for a moment before he sighed like it was the start of a serious discussion.

“You know that audition I did back in Chicago two weeks ago?” Steve bit his lip. It only revealed the cracks of excitement on his face and Eddie already knew what he was about to say. “Well, my agent called and said that I’m officially casted. I’m gonna be in a HBO show!”

Record scratch.

Eddie only stared at Steve as the news hit him with the speed of a truck. When he saw Steve’s smile in full glory, he only saw blank faces who spat at him with rejection and disappointment and ‘try better’s. 

How the fuck does Steve get so many gigs when Eddie could barely find an open venue in advance? And now he’s going to work for fucking HBO, Jesus Christ-

Steve was frowning at him, “You- are you not happy?”

“Of course, I am!” Eddie said quickly. It felt hard to speak when there was something now stuck and burning in his throat. He got up from the couch and walked to the kitchen. He needed a drink. Maybe not alcohol, though tempting. But some actual water but he was too exhausted and sober for this shit. 

“I’m always here to support my wonderful and talented boyfriend who never misses an audition. Who always gets a spot in whatever he plays in, even if it’s a fucking diaper commercial or a glorified extra who gets five more cents than his less impressive boyfriend.” 

As he spoke, his words became more tinted with venom. Eddie took an empty glass and filled it under the tap. He almost choked from gulping it down in one go. It cooled his throat, but the burning simply expanded through his veins.

“Okay, you’re mad.” Steve said slowly, now behind him.

Eddie laughed bitterly, “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. They taught you that in acting class or was it a trick from your last ex?”

“Jesus, okay, Eddie.” Steve put his hands on Eddie’s shoulders but Eddie shook him off with more force than necessary. “You’re obviously in a bad mood and my news isn’t making it better, but you did ask and-”

Eddie whirled around. He was seeing red at the corners of his vision. “And now it’s my fault?!”

Steve backed away, his hands up in a plea of surrender. His face pinched with concern and hurt. “Eddie, let’s, let’s just go to bed. Take a shower-”

“Stop treating me like I’m a child!” 

“Fuck, even a child would tell me what’s making them this upset!”

“You wanna know why I’m so upset? Huh?” Eddie smacked a hand against Steve’s chest, pushing his boyfriend away. “Take a guess with your ‘subtlety’ talents and maybe you can fucking figure it out.”

“No, I- Eds, baby-” Steve stopped to take a breath. He looked back at Eddie with more firmness, but he saw the way Steve’s ego was crumbling in his eyes. “Can you please just tell me why are you acting like this? Was it because I did something or-?”

Eddie’s anger flared. It touched the back of his mouth so he spat it all out like a dragon. “Oh, everything you do with your squeaky clean and easy career is the reason why I’m pissed at you. You get all of these stupid roles to play some stupid character Twitter would make discourse for while I have spent the last three years trying to find someone who’s willing to listen to my band play in a goddamn studio! But I keep missing these opportunities for some reason that I’m starting to think that we’re cursed or shit.”

“Eds, it can’t-”

“And don’t you say you know how it feels like because you never knew how to fucking fail, Stevie! Everything you do is just rich executives giving you silver platters. I bet they all want that Harrington blowjob.”

Steve gasped softly and shook his head. He now had his arms around himself like it would protect him. “That’s not true- Why are you even saying these things to me?!”

“Because you’re a jinx! Because you’re Steve Harrington and I hate your dumb luck!”

Eddie’s words echoed across the apartment as he breathed heavily. He wouldn’t be surprised if it went out the windows and into the streets. 

Steve held an unbelievably idiotic expression. Mouth half-open, a slack jaw, glossy eyes that just stared at Eddie without any more light shining in them.

Finally, he spoke so quietly that Eddie had to strain to hear, “Okay… I’m going to Robin’s.”

With that, Steve hurried out, having some decency to not slam the door.

And then it was just Eddie, alone in the kitchen with the nasty thoughts and words that would soon bite back at him.

[see-arcane]

I figured I should interrupt everyone's dash for some notes on current real life things.

This is a hefty one, so I'm tucking everything below:

A little good news. As of this writing, I’ve sold 74 copies of The Vampyres, in eBook and paperback! That’s 74 more than I thought I would ever sell! Thank you to everyone who picked up a copy or asked your library to grab some. Especially when I know I haven’t been the most stellar self-marketer. I can’t remember the last time I opened the septic tank formerly known as Twitter, so it’s all been down to this little corner here and a skinny appearance in Goodreads. Which means I owe any attention this short and sinister tale has received to you all and plain old word-of-mouth.

That said, thank you x100000 to you and any new readers yet to take a look. (And doubly so for those of you who go out of their way to leave comments and reviews around for me to reread ad infinitum.)

For those not in the know, all the info on The Vampyres can be found here, and all my author odds and ends can be found on my website here.

On a less heartening note…

As I’d already expected, the market for career writers is…rough. Copywriting—and writing in general—is technically a big open field (full of caveat descriptions about having to work with/teach AI programs to eventually swallow your job)! Tons of open positions! Most of which either pay you in pocket change while you’re working full time or expect you to singlehandedly run the entire marketing of a business for slightly more pocket change. Everything else is bloated with contract and/or freelance work*.

*Read: Gig economy schlock trying to pass for an actual job position with payment being a coin toss. I’ve also seen one too many listings on the job boards that are volunteer positions. Plenty of exposure to rake in though, right? Ha. Ha ha.

I’ve still been applying like clockwork, same as the rest of my fellow creators trying to get by in a field that seems to actively punish trying to be a professional in said field, and still no bites further than an interview. I have years of experience and a degree, but everyone’s chasing the same crumbs, so. Yeah. I’ve got to start padding things out.

Reminder that I do have a (barely peddled) Ko-Fi. It’s there for art commissions and chucking a few spare bucks at. Which is an increasingly big ask these days, I know. You can’t scroll two posts down without hitting someone else’s Ko-Fi, Patreon, GoFundMe, Kickstarter, et cetera. We’re drowning in arting starvists here. And although I have been asked before whether I would consider going full Freelance Storywriter on top of selling art, I’m still a little hesitant on it. I do occasionally send out story submissions and have even gotten published a few times, but I get nauseous thinking about:

1) Putting up a paywall on the scribbles that assail me like a baseball bat wielded by an unmerciful Muse. 2) Putting up a ‘Stories for Sale!’ sign only to wind up disappointing prospective buyers because I didn’t do their blorbos justice even after researching X background for the piece. 3) Getting duped into being a nonconsenting ghostwriter and discovering someone else has published my work under their own name.

So, still a bit iffy on that. I’ll chew on it. But what else is left?

Before you click the button!

Stop!

NOT YET!

Before you click, please know that I am being serious about this as something to potentially make 1) something of good quality and 2) earn more money than it loses. Looking around at the merch-making/selling options, there are fees involved with making an account just about anywhere in the online store game, give or take the price tweaking needed for shipping and manufacturing blah blah blah.

With that in mind, please do not automatically hit ‘yes’ because you want to be nice. I appreciate it, but this isn’t the same thing as the Ko-Fi where there’s no real loss in just leaving it up and drawing something once every few months. This will take new designs, another subscription to pay for, more logistics to untangle for quality and pricing and all the rest of the mess. Only hit ‘yes’ if you, personally, genuinely, would like to purchase some nefarious See Arcane wares beyond a book or a digital drawing.

[urhoneycombwitch]

Heyyy! Just a quick little request that has been TAKING over my mind. GN!Reader that LOVESSSSS photography x Rockstar!eddie. LIKE Reader will be taking photos of him whenever because he’s just so goddamn pretty playing his guitar. And Eddie will snatch film and shit for them. I’d like to think that they both have Polaroid pictures of each other. Bonus points if reader doesn’t like taking pictures of themselves but LOVES taking pictures of Eddie. I DONT KNOW I JUST THINKS ITS CUTE AHHHHH. if it’s fluff, smut, whatever, you do you! :D Byeeeeeeeee

as a film photographer myself i feel uniquely qualified to add to this tysm anon 💖

gn!reader, +18 mdni

Eddie absolutely gets you the good shit. he makes it a habit to visit the local camera stores at every city when he’s on the road, shells out for high-quality film cuz you taught him right and he actually listens when you talk about your interests!!

constantly surprising you with new gear. he’s never had money like this before and the fact that he can actually buy his partner things is so fucking thrilling. if his baby wants a vintage Rolleiflex with Planar lens that’s what’s getting boxed up for ‘em.

once you and Eddie settle on a house, he sets up a whole darkroom on the lower floor- lets you pick out all the details, hires a plumbing guy to hook up water so that you can do your own film baths. Jonathan Byers is equal parts green with envy and grateful that you’re willing to share the space w/him whenever he comes out for a visit 😇

before you, Eddie never really liked his picture taken, tolerated the ordeal at best- Wayne showed you an old photo book one time, groused about his nephew making odd faces and being squirmy in front of the lens even as young as 4 years old. you’ve made up for it a hundred times over, tho- Eddie learned quick that you wouldn’t take no for an answer when it came to your new muse.

you’ve got probably over a thousand pictures of him by now, in different states across the country, some on stage in full makeup shredding on guitar, a few that are widely recognized as Corroded’s album covers- but most are quiet, intimate. there’s this one you keep in your wallet, makes your heart flutter every time: Eddie leaned back in the grass on his elbows, soft sunlight filtered through the magnolia tree in your backyard, eyes crinkled at the corners and fixed on you behind the camera.

he’s got a bunch of you, too, of course- mostly Polaroids that are decidedly not for public eye. keeps those like a true gentleman safe in a shoebox under your bed at home: images burned into his brain by this point to take with him in memory while on the road. the soft shape of your thigh against a downy duvet, gleaming pearlescent with his cum. another of his hand wrapped around your throat, rings digging into gentle flesh under the blissed-out smile of your mouth that makes him ache somethin’ fierce just thinking about it.

there are others that he does keep in his wallet, more tame but just as searingly intimate, ones he’s taken after cajoling you in front of the lens or having won a tussle over whose turn it was to shoot whom. one of you with guitar cables looped neatly around either arm after a gig, nose crunched and mouth halfway to telling him off, irritation and fondness captured in bright flash. another of you stretched out in the front yard, one hand at your forehead to block the afternoon sun, the other resting placid on your stomach as you looked up at him.

“This one’s mine,” Eddie always says when asked about you, showing off the latest picture with a deep well of love and pride. he may as well start carrying an album for all the photos he carries of you.

[batwritings]

Kinktober Day 8 - Fancy Dress

Full circle back to dad Price! Enjoy!~

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

How you had been talked into this, you had no innate idea. You were never one for fancy get-ups; you didn’t do well in front of people, and dressing in just about anything that wasn’t issued to you by the military felt…odd. But here you were, surrounded by soft lighting, piano music, and a sea of tuxedos and ball gowns.

There was one upside to this all of course; you weren’t alone. All but Ghost, naturally for privacy reasons, were just as gussied up as you were. Soap had tried so hard to talk Laswell out of making him get fitted for his tux, but she gave him that signature look that nobody could tell her no on.

The best of all though, had to be your dear Captain. John Price was a classy man to begin with, but wow did he know how to clean up. His facial hair was neatly trimmed, not as scraggy from what you were used to seeing on the battlefield. In general, he was just as attractive covered in soot and rubble as he was dressed to the nines. 

He caught you looking several times throughout the night, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been blushing each time you tore your eyes away. There’s no way he knew…right? Granted, a fancy gig like this could be just as dangerous as the battlefield, but…no, there was no way.

“Y/N! Having a good time my friend?” You heard, suddenly. Nikolai was clapping his broad hand down onto your shoulder, cheery as can be. Your whole body jumped as you were ripped from your reverie so abruptly.

“Y-yeah, it’s…” You fought with you frazzled mind for a good answer before sighing in defeat. “I’m so shit with social gatherings like this Nik. I think I might turn in for the night.” You rubbed the back of your neck nervously; fancy parties weren’t something you signed up for when you agreed to join the task force.

“I believe the Captain has been feeling the same,” Nik said, somewhat sadly. “He has never been one for parties or big crowds. You two share that in common.”

“Huh…” you mumbled, more to yourself than to the big Russian man with you.

“You know…he could probably use a hand finding his jacket,” came Nik’s voice again. “He’s getting up in age and all you know.” You laughed softly and thanked the pilot before wandering off. As he watches you go, Nikolai doesn’t miss another figure sauntering up beside him.

“Think they’ll finally get together?” Laswell asks, a confident smirk on her face. Her and Nikolai had been trying to get you and Price together for some time now. Tonight they had tried multiple times, sadly in vain. This was their final opportunity.

“I don’t see why not,” Nik responded. “The coat closet is a rather small space. But plenty of space for them to work out their…unresolved tensions.” Slowly, so as not to make himself known, the Russian man began to follow you, hidden behind the crowds as you finally caught up to the captain and yourself. “Sorry to squeeze in with you Cap,” you chuckled, sliding into the coat room alongside Price. Your body was so close to his is was nearly suffocating. You could smell his cologne plain as day, trying not to get distracted as he told you it was fine. 

The silence was excruciating until the captain spoke up. “Saw your eyes wandering quite a bit tonight,” Price mused, no longer looking for his suit jacket. He was watching you carefully out of the corner of his eye, waiting for your reaction. “Fancy me in a suit do you? Don’t lie to me now.”

Your hand froze as you actually managed to find Price’s jacket. Had he really been paying that much attention. “I…” you swallowed the lump in your throat and cleared it harshly before you answered. “I’d be lying if I didn’t Captain. You clean up well.”

“As do you,” you nearly jumped out of your skin when you heard Price’s voice so close. “But these penguin suits are getting a bit old yeah? I say we do away with them.” You were frozen in shock, but didn’t dare stop him 

You couldn’t help the pleased shiver and you felt your captain’s rough hands slip beneath your dress shirt to touch you. You bit your lip harshly to muffle your moan as you felt one hand rub over your nipple while the other slips beneath the waistband of your slacks and underwear. Your hips bucked forward the moment his calloused fingers make contact with your sex, a harsh exhale ripping from your throat.

“Shh, pup,” Price hushes, kissing along your neck. His facial hair tickles as much as it burns along your skin in the most pleasant way. “Good god you’re eager. I’ll have to get dressed like this more often hmm?” You can’t help but nod as you lean into his touch, your ass grinding against his clothed member.

“That’s it sweetheart,” And there’s that growled praise that made your knees weak. “Being so good for me, so good and quiet while everyone outside this room is none the wiser.” His words turned your bones to jelly, spun through your mind. 

Between that, the warm breath along your neck, and the pleasure revolving around your sex, you literally couldn’t hold the flood gates closed. Your climax had your knees buckling as you moan out against Price’s hand. Strong arms held you close and helped you to the floor, despite the man’s eager member still erect against your ass. 

“Very good Y/N, very good,” your captain praised, sliding his hand out from near your sex. “Take some nice deep breaths, I’ll find my jacket, and we’ll continue this somewhere more…secluded, yeah?” You nod, barely comprehending his words. You raise a shaky hand to point behind the both of you to where you had seen the man’s jacket last. Price chuckles softly. 

“Thank you sweetheart, this fancy dress is more trouble than it’s worth.”

[lil-ms-darkness]

Warm Like Baked Bread: Bigby Wolf x Goldilocks!Fem!Reader

A/N: I wrote this a while ago, and I hope you enjoy it.

For comic readers, this is an AU where Goldilocks is not a total extremist psychopath and is, instead, a survivor of circumstance. Living with the human Fable community in New York.

I have a few more small continuations to this in the works, so if you enjoyed this one, you can look forward to those.

-Lil_Ms_Darkness

“Come on in!” The woman calls from inside.

Bigby knocks on the wooden door, already able to smell the fresh baked goods from outside. 

He looked to his right, finding her in the small kitchenette with a loaf of freshly baked bread cooling on the counter next to a couple cubes of decorated fabric, two decently sized boxes on the small island. 

Just inviting people inside can’t be very safe But he tries the doorknob anyway, stepping through the door, closing it and walking down the small hallway that opens up into a one room apartment, a small love seat to the far right, back against a pony wall that a twin sized bed rested against on the other side. The bed has one long pillow, a plush looking throw at the end and a sea of stuffed animals. Against the wall across from the love seat, a tv set rests, framing two windows with sheer curtains. 

“Are you just going to stand there, inspecting my home or are you going to come in, properly?” She asks and he notices the curly blonde hair tied into a messy bun, plain jeans and t-shirt covered by a pink apron. When she looks over at him, a single curl falls past her brow, warm eyes examining him for a brief moment before returning to her work. 

Yeah, I do have the smallest apartment. Damn.

“Nice place you got here.” He muses as she sets a plastic container holding 6 muffins on top of one of the fabric squares, covering them and popping the holes in to protect the product before she wraps them up with a small bow tied in the fabric on top. She moves to set the muffins in one of the boxes, but he can still smell the baked blueberries and sweet, cooked sugar. 

“Thank you, Sheriff. You’re welcome to sit at the island, if you’d like.” She offers without looking at him.

“I’m not here for an order, I need to ask you a few questions.” But he steps on the other side of the counter to stay out of her way. Her meticulous movements seem rehearsed and fluid like water. 

“Ask away.” She says simply, continuing on her work. 

“I understand you have a baking business,” he gestures to the pans and assorted baked items littering her countertops, “-do you do this full time?”

“Doesn’t leave you much down time.” He mutters

“Not quite. I have a full time job at the Trip Trap as a bartender. It’s not super busy, but since Lily was- ahem, since Lily passed, Holly needed a little more time so she could focus on herself a bit more. Woody talked me up to her, and boom, full time gig. When I’m not working there, I’m either delivering orders, or preparing orders.” 

“No, but if you have a goal, sacrificing a little bit of forever doesn’t seem so bad.” She smiles, faintly. “And when I open up my Bed and Breakfast, it’ll all be worth it.” She sighs, softly and dreamily.

“Bed and Breakfast, huh?”

“Many of us are down on our luck, barely scraping by. Just look at Toad and TJ. I’m planning to open up my Bed and Breakfast to help Fables have a safe, clean place to go. Besides the Farm.” She wraps up the now cooled loaf of bread, “Why the interest in my career?” 

“Have you been approached by anyone wanting to purchase sweets specifically for Snow White?” He leans forward, gauging her reaction.

Her eyes move up to his in an instant, 

“She’s okay, right?” 

 “If you know something you need to tell me.”

“You do know something.” He examines her eyes, and he can read concern in them.

 She definitely was approached by our guy.

“No, she’s safe.” He says, calmly.

“Yes, a gentleman asked for a special delivery to the Business Office for Snow White. 3 boxes of white chocolate covered strawberries and a raspberry drizzle with an apple crumble pie.” She says cautiously and Bigby squints at the mention of an apple pie. “I had the same reaction, Sheriff. I don’t read other Fables stories, but it doesn’t take a genius to know how she’d feel about that one...she is okay, right? I refused to do it, he didn’t do anything to her, did he?”

“Good.” She sighs, and pulls down a plate and a small fork, setting a muffin onto it. 

“Did he give you a name?”

“I’m pretty sure he gave me a fake one,” she uses a butter knife to cut open the muffin before adding some butter to it, “but he gave me an alternate delivery address before I refused the order. Something about 'I understand that interacting with a princess would be nerve wracking'.” 

“Do you still have it? The address?”

“I might, let me check.” She sets the plate with the muffin in front of him, wiping her hands on her apron and opening a drawer, digging around it.

“Free sample?” He asks, glancing down at the muffin. He can smell it already and it smells delicious. 

“A thank you.” She corrects without looking up from the drawer.

“For?”

“Can’t say I’m surprised you don’t remember. You ate a man who was trying to get into my treehouse back in the Homelands. I doubt you did it to help me, you looked hungry, but it doesn’t change the fact that you may have saved me from worse horrors that day.” 

“Mmm, most people would’ve been worried I’d eat them, too.” He muses.

“Maybe that’s why I’m feeding you now, you’ll never know.” She pushes something else aside in the drawer as she speaks, then lets out a little “There you are.” before pulling out a piece of paper, torn from a full sized piece of lined paper. She hands it over and he takes it, reading the address. 

He has what he came for, but the muffin still permeates his senses. He picks up the fork and tears a piece of muffin off, inhaling the scent again with a slow sniff through his nose.

“Don’t worry, I only use the best poison for clients of your magnitude.” She smirks for the first time and his brown eyes lifted to meet hers, clearly not amused with the joke. “I’m joking, I doubt poison would kill you anyway. And the last thing I need is the charge of killing the Sheriff of Fabletown on my rear.” He looks down at the muffin on the fork before he decides to take a bite. It was warm and fresh, the blueberries moist and the sugar sprinkled on top of the muffin crunchy and flavorful. “Besides, I’m sure there’s a reason the other Fables fear you.” 

He pauses, another piece of muffin close to his lips. 

“You don’t know why they’re all afraid of me?” He sounds genuinely confused and surprised. 

“I don’t read stories of other Fables, remember? Red did try to tell me about an encounter you two had at some point, something about her grandmother, but to tell you the truth, I was dealing with my own demons that I didn’t really hear her story fully. Then when Woody took me under his wing, he told me a bunch of stories about you, but honestly they all just sounded like someone trying to be bigger and badder than the next. So, I felt like it was pointless to hate you for things that didn’t directly involve me.” She shrugs, “Easy to say when you’re not experiencing what everyone is telling you about, but I don’t really care.”

“You knew Red?” He sounds surprised, “And the Woodsman?” Then he just sounded dumbfounded. 

“Woody isn’t a bad guy, a little unorthodox maybe, and a little bit of an alcoholic with a tendency for dumb decisions, but not inherently bad. As for lil Red, she was my best friend after my mother abandoned me.” She smiles softly at the thought of her friend. His brow furrows as he looks at her; he’d always thought she got lost in the woods after going too far out, or maybe just got bored and decided to wreak some havoc like many children do. Maybe made a mistake but tried to rectify it and be better, like himself. “Surprised, aren’t ya? That’s why I don’t read the stories, because mine is all messed up. Mom abandoned me in the middle of the woods and left, I haven’t seen her since. One thing they don’t mention was I was 5 at the time, and had spent the better part of a month in the woods, starving and freezing. So when I came across the Bear’s home, I went in and I ate their porridge and slept in their beds, I tracked mud in their chairs. But not because I wanted to, but because it was either  that or die, and I wanted to take advantage of the little bit of comfort I’d found.”

He didn’t remember asking, and he wonders why she seems so comfortable telling him her whole life story. Then again, he was still eating her muffin and he supposes he owes her a small token, after feeding him and giving the information he needed without any trace of being needing to pry it out of her. It likely would have taken this long if it were Holly or anybody else in Fabletown. He supposes she deserves an ear to listen. Besides, the strange sense of normalcy in how she spoke to him was oddly pleasant. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think they were friends for years. But the moment comes to a close as he finishes the last bite of his muffin and decides it’s time to get on his way.

He stands and sets the fork on his plate, 

“Do you want me to put this in the sink for you?” He asks but she shakes her head, “Alright then. Have a good night.” He heads for the door.

“Sheriff,” She calls and he glances over his shoulder to offer her his attention in pure silence. “In my line of work, both at the Trip Trap and in my own business, a lot of gossip passes me by. If you ever need information, my door is open to you. If I know something, I’ll share it.”

“And what do you want in return?” There’s always a catch, he knows there’s something. Nobody ever gives something for nothing, especially not to the Big Bad Wolf.

“You let me feed you when you come to visit.”

“That’s not much of an exchange.”

“Then, how about you get to know me, that way if you hear a version of that messed up story you can debunk it.”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking at her kind, inviting eyes. He nods once and turns, 

“Thank you, Goldilocks.”

“[F/N].”

“Hmm?”

“Call me [F/N].” 

Now alone in the hallway, he pulls out his pack of cigarettes and grabs one between his lips before he lights it. He takes a puff and pulls out the address on the paper. He suspects he’ll see her again, whether it be for information or just for another muffin. As he tucks the address away and walks down the hall, he almost looks forward to coming back.

“...Thank you, [F/N].” He heads to the door, opening it and closing it behind him. 

[cherrylng]

Matt Bellamy interview - Muse [ROCKIN'ON (December 2000)]

"If you ask me, our first album was a youthful rock experience at its ultimate limit….. Thanks to that, we've now reached a point where we don't even want to know what happens if we keep going."

So where are these horrid kids headed now that they've buried the ‘first Muse’, who froze the whole of the UK with their unbelievable live performances and insane falsetto? Matthew Bellamy, 22, talks about his next ambition!

Interview: Erica Yamashita / Photography: NAKA

Muse's performance at Akasaka Blitz on October 14th was a speedy one hour and 12 minutes long performance with 18 songs. There was no encore. At the end, Matthew rolled around at the feet of drummer Dominic and started messing around, waving his hands and disappearing to the side of the stage, and then bassist Chris went around destroying the drum kit one by one, so there was no time for an encore. But that was also a happy ending, with Matthew whispering something to the two of them just before. Matt was waving his guitar around a lot, but it was only the first day of the Tokyo show, so I guess he was thinking that he couldn't smash it here. Instead, he ran around the stage.

The show on this day was also very loud from the beginning. To be honest, it was a bit rough. Of course, as usual, their performance was impressive, but they seemed a little slack and were trying to intimidate others with their strength. The two ballads in the middle of the show, sung by Matt, sitting beside Chris with an acoustic guitar, completely changed the wavelength. Interestingly, what followed was a stage full of shadows and storytelling, even though it was a fast and loud world again. There was a relentless pull that is the essence of a Muse show. An unidentifiable energy emanates from Matthew, who is tiny even in Japan. A mass of emotion that you find yourself unable to take your eyes off.

Some have expressed concern about the future evolution of Muse, saying that they are too technically accomplished for their young age, that they are doing stage actions that are like rock conventions, and that they are becoming musically stylised. However, 22-year-old Matt Bellamy is wavering. This was his third visit to Japan in seven months, which inadvertently confirmed his wavering and self-examination. He has all the talent, technique, and brains. He has both desire and confidence. I would like him to soar into the second chapter of Muse, which is as bold as he can.

"With "Showbiz", I wanted to destroy purity and innocence. But on the next album we're going in the opposite direction."

Last night's gig was really intense (laughs). 「Yeah. I admit it. Sometimes we have gigs like that where we just blow it from start to finish. It depends on the mood of the moment.」

What was your mood like yesterday? 「Well, I was a bit confused and restless.」

Oh, why? 「Haha…… I had a lot of interviews and stuff during the day, so by the time I got on stage, a lot of things had built up inside me. Also, I changed the set of songs since yesterday.」

I see. You played four new songs, didn't you? 「I think three, to be precise. The opener was a new one and an old one that we did as a test for this tour.」

That was a very hard opener. Are the songs for the new album almost complete? 「Yeah, almost. The songs themselves are done, we just need to decide what form we want to take with each one. When we go into the studio, we listen back to everything we've played live and change the details and decide on the arrangements and instruments. I think a couple of the songs will be harder than any of the songs on "Showbiz", but overall I think there's a wider range. From the hard stuff to the softer, more subdued songs. There are at least two very mellow, emotional, and quiet songs. There are also about three songs that are not disco or dance music, but are more like early 80s electro-pop, with a lot of synths.」

One of these songs, "Plug in Baby", already has a title and was played yesterday. It sounded hard live, but it's quite a melody-driven number, isn't it? 「Yes, yes. We've already recorded that one. That one, and the one that doesn't have a title but starts with the keyboard that I played yesterday, we've finished recording those two songs. "Plug in Baby" is quite hard on bass and drums, but I think it's very melodic in its recorded form, including the vocals.」

By the way, what's a Plug In Baby? 「Hehehe…… (chuckles to himself). It can mean a few things, but, er, it might be a little strange…… There are various systems, like governments and big companies, and the idea is that the handful of people at the top of those triangles are all connected and have huge control. There are many smaller triangles in the world, and I am at the top of a very small triangle called Muse. And I'm learning what control is. What kind of influence can I have on the band members, on the crew, on the recording site, etc.? How my ideas flow through all these different people. And eventually, when the record comes out and people start talking about it. Some people take the time to raise their children and spread their influence. At the moment I don't want to have kids at all, but instead I can come up with ideas and concepts about the situation and observe how they flow through people and how things change.」

Does that come from the recognition that controlling what and how is a big issue in being in a band? 「Originally someone was trying to exert control over me, telling me to do this or say that. I've learnt little by little how to stand up to that and make the situation happen the way I want it to happen. That's one theme. But there's also a slightly weirder theme in the song "Plug In Baby", which is the theory that the people who run the big governments and royal families and stuff are not actually living things on Earth (laughs). It's not so much that they are actually people, but that forces we don't know about are controlling their thoughts. People at the top are always targeted and manipulated by these mysterious forces. I don't know if it's true or not, and I know it sounds stupid, but it happens sometimes. It's like you're being controlled by an uncontrollable force, or a creature, or something.」

Hmm (laughs). In our last interview, you mentioned that you sang a song in which you put yourself in the position of a young mother. Have you finished that? 「Yes, but it hasn't been recorded yet. It's just guitar and vocals at the moment, and I'm thinking about how to incorporate the band into it. I think I'll use a very quiet, acoustic guitar, and maybe a harp…… or some kind of tuned percussion. I'd like to make a sound that somehow conveys a sense of childhood happiness. But I haven't really settled on a concrete idea yet.」

Do you have any other thematic trends for the new songs? 「There are two or three songs, and the lyrics are about someone who I really love and want to love because of their personality, but at the same time I feel envious and jealous because the ideals they have are so pure…… I've got a song that goes something like this. I think the songs on the next album are very meaningful to me when I sing them now. But I also felt that way about the songs on the first album when I wrote them. So, well, I think it's normal for my feelings about songs to change over time.」

Is that feeling of envy for the ideal of perfection in others something that's been on your mind recently? 「Hehe…… For example, I think there are people who listen to Muse's music and get a sense of pleasure, but there are also people who find it painful and unbearable to listen to. So…… Hmmm (laughs)…… I think that's true. For example, if you didn't know what human sex is, you might think it's very painful to hear the voices and noises, right? But it's not like that, it's just a pure expression of humanity. But I think for some people it's too graphic or unacceptable or something like that…… Um…… Well, that's a matter of course (laughs). Well, what I was trying to say about ideals is that sometimes you meet people who aren't broken at all, right? They believe in certain things even when they grow up. It can be something very simple, like family ties. My parents divorced when I was 13 and I think that's the way it is, but some people don't know what it's like because they haven't been through it themselves. You're talking to someone and their reaction is that they don't know about it and they don't want to know about it. They don't want to hear about it. Well, that can't be helped. I think that if you don't have to see everything through in reality, that would be the best thing. Sometimes it's better to be able to believe in something like a dream.」

When you come into contact with something so pure and innocent, do you admire it and want to be like it? Or can't help wanting to destroy it? 「Oh yes…… I admire them and want to be one too. Probably. I think on the first album I was more of a person who wanted to destroy it (laughs). But on the next album, I'm going in the opposite direction.」

I always feel that way. I feel that you have a duality or two extremes in you, and that you just can't seem to separate the two. 「Yeah. Yeah, that's true. There's a part of me that always sees both sides of things.」

On the one hand, you want to believe in something really pure and good, but on the other hand, your experiences have made you feel that you can't? 「Another example of this ideal is religion. Something unscientific. I really think how nice it would be if, when you die, you could believe that you're going towards something. I wish there was something like that. Maybe there is, I don't know. But I can't believe in anything that isn't true, no matter how I try…… hehe…… But I wish I could. And maybe I can make myself believe that.」

It feels like that frustration and irritation is transforming into the extraordinary heightening of Muse's music. 「(laughs)…… It's like that for everything. It's also about life itself. Like love. I just can't believe that you love someone and you think it's going to last forever. For anyone.」

"Right now I'm choosing to do caricatures of rock. I think I'm still trying to figure out whether that's a creative situation or not."

I was struck by the fact that you said that your ideal gig experience would be one where you could experience imaginary death on stage, the ultimate ecstasy… 「I mean, I'd like to do more of a theatrical performance. But I still don't know how to incorporate that element and put on a good show. One possible way would be to go out on stage and change costumes and scenes to suit the mood of the songs, so that each song is a theatrical experience. Then each song would be closer to an extreme experience, and there would even be an experience of death in it (laughs). I'd like to do some theatrical performances, not just rock geek stuff.」

Even today, is there a certain amount of drama and theatricality in Muse's performances? 「Yes, that's what I'm trying to bring out. Sometimes it works, sometimes it's a mess. Because sometimes you get into one character and you try to change into a different one, but it doesn't work. That's why I take a lot of time to decide on the setlist. Sometimes it determines the success or failure of the stage. Sometimes, depending on how the songs are arranged, I can't change the mood right away.」

How was last night, by the way? 「Hahaha…… Hmmm. Well, I think the middle part went well, very well. But the beginning and the end, I don't know, maybe it was a bit muddled. The middle part was focused and went as intended, and I think I was able to express what I was feeling about the song really well. Especially "Falling Down" and "Unintended".」

Ah, that ballad spot. Actually, something changed there, or rather, it became easier to understand what you were trying to do. After that, when you went into the storm again, it felt like you could see the flow. 「Oh, really? For us, it was totally the same. Especially with "Unintended", there was a feeling that you don't get very often. Most shows we're like, we slowly build up and get intense, then drop off and get intense again, but last night it started out intense, dropped in the middle, and then built up again at the end. So from the beginning I was in a whirlpool where I didn't know what was going on, and when it finally got quiet in the middle, I was able to calm down and grasp the situation, and I was able to return to that state.」

I see. You play with such tremendous energy that sometimes you get sucked into it and can't quite get yourself out of it. 「Hehehe…… Yeah.」

Are you at all worried that what you're doing might be perceived as a caricature of rock? 「……No, I don't think so.」

And what do you think spares you guys from being seen as caricatures? 「That's…… The fact that I know and have allowed myself to look that way, you know. It's something I've wanted to do. Yes, I think I've deliberately gone that way at some gigs and stuff. But I also know that I can always do something completely different. Other than just playing rock music. I can go in any direction at any time. But right now I'm choosing to do something like a caricature of rock. Because I want to try it. I want to know if it's really a creative situation. I think I'm still trying to figure out if it's a good thing or not.」

Destroying instruments, running around the stage, that sort of thing? 「That was probably the last time I did that, last night.」

Hmm. I've heard that before. 「What, did I say that?」

Not exactly, but something similar. 「Pfft. I see. I might have said that (laughs).」

I'm not criticising you, because even though there are some elements of that cliched tactic, Muse's stage is… 「(interrupting) No, but I agree with you. If I was in the audience, I would feel the same way. But everything I do, I do it because I want to. And I don't really think about whether other people will see it and think it's stupid or not. I do it for my own learning, and I'm still in the learning process. I don't think you can really decide if you want to be that person until you've experienced certain things. Sometimes what you see in people's eyes may not be my true nature, sometimes it's just something I'm doing on a trial basis. Sometimes, when I want to do something like this, I apply the idea to my surroundings and experience the situation. And it's something that, as I said before, you can stop at any time and move on to a different situation.」

Do you really want to stop performing like that, even if it wasn't just last night? 「But right now, I'm riding the acceleration of the first album, so it's hard to stop. We've done a tremendous amount of touring up to this point, and no matter how you do it, you have to become a caricature of rock ‘n’ roll. Life on tour has an effect on both the mind and the body. It's difficult until you cut it off somewhere. I'm trying to do that in November, when this tour is over.」

While you've written a whole new set of songs, you've also been re-experiencing the B-sides of your first and previous singles almost every night on stage. How do you feel about those songs that were released over a year ago? 「I still think they're good. But they've developed into something very different from the album version. It's changed so much over the course of the tour that it's become very extreme. But actually, most of the songs can be played just acoustically. Not for the next album, but at some point in the future, I'd like to release an album based on acoustics without using any electronics at all. Really, my main goal is to try different approaches. Our first album is about youthful rock taken to its limits…」

(laughs). 「There's always the temptation to want to know what life is like at least once. And then to experience it yourself, to experience touring this hard, including all the stereotypical aspects of band life. I've done that too, and thanks to that I've reached a point now where I don't want to know what's going to happen if I keep going like this…… ahaha……」

"As musicians of the same generation as our audience, we are shining a light on the extreme emotions of living in these times. I think that means how to accept yourself as you are."

(laughs). If you're done with the extreme rock of your youth, can you give us a preview of the tone of your next album? 「Everyone keeps asking about the new album—」

Everyone wants to know. 「Yeah, I know. No, I mean it's hard to predict the future, because if you try to force it, you get accused of being different in the end.」

What would you like it to be, in your opinion? 「Hmmm…… Music always reflects how I'm feeling at the time when I'm making it. So I'm sure it will be an honest reflection of how I've been feeling over the past year or two. What I care about more than anything else is honesty. I want it to be as honest as possible about what I'm feeling and what I want to say. I can't really say what that's going to be like until the moment the album is finished.」

You said that since you started writing again, you've lost all sense of who you thought you knew completely before, the path you were on, etc. Does that feeling still persist? 「I've recorded two songs and I've calmed down a lot (laughs). I'm still writing songs, but two or three months ago I was working so hard on them that I didn't know what was going to happen. But once we started recording and rehearsing and playing a few shows, I knew where I was going. I was able to explain "Plug in Baby" a little bit, like I did before. But I didn't really know what the hell I was talking about until I recorded it. I also want to do the artwork for the next album myself, and I've got some ideas for that now. So I'm thinking that after this tour, which goes from Japan to Australia to Scandinavia to Dublin, I'm going to go to the countryside for a couple of weeks in November, where I won't see anyone, to chill out a bit and really think about what I want to do and how I want to do it.」

When you say you don't know where you're going when you're writing, does that mean you don't know where you're going in life itself? 「Yes, it can be like that. You know, when you're writing a song, you just let your feelings out, it's a totally subjective state. I don't try to be objective about myself at all. But in general I try to be objective, most of the time. I keep my distance and think about what I'm doing. The only time I don't do that is when I'm writing songs. That's the only time I go inwards and get closer to myself.」

In a way, it's time to allow yourself to do that. 「Yes, yes, that's right. And in the process, you can't explain your own behaviour. In interviews, you probably try to interpret them as someone else's work, to understand the meaning and background, just like you do.」

Hmmm. Does the act of looking at your own work and creative activities objectively in this way help you? 「Yes, I think so. Trying to be objective…… I mean, I don't think it's good for the mind to be in a position like mine and be subjective all the time. This job can turn even good people into bad people.」

From that point of view, I sense a mysterious duality within you, or rather a sense of balance. 「(laughs) Well, I try to be as careful as possible to be like that.」

You look like you're on the verge of jumping off a cliff, but at the same time you seem to have learnt from history and have the good sense not to do anything really reckless. 「……There were some bad moments. I think. I did some things that I'd like to pretend later that they didn't happen. I mean, mistakes, you know. But basically, that wasn't my intention. Because, after all…… I don't want to die, haha…….」

You mentioned last time that you would ideally like to change the producer of the new album with each song, but how is it progressing in reality? 「Yes, that's reality, hahaha. I've finished two songs with Dave Botterill, who worked with Tool and Deus, and we've got two more to record. That's as far as I've got with him. Then we're going into sessions with John Leckie as well. For the first album, Paul Reeve recorded a lot of the demos and Leckie re-recorded them, but this time we're going to do a session with Leckie alone and record five or six songs. If that goes well, we'll probably continue and do the whole rest of the album with him. But Paul Reeve is not much older than us, and he's very innovative in his ideas and approach. Last time, I asked Leckie to join because he was still inexperienced, but I'd like to record a whole album with Paul someday. Maybe I could be a co-producer then.」

You're already used to playing to every size crowd imaginable, from clubs to festivals, but do you have any set goals for future success, such as how big a venue you want to play at? 「Well, for the next album we'd like to take it to a bit bigger level than what we're doing now. At least in Europe/USA we want to aim for 3-4,000 people. Then we'll do a show based on some kind of concept and see how it goes. But after that, I'd like to keep the audience size small again. I'd also like to be a bit more selective with our festival appearances.」

I heard that you played at 48 festivals this summer alone? 「I heard so (laughs). That's what I've been trying to figure out about the future, whether it's going to work out that way or not.

When I saw you guys on stage in Reading and at the gig yesterday, I thought that there is an overwhelmingly Muse generation audience. It's different from both the Radiohead generation and the Oasis generation. So what do you think your music speaks to and gives to these people? 「Yeah…… I think…… I think that artists of that generation, be they musicians, film directors or whatever, are reflecting back to them what they see around them. It's a reflection of the times. That's why I also…… (laughs) I'm shining a light on the ultimate emotions of living in this era. In other words, I think it's about how we accept ourselves as we are.」

Translator's Note: I actually like what I've scanned so far with this issue. I mean, Matt's blue eyes with his fading blue-dyed hair? Cute 💕

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