#pigeoncoos🕊

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 1

Chapter Links: Chapter 1 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour! ---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–-- A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Arriving in Hell had been a difficult adjustment, but you figured that was likely by design and not some personal failing on your part.  You'd stumbled out of the gates of Hell right into the aftermath of what you now know was an extermination; alone and terrified amidst the burning rubble and mutilated corpses that littered the ground.  

You were lucky in a sense, even though it didn't feel like it at the time.  Everyone is usually pretty busy in the days immediately following an invasion from Heaven, too occupied looting bodies for valuables and deleting the newly deceased from their phone's contact list to give much attention to a new arrival.  The Gates of Hell were usually swarmed by traffickers looking for new merchandise and mid-level thugs looking to make an easy deal for a soul or two, so you were able to slip through the cracks and wander the outskirts of Pentagram city largely unnoticed while most of the sinners were either still in hiding or sleeping off their celebratory hangovers.  

Initially, you stuck out like a sore thumb, clad in the baggy dress that you'd been buried in; a garment that had likely been looted from your Grandmother's closet based on the large shoulder pads and unflattering mauve color.  You figured that your family had deemed all the dresses you actually owned and liked as too inappropriate for funeral garb, which aligned with how they usually regarded your fashion choices.  The fabric was uncomfortable, starched stiff and itchy against your skin, so you didn't feel any guilt about using your newly discovered claws to shred a slit into the back of the skirt to make room for your long and incredibly poofy tail.

Upon further examination in the cracked glass of an abandoned store front, you discovered that you also now possessed a set of rounded black ears atop your head and large, dark smudges around your eyes that made it look like you'd slept with mascara on for a week straight.  

The powers that be had, apparently, found it suitable for you to spend the rest of eternity living as a raccoon.  

And while you greatly preferred your animal form to many of the other, more intimidating body shapes prowling the streets of Pentagram City, looking what most people would consider adorable wasn't necessarily a desired trait in Hell.  Wide-eyed prey animals were quick to disappear, materializing weeks later on posters outside of strip clubs and porn theaters.  

You'd darted from the predatory glances of other sinners, spending your first nights in Hell sleeping curled up behind back alley dumpsters; tearing through the freshest smelling trash bags for scraps of food with a voracity that surely made your Raccoon forefathers shed tears of pride.  

Repeatedly choosing to wander down the least sinister looking streets had inevitably led you to the heart of Cannibal Town, an antiquated borough that looked like it had been lifted straight out of the background of a classic movie.  Naively, you had assumed that the more polished appearance of buildings and fixtures meant that the area was safer than the dilapidated city center you had wandered in from.  That notion had been quickly dispelled when you stumbled across a group of middle aged women sitting on a park bench, merrily chatting as they took turns ripping hunks of flesh from an obviously human leg with their sharpened teeth.  

Thankfully, the abundance of readily available, post Extermination sinner flesh kept the cannibals well satiated and dissuaded them from making you the victim du jour.  That, and the fact that more than one cannibal had gleefully admitted to you that they found raccoon meat too gamey for their liking. 

You'd managed to secure a job fairly easily, with numerous businesses looking to fill vacancies from recent employee murders.  In the end, you'd settled on working at a small butcher shop a couple blocks away from the main promenade.  You'd been unwillingly charmed by the store's on the nose name, ‘Time to Kill’, and the fact that it supplemented your meager paycheck by providing you with a small room above the storefront to live in.  

Hal, the owner of the store, was a heavy-set man with a bushy mustache that wouldn't look out of place attached to a broom handle.  He'd been admittedly skeptical about your potential as a butcher when they had to tuck a bucket into the back room for you to throw up in after the first half-dozen times you'd hurled when breaking down your first carcass.  

But you'd slowly grow accustomed to the grizzly task, focusing on the fact that you were cutting up meat and ignoring that it was likely human in origin.  Hal was pleased by your hard-working nature, but mostly he was thrilled by the fact that you didn't help yourself to a five-finger discount like the rest of his employees did.  

“Seriously,” Hal had said, his mustache twitching in displeasure .  “They're eatin’ all the fingers!”

Day after day passed without much distinction, working from sunup ‘til sundown hacking up bodies for pennies on the dollar.  It wasn't much of a living, but since technically you weren't even living at all, you did your best to be content with your lot in death.  

After all, it was your discontent in life that had landed you here in the first place.  

And if waking up in literal Hell wasn't a wake up call to turn over a new leaf you didn't know what was.  

You were coming up on the first anniversary of your arrival in Hell and the citizens of the Pride Ring were all in a tizzy trying to stock up on supplies to last through the impending Extermination.  Drug dealers were working double shifts to keep up with demand and the liquor stores had long since sold out of their top brands and had switched to selling bathtub gin to supply their customers with.

The line outside of Time to Kill was already wrapped around the block by the time you had flipped the deadbolts, barely managing to escape being crushed by the door as it crashed open; a densely packed group of cannibals rushing inside.  You'd fled from the crowd into the back workroom, taking up your post at a carving station with a cleaver in hand, ready to do your part to supply the hungry masses.

The hours bled together as you skinned and chopped, filleted and ground; so focused on the tasks before you that you didn't realize your coworker had been calling your name until they slapped their hand firmly down onto your shoulder.

“You okay?” They asked, glancing at your dewy face with concern.

“Oh- yeah, I'm alright,” you assured them, placing your cleaver down across the cutting board and wiping your bloody hands on a nearby towel.  “What's up?”

“It's your turn up front,” he said, gesturing towards the front of a store with his stubby thumb.  “Ms. Rosie is here.”

“Ms. Rosie?”

“Yeah, she's the Overlord here in Cannibal Town,” your coworker explained, elbowing you out of the way to take your place at the cutting station.  “Fresh Meat deals with the Overlords- shop rule.”

“Oh,” you murmured nervously, wandering over to the sink to wash your hands.

“Might want to hurry up, there!” one of the other workers called over her shoulder as she dropped a bunch of bone fragments into an awaiting bin.  “Your chance of survival decreases every minute you keep an Overlord waiting!”

You slammed the handle of the faucet to the off position and quickly took off to the front counter, your coworkers laughing raucously at your expense while you frantically wiped your hands dry on your blood-spattered apron.

The politics of Hell were still largely unfamiliar to you.  But even though you did your best to keep your head down and nose in your own business, you'd gleaned a little knowledge from snippets of overheard conversation in the butcher shop.  You weren't entirely sure what Overlords did exactly, but you knew that in order to become one you had to be powerful.

So it was with great trepidation that you stepped into the front of the store, doing your best to hide how absolutely terrified you were, but knowing your stiff legged gait and tight smile likely gave you away.  

The tall, elegant form of Ms. Rosie wasn't what you'd been expecting.  While dressing up was the norm in Cannibal Town, Rosie took it to a new level; looking as though she never let a fabric less expensive than silk grace her form.  But despite the absolutely enchanting picture her elegance painted, the aura of raw power she exuded prickled your skin and caused your tail to poof up in an instinctual, and utterly useless, bid for intimidation.  

“Well, look at you!” Rosie drawled, her dark eyes widening in delighted surprise as you approached the counter.  “It's been a while since we've gotten someone new in town.  Where've you been hiding, sweetheart?”

“Uh- my room, mostly,” you manage to stammer out, nervously smoothing down your ruffled tail fur.  

“That's a real shame, keeping a cute face like yours all cooped up!” Rosie cooed.  “How long ya’ been living in my part of the city?”

“Nearly a year now, Ma'am.”

“A whole year?” Rosie gasped.  “You weren't kidding ‘bout keeping to yourself, huh?”

Not really knowing what else to say, you opt to helplessly shrug before reaching for an order pad and pen.  

“So, uh- what can I get for you today, Ms. Rosie?”

“What's still available?”

“I won't lie, it's pretty slim pickings right now.  But I was just working on a pretty nice looking rack of ribs if you're interested.”

“Ribs it is then,” Rosie smiled, patiently waiting as you disappeared to the backroom and returned with multiple wrapped bundles of meat, all cinched together in a stack with fraying twine.  

“Thank you, darling,” she said, passing the stack of meat to one of the well-dressed attendants waiting beside her.  “Add it to my tab, will ya’?”

“Of course, Ma'am,” you agreed readily, sliding the sale record underneath the cash register tray for Hal to deal with later.  

“Oh, and sweetheart?” Rosie called out, catching your attention, as you moved to assist the next customer in line.  “If you make it through Extermination Day, make sure to swing by and visit me for tea sometime, will ya’?  I'd really like the chance to get to know ya’ better.”

And despite every neuron of common sense and self-preservation screaming at you to decline the invitation, you gritted your teeth and quickly nodded your assent; swallowing thickly when Rosie bared her teeth in a delighted, feral smile.  

You knew better to say ‘no’ to an Overlord.

[coopigeoncoo]

Mirio is head-over-heels in love and so excited for a chance to finally meet your family, but he's also incredibly nervous to meet the people he's relatively certain are going to be his in-laws one day.

"There's nothing to be nervous about, I promise. They're a bunch of clowns," you assure him with a laugh, tugging him up the walkway of your childhood home.

What Mirio doesn't realize, until he spies a handful of cousins riding on unicycles and your uncle juggling the cutlery, is that you meant that they were literal Clowns with a capital C.

And, as luck would have it, Mirio is terrified of clowns.

Through an ironic twist of events, Tamaki is now tasked with guiding Mirio through his fears for the first time ever- a task he is woefully unqualified to perform.

I'm cleaning out my phone and found this brainstorm story idea and thought it was too funny not to share.

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 6

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 6 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

You handled the fall out from Alastor's previous visit in the most mature and level-headed fashion possible; by ignoring your coworkers’ teasing and pretending that absolutely nothing of note had happened.  

And aside from Dorcas’ incessant pestering about the events you would never deign to mention again, you were overall pleased with how successful your endeavor was.

That is until a veritable shadow arrived at the shop, a sharp-fanged piranha plant held between its transparent hands.  With a half bow and an elaborate flourish, the shadow extended the plant out towards you, expectantly waiting for you to accept its offering.  

“Oh, uh - thank you?” You said, unsure if touching shadows was some sort of social faux paus and doing your best to grab hold of the pot around its inky digits.  

The shadow chittered merrily as you investigated your gift, the carnivorous plant sniffing excitedly at the scent of blood that lingered on your skin.  Living plants were a rarity in the Pride Ring, a way for the well-to-do to flaunt their wealth and standing.  Dorcas peered at the plant over your shoulder, letting out appreciative ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ as the plant fluttered its leaves much like a peacock shakes its tail; basking in the glow of your admiration.

You could have easily spent the rest of the day watching the plant, but your attention was stolen by a bright bolt of light as the shadow suddenly snapped, a creamy envelope materializing in an acid green haze between its outstretched hands.  

The letter floated in the air between you, and it took you an embarrassingly long time to realize that the shadow meant for you to take possession of this offering as well.  The envelope was sturdy, made from the sort of expensive paper your Grandpa had insisted you send resumes out on ‘to make a good impression’. 

“What is it?” Dorcas asked breathlessly, taking a hold of the plant pot to free up your hands.  

You pried open the deep red seal, taking care to not crack the intricate design that had been stamped into the wax; an eyeball with a slit pupil set in front of a musical staff full of discordant notes.  It was a bit of casual luxury that seemed so impossibly distant from your way of life where you pinched pennies together to afford packs of tissue-thin paper from the corner five-and-dime.  

“It's an invitation,” you stated in bewilderment after silently reading the immaculately penned card.

Dorcas was silent for a beat before she pushed the fang-tooth plant into your arms and swiped the invitation in one quick motion.  The little bulb in your hands starts to gnash its teeth towards your thumb, fluttering its leaves in obvious frustration when you pull your hand away and leave it snapping at empty air.  

“Looks like I'll be feeding you with tongs,” you coo chidingly to the plant as Dorcas reads over the invitation, her chest heaving in excitement. 

“Alastor, The Alastor,” she repeated with unnecessary emphasis. “Has invited you to a party at the hotel.” 

“That seems to be the case, yes.”

“Are you- are you actually going to attend?”

Considering there wasn't any information printed to RSVP, it appeared to you that this was to be taken as more of a formal summons than a polite invitation.  

“I don't think I have much of a choice,” you admit quietly, doing your best to level your breathing in an attempt to remain calm; aware that the shadow had yet to dissipate and would likely be reporting your actions back to its master in excruciating detail.

“Right,” Dorcas nodded, reading over the note for the umpteenth time when her head suddenly shot up in alarm. “What are you going to wear?”

Shit.

“Well, good morning sunshine!” Rosie greets brightly when you finally make it to the head of the line at the Emporium. “What brings ya’ to my neck of the woods?”

“I need your help, Ms. Rosie,” you croak pathetically, unable to put any energy into maintaining a congenial facade after enduring multiple sleepless nights; beset by worry as the date printed on the invitation drew ever closer. 

“That's what I'm here for!” Rosie assures you, patting your hand comfortingly.  Her fingers were unpleasantly boney and cold, but you appreciated the gesture just the same.  “Now, what can Rosie assist ya’ with?”

You reached wordlessly into your velveteen handbag, a second hand find worn thin at the edges, and handed the invitation to Rosie.

“I got this last week,” you explained as the Overlord read over the card. “There's no mention of dress code, so I have no clue what would be appropriate.  And even if I did know, I'm not sure I would be able to afford it anyway-”

Rosie daintily held up her pointer finger, which not only silenced you, but everyone in the immediate vicinity.  

“Let me make sure I've got this straight,” Rosie said, her voice level and unsettlingly calm.  “Alastor has invited you to a garden party at the Hazbin Hotel.”

You tried to not be offended by the disbelief heavy in her words and mentally shrug off the slight, but it still stung.  

“Yes,” you nod your head slightly in affirmation, reaching into your handbag once again and withdrawing a handful of pendants and brooches you had carved; laying them out gently on the counter between you.  “I don't have a lot of cash at the moment, but I was hoping that maybe you'd take these in exchange for- for something.  Anything, really.”

“These certainly are lovely,” Rosie said as she picked up your newest creation, a large pin carved to look like a gaping, sharp toothed maw.  “and I'd certainly love to talk about selling these in my shop in the future.”

“Really?”  You gasped, your heart suddenly bursting with pride at the notion that Ms. Rosie thought your creations were good enough to not just sell, but were good enough to sell in her very posh store.

“I won't be accepting them as payment though,” Rosie informed you gently, pushing them back across the counter to you to collect back up.

The warm glow of pride in your chest was quickly extinguished by a crashing swell of panic.  It had been a long shot, offering up your handmade goods for Rosie's couture fashion, but they were the only things of any value you possessed.  

You had briefly thought about offering up your carnivorous plant, affectionately named Captain Crunch due to its love of chewing on bones as loudly as possible; but you had grown fond of the tiny shrub.  Caring for Captain brought you immense satisfaction, and you inevitably decided you were more willing to show up underdressed to a fancy party than part with your leafy companion.   

“I- I understand,” you warbled, holding back frustrated tears as you picked your jewelry back up with shaking hands. 

“I can't accept payment because I'm dressing ya' for free, ” Rosie beamed, apparently taking great satisfaction in sending you through an emotional spiral.  

“Oh,” you breathed in utter shock, barely comprehending the Overlord's generous proclamation.

“I'll fix ya’ up, bonnet to boots, on one condition,” Rosie said, holding up that commanding pointer finger again.

You weren't some wet behind the ears sinner, unknowingly agreeing to lopsided deals out of desperation.  This conversation was spiraling into dangerous territory and you needed to be on your guard, lest you end up bound into an afterlife of eternal servitude.

“What's your stipulation?”

Rosie grinned, apparently pleased at your shrewdness.  “I want to hear all the juicy details!”

“That's it?” You mumble, caught off guard by her mundane request.  “You don't want my soul or anything?”

“Oh, honey!” Rosie laughed.  “A good bit of gossip is way more valuable than any old soul!”

Tag List:

For the first time ever I have been requested to create a tag list, so let me know if you want to be added!

@wendds

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 7

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 7 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Rosie had arranged for Hal to escort you across town for the event.  

“You'd be an easy target, all gussied up and fancy looking,” she'd explained.  “And Alastor is nothing if not a gentleman.  He'll see ya’ home safe.”

So Hal had put on a bow tie and his least blood stained trousers and the two of you had set off towards the Hazbin Hotel.  It took longer than expected thanks to your heels making the pitted sidewalks an absolute terror to negotiate, but a good number of people were still entering the hotel by the time you arrived.  

“Ya’ got knives on ya?’” Hal grumbled.  

“I've got two in my purse, one strapped to my leg, and Ms. Rosie leant me her sharpest hat pin,” you say, reaching up to fiddle with the accessory in question.  

“Attagirl,” Hal says, squeezing the arm laced through his in approval as you passed through the gates and meandered along the cobblestone driveway.  Hal prattled on as you drew closer to the entrance, seemingly overflowing with paternal advice, but it was hard to focus on his words over the thundering of your heartbeat in your chest.

“- and a kick to the pussy hurts just as much as a kick to the dick.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmured distractedly, reaching into your beaded pearl clutch to pull out the invitation with shaking hands.  

You handed it to the doorman, some sort of egg-like creature with a large chunk of shell missing from the top of its head, providing a clear view of a pulsating yolk where its brain should be.  The egg man called out your name to the uncracked egg beside him, who scribbled on a clipboard wildly before shooting you a dopey smile and thumbs up.

“Don't stay out too late,” Hal said gruffly, patting your hand reassuringly as he released your arm.  “You're opening tomorrow.”

Alone for the first time since the sun came up, you decided to linger in the lobby of the hotel for a bit before following the garishly flashing signs directing visitors to the rear garden.  

With as deep a breath as your girdle would allow, you grasped the back of a wing back chair and gave yourself permission to panic, hoping that briefly indulging your baser instincts would clear your mind enough to stay focused on the task of surviving an entire afternoon on the Radio Demon's arm.  

A few minutes and an uncountable amount of breaths later, you felt the knot in your chest loosen and heartbeat slow to an acceptable rate; still fast, but as good as your were likely to get walking into an event that would likely draw out some of the most powerful demons the Pride Ring had to offer.  

“Whatcha doin’ in here, toots?”

Adrenaline crashes through your veins, undoing all of progress you'd made in centering yourself as you spin to face the man addressing you.  You recognized him, of course.  Not because you'd personally watched any of his many works, but because of the plethora of billboards bearing his face and other, more delicate parts, that loomed tall over every corner of the city.  

“The garden party is, y'know, in the garden,” Angel Dust said, tone acerbic as he rested a full watering can on a jutting hip.  “So what're sneaking around her for?”

“I'm not sneaking,” you rush to defend yourself, fiddling with the cuff of your sleeve nervously.  “I'm just… lurking.”

“Ain't too sure there's much of a difference between the two.”

“Sneaking implies some sort of underlying mischief.  I assure you that I'm simply waiting here.”

“Oh?  And what're you waiting for?” Angel Dust asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he crossed one set of arms across his chest.

“An excuse to leave,” you say dryly, casting a wary glance out the open double doors leading out to the patio.  Something about your response seemed to set Angel Dust at ease, because the next time you looked at him he was smirking down at you, suddenly more amused than distrustful. 

“You and me both, girlie,” he snorted, unfolding his multitude of hands to smooth down nonexistent creases in his floral halter top and leather hot pants.  “I can't stand all this hoity-toity bullshit.  It's exhausting playing nice with folks who wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.”

“I think I'd rather burn anyway,” you said, wrinkling your nose distastefully at the thought.

“No promises, but I'll keep your preferences in mind,” Angel Dust snorted, beckoning you down the hallway with a wave of his willowy arm.  “Why don't you come outside with me?  I'll show you the best parts of the garden- all the ones I planted, of course.”

The gardens at the Hazbin Hotel could be generously described as eclectic; an absolutely miss-matched and uncoordinated array of plants that honestly had no business being in the same hemisphere as each other, let alone the same garden bed. 

“Charlie had the grand idea of givin’ everyone their own chunka’ land to cultivate,” Angel explained, pointing at various sections of the garden.  “Husky put in the lemon tree so he can have fruit to stock the bar with and all the goddamn mint that won't stay where it fucking belongs!”

A surly looking catman casually flipped off Angel as you passed by, likely the one responsible for unleashing the minty scourge if Angel Dust's playful sneer was anything to go by.  

“Satan below, I love that man,” Angel sighed, grabbing a glass of champagne off a passing waiter's tray before continuing down the rough cobblestone path. “Anyway , all these pretty blossoms belong to moi-”

You nodded in sincere appreciation.  “They're absolutely gorgeous.”

“Course they are!  They take after their daddy,” Angel Dust cooed, blowing kisses at a cluster of puffy white chrysanthemums.  

“I didn't know Earth flowers could even grow down here,” you murmured quietly, struck nearly breathless by the beauty of the blossoms.

“They can't.  Not naturally, anyway,” Angel explained, flicking an aphid off the petal of a perfectly symmetrical dahlia.  “But having Lucifer constantly hangin’ around definitely comes with some perks.”

“I didn't think I'd ever get to see them again,” you whispered, blinking rapidly to banish the tears welling in your eyes, frustrated at how they made your vision blur when you wanted to remember everything with sharp, crystal clarity. 

“It's like seein’ an old friend again, innit?” Angel smiled knowingly, having gone through a similar experience when the scraggly stalks he'd obsessively tended had sent out their first, tentative buds.  “Now, c'mon.  You gotta see the rest of this place.  Shit starts gettin’ fuckin’ bizarre.”

‘Fucking bizarre’ didn't even scratch the surface of describing the rest of the garden tour.  Your next stop was Princess Charlotte’s sad plot of withered and wilted plants. 

“She bought every half-dead plant at the nursery.  Thought she could rehabilitate ‘em,” Angel had explained with a long suffering sigh. “I don't wanna talk about the symbolic implications of that, if ya’ don't mind.”

The next section was a barren stretch of land without a single plant.  Rising from the ground instead were hundreds of insects skewered on sharpened sticks; everything from tiny house flies on toothpicks to large horned beetles impaled on whittled down twigs. 

“Niffty,” Angel Dust had offered up with a helpless shrug, as though the single name provided any sort of reasonable explanation for the eerie tableau.  Deciding that you didn't actually want Angel Dust to expound on the situation, you simply nodded and continued on your way down the row.  

The air quickly soured as you left Niffty's sacrificial plot, the ground on either side of the path softening with every step; eventually shifting into a churning, fetid swamp.  The understated appeal of the shoulder high cattails and thick swaths of pillowy moss were lost on you, distracted as you were, by the thick cloud of gnats that swarmed the area. 

“Whose area is this?” You grumbled peevishly, swatting at the bugs flittering around your face. 

“Why, this area is my handiwork,” Alastor's familiar voice called out from behind you.  Both you and Angel Dust visibly stiffened at his sudden appearance, turning in unison to face the Overlord.  

“Alastor,” Angel Dust greeted flatly.  “What're you doin’ all the way out here?  Don't you have some rich schmuck to schmooze?”

“Always,” Alastor sighed dramatically.  “No rest for the wicked and all that.”

“You must never fuckin’ sleep then,” Angel groused, folding his many arms in front of himself defensively.  

Alastor ignored his barb and instead extended a hand out towards you, wiggling his fingers expectantly.  

“Come along now, dear.  I'm not sure how you managed to slip by me, but you've deprived me of your company long enough.”

“Wait a minute,” Angel bellowed incredulously, eyes impossibly wide as he watched you place your hand tentatively into Alastor's; his spindly fingers clamping around yours like a vice as he guided you closer to his side.  “You're Alastor's guest?”

“She's a fair bit more than that,” Alastor grinned, undeniably smug as he guided your small hand into the crook of his arm; turning his head to give you an unmistakable, pointed look.

The performance has begun.

Tag List:

For the first time ever I have been requested to create a tag list, so let me know if you want to be added!

@wendds @matpatsstuff @qardasngan

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 2

Chapter Links: First, <- Chapter 2 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour! ---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Extermination came and went with you wrapped up in all the blankets from your bed, crammed into the walk-in cooler Hal used to age gigantic slabs of meat.  Once the distant screams had died down you were quickly pulled from the fridge and put back to work, barely able to hold a knife in your frost nipped fingers. 

“Lotsa screaming means lotsa bodies,” Hal explained, tying the strings of his apron around his wide hips in a tight double knot.  “And lotsa bodies means lotsa meat.”

As though summoned by his words, a forceful knock sounded from the delivery entrance; a salesman bearing the first of many scavenged corpses sold to the shop for a quick buck. 

You stared down at the man laid across your chopping block, his face contorted to showcase the abject terror of his final moments.

“I'm sorry this happened to you,” you murmured quietly, fingers tracing the jagged cut that had ripped the man open from pelvis to sternum.  “But I promise to do a better job than they did.”

The angels had cut his life short.

And then you cut him into pieces.

It didn't seem particularly fair to you, but you supposed it was as balanced as things could be in Hell.  

Hal, in a rare show of mercy, gave his employees the weekend off to recuperate from the pre and post Extermination rushes.  You had been content to hole up inside your cramped apartment and sleep for the full two days, but once you remembered your promise to Ms. Rosie you managed to pull yourself out of bed and get dressed with a minimal amount of cursing. 

It wasn't difficult to find her once you actually managed to wake up enough to stumble down your apartment stairs without breaking your neck.  You'd pass by Franklin and Rosie's Emporium often enough running errands for Hal.  It would be hard to avoid the boutique considering it was smack dab in the middle of main street; placing it along just about every route through town.  

The Emporium offered a wide selection of impeccably tailored clothes you couldn't ever hope to afford with your meager earnings.  It was nearly impossible to swallow back the sour burn of envy roiling in your belly at the sight of the smartly dressed women spinning in front of mirrors in their tailored waistcoats and silver buttoned shoes.  You self consciously soothed out wrinkles in your burgundy colored skirt, the fabric likely permanently creased from being trapped under the tight sash of your butchery apron.

The checkout line moved slowly as every patron stopped to chat with Rosie or the woman standing beside her, and it felt like a small eternity had passed before you made it to the front of the queue.  Rosie's eyes widened as she saw you, a bright smile stretching across her face as she quickly skirted around to the front of the counter.

“Take over from me, Franklin!” Rosie called out to her companion over her shoulder, motioning you to follow her with an excited wave of her hand.  “I've got a special guest visiting!”

Rosie led you to a darling two person cafe table pushed into an alcove with a giant window overlooking the central square of Cannibal Town, where a barbershop quartet was starting to attract a fair bit of attention from passers by.  Rosie was silent as she slid up behind you, but the weight of her aura was somehow palpable; like a humidity that clogged the air and made breathing a laborious task.

“It's pretty peaceful for a place called Cannibal Town, isn't it?” Rosie boasted, but you couldn't fault her for her pride.  You knew from stories around town that the orderly life on display was the result of her tireless effort to secure a better life for the sinners under her rule.  

“It is,” you agreed readily, sliding carefully  into the chair that one of her attendants had pulled out for you while Rosie settled down across the table.  “You've built a lovely community, Ms. Rosie.”

“Oh, aren't ya' just the sweetest thing!” Rosie chirped in delight, hoisting a tray of finger foods up under your nose.  “Canapé?”

You were too nervous to be hungry, but grabbed a couple of crackers topped with thin slices of blood sausage and dollops of roasted marrow to be polite.  Not sure what to say, you quickly popped one of the hors d'oeuvres into your mouth immediately and hoped Rosie would take hold of the conversational reins.

Rosie, mercifully, rose to the occasion.  

“So, you seem to be fitting in pretty well around here.  That's unusual these days,” she said, deftly pouring some piping hot bone broth into dainty porcelain tea cups.  “Hard to find new sinners willing to live without television or cellular phones.”

You couldn't help but think of how much of your life had been squandered in front of screens; the endless hours of scrolling and watching and seeing and wanting- of wondering why your life never seemed to compare to the ones that clogged your social media feeds.  

“Those- those things do me more harm than good, I think,” you admit between small bites of sausage.  

“Oh, honey.  Those gadgets are nothing but trouble for everyone,” Rosie cooed comfortingly before angling her head down to mumble into her cup “especially down here.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing to worry your pretty little head over,” Rosie laughed dismissively, pushing a platter of finger sandwiches towards your now empty plate.  You grabbed the one with a thumb poking out, saving the sandwiches stuffed with choicer pinky digits for your host.  

“It's nice to see you don't shy away from the…specialized fare Cannibal Town is known for,” Rosie said approvingly, watching as you skillfully de-nailed the finger in your sandwich.  “Did working at the butcher shop help acclimate ya'?”

“A bit.  I won't lie, it was really hard at first.  I spent a lot of time pretending that I was eating other stuff- beef, pork, a really convincing soy substitute,” you admit. “But after a little while that started to feel, I don't know, disrespectful?”

“Oh?” 

“It's like- this person is nourishing me.  I am alive because of them.  It didn't seem right to pretend that they were somehow less than what they were; especially when they were providing me with so much.  Acknowledging their life, what they were-” you paused, considering your words along with the remaining phalange held between your fingers.  “It's the least I can do.  A way I can thank them.”

You feel a bit vulnerable from your confession, never having voiced your thoughts out loud before, and it takes you a moment to muster the courage to look up from your hands and meet your host’s gaze again.  Rosie is positively beaming at you, her small nose crinkled in delight.

“I need you to promise me you'll try and get out more, sweetie.  It's very inconsiderate for you to deprive the citizens of Cannibal Town of your company,” Rosie said, leaning over the table to place her hand on top of yours, the press of her fingers a balm to your touch-starved soul. “You're one of us now.  It's time to start acting like it.”

You'd reluctantly started to make appearances around town.  It started small, with short walks around the park when the belladonna began to bloom, followed by the weekly al fresco concerts once the early spring acid rains tapered off.  

And then suddenly a switch seemed to flip.  People would wave good morning to you from across the street, customers would ask about how your weekend was, and  your coworkers invited you out for drinks after work.  You'd gone from merely existing in Cannibal Town to really living in Cannibal Town.  

You tried to not dwell on how much happier you were in Hell than you were on Earth, fearful about what exactly that said about the sort of person you were. 

The years ticked by and before you knew it the workers at the butcher shop had surprised you with a lopsided devils food cake to celebrate your fifth death day.

“When you're facing down eternity you don't celebrate every single year,” Dorcas, the girl who usually worked the register, explained.  “Five is the first milestone party, followed by twenty-five and fifty.  They get more spaced out as time goes on.”

You had woken up early the next day, dehydrated with a headache pounding behind your eyeballs from overindulging at your death day celebration.  Hal, in a show of incredible foresight, had scheduled you for the afternoon shift.  With a mug of watery coffee in hand, you were slowly shambling to the threadbare armchair in the corner of your room when the broken radio on the side table suddenly began shooting off sparks; the device alight with an eerie green glow.

“SWEET SASSY MOLASSY,” you screamed, accidentally spilling coffee down the front of your dressing gown as you leaped away from the ancient box radio.

“Salutations!  Good to be back on the air!” a staticky voice greeted, the cheery tone completely at odds with your abject misery as you pulled your soaked nightgown away from your chest to cool your singed flesh.

The radio was loud, the volume knob having been set to maximum when it suddenly powered on; but the sound inside your apartment was nothing compared to the uproarious cheers you heard coming from outside as the citizens of Cannibal Town overjoyed by the return of their favorite radio program.  

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 5

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 5 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Most days, Charlie's incessant prattling amused Alastor.  It was one of the few traits they both shared after all; the ability to pick up the threads of dropped conversations and weave them into something new.  Usually a pithy quip on his part while Charlie would provide some long-winded tirade about friendship and optimism; nonsensical sorts of things that Alastor didn’t spare much thought towards. 

Generally, it was an effortless feat for Alastor to redirect Charlie's attention and energy onto something or someone else; goodness knows that the residents of their hotel could generously be described as an absolute mess most of the time.  There was always some sort of disaster brewing that the little Princess couldn't help but insert herself into.  A lovers tiff here, a genocide there, another new guest with an uninspired tale of woe that required comfort and a supportive embrace or two.

But there was a stubborn streak in Charlie today that kept her focus fully on the Overlord.  And while he usually never shied away from being the center of attention, Alastor had to admit that he was beginning to grow increasingly weary of her present line of questioning.

“-so what do you think?  Are you willing to give it a shot?”  Charlie asked, her entire body practically quivering in anticipation for his answer.  

“Hmm?  I'm sorry, I must have drifted off for a moment there. What were you saying?” Alastor apologized, his eyes alight with false sincerity.  

“Oh, come on!  There was no way you tuned out that entire musical number!” Charlie groaned in frustration.  “I hit like, three super high notes!  There was confetti-”

“I was dancin’,” a passing sanitation worker interjected, unceremoniously dumping a bin full of used hypodermic needles into the back of an idling trash truck.  

“-the garbageman was dancing, Alastor!”

“I’m sure it was a most spectacular sight!” Alastor assured him.

“Damn right it was,” the garbage man grumbled under his breath as he hefted a heavily stained mattress into his arms.  

“Okay, just- ugh!” Charlie sighed, dragging a hand down her face in exasperation. “Forget the song-”

“Way ahead of you, my dear!” Alastor grinned, spinning his staff merrily as he set off down the sidewalk, Charlie quickly catching up despite his longer stride.  

“I'm just worried, Alastor.  You haven't really made any effort to open up to anyone at the hotel.”

“Haven't you ever heard the saying about mixing business and pleasure?  I'm merely maintaining a professional demeanor.  I would hate for the sterling reputation of our fine establishment to be tarnished by unprofessionalism!” Alastor explained, wiggling his fingers at a passing sinner who cowered under the oppressive weight of Alastor's fleeting glance.

“See, this is exactly what I mean!” Charlie shouted, frantically waving at all the pedestrians ducking down alleys and darting recklessly into oncoming traffic to avoid having to cross paths with the Radio Demon.  “People are afraid of you, Alastor.”

“As well they should be!  I am an Overlord after all, my dear.  Being terrifying is part of the job description.”

“Yes, I know that!  But the problem is that everyone is afraid of you.”

“Are they now?  I guess most people must be smarter than they look!” Alastor laughed in delight as Charlie's consternation grew. 

“I'm being serious here!  Even the people at the hotel are still…uncomfortable with you,” Charlie offered diplomatically.  “Which isn't what the hotel is supposed to be about.  It's supposed to be a place of friendship and comradery- where people can feel safe enough to open up and be vulnerable.”

Charlie paused in her explanation to gesture to the palpable air of malevolence that radiated from her hotelier.

“And you come off as everything but safe.”

“Oh, stop it!  You're making me blush!” Alastor cooed, lifting a coy hand to cradle his pale cheek.  

“Alastor,” Charlie sighed, quickly shuffling around him on the sidewalk so she could place herself directly in his path, forcing him to come to an abrupt halt and look into her pleading eyes.  “Please.  I need the hotel to be a success.  And I think that's what you want, too.  For whatever reason.”

Alastor was quiet as he examined the determined jut of Charlie's chin, his head tilting slightly to the side in consideration.  “What exactly is it that you require of me?”

“To be friendly.  To honestly try and connect with someone.”

“Shall I braid your hair then?  Gossip with the Effeminate Fellow about boys?”

“Those are both great ideas!  But they…don't really seem like your thing,” Charlie hesitantly admitted.  “Why don't you start out with something you're good at?”

“Torture?” 

“Talking.”

“If you insist,” Alastor sighed.  “But my suggestion would be considerably more entertaining.”

“Hey, you never know where a good conversation might lead!  Just look at me and Vaggie!,” the Princess chirped excitedly, her eyes sparkling in delight at the mere thought of her taciturn partner. “She would barely say two words to me when we met and now we tell each other everything!”

“Ahhh,” Alastor narrowed his eyes in suspicion.  “Is that your angle?  To find me a partner?  A paramour?  To try to soften me up with affection?”

“What?  No, that's not it at all!” Charlie rushed to assure him, her hands flapping wildly in front of her body as though she could physically waft away the misunderstanding.  “I mean, it would be great if you could find someone like that, you know, if- if you wanted to!  It's nice to have someone to care about- to care about you , in that way.”

“Please, do elaborate,” Alastor said, gesturing in front of himself with an exaggerated wave of his hand, encouraging Charlie to continue down the hopelessly cracked and pitted sidewalk towards Cannibal Town. 

“Oh- uhhh,” Charlie sputtered, stumbling over her own legs slightly as she moved to fall into step beside Alastor, her fingers nervously twiddling around each other as she struggled to find the words to explain herself.  “Partners are, well- it's sort of like being friends, but more?  Better, I guess?  You talk with them and spend time with them like friends, but they just-”

Charlie paused, heaving in a deep sigh as she imagined her girlfriend in her mind's eye, and tried to verbalize all the wonderful feelings that Vaggie cultivated in her heart.

“When you see someone you love, your day just instantly brightens.  You get excited thinking about the next time you see them- it feels like a bunch of moths are fluttering around inside of your belly.”

Alastor's upper lip curled up in revulsion.  “And that's a desirable feeling?  Intestinal insects?”

“Well, not when you put it that way,” Charlie huffed, crossing her arms across her chest in frustration.  “It's something you can't really explain unless you've experienced it.”

Alastor was unusually quiet, the ambient humming that surrounded him barely audible as they continued on their way.  For a moment, Charlie worried that she had maybe gone too far; that she had drawn an exclusive circle around herself and her experiences that painted Alastor as even more of an outsider than he already was.  An apology sat perched on her tongue, ready to assure him that it was okay to never have felt these things, when Alastor spoke up.  

“It doesn’t feel like fluttering,” Alastor drawled, his free hand pressed against his abdomen pensively.  “It’s more akin to a gnawing sensation.”  

“Wait-,” Charlie gasped, quickly sucking in a lungful of the humid Hellish air.  “Alastor, is there- is there someone you have feelings for?”

“Upon reflection I do believe there might be, based on your exceptionally vivid description of the experience,” Alastor informed her with an excited grin, pushing open the reinforced glass door of a building and ushering Charlie over the threshold ahead of him with a courteous incline of his head.  

“Ooooohhhhh, Alastor!” Charlie squealed, bouncing on her toes in barely suppressed jubilation as she queued up in the short line in front of the register.  “Who is it?  How long have you known them? Can I meet them?  Do you think they like you back?  Wait- that's too many questions!  I'm sorry!  But I'm just so excited for you!”

“It's fine, my dear!  Perfectly understandable,” Alastor reassured her with an indulgent laugh.  “And of course you can meet them, if that's what you'd like.”

“YES!” Charlie yelled, only realizing how loud she was once all the numerous eyes of both the customers and the walls of the store quickly shifted their focus onto her.  She coughed into her fist and straightened her lapels in embarrassment as she waited for the other customers to lose interest and turn away. “I mean- that is to say, it would be lovely to meet them at your earliest convenience.”

“But of course!” Alastor agreed readily as he stepped with Charlie to the front of the line.  “Here she comes now!”

“Now?” Charlie squawked, spinning around frantically in quick circles to try and catch a glimpse of who in the store Alastor might be referring to.

“Here you are, Alastor, Sir,” you announced with a nervous grin, sliding a large, paper-wrapped parcel across the counter.  “One whole venison round, as requested.”

“Thank you, my dear!” Alastor said as he took hold of the meat, vanishing it to locations unknown with a quick snap of his fingers.  “I was wondering if I might trouble you for a moment longer, though?”

Sweat immediately began to gather at your hairline as you tried to swallow down the bile creeping up your throat.  “Is- is there a problem with your order?”

“No, no, nothing like that!” Alastor assured you with a sharp grin that did little to settle your nerves.  “It has recently been brought to my attention that I am enamored with you.”

All sounds inside the butcher shop abruptly halted, like the entire store had been sucked into a vacuum; customer's jaws hanging slack in shock at the unexpected confession. 

“You're what?” You squeak in obvious distress, casting pleading glances at your coworkers who were quietly peeking in  through a slim crack through the backroom door, eager to spy on the unfolding drama.

“Enamored, my dear!  Beguiled!  Infatuated!  Smitten, if you will.”

“You… like me?” You muttered dumbly as your brain struggled to process the bizarre scene you had found yourself thrust into the middle of.  

“Apparently!” Alastor laughed, reaching behind himself to tug his companion to his side.  “See, I was chatting with my associate here, Charlie, the Princess of Hell-”

“Your Grace,” you croak dryly, dropping into what was hopefully a passable curtsy.

“Hey, uh- nice to meet you!” Charlie greeted with a stiff wave and an even stiffer smile. 

“-and she made me realize what my true feelings for you were!  How you make my day better, how I look forward to the next time I see you, how you make my stomach rumble,” Alastor growled lowly, his already towering form seeming to elongate as he loomed over you.

“...It ah- it sounds like maybe you're just… hungry whenever you see me?”

“Perhaps!” Alastor cackled, his staticy laugh even more distorted up close.  “But one man's passion is another man's hunger, as they say!”

“Do they say that?  Is that a thing people say?!” You whispered manically towards Charlie, her shoulders jumping up towards her ears in a helpless shrug.

“Gastrointestinal palpitations aside, you can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow, his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place; afraid that any sudden movement might somehow cause him to pounce. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

“RIGHT, okay!” Charlie interrupted with a nervous laugh, slamming a handful of bills down onto the counter as she managed to mercifully push herself between the Radio Demon and the meat counter.  “So sorry, but we have to go- there's important hotel business we need to get back to!  It was lovely meeting you, have a nice day, BYE!”

You were still staring at the door minutes after Charlie had frantically pulled Alastor out of the store, only snapping out of your daze when your manager shuffled up beside you, nose buried in the employee handbook.  

“I've triple checked and experiencing sudden romantic overtones isn't grounds for taking personal leave,” he explained, pointing to the exact passage in the well-worn guide.  “You're gonna’ have to finish out your shift.”

“Of course,” you replied distantly, unable to meaningfully focus on anything other than your racing thoughts and the strange, muffled ringing in your ears.  “What about if I pass out?”

“Says here you'll get a fifteen minute break and a strong cup of tea.”

“Better put the kettle on then,” you mumbled as your knees buckled, vision going black as you plummeted towards the floor.  Your manager looked down at your crumpled body and sighed, nudging you out of the way with his foot and stepping up to the register.  

“Next in line!”

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 10

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 10 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

The days following the garden party were laced with uncertainty, not knowing when you might see Alastor again or what he might ask of you next.  He didn't seem like the brutish sort that would force more… intimate affections onto someone, but the powerlessness of your situation often sent your mind spiraling off to imagine the worst possible scenarios you could potentially be subjected to.  

Dorcas, sweet thing that she was, took it upon herself to become increasingly offended on your behalf with every day that passed without word from the Radio Demon.  

“Who does he think he is,” she sniffed irritably as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn blood stain with a wire brush.  “Acting like a genuine suitor and then just up and disappearing on you like a puff of smoke.”

“Likely he thinks himself to be an Overlord,” you reminded her firmly, aware that some of the people in line spent more time gossiping than breathing.  

“Well, yeah.  But that's no excuse to ignore good etiquette!”

“I think it's an excuse to do pretty much whatever he wants, actually.”

“I still think it's rude,” Dorcas huffed, throwing her brush into the cleaning bucket in frustration.  

You hummed noncommittally, trying to ignore how your heart raced every time the bell above the door rang, and how disappointed you were when it never heralded the arrival you were so anxiously anticipating.

It never ceased to amaze you how, with a job that routinely had you scooping out brains like ice cream, the worst task of your day was somehow always mopping.  

Repeatedly hauling and dumping around the huge pail of water was utterly exhausting, and eventually your arms got so shaky you'd end up spilling a full bucket or two all over the front of your dress.  

Mopping today had been especially excruciating since you'd exhausted yourself breaking down a huge delivery of loan sharks killed during an especially bloody turf war the night before.  Your biceps, predictably, quaked as you lifted the bucket of pink-tinged waste water up to the edge of the sink; sloshing a generous amount onto your already sodden shoes.  

“Dagnabbit!” You swore, cringing as your foot squelched unpleasantly inside your boot.  

“Here,” a deep voice sounded from over your shoulder.  “Lemme help ya’ with that.”

And the next thing you knew, the bucket was effortlessly lifted from your hands and poured into the sink in one swift motion.  You turned to face the helpful stranger and were utterly shocked at how far back you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes.

The man in front of you was positively gargantuan, just about as broad as he was tall; and easily the largest man you'd seen alive and kicking since you tumbled through the gates of Hell.  

“Oh, uh-,” you stammer inelegantly, still trying to process the grandiose scale of your unexpected assistant.  “Thank you for your help, mister-?”

“Harlan,” the wall of a man replied, slipping the worn flat-cap from atop of his head, wringing it between his meaty hands bashfully.  “It's a pleasure to be makin’ your acquaintance, miss.”

He was staring at you so unabashedly that it set your nerves on edge, wondering what fascinated him so.

“Do I- is there something on my face?” You ask, patting at the soft fur on your cheek self-consciously.  

“Oh, no- it's nothin’ like that,” Harlan stammered, scratching at the back of his neck.  “I'm just wonderin’ how I've managed to not cross paths with ya’ before now.”

“Hell's a big place.  I'm sure you've seen me around town before.”

“I would have remembered if I did, I can promise ya’ that,” Harlan admitted, pinning you in place with another intense stare.  Your tail twitched, providing a sudden reminder that you had a couple of additional attributes that made you stick out like a sore thumb amongst the more uniform population of Cannibal Town.  

It wasn't the first time your animal characteristics had given someone pause, but it had been so long since that last time it happened that it threw you off balance for a moment.  

“So, what brings you in today, Harlan?” You inquire, wringing out your apron over the sink in an effort to appear more like a professional woman and less like a drowned rat caught in a pool filter.  

“Bread.”

“I'm…afraid we don't sell bread.  This is a butcher shop,” you reply slowly, confused as to how anyone could possibly mistake the two businesses.  

“Right!  Of course.  I- I mean, I know that,” Harlan said, words tumbling from his mouth in an uncoordinated heap.  “What I mean is that I'm here to pick up some bone meal.  For the bakery.  So they can make bread.  Because that's their job.  Baking, I mean.” 

“Oh!” You proclaimed loudly, dropping your apron and gesturing that he follow you back to the storage room.  “Yes, of course!  I'm so sorry for the confusion, but you aren't the usual guy they send for pick-up.”

“He got a promotion,” Harlan explained, turning sideways so his shoulders could clear the doorframe.  “So they're shufflin’ folks around to cover all the work he used to do.”

“Isn't that always how it goes?” You laugh dryly, winding your way through the cluttered aisles.  “Make everyone else pick up the slack so the boss doesn't have to hire anyone new.”

“I can't say that I mind so much.  I'm findin’ my new duty mighty agreeable.”

“Well that's good.  But let's see if that positivity holds out once you see what you have to carry out of here,” you cringe apologetically, patting the side of a towering pile of heavy flour sacks.  “We processed an entire gang of snakes last week- they're very bony, you know.  Anyway, your predecessor left a hand cart in the corner.  It'll probably take a couple of trips to-”

Your instructional lecture was interrupted by Harlan squatting down in front of the pile, wrapping his arms around the stack on either side, before standing up again.  With only a small grunt to indicate he was exerting any sort of effort, Harlan split the load in half and hefted the heavy bone meal sacks up high onto each shoulder.

“-or you can grab all of it at once,” you amend breathlessly, hypnotized by the sight of Harlan's biceps bulging against the fabric of his shirt sleeves.  

In the back of your mind you make a note to get the name of his tailor; deeply impressed by the herculean strength of his seams.   

Tag List:

@wendds, @matpatsstuff, @qardasngan, @polytheatrix,

@sirens-and-moonflowers, @venusdandy

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 8

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 8 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Alastor led you back towards the hotel proper, where the immaculately dressed masses were milling about; nibbling on hors d'oeuvres and politely clapping when the imps in the string quartet would finish playing yet another unidentifiable classical number.  

Lucifer himself stood at the center of it all, holding court and seemingly in his element as he laughed politely at whatever the stiff-looking socialite next to him had said.  In an unexpected show of mercy, Alastor pivoted you both away from the King and towards the fringes of the party, where Princess Charlotte was gesturing frantically at a group of women whose shoulders were quaking with barely suppressed laughter.  

“Pardon my intrusion,” Alastor said, slipping next to Charlie with a bow.  “I wanted to make sure I had the opportunity to properly introduce the two of you.”

“Oh!” Charlie exclaimed, having been so wrapped up in her spiel that she had failed to notice you and Alastor's approach.  “I remember you!  You work at the butcher shop, right?”

“That's me,” you confirmed brightly, watching the women Charlie had previously been lecturing slip away out of the corner of your eye; giggling with one and other behind their hands.  

“I hardly recognized you without all the, y'know, blood,” Charlie laughed, adjusting her hold on a large stack of pamphlets in her arms.  

“I get that a lot.”

“Me, too!” Alastor laughed, tugging you closer to his side. “We really are quite the matching pair, aren't we?”

“Like rats and the plague,” you agree with an indulgent tilt of your head, fluttering your eyelashes in a way you hope appeared demure in the face of Charlie's disbelief.  

“Such a charmer!” Alastor cooed, extending one of his wickedly sharp claws and drawing it slowly towards your face.  Breathlessly, you watched as the talon drew closer and closer; eyes eventually crossing when Alastor used his claw to tap you playfully on the nose.  

“Oh- huh,” Charlie murmured, obviously shocked by the familiar way Alastor was treating you.  “This is…unexpected- but good!  Very good!   You seem to have grown close, uh, pretty quickly-”

“Charlie, my dear, are you implying that my companion is fast ?” Alastor inquired, his head ticking to the side menacingly. “Wanton?  A woman of ill repute?”

“Oh, dear,” you tsked worryingly, patting down the front of your dress.  “I seem to have misplaced my scarlet letter!”

“You must have left it in the gutter you crawled out of this morning,” Alastor sighed, shaking his head fondly.  “You're such a forgetful little thing.”

“Wha- NO!” Charlie belted out loudly, her free hand flapping about in front of her in a placating manner.  “That isn't what I meant at all!”

“Oh?” Alastor intoned doubtfully.  “Do go on, then.”

“It's just- you're…not easy to get to know, Alastor.  So to see someone be so close to you, it's- well,” Charlie sighed, racking her brain for the best way to explain herself.  “I guess there's really no timeline for these sorts of things, huh?  When you know, you know.”

You were suddenly acutely aware of the lies poised to tumble from your mouth at Alastor's behest; the deception on your tongue a bitter contrast to the Princess’ sweet sincerity.  

“I really appreciate you coming out and supporting the hotel today,” Charlie beamed, leading you closer to the buffet table where Angel Dust and a rag-tag looking group, likely the other hotel residents, had gathered.    

“Once Alastor extended the invitation I simply had to come!” You replied honestly, hating the way that outright lying about your situation made you feel and doing your best to talk around it.  Thankfully, Alastor seemed to enjoy your duplicity, a pleased chuckle rumbling from his chest when he thought you were being especially clever.   

“I'm pleased with the turnout,” Charlie continued on.  “Fingers crossed that the big crowds translate to big donations!”

“Donations?” you inquire, confused about why the daughter of the most powerful man in Hell would need to crowdsource her funding.  

“Yep!  This is supposed to be a fundraising event to increase community involvement,” Charlie explained.  “We could just fund things ourselves, but we thought that people might be more invested in our efforts if they, well- invested!”

“And what are they investing in, exactly?  The hotel?”

“Oh, no!  We're branching out into the surrounding neighborhoods, trying to build local ties, you know?” Charlie chirped excitedly, passing you one of the pamphlets she'd been carrying all day.  “So we're looking to start a grant program for sinners looking to open up businesses that would benefit the entire Pride Ring.  Methadone clinics, detox centers, restaurants willing to work with us to provide meals to the destitute- that sort of stuff!” 

“You’ll be needing this,” Alastor said, sliding a long stemmed glass smoothly into your hand. You accept it without complaint, aware of the many eyes upon you, anxiously darting between you and the drink Alastor had passed your way.  Without hesitating you brought the glass up to your lips and took a long sip, displaying a level of trust in Alastor that you didn't actually possess.  

If Alastor wanted you dead, there wasn't really anything you could do about it anyway.  And honestly, if poison was how he'd chosen to go about murdering you then you'd count yourself beyond lucky.  It would be an unprecedented show of compassion on his part to kill you quickly when you'd heard rumors of him disemboweling sinners, using their intestines to trim his Christmas tree, and then keeping them alive and in agonizing pain to ring in the New Year with him.   

Charlie had continued talking as you drank, blissfully unaware of the dramatic scene playing out right under her nose.  

“-so we've been trying to recruit donors for the Sir Pentious Entrepreneurial Resource Management fund!”

You took another sip of your blood wine, savoring the rich metallic tang, and made the mistake of looking down at the pamphlet in your hand.  Seeing the words printed out in bold text at top of the brochure made everything in your brain suddenly click.

With a loud snort, you spat your mouthful of wine back into your glass, helplessly coughing into your hand in an attempt to clear your airway.  A handkerchief appeared in front of your face and you readily accepted it, dabbing at the wet spots you felt on your lips and chin.

“Princess -,” you finally manage to sputter out.

“Call me Charlie!”

“-alright, Charlie,” you capitulated easily, recognizing that there were far more important matters immediately at hand. “Just to, ah- clarify the situation, here.  You do realize you spent an entire day encouraging people to become SPERM Donors, right?”

“I- No!” Charlie screeched, aghast at your accusation.  “It's the Sir Pentious Entrepreneurial Resource Management fund!”

“Yes, and SPERM is the acronym, ” you grimaced, body flooding with second hand embarrassment for the poor woman.  Charlie stared down at the pamphlets in her arms in disbelief before throwing her head back and releasing a pitiful wail towards Heaven.

“It all makes so much sense now,” she groaned, letting the pamphlets fall from her arms and scatter to the floor as she clutched her head in misery.  “All the laughing , that one woman saying that she ‘wasn't equipped’ to make a donation, Angel wanting to call the event ‘Hoeing Weeds and Sowing Seeds'- ”

Charlie abruptly paused, spinning to face Angel Dust.  

“You knew!” Charlie bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger at him.  “You knew and you didn't tell me!”

“Hey now,” Angel Dust called out, raising all of his arms into the air defensively.  “Don't go puttin’ all the blame on my supple shoulders!  Everyone else here knew about it, too!”

“Everything was just happening so fast,” a dour-faced woman said, placing her gray hands on Charlie's shoulders comfortingly.  “By the time we noticed the, uh- typo, you'd already made handouts and put flyers up around the city.”

Things only devolved into further chaos from there, with accusations flying about who knew what and when.  Cautiously, you withdrew from the fray, placing yourself back at Alastor's side.  

“Are they always so…,” you paused, searching for the right word as Angel Dust reached onto the bar, grabbed a cocktail glass in each hand, and spiked them onto the ground in frustration.  “Spirited? ”

“Goodness, no!” Alastor chuckled, pulling you to the side and out of the way of the scattering glass shards.  “This is a rather subdued bit of bedlam, all things considered.  It barely even registers on the scale of exciting events that have happened this week! ”

Tag List:

@wendds @matpatsstuff @qardasngan @polytheatrix @sirens-and-moonflowers  @venusdandy

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 4

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 4 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Alastor, Overlord and apparent connoisseur of fine meats and terrible jokes, became a regular sight around the shop.  You'd tried to maintain a more professional demeanor during the Radio Demon's return visits, making sure your customer service smile was pinned in place and impeccable manners on full display.  

It was obvious that Alastor was less than pleased by the shift in your attitude towards him.  

“Have I done something to offend you?” Alastor asked offhandedly as he perused the available selection of sinner meat on unremarkable Tuesday afternoon, the abundant stock of angel meat having long run dry.

“No!” You rush to assure him, nearly dropping your order pad in your nervousness. “No, of course not, Sir!”

“Oh, I'm so relieved to hear that!”  He said cheerily, his piercing red eyes locking onto yours, demanding your complete focus and attention.  “Then there must be some other explanation for the abrupt shift in your treatment towards me, hmm?”

“Well, that is, I-,” you stammered, trying to come up with an explanation that would satisfy his inquiry without revealing the mortifying truth.  Overlords were proud and egotistical to a fault and the fact that you hadn't recognized one of the most powerful people in Hell likely wouldn't be well received.  

“You were so much fun on my first visit,” he laments with a dramatic sigh, the sincerity of which was diminished by the ever present smile on his face.  “All the jokes and comradery- why, it was an absolute riot!  I hate to say it, gentlemanly as I am, but you've been quite boring by comparison these days.”

Terror prickled beneath your skin and you swallowed thickly, doing your best to hide your fear even though it was likely a futile endeavor.  Alastor's pupils had narrowed into thin slits that sliced across his irises; the attentive gaze of a predator that had honed in on its prey.  

Without a doubt, the only thing worse than being seen by an Overlord was being seen as disposable by an Overlord.   

“I see,” you manage to squeak out.  “I'll do my best to be more…accommodating in the future.”

“Splendid!” Alastor responded cheerfully, tapping his cane onto the ground.  “I'll take that promise and some bacon.”

“Right away, Sir,” you agree readily, prepping a section of butcher paper for his order.  “And just so you know, we got this particular meat from a very sick sinner at the hospital.  But don't worry, it's been cured.”

The Radio Demon's reaction was instantaneous, a loud bark of laughter followed by the sound of canned applause filtering the air.

“Bravo!  Bravo!” He crowed in delight. “Funny and a basic sense of self-preservation!  I dare say that you and I are going to get along famously.”

Much to your surprise, you did get along well with Alastor; in so much as a guppy could be congenial with a shark.  

You shared a similar sense of humor and had a hunch that Alastor would swing by more frequently when he felt as though his witty repartee wasn't being well-received by the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, finding you to be a more receptive audience.  

“It's positively depressing what passes for entertainment at the Hotel,” Alastor grouched, his eyes narrowed in disdain.  “Every free moment is frittered away in front of that infernal boob tube.”

“Where do they get off, relaxing in their free time?” You tutted in faux disapproval as you waited for the Radio Demon to make his deli selection.  “They must have tripped and dropped their Protestant work ethic on the way through Hell's gate.”

“I'm not objecting to them having a bit of leisure time, goodness knows I enjoy occasional bouts of indolence myself,” Alastor admitted, emphasizing his point by leaning on his microphone as though overtaken by a wind of sudden exhaustion.  “No, no- I simply disapprove of the manner in which they choose to spend it.”

“And what would you have them do instead?”

“Why, anything at all!  The red sky's the limit!” The Radio Demon announced, twirling a pointed finger up towards Heaven.  “Stamp collecting, embroidery, amputations, voodoo, bird watching-”

“All the traditional pastimes,” you nod indulgently, watching Alastor's ever present grin deepen at your remark.  This is what kept him coming back for more, you thought.  Your dedication to a bit and, most importantly, willingness to indulge his antics.  

“What about you?” Alastor asked, the weight of his focus settling onto your shoulders in a way that was still oppressive, but had become less overwhelming as time passed.  “You aren't a complete dullard, surely you must spend your free time on more enriching activities than watching television.”

It amused you how he spat the last word like a curse, and you would have laughed had you not been caught completely off guard by Alastor's question.  

Never, in the many weeks of your acquaintance, had Alastor shown any interest in you as a person.  You were a prop, a bit player holding up the scenery in the grand production of Alastor's life.  His shtick was furthered by the addition of a straight man so that's what you were, adhering to your assigned role without complaint.

The Zeppo to his Groucho.

“Oh, uh, yeah-,” you stammer, reaching for the thin pewter chain around your neck.  With bumbling fingers you pull out the necklace tucked into the top of your baggy dress, holding the ivory colored pendant out for Alastor to examine.  “I carve.  Bone, mostly since that's- it's what I have around.”

Time seemed to slow to an absolute crawl as Alasor slowly and intently raised a hand towards your neck, well aware of how intimidating the motion was and reveling in your obvious discomfort.  Heart rabbiting inside your chest, you held yourself as still as possible as the tip of his index finger, ink black and wickedly sharp, grazed the underside of your jaw ever so lightly as he draped the pendant across his palm for inspection.  

“Flowers?” Alastor hummed, the sound low in his throat and practically vibrating in the air between you.  “A delicate choice for a woman who spends her day hacking up corpses.”

“They're all my favorites from when I was alive,” you explain, unsure why you felt the desperate need to do so.  “They don't grow here in Hell and I- I didn't want to forget what they looked like.”

“Is that something that worries you?  Forgetting?" Alastor hummed thoughtfully, the sound harmoniously mingling with his static.  

“Just the good things,” you mutter, heart crashing down to your stomach when Alastor finally releases your necklace; pendant swinging into your clavicle with a dull thud.  “I can't seem to forget the bad stuff no matter how hard I try.”

“That is the way of things,” Alastor laughed, staticy and piercing. “Especially down here!”

Later that night, as you laid curled up on your lumpy mattress, you couldn't stop the goosebumps that rose across your body as you remembered the haunting feeling of Alastor's claw prickling your skin.  

You wondered if the feeling of him would fade with the good things, or linger with the bad.  It worried you that you couldn't tell. 

[coopigeoncoo]

The Space Between Stars

Pairing: Bubaigawara Jin x Gender Neutral Reader

Rating: General Audiences

Tags: Smoking, Burglary, Home Invasion, First Meetings, Meet Ugly, Domestic Fluff

Written as part of @shibaraki's KOMOREBI Milestone Collab!

---

You thought your terrible day couldn't get any worse, but then you come home and accidentally interrupt a burglary in progress.

What follows is a series of questionable decisions you probably should have thought Twice about.

---

"Uh- hello!" The man greeted with a nervous laugh, tugging the mask that was scrunched up on the top half of his face a little further down his nose, fumbling the corner of the TV slightly as he did so. "Don't freak out.  I can explain."

"Yeah?" You murmured distantly, thoughts frantically racing as you tried to process the entire scene playing out before you. 

Something in the man seemed to suddenly shift; his jaw clenching tightly and his shoulders pulling taut in a way that made your focus instantly sharpen- the same way all the animals in nature documentaries did when they finally realized a predator was in their midst.

"I'm stealing your TV."

---

Continue reading below or follow the link to Ao3!

Today has been an awful day.

Not because any single, overwhelmingly bad thing had happened; you had just been worn down by a never ending gauntlet of unfortunate events.

Sometime during the night your phone cord had come unplugged and fully drained your phone battery, which meant that you woke up long after you had set your original and backup alarms to sound.  As a result, you didn't have time for breakfast and ended up just using mouthwash instead of stopping to fully brush your teeth, but even that time save wasn't enough to keep you from missing your usual train.  

You'd tripped on an uneven patch of sidewalk heading out to lunch and irreparably scuffed up the toes of your favorite dress shoes, and the presentation you had been working for the past two weeks to put together was somehow missing the last; and most integral, set of slides.  

The subsequent verbal lashing that your boss and, more embarrassingly, your boss's boss, had given you lasted so long you'd ended up missing the train.

Again.

And as you sought to pass the time waiting for the next train to arrive by messing around on your phone, you discovered that the person you'd been seriously flirting with on the online dating site had suddenly blocked you without notice.  

So when the skies opened up on your walk home, pouring down buckets of rain with such force that your skin stung from the impact, you comforted yourself with the knowledge that you could spend the rest of the day holed up in your apartment.  You'd slip into some pajamas, snuggle up on the couch with your favorite blanket, and veg out in front of the TV you had scrimped and saved to buy; doing your best to forget that today even happened while you yelled at quiz show contestants for chiming in with incorrect answers.  Perhaps you'd even go a step further and spend the commercial breaks on your phone, making wish lists full of products you'd never actually buy- letting yourself indulge in the fantasy of filling your overpriced and miniscule apartment with whatever gadgets and bits of decor that caught your interest.  

It wouldn't completely erase your misery, but it was the best you could do on a limited budget and exactly enough energy to shuffle from your bedroom to the living room after you peeled off your drenched work clothes.  

But your plans of relaxation were immediately foiled when you opened the door of your first floor apartment and were greeted by the sight of a man in a skintight black and white body suit trying to shove your brand new TV through your living room window; the bottom pane filled with with a spider web of cracks that spread even further with every heaving attempt to shove the flat-screen through the too small opening.  He froze when he noticed you, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip as his scruffy jaw dropped open in surprise from your sudden appearance.  

"Uh- hello!" The man greeted with a nervous laugh, tugging the mask that was scrunched up on the top half of his face a little further down his nose, fumbling the corner of the TV slightly as he did so. "Don't freak out.  I can explain."

"Yeah?" You murmured distantly, thoughts frantically racing as you tried to process the entire scene playing out before you. 

Something in the man seemed to suddenly shift; his jaw clenching tightly and his shoulders pulling taut in a way that made your focus instantly sharpen- the same way all the animals in nature documentaries did when they finally realized a predator was in their midst.

"I'm stealing your TV."

And with that proclamation, your last frayed thread of patience snapped.

"Of course you are!" You laugh, frustrated tears welling up quickly and blurring your vision. "Why wouldn't you be?  It's not like my day could get any worse !"

"Hey, now- don't cry!" The man pleaded, thoughtlessly reaching out towards you with shaking hands, the TV nearly crashing to the floor as he released his hold on it; barely managing to catch the corner with a sharp curse and lower it gently to the floor.  "I'm not gonna hurt you or nothing- I'm just going to rob you a little !"

"A little? A little?" You shriek, wiping at your wet cheeks in frustration. "You're taking the most expensive thing I own!  That feels like an awful lot of robbing to me!"

"That's- that's a fair point," the man conceded, scratching at his exposed chin nervously as he looked around your bare bones apartment with a critical eye; taking note of your collection of second hand furniture and threadbare curtains your old roommate's cat had delighted in shredding.  

"I'm too tired to deal with this right now," you whimper as you take a step backwards into the breezeway, exhaustion winning out over more situationally appropriate emotions like absolute panic.  "Take whatever you want, but I would really appreciate it if you could leave the urn on the bookcase alone.  My Grandma is in there."

"I'd never-!" The man gasped, affronted by the implication he'd be despicable enough to make off with a jar full of Grandma dust.

"You're literally in the process of robbing me!" You laugh wetly, wiping your running nose onto your soaking wet sleeve.  "I don't think you're allowed to be offended by my assumptions about the quality of your character right now."

"I'm sorry. This isn't- this isn't the kind of person I want to be," the man whispered, his nervously wringing hands tightening into shaking fists. "This is who I have to be."

"Whatever," you huff dismissively.  "It doesn't really matter.  Close the window on your way out so the rain doesn't soak down to the floorboards."

"You gonna call the cops on me?" The man asked, nervously puffing on the cigarette in his mouth, the pungent clove smoke pulled towards you by the cross breeze; drifting straight into your face and making you recoil.  

"I don't live on the right side of the city for the police to care about a stolen TV," you inform him, grimacing at the tinkling sound of the buffeting rain upgrading into hailstones.  "I'm just going to duck into a store or something.  I'll be back in like, an hour, so it would be great if you could wrap up taking my stuff and be gone by then.  It's getting late and I still need to cook dinner."

And with those parting words you gently pulled the door closed behind you and, recognizing the futility of locking a door during an active home invasion; stepped back out into the freezing rain without looking back.

The only store on your block that had bothered to stay open in such terrible weather was a tiny holistic store crammed in between a pawn shop and a seafood market.  The shop owner, a serious faced woman with her hair slicked back into a painfully tight looking bun, did her best to cover up the pervasive fish odor that seeped in from the neighboring business by having three oil diffusers running all at once; but the only thing it really accomplished was adding nauseating strong floral notes to the briny air.  

You felt bad lingering in her store for so long without buying anything, so after a drawn out production of pretending to consider buying crystals in a variety of cuts and sizes while internally balking at the price tags, you settled on purchasing a mood ring from one of the clearance displays.  It had a large band size, too large for your fingers for sure, but it was the only thing that you could afford to purchase now that you'd have to start saving for a replacement TV. 

The woman behind the counter was obviously disappointed with your thriftiness, but you pretended to ignore her sourly pursed lips as she thanked you for your business and recommended you return at a later date to have your aura cleansed.

"It's all muddy, you know," she informed you with a disapproving huff, tugging firmly on the stiff collar of her dress shirt to shift it back into place.  "An aura that messy will only invite trouble and stress."

In your experience, trouble and stress never needed an invitation, but instead of voicing your thoughts you held your tongue, jammed the mood ring onto your thumb, and thanked her for the concern; snagging a business card in a show of false interest before bracing yourself for yet another slog through the rain.  

It wasn't coming down quite so hard anymore, but you were already so thoroughly drenched that the waning storm felt like a meaningless show of mercy from the universe at large; a waste of whatever finite karma you'd accrued during your life thus far.  

You'd boldly assumed that coming home to some guy stealing your TV would be the most surprising thing you'd walk in on today, but nothing could match the absolute astonishment you felt when you entered back into your apartment for the second time that evening.   

It had been easy to imagine that your place would be a ransacked disaster at this point, electronics long gone and your personal effects scattered around haphazardly as the intruder fruitlessly searched for valuables.  Instead, everything was in the same, or better, condition than you'd left it in.  

The TV had been returned to its proper place on your third-hand entertainment stand, a large scratch on the side of the frame but seemingly no worse for the wear as the weatherman on screen droned on about the unprecedentedly large storm rolling through the city.  The cracked window had been covered In layers of carefully placed packing tape to keep it from shattering completely; a towel spread out on the carpet beneath it to soak up the rainwater that had collected inside during the thief's botched getaway.

All the shoes in your entryway, the ones you normally kicked off and left where they landed, had been lined up in neat pairs next to the coat closet.  The blanket you'd left crumpled on your lumpy couch after a quick nap yesterday had been neatly draped over the back of the sofa.

And the thief, who you thought would be long gone by now, had made himself at home in your kitchenette.  With a set of mismatched hot pads on his hands he pulled a half sheet pan out of the countertop oven, the telltale aroma of baking bread filling every corner of your small apartment and driving out the lingering stench of cigarette smoke.  Desperately, you wondered if he'd noticed your arrival; cautiously rocking back onto your rear foot in preparation for making a quick escape when he called out to you from across the apartment.  

"Don't just stand in the doorway," the man chastised as he slid the hot tray down onto the stovetop, a small saucepan set to simmer on the next burner over.  "You'll let all the warm air out."

"Uh- yeah.  Of course.  Sorry," you apologized reflexively, wildly unsure about what to do but deciding that the best course of action is to likely play along and keep the burglar-turned-baker calm.  Pushing the door closed with a shaking hand, you did your best to keep your breathing calm and level despite the dread violently roiling in your belly; your sense of self preservation blaring in the back of your mind like a siren.  

"Welcome home.  Again," the thief greeted pleasantly, the toothpick in his mouth straining under the force of his clenched teeth. "You said you'd be gone for an hour."

"I- I ran out of stuff to do and figured you'd be gone by now.  And not, you know- staying to clean up my apartment."

"Yeah," the man laughed, rubbing at the back of his half-masked head nervously; hand still shoved into one of your plaid oven mitts.  "This isn't how these sorts of things usually go down."

"Then why did you do it?" You ask with a nervous swallow, the domestic setting making you bolder than the situation would typically dictate. "Stay, I mean?"

"It just- it seemed like you were having a really bad day," the man murmured sheepishly, pulling off the oven mitts one at a time and tossing them down onto a clear swath of counter next to the stove. "And I didn't want to make it any worse."

"Oh."

"This is- so awkward.  I'm sorry," he muttered, scrubbing a hand across the stubble on his chin in frustration.  "I wanted to be gone by the time you got back to avoid all of this."

"It's okay," you say, unsure as to how sincere you actually were.

"It's not okay," the man laughed dryly.  "I was going to rob you- picking up your living room doesn't make it okay!  It doesn't make me okay!"

"You could have done worse."

"I could have," the man nodded solemnly, the action switching to a frantic shaking a moment later. "I wouldn't have."

A realization struck you abruptly.  "Tell me a lie," you demanded.

"What?"

You wrench open the coat closet door and reach inside, pulling out a chunky blue scarf; a gift from a close friend during their brief but prolific crocheting phase. 

"Say this is red," you said, holding the scarf aloft for him to see.  He froze, every one of his muscles set on edge as he stared at the length of knotted yarn in your grasp. 

"I don't know what you're trying to prove here.  You already know that I can't."

"I just- I want to make sure," you insisted, holding the scarf up a fraction higher. "Please."

"Okay," the man said, deflating as he exhaled in defeat.  "The scarf is red.  It's obviously blue."

Emboldened by the first successful test of your hypothesis, you stepped further into the apartment, snagging a purple tissue box off of the coffee table with your free hand and holding it up for the man to see.

"And this?"

"Green.  It's purple."

Gliding further into your apartment, you deposited the scarf and the tissue box onto the card table you ate your meals at, and grabbed an overripe banana from the bowl of half-rotten fruit you kept replenishing each week; ever hopeful that you'd wake up one day with the self restraint necessary to reach for an apple instead of a bag of chips when you felt snacky. 

"This banana?"

"Teal.  Black- that's one nasty looking banana!"

"It is, isn't it?  I should probably just throw it out," you say with a grimace as your finger hits a soft spot on the peel and sinks down into the goey inner banana flesh. 

"Here, catch!" the man called out, tossing a slightly damp dish rag towards you, which you miraculously managed to snatch out of the air.

"Thank you."

"No problem."

It was quiet for a moment while you wiped the mealy banana goo from your finger, digging under your nail with the stiff corner of the towel.  "So you can't lie," you mused. "Is that a Quirk thing?"

"May as well be, I guess," the man sighed, turning to examine the squat loaf of bread cooling on your stove top.  "I want to go ahead and slice this.  You won't freak out if I grab a knife, will you?"

"Depends," you reply evasively with narrowed eyes as he pulled a knife half way out of the knife block, examining the edge with a frown before sliding it back into place.  "Do you plan on slicing me up, too?"

"These knives are so dull I don't think I could even if I wanted to," he groused, pulling another knife out for inspection with a dissatisfied frown. "And I don't want to."

Eyes locked on the intruder's back; you lowered yourself down carefully into the closest dining chair; knees weak and mind reeling from the surreal turn your evening had taken.  "So you don't want my stuff, and you don't want to hurt me- what exactly do you want?"

"What I want-," the man paused, a triumphant fist pump accompanying his discovery of a serrated blade.  "Is for you to try this bread that I made."

"And then you'll leave?"

"I'll leave right now if that's what you want," the man offered, running the scalloped edge across the craggy top crust of the bread and laughing delightedly at the scraping sound it made.  "Do you hear that?  That's one crispy crust!  This loaf is gonna be goooood."

"How did you even make bread, anyway?  I know for a fact that I don't have any yeast."

"You don't really have much of anything.  Believe me, I checked," the man grinned cheekily over his shoulder at you, as though he thought his confession about rifling through your apartment was  charming and not a blatant invasion of privacy.  "But lucky for you, I'm well versed in poverty meals.  Mix up a basic bread dough, add in a beer where the yeast should be, shove that baby into the oven and you're ready to go!  There's a bit more to it than that."

"Well, it smells wonderful.  This is probably the best this apartment has ever smelled."

"No kidding!  You get a discount for having the unit right above the dumpster?"

"I wish," You sighed forlornly, taking a moment to imagine how much easier your life would be with even a slightly lower cost of living.  "But taking out the trash is pretty convenient, I can just drop it in from the fire escape."

"Bowls?" He inquired as he shut the heat off under the saucepan, giving it one final stir.  

"Oh- I only have a couple.  They're probably on the drying rack."

He salutes you sharply before shuffling off to follow your instructions, carefully selecting and stacking the dishes into his arms like they were valuable pieces of china and not the very worst a home store clearance rack had to offer.  You twisted your too-big mood ring anxiously around your thumb, reminding yourself with every turn that the man in front of you, despite his seemingly affable nature, wasn't a guest.  He was an intruder in your home, no better than the mice that darted behind your fridge when you turned the kitchen light on in the middle of the night.

Although the mice had never cooked you dinner before, so you suppose that was a point in his favor.  

"Careful- careful," the man whispered quietly to himself, inching across the floor towards you with two bowls of soup balanced on his forearm; bracing the overhanging rims with a plate stacked lopsidedly with still steaming bread slices.  He gingerly deposited the bowls onto the table, sliding yours to a stop directly in front of you without any of the broth sloshing over the edge; an impressive feat considering that he'd filled it up to the brim. 

"Nailed it!" He crowed in pride, tossing the plate full of bread down onto the table unceremoniously, the thick slices nearly bouncing off the plate from his rough handling.  Collapsing into the folding chair opposite if you in what could only be described as a sprawl, you watch with thinly veiled interest as he pushes his mask up over the bridge of his nose.  Nostrils fully uncovered, he hunches over the bowl of soup and inhales deeply, flapping his hands to fan the aromatic vapors directly towards his face.

"Not too shabby for a can of soup and leftover veggies!"

"Is that what this is?" You ask curiously, giving the soup a small stir, trudging up a floret of seared broccoli that definitely came from takeout earlier in the week.  

"Don't be shy now.  Dig in!" The man encouraged, placing a large chunk of soup-drenched bread into his mouth with a happy sigh.  The soup was perfectly edible, nothing to write home about but still a notable effort considering the meager ingredients your kitchen had to offer.  But the bread was a different story entirely.

"This crust is incredible!" You gasp, the dry crumbs sticking to your lips.  

"A good dinner for a rainy night," the man stated, holding his half devoted bread slice out towards yours.  "Cheers?"

"Cheers!" You laugh, pushing your slice of bread against his; the crusts impacting and sending a dusting of flaky bread crumbs tumbling onto the surface of the table.

"Whoopsy-daisy!  I'll get that, don't worry," the man reassured you, licking his finger and tapping it across the table, picking up crumbs as he went.  

"'Whoopsy-daisy', huh?" You muse, sipping at a spoonful of soup thoughtfully. "How many kids do you have?"

"Kids? Oh, no- I don't- I don't have any of those," he stammered, shoving his crumb covered finger into his mouth and removing it with a comical pop.  "Her name's Himiko."

"That's…quite the discrepancy between those two answers."

"Himiko isn't- she's not mine, mine.   But she's mine, you know?  In all the ways that should matter."

"So you love her then?"

"Of course I do.  She's a great kid."

"That's all that matters then, isn't it?" You smiled sincerely, the first grin of the evening not strained through a filter of worry.  The man seemed to notice the subtle shift in your demeanor, the tension in his posture softening ever so slightly as he somehow managed to slouch even farther down in his seat.

It had been a long time since you'd eaten alone with someone.  You went out after work with colleagues sometimes, but the places that you always ended up were crowded and noisy; tables and booths crammed to near bursting to accommodate the ravenous waves of dinner rush patrons.  The last meal you'd eaten at home with someone was likely before you moved into this apartment, when you still lived off-campus with a couple of roommates you liked progressively less with each passing week.  

You'd been beyond thrilled to land a job that paid enough to allow you to live alone, even though affording to do so meant relocating across town to a less desirable zip code.  But a slight downgrade in living conditions was well worth the benefit of knowing you'd never again have to live through the experience of walking in on your roommate and their booty call having sex on your bed because it was 'more comfortable' than theirs. 

While you would never miss the stacks of unwashed dishes left to putrefy in the sink or having to wipe urine splatters off of the toilet seat before you could relieve yourself, it was hard to deal with the constant quiet sometimes.  The drone of the TV couldn't replace someone asking about your day or replicate the joy of shared laughter.  

And you couldn't help but wonder if it was a similar situation for the man across from you.  

"Is it okay for me to ask your name?" You murmur quietly, eyes locked on your own hands as you push a tomato chunk around your bowl with the back of your spoon.  "I understand if you don't want me to know.  The less I probably know about you the better, huh?  I'm sorry, that was stupid of me.  Forget I said anything-"

"Twice.  You should call me Twice," the man interrupted; letting out an irritated grunt before opening his mouth once more.  "I want you to call me Jin."

Thrown off balance once again by his contradictory requests, your brain races frantically to find some sort of middle ground between the two.

"Do you want me to call you Jin…twice?  Like, JinJin?"

"That's a little ah- intimate , dontcha' think?" Jin said, a nervous cough punctuating his sentence sharply.  He pulled the bottom edge of his mask down further, trying to cover up the tell-tale embarrassed burn of his cheeks without compromising his ability to eat.  "Just Jin is fine."

"Alright.  Thank you for the meal, Jin.  This is a much nicer dinner than I would have put together for myself, even if I hadn't been delayed by some guy breaking into my apartment," you joked, sending a pointed look Jin's way; politely averting your eyes and pretending not to notice his splotchy blush creeping even further down his cheeks.

"A burglar, huh?  Sounds like a real heel."

"Maybe," you murmured thoughtfully as you watched Jin try and cram an entire slice of bread into his mouth at once.  "But I don't think he's all that bad."

Jin, having gone back for a second serving of soup, was the last to finish eating.  You swooped in and grabbed his bowl before he could object, placing it on the counter as you waited for the sink to finish filling so you could begin washing the dishes. 

"You don't have to do that," Jin grumbled from his position behind you, standing close enough for you to feel him nervously shuffling from foot to foot.  "I can clean up after myself. "

"Nope, sorry.  It's the house rules," you sighed forlornly, acting as though you weren't the sole person responsible for making those rules.  "If you cook, you don't clean up."

"Is there anything else I could do?  Help you out a little more?"

"I guess you could help me dry?" You offer, scooting over slightly to make room for him in your tiny kitchen area. 

"Aye-aye, Captain!" Jin saluted as he slotted into place next to you, grabbing the dripping wet cup you offered out to him with one hand and picking up a dry dishrag with the other.  

The sounds of clinking cutlery and the slow but steady dripping of your faucet worked together with the rumbling storm outside to craft a peaceful atmosphere; one that helped soften the sharp edges of reality and allowed you to gloss over the fact that you were having a very pleasant time with the man who had started out the evening with the intention of robbing you blind.  

It was reckless and stupid, but you couldn't help but worry a little about what would happen to Jin once he left your apartment.  If he was desperate enough to resort to theft for some quick cash, you couldn't help but wonder and worry about what sort of life awaited him outside of the cramped comfort of your home.  

"Are you going to be okay?  Once you leave?" You ask, prying up a stubborn piece of dried food from the tines of a fork with your fingernail.  

"That's one heck of a loaded question!" Jin laughed sharply.  "The world is an absolute mess right now, society is on the brink of collapsing in on itself- I don't think anyone is going to be okay for a long, long time."

"Yeah, but- there's nothing I can do about any of that stuff," you sigh quietly, watching the small bubbles on the surface of the water swirl around your wrists.  "But I can help you, if you need it.  I probably have enough money to put you up at a hotel for the night.  Keep you out of the storm."

"You're too kind," Jin murmured quietly, his voice heavy with appreciation.  "But I don't want you to worry about me, okay?  Things are…difficult right now.  But it won't last forever."

"I wish I had your optimism."

"It's not optimism," Jin said, placing the last plate into the drying rack next to the sink and passing you the dish towel to wipe your hands on. 

"What is it then?" You asked, unable to fully dry your hands on the wet cloth, so you settled for simply wiping off the lingering film of bubbles from the back of your hands.  

"Experience,” he said, scratching thoughtlessly at the scruff growing unevenly across his exposed jaw.  “My life has always been- well, bad.  Mostly.  I used to really hate that.  Thought it wasn't fair.  But now I don't mind so much."

"Why not?"

"Well, eventually I realized that the bad times I went through made all the good things in my life seem even better," he said, turning his head to gaze out of your taped up window, as though he would be able to see the sky and not the moldering plaster exterior of the apartment complex next to yours. "Stars wouldn't be anything special if it wasn't for all that dark space between em', you know?"

You thought back on your day, on the series of disastrous events that had weighed you down soured your disposition, and how now; with the passage of time and the balm of Jin's companionship, the day didn't feel quite so dreadful in retrospect.

"I hope you saved room for dessert," you smiled, turning to riffle through a cabinet for the small package of cookies you kept tucked away for emergencies.

"Thanks, but I'm still full from dinner.  There's always room for a treat or two!"

The bag of cookies, already half empty from propping you up emotionally during the dramatic season finale of the show you'd binged last weekend, didn't last long.  But you and Jin did your best to stretch out the warm comfort of the evening as long as you could; chatting over the commercials as the emergency weather broadcast came to a conclusion.  

"Welcome back, viewers!" A man with slicked back hair and an unfortunate mustard colored blazer greeted as the title card for the incoming show disappeared from the screen.  "You're tuned in to 'Top 10 at 10', the show where we look back at the week's top moments from the Top Ranked Heroes!  Next up is the Winged Hero: Hawks, swooping in for a rescue-!"

"Ugh," you groan, patting the couch cushions around you in search of the remote.  "Is the controller over by you?  I want to change the channel."

"Nope, no controller," Jin said, his focus solely on the TV as the Number Two Hero crashed through a window on the top most floor of a burning apartment building. "So, you're not a Hawks fan I take it?"

"Hawks gives me weird vibes," you admit, lifting up a throw pillow to peer down into the space next to the arm of the sofa as Hawks waved casually on the screen, a shaking Pomeranian tucked securely under his arm as he floated to the ground.  "I don't trust people who always smile.  It feels like they're trying to hide something."

"You're a good judge of character, aren't you?" Had you been less focused on your frantic search for the remote you would have noticed Jin's uncomfortable fidgeting and repeatedly clenching fists, but you'd missed those telltale signs that preceded a shift in his personality.  So the sudden appearance of that voice, the brash one you'd grown accustomed to hear chiding and correcting Jin's half-truths, was unnerving.  You wondered how loud his unspoken thoughts must be for that second voice to feel the need to comment on Jin's internal dialogue.  

"I used to think so," you laugh dryly, the hand you'd been using to fish around in the couch coming up with a fistful of crumbs and an old tin of forgotten breath mints.  "But recent events definitely have me reevaluating that assumption about myself."

"You shouldn't-," Jin swallowed thickly, carefully considering his words; weighting them for sincerity lest he stray too far off the line of authenticity and unwittingly reveal too much.  "Don't make me be the reason you doubt yourself.  I'll take the blame for all sorts of stuff, but I don't want that to be on me, okay?"

"Okay," you whispered, once again fumbling to regain your emotional footing.  Talking with Jin was like walking across a messy room with your eyes closed, constantly tripping up and unsure of what caused you to even stumble in the first place. 

"I mean, if you can't trust yourself, then who can you trust?" Jin asked, his voice only just beneath a bellow and pulled thin at the edges; a manic sort of cry that poorly covered his underlying distress.  "I can't trust myself anymore!"

"You can’t?"

"No.  I- I broke that trust.  I broke myself."

Carefully, you lower yourself down on the cushion next to him; a vulnerable place for an unguarded moment.  "I know that it probably doesn't mean much of anything coming from me- we're pretty much strangers," you admit with a helpless sort of shrug, extending a hand out towards him like you would a cowering animal; slowly, carefully, like you half expected to be bitten for your trouble.  "But I trust you."

"You don't know me.  I don't even know if I'm me," he admits with a watery sniff, accepting your outstretched hand with his shaking fingers.

"This Jin, this you- ," you emphasize with a tight squeeze of your hand. "-is the only one I know.  And I happen to think he's pretty alright."

"Even for a bad guy?"

"You're the best bad guy I know," you assure him readily, the words somehow playful despite their sincerity.  But it seems like Jin was looking for a way out of the mire of introspection he'd waded into and quickly took the metaphorical hand you'd extended; lifting himself out of his head with a breathy chuckle.  

"I am pretty great, aren't I?"

"A terrible thief, but an excellent chef."

"Guess I missed my calling in life!" He grinned brightly, sucking up the bead of snot dripping from his nose.  

"It's never too late to change."

"It is for me."

You waited anxiously, almost desperately for that second voice to cry out in objection, but the room remained silent except for the canned laughter piping in through the TV speakers.  Whatever path Jin was on offered him no alternative, no deviation from the bumpy road beneath his feet.  

"Earlier, you told me that this isn't who you want to be.  That this is who you have to be."

"Who I need to be.  Who they need me to be."

"Will you do something for me?" You asked, easily sliding the mood ring off of your thumb and spinning it between the fingers of your free hand.  "One last favor and we'll call it even?"

"Of course," Jin nodded solemnly as his chest puffed up; proud to be entrusted with carrying out a task for you.

"When you have the chance, I want you to make the choice you want.  Be the Jin you want to be," you pleaded, sliding the mood ring easily onto his much larger pointer finger.  

"This like a promise ring or something?"

"I suppose," you hum thoughtfully. "But only if you promise."

He held the ring up in front of his face, watching the colors swirl and shift rapidly across the gleaming black stone; far more active than it had been on your own hand.  Jin clenched his fist, locking the ring onto his finger like he was scared it might tumble from his grasp and disappear into the unknown abyss alongside your remote, never to be seen again.  You couldn't see his eyes, only the expressive patterning on his mask that managed to contort with his fluctuating disposition, but there was a sudden weight upon your shoulders that let you know that you were the sole object of his intense focus.  

Jin lifted his ringed hand into the air between you, splaying his fingers wide in front of your face.  The dark, swirling gem of his ring glimmering merrily from the vicinity of your forehead, a third eye for Jin to take with him; an eye that would see him in the way he craved- as the Jin that existed solely in your gaze.  

"I promise."

The night, as all things, could not last forever.  But you were unprepared for the abrupt way that Jin threw himself up from the couch when the late night News broadcast cut to live coverage of a crime in progress; a patch-skinned man cackling in delight as he threw bright blue flames from the back of a speeding van at pursuing police vehicles.  

"That idiot, " he hissed, patting his sides and butt like he was checking for keys or a phone that were very obviously not tucked into his spandex suit.  "I have to go."

"Oh ,"  you manage to say through the clenching knot of dismay that had tied itself up in your chest.  “Will you come back?"

"I- I shouldn't," he whispered, regret palpable in every syllable.  "I want to."

Hastily, you stumbled to your feet and strode across the living room, grabbing the ceramic urn you had on prominent display before circling back and stopping directly in front of Jin. 

"Here,” you said, pushing the vase firmly into Jin's arms.  “Take this.”  

"For the last time, I'm not going to take your Grandma!" Jin cried in exasperation, pushing the floral patterned urn back into your arms. 

"Please," you snorted, lifting off the lid and pulling out a small plastic bag of gray ashes, shaking it back and forth in the air. "This isn't actual people powder.  It's a bunch of charcoal ash I grabbed from my neighbor's grill."

"Then why do you-?"

"I'm not totally naive," you said, hooking your hand on the rim of the urn and gently jostling it, the tell tale clinking of coins echoing from inside.  "Every burglar grabs a piggy bank, but very few think to check a jar of apparent human remains."

"I can't take your savings," Jin protested weakly, staring down longingly at the handfuls of bills scattered amongst the change.  "I'm not gonna steal from you."

"Of course you're not.  First of all, this is a gift ," you emphasize, pushing the urn more firmly against his chest.  "And second, this isn't for you."

"It's not?" Jin asked bewilderedly, twisting his head around to check if a second criminal had snuck into the apartment while he was distracted.

"Nope.  This is for Himiko," you explained, letting go of the vase and stepping back so Jin had no choice but to tighten his grip on the money jar or let it crash to the ground.  "Buy her something nice, okay?  And treat yourself while you’re at it."

"I- I will," he promised, unable to refuse your gesture if it meant securing some measure of comfort for Himiko.  Tucking the urn safely into the crook of his arm, Jin tugged his mask down; obscuring his face fully for the first time.  It was impressive how much that narrow swath of exposed skin had been carved into your memory in such a short span of time.  Even now, through the cover of a mask, you could still make out the small hints of Jin that lay beneath; the jut of his chin, the set of his jaw, the jittery way he clicked his teeth together.  

With a grace you wouldn't expect of a man his size, he slipped towards the patched up window, prying up the frame and squeezing an entire leg out onto your fire escape before he noticed your bewildered expression.

"What is it?  What's wrong?"

"You- you don't have to sneak out the window," you explained, pivoting your body to point towards the entryway.  "You can just use the door."

"Right!  The door!  Of course!" Jin laughed, smacking himself in the forehead as he pulled his leg back into your apartment, hopping clumsily on one foot until his appendage was fully free.  "Forgot that you had one of those."

"Well, I hope you don't forget again," you chastise playfully, guiding him out of your front door and into your apartment breezeway.  "Because I sure would appreciate it if you'd knock next time."

"Next time?" Jin asked, voice hitching hopefully at the invitation.

"Bye, Jin," you smiled, giving him a small wave as you slowly closed the door.  "See you later!"

"Right," he murmured, staring down at his fluctuating mood ring, a smile creeping along his face as white specks scattered across the dark blue stone; like stars glimmering brilliantly in the dark night sky. "Later."

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 3

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 3 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

“You're in a good mood today, Ms. Rosie,” you commented as you wrapped up her unusually large order of flank steaks, happy that something has managed to finally cheer her up after Franklin's untimely demise during the last Extermination.  You'd taken it upon yourself to personally dismember Franklin's body, making every break and slice as precise as possible before packaging up her remains and delivering them to Rosie.  

It had been a spur of the moment decision to separate Franklin's heart separately from the rest of the offal, boxing it up and tying it with a length of silky black ribbon.  You'd carefully passed the box into Rosie's shaking hands; averting your eyes and pretending to not notice her tears as she slipped the sentimental hunk of muscle into the back of her icebox with a guy-wrenching sob.  

“Sure am, sweetie!” Rosie grinned, adjusting the brim on her wide hat until it fell just so .  “An old friend is back in town after seven years and I finally got him to agree to visit!”

“That's wonderful, Ms. Rosie!  I hope you have a great time catching up.”

“It's gonna be a bloodbath,” she cackled in delight. “I'll make him regret up and disappearing on me without so much as a postcard!”

“Oh,” you murmured thoughtfully, still not quite used to the volatile nature of relationships in Hell, especially amongst the more aged population.  “Can I sharpen your knives before you go?”

“That would be fantastic, darling!  Thank you,” Rosie said, reaching into the handbag at her side and slowly pulling out no less than half a dozen ornate looking blades, lining them up carefully on the counter while you prepped a nearby whetstone.  

The large brass bell on the wall rang cheerily, indicating the presence of a salesman at the back door.  

“Fresh Meat handles deliveries!” the man at the sausage stuffer called over his shoulder with a grin, laughing as you threw your hands up into the air with a frustrated groan.

“This is ridiculous!” You hissed in irritation, wiping your hands off angrily on your apron.  “It's been five flipping years of this!  When are we going to hire someone new so I can have a break once in a while?”

“You think Hal is going to pay for a new employee?” The shift manager said, ladling blood into large glass jars.  “He barely even pays us!”

Still grumbling, you throw open the back door, customer service smile in place, and nearly scream at the sight that awaits you.

Angels, dozens of them, being dragged down the alley and thrown into careless piles by the butcher shop stoop. 

“What's the going rate for angel meat?” The man at the front of the line asked, his suit jacket torn to shreds and face splatter with glimmering angel blood.

“I- I don't know,” you whispered in shock, examining the angel closest to you, multiple bites taken out of the visible flesh of their arm.  “But whatever it is, you aren't getting full price for the ones you've been nibbling on.”

It had been days since you'd been able to grab more than a couple hours sleep at a time.  Cuts of angel meat had become an instant delicacy and sinners were flooding into Cannibal Town with loaded wallets, ready to spend any amount that would guarantee them the right to try the smallest morsel; not knowing when or if they'd ever have the opportunity again.

And since you were the only employee Hal trusted to break down the angels without helping yourself to a bite or two, you had been working pretty much nonstop since last week.  

“Have a good rest of your day,” you managed to squeeze out in-between yawns, lazily waving goodbye to the pug-faced demon walking away with his newly acquired angel femur tucked securely under a beefy arm.

“I c’n help whoe’er's next,” you slur, the fist that's propping up your heavy head squishing your cheek and distorting your mouth and any words that tumble out of it.  You closed your eyes, determined to catch a moment of rest while the next customer perused the assortment of angel parts stacked artistically behind the glass display case.  A loud huff startled you awake, your body jolting when you realized you'd drifted off to sleep while the milling customers became increasingly irritated by the indecisive customer at the head of the line.  

“I can offer suggestions if you're having trouble deciding,” you offer, doing your best to focus back onto your patrons and not your all-consuming exhaustion.

“My sincerest apologies for taking so long!” The man sighed, voice crackling as his eyes darted from one cut of angel to another.  “It all looks positively divine!”

“That is the notable selling point,” you agree with a yawn.  “There isn't a bad cut amongst the bunch, but if you're really undecided then I have to recommend grabbing a couple of rib eyes and some salt.

“Oh?” The man asked, nose nearly pressed up against the glass in front of the briskets.

“Mmhmm.  That way, even if you made a mistake, salt makes m'steaks taste great.”

You had been expecting one of the regular responses to your puns, a polite chuckle or pained goan, but your customer did neither.  Instead, much to your great surprise, the bright red man threw his head back and cackled.  

“Rosie said this place had the best angel meat in Cannibal Town, but she failed to mention anything about complimentary comedy show!”

“Well, we have to keep that part on the down-low,” you say conspiratorially, lowering your voice into a fake whisper. “We aren't zoned as an entertainment venue.”

“My lips are sealed!” The man promised, using two black-tipped claws to close an invisible zipper across his saw-toothed grin; his lips nowhere near touching each other, let alone sealed.  “I'd hate for my favorite new shop to be closed down just when I discovered it!”

You rang up his order, every angel steak you had available, and he left with the promise that he would return for a visit soon, the crowd of customers parting in front of him as he made his way towards the exit, hand twirling in the air as he bid you adieu.

Dorcas was beside you in an instant, squealing at such a high pitch that your ears folded back against your head protectively.  

“You were so cool!,” she gushed, tugging at your arm excitedly.  “I can't believe you were able to act so casually around him!”

“Him?  Him who?”

“Alastor!”

“Alastor?” 

“You know, the Radio Demon?” Dorcas asked incredulously.  “One of the top Overlords?”

“The steak guy is an Overlord?” You gasp in horror, desperately grasping your coworker's boney shoulders to keep your legs from buckling beneath you.  “Please, please tell me I didn't crack stupid jokes at an Overlord!”

“You did.  And I think he expects you to do it again.”

“Oh,” you mutter distantly, saliva turning sour in your mouth as your mind reeled with the multitude of painful and bloody ways your overly familiar interaction could have ended.  “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Need me to get your barf bucket?”

“Yes, please.”

[coopigeoncoo]

The Cardinal Rule

Pairing: Hawks/Gender Neutral Reader

Rating: Teen+

Tags: Romantic Comedy, Bird Puns, Ritual Blood Letting, Blood and Injury, Descriptions of Surgical Procedures, Vomit, The Teachings of Karl Marx

---

A story where Hawks learns that while humans might be awed by his flying skills, the bird population is decidedly less impressed.

---

"The birds are refusing to work until their demands are met," you explained, trying to subtly slide your body between Hawks and the birds who were quite literally calling for bloodshed.

"Which are?" Hawks asked as he lifted the bottle of water to his mouth and took a long sip.

"They, ah, want you held accountable for your numerous bird crimes."

Hawks abruptly choked, water spurting from the corner of his lips as he attempted to swallow the remaining liquid as he sputtered helplessly.

"My what?" He coughed, thumping solidly on his chest with a closed fist.

---

Continue Reading below or follow the link to Ao3!

The air inside the studio was stifling; hot from the numerous bodies crammed into one room and the too-bright spotlights shining down onto the immaculately styled set pieces.  The entire thing looked like something your Art History Professor would have gushed over, the words ‘Brutalistic’ and ‘Industrial’ echoing through your head in their booming voice.  And you understood this set design just about as much as you understood that entire unit in school- pretty much not at all.  

But it wasn’t your job to understand the aesthetic appeal of the bone white pillars jutting out from the concrete floor at harsh angles.  Your job was to mind the birds.  

You liked your job at the bird rehabilitation center well enough and found it soothing most days.  Getting to spend your days caring for sick and infirmed birds was emotionally rewarding as well as lucrative.  It turns out that Ornithologists were very willing to shell out the big bucks to have someone with an Avian Communication Quirk on their payroll.  You had cemented yourself as an irreplaceable employee when you single handedly turned a failing breeding program around by informing the lead scientist that the female bird wasn’t receptive to the male’s advances because she thought he didn’t groom himself well enough.  One emergency bath later and the courtship proceeded without a hitch.  Last you heard the endangered pair was happily raising their forth successful brood.     

The only part of your work you didn’t like was what you were forced into doing today; accompanying the birds on sojourns outside of the rescue facility.  Schools loved to have the birds visit as they were a good distraction for the children that allowed the harried teachers to catch their breaths and chug a cup of coffee while your feathered companions dazzled the students with their aerial acrobatics.  And even though those bouts of public speaking absolutely wracked your nerves, you would happily subject yourself to a dozen school assemblies if it meant escaping the hell that was waiting stand-by at a Pro Hero photo shoot.

Pro Heroes, by the nature of their work, had unpredictable schedules at best and were unreachable at worst, leaving the support and PR people who orbited around them in a perpetual state of limbo.  In general, you found lateness to be deeply inconsiderate of everybody’s time and energy, but it was a social faux paus to call Heroes out on their tardiness.  They were usually late due to being called out for emergencies and rescues, so chiding them for missing appointments was a surefire way to come off looking like an absolute jerk to the public at large.  

But internally you can, and often do, curse them for keeping you waiting in a sweltering studio for hours as your birds grew increasingly agitated and your stock of treats ran low.  

“Hot," a brilliant red cardinal complained, hopping into the bowl of water you had placed at the bottom of his cage. 

“I know, buddy.  Hold on just a little longer, okay?”

“Too many suns,” one of the hawks complained, ducking her head beneath her wing to block out the blinding glow of the stand lights.  

“There sure are.  Do you want me to put a blanket over your cage?”

“Yes,” she agreed readily, shifting her weight from foot to foot in irritation as pulled out a dark blue blanket and draped it over the side of her cage that faced the lights.

A frazzled looking assistant darted your way, hand pressed to the earpiece of their headset as she took in the newest bout of information being relayed.

"Hawks is on-site now.  He's just about done in wardrobe and then he'll make his way here," the assistant said, her eyes frantically scanning over the clipboard in her hands.

"Thank goodness," you sighed, turning to the cages that housed the birds.  "Are you all ready?"

"Leave?  Leave now?" The cardinal chirped, bouncing excitedly in his bath.

"Unfortunately, no.  We still have work to do."

"Not ready then," the cardinal huffed petulantly, puffing up his bright red body as he sank down into his pool. 

"C'mon, it won't be too bad!  If you all follow directions I bet the photos will go really fast and we'll be out of here in no time!" You assured the tiny red bird, crouching down to give him your full attention as he flapped his wings too fast and sent water sloshing out of his pool.  

"Treat would make me ready," the cardinal said slyly, tilting his head to the side in an attempt to distract you from his manipulations by reminding you of how cute he was.

"Treat?" The overwhelmed hawk inquired, peeping her head from around her shroud.

"Treat?" A dove cooed, nudging its friends awake who immediately joined in with the call for snacks.

"Treat! Treat!" The birds chirped and squawked, hitting their wings against the side of their cage and creating a loud enough ruckus that people were beginning to send irritated glances your way.

"Okay!," you hissed in capitulation, pulling a handful of dried crickets out of a paper bag.  "But this is the last of the treats I brought with me, so you all need to behave and make it through the rest of the photoshoot.  Got it?"

"Yes, yes," the cardinal readily agreed, bouncing along the bottom of his cage and picking up the grasshopper in its beak, chomping happily.  "Be good.  Promise."

The cardinal was a dirty rotten liar.  

Snacks had bought you a tentative peace that lasted until the moment Hawks arrived on set.  The birds took one look at the Hero and promptly began screeching, startling everyone in the studio and causing more than one person to drop their cup of coffee in surprise.  Hawks took to air, landing on top of one of the pillars and artfully arranged himself according to the Photographer's instructions while your birds went wild; hurling insults his way.

"Rude!  Rude bird!" The cockatoo called, flairing his crest in displeasure.

"Bad flier!" The doves chastised together with sharp clicks of their beaks.

"Miscreant!" The cardinal called, easily the most wound up of the bunch, fluffing up his feathers to look threatening.  "Criminal!"

"Hey, guys!  Shhhh, you have to quiet down!" You begged, aware of all the judgemental glares settling onto your back like a physical weight.  "You promised you'd behave!"

"No behave!  Need justice!" The cardinal called, hopping up onto his perch and opening his bright orange beak to let out a high pitched chirp. " JUSTICE!"

"Justice!" The rest of the birds echoed. Justice!  Justice!  Justice!"

"We're ready for the birds on set!" The assistant informed you as she motioned over her shoulder to where the photographer circled around Hawks, snapping a few last minute test shots.

"Right," you coughed nervously. "About that."

"What do you mean the birds refuse to work?!" The photographer roared in your face, his cheeks colored a splotchy red.  "They're birds! "

"Yes, they are.  And they refuse to take pictures with Hawks."

"All of them?" The photographer scrubbed a frustrated hand down his face, a vein at his temple pulsating in time with his thundering heartbeat.  

"Seems like," you admit with a sheepish shrug. "It's pretty unusual for them to agree on anything like this.  The raptors and the songbirds are almost always at odds with each other."

"I'm so glad they've managed to achieve bird peace instead of doing, oh, I don't know;  WHAT I'VE PAID FOR THEM TO DO!" The photographer bellowed through gritted teeth, pulling out fistfuls of his already thinning hair in frustration.  

"No price on honor!" The cardinal chirped boldly, the other birds supporting their tweeted proclamation with chirps of their own.  

"What's going in here?" A passing member of the crew asked, hoisting a coiled extension cord up onto his shoulder.

"The birds are uh- unionizing, apparently?  And have decided to go on strike," you explain.

"Really?" The man said, eyes wide in astonishment as he gave the birds a thumbs up and a wide smile. "Right on, little dudes!  Fight the power!"

"Yes!  Fight!  Fight!" The cardinal called.

"Fight!" The birds chorused.

"Bite!  Bite!" The cardinal screeched as he snapped his beak in demonstration.  

"You uh, might want to get away from the cages," you warn the photographer.  "They're starting to call for violence."

The photographer turned away from the cages and appeared to take cleansing breaths before he noticed the crew orderly filing out of the studio.

"Wait!" The photographer called out to the workers. "Where are you going?"

"Sorry man, but we don't cross picket lines," the man holding the extension cord explained as he grabbed a soggy donut from  craft services table on his way out the door.  The crew's act of solidarity seemed to please the birds, who let out  joyous calls in return.  

"We are flock!" The cardinal cheered.  "The flock is strong!"

"I'm so going to get fired for this," you mutter despondently as the birds began flipping over their feeders, spilling seeds and slices of fresh fruit across the studio floor.  

"So what's the excitement over here all about?" Hawks asked, finally curious enough about the disruption your birds were causing to come over and investigate.  

"So, um.  The birds are upset, " you begin warily, hyper aware that the birds were screeching louder and louder with every step Hawks took towards their cages.  

"I can see that," he smirked as he twisted the lid off of a bottle of water, the lopsided grin perfectly at home on his scruffy face.

"And they're refusing to work until their demands are met," you explained, trying to subtly slide your body between Hawks and the birds who were quite literally calling for bloodshed.  

"Which are?" Hawks asked as he lifted the bottle of water to his mouth and took a long sip.

"They, ah, want you held accountable for your numerous bird crimes."

Hawks abruptly choked, water spurting from the corner of his lips as he attempted to swallow the remaining liquid as he sputtered helplessly.

"My what? " He coughed, thumping solidly on his chest with a closed fist.

"Crimes!  So many crimes!" The cardinal squawked.  "Criminal!"

"Villain!  Bad Hawk!" The hawk supplied, eager to distance herself from this other hawk's misdeeds.  

"You seem to have acquired a terrible reputation amongst the bird population in the city.  They're calling you a Villain," you explain ruefully, desperately wishing that you had woken up dead this morning so you could have avoided this entire mortifying ordeal.  

"Tell me- tell me everything, " Hawks sputtered, staring intensely at the rioting birds with wide golden eyes.

Since you were the only person who could understand both human and avians, you were selected to mediate by default.  The birds, unsurprisingly, chose the rabble-rousing cardinal as their representative.  

"I'm going to let you out of the cage now," you told the cardinal, unlocking the door to his enclosure.  "No funny business or you're going right back in, understood?"

"Yes," the cardinal groused, hopping up and down to psych himself up for confronting the number one bird-sona non grata.  

"That means no biting."

"..."

"Agree not to bite or I'm leaving you in the cage."

"Fine," the cardinal agreed, puffing his feathers up in irritation.  "No bite."

"Took him a while to agree to that rule," Hawks murmured uneasily, eyeing the cardinal's sharp orange beak.  

"Yeah, they made up a song about biting you earlier and I think it got him really excited about the prospect."

"Oh, wow," Hawks said, a genuine thread of amazement lacing through his words.  "They've really put a lot of effort into hating me."

"Yeah, they really have.  It's super impressive, right?"

"No chatting!" The cardinal admonished, squeezing your finger with his tiny feet; talons prickling your skin.  "List his crimes!  Prepare for judgment!"

"Right, okay.  So, their biggest complaint is that you're an inconsiderate flier," you begin, keeping an eye on the cardinal perched on your finger as he nods along to your words.

"Inconsiderate how?"

"For starters, you often fly through a flock.  That makes them consider you a predator and unnecessarily stresses them out.  It's an especially big deal during the spring when the females are incubating."

"I see," Hawks murmured, scratching his chin thoughtfully.  

You listened closely to the clarifying chirp of the cardinal before addressing Hawks once more.  "He says that you will also position yourself at the front of a flock, putting yourself in charge of navigation and end up leading them wildly off course."

"I had no idea," Hawks admitted with a sigh, grimacing under the beady glare of the cockatoo. "I was just enjoying their company while I flew."

"And that's kind of the underlying issue here," you point out, running a calming finger over the fluffy crest of feathers atop his head.  "You're playing on their field but totally ignoring the rules of the game and just sowing chaos everywhere you fly."

"I feel like a complete jerk," Hawks admitted, moving his head so he was face to face with the feisty cardinal.  "I'm sorry for causing trouble and making such a mess of things.  I'll be much more conscious about how I fly in the future."

The cardinal was quiet on your finger, mulling over Hawk's words thoughtfully.

"Tell him more."

"Really?" You groan.  "Can't you just accept his apology and move on?"

"Hear all crimes!  Then retribution!"

"Okay, so are you ready to hear the rest?"

"There's more? " Hawks asked incredulously, staring at the cardinal with wide eyes.  

"You better grab a seat," you advise him with a sigh.  "It's a long list of complaints."

To his immense credit, Hawks sat through the translated tongue lashing with rapt attention, taking in each and every criticism with a solemn nod of his head.  He was accused of everything from taking up all the best perches to not sharing the snacks he brought up onto rooftops with him.  That one seemed especially egregious in the eyes of the birds, as the mere mention of unshared snacks past sent them into a wild screeching fit it took you minutes to calm them down from.

"Last crime," the cardinal proclaimed grandiosely, as though he was delivering a sermon from a pulpit and not yelling at an increasingly despondent man while perched on your finger.  "Duck got head stuck in fence.  Hawks took picture and laughed!"

"You laughed and took a picture of a duck that got its head stuck in a fence?"

"Yeah," Hawks winced, fingers running across the grooves in his water bottle nervously.  "I freed them afterwards though!"

"After you laughed at them and took a picture, you mean?" You huffed, completely siding with the birds in this particular instance.  

"Crimes done.  Retribution now!"   The cardinal chirped, sending the rest of the birds into an uproar of wildly flapping wings and agreeing squeaks.  

"What's he saying?"

"He's, uh, calling for retribution."

"Feathers and blood!" The cardinal demanded.

"Feathers and blood!" The doves warbled in agreement.

"They're calling for your feathers and blood," you informed the Hero.   

"And snacks!" The hawk added, the rest of the birds silent as they considered the added request.

"Yes, snacks!" The cardinal chirped in triumph as the rest of the birds joined him in his chant. "Snacks!  Snacks!  Snacks!"

"Feathers, blood…and snacks," you clarify, watching anxiously as Hawks' brow furrowed deeply in thought.

"I agree to your terms," Hawks said, holding out his extended index finger in front of the cardinal.  "Blood and feathers now, with snacks to be delivered later.  Deal?"

The cardinal, being a legitimately good representative for his species, turned to briefly confer with the rest of the birds before hopping from your finger onto Hawks'; the closest approximation to a handshake as they could get.  

"It's a deal," you smiled brightly to Hawks, who returned your brilliant grin with one of his own that set off sharp pangs of nervousness in your belly.  It had been easy to ignore how handsome he was while you were busy trying to quell a feathery uprising; but now that the panic that had been crashing through your body was abating, your brain had apparently decided you had more than enough brain cells free to contemplate how pleasing Hawks' appearance was.  

He was a bit more disheveled than he was at the start of this entire debacle, hair tousled from where he had run his hands through it in bouts of sheepishness; but he still looked put together and expertly coiffed.  You, on the other hand, could tell that an entire day spent in a sweltering room hadn't done you any favors by the way your uniform polo clung to your sweat-dampened skin.  Suddenly self conscious and desperate for a shower, you puff your chest out in a false show of bravado and do your best to move things along.  

"Alright, which do you want to do first?  The blood or the feathers?"

The birds, by and large, considered giving up feathers to be the most important act of contrition and agreed that the request for blood was mostly just a ceremonial inclusion for traditions sake.  But Hawks, determined to repent, ran one of his sharpened feathers across his forearm with no complaint; dulling the blood tipped feather and presenting it to the cardinal with a deep bow.  

The cardinal accepted the offering with a pleased chirp, taking the feather in his beak and carefully tucking it in amongst his tail feathers.  Hawks' plume, being about twice the length of the entire cardinal, trailed out comically from his tail and made him look like a far more exotic bird than he actually was.  

"Atonement!" The cardinal cried, shaking his new tail feather for his comrades to see.  

"So red!" A dove praised.

"Very shiny," the cockatoo nodded.

"Well, that's one down," Hawks said as he curled his left wing in front of his body, hands already running through his feathers as he carefully selected his next offering.  "Who's next?"

"Me! Me! Me!" The birds chirped in unison, a great many hopping up and down in their excitement to possess a colorful new treasure.  

"You don't have to give them all feathers, Hawks," you assured him as you frantically calculated how many birds you'd brought with you versus how many feathers he could probably surrender while still retaining his ability to fly.  "I know you need them for your job."

"That's true," Hawks nodded as he plucked out another feather and presented it to a brown-headed thrush.  "But I also need to hold myself accountable for my mistakes.  The birds have very generously offered me a way to make things right, and I won't take this opportunity for granted."

You didn't know what to say so you opted instead for silence, watching intently as he methodically worked his way through the collected cages; respectful and solemn as he repeated the feather presentation for each and every bird.  

The photographer had been thrilled when he returned to set and found Hawks in place on set, lounging bonelessly across the pillars with a collection of raptors perched around him.  That excitement faded quickly when he saw the bare patches in Hawks' normally full wings, a far cry from the picture perfect style he'd be envisioning.

Hawks had simply run an admiring finger across the bright red feather tucked into an eagle's wing and proclaimed that 'He liked it better this way' and that was that.  The photographer began barking orders and the crew jumped into action, adjusting light positioning and turning on a wind machine to ruffle everyone's feathers just so.  

The rest of the shoot went by smoothly, and in no time at all you were refilling water dishes and loading up the cages into the back of the large box truck with the bird rescues' name and phone number stenciled onto the back.  You cranked the AC up to the highest setting and sank down into the faux leather driver's seat, enjoying the merciless onslaught of frigid air on your overheated skin as you buckled up.  

Peering into your side mirror, you were startled by the presence of the Number Two Hero illuminated in the red glow of your taillights.  He was leaning out of the studio exit, a small smile tugging at his lips and a hand held up in farewell while you shifted the truck into drive and rolled out of the parking lot.  The sharp shrill of birds complaining as you hit a pothole pulled your attention back to the road and away from Hawks' golden eyes; glowing brightly from the shadows.     

It was hard not to think about Hawks as you cruised along on the empty highway, so you allowed yourself a brief flight of fancy; reminiscing about the scant distance between your bodies and the tangy redolence of his cologne.  

It would be a good story to regale your coworkers with over drinks and to pull out at parties when you needed to impress someone; the tale of a bird rebellion and how Hawks managed to both literally and figuratively soothe the birds' ruffled feathers.  A once in a lifetime meeting that you would think back fondly on, made ever more precious by the knowledge that such a thing would never occur again.

It wasn't like you to answer your personal phone at work, but it also wasn't something that had honestly ever happened before.  Your family knew your work schedule and your friends all belonged to the very reasonable school of thought where they would rather drink poison than talk on the phone, so any communication from them would arrive in text form.  Curious, you pulled your phone out of your back pocket and swiped to answer; stomach plummeting to your feet when your camera booted up and you belatedly realized you'd accepted a request to video chat.  

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit, " you swore, reaching to press the disconnect button as Hawks' beaming face appeared on screen.

"Hey there!," he greeted cheerily, face disappearing from view as he momentarily fumbled with his phone.  

"Hawks? " You croak in disbelief, quickly examining your appearance in the small facecam and hurriedly knocking a chunk of dried mealworm out of your hair. 

"That's what they call me!"

"Are you- is everything okay?" You manage to stammer out, impressed that you managed to say actual words and not a series of confused grunts.  

"Everything is fine!  I was just calling to thank you for all your help a few weeks back," he explained, the camera drifting off to the side to show off the sprawling city skyline.  Wherever Hawks was, he was up high.  "Word has been getting around to all the birds around the city and I've noticed a definite shift in their demeanor."

"Oh?  How so?"

"Well, for starters, they've stopped dive bombing me mid-flight.  And they aren't pooping on that statue of me downtown nearly as much as they used to.  Oh!  And a couple days ago a crow brought me a couple of soda tabs," Hawks said proudly as he reached into the collar of his shirt and pulled out a leather cord with some aluminum pieces tied into the middle.  "So I turned them into a necklace!"

"Very stylish," you complimented sincerely, thinking about the box of bird gifted trinkets you had at home and how much each of those shiny bits of metal meant to you.  

"And I've taken to carrying around some food for them- bird seed and raisins, mostly; so we can all hang out and eat together!"

"It really sounds like things have turned around for you.  I'm glad."

"They really have," Hawks nodded eagerly, phone tilting off-kilter once again as a particularly strong gust blew by.  "And it's all because of you."

"I think you're definitely downplaying that cardinal's excellent negotiation tactics," you reminded him as you shuffled a few papers across the top of a nearby desk, trying to distract yourself from the sense of unease you felt under the weight of both his attention and gratitude.

"Speaking of negotiations, did the treats I sent arrive safely?  I would hate for this tentative peace we've achieved to crumble due to shipping errors."

"They did!" You assured him, spinning your phone around to point the camera at the large stack of express shipped boxes in the corner.  "The birds were very excited when they arrived, but now that they know we have such a huge backlog they just keep bugging me about getting snacks all the time."

"Sorry about that.  But sacrifices must be made in the name of peace," Hawks shook his head sadly.  

"I think you're a bit more knowledgeable about sacrifices than I am.  Are your replacement feathers coming in alright?"

"They've already fully grown back in, see?" He tilted his camera to landscape and extended one wing out to the side, fluffing his feathers to show off how nicely they'd filled in.

"Woah," you whistled in appreciation, cutting off the sound abruptly when you saw his cheeks flush, realizing how inappropriately he had taken your display of awe.  "That's ah- really fast for full regrowth."

"That's sort of my thing, you know.  Being fast," he smirked proudly before he suddenly froze, cheeks reddening even further as he seemed to sink his face down into the collar of his coat. "Well, uh- most of the time at least.  Sometimes I'm slow though.  When I want to be.  I can be reeeeally slow."

Deciding to ignore his floundering since he had so graciously let your own bout of verbal idiocy pass unmentioned, you frantically gazed around the room and found the perfect segue to shift your conversation back into neutral waters.

"Do you want to see what they did with your feathers?"

"They kept them?" Hawks asked, voice hitching in excitement.

"More than that; they made art with them," you cheerfully explained, flipping the phone around to show off the wreath hanging in the window a handful of weaver birds had worked together to craft; Hawk's brilliant red feathers tucked and woven amongst reedy pieces of grass and straw.  "Since there weren't enough feathers for every bird here at the rescue, they thought that displaying them publicly was more fair."

"Wow," Hawks breathed, impressed by both their craft skills and sense of equitability.  "They're really taking this union thing seriously."

"You have no idea," you laughed dryly. "They're starting to talk about collecting dues. "

It was strange how quickly you became accustomed to communicating with Hawks.  Calls were a rare occurrence due to how overwhelmingly busy he was pretty much every moment of the day.  There were multiple instances where you would be texting, sending funny memes back and forth to each other, and then mere moments after his last message was sent you would see him flash across the screen in a live news broadcast.  A blur of red and beige swooping in to pull civilians out of harm's way or expertly apprehend Villains without breaking a sweat.  

Knowing how full Hawks' schedule was made you even more appreciative of that evening he'd spent with you and the birds all those weeks ago.  You had thought that the feathers were the most valuable thing he had given up that day, but you now knew that his time was an infinitely more precious commodity.  

So you treasured each moment that he chose to share with you, regardless of the form it took.  Snapshots of cute birds he'd seen on patrol, lengthy personal reviews of what had to be every fried chicken restaurant in the city, and picking up the phone whenever he was free to chat. 

Even when that call came in at four in the morning, like today.  

"You should try to eat breakfast before you crash for the night," you reminded him, tone a touch scolding because this was not the first time you'd had to remind him to make time for a meal.  

"I don't like breakfast foods," Hawks grumbled, lip stuck out in a deep pout as he trudged towards his kitchen.  

"You don't have to eat breakfast foods, you just have to eat, " you huff in exasperation, grabbing a box of cereal from your pantry, hoping that a healthy dose of peer pressure might tip the scales in your favor.  "Cold pizza was invented for pretty much this exact purpose."

"I don't think I have any pizza," Hawks muttered, prying open the double doors of his fridge and examining the contents critically.  "I think I have the stuff for a sandwich though."

"Sandwiches are good.  They meet all the necessary desperation meal requirements."

"Which are?" Hawks asked as he shoved a packet of lunch meat into the crook of his arm and sent a couple of feathers in to grab condiments so he wouldn't have to set down his phone.

"They contain calories and don't dirty up too many dishes," you explain, hip checking your own fridge closed as you grab a carton of milk.  "Handfuls of cheese you eat over the sink are also a classic choice."

"What are you eating?"

"Cereal," you say, holding up your bowl of puffed grains next to your face for his inspection.

"Ugh, gross," he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"I'm going to toss some berries on top."

"That doesn't make the cereal better, that just makes the berries worse, " he complained as he squirted a generous serving of mayonnaise across a slice of bread, paused, and then squeezed on some more.

"Hey, now!  If I wanted this level of judgment before the sun came up I would talk to my Grandma instead," you huffed, shoving a spoonful of cereal into your mouth and bringing the microphone closer to your jaw to subject Hawks to the loudest crunching sounds you could manage.  

"I- sorry," he sighed, shoulders drooping in exhaustion.  "I didn't mean to be so prickly.  Today was…really rough."

"I know," you said soothingly.  "I saw the News.  Even went to bed early because I thought you might call."

"Thank you," he says, voice small so it could slip past the emotions welling in his throat.  "For picking up." 

"Anytime, Hawks," you assured him, eyes darting to the time displayed in the upper corner of your phone screen.  "Literally."

You, 11:45am

"Hey, Hawks?  I have a question."

Hawks, 11:52am

"Of course!  What's up?"

You, 11:53am

"I've been wondering for a while now- how did you get my phone number?"

Hawks, 1:15pm

"I saw the rescue logo on the back of the truck when you were leaving the photo shoot."

"Called them up and told them how impressed I was with your professionalism and how I wanted to thank you personally."

You, 1:18pm

"And they just gave you my number?!"

Hawks, 1:20pm

"Yep.  Major breach of confidentiality.  You might want to look into that, actually.  

"They didn't ask me to verify my identity or anything!"

You, 1:22

"Gotta go.  I need to send a strongly worded letter to HR."

Hawks, 1:25

"Make sure to start it with a 'To Whom It May Concern'; let them know you really mean business!"

The familiar jingle of Hawk's custom ringtone only sounded for a moment before you were able to swap which hand was holding onto your grocery basket and fish your phone out of your back pocket. 

"Hey, there!" Hawks greeted, smile strained as he waved his arm around frantically at something off screen.  "Can I- Ugh!  Ask for a favor in a- argh!  Professional capacity?"

"Uh, sure?" You agreed, re-shelving a can of soup you were having second thoughts about.

"Great!" Hawks shouted in relief, pulling a flailing pigeon into frame, reeling back momentarily as he took a wing straight to the face.  "This little cutie has been following me for hours , trying to- oof!  Get my attention and I'm starting to get very curious as to their underlying motivation."

"Maybe she just wants an autograph?" You joke, snorting in amusement as Hawks dodged another hit from the distressed bird.

"I'll give her whatever she wants if she just- ugh ! Stops hitting me!"

You whistled shrilly, gaining the attention of nearby shoppers and the pigeon on Hawks' end; the bird stilling in his hands at your call.  "Hey, little pigeon.  What's going on?"

The pigeon launched into a series of urgent coos, head bobbing along frantically with her cries. 

"Are you sure?" You asked, eyes wide as she cooed in confirmation, heaving a relieved sigh that her message had been successfully conveyed.  

"What?  What is it?" Hawks asked anxiously, cradling the bird snugly to his chest now that she wasn't a thrashing mass of beak and talons.  

"She says, ah-," you pause, looking around at all the shoppers lingering about you with prying eyes.  Flashing them a wobbly smile, you quickly shuffle off towards the other end of the store, dropping your voice to a whisper in a bid for some level of confidentiality.  "She says that she knows where they're hiding all the drugs?" 

It's quiet for a moment as Hawks peers down at the pigeon in his hands with comically wide eyes before he shifts into a more professional demeanor; shooting a too-bright smile at you through his phone.  

"I've gotta' go now!  Bye!"

Your phone kicks you back to your home screen as he hangs up, leaving you staring at your phone; dumbfounded by the abrupt turn of events.  

A few days passed before you heard from Hawks again, and when the next call came in he wasn't alone.

"This is Cookie," he beamed as he proudly introduced the familiar pigeon perched on his shoulder.  "Get it?  Because you can't spell 'Cookie' without 'coo'?  And she's a pigeon? And pigeons-"

"-pigeons say 'coo'. Yeah, I get it," you groan miserably.  After years working at the rescue you had limited patience for bird jokes and were pretty sure you had heard them all hundreds of times by this point.  Unfortunately for you, Hawks seemed to have acquired puns as a second language and was determined to impress you with his fluency.  

"Anyway, it turns out Cookie has a real knack for surveillance.  She led me right to a massive distribution center that was operating right under our noses."

"Is it okay for you to be telling me all of this?"

"Probably not!" Hawks laughed, bringing a finger up to give Cookie an affectionate scratch at the side of her head.  "Anyway, I hope you weren't too attached to that dim sum place downtown.  It was totally a drug front."

"Wait- the one with the little ginger dumplings?" You gasped in dawning horror.

"The very same."

"And the chef-?"

"The ringleader of the entire operation, I'm afraid."

"God dammit!"

"So they pack me up, ship me across the country to some far flung zoo to talk to their penguin in person because he's, and I quote, 'camera shy'.   And do you know how that little gremlin thanked me?" You ranted into your phone, freshly clad in an old pair of pajamas with your skin still dewy from your flesh-searingly hot shower.  

"He threw up on you, didn't he?" Hawks said, poorly disguising his restrained laughter with a forced cough.

"He threw up on me !" You screeched, throwing your hands up into the air as you fell backwards onto the couch, accidentally smacking yourself in the face with the corner or your phone during your uncontrolled plummet. "Ouch!"

"You alright?" Hawks asked, voice muffled from your speaker being pressed into the couch cushions.

"Yes.  And no?" you sigh, rubbing a fist across the rising welt on your temple while you propped your phone up on your stomach, providing Hawks with the most unflattering viewing angle of your face as possible. "Just wishing things were different, I guess?"

"What sorts of things?" Hawks asked quietly, the distant beacons on airplane wings blinking methodically in the night sky behind him; false stars in a pollution filled sky.  

"I don't know.  Everything?  I wish I had a different job, one where penguins didn't vomit on me.  Or a different Quirk.  Just- an entirely different life, sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I thought," Hawks paused, allowing himself to carefully select his words.  "I thought you liked your job?"  

"I do.  Most of the time, at least.  But it also feels like I never really have a choice, you know?  Like, what else could I really do with a Quirk like mine?"

"You could always not use your Quirk," he said, gaze intensely focused away from his phone on some distant point on the horizon you couldn't see.  "Get a job doing something entirely different."

"I didn't want to when I was a kid- use my Quirk, I mean.  I wanted to be a doctor.  And a best-selling author.  And a ninja."

"Quite the triple threat."

"Yeah," you chuckled, thinking back on all the crayon drawings you had made, scribbles of a distant future that would never come to pass.  "But everyone said it would be a waste to not use my natural-born talent, especially since it's a moderately useful one."

"I've always wanted to be Hero.  For as long as I can remember, that's always been my dream," Hawks stated flatly, with the same lackluster affect of someone discussing the weather; an automatic response honed through years of systematic repetition.  "But I get it."

"You do?"

"Yeah," he swallowed thickly, focusing his attention back onto you; eyes glistening strangely with reflections of the city lights.

"It's hard being… pigeonholed into a profession."  

"Hawks, noooooo," you groan piteously.  "We were having a moment!  And you ruined it!"

"I'm sorry!" He lied, head thrown back as he cackled.  

"I'm hanging up now," you grumbled, more amused than you were irritated but determined not to let Hawks know that.  

"Don't go!  I'll be lonely without you!"

"Cookie will keep you company.  Won't you, girl?" 

At the mention of her name, the pigeon poked her head out from where she was nestled inside of Hawks' collar, cooing her agreement.

"I still can't believe you commissioned a tiny visor for her," you snorted in delight at the miniature replica of Hawks' headset perched on top of Cookie's beak.  

"What?  She needed it!" Hawks defended, drawing his collar shut and pulling Cookie in more snugly towards his chest.  "Her eyes were drying out when I flew too fast!"

"Uh-huh.  Sure they were."

"They were!  And besides, she likes wearing it," he insists petulantly before he is carried away by a sudden wave of uncertainty.  "Right?"

"She does," you assure him. "Cookie really loves being with you, Hawks."

"Really?" He whispered, staring down at the bird in awe, who cooed happily and nuzzled her head into his chin.  

A quiet moment stretched on between you, silent except for the sound of your breathing and the distant wail of a car alarm.  

"For the record, I think your Quirk is amazing," Hawks said sincerely.  "You have this entire extra world you get to communicate with.  That's pretty special."

"I guess," you say with a sigh, pushing up into a sitting position with the naive aspirations of mustering up the energy to make it to bed in the next hour or two.  "But it's not like they're particularly great conversationalists.  Once Spring rolls around I just have to deal with listening to hundreds of voices outside my window screaming about how horny they are for weeks on end."

"You prefer a more subtle seduction method then?" Hawks asked, tone playful and also somehow entirely inappropriate.  

"Just a smidgen," you laugh nervously, steadfastly ignoring the frantic beating of your heart.  

"I'll make a note of that."

You had grown so used to looking at Hawks through your phone screen that seeing him in person, bursting through the doors of the rescue, was as startling as having ice shoved down the back of your shirt.  And that feeling of alarm was quickly upgraded to absolute panic by the fact that he was covered in blood splatter and cradling Cookie's limp and twisted body in his hands.  

"HELP!" Hawks yelled, eyes darting wildly around the room as he searched for assistance.  There wasn't even time for a single breath between Hawks spotting you and then him suddenly being at your side; a gust of air heralding his arrival before your eyes could even begin to try to focus on where he had been.    

"Please!  You have to help!  Cookie she- she's hurt," Hawks pleaded, his eyes wild as he cradled his injured friend to his chest.   

"Let me see," you ordered firmly, prying open Hawks' shaking hands to get a better look at the bird.  

"Cold," Cookie warbled weakly when Hawks' hands were pulled away from her body.

"Shh, I know sweet girl," you said soothingly, lifting her as carefully as you could into your own grasp.  

"Hawks hurt?  Hawks okay?"

"What is it?" Hawks asked anxiously.  "What's she saying?"

"She wants to know if you're hurt."

"No," Hawks assured her, voice cracking as he ran soothing fingers across a patch of disheveled feathers between her eyes.  "I'm just fine, thanks to you."

"I need to take Cookie now, Hawks," you informed him gently, "I'll take good care of her.  I promise."

"I know," he sniffed, wiping damp cheeks onto the sleeve of his coat. "I trust you."

It was hard witnessing Hawks' desperation; seeing someone who was normally a paragon of strength so visibly shaken.  It made you scared, having to be strong and brave; to help when a Hero couldn't.  

But you could be brave, just this once.  

For Hawks' sake.  

Just like you, the rest of the staff at the bird rescue had been cherry picked to provide the highest level of Avian care possible.  So while Cookie had been grievously injured with an absolutely staggering number of blunt force fractures, there was likely no better place in the city she could have been brought to for treatment. 

Cookie had made it through numerous scans and a long operation, but you knew that was only the beginning of her struggle.  Her road to recovery would be a long one, and she would likely never be able to fly as well as she did before after having the bones in her left wing nearly ground to dust.  But you couldn't bring yourself to feel too discouraged by that bit of bad news in the face of Cookie's near miraculous survival.  

There hadn't been anything for you to do during the surgery since you didn’t possess any sort of veterinary license, but Hawks had entrusted Cookie to you and it felt wrong to just leave her.  You knew your coworkers well and had the utmost faith in their capabilities, but you'd been determined to stay there beside her should the worst have come to pass.  

So you'd tucked yourself into a corner, already overwhelmed and ready to leave before the scalpel had even made its first incision. You’d watched as they cut and tugged and stitched; blood running and bones popping and Quirks glowing.  And dear lord, the smells-  

It was the absolute worst thing you’d ever witnessed in your life.

But Hawks had trusted you with this; to be where he couldn’t.  

And you wouldn't let him down.  

Hawks sprang up from his stolen chair behind the reception desk as you stumbled back to the front of the building, heartbeat thundering as images from the surgery clung to the inside of your eyelids; replaying with gruesome clarity every time you blinked.

"How is she?" He asked breathlessly, eager to hear the news but dreading the likely outcome.  

“Cookie made it through surgery,” you said, voice too loud as you attempted to make yourself heard over the ringing in your ears.  “She’ll survive.”  

“Oh, thank God,” Hawks gasped in relief, his words distant and muffled.  “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, waving off his gratitude right before you bent forward and threw up all over his boots.  

You, 2:14am

“Once again: I’m so sorry about the vomit.”

Hawks, 2:15am

“I told you, it’s fine!  Stop apologizing.”

You, 2:15am

“Never.  I am going to be apologizing about this for the rest of my life.”

“Every time we meet I’ll be like, ‘Hey, Hawks!  How are you?  Sorry about horking on your boots that one time.’”

Hawks, 2:17am

“Listen, at least this time you were the one throwing up on a bird instead of having a bird throw up on you!"

You, 2:18am

“You’re not a bird though.”

Hawks, 2:20am

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

You, 2:21am

“I want you to be ASLEEP.” 

Hawks, 2:23am

“Best I can do is propping up my feet and chugging an energy drink.”

You, 2:24am

“That isn’t even remotely close to an acceptable substitute.”   

Hawks, 2:26am

“That’s all you’re getting.  Take it or leave it.”

You, 2:28am

"Fine.  But I'm going to tell Cookie you're not taking care of yourself."

Hawks, 2:28am

"Oh, that's low."

You, 2:29am

"I literally threw up on the Number Two Hero yesterday.  I cannot possibly get any lower than I already am.  I might as well just double down and enjoy the perks of my new bottom dweller status."

You were changing out the bedding in Cookie's cage when she saw it.  

"Hawks feathers?" She warbled excitedly at the sight of the brilliant red wreath hanging in the window.  

"Oh!  Yeah, those are Hawks' feathers all right.  Good eye."

"I see?"

"Do you want to perch there while I finish cleaning out your cage?"

"Please," Cookie cooed eagerly, practically vibrating with excitement.  It was the most energetic you had seen her since her operation and you were happy to indulge her whims.  

"Here you go," you said, lowering her gently into the inner hollow of the wreath.  Mindful of her injuries, Cookie nestled down happily into the tangle of grass and feathers.  

By the time you had sanitized everything in the cage and tucked a warm water bottle into her bed, Cookie had fallen fast asleep in the cradle of feather wreath.  Heart melting, you crept closer on silent feet and took a dozen pictures at various angles and filter settings to send to Hawks later. 

You felt a familiar weight settle on your shoulder, needle-like nails scraping for purchase against your skin as the cardinal joined you in observing Cookie's rest.

"Is this okay?" You asked, knowing how important the wreath was to all the birds in the rescue and unsure if napping spot was one of the agreed upon uses for it.  To your immense relief, the cardinal bobbed his head in affirmation. 

"From each by ability, to each by need," he chirped firmly.

"'To each by need '…?" You echo suspiciously with narrowed eyes.  "Has someone been reading Karl Marx to you again?

"The proletariat has nothing to lose but chains!"

After many weeks of worried video calls and unapproved after hours visits that your boss chose to turn a blind eye to after Hawks made a hefty donation, Cookie was ready to be released back into Hawks' care.  

"So I need you to sign these discharge papers," you tell Hawks, tapping multiple spaces on the cover page that required his initials and signature.  "Mostly just standard release stuff, detailing the treatment plan listing the dates for follow up visits, etcetera, etcetera."

"Got it," Hawks agreed, having one of his feathers sign for him since he was loath to stop cuddling with Cookie for a single instant.  

"This one says that I've informed you of all the recommended follow up care."

"Uh-huh," he grinned, happily nuzzling his nose against Cookie's beak as his feather kept scribbling.

"This one says that we cannot be held legally responsible for anything that happens to her once she leaves the rescue."

"Sure," he agreed, chuckling as Cookie nipped playfully at his jaw; feather still dutifully signing away.

"And this one is the list of demands drawn up by Cookie's union."

Hawks paused, brow furrowing as Cookie continued to pluck at his beard scruff. 

"The what now?"

Hawks paced as he read through the notes you had typed up on Cookie's behalf.  As much as the pigeon adored Hawks and couldn't wait to get back to working alongside him, the cardinal had proven himself to be an incredibly persuasive orator and managed to convince Cookie to submit a list of demands.  

"'The Union of Working Birds, henceforth to be referred to as 'The Birds of Pay'', " Hawks snorted in delight. "-'formally submit the following requests.  Number one: guaranteed housing'.  Done."

"Didn't figure you'd object to that one," you said, having helped Hawks painstakingly pick out supplies to house and care for Cookie in his apartment.  

"'Number 2: food will be provided in compensation for labor and will be appropriately calculated by bird weight and provided daily'.  No complaints there-," he murmured, voice trailing off as he continued reading as he strode around the room; drawing to a sudden halt about five pages in.  

"The demands seem to shift a bit around number forty-tree," Hawks said, clearing his throat dramatically before he began reading aloud again.  "'The Birds of Pay retain exclusive rights for requesting avian-based employment with the Hawks Hero Agency'."

"Influence works both ways, Hawks.  Just like Cookie was swayed by the cardinal's talk of worker's rights, a lot of the other birds were really impressed by the stories Cookie told about you," you explained.  "At this point, you could employ an entire flock of birds if you wanted to."

The air inside your office was the perfect temperature, the thermostat set to exactly where you liked it and not a single degree higher or lower.  The furniture selection was a bit too fancy for your liking, polished marble and smudge proof glass where you felt tile and laminate would have sufficed for a fraction of the cost.  

But it wasn't your job to understand the aesthetic design choices of Heroes.  Your job was to mind the birds.  

"Songbird 2, do you copy?" You spoke clearly into your headset listening closely to the responding chirps; eyes glued to the live video feed playing across your screen.  "We have all the footage we need.  Return to the Aviary, over."

You breathed a sigh of relief as the blackbird chirped in acknowledgement, the video feed shifting from the inside of an abandoned warehouse to a wide expanse of sky as they began to make their way back toward Hawks' agency.  It had been a long day of staking out the area of an upcoming Hero Commission raid, but Songbird 2 was the last of the scouts still deployed.  The blackbird's return would herald the end of your workday, and you were excited to finally be able to go home indulge in the carton of ice cream you'd been fantasizing about for hours.  

"Home safe," the blackbird announced as it flew in through the window that had slid open automatically at their approach; the mechanism responding to the proximity sensor built into the standard Hawks style headgear each bird was equipped with.  

"Thank goodness," you smiled, pulling off the tiny headset and visor and setting them to the side for cleaning later.  "Your food dish is filled up and waiting."

"Corn?" The blackbird asked, fluffing up its feathers in excitement.

"Why don't you go check and see?"

The blackbird flew quickly towards the cubbyhole it had claimed for its own, one of many set into the large back wall; each filled with lovingly crafted nests and bright wooden toys.  You heard the distant cry of 'Corn!' followed by a chorus of shushing sounds from the birds that had been pulled from sleep by the blackbird's delighted cry.

Shaking your head with an amused snort, you move to return to your desk to log out for the day, only to run headlong into Hawks' chest.  

"ACK!" You screeched, reeling back in surprise from the impact.

"SHHHHH!" The wall of irritated birds hissed.

"Sorry!" You whispered sheepishly, channeling your embarrassment into making the glare you leveled at Hawks extra piercing.  

"All done for the day?" Hawks asked, unmoved by your display of irritation.  

"Yep.  Everyone is back safe and sound, the surveillance footage has been submitted for review, and now all that remains is for me to clock out and head home," you said as you wandered over to your desk, dropping down into your swivel chair to exit out of the last handful of open programs you had running.  "Do you need anything before I leave?"

"Can we chat?  For just a little?" He asked as he leaned against your desk, putting far more faith in the structural integrity of the tempered glass than you do.  "We haven't really had time to talk recently."

"I know," you groaned, heaving a deep sigh as you shoved your empty water bottle into the side pocket of your work bag. "I've just been so busy getting set up here and making sure the birds are acclimating well.  And then this big stakeout dropped into my lap and it's just been so crazy-"

"Is that- are you okay here?  I know Hero work is a lot sometimes and I just-," he paused, letting out a quiet huff. "I just want to make sure you're happy here."

"I am, I think.  It's definitely more stressful than working at the rescue, but I feel like I have more purpose here?  Like I'm more than just the person who talks to birds."

"Now you're the person who talks to birds with spy gear. "

"Exactly!" you laughed.  "It's totally different."

"I'm glad you're happy," Hawks smiled, one of his real ones that crinkled his nose and made your knees a little weak.  "I've been thinking about making some personal changes myself."

"Oh? What kind of changes?"

"Something like this," he mumbled heatedly, the shift in his tone prompting you to swivel both your head and chair in his direction.  

And then suddenly, his lips were pressed to yours.  Hopelessly chapped from hours of constant flying but oh so warm against your own.  It was short and sweet, a simple sort of kiss; but it stirred up so many complex feelings you were used to keeping caged up inside your chest.  

"That's quite the change," you whispered against his lips, trying to remember the exact sequence of steps required for breathing.  

"It's been a long time coming, I think."

"I wholeheartedly agree.  But I'm ah- not so sure I should be kissing my boss?" You remark apprehensively.  "I really like both you and this job and don't want to risk losing either."

"We set you up to work as an independent contractor, so technically you're your own boss," Hawks assured you, hands clasping your waist as he moved to pull you in for a second kiss. "And even if it isn't allowed, I'd absolutely commit some bluebird- collar crimes for you."

"Hawks!" You huff, swatting at his shoulder in reprimand.  "I can't believe you just ruined our first kiss with a bird pun."

"A kiss?  No, that was just a peck ," Hawks chortled at your pained groan.  "This is a kiss."

With a firm tug Hawks pulled your body flush with his as his lips descended, and with the fresh addition of his tongue and teeth you couldn't bring yourself to mind the puns all that much anymore. 

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 9

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 9 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

The remaining partygoers had dispersed pretty quickly once the fighting had ceased and the participants scattered to different areas of the hotel to cool off. 

“The hour grows late, my dear,” Alastor remarked, checking the time on his pocket watch before deftly snapping the cover shut and sliding it into a pocket in his inner vest.  “Best to get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

“Gourd big or go home, huh?” you joke, quickly tossing back the last bit of your drink.  “Alright, we can leave.  But I'd like to thank our hostess before we set out.”

“Of course,” Alastor nodded, lifting his arm and pointing down a dimly lit corridor.  “I believe our wayward Princess went that thataway.”

“You aren't coming?”

“I'm afraid not.  Lucifer is at the door bidding our fine guests adieu,” Alastor said as he needlessly straightened his pristine bow tie. “And I would hate for that to be their final impression of our establishment.”

“Best to get out there then, so the event can end on a high note.”

“Precisely!” Alastor chortled. “How could I possibly deny our potential donors the chance to spend more time in my illustrious company?  I'm sadistic, not cruel.”

There was obviously some underlying tension between Alastor and the King of Hell that you weren't privy to, but without further context you simply said a temporary farewell to your compulsory companion and set off to find Princess Charlotte.

She wasn't very difficult to track down.

You simply followed the pitiful wails that echoed off the dark paneled walls, eventually spotting her curled up towards the bottom of a winding spiral staircase.  A large glass jar sat next to her, empty, with an obviously vandalized label reading “just the Tips” scrawled on it in two very different penmanship styles.  

“Ms. Charlie?” You say quietly, not wanting to startle and upset the poor woman more than she already was.  “Are you- will you be alright?”

“Yeah,” Charlie sniffs miserably, swallowing back a thick glob of snot before rubbing her eyes along her jacket sleeve to quickly wipe away her tears.  “I'll be okay.  I'm just- I don't know? Embarrassed, mostly.”

“About the, ah, naming debacle?”

“A bit,” she admits with a sullen shrug, staring down into the empty jar beside her.  “It's one thing to have a bunch of guys joke that they have ‘Huge loads’ they want to donate if they actually follow through on it.  But to just be laughed at for no reason?  That doesn't feel too great.”

“I see,” you murmured thoughtfully, easily coming to a decision as you opened up your small clutch and dug around inside.  “If it makes you feel any better, I had a wonderful time tonight.”

“You did? ” Charlie gasped, a tiny glimmer of joy appearing in her otherwise disheartened gaze.  

“I did.  The flowers were truly lovely and I enjoyed seeing how everyone created their own individual spaces.”

“Even Niffty's garden of insect suffering?”

“That was the most memorable part, honestly.  It'll probably feature prominently in my nightmares for the rest of my afterlife.”

Finally, you were able to solicit a laugh from the downtrodden Princess; a joyous, if not mucousy, sound.  

“I know this isn't anywhere close to the amount you were hoping for, but- well, this is all I really have,” you admit, opening up your coin purse and shaking it over the empty donation jar; trying to ignore the sour tang of humiliation when only a couple of dollars in change and a coupon for 15% off a tooth sharpening service fall out.  

“The uh- the coupon expires next week,” you mutter, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence as Charlie stared at your paltry offering; the coins rattling sadly at the bottom of the jar.  “So you should…keep that in mind, I suppose.”

"This is-”

“Not a lot, I know,” you cringed, eyes burning as you did your best to hold back shameful tears.  Ms. Rosie did a great job polishing you up, but the fact of the matter was that Charlie's life- an existence of privilege and having ; was so distant from the desperation and wanting that had been clawing at your insides for as long as you could remember.  

With your eyes closed, not wanting to face the full extent of her pity; you had no way of anticipating the crushing force of Charlie's hug as she flung herself at you. 

“No,” Charlie whispered fiercely into your shoulder. “It's more than enough.  It's everything.”

If Alastor noticed the puffy skin around your eyes he was polite enough to not mention it or simply didn't care.  Either way, the stroll back to Cannibal Town arm-in-arm with him was a pleasant way to end the evening.  The humidity of the day had died down enough where it no longer felt like you were drinking the air, and the terrified screams of unlucky sinners were distant enough that they faded into the background of whatever moody jazz tune Alastor had selected to play as you strolled.  

The blood wine had dispersed quickly from your empty belly, muddling your thoughts and filling you with a reckless sort of bravery.

“Alastor, Sir?” You say quickly, not giving yourself the opportunity to back down.  “May we speak candidly?”

“Can-did, you say? That's something we certainly can-do, ” Alastor jested, the ambient music lowering slightly in volume to allow for an easier flow of conversation.  

Being the focus of Alastor's attention was always a stressful sort of experience; like having the full force of a spotlight turned onto you.  

“I'm just, well, a bit curious, ” you manage to stammer out.  “About your intentions.”

“My intentions? ” Alastor echoed with an uncomprehending blink.  

“I know that you…don't really care for me. Not in the way you want others to believe, anyway,” you quietly admit.  

“True,” Alastor readily agrees.  The fact that his rejection came so swiftly, as though you weren't even worthy of a passing moment of consideration, ached in a way you hadn't ever felt before.  It was like a spindle tightening in your gut, spooling you inwards, making you feel even smaller and more insignificant than you normally did.  

Swallowing thickly, you press on; determined to find some crumb of meaning in your pain.   

“So I suppose my question is why?  Why carry out this facade?  Why choose me to assist you with it?”

Alastor was slow to respond, not out of need to compose his answer, but out of an irrepressible need to draw out the theatricality of every possible moment.  

“Recently, I have found myself saddled with what one might call a bit of an unwanted reputation,” Alastor admitted with a weary sigh.  “I wouldn't usually bother with such trifling matters, but it's becoming an increasingly burdensome issue.”

“I'm still not entirely sure how I factor into all of this.”

“More often than not, the simplest solution to a problem is best.  And you, my dear, have proven yourself to be quite simple.”

“Gee, thanks,” you bristled, doing your best to tamp down your irritation at his backhanded compliment.  

“Quite welcome,” Alastor said cheerily, tucking his cane into the crook of his arm so he could pat the top of your hands, both wrapped snugly around his forearm, firmly.  

You hadn't been aware that a touch could feel condescending until this precise moment in time.    

“So, I'm accompanying you for what purpose, exactly?  To improve your image?”

Alastor's nose crinkled in distaste, tongue tsking at you in reprimand.  “I assure you there is nothing about my person that you could possibly improve upon.”

“Of course.  How silly of me to imply otherwise,” you respond placatingly, patting his hand just as he had yours moments before.  Based on the nearly imperceptible ticking of his eyebrow, Alastor found the gesture just as infuriating as you did.  

Good.  

“As for why I chose you, well, think of it this way; why should a fox bother hunting when the chicken coop's unlocked?”

You weren't sure what you hated more, the idea that Alastor viewed you with a chicken happily waiting to be slaughtered or the fact that his comparison fit so well. 

Tag List:

@wendds @matpatsstuff @qardasngan @polytheatrix @sirens-and-moonflowers  @venusdandy

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 11

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 11 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

“Salutations!  Are you free today?” Alastor asked, having materialized next to you only moments ago.  Too busy to be properly startled by his sudden appearance, you stare out across the boisterous mass of customers that had crammed themselves into the store to take advantage of the spur of the moment promotional sale Hal had decided to run.

“No-”

“Fantastic!” Alastor cackled, grabbing hold of your arm firmly while snapping the fingers on his free hand.  Darkness overtook your vision and for a terrifying moment you lost the ability to decipher which way was up, as though you were being pulled equally in every direction all at once.  

But you were very quickly reacquainted with the concept of down as the darkness abruptly receded; legs buckling under you as gravity kicked back into working order.  It was only by the grace of Alastor's firm grip that you didn't crumple to the ground in an inelegant heap.

The furniture had been rearranged, couches pushed alongside the walls to make room for a half circle of easels in the center of the room, but you were still able to immediately recognize the parlor of the Hazbin Hotel from your previous visit.

“Cease your lamentations, compatriots, for I have returned!” Alastor called, tugging you forward as he strode purposefully towards an empty pair of easels.

“Lamenting?  Sorry, but these are tears of joy clouding my eyes,” the gray-skinned woman scoffed as Alastor pulled out one of the tufted stools for you to perch on.  

“Vaggie!” Charlie scolded, casting a reprimanding look at the woman seated at the easel next to her.  

“What?  I'm just saying what we're all thinking!” Vaggie responded, flicking a dismissive hand towards Alastor. “It's better when he's not skulking around and creeping up the place.”

“A-fucking-men to that,” Husk grumbled, lifting a nearly empty bottle of vodka to salute Vaggie in a show of solidarity.

“Well, I'm glad you're here,” Charlie said, smiling brightly at you and Alastor.  “Both of you.”

“It's a pleasure to be back,” you said, smiling politely as you examined the collection of pencils on your easel tray and doing your best to pretend like you'd willingly agreed to be here.

“You're all covered in blood,” the tiny woman seated on the other side of you proclaimed, her single eye shining brightly.  

“Ah- yes.  Yes, I am,” you grimaced, running a hand self-consciously down your blood spattered apron.  “I just came from work.”

“I like it,” Niffty grinned, shooting you the smallest thumbs up you'd ever seen.  Despite the fact that there was no way she could possibly be as sweet as she appeared, you couldn't help but find her exaggerated petiteness adorable.  

“Thank you,” you smiled, taking note of the similar blood-spattered state of her apron.  “I like yours, too.  It looks very fresh.”

“It is!” Niffty squealed, kicking her legs in delight.  “We have a rat infestation like you wouldn't believe!  They might be smarter than me, and faster than me, and have twice as many eyes than me, but they have to sleep eventually!”

You were saved from having to formulate a response by the double doors in the back of the room slamming open, revealing Angel Dust artistically draped in a crisp white sheet.  

“Alright, you buncha’ degenerates,” Angel calls out as he strode confidently towards to easels on impossibly willowy legs; clambering up on top of an overturned apple crate.  “It's time we class up this joint and take in a bit of culture for once!”

With an elegant shrug Angel dropped the sheet, revealing his completely nude form.

“Make sure to get my good side,” Angel Dust purred over his shoulder before bending over and grabbing his ankles, fully exposing his derriere and everything in between. 

“Unholey Moley! ” You screech in surprise, snapping your head to the side to politely avert your gaze.  

“Oh, c'mon!” Angel laughed.  “Ain't you ever seen a work of art before?”

“Is that what you're supposed to be?” Vaggie scoffed, examining the tray of pencils in front of her before randomly picking one out with an irritated grimace.

“Uh, obviously," Angel scoffed, running his hands down the side of his thighs provocatively. “My body is a masterpiece and I know how to work it!”

“Could I perhaps tempt you with a drink before we depart?” Alastor enquired as he tidied his drawing tools, examining his astoundingly accurate portrait with critically narrowed eyes.  

“I…could honestly really use a drink right now,” you mumbled wearily, rubbing firm circles over your closed eyes with the heels of your hands.

“Husker, my good man!” Alastor called out across the room to where the rest of the residents were packing up their materials and preparing to disperse to parts of the Hotel unknown.  “Would you be so kind as to pour me and my lady friend a couple of nightcaps?”

“Do I have a fuckin’ choice?” Husk grumbled, stomping over to the bar and throwing his sketchpad down onto the counter with a loud thwack.

“Haha- no!” Alastor laughed, guiding you towards a barstool with a firm hand on your lower back.  

“Alright,” Husk grumbled, leveling you with an exhausted glare.  “Pick your poison.”

“Whatever kills me the fastest,” you respond immediately, visions of Angel Dust's contorted body still burned into your retinas.  “I'm not in the business of prolonging my own suffering.”

“Of course you aren't, that's my job!” Alastor interjected, lifting the faceted glass Husk had slid to him towards your person.  You lifted your own tall shooter in response, clinking your glass against his solidly.  

You threw back your drink, the fiery burn of the liquor distracting you from feeling the full weight of Husker's disbelieving gaze.

It was hard to keep count of how many drinks you'd imbibed with how attentive a barkeep Husker was.  When you and Dorcas went out drinking you'd build up a veritable wall of glasses before the bartender cared enough to collect the empty cups.  

It might have been the presence of an Overlord that made Husk so attentive, clearing discarded glassware the very instant it hit the counter; but based on how busy Husk managed to keep himself arranging garnishes and refilling ice trays you were willing to wager that he took a lot of pride in maintaining an orderly workstation.  

“How did you find today's activity?” Alastor asked, his clawed hand circling the rim of a crystal glass; delighting in the quiet hum the action created.  “Did you enjoy baring your artistic side?”

“I don't know,” you sighed, poking at the drawing pad beside you with a stiff finger, the visible page crammed with wobbly figures you had drawn as fast as possible in between bouts of extreme mortification.  “I think the only one baring anything was probably Angel Dust.”

“Quite so!” Alastor agreed with a grin. “I suppose you could say it was a very revealing exercise.”

“We really exposed ourselves to new experiences!”

“I think I'm au natural at drawing!”

“You definitely have some raw talent,” you tittered, finally unable to maintain your composure and letting a full-bodied laugh overtake you; Alastor's hearty chuckle joining in only moments later.

“Oh, God-fucking-dammit,” Husk swore as he watched you and Alastor revel in shared mirth.  “Now there's two of them!”

“So, you and the Radio Demon, huh?” Husk inquired with a casual air that was negated by the fact he had been intensely wiping down the same spot of the bar top while waiting for a conversational opening to present itself.  

“Hmm?” You mumbled, head heavy in your palms as the alcohol flooded your system and left your thoughts fuzzy and sluggish.

“You're, y'know,” Husk paused, waving his hands around in vague circles through the air. “with Alastor?”

“Course not,” you reply, taking a moment to belch inelegantly into your hand. “He's over there tallin’ to- talking to Charlie.”

“No, that's not what I- ughhh,” Husk groaned as he scrubbed an exasperated hand down his face.  “I just want to make sure you aren't in any sort of trouble.  Not that I can really do anything if Alastor's involved.  But you seem like an alright sort of girl.”

You shifted focus across the room to where Alastor stood, his cane serving to prop him up more than he'd ever admit now that was likely more whiskey than man at this point.  Charlie said something he obviously didn't agree with, his nose crinkling in distaste in a way that reminded you of when your family cat made the mistake of investigating a stink bug too closely; a reaction you found entirely too adorable for a man who routinely flossed his teeth with human sinew.

“Ohhhhh.  No, I'm definitely in trouble,” you sighed, trying to position your head back onto your hand and missing entirely, stars dancing across your vision as your skull collided with the hard wood of the polished bar top.  “I'm in waaaaay over my head.”

Husk hummed in acknowledgment as he made the executive decision to cut you off, grabbing your half empty glass and tossing back the second-hand spirits while you fruitlessly tried to keep yourself balanced on the bar stool without toppling to the side.  

“I have no clue what I even did to catch the inchrest- the interescht?  Enteresque ?” You stammer, pouting before giving up and selecting a word with fewer syllables to trip over.  “The notice of someone like Alastor.  ‘s only a matter of time before he gets bored and turns his attention to someone else.  I just hope I don't get too attached before that happens, ya’ know?”

“Ah,” Husk breathed, eyes darting across the room to where Angel Dust sat, reclining dramatically across a chaise lounge, phone cameras flashing in each of his hands as he used his additional limbs to capture selfies from multiple angles simultaneously.  He had wrapped the dressing sheet around himself to highlight every dip and curve of his body, a flawless vision that made Husker viscerally aware of how mangy and worn he was in comparison. “Yeah, I know that feelin’.”

You and Husker shared a moment of quiet solidarity as you both gazed at your partners across the parlor, each lost in thought and considering the inevitable end of the paths you each had found yourselves on.  

“Shit sucks,” you grumble discontentedly, blindly reaching around the counter for your missing drink.  With a deep chuckle of agreement, Husk pushed a cup of water into your outstretched hand; adding a bendy straw when it became obvious that bringing a cup to your mouth without spilling half of it down the front of your dress was completely out of the realm of possibility.  

“It sure does, girlie.  It sure fucking does.”

Tag List:

@wendds, @matpatsstuff, @qardasngan, @polytheatrix,

@sirens-and-moonflowers, @venusdandy

[coopigeoncoo]

An Itch to Scratch, Chapter 1: Foolish Lover's Game

Chapter Links: One, Two, Three

Pairing: Kirishima Eijiro/Female Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Tags: Mermay, Mer!Kirishima, Interspecies Relationships, Sexual Content, Somnophilia, Drowning, Caretaking, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Medical Conditions, Family Secrets, Self-Esteem Issues, Long-Distance Relationship, Wakes & Funerals, Family Member Death, Depression, Original Characters, Adopted Children, Angst with a Happy Ending.

This story is part of a collaboration from the Teahouse Server.

---

Kirishima Eijiro is everything you never thought you'd find when you packed up your car and moved to a dilapidated fishing town.  He was handsome, funny, and kind; the sort of man who took your breath away.  

And that might actually be a bit of a problem.

---

"Good girl ," Eijiro praised, his hands like a vice on your hips as he pulled away from your mouth with a satisfied grin.  You returned his smile with one of your own; the vibrant joy that had churned in your belly unfurled throughout your body, leaving you feeling breathless and lightheaded.  

"Eiji," you gasped, eyes widening in panic as your lungs seemed to seize in your chest.  "I- can't breathe!"

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to Ao3!

It was an indescribably gorgeous day out in the water, the waves lapping at your shoulders were the perfect temperature to cool your sun-warmed skin without chilling you.  The sky was a solid bright blue with no variation in its hue, making it look like whoever was in charge of coloring the sky that morning just stuck a paint sample card up and called it a day. 

"We've been out here for a long time," you mentioned offhandedly, heaving yourself up onto your raft inelegantly, grunting as you struggled to get a leg up and roll onto the wildly bobbing flotation device.

"Oh!" Kirishima exclaimed, startled by how much the sun had shifted in the sky.  "Yeah, we have!  Geeze, it's already way past noon!"

Finally fully on your raft, you let out a whoosh of air as exhaustion settled  into your muscles as you sprawled out under the warm sun.  

"Do you wanna' try and squeeze up into the raft with me?" You offered, patting the narrow sliver of remaining raft at your side.  "It'll be a snug fit, but we can make it work."

"As much as I'd love to join you up there, I don't think It'd be a good fit," Kirishima admitted regretfully, his throat bobbing as his eyes over the curve of your hip where your rash guard had crept up and exposed a strip of sun-warmed skin.  

"Yeah, you're probably right," you laughed nervously, doing your best to banish the thought of the two of you on the raft together, limbs tangled up and chests pressing closer as you struggled to make room for each other.  "I'm just worried your legs are getting tired."

"Why would they be?" Kirishima asked with a furrowed brow, snagging a bit of seagrass floating by and twirling it about on his finger.

"Because you've been treading water for hours now?"

"Oh, right!  My legs are so tired right now!" He laughed uneasily, balling up and crushing the seagrass in his fist.

"Are you going to be okay to get back to shore?  I'd hate for you to get caught in a current and be too tired to make it back to shore safely," you told him, concern seeping into your tone as you rested your hand across Kirishima's muscled forearm.  

"I'll be fine," he beamed at you, gazing at you with soft eyes as he ran his thumb tenderly over the back of your hand.  "But it's sweet that you're worried about me."

Breath catching somewhere in the vicinity of your diaphragm, you smile bashfully in response, turning your hand in his to lace your fingers tightly with his as the two of you lazily paddled back towards the shore.  

It hadn't been in your plans to move in with your Grandpa after graduation, but it also hadn't been in your plans to be buried so deeply in educational debt you weren't sure you'd ever manage to pay it back.  Your chosen field was competitive and potential employers weren't calling back, so with the move-out date for student housing fast approaching you weren't left with a ton of options.  

Gran-Gran had passed a couple years prior and Gramps had done a good job carrying on without her, even though you tell by his wistful sigh when he walked by the framed photographs in the hallway that he missed her dearly.  But as he marched steadily towards the end of his life the list of things he was able to do independently dwindled with each passing month.  He'd nearly broken a hip during your final semester when he'd fallen off a chair trying to replace a burnt out bulb in his porch sconce. 

That event had gotten the family chat buzzing with concern; people expressing their displeasure that he was living alone but unwilling to personally do anything to remedy the issue.

Suddenly flush with time, you'd loaded up your car and made the long trip up to the seaside house your Grandparents had lived in for far longer than you'd been alive.  Your friends had been jealous of your relocation at first, imagining your new life to be the glamorous sort that they had seen in movies and the obligatory beach episodes of their favorite shows.  Their excitement for you had quickly evaporated when you finally arrived and started sending them photos from your new town.  

Every picture you sent was overwhelmingly brown.  Everything from the buildings to the sand and even the ocean itself was a murky russet color, a far cry from the pristine blue they had been picturing in their heads.  Even the food did its best to conform to the town's limited color palette; the beige of fresh fried seafood and potatoes that made up the majority of your meals made for a sad entry whenever you compared snapshots of meals.  

It had saddened you at first, the oppressive brown atmosphere, but in the end it had turned out to be a blessing in disguise.  The blandness of your surroundings had made you notice the brilliant crimson spot bobbing across the distant waves, a beacon luring you out into the water to investigate.  

Hastily donning a life vest, you set out from shore on your trusty inflatable raft, making a horrifying discovery as you neared the mysterious red blob in the distance. 

It was a person.

Ice cold panic crashed through your veins as you frantically paddled out towards the man, the head disappearing beneath the waves for longer and longer stretches of time, your lungs aching in sympathy for how long they were staying submerged between breaths.  

After what felt like an eternity you were finally upon them, limbs shaking from adrenaline.  

"Are you okay?" You called out, chest heaving from exertion.

The man spun towards you in the water, eyes wide in shock, before he let out an ear piercing shriek and disappeared beneath the waves with a large splash.  

"Hey!" You screeched, shoving your arm down into the area where his head had submerged, bright red hair completely hidden by the murky ocean water.  "Can you hear me?  Swim towards my voice!"

Your shoulder was aching with how violently you were waving it about, desperate to make contact with the struggling man losing his fight with the sea.  

"Please," you begged whatever Gods above or below might be listening.  "Don't let me be too late- I couldn't paddle any faster!  I'm sorry!  I'm sorry!" You wailed, throwing yourself half over the side so you could reach in with your other arm, hoping to double your chances for finding the drowning man.  

"If you can hear me, just- just hold on!" You cried, tears blurring your vision as salty water splashed across your face.  "Please!  Just grab hold of my hand!  I won't let go, I promise!"

Uncountable, anxious moments passed before you felt fingers gently graze across your palm.  You surged forward, wrapping both your hands around the man's wrist and then hauling yourself backwards, pulling the man towards the surface with all your might.  

"I caught you!" You sobbed in delight when his head breached the surface.  You tugged him further up to hang off the edge of your raft while you collapsed next to him, chest heaving in exhaustion. 

"Yeah," the man gasped, looking at you with wide, dazed eyes.  "I guess you did."

That man was Kirishima Eijiro and you two had been inseparable ever since, spending lazy days floating out on the ocean and enjoying each other's company.  Sometimes you would lay quietly along the bottom of your raft, watching the horizon for the tell-tale spouting of water that heralded the arrival of a surfacing whale.  Kirishima loved to show off his diving prowess when you were in shallower waters, sliding beneath the choppy waters with a sharp grin, returning moments later with interesting shells, bits of bone, and wriggling starfish with too many legs.  

You had thought about asking him into town with you, but that notion was immediately discarded because what would you even do there?  Visit the only restaurant in town that served the exact same fried fish your Grandpa made while you withered under the judgmental gazes of the old fishermen playing dominoes at the corner table?  

Hard pass.  

So you woke up before the sun with your Grandpa, dodging all his attempts to coax you into sitting on a whoopie cushion or trying out a new bottle of perfume you knew with utter certainty was just a dolled up bottle of fart spray; and paddled out in the early morning light to spend the beginning of the day with Kirishima.  Once the sun's rays became unbearable you'd return to shore and join your Grandpa and his friends down on the dock, mending nets and patching crab pots while they doled out unsolicited life advice.  

You accepted their wisdom with a polite nod, knowing that they meant well.  Their own children and grandkids had left the town years ago and never looked back, so you were a convenient outlet for all the paternal advice they so rarely had the opportunity to dispense. 

Days crawled by, each much the same as the one before, and you tried not to think about how easily you had settled into life in this moldering town that seemed to decay before your very eyes.  

You expressed this to Kirishima; your worries and fears about identifying so strongly with a lifestyle that would likely be buried alongside the aging townsfolk.

"What will you do then?" He asked, staring intently into your eyes as his fingers tightly gripped the rope running around the side of your raft. "Will you stay?  Even when your Grandfather is gone?"

You didn't like to think of it- of your Grandpa dying.  He was such a spitfire of an old man whose playfully nature seemed immune to fading like his eyesight and hearing had. 

"I don't know.  But I think there might be more reasons to stay than to go," you whispered, returning his meaningful glance; the moment ruined by the choking squawk of seagulls passing overhead.  

"Is there anything here, do you think?  Between us?" You asked Kirishima one cloudy day, your nerves jumping as you mustered up the courage to broach the subject that had been on the forefront of your mind for weeks.

"Nah," Kirishima scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.  Your stomach twists in on itself in embarrassment and you rush to find some excuse to change the subject when Kirishima continues talking.  "There was a shark around earlier, but it's gone now."

"Wait, what?" You screech, tucking your legs up to your chest protectively.  "There was a shark and you didn't think to tell me?"

"You didn't notice?" He asks, face scrunched up in confusion. "Weird."

"It's not weird!  How would I even be able to notice something like that?  You can't see anything in this water!  Did you like, kick it or something?"

"Yes," Kirishima coughs uneasily.  "I know it was there because I kicked it.  With my feet.  Of which I have two."

"Oh God, it was that close?" You whine, burying your face into your hands while Kirishima seemed to be experiencing a delayed revelation.

"Hold on- what were you talking about before if it wasn't the shark?"

"Oh, uh," you stammer uneasily, fiddling with the zipper of the emergency bag strapped to your waist.  "Nothing!  Don't worry about it."

"Were you talking about us, us?" Kirishima groaned, rubbing a wet hand down his face with a rugged groan.  "Oh, man!  I've totally messed this up, haven't I?"

"No!  Of course not!" You quickly reassured him, still not brave enough to meet his eyes after his casual rejection.  "This is all on me.  I shouldn't have assumed- I should have realized that what I was feeling was one-sided."

"Hush," Kirishima rumbled, a gravely sort of sound that sent shivers down your spine.  Fingers ran across your forearm, leaving gooseflesh in their wake as you hesitantly lifted your gaze to his.

"Whatever feelings you have- however you might see me, believe me when I say that I feel the same."

"So, we're friends," you offer tentatively with a wobbly smile.

"The very best," Kirishima agreed readily.

"And…also something more?  If you'd like?"

"Oh, I'd like that," he grinned wildly. "I'd like that very much."

Grandpa wasn't in a good way when he woke, his joints stiffer than normal and a delay in the movement on his left side that had you contemplating loading him up into your beater of a car and driving him inland to find a doctor.  You decided to spend the morning with him, despite his colorful protests, and called down to the dock to let his friends know that he was alright.  

You could tell he was frustrated by the shaking of his hand and how often he had dropped his toothbrush in the sink, so you let him slip you a piece of chewing gum that turned your teeth black in an effort to cheer him up.  He was delighted by your coal-black smile, letting out a wheezing guffaw every time you grinned at him.  Your teeth would be a touch gray for a couple of days, but it was worth it to see your Grandpa's spirits bolstered.  

After escorting Gramps down to the docks and fetching him a large glass of water, you bid the group of old curmudgeons farewell and darted down to the shore.  Kirishima didn't own a phone, which was usual in this day and age, but not unheard of in the area.  Paranoia ran thick through people's blood and many of the old guard were happiest living as far off-grid as they could reasonably manage.  Kirishima's lack of phone wasn't typically an issue so long as you stuck to your established routine, but it did make it difficult to coordinate whenever things went awry.  

Hands cupped above your eyes, you peered out into the water and saw Kirishima's brilliant red hair far closer to shore than was typical.  He was swimming back and forth in tight circles as if he was pacing, anxiously awaiting your arrival. 

You raised your hands above your head and waved frantically to catch his attention, snorting in amusement when he finally noticed you and lost his focus,  getting pushed under water by a passing wave.  

"That yer friend?" One of the old men combing the beach with a metal detector asked.

"Sure is," you reply tightly, not thrilled by the notion of your personal life becoming this week's town gossip fodder.

"Be careful with that one," the man warned with a snort, hocking a thick brown loogie down onto the sand by your feet.  "He's got red hair.  That's bad luck out on a boat."

"Everything is bad luck out on a boat," you mutter sourly.

"Yer not wrong," the old man wheezed in amusement. "Just be careful.  The sea is greedy for beautiful things, and yer the prettiest thing that's been 'round here in a long, long time."

"Aww," you coo, savoring the way the rare compliment settled warmly in your chest.

"Don't let it go to yer head," the man sniffed, pulling his headset back over his ears as his wand started beeping enthusiastically about something further inland. "Yer just a fairer sight than the rest of us old farts, but that ain't saying much."

"I hope you find nothing but bottle caps until the day you die," you grumble peevishly, blowing a dramatic kiss out to Kirishima, who dove to catch it in midair before holding it fast to his heart.

"If only," the man sighed as he limped away. "But I ain't never been that lucky."

You were startled by your Grandpa coughing loudly while he worked on slicing up his fish fry into bite sized pieces.

"One of the boys told me they saw you out on the beach this morning," he said, dipping a small piece of fish into a heaping pile of ketchup and horseradish.  

"Of course they did.  You're all a bunch of nosey busy bodies," you huff in irritation, shoving a large spoonful of canned peas into your mouth and wincing at their lack of flavor.  

"I trust you and your judgment," Grandpa assured you as you picked up the salt shaker in the middle of the table.  "But just be careful, alright?  I've been a man for many years now and up to no good for nearly all of them."

"I will, Gramps.  Thanks for worrying," you said with a smile, giving the shaker a hearty jiggle and watching in horror as the lid fell clean off into your peas along with the entire contents of the salt shaker.

"Ya' see?" Gramps hollered, slapping his knee in delight.  "Totally untrustworthy- the lot of us!"

Your relationship with Kirishima, while good, was innocent on the best days and positively chaste on the worst.  You had vivid memories of participating in far more brazen displays of affection with your middle school boyfriend than what Kirishima seemed comfortable with.  

Wandering hands were constantly redirected to areas safely above the water line and attempts at kisses were redirected at the last moment onto turned cheeks and noses.  

You didn't mind the slow pace at first, respecting Kirishima's personal boundaries and desire to not rush into anything physical. But as the weeks ticked by the speed of your developing relationship shifted from glacial to stagnant, you couldn't help but be frustrated and more than a little confused.

"Ugh!" You screeched in irritation when your kiss landed across his jaw instead of your intended target of his lips.  With a huff, you push on Kirishima's shoulders to propel yourself backwards in the water and away from him.

"What's wrong?" He asked, brow wrinkled in confusion as he reached out for you, hands flexing in a grabby motion to lure you back to him.

"That's what I want to know!" You yell, slamming your hands down on the surface of the water, the sudden impact stinging your skin.  "You just push me away every time I try to get close to you!"

"I- I'm sorry," Kirishima whimpers.

"Do you- do you want to break up?" You ask, voice quiet and cracking.  

"No!  No, of course not!" Kirishima rushes to reassure you, closing the distance between you in an instant, pulling you against his chest and running comforting fingers across your cheeks, leaving trails of water in their wake.  "I care about you so much."

"Then what's going on?" You sniff miserably, nuzzling the space between Kirishima's pecs to comfort yourself.  "Why won't you kiss me?"

"I just- I feel really bad when I try to kiss you."

"Really not helping out my self-confidence here, Eijiro," you wince, the sound of his heart beat thundering under your ear. 

"Ah, geez!  No!  Not like that!  I just, maybe, haven't been completely honest with you about something," he admits hesitantly.  "And I feel guilty."

"Oh."

"Yeah," he shifts uneasily, kicking up a strong current that lashes against your legs.  "It doesn't feel right, getting closer to you while I'm keeping a secret."

"Can you tell me?  Your secret, I mean," You ask hesitantly, staring up into his warm eyes.

"I want to," he says, dropping his forehead down onto yours with a heavy thunk that sends stars flying across your vision.  "I'm just scared."

"You don't have to be scared," you assured him honestly, looping your arms around his neck to pull yourself closer to him.  "I'm already halfway in love with you.  It'll take a lot to frighten me away."

"Yeah," Kirishima sighed morosely.  "I know."

Kirishima wrapped the tow line of your raft around his chest and swam out towards a rocky outcropping further up the shore and away from town.  You hadn't explored this far North before because the tides were fairly strong in this area and it was easier on your arms to drift and explore the areas to the South.  

"Here we are," Eijiro announced, lashing the rope of your boat around a half-rotten piling; evidence of a past pier claimed by the sea.  You scuttled out of your raft as smoothly as you could, the waves breaking on the rocks making your exit maneuvers more bumbling than you would have liked.  But you managed to get to the top of the slick rocks without slipping, so it was an overall win in your book.

"Alright," you said with a firm head nod, focusing on Eijiro's serious expression and not the unpleasant feeling of algae squishing under your hands.  "What is it you want to tell me?"

"Okay," Kirishima sighed, his chest visibly sinking with the force of his exhale.  "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, just- give me a minute?" He squeaked, running his shaking hands through his damp hair, the bright red tresses clumping together into rows between his fingers.  "This is harder than I thought it would be."

"Maybe just say it really quick?" You offer.  "Just get it over with- like pulling off a bandaid."

"A what?"

"Do you…not know what a bandaid is?" You ask, utterly flummoxed by his question. 

"Not important right now," Kirishima waved his hand dismissively.  "We'll circle back to that later."

"Of course.  Right.  We need to stay focused here."

Moments pass in silence as you wiggle your fingers in the squishy algae beneath you while Kirishima's skin seems to turn ghastly pale before your eyes.  You were about to ask if he was okay when he suddenly released a powerful roar that seemed to rattle your bones with its intensity.

"C'mon, Kirishima!  Man up!  You've got this!" He bellowed, suddenly pointing at you with one of his long fingers.  "Are you ready!?"

"I-," You stammered, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his demeanor.  "Yes?"

"That's the spirit!" He cheered, pumping a fist into the air.  "Here I come!"

And then Kirishima surged up and out of the water, his arms tensing as he caught the edge of the rock face and began pulling himself up in an impressive show of strength.  He scrambled for purchase across the slippery stone, eventually letting out a triumphant grunt when he found a foothold and was able to push himself up.

And up.

And up.

Kirishima was towering high above you now, his torso stretched far above where a normal human chest would be.  His monumental form blocked out the sun and cast a shadow down onto your shivering body- either from the sudden chill of the shade or the prickles of fear jolting down your spine; you weren't entirely certain.  

As your eyes trailed down his elongated body it suddenly became clear as to why you'd never seen Eijiro out of the water.  

Starting at his waist and proceeding downwards were rows and rows of chitinous plating that nestled and slotted I to each other to form a massive lobster tail.  Eight spindly legs clicked loudly across the rock as he swayed nervously from side to side; arms crossing and uncrossing as he waited for you to respond.  

Overwhelmed by his revelation, you inhaled a great shaky breath and promptly burst into tears.

"H-hey," Kirishima stuttered, reaching for you on instinct; second guessing his actions at the last moment and pulling his hands away with a pained grimace.  "It's okay!  I know I look scary, but I promise I won't hurt you!"

"It's not- it's not that," you wailed, blowing your nose into the hem of your rash guard.  "I could never be scared of you, Eijiro!"

"Spirits be praised," Kirishima whispered, visibly deflating in relief as his arms shot out once again to embrace you, running his hands soothingly down your back as he made quiet shushing noises to soothe you.  "If you aren't scared, then why are you so upset?"

"Because I'm allergic to shellfish!" You cried, burying your face into his shoulder as another wave of sobs overtook you. 

"I don't- what does that mean?"

"It means that lobsters make me sick!" 

"Oh," Kirishima muttered numbly, his hands stilling against your back as dread welled up in his belly.  "Well, shit."

The two of you lay sprawled out on that rocky outcropping, idly watching the clouds shift by.  Kirishima was on his back, his numerous lobster legs folded and tucked close to his body while his feathery swimmerets fluttered anxiously in the air.

"So, how allergic are you exactly?"  Kirishima asked, his tail slapping against the ground mindlessly as his thoughts raced. 

"Allergic enough to carry this," you sighed as you unzipped your emergency pack and pulled out an EpiPen.  "I've had to carry one ever since I was a kid.  I used to eat a ton of lobster- wait.  That must sound awful to you!"

"Nah," Kirishima said, waving off your distress with a hand and a couple of legs thrown in for good measure.  "I eat lobsters all the time.  They're delicious."

"I- well.  Okay, then," you replied uneasily, trying not to dwell on the potential moral ramifications of Kirishima's lobster consumption.  "Anyway, I had ordered some lobster tails like I normally did, but once I started eating them I began itching like crazy.  I've avoided shellfish ever since."

Kirishima blew out a frustrated breath as his hand crept towards you, weaving his fingers through yours.

"What are we going to do?" Eijiro murmured dejectedly, squeezing your hand tightly as the clouds tumbled through the sky above you.

"I don't know."

[coopigeoncoo]

The Whole Dang Zoo

Pairing: Todoroki Shouto x Female Reader

Mentions: Female Reader, humor, fluff, nicknames, pet names, traditionally female animal nicknames, traditionally insulting animal nicknames, implied sex offscreen.

Summary: It wasn't hard for Todoroki Shouto to start using pet names. What was difficult was figuring out when he should stop.

"A rat, Todoroki?  You called your girlfriend a rat?" Mina screeched in disbelief.

"They're actually very intelligent and clean animals."

Continue reading below, or follow the link to Ao3!

Back during his early days at UA, Shouto had to learn to navigate a great many new things: friendships, rivalries, and the beguiling labyrinth of unspoken social conventions involved with human interaction.   

Shouto liked to think that he learned from his mistakes and adapted quickly.  He no longer heated leftover fish in the communal microwave and only needed an occasional reminder that people found it intimidating and not a sign of intense interest when he maintained eye contact for extended periods of time without blinking.            

But some situations proved more difficult for him to navigate than others because he simply did not have the appropriate context to frame them with.  So when fliers appeared on the bulletin board by the front door of Heights Alliance advertising two different events happening at the same time, he simply chose the one that appealed to him more; a relaxing movie night in over a round of laser tag at a local arcade.  

Shouto hadn’t even considered the possibility that these events had been organized with strict gender boundaries in mind because using any attendance criteria other than interest seemed wildly illogical.  So when he appeared in the doorway of dorm lounge that weekend, clad in his comfiest pajamas and bearing a small caddy of his usual hair products as the flier requested, there was only a brief moment of shocked confusion on the girls part before they cheered loudly and guided him over to a huge nest of blankets on the floor.  

Hagakure shared her lip mask with him, Ashido painted his toenails a stunning Prussian Blue, and Yaoyorozu had generously lent him use of her head so he could follow along with Uraraka's instructions on how to make a reverse fishtail braid.  He'd had an incredibly lovely evening with the girls and had unknowingly chosen his side of the class gender divide.  His unwitting decision was validated hours later when the rest of the Class A boys returned to Heights Alliance sopping wet and sporting a wide variety of injuries, from Bakugou's split lip to Kaminari's incredibly swollen double black eyes.  Shouto watched them shuffle miserably, many sporting pronounced limps and moaning in pain while he snuggled down deeper into a fuzzy sherpa throw and sipped contentedly on a cup of lavender tea.  

Sero broke away from the pack and stumbled into the kitchen, pulling a can of milk tea from the fridge before trudging towards Shouto, his wet socks squelching inside of his house slippers with every step.  He held the can out to Shouto's left side with a pleading grin.

"Can you heat this up for me, man?  It's been a long night."

Shouto took the can and steadily increased the temperature of his palm, gently heating the tea up and returning the can to Sero, who thanked him profusely before collapsing onto the couch with a groan.  Sero popped the top of the can open and took a fortifying sip before rolling up the legs of his sweatpants, revealing large welts running up both of his legs.  

"You look terrible," Shouto stated blandly.  "What even happened tonight?"

"Well, uh- we thought it would be funny to throw Bakugou into a river," Sero laughed nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck. "And in our defense, it was!  What happened after was way less amusing though."

"Oh?  What happened after?"

"Bakugou made us regret throwing him into a river."

"Ah," Shouto said, examining a particularly wicked looking bite mark under Sero's knee. "That would do it."

From then on, Shouto was 'one of the girls' and joined them for their regularly scheduled activities.  Shopping trips, smoothie runs, cookie decorating classes, Survivalist Training, volunteer dog walking, and plenty of movie nights on the days they were too tired to venture out into the city.  

As the years passed and their responsibilities as Heroes increased they still did their best carve out time to meet up once a month when their schedules allowed.  Sometimes only two or three of them would be available, but tonight was one of the rare nights when the stars had shifted into an auspicious arrangement (Shouto was unsure exactly about what celestial positioning that was, but Mina would likely explain it to him if he asked) and Shouto found himself once again reunited with all the Class A girls in Jiro's apartment.  

Toru had been the last to arrive, toting along a large bag stuffed full of DVDs she had picked up at a rental shop near the station.  

"Sorry I'm late!" She called, pulling out the DVDs and laying them down on the coffee table for everyone to peruse as they filtered in from the kitchen with drinks and snacks. "The station was crazy packed and I had to wait forever for an open car to show up!"

"Oh yeah, they shuffled everyone over from the circle line because of damage from a villain attack during rush hour," Ochako mused, tapping the cover of a romantic comedy excitedly with her finger. "This one, I think.  I've wanted to see it for ages and missed it when it was in theaters!"

"That was when we got shipped over to New Zealand for the summer, right?" Tsuyu asked, snagging the DVD with her tongue so she could read the plot synopsis on the back cover. "Hmm.  Looks fine to me.  The run time isn't too long so I wouldn't be late getting home.  What do you think, Shouto?"

Without sparing a glance at the cover, Shouto simply nods his acquiescence.  "What we watch doesn't matter to me.  I'm just here for the company," he said, ladling up mulled wine into a mug from the pot simmering on the stovetop.    

Jiro groaned miserably as she plopped down into an overstuffed armchair. "I tried watching a Rom Com with Denki and he just made farting noises anytime someone's butt was on screen.  Shouto just stands in my kitchen and talks about how the best part of watching a movie is my presence and I just- ugh!" Jiro screeches, solidly punching a throw pillow.  "It's. Not. Fair!  It should be illegal to be so sweet, Shouto!"

Toru paused, a handful of popcorn floating forgotten as she pulled out her phone.  "Jiro is right.  I have to report this crime on Hero Net.  I'm sorry, Shouto.  You're going to be a wanted man now," she tsked sadly, typing on her phone one handed.  

Shouto furrowed his brow.  "I wasn't wanted before?  Then what was that "Most Desirable Man" award all about?"

Jiro decided to stop punching the throw pillow and opted for screaming into it instead.  

Ochako shook her head, laughing.  "Your girlfriend is so lucky, Shouto!"

"You think so?  I worry sometimes," he sighed, rounding the back of the couch and taking his traditional spot on the right side of the couch with his warm side facing in for when one of the girls inevitably sought to warm up their chilled feet against him.  

"Really?" Tsuyu prodded, sitting down next to Shouto.   "What about?"

"Well, she's my first girlfriend.  I just worry that maybe I'm not doing all the things she's expecting me to do?"

"Do you go down on her?" Mina asked as she popped the DVD into the player.  

"Often," Shouto nodded. "And with gusto."

"Good man," Momo said, patting his shoulder firmly as she passed by on her way back to the kitchen to refill her mug.

"Pft, don't worry then!  She's fine," Mina assured him, dropping onto the ground by Ochako's feet.

"Sometimes I wish that I had more experience.   Maybe if I had dated someone else before her then I wouldn't be so worried about accidentally ruining everything," Shouto sighed.

“First relationships are definitely rough,” Ochako agreed. “But it’s not like you’re going in alone, we’re all here to give you advice if you need it!”

“Maybe they are,” Tsuyu mused. “But don’t ask for my advice.  I’m a disaster in relationships.  But I will take you out drinking if you break up though.”

“That’s a horrible offer and I hope I never have to take you up on it.”

Tsuyu shrugged and sipped her wine.  “Eh, it’s there if you need it.”  

“Ignore her!” Jiro shouted, her face flushing increasingly as her mug emptied.  

“Yeah!” Ochako agreed.  “Oh!  Maybe you’ll get some ideas from watching the movie- like vicarious experience!” 

“Do you think that would work?” Shouto asked, critically examining the smiling couple freeze-framed on the DVD menu.  

Ochako shrugged.  “We won’t know if we don’t try.  Momo, hit play!”

By halfway through the movie everyone was well into their cups; laughing too hard at the trite one-liners and swooning every time the main couple made intense, unblinking eye contact with each other.  

“When I do that people complain I’m intimidating them,” Shouto grumbled.  

“It’s different when you're in love,” Momo sighed.

“Shh!” Mina hissed at them. “The best part is coming up!”

Everyone leaned in towards the screen, rapt with attention, as the couple drew close together, their lips a hair's breadth from touching. 

‘Who could have predicted that the accidental fire at your pie factory would lead us here?’ The woman sighed dreamily, staring up into her co-star’s face.

‘It’s funny that it took losing all those desserts for me to discover something even sweeter,’ The man said, running a perfectly manicured hand across her cheek. 

“That isn’t funny at all.  People could have died in that fire,” Shouto chided.

“Shh!” Mina shushed him again. 

‘You think I’m sweet, do you?’ The woman giggled.

‘I do.  Why don’t you come over here and give me some of that sugar, Kitten?’ 

Shouto hadn’t been expecting the high-pitched squeals that the girls let out in cacophonous unison and was quite startled by their vocal response.  

“Are you all okay?”

“Yes,” Toru sobbed.  “It’s just- the pet names.”

“The…pet names?” Shouto asked, befuddled.  

“The names you call people when you’re in love,” Momo explained.  

“When used correctly, pet names can trigger deep emotional and physical responses,” Tsuyu clarified.  

“Like ‘Kitten’?” Shouto questioned, his voice caressing the new term gently.  

Jiro screamed into her misery pillow once again while Mina patted her leg comfortingly.  

“Yeah,” Mina sighed.  “Just like ‘Kitten’.”      

The radio played softly in the background while you ran an impatient finger down your phone screen, desperately scrolling in an attempt to figure out where exactly the unnecessary backstory ended and the recipe actually began.  Distracted on two fronts, you didn’t realize you were no longer alone in your apartment until two arms wound themselves around your waist, pulling you backwards and away from the kitchen counter with a firm tug.  

“Woah!” you say, startled as your back impacts Shouto’s chest.  “Hello, there!  I didn’t realize you’d come in!  I wasn’t expecting you this early.”  

“A few of the girls have to be at work first thing in the morning, so we finished up earlier than we normally do.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.  I know it’s hard for you all to coordinate everyone’s schedules.”

Shouto hummed in agreement, dropping his head down into the juncture of your neck, his lips barely hovering above the surface of your skin.  

“Speaking of schedules, how’s the rest of your night looking?”

You spare a glance towards the counter where a handful of ingredients for dinner are waiting for you to chop and measure.  “Well, I was going to cook dinner, but I haven’t started yet.” 

“So, you have some time?” he whispered huskily, pressing his lips gently onto your shoulder.  

Giggling, you reach a hand back and thread it through the hair at the nape of his neck.  “Maybe I do.  You have a specific activity in mind?”

“Nothing in particular,” he said, hand wandering under your shirt to stroke the soft skin of your belly. “Just wanting to spend some time with my girlfriend.  Is that okay with you, Kitten?”

“Oh, yes,” you gasp, breath catching at the whispered endearment.  “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”  

Grinning madly, Shouto swept you up into his arms and carried you down the hallway towards the bedroom.  

Sunlight was just beginning to creep in through the cracks between your curtains and the wall when you felt Shouto's lips press gently against your forehead once, twice, three times with a devastating softness that tickled your skin.  

"Shou?" You mumbled, using clumsy fists to rub the sleep from your eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.  Go back to sleep."

"Mmkay," you agree readily, already snuggling back into your pillow.  

"I'll see you later, Duckling," Shouto whispered sweetly, closing the bedroom door behind him with a gentle click.

"...Duckling?  Wha' happened to Kitten?" You muse briefly before the creeping fingers of sleep on the edges of your consciousness drag you back into their grasp.  

That Saturday you're out shopping at a flea market on the weird side of town when you saw it; an obviously unlicensed Endeavor figure with a hilariously misprinted face.  His wobbly oval eyeballs stared off into wildly different directions and his lip color was offset enough that it looked like he was sticking his tongue out in distaste.  You snap a picture of it and immediately text it to Shouto, moving to pocket your phone when it begins to ring loudly.  

"Hello?" You greet, pressing the phone into your shoulder with your ear as you spin the Endeavor figure around in your hand, snorting when you realize that the body was actually recycled from an All Might figure and painted over with Endeavor's costume colors.  

"I don't care how much that figure is.  Buy it."

"Aren't you supposed to be patrolling right now?" You laugh, raising a hand to flag down the vendor before fishing around in your purse for your pocket book.

"I'm with Denki right now and he agrees that this is much more important.  Hold on-," shuffling filters in from Shouto's end as he moves the phone around.  "Denki says to give you his regards and to buy as many of those Endeavor figures as they have."

"Tell Chargebolt I say 'Hello'.  And there's just the one figure, I'm afraid."

"Damn.  Well, that's okay.  It'll make a great gift for Natsuo."

The sudden sound of screeching tires fills your ear and you distantly hear Chargebolt yelling Shouto's name.  

"I have to go now, duty calls.  I'll talk to you later, Mongoose," Shouto says quickly, ending with a wet smooching sound before he hangs up.   

You stare at the screen of your phone dumbly, Shouto's profile image smiling gently at you from his contact page.

"'Mongoose'?" You utter, completely baffled by the nickname as you clutch the dopey Endeavor figure tightly to your chest and wander distractedly to the next market table.

Your coworker sat across from you in the restaurant booth, rolling utensils up into napkins and sealing them with little paper rings while you worked on wiping down a large stack of sticky laminated menus.   

"Okay, 'Duckling' was sweet, but I agree that being called 'Mongoose' is a little odd," she agreed, dropping her completed napkin rolls into the plastic bin beside her.

"Right?  But those aren't even the weirdest ones! Just in the last week I've been a puffin, an armadillo, a fruit bat, and a chinchilla!"

"Chinchillas are cute," your coworker pointed out, rubbing at a water spot on a spoon with a spare napkin.

"Yeah, I didn't mind that one," you agree, spraying cleaner onto a menu.  Your cell phone, stowed safely in the pocket of your apron, buzzed sharply as a new text rolled in.  Bypassing your lock screen, you quickly examine the new message before groaning loudly and flipping the phone around for your coworker to see.  

'Look, it's you!' The message from Shouto proclaimed right above an attached picture of a droopy-faced blobfish.   

"Huh.  I think I'm starting to get a little offended on your behalf."

The part-time worker, a somber and unexcitable teenager, was sweeping close to your table and you beckon her over.  She pulls out her left earbud as she approaches your table, leaning heavily onto the broom at her side.

"What do you make of this," you ask, holding the phone up in front of her face. "I need a second opinion."

She examined the message carefully before leveling you with a serious stare.  

"I think that Todoroki Shouto could call me the meanest, nastiest, names under the sun and I would still write him a thank-you card and take him to meet my Grandma the next day."

You and your coworker pause, considering her words.

"She's right," your coworker nodded, resuming her utensil rolling.

"Oh, yeah." you agreed, responding to the blobfish picture with a shower of emoji hearts. "One-hundred percent.  Thanks for your perspective!"

The part time girl nods before stepping back towards her dust pile, pushing her earbud back into place.

"Anytime."

It had been a couple of months since Shouto had been able to make it to Girls Night, having been caught up repeatedly testifying in a long running criminal trial.  It was a smaller gathering this time, just him, Mina, Ochako, and Momo crammed around a small Cafe table with flights of coffee lined up in front of them.  

Mina sipped from a particularly dark brew, cringing at the bitter notes and quickly pushing it in front of Ochako for her to dispose of.  Ochako smiled gleefully, picking up the relinquished mug and adding it to her collection of beverages.  

"I'm so glad that you were able to join us tonight, Shouto," Momo said, spooning a helping of sugar into one of her cups of light-roast.  "You've been so busy these past few weeks we've barely heard from you at all."

"I know," Shouto sighed.  "Work has been crazy and I've been spending all my free time over at Emu's apartment."

Ochako choked on her coffee, coughing wetly as Mina thumped soundly on her back with a flat hand.

"Ah, 'Emu'?" Momo inquired with wide eyes.  

"My girlfriend," Shouto replied, picking up the next cup of coffee to try.

"You- you're calling her Emu?" Ochako sputtered, still hacking into her arm.  

"It's kinda' cute," Mina said, tapping her cheek thoughtfully.  "Unusual, but cute.  I mean, it's not like he's calling her Whale or Pig, right?"

The girls all laughed while Shouto shifted uneasily in his chair.

"What's wrong with Whale or Pig?" Shouto asked with a tight voice.  

"Well, calling someone a whale implies that you think that they're overweight.  And calling someone pig means that you find them disgusting."

Shouto's eyes widened and he made a pitiful whining sound deep in his throat.

"Oh, Shouto!  Please tell me you didn't-" Momo begged.

"I did," he groaned miserably, dropping his head down into his hands.

"You can't just call your girlfriend random animals!  There's precedent for choosing appropriate pet names!" Mina shouted, aghast at Shouto's unwitting faux pas. 

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?  I thought you just picked whatever animals you thought were cute!" 

"You think whales are cute?" Ochako questioned.

"They have very soulful eyes!" Shouto shouted defensively, pulling out his phone and navigating to the past month's texts, pushing the device into Momo's hands.  

"Read through here and tell me how badly I've messed up," Shouto begged.

"I'm sure it isn't that bad," Momo said comfortingly, scrolling down through the chat log and sharply wincing.

"What?  What is it?" Mina called out.

"Ah- he called her a Cow.  And a Rat."

"A rat, Todoroki?  You called your girlfriend a rat?" Mina screeched in disbelief.

"They're actually very intelligent and clean animals!" 

"Oh, God," Ochako moaned into her hands, mortified on your behalf.  

Shouto whined pitifully and dropped his head onto the table with a loud thunk, barely missing a steaming mug of Arabica blend while the girls patted his arms and cooed comforting assurances as he wallowed.  

Pulled from the bathroom by thundering knocks on your apartment door, you peer cautiously through the peephole before undoing the security chain and multiple deadbolts that had been securing your apartment for the night.

"Shouto?  What are you doing here?" You ask with concern as you gesture for him to come inside.  He was in a state of absolute disarray; his hair messed uncontrollably and panting for breath.

"Here," he wheezed breathlessly, pushing a half-wilted bouquet of hydrangeas and daisies into your arms.  "I'm sorry they aren't better.  The only place open this late was the convenience store by the laundromat and these were the only flowers they had."

Cradling the sickly bouquet delicately in your arms, you raise a hand to Shouto's face, cradling his cheek gently.

"They're lovely, Shouto.  Thank you for thinking of me.  But you didn't come by my apartment this late just to give me flowers, did you?"

Shouto clutched your hand to his cheek as he shook his head.  "No, I didn't."  He took in a deep, shuddering breath as he gazed at you desperately.  "It has recently been brought to my attention that I have made a grave error in regards to how I address you."

"How you address- Oh!  Is this about all the nicknames you've been giving me?"

He closes his eyes, wincing deeply as he nods.  "I didn't realize that some animal names held derogatory connotations.  I ran over here as soon as I realized how unintentionally cruel I've been.  I couldn't stand the thought of you going a single minute longer thinking that I didn't cherish and appreciate everything about you."

"Oh, Shouto," you laugh.  "Thank you for the apology, but I figured all that out pretty early on."

"You did?"

Humming in agreement, you press yourself into Shouto's embrace, resting your head against his sharply jutting clavicle.  "You don't have a malicious bone in your body, Todoroki Shouto.  It was pretty obvious that you were being sweet.  Strange, but definitely sweet."

He sagged against you, awash with relief.  

"Thank goodness," he sighed, pressing kisses to the crown of your head as he looped his arms around you.  "I was so worried you were going to leave me."

"Please, it will take more than a few mildly insulting animal names to get rid of me."

He snorted into your hair.  "I'm sorry I called you a Cow.  And a Pig.  And a Rat.  And a Whale."

"Hey now, whales have very soulful eyes."

"Thank you!" Todoroki exclaimed. "That's what I was trying to tell the girls!"

Giggling, you wrap your arms around his neck and draw him backwards towards the couch.

"Speaking of the girls," he said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a folded sheet of paper.  "They helped me come up with this list of triple vetted, pre-approved, pet names that I can use." 

You take the list from his hand, opening it up and scanning the contents before balling it up and tossing it over your shoulder.  

"Hey," Shouto protested. "We worked hard on that list!"

"And I appreciate that effort, I truly do.  But I don't want my nickname to come from Uraraka or Ashido.  I want my name to come from you."

"Yeah?" Shouto beamed, letting you pull him down onto the couch so you were both lying together, him hovering above you while you discarded the bouquet with a gentle toss onto the coffee table.  

"Uh-huh.  Think about it; there are probably thousands of Kittens and Bunnies in Musutafu.  But I'm willing to wager that I'm the only Blobfish."

"You're definitely my only Blobfish," Shouto laughed, pushing your cheeks together so your face was squished and puffy just like your animal namesake.

"Schtooop!" You sputter out from your smushed up fish lips, laughing.  

"Not until I've kissed these irresistible Blobfish lips," Shouto said, sucking in his cheeks and making a fish face of his own as he lowered his mouth towards yours, your distorted lips slotting together bizarrely.   He pulls back with an exaggeratedly wet smack, finally releasing your face back into your control.  

"Oh, that was awful," you lament, swiping at the saliva smeared across your face from your sloppy fish kiss with the hem of your shirt.

"Yeah," Shouto agreed, wiping at his own face with his shirt cuff.  "That was really bad.  Let's never do that again."

"Agreed."

He pulled you close, running a tender finger down the slope of your nose, tapping the tip playfully.  "You're still my beautiful Blobfish though."

"Whatever you say, my wonderful Walrus."