#~Infinity~ [Red Zone Mix]

[nakamorijuan]

林原めぐみ - インフィニティ[Red Zone Mix] Megumi Hayashibara - ~Infinity~ [Red Zone Mix] The BEST of LOST UNIVERSE (from TV)

[hatethysinner]

ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: New York, 1970. You’ve come too far from Mississippi to be told no. Your agent, Remmick, calls you his masterpiece, and he’ll do anything to make the world see you the same. You don’t ask what it costs him, but every time the spotlight hits your skin, his eyes shine like it’s worth it.

ᴡᴄ: 22.5k (including cont'd)

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. if there's any fanfic writer reading this, mix your settings up! it's so fun to go out of your comfort zone and just go batshit crazy with your ideas and that's exactly what i did. the fact that i had to split this into two posts makes me so mad like i promise i'm not interaction farming tumblr just can't handle the heat of 20k+ words. i've done grateful remmick, pathetic remmick, and now we've got obsessive remmick. collecting his archetypes like infinity stones 💋! as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: (including cont'd) SLOWburn, obsession, murder, vampirism, blood, bloodplay i think, praise kink, breeding kink, body worship, eye contact, biting, cunnilingus, very light dubcon, exhibitionism, p in v, monsterfucking, overstimulation, dacryphillia, cockwarming, the wildest possible time to have sex (you won't guess it), i'm sorry yall this shit is just freaky as fuck, overt affection from the start, fluff, a little domesticity never hurts, remmick being an unhinged control freak but in the least toxic way possible, reader did not prepare herself for ts, maybe a little angsty but that depends on your definition, codependency, power imbalance but it's never abused(?), religious undertones if you squint, depictions of racism, texturism, and microaggressions in the fashion industry, amateur knowledge of 1970s fashion and modeling (i was living on the devil wears prada and a prayer), excessive use of dividers, minor vampire rule changes for writing convenience

New York City, 1970.

The city shimmered in the distance like a mirage, flickering orange and gold against the horizon, then hardening into glass and steel as you drew closer. Manhattan rose from the ground like something alive, wild and bristling, all sirens and streetlamps and noise thick enough to taste. The car hummed low beneath you, headlights slicing through the last stretch of night. You leaned against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching the skyline appear piece by piece like it was being conjured just for you.

It had been a long drive. A strange one. Not quick, not smooth. Over twenty-four hours, maybe more. Time bled at the edges when you were with Remmick.

He wouldn’t drive during the day. Not once. Every time the sky began to lighten, he’d pull off the road. Into a gas station, a motel lot, once even behind an abandoned diner where the air smelled like rust and pine needles, and he’d wait. In silence. Crouched low in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on even in the dark. You’d offered to take the wheel more than once, half-joking, half-worried, but he’d only chuckled and said, "Ain’t no use rushin’. Best things bloom slow, darlin’. Let the night do her part."

The highways felt endless. Flat fields, flickering street signs, the quiet rhythm of tires against asphalt. You dozed in and out, lulled by his steady driving and the scratch of his thumb against his lighter. He didn’t play the radio. He didn’t sing. Sometimes he talked to himself, voice low and rhythmic like a sermon, words you couldn’t quite catch. Other times, he said your name like it was the only thing worth saying.

And then: the city.

He pulled the car to the curb, the engine softening into silence. You blinked up at the brownstone. Tall and narrow, made of worn red brick with black trim and a wrought-iron gate that looked older than both of you. The street around it was quiet, lit by just a few streetlamps buzzing with moths. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was nice. Too nice, as if it'd been detailed just minutes before you arrived. Clean front stoop. Big bay window. Flower boxes under the sills.

You frowned. “This yours?”

Remmick stepped out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened your door with a little bow. “Ours,” he said simply, like that explained everything.

You stood slowly, stretching your spine after hours curled in the seat. The New York air was colder than Mississippi. Sharper. The kind that cut clean and left you blinking. You looked up at the brownstone again. It had to be expensive. The kind of place a real agent might have. The kind of place someone powerful stayed, not someone who drifted into a backwoods general store and offered to make you a star.

But he just smiled. Like he already knew what you were thinking.

“Ain’t much yet,” he said, his voice low, accent thick and lazy and true. “But it’s the start. From here on out, we climb.”

You stared at him. Your so-called agent, your midnight stranger, the man who found you counting change behind the counter of your uncle’s store in Mississippi, under flickering fluorescents and a ceiling fan that squealed with every turn.

You hadn’t been looking to be found.

You hadn’t even meant to speak to him.

He’d come in just before closing, tall and tired-looking, dressed like he didn’t belong. Black turtleneck, coat that didn’t suit the heat, and those eyes. Blue, yes, but something off about them. Ancient. Red flashed in his pupils if the light hit just right, like a warning. You caught yourself staring too long.

Then he said it. “You ever thought about modeling, sweetheart?”

You laughed in his face.

He didn’t leave.

He came back the next night. And the one after that.

He didn’t try to touch you. Didn’t leer or flirt. Just leaned on the counter and looked at you like you were already on the cover of Vogue or Life. Like he was just waiting for the world to catch up.

“You’re a fuckin’ star,” he said again and again. “You don’t see it, but I do.”

Now here you were.

He carried your suitcase without asking, easy like it weighed nothing, and led you up the narrow staircase. Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of lavender and old books. The walls were clean, freshly painted, but the baseboards and window frames still bore signs of age. The floors creaked under your feet, polished wood catching the light. The front room had a velvet couch in a deep wine color, a small but elegant fireplace, and shelves that already held a few books. Some old, some new, all carefully arranged.

There was a vase on the windowsill. Empty, waiting.

It wasn’t just an apartment. It felt like someone had made space for you here.

You dropped your bag near the door and looked around slowly, jaw slack with disbelief.

“You… really live like this?”

Remmick leaned against the doorframe, his shirt collar open just enough to reveal the top of his pale chest. That red glint shimmered faintly behind his tired blue eyes, not threatening, just… different. Other. He didn’t hide it. You didn’t want him to.

He grinned, showing the faint edge of his canines. Too sharp to be human, too familiar to scare you. “I told you, didn’t I?” he said softly. “You’re gonna be a fuckin’ star.”

You stepped toward him, unsure if you meant to laugh or cry. “And this is part of that?”

He nodded once, serious now. “You deserve a place to start from. A place that ain’t tryin’ to drag you back down. I meant it when I said I’d take care of you.”

And in his voice, you heard it again. That vow he’d made in a gas station parking lot under moth-covered lights. That strange devotion that didn’t ask for anything in return.

You looked around one last time, then back at him.

“So what now?”

He stepped into the room, slow and certain, like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

“Now,” he said, brushing a stray curl from your face, “we get to work.”

You very quickly learned the situation you’d gotten yourself into.

It wasn’t subtle. There were no illusions of partnership or shared footing. You weren’t splitting rent, trading favors, or learning the city together like other girls who moved north with dreams and no real plan. No, you were being kept. Thoroughly, obsessively, deliberately kept.

It started small. You mentioned your shoes were falling apart. The next morning, a pair of Ferragamos appeared beside the bed. You half-joked about not owning a proper winter coat, and he was gone for twenty minutes, then returned with three. Leather. Wool. Something French you couldn’t pronounce, still with the tag attached.

The closet filled before you realized what was happening. It started with a rack of dresses, mostly black, some red, some blue, a few greens and golds, all tailored like they knew your body before you’d ever tried them on. Then came the heels. Then the jewelry. Not flashy, but real. Real enough to catch light. Real enough to turn heads.

You didn’t ask for it. Sometimes, you weren’t even sure you wanted it.

But he noticed everything.

You lingered a second too long looking at a photo in a magazine, the jacket the model wore, the earrings that matched her lipstick, and the next day, something damn near identical was folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

“Remmick, I don’t need-”

“Didn’t ask what you need, darlin’,” he’d say, brushing past you with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I asked what you want.”

He never lit that cigarette inside. Not even once. Wouldn’t so much as hold a lighter within ten feet of you. He’d smoke out on the stoop or disappear to the far end of the street, muttering something about “not stinkin’ up the air you breathe.” The first time you joked about wanting one yourself, just to see what the fuss was about, he looked at you like you’d cursed, warning “not with a smile like yours, not a chance.”

It wasn’t just the clothes.

You ran out of conditioner once. Just once. The bottle was still in the trash when you stepped out of the shower and found five new ones lined up on the bathroom sink. Different brands, all familiar, all from back home. Stuff you didn’t even think they sold up north. He’d stocked them like he’d raided a beauty supply store in Jackson and brought the entire aisle to you.

When you tried to thank him, he shook his head and looked at you like you’d insulted him.

“Don’t need thanks,” he murmured, turning the sink knobs absently, like making sure the water still ran. “Don’t want it neither. Just want you ready. Prepared. You look the part, they treat you like the part.”

That was the other thing. He never wavered.

You could be barefaced and groggy, hair wrapped, in slippers and one of his oversized shirts, and he’d still say it: “You’re the most beautiful thing in this city.”

Always with that voice, like gravel and honey, and always with that look. Like he was memorizing you for when you weren’t there.

He refused to let you carry groceries. Refused to let you pay at restaurants, even diners. The one time you tried, fumbling for your wallet while he was in the bathroom, he damn near lost it. Quietly, of course. Never loud. Never unkind. But the look on his face when he stepped out and saw you holding your purse?

He took your wrist gently and leaned in close. “You ain’t got to do that, darlin’. You never will.”

And you believed him.

Because Remmick didn’t make promises lightly.

He’d booked your first photoshoot before your second night in the city. He knew a guy who knew a guy. Shady as hell, probably, but the studio was real, the lighting was good, and the photographer never once looked at you sideways. You didn’t have a portfolio yet, didn’t know how to pose, but Remmick stood just out of frame, nodding, giving you small, soft corrections. Not criticism. Just reminders.

“Chin up. Eyes sharper. That’s it, darlin’. Just like that.”

He was everywhere. In the corner of the room, watching. Waiting. Always watching.

You got used to it. Maybe too fast. Maybe too easy.

But something about his presence didn’t unnerve you. It calmed you. Like if anything went wrong, if anyone tried anything, he’d handle it before you even knew to be afraid.

The girls you passed on the sidewalk in Harlem, downtown, SoHo, they looked at you with curiosity. Some with admiration, others with judgment. You didn’t blame them. You were the new face, the quiet one with an older man who opened every door and paid every bill and looked at you like you were something exquisite and holy.

And you noticed him too.

The way he never ate. The way his canines always looked a little too sharp when he smiled too wide. The way his eyes gleamed red sometimes when the light dipped low.

You weren’t stupid.

You weren’t scared either.

Because when he looked at you, it wasn’t hunger. It was worship.

Like he’d waited lifetimes for you. Like now that he had you, there wasn’t a single thing on this earth. living or dead. he wouldn’t rip apart to keep you standing.

And the strangest part?

You were starting to believe it.

You still didn’t know what exactly he was. He hadn’t told you, not directly. But there were nights when the city seemed to go still around him, when your reflection in the apartment window looked younger than it had the day before, when he came back from “errands” with dirt on his sleeves and a strange, metallic smell clinging to his coat.

You didn’t ask.

You just watched him move through your life like a secret you didn’t want solved.

And when he knelt in front of your vanity, helping you fasten the strap of your heels, he looked up at you like you were the moon.

“Whatever you want, darlin’,” he said. “All you ever gotta do is ask.”

And you believed him. Again.

The proofs arrived in a thick envelope, crisp and neatly stacked, smelling like ink and developer fluid. Remmick slit it open with his finger, careful not to smudge the edges, then spread the photos out across the kitchen table like cards in a high-stakes hand.

You hovered nearby, still in your robe, coffee cooling untouched between your hands. He’d barely said a word all morning, just paced between windows and rearranged the chairs until the light hit the table just right. Now he sat, back straight, fingers laced under his chin like he was studying scripture.

“Alright,” he muttered, nodding to himself. “Let’s see what we’re workin’ with.”

He picked up the first photo, held it close to his face, then glanced at you with a small, stunned kind of smile.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Look at you. Look at those eyes. Like they know somethin’ nobody else does.”

Your lips twitched. “That good or bad?”

He flicked his eyes up. “That’s perfect.”

The next photo didn’t get the same reaction. He turned it sideways, then back, then let out a thoughtful little hum before setting it aside.

“Not that one?”

“Too wide on the lens. Warps the shoulder line.” He looked up again, serious now. “Ain’t you. That’s on the camera, not the subject.”

You sat across from him, watching the small pile of rejects begin to form at his elbow. But with each one he discarded, he gave an explanation. Real, technical, thorough.

“This one’s too soft. Focus is just off the eye, makes you look unsure.”

“Lighting’s dirty on this one. Sinks the skin tone. Not your fault, not on you.”

“Angle’s wrong here. Nose ain’t shaped like that, lens just thinks it knows better.”

He never let it seem like you’d done something wrong.

Even the ones he didn’t like, he lingered on first. Admired them. Complimented the tilt of your head, the curve of your mouth, the way you held your hands. He only tossed them aside if the frame failed you, if the shot wasn’t worthy.

“You’re not a problem to fix, darlin’,” he said at one point, tapping one of the keeper shots. “You’re a truth they gotta learn how to capture right.”

You were starting to understand how his mind worked. Not just as your agent, but as someone who genuinely couldn’t stand seeing the world misunderstand you. It mattered to him, deeply. Almost violently.

He ended up with four he liked. Four out of thirty.

“This one for the face,” he said, sliding the first forward. “No smile, just eyes. Says take me serious.”

The second: “This one shows the angles. That jaw? That neck? You’ll have girls tryin’ to grow bones like yours.”

The third: “Little softness. You look like someone’s dream here.”

And the last, his favorite, he didn’t explain. Just stared at it for a long while, thumb grazing the edge, eyes unreadable.

When you reached for it, he didn’t let go right away. Then he finally handed it over.

It was a shot of you mid-turn, hair caught in motion, dress pulling just slightly at the hip, your mouth parted like you’d been about to laugh.

You didn’t even remember posing like that.

“I love this one,” you said quietly.

“I know,” Remmick replied, watching you with something almost reverent in his face. “That’s why it works.”

You leaned your cheek into your hand, tracing the edge of the photo with your finger. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen myself like this before.”

“’Cause you haven’t had someone show you right. Not till now.”

He stood, collecting the rejected prints and sliding them back into the envelope. You watched him move. Graceful in that slow, deliberate way of his, like every motion was premeditated.

At the counter, he paused to straighten the stack of fashion magazines he’d brought home the night before, flipping through one until he found a dog-eared page. A model with your same cheekbones, but none of your soul.

“See that?” he asked, tilting it toward you. “They’ll chase this look ‘til they die tryin’, but you-” He tapped the table beside your photo. “You got it. Easy.”

He lingered a moment longer, then returned to the table, his thumb brushing a speck of dust from the corner of your favorite shot. You noticed his hands. Always busy, always precise. Even when they trembled a little, like they did now, like he was holding something too precious to mess up.

“Gonna send these four out by noon,” he said, tapping the chosen shots. “Couple magazines, two scouts. I’ll follow up by phone tomorrow.”

Your brow lifted. “That fast?”

He gave a small shrug, lips tugging into a lopsided grin. “You think I came all this way just to sit on my ass?” He leaned across the table, close enough for you to see the faint red gleam flicker at the edge of his irises. Subtle, quick. “Told you I’d make you a fuckin’ star. Didn’t say when. Just said I would.”

He leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly, then looked at you with that soft, satisfied expression he wore whenever he thought you weren’t watching. “Put somethin’ nice on, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm. “I’m takin’ you out tonight. Gotta celebrate your first real shoot.”

The look in his eyes told you it wasn’t just about the pictures. It was about you. Everything was.

He didn’t call it a date. Wouldn’t even come close.

When you stepped out of the bedroom in one of the dresses he’d picked out days ago, red, silky, and cut to fit like it had been stitched directly onto you, he only gave a low whistle and said, “Now that’s how a star walks into a room.” Not you look beautiful. Not I can’t stop starin’ at you. But it was there in his face, plain as anything. The way he let his eyes trace you, slow and reverent, like he was seeing something sacred.

He held the door for you like always, one hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the black town car idling at the curb. The engine was quiet, the driver already waiting. No one had told you where you were going, and Remmick didn’t say. He just tucked you into the backseat like you were made of porcelain and leaned close with a grin, his fingers grazing your bare shoulder.

“Big night,” he murmured, low and warm. “You should eat like it.”

You didn’t expect what came next. The restaurant didn’t have a name on the front. Just a narrow archway tucked between a boutique hotel and a shuttered tailor shop, with a single golden plaque bolted to the brick. You wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t guided you up the steps like he belonged there.

The maître d’ recognized him instantly. “Right this way, sir,” he said without even asking for a name, and suddenly you were being led into the kind of place people waited months to get into. The dining room was dim and hushed, wrapped in warm light and the clink of expensive silverware. Velvet chairs, fresh flowers at every table, real wax candles instead of electric flickers. The sort of atmosphere where everyone whispered even when they didn’t have to, because they could.

You were seated in the center of it all, surrounded by couples in tailored suits and silk shawls, sparkling jewelry and moneyed quiet. The moment you sat down, you felt them. Eyes, subtle and sideways, glancing over menus and martinis to look at you. You were the only Black woman in the room. Probably the only one who’d been here in a while, if ever. Their stares weren’t loud, but they were there. Lingering. Curious. Unwelcome.

Remmick didn’t miss it.

His hand was already on the table, fingers brushing yours. “Hey,” he said, soft enough only you could hear. “They look ‘cause they don’t get it. ‘Cause you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream, and they’re not used to seein’ somethin’ that real.”

You looked up at him, and he was already watching you, something dangerous and steady behind the softness in his voice. “Let ‘em stare. You belong right here, sweetheart. You belong everywhere.”

That was all he had to say. The weight of the room shifted. Not for them, for you. Like suddenly you were immune. Like the whispering walls of that restaurant had never held a woman like you before, but they were damn lucky to now.

He ordered for both of you, waving off the menu like he already knew what was good. “She’ll have the oysters and the saffron risotto,” he said with a smile that was somehow both charming and firm. “Bring us the champagne. The good kind.”

You laughed and asked how he even got a reservation. He just shrugged. “Told ‘em I had someone I needed to impress. They didn’t ask more’n that.”

The food came in careful courses, small and perfect, each bite richer than anything you’d ever tasted. He didn’t eat much, just pushed things around on his plate while watching you. Every time you made a face or hummed in surprise at the flavor, he looked like he was cataloging it, like he’d remember what you liked forever.

“Tell me which dish you want me to learn to cook,” he said at one point. “I’ll have the whole damn kitchen figured out by next week if you ask.”

You told him that wasn’t necessary, and he smiled. “That ain’t the point.”

Between courses, he kept the compliments coming. Not like a man trying to win favor, more like someone stunned into reverence. He said it like a fact, like gravity: you were stunning, and you should already be on magazine covers. “The cameras don’t even get it yet,” he said. “They ain’t caught what I see.”

Still, he never called it a date.

Even when his gaze lingered on your mouth for too long. Even when he wiped a smear of sauce from the corner of your lip with his thumb and let it stay there for a beat too long. Even when his voice went low again and he said, “We’ll remember this night. First of many, I promise you that.”

You smiled down at your plate, cheeks warm, heart louder than it had been all day. He watched you like you were the only one left in the world. Like he could feel the pull of it just as much as you could, but wouldn’t name it. Not yet.

Dessert was something ridiculous with gold leaf and dark chocolate, something you didn’t ask for but he somehow knew you’d love. When you took the first bite, he grinned wide and leaned back in his chair.

“A star and her agent,” he said. “That’s all this is.”

But his voice was thick, and his eyes didn’t leave yours, and when he reached out to adjust the strap of your dress where it slipped on your shoulder, his hand lingered, slow and possessive.

“And stars oughta be spoiled, don’t you think?”

You nodded, quiet, caught between the warmth of the food and the fizz of champagne and the impossible softness in his voice. He said nothing more, just sat there across from you like he’d already decided you were the best thing he’d ever done.

And maybe he had.

Watching Remmick work was your favorite pastime.

You curled your legs up beneath you on the couch, still wearing the oversized tee he’d laid out for you. Not one of yours, of course. Something soft and perfectly worn, smelling faintly of cedar and whatever cologne he only ever seemed to wear around the apartment. The plate on your lap was empty now, just crumbs and the last smear of blackberry preserves from the toast he’d made fresh that morning. No burnt edges. No crusts. The way you liked it.

He’d sat with you through the whole thing, elbows on the table, watching every bite like it fed him instead. When you asked if he was gonna eat too, he only smiled.

“I’ll grab somethin’ later. You go on.”

He never ate around you, not really. Said mornings weren’t his time. Said he didn’t like the taste of breakfast. Said he’d already had his coffee. A lie, probably, because you never once saw him make a cup. But he’d sat there all the same, chin in his hand, smiling at you like you were the sunrise itself.

Now he stood across the apartment, back to you, the long cord of the house phone stretched taut from the wall to where he leaned against the kitchen counter. His voice was calm but firm, syrupy in a way that meant he was negotiating. You could only hear his side, but it was enough to understand.

“...I know what I’m askin’, but you ain’t looked at her yet, Mary. Once you see her in front of you, you’ll understand-”

A long pause. The hand not gripping the phone gestured in frustration, but his voice didn’t budge.

“Yeah. I get that. But what I’m sayin’ is, she ain’t just a checkmark on a theme issue, alright? She’s talent. She’s the face. Whether that issue’s in January or June or never, she deserves ink. You know it.”

Your stomach tightened a little. He hadn’t said what magazine it was, not directly, but you’d caught the hint yesterday when he started listing off dream shots. Glamour, he’d said. Cosmopolitan. Vogue, if they bite, but Glamour’s got that open slot sooner. At the time, you’d thought he was dreaming big. Shooting for the stars to see what stuck.

Now, listening to him wrangle a gatekeeper with the kind of slick charm only he could wield, you realized he hadn’t just dreamed. He’d promised.

And he was fighting tooth and nail to deliver.

“Mmhm. Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I read it.” His voice thinned slightly, though he still sounded smooth. “Saw the whole spread. Good issue.”

A beat. You caught the flicker of his jaw tightening.

“Nah, I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t have done it. Just sayin’ maybe you oughta take another look at your timing. Feels a little... seasonal. Like maybe you think color only matters once a year.”

Your eyebrows rose.

There was a longer pause now. You heard a faint tinny buzz from the other end of the line, though the words were too muffled to catch. Remmick didn’t speak. He just waited, staring out the tiny kitchen window at nothing. His fingers tapped the countertop, slow and even. You could feel it. The moment. That low boil of something restrained. Whatever she’d said next, it had hit a nerve.

Then finally, he spoke again.

“Listen, Mary. I’m not askin’ you to do her a favor. I’m offerin’ you a face your readers are gonna be grateful for. She’s got the look and the movement. She’s camera-trained and runway-ready, and she just got off a shoot with a photographer I know you’ve pulled from before. You want numbers? You’ll get numbers. All I need is fifteen minutes in front of your casting director.”

Another pause.

His eyes flicked to you.

You offered the smallest smile, and he smiled back. Just slightly, just enough to soften the line of his mouth. Then turned back to the phone.

“Perfect. Yeah. Tuesday’s good. Tell ‘em she’ll be there.”

He hung up with the kind of gentleness that didn’t match the fight you’d just heard in his voice. As if slamming the phone down would’ve undone the win. He stayed there a second longer, hand resting on the receiver, then turned toward you and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well,” he said, voice back to its usual slow drawl. “Hope you didn’t make other plans for Tuesday.”

He'd already made sure you didn't.

You blinked, throwing the first name that came to your mind out. “That was Glamour?”

He gave a short nod and crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of the couch. “That was me doin’ what I said I would. You’re in, sweetheart. Casting preview, ten a.m. I’ll walk you in myself.”

Your heart was thudding, too fast to hide. “Remmick... they said no at first, didn’t they?”

He didn’t lie. Didn’t pretend. Just shrugged. “Didn’t matter what they said at first. You got me. I make sure first ain’t never final.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his blue eyes caught the light and shimmered red in the middle, something not quite right about them, something old and endless that had never scared you. Something that felt like fire behind glass. You’d never asked what he was, not out loud. But you knew.

And you knew whatever he was, it loved you. Or worshipped you. Or both.

“Remmick,” you said, quieter now. “What if it doesn’t go well?”

He reached up, thumb brushing just beneath your cheek. “Then I raise hell.”

You laughed, half from nerves and half from wonder. You’d come to this city with nothing but a suitcase, a dream, and a man who’d found you behind a dusty counter and said star like he already believed it. And now here you were. Toast crumbs on your lap, your agent on fire, and Tuesday morning shining in the near distance like something impossible.

You weren’t sure if you were ready.

But with Remmick at your side, it almost didn't matter.

Tuesday morning came earlier than you'd hoped, though you weren’t the one who set the alarm. Remmick had been up before the sun, half-dressed and humming under his breath in the next room while laying your outfit out across the back of the couch.

He’d picked it the night before, but apparently that hadn’t stopped him from fussing over it again in the morning. You heard the crisp flick of a lint roller, the brush of fingers smoothing seams, the rustle of tissue paper as he checked the shoes a third time.

When you finally dragged yourself out of bed, you found the kettle already whistling and the lights dimmed low, the way you liked them. Remmick was standing by the window, fingers pressed lightly to the frame, eyes flicking up toward the gray, dim sky like he expected it to turn on him.

You watched him for a moment, leaning against the doorframe in your feather-trimmed robe, half-curious, half-sleepy.

“You waitin’ on somethin’?” you asked.

He turned slightly, not startled, just aware. That quiet, humming attention he always gave you.

“Mm? No,” he said, too quickly. “Just checkin’ the weather. They were callin’ for sun earlier. Thought maybe it’d clear.”

You blinked. “And that’s bad?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you don’t want your hair frizzin’ before the cameras roll.”

You didn’t buy that, not fully, but you didn’t press. Especially not when you caught the way his shoulders dropped just a little with relief as he turned back toward the window and muttered, “Overcast’s good. Real good.”

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, all his focus was back on you.

“Went with the green. It’ll set off your skin like it’s already been retouched,” he said, running a hand over the fabric. “Open collar, mid-thigh hem. You’re showin’ just enough to make ‘em lean forward, not enough to make ‘em blink wrong. You’ll kill in it.”

He’d chosen your heels too. Pearlescent and soft. He bent to help buckle them before you could even sit down fully, kneeling in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked up after the second one clicked into place.

He pulled you in front of the small mirror in the hallway, fingers brushing through your curls. Careful but firm, like he was memorizing every strand, every coil.

“You look damn beautiful like this,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for you. “This hair? It’s got fire. It’s you. Ain’t no straightening iron gonna fix what’s already perfect.”

You watched his face, how his lips twitched into a rare smile, how his sharp canines flashed for a moment when he spoke. It was like he was showing you a piece of a world you hadn’t dared to claim yet.

“If they try to tell you to change it, you tell ’em exactly what I’m tellin’ you.” He leaned in, voice dropping lower, the kind of serious that makes you hold your breath. “If they don’t like this, they can choke on it.”

You couldn't help but laugh.

The walk to the Glamour offices wasn’t long, but he stretched it out like a runway. Kept looking you up and down with a quiet smile that made your stomach dip.

“You remember what to say if they ask about work history?”

“Freelance,” you said. “New Orleans, mostly. Catalogue stuff. A few showroom calls.”

“Good girl.” His hand found the small of your back. “And if they ask who’s representin’ you?”

“You.”

“Damn right.”

Every few steps, he’d stop to adjust your sleeve, or reposition your collar just slightly, or brush a speck of lint off your back like it was a threat. All the while, compliments rolled off him like breath.

“Walkin’ like you got six hundred cameras on you already.”

“No one else out here looks like you. That’s why they’re gonna remember.”

“God, darlin’, if they don’t pick you up after this, I’ll make a whole new magazine just to show ‘em what they missed.”

He meant it too. That was the thing.

When you reached the building, the receptionist barely had time to look up before Remmick had already introduced you both. “Ten o’clock, casting preview for senior editorial. We’re expected.”

He kept his hand low at your back as you were ushered toward the elevators, nodding politely but not waiting to be led. He knew the layout better than he should have. Knew exactly which floor. Which door. Which office.

You didn’t ask how.

Just like you didn’t ask how he managed the reservation for that dinner, or the money for the apartment, or the pull it must’ve taken to get a Tuesday meeting with Glamour on less than a week’s notice.

He stood with you right up to the waiting room. Talked you through every possible scenario. Repeated it all again. Not like he didn’t think you remembered, but like he needed to be sure. His hand curled around yours for a moment, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“You’re gonna go in there, and you’re gonna own it,” he said low. “Chin up. Shoulders back. They ain’t doin’ you a favor, darlin’. You’re the one bringin’ value.”

You smiled, even if your heart was loud in your ears. “You’re staying, right?”

“As long as they let me.”

The door cracked open then. A woman in a gray blazer stepped out and gave you a polite, clipped smile. “They’re ready for you.”

Remmick looked at her, then back at you.

“You got this,” he whispered, eyes catching the light like glass. “Go turn ‘em to mush.”

You stepped through the door with a deep breath, feeling him at your back even after it shut behind you.

The room wasn’t anything like you’d imagined. No flashbulbs. No velvet couches. Just white walls, a long table, and a row of people behind it. Only three today, though it felt like more.

The man in the middle leaned forward, adjusting his glasses as he looked you over. His suit was tan. His tie was brown. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a retirement brochure.

He didn’t smile.

His eyes landed on your hair, soft and natural, shaped carefully the way you and Remmick had discussed, and he frowned.

“You didn’t straighten your hair?”

The air thinned.

He said it casually. Like it was a reasonable question. Like you were the one who’d missed a memo. There was no malice in his voice. No edge. Just that neutral, evaluative tone. The kind that made your skin prickle.

You opened your mouth, unsure whether to answer. Whether to defend. But you didn’t get the chance.

Remmick’s words came back to you.

If they don’t like it, they can choke on it.

You straightened your spine. Lifted your chin.

“No,” you said, clearly. “I didn’t.”

His brow lifted, but he didn’t comment further. Just made a note on the paper in front of him and gestured toward the far end of the room. “We’ll have you stand there, please.”

You moved without trembling. Stood where he told you. But just as he looked up again, his tone shifted. Cool, clinical, condescending, like he was correcting a child.

“Next time, I’d encourage you to tame it a little,” he said, making a vague swirling motion near his own head. “It tends to interfere with the shape of the editorial spread. Distracts from the clothes.”

You held your breath for a second.

Then exhaled, choosing to respond with your silence.

You couldn’t see Remmick from here, but you knew, if he could, he’d be watching through the walls. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. Fingers curled around the armrest of some uncomfortable waiting room chair, burning with the need to intervene but holding back for your sake. Because he trusted you. Because he’d prepared you for this.

They smiled at you.

All three of them. The old white man in the center, still reeking of cedar cologne and importance. The younger one on his left with the narrow glasses and tight mouth. And the woman, quiet, polished, seated from the start, offered the warmest smile of all, like it might soften what was coming.

“You’ve got something,” the man in the center said, folding his hands like he was giving you the world instead of brushing you off. “Undeniably. And that face? It tells a story.”

You waited. Chin high. Shoulders set. The reader in you knew a setup when you heard one.

“But,” he continued, “we just couldn’t find the right fit for you on the cover. The concept’s already tight, and we’re working with established talent.”

The woman nodded sympathetically. “We’ll absolutely include you in the spread, though. There’s a great piece near the back. Beauty-focused, intimate lighting. You’ll photograph beautifully there.”

“Somewhere in the centerfold,” the younger man added. “Where you’ll pop.”

Pop.

You kept smiling. Even thanked them. Told them it was an honor.

The hallway outside felt colder than it had earlier. Like whatever heat had filled the building this morning had been drained just for you. You glanced around, expecting to see Remmick waiting in that same corner you assumed he'd been pacing in for the last hour, but he wasn’t there.

“Your agent?” the receptionist offered, catching your look. “He was asked to wait in the lobby. Waiting room’s only for models.”

You nodded, once. Of course it was.

You stepped into the elevator, then down through the marble lobby, each heel-click a reminder. Not of rejection exactly, because they hadn’t said no. But of all the ways a person can still be told not quite.

Remmick was already rising from the bench opposite of the window when you turned the corner. The second he saw you, he stood fast. Palms brushing down the front of his shirt, like his whole body was waiting for your cue. For your expression to tell him what to feel.

His mouth opened, but you beat him to it.

“They said I’ll be in the magazine,” you said.

His face didn’t move. Not right away.

Then slowly, his brow lifted.

“And?”

“Not on the cover.”

You watched it hit him. Watched how his expression stayed still for half a second too long. Just long enough for it to twist into something else. Something dangerous.

His jaw set hard. A muscle ticked. The color beneath his skin seemed to shift, just faintly, as if whatever fire lived inside him didn’t know where to go yet.

You almost thought he’d go back upstairs. March into that office and ask those men if they had any idea who they’d just handed a consolation prize to. If they knew how much talent they’d looked straight in the eye and passed over like it was nothing. He looked like he wanted blood.

But instead, he turned back to you.

His voice was quiet when it came. Measured.

“Well,” he said, lips tight around the word, “it’s a start.”

You gave a small nod. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

“And every star,” he added, smoothing his thumb along the back of your hand, “has to get her start somewhere.”

You looked down.

There was something about the way he said it. Not forced, not fake. But like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. Like he was clinging to the shape of the words because they were the only thing keeping him from sinking into whatever fury had been building behind his eyes.

“I wore what you told me,” you murmured. “Said what you told me to say. Stood still, smiled, kept my tone light. Did everything right.”

“You did more than right,” he said quickly. “You were brilliant.”

You looked back up.

“Then why wasn’t it enough?”

His face twisted. Something old passed over it. A flicker of pain he couldn’t hide fast enough.

“It was enough,” he said, voice low. “You are enough. You’re more than they’ve ever had walk through those doors, and they know it. That’s why they smiled so damn hard, ’cause they were too scared to admit they didn’t have the guts to hand you what you earned.”

You blinked.

He softened immediately.

“Darlin’,” he said gently, and that was the first time he’d called you that in a place like this. Not in the safety of your brownstone, not in the hush of his voice during quiet mornings or late nights. Here. Now. On a marble floor that didn’t want to carry your name.

He pulled you close, just enough to press his hand to the small of your back, shielding you from the glances nearby. “This is the last time someone underestimates you and walks away proud of it. I swear on my fuckin’ life.”

You exhaled, shaky. His hand rubbed small circles into your back, smoothing over the ache like he could press all the disappointment down until it flattened into something manageable.

“You said it yourself. You'll be in the magazine,” he went on. “A spread still gets eyes. Still gets press. They’ll see your face, your name, and the next time we walk into a building like this-” his voice dropped, almost growled, “-they’ll beg to put you on the front.”

You knew it wasn’t just a promise. It was a threat. A vow.

Remmick didn’t get loud. He didn’t need to. But the intensity in his voice had a gravity all its own, like if the world didn’t bend for you, he’d find a way to crack it open with his bare hands.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he said, softer now. “No matter what it takes.”

You leaned into him. Just slightly. Enough for him to steady you.

The world had felt heavier in the elevator. More than disappointment. It was like it had reinforced something you’d been trying to unlearn: that the door would still close, even when you did everything right.

But here, in the curve of his palm and the grit of his words, it felt manageable. Not fixed. But seen.

You didn’t say anything else as you both walked toward the exit, his hand never once leaving your back. His touch didn't say Keep moving. It said I’ve got you, and for now, that was enough.

He didn’t take you out that night.

You thought maybe he would. Half-expected it, honestly, with the way he’d looked at you in the car. Like you were glass and flame all at once, and he couldn’t decide which part to reach for first. His hand had stayed on your knee the whole ride, but not in that idle, drifting way men sometimes did when they got comfortable. No, his touch had been still. Focused. His thumb pressing slow, precise circles into the fabric, as if committing the shape of you to memory.

But when you stepped into the brownstone, he didn’t say a word about dinner, or drinks, or anything at all that required going back out into the city.

The door clicked softly shut behind you.

He locked it. Then checked it again, like he always did. Not once. Twice. Fingers lingering on the bolt like the world couldn’t be trusted not to knock again.

Then he turned, caught your eye in the dim hallway light, and you caught the redshift in his.

“Let me keep you in tonight,” he said.

Not a plea. Not a command. Just a fact.

You nodded before you even realized it.

It wasn’t long before the apartment was quiet again, save for the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of Remmick moving through the kitchen. You stood in the living room, still in your casting outfit, watching him open the fridge with that same thoughtful care he brought to everything. Like every bottle or jar might be hiding something important.

You didn’t expect him to cook. You’d never seen him eat. But the man knew his way around a pan, that much was clear.

He tied your apron around his waist without asking, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows as he set to work with the kind of slow, methodical focus that made the whole kitchen seem quieter.

Olive oil warmed in the pan. Garlic hit it next, the sizzle sharp and sudden before mellowing into something rich and familiar.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded. Watching.

He didn’t look up, but you saw his shoulders shift like he could feel your eyes.

“I had somethin’ else in mind for tonight,” he said. “Somethin’ with music. White tablecloths. Wine list thick enough to kill a man. But figured you might need a minute to breathe.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Still.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just watched him toss fresh herbs into the pan. Basil, thyme, a pinch of something red from a spice jar he’d labeled in your handwriting. You didn't allow yourself to consider how he even learned to write like you.

“What’re you making?”

“Pasta,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “The real kind. Not that boxed stuff.”

You raised a brow. “You knead dough too, Remmick? That part of the agency job description?”

His mouth twitched, knowingly so. “Never hurts to be versatile.”

You smirked, but didn’t push it.

The radio played something low and old from the corner of the room, letting its dusty melody thread through the space like smoke. You sank into the armchair by the window, curling one leg beneath you as you listened to the rhythmic scrape of Remmick’s knife against the cutting board.

It was peaceful. Domestic in a way that felt almost unreal.

He plated your food with a flourish and brought it over without a word, setting it gently in front of you like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Don’t wait,” he said, already moving to clear space on the coffee table.

You didn’t.

The pasta was perfectly done. Homemade sauce, deep and savory. You chewed slowly, trying to hide your surprise.

“You sure you didn’t work in a kitchen before this?”

“No ma’am,” he said, stretching out on the floor in front of you, back against the couch. “Just picked things up.”

He didn’t have a plate. You’d stopped asking about that after the third time it happened. He always said he’d eat later, that he’d already eaten, or that he wasn’t hungry. But the look in his eyes as he watched you always told a different story.

“Thank you,” you murmured, after a few more bites.

He looked up at you then. Eyes soft.

“You don’t gotta thank me.”

“I want to.”

Something shifted in his face. A flicker of something he didn’t say. He looked back down at the rug.

“I know today didn’t go like we wanted,” he said, voice quieter now. “But it’s a start. Ain’t no stars born in full blaze. You’ll get there.”

You hummed, letting the praise settle somewhere deep inside. The pasta disappeared slower after that. You were full before you finished, but you kept taking little bites just to keep him sitting there. Just to keep this moment still.

He cleared the plate when you finally set it down. Washed it, dried it, and returned like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t watched his shoulders flex through the thin linen of his shirt or followed the curve of his jaw as he leaned over the sink.

When he returned, he didn’t sit on the floor this time.

He eased onto the couch instead, the cushions dipping under his weight, the worn linen wrinkling beneath him. His body moved with the kind of slow care that wasn’t laziness, but calculation. Like he was measuring how much space he ought to take up, how much distance there was between your bodies.

Then he held out his hand.

Open. Bare. Still.

No words. Just that quiet, steady offering. Not an ask. Not a demand. An invitation.

You didn’t speak either. Just looked at him, looked at that hand, then back up into his face.

He wasn’t smiling. Not exactly. But there was a kind of soft hope carved into the lines of his mouth, a flicker in his eyes that said he needed the touch more than he wanted to admit.

So you reached for him.

Your fingers slid into his, warm and steady, and let him draw you forward. Not pulled. Not dragged or directed or coaxed, but simply… guided. Like gravity worked differently where he was.

You let yourself settle beside him.

His arm curled naturally along the back of the couch, but didn’t touch you. Not at first. He sat still as you tucked your legs beneath you, shifting until your shoulder just brushed his chest.

The lamp nearby cast long, slow shadows against the brick wall behind you. The whole apartment felt hushed, wrapped in soft amber and low sounds from the street that barely reached the window.

You tilted your head slightly, letting the silence stretch.

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And not with that mask he wore around others, the one he used when smoothing the way for phone calls and photoshoots, all cleverness and quiet, careful charm.

This was different.

His hand slid from the cushion behind you, moved down and found yours again. He cradled it between both of his like it was delicate. Breakable. A thing too precious to be touched without veneration.

He traced the shape of your palm with the tip of one finger. Slow. Careful.

And said nothing.

You let him do it. Let him take your hand in his and explore it like it might disappear, like every line and fold and soft edge meant something more than flesh and skin.

You looked at him for a long moment, studying the lines around his eyes, the way his hair was still mussed from running his fingers through it. His jaw was tense, but not with anger. Something quieter. Something more internal.

“You okay?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “Tired.”

“You sleep last night?”

He gave a soft snort. “Don’t need much.”

You let that go.

The apartment was quiet again. The kind of hush that felt deliberate. Sacred. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only thing keeping time now.

And then he spoke again.

“I ever tell you how much I hate bein’ helpless?” he said quietly. “Hate sittin’ in a hall waitin’ to hear how they gonna minimize you. Like I’m just supposed to swallow it.”

You didn’t answer. Just turned, leaning slightly into the curve of his arm where it hovered behind you.

“Hey,” you said after a pause. “You didn’t fail me.”

He didn’t speak.

“You hear me?” you pressed, voice firmer now. “You didn’t.”

He looked at you again then. That same old look. Like you were something just out of reach, Something he didn’t think he deserved but couldn’t stop staring at.

And then, like a dam breaking, he shifted.

His hand slid from yours, only to return a second later, cupping the back of your fingers, cradling them between both of his. He brought them close to his mouth, not quite kissing them, but holding them there like they warmed him.

“I just wanted it to be perfect,” he frowned.

You tilted your head.

“It is,” you said. “Not the job. Not them. But this? Us?”

He blinked.

“It’s getting there.”

That earned a small laugh. Quiet. Real.

You smiled.

“Thank you for dinner,” you said again, softer now.

His eyes lingered on your lips a moment too long.

“Anytime.”

And he meant it.

Anytime. Anything. Always.

Every inch of him said so.

You didn’t sleep much the night before.

Too much weight in your chest. Too many thoughts, all rustling like paper just out of reach. Every time your eyes drifted closed, they fluttered open again. The room was too quiet, the air too still. It felt like something was waiting. Or maybe you were.

But even if you had managed to drift off, you would’ve woken anyway. You always did, somehow, whenever he came close.

It was subtle at first. The soft creak of a floorboard just beyond the hallway. A change in pressure. Barely there, but enough to make your skin prickle. Like the atmosphere shifted slightly to accommodate him. The air grew heavier, like it recognized him before your eyes did.

You didn’t move. Kept your breath even. Let your lashes stay low, even though your eyes were cracked open just enough to see the shape in the corner.

Remmick.

Standing there. Still as a portrait, as if one stray blink might smear him from view. Bare-chested, in nothing but a pair of dark briefs that hung low on his hips, his skin pale and sharp against the dark. The moonlight didn’t dare touch him directly. It hovered in the corners instead, gathering where his shoulder met his throat, pooling in the shallow dip of his chest. His body looked almost carved. Lean, wiry muscle wrapped tight in skin that barely looked like it belonged to someone living.

But it was his eyes that held you in place.

They didn’t catch the light.

They made their own.

Twin glints of red shimmered low beneath his brow, steady and unblinking. Not the flash of a reflection. Not the glimmer of light hitting moisture. No. These burned from within, low and quiet, like embers buried deep beneath ash. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t pulse.

They glowed.

And in that glow was something else. Something wordless. Something ancient.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t make a sound.

Just stood there at the foot of your bed, breathing like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer. Like he’d been walking through a dream all night and didn’t want to wake you for fear of it ending.

It wasn’t hunger in his face. Not lust, either. It was… awe. Disbelief, maybe. As if he wasn’t entirely convinced you were still real.

And as you watched him, quiet, breath steady, you couldn’t help but wonder:

How long had he been doing this?

How many nights had he stood in that exact spot?

How many times had you not woken up? Had you not noticed?

The thought didn’t scare you. If anything, it stirred something softer. Stranger. Like the ghost of a heartbeat rising from the floorboards beneath you.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And neither did he.

By the time the alarm sounded, the sun wasn’t up yet, but he was already in the kitchen.

You heard the clink of porcelain, the soft scrape of a drawer sliding open, the rhythmic hush of his bare feet moving across the floor. The smell of something warm and faintly herbal drifted through the air. Something like honey and mint, but darker underneath. Earthier.

You sat up slowly, still heavy with the weight of half-slept dreams, and blinked against the dim light spilling in from the hallway.

Your clothes were already laid out again. Pressed and folded across the back of the couch. The same place as last time.

A blouse in cream and cinnamon tones. High-waisted slacks. The matching heels you'd only worn once, but that he’d polished clean anyway. Everything laid out with such care it made your chest ache. He didn’t miss a detail. He never did.

Even your hair products, combs, oils, moisturizers, pins, were already set neatly beside a warm towel on the kitchen counter. Like he’d anticipated the exact order you’d reach for them, the sequence of your morning carved into his mind.

You stepped in, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and found him whistling. Low and unhurried, some old tune you couldn’t place. He stood at the stove, stirring something in a small pan, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a quiet light to him this morning.

His hair was combed back, not slicked, but neat. The buttons on his shirt done all the way up, save for the top two, leaving his throat bare. His slacks were creased to perfection, and the leather belt cinched around his waist gleamed like he’d buffed it just for the occasion.

He looked over his shoulder at you, and his face lit up like it always did. Like you were the very thing he’d been hoping would walk through that doorway.

Because you were.

“Evenin',” he said with a smile, voice rough but still sweet.

You raised a brow. “It’s morning.”

His smile widened, almost sheepish. “Don’t feel like it.”

You moved closer, the floor cool beneath your bare feet, and leaned your hip against the counter beside him.

“You been up long?” you asked.

He shrugged, eyes flicking back to the pan. “Long enough. Wanted to make sure everything was just right.”

He handed you a steaming mug of tea without being asked. Your favorite, of course. Just the right amount of honey, just the way you liked it.

“You nervous?” he asked softly, not looking at you.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you watched him. The set of his jaw. The way his fingers flexed slightly on the wooden spoon. His body was still, but the tension was there. It always was. Like the storm never fully left his bones.

“Not really,” you said. “Not yet.”

He nodded. Then turned toward you fully, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into the waistband of his slacks. He studied you, head tilted slightly, eyes trailing over your face with that same intent scrutiny you were starting to get used to.

You didn’t flinch from it anymore.

“C’mere,” he said gently, holding out a hand.

You hesitated. Only for a second.

Then reached forward.

His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and careful, and he tugged you closer. Slow, but certain.

“I had a dream about you,” he said softly.

“You were wearin’ that same look. All bright-eyed and sharpened up. Like you’d walked straight out of some storybook meant to ruin someone,”

He laughed, soft and half-embarrassed, but didn’t look away.

“You make it hard for a man to think straight, y’know that?”

You didn’t respond right away. You just let the words settle, warm and slow in the hollow of your throat. Something in the way he said those words made your stomach twist. Made your breath stick somewhere deep in your ribs. It didn’t feel like the usual flattery. Not cheap. Not performative. Not the kind of thing you’d heard a dozen times back home or whispered at castings with a sleazy grin.

This was different. Lower. Honest. Like it surprised even him.

And maybe it did.

Because as soon as he said it, he seemed to catch himself. Barely. His throat moved with the effort of swallowing it down. His eyes dropped, and he took a small step back, as if distance might fix whatever he’d let slip between you.

“Go wash up,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ll get breakfast finished.”

You didn’t argue. Just nodded once and moved toward the bathroom, heartbeat louder than your footsteps.

By the time you stepped out again, hair wrapped in a towel and skin still warm from the steam, the apartment smelled faintly of sage and something sweet. Peaches, maybe. Or brown sugar. You couldn’t tell. Just that it was soft. Comforting.

The living room had a golden hue now, touched by early light filtered through overcast skies. Everything looked gentler, as if the whole city had been wrapped in gauze.

Remmick wasn’t at the stove anymore. The burner was off, the kettle still hot beside it.

He stood at the window instead, one hand resting on the sill, the other pulling the curtain back just a fraction. Not enough to see out fully. Just enough to check.

When he turned back around and saw you, whatever he’d been worrying about fell clean out of his face.

His eyes widened slightly. Jaw slackened. His whole posture shifted, like the breath had been pulled straight out of him.

“God damn,” he whispered, nearly under his breath. “Look at you.”

You didn’t need a mirror to know what he was seeing. The high-waisted pants he’d picked out the night before, fitted just right to your waist. The blouse with its delicate neckline and little pearl buttons, catching faint light. Your curls still damp but styled soft and neat. Face clean. Mostly bare, but radiant.

You let yourself smile. Just a little. “You picked the outfit.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t nod, either.

Just walked toward you, slow and careful, like approaching something sacred. His boots barely made a sound on the old wood floor.

“Still,” he purred, reaching out to brush something, nothing, really, from your sleeve. His fingers lingered a little longer than needed. “You wear it better than I dreamed.”

He fussed over you the entire time. Fixing buttons. Adjusting seams. His fingers lingered where they shouldn’t have. On your hip, on your collarbone, but always under the guise of perfection.

“You’re gonna hate the cabs in this city,” he chuckled, smoothing a wrinkle from your skirt. “Good thing we’re not takin’ one.”

You raised a brow, though you weren't at all surprised. “We’re not?”

He looked up, pleased with himself in that quiet way. “Got a car waitin’. Somethin’ a little easier on the nerves. And the shoes.”

You laughed. “You got us another driver?”

“I got you a driver,” he corrected gently, brushing something invisible from your sleeve. “I just happen to be taggin’ along.”

His words tried to sound offhand, but his hands kept pausing. Kept hovering like they couldn’t quite bring themselves to let go.

The last touch lingered too long on your lower back.

“If it comes down to it,” he added lowly, “I’ll carry you myself.”

You smiled at the joke, but when you met his eyes, it wasn’t a joke at all.

He meant it.

And for a second, the air in the room felt heavier. Pressed in close. Charged.

You cleared your throat. “We better go.”

He nodded once, like it snapped him out of whatever spell he’d drifted into.

But just before you reached the door, he caught your hand. Gently. Held it between both of his, the edges of his fingers slightly trembling.

“Today ain’t just a shoot,” he said, voice steady, low. “It’s your beginnin’. Your real one. So when they look at you, don’t flinch. Don’t fold. Let ‘em see what I see.”

“And what’s that?” you asked softly.

He didn’t smile.

“Perfection.”

The car rolled to a stop outside a tall brick building tucked deep into SoHo, the kind with no sign on the front and a buzzer system you had to know how to work to get inside. From the curb, it didn’t look like much. A delivery van was parked at the corner. Two men with light meters and cases of film were hunched over a dolly at the service entrance. But inside was something different.

The photographer’s studio took up the entire top floor. High ceilings, polished concrete floors, wall-to-wall windows dressed in gauzy white fabric that filtered in the pale morning light like milk through cheesecloth. You stepped in and immediately noticed the quiet chill in the air, too sterile to feel artistic. Not cold exactly. Just... clinical.

The space had clearly been prepared. No one had cut corners. A fresh bouquet of lilies and peonies sat in a vase by the makeup station. Garment racks overflowed with gowns in every imaginable shade, some still tagged, some borrowed from designers who only lent to the best. Studio assistants buzzed around with clipboards and cups of coffee, walking fast but talking softly. Respectfully. Not to you, but to him.

Remmick.

He stood just behind your shoulder, as he always did, not saying much but radiating authority in a way that made people clear a path. There was no need for volume, no need for presence to be announced. His silence had weight. The kind that made a room shift without realizing it.

You saw it in the way spines straightened when he stepped close, the way assistants lowered their voices mid-sentence, as if whatever they were discussing might offend him by accident. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t need to. His gaze alone, steady, unreadable, somehow both patient and predatory, did most of the work.

Every time someone turned, they looked at him first. Their questions never quite made it to your lips. The makeup artist. The stylist. Even the photographer, who was trying too hard to act like he didn’t notice. His eyes flicked to Remmick’s figure once, twice, like he was trying to place him. Like he didn’t understand why he felt nervous.

You’d started noticing it more often. How his presence rearranged a room. How the tone changed, the pace shifted. Like the energy bent around him before anyone knew it was happening.

The photographer, a trim white man in his late thirties with thin lips and thick-framed glasses, finally stepped forward. His pants were pressed too stiff. His cologne smelled sharp and expensive, but didn't mask the sweat already building beneath his collar. He gave you a quick glance. Nothing warm. Nothing memorable. Just a skim of the eyes like you were a fabric sample. He didn’t offer a name.

Instead, he turned his head, nose wrinkling ever so slightly, and addressed the stylist behind him.

“She’s darker than I expected,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. Not even a whisper of shame. “We’ll need to be careful with lighting. That undertone catches weird on film.”

You felt Remmick stiffen behind you. So subtly you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been so attuned to the way he breathed.

There was a silence, sudden and sharp, like someone had shut a drawer too hard.

But he didn’t speak.

Not yet.

You didn’t need to turn to know his hands were probably flexing at his sides, slow and deliberate. His restraint wasn’t the brittle kind. It was the kind that bided time. Waited for the perfect opening.

You kept your face smooth. Not blank, not soft, just controlled. Every inch of you brimming with dignity he clearly hadn’t expected. You caught one of the assistants glancing up from her clipboard, eyes wide and flicking from the photographer to you with something like alarm. Her jaw tensed, but she said nothing.

No one corrected him.

No one said a word.

But you simply walked past anyway, toward the makeup chair, head held high.

The chair sat beneath a ring of lights, too white and too bright. You sank into it with practiced grace, smoothing your robe over your thighs as a stylist bustled over, her nervous smile stretched too wide.

“Hey, sweetie,” she chirped. “Let’s get you glammed up, yeah?”

Her hands were quick, efficient. She swatched shades across your jawline with a speed that spoke more to panic than precision. None of them matched. Too yellow. Too gray. Too red. You didn’t say anything. Just watched as she fumbled, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for another palette.

“Your undertone’s so unique,” she muttered. “Really gotta find that balance... can’t let the camera flatten it...”

You knew what she meant.

And what she didn’t say.

Remmick hadn’t moved from the edge of the room. He leaned against a column, arms crossed, eyes locked on the back of your head through the mirror. Not breathing heavy. Not shifting. Just watching.

Guarding.

The stylist was careful with your hair, at least. Didn't try to fight it. Just lifted and pinned and fluffed with dutiful fingers, whispering tiny praises under her breath like she was scared of doing too much. She was trying, you gave her that. Whether it was guilt or fear or something closer to decency, you didn’t care. So long as she kept her hands gentle and her thoughts to herself.

“Camera loves your cheekbones,” she said, and that part sounded honest.

When you were done, you stood slowly, caught your own reflection in the mirror.

You looked like yourself.

Yourself, but sharpened. Framed in gold and plum. Lips glossed, lashes full, jaw set just right.

Behind you, Remmick shifted. You saw him in the glass, his eyes not on the outfit, not on the hair.

On you.

Always on you.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. But something eased in your chest.

The first few rounds of photos went smoothly enough. You moved between backdrops in different gowns. Deep purples, yellows, something champagne-colored with a sheer overlay that caught the light like water. The fabric floated when you walked, whispering against your legs, pooling at your ankles in gentle, liquid waves.

You didn’t pose so much as exist the way Remmick had taught you: shoulders open, chin tilted with certainty, mouth soft but deliberate. Posture like armor. Expression like invitation. You didn’t chase the camera. You let it come to you. Let it find the angles it wanted, as if it had no choice but to follow the pull of your gravity.

The flashbulbs burst in rhythmic intervals, bright and brief, filling the space with the scent of heat and ozone. Stylists moved around you in a silent, efficient orbit. Patting down your skirt hem, adjusting the hang of your sleeve, brushing an invisible strand of hair from your brow. But it was the photographer who kept lagging behind. You could feel it in the pauses. In the hesitations. In the way he kept glancing toward Remmick like a man who had questions he didn’t know how to ask.

He didn’t know how to handle it.

“Give me something more demure,” he called at one point, standing behind the camera with a squint and a frown. “Less... confrontational. Softer eyes.”

Your brows lifted. Not high. Just enough. And just for a moment, you let your tongue slip.

“I’m looking into a lens.”

“Well, yes,” he said, chuckling like he thought that’d smooth things over. “But it’s just... try to be less direct. You’re a feature, not the focus.”

You didn't say anything back.

Your mouth didn't even twitch.

But Remmick did.

“She’s exactly the focus,” he said, stepping forward from the edge of the lights, voice low and firm and without a speck of humor. “That’s what centerfold means.”

The room went still again.

Even the stylist’s hands froze mid-pin near your waist. The assistant by the reflector stiffened, eyes darting between the two men.

The photographer adjusted a light. His fingers weren’t as steady as before.

“I meant it compositionally,” he said, clearing his throat, not quite meeting Remmick’s eye.

“No, you didn’t.”

Remmick said it without blinking.

His tone hadn’t changed. Calm. Crisp. But the weight behind it was enough to press the silence flat between every heartbeat in the room.

And for a moment, the only thing that moved was the slow flicker of the overhead bulb as it warmed.

The photographer looked down, fiddled with his light meter, and muttered something about “another angle.”

Eventually, the shoot resumed.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t fold.

But you caught the way Remmick stayed closer now. Just outside the frame. Arms still crossed. Watching the photographer like a man making mental measurements. Every time the camera clicked, his eyes weren’t on the flash, but on the hands that adjusted it. On the words that came next. On every breath, every shift in tone, like he was deciding whether or not to let this man finish his job.

As the final shots were taken, dramatic lighting, a sheer backdrop, your hair full and proud against the white, he moved beside the stylist and spoke low, voice barely above a hum.

“She’s done after this one,” he said. “I’ll be handling approvals.”

The stylist didn’t argue. Just nodded, lips pressed together, hands folding neatly at her waist.

You were back in your clothes ten minutes later, the silk blouse clinging a little from the heat still radiating off your skin. The dressing room felt more cramped than it did before, the air heavy with setting spray and leftover perfume. Your throat was dry. One of the assistants handed you a paper cup with a straw, and you accepted it without a word, sipping slow, letting the cool water settle the heat in your chest.

Someone knelt beside you, working at the straps of the heels. Your feet ached, throbbing faintly from hours of posing. Never quite standing, never quite walking, just holding beauty in place.

Remmick was waiting by the door.

He hadn’t moved the entire time. Coat over his arm, one hand resting lightly against the wall as if to anchor himself. His body didn’t sway. Didn’t fidget. But his jaw ticked every few seconds, like he was grinding something silent between his teeth.

When you joined him, blouse tucked, shoulders square, he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you.

Looked long.

“You were perfect,” he hummed, voice barely above a hush.

“But?”

“But nothing,” he said, tone rough at the edges. “You were perfect.”

He opened the door with his free hand, held it until you passed through, his touch naturally settling the small of your back.

He didn’t comment on the photographer again.

He didn’t have to.

You saw it in the way he walked beside you. Shoulders set too tight, gait too rigid for someone supposedly at ease. His jaw was still clenched, the muscle there twitching with the rhythm of his steps. His fingers flexed every now and then, as if rehearsing something they’d wanted to do but hadn’t been given permission to.

And when you stepped into the elevator, he stood still. Hands folded in front of him. The red shimmer pulsed once, subtle and slow. You reached out, gently brushing the tips of your fingers against his wrist.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t flinch.

Just looked at you, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.

You weren’t sure what he would’ve done if you hadn’t been there to stop him.

But you were.

And he let you lead this time.

Just this once.

It had been a week since the shoot. Seven full days since your skin was powdered and styled, since camera bulbs flashed like lightning, and since Remmick’s hand hovered behind your back like a second spine. Steadier than any wall, quieter than any breath, always there.

And now, a week later, the magazines were out.

The sun hadn’t even gone down when you heard the lock click. You were barefoot in the living room, tea cooling untouched on the windowsill, your thumb slowly dragging across the same corner of the same page in a book you hadn’t really touched since morning. You weren’t reading. Just looking. Letting the quiet stretch long around you.

The soft hum of traffic rose from below, dulled behind brick and double glass. Somewhere across the alley, a radio crackled faintly from an open window. But inside, the air was hushed and warm, filled with the scent of sweet almond and black vanilla. Something Remmick had lit before he left, soft and curling in the corners of the apartment like memory. A clean smell. Luxurious in its calm.

You turned your head at the sound of the door creaking open.

Remmick stepped in, arms full. No coat, he hadn’t worn one in days now, but his favorite fitted blazer was slung on his shoulders. Brown and a little rumpled like he’d worn it too long. His sleeves were pushed to the elbows, forearms exposed, the collar open at his throat. His skin looked flushed, not from heat, but from effort. From thrill.

And in his hands?

Magazines.

Stacks and stacks of them.

Glamour. Thick, glossy. Dozens, no, maybe hundreds of copies, some with their spines still crisp, others already peeled open, like he couldn’t resist peeking before bringing them home. He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe and dropped the load on the coffee table in a huff of breath and triumph.

You blinked at the pile.

Then looked up at him.

Then back down.

“…Remmick.”

He beamed at you.

Actually beamed.

And for just a second, just long enough to make your stomach flip, you saw them.

Fangs.

Not teeth. Not canines. Fangs.

They hadn’t fully retracted. The points glinted faintly behind his bottom lip, his mouth too wide with joy to contain them, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to hide.

He didn’t notice. Not yet. Just stood there, catching his breath, eyes glowing faint and sweet in the lamplight like he'd returned from battle with spoils no one could take from him.

And you, watching from the couch, weren’t sure what took your breath first. His smile, or the fact that it wasn’t quite human.

“Every shop had a limit,” he said breathlessly, already tugging the first magazine open. “Three per customer, some of ’em said. Five, if I smiled real nice.”

You raised a brow.

He licked his thumb, flipped a page. “So I went to every damn shop in Manhattan.”

And he meant it. His shirt was damp at the collar, sleeves wrinkled at the elbows. A thin line of sweat traced his temple like he’d run half the way home. You could practically see the city on him. Subway grit on his cuffs, the faint scent of cold air and ink clinging to the folds of his blazer. He looked like a man who’d carried your name through the streets like it was gospel.

Then he found the spread.

Your spread.

Dead center in the glossy pages, your face filled the left half. Your body, the way they’d posed you, half reclined, your mouth parted like you’d just finished saying something worth listening to, took up the right. Above it, the title gleamed in embossed gold: A Southern Star on the Rise

He whistled low. “Would you look at that.”

He turned the magazine toward you like you hadn’t already lived it. Like you hadn’t memorized every contour, every careful arch of your brows, every piece of your expression caught in that still moment of light.

But he held it like it was sacred. Like scripture. Like he was revealing something you hadn’t quite grasped yet.

“Damn,” he muttered, opening another copy. “Print didn’t dull you a bit. Thought maybe it would. Thought maybe it’d catch you wrong. But no. You shine right through.”

He pulled open another magazine. Then another.

In seconds, your entire coffee table disappeared under layers of your own image. Identical pages laid side by side, all turned to the centerfold. There you were, over and over again. Still. Composed. Glowing.

Like a constellation laid across the living room. Like stars, just rearranged.

Remmick crouched beside the table, smoothing one copy flat with the care of someone laying down silk. He didn’t blink, just studied the page like it was breathing, alive. Like he was waiting for it to reach back.

Then he rose to full height, tucked a copy under his arm, and walked over to you. Still barefoot. Still silent.

Still watching.

And you, frozen on the couch, felt your throat tighten with something you hadn’t named yet.

“You seen yourself in these?” he asked, voice quiet and smooth. Like the question itself was fragile.

You nodded once.

He grinned and leaned in to kiss your cheek. Just a brush of lips. But slow. Like it meant something. Like it had waited all day to land there, and now that it had, the world could keep spinning again.

Then he reached for your chin. Callused fingers gentle as they tipped your face up, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.

“I want you to say it,” he demanded, though so gently you could've mistaken it for a polite question.

You blinked. “Say what?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you. Really looked. His pupils were blown wide, red bleeding through the blue, burning steady in the low light of your living room.

Not glowing out of hunger.

Not now.

Out of pride. Out of something heavier. Older.

He waited.

So you said it.

Soft at first. A breath, barely formed.

“I’m a fuckin’ star.”

His smile widened. Slow, hungry, like it’d been waiting just beneath the surface.

So you said it again.

Louder this time.

“I’m a fuckin’ star!”

And this time, he didn’t stop at your cheek.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. Gentle. Noncommittal. A press of gratitude, of awe. Like you’d just named something holy.

Then he straightened, tapped your shoulder once with two fingers like sealing a blessing, and turned back toward the coffee table. Toward the sea of open pages like he couldn’t stand to look at just one.

He crouched again. Fingers drifting over the print, barely touching the paper. Just enough to feel the ink. Just enough to make sure it was real.

Behind him, you stared down at your own face. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room felt covered in you. Until your name echoed back at you from every glossy surface.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

You reached for one of the magazines and ran your hand over the fold. The version of yourself staring back was powerful. Beautiful. Alive. You looked like a woman who knew exactly who she was.

The only thing stronger than the pride warming your chest was the look in his eyes every time he flipped a page.

He thumbed through another copy, quieter now. As if just the sound of turning paper was too loud. Then, almost absentmindedly, like the thought had just resurfaced between page turns, he said it:

“Oh, Vogue called.”

Your head snapped up.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept flipping, smoothing down a crease on one of the centerfolds.

“Said they had an opening next month. I booked it. Thursday, ten.”

You blinked.

“Vogue.”

“Yeah.” His voice was soft, distracted. Eyes still on the magazine in front of him. “Figured it was a good fit. Didn’t wanna wait.”

“You... booked a Vogue shoot?”

He finally looked up then, eyes wide and sincere, brows pinched like he was only just realizing something might be unusual.

“I mean… yeah. I told you, didn’t I?”

You stared at him.

He stared at your photo.

And then you laughed. Soft, incredulous, stunned.

Because of course he had.

Of course Vogue had called Remmick.

Of course they had seen the piece and knew exactly what they were looking at.

He hadn’t had to knock on their door, hadn’t begged or bargained. They came to him.

Because when they saw you, they didn’t see a gamble. They didn’t see a request.

They saw inevitability.

And Remmick?

He treated it like the most obvious thing in the world.

“You,” you said, smiling now, “are insane.”

He blinked once. Then gave a faint shrug, turning back to the magazine.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “But I’m not wrong.”

And when he looked at you again, spread out across a dozen pages, glowing under lamplight, you could see the truth settle in his expression.

He wasn’t just proud.

He was certain.

You were everything he said you were.

And now, the world was catching up.

You woke to the scent of freshly peeled citrus and the low sound of Remmick humming. The windows were still closed, the curtains drawn against a morning sky that hadn’t quite made up its mind. The apartment smelled sharper than usual. Grapefruit, maybe. Lemongrass. Something he knew cleared your head. You were still blinking the sleep from your eyes when his silhouette appeared in the doorway.

“Up,” he said gently. “Got somethin’ to tell you.”

You sat up slowly. “What time is it?”

“Little after six. But don’t panic,” he added, smile curling at the corners. “You’ve got hours.”

You raised a brow. “Remmick... what?”

He walked in, holding your outfit already pressed and draped across one arm. Light blue silk. Crisp ivory slacks. A bold, gold-buttoned jacket you didn’t recognize.

He held them out. “We’re goin’ to Vogue.”

You blinked. “I know. You said the shoot was today.”

He hesitated. Then, sheepishly, almost boyish, he added, “Right. But, uh… I didn’t tell you everything.”

You stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “It’s the cover. They want you on the cover.”

Your mouth went dry.

He took a step back. Just one. Holding the clothes like a peace offering. “Figured if I told you earlier, you’d start worryin’. Fret about posture. Or pores. Or your walk. Or-”

“Remmick.”

He looked at you then. Earnest. Glowing.

You pressed your palm against your chest, trying to slow the way your heart was kicking against your ribs.

“The cover?” you whispered.

“Front page. Full feature.”

It should’ve floored you. Maybe it still would. But right now, all you could do was nod and let him help you out of bed.

He guided you through the morning like a man who’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Hands careful, patient. Shirt laid out before you needed it. Jewelry untangled before you even glanced at the box. He pressed a warm cloth to your face, careful not to disturb the curl of your hair, freshly done the night before.

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead,” he said, and you knew he believed every single word.

And then, quieter, almost to himself: “And I’ll be right there to see it.”

The car was waiting downstairs. Sleek and black and already running, the driver greeting Remmick with a nod and holding the door open for you like he’d been coached. Your nerves didn’t settle, not even on the drive. But Remmick’s hand rested gently against your knee the entire way. Grounding. Warm.

The studio was quiet when you arrived. Museum quiet, gallery quiet. The kind of stillness that felt curated, intentional, like someone had taken great care to make the space feel more like a cathedral than a workplace. The polished concrete floors were cool under your heels, spotless and reflecting faint outlines of the high arched windows that lined the walls. Exposed brick, original to the building, gave the room a sense of old, lived-in charm, and soft white curtains billowed ever so slightly from vents high above. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender, linen, and something powdery-sweet.

You moved through the entrance with Remmick just behind you, his hand barely grazing the small of your back. Never guiding, just anchoring. He didn’t speak, didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to. His presence always did the talking.

The photographer met you before you’d taken more than three steps inside. “Étienne,” he said, with a faint bow of the head. His accent was French, thick and rounded at the edges, the syllables slipping from his mouth like warm sugar. His hair was silver at the temples, his blazer draped and elegant, and his handshake was firm but not aggressive. Warm, like he’d waited a long time to meet you.

“It is my absolute pleasure, mademoiselle,” he said. “I’ve admired your spread in Glamour. You moved with the camera. Not many know how to do that.”

He didn’t say your skin glowed.

Didn’t ask about your hair.

Didn’t say anything about being “surprised” by your presence.

He just met your eyes, quiet and open. Like you were someone worth listening to.

“Today,” he said, “you belong to the camera. Let’s make her fall in love.”

You let yourself breathe, just a little.

The rest of the team introduced themselves in a calm rhythm, one by one. No rushed hands. No clipped instructions. A stylist with a soft Brooklyn accent asked gently before adjusting your collarbone. A makeup artist barely older than you murmured a few compliments while swatching shades along your jaw. Matched your undertones on the first go. No hesitation. No apologies.

Your hair wasn’t “a challenge.” It wasn’t “big.” It was just yours. One woman, sharp-eyed and efficient, studied the fullness of your curls for a beat, then nodded once and said, “Let’s let it speak today.” No flattening. No translation.

You didn’t feel tolerated.

You felt expected.

Appreciated.

The way the room moved around you was not with caution, but with respect. Like your place had already been made, and they were just moving to match it.

And Remmick, he didn’t hover today.

He didn’t pace. Didn’t step in or offer unnecessary notes. He took a chair near the edge of the set, legs crossed, hands loosely clasped over one knee. His coat lay neatly across the back of the chair, and he looked like he was simply waiting for a performance he’d already seen, waiting to watch it unfold in the flesh.

He watched you the way a man watched a storm rolling in. Calm. Certain. Unwavering.

His eyes tracked your every step.

And when the camera clicked, when Étienne raised the lens and tilted his head just so, it began.

Soft commands, never harsh.

“Lift your chin just a touch, oui. That’s perfect.”

“Let the shoulder dip, like you’re sighing.”

“Not a smile. Just the idea of one.”

And you you didn’t pose. You existed. You did what Remmick had drilled into you for weeks: you let the room adjust to you. Shoulders drawn back, chin at just the right angle, spine fluid. You didn’t chase the lens. You let it orbit you.

Each frame caught something new: your strength, your softness, your refusal to shrink.

Backdrops shifted behind you. One faded into the next. Cool eggshell white to a moody, smoky grey. Then to a blush-rose curtain lit from behind to mimic early sunrise, and finally to a gold-toned gradient that bathed your skin in warmth, turning every line of your body into a celebration. Your hands, your mouth, the arch of your back. You weren’t just in the photo.

You were the photo.

At one point, as you adjusted in the sheer champagne gown, the stylist stepped close to smooth a wrinkle on your shoulder. She paused, tilted her head, then muttered under her breath, “I swear, you don’t have a bad angle.”

Remmick smiled at that.

Didn’t say anything.

But you saw his fingers twitch against his knee.

And when Étienne pulled the camera down after the final shot, when the room held its breath and the lights warmed one final time, he exhaled slow, his voice dropping.

“Mon dieu,” he said. “You are going to be the beginning of a new era.”

There weren’t cheers. No grand applause. Just a quiet stillness that settled over the room like snowfall.

The stylists nodded. One of the assistants wiped her eyes.

Your name passed around the room in whispers.

Back in your own clothes again, the familiar weight of your own scent folded into the fabric, you stood in front of the mirror, unsure what exactly had changed.

Something had.

You could still feel the echo of the lights on your skin, the soft heat of the set, the way Étienne had whispered magnifique under his breath more than once without knowing you heard him. The clothes they’d dressed you in had been draped and pinned and sculpted to fit your body like a second skin, but now that they were gone, what lingered wasn’t fabric.

It was power.

You weren’t wearing a magazine dress anymore.

But you still felt like a cover.

You gathered your things slowly. Slipped on your shoes one at a time. Tucked the lipstick you'd needlessly brought. Gave the studio one last glance over your shoulder, just to make sure it had all been real. That the lights weren’t a trick, that the hush in the room wasn’t some illusion of grandeur.

And then you saw him.

Remmick.

Standing at the edge of the studio floor, right where the light faded into shadow. His coat was folded neatly over one arm, the other hanging at his side, still and sure. He didn’t lean against the wall. Didn’t shift his weight. He just stood there like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, this exact you, to turn and meet his eyes.

And when you did?

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t grin. Didn’t offer some teasing remark or coy turn of phrase.

He just looked at you.

Like he couldn’t believe it.

Or maybe he could.

Like he’d known it all along but still wasn’t prepared for the truth of it staring back at him now, standing in her own skin, quiet and luminous and ready.

He extended his hand.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Like a gentleman.

Like a vow.

You stepped forward, each footfall soft against the studio floor, and reached out to take it.

His palm was warm. Slightly callused, as always. Big enough to hold you steady.

And when he leaned in close, closer than necessary, just so his breath could touch your ear, his voice dropped so low it barely cleared the air.

“They’re never gonna forget this.”

A beat passed. Two.

Neither did you.

Not the way the stylist said your name like it mattered. Not the way Étienne had bowed when the shoot wrapped, saying Merci, étoile. Not the way your hands hadn’t shaken once. Not the way Remmick’s thumb had grazed your knuckles on the way out, subtle and steady.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And the city welcomed its newest star.

You should’ve known not to get your hopes up.

Remmick had warned you once before. To not believe in the win until the ink dries and the check clears. And still, the moment the phone rang, you felt the breath catch in your chest like something was finally about to settle right.

It was early, too early, and the tea in your hand hadn’t even cooled yet. Steam curled in the morning light, soft and golden through the windows.

You heard him answer it in the kitchen. Not loud, not sharp. Just steady.

“Remmick.”

His voice, smooth. Polished. Still cold from sleep, but clipped with that quick professionalism he always wore when someone else was listening.

There was a pause. Long enough to tighten something at the base of your neck.

“…Come again?”

That was the first red flag.

You stood. Not rushed, not loud. Just enough to hear better. Half-expecting him to wave you off with a flick of his fingers, that little sideways smile he gave when things were under control.

But he didn’t.

He turned his back instead. Shoulders hunched slightly. Quiet. Like he didn’t want you to hear what was coming next.

He rubbed the back of his neck once, then pressed his thumb into the edge of the counter like he needed the grounding. His knuckles whitened around the phone cord, twisting it once, twice, tighter.

“Yes,” he said carefully, “I’m familiar with your lead editor.”

Another pause.

Then something darker entered his tone.

“Yes. The one with the impeccable eye for trend pieces.”

Your stomach dropped.

There was silence on his end. Long. Tense.

And then:

“They what?”

His voice didn’t rise. Not yet.

But it changed. Dropped lower. Flat and cold like steel before it’s drawn.

You stepped closer, quiet as breath, barefoot against the hardwood. Leaned just enough to see the side of his face. The angle of his jaw, sharp and flexed. The twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“They’ve already had their one for the year?” he repeated.

Low. Disbelieving. Dangerous.

His free hand came up, rubbing slow at his temple like he needed to press the words back out of his skull.

“Who’s they?” he asked, quieter now, but you felt the weight of it in your chest. “Go on. Say it clear.”

There was no response.

Just static. A voice on the other end fumbling for footing.

Remmick’s brows drew together.

“No, I’m not upset with you,” he said, voice thinning again into something cool and even. “I understand you’re just passing the message along.”

He closed his eyes a moment. You could see him working to keep it in. Like something old and sharp was waking in his blood, trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“I’d like to speak with the editor directly,” he said, softer now. “Yes. I’ll hold.”

And then his hand dropped to the counter. Fingers drumming.

Waiting. Ready.

The line clicked.

Then his jaw twitched.

“Good morning,” he said. Different now. Calmer, colder. Stripped of the courtesy he kept like a glove around secret hands. “Didn’t expect to catch you so early.”

You still couldn’t hear the voice on the other end. Not a single word. But you didn’t have to.

You could see everything you needed in him.

The stillness of his posture, the death grip he had on the base of the phone, the fine tremble running through the muscle of his forearm beneath that rolled-up cotton sleeve. It wasn’t the kind of rage that burst outward. It was the kind that boiled, thick and patient, one degree at a time.

“Yes,” he said, so polite it sounded rehearsed. “I was just speaking with your assistant.”

He closed his eyes a moment. Not a blink, but something longer. As if he needed to press the lids down tight to keep from rolling them.

“She told me they, meaning you, have reconsidered the cover.”

The pause that followed was electric. Tense.

Then, low and even:

“Right. Of course. Marketable. That’s the word you’re going with?”

He said it like the word itself offended him. Like it was dirty in his mouth. Too small for what he knew you were worth.

You moved forward without thinking. Just enough to lean your shoulder against the hallway wall. Careful. Watchful. Your arms folded tightly across your chest, heart beating fast and slow at once. He hadn’t seen you yet.

And you weren’t sure he was aware of anything anymore beyond that call.

“I see,” he said softly.

That was the shift.

The sound of something sliding into place. Like a bolt locking. A fuse catching.

“So let me get this straight,” he continued. Slow. Measured. Precise in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Your board approved the shoot. Your casting team signed off. Your editor watched the proofs. Sat on them. And now, after all that, you want to scale her back to a feature because you already had your cover for the year.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty.

It was dense.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t curse.

He didn’t raise his voice by an inch.

But every word landed like a coin dropped on concrete. Heavy. Sharp. Deliberate.

“You think this city’s gonna run out of covers?” he asked, the ghost of a laugh in his voice, but it wasn’t amusement. It was disbelief, slicked with venom. “Or is it just that you think she’s the kind of beauty you ration out, so you don’t have to explain yourselves twice?”

His free hand braced against the counter now, steadying himself.

“Was she too sharp? Too soft? Too dark?” he asked, the last word clipped so hard it cracked in the air.

You watched him as he stood there, completely still except for the way his shoulders were rising. Measured. Controlled.

But underneath that, underneath every inch of him, he was seething.

He wasn’t shouting.

But something inside him was.

And you knew it. Could feel it.

Remmick was holding onto composure with a thread, not because he didn’t want to break, but because he knew what would happen if he did. Because if he said what he really meant, what lived behind that voice, that mouth, those glowing eyes, he might set the whole building on fire.

And you hadn’t even heard the worst of it yet.

His voice didn’t rise at first.

It stayed low, clipped, deliberate. But the sharpness in it grew. Line by line. Word by word. Like something uncoiling inside him, slick with heat and venom.

“You listen to me,” he said, voice climbing with a force that prickled the air, “and listen real good, if you think for one goddamn second that this is a numbers game, a market play, a token, you’ve already lost the future.”

You flinched. Not because he was yelling at you. He wasn’t.

He was yelling for you.

“You want safe? Go print another profile on Gunilla Lindblad. You want forgettable? Put some washed-out French girl on the cover in a turtleneck. But if you want history, if you want impact, you don’t remove the only name worth remembering.”

He turned then. Saw you.

And his eyes didn’t soften. Not even a little.

“She’s the only thing your readers are gonna remember come fall,” he snapped, jaw set, nostrils flaring. “Not the blonde. Not the brunette. Not whatever recycled face you’re tryin’ to float next. Her.”

There was a sputter of protest from the line. You couldn’t hear what was said. Didn’t need to. You were watching Remmick’s knuckles flare white around the phone.

“No, I don’t care what the board says. I don’t care what the sponsor says. And I sure as hell don’t care what you think’ll sell. I know what sells. You’re lookin’ at the future and treating it like it’s a fuckin’ one-shot.”

His voice cracked with how tightly it hit the consonants. Near shouting now, not just raised. Commanding.

“You owe her the same shot you’d give any other girl in her place. And if the only reason you’re pulling her is because you already had your one,” he hissed the word like it was venom, “then you better grow a spine before I walk you into a lawsuit so loud it echoes into next year’s masthead.”

Silence on the other end.

Remmick didn’t wait.

“I want you at the brownstone tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Alone.”

His next words were a knife dragged slow.

“We’ll talk in person.”

And then he hung up.

Didn’t slam the receiver. Just lowered it with a kind of deliberate grace, a calm that only made the burn beneath more terrifying. He stared at the cradle for a moment like he could crush it just by looking hard enough.

Then sat, slowly, at the dining table. Exhaled through his nose.

He didn’t look up at you right away.

Just stared at the wood grain beneath his fingers, the set of his jaw making it clear he was holding something in.

Then his hand rose.

Palm up.

You crossed the room without a word and slid your fingers into his.

He pulled you down gently, like you were breakable, into his lap. One arm curled low across your waist, the other resting across your thighs. His hands were steady, even though you could still feel the tension in the muscles of his forearms, coiled and waiting, like it hadn’t quite drained from him yet.

His cheek pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm against the side of your neck.

“You’re goin’ on that cover,” he said, low and final.

There was no fire behind it. No venom.

Just certainty.

Like he was telling you the weather. Like it was already written in the next day’s paper.

You turned slightly in his arms. His hands tightened to keep you balanced, to keep you close. “Remmick…”

“No,” he cut in, soft. “No more backpedalin’. No more maybe next times. We play their game, we lose. You hear me?”

You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to shake.

He looked up then. Met your gaze dead on. The light in the kitchen caught in his irises, a faint, simmering red just beneath the blue. Not bright. Not threatening. Just there. Alive.

“Which means,” he continued, more gently now, “you’re not gonna be here tomorrow night.”

That made you blink. “What?”

“I want you out the house. Just for a few hours. Somewhere comfortable. I��ll make sure your ride’s arranged. I don’t care if it’s the theatre or a restaurant. Hell, spend it with friends if you want.”

You didn’t have any of those yet.

He knew that.

Still, his tone didn’t waver.

“I just need the place. Need it quiet. I don’t want you hearin’ what might be said.”

His fingers grazed your wrist, his thumb brushing along your pulse. You leaned back, just slightly, the movement slow. Measured. Testing.

“What are you gonna say?”

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. “Enough.”

That was all he gave you.

And somehow, it was enough.

He kissed your temple then. Just once.

The kiss wasn’t sweet.

It was solemn.

Like a promise.

Like a man setting something in motion.

And you, sitting in his lap with your arms around his shoulders and your pulse kicking hard against your ribs, believed him. Felt something shifting under your skin.

A current.

A warning.

You’d seen Remmick angry before. Seen the quiet tension in his jaw when someone spoke over you. The cold way he looked at men who looked too long. The clipped tone when a stylist suggested straightening your hair or brightening your skin.

But not like this.

Not cold. Not still.

This wasn’t bluster.

It was a verdict.

You pressed your forehead to his, and he closed his eyes like the touch settled something in him. His fingers slid slowly along the small of your back. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t grip.

He just held.

Quiet and firm.

And somewhere, under all your nerves, you felt that same fire rise too.

Because he was right.

This was your cover.

And they didn’t get to decide otherwise.

Not anymore.

cont'd.

[elgascreamslikehell]

So, inspiration Saturday i was tagged by sweet precious @911-on-abc and @pirrusstuff i missed cause time zones)

So we unite it with something something Sunday

About inspiration part, i actually use as inspiration voices in my head and if you follow the news it's a disaster.

Also i use music!

So, there's a list of the songs i use to get into the mood:

Diary of dreams - Flood of tears

JubyPhonic - Miss wanna die

Die Ärtzte - Junge

Jaymes Young - Infinity

Sunrise avenue - I don't dance

Andy Black - We don't have to dance

The last goodnight - Pictures of you

Ashes Remain - On my own

Jam& Spoon - Set me free

Shane Alexander - Feels like the end

And for the something something Sunday - a little fluffy piece before my brain decided to ADD MORE GLASS. Can't help it.

'So, you kissed him, and?', - Maddie mixes her coffee with sugar and Buck smiles. Not that she sounds impressed. Or even slightly surprised. 'And… well… and we kissed and…and then…', - she laughs: 'Okay, Evan, I got it, stop, you're getting more red with every word. I never thought you were so shy in this. I just don't understand, what's the issue? You broke up with Natalia, you told me he also broke up with Eric… you're both single adults, why not? Not the best way to relax taking into account you two work together but' 'You don't get it, do you? It's not that. Fuck, Maddie, it's not like relax thing. It's more like.. hell i can't say this, what should i do?!' Maddie sips her coffee and chuckles: 'It depends. What do you want to do?' Buck knows for sure what he wants to do. He wants to spend the rest of his life here, with Eddie and Chris. Grow old together. Have a family. But not that there's only him to decide. 'Evan…', - Maddie looks at him and he can feel her sight: 'Usually people talk in such situations, did you try it?' 'Well… he left for work before I woke up',- and that could be strange, really, Buck is a morning bird. If he doesn't spend the night, silently checking every now and then that Eddie is still here, he's fine, he's sleeping calmly, as close as he possibly can be to Buck. 'Than you two talk after his shift. It's easy. And, to be frank, I really think you will be surprised by the outcome of this… okay, wait, Chim is bombarding me with texts', - she takes her phone and starts laughing. 'Eddie came to work in a good mood in the morning! How can he stand your brother so well?' 'Hen asked about Eddie's friend and he said they are not a thing so you need to pay, how did you ever fall for 'he was nervous on the 911 call', they're all nervous' 'HEN SAID I'M AN IDIOT WE'RE NOT FRIENDS ANYMORE DELETE HER FROM GUESTLIST' 'What's that? Should I ask if he got into trouble?' There's a little smudgy picture of Eddie's back instantly followed by text 'DON'T BOTHER HEN TOLD ME' 'I just don't get it. He said he's not a thing with Eric' 'WAIT A DAMN MINUTE' And texts stop. Maddie is still laughing 'What?', - Buck is curious as a cat sometimes and well, he has this right 'Well, it would be better if you just gave him a hickey' 'What do you mean?', - Buck is just sitting here with so confused face it makes Maddie even more laughing 'Nothing, Evan. But you two really need to talk otherwise your thoughts stop fitting your head'.

And tagging, as always

@krayfish @blackberry-l @kaseysgirl86-blog @brightlyprofiling @idealuk @1stbonesfan @angryangeldreamsalad @criminally-obsessed @amelia9bl @silvergold-swirl @itsamaaaadworld @vasudharaghavan @livingonzenstreet @nothingbutmande @spanishrose6 @sunflowerdiaiz @fanf98 @logicloveandsense @simply-mev @ronordmann @still--not--over--merlin @z02fl @vanjalen @thatshroomintheforest @steadfastsaturnsrings @cagdahl @newtalot @dreamforrest @fionaswhvre

[blackbunnyblobchara]

All of my creations >:3

(That aren’t mentioned in my main masterlist)

••Tactical-centric AU’s (Rum and Vodka Category)

(#Beer and Rum Mix) • FLaW - Military AU but all Hamato’s and connected to them are part of Baron’s ‘Secret Military Force’,tasked to do the impossible that even the government cannot handle

••Dystopian-centric AU’s (Blood Pudding Category)

(#Velvet Lemon flavor) • Cyber eclipse - Set in the world were its more cyberpunk and dangerous,the boys are taken young from someone Splinter least likely he knew,their blue-flooded eyes is mocking him

(#Red Blood Flavor) • PRDC:HE - [[A lot of things happens in this AU so it will be best if you wait for the longer summary so you won’t be confused from its plot]]

(#Black berry flavor) • Red lockdown - ŠØRRŸ FĮŁĘ ĮŠ ŃŒT FØÚŃD ĪŃFĒČTĮŒŃ ŠTĪŁŁ ÇŒÑTĪŃŒÙŠ TŌ ŠPRĒÆD ĮT ŚÉËMŠ ——————- [REDACTED] Exe. File stopped working 

(#Lemon Strawberry flavor) • Zone zero - A Mutagen bomb destroys New York City,it rebuilds into a more advanced,futuristic and cyberpunk styled City that the world has ever seen.But nice things always has a price,colors starts to turn black overtime 

(#Crimson chocolate flavor) • Black waves - ROTTMNT but with a world inspired by the pacific rim movies,it has things being changed so it wouldn’t directly be the same as the original,more info will be added soon

••Future-centric AU’s (Sweet and Sour Category)

(#Sweet and Savory Chicken) • Famous in the end-time - Their famous influencers with a rich social life,life is good

(#Additional Side dish to TC:CR) • If beasts had a heart - Side AU for TC:CR,The future boys are feral and are now the things originally created them to be but except for destroying the world,they are now protecting it

••Dark-centric AU’s (Black Coffee Category)

(#Fresh Crushed Coffee brew) • Desideratum - Mafia/Yakuza AU but their hidden for their own Safety,forced to make a second persona so they won’t be killed like their own father did

(#Coffee with roasted beans) • Erased - Leo is back….20 whole years,but it was like months for the others

(#Roasted Cappuccino) • Last one behind- Mikey is the only one alive,he protects the city as he still does,but his family is not there to stop his actions from becoming worse then it already was,losing the thing that held him innocent

(#Forest Coffee brew) • Mind shadow - Leo can see things,shadows of people’s mind,he became an even more skilled mind reader and even greater liar

(#Pure roasted coffee) • The Hamato Family - The Addam’s family but it’s the hamato’s now,what chaotic evil would they ensue?

(#Bloody red coffee mix) • Blood moon - Vampires are a taboo of the world,hunted to be killed and exterminated,but they are starting to get more skilled on pretending to be humans,only a few pure bloods are lurking somewhere near

••Villain-centric AU’s (Champagne Mix Category)

(#Pure Rum with lime) • Blackened morals - The boys are villains,dumped by Draxum when they were ‘unneeded’ anymore.They do evil to survive,even if it means spilling blood for it

(#Pure champagne) • White and black - Donnie falls in love with a villain,that ain’t good at all

(#Blood vodka and lime) • Wolves and prey - Separated AU but Leo and Donnie were left behind and became villains,surviving in the dirtiest part of the Hidden City,their calculating teeth grow long until it was a weapon,using it for survival

••Fantasy-centric AU’s (Red Wine Category)

(#Pure red wine) • Blood for blood - Kingdoms and tribes,corruption and harmony.Baron got what he wanted from the boys,but he started to think this might bite him back soon enough

(#Preserved rice wine) • Royal infinity - The boys are emperors in the old dynasty era,that’s it

(#‘Blue ocean’ brew) • Water mayhem - Mythical water creatures live in the deepest depth to the shallowest of waters,hidden from plain sight with powers that could make humans greed and take them away.The Mad dogz are trying to find them,their intentions are unknown for now.

(#‘Firecracker’ brew) • Hamato breathing - DS:KNY X ROTTMNT but things changed so it won’t be directly the same as Demon Slayer,more info will be soon added

(‘#Ambrosia’ mix) • Immortal for a mortal - Tell me,Could a god fall in love to a mere mortal?,Can a divine being find something inside a common being?,Can it last?,Lets find out

••’The rest of the AU’s’ AU’s (Side-Courses Category)

(#Extra large pepperoni cheese pizza) • Hello,New friend - It was a bad idea,you should’ve run when you had the chance.Now your stuck in a large restaurant (??) with the four actually-sentient but borderline murderous animatronics hunting you down in the night like a game of cat and mouse,this will last for five days and this is not worth 200 dollars per day

(#Four flavored vodka brew) • Past four - The mad dogz aren’t the only successful turtle warriors that Baron had created,turns out theirs four more of them now,chaos ensues

(#Well-preserved apple cider) • WftW,SftE - The boys are sheriffs and powerful famous mutants in a quiet large town,justice and safety was everywhere with them around,until something was able to tip them off from their horses

(#‘Chocoweb cupcakes) • Turtle spider - The Mad dogz gets bitten by separate radioactive spiders,turns into different kinds of spider-turtles,saves their city multiple times, and you know the rest 

[wright-words]

I became an escape artist

Devoid of meaning but ripe w truth

I only cried x the number of time zones from the starting line I watched every sun rise and took setting as a sign And I was strange to myself

Time heals all things especially if it hurts: dead skin scraped, hairs pulled, cornea sliced, tooth extracted, shoulder separated, nerves pinched, cells killed. scabs. scars. Hair cut, grown, cut, grown, cut, grown, cut grown cut grown cutgrown cutgrown grown out. tears welled/streamed. tiny veins. jawbone trauma, heavy pliers. steel lodged. “No bikes on the bus.” (Can’t believe I have to say this) Spinal disks bulge

Open stasis_inability to thrive despite those who sell Thriving as a concept, or to behold

don’t let me learn you, doll face Because I will, and we’ll change

Even when we expect it, even when we apologize for it, even when we accommodate it, even when we bar ourselves from it, even when—

Change is the great pressurizer. Change is the tide we beg to return to sea. 

But it won’t, it will barrel on endlessly, it knows eternity like we never will (we never will)

Simplified infinity the fountain of youth is cursed

Personally? I forget what I was trying to say Something about how I’mdone with this thing, this thing of being a strong healthy adult in the face of secondhand embarrassment and mixed emotions. I can’t write meaningful words on a 100 degree Red Line train in July.

[graemepark]

THIS IS GRAEME PARK: LONG LIVE HOUSE RADIO SHOW 24MAY24

THIS IS GRAEME PARK: LONG LIVE HOUSE RADIO SHOW 24MAY24

In this week’s Long Live House Radio Show:

Bas Noir

Cevin Fisher & Harry Romero

Sam Redmore feat. Dele Sosim

Fallout

Hercules & Love Affair

The Red Zone Project feat. Keith Anthony Fluitt

Sophie Lloyd feat. Pauline Taylor

Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes

SOS Band and more.

LONG LIVE HOUSE RADIO SHOW 24MAY24

Title (Mix), Artist

My Love Is Magic (Bushwacka! Edit), Bäs Noir

Help Me Somebody (Different Elevation Remix), Random House Project

Raindrops (Qubiko Remix), Frankie Ferrara & Venessa Jackson

Utopia, Infinity Plus One

What Can You Do For Me? (Dave Lee Classic Vibe Mix), Backroom Productions

Sunrise (Dr Packer Remix), The Wild Violets

Mare Street State Of Mind, 2fox feat. Sophia Thakur & Laville

Here Comes That Sound, Cevin Fisher & Harry Romero

Screen Off, Session Victim with Ras Stimulant

Home, Sam Redmore feat. Dele Sosim

Bukom Mashie (JKriv 7" Mash), Oscar Sulley & The Uhuru Dance Band

Fool For Love, Russell Taylor          

The Morning After (Purple Disco Machine Re-Work), Fallout

Blind (Frankie Knuckles Remix), Hercules & Love Affair

Everybody Get Up (David Morales Unreleased Demo Disco Mix), The Red Zone Project feat. Keith Anthony Fluitt

Da Bango (2020), Todd Terry Project

In & Out Of My Life (Michael Gray Remix), Adeva

Angels By My Side (Floorplan Remix), Sophie Lloyd feat. Pauline Taylor

Love So Special (Underground Mix), Ceybil

Don’t Leave Me This Way (Dave Lee Philly World Mix), Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes

Just Be Good To Me (Ibitaly Remix), SOS Band

The Party (Jo Manji's Warehouse Project Mix), Kraze

[brazenlystrong]

Fear is a distant concept, his body, his mind, forged in the fires of discipline, each muscle and thought honed to perfection. Infinity is an impenetrable wall. It keeps the world at a safe distance, keeps Gojo untouchable.

It is a conscious decision to allow someone closer, to allow them to touch him. Satoru’s breath hitches as he realizes the danger of it, the risks of such an act. It isn’t just a momentary lapse, it is a choice that could expose him to harm—how thrilling. Especially knowing Sukuna had attempted to penetrate his barrier numerous times during their fights. How unfortunate it would be if something were to happen.

The primal part of Satoru is still awake, one step ahead, watching cautiously. Senses are razor-sharp, muscles tense, prepared to react to the slightest threat. Satoru would never be truly unguarded. Even now, his instincts coil beneath his skin, waiting. Even as pointy prongs have Sukuna’s finger captured between. Satoru's breath slips out, warm and damp, ghosting over the digit, tongue teasing, tracing the shape of it. The sharp edge of a nail presses against his tongue, a fleeting scrape that sends a shiver down his spine.

How long has it been since anyone has touched him? A sensation that once seemed trivial, now loaded with significance. To feel the electric pulse of danger and the tentative contact of another's hand—is there anything more exhilarating? This is on a whole different level. The unknown looms before him like an open door, and for the first time, Satoru is willing to walk through it.

Gojo releases the finger, a thin string of saliva stretches, clinging for a moment longer before it finally breaks. Heat fans out as his tongue flicks over his teeth, tasting the memory left behind.

‘Deprived long enough; mine to do with as i see fit’, the words linger briefly as Satoru processes them. That is short-lived. The moment his feet leave the ground, his arms snap around Sukuna's shoulders, fingers clenching tightly. Legs around his waist, locking in place with an urgency born from reflex, from the sudden rush of weightlessness. It struck Satoru, where this is going, what this means. Slowly, as he settles into the hold, the grip that has been frantic becomes steadier.

His back meets the mattress in a slow descent. His fingers curl, digging into the soft surface as if grounding himself, as if grasping for something solid amidst the fluctuating shift in control. Satoru analyzes the situation; Six Eyes fixate not only on Sukuna but on their surroundings. Typically, he’s not the one to be handled like this, so it is almost as though he’s been put outside of his comfort zone. He's motionless, not uttering a word just yet. Talking would mean having to split his focus, despite if it’s for a second. His face—his head rather is still leaning in the palms of Sukuna’s hands.

And then, in an instant, the fabric of his black jacket and muscle shirt from under becomes shredded, revealing a glimpse of toned pectorals and abdomen. Adrenaline floods Satoru’s system—that could’ve been his body. There are narrow red lines over the top of his skin, indicating that if Sukuna went a little harsher, he could’ve scratched it seriously open.

His lips part, and Satoru fidgets lightly as his blindfold is removed.

“ Ah— ”

Blue eyes gleam as he looks up curiously, pale lashes casting soft shadows against his fair complexion. His irises swirl with an ethereal mix of blues—deep cerulean merging with streaks of icy sapphire, like a vast sky shifting at dawn. The mild lift of his brows hints at quiet wonder. He's no longer seeing Sukuna with his infrared vision, and with their faces close to one another, he can catch every detail.

“ Yeah? ” Satoru hums, coy and gleeful. “ Easy now, you might find out just how hard it is to keep me down. ”

      𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒. and for a split second, during sporadic heartbeats sukuna is genuinely caught off guard by the release of tension. this man surrendering himself on the premise that 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 wouldn't immediately follow suit. that alone stirred something within him, feral and primitive to its horrendous core. every minuscule fiber of his being craves for their fantasies to mirror an exact reality, down to the finest detail. a long, unnaturally black tinged nail captures between those pearly 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 and sets mingling energies alight. generating heat between closed in bodies, and feeling inclined to push his limits with a simple gesture. one that enticed his finger to delve that much deeper, pressing down on his tongue. ❛ until this moment, i had no choice but to imagine you. ❞ resentment laces his words, but adopts that crooning chime to ease the mood. ❛ you've 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 me long enough. ❞

      smooth, unblemished ... palm splayed at his cheek, breath exhaling through his nose from the sheer softness foundthrough skin on skin contact. this was euphoric to him, a height sukuna would willingly 𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐓 from and allow himself to boundlessly repeat. it should have been expected, his upper right hand ensnaring feathery tresses from behind the other's head. a means to ensure his stillness all the while his voice drips like sweet cyanide. ❛ and now, you're mine to do with as i see fit. ❞ it's wet, tantalizing being inside a wantonly offered mouth. he 𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 the sensations that could transpire if those lips wrapped around something else, where canines scrapped and drew blood an ache between his thighs. urges were manifesting, becoming more apparent as desire grew unbearable.

      everything readjusts, a 𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 recalibration that has lowers arms swooping beneath satoru's legs and abruptly hoisting him up. this suggests for him to cling tight, desperate and vying for more than is being granted. the mouth on his stomach pursed shut, contemplating its use in the very near future and quite enjoying the 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 he surmised. actions are meant to cause disorientation, completely and utterly colliding with one another at long last. motions were a blur, heavy strides thudding on a mixture of tatami and varnished hardwood flooring. he's a particular being, preferring a plush surface as opposed to slamming him down somewhere filthy and admittedly undesirable. at least in the beginning stages, they were bound to stray from the confines of this room.

      the 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 is thin, but compensated with a scarlet duvet and an abundance of pillows to soften the evitable push and shove that befell them. he topples over him like a cage, coming down on both knees while notching between his companion’s waist straddled legs. need was vastly apparent, fervent 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇 still clothed and nudging up against him. bottom row of digits tautly grasp obsidian attire, tearing it open straight down the middle with inconsiderate haste. like a siberian tiger disemboweling prey. unoccupied hands hold either side of gojo’s rather measly face, finding humor with how simple it would be to clasp palms shut and hear the eventual crackle of 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒 as they concave against brute strength.

      no, instead spread fingertips slide under his blindfold. the fabric bunches up, slicking pointed locks upward along with it as the article of clothing is swiftly removed and carelessly falls away. during his venture to reveal the overtly anticipated, sukuna finds himself hovering closer, leaning for what appeared to be the beginning of a passionate kiss. but that never reaches full fruition, dim light reflects through 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐌 blues : they enthrall both sight and words just shy of their expression. eyes meet, four wine colored orbs staggering back and forth between the iridescent pools he nearly drowned within. ❛ magnificent. ❞

[lokitvsource]

‘Loki’ miniseries producer-lead writer-creator Michael Waldron chats about Marvel’s favourite troublemaker finally harnessing his true power and wit while at the behest of the Time Variance Authority 

“Everyone has been asking ‘when are we going to see Loki’s real power?’,” starts Michael Waldron, as he animatedly dives into the upcoming Loki miniseries, starring Tom Hiddleston. “To have six episodes to explore his power has been so liberating because just from a ‘pure superhero abilities’ perspective, we wanted to explore the awesome stuff he can do, and also dramatically too.”

On board as Loki’s creator, executive producer and lead writer by Marvel Studios’ president Kevin Fiege, Waldron is itching for the series to drop already. It is evident as he gesticulates expressively as he puts forth how much Loki as a character means to him.

Last we saw the Norse trickster god, he had a giant purple hand wrapped around his neck. The shocking demise of Loki at the hands of the mighty Thanos in Avengers: Infinity War broke the hearts of millions everywhere. What would the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) be without his quick-witted jests and pranks and devilish smile?

In 2019, the announcement of Loki, fans already speculated that it would take place in one of the Marvel Universe’s alternate timelines — and they were right. Dissecting and peeling back the layers of the multiverse has been “thrilling” for Waldron, director Kate Herron and the series cast and crew. “It’s a new sandbox, a new corner of the universe to play in. It was certainly a challenge to define the rules of these spaces, the Time Variance Authority and how these branching timelines work. It wasn’t just about going ‘anywhere’ it was about going ‘anywhen’.”

At the D23 Expo in 2019 when the project was first announced, Waldron called himself and Herron “custodians of the fans’ love for Loki.” Though he was not a comic-book reader growing up (he admits he came to truly know about Loki through the MCU), storytelling remains an utmost priority for Waldron, who almost reminds us that “this is television we’re doing.”

He continues, “We can pick our spots and slow down in a way a feature film never could, and we can do long and quieter dialogue scenes and build tension and emotion in the way best television has been doing.” But Waldron was keen on creating his own original storyline; taking existing elements from past Loki comics and existing TVA bits and putting his spin on them.

So far, the MCU has been extended into successful miniseries such as WandaVision, following Wanda Maximoff’s evolution into the Scarlett Witch, and The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, detailing Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes’ partnership.

Loki meets bureaucracy

In the series, Loki is seen tumbling into the hands of the regulation-body Time Variance Authority, headed by Mobius (played by Owen Wilson). The best storytelling comes from an out-of-comfort-zone experience and seeing natural troublemaker Loki at the mercy of the TVA’s bureaucracy is sure to be a spectacle.

At this, Waldron chuckles, explaining that “it was a blast” to tip the scales for Loki while making room for his inevitable naughtiness, Waldron says, “It was a chance for our writers’ room to delve into some therapy, if they ever had to go to the DMV (U.S. Department of Motor Vehicles). While we were writing the show, I was in the process of getting a new passport. And you go back to work and go ‘ugh, you’ll never guess the bureaucratic red tape I have had to deal with! But we got excited, too, and were like ‘That’s the TVA!’ so we used that.”

This in mind, he continues, “Taking an organisation that is so soul-crushing by-the-book, so to speak, in their managing of time and dropping the most chaotic character in all of the MCU smack-dab in the middle of that is just amazing juxtaposition. It’s a great way to have both entities drive one another crazy, instigating a lot of amazing conflict right from the start.”

Waldron-Hiddleston-Wilson trifecta

Waldron — who has worked on notable projects such as Community, Rick and Morty, is writing for upcoming wrestling drama series Heels, and producing Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness — has nothing but high praise for Hiddleston and his versatility as an actor and storyteller. It was integral that he pushes Hiddleston’s boundaries.

“That’s where the collaboration between writers and actors is such a joy...when you push one another,” he explains, “and my goal from day one was to tell a story of Loki that had never been told before. There had been 10 years of stories of this character and we hope folks would’ve seen a fully-realised redemptive arc. Now we are starting with this version of Loki at the end of the first Avengers film. So it was our responsibility to not retread old ground. Tom was more than game for that, in fact, he wanted to do that and go deeper into Loki’s shape-shifting identity.”

Probably one of the best surprises is Owen Wilson thrown into the mix. Known for being the early-2000s romantic-comedy must-cast, seeing him take on the meticulously attentive and seemingly diabolical Mobius will be a delight. So what about Wilson struck a chord with Waldron? “I am the perfect age [33] to have grown up with Owen Wilson in Wedding Crashers, Zoolander and Armageddon. I love Owen and he is so great in this show.”

Waldron elaborates on how Wilson and Hiddleston bring varying energies to the show. “Loki is proper and pompous, Owen is folksy and down-to-earth – so right away, energies clash in a way that’s harmonious. But what he shares with Tom is a hard-to-even-put-into-words unique charisma. They [Owen and Hiddleston] both have natural comedic abilities and they can have a purely dramatic conversation and they could play off one another’s energies and make certain the right moments funny and right moments dramatic. I didn’t even have to set up punchlines to get laughs in this show!”

[lokiondisneyplus]

‘Loki’ doesn’t just explore ‘anywhere’, but also ‘anywhen’: creator Michael Waldron

‘Loki’ miniseries producer-lead writer-creator Michael Waldron chats about Marvel’s favourite troublemaker finally harnessing his true power and wit while at the behest of the Time Variance Authority

“Everyone has been asking ‘when are we going to see Loki’s real power?’,” starts Michael Waldron, as he animatedly dives into the upcoming Loki miniseries, starring Tom Hiddleston. “To have six episodes to explore his power has been so liberating because just from a ‘pure superhero abilities’ perspective, we wanted to explore the awesome stuff he can do, and also dramatically too.”

On board as Loki’s creator, executive producer and lead writer by Marvel Studios’ president Kevin Fiege, Waldron is itching for the series to drop already. It is evident as he gesticulates expressively as he puts forth how much Loki as a character means to him.

Last we saw the Norse trickster god, he had a giant purple hand wrapped around his neck. The shocking demise of Loki at the hands of the mighty Thanos in Avengers: Infinity War broke the hearts of millions everywhere. What would the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) be without his quick-witted jests and pranks and devilish smile?

In 2019, the announcement of Loki, fans already speculated that it would take place in one of the Marvel Universe’s alternate timelines — and they were right. Dissecting and peeling back the layers of the multiverse has been “thrilling” for Waldron, director Kate Herron and the series cast and crew. “It’s a new sandbox, a new corner of the universe to play in. It was certainly a challenge to define the rules of these spaces, the Time Variance Authority and how these branching timelines work. It wasn’t just about going ‘anywhere’ it was about going ‘anywhen’.”

At the D23 Expo in 2019 when the project was first announced, Waldron called himself and Herron “custodians of the fans’ love for Loki.” Though he was not a comic-book reader growing up (he admits he came to truly know about Loki through the MCU), storytelling remains an utmost priority for Waldron, who almost reminds us that “this is television we’re doing.”

He continues, “We can pick our spots and slow down in a way a feature film never could, and we can do long and quieter dialogue scenes and build tension and emotion in the way best television has been doing.” But Waldron was keen on creating his own original storyline; taking existing elements from past Loki comics and existing TVA bits and putting his spin on them.

So far, the MCU has been extended into successful miniseries such as WandaVision, following Wanda Maximoff’s evolution into the Scarlett Witch, and The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, detailing Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes’ partnership.

Loki meets bureaucracy

In the series, Loki is seen tumbling into the hands of the regulation-body Time Variance Authority, headed by Mobius (played by Owen Wilson). The best storytelling comes from an out-of-comfort-zone experience and seeing natural troublemaker Loki at the mercy of the TVA’s bureaucracy is sure to be a spectacle.

At this, Waldron chuckles, explaining that “it was a blast” to tip the scales for Loki while making room for his inevitable naughtiness, Waldron says, “It was a chance for our writers’ room to delve into some therapy, if they ever had to go to the DMV (U.S. Department of Motor Vehicles). While we were writing the show, I was in the process of getting a new passport. And you go back to work and go ‘ugh, you’ll never guess the bureaucratic red tape I have had to deal with! But we got excited, too, and were like ‘That’s the TVA!’ so we used that.”

This in mind, he continues, “Taking an organisation that is so soul-crushing by-the-book, so to speak, in their managing of time and dropping the most chaotic character in all of the MCU smack-dab in the middle of that is just amazing juxtaposition. It’s a great way to have both entities drive one another crazy, instigating a lot of amazing conflict right from the start.”

Waldron-Hiddleston-Wilson trifecta

Waldron — who has worked on notable projects such as Community, Rick and Morty, is writing for upcoming wrestling drama series Heels, and producing Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness — has nothing but high praise for Hiddleston and his versatility as an actor and storyteller. It was integral that he pushes Hiddleston’s boundaries.

“That’s where the collaboration between writers and actors is such a joy…when you push one another,” he explains, “and my goal from day one was to tell a story of Loki that had never been told before. There had been 10 years of stories of this character and we hope folks would’ve seen a fully-realised redemptive arc. Now we are starting with this version of Loki at the end of the first Avengers film. So it was our responsibility to not retread old ground. Tom was more than game for that, in fact, he wanted to do that and go deeper into Loki’s shape-shifting identity.”

Probably one of the best surprises is Owen Wilson thrown into the mix. Known for being the early-2000s romantic-comedy must-cast, seeing him take on the meticulously attentive and seemingly diabolical Mobius will be a delight. So what about Wilson struck a chord with Waldron? “I am the perfect age [33] to have grown up with Owen Wilson in Wedding Crashers, Zoolander and Armageddon. I love Owen and he is so great in this show.”

Waldron elaborates on how Wilson and Hiddleston bring varying energies to the show. “Loki is proper and pompous, Owen is folksy and down-to-earth – so right away, energies clash in a way that’s harmonious. But what he shares with Tom is a hard-to-even-put-into-words unique charisma. They [Owen and Hiddleston] both have natural comedic abilities and they can have a purely dramatic conversation and they could play off one another’s energies and make certain the right moments funny and right moments dramatic. I didn’t even have to set up punchlines to get laughs in this show!”

[netflixaddictedd]

10 gay books you should read (I'm making a lesbian version soon!)

Red, white & royal blue: When his mother became President, Alex Claremont-Diaz was promptly cast as the American equivalent of a young royal. Handsome, charismatic, genius—his image is pure millennial-marketing gold for the White House. There's only one problem: Alex has a beef with the actual prince, Henry, across the pond. And when the tabloids get hold of a photo involving an Alex-Henry altercation, U.S./British relations take a turn for the worse. Heads of family, state, and other handlers devise a plan for damage control: staging a truce between the two rivals. What at first begins as a fake, Instragramable friendship grows deeper, and more dangerous, than either Alex or Henry could have imagined. Soon Alex finds himself hurtling into a secret romance with a surprisingly unstuffy Henry that could derail the campaign and upend two nations.

Running with lions: Bloomington High School Lions star goalie Sebastian Hughes should be excited about his senior year: His teammates are amazing, and hes got a coach who doesnt ask anyone to hide their sexuality. But when his estranged childhood-best-friend Emir Shah shows up at summer training camp, Sebastian realizes the teams success may end up in the hands of the one guy who hates him. Determined to reconnect with Emir for the sake of the Lions, he sets out to regain Emirs trust. But to Sebastians surprise, sweaty days on the pitch, wandering the towns streets, and bonding on the weekends spark more than just friendship between them.

The fascinators: Living in a small town where magic is frowned upon, Sam needs his friends James and Delia - and their time together in their school's magic club - to see him through to graduation. But as soon as senior year starts, little cracks in their group begin to show. Sam may or may not be in love with James. Delia is growing more frustrated with their amateur magic club. And James reveals that he got mixed up with some sketchy magickers over the summer, putting a target on all their backs. With so many fault lines threatening to derail his hopes for the year, Sam is forced to face the fact that the very love of magic that brought his group together is now tearing them apart - and there are some problems that no amount of magic can fix. 

Infinity son: Growing up in New York, brothers Emil and Brighton always idolized the Spell Walkers—a vigilante group sworn to rid the world of specters. While the Spell Walkers and other celestials are born with powers, specters take them, violently stealing the essence of endangered magical creatures. Brighton wishes he had a power so he could join the fray. Emil just wants the fighting to stop. The cycle of violence has taken a toll, making it harder for anyone with a power to live peacefully and openly. In this climate of fear, a gang of specters has been growing bolder by the day. Then, in a brawl after a protest, Emil manifests a power of his own—one that puts him right at the heart of the conflict and sets him up to be the heroic Spell Walker Brighton always wanted to be. Brotherhood, love, and loyalty will be put to the test, and no one will escape the fight unscathed.

Aristotle and Dante discover the secrets of the universe: Aristotle is an angry teen with a brother in prison. Dante is a know-it-all who has an unusual way of looking at the world. When the two meet at the swimming pool, they seem to have nothing in common. But as the loners start spending time together, they discover that they share a special friendship—the kind that changes lives and lasts a lifetime. And it is through this friendship that Ari and Dante will learn the most important truths about themselves and the kind of people they want to be.

Simon vs the homosapiens agenda: Sixteen-year-old and not-so-openly gay Simon Spier prefers to save his drama for the school musical. But when an email falls into the wrong hands, his secret is at risk of being thrust into the spotlight. Now change-averse Simon has to find a way to step out of his comfort zone before he's pushed out without alienating his friends, compromising himself, or fumbling a shot at happiness with the most confusing, adorable guy he's never met.

Him: Jamie Canning has never been able to figure out how he lost his closest friend. Four years ago, his tattooed, wise-cracking, rule-breaking roommate cut him off without an explanation. So what if things got a little weird on the last night of hockey camp the summer they were eighteen? It was just a little drunken foolishness. Nobody died. Ryan Wesley’s biggest regret is coaxing his very straight friend into a bet that pushed the boundaries of their relationship. Now, with their college teams set to face off at the national championship, he’ll finally get a chance to apologize. But all it takes is one look at his longtime crush, and the ache is stronger than ever. Jamie has waited a long time for answers, but walks away with only more questions— can one night of sex ruin a friendship? If not, how about six more weeks of it? When Wesley turns up to coach alongside Jamie for one more hot summer at camp, Jamie has a few things to discover about his old friend...and a big one to learn about himself.

Date me, Bryson Keller: Everyone at Fairvale Academy knows Bryson Keller, the super-hot soccer captain who doesn't believe in high-school relationships. They also know about the dare Bryson accepted - each week he has to date the first person who asks him out. A single school week is all anyone gets. There have been no exceptions to this. None. Until me, that is. Because brilliant Bryson Keller forgot one thing. He never said it could only be girls...

The infinite noise: Caleb Michaels is a sixteen-year-old champion running back. Other than that his life is pretty normal. But when Caleb starts experiencing mood swings that are out of the ordinary for even a teenager, his life moves beyond “typical.” Caleb is an Atypical, an individual with enhanced abilities. Which sounds pretty cool except Caleb's ability is extreme empathy—he feels the emotions of everyone around him. Being an empath in high school would be hard enough, but Caleb's life becomes even more complicated when he keeps getting pulled into the emotional orbit of one of his classmates, Adam. Adam's feelings are big and all-consuming, but they fit together with Caleb's feelings in a way that he can't quite understand. Caleb's therapist, Dr. Bright, encourages Caleb to explore this connection by befriending Adam. As he and Adam grow closer, Caleb learns more about his ability, himself, his therapist—who seems to know a lot more than she lets on—and just how dangerous being an Atypical can be.

They both die at the end: On September 5, a little after midnight, Death-Cast calls Mateo Torrez and Rufus Emeterio to give them some bad news: They're going to die today. Mateo and Rufus are total strangers, but, for different reasons, they're both looking to make a new friend on their End Day. The good news: There's an app for that. It's called the Last Friend, and through it, Rufus and Mateo are about to meet up for one last great adventure to live a lifetime in a single day.

[zeetasposts]

Mochi Madness

Pairings: Vlad x Reader

Words: 2200+

Comments: Eeeeeeeek! Once more HAPPY BIRTHDAY NEEEMOOO! ❤☺hehe I bet we have all become far better at making mochi than we were with the first attempt lol,☺😳😳😳😳 Eeeek I'm super excited to see how our cheesecakes and brownies are going to turn out! whoooop whoooop even more excited to spend the day with ya ! hehe, hope you had a wonderful day neemo filled with all the candy, all the sunshine and all the sweetness! Sending ya infinity catbus hugs! hehe love ya lots! ❤❤😳😳

.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ

The month of July was not a particularly special time of the year for you, but for Vlad, it meant the world, for it was the birth month of his dearest flower. You had insisted multiple times to the man not to make a big deal out of the day of your birth, and after a bit of back and forth, a compromise was made. A morning spent making some delightful birthday treats followed by tea in the garden was the suggestion and one that seemed like an appropriate way to spend your birthday. Not too grand, yet intimate and memorable.

It was the early afternoon of your birthday, a perfect time to make some treats for tea. You were the first to arrive in the kitchen, so you decided to prepare yourself for the mountain to climb. You tied the pink apron around your waist, washed your hands and gathered the ingredients for the battle that was about to commence. Your kitchen had become a war zone, so to say, more so because of your severe lack of cooking abilities.

Your comrade—companion in arms— arrived in due time to lend support and as such, marked the start of the great birthday battle.

Vlad strode through the kitchen doors, taking soft steps as he carried a basket of precious cargo close to him. “Ah, just in time, did you manage to get enough strawberries from the garden,” you asked curiously, shooting a happy smile over your shoulder.

He returned your smile with a gentle one of his own, coming up beside you to place the heavy basket down, pulling the cloth off to reveal a mountain of strawberries. You let go of a gasp in awe. “I think we have enough strawberries to feed an army,” you jested with a playful elbow jab to Vlad’s side.

“I have no intention of sharing these with an army, only with you, my love,” came the light chuckled response from Vlad as he reached over to grab hold of a matching pink apron. It was the cutest apron, littered with bunches of tiny bright red strawberries— a gift from his last birthday— one which he cherished very much for the feature of his favourite food. Despite the airy response, you knew he was dead serious, especially when it came to his beloved strawberries. You shook your head with a smile, memories of past castle shenanigans flashing in your mind— of Faust and Charles stealing Vlad secret stash of berries and the severe punishment that awaited them for their crimes.

Your eyes drifted down to the recipe— it was one you had come across a few weeks ago while searching the library for a book to read. Mochi, it was called; you remembered researching the dish after it had been mentioned in a favourite book of yours. You were always curious about the dish. However, after the main character described the soft, chewy texture, you knew you just had to try the treat for yourself. Hells, you were so excited about wanting to try it out, that you had immediately sought Vlad out in his garden to share the discovery and to find out if in all his years on earth if he had ever come across such a dish.

With a shake of the head and a fond smile shot your way, he suggested that the treat be included as part of your birthday picnic.

It took a bit of searching and lots of researching, but thankfully, with Vlad’s help, the two of you managed to find a small recipe book that featured the soft, chewy dessert.

“Okay, first things first, we need to mix the rice flour and water,” you stated, tapping the recipe in thought as you read a little further to gauge the next few steps to follow.

Meanwhile, Vlad reached out to pick up the two bags of powdery substances laying on the table, crimson eyes scrutinizing the labels. He then turned to you, concern painted over his face, “What’s the difference?” he asked.

Your first obstacle had just arrived; you knew it was one that would come back to haunt you as even after you had found the recipe, one of the ingredients had never been heard of before. You and Vlad hunted far and wide for the rice flour when finally, one day when Vlad was on his way home from the flower shop, he spotted the very flour you required for the baking battle. The only problem was that that shop housed two types of rice flour. So Vlad did what any reasonable person would, he bought them both. It was a problem for future Vlad to deal with.

You looked over at him in confusion, which only seemed to grow when you investigated the labels yourself. “Surely glutinous rice flour and rice flour are the exact same thing,” you stated, stroking your chin and wracking your mind for any differences between the two.

“Let’s see what the recipe says?” Vlad suggested, moving to take a closer look at the book.

“Sweet rice flour,” he read aloud with widened eyes. How was there a third type of rice flour? You tried to decipher the labels for any indication, even going as far as to look at the sugar content hoping that one of them would be higher, as surely that would dub it as sweet rice flour? More sugar equals sweet, right? RIGHT?

After a moment of pondering, and investigating you smiled over at the man with a carefree shrug, “there is only one way to decide which to use.” Vlad looked over at you curiously, raising a brow as he waited for you to reveal your master plan.

”Cover your eyes,” you said with a widening smile and a hint of mischief, carefully taking the two bags from his hands and putting them behind your back.

Once his eyes were closed, you brought the bags forward and placed them down on the counter, keeping a cautious eye on Vlad to make sure he wasn’t peeking. With a satisfied nod, you quickly started shuffling the bags around until even you were unsure which was which.

With a tender smile scattered across his face, Vlad’s eyes twitched to open ever so slightly, if only to catch a glimpse of what you were up to. Unfortunately for him, you had eyes at the back of your head and caught him in the act trying to steal a glance, “Nuh uh, I see you peeking,” you squealed out, quickly rushing behind him and bringing your small hands up to block his vision further.

He tilted his head to the side, puzzled as to just what antics you were up to. As if reading his thoughts, you finally revealed your ingenious plan. “Since neither of us knows the difference between all these flours, we shall let fate do the deciding for us!”

He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement, hands extended out in front of him to feel around the counter until finally, they hit one of the bags. After a moment of patting around for the second bag, he randomly picked one up, “this one,” he smiled, turning to lock eyes with you.

You clapped your hands together happily, letting out a gleeful hum, “perfect! Okay, let’s mix it with some water!”

Without care for quantities, you eyeballed the amount of water thrown into the bowl with a satisfied smirk— you never were in the habit of measuring ingredients out accurately, much rather opting to follow your gut.

After the two ingredients were combined in a bowl, you cooked it in a saucepan until a blob of sticky goo formed. You removed it from the heat and set it aside to read the next set of instructions. “Knead,” you stated simply.

Vlad looked at the pot of goo dubiously, giving it a little poke, “is it supposed to be this sticky,” he asked with a troubled expression. Cooking had never really been his strong suit either, despite the years spent on the earth.

“I mean, the recipe didn’t say it shouldn’t look like this, “you responded with a confident shrug and an easy smile. You tried tipping the pot out onto the counter, only for the goo-like substance to remain firmly stuck to the bottom, causing an amused snort to come from Vlad.

“Interesting,” the white-haired man mused, using the spoon to help the goo from the pot to flop onto the counter. He split the mixture in half and gestured for you to knead one half while he took care of the first.

“Here goes nothing,” you said, apprehensive, not entirely sure what kind of end product to expect— as things stood, the pile of goo was neither light nor fluffy, just a sticky mass.

After several moments of trying to knead the glob, you finally broke into laughter, “this is not working,” you looked down at the ‘dough’, most of it being stuck to your hands, the other half stuck to the board.

Your gaze shifted over to Vlad, who seemed to be having about as much luck as you with the dough, but instead of kneading, he was playing with it like goop between his hands, “I bet Johann would like this, reminds me of one of his experiments,” he said with eyes lit up in childlike wonder.

Continuing on your crusade, somehow, you and Vad managed to get the sticky mass of goo into a semi doughlike blob. Left to chill for 30 minutes beneath a heap of cornstarch, you moved onto the next feat, ganache...

Easy enough, you thought scanning the recipe— how wrong you were— how very wrong indeed, as it was anything but simple. You glanced around the kitchen and gulped; Charles was going to kill you when he got home.

The mixing of the chocolate and cream was easy enough, but the shaping of the dark chocolate substance into balls? Now that was a separate feat on its own. After letting the ganache sit in the fridge for a few moments, you were ready to make up and fill your mochi.

A strawberry centre with a chocolate ganache covering. That was the goal, and truly the recipe made it sound so simple. Just make a ball out of the ganache and press the strawberry to the centre, covering it entirely with the chocolate, it said— it will be fun it said, freakin nope! What the recipe didn’t account for was warm hands and sticky chocolate melting and making a giant mess.

Even though the once-pristine kitchen turned warzone from the hurricane that was your and Vlad’s cooking, a smile never left Vlad’s face.

You had to laugh at your pureblood lover covered in chocolate, brows furrowed together as he tried his hardest to wrap the mochi dough around the ever melting chocolate covered strawberry. At some point, to motivate himself between mochi’s, he would pop the ‘flopped strawberries’ into his mouth, you know, to taste test and make sure they were still good.

After 5 successful ish attempts, the two of you decided to call it quits! With a wide grin, you snuck a glance over at Vlad, who finally managed to seal his first chocolate delight in the mochi skin. You clapped your hands and praised him with a ‘bravo.’

After carefully putting your newly made treat into the picnic basket, you turned to Vlad with an impish glimmer in your eyes. “You have a little chocolate right here,” you gestured to the man, startings of a cunning smile falling across your lips.

With a thoughtful hum, he brought his knuckle up to wipe the spot on his cheek, but it was of little use as you simply giggled and shook your head.

“Did I get it?” he asked, crimson eyes looking down at you with nothing but pure love and affection.

Your smile widened, turning Cheshire as you reached your tiny hand covered in chocolate to his face, to leave a playful smear, “nope, it’s right here,” you said, biting back the laughter that threatened to spill from your chest.

“A cunning one, I see,” came his response, with eyes lit up. Before you could jump back, he dipped his fingers in the bowl of chocolate and swiped them across your cheek with a smear to match.

Chimelike laughter filled the kitchen as you and Vlad continued to worsen its state with the third natural disaster of the day, this time in the form of chocolate finger painting. The end of the new battle was marked when Vlad leaned down to steal a kiss from your lips mid-attack. “Sweet,” he remarked with a twinkle in his eye, hand moving from your check to delicate take hold of yours.

“Happy birthday, Draga mea,” the words befell his lips, followed by another tender kiss on the forehead. You responded in kind by giving his hand a squeeze,” shall we go out and have that picnic in the garden? I am rather excited to try these mochis.”

“Anything for you, my love,” he spoke with an affectionate squeeze of the hand, leading you to your favourite spot in the garden.

[worst-phantom]

The Wedding

There's idle chatter in the air. Wind blows through the trees. The officiant stands in front, a plain black suit. Fabric flowers wrap around the white chairs, blue orchids mixing with red roses on green vines.

There's a path in the middle, separating the group. One side is larger, with a full family from birth, mixed in with found family. Two children play with toys as time passes, the language barrier not stopping them. There's a look of discomfort on one face, as he keeps an eye on a pair of people. They're all dressed nicely, some more out of the ordinary than others. The other side has five people. One keeps his dark sunglasses on, hiding his bandages. A woman holds his hand, as they talk with the others. A musical cue starts, and the chatter stops. A young girl starts down the center path, dressed in a red princess dress. Ruby. She bounces as she walks down the aisle, throwing petals on everyone she can reach. She reaches the end, basket well empty. A pair follows after, dressed in match black suits. Mare and Marvin. Mare's traditional look is replaced by eyeliner. He's stiff in his suit, arm linked with Marvin's. Marvin's eyes are lined in black, mask nowhere in sight. Ruby goes to Mare when they reach the end. The musical cue shifts, and everyone stands. The next pair starts at separate sides. They walk to the aisle, holding hands as they turn to the front. Henrik and Phantom. Henrik hums, walking in a dark red suit. He faces front, focusing on getting to where they're walking to. Phantom keeps glancing at Henrik, dressed up in blue. They reach the front, hands held tightly together. Their other hands link together, as they look at each other, focusing on nothing else. The officiant starts, words in the background about love and forever. Henrik focuses more, as Phantom completely zones them out. It's when Henrik focuses back on him, that Phantom pays attention. Henrik smiles, squeezing Phantom's hands. His blue eyes shine, as he shifts in place for a moment. "I call you my star, because when my life is darkest, you bring the light that I need. I call you my dove, because even in the midst of chaos, you are the calming force I need. Though it hasn't been easy, through headaches and heartbreaks and half-meant lies, you have been with me, and I with you, through the night and the day, through the fire and ice, through the losses and gains. And with the day, with our families here, I promise that I will be with you through all of that and more." Phantom smiles, wiping his tears away. Henrik smiles back, curling his lips as grabs Phantom's hand again. "I love you. All the world's languages could never express that as much as I do. I could say it all day, every single day, and it would never be enough. You are my love, my healer, my fire. You've changed me, made me better. You've made me want to be a better person. I promise to you that I'll keep going to be better. Until maybe one day I feel worthy of you. I will love you and be with you, for as long as our forever lasts." The officiant smiles, looking between them. "The rings please." Mare and Marvin step forward, each giving their own brothers their rings. They're simple, plain, platinum bands on the outside. A date and an infinity symbol are engraved inside each of them. "Henrik, if you would repeat after me. I, Henrik." "I, Henrik." "I, Phantom." "Give you this ring." "Give you this ring." "As a symbol of my love." "As a symbol of my love." "And as my commitment to you." "And as my commitment to you." It's when the rings are on the fingers, that Phantom's tears start to fall. There's a declaration of them as husbands, and the world falls away. Phantom steps forward, reaching up to cup Henrik's face. He smiles, leaning forward to kiss Henrik. The first kiss is soft, as they focus on the other. Hands move and they're pulled away to their own world. They come back to clapping, hands grabbing at hands again. They face their families, their friends, and their future.

[stonecoldjerseyfox]

Jersey on my mind (part 31)

The smell of buttered, barbecue corn on the cobs mixed with the scent of burning firewood makes Mila’s mouth water like the cookie monster catching sight of chocolate chip cookies, as she and Juri make their way down the dark street.

“Can you smell that?” She asks Juri. “Smells nice, right?”

Juri nods eagerly and the blue eyes glistens hungrily. 

She’s holding a bottle of vodka in her right hand and Juri’s hand in her left as they struts down the street towards the bonfire and the sound of chatting people. Juri’s dressed up in a knitted sweater, sent from mama in Russia for his second birthday. The shirt was way too big for a two year old, so Mila left it in a drawer until they had to leave, to escape when all hell broke loose. It’s maroon with white, traditional pattern over the chest. 

“Are you excited?” Mila asks as they pass Jessie’s house, and a sad feeling overwhelms her. Poor Jessie. She shifts her focus from the now empty house to Juri, who nods at her. “Yeah. Me too. It might be fun. You remember the barbecues at Ellie’s and Joe’s?” Juri nods once again. Of course he remembers ‘grams’ and ‘gramps’. It felt weird to Mila that he knew her foster parents better than his real grandmother, whom he called ‘baba’. But baba was always baba. Juri gestures at her, expresses a feeling of longing for the three of them. “I miss them too, Malysh.” She smiles. “Think about the barbecue.”

That’s a thought that cheers both of them up. Mila loves barbecues. She has experienced several very different variants of the event during her short lifetime. Hot summer evenings at the Dacha at home in Russia, when the whole neighborhood gathered from the surrounding summer cottages in the largest garden and built a barbecue of old brick or sheet metal. Everyone contributed food and the vodka was lined up on a table. They danced, sang, there was always someone playing the accordion and some dexterous ribbons of wreaths. The smell of smoke settled deep in the clothes, but it did not matter, it was part of the experience itself. It was so easy and homely. In the wee hours, when half the vodka ration was consumed, there could be both hopak dancing and sniping. During the autumn harvest, people also grilled, especially during forest excursions and mushroom picking. Mama fried mushrooms over an open fire while papa boned fish. In the winter, they did the same thing, dressed up in several layers of clothes and fur hats. Their breaths stood like ice clouds from their mouths, but they didn’t freeze and the fire kept their cheeks glowing hot. 

In the States, she got to experience a different kind of barbecue, not as folksy, but still nice in that American, exaggerated way. Joe Galka owned a Weber grill, a piece as big as a piano, Mila thought, to which he was very attached. He could grill most things. In the summers there was a barbecue almost every weekend and friends and family were invited. Mila’s, Billy’s and Adam’s friends were always invited. Even in the States, people brought food to the festivities; meringue pies, apple pies, ribs dripped with sauce, mashed potatoes, salads and god knows what. Significantly less strong booze than the Russian festivities, but all the more pale beer; disgusting Corona and Budweiser, that the middle-aged men, gathered around Joe’s grill, wearing the same type of cargo shorts and short-sleeved shirts, happily sipped. And sniping was out of the question in the suburbs. When Mila met Jim and they went on hikes just the two of them, Mila went in childhood. They grilled over an open fire in the woods, or at a beach, using firewood and matches, an old frying pan and some simple tools. They brought food, coffee, booze and, God forbid, a big bag of marshmallows. Jim loved those grilled, melting sugar bombs, while Mila couldn’t stand them, instead preferring grilled fruit with a little honey and cinnamon. Then they picked out the guitar and the harmonica and sat there, playing and singing Creedence, country and other great songs, in the light of the fire, drinking booze, hearing the waves smoothly run into the sandy shore, the leves rattle in the breeze. 

Despite the fact that Mila sees herself as an established barbecue visitor by now, after exploring her way through several barbecue cultures, this is a new version. Post-apocalyptic barbecue. 

“Wonder what food we get, except for potatoes and corn.” Mila says. Juri chuckles at the thought of an all potato and corn barbecue. “Maybe some-” Mila thinks. “Green beans? Tomatoes? Oh, and what if they have found some broccoli! You’d like that.” 

Earlier in the day, Mila took Juri out outside the safe zone and went on a journey of discovery in a direction they had not previously gone. After 1,2 miles they came to an open field which Mila immediately recognized as a vast potato field. There were a few, ravaged plants sticking out of the soil, but the chance that there were a lot of potatoes hidden underneath was huge. She let out a roar of joy at the discovery and frightened a couple of birds that angrily lifted from the untouched, rugged earth, and flew away to calmer lands. Some distance away, a barn loomed and Mila purposefully steered her steps towards the grayish-brown building, where the paint had begun to flake from the walls. She pushed open the door and went in, made sure that no walkers were lurking before releasing Juri from the harness and instructing him to search for potato sacks, and other useful things. Mila found the potato sacks, while Juri found a rusty shovel. They returned to the field and Mila began scanning the earth for a potentially lush piece to start digging on. Then she started digging, while Juri began to scrape the ground by hand. The sweat evaporated from her forehead, but being out there in the big field with Juri, performing body work, created an endorphin surcharge within her she hadn’t known for a long time. She felt alive. The smell of the earth, the still breeze and the sound of the shovel shaft digging into the ground. It was agrarian, made her homesick for Russia, to the Russian countryside. Sure, it was barren and vast beyond infinity, but she loved it. Her strong, Russian soul needed an outlet right there and then. Mila started singing. A hair-raising, Russian partisan song, something her grandfather sang for her as a child. Then she needed to cheer up the mood a bit, so she started singing “Panic” by The Smiths instead. Whether it was merry was questionable, but the melody was catchy. She then went down on her knees and started to dig with her hands in the soil. Suddenly she felt something in the ground, and triumphantly she pulled out the lower part of a potato plant, where surely eight or ten potatoes were still attached, and they looked really good!

“Jackpot!” Mila exclaimed. 

While digging and tearing up cluster after cluster of potatoes, Mila and Juri talked about all the good potato dishes they could now make, making their mouth water with saliva. Potato gratin, fried potatoes with dill, moussaka with potatoes, one of their absolute favorites. They stopped digging after a sack was filled. Mila had to carry it home, and the sack probably weighed well over 30 kilos, so they stopped working and decided to come back another day, by car. 

“Sorry, malenkiy. Time to use your legs.” said Mila, hoisting the sack onto her shoulder, next to the rucksack. Well, time to use mine as well, she thought and felt the heavy bag weighing her down. If Grandma could carry two full buckets of water from the well twice a day for seventy years, I should be able to carry thirty kilos of potatoes back to Alexandria.

Thank goodness she had tough, lanky muscles. And they didn’t run into anyone on the way back. Soaked in sweat and back inside the Alexandria walls, Mila dropped the heavy bag in front of Carol in the kitchen. Carol looked as if she could not believe her eyes at the sack. Mila went and took a much-needed shower, while Carol and Juri started peeling potatoes. She then helped Rick chop wood. 

“Ya’ good at this.” Rick said as Mila, once again dripping with sweat after that very unnecessary shower, easily split firewood after firewood with the other ax.

“It may sound like a stereotype, but in Russia you learn this early in life, if you do not want to freeze to death.” Mila huffed and wiped her forehead on her arm. “Grandma and grandpa didn’t have electricity. Then you had to chop wood.”

She took a second shower an hour later, and got herself and Juri dressed up in, not fancy clothes, but clean ones, not covered in soil, dirt and potato peel. In front of the mirror she inspected the scar after the wolves machete. It was still red and bumpy, but had healed nicely, a slight miracle since she hadn’t been taking care of it nearly as well as Denise told her to. She then stepped into a pair of blue, worn jeans and ripped a top over her head. While Juri brushed his hair, Mila inspected him and cracked open a bottle of vodka. 

She’s accustomed to pre-parties and has been an avid supporter of the phenomenon since her teenage years; never arrive sober to a party, or a funeral, or anything really if you’re an alcoholic like Mila.

She looks at the brand new bottle of Russian standard in her hand, contemplating if she should sweep it at the spot to increase her chances of ‘mingle and jingle’. Before she turns thought into action Maggie comes up at her right side. 

“One could think everything was somewhat- I dunno, pre- all this.” Maggie says and lifts her eyebrows underneath the side swept brown hair.

“Feels odd.” Mila admits. “Nice, but strange. Be happy you don’t feel sick yet. The barbecue smell would kill you.”

Maggie looks down at the grey tank top underneath the checked shirt, smiles at the sight of her own stomach. It’s not prominently pouting yet, but in a few weeks it won’t be possible to hide the bump. 

“Can’t wait.” Maggie replies ironically and nods towards the vodka bottle.

“You’re prepared for disaster or what?”

“Mouth water.” Mila says simply. “Bad breath.”

“Might be because of the mouth water.” Maggie grins as they catch sight of the bonfire and the Alexandrians, gathered around it. Maggie sniffs in the air as a puff of grilled meat comes their way. “Okay, I’m starting to get really hungry. Holy moly.”

“Preggers cravings.” Mila teases at the same time as she sees Abraham walking towards them, dressed in a button down shirt for the occasion underneath his jacket. “Looking sharp.” She greets him as he reaches the three of them. His red hair burns even brighter in the light of the flames from the fire. 

“Gotta make the best of the opportunity. It’s a party.” He smiles and places a big, bearded kiss on her cheek and gives Maggie a warm hug before he squats and holds up his big palm towards Juri. “High five, little man.” Juri slams his small hand into the big man’s and looks really happy. “Heard ya’ found the potatoes.” Abraham says excitedly. “Great job, dude!” 

Maggie and Mila look at each other. Yup, Juri’s the hero and Mila’s the burro, carrying the goodies more than 1,2 miles back to Alexandria. Nah, I can handle it, she thinks as she sees Juri’s proud grin, being the potato boss for the night. 

“Come on, Romeo.” Mila starts walking towards the fire, that lures her towards its glowing sphere of heat and safety, awakening something primitive within her, a feeling that fire equals safety. 

All of the Alexandria residents seem to be attending. Even Carl sits on a log, dragged in front of the fire, next to Aaron and Morgan. His head is wrapped up and he looks a million times better than two days ago. The color has returned to his cheeks and the sheriffs hat rests homely at the brown curls. Mila smiles at the sight. Rick appears in her field of sight at the same time. He looks fresh out of the shower and as he approaches she clearly feels a faint scent of men’s perfume. 

“Carol’s over the moon with the potatoes.” He greets her as he stops in front of her. 

“Glad I could contribute.” Mila says. “Where’s Daryl?” She looks around, searches for the broad man on the other side of the bonfire and in the shadows, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “I haven’t seen him today.” 

Rick shrugs a little, as to say ‘who knows’. 

“Come on.” He nods with his head to the side. “Let’s get ya’ beer.”

“Great.” 

While Juri runs off on his own, around the bonfire to sit with Carl, Mila follows Rick over to a table, set with beer and soda. Michonne’s leaning up against the table top with a Coke in her hand, probably mixed up to a Jack and Coke if Mila knows her right, talking to Sasha and Eugene, who, judging by the strong scent, have bathed himself in shaving water. Carol, an Alexandrian woman and Denise sets the table with bowls of food. Mila’s astonished over the amounts of different dishes and sides they managed to put together for the evening. Sasha and Abraham went on a run and found an abandoned greenhouse, which hid all sorts of vegetables that miraculously survived on their own during the apocalypse. Another group of Alexandrians went fishing and also ran upon a few bewildered chickens, who had to sacrifice their lives for the sake of the festivities. 

“The wall’s coming along nicely.” Mila says as she lets her gaze wander to the wall, where the big gaping hole where the church tower crashed through about a week ago. The debris is all gone and the hole is temporarily fixed with a few cars, but the structure that's supposed to become the new, reinforced wall, is already appearing. 

“It’s gonna be solid.” Eugene says and nods, trying his absolute best to seem cool about it. 

Mila’s been amused by him ever since he introduced himself to her; he’s intelligent, awkward and quite strange, but he certainly entertains her with all his clumsiness and strange talking. Despite her nearly ten years in the States, language is still the biggest challenge. Mila’s still learning new words and expressions and Eugene has undoubtedly made it a challenge for her to understand what he’s saying from time to time.

“Yippie.” Mila preaches as Rick puts a beer bottle in her hand. She takes it and chugs the bottle immediately, feeling a sudden rush of intense thirst only an alcoholic can feel in the presence of beer and booze. The intellectual with the prominent mullet stares at her as she takes the last sip of the bottle and puts it away. His expression pokes at her shenanigan-nerve, fuck she has to mess a little with him. “I’m into some real kinky shit after five bottles.” She therefore says and grins wolf-like at Eugene. 

Eugene’s cheeks turn red like the fire next to him and he swallows. Michonne laughs into her can and both Rick and Sasha grins, struggling not to laugh. Mila reaches forward and pats poor Eugene on the arm.

“Just fucking with you.” She says and blinks. “Cheers.” And she opens the vodka bottle and offers him the first sip. “Here, it’s good for the nerves.”

“You’re a real tearaway.” Sasha says and breaks off the cap on a new Corona light.

“Extremely poor impulse control.” Mila takes back the vodka bottle and takes a bountiful sip, once again feeling the deep sense of thirst down her throat. “It gets worse with age, I notice.” She peeks behind Sasha at the table. “So, what’s for dinner?” 

Carol, who happens to hear her question, comes up to the group at the table, holding a pie between the oven mittens.

“A real feast, that’s for sure.” She explains and puts the pie down. “Ribs, chicken, fish, vegetables, potatoes. Daryl must’ve hit the jackpot, he brought back an entire forest.” Carol smiles and removes the checked oven mittens from her hands. “And pie for dessert.”

“Are we celebrating something?” Sasha says. 

“Being alive?” Michonne taps her fingers at the can.

“Anyone having their birthday soon, or just had? That could be a reason.” Eugene suggests. 

“Don’t even know what date it is.” Mila says and takes another sip of the vodka. “Mine’s in June.”

“Gotta celebrate something.” Eugene continues.

“How ‘bout-” Rick begins. “A party for those who can’t be here.”

“A death party?” Mila raises her eyebrows at Rick. 

“That’s morbid.” Sasha wrinkles her nose.

“Could work.” Mila continues. “Russian funerals often turn into parties. At first people cry something incredibly for hours and hours and hours- Then you drink until you can’t feel feelings anymore.”

“Sounds even more weird.” Eugene expresses. “I like Rick’s idea better.” 

“I’m gonna drink anyway.” Mila snorts and continues to drink. At least she’s dressed up somewhat properly for a funeral reception; black top, black leather jacket and, yeah the fedora might be questionable, but at least she wears black boots! 

They sit down and eat when Aaron, Glenn, Rosita and Gabriel have sliced the grilled meat and put it on the buffet table. Juri’s plate is filled with potatoes and vegetables as well as Mila’s and he’s got a juice box safely placed between his cute feet. They sit on a log with Rick and Carol; eating, drinking and talking while the fire crackles, the cicadas sing behind the wall. The sky above them is starry and the sparks from the fire rises towards the gleaming stars, millions of lightyears away. But Daryl is nowhere to be seen. Where the hell is he? Mila looks around every now and then, but Rick assures her that he’s alright. Why wouldn’t he? To calm her mind, she empties the vodka bottle and runs to get another one, just as the party attendants does a turn two at the buffet.

“Ey, look who’s back.” Rick suddenly says and looks at Mila- no, over her shoulder, behind her. 

Mila turns on the log and looks behind her. Daryl comes walking down the street towards them. In the warm light of the fire Mila can see that he’s fine, unharmed, but holds something behind his back. She gets up from the log, a movement that makes the others pause their conversations and laughter to look at her. Mila gets ready to give him a scolding, but Daryl’s facial expression makes her change her mind. It’s soft, somewhat gawky, but yet soft and not stern and grumpy. It strikes her there and then that he hasn’t looked surly at all lately, at least not while looking at her. She takes a step over the log and walks to meet him. The wrinkle created between her eyebrows softens as he stops in front of her in the light of the big fire. 

“Where’ve you been?” She asks and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Had a thing to do.” He says and screws a little, but keeps his back straight. “I’m here now.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Mila looks him straight in the eyes. “But where were you? I was worried.”

Instead of giving her a verbal answer, Mila has come to understand Daryl’s idea, that words are unnecessary sometimes well by now. He takes out what he’s hiding behind his back, and holds it out for her. A guitar. An acoustic sunburst Epiphone, with engraved flowers on the pickguard. Mila stares at the beautiful instrument as Daryl hands it over to her; the shimmery pearly detailing in the maple neck, steel strings and rosewood details. She lifts her gaze and looks at Daryl in awe. 

“Though ya’d like it.” Daryl looks at her, not sure if she’s happy or disappointed. “Ya’ said ya’ played.” 

Yeah, yes she did say that. But she didn’t think he’d remembered. She can’t speak. Instead, Mila wraps her arms around his neck, with the guitar’s neck still in a firm grip. The last time she got a guitar, it was Jim who surprised her with one. He blindfolded her and drove her to the music store where he led her in, like a blind. Mila stumbled on the threshold and tore off her blindfold, red in the face with anger over his shenanigans. But the anger ran off when she saw where she was.

“Pick one.”

“Pick what?”

“A guitar.” Jim reached out his arms to his side, to the guitars hanging around the walls of the shop. “Whatever one you want.”

Mila picked a light sunburst Fender that time. It was left behind in Brooklyn along with Jim’s old, trusted Gibson. At least their guitars were together. 

“Thank you.” Mila whispers into his ear and releases her grip around Daryl’s neck.

It’s one of the finest, most thoughtful gifts she has received in a long time. She squeezes the neck and admires the wooden piece. He really went off and found her a guitar. Around them, the other inhabitants have paused whatever they’re doing, to look at them. Abraham is the one that finally breaks the silence, still chewing on a glazed rib.  

“Well, whatcha waitin’ for? Play it, Jersey.” He points at the guitar with the bone.

Her mouth turns into a wide grin. My God, she hasn’t played in awhile and the guitar isn’t even tuned. She takes Daryl’s hand, intervenes her fingers with his and drags him off to the overturned log, steps over it and sits down next to Juri, who looks overjoyed with the possibility of some live music. Her number one fan. Daryl sits down next to her and Carol hands him a plate of food. It’s like someone pressed ‘play’. Everyone starts talking to each other again, eating and drinking, just as before Daryl appeared with the guitar. While Daryl eats, Mila begins to tune the guitar, at the same time as she gets meaningful glances from both Maggie and Carol, who blink at her.

“I did not know you played guitar.” Says Carl and looks wide-eyed at the guitar.

“I'm full of surprises.” Mila smiles cheeky at him.

“Can you make requests?” Rick says and takes a sip of his Corona.

“Depends on the request.” Mila replies. She knows that Rick has a similar taste in music as she; they have more than once hummed along to the same country songs while working, so he won’t have to be disappointed. “I’m a little rusty.” And not nearly drunk enough to feel completely at ease with performing in front of these people, she thinks and looks around. For some reason this is different than before. Different from the bars and the family gatherings with the Galka’s and Jim. “I’ll punch you if any of you say Wonderfall.” Mila squints her eyes at her crowd as she tunes the low E-string, considering the guitar to be in playable condition. 

“Thought it was Wonderwall?” Glenn looks at Maggie, slightly confused.  

“I’ll punch you.” Mila places her fingers on the cold steel strings and strikes a loop of chords, searching for a melody. She quickly finds the sound she’s looking for; huh, she wasn’t that rusty after all. With her tongue in between her teeth she starts playing something random.  

The sheriff's tapping boot is enough for her to pick Rick as her target. 

“Come on, I’m not doing it on my own.”

Rick takes a sip of beer, chuckles a little. But Mila’s serious. As is Michonne. 

“Do it Sheriff.” Michonne bumps Rick in the side. “We got ya’ back.”

Mila doesn’t wait for an answer. He won’t be able to resist later on. She adjusts the guitar on her leg and starts playing a tune, praying to some higher power that her voice won’t break. 

“As long as I remember, the rain's been comin' down. Clouds of mystery pourin', confusion on the ground. Good men through the ages, tryin' to find the sun. And I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain-”

She gets chills down her spine as she manages to pull the Creedence classic off pretty decently, sitting at the log between the men in her life, surrounded by her new family. Just as when she performed it at that bar with Jim that first time she performed like that in her life, a couple of years ago. She vomited into a bin before going on stage, or more like a corner with a rug of the small, crowded bar in Brooklyn, but as soon as she had the guitar in her hands and started singing, she felt calm, secure. Jim used to say it was a miracle she learned to play the guitar at the pace she did, having only played piano and the violin during her childhood. Guitars was a dumb instrument, according to her papa. Pff, what did he know? Prison was for dumb people, and look where he was? Mila lets the chord die after the last “-and I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain?”, then continues with Springsteen.  

“On a rattlesnake speedway in the Utah desert, I pick up my money and head back into town. Driving 'cross the Waynesboro county line, I got the radio on and I'm just killing time-”

She notices Daryl’s gaze in the corner of her eyes, just as she notices Juri’s nodding head and Abraham saying, mids a chuckle of delighted surprise: 

“I’ll be damn.” 

It’s like inviting all of them into a very special place of herself, a place where she can be something else than a mom, a dental nurse and a girl with a broken past. With a deep, lingering gaze, she tries to communicate that to Daryl, as a way of explaining her trust in him. To her, music is medicine for the soul and the heart. A heritage she has passed on to Juri when giving him the walkman for his birthday. 

“The dogs on Main Street howl, 'Cause they understand. If I could take one moment into my hands, mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man. And I believe in a promised land-”

She removes her fingers from the strings and the chord echoes out into the night, blends in with the cheering. She’s warmed up now, overflown with the rush of happy adrenaline playing the guitar causes her, just as the applause makes her blush. Okay, let's go with something happy, she thinks.

“Here’s a lil' something to cheer ya’ll up.” She says in her most convincing country-voice, puts her fingers into a ‘G’ and: “Daddy won a radio and tuned it to a country show, I was rockin' in the cradle to the cryin' of a steel guitar-”

It takes Rick ten seconds to hear what song it is, he knows his country music. He jumps into the chorus, at first doubtfully, but encouraged by both Carl and Abe, who have taken out a cigar from his jacket, he seems to think ‘what the hell’, and sings a little louder, with more feeling. And it’s fun.

“Singin 'in the bars and- Chasin' that neon rainbow, livin 'that honky tonk dream.' Cause all I've ever wanted, is to pick this guitar and sing. Just tryin 'to be somebody, just wanna be heard and seen. I'm chasin 'that neon rainbow, livin' that honky tonk dream- “

He continues to sing with her as Mila follows up with the Beatles “Rocky Raccoon”, but lets her continue on her own after that, with both “Thunder road” and a country version of “I’m on fire”.

“Your accent disappears when you sing.” Maggie says as Mila takes a few sips of vodka. 

“Yeah I haven’t figured the reason for that out yet.” Mila wipes her mouth on the back of her hand as she grabs the guitar again, her fingertips pulsating from having to work the strings again. “But singing country with an accent would sound weird, I guess? Okay, one last one.” 

She ends her one woman-show, which could just as well be seen as therapy for her musically starving soul, with Kate Bush’s “Running up that hill”, as the flames from the fire licks the now pitch black sky, sprinkled with millions, billions of stars.   

“Say, if I only could, I'd be running up that hill. With no problems…”

Taglist: @lonewolf471 @twdeadfanfic

[pomnavi]

Chapters: 2/?

Fandom: 血界戦線 | Kekkai Sensen | Blood Blockade Battlefront  

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Klaus von Reinherz/Leonardo Watch

Characters: Leonardo Watch, Klaus von Reinherz, K.K. (Kekkai Sensen),

Tags: Christmas Presents, Sweaters, Knitting

Summary:

Leo wants to get Klaus a present for Christmas, but he’s not sure what to get him (and he’s woefully low on funds). Plus, would getting your (super hot) boss (that you may have a crush on) a present be coming on too strong? He’s not sure what to do, until K.K. gives him a great idea >:)

Chapter 1: Inception of a Bad Idea

Chapter 2: An Attempt was Made

Leo sat in his apartment the next day after work, browsing through the pattern books that KK had given him. There were a few books that were meant specifically for babies (understandable, given KK’s fawning over her children) but one book was marked with pink sticky note saying “This one is perfect!”. It was a book of patterns for “the boyfriend”, and KK had scrawled some hastily drawn hearts (on small sticky notes of course) next to a few items in the table of contents.

Leo smiled at her thoughtfulness. He was definitely going to make her something in return for the help.

He looked at the items that she’d marked down, but honestly some of them looked kind of… dorky. Like something a grandma would make for their adult grandson. Or a wife for a husband when they were already fifty years old. And that was definitely not the kind of sentiment Leo was trying to get across right now. (Maybe…. Someday….)

He sighed and put the book down, and then sorted through the other items in the paper bag that KK had handed him. There was an assortment of colorful yarn, most of them in pastel colors. He tried imagining Klaus wearing any of the colors as a hat, scarf, or mittens, and started cackling at the image. Klaus in pink mittens while he’s trying to take down a blood breed. Or a lavender infinity scarf while discussing something with a client. Or a mint green hat while coming in to work.

All of it seemed silly, but he had no doubt in his mind that if he earnestly made Klaus those presents, he would wear them no matter how bad they looked. Leo wanted to do his best to make something really nice that complimented Klaus.

He dug through all the different yarn skeins until he came upon a big skein of maroon. He instantly knew that it had to be this color. Klaus wore a lot of red so this would match perfectly!

He grabbed the pattern books again. He started flipping through the pages quickly, looking for a nice design. He happened upon a design for a sweater in the same book that KK hadn’t marked. It actually looked like something Klaus might wear, so Leo decided he was going to try it! He envisioned Klaus wearing it, and blushed a little.

+++

A few days later, Leo came in to work that day feeling peppier than usual. He felt motivated with his plan, and he was busy researching how to knit in the downtime between the crises that usually happened on a daily basis. He had brought some needles and a different color of yarn (a beautiful green/blue mix) in order to practice the stitches and make what was called a “swatch”.

It was earlier in the morning, and it seemed Klaus was busy that day on assignment. Steven was engrossed in his office work. Chain was nowhere to be found (as usual). Zed was in the backroom sleeping in his tank. Zapp was probably hungover. And Leo didn’t know where K.K. was, though he wished he did.

He plugged in his earbuds into his phone, with a video called “How to start knitting” pulled up. Timidly, he grabbed the needles and skein out of his backpack, making sure nobody was around to make fun of him.

Leo played the video, following the instructions and the beginning “swatch” as best he could. His hands slipped and dropped the yarn multiple times, but eventually he began to get a feel for the rhythm, zoning out while casting on stitches. He then continued onto the second row, feeling confident at how well it was going, as well as how easy it was. An hour passed, with Leo quietly knitting while listening to music.

At this point, he had completely forgotten how secretive he was supposed to be. Steven sighed at his remaining work and decided that it was just the perfect time for a coffee break. Gilbert was out too, so Steven made a pot and poured himself and Leo a cup. He was nothing if not a considerate boss… some of the time at least.

Steven grabbed both cups and made his way towards the couches in the center of the room. He saw Leo sitting on the couch, hands moving slowly but steadily, building up inches on his project with a smile on his face. “Hey kiddo, what’re you up to?”

Leo noticed Steven approaching out of the corner of his eye, and took out one of his earbuds. “I’m practicing knitting! You know, for the Secret Santa!” He grinned back at his boss.

“Oh? For who?” Steven slyly asked. He placed the cup in front of Leo on the table, and Leo carefully put away his work before picking it up.

“You know I can’t tell you that haha.” He sipped at the coffee. Not as delicious as Gilbert’s, but still a decent strong brew. Perfect for the impromptu all-nighter that they sometimes had to pull for Libra work.

“Well, you can’t say I didn’t try to figure out who got me! I’m scared if it’s K.K. though” Steven said, imagining the worst possible present the sniper could get him. Leo smiled fondly.

“I don’t think K.K. would give you a bad present though, she’s really nice! She even gave me the idea and supplies for my present.”

Steven raised his brow at that. “Leo, that’s because K.K. practically thinks of you as her own child. That woman would kill me where I stand without a second thought if she thought she had a passable reason for it.”

Leo struggled to hold down his snort while he was drinking his coffee, failing spectacularly and spilling a little on his jacket. He reached into his backpack for some stray napkins.

“Anyways, I got Klaus for my secret santa giftee and-“

“Wait, that’s not possible! I got-“ Leo realized his mistake and shut up, but it was too late.

“Bingo!” Steven smirked like the cat that ate the canary. “Hmnn…I see, you got Klaus huh? Must have been K.K. and Gilbert’s doing.” The older man left the conversation at that, having finished his coffee, and returned back to his work.

Leo could see a knowing smile on Steven’s face, but couldn’t figure out what the expression meant. After finishing his break, Leo went back to working on his swatch, only to be interrupted by Zapp barging into the office like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

“Hey pube-head! You’re coming with me, we got shit that needs doing.”

[globaldoom98]

𝑀𝑦 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

I hate it, when all the songs I've heard over the years get lost. Therefore I have now developed a few playlists.

[All lists will be updated regularly if needed].

Playlist 2021: Virgin Black - Our Wings are Burning Virgin Black - Lamenting Kiss Uaral - Depression Thunderbolt - Black Clouds Over Dark Majesty This Cold Night - Black Cathedral The Darkstar Calling - From Wings Of Death Rammstein - Heirate mich Pop Will Eat Itself - Ich Bin Ein Ausländer Night Haze - You Cant Reach Me Forlorn Kingdom - Walking The Paths Of Old Forgotten Kingdoms - Crowned in Forlorn Darkness Explizit Einsam - Traum vom Leben Explizit Einsam - Dunkler Kristall Dismal Euphony - Shine for Me, Misery Dismal Euphony - An Autumn Leaf In The Circles Of Time Dismal Euphony - All Little Devils Devil Doll - The Sacrilege of Fatal Arms Devil Doll - Sacrilegium Sounds of Lemuria - Klavier Floodland - Seemann Nosferatu - Lucy is Red The Daughters of Bristol - The Leaving The Daughters of Bristol - Sweet Lies Midnight Caine - Eremia Malaise - Separation Erato - Sweet Killing Silenzium - Mein Herz brennt (Rammstein Cover) After Dusk - Strange Aeons’ Signs After Dusk - The Seas Of Infinity Decoded Feedback - Red Cell Siva Six - Until Death Reunites Us Hate Of Shadows - Winter Place Shades Of Hell - Remediate the pain Zeromancer - Revengefuck Ludovico Technique - Becoming Numb Aesthetic Perfection - Love Like Lies Aesthetic Perfection - Dead Zone Unaverage Gang - Cold Steel KMFDM - Come on, Go off (Rotersand Mix) KMFDM - Help Us, Save Us, Take Us Away KMFDM - Make Your Stand Tiamat - Wildhoney Intro Skinny Puppy - Inquisition Skinny Puppy - Testure Seraphim System - Beast (Cygnosic Remix) Seraphim Shock - Upon A Time Seraphim Shock - Molly’s Web Seraphim Shock - Anna Seraphim Shock - Bloodline Covenant - Last Dance Chaotic Rave System - Power Up Avarice In Audio - The Cassandra Komplex Avarice In Audio - Our Cold Hands Avarice In Audio - Lolita Express Avarice In Audio - Heartless Disaster Avarice In Audio - Crystal Tears Avarice In Audio - Lie To Me Project Christow - Hydra Project Christow - Hellraiser Project Christow - Hatred Through The Eyes Project Christow - Iceberg Men Project Christow - Ruby Of Men Project Christow - Luciferist Control Alt Deus - Shes Made Of Fire Deine Lakaien - Over And Done IAmTheShadow - Everything in this Nothingness Stahlnebel & Black Selket - Bloody Rain Arcana - We Rise Above Unsinn - Fly Away Stereomotion - Broken ASP - Possession Blutengel - Disobedience Blutengel - Damokles E Nomine - Der Ring der Nibelungen Nox Arcana - Night Wraiths Black Heaven - The Enemy In Ourselves Ice Ages - Forsaken Subliminal Code - It’s A Lie Alienoxir - Rostro Perfecto Alienoxir - Honor Y Resistencia Alienoxir - Same Like You Say Just Words - Victimas Mr. Gasmask - Draaimolen Mr. Gasmask - Progress Trap Mr. Gasmask - Time Out Forever Mr. Gasmask - Chip Chapter The Cascades - Ihr werdet sein Orange Sector - I Hate You Mourning Mist - Ancient Ruins Mega Drive - I Am The Program Rammstein - Jeder lacht Lacrimosa - Der letzte Hilfeschrei Dark Lunacy - The Mystic Rail Neuzeitsyndrom - Sektor Ausgang CLANN - Requiem CLANN - Closer CLANN - Unseelie Diorama - Record Deal Spielbann - Hier kommt dein Tag Spielbann - Bruder Narr Das Werk - Schwarzes Horn Radiohead - Street Spirit Diorama - Kiss Of Knowledge Diorama - Champagne For All Diorama - Exit The Grey Diorama - Sad But True Diorama - Erase Me Project Pitchfork - Requiem Project Pitchfork - Souls Suicide Commando - Better Off Dead Wumpscut - Dort Lieber Herrscher Lacromosa - Kaleidoskop Lacrimosa - MondFeuer Lacrimosa - Requiem Lacrimosa - Ruin Noise Resistance - Send My Own World To The Crash Tanzende Kadaver - Nekromantik Engelsblut - Totenlicht Black Heaven - Weisse Lilie Playlist 2019 / 2021: Agalloch - Plateau Of The Ages Agalloch - Dark Matter Gods Lifelover - En Sång Om Dig Lifelover - I Love (To Hurt) You Lifelover - Kärlek, Becksvart Melankoli UnderTheSkin - Cold Myuu - Scent Of Night Deadmau5 - Superliminal Rome - Querkraft Rammstein - Halt Rammstein - Nebel Rammstein - Spieluhr Robert Miles - Landscape Robert Miles - Red Zone Part 1 Robert Miles - In my dreams Robert Miles - In The Dawn Train 1996 Goethes Erben - Unbekannter Soldat Rammstein - Rosenrot Synthwave Instrumental Cover Nebular Spools - Ghosts Of Future Pasts Frown Upon Their Own Agonoize - I Just Want To Live Shining - Ren Djaula Angest Shining - Through Corridors of Oppression Shining -Han Som Lurar Inom Silencer - I Shall Lead, You Shall Follow Ellende - Rückzug in die Innerlichkeit Ellende - Ballade auf den Tod Ellende - Aus der Ferne Teil II Ellende - It Is Always Something Interitus - Der Traum von menschenleerer Schönheit Interitus - Deborah X-RX - Die Hölle auf Erden X-RX - Activate the Machinez Blood Magick - Melancholy Of A Monster Blood Magick - No Escape Blood Magick - I Have Seen So Much Pain Moon Tooth - Trough Ash Atreyu - Cant Happen There Atreyu - Demonology And Heartache Atreyu - Slow Burn The Cascades - Hexen Einmaleins Wumpscut - Jesus Antichristus (Psycho Shop Remix) FLESH - Creep the line Playlist 2016 / 2018: Atrocity - Enigma Lacrimosa - Tränen Der Existenzlosigkeit In Death It Ends - Pomba Gira Nachtmahr - Chaos Nachtmahr - Wir sind die Toten Rammstein - Führe mich Rammstein - Gib mir deine Augen Rammstein - Halleluja Rammstein - Mein Teil Oomph! - Hast Du Geglaubt Epinephrin - Hasswelt A7ie - A Dream Within a Dream A7ie - Some Kind Of Hate A7ie - Mort Wumpscut - Cross Of Iron Nano Infect - Fall Asleep Seraphim Shock - After Dark Mr Gasmask - The Wooden Suit Engelsblut - Dämonenlied Engelsblut - Kalt Infekktion - Human Nature Grendel - Hate This Grendel - Timewave Zero Playlist 2013 / 2015: Linkin Park - By Myself Linkin Park - With You Linkin Park - Somwhere I Belong Kreator - Amokrun KMFDM - Megalomaniac KMFDM - Godlike KMFDM - Anarchy Slipknot - Surfacing Atreyu - No One Cares Shakira - She Wolf Nelly Furtado - Promiscuous Morning Mist - Rage Prypjat - Block 4 Rammstein - Bestrafe mich Rammstein - Rosenrot Wumpscut - War Wumpscut - Totmacher Wumpscut - Die in winter Reaper - Altum Silentium Soko Friedhof - Und ich breite meine Schwingen Robert Miles - Children Nine Inch Nails - Closer Nine Inch Nails - Something I Can Never Have iDOLEAST - Style Pink Floyd - High Hopes Wumpscut - Zerstörte Träume Aesthetic Perfection - A Nice Place to Visit UnterART - Just You Wait Marilyn Manson - Evidence

[humanistauno]

Chris Evans’ Life Behind The Limelight

by: Matt Basco

Chris Evans is an American actor best known for playing comic book superhero Captain America on the big screen.

Early Life

Christopher Robert Evans was conceived on June 13, 1981, in Boston, Massachusetts, and brought up in the close by town of Sudbury. While his father, Robert, gave monetary solidness as a dental specialist, Evans and his three kin were attracted to the performing expressions universe of their mom, Lisa, an artist turned Youth Theater chief. As Evans reviewed, "We resembled the von Trapps [from The Sound of Music], all singing and moving."

A characteristic competitor, Evans wrestled and played lacrosse at Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School, when not put resources into his school or network theater. He spent the late spring before his senior year of secondary school interning for a throwing organization in New York City, making significant contacts and sharpening his aptitudes at the Lee Strasberg Institute. Anxious to restore, the hopeful entertainer sped through his senior year to graduate a half semester in front of his cohorts.

Who Is Chris Evans?

Brought up in the Boston zone, Chris Evans handled his first significant film job in the parody Not another Teen Movie. He played the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four flicks, however the ball was in his court as another superhuman that moved him to notoriety in the immensely fruitful Captain America and The Avengers blockbusters. Evans additionally earned praise for his exhibition in the tragic Snowpiercer, and made a generally welcomed Broadway debut in 2018.

Movies

'Captain America' and 'the Avengers'

In July 2011, Evans joined the burgeoning Marvel Cinematic Universe Empire with Captain America: The First Avenger. As Steve Rogers, the scrawny but dutiful serviceman who undergoes a massive physical transformation to become the titular super soldier, Evans capably displayed the earnestness central to his character, along with the eye-popping physique and fighting skills requisite for a modern action star. The First Avenger was just the start of the MCU run for Evans, who joined Robert Downey Jr.'s Iron Man, Chris Hemsworth's Thor and other big-name actors, both in and out of costume, for the superhero blockbuster The Avengers (2012). Evans went on to headline the sequels of his own Captain America franchise with The Winter Soldier (2014) and Civil War (2016), while also leading the charge for The Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015) and surfacing in other Marvel features, like Ant-Man (2015) and Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017). Initially reluctant to wield the Captain's shield due to the extended commitment, Evans was ready to move on by the time his contract drew to a close, with Avengers: Infinity War (2018) and Avengers: Endgame (2019) showcasing his final performances as America's super solider.

Early Roles

'Not another Teen Movie' and 'Cellular'

Evans first major film role came in Not another Teen Movie (2001), a spoof of high school dramas like She's All that (1999) and earlier predecessors. As football star Jake Wyler, he follows the formulaic procedure of accepting a bet to date the nerdy, glasses-wearing girl, delivering a silly highlight by squirting on the whipped cream bikini made famous by Ali Larter in Varsity Blues (1999). He followed with another high school comedy, The Perfect Score (2004), as part of a group of students who steal the answers to an SAT exam, and then the action-thriller Cellular (2004), where he showed his future leading man chops by helping to rescue Kim Basinger from her captors.

'Fantastic Four' and 'Scott Pilgrim'

Other Comic Adaptations Prior to his star-making turn in Captain America, Evans went the superhero route for Fantastic Four (2005), as Johnny Storm/Human Torch. The film was a commercial success, but a downturn at the box office for Rise of the Silver Surfer (2007), along with another round of largely negative reviews, led to the cancellation of a third installment.

Returning to comic-sourced material, Evans provided voice work for the animated TMNT (2007), as the boyfriend of the Ninja Turtles' colleague, April O'Neil. He later co-starred in the action comedy The Losers (2010), which drew mixed reviews despite a strong cast, and landed a supporting role in the entertaining Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010), as an over-the-top version of the Hollywood action hero he had become. Meanwhile, the actor took advantage of the all-American good looks and charm that made him a natural for romantic comedies. He played the "Harvard Hottie" of past and future co-star Scarlett Johannson in The Nanny Diaries (2007), before becoming the ideal match for Anna Faris in what’s Your Number? (2011).

Drama and Sci-Fi

'London' and 'Sunshine'

Coming off his early teen films, Evans showed he could handle weightier fare with London (2005), as a junkie struggling to get over his ex-girlfriend. He later took on Tennessee Williams in The Loss of a Teardrop Diamond (2008), with Bryce Dallas Howard, and portrayed a real-life lawyer and drug addict who goes after the pharmaceutical industry in Puncture (2010).

'Iceman' and 'Snowpiercer'

Despite his Marvel commitments requiring much of his energy, Evans found the time for other screen projects to his liking. Iceman (2012) gave him the chance to overturn his squeaky-clean superhero image as a contract killer who assists Michael Shannon's sadistic hitman. Snowpiercer (2013) placed him back in leading man territory, albeit as an antihero in a dystopian future.

'The Red Sea Diving Resort’ and 'Knives Out'

Evans next starred as an Israeli agent in The Red Sea Diving Resort (2019), based on the real-life rescue and transport of Ethiopian Jews to Israel in 1981. Late that year, he again distanced himself from the wholesome superhero image by playing an obnoxious playboy in the murder-mystery Knives Out.

Net Worth

Evans checks in at a cool $70 million, according to Celebrity Net Worth. The bulk of his fortune has come from his Marvel Cinematic involvement, though it took a little while to get there, after reportedly receiving a relatively modest $300,000 for his first Captain America movie.

Romantic Life and Girlfriends

Evans was involved in an on-and-off relationship with actress Jenny Slate after they got to know one another on the set of The Gifted. The couple spent the 2017 holiday season together, though they reportedly split for good a few months later. Earlier in his career, from 2001 to 2006, Evans was in a long-term relationship with Jessica Biel. He has also been linked to actresses Minka Kelly and Lily Collins.

Chris Evans's Height and Workout

At 6 feet tall but naturally slim, Evans displayed the results of long hours in the gym while progressing from the rangy jock of Not another Teen Movie, to the beefier Human Torch of Fantastic Four, to the cartoonishly muscular Captain America. Packing on the pounds was vital to the appearance of his laboratory-enhanced superhero, prompting a training regimen that included high-weight reps of squats, deadlifts and incline bench presses, as well as bodyweight exercises like dips and pull-ups. By the time of The Winter Soldier, he had incorporated gymnastics and plyometrics to his routine for more speed and agility, aiding his efforts in such scenes as when he beats up a group of men in a crowded elevator.

TV Shows

Sent to Los Angeles by his agent in the late 1990s to audition for a show called Get Real (where he met Anne Hathaway), Evans instead wound up with a supporting role on Opposite Sex, alongside Milo Ventimiglia, as one of the few boys to attend a former all-girls academy. The teen comedy-drama lasted for only eight episodes in the summer of 2000, but still provided vital exposure for its young stars. Evans went on to make appearances in The Fugitive, Skin and the popular Boston Public. In 2008, with his successful film career well under way, he provided voice work for Adult Swim's stop-motion series Robot Chicken.