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ghstyles · 3 months ago

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Apartment 2C | His Angel

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Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

His Angel Masterlist

WC: 6K

Note: For this series, you don’t have to read all the parts. It’s up to you. They don’t pick off where the other ended. Just glimpses into their lives. I won’t post them in chronological order but I will list them in that order

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Five months ago, if someone had suggested to Harry that he’d be standing in a tiny kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta, cooking for someone, that person would have been shot.

Yet here he was.

The wooden spoon felt foreign in his hand, awkward and useless compared to the weight of a gun. The scent of simmering marinara filled the air. Something warm, something domestic. It didn’t belong in his world. And yet, somehow, you did.

You padded into the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his shirts that hung off your frame.

“You’re stirring too aggressively,” you tease, sliding your arm around his waist.

Harry glanced down at you, the usual sharpness in his gaze dulling just a fraction. “I don’t do anything gently, sweetheart.”

You laughed, tilting your head up at him. “You do with me.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he lets you take the spoon from his grasp, your fingers brushing against his, soft and unscarred. He’d crushed men’s throats with these hands. Now, he let you guide them over something as simple as dinner.

He should have felt ridiculous. Weak. But when you smiled up at him, like he wasn’t the monster everyone else saw, he decided maybe, a very minuscule maybe, he could get used to this.

For a little while

"See? When you do it gently like this, it doesn't slosh all around everywhere. Less cleaning later. But I guess you don't clean up your own messes" you say, looking back at him. Looking away causes you to hiss as your arm accidentally touches the rim of the hot pot

Harry's attention snaps to you instantly at the sound of your hiss of pain. His eyes narrow, all traces of softness vanishing as he moves with speed, gently but firmly grasping your wrist to examine your arm.

"Fuck's sake, angel," he mutters, already pulling you toward the sink. He turns on the cold water and places your arm beneath the stream. "Let me see it."

The burn is minor, just a red mark across your forearm that will fade in an hour, but Harry's jaw is tight, his eyes cold as if the pan had personally offended him.

"It's nothing, Harry. Just a little burn." You try to pull your arm back, rolling your eyes at his overreaction. "I'm not made of glass, you know."

Harry doesn't release your wrist, keeping your skin under the cool water. His thumb traces circles against your pulse point, a gesture that might seem tender if not for the dangerous look in his eyes.

"Didn't say you were," he responds flatly. "But if I find out this piece of shit stove burned you because it's faulty, I'm replacing the entire kitchen."

"It's my fault for being clumsy, not the stove's." You can't help but laugh at his intensity. "Are you going to put a hit out on my kitchenware now?"

Harry's expression doesn't change, but something like amusement flickers in his eyes.

"Don't tempt me, princess." He finally releases your wrist, reaching for a clean kitchen towel to gently pat your skin dry. "Maybe I should just cook for you from now on."

"You? Cook?" You raise an eyebrow, teasing. "You have three chefs. When was the last time you even picked up a knife?”

A dark smirk crosses Harry's face as he takes the towel from your hand, his fingers lingering against yours for just a moment too long.

"Picked up a knife?" he repeats, his voice dropping lower. "This morning, actually."

He turns back to the stove, adjusting the heat with casual precision.

"Different purpose, though," he adds offhandedly, as if commenting on the weather rather than alluding to violence.

"That's not what I meant and you know it." You roll your eyes, nudging him with your hip as you reach for the salt. "I meant for cooking, not for...whatever it is you do with your mornings."

Harry watches you with that same calculating gaze, the one that makes hardened criminals confess their sins. On you, it just looks like he's trying to memorize every detail of your face.

"The less you know about my mornings, angel, the better you'll sleep at night." He takes the salt from your hand, adding a pinch to the sauce. "And I can cook. Survived on my own since I was fourteen, remember?"

His tone is matter-of-fact, no self-pity, just stating a harsh reality that shaped him.

"Well then, Gordon Ramsay, impress me." You fold your arms, challenging him with a playful smile.

Harry raises an eyebrow, amused by your defiance when most people would be cowering.

"Careful what you ask for, princess." He stirs the sauce once more. "I might just exceed your expectations... in more ways than one."

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully, reverting your attention back to the sauce

"Your place is too small," he comments abruptly, glancing around the modest apartment with critical eyes. "Security's shit too. Those locks wouldn't keep out a determined child."

He says this casually, as if discussing the weather rather than evaluating potential threats to your safety as he settles bak behind you.

You turn slightly to face Harry, still stirring the pasta sauce with careful motions.

"It's also cheap," you counter, meeting his critical gaze with a raised eyebrow. "Very much on my budget."

Harry scoffs, his fingers drumming against your hip bone as he surveys the apartment again. The cramped kitchen barely fits both of you, the living room furniture is clearly secondhand, and the walls are thin enough that you can hear the neighbors arguing sometimes. But it's yours, earned with your own money from your part-time job while balancing classes.

"Budgets can change," he says pointedly, reaching past you to turn down the heat on the stove. "Circumstances can change."

You shake your head, a conversation you've had multiple times before.

"We agreed, Harry. I pay my own way."

His jaw tightens, that familiar tension whenever his control is challenged. He steps back slightly, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Even in casual clothes, dark jeans and a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to expose tattooed forearms, he looks dangerous, out of place among your colorful kitchen towels and mismatched dishes.

"Stubbornness isn't a virtue, Y/N," he says, watching you with those calculating eyes. "It's a liability."

You taste the sauce with a small spoon, deliberately ignoring his comment.

"Maybe to you. To me, it's independence," you reply, reaching for the pasta strainer. "Can you grab the colander?"

Harry sighs but complies, retrieving it from where it hangs under the sink. His movements are fluid, economical. A man who never wastes energy.

"Independence," he repeats the word like it's a concept he finds amusing. "Everyone depends on someone, angel. The sooner you accept that, the safer you'll be."

Steam rises between you as you pour the pasta into the colander, the hot water rushing through the holes and disappearing down the drain. Harry watches your movements intently, as if even this mundane task deserves his full analysis.

"I grew up depending on my parents for everything," you explain, carefully shaking the excess water from the pasta. "Got to college...felt like I'd been thrown in the ocean and left to fend for myself. I want to learn, Harry."

Something flickers across his face, a shadow you've come to recognize. It appears whenever you reference your family, your normal upbringing, all the things he never had. His fingers tap against the counter, a brief rhythm before he stills them.

"Learning to swim and drowning yourself are different things," he replies, his voice softer than usual, almost contemplative. "You think I didn't learn? Fourteen years old, kicked out on the street. No college dorms. No meal plans."

He reaches past you to take the colander, his movements controlled as he transfers the pasta back to the pot. His proximity is deliberate, a reminder of his physical presence.

"I learned every fucking day," he continues, the curse word slipping out casually. "Difference is, I learned that independence is an illusion people sell themselves to feel better about their vulnerabilities."

Harry turns to face you fully now, leaning his hip against the counter. His eyes, always intense, search yours.

"But if you need to prove something to yourself, fine. Just don't confuse stubbornness with strength, angel. Not in my world."

He reaches out, tucking a strand of your golden-brown hair behind your ear, his touch gentler than his words.

"Now, are we going to eat this pasta, or just philosophize over it until it gets cold?"

"You're the one who started," you tease, rolling your eyes playfully.

"Always quick with that mouth," he murmurs, but there's no heat behind it. Just that private amusement that makes you feel like you've accomplished something significant, making Harry Styles almost lighthearted.

You turn your head, kissing his palm. "Get the garlic bread from the oven. I'll plate the pasta."

A low chuckle escapes him, the sound rough like he doesn't use it often enough. He lets his hand trail down your cheek before dropping it.

Harry moves with natural authority, grabbing an oven mitt, looking ridiculously out of place in his hand, and retrieving the golden-brown garlic bread. The scent fills the small kitchen, making it feel more like home than it usually does.

"Smells decent," he comments, which from him is high praise.

“Of course it does. I did half the work”

Harry's lips curve into that dangerous half-smile that makes his enemies nervous and sends heat through your body.

"Half the work?" he repeats, setting his bread down with controlled precision. "Sweetheart, you stirred the sauce twice and then burned yourself. I wouldn't call that half."

He steps closer, towering over you with that natural intimidation that follows him everywhere. When he reaches out, it's to brush a strand of hair from your face, the gesture surprisingly gentle from hands that have done such violent things.

"But if it makes you feel better to think you contributed..." he continues, voice dropping lower, "I'll let you have it."

"Let me have it?" You scoff,. "How gracious of you. Next you'll be telling me you let me win at Scrabble last week."

Harry's eyes darken slightly at your challenge, but there's amusement there too, the kind he reserves solely for you.

"I never let anyone win anything," he states flatly. "You beat me fair and square. Though your choice of words was...educational."

He gestures toward the table, a subtle command in the movement.

"Sit. Eat. Before I decide to show you exactly what I meant by 'letting you have it.'"

The double meaning hangs in the air between you, charged with promise.

You almost choke on your own spit, ignoring his comment as you sit, “I don’t know what you’re taking about. I used perfectly reasonable words”

Harry watches you with predatory amusement as you try to recover, settling into the chair across from you. The small table means your knees brush against his under the surface.

"Perfectly reasonable," he repeats, twirling pasta around his fork with deliberate movements. "Is that what we're calling 'fellatio' now? Especially when you played it on a triple word score."

His expression remains neutral, but his eyes are dancing with that dark humor that makes your stomach flip.

"It's a medical term," you defend yourself primly, taking a bite of pasta to hide your smile. "Not my fault you have a dirty mind."

Harry makes a low sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a growl.

"Angel, my mind isn't just dirty. It's fucking filthy." He takes a sip of wine, eyes never leaving yours. "Especially where you're concerned."

You ignore him, simply because you were too flustered to respond.

As you both ate from two mismatched plates, you catch him surveying your apartment again, his eyes lingering on the windows, the door, the fire escape visible through the kitchen window. Always assessing, always planning for threats.

"Stop casing my apartment like you're planning to rob it," you say without looking up, knowing exactly what he's doing.

Harry sets the fork down, his lips quirking up at one corner.

"If I was planning to rob it, angel, you wouldn't see me casing it," he replies, picking up the kife and cutting the bread with precise movements. "And there's nothing here worth taking."

Your jaw drops. Harry watches your theatrical reaction with that amusement dancing in his eyes. He sets the knife down deliberately, turning to face you fully as you cross your arms over your chest.

He pauses, his eyes finding yours across the small space. "Except you."

The casual possessiveness in his tone should probably concern you more than it does.

"Oh no you don't! Don't try to fix it by saying that," you exclaim, fighting the smile threatening to break through your mock offense.

"Fix it?" Harry repeats, his voice dropping lower. "When have you ever known me to backtrack on anything I've said, sweetheart?"

"So you don't think I own anything of value?".

"Your textbooks might fetch fifty cents at a second-hand store," he says thoughtfully, then gestures toward your living room. "That TV's at least two generations old. Your laptop's password is your birthday. Backwards. Hardly secure."

His hand reaches out, fingers lightly gripping your chin. The touch is gentle but firm, a contradiction like everything else about him.

"But value? That's subjective, isn't it?" His voice drops lower. "To me, the only thing of value in this entire building is standing right in front of me, getting worked up over pasta and garlic bread."

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his expression shifting to something more serious.

"I could buy you anything, Y/N. Everything. But the one thing I want is the thing you insist on giving freely. That's the fucking irony."

The room feels smaller suddenly, the air between you charged with something electric. Your mock indignation melts away under his touch, your voice dropping to a whisper that betrays your affected composure.

"Which is?" you ask, the words barely audible.

Harry's eyes darken as they track the movement of your lips. His thumb still rests against your bottom lip, applying the slightest pressure. The pasta forgotten on the table in front of you.

"Your trust," he answers, his voice rough around the edges. "Your fucking choice to be here. With me."

His free hand grips your chair, pulling you towards him as if you weighed nothing

"I've bought loyalty. I've bought silence. I've bought respect," he continues, his free hand moving to your waist, fingers splaying possessively against the fabric of his shirt that you're wearing. "But I can't buy the way you look at me when you think I don't notice."

His grip on your chin tightens slightly, tilting your face up further.

"Can't buy the way you kiss me like I'm not the monster everyone else sees," he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. "Can't buy the way you argue with me when men twice your size wouldn't dare."

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. The intensity in his gaze makes your heart race, the danger and desire inseparable with Harry.

"That's the irony, angel. The one fucking thing I can't obtain through force or money is the only thing I actually want."

He leans in closer, his lips nearly brushing yours.

"Now tell me again how you don't own anything of value."

The tension between you stretches taut for a moment, his confession hanging in the air, raw and unexpected from a man who guards his thoughts like state secrets. Your heart pounds against your ribs, his words sending heat spiraling through your body.

And then, in classic Y/N fashion, you break it with humor.

"I... I have a limited edition eyeshadow palette that was hard to get," you whisper, your eyes wide with mock seriousness. "Better go lock it up."

For a split second, Harry's expression freezes in disbelief. Then something rare happens, he laughs. Not the calculated chuckle he uses in business meetings or the cold sound that makes his enemies nervous, but a genuine laugh that transforms his face entirely.

His forehead drops to yours, his body still caging you against the chair but now slightly shaking with amusement.

"Fucking hell, angel," he mutters, his fingers moving from your chin to curl around the nape of your neck. "You're impossible."

His other hand tightens at your waist, pulling you onto his lap. The heat of his body seeps through the thin fabric of the shirt you're wearing.

"Here I am, practically confessing, " he cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly. "And you're worried about fucking makeup."

Before you can respond with another quip, his mouth captures yours in a kiss that's equal parts punishment and reward. His lips move against yours with practiced precision, knowing exactly how to make your knees weak, how to steal the breath from your lungs.

When he pulls back, just enough to look into your eyes, his expression has shifted back to that dangerous intensity.

"Keep making jokes, sweetheart," he murmurs against your lips. "We both know it's how you handle things that scare you."

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you impossibly closer.

"And we both know I fucking terrify you sometimes," he adds, his voice dropping to that velvet-rough tone that makes your insides liquify. "Don't we?"

"You dont scare me. You’re like...a big kitten"

Harry's eyes narrow dangerously at your words, but there's a glint of something like appreciation beneath the surface, that constant push-pull between you that he secretly craves.

"A kitten," he repeats slowly, testing the word like it's foreign on his tongue.

His hand slides from the nape of your neck to wrap gently around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there as a reminder of his strength, his control. His thumb traces your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat that betrays your casual words.

"Interesting theory," he murmurs, leaning in until his lips brush the shell of your ear. "Should we test it?"

In one fluid movement, he lifts you onto the table, pasta and dinner forgotten. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them so he can step between them, bringing your bodies flush against each other. The wood is cold against your bare legs, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him.

"Kittens purr," he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes your stomach flip. "They play with their food."

His lips trail down your neck, teeth grazing lightly over your skin.

"They have claws," he continues, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing the hem of his shirt higher on your legs. "And they take what they want."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with desire but still calculating, still watching your reactions with that intense focus.

"Still think I'm a kitten, Y/N?" he challenges, his thumbs tracing circles on your inner thighs. "Or should I show you exactly what kind of animal I really am?"

The pasta continues cooling on the plates beside you, dinner clearly taking a backseat to the heat building between you.

The shrill sound of the doorbell cuts through the charged atmosphere like a knife, jarring and unexpected. Harry's body tenses immediately, his hands stilling on your thighs as his posture shifts from predatory to alert in an instant.

"Expecting someone?" he asks, his voice suddenly cold, all traces of playfulness vanished.

Before you can even answer, he's already moving, one hand reaching beneath his jacket that hangs on your kitchen chair, extracting a matte black handgun you hadn't even realized was there.

"Harry, " you start, sliding off the table quickly.

He holds up a hand, silencing you with a single gesture. His entire demeanor has transformed. This isn't your Harry anymore, with his teasing smirks and possessive touches. This is the Harry that makes men disappear, that runs half the city's underground.

"Behind me," he instructs, voice leaving no room for argument.

The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time. Harry moves silently toward your apartment door, positioning himself at an angle where he won't be immediately visible when it opens. The gun hangs at his side, finger resting beside the trigger rather than on it, a small mercy that indicates he hasn't completely lost his composure.

He glances back at you, jaw tight. "Who would be coming here unannounced?"

Your heart pounds in your chest, the mood completely shattered. The food sits forgotten on the table as Harry waits for your answer, his entire body coiled like a spring ready to release.

"I'm not opening that door until I know who's on the other side," he says, voice low and dangerous. "So I suggest you start talking, angel."

The doorbell rings a third time, followed by an impatient knock.

"Harry, don't be ridiculous. This building is mostly for students. Just let me answer the door. it could be anyone"

His expression darkens at your dismissal of his concern, his jaw tightening visibly. The gun doesn't lower.

"Ridiculous?" he repeats, the word sharp with tension. "There's nothing ridiculous about security, Y/N."

The knocking continues, more insistent now. You move toward the door, but Harry's arm shoots out, blocking your path. His eyes, cold and calculating now, lock with yours.

"Just because you live in a building full of students doesn't mean everyone who comes knocking is harmless," he says, voice low and controlled. "You think my enemies don't know about you? You think they wouldn't use a fucking college kid as bait?"

You can see the genuine concern beneath his harsh exterior. The fear that isn't for himself but for you. It's one of those rare glimpses of vulnerability that he would never admit to.

"Fine," he concedes after a moment, tucking the gun into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, concealed but accessible. "Answer it. But I'm standing right here."

He positions himself just to the side of the door, where he won't be immediately visible but can intervene in seconds. His entire body remains tense, ready to spring into action.

"Go on then," he says with a nod toward the door, his voice softening just slightly. "But if it's someone you don't know, you close that door immediately. Understood?"

The knocking comes again, followed by a muffled voice that sounds young, possibly female. Harry watches you intently, waiting for your recognition or confusion, already calculating his next move before you've even reached for the doorknob.

As you open the door, Harry remains coiled and ready just out of sight. When you greet the visitor by name, some of the lethal tension leaves his body, though his hand still hovers near his lower back where the gun is concealed.

Standing in your doorway is Jess, petite with short blue hair, wearing pajama pants and a university sweatshirt. Her expression is apologetic.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," she says, fidgeting slightly with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. "But I think your shower is leaking into my bathroom ceiling? There's like, a growing water stain and some dripping."

Her eyes flick past you, catching a glimpse of Harry's imposing figure lurking in your apartment. Her eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting you to have company.

"Oh! I didn't realize you had someone over," she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "I can come back later if, "

Harry steps partially into view, his expression neutral but intimidating. He's tucked the gun away completely now, but his presence alone is enough to make Jess take a small step back.

"Plumbing issue?" he asks, his voice deceptively casual as he places a possessive hand on the small of your back. "I can take a look at it."

The offer is surprising, Harry Styles, mob boss, offering to check your leaky shower. But you recognize it for what it is: his way of controlling the situation, of ensuring no strangers need to enter your apartment.

Jess blinks rapidly, clearly intimidated by Harry's sudden appearance and intense gaze. "Um, yeah, it's just, there's water coming through my ceiling. From her bathroom, I think."

Harry nods once, decisive. "We'll handle it."

The 'we' doesn't escape your notice, nor does the way his fingers press slightly more firmly against your back, a silent reminder of his presence.

As soon as the door closes, you turn to face Harry, unable to resist pointing out his overreaction. His hand remains on your lower back, warm and possessive.

"See? Jessica from 1C didn't come to strangle me," you say with a teasing lilt to your voice.

Harry doesn't share your amusement. His eyes remain serious, that calculating look still present as he glances back at the door.

"This time," he replies flatly, finally removing his hand from your back to run it through his dark hair. "Blue hair, five-foot-nothing, no visible weapons. Could still be working for someone."

You start to laugh, thinking he's joking, but his expression remains deadly serious.

"You're not kidding," you realize aloud, your smile fading.

"No, I'm not," he confirms, moving past you toward your bathroom. "This building has shit security. Anyone could walk in. No doorman, no cameras in the hallways, locks a child could pick."

He pauses at the bathroom door, turning back to look at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"You think I'm paranoid? Paranoid keeps people alive in my world, angel."

Without waiting for a response, he enters your small bathroom, kneeling to examine the plumbing under your sink. The sight is almost comical, Harry Styles, feared mob boss, inspecting your pipes in his expensive clothes.

"Your neighbor seems scared of her own shadow," He comments as he works, his voice echoing slightly in the tiled room. "Good. Scared people don't ask questions."

He glances up at you, standing in the doorway. "That pasta's getting cold. Might as well eat while I check this. Shower's probably just needs a new seal."

The casual domesticity of his words contrasts sharply with the gun still tucked into his waistband, visible now as his shirt rides up while he works.

You settle on the counter, plate balanced in your lap, watching as Harry returns from the bathroom. There's something fascinating about seeing him in this light, handling mundane problems with the same efficiency he probably applies to his more illicit activities.

You would have made an inappropriate joke about the sexy plumber seducing you but decided against it

"So... where did you learn to fix plumbing issues?" you ask, twirling pasta around your fork.

Harry grabs his own plate, but remains standing, leaning against the opposite counter. Something about him never quite relaxes enough to sit properly when he doesn't have to.

"When you live in the places I've lived," he says, taking a bite of pasta, "you either learn to fix things yourself or you live with them broken."

He chews thoughtfully, then adds: "Foster home number three. Pipes burst in winter. Foster father was too drunk to call someone, too broke to pay them if he did. I was eleven."

He delivers this information casually, as if discussing the weather rather than another fragment of his broken childhood. These rare glimpses into his past always come unexpectedly, dropped into conversation like they don't matter, when you both know they shaped everything he became.

"Your shower's fine," he continues, changing the subject abruptly. "It's the seal around the drain that's worn out. Easy fix. I'll have someone come tomorrow."

Before you can protest about handling it yourself, he adds: "Someone I trust. Who won't report back about the layout of your apartment or the fact that you sleep with your window unlocked."

His eyes meet yours over his plate, challenging you to argue.

"This pasta's decent," he says, the closest thing to a compliment your cooking is likely to receive. "Though the garlic bread's burnt on the bottom."

"Hey! You were on oven duty," you protest, pointing your fork accusingly at him. "I don't accept this defamation."

A hint of amusement crosses Harry's face, softening his features momentarily. He takes another bite of the pasta, eyebrow raised.

"I was distracted," he replies, his voice dropping lower. "Someone was walking around in my shirt, looking like that."

His eyes travel deliberately down your body, lingering on your bare legs dangling from the counter. The intensity in his gaze makes heat rise to your cheeks despite yourself.

"Besides," he continues, setting his plate down and moving toward you, "I don't recall hearing any complaints about my performance in other areas."

He positions himself between your legs, hands resting on either side of your thighs on the counter. The casual intimacy of the position, him standing between your parted knees, your plate still balanced in your lap, feels both domestic and charged.

"Eat your dinner, angel," he instructs, voice gentler than before. "Then I'll take a proper look at that shower."

You take another bite, watching him over your fork.

"You know, normal boyfriends don't carry guns to dinner," you comment, unable to help yourself.

Harry's expression darkens slightly, though not with anger.

"Normal boyfriends don't have enemies who would put a bullet in their head for territory," he counters, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Or who would hurt what's theirs to send a message."

His thumb traces your cheekbone, the gesture at odds with his harsh words.

"If normal is what you want, " he starts, then stops himself, jaw tightening. "You knew what I was when you got into this, Y/N."

The rare use of your full name instead of a pet name underscores the seriousness of his statement.

"Kidding, kidding. God, no one can make a joke around here," you say with an exaggerated eye roll. "Eat," you command firmly.

Your teasing tone breaks through his serious demeanor, and Harry blinks in surprise as you shove a forkful of pasta into his mouth.

Harry's eyes widen slightly at your boldness, but then something unexpected happens, he actually complies, chewing the pasta you've fed him. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he swallows.

"Demanding tonight, aren't we?" he says, but the tension has left his shoulders. He reaches for his own plate again, leaning against the counter beside you rather than caging you in.

There's a comfortable silence as you both eat, the earlier heaviness dissipating into something more relaxed. Harry glances at your mismatched plates, the cheap cutlery, the faded dish towel hanging from the oven door.

"You know," he says after a moment, his tone lighter, "when I was your age, I was eating cold pizza over a sink most nights. If I ate at all."

It's offered casually, not as a bid for sympathy but almost like an admission, that despite his criticisms of your apartment, he understands something about making do with what you have.

He takes another bite, then adds: "This is better."

The simple statement carries weight coming from him, Harry Styles doesn't give compliments easily, and rarely acknowledges when something is good in his life.

"Your neighbor's going to be telling everyone about the scary man in apartment 2C now," he comments, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Might help with your building security, actually. No one will dare knock on your door."

He reaches over to steal a piece of garlic bread from your plate, the gesture surprisingly normal, almost playful.

You watch as Harry takes a bite of the stolen garlic bread, a small smile playing on your lips. There's something endearing about seeing him do something so ordinary as food theft, a glimpse of what might have been in another life.

"Hey, look at you now. At 27, you have three private chefs under your hand," you point out. "I'd say you've done well for yourself."

Harry chews thoughtfully, considering your words. There's a flicker of something in his eyes, perhaps pride, perhaps something more complicated.

"Three chefs, two mansions, and enough enemies to fill a stadium," he replies with a wry twist to his mouth. "The American dream."

He sets his empty plate in the sink, turning to lean against the counter facing you. In the soft kitchen light, some of his sharp edges seem softer. Not gone, never gone, but less pronounced.

"Done well for myself," he repeats your words, testing them. "Depends on who you ask. My probation officer would disagree."

This is delivered with a hint of dark humor, you both know he hasn't had a probation officer in years. He's well beyond the reach of conventional law enforcement now.

"But yeah," he continues, surprising you with his candor, "from where I started? Could've gone much worse."

He reaches for your empty plate, taking it from your hands and placing it in the sink with his. The domestic gesture is at odds with the man you know he is outside these walls, but that contradiction is part of what drew you to him in the first place.

"You know what's strange?" he asks, turning back to you. "Having dinner in a normal apartment, with normal problems like leaky showers and burnt garlic bread. Sometimes I forget what that's like."

He doesn't say the rest, that you're his connection to a world he left behind long ago, a glimpse into an ordinary life he sacrificed for power and survival.

"Well, no matter how you got to where you are, I'm proud of you Harry. Truly," you say softly, meaning every word.

Your words hit him like a physical force, he actually stills, his hand freezing halfway through running it through his hair. Something vulnerable flashes across his face before he can mask it.

Harry looks at you for a long moment, his expression uncharacteristically open. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than usual.

"Proud," he repeats, as if testing how the word feels. "That's... that's not something I hear often."

“Well, now you’re hearing it from me”

He moves closer to you again, but this time it's different, less predatory, more seeking. His hands find your waist, thumbs brushing against the fabric of his shirt that you're wearing.

"You're proud of a criminal," he says, but there's no bite to it, just a statement of fact. "A man who's done things that would make you run if you knew all of them."

His forehead drops to rest against yours, an unexpectedly tender gesture.

"You're something else, angel," he murmurs. "Looking at the devil and seeing something worth saving."

One hand leaves your waist to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with surprising gentleness.

"I don't deserve it," he admits quietly. "But I'm selfish enough to take it anyway."

The confession hangs in the air between you, more honest than his usual carefully constructed responses. For a moment, he's not the feared mob boss or the dangerous criminal, he's just a man who never heard the words 'I'm proud of you' growing up.

"Contrary to whatever belief you have, it's normal for girlfriends to be proud of their boyfriends," you state matter-of-factly, reaching up to touch his face. "Okay? Doesn't matter for what."

Your words make him pull back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. The vulnerability is still there, raw and unfamiliar on his features.

Harry lets out a short laugh, but it's not entirely humorous.

"Normal girlfriends are proud of their boyfriends for getting promotions or running marathons," he says, his hand still cradling your face. "Not for successfully running three territories without starting a war. Not for, "

He cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly.

"Christ, Y/N," he breathes out. "The things you make me feel... they're dangerous. Make me weak."

Your eyes meet his, challenging.

"Is that what you think this is?" you ask softly. "Weakness?"

His thumb traces your bottom lip, his eyes following the movement.

"No," he admits finally. "It's the only thing that makes me feel fucking human anymore."

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours again.

"But don't say you're proud of me," he murmurs. "Not when I'm the reason you have to check your car for bombs. Not when I'm why you can't tell your parents who you're dating. Not when, "

Your kiss silences his self-deprecating spiral, soft but insistent. Harry responds immediately, one hand sliding to the nape of your neck while the other grips your hip.

"Shut up," you murmur against his lips.

A low sound rumbles in his chest, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. When he pulls back slightly, his eyes are darker, but there's a hint of amusement in them.

"Telling me to shut up now?" he asks, his voice rough but lighter than before. "That's brave of you, angel."

His fingers thread through your hair, gentle despite his words.

"You're the only person who can get away with that, you know," he adds softly, something like wonder in his tone. "The only one who can tell me to shut up and live to tell about it."

You roll your eyes at his dramatics.

"Lucky me," you tease, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Harry's expression softens just slightly, that rare genuine smile tugging at his lips.

"No," he corrects, pulling you closer. "Lucky me."

His lips find yours again, this time with more intent, effectively ending any further discussion about worth or pride or danger. The pasta grows cold in the sink, forgotten as he loses himself in the one person who sees past his carefully constructed walls.

As you both finish loading the last dishes into your tiny dishwasher, there's a comfortable silence between you. Harry checks his phone, his expression shifting back to something more business-like.

"I need to go," he says, tucking the phone away. "Got a meeting I can't miss."

You try not to think about what kind of meeting requires his attention at this hour.

"Someone will be here tomorrow morning to fix that shower," he continues, shrugging on his jacket and checking that his gun is secure. "Don't let anyone in unless they give you the password."

"Let me guess," you say dryly, leaning against the counter. "The password is 'Harry Styles is the most humble man alive'?"

Harry's lips twitch as he adjusts his cuffs.

"Close. It's 'burnt garlic bread,'" he replies, stepping closer to you. "And they'll show proper ID. My people know the drill."

His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek in what's become a familiar gesture.

"Lock the door behind me," he instructs, his tone serious despite your earlier teasing. "All of them. And for fuck's sake, close that window in your bedroom."

"Yes, sir," you mock salute, earning a warning look that holds more affection than heat.

He kisses you one last time, deep and thorough, like he's memorizing the taste of you.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he says against your lips before pulling away. "Stay safe, angel."

You follow him to the door, watching as he checks the hallway before stepping out.

"Harry?" you call softly before he can leave.

He turns, eyebrow raised.

"I'm still proud of you," you say with a small smile.

Something flashes across his face, too quick to catch, before he shakes his head slightly, that rare genuine smile making another appearance.

"Impossible woman," he mutters, but there's warmth in his voice. "Lock the door, Y/N."

You do as he asks, hearing his footsteps fade down the hallway, knowing that somewhere in the building, his security team is watching, making sure he leaves safely. It's just another normal night with your not-so-normal boyfriend.

· · ─────────────────────── · ·

A/N: What do we think of these two so far? Thought I’d start with something simple.

Taglist: @silastylesswift @babegoals @harryssunflower17 @puzio19

#ghstyles #harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles series #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot

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frownyalfred · 5 months ago

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Arkham Prince - Masterlist of Posts

I've linked the major asks below with a preview (edited for length) below, grouped by subject/theme and rough chronological order of how I received them. Additional shorter asks/clarifying questions, as well as shorter bits of commentary are at the very bottom.

The very first post:

I have been thinking about the idea of Bruce going insane without being Batman, about Batman being his coping mechanism, and that reblog that was like "he would definitely have ended up in Arkham if he didnt make Batman." Now I'm thinking of an AU where that is exactly the case, and maybe Clark expands his interest towards Gotham a bit, as much as he doesnt like heroing there, because it is the neighbor city of Metropolis. It's like his backyard. And maybe he wants to understand the problem of Gotham at the root, so he goes as Clark Kent, reporter, to interview the patients at Arkham, and there meets Bruce Wayne. Maybe falls in love. Maybe its angsty as fuck because this Bruce is 10 times less adjusted than the Bruce we're used to, but of course, equally as brilliant. (Maybe he could escape any time he wanted but thinks he would murder people if so. Maybe he doesnt trust his anger.)

Expanding Asks:

the idea of arkham patient bruce wayne has burrowed into the depths of my mind. this is SUCH a fascinating thought and changes so many things…how does the justice league fare without batman? how does alfred? i’d assume alfred is given bruce’s guardianship when he’s institutionalized, and i could even see him taking in the robins – finding and helping these children who remind him so much of his own boy, trying not to fail them as he failed bruce. how bruce himself does in arkham is so interesting to consider…is he kept on the same level of security as the real supervillains? is he moved there after Events?

Clark, realizing the League has a problem, a trap from someone like Lex they don't know how to unknot, something which requires finesse and strategy which is a little beyond them... taking that stroll (flight) down to Gotham, feeling insane himself for seeking advise here of all places... but the Arkham Prince delivers. Clark explains the situation, answers questions that he had no idea related to the issue, and Bruce hands him the solution in the span of 10 minutes, while the League had been brainstorming and going in circles over this for days...

Clark Kent and the Arkham Prince Finding Common Ground:

clark’s first attempt to interview the prince of arkham go about as well as you might expect, given that he’s a reporter with sunshine all but seeping out of his pores. the first time bruce doesn’t even talk to him, too furious at the gall of this metropolitan newshound to interrogate him for the sake of some gruesome, sensationalist op-ed obviously about the tragedy of the family wayne and the irredeemable mire of gotham to do anything more than death-glare at him for the entire length of the meeting. but clark, unsatisfyingly, doesn’t give up after that. if bruce doesn’t talk to him, he sure talks to bruce, and with each subsequent interview the questions…change. no longer trying to establish facts about bruce’s life or his crimes, not asking about his experience in arkham, not even going for the low-hanging fruit of why’d you train for years to kill those people, but seemingly random and unrelated things. he wants bruce’s opinions on emissions policies (need to be stricter and more tightly enforced, especially in gotham, jesus, there’s a reason lung cancer and asthma rates are through the roof) and lex luthor’s keynote speeches (unprintable, wiped from clark’s tape recorder in case luthor somehow finds out) and whether or not clark should buy a new suit (why bother, it won’t be any less tragic than every other polyester abomination he cruelly forces bruce to look at every time he stops by). clark slowly and stubbornly makes himself as much a part of bruce’s routine as visits with alfred and lucius and the doctors, and all the while superman is playing a high-stakes game of mental chess with the sinking suspicion that bruce wayne has already won in more ways than one bruce figures out kent is superman about three hours after the first time big blue gets namedropped during an interview. he commences with a plan that is part honeypot, part campaign of psychological warfare, and part genuine bid to get this midwestern alien who holds the safety of his city in his hands to try and give a damn like a proper gothamite would, like no one but bruce ever seems to.

Clark, whose one of his grestest fears is being constrained, treated as a threat, dissected, studied, as the alien specimen he is. He has to pretend. He had to be so careful. Every day or he won't have a life to live.

Clark asking the Arkham Prince to Consult for the JL:

i would kill to have clark-as-supes get some kind of special dispensation to bring arkham prince bruce to the jl hideout (the watchtower doesn’t to be without batman’s engineering/logistics knowhow and WE funding, at least not until bruce is more formally considered a consultant) for help on one of lex’s more convoluted and immediate threats. it’s just not possible for bruce to solve the problem in isolation without the league’s resources, so instead of bringing league missions to bruce superman has to bring bruce to the league mission. i started imagining the team’s reaction to their unwitting reliance on criminally insane mass murderer bruce wayne and then i remembered oliver exists and now i feel only sadness thinking about that particular reunion

Just wondering how regular JL universe would react to meeting this au, meeting Batman and seeing Bruce Wayne's potential Would they realize that their Bruce is limited by what he can do inside Arkham, but that this Batman is also limited by his own rules and codes. Would Ollie be crushed at what his former friend could have been, thinking maybe if he had stepped up and been a "better friend" Bruce wouldn't be in Arkham, he could of been working beside him instead. Can imagine Batman saying "I don't kill" and Bruce just smiling in what should have been the brucie smile and replying "but I do"

The crossover is so funny in regards to Supes. Like here's Arkham Prince AU Clark, terribly in love with a version of Bruce who is so unavailable to him on so many levels, aching with it every time he dares think about it, staring at Regular Universe Clark in complete and utter disbelief. (expansion of "regular JL universe" ask above)

Your take on Prince of Arkham's level of influence on JL members, at the top being of course Clark. And also: first time he is taken into the JL base, does he hack into their systems?

OMG arkham bruce and clark have gotten closer and maybe clark makes bruce promise not to kill again after bruce gets out of arkham so he can join the jl but then someone is killed and theres evidence it was bruce but bruce swears it wasnt him ( bc it wasn’t him ) but theres so much evidence that even clark is starting to doubt bruces innocence and the jl has to kick him out and hes taken back to Arkham or for interrogation and then ANGST BRUCE BEING TORTURED FOR CONFESSION BUT HE STILL SWEARS HE DIDNT DO IT until its proven that he didnt do it

@bat-chik's Harvey Dent Visits Bruce in Arkham

"We can't even claim self defense," Harvey continued. "You-" "He has cancer." Harvey blinked at the non-sequitur, "What?" Finally, the orphaned Wayne turned and faced him, face blank, unconcerned about how much more this action would add to his sentencing. Unconcerned except for the steel eyes seething yet holding back so much hurt. Harvey remembered once again, with a small pang, why he had gotten a crush on Bruce in their college days. "Nygma. He has cancer. The only way to get medical care in Arkham is by ending up in the hospital wing." Bruce moved with all the weight of the world on his shoulders and sat in the bolted chair across from his lawyer, and life long friend.

Where are the Batkids in This?

pls consider. a dick greyson who gets tossed in arkham after tracking down and torturing then killing killing his parent's murderer. tiny and lost now that what was driving him is done. a bruce wayne who hasnt been in That long yet, not long enough for people to see him as a threat rather than just an oddity, who takes one look at that angry little kid and says "oh. oh that ones mine" and spends as much time with the kid as he can. and bruce Loves gotham, thats his whole drive. but to dick, gotham is nothing but the place his world crumbled. and i think this bruce never sat with his feelings of grief either. i think he always needed a cause. and i think he saw dick having lost his cause and tries to help him find another (id like to put forth escaping as a hobby, managing to get into Any part of arkham that he pleases especially with his athleticism and small size)

It would be funny if in the Arkham Prince AU, since all the kids are in there for being um - gremlins and down with murder - that Jason in this was the pacifist?

Re: Jason being the pacifist: "I will follow you forever because you killed him." Endlessly devoted Jason my beloved. If you give him one (1) positive attention he will light himself on fire to keep you warm. I love him so much. Self destructive king.

Tim committing a crime just to end up in Arkham and study the famed insane Bruce Wayne is actually startlingly in character for him...

Clarifying Asks:

when do you see him as getting committed? was he already batman? did he already have any of his kids? if not, what *happened* to those kids who never had bruce to fight for them?

Okay, but since Bruce is the Prince of Arkham, whats stopping his kids from being in there with him?

Oh I am sooooooooo curious about what Clark thinks about Arkham Bruce having a gaggle of prison murder children.…you ever think he’s asked Dick to give Clark flowers during one of his escapes????? Or is that too corny for them.

I've seen some Arkham Prince asks and responses referring to Bruce still being rich, but would he still be?

Additional Thoughts:

i am torn between the other Inmates Hating bruce (hes the picture of those who hurt them. a rich man who is just like them but gets Way less pain for it) and adoring him

Picture this, Alfred goes to see Haly's, sees another black haired blue eyed child losing his parents at just about the same age. Another feral child with murder in his eyes.

it’s extremely important to me to consider arkham prince bruce with longer, shaggy hair and a perpetual three-day beard

The smut in the Arkham Prince AU would be INSANE.

This Arkham Prince AU has folks in a choke hold but ya'll forget one thing. The Joker and Harley Quinn.

god i am just exploding thinking about bruce and sex in the arkham prince au. there is absolutely no way he’s not accustomed to exchanging sex for favors, information, anything he wants or needs. (additional thoughts on how Clark fits into this/Superbat)

Okay hi so my main source of Arkham knowledge is the Penguin show so I’m gonna ramble a bit about factions and divides and stuff. (Sofia Falcone expansion)

continuing my thoughts on Sofia Falcone coming off your great opinions to my last ask.

There is a parallel thread between Bruce and Sofia

#arkham prince #arkham prince au #batman #bruce wayne #dc #asks #anon #batfamily #clark kent #superman #superbat #jl #justice league #fic ideas #fic outline

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lsunstreakerl · 26 days ago

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hello everyone I have tiny platonic max and george brainworms so here you go! 3k of the most unorganized universe ever LOL. gen, max POV, george POV, alex POV, christian POV, and an extremely brief nico POV. this is kind of in chronological order? it's little snapshots, don't think too hard about it.

"George."

Max shoves at his shoulder, hissing his name through his teeth. They both hate running, which means it's a team effort. It's also a terrible start to their day, considering waking each other up feels like more of a high pressure sport than the actual driving.

"Wake up."

He shoves again, and George throws an arm out, halfheartedly smacking him in the face.

"I'm up, I'm up. Christ, you're as graceful as a fucking tractor."

"At least I'm consistent."

"Consistently dickish."

George slides off his futon, fumbling for his water next to the bed while Max waits impatiently. He takes his time, and Max is sure that he's only doing it to be an annoyance.

"Your shoe is untied."

"No it's not."

George lowers the bottle, scowling.

"It literally is, I'm looking right at it."

Max is pointedly not looking at it.

"I don't see it."

"Because you're not looking—"

------

George has never hated anyone as much as he hates Max. Mostly because Max eats four eggs in a single sitting, has the most dorkish reading glasses he's ever seen, snores like a freight train, and is one of the greatest drivers he knows.

There are very few good qualities about him, limited to his relentless dedication to both of their training, his willingness to carry inside all the grocery bags in one trip, and his sharp eye for contracts. George is better with sponsors, so whenever they have new terms and conditions it usually eats up all of their limited spare time, taking highlighters to paper packets they'd printed out at the library that stack higher than their arms.

It's what they're currently doing now as they eat their way through an entire bag of grapes. Max is squinting down at a reworked section of George's contract, brows furrowed, and George has been attacking a predatory sponsor offer for Max with as much red ink as he can.

It seems like the perfect moment to bring it up.

"Alex is coming to London."

Max blinks, eyes still glued to the contract.

"Okay."

George crosses out another line, adding four question marks above it.

"He needs somewhere to stay."

"Is he bringing his own futon or are you both sharing? I'm not giving up mine."

That... was easier than he thought. He's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth— if Max has any issues, he's not voicing them. And Max always voices his issues.

Max looks up, properly confused as George's words actually register.

"Wait, he's not emancipated? Is he?"

George makes a face, rolling his pen across the table.

"No, his family is fine. He just needs to be closer to karting."

Max narrows his eyes, looking at George suspiciously. The effect is somewhat ruined by his giant glasses.

"And you're not going to fuck on the futon?"

George's eyes go so wide he worries briefly they'll pop out of his skull, right before he lunges out of his chair and tackles Max to the floor.

"No, you stupid git, we're not going to— what is wrong with you?"

He tries to whack at Max's head, but Max gets his knees up between them, bracing himself in a familiar way that George has learned means he's either going to get a foot in the gut or a headbutt so hard he see stars. Max chooses the foot.

"Oof—!"

George rolls off of him, scrambling a few feet to get a pillow off of the couch before wheeling back around, holding it over his head threateningly.

"Don't do it."

Max is still sitting on the floor, but George knows better than to think it's surrender— he has no issues trying to take him out at the knees, and he has a disturbingly good success rate.

He's frowning, hair rumpled.

"You better not do shitty handjobs either, unless he is bringing in enough rent to move us into two bedrooms instead of one. I don't want to listen to it."

"Max!"

George doesn't shriek, but it's close enough, swinging the pillow down as Max rockets to his feet, darting around to put the kitchen table between them.

"It is fair!"

"We aren't fucking!"

"Not yet."

He sighs, lowering the pillow. Max is doing the dumb thing where he doesn't say what he actually means, despite generally being about as blunt as a sledgehammer.

"Will it bother you? If Alex is here?"

Max glares.

"I do not care who comes in and out as long as they are helping with rent and don't snitch."

There it is.

"Alex isn't going to tell anyone. That would screw me just as much as it would screw you, so obviously I'm not bringing him here as some kind of sabotage."

There's a slightly wounded noise from the other end of the table, and Max is making eyes at him, the sad ones that make George not hate him.

"I would not ever think you are trying to sabotage me."

"I didn't mean it like that, Max. I just meant that he's not going to tell anyone."

"Because then they would know you are in love with him?"

George is back to hating him.

------

Max had known George for longer than he'd like to admit when he moved to London. It was less of a "move" and more of "frantic scramble", and he occasionally feels that it's a miracle he wasn't murdered by any of the people who decided to help a teenager and his trailer hitchhike to the UK. The same trailer is now parked up in the driveway, but it's been gutted on the inside in order to fit both of their karts and gear.

Well. Some of their gear.

The suits and gloves and helmets are frequently tossed around the flat, and Max has accidentally found himself trying to put on the wrong pair of shoes or rib protectors more than once. George never labels his things, sleeps like the dead, and has a personal vendetta against eating anything with protein.

Max has no idea how they're going to manage Formula 4, and thinking about Formula 3 gives him hives. It's a horrifying amount of driving, there's countless plane flights they'll have to figure out tickets for, and keeping track of the sponsor agreements has been a nightmare.

He's pretty sure one of his sponsors is a paper towel manufacturer.

Not to mention neither he or George are licensed to drive actual road cars, so they're playing with fire every time they drive the trailer.

It's a bit of a nightmare, and it's a lot for two fifteen year olds. George is behind him slightly, as far as their careers, which means they have to bulldoze their way through Max's obstacles before they're able to take things slightly smoother with George.

Max has only had to sleep overnight at tracks a few times— and it helps them know which hotels are best when it's George's turn, and which ones won't look too hard at unsupervised teenagers.

He drops his head onto the table with a groan. He's halfway through a sponsor agreement, George and Alex are passed out in the bedroom, and he's only mildly panicked about the utilities bill coming up. He can probably put off getting a new pair of boots if he patches duct tape on the hole that's started to wear on the inside of his right, and they'll need to take care of George's boots first, who's hit an uncontrollable growth spurt.

He's not going to be able to wear Max's things much longer, and Alex barely brings in enough support for himself. He and Max trade off each month who's going to panic about their finances, and it's a fairly good system. His phone buzzes and he winces, because it's probably the landlord, and Max isn't sure what he's going to tell her.

"This is Max Emilian."

"Hello Max, my name is Christian Horner."

------

Christian carefully sets the phone down, staring blankly at Helmut and their talent manager.

"He's managing his own contract."

Helmut breaks into a grin, eyes sparkling.

"No Christian, weren't you listening? His manager has no legs or arms to take phone calls with, and he doesn't travel."

"Yes, and I'm sure he can only be summoned on the full moon and has to be watered with the blood of virgins as well— how the hell has he gotten this far without a manager?"

Their talent manager presses a palm to her face, sighing.

"You're going to want to sign him, aren't you."

Christian can feel a weird pang in his heart thinking about the phone call— the scratchy, pitchy voice on the other end, the clear disbelief in his voice— but Max hadn't hesitated to agree to meet with them, not even for a second. He doesn't have much of a hand in the junior teams, but it would be impossible to miss the junior rocketing through the scene, especially considering nobody's seen much of his team. There's no big name backing him, just raw speed and a pair of racing boots Christian thinks might be entirely duct tape.

"Yes, I think we will."

------

"I like the looks of the tall one— from the UK."

Nico rolls his eyes, feet kicked up on the table.

"You're just biased."

Toto takes a slow sip from his coffee, gazing at the pages of stats in front of him.

"I have to agree with Lewis, I quite like him as well. He's got good speed."

"He's a tad young, Toto."

Nico is understating it.

"I do not mind pulling a few strings. The other fast boy is being watched by Horner, and Ferrari of course have their own."

Toto sighs.

"We simply have to scout younger than we have before."

------

"Uh. I did not know there were pre-racing contracts?"

Max is looking at them slightly suspiciously, which Christian thinks is probably fair, because they're not actually a thing.

"We don't hand them out often, but we really want you on the team later, Max. The pre-racing contract just means you'll go to our junior team when you're eligible, and in the meantime you'll get a stipend for gear upkeep and flights. We might ask you to do some development driving if need be."

The trick is making it sound real, like something that makes sense for a team to be doing, instead of a glorified allowance for the kid to buy new gear. And probably groceries. Christian doesn't even want to think about whatever his living situation is, because he's been doing some digging— Max doesn't have a team. It's him and his made-up quadriplegic manager, and a scraped together group of sponsors with the kind of variety he's never seen before.

There are local mechanics and grocer's shops on the list, for Christ's sake— there's a paper towel company on his helmet.

He's close with two of the other junior drivers as well, constantly around at the junior formula races that George William is at, and he's fairly sure Toto is eyeing the younger driver.

George is in slightly better shape than Max in terms of gear, but the difference is minimal. It makes Christian want to poke his eye out.

Their little trio is rounded out with one Alex Albon, oldest of the three but not quite as fast as Max. Christian wants Helmut keeping an eye on him anyway.

"So it's a stipend?"

"Exactly."

He politely ignores the relieved slump to Max's shoulders, because it makes him want to do unprofessional things like hug him. And take him to a restaurant.

The sport is making him soft— this is why he doesn't work with junior drivers.

------

Max tells Alex about his contract stipend first, so relieved he thinks he might cry. He's already thinking about where to put the first chunk of money— they'll be able to pay off their late bills, and get George pants that actually fit, and finally have a full fridge.

Alex nudges his shoulder gently.

"And maybe some new boots for you, yeah?"

Max blinks.

"That too."

------

The bull child does not immediately buy new boots. Christian's eye twitches. Max is the youngest person running around the factory by far, not counting any of the employees that have to bring their actual children on occasion.

Christian has made sure Max's badge that he scans for meals is secretly connected to a team account, and he's informed their dev team to make sure they're taking lunch breaks.

It was more like "For the love of God please make sure he's eating", but it had gotten his point across.

Daniel is bouncing a stress ball off the wall of his office.

"Boss, I wasn't aware we were running an orphanage."

Christian ducks under the ball on his way to the desk.

"We're not. He's a talented driver, and I'm going to want him in that seat."

"I hope you've got engineering working on booster seats."

He rolls his eyes, sitting heavily in the chair.

"And don't call this an orphanage, I'm sure that's not the case. We just can't figure out who his parents are."

Daniel looks so surprised that he doesn't catch the ball, and it bounces dejectedly across the floor.

"Wait, seriously? You don't know? Mate, he's a Verstappen. Like an evil nepo baby."

Christian blinks, running through his catalogue of notable names—

Oh.

Jos Verstappen had made motorsports news with his eventual arrest and charges, and it would've been early in Max's karting career. It's not surprising Max doesn't race with the name, considering the connotations that come with it.

But if he's not managed under Jos, who the hell...

"Who the fuck's raising him then?"

Daniel's eyebrow twitches. It's one of his tells, the one that means he's about to lie to Christian's face.

"Must be a relative or something."

Right. It's quite possibly the least reassuring thing he could've said— and he's taking a clear side here, trying to somehow protect the younger driver.

Which means Max probably does not have anybody raising him. Which also means—

------

"Toto."

"Christian."

"You're taking on the William's boy, right? George?"

Toto leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together.

"Don't you have your own junior drivers? Why are you trying to poach mine?"

"I'm not trying to poach him, I'm trying to make sure they're not living out of their damn karts on the street."

At Toto's raised eyebrow, Christian elaborates.

"Max Emilian is actually Max Verstappen, and I've spent the last few weeks becoming increasingly confident that between him, George, and the older boy Alex that there is not an adult around. At all."

"Is that why you've given him an allowance?"

Christian winces.

"I was thinking that you should also do that. I can't up Max's again without him getting suspicious, and there's only so much reasonable intervention for a team to make. But he keeps spending it on the other two."

"Don't tell me he's still in the boots."

"He's still in the boots."

"My God."

------

"Max! I have another contract!"

Alex shoves his head under the pillow. He's trying to sleep, and George had been in a meeting with Williams all day before he'd caught the train back to their flat. He and Max are probably going to spend the next few hours— and following days— going over the paperwork line by line. Alex pays a manager to handle his work.

He's not sure what it says that Max and George are doing so well without one.

Max's hair is still damp, long at the edges. Alex needs to cut it soon, even if wrangling Max to stand over the sink and let Alex take a pair of scissors to his head goes well approximately never. It helps if George sits on the edge of the tub and becomes the victim to Max's thoughts on track layouts while Alex tries to focus.

His own hair is a mess, because Max and George are completely hopeless with the scissors, and he's learned it's better for him to give it his best shot with a hand mirror and a dream. They spend most of their time under balaclavas anyways.

He shoves aside his thoughts on his own career as he sits up, because he's genuinely proud of George, and he wants him to know that. His hair is grown out and starting to develop a curl pattern, and Alex often finds himself twirling strands of it absentmindedly around his fingers when they're on the couch together.

Max peers at the papers. His reading glasses are shoved up into his hair.

"Oh! You have a pre-racing stipend also!"

Alex takes a slow breath. He's not sure what the hell is going on with Max and George and their fucking racing allowances, but it's ridiculous. It's not a real thing, he knows it's not a real thing, but it's been their saving grace lately, the only thing keeping them both in racing, and Alex is petrified that if he breaths on their delicate house of cards wrong, the entire thing will come crashing down.

He couldn't do that to George. If he did do it to George, Max would probably take a hammer to his skull.

"Oh, I make more than you do."

"What?"

Alex bites his lip to avoid laughing.

"With Williams?"

Max rolls his eyes, glasses dropping to his nose as he takes the packet from George.

"George William in a Williams, that is fucked up mate. It's like if I was Max Bull in a Red Bull."

"Max Bullshit, maybe."

Alex winces at the ensuing scuffle. He should probably get in the middle of it— he's the oldest, and Max fights mean— but he'd caught a bony elbow to the face once and has no interest in it happening again.

They'll get it sorted out eventually.

#ficlet #they're so tiny #they're tiny and they hate each other #but also not #but also try to strangle each other #but also use their funds to take care of each other #are you picking up what I'm putting down #max stages an intervention when alex and george start to get older and closer #'I don't care if you fuck but you're offsetting the rent price to get a 2bed flat so I don't have to hear it'#they buy a cheap one #he ends up hearing it anyways #tiny gax verse

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lucabyte · 1 year ago

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Finally: The NoHats AU doodles. Plus some sprite edits.

Usually I'd let things speak for themselves and keep my chattering in the tags, but I'll ramble about my context thoughts...

So. First of all here's a link (x) to the Nohats Origin Post for those coming in and going ????.

Anyway. These doodles are not in any obvious chronological order, though Loop going from pilfered bandolier (my headcanon for how Siffrin has all those pockets) -> custom outfit made by Isabeau, is supposed to generally denote 'just after the ending' -> 'a few months down the line'.

And speaking of, Design & Characterisation notes:

Overall: NoHats is suppooooosed to have the range to not just be ULTIMATE MISERY ALL THE TIME (but if you're a major whump/angst fan. go fucking nuts.) so these are supposed to be. The steps toward overcoming and living with grief but. The Misery Is Kind Of The Punchiest Part.... Oops....

Mirabelle: Taking the lead, continuing to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. In the game proper she's already shown to, while yes, be emotionally fragile at times, be prone to trying to hold the team together. I feel she'd do the same here. It also would help that she'd presumably be medicated again? But I can't imagine her chosen-one anxieities would be super ailed by the death of her friend. I wanted to try and give her more differences? She follows the change belief after all and is thus liable to switch up her style in general... But I didn't have a strong vision for this, so. The ball is in anyone's court. Her design changes here are keeping one of Sif's safety pins a la qpr bonding earring, and has the bell pendant at Loop's (oddly pushy) suggestion.

Isabeau: Taking it. Badly. Depression mullet and beard in tow. However, you best believe he is trying real badly to hide it. Loop very much does not reveal their identity to him because What The Fuck Would That Even Do. That's Scary. but they do try to comfort him while mentally regarding him "off limits". Backs themselves into some very unfortunate corners by alluding to their unfulfilled relationship with their Fighter as a point of common ground. I don't imagine this would go super great when recontextualised later after Loop is inevitably found out. Just in general oh good god what the fuck. this is like a radioactive pit of survivor's guilt.

Bonnie: Taking it probably The Worst. This is a child. Who was already feeling guilt. This is who everyone else is trying to keep it together for. Mirabelle and Isabeau would likely be putting up far less of a front without Bonnie around. They take the hat and take on Pocket Duty. They also have slightly more sif-y hairstyle but... Don't worry about it. They'd have Nille to fall back on once she's picked back up, and Loop almost certainly attempts to redouble efforts on making them feel better but seeing as how closed-off Bonnie can already be, it'd likely be difficult. However they would probably take Loop's identity reveal best...?

Odile: Odile's design.... ! Does not seem to have changed? How odd! Well. I'm sure she's dealing with things in a regular and non-cloistered manner. I already think that a regular Postcanon Activity for Odile could be her finding out about the potential for sif/loop to translate books and thus Knowledge in their native tongue assuming that ability sticks around postgame. Something something culture can never truly be wiped out etc etc. But putting it in this context. Makes it more desperate, more of a deflection for something else.

Loop: Helpful Loop. Well. They win! I feel like the entirety of ISAT being about Siffrin's mental state means I don't need to spill much ink here? You get it I think. I can't outdo the source material man. Anyway I imagine Loop is given clothes by Isabeau before they know who they are, but after they've become genuine friends. The outfit is in genuineness, on both sides from Loop and Isa, in having the cloak be a nod in respect to Siffrin, since Loop's "shared culture" would have to come up vis a vis cultural funerary traditions. Hard to avoid divulging that one...

#and since its too blunt to put in the body of the post. yes these are all distinct calls to game events.#mirabelles endgame spoilers comment. prologue odile's 'just one thing. not the thing'. shoulder touch. observatory conversation #odiles is the least obvious because i couldnt find satisfying more direct wording. it was too clunky....#in stars and time #isat spoilers #in stars and time spoilers #nohats au #isat au #isat loop #isat fanart #lucabyteart #isat odile #isat bonnie #isat isabeau #isat mirabelle #anyway once again . accidentally invoking the king with that fucking corset. christ. that ones on me #long post

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99pansy · 8 months ago

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ss/mayo blogspot lore + frerard theory

hi I'm about to drop some insane lore that I don't think a lot of mcr fans/frerard theorists know about. this isn't discussed often so I figured I should write about it here before all the evidence is lost to time.

this is probably gonna be a long one so buckle in! i have gathered as much evidence here as possible but there's no way to be certain about anything. i'm trying to maintain as much journalistic integrity as i can throughout this post (also trying super hard not to insert my opinion too much) because i think a lot of this speaks for itself.

so i have a pretty significant frerard theory but i have to give a lot of backstory and documentation for it to fully make sense. this will not be in chronological order (to best suit the narrative) but i hope it makes sense

many people know about frank's F.T. Willz endeavors which have been proven as him in recent years. however, "ss" or "shitsubou shita" was another blog he had before this which is not widely known

around 2007, there was a major theory in the fandom that gerard and frank were running secret blogspot accounts where they'd post journals, poetry, etc. frank's account was iamthemodernprometheus.blogspot.com and gerard's supposed account was its-mayonaise.blogspot.com. both accounts are still up, though i'm not sure if any posts have since been deleted. this probably sounds crazy so i'll explain everything!

evidence for frank as SS/shitsubou-shita/iamthemodernprometheus

i strongly believe this was frank's personal blog, but you can come to your own conclusions based on this info

frank's supposed original blogspot handle was "shitsubou-shita." once fans realized this was his account, he deleted it pretty much immediately. you can read some fan discussion about the fall out from this in a comment thread here. this comment thread will be linked a few times in this post because most of the screenshots on this post originate from there.

apparently *frank* was posting some very personal thoughts/feelings on this blog that he did not want to be discovered. i'll go over some of the deleted posts in a minute, but first i need to give more a little more context.

at the same time the blog is found, someone comments "your fired" on a recent post. apparently some fans thought the comment looked strangely out of place, and it was one of the last comments left before the account's deletion, on one of the final posts made.

this will be relevant later on, and we'll get into the account's posts soon.

my theory is that someone on the "inside" could have found his personal blog and tried spooking him, which could have been the final straw for him. or, the account being deleted could be completely unrelated to the weird comment. all of this can be found here (same link i posted previously)

months after deleting their blog, shitsubou shita begins posting under a new url "iamthemodernprometheus" (but still under the pen name "shitsubou shita" or "ss" as fans called him)

in his new blog, and similarly to F.T. Willz years later, he still leaves plenty of crumbs for fans to figure out it's him. screenshot sources are below

latin heading: his page had a latin heading that when translated, reads "keep the faith"

bio on blogspot: "industry - chemicals", and "you dont stop playing cos you get old…you get old cos you stop playing" both sound suspiciously personal to frank

his url choice: "the modern prometheus" is the full title of mary shelley's frankenstein. frankenstein is a character that frank has always deeply resonated with due to his namesake, love of horror, and being born on halloween

spelling of wierd: SS and frank both spell "weird" as "wierd"

i think he enjoyed the mystery of having a secret online persona, which eventually led to the creation of F.T. Willz in 2008. it seems like wanted to leave just enough evidence for people to suspect it was him, but not enough to prove it.

here are some snippets of 2007 era discourse about the identity of "ss" and their deleted blog. you can find all of these comments and more context here. this was around the time gerard got married and fans felt like the dynamic on stage was different, and they were concerned about the future of the band. it's a LOT to go over so i would advise reading the comments if you want more perspective

on the next page, an anonymous comment is posted which fans immediately begin to speculate is SS (frank). again, if you click the link you can get way more context than i'm able to provide here.

this insinuates that SS frequented the comments on mayo's blog, which i don't think he would have done without believing/knowing mayo is gerard

there was a lot discussed in this thread including pretty solid evidence that frank/ss wrote the ancient and historic "eliza post"

if you are not aware of the eliza cuts drama, that's a totally different and equally as insane rabbit hole you'll have to research on your own

tldr; she is gerard's mentally unstable ex-fiance who he was engaged to very shortly before lindsey

gerard and eliza got engaged on may 22, 2007 (the last show of the black parade tour) according to this reddit comment.

the "eliza post" went up on june 4, 2007. here is the post in its entirety:

"Hi I felt I had to write to you guys to allay some of your fears regarding the rumours and speculation surrounding Gerard and Eliza and the future of the band. This is the only time I will ever post. I will not be able to respond to your comments or enter into discussion or debate on what I'm about to say. We are aware that this is one of the most popular message boards for MCR fans and we know you guys are the most dedicated and loyal fans in the world. It saddens me to see such division amongst the fans over one woman. If it's any consolation, you guys are not the only ones affected. She is merely tolerated by both band and crew. Believe me, nothing anyone can say will change his mind. She's been the cause of numerous conflicts and while we dont have to like it, we have to accept it, at least for the forseeable future. From day one this woman has had a hidden agenda - her manipulation knows no bounds. Some of you may find this difficult to believe but I assure you I have personally witnessed the two sides of this woman. Her so-called 'good deeds' are nothing more than PR exercises for his benefit. But he does not see what goes on behind closed doors. We have tried to draw his attention to her blatant self-promotion and diva demands. This is a prime example of love being blind. His feelings for her do run very deep. Her feelings for him, however, are questionable at best. Many people believe, including myself, that he is being used as nothing more than a stepping stone. It's disheartening to see someone you care about and have worked with for a very long time change as a person, becoming more detached and causing the group dynamic to change as a result. There have been conflicts and differences of opinions and compromises have had to be made She does not accompany the band on the European legs of the tour. Since being on this current European leg, he seems much happier which suggest she doesnt make him as happy as he thinks. Despite being asked more than once to remain discreet, she blatantly disregards his wish to keep his personal life private by continually fuelling the internet hype. The band has always been about the music and the fans. This will not change. MCR have never endorsed any type of clique as it encourages and promotes the kind of high school mentality that MCR have always fought against. Your continued support is appreciated and rest assured this woman will have no adverse affect on the band and the music. For obvious reasons I am remaining anonymous. Eliza, we know you trawl these message boards and you probably know who I am - but I'd like to see you try and prove it!!!"

it's clear that whoever wrote this had a very strong distaste for eliza and was deeply troubled by the idea of gerard marrying her. based on the language used and style of writing, i strongly believe frank wrote this post. i'll be circling back to this in a minute, because i have a little more to go over.

for more evidence that SS is frank, we can reference this reddit comment made just 9 months ago by someone heavily involved in the blogspot community at the time, kapunua. their username on this post is "ReallyKapu."

if you read through the comment links I provided earlier, you may see their name pop up. they are also mentioned by name on the "iamthemodernprometheus" blog. if you also search "kapunua mcr" on google, you can verify their involvement in the blogspot community at the time.

kapunua is also mentioned in its-mayonaise's post here (no screenshot provided for this one, its just a small mention)

there's also a screenshot of a different comment kapunua made about 9 years ago with similar information. i found the screenshot here.

evidence that "mayo" is gerard

as mentioned in the post above, mayo often used british english syntax in his posts. he also posted about some pretty juicy stuff including a blowjob poem (you can seek that out yourself)

using british english isn't out of the ordinary for gerard. he often used an accent on stage during this time. moreover, he is a writer who has written multiple characters with this type of accent, showing he has a certain appeciation for it. i think his persona for the "mayo" account could been a sort of character he put on to disguise his idenity.

if you decide to view mayo's blog, you'll see each post has nothing but comments from mcr fans exclusively. i find it very interesting that the writer of its-mayonaise never bothered to make a post saying "hey, btw, i'm not gerard" in the 4 years this blog was run for

we have somewhat less definitive evidence that gerard is mayo. however, it is clear that at the very least, they had to have been someone involved with MCR or their crew at the time.

mayo makes a post alluding to their identity here, which you can find in the first screenshot below. this section sounds a lot like something gerard would write:

"I have been asked to reveal myself to you. You all know me. I am whoever you want me to be, I am an artist, a poet, a singer, a motherfucker, and a contradiction, a mouthpiece, a friend, and an enemy, a brother, an informant, a whipping boy, a basket case, a queen, and a criminal...(credit to John Hughes.)"

there are THOUSANDS of comments, many of which speculate the identity of mayo on each of his blogspot posts. you should definitely do your own detective work and see what you think, because there is far too much info to go through here.

a frerard theory

as i previously mentioned, frank had deleted his original blog for shitsubou-shita in late september. however, prior to this, he made and then deleted some particularly turbulent and questionable posts

for context, the frerard fight happened on august 22, 2007, and gerard and lindsey got married on september 3, 2007 (just four months after gerard was engaged to eliza)

gerard and lindsey are married on the last night of the projekt revolution tour.

mcr takes a break for one month after this, where we can probably safely assume that freshly-married gerard and frank did not plan on seeing one another.

i think this was very troubling for frank for many different reasons. gerard had just freed himself of the eliza situation and here he was making the same mistake again. he was on the verge of losing his dearest friend yet again, and i believe that despite his best efforts, he could not get through to gerard.

obviously, gerard and lindsey are still married to this day. however, many fans might be aware of what happened between her and mikey. there's also a lot of other questionable information about lindsey circling the web, but that's a different story for another time.

weeks later, similarly to the eliza situation, shitsubou-shita makes and deletes the following posts on his original blog (this was prior to the creation of iamthemodernprometheus):

Friday, September 21, 2007 Abandon hope, all who enter here... What the fuck happened? Why didn't I see this coming? I made a point to keep out of it this time, but at what cost? I'm trapped between a rock and a hard place, it's a lose/lose situation. I've always been honest with you, shouldn't that work both ways? What's with the double standards? People are starting to notice. I'm not talking about kids, I'm talking about people in their mid 20's and 30's. People with life experience who can see the cracks starting to show. What am I supposed to say? I just dont have the answers. How can I reassure them when I need reassurance myself?

he says "i made a point to keep out of it this time" which seems like a reference to the situation with eliza i mentioned previously. he alludes to the idea that fans are beginning to notice the band's dynamic is not the same anymore. this was specifically around the time when "frerard" moments came to a pretty abrupt end.

he says "i've always been honest with you, shouldn't that work both ways?" which can be interpreted in a few different ways. he may feel deceived due to his best friend's sudden marriage. however, the intensity of the language used in this post shows he probably had some very intense feelings toward the situation.

it seems like the writer was having a considerably difficult time coping with these feelings. a day later, this post is made:

Saturday, September 22, 2007 Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Bullshit. I've always been a smart ass, even as a child, although my mom would prefer to use the term precocious. I've always had trouble keeping my mouth shut, I'm an open book, completely ingenuous - secrecy and circumvention are not my style. But then I've never experienced extreme paranoia. So I'm writing this blog. I know you will never read it, I wouldn't want you to. Not everything is about you. This blog is for ME, a perverse catharsis, I need this right now to preserve the small amount of sanity I have left. A blog fuelled by disappointment, frustration, confusion and dejection. I am not laying the blame at your door. The burden of blame is mine. I didn't speak up soon enough. I didn't want to rock the boat, I've been there before. I didn't want to fight or endure days of being given the silent treatment. Its not fair on the others. Why do you always make everyone feel like they have to take sides? If I had been a better friend, I would have stepped in regardless of the consequences. I acted selfishly because I didn't want to lose you, but ironically, I may have lost you anyway. I meant every word I said at the diner and although I didnt show it, your smirk and glib response hurt me more than you will ever know. I don't know who you are anymore. I cant seem to find the right words. Nothing I say seems to reach you. You are wrong. I DO care. I love you. I refuse to give up on you and I refuse to let you push me away. I am going to fight for our friendship, you aren't the only one with a stubborn streak. We are in this together, for the long haul, I promise. I want my friend back. I miss him.

it seems like whatever the writer is feeling toward the subject of this post goes beyond the boundaries of a typical friendship. the final paragraph says everything we need to know.

we can assume that based on this post's mention of meeting a diner, that frank and gerard likely met up during their month-long break to talk about the way things went down

lastly, i know there's at least one interview floating or blog post around where frank says he was a difficult teen and a pain in the ass as a kid, but i can't find it right now. if anyone has the link to that i would love to add it here, because i remember it sounding pretty similar to that first paragraph.

Sunday, September 23, 2007 Is the pen really mightier than the sword? And so you continue to blog, as do I. The difference is, I am not hurting anyone. I'm just trying to gain some perspective while you are publicly making a fool of yourself. Your words are hungrily devoured and dissected by the masses, you seem to revel in the chaos and controversy. At the moment your identity is pure speculation, but have you thought about the consequences if anyone was able to prove your identity? Not just for you, but for all of us? Have you lost your mind? How can you be so selfish? You have become a self obsessed megalomaniac. I know what I get out of writing my blogs - but what do you get out of writing yours? Do you even bother to read the comments? Some of those comments break my heart. These aren't just nameless, faceless strangers, these are real people with real lives and real feelings. These are the people that allowed us to bring our music into their lives. These are the people that we see on tour, the people that wait outside for hours in the cold and rain just to meet us, the people that write us letters and make us scrapbooks, the people who care enough to bake us cookies and brownies, the people that send us birthday cards and bizarre, crazy ass gifts, the people that have given us their love and support, the people that cheer us on, the people that made us. Why are you so hellbent on destroying not only yourself, but everyone who loves you? You wanna see how far down I can sink? Your mom called last night - and I lied to her. After everything she has done for us, I lied to her. How do you think that made me feel? Do you even care?

this last post, for me, solidifies the identities behind each blog. it is so clear through the details in this post. to me, it seems like frank was hurting so bad, and in such a vulnerable place, that he completely let his guard down and made this post.

the mcr lyric included "You wanna see how far down I can sink?" is undoubtedly mind-boggling and speaks volumes to how carelessly obvious frank was (maybe intentionally?) willing to be

there's so much to unpack in this post and i honestly can't even begin to wrap my head around it. i would love to hear anyone's opinion!

later in the post, it seems clear that he is referencing the iam-mayonaise blog and gerard's seemingly wreckless posting. but mostly, i think he was lashing out due to pain of betrayal after losing the closest person to him and someone he deeply loves not once, but twice.

again, it's hard to believe how obvious he was being here, but i really think it was a result of the pain/suffering he felt

if you scroll back up to the first screenshot of this post, you can circle back around to when he removed his entire profile after making this final post, eventually rebranding to "iamthemodernprometheus"

the its-mayonaise account makes this post on september 30, seemingly as a response. the title could apply to frank, who as we all know, was gerard's best friend and right-hand man. the rest of this post can be interpreted in many different ways, so you can make whatever you want out of it:

however, the last paragraph does give me pause... i would love to see/create a full analysis of this post, but i'm trying to stick to facts here so you can form your own judgement

after gerard's wedding and mcr's month long break, they play two shows in mexico (oct 4 & 7, 2007) and then the hoboken show takes place, where frank yells "lie to me" during i'm not okay and seems very low energy and unlike himself

i believe things gradually improved between them after this point, but i'm not sure if their connection was ever completely the same.

conclusion/my opinion

coupled with all of the other available evidence about gerard/frank's tumultuous friendship/relationship/situationship, i think this information strongly alludes to the idea that at the very least, frank had some very intense feelings for gerard that were not fully reciprocated. i would love to hear what anyone else's opinion is on this topic, because it definitely isn't discussed often

i think it's completely heartbreaking (especially with everything else we know) but i do think their incredible connection is a massive contributing factor to mcr's legacy

if you notice any inconsistencies in this post or have any questions, please send me a message! i want to keep this as consistent, comprehensible, and well-sourced as i can!

lastly please follow me if you liked this! i spent months researching and compiling sources for this post and i would so appreciate it <3

#frerard #my chemical romance #mcr #gerard way #frank iero #frerard theory #ss/mayo #ss mayo #shitsubou-shita #its-mayonaise #mcr history

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isa-gh0st · 6 months ago

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is there a rundown of what's going on with the new mcyt drama? i haven't been following any of them since slightly before the finale of dsmp 0-0

Oh god. Let me try my best here.

I will say, on my main, @isa-ghost, I've reblogged a ton of liveblogging stuff that kind of gives you context in detail? But in reverse order because, yknow, that's how reblog chronology works or whatever.

This don't stop the party edit is a good tldr of the beginning of it all but you gotta pause to really read it so I'm gonna summarize via bullet points too.

XQC (shitty Canadian Kick streamer, misogynist and flaunts his money at every turn) met Trump, wearing a Trump shirt. Is a fanboy of his clearly. Is not the first streamer to do this, esp on Kick

Tommy quote rts his pic of him meeting Trump like "its hard to be more cringe than TommyInnit but you did it"

XQC clapped back saying Tommy went from dickriding Dr*m to making jokes to 17 year old girls irl (which is sexist to say but I digress)

Dr*m gets involved for some fuckign reason (he wants attention that's why) and makes a meme calling all dsmp stans (he later claims he meant inniters specifically) the r slur

Shit BLOWS UP obviously because he called 15 million people a slur in a derogatory way. Makes SO MANY excuses that don't work ofc. Later deletes all his tweets abt it, but prior to doing so he TRIPLED DOWN ON USING THE R SLUR. Tried to excuse it with "I'm autistic" (which personally idk if I believe bc he's such a fucking liar but I also don't follow Dr*m obv so if he posted abt the diagnosis then. Whatever. Anyway)

Tommy, Tubbo, Jack, Sneeg, and so so so many other CCs now have been ripping him apart for the last 48 hours. Tubbo has dissected everything he's said on Twitter and a Reddit post he made yesterday

Last night at like midnight to 3am his time, Dr*m goes live and dissects Tubbo's vod of him dissecting Dr*m's shit and Dr*m GENUINELY CRASHES OUT for 3 FUCKING HOURS, most of which was him projecting on Tommy hardcore and lying and manipulating AS USUAL. If you care enough, I'd watch Tubbo's vod. OR you can probably find a summary somewhere but it's. A lot.

Tubbo went live at 10am CST today dissecting Dr*m's crashout, which lasted FOUR FUCKING HOURS. He was meant to talk to Dr*m directly on stream today but then--

Tommy posted a 5 min vid clapping back very concisely so Dr*m is in the process of making a response vid, therefore he canceled his chat with Tubbo.

Quackity tweeted he would be going live because during Dr*m's crashout he name dropped SEVERAL ex-dsmp members and other people such as Ludwig, a6d, the girl GNF assaulted, Gumball's VA. The list goes on. However, idk for sure if Quackity is gonna talk abt this, all he tweeted was "going live later" basically.

47 MCYT CCs were tuned in to Tubbo's dissection stream today at one point or another. I haven't seen MCYT this united since we all ousted W*lbur for abusing Shelby Shubble (you said you haven't been around since the dsmp finale so idk how much abt that you know. It happened in late Feb last year)

People are welcome to break down these events in greater detail in my reblogs if they're crazy enough!

#mcyt #dream smp #dsmp #Isa Asks

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self-made-purgatories · 3 months ago

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From the Half-Empty Loveseat and the Cuck Chair to the Miracle on the Biobed

Master Post for my Season-3-to-TMP Spirk Breakup Meta Analysis Series

People complain all the time about the odd, out-of-character writing in Season 3 of Star Trek TOS. They also complain that there is no canon explanation for the reason why Spock left Kirk and Starfleet to attempt kolinahr by the start of TMP. Why are these two things both so weird?

But, consider this: What if these two weird things are related? What if the odd actions are not out of character at all? What if Season 3's subtext leads directly to Spock's abandonment of the life he built in Starfleet, and more specifically, to his separation from Kirk by the start of TMP?

What if we're actually watching a painful behind-the-scenes Spirk breakup unfold in real time?

A few months ago, before I had ever seen TMP, I watched "Requiem for Methuselah" for the first time and the vibes were so weird that I started to dissect the subtext by writing my way through it. And the subtext kept getting deeper, episode by episode. And so I kept writing about it. And then I finally saw TMP, and I suddenly realized that, not only was I right, these things are all connected. Season 3 and TMP are not actually doubly weird; they are two related weirds that cancel each other out. And, even better, the pain and angst of Season 3 eventually leads to a happy ending in TMP!

To create this series, I wrote over 20,000 words on the subject in the space of a few weeks. (Thank you, hyperfixation.) Recently, a couple of the posts are making the rounds again. People keep reblogging segments of the series, so apparently there is an audience larger than my weirdass self and the void I am shouting into.

So, for your pleasure and convenience, I have reassembled the full series here in chronological order. Some of them are short, silly posts, and others are lumbering behemoth posts with tons of subtext to comb through and mull over. Enjoy the journey with me.

PART 1: END OF SEASON 3

1. The Half-Empty Loveseat and Other Tragedies Or, the Episode Where Kirk Broke Spock's Heart (and Mine) - S3 E19 Requiem for Methuselah

Spock has had a rough Season 3 so far. But this is the first time that Kirk's behavior is the direct cause. Kirk's blind cruelty causes irreparable damage to both Spock and their relationship.

2. they're still fighting, aren't they and one type of music - S3 E20 The Way to Eden

Vibes are off between Kirk and Spock. Spock finds reasons to be elsewhere and pointedly spends more time with a fun hippie guy than with Kirk.

3. From the Half-Empty Loveseat to the Cuck Chair - S3 E21 The Cloud Minders

Watching him sleep, watching him flirt, shouting in his face: Spock and Kirk try to act calm and professional, but tension bubbles under the surface.

4. why. WHY does it make me so fucking happy to watch this one man ogle this other man's ass like this - S3 E22 The Savage Curtain

Does this mean their fight is over??

5. To Hell and Back: The Seven Deadly Sins of Spock’s Inferno - S3 E23 All Our Yesterdays

In the tradition of ancient epic stories, Spock takes an allegorical journey to hell with McCoy as his guide, and his unusual behavior there – a descent into madness by way of all Seven Deadly Sins – gives us a peek into his ongoing internal struggle.

6. Running "Interference" - S3 E24 Turnabout Intruder

"He says, finally, resigned, 'I believe you.'" I'm pretty sure Spirk have broken up for good now. Their relationship is strained and it has affected their prior intimacy of knowing each other inside and out.

PART 2: THE MOTION PICTURE

7. The Betrayal of Irritation - TMP Part 1

Spock attempts kolinahr. But of course, it doesn't work. He is running away from life, away from love, away from Kirk, rather than running towards enlightenment. It was never going to work.

When Spock returns to the Enterprise, he emanates a carefully constructed façade of aloof disdain. "I don't care," he seems to say. But if he didn't care, he wouldn't have come at all. And now that he is here, anything is possible.

8. "To Come Alongside and Lock On" - TMP Part 2

Two very small but very important details precede Spock and Kirk's reunion on the bridge of the Enterprise.

9. Feeling Trapped, Crisis of the Self, and the Hidden Meaning of Spock's Two Steepled Fingers - TMP Part 3

Spock's steepled fingers are a self-soothing gesture that first appears in "Plato's Stepchildren" and recurs in TMP during the kolinahr scene and a tense faceoff with V'Ger. What does this gesture tell us about Spock's inner struggle?

10. Yes, He is Here. But He is Still Gone: The Five Stages of Grief (and Seven Sorrows) of Heartbroken Kirk - TMP Part 4

Kirk openly experiences all five stages of grief in regards to Spock's cold return. Meanwhile, the bookend to Spock's experience of the Seven Deadly Sins in "All Our Yesterdays" is this: Kirk's experience of Seven Sorrows, seven metaphorical knives in the heart given to him in rapid succession by Spock's return.

11. sidebar: loyalty, obedience, friendship - TMP Part 5.5

In which I go a little nuts in the notes of someone else's post into greater detail about the three times Spock refuses Kirk's invitation to sit down.

12. Bare Feet on Holy Ground: A Story Of Doubt and Acceptance. - TMP Part 5

McCoy is the voice of reason, but love transcends reason. When Kirk finally lets go and reaches the Acceptance stage of grief, a miracle occurs: The steepled fingers are gone. All that is left is Spock's hand in Kirk's.

And they live happily ever after.

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laora-ryn · 5 months ago

Text

Just in case anyone was wondering, I am in fact a federal employee and I am in fact having A Fucking Time Of It

In roughly chronological order, here's all the things that have fucked us over the last two weeks:

Hiring freeze effective immediately, which involved rescinding final offers to people who were about to start their job. A final offer is something you can get a mortgage with btw. It's what you get after months of paperwork. It's something you move cross country for. Eighteen people just at our hospital had a final offer rescinded

A demand for a return to in person work, with no explanation given for why they want this so badly. No explanation on people who have teleworking written into their contracts, or people who have teleworking as a reasonable accommodation

Related to the hiring freeze: no creation of any new jobs in even a preliminary way, even to prep to fill existing vacancies after the 90 days are over

Closing of all DEIA teams groups, webinar series, webpages, department gatherings... Anything you can think of. This included the queer teams based communities that were just a place for people to chat

Related to this: our acting secretary sending out an email that sounds straight out of the fucking Gestapo, where "we are aware of efforts by some in government to deliberately redefine DEIA positions in an attempt to keep their jobs. If you know of this happening, here's an email line we've set up for tips. There won't be adverse consequences for reporting, however, failure to report may have adverse consequences"

What appears to have been trying to be a total freeze on federal spending, which threw literally everything into chaos, I was not able to follow it at all, but the hospital is still running so I'm assuming money is happening somewhere

Two strange emails from OPM.gov, marked EXTERNAL, saying they're testing a new distribution list and to please reply yes. These were considered so universally sus by employees that they had to come down from central office and confirm that yes, these are legit, please reply

A day later, an email from that same external address offering voluntary resignation, which I'm pretty sure is the bit that's been all over the news for (checks notes) being word for word the same email musk sent to Twitter before proceeding to Not Pay Them

A restriction on communication and travel. "No speaking engagements or attendance at public facing events, seminars, or conferences (unless approved by chief of staff) for 6 months. VA only events are excluded." Which was later clarified to mean "well if you're going for continuing Ed, as long as you aren't presenting, it's ok" but then backtracked to "it's probably ok but you still need approval which can take upwards of a month." Why are they restricting speaking at conferences? It's not a money thing because traveling for VA events still costs money. It's like they're looking to prevent staff from interacting with anyone external, for some reason

And today, an email this morning that "leadership has received guidance from the office of personnel management [regarding the EO about "gender ideology extremism and restoring biological truth"] and is working to execute the EO fully, faithfully, and thoughtfully."

This afternoon at 4:30, this began with an all employee email saying that all personal pronouns are being removed from Outlook display names by IT, which was a system implemented several years ago and broadly popular! But nope, we'll need to go back to guessing what genders new coworkers named Quinn, Alex, Morgan, and Taylor are.

(oh I forgot! I can't use the word gender at work anymore. Using Proper Terminology (as interpreted by our ~~~Illustrious President~~~) in all communications at work is now required)

It's been a fucking week and a half and I am so goddamn tired guys. Sorry I haven't been on again but I'm spending most of my energy on Not McFucking Losing It rn

#mine #politics #send me strength guys everyone i know is ready to snap #i probably forgot some stuff in the insanity. this is just me going down the new email folder i have labeled 'fuckery'#im taking monday off for a mental health day. who knows what ill come vack to on thursday!

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ataleofcrowns · 5 months ago

Note

Hey! I love AToC and have been following its development for a few years now. But whenever a new chapter was released, and I sat down to read it, I often found it hard to carve out time to do so. So, it got me thinking - if it’s hard for me to read it consistently, how much more difficult must it be to write it consistently? It is admirable the act of writing this takes, And while I’m sure there are slower periods in the whole process, it’s inspirational how you dedicate time to writing. I write sometimes, definitely not a lot, and I want to dabble in a few short stories. So, how do you put in that time or really cultivate that habit of writing - especially when pesky "IRL logistics" get in the way? Are there any specific rituals or routines that help overcome such circumstantial challenges? I’ve been in a bit of a rut with the pen lately, and honestly, hearing anything - whether it’s how you approach sitting down to write or just your thoughts on the process - would be incredibly helpful at best and, at the very least, really interesting to hear! Appreciate you sharing your thoughts if you’re able :p

I take an ice bath, chug 6 cans of energy drink back to back, sit down and white knuckle my desk while yelling "LOCK IN" and write 10k words in one hour-

Ok but seriously, I appreciate the ask!! 💖

And honestly it's just a matter of forming the habit, at least for me. I try to write at the same time every day. For me that's in the evenings since I'm more productive at night, but other people might feel more productive in the morning or the afternoon, it all depends! Once it becomes a habit it's much easier to switch your brain to Writing Mode around the same time every day.

When you first start trying to form the habit, don't be down on yourself if you don't get a lot of writing done at first. Try to write things that pique your interest, even if the scenes or snippets aren't in chronological order. Getting something on the page is what's most important!

Also, don't be too hard on yourself while writing, and try not to edit while you write either. This is a bad habit I used to have that I had to unlearn because of my perfectionism, but it's perfectly fine to have a bare bones first draft that you can return to filling out later. Your first draft is not supposed to be perfect, so just focus on writing it first, and evaluating it later.

And write what you feel inspired to write! Like, sometimes I can't be bothered to write out descriptions or character actions, but I get inspired to write a certain conversation between characters, so I literally skip all the descriptive words and only write out the dialogue. Other times I feel inspired by worldbuilding that I want to add, or an environment that I really want to describe, so I write snippets for that, etc.

I also like setting wordcount goals for myself because I get a dopamine boost when I hit the target and it feels like I accomplished something. If you go that route, start out small! Like 250 words every day for example, and as you get into it, bump it up little by little. It also feels good if you go over your wordcount goal, at least for me.

Some other minor things that have helped me: putting on background music (ymmv), removing all potential distractions by closing everything on my pc and fullscreening my writing program, ensuring I have a place where I can write uninterrupted, drinking my favorite tea, motivating myself with rewards for once I hit my wordcount goal (snacks/video games/watching a show).

I hope any of this is useful for you!!

#scilla-forbesii #ask #advice

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aimfor-theheart · 5 months ago

Text

brush the sky no. 2: caught

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+

|| vi x reader || part one || masterlist ||

tags: mafia au, bodyguard!vi, femme!reader, longing, a little angst if you squint. a little sevika in this chapter/reader flirts with her a bit

cw: drinking/alcohol. suggestive.

wc: 1.9k smh

a/n: this isn't a "part two" as in chronological order, but it's apart of the same universe as part one. calling this little series "brush the sky" and i'll add more if i write more! lmk if you'd like to see more...or if you ever wanna talk about this au, i'm always down <33 vi takes up like most of my brain capacity lately lol

dividers by @/cafekitsune

The night is young and blush-dark; perfect for trouble.

“You’re supposed to be grounded, missy.” Vi’s voice is a drawl, and underneath the tease of it, is a little irritation.

From your place perched in Sevika’s lap, you pick your head up to look at Vi. You smile slow and wicked, eyes glittering, fox-sharp and knowing.

“Violet!” You chirp, extending your arm to her, “so glad you could join us! Want a drink?”

Sevika snorts, “looks like your babysitter’s here.”

For a moment, the two women eye each other, size each other up. You feel the fissure of tension bolt through the air, watch as Vi shrugs out her shoulders to look bigger, taller. Sevika spreads her legs a little and you’re jostled slightly with the movement.

“I’m a little too old to be grounded or have a babysitter, don’t you think?” You finally say, voice laced with distaste as you rise to your feet and purposefully get between their gazes to break the standoff. “I am a big girl.” You say dryly.

“You’re not supposed to be out tonight—and you’re definitely not supposed to be out with one of Silco’s—“ Vi starts, but Sevika cuts her off;

“We were having a good time, kid. And like she said—she’s too old for this shit. Why don’t you tuck tail and go home?”

A muscle in Vi’s jaw feathers. Sevika’s reaching hand meets air as you step towards Vi now, knowing that the look in her eyes—darkening blue, all stormy and fierce—means trouble. You try to draw her focus to you by placing your hands on her chest, right around her collar bones.

You get in Vi’s gaze again, and watch as she focuses on you, softens a little.

“My father find out I disappeared?” You ask, trying to give your best eyes. Sweet, a little sheepish.

“Not yet,” Vi responds, “I’m here to drag you back before he does.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” You purr, thumb dragging over the exposed skin of the base of her throat.

She sucks her teeth, “and you’re a brat. Let’s go, princess. Night’s over.” She says, short and sharp and firm.

You pout at her, “but I didn’t even get to dance.”

“I did promise you that, didn’t I?” Sevika says around her drink, dark amber liquid sloshing as she takes a sip. She sets it down, ice and glass clinking, and leans forward. She grins at Vi, wolfish, “Why don’t you pass her back here, kid?”

Vi’s teeth bare and she jolts beneath your touch like she might lurch for Sevika. A dog on a leash. You step further in front of her to stop her.

“Easy, tiger.” You hum and to keep a brawl from breaking out, you add, “we’ll go home—let’s go—take me home, Vi.”

Slowly, that viciousness melts from Vi—all her muscles uncoil. Vi’s a good bodyguard because she’s overprotective. Vi’s also a bad bodyguard because she’s overprotective. She doesn’t like when people talk about you like that—doesn’t like when they sniff around you a little too long, doesn’t trust anyone near you. And she’s a person of action; if she doesn’t like something, or someone, she does something about it.

And tonight, you don’t feel like cleaning up any blood.

You turn back to finish your drink in one last gulp, then you lean forward and press a fleeting kiss to Sevika’s cheek. “Next time, maybe!” You chirp, before turning back to Vi, who clasps a hand down around the back of your neck—like you’re being taken by the scruff.

(Uh oh, you think, I’m in trouble now—)

Over your shoulder, you wave to Sevika as you’re pulled away, and out of the swanky little speakeasy—into the crisp, clear night.

Despite the firm hold on you, you lean towards Vi, into her side.

As if to say, I’m sorry, as if to say, I won’t run off. As if to say, you’ve got me now.

Vi let’s go of a hard sigh and the hand around the nape of your neck moves to your lower back. She takes your weight as you walk together, in step. “You’ve always gotta make my job hard, huh?”

“Don’t mean to make it hard for you—“ You say, “but I can’t be kept cooped up all day.”

“So you go out with Sevika?” She asks, and there’s bite in it.

(Maybe something more—jealousy simmers in the edges of her voice. Your eyes light up a little.)

“I didn’t go out with her. I went out and she was there.” You correct Vi, “she bought me a drink and…”

“She’s dangerous.” Vi snaps, “and she’s only sniffing around you because Silco and your father are rivals.”

“You wound me! You don’t think it’s because I’m charming and beautiful?” You try for levity. And anyway, you’re not naive—besides, who’s to say the reason you had your arms looped around Sevika’s neck like that weren’t for similar ones?

Your apartment isn’t far from the bar you were at and you head up to the top floor with Vi on your heels.

She snorts, “well, there’s no doubt about that. But—“ She drags a hand through her hair as you let the two of you back into your space. “You like to play with fire a little too much, princess.”

You toe off your heels, already unpinning your hair and shaking it out as you wander towards your bedroom. Much to your pleasure, Vi follows after you. You flop onto the edge of your bed, back hitting the softness of your mattress with a huff.

“Why’d you have to go out so bad anyways?” Vi asks and she takes a seat across from you, in one of the velvet loveseats.

You sigh, before pushing up onto your elbows to look at her and—the strap of your dress slips down your shoulder. Your hair is tousled, jewelry askew. You watch as she drinks you in slowly, from your head to your stocking clad toes. Warmth flickers deep in your stomach. Oh.

“A girl has needs, Violet.” You respond, lips quirking up into a little smirk.

“Yeah?” She asks, low and dark, “what needs are those that you need to head out to a bar at this hour?”

“Everyone needs a little love and affection. Besides, I wanted to dance.” You sigh.

“And you’re trying to find that with strangers? Think they’ll take care of you?” She asks, eyes stone-dark.

“And where should I have turned?” You parry softly, brows lifting, “who could take care of that for me?”

She licks her lips. Then she stands suddenly, crosses to you, gaze heavy.

Your stomach flips.

Without thinking, your knees fall apart to make room for her. You sit up fully, chin tipping up to look at her.

“Not strangers, sweetheart.” Vi says lowly and you feel her, just there, against your inner knees.

“Then who?” You press, your hand lifting to fan out against the jut of her hip, just barely her abs. “You?”

Vi sinks to her knees. Your hand falls away. Her eyes, endlessly blue, flutter as she takes you in—like this.

Splayed out, for her.

You part your legs a little, let one slide over her broad shoulder and your dress has ridden up enough that she can certainly see the sheer lace underneath, through the opaque cling of your tights.

(And there’s something about it—the layers between you still. The distance you can barely hold, like the thin, delicate threads of your tights. Your head swims.)

“Am I supposed to come to you for that, Vi?” You murmur, “you gonna take care of me?”

Vi, against her better judgement, lets her hands settle around your thighs, inching closer. She sighs hard and—

God you feel it, against your thigh. Her breath.

“You know I’ll always take care of you.” Vi says, voice hushed, brows furrowing a little in earnestness. She settles her cheek against your inner thigh, looks up at you with those sweet, blue eyes. Devoted. Heated. “But I shouldn’t—in this way.”

Your lip pushes into a pout, “Want me to beg? I can beg real pretty.”

Vi curses. Her hands squeeze the plush curve of your waist. And for one, burning moment, her eyes fall to the apex of your thighs.

Then back to your face.

She hangs her head like a guilty man.

“No—“ She gets out and her voice is frayed, desperate. “Don’t beg.”

Your fingers trail up around her face, hand moving to card through her tousled hair. You push it from her face, look at her.

“You look close to begging.” You hush, smile curving over the bend of your lips.

Vi laughs, soft and rough, “begging for strength here, princess.”

“Don’t always need to be strong.” You respond and—you realize you want her unguarded. You want her vulnerable. You want her split open and trembling and—

Vi turns her face towards your leg. She presses one, searing kiss to the inside of your knee. And then slowly, she detangles herself, she stands.

“In this way, I do.” She finally says, standing over you again.

You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, only to realize your own heart was trembling—you were open and vulnerable.

You try to cover it up with a pout, “You’re such a tease.”

“Ha,” She pinches your cheek, “coming from you—that’s rich.”

You sniff delicately, swatting her hand away.

And after a moment of trying to get your heart and your head under control, Vi speaks up;

“Dance with me.”

You lift your eyes to hers.

She offers her hand. And you look at it, the scars and the marks, the way her fingers arch towards you.

You take it.

She pulls you up. She moves to the record player in your room, sifts through your collection a moment, before settling on one.

In a moment, slow, burning jazz plays from the speakers.

Vi takes you into her arms. You let yourself fall into her embrace, head against her sternum, hand in hers, other hand curled against her chest. You can hear her heartbeat like this. You can feel it, too.

She holds your waist, your hand. The callouses of her palm come up against the soft, unworked skin of your own hands. Her body presses to yours, ribs to ribs, heartbeat to heartbeat. She sways with you.

She holds you in a way you’ve never been held before—like you’re the world in her arms.

When the song ends, you lift your head and ask, “Will you stay with me tonight?”

(And you want to add—I’d take you in any way. In every way. Even if you just sleep beside me, or at my feet, even if I can only be beside you with a wall up. Or my hands chase you all night, never to catch you.)

Vi looks at you, takes you in slowly and you wonder what she sees, wonder how she sees you, or the thoughts that flicker over her mind. She’s not unreadable—but what you see in the ocean of her eyes—

She leans forward and presses a second, searing kiss to your cheek. She lingers there. Your breath stutters.

“Next time, maybe.” Vi echoes, lips lifting into a hint of a smile but its twinged with longing. An ache.

She steps away from you, moves towards the door. Over her shoulder, she says, “Goodnight, princess.”

You stand, alone, in the center of your room.

“Night, Vi.” You respond, and try and keep the disappointment out of your voice.

She’s gone in a moment, like she was never there at all, except for the warmth lingering in your hands. On your cheek.

You catch a glance at your face in your vanity mirror.

You wonder if she thinks hunger looks good on you, too.

#vi x reader #vi x you #arcane x reader #arcane x you #cielo writes!#cielo's writing!#brush the sky

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clairecrive · 8 months ago

Text

"Gorgeous and Untouchable" Eddie Munson x reader

A/n: thank you so much for requesting this lovely <3 this is definitely on the longer side but tbh I don't think it's that good. hope you enjoy!

Word count: 2.2+K

TW: tiny bit of angst, longing, unrequited love, fluffy end.

MY MASTERLIST

"You've ruined my life-"

Now this was new.

Eddie Munson, reigning freak of Hawkins High, was used to being avoided by most. On account of some stupid reason such as him being a devil worshipper and the likes.

Never had he thought to have enough influence or social presence to actually ruin someone's life. Unless they were trying to put their bad luck on him which... shouldn't surprise him at all.

Oh, to have such power...

He scoffed immediately losing himself to a daydream reality in which he actually had magic powers. Now that was a thought!

As he went to slam his locker door close, another piece of paper caught his eye.

What now?

"by not being mine." Read this one.

What?

Putting the two pieces of paper together he saw that it had been torn apart but it was actually the same piece of paper originally. So the complete message was "You've ruined my life by not being mine."

Rolling his eyes he closed his locker, now sure that it was just someone taking the piss out of him. Chuckling he threw the two pieces of paper in the trash without sparing them a second thought.

Little did he know, someone was watching him in that moment who, alas, didn't mean it as a joke at all.

"Oh well," they thought without losing spirit, "tomorrow we'll try again."

And try again they did. Every day, they would leave two little messages in Eddie's locker. One was to be found when he arrived at school and the other at the end of the day.

After the first two, which Eddie blatantly dismissed, he actually kept the rest of them. So, one day, after almost a week had gone by in this weird fashion, Eddie sat down in his room and put all the pieces together.

Tongue peeking out in concentration, Eddie rearranged them in chronological order. This proved more difficult than he thought because the messages weren't dated, of course, and they got all mixed up in the box where he had stored them.

After a while of playing Sherlock Holmes, he thought he got it. It added up to something like this:

You're so gorgeous I can't say anything to your face 'Cause look at your face And I'm so furious At you for making me feel this way But what can I say? You're gorgeous

He thought for a moment that he had made a mistake. He must have. Maybe they didn't have to be put in chronological order to be deciphered. Maybe there was another code he needed to figure out.

And so he tried to find one. For hours.

At one point he had to give up. Eddie plopped down on his bed. A frustrated scoff left him when he thought how much time he had wasted on this stupid thing.

Someone was messing with him. They must be.

The idea that those pieces of paper held a confession for him, never crossed his mind. It was unfathomable for Eddie to think that someone at school might actually think he was gorgeous. All he could think about was who the hell hated him so much to pull a prank this elaborate.

The next time Eddie went to school, he was hesitant to open his locker. Last time it was only some pieces of paper, but what if, with time, his pranker had grown bolder? Who knows what he was going to find this time.

When he finally did, though, he'd found that he needn't be scary. Eddie sighed in relief as yet another piece of paper fell to the ground by his feet.

This time, the paper had a distinct flowery scent to it. Eddie knew nothing of perfumes, let alone women's ones. But it was nice, he thought as he sniffed it again. He liked it. The other thing that was different this time, was the colour of the message. It was lilac and it read:

I'm caught up in you Untouchable, burning brighter than the sun and when you're close I feel like coming undone

Turns out that his secret admirer had become bolder indeed. Just not in the way Eddie expected. "Untouchable"? Him? People tended to stay away from him either because they believed the devil-worshipper rumours or not to taint their social standing. So he was having a hard time imagining someone coming undone in his presence.

Still not fully convinced this was genuine, Eddie shoved the piece of paper in his jeans as the bell rang.

Yet again, you watched as he walked away none the wiser of your presence. You knew that it was going to be hard to get Eddie to notice you. Even this way. However, you couldn't help but feel frustrated and helpless. You thought the perfume had been too much but a part of you hoped it'd be enough for Eddie to connect the dots.

"Not yet, I guess", you thought as you made your way to your class as well. I need to get even bolder.

You usually weren't this insistent. In fact, it wasn't really in your nature. Maybe that was why Eddie was having such a hard time connecting the dots and linking the pieces of paper back to you.

You had known him for a while now. Since the first year of high school. Well, your first year. Eddie had been in his first senior year. You had seen him in the cafeteria one day at lunch, doing one of his usual spectacles. Before that day you had only heard his name being whispered like a bad word amongst the other students.

Being new to the area, you didn't really understand what that was all about. Who was this Eddie? And why was he so famous that everyone knew him but at the same time, no one had actually talked to him?

Then you began to understand little by little. As the days passed you seemed to gather a lot of information about the guy, albeit against your will. It's just that everyone seemed to talk about him.

He honestly didn't seem that bad to you. You thought he was cute and quite endearing. He seemed to have strong opinions and a defined personality, which you admired. Maybe that was why people at school were so reticent about him. He stood out wherever he was and not for the reason people evilly whispered between them.

You were already halfway there but when you saw him interact with the younger kids one day, you were definitely gone. The crush turned more into an adoration with time.

And even though you had talked to him a few times, you had never tried to shoot your shot. Not until now, at least. You were tired of always dreaming about him and what it'd be like to be with him. For the first time in your life, you were adamant about turning your dreams into reality. You only needed to get the guy.

And in the middle of the night when I'm in this dream It's like a million little stars spelling out your name In the middle of the night waking from this dream I want to feel you by my side, standing next to me

This time, you had really put yourself out there. You didn't think you could be more obvious than this. Not only did you write the message with your favourite lilac pen, and spray a little bit of your perfume on the piece of paper, you also left a kiss on it. A glossy pink imprint of your mouth.

It was your favourite lipgloss. You wore it every day.

You only hoped that Eddie would notice. Otherwise, you had to take an even more drastic approach. One you dreaded. You had to go and talk to him. Ugh! Only thinking about it made you nauseous.

Little did you know, you didn't need to worry. It was going to end sooner than you thought.

You were at school bright and early as usual that day. The official excuse was that you needed to sort out something for the school paper. But really, you needed to slip the piece of paper into Eddie's locker without anyone seeing you.

That morning, however, you weren't the only one at school at that hour. Usually, Eddie was one of the last to show up. Often, at the last bell or late. However, the principal had called him to tell him that if he kept showing up late he wouldn't have permission to host Hellfire. Hence why he was one of the first ones to show up that day.

Whistling some random tune, Eddie was carelessly rolling through the hallways and about to turn to his locker when he spotted you. His whistling immediately stopped and he spoke without thinking.

"Y/n?"

His voice startled you so much that you flinched and almost slipped your foot retreating from the locker.

"Oh, h-hi Eddie!" you squeaked as you turned to face him.

"What..." he trailed as he took you in.

"Oh, uhm," you stumbled over your words trying to come up with something to say.

He was still looking at you with a questioning gaze. Standing so close to his locker and visibly nervous... Still, he didn't think anything of it. He was just curious to know why you were here.

That was until a piece of paper floated on the ground in between you and him. Both of your eyes were immediately drawn to it.

"Fuck", you silently swore to yourself. The piece of paper you trying to push inside his locker must have gotten stuck and then got loose exposing you to him at last.

You swallowed nervously and stepped back, almost as if you were trying to make a run for it. But this was the moment you had been waiting for! Stop being a coward and talk to him! you chided yourself as you forced your feet to stay put.

In the meantime, Eddie was still putting the pieces together. His eyes were looking between you and the piece of paper on the ground. Then his locker.

The paper. You. His locker. Then you again.

"God," you thought, "how slow can this boy be?!"

"It's me," you blurted out after a while, unable to bear this uncomfortable situation any longer. "I'm your secret admirer," you whispered when his eyes shot up to you.

"You?" he said, voice filled with disbelief.

You winced at the tone of his voice, assuming the worst.

"Surprise," you exclaimed weekly trying to laugh it off. Emphasis on trying.

But Eddie was yet to say anything and was only staring at you dumbfounded. So, you started to blabber nervously to fill the silence.

"I'm sorry if I wasn't who you were expecting. I-"

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, I-"

"I didn't think you'd be this cruel."

"What?"

"I always thought you were cool but to pull a prank like this...," hell Eddie thought you were more than cool actually. "It's not funny, you know."

A prank?

"Wha- Hold on," you called after him when you saw he was about to leave. "Wait. What do you mean a prank? This is not a prank."

"Yeah, sure," he scoffed, "and you really think I'm- what was it- gorgeous and all that shit?"

"Well, yeah," you admitted shyly. "I've had a crush on you for a while, Eddie." You toyed with your feet, too embarrassed to look at him.

"Then why haven't you said anything before?" he asked still sceptical.

"It's not easy to go to the person you like and tell them, you know," you scoffed as if what he was insinuating was preposterous. Even though it actually wasn't...

"So you left these in my locker instead," he said pointing to the piece of paper that was still on the ground.

You scrolled your shoulders at that, not sure what to say. Hearing it out loud made you feel foolish.

"You know what?" you spoke suddenly, "Never mind. It was a stupid idea, anyway." You were about to turn around and leave without waiting for his reply.

"Wait, no"- he called after you making you stop. "It's not stupid. It's very romantic actually."

"You think so?" You said tentatively as you turned around to face him.

"Yeah," he gave you a boyish grin. "You liked me for a while, huh?"

"Now who's being cruel?" you quipped blushing furiously.

"Nah, it's just that- I'm kicking myself for not asking you on out a date before," he admitted, scratching his head nervously.

"You like me too?" you smiled at him, hope blooming in your chest.

"I'm not blind sweetheart. I've had a soft spot for you for a while now. I thought you knew."

Hearts beating a thousand miles per hour, you could only give him a lovesick smile. You couldn't believe it.

Finally, your dream was coming true.

"So what do you say, sweetheart," he took a step closer to you, " will you bless my Friday and let me take you for a date?"

Giggling like a fool, you could only nod at him. Which earned you the biggest smile you had ever seen on Eddie's face.

"You have no idea how long I've been dying to hear those words."

"Trust me, lovely, I think I do."

Turns out you were both two lovesick idiots.

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