#Smart Photo Editor

[sllhouettedreams]

Happy almost the golden raven to everyone who celebrate and also happy almost birthday to kevin day ig

Have aftg booktok trope graphics ❤️ share w someone u want to get into aftg TODAY

[asmodeus-psd]

▀ / 𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝟏𝟏 ……………............... [ 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 ] 𝘣𝘺 𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒 — 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄 !

ya boi is back with another psd and this time its based off of my starbucks order - triple shot of espresso, please. this psd features a main image bordered by a texture, with a short quote above and below. there are also optional top and bottom border lines! within my coloring psd (Espresso) is an optional contrast editor. the instructions in the top layer will tell you how to edit it! the font used is times new roman, so you should have it on your computer already! if not, you can download it from google fonts :)

FEATURES:

1 smart psd

my espresso coloring psd

5 sample photos (the ones in the post plus an additional)

DOWNLOAD: DEVIANTART (FREE) or GOOGLE DOCS (NO ZIP) x VIEW MORE TEMPLATES

shameless plug of my own muse's graphic using this template ↓

[lexirosewrites]

Ficlet idea, designer Eddie and model Steve

OH NO OMFG this prompt was from a year and a half ago (September 2023) because i apparently wrote this whole thing and then accidentally lost it in my drafts😭😭😭 might as well post it now!

A New Muse

Eddie can’t say how he went from the Indiana trailer park to having his own collection at New York Fashion Week without explaining that things like that don’t usually happen to people like him.

Maybe it was the luck of being born an alpha. Or maybe it was just stupid fate.

Who knows? Certainly not him.

And although he’s been used to the lifestyle of excess and glamor for a while now, sometimes the world he lives in now still manages to amaze him.

All it took was a lucky break and his work being seen by the right people. Then he’d been whisked away to riches and fame, his name becoming known by every young adult in a matter of months.

Suffice to say that by this point, Eddie wasn’t overly surprised when he was asked to do a feature piece in a big time magazine. The editor had specifically requested for him to design a few grunge menswear outfits to be modeled alongside the article about his rise to success.

Eddie spent weeks grueling over his designs, making sure all his pieces were representative of the kind of work he does, but it was a struggle to create something that he was proud of and that would explain his vision of fashion.

The interview itself was simple enough, just a handful of questions by someone who already knew far too much about his life. They skirted around his less than pretty past and played up the rags to riches aspect that everyone loved to oversell when it comes to alphas.

And then came the photoshoot.

Eddie had been given measurements of an up-and-coming model who would be showcasing all of the designs. Supposedly, the guy was fine modeling both masculine and feminine clothing, so Eddie was able to keep his sizing consistent across the board.

The only mistake was that he was never given a photo of the model. Or told that he was an omega.

He had no clue that the model would be the most stunning man he’s ever seen.

“Hi, I’m Stevie,” the angle introduced himself with a dimpled smile and wide eyes. His scent dripping with sugary sweetness. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Eddie almost forgets to shake his hand, too enamored with the beautiful omega being presented to him on a platter. He recovers enough to slip his hand into the waiting one.

“I’m an alpha.”

That’s definitely not what he meant to say.

Steve chuckles, a soft charming little thing.

“Good to know. Do you have a name, alpha?”

Eddie’s tongue feels too big for his mouth. He might be drooling. He’s definitely lightheaded.

The omega called him alpha. He could be his alpha.

“Um, I’m so sorry! Eddie! It’s Eddie!” he spits out in a rush, attempting to recover from his temporary lapse in sanity.

Another angelic noise of amusement.

“You’re sweet, Eddie,” Steve tells him, sounding slightly forlorn about it. “But I can’t date a coworker.”

Eddie can practically feel his ears pin back against his head in disappointment like a kicked puppy.

“Oh. Right, yeah, no that makes sense. Smart idea. Gotta be careful when you’re a professional.” His voice is thin and unconvincing.

Being rejected by a perfect angel hurts more than he thought it would.

Steve’s perfectly plump lips turn upward slowly.

“But if you find me after the shoot when we’re not coworkers anymore, you can buy me coffee. That is… if you let go of my hand so I can do my job first.”

Jesus Christ.

Eddie had never let go of his hand.

He loosens his grip long enough for Steve to make it through the shoot and then he vows to never let go again.

They’re mated a year later, right before Steve changes his modeling demographic to maternity photoshoots instead.

And Eddie finds his lifelong muse.

[birdie-in-arcadia]

Unspoken

This is a brand new fic that I've had in the works for a couple of weeks. I'm gonna post it all in one part rather than in chapters. Be advised, there is some ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ near the end, so be prepared for that. Feminine pronouns are used. Enjoy lovelies <3

Word count: 13.8k

The rain in London doesn’t fall so much as it lingers; suspended in the air like thick smoke. I watch it paint slow-moving lines down the pane beside me, the editor’s office dim behind my reflection. 

"You're not going to like this," my boss says, pushing a manila folder across her desk with the same tone she'd use to hand me a terminal diagnosis. Her silver rings click against the wood as she slides it forward. “But it’s good. It’s high-profile. And you, unfortunately for both of us, are the best for it.” 

I don’t reach for it yet. Instead, I lift my gaze from the condensation-traced window and meet her eyes. She's got that look again, the one she saves for when she wants me to bite something sour and smile through it anyway. 

"Then why do you sound like you’re delivering bad news?" I ask dryly. She leans back in her chair, crossing one knee over the other, wrinkling her cream-colored slacks. “Because you’ve made a career of tearing apart performance art disguised as depth. And this… is a deep well.” My lips twitch. “Oh god, is it another sad-eyed indie boy in a turtleneck?” “No. Worse.” She grins, and I hate it. “It’s a cult. Well, not literally. Not quite. But close enough that the difference is a bit blurred.” 

She opens the folder herself when I don’t take it, revealing a neatly printed itinerary, a glossy press packet, and several promo images; dimly lit, high-contrast shots of masked figures on stage, dressed in black, arms outstretched like priests mid-sermon. 

“Sleep Token,” she says, tapping the top page with a black-lacquered nail. “You’ll shadow them through the first leg of their upcoming tour. Access to all the most sacred rituals. Interview the full band. Longform narrative, printed and online.” 

I frown at the photo. "Isn't that the band that won’t show their faces or speak in interviews?" I ask, clearly skeptical. “The very one,” she replies a little too giddily. “And you want me to profile them.” My face contorts in confusion. “Yes.” “You’re serious.” I question incredulously. “Deadly.” Her eyes stay on mine, serious as a heart attack. 

The band’s frontman, Vessel, they call him, appears in every image like a shadow. A figure carved out of granite, masked in bone-white and blood-red and cloaked in black velvet mystery. No name, no confirmed identity, just a voice like crushed silk and sermons about devotion whispered over synths and strings. Aesthetic over substance. An art project disguised as music. 

I said as much in a short-form review a year ago, after stumbling across their live footage. It wasn’t scathing, just cynical. But it was enough, apparently, for my lovely boss to find it poetic justice. “You can’t be serious,” I murmur, flipping through the pages. 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” she says. “You called them a cult of mood lighting and cryptic posturing. So now you get to find out if you were right.” I close the folder and exhale through my nose. “Why me?” “Because you’ll actually look,” she says. “Because you’re smart, and because you’re not a fangirl.” “You want me to go in unbiased.” I deadpan. “I want you to go in honest,” she corrects. “And if they win you over, great. If not, also great. Either way, it’ll make good copy.” 

The silence stretches between us, full of unspoken caveats. I already know what this is. It’s not just a writing assignment, it’s a professional dare. If I decline, I’m the girl who backed down from the band she mocked. If I accept… I’m throwing myself into a storm of performance, pretense, and endless posturing. Still, I reach for the folder. Challenge accepted. 

“Tour starts in two weeks,” she says, satisfaction softening her tone. “Your travel info is inside. They'll expect you for rehearsals.” “Who’s the point of contact?” I implore. She smiles, catlike. “Vessel himself.” I pause. “Really?” “Really.” I blink at the folder. My reflection stares back at me from the laminated surface. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.” 

By the time I’m back in my flat, the air smells of cold brick and petrichor. My bag is damp from the walk, my flats inundated with rain. I drop everything by the door and peel out of my coat, the manila folder under one arm like a weight I’m still not sure how to carry. The kitchen is dim. I flick on the lights, set the folder on the counter, and stare at it like it might open itself. I begin to make tea. It feels necessary, a comforting force of habit. 

Something about the name sits strange in my mouth. Vessel. Not a man, not a name. A container. A conduit. A mask with a voice that doesn’t belong to him, if the press releases are to be believed. I open the folder again. There's a note clipped to the itinerary: "This tour is intimate. The story should be, too." Below that, in handwritten ink: 

I stare at it for a long time. The handwriting is precise, slanted slightly to the left. Perplexing bastard. The itinerary is printed on thick cardstock, a minimalist calendar with dates, cities, and access points listed in sharp serif font. Each line is clean and deliberate. Then I see it - four names, printed beneath the band logo. 

“To comprehend fully, one must first witness.” 

-V. 

No real names. No surnames. Just roman numerals and that one, impossible word. I don’t know what I expect, some sliver of humanity, maybe. Something to remind me these aren’t characters. But that’s not what this is. This is theatre, and I’m about to walk right on stage. I take a sip of my tea and find that it’s bitter. The rain outside hasn’t stopped. It never does, really, it just shifts forms. I press my fingers to the page where Vessel is printed. What have I gotten myself into? 

Vessel 

II 

III 

IV 

The venue doesn’t look like much from the outside; just another nondescript building tucked into the edges of a London back street, unmarked save for the freight doors out front and the quiet buzz of trucks being unloaded behind them. But inside, it hums. 

Cables coil like tree roots across the floor. Lights dangle overhead, their cold glow bouncing off black-painted walls. Sound bleeds in faint pulses from behind a closed set of double doors; basslines, djent guitar riffs, echoing drums, and a voice that’s more siren than human. 

“Name?” asks the man at the security table, scanning a clipboard. I give it, and he cross-checks the press list, glancing briefly at my face before nodding toward the hall. “They’re running rehearsal,” he says. “You can wait near the green room.” I nod once and thank him, adjust the strap of my bag, and make my way deeper inside. 

The air smells like dust and fabric softener, and something raw – sweat. Normally I’d be disgusted, but these are the smells of a place where people bleed every aspect of themselves into their art. I round the corner and step into a narrow corridor lined with cases and equipment racks. Gaffer tape marks out routes on the floor. There’s a hum from the far end, amps, maybe. I pick up on the sound of indistinct voices. And then I see them. 

The three of them are lounging near the door of what must be the green room. One of them- tall, lean, dark-haired- is pacing, a guitar slung over his shoulder. Another, at least 6’4 and all leg, with unnaturally white hair and a devil-may-care slouch, is halfway through a sandwich, grinning like the kind of person who laughs at his own jokes. The last is smaller-framed than the others, sitting cross-legged on a flight case, nose buried in a notebook, drumsticks twirling between his fingers 

I slow my pace, unsure if I should introduce myself or wait for someone to notice. “Journalist?” Sandwich Guy calls before I can speak. “You’re early. Brave.” His accent is rougher than I expected; almost Cockney with a lilt of teasing. “That’s me,” I say, lifting my press badge. “Early and unfortunately punctual.” 

Sandwich Guy grins wider and hops to his feet. “I’m III,” he says. “And before you ask, no, we don’t use names. It keeps things... churchlike.” “Sacred?” I ask, dry. “Something like that.” He offers a mock bow. “Welcome to the temple.” The guitarist nods to me silently, brunette fringe falling over his sapphire eyes. He doesn’t offer a name, just a small smile and a brief incline of the head. 

“IV,” III supplies, gesturing lazily toward him. “Doesn’t talk much, but don’t take it personal.” The third lifts his head, closes the notebook slowly, and gives me a polite smile. “II,” he says simply. Their presence feels rehearsed but not fake; like they’ve done this dance a dozen times but still know how to keep it interesting. 

“You’re here for him,” III says, nodding toward the rehearsal doors. “Vessel,” I say. Something shifts in the air when I say it aloud. Not tension, exactly. Something subtler. “He’s finishing sound,” II says. “You’ll meet him shortly.” III leans against the wall, arms folded. “Word of warning? He’s not what you’re used to.” “I’m not exactly the wide-eyed fangirl type,” I say. “I know,” III replies, eyes glinting. “That’s why this’ll be fun.” I raise an eyebrow at him, and he just smirks in response. Cheeky bastard. I like it. It’s authentic. 

They let me wait in the green room, which is less glamorous than the term implies. Worn couches, scuffed walls, an open flight case filled with water bottles and granola bars. The lighting is dim, intentionally so, I think. I believe they enjoy a world of soft edges and blurred shadows. 

I sit, notebook in hand, but I don’t write. The sound of the recording for rehearsal purposes winds down, the bassline tapering into silence. There’s the muffled thump of shoes on solid floor, the screech of a mic being adjusted, then- 

Silence. And then the door opens. 

He steps in quietly, like a shadow returning to its origin. Vessel is taller than I expect, but a couple inches shorter than III. Broad-shouldered beneath his long black cloak, thin but trimmed, posture straight but not stiff. He moves like he’s part of the room, not separate from it. Like he belongs to the scenery. 

The mask covers all but his mouth and jaw; sleek and black, smooth painted skin that absorbs the low light; his ivory, scarlet, and gold-accented mask glints at certain angles as he glides through the room, apprehending a water bottle from the open case on the floor. No eyes. No name. Just presence and mystery. 

His gaze, though unseen, lands on me, and holds. “This is her,” III says, too loud in the hush. “The one who called us a cult.” Vessel doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head slightly, the only visible sign that he’s absorbing the words. I stand. 

He approaches with unhurried grace, his cloak swaying faintly with each step. “You are early,” he says, voice low and steady. “Better than late,” I reply. The corner of his mouth tilts upward. Barely. “Time,” he says softly, “is merely a concept.” My brows lift. “Is that a quote?” “No,” he says. “But you may use it.” 

His accent is faintly British, precise, but the way he speaks… it’s more cadence than conversation. Every word is shaped, intentional. Like lyrics spoken instead of sung. He doesn’t extend a hand, so I don’t either. “You’ve come to study us,” he says, voice even and calm. “I’ve come to write about you.” I correct gently. He tilts his head. “Is that not the same thing?” 

My throat is drier than it should be. “You don’t do many interviews.” I redirect. “No,” he says. “But when we do… we prefer transparency.” I nod slowly. “I think we’re both about to see how far that goes.” 

He steps closer. Not threatening, just present. There’s something still about him, but it’s not quiet. It’s coiled. Like silence stretched to the point of tension. “I’ve read your words,” he murmurs. “I figured.” “I thought you misunderstood us,” he says. “Maybe I did.” I reply. “Will you try again?” I meet the black mesh of the mask where his eyes should be. And say, quietly, “Yes.” Something about his presence makes my chest tighten as the room shrinks around me. He takes up every breath left in the room, leaving me silently gasping. It’s not from any kind of negativity, he's just... overwhelming. And something deep in my psyche has the insatiable, inexplicable urge to crack him open and discover what really lies beneath all the symbolism and imagery. 

He nods once, then turns, heading for the door. III gives me a look, part warning, part amusement. “Don’t stare too long,” he quips. “It’s not safe.” I glance back at the empty doorway. “I think that’s the point,” I say. III smirks and chuckles as he folds his gangly legs under himself and settles onto the couch, granola bar in hand. I take out my journal and write as much as I can remember about that... interaction. 

It’s nearly midnight when I’m told he’s ready. The venue has emptied. The crew’s laughter has faded down the halls, replaced by the quiet mechanical exhale of machines powering down and settling into place. I move through the silence with my recorder in one hand, my notebook in the other, the soles of my checkered Vans whispering against the carpeted corridor. 

There’s a hush to everything now. A young crew member gestures toward a door left slightly ajar. No name on it, no plaque. Just a single strip of black gaffer tape marked with a V. I lightly knock twice. "Enter," comes the voice, calm and low. 

The room is modest and sparse, bearing a low table and two chairs, soft amber lighting casting long shadows against charcoal-painted walls. There’s incense burning somewhere, faint but distinct; amber, or maybe vanilla - something warm. 

Vessel is seated at the far end, a cup of something steaming in one painted hand, mask angled toward the doorway like he’d been waiting. Like he knew the exact moment I would arrive. He gestures for me to sit. "Do you drink tea?" he asks. "Not this late. I’d never sleep again." He inclines his head, faintly amused. My eyes land on his mask as I poise my pen against the paper.  

He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t pace or shift or tap his foot. He just is, and that alone unnerves me more than any obscure, open-ended answers would have. He sits in stillness, and I feel my own movement exaggerated in contrast. Every breath, every blink, every motion of my hand as I write feels suddenly loud. "Let’s start simple," I say, eyes on his mask where his eyes would be. "How did Sleep Token begin?" 

"A whisper," he replies. I blink. "A whisper?" I clarify. "Yes." He leans slightly forward. "The sort that reaches through the ribs and stirs something you thought had been buried." "Right." I deadpan and click the pen. "And more practically?" "The whisper became a shout; something that could no longer be ignored." I glance at the recorder to make sure it’s working. "Can I quote that?" "You may quote anything that feels necessary." I sigh inwardly as I scribble down the quote. 

He watches me carefully. I can’t see his eyes, but I feel them. It’s like being studied by something waiting for you to flinch so it can understand what makes you tick. 

"How much of the project is a persona?" I ask, letting a little edge bleed into my voice. "And how much is actually you?" "Do you believe those are separate?" He asks evenly. "In most cases, yes." I respond truthfully. "And in this one?" He tilts his head, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of every sound in the room, and lack thereof. "I’m not sure yet." I nearly stutter. He pauses. A beat of silence that feels intentional. "Then perhaps," he says softly, "that’s where we begin." He folds his hands together in his lap, and my eyes immediately follow the movement.  

My gaze unconsciously wanders up from his fingers to his bare, toned stomach, to his painted, sculpted abdomen and chest, and ending at his sharp collarbone. I watch his Adam’s apple move up, then back down, and it’s captivating. This man looks as if he were carved from alabaster and hand-sculpted by the gods. Unnaturally beautiful. My breathing picks up slightly and I swear my mouth begins to water. What the hell is wrong with me? Suddenly he shifts, crossing an ankle over his knee, forming a triangle in his lap. The motion breaks me from my trance, and I quickly realize that I’ve been staring at this man, and I blink hard and force myself to refocus. My cheeks flush bright red with embarrassment and I force my head down in a futile attempt to hide it. 

I pivot anxiously, praying that he somehow didn’t notice, but judging by the barely noticeable quirk to the corner of his lips, he definitely did. I return to the interview, hoping to redirect away from whatever the hell that was. "You don’t use your name. None of you do." I state. "No." He replies simply. "Why?" "Names are ownership," he replies. "Labels placed by others. We rename ourselves to be newly and only known by the act of giving." I scribble it down, but the words feel too big to fit neatly on a page. "That sounds... spiritual," I comment. "It is," he replies with a subtle nod. "You think of Sleep Token as a form of worship?" I question, tilting my head a bit to the right. "I think of it as a return." "To what?" "To ache. To honesty. An acknowledgment of all the places we were told not to feel or exist too loudly. A way to inform those who feel the most isolated in such feelings, that they are not alone." 

That one stays with me. It lingers heavily in my chest, along with a strange feeling of being seen. I don’t know if I like it. I flip to a new page and find my hands are slightly shaky. "You’ve said before that devotion plays a key role in your work." I begin again. He answers with another simple yes. "Devotion to what?" I question further. He tilts his head slightly. "Devotion is not about the object. It is about the offering." "That’s not an answer." I note. "It’s the only one I have,” he replies, his voice still unwavering. 

I pause the recorder. The click of the button feels sharp in the silence. "You know I’m not here to be seduced by metaphors, right?" His mouth curves slightly. "And yet... you keep returning to them." He’s right. I hate that he’s right. I feel a swell of irritation flow through my chest as I respond. "I’m trying to give people something real," I say, quieter now. "Something tangible that makes sense." "So am I." Cocky bastard. 

His voice is softer now. Not condescending. Inviting. I glance down at my notes, and they look foreign. Distant. This isn’t what I came here to write. “And yet-” I begin, but I’m cut off. 

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "May I ask you something?" I pause, shifting my gaze from my notebook to his eyeless mask. "That's not usually how these go." "And yet." He mirrors me, my own phrase tossed gently back, and the irritation surges through me again. My chest tightens slightly as I nod. He tilts his head, almost imperceptibly. 

"Why do you speak like someone who’s already disappointed?" The question lodges in me like a splinter. "I don’t-" "You do," he says, gently. I open my mouth, then close it again. He doesn’t press. Just lets the words hang. "I don’t know," I say finally. "Maybe it’s safer not to expect too much." "And what would happen," he asks, voice velvet-smooth, "if you did?" 

I restart the recorder mostly so I have something to do with my hands. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who doesn’t give many answers." "Truth speaks both ways," he replies. "And you… have much to say, if someone is willing to listen." "Are you willing?" I snap. "That depends," he says. "Do you want to be heard, or understood?" 

That’s it. That’s the moment. The point where something clicks inside me, a gear shifting. A door unlocking. I don’t know when the conversation became intimate, only that it has. Only that his voice has dropped lower, softer, and that my pulse is louder than it should be. I try to clear my throat and change gears. "What’s the meaning behind the mask?" I question. "Protection. Separation. Freedom." Three simple words but so loaded. "From what?" "Expectation. Exposure. And you." I look up at him sharply, my stomach twisting at his implication, but he’s not smiling. "You mean journalists?" I ask, my voice barely retaining composure. "I mean anyone who wants fast, simple answers of questionable authenticity more than they want the truth, regardless of how long that can take. Quantity over quality." There’s a beat of silence between us. And then he says gently, unflinchingly, "Are you here to understand me? Or to write about something to garner hollow numbers from a disingenuous audience?" 

I don’t answer. I don’t have an answer. So instead, I click the recorder off again, close my notebook, and let the silence sit between us like a confession. He stands quietly and gracefully, and he moves toward the door. Just before he opens it, he turns to me. “You ask good questions,” he says. “Then why do I feel like I didn’t get a single real answer?” His head tilts, just a little. “Because sometimes,” he says, “in order to receive the truth, you must open your mind, set your ego aside, and realize that it will not be your version of the truth.” And then he’s gone. 

I sit there for a long time after he leaves, the recorder in my lap, my notebook still open to a page filled with metaphors. I scroll back through the audio and play the first minute again, just to hear his voice. He simultaneously pisses me off and makes me want to ask him every question under the sun. It makes me feel something I don’t have a name for. Before I can overanalyze that, I stand and make my way out to the tour bus. 

 

The venue is dark before the first note is played. Like you could dissolve into it and never find the edges of yourself again. 

And then – sound; low, building, like something ancient waking up beneath the earth. I’m standing just off side stage, back against the concrete wall, arms folded loosely over my chest. The air smells like metal and polished wood. Lights flash red to blue to gold, shifting across the shadows in great sweeping arcs as fog rolls across the floor in slow, curling tendrils. 

The crowd out front is electric. Devoted. Arms raised in reverence before the sermon’s even begun. I’m trying to remain detached and objective, but I can already feel my critical distance slipping, undone by the sheer presence of it all. Because when Vessel steps on stage, he doesn’t walk. He glides. He’s in his element and it’s instantly captivating. 

He’s a silhouette in motion. A cathedral carved in flesh and bone and shadow. The mask gleams in the lights - sleek, seamless, alien. His cloak flares with every step, black against black. 

And the crowd loses their minds. They chant his moniker; not a name, but a title. A vessel. A thing that holds. A thing that gives. A thing that, by definition, empties itself for others. It should be ridiculous. It should feel overdone. But it doesn’t. It feels real. Necessary.  

He raises his hands to the mic in front of him, slow and fluid. And they fall silent. When his voice cuts through the expanse of the arena, it feels less like sound and more like sensation. Like something warm and heavy being pressed directly into your sternum. The first lyrics hit like thunder muffled in velvet: 

“You live, by daylight…” 

I grip my notebook tighter against my chest, trying to hear it like a critic would. Structure. Rhythm. Tone. But my heart doesn’t care about structure. And somewhere deep in my stomach, something aches. 

He moves as he sings. Graceful, like each motion is part of a prayer no one taught me the words to. His arms stretch wide, then curl inward, like he’s drawing something unseen into himself only to release it again. He dances – if you could even call it that – around the stage, jumping from foot to foot, arms out for balance, fingers curling and twitching to the beat. I chuckle to myself as I watch him, thoroughly entertained. Who taught this man to dance? 

I’ve seen a hundred different frontmen. I’ve never seen this. My logical brain tries to analyze it. The eccentric choreography, the lighting, the set design. All carefully curated to elicit this exact reaction. But the part of me that lives beneath all that, the quiet center that used to hum when I played music just for the joy of it, that part is cracking open. 

And I hate it. I hate that I’m affected. I don’t understand why my chest feels so full, or why tears are pricking at the corners of my eyes. The set moves seamlessly, track to track, no banter, no breaks. Just sound and motion and breath. He doesn’t speak to the crowd between songs. He doesn’t need to. They already believe. 

By the time the last note fades, my throat is dry. I feel like I’ve held my breath for an hour without noticing. And when Vessel bows slowly, hands clasped together and reaching forward reverently, the room erupts. I expect him to walk off with the same drama he entered. 

But he doesn’t. He turns with slumped shoulders and open mouth and looks at me. Not at the crowd. At me. It’s only a second, but it lands like a strike. The mask gleams beneath the spotlight. His chin lifts slightly, just enough to acknowledge that he sees me. Not as press. Not as an outsider. As something else, and I’m not sure what. The need to figure out just what he sees me as surges through my veins, and I’m both mystified and frustrated. 

I follow the crew through the backstage maze, notebook clutched too tight in my fingers. I don’t know what I’m going to write. I don’t even know how to start. The band peels off one by one, sweat-soaked and half-laughing. But Vessel doesn’t go with them. He’s waiting, again. 

Leaning against a wall near the equipment crates, hood drawn over the mask, arms folded. The stage is gone, but the weight of it remains on his shoulders. “You watched,” he says simply. “I did.” “And?” I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “It was… a performance.” “That’s all?” he questions. “It was effective.” He hums low in his throat, like he’s amused by my restraint. "Your heartbeat changed," he says. “During the third song.” I frown. “Excuse me?” “You held your breath during the bridge,” he continues. “And again in the final verse.” “You were watching me?” He tilts his head. “I thought it was only fair to reciprocate.” 

I bristle, half embarrassed, half unnerved. “I’m here to observe. Not participate.” “And yet,” he says softly, “you did.” His voice lowers, a shade more intimate. “You felt it. Even if you won’t accept it.” My jaw tightens. “That’s not relevant to the article.” “It’s relevant to the truth, which you so desperately chase.” I look away, suddenly hot beneath the collar of my jacket. “You’re frustrating,” I mutter. “I’m honest.” he corrects. “No,” I say. “You’re cryptic. You speak in riddles and poetry and pretend it’s clarity.” He leans forward slightly, and for the first time, his voice carries an edge. “You call it poetry like it’s a pastime. For me, it’s livelihood.” 

We stand there, locked in that space between conflict and something else, tension tightening like a bowstring. “I don’t know what to do with you,” I say, before I can think better of it. He takes a step back. “You’re not meant to do anything,” he replies. “Just... witness and understand.” And with that, he turns and disappears into the hall. 

Back in my hotel room, I sit on the bed, notebook open on my lap. The pen taps rhythmically against the page, but I haven’t written a word. I don’t know where to start. I want to call the performance manipulative. But that’s not true. I want to say it was empty spectacle. But it wasn’t. What I felt... I don’t have a name for it yet. All I know is that I saw a man lose himself in genuine devotion on stage. And now I can’t stop wondering what it would feel like to be the thing he devoted himself to. 

It’s always louder after the show. Not the venue, not the music, but everything else. The blood in my ears. The weight of whatever it is that I felt. The things I still can’t quite name. I try to decompress in the low-slung backstage lounge, curled in one corner of the worn leather couch with my notebook balanced on my knee. I haven’t written much. Not since last night. 

Not since I watched a masked man unravel and rebuild himself under the lights like it was an offering, not a performance. And now, every time I press pen to page, I hesitate. Because I’m not sure what I’m writing about anymore. 

III drops onto the couch beside me without warning, legs sprawled out in front of him, arms stretched along the backrest like he owns the air between us. “You look like you just came back from war,” he says, half-laughing. “Everything alright in interview-land?” I lift an eyebrow and grin. “Do you usually bother people who are clearly trying to work?” “Only when they look like they need saving from their own thoughts.” He grins. It’s lopsided and easy, the kind of smile that lands without effort. 

He’s magnetic in a way that makes you want to lean toward him just to bask in it a little longer. And after days of intensity, of cryptic half-answers and internal knots, he’s… easy. Warm, loud, and real. “You know,” he says, gesturing toward my notebook, “you’re allowed to stop thinking every now and then. Even gods take tea breaks.” 

I snort. “You referring to yourself or someone else?” “I think you know.” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “But I’d never admit it outright. That’d ruin the mystery.” I laugh despite myself. It slips out before I can stop it, and it feels… good. The notebook flutters shut as I lean back against the couch. The ache in my back reminds me that I don’t think I’ve fully relaxed since I’ve been on tour with these men. “Okay,” I say. “Distract me.” “Gladly.” he chirps. 

He launches into a dramatic reenactment of a rehearsal mishap involving II’s drumsticks, a rogue smoke machine, and an unfortunately placed water bottle. He’s expressive, animated, wildly inappropriate at times, and it works. I’m laughing so hard I nearly forget why I was so tense and quiet in the first place. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a shadow. Vessel. He’s further back, near the side hallway, speaking with someone from production. Or, no, not speaking. Just standing. Watching. His mask is angled toward us, mouth set in a thin, straight line, unreadable as ever. But the air between us prickles as if it knows something I don’t. 

III says something else, but I miss it. “Hmm?” I hum, eyes finding his again. “You alright?” he asks, brows lifting. “You just drifted off to outer space, pretty girl.” I shake my head, smile fading just slightly. “Yeah. Just thinking again. Bad habit.” His compliment doesn’t even register to me because I’m too caught up in what the hell is going on between the mysterious, brooding vocalist and myself. It’s like there’s something unsaid on both ends. 

Later, when most of the crew has gone to change or collapse in their rooms, I slip into the quiet of the hallway to breathe. It’s dimly lit, lined with cases and soft shadows, as per usual. My footsteps echo faintly. I turn a corner, and there he is. Vessel. Leaning against the wall, hood drawn up again, mask gleaming under the dim overhead bulb. As if he’s been waiting. 

“You’re always hiding in the shadows where I never expect you to be,” I murmur, not ready to stop the conversation before it starts. He doesn’t move. “Could say the same about you,” he says. I pause a few feet from him; arms crossed against my chest like a shield. “You watching me now?” I ask, light but not teasing. “I observe.” he says quietly. “Same difference.” He tilts his head, just slightly. “What were you laughing at?” His voice is low. Not hostile. But there’s a note in it, an edge I haven’t heard before. “III was telling stories.” “Mm.” Silence. Then, softer, “You laugh differently with him.” 

I blink. The words land like a stone dropped in still water; ripples spreading outward, eliciting things I wasn’t prepared to feel. “And how would you know how I laugh?” I ask. “You’ve laughed in my vicinity,” he says. “But not like that.” My breath catches. “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.” “I wasn’t,” he says. “Until I noticed it missing.” 

The silence stretches. I should be angry. Or annoyed. Or confused. Instead, I feel like the ground is tilting under me, just enough to make balance precarious. “You’re cryptic as hell, you know that?” I mutter. “I speak plainly,” he replies. “You just hear me complicated.” That makes me laugh, just once, short and staccato. His head turns slightly toward the sound. “I envy him,” he says quietly. “He’s... uncomplicated.” I blink. “You think that’s what I want?” “I think it’s easier to want someone who doesn’t ask you to look inward.” 

I open my mouth, then close it again. Because that... is closer to the truth than I’m ready to admit. I really look at him then. And suddenly I want more than anything to see what’s behind the mask. His skin. His eyes. His expression when he’s not being Vessel but simply… him. But I don’t ask. Because I know he wouldn’t show me. I’m foolish to think that he ever would. “Goodnight,” I say instead, and it’s obvious that that’s not what I really wanted to say. His voice follows me as I turn to leave. “Be careful what you find in distractions.” 

Back in my room, I sit on the bed, notebook open but untouched. I should be writing about the show. About the crowd. About the setlist. Instead, I write: He saw me laughing. He noticed the difference. Why does that matter? Why can’t I get him out of my head? And then I scribble lines through it so hard the pen nearly rips the page. 

Tour days begin to blur after a while. Hotel lobbies all smell the same. The loading bays behind venues all echo with the same hum of shouts, cables, and steel-toed boots. There’s comfort in the repetition, but it also makes the changes harder to ignore. Like how Vessel is no longer around as much. 

It’s subtle at first. A rehearsal where he leaves early. A show where he vanishes the moment the final note fades. A stretch of silence where I once caught him watching me, like he was searching for something between my expressions. Now I catch glimpses of him only in passing, hood up, shoulders set, disappearing through corridors with purpose he doesn’t explain. 

And I hate how much I notice. Even worse, I hate that it hurts. Because the part of me that prides itself on being unaffected, on being analytical and sharp and never once taken in by theatrics… that part? It’s starting to crack under the pressure of his absence. 

I don’t see him for nearly two days. Not properly, not alone. And when I finally do, it’s because I go looking. Not intentionally, or at least that’s what I tell myself. I tell myself I just happened to be passing the quiet green room at the back of the venue. That I just thought I’d check in before soundcheck. That I didn’t already know he’d be there, sitting in the half-light, back turned, writing something in a worn notebook I’ve never seen him share. 

He doesn’t acknowledge me when I step inside. Just continues writing, pen gliding smoothly over the page in long, curved strokes. His shoulders are relaxed. His presence stills the air like it always does. But something feels off. I stand there a moment longer before breaking the silence. “You’ve been quiet.” I say lowly, cautiously. There’s a pause, then, “I am quiet.” he replies evenly. “More than usual.” I say, taking another small step toward him. Still, he doesn’t turn. “There are things,” he says, voice soft and careful, “that become louder in silence. I am listening to them.” I cross my arms. “Like what?” His pen stills. “Like your gestures toward everyone but me.” 

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. So I step forward again, stopping just behind the couch where he sits. “Is this about the other night?” His grip on the pen tightens. Just slightly. “You tell me,” he replies. “I can’t read your mind, Vessel.” “Yet, you somehow always know where I am, even if you don’t wish to locate me.” That stops me in my tracks. 

There’s a weight in the way he says it. Like he’s accusing me of something I don’t understand. Like he’s disappointed by what I found there with III and I the other night. “I was just talking to him.” I tell him gently. “I know.” he affirms. “You make it sound like more.” I say, hurt evident in my tone more than I’d like it to be. He turns then, slowly. Mask facing me, white and featureless in the low light. “And for that, I apologize.” 

His words are measured, but there’s something beneath them. Something brittle. I step around the couch so we’re no longer separated by furniture and tension. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” I say. “You didn’t.” he replies, a little too quickly. I give him a look. “That’s a lie.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then, “You’re not mine to be upset over.” The words are clean and sharp. Not cruel. Not even cold. Just true. And that truth slices something open in me I didn’t know was there. 

“I didn’t flirt with him to spite you,” I say, quieter now. His posture doesn’t change. “I know.” “I wasn’t thinking about you at all.” That one lands harder than I mean it to, and I immediately grimace, wishing I could take it back. But instead of reacting, he nods. “I wouldn’t want you to.” He stands. And I feel something in my chest reel, like my viscera itself is trying to keep him from walking out again. But he doesn’t leave. 

Instead, he turns to face me fully for the first time since I walked in, and says, “You felt something on that stage.” A bolt of electricity surges through me as I try to comprehend what he’s implying. “I never said I didn’t.” I reply. He tilts his head. “Then why run from it?” he questions. “I’m not running.” I argue. “Then what are you doing?” I don’t have an answer. He takes one step forward. The air shifts between us. 

“Do you want me to stop?” The question lands like thunder. I stare at the mask, at the shadowed space where his eyes should be. “Stop what?” I whisper. “Being near you.” My breath catches. And then, out of more instinct than cohesive thought I reply with one word. “No.” He doesn’t move again. He nods once, and leaves. 

Back in my hotel room, I open my journal. Not the notebook I use for interviews. The other one. The one I haven’t shown anyone. I sit on the edge of the bed, pen poised over the blank page. 

And I write: 

Even if I never get to see your face. 

You ruin me without touching me. 

And I want more. 

Even if it breaks me open. 

Even if I bleed poems trying to explain it. 

I want to know the shape of you beneath the mask.  

The rain starts just after the final note. Not a soft drizzle, but a downpour. Curtains of water droplets hammer against the roof of the venue, echoing like distant drums in the walls. It hits with no warning, drenching the loading bay in a haze of silver mist. 

I don’t see where Vessel goes after the show. He disappears before the last lights dim. The others filter backstage slowly, breathless and laughing, shedding coats and sweat like it’s second nature. Someone brings pizza. Someone else blasts a playlist from a half-busted speaker. There’s chatter. Laughter. Warmth. 

But I don’t feel part of it tonight. Not since he looked at me just before leaving the stage. No words, no nod, just the tilt of his head and something unreadable in the curve of his shoulders. It’s late when I slip out of the noise and into the quiet lounge at the far end of the hallway. And naturally, he’s there. 

He’s standing with his back to me, soaked to the bone. His coat is clinging to him, heavy with rain, hair dripping where it peeks from the edge of his hood. Water pools around his beat-up Converse. The air smells damp and stuffy. He doesn’t flinch when I enter. “I thought maybe you’d dissolved into the mist,” I murmur. His voice comes back low and rough. “Almost did.” 

I take a step closer. “I didn’t know rain bothered you.” “It doesn’t.” A pause. “But sometimes… it drowns the noise inside.” He turns then, slowly. His mask is still on, of course, but the vulnerability wafts off him in waves. Softer than usual. Less composed. There’s something in the line of his shoulders that’s tired.  

“You’re soaked,” I say, a little too softly. He doesn’t answer. There’s a towel on the back of the couch, and I grab it without thinking, crossing the space between us. He watches me, unmoving, as I reach up and press the towel to the line where his mask meets his hairline. Gently. Slowly. His breath catches, barely, but I hear it. 

“You don’t have to…” he starts, but I shake my head. “Let me.” The towel is warm from sitting near the radiator, and the heat makes steam rise off the wet fabric of his hood. I push it back gently, slowly revealing his saturated hair. I move slowly, giving him time to stop me, but he doesn’t. 

The towel grazes his temple. His jaw. We’re too close now. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. It’s sweet like whiskey, with dark notes of teakwood. Intoxicating. The air hums with a tension so strong it nearly takes out my knees. I press the towel down his neck, over the slope of his shoulders. My fingers accidentally brush skin where his shirt has slipped, bare, warm, damp. 

He stiffens. But doesn’t pull away. My heartbeat quickens and I wonder momentarily if he can hear it. “I don’t understand you,” I whisper. He lifts his head slightly, as if searching my face beneath the dim light. “I don’t want to be understood.” “Why not?” “Because you write truth,” he says. “And I’m still trying to become it.” That does something to me. A small ache, low and quiet. I let my hand linger a moment too long near his chest, then drop it. “You make everything harder than it needs to be,” I murmur. “You make everything harder to hide.” he says in response.  

We’re inches apart now. He’s looking down at me, and I can feel his breath where it ghosts across my cheek. The mask is cool beneath the light, impersonal. But everything else about him... His hands, his voice, the way he’s trembling just slightly, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, it’s human. Finally real. 

I wonder what he’d do if I reached for him. If I touched the side of his neck, traced the lines of his jaw where the mask opens. If I pulled him closer and kissed the place just beneath his ear, where no one can see. His hand lifts like he might reach for me, but he doesn’t. But he’s close. His hand pauses in midair, opening and closing like he’s grasping for something unseen. 

“Vessel…” I breathe in a voice barely above a whisper. He exhales, sharp and shallow. “We shouldn’t.” he says, but his voice carries different words than what he’s said. “But you want to.” I say. “Wanting,” he says, voice like gravel, “is not the same as deserving.” My heart skips. “Is that what you think? That you don’t deserve this?” “I think…” He stops. Swallows. “I think you deserve someone who doesn’t leave you decoding riddles at 2 am.” 

I stare at him. He’s trembling, and I’m standing here, half-damp from his proximity, shaking too, but not from cold. “You think I don’t deserve you?” I ask. “You deserve something constant and sure.” Then, quieter, “But it’s hard to remind myself of that when you’re this close.” 

I feel the moment shift. That invisible thread between us pulling taut. He leans in. I don’t move. His hand brushes mine, barely a graze. A soft, yet not accidental promise. And for one suspended heartbeat, the world narrows to this room. This moment. This breath. 

But then a door slams somewhere down the hall. Distant voices echo. He pulls back like he’s been burned. The space between us floods with silence again. His voice returns first, barely above a whisper. “You should go.” I wait a breath, then say, “I know.” “I’ll ruin this.” he mutters. “Maybe I want it ruined.” I tell him, and it rings so true in my chest. He turns from me and says nothing. Something in me breaks loose, and I turn and leave before I burst. 

Later, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. The room is silent, but I swear I can still feel him. Still feel the ghost of his breath against my cheek. The brush of his hand. The unspoken thing that almost happened. And I realize something that scares me more than all his mystery combined. I want him. Not as a story. Not as a symbol. Just… him. 

She doesn’t see me. Or maybe she chooses not to. But I see her. Always. It’s the curse of knowing what it feels like to orbit someone who doesn’t know they’ve become your sun. Every laugh she gives to someone else feels like a star that doesn’t shine for me. And yet I watch. From behind corners, from shadows, from the hollow place in myself where want turns to ache and ache turns to need. 

 She’s laughing now, over a half-finished drink, sitting too close to III on the couch. Her legs are tucked under her; fingers curled around the stem of a glass she’s barely touched. She throws her head back at something he says, mouth open in genuine delight. And I hate how beautiful she is when she forgets to guard herself. III leans in. And I stop breathing. Not because he touches her. But because she lets him. I turn away, because if I keep watching, I will set something on fire just to feel like I still have a hand in it. 

My dressing room is dark when I step inside, as if the room itself knows better than to offer comfort. I don’t turn on the lights. I just lean back against the door and let my head rest there, eyes shut behind the mask. 

Her voice still echoes. And worse, her laugh. It used to be mine, in the way no one else noticed it. When she’d smile at a metaphor I hadn’t expected her to catch. When she’d speak into silences without fear of not being answered. When she’d look at me like I was still human beneath all this… mythology. But now I’m just myth again. And I am starving for the sound of her voice in the quiet. 

I want her. Not just her skin, though God knows I dream of that too; of her bare beneath me, soft and gasping, tangled in sheets I’d stain with poetry and adoration. No. I want her heart. Her trust. Her gaze, not just when it’s curious, but when it’s safe. I want to ruin her and rebuild her. I want her to unravel me and not flinch at what she finds. 

But I can’t ask that of her. Not while I still wear this thing. Not while I still speak in riddles because the truth is too dangerous to speak plainly. Because the truth is: she makes me forget the mask. And if I take it off for her, I’ll never survive putting it back on. 

I lean over the small sink and splash cold water on the back of my neck; hands braced on either side of the basin. Steam curls up from the heat of my skin, and I picture her fingertips there instead, tracing, grazing, learning. 

She touches the others like it’s nothing when she hugs them hello and goodbye. Touches him like it’s easy. What would she do if I reached out? If I cupped her face and pressed my forehead to hers and told her that she’s the only light I believe in anymore? Would she lean in? Or pull away? 

I remember the way she looked at me that night; the towel in her hand, her breath catching as she saw my hair for the first time. And I let her. It made me incredibly nervous, but she’s worth it. Her eyes flicking to my lips like they didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it. The way her fingers trembled when they brushed my neck. The soft shiver that ran through her when I said her name. 

She felt it, I know she did. But she left. And I let her. Because wanting her isn’t the same as being safe for her. And if I cross that line… I don’t know if I’ll come back the same. She’s soft where I am sharpened. Open where I am hidden. And that difference terrifies me. Because when she touches me, I forget the script. And when she laughs near him, I remember every word I was never brave enough to say. 

She asks questions I can’t answer. And worse, they’re questions I want to answer. She makes me want to pull the mask off, to speak plainly, to show her the ruin underneath and ask her to name it beautiful anyway. 

But that’s not how this works. The world doesn’t forgive the unmasking of gods. And I’m not ready to be mortal again. 

I sit on the floor, back against the dressing table, staring at the dim reflection of my mask in the mirror. I imagine her sitting beside me, knees brushing, her head on my shoulder. I wonder what she would smell like. I imagine her hand on mine, silent, steady, saying without words that she understands. And then I imagine her looking away. And the ache swells in my chest like a storm that will not pass. 

I want her lips, yes. But I also want her late-night thoughts, and her sleepy silences, and her nervous ramblings when she’s caught off guard. I want the way she tugs her sleeves over her hands when she’s anxious. I want to hear her sing when she doesn’t know I’m listening, and when she knows I am. I want to hear my tragic lyrics pass through her lips where they become beautiful. I want all of it. But all I have is the shape of her from a distance. And the sound of her laugh when she gives it to someone else. 

III is loud and bright and unafraid. I am shadow and silence and secrets I can’t let slip. She deserves light. And yet I still pray some nights, alone in strange cities, that she’s looking for me in the dark. There is no resolution here. Only this ache. This gravity. She pulls me in, even when I run. And one day soon… I won’t have the strength to pull away. 

 

The rooftop is still wet from the rain. The air carries the scent of damp concrete, ozone, and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke from somewhere downwind. Above me, the city lights flicker like they're breathing, too far to touch, too soft to guide. 

I came up here to think. To breathe. But I should’ve known I wasn’t alone. "Couldn't sleep either?" III's voice cuts through the quiet, casual and familiar, but there's something low in it tonight, something slower. He's leaning against the ledge with a bottle in hand, hoodie damp at the cuffs, eyes skimming the skyline like he's waiting for it to answer something. I nod, stepping toward him. “Something like that.” 

We lapse into silence. It doesn’t beg to be filled but doesn’t feel quite comfortable either. He glances over at me after a moment, studying me in that way of his; open, relaxed, but far too observant. “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, sugar,” he says, handing me the bottle. I take it, sip, and wince at the burn of the whiskey. “Maybe just the weight of my own head,” I murmur. III chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dangerous place to live.” 

I lean against the ledge beside him. Close. But not quite touching. “You’ve been... weird lately,” he says after a moment. “With him.” I don’t have to ask who he means. “I know.” “You get that he’s a bloody head case, right?” he asks, but there’s no cruelty in his voice, only familiarity. “He’s the type to turn himself inside out just to keep anyone from seeing what he’s made of.” “I know,” I say again. But it comes out too quietly. He nods. “Still. You look at him like you’re trying to see through walls.” I say nothing. 

Then, suddenly, III’s hand brushes mine, and he doesn’t move it. My breath catches. “You don’t have to make it hard, you know,” he says, and his voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “It doesn’t have to be all tension and heartbreak and whatever cryptic bullshit he’s feeding you.” “I’m not sure it’s that simple.” I say lowly, distant. “It is.” He turns to face me fully. “You want something real? Here I am. No mask. No mystery.” 

His hand moves up, touching my face now, cupping my jaw softly. He leans in, slowly, carefully. And for a split second, I let him. I let the warmth of him, the ease of him, move closer. I let the part of me that’s tired of tension whisper that maybe this would be easier. That maybe love doesn’t have to feel like lockpicking.  

But I don’t close the distance. Because my heart’s already gone somewhere else. And I think he knows it. He stops, lips inches from mine. Then he sighs and pulls back. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what I thought.” “I’m sorry,” I whisper. He shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He steps away from the ledge, away from me, and rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake something off. “I just needed to know,” he adds. I watch him for a moment. “Are you angry?” I ask timidly, guilt flooding my chest. “No.” He shakes his head, then looks at me with a strange softness. “But I’m not the one you should be giving your attention to.” 

I blink. He gives me a crooked smile. “He’s in love with you, you know.” I feel the blood drain from my face and my head spins, my knees nearly buckling. “What?” is all I can muster through my shock. “Vessel,” he says simply. “He’s in love with you. He just doesn’t know how to say it without choking on the words or scaring you off.” 

The rooftop spins and my vision blurs for a moment. “I… don’t know what to say.” “You don’t have to say anything.” He steps closer again, but there’s no flirtation left now. Just understanding. “Just... go. Don’t let him convince himself that you don’t feel it too.” And then, after a beat: “He’ll fight it. He’ll probably say something cryptic and poetic and impossible. But he’ll mean well.” 

The weight of the moment settles into my chest, thick and unrelenting. I nod once, and he sees it. And then I’m turning, feet moving before I fully realize I’m chasing something. Or maybe someone. Someone I should’ve been chasing all along. 

The knock I give his door is soft and hesitant; three quiet taps against painted wood that barely echo in the stillness of the hallway. I don’t even know if he’ll answer. Don’t know if he’s awake or if he’ll pretend not to be. But the door creaks open a moment later. He’s standing there barefoot, in loose dark joggers and a black hoodie, the hood down and his mask still on. His body is a silhouette in the low amber light behind him. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. His voice is low, careful and guarded. “I know,” I reply. “But I am.” A pause, long enough that I begin to second guess coming here all. But then he opens the door wider. And I step inside. 

His room is warm and dim. The bedside lamp is on, casting a soft circle of light that catches on the curve of his mask. There’s a guitar on the chair, a stack of lyric-scrawled paper on the floor, and a bed that looks untouched. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. Neither do I. I don’t want to startle the moment; I just want to be in it. “I talked to III,” I say finally. His jaw shifts slightly. “And?” he murmurs. “He said you’re in love with me.” 

The air leaves the room. He stands there like I just gutted him with a whisper. Then softly, slowly, “He shouldn’t have said that.” I take a step toward him. “But it’s true, isn’t it?” He doesn’t answer. So I keep going. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “You were never supposed to be mine.” he replies lowly. “That’s not what I asked.” I tell him. “You were happy without knowing,” he says. “So, I tried to stay out of the way.” “Bullshit.” I snap. 

His head jerks slightly. “You didn’t stay out of the way,” I continue. “You haunted me. Every glance. Every riddle. Every time you almost said something. You made it impossible not to feel everything.” He exhales through his nose, sharp. He turns away, lifting the mask to drag a hand down his face before lowering it again. “I didn’t mean to confuse you.” he says. “But you did.” I reply gently. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “But you did.” 

He turns back toward me, mask gleaming. “You think I wanted this?” he snaps, voice barely above a whisper. “You think I wanted to wake up thinking about your mouth and your laugh and the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous? You think I wanted to dream about you in the worst, filthiest, most beautiful ways and then pretend I felt nothing every goddamn time I saw you with him?” 

I don’t realize I’m crying until my lip trembles. “And yet,” I whisper, “you still said nothing.” He’s in front of me in two strides. Not touching me, but close. Too close. “I didn’t know how,” he breathes. His voice cracks just barely. 

“I’ve built my entire existence on being unreachable. And then you walked in with your questions and your eyes and your truth, and suddenly I wasn’t unreachable anymore. I was exposed. I was yours.”  

I don’t know who moves first. But then we’re kissing like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. Like the world narrows to his mouth on mine and the heat of his hands as they cup my jaw, fingers trembling as he tilts my head to deepen the kiss. 

It’s messy. It’s desperate. It’s everything. “God, you could never fathom how badly I’ve wanted this,” he groans, pulling me against him. His hands grip my waist, and mine fist in his hoodie as our bodies collide, heat sparking at every point of contact. His lips drag down my neck, teeth grazing, tongue tasting, mask scraping, and my knees nearly buckle at the feel of it. 

“Say it again,” I whisper, breathless. “What?” “That I’m yours.” He presses me back against the wall and leans in so close I feel the heat of his words on my lips. “You’re mine,” he growls. “You’ve always been mine.” 

His hoodie is gone. Then my shirt. Then our pants. We don’t stop. We can’t stop. Every layer shed feels like a confession, like a promise we’ve both been too afraid to say aloud. “You’re so good for me,” he mutters against my skin. “So fucking good.” His body is completely unpainted, even his face, which tells me he quickly put the mask on once he heard the knock at his door. 

His hands slide over my thighs, my ass, then grip my hips as he lifts me easily and carries me to the bed. He lays me down like he’s reverent, but the way he looks at me? It’s hunger. It’s need. And I want to be devoured. 

He kneels, pulling me to the edge of the bed with his hands on the backs of my knees, spreading me open like I’m something sacred. His masked face stays tilted down as his fingers trail over my bare skin, slow and deliberate, until I’m trembling beneath his touch. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Dripping for me already.” My cheeks flush, and I gasp as his fingers slip between my folds, teasing, just barely there. He watches the way I squirm, watches every breath, every twitch, every whimper. “Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and rough. “You,” I whisper. “I want you.” 

He groans, low in his chest, and kisses down my inner thigh. “You’re gonna have me, love,” he says. “But I’m gonna make you beg for it.” I whimper at that, arching toward his hand. “Please,” I breathe. “Please, Vessel-” 

“That’s fuckin’ it,” he praises, slipping two fingers inside me while his thumb circles my clit. “Good girl. So fucking sweet for me, aren’t you, baby.” 

I cry out at the sensation, my hips bucking into his touch. “That’s right. Take it. Take what I give you.” His fingers curl and press and work me open, his tongue tasting and savoring as he traces lazy circles around my clit until I’m nearly unraveling, clutching the sheets, and moaning his name like it’s the only word I remember. 

He stops suddenly, withdrawing his mouth and fingers. I let out a frustrated huff and whine “Why’d you stop?” I raise up on my elbows to look down at him, and what I see almost finishes me right there. The fingers that were just inside me are now in his mouth, his tongue swirling around them hungrily. He pulls them from his lips as he replies huskily, “Because darling... The first time I make you come undone for me, it will be with my cock.”  

He crawls up my body, kissing, licking, dragging his tongue along my collarbone as he grinds himself against my core. “I need to feel you, sweet,” he growls against my neck. “I’ve been dreaming of this, of how tight you’d be, how welcoming... ‘m gonna fuck you so good, dove. I’ll make it worth it.” “Yes,” I gasp, completely brainless. “Please, I want it, I need it...” 

He growls again and lines himself up, then sinks inside in one smooth, slow motion that steals the air from my lungs. “Fuck,” he groans, forehead resting against mine. “You feel so divine. So fucking perfect.” We stay like that for a moment; connected, shaking, breathing each other in. I feel myself adjusting to his size, the sting of being stretched fading slowly. 

And then he starts to move. The rhythm is measured, deliberate, punishing in the best way. He fucks me like he’s making up for every second he didn’t say something. Every word he never spoke. Every touch we both imagined but never dared take. 

“You’re mine,” he says again, over and over. “Mine... Mine, fuck, say it for me.” “I’m yours,” I moan. “God, I’m yours.” “That’s right. That’s my good fucking girl.” 

The pace builds, harder, rougher, our bodies slapping together in the quiet room lit only by the glow of the bedside lamp. I claw at his back, cry out his name, arch into every thrust like I’ll split open from the pleasure. And I do. I break. I shatter around him, legs trembling, voice cracking and breath gone, mind empty. “That’s my good girl,” he coos as I come down from my high, my moans elevating a bit as he rides out my climax. I feel his thrusts becoming sloppier and more desperate, the head of his cock hitting my cervix with each deep stroke. “Come for me, Ves. I want it...” I whisper in his ear, then I run my tongue slowly up and down his lobe. He moans my name, then he fucking whimpers, and my pupils blow out with lust. I wrap my legs around his waist and clench around him, and his high follows a moment later. He’s groaning against my throat and cursing as he comes hard, body shuddering against mine. He moans my name like a praise as he pulses inside me, coating me with his orgasm. 

We collapse together, breathing hard. He doesn’t pull away. He just wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck. I curl into him and hold him impossibly close, and the feeling of catharsis that radiates out from my chest and travels across my skin nearly brings tears to my eyes. For so long I have waited...  

I wake to the weight of him. Not heavy, but present. Grounding. One arm around my waist, one leg tangled between mine. My head rests on his chest as it rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm against my cheek. Warm breath floats across my forehead, slow and even. He’s still asleep. 

The early morning light glows faintly behind the curtains, bathing the room in soft shades of gray and gold. I observe particles floating through the sunbeams that shine into the space we share. This is the type of morning that belongs only to two people with nowhere else to be. And in this bed, wrapped in the warmth of spent energy and new affection, I finally understand what peace feels like. And I bask in it. 

My hand shifts, brushing across his forearm that rests across my chest. Lightly, barely there. His body responds before his mind does; muscles tightening slightly, breath hitching, then a groggy, gravely yet smooth murmur against my skin. 

“Still here…” A statement, not a question. “Mhm,” I hum in response, voice sleepy-soft. “Still here.” 

He lifts his head just enough to press a tender kiss to my temple, and my heart flutters at the soft, affectionate gesture. His hand glides along the curve of my side, a lazy touch, absent of hunger now, but not affection. He lets out a sigh of contentment as he caresses my body, my fingers tracing muddled shapes along his chest. 

“I thought maybe it was a dream,” he murmurs. I smile, eyes focused on nothing across the room. “It felt like one.” I whisper. His voice is quiet again when he speaks. “Did I hurt you?” “No,” I say immediately, shaking my head gently against his chest. “You didn’t.” 

His fingers trace my hipbone slowly beneath the sheets, almost absent-minded. “You let me take everything.” he whispers. “You didn’t take anything I wasn’t giving to you, love.” I reassure him. I nuzzle my head against his chest, my eyes resting closed. He’s quiet again, but I feel the tension leave his body. I reach up with the intention to trace the red embellishments on his mask, but my fingers come to rest on the bare, warm skin of his cheek. It takes a moment for it to register in my still-waking brain. His mask is off.  

He freezes. My breath stutters as my eyes shoot open, but I don’t look up. “You’re not…” His breathing increases as he realizes it too, his eyes going wide like prey caught in the softest kind of snare. “I-” he starts, swallowing hard. “I forgot I took it off last night... before I fell asleep.” his voice is tense and guarded. “I’m not looking,” I whisper, my gaze never shifting from his chest underneath my head. “Not unless you want me to.” 

Silence blooms between us. He doesn’t speak. I can hear his heart racing in his chest, and I feel my own accelerating too. I feel him shift under me, and I hold my breath as my ears perk to hear when he’s doing since I still can’t see. I hear the sound of heavy plastic sliding across the wooden top of his nightstand. His arm slides out from around my back, and I reposition my head on the pillow next to me, keeping my gaze cast down. I hear the worn pads of his fingers tapping against the surface of the plastic thing, fidgeting with it in his grasp. It’s his mask. Then, after a long pause, his voice trembles. “I don’t know if I can handle it... you seeing.” I nod slowly. “That’s okay.” I say gently. “I’m not what you’d imagine,” he murmurs. “I’m… not some mysterious, handsome prince... I’m just a man.” “I’m not here for the mystery.” I reply. 

He inhales shakily. “You really want to see?” “I’d love to see you,” I whisper. “But only if you want that too.” The fingers of one hand find mine under the covers. He squeezes once, then, barely audible, “Okay.” He shifts again, and I hear the plastic-on-wood sound again. He put the mask down. He’s going to let me see him. My heart races as I wait for his cue that he’s ready. 

He turns back to me and lays on his back. He nudges under my neck and pulls me back onto his chest, his arm around me again. My head rests on his chest, gaze still on his hand resting on his sternum. I bring my hand up to rest on top of his as a gesture of comfort. “Tell me when.” I murmur, my voice coated in anticipation. His fingers tremble as his hand slides from underneath mine and comes up to caress my face, caressing down my cheek and jaw, and finally hooking under my chin.  

He breathes out a shaky breath, and he pulls my face up. I lift my eyes slowly, and there he is. Hair tousled in a messy halo around his head, eyes cautious but impossibly soft. His jaw is soft and short, lips full and twitching slightly with the weight of nerves. He’s beautiful. Every inch of his face carries the weight of silence and the risk of being known. I allow my eyes to drift across his face freely, taking in every single detail for the first time. I’m too overtaken by the fact that he’s letting me really see him to feel self-conscious for staring at him. He’s everything I thought he’d be, and so much more. 

I slowly bring my hand up, looking into his eyes for permission before I touch him. He nods once, barely perceptible, his eyes wide and clearly terrified, nearly resembling a stray cat. But he trusts me, and that makes my heart swell with an emotion I’ve never felt before. I allow my fingers to graze his cheek, his jaw, his forehead. I swipe his hair from his forehead, and it’s so soft and feathery. I cup his face, my thumb swiping lightly back and forth across his cheek, my eyes on his beautiful doe eyes, wide with uncertainty. 

“Vessel...” I breathe affectionately. “You’re beautiful.” His lips part and his brows raise subtly, stunned. And then his eyes close like he’s trying to believe it. 

“I’ve never let anyone see me like this,” he admits, and my eyes dart down to watch the way his mouth moves, finally unpainted. “Thank you for letting me.” I reply quietly. His breath hitches again. His hand lifts, cupping my jaw. “You make it feel safe.” he whispers. “I want you to feel safe.” I say, my eyes finding his again. “I’m scared it won’t last,” he whispers, voice cracking. 

I lean in, kiss him softly once, then again, longer this time, smiling into it. He exhales through his nose like he’s breathing freely for the first time. “Did you think you’d scare me off or something?” I ask, smiling down at him. “I, heh, I really wasn’t sure.” he replies timidly, chuckling. “I’m not going anywhere, Ves,” I whisper. He kisses me again, deeper now, hand tightening at my waist, our legs tangling beneath the sheets. It’s not lustful this time, it’s just home. And for the first time, he kisses me with nothing between us. No mask, no paint or doubt. Just him. Just me. And everything we’ve been too afraid to say and do. 

I don’t know how long we lie like that; lips brushing, noses nudging, his thumb stroking slow circles on my lower back beneath the covers. Neither of us says much. We don’t need to. Every touch now says what words would only fumble. 

Eventually, it’s the scent of fresh coffee drifting down the hallway that pulls us back to the world. Vessel shifts slightly, brushing my hair behind my ear. “Hungry?” I grin, stretching lazily. “Starving.” He nods, then hesitates as we get out of bed. “Does this mean I can kiss you in front of the others?” “Do you want to?” I ask, grinning. I move to his dresser, and I hear him moving behind me, both of us still naked. “Desperately.” he answers, placing a kiss to the back of my head, and I feel his hands caressing my back as I steal a t-shirt from his top drawer. "Then yes,” I reply, smiling. He turns me gently, hands finding my waist, and he presses a soft kiss to my lips.  

He pulls back after a few seconds and his eyes travel hungrily down my body before they find my eyes again, his expression shifting from adoration to desire. “You are just fucking scrumptious, darling.” he murmurs lowly and darkly as his lips find my shoulder, nibbling the warm skin there gently. His hands find my bare ass and he squeezes as I giggle and push him back half-heartedly. “Okay, okay. Do you wanna eat me, or breakfast?” I ask jokingly, my own eyes wandering down his form. Jesus Christ he’s got the body of a Greek god, and I can’t wait to explore every curve with my fingers... and my mouth.  

“I think we both know the answer to that, princess.” he replies breathily, not even attempting to hide the arousal in his voice. I can see his dick rising in the edge of my vision, and my own core begins to pulse. As much as I’d love to indulge this, I want to make him wait for it. I heard that glorious whimper slip past his lips last night, so I’m almost certain that he likes to be teased just as much as I do. And I cannot wait to explore that further. 

I wink up at him, then I turn and put on his shirt. I move over to the side of the bed where my clothes lay on the floor haphazardly. I get dressed, and he takes the hint and does the same. We don’t say anything as we leave the room. The morning light spills into the hallway, soft and golden, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Vessel’s thumb rubs gentle patterns across the back of my hand as we walk. It’s not flashy or loud. It’s just us. 

When we reach the kitchen, II is standing at the stove flipping pancakes, humming something jazzy and upbeat. IV is perched on the counter sipping tea from a chipped mug, eyes half-lidded but alert. III is rifling through the fridge like he hasn’t eaten in a week. 

All three pause when they see us. Eyes drop to our joined hands, then back up. Silence. And then, “Finally,” III groans dramatically, letting the fridge door slam. “Took you both long enough. I was starting to wonder if we’d need to stage an intervention or just lock you in a room.” Vessel doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t let go of me either. III gives me an approving wink and a genuine grin, and I return the gesture. I hate the way I kind of led him on, but I love that he’s accepting of this. I think we could be great friends should Vessel keep me around long enough. 

IV watches us over the rim of his mug. There’s a small, knowing smile ghosting across his lips. “I’m glad,” he says simply. And that’s all I need. The tension slips from my shoulders. My cheeks are warm, but not from embarrassment, just happiness. I lean into Vessel’s side. “Pancakes?” I ask. II flips one onto a plate and slides it across the counter toward me. “Already waiting.” 

As we settle in, him beside me, legs brushing, his mask left behind in the room for the first time, it feels like the story has turned a page. And we’re writing the rest of it together. I called my boss and updated her on everything, and let’s just say she was less than pleased when I told her I’d be staying with the band for the foreseeable future. I finished my article, going back on what I’d previously said about the band being “showy and hollow”, replacing such words with “sacred” and “incomparable to anything else I’d ever seen, in a great way”. I’d emailed it to her, and she’d published it, and it got tons of positive attention. She wished me the best on my future endeavors and told me that I’d be welcomed back with open arms should I ever return. I expressed my thanks to her, and that was it. 

I’ve been tagging along with these guys everywhere they’ve gone for months now, and the friendships that have blossomed since I arrived are wonderful. Vessel and I remain together and happier than ever. He only wears his mask on stage now, and I get to assist him with taking off his body paint after shows, along with his stage garb most usually. We refer to things in multiples now, using words such as “we”, “us”, and “ours”. And I never want it any other way ever again. 

@yourgirlisa here you go, and if anyone else would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know :)

[widowromanova]

Red Ledger - Part 1

villain!natasha x hero!reader

word count: 3063

You've always been careful - painstakingly, obsessively so. But what happens when Wanda Maximoff (a city reporter) uncovers your secret identity? Unbeknownst to her, her boss as been watching her the whole time, and has been looking for a way to take you down for years.

No witnesses. No patterns. No attachments. But it turns out, even ghosts leave footprints. And Wanda Maximoff is very good at finding them.

People whisper about the unknown vigilante who shows up when fires rage, when the wrong men corner the right people in alleyways. No one ever gets a clear look. That’s the point. You made sure of it.

But Wanda is too smart for that.

She calls it a “pet project,” this story she’s chasing. "Just for fun," she shrugs when you tease her. But her walls are covered with maps, timelines, news clippings. Patterns only she can see. You're always careful, but not careful enough for her.

She’s getting close.

Not because she suspects you - you’re just her best friend, the person she vents to over pizza and late-night edits. But she’s chasing the story with everything she’s got. And someone else is watching her chase it.

Natasha Romanoff.

She’s Wanda’s editor-in-chief at the Gazette. Polished. Imposing. The kind of woman who speaks softly and still makes the room go silent. Most of the staff think she’s a relic from some elite publication that burned her out. You know better.

There’s something colder behind her eyes. Something practiced.

Wanda doesn’t know that she’s not the only one on the hunt

It happens on a Thursday. Quiet day. The office is mostly empty - Wanda had stayed late, combing through a stack of old municipal records she’d dug up from the courthouse basement.

Just as she’s about to give up, she finds it.

A classified federal memo misfiled with budget reports - someone's screw-up. It’s vague, coded, but Wanda’s read enough to know how to break it open. Dates. Locations. Two of them match mysterious saves from town. There’s even a heavily redacted photo attached.

Her breath catches in her throat. It’s you.

Blurry, yes - but the outline, the posture, the coat... she knows it. She knows you.

It clicks all at once.

She doesn’t call. Doesn’t text. Doesn’t even sit down. She grabs the paper and a lighter from her bag, heads into the copy room, and locks the door behind her. Shaky fingers feed the pages one by one into the trash bin. The lighter flares. The paper catches.

She watches your secret turn to smoke. But she doesn’t see the eyes watching her through the sliver of glass in the door.

Just down the hall, Natasha Romanoff stands silently in the shadows of the break room. She’s been tracking Wanda’s movements for weeks. Waiting to see when she'd stop chasing and start hiding.

Now she knows. Wanda found something. And she destroyed it. Natasha’s eyes narrow, calculating. Now she knows Wanda does. That changes everything.

She turns and walks away, heels silent on the old tile, a smirk playing on her lips. The kind that means the hunt just became personal.

Back in the copy room, Wanda takes a deep breath, thinking she’s buried your secret forever.

She has no idea she just marked herself as bait.

And you?

You feel the shift before anyone says a word. You were safe. Now you’re not.

Because Natasha Romanoff is coming. And the only thing between her and your identity… is Wanda.

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

The call comes midmorning. You’re already halfway through a run when Wanda’s name lights up your screen. You don’t answer right away - she texts a second later:

"Hey. Can you bring me a coffee? My brain's melting."

Then a pause.

"Also, get here fast."

You don’t question it. You never do.

Twenty minutes later, you’re pushing open the heavy glass door of the Westbrook Gazette building, the cold cup sweating in your hand. It’s a routine errand, the kind of thing best friends do for each other. But there’s something about Wanda’s voice - tight - that keeps your senses alert.

She’s at a table, phone pinned between shoulder and ear, eyes flicking toward the entrance like she’s been watching for you. She sees you and relaxes, waving you over with a tired smile

"You're a lifesaver," she mouths, holding up one finger as she keeps speaking into the receiver. You cross the lobby, weaving through scattered chairs and half-dead plants. The newsroom is unusually quiet. No printers humming. No chatter. Just the low drone of Wanda’s voice and - you feel her before you see her.

A stillness too deliberate to be casual.

You glance across the room and there she is.

Natasha's sitting on one of the velvet lobby benches like it’s a throne. Legs crossed, elbow resting lazily on the armrest, a magazine draped casually over one knee - untouched. Her gaze is locked on you. Calculating. Amused.

A smirk lifts the corner of her mouth.

You’ve never met. Not properly.

But something twists in your gut like déjà vu. You hold her gaze for half a second too long. The air between you feels suddenly thin, sharp-edged.

Wanda hangs up the phone. “Hey,” she says quickly, standing to take the coffee. “Thanks. You’re amazing.”

You tear your eyes from Natasha’s and hand Wanda the drink. “Rough day?”

She shrugs too quickly. “Rough week.”

Her voice is light, but her fingers tremble slightly as they brush yours. You glance back toward Natasha. Still watching. Still smiling that slow, knowing smile, like she’s remembering an old story and just figured out the ending.

She doesn't say a word.

It’s not confirmation. Not yet. But something passed between you in that brief silence. You don’t know how you recognize her. She doesn’t know who you are.

Natasha stands up, brushing the wrinkles off her suit and before turning to walk down the hall into an elevator, where she turns to meet your gaze one last time, running her tongue along her teeth with a knowing smirk as the door closes.

You turn to Wanda hesitantly, "Hey, who's that woman with the..." you gesture to your hair, "extremely red hair?"

Wanda blinks. Her response is immediate, automatic. “That’s Natasha Romanoff. She’s my editor-in-chief.”

You raise your brows. “She always smile like that, or did I just impress her with my coffee-carrying skills?”

Wanda doesn’t laugh. She forces a small smile, then looks away, like the floor suddenly got very interesting. “She’s… intense. She’s been watching my story on the vigilante. A little too closely, maybe.”

You try to keep your tone even. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It started a few months ago. She told me the piece had potential. Kept asking questions. But lately she’s stopped giving notes and just… reads. Silently. Like she’s waiting for something.”

You nod slowly, heartbeat picking up speed. “And what does she think you’re going to find?”

Wanda shrugs, eyes flicking back toward the elevator doors. “No clue. But I think if she ever finds out I know something worth burning…” she taps the lid of her coffee, “she’s going to stop pretending she doesn’t.”

You watch Wanda for a moment. There’s something off in the way she holds herself - stiff, distracted. She keeps glancing toward the elevators like she’s expecting someone to reappear.

"What did you burn?” you ask, voice low.

Wanda doesn’t answer right away. She studies the lid of her coffee like it might rearrange itself into the right words. “I was in the archive room,” she says finally. “Looking for building permits for that environmental piece. I wasn’t even digging.”

You wait, giving her space.

"There was a box of unfiled clippings on the floor. Looked like someone had been sifting through it recently. Inside, I found a folder - half full, unlabelled. But someone had been watching the rooftops, the alleys. There were surveillance stills, and one of them-" She shakes her head. “It was you. Blurry, but not enough. Not if you know what to look for.”

You try not to react. Keep your face still. But your stomach turns.

“I didn’t think,” she goes on. “I didn’t even read the rest. Just burned the whole thing and dumped the ashes in the janitor’s bin. Sloppy, I know, but I panicked. I didn’t want it getting into the wrong hands."

You glance toward the elevators. “And you think it already did?”

Wanda’s fingers tap an uneven rhythm on the side of her coffee cup. “I didn’t hear anyone come in. But the door was open when I left. And this morning…” She trails off.

“Natasha.”

Wanda nods, barely.

"She’s not saying anything about it,” she says. “She just keeps looking at me like I’ve already told her everything. Like she’s waiting for me to slip up.”

You lean on the edge of her desk. “Do you think she saw the file?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe. Maybe not. But something changed. She used to give me feedback on the vigilante piece. Now she just reads it and moves on.”

The truth is, you don’t know Natasha well enough to decide. Everything about her is composed - polished in a way that feels practiced. Maybe that’s just the job. Or maybe she knows more than she lets on.

“She said anything to you?” you ask.

“No. But she was in the lobby when you walked in.”

You nod. “Yeah. I saw.”

Wanda lowers her voice. “She was watching you like she knew something. Not everything. But… enough to be curious.”

You glance toward the hallway again, trying not to let your mind get ahead of itself.

“She’s your boss,” you say. “Maybe she’s just protective of her reporters.”

“Maybe,” Wanda murmurs. “Or maybe she’s waiting to figure out if I’m lying to her.”

You straighten. “Are you?”

She meets your eyes. “Depends on who’s asking.”

Wanda says nothing after that, just sips her coffee, her mind clearly miles away. You don’t press. Not yet. Whatever she saw in that folder, whatever instinct made her trash it before even thinking it through… it’s still sitting with her. You glance around the lobby, but Natasha’s gone now. Elevator doors closed. No sign of her.

“I should get back upstairs,” Wanda says quietly, already standing, her bag slung over one shoulder. “I’ll text you later.”

You nod. “You still want to run that interview this weekend? The shopkeeper from Ivy Street?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Let’s keep moving like nothing’s changed.”

She doesn’t look back as she heads for the stairwell.

You watch her disappear behind the door, then glance once more at the hallway where Natasha vanished.

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

Later that day, you’re passing through the second-floor break room - empty but for a low hum of a soda fridge - when you see Natasha again.

She’s seated near the window, a legal pad in front of her, one ankle crossed over the other. There’s nothing in her posture that suggests surprise when you enter. No warm greeting. Just a flick of her eyes over to you, casual and calm.

You give a polite nod and move toward the coffee machine.

She doesn’t speak until the cup starts filling.

“You’re the one who brings Wanda her coffee,” she says without looking up.

It isn’t really a question.

You glance over. “Hah, I guess so."

She hums, tapping her pen twice against the pad. “You two close?”

You shrug. “We’ve known each other a while.”

“That’s good,” she says simply. “She’s sharp. Stubborn. A little reckless.”

You don’t respond.

Natasha finally lifts her gaze to meet yours. “She’s working on something important. I’d hate to see it get… derailed.”

There’s no malice in her voice. No edge. It could almost pass for concern.

Almost.

The coffee finishes. You retrieve it, gripping the paper cup a little tighter than necessary.

“I’m sure she’ll finish what she started,” you say evenly.

Natasha smiles - slow and unreadable. “I’m sure she will.”

She turns back to her notepad.

When you reach Wanda’s desk, you find her already typing - face hard with focus, screen half-filled with redacted emails and side-by-side photo comparisons from the protest archive.

You set the coffee down without a word.She doesn’t look up. “She talk to you?”

You nod.

“And?”

“She asked if we were close.”

Wanda doesn’t stop typing. “That’s not a question she asks if she’s bored.”

Wanda’s fingers pause over the keyboard. Just long enough to register that the comment meant something. Then she goes back to typing.

You pull a chair up next to her desk. “You’ve worked under her for a while. What’s your read?”

Wanda exhales through her nose, scrolling through the archive on her monitor. “She’s efficient. Always knows more than she says. She doesn’t waste time - not hers, not yours.”

“That’s not a read. That’s a résumé.”

She hesitates, then leans back slightly, rubbing her temple. “Honestly? I don’t know what her angle is. When I first pitched the vigilante piece, she wasn’t interested. Not really. Then something changed.”

“When?”

“Right after that first witness account hit the net. The kid who saw someone stop the armored van robbery on West Pine.” She clicks open another image. A zoomed-in security cam still. Blurry figure mid-stride, face obscured. “She called me into her office that afternoon. Said there might be more here than I thought. Told me to dig.”

“And now?”

“She’s stopped saying anything. Just reviews the drafts and closes the file. No edits. No questions.”

You nod slowly, staring at the grainy still on the screen. The longer you sit there, the louder the question gets: does she suspect? Or is she just patient?

Wanda taps a few keys and pulls up another folder. “I’m trying to retrace the source of that file I found. If it was planted, I want to know by who. And why.”

You glance over. “Think Natasha sent it?”

“I don’t think she’s careless enough to leave a trail,” Wanda says. “But someone wanted me to see it. And if Natasha is following my work this closely, then maybe it was a test. Or bait.”

You glance around - instinct, not reason - and lower your voice. “And if you hadn’t burned it?”

She finally looks at you. “I don’t know. But I didn’t like how fast I knew I should.”

The quiet stretches. You hear footsteps out in the hall, printers warming up, a phone ringing two desks down. The newsroom is humming the way it always does. Unbothered. Busy. Pretending normalcy.

But something’s shifted. You both feel it.

Wanda straightens. “I’m going to dig. Carefully. You keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

You arch a brow. “Which is?”

“Pretending you're just my friend who brings coffee.” She gives the smallest hint of a smile. “And if she ever asks you anything again, don’t lie. Just don’t say enough to be useful.”

You nod. Wanda turns back to her screen.

You stand, slowly, and leave her to work. But as you cross the newsroom, you feel it again - the weight of being observed.

Natasha’s office door is closed. The blinds drawn. But you don’t need a clear view to know she’s in there.

You take the stairs, not the elevator. It’s slower, quieter. Gives you time to think. Each step sounds louder than it should, like the building’s pressing in.

By the time you reach the street level, your phone buzzes. Unknown number. One ring, then it cuts out.

You keep walking.

--------------------‐---------------------------

Later that night, your apartment is dark, save for the dull light from the TV - muted, cycling through a weather report no one’s watching.

You’ve been pacing. Twenty steps from the window to the kitchen and back again. Over and over. Not anxious, not exactly. Alert. Aware. The kind of motion that helps you feel real when the walls get too still.

There’s a folder on your table you haven’t opened yet. Slipped into your mail slot sometime during the day. No name. No return address. Just the weight of it - a little too heavy for regular paper. Inside, photos. A map. Names in black ink, circled.

And one line typed clean across the bottom page:

“One of them already knows.”

You pick up the map. Red dots. Your building. Wanda’s office. The alley where you dropped the phone that night in February. A rooftop. The bar on 5th. West Pine. There’s no note, no sender.

You sit, finally, and run a hand down your face. Whoever sent this knows more than they should. Which means it’s either a warning… or the beginning of leverage.

Your phone buzzes again. This time, a message.

WANDA:

I think I found something. It’s not good.

Then, a follow-up:

Can you meet me? Not here.

You type back quickly.

YOU:

Where?

WANDA:

Union Square. North side. 20 min.

You grab your jacket, shove the folder into your backpack, and head for the door.

Union Square is mostly empty when you arrive. A few scattered smokers outside the subway entrance. A food cart packing up. Light rain in the air, enough to keep the benches slick and the park quiet.

You spot her under the awning of a shuttered newsstand, hands in her pockets, hood up. She doesn’t wave. Just waits.

You cross to her.

“What did you find?” you ask.

Wanda pulls out her phone, glances around, then holds it out. The screen shows a document - a personnel manifest from a federal contractor. Most of the names mean nothing. But one does.

Romanoff, N. Clearance Level: Redacted Division: Surveillance Operations / Asset Review Assignment: Civ–2174 — NYC Metro, active.

You blink at the screen. “Is this real?”

Wanda nods once. “It was hidden behind two redirects on a decommissioned server. Buried under a fake research program.”

“Civ–2174?”

She looks at you, steady. “That’s the classification tag tied to the vigilante report. All of them.”

The cold settles in behind your ribs.

You hand the phone back. “So she’s not just watching the story.”

“No,” Wanda says.

A car passes, headlights sweeping across your faces, then gone.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Finally, you ask, “Do you think she knows who I am?”

Wanda doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “I think she wants you to show her.”

(a/n: will post a part 2 soon :))

[th3-new-rom4ntics]

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ valentine's (teen) marauders dr

rosalind zachariah is the spunky, upbeat editor at the hogwarts herald; the youngest in the herald's history at only 16. always with a smile on her face and a nice thing to say, she's the girl next door; the betty to your crush's veronica.

bio:

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ 𖦹 house: ravenclaw

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ 𖦹 blood status: muggleborn

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ 𖦹 wand: 16", golden shower wood, karkadaan core

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ 𖦹 patronus: dog

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ 𖦹 favourite subject: history of magic and charms + spells

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ 𖦹 friends: marlene mckinnon (ravenclaw), alice fortescue (hufflepuff), carlos ollivander (slytherin), fatimah shafiq (ravenclaw)

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ 𖦹 siblings: benedik zachariah (slytherin), viola zachariah (gryffindor)

ᯓ✦ miss mystery

a muggleborn born in cochin with a midwife for a mother and a history teacher for a father. grew up lower middle-class in lancashire, the child of two hardworking but loving parents. i'm a proud older sister, though my sister viola likes to call me smothering-- i prefer loving.

magic was a mere fairytale for me up until the day i came to hogwarts, where the world seemed to grow just a bit more colourful and bright. and why wouldn't? the portraits talk! the chocolate jump around! the stairs can move!

eventually, this became my reality. going to hogwarts was the same as any other school, and i learned to love it, with a little less enthusiasm; though i'm still professor flitwick's favourite and a frequent at dumbledore's office, talking to him about most everything. life is a rollercoaster; and i'm always on the ride, with my friend marlene by my side-- alice, fatimah and carlos are behind us, of course. as the editor-in-chief of the hogwarts herald and the anonymous writer of the advice column (under the name miss mystery), i am always looking for the new scoop. the newspaper reports on everything; politics, sports, gossip, fashion, lifestyle. its big business, and its even read outside of the school, which makes my job even harder. lucky for me, its my passion; just as much of a passion as teaching. i tutor younger students and i love it. it's not all sunshine and roses, however. blood purity is a hot topic at the school, and muggleborns like me have become enemy number one. even my very own brother benedik has been radicalised, much to my dismay. i avoid the slytherin common room like the plague. viola does as well; she most stays at the hufflepuff common room with her friend pandora fawley. i can typically be seen in the library, trying to find a good book, or taking photos at hogsmeade. i actually do a small side gig of taking photos, which is actually pretty profitable. not everyone can work a magicam, after all. oh, and i'm often caught bickering with sirius black, who has made it his life's mission to try and win my affections.

ᯓ✦ padfoot

sirius cygnus black III has been my admirer since day one, much to my confusion and occasional irritation. what's there to say about him? he's the hogwarts dream boat. tall, dark, handsome. or at least, he would be, if he actually bothered to get into any romantic relationships. nope, he only has two loves; freedom and..me, for some reason. the story he tells is that he saw me in a dream, the night before his first day. i was his ideal girl; pretty, smart, funny and kind. he thought it was just a dream..until he saw me in the flesh, in the hogwarts express. ever since then, his eyes have been set on me. if you thought that james potter and lily evans were bad, with james' totally obvious heart eyes that evans is completely oblivious to, you have not seen me and sirius interact. ever. he makes it business to open my doors, give me flowers, confess his undying love and propose marriage. is his affection true? i'm pretty sure it is. but i'm still somewhat scared..what if he doesn't like me, really? what if i'm just another way for him to rebel against his stuck-up pureblood family? and anyways, he's so immature. always pushing the slytherins around (even death eater wannabes like rabastan lestrange, arthur mulciber or severus snape don't deserve to be hexed) and pulling pranks. but, i can't help but care for him. worry about him. love him. could i be with him? i'm not sure. for now, the status quo is comfortable. for the most part.

༄.° valentine's notes:

this dr is basically my better cr. my teenage years but happy. whilst my other drs are all me at least 20+, this is my only dr where i'm a teenager, so its very comforting to me. :3 i hope you guys enjoyed reading this post!! feel free to ask about this dr as much as you like. i have soo much to yap about lol.

[twopoppies]

hi gina! was wondering if you knew anything surrounding harry & richard branson…? recently found out he’d went to richards island around the time the haylor break-up happened. it’s a bit wild, anything you remember from around that time? thank u!

No, that was before my time. But basically he left T*ylor in her blue dress all alone on her boat, said "fuck this" to that PR relationship, and went straight to Branson's island and was photographed in a hot tub with a bunch of men (and one woman). LMAO!

The only other thing I know about it was that the deputy editor of the Sun at the time (Gordon Smart) got the photos and a gossipy story about Harry and the woman (who's sitting on Branson's lap in that photo). Harry called him to say it wasn't true (he had a friendly relationship with Smart at the time), but he published it anyway.

I saw an interview with him years later. He was reflecting on that moment and seemed (somewhat) remorseful that he'd chosen "a good story" over his relationship with a person who might have been hurt by him publishing it (He said something along the line of. "it probably damaged our relationship." YOU THINK?).

Being a celebrity must really suck sometimes.

[newtonsheffield]

Did any of author Anthony’s girlfriends get jealous because of Kate? Who did he choose? I’m sure he defended his relationship with Kate

It’s one of the reasons why Siena and Anthony broke up actually.

Not because she didn’t like Kate. In Siena’s opinion, Kate Sharma is smart and funny, and honestly… it makes sense that Anthony wants to spend all his time with her.

Siena just… doesn’t really want to play second fiddle to Anthony’s best friend all the time. Seeing photos on Anthony’s social media of him and Kate getting ice cream on Kate’s lunch break feels ridiculous after he told Siena he had plans for the day. It feels stupid and she’s just… she doesn’t resent Kate Sharma. She resents that Anthony won’t be honest with himself.

Honestly when she sees that author Anthony Bridgerton is in a relationship with his editor Kate Sharma she honestly stares at it in shock for 2 solid minutes

“How the fuck were they not already married?!”

[oyasumihikari]

So, I’ve got four pets. Three cats and one dog

This is Carter, our Beagle/Jack Russell Terrier mix. He’s a silly little guy who barks at everything and loves cats. (Unfortunately, our cats don’t seem to love him back.)

This is when Carter was a puppy. I think he'll be three this year.

This is Cambriea. We think she was born a bit early, so she's a little slow, but she's a sweetheart. She demands treats from my dad every morning before he goes to work and will occasionally sleep on the leg of whoever has their feet on the ottoman in the background.

(She also seems to have "mini-seizures" for lack of a better term? There's a spot on her back around where her tail should be -- she's half Manx, so she doesn't have a tail -- where if she scratches it too much or you pet it too much, she'll frantically spin in a circle. She also sometimes pees when she does this. Poor Cam :( )

I made this on one of those Christmas photo editor apps.

The black and white one is named Dutchess (yes, we know we spell it weird). She's Cambriea's mother, and we think she's about a year older than Cam is. She was a stray for a while and was pregnant when she and a couple of male cats would sneak up onto our porch through a hole in the screen. We don't know if she had Cam on the porch or if she had her somewhere else and then brought her up, but we adopted both of them at some point.

She's gotten to be a very sweet little baby. She will scream at me (well, gingerly meow) for pets every chance she gets. She even loves belly rubs!

I don't take many pictures of her, unfortunately. She's the most normal cat we have, so it usually slips my mind, unless she and Cambriea are laying together.

Last but not least: Kirbie. She's around Cammie's age. She can be a bit mischievous, but she's very smart and can be very cuddly. There have been multiple times where she's climbed up on me while I was lying down and started drooling from how relaxed she was.

Well, that's all of them. Show me your fur babies now!

[cbrownjc]

My more detailed thoughts on EP 2x04 :

Spoilers below the cut:

@emeraldinerosefaedragon pulled this quote about Armand, which I believe is from The Vampire Companion book, that I think encompasses very much what we saw by the end of this episode:

Do I think Armand is some huge grand mastermind, manipulating every single thing that is going on years in advance in a mustache-twirling villain-type of way? No, I do not.

But just because Armand's not that, doesn't mean he isn't cunning or smart. And that he can't think this way on the fly, especially when a new troublesome situation presents itself to him.

Armand had two main problems at the start of this episode: the coven grumbling about the fact that Louis was still not a member -- after almost two years it seems -- and Louis not viewing Armand as his companion.

And by the end of the episode? Well, both problems are pretty much solved, aren't they? Louis, in letting Dreamstat go, has made a choice to start to try and move on, with Armand the one he is choosing to have by his side. Louis didn't say it, but Claudia did -- Louis had decided, after that trek to the museum, to accept Armand as his companion.

Along with this Louis also decided, (after he comes to terms that his photography isn't going to go further for him after meeting with that photo editor guy), again of his own free will, to join the coven. Which now makes Louis bound to its ways and laws. Which, in the book, the Great Laws are just a fig leaf, but I think the show is having the TdV -- and had Armand too at first as well -- take them much more seriously . . . but that's a meta as to why for another time.

Anyway, at the end of the episode, the two main problems Armand had at the beginning of the episode are very much solved by the end. Louis is joining the coven and Louis is accepting Armand to him as a companion. And no, the solving of those issues was not a happenstance IMO. Armand even told Louis, rather directly at the top of the episode, that these two things were problems for him, and Louis just barely conceded to one of those two things at the start -- which is only that he'll "come around" and spend more time with the coven. By the end of the episode, however . . . Louis fully commits to giving Armand both things.

Do I think Armand might have had a bit of influence over what that photo editor said to Louis about his pictures? Hey, I can't prove anything, but it wouldn't surprise me if he did, given Armand's Mind Gift abilities (which, put a pin in this, as I'll get to talking about that in a bit). But, more than anything, I think Armand went with a strategic full-court press when it came to having Louis decide to commit to him as a companion wrt that whole museum date.

And, unlike Lestat, who held his trauma and vulnerabilities from Louis until things had reached a point of no return, Armand opens up to Louis about his past traumas and vulnerabilities long before it has even begun to get to such a point. But also because Louis is still reluctant to fully give himself over to truly being companions with Louis. But here, Armand is showing Louis that he will not withhold when it comes to such things as this -- something Lestat very much did withhold for a very long time.

However, a bit of dialogue from Armand during the scene where Louis is practicing his Fire Gift abilities is key when it comes to Armand's thought process when it comes to why he decided to share this about himself with Lous, as well as when it comes to solving issues in general IMO -- "I try to find the vulnerability within the object."

Which is what he says wrt how he uses the Fire Gift, yes, but I do not believe that it is something Armand just does when using the Fire Gift. I believe that comes to all situations in his life, especially when it comes to being a coven leader and master.

Lestat withholding in the ways he did made Louis feel not just frustrated but powerless. As Louis exclaimed just last episode, "Lestat didn't tell me shit!" Because even when Lestat did finally start to tell Louis (and Claudia) some things (about Magnus and Nicki) there was still very much he still withheld, even after that.

But Armand? Well, after that museum trip that withholding issue is starting to look quiet different with Armand than it was with Lestat, I'd say.

And in Armand's eyes, well . . . if even yielding can be a way of eventually gaining something, then so be it. Because who says yielding to something means that you must now also be in a weak position? IMO, it's very much like the adage about attacking from a defensive position.

This brings us to the end of the episode and seeing what Santiago, Celeste, and Quan were up to.

And can I say right now -- it actually doesn't matter one way or another if this ends up being a true mutiny by the coven . . . or if Armand is manipulating this stuff. For the record, I personally don't think Santiago and the others were under orders from Armand to go and search Louis and Claudia's apartment. But again, it doesn't matter one way or the other because there is just no way in hell a vampire as powerful as Armand didn't know he was being watched at that moment in the park with Louis.

Armand put not just the entire dining room but all his coven members -- including Claudia -- into a stasis state by just one command. (And no, that power isn't something from the books, but the show made it clear back in episode 2x03 that the ability to do this is part of the Mind Gift -- which is one of Armand's two most powerful abilities btw).

No. Armand knew damn well he was being watched. And frankly, I would not be at all surprised to learn that Armand could hear all that telepathic conversation going on between Quan, Celeste, and Santiago either. Again this episode already made it clear how powerful Armand's Mind Gift abilities are, plus that he can hear thoughts even when at a distance. (Such as when he got summoned from the museum wrt Claudia befriending Madeleine).

So, no. Armand knows damn well what is going on wrt the coven. The reason I don't think Armand was behind Santiago and the others doing this -- at least right now -- is only because I don't think Armand has decided, just quite yet, to fully choose Louis over them completely and therefore have the coven destroyed. I think that is a choice he is going to make -- due to some event, mostly likely the turning of Madeleine -- in Episode 6.

But once Armand makes that choice? That the coven has to go? He will use what he knows to bring that about. And probably winning the coven fully back to his side right before the trial is set up . . . in order to set everything in motion for their demise in the end, and having Louis all for himself.

(Where the Frankenstein Experiment comes into all of this I still can't figure out, but that can be put on hold for now.)

So yeah. Armand isn't a Machavelli. But he is smart and cunning and good at working out situations he finds himself in. To the point that, even when he appears to be yielding, he still ends up dominating.

Other things:

-- I've already been thinking that one of the reasons that the show made present-day Daniel older was because it was going to be part of helping Armand work through his issues with Marius. And now, after this episode and hearing from Armand's own mouth how much darker the show's version of Marius is -- and Armand's relationship with Marius is looking to be, I feel that all even more. Because now older Daniel will not only have the maturity to directly say what that relationship dynamic was . . . but it will also help Daniel himself understand why his past relationship with Armand was the way it was because . . .

-- I've also been thinking that, in many ways, Armand and Daniel's relationship in the past was going to mirror a lot of what we'd learn, and then eventually see, of Marius and Armand's past relationship. And I feel that even more so now. I think a lot of parallels will begin to be set up now that we, the audience have heard from Armand himself what his relationship with Marius was like.

-- I don't feel that was just a random slip-up by Daniel when he mentioned the theater fire. I think something else compelled him to say that. Well, something or someone else.

-- That final scene between Louis and Dreamstat was so sad. I really do think that Louis, at that moment, was accepting that Lestat was well and truly dead.

-- Those Talamasca files that Daniel has are not the full and complete files about everything. I was already suspecting that when Daniel was given them last week. But the fact that there are those 5 files (three images and two audio) related to Daniel? Nope. Daniel was strategically given what he was given. Because it's not like Daniel can verify if that is or isn't the complete files the Talamasca have about himself or anything else.

-- And speaking of the Talamasca . . . just like with the coven, I will be surprised if Armand doesn't know that he and Louis were being tracked by them at one -- or many other -- points in time. Though, in that instance, if he doesn't I won't look too sideways at it . . . given that I just finished reading the chapter in Prince Lestat that explains the Talamasca's origins. And Rolin Jones did note that Prince Lestat is one of the books this season takes information from, so . . .

-- I knew Santiago was going to get to Claudia's diaries at some point. But even then, I can't really tell if he truly likes her or is just 100% playing her. But, maybe deep down Claudia herself feels something off with him, or she wouldn't have sought out a friendship -- companionship -- elsewhere. I, personally, don't see what is developing between Claudia and Madeleine as romantic (eros) love, but there is love growing there -- for sure on Claudia's end, and I'd say affection (just right now) on Madeleine's. The show is probably being a bit careful on this, seeing as how Madeleine still thinks Claudia is just a kid, although it's also clear she's sensing something is different about Claudia as well.

So, all in all, very good episode. I actually like it more than last week's. It's still mostly set up, but it's set up with more movement to it when it comes to character development and plot IMO, which I really loved.

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Sunday, May 18th

Angel: "There are three things I don't do: Tan, date - and sing in public!" Angel walks out. Host: "See you around. - How fabulous would I look in that coat?"

~~Judgement~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

[Podfic] My_Barbaric_Yawp's story "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" read by pieces0fstars (Buffy/Spike, Explicit)

Transubstantiations by dswdiane (Highlander crossover, Spike/Methos, M)

Not Afraid by wingedhallows (Spike/reader, not rated)

[Chaptered Fiction]

On Crimson Wing - Chapter 2 by xaeyrnofnbe (Buffy/Cordelia, Cordelia & Connor, Camazotz, T)

Faith No More - Chapter 2 by QuillBard (Buffy/Faith, M)

Red Xandra: Season One - Chapter 30 by Kickaha (Xander, T)

As In a Dream Upon Waking, Ch. 3 by In Mortal (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

A Century of Longing, Ch. 3 by Pyewacket (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Hearts a Mess, Ch. 9 by splendidchapette (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

[Images, Audio & Video]

Vid: It's Gonna Hurt a Lot by shortkingoz (Buffy/Spike, flashing lights)

[Reviews & Recaps]

In ‘As You Were’, what in Sunnydale was the whole The Doctor-Spike thing, exactly? by Big-Restaurant-2766

Finally watching this show from the very beginning, really enjoying it so far by visiny

10 Best 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' Episodes, Ranked by Jeremy Urquhart, collider.com

[Recs & In Search Of]

RisalSoran's Buffy/Spike story "The Mask" recced by apachefirecat (scroll past some videos to the 2nd fic rec)

[Community Announcements]

A thread for discussing the book Spike & Dru: Pretty Maids All in a Row (Prologue and Chapters 1-3) at r/buffybookclub

[Fandom Discussions]

Willow in Consequences... by confusedguytoo

AU where Anya... ensouls every vampire in Sunnydale by mistystarshine

can we talk about 7x08, Sleeper (buffy and spike minions' fight) by professeurm

the tip of buffy's nose gently smooshing into faith's hair... by incognitoduck11

Giles’ “young” accent isn’t regional so much as it [is] lower class by absolutelyspockedtohearthat, you-are-a-saucy-boi

The whole series of Angel, I was telling myself “okay I really like Lorne but... by dream2nite

Am I the only one that sees the uterus in the Angel logo? by ShmuleyCohen

How many “Class of ‘99” members survived the graduation battle? hosted by MegTheeStallionsWife

If Spike and Buffy didn't happen in S6, how do you think they would've/could've shown Buffy "at her lowest"? hosted by sadhungryandvirgin

Fred and Illyria theory by Tidemand

What if? In an alternate timeline these are season 1 original scoobies hosted by DebiesDisguise

Who of the two was right (Holtz and Robin Wood)? by FoxIndependent4310

Spike was very smart at first. by FoxIndependent4310

May Scoobies of the Month interviews (flootzavut, Kenijo)

[Articles, Interviews, and Other News]

James Marsters, David Boreanaz, Julie Benz & Seth Green FAN EXPO Dallas 2025 Schedule via dontkillspike

Tickets are now available to several Hellmouth Con photo ops (James Marsters and other guests) - via jamie_marsters

Submit a link to be included in the newsletter!

Join the editor team :)

[heylabodega]

The year I was 33 I sometimes got so elated that I'd walk around grinning, and I sometimes got so hopeless about the world that I couldn't sleep and then couldn't get up in the morning. I asked existential questions about my choices, my responsibilities, my abilities. I was strong and self sufficient but sometimes terribly lonely. Sometimes I felt so gloriously connected to my network of friends and fond acquaintances, and other times I felt fundamentally alone and unmoored.

The year I was 33 I started living alone for the first time, and almost couldn't bear how happy it made me. I bought seltzers and ice cream and tea and wine and beer and non alcoholic beer and I don't even like beer but if someone came over I wanted to be able to offer them a full range of cold and hot beverages. I bought a quilt on sale at Anthropologie and a vacuum that I immediately anthropomorphized and became fond of. I dutifully washed my cast iron pan and oiled it after each use and took out my trash and used the food in my fridge before it went bad.

I continued to be gobsmacked by the transferability of love, by how much I could love the not-yet-born children of my friends, but I also grew to appreciate loving their children separately from them, their own people. I hung out with Remy and missed Arlo and was enchanted by the brand new uniqueness of their personalities.

I painted so many large canvases and couldn't figure out what to do with them. Where to hang them, who to offer them to. I enjoyed the painting of them and the looking at them.

I often thought I was becoming beautiful again, but I think I didn't like a single outfit that I wore or photo taken of me.

The year I was 33, I realized that taking good care of myself is good friendship. I am here and unbitter when my friends need me, and they haven't had to worry about me for many a year. I continued to try to untangle the lessons about love and obligation and neglect that I learned from my family. I loved my family very much in our own way that's different from a lot of other families. I tried to make other people feel relaxed and appreciated in my presence.

The year I was 33 I kept getting better at my job. I kept saying things that were smart, I kept asking the right questions, I kept becoming a better writer and editor. I talked to my coworkers at WeWorks and on Zooms and at happy hours and on walks and I loved those conversations. I talked about camaraderie with my boss's boss and felt we understood each other. I got promoted and almost immediately began scheming to ask for another. I think I deserve it.

The year I was 33, we won trivia so many times, and we all kind of casually and kind of seriously acknowledged the shared intensity of our personalities and the pleasure of getting to let that out together over a table in the village, ordering appetizers and buckets of Pacifico and debating over the list round.

The year I was 33 I! had! sex! again! finally! I can still allow my body to be touched, can still muster enough energy to foster intimacy with another person.

I ate cake and drank martinis and thought, I know these things are bad for me but I'm having so much fun how could they possibly be, really? Surely this is the point. 

The year I was 33, I still couldn't shake my ambivalence about my talking. Sometimes I think it is my superpower, and sometimes I think it will be my undoing, how much I talk, how readily I fill the silence, how desperate I am to connect through disclosure. I kept trying to remember to ask more questions and I kept forgetting. I couldn't decide if other people should just speak up.

I started a marathon and didn't finish it. I started a 10k and didn't finish it. I celebrated my ability to quit when I'm not having a good time, but questioned my ability to persevere. I ran a lot and tried to eat and drink what I needed to support that, and mostly failed. I can count the number of outstanding runs I had on one hand, but they reminded me I still contain possibility. I took an iron supplement.

I drove places with my friends, called my friends' husbands 'dad' for driving us so safely and taking such good care of us. Lauren and Will and Braden and John and I dawdled all along the Acela corridor, stopping to pee, stopping to eat, driving the speed limit. I ordered a Dirty Shirley at a Red Robin off the New Jersey turnpike from the world's friendliest waiter and a life-renewing Shake Shack burger at 8:30am at a rest stop outside the city.

I went to Portland and Los Angeles and Delaware and DC, but nowhere out of the country. I moved twice. I got the hair on my bikini line removed by a laser and told everyone about how great and easy it was. I went to a gala. I wrote almost no poems but I helped write someone else's book. I took Remy to his swim lesson! I didn't, knock wood, get sick even once which I attribute to my naps, my preventative Umcka, and working from home. And of course my tremendous luck.

The year I was 33 my luck held. How long can this good luck hold?

[posttexasstressdisorder]

WhatMatters

Your guide to California policy and politics

By Lynn La

June 17, 2025

Presented by Climate-Smart Agricultural Partnership, California Housing Consortium, Californians for Energy Independence and California Resources Corporation

 

 

Good morning, California.

Showdown in court today over Trump’s National Guard deployment

California National Guard troops stand with shields outside the Federal Detention Center in downtown Los Angeles on June 8, 2025. Photo by Ted Soqui for CalMatters

It’s been more than a week since President Donald Trump deployed the California National Guard in Los Angeles without the consent of state officials, and the battle over who has control of the troops is still winding its way through the courts, report CalMatters’ Mikhail Zinshteyn and Ben Christopher.

Three judges from the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals are expected today to hold a hearing on whether to let the troops stay in L.A. under Trump’s command, or uphold a federal judge’s ruling that would have suspended the deployment and returned the troops to Gov. Gavin Newsom.

The president deployed 4,000 troops from the National Guard — which has a dual chain of command with one leading the president and the other to the governor — by invoking a statute in federal law that details specific conditions when the National Guard can come under federal authority. But the state argues that the clashes between federal immigration enforcement agents and demonstrators protesting against immigration sweeps do not meet those conditions.

Read more here.

In response to some raids carried out by masked immigration enforcement agents, two Democratic Bay Area state senators introduced a bill that would bar, with some exceptions, local law enforcement officers from covering their faces. The measure would also require officers to be identifiable, such as having a badge number or other information, readily accessible.

The bill’s authors, Sens. Scott Wiener of San Francisco and Jesse Arreguín of Oakland, introduced the measure Monday at San Francisco City Hall. They said the bill seeks to ensure public safety by curbing people’s ability to impersonate masked officers, and increase accountability for law enforcement. The bill would make it a misdemeanor to violate the policy, and would not apply to federal law enforcement.

Wiener: “Law enforcement officers are public servants. People should be able to see their faces, see who they are, know who they are. … We’re really at risk of having, effectively, secret police in this country.”

In the last few months, there have been reported instances of people impersonating immigration officers to kidnap or sexually assault others, including in North Carolina, New York and Florida. The suspect in Saturday’s shooting of two Minnesota lawmakers, which left two dead and two others seriously wounded, also impersonated a police officer during the attacks.

Honoring Walters: Join CalMatters columnist Dan Walters and the Sacramento Press Club today in Sacramento to celebrate Walters’ 50 years covering the Capitol and California politics. He will discuss his expansive career with his longtime editor at The Sacramento Bee, Amy Chance. Register today.

Other Stories You Should Know

 

Newsom steered work to Villaraigosa

Former L.A. Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and Gov. Newsom greet each other during a press conference in Antioch on Aug. 11, 2022. Photo by Martin do Nascimento, CalMatters

In 2022 Newsom brought on former L.A. Mayor and current gubernatorial candidate Antonio Villaraigosa for a 10-month stint to advise the governor on how to overhaul California’s approach to major infrastructure projects. 

But the nonprofit tasked with overseeing Villaraigosa’s work, California Forward, could not cover his salary alone, and it turned to previously undisclosed corporate donors to shore up funds, write CalMatters’ Alexei Koseff and Byrhonda Lyons.

In total, the nonprofit raised $118,800 from a dozen donors to pay Villaraigosa’s salary. Most of the donors, such as the Port of San Diego, SoCalGas and Southern California Edison, had a vested interest in state infrastructure projects.

State law requires elected officials, including Newsom, to disclose so-called behested payments, which are contributions they solicit for governmental or charitable purposes. But California Forward does not have to, and it provided a list of donors only at CalMatters’ request. 

Some good governance advocates say this financial arrangement is an “ethically suspect” way of using behested payments, since it doesn’t make explicitly clear what the true sources of funding are. But Villaraigosa, who earned more than $380,000 for his work, said he has no problems about how much he earned, and that “it was a huge return on investment for the state.”

Read more here.

 

Banning cash payments to registered voters

Elon Musk prepares to give $1 million to a Wisconsin voter during a town hall meeting he was hosting at the KI Convention Center in Green Bay, Wisconsin on March 30, 2025. Photo by Scott Olson, Getty Images

After tech mogul and billionaire Elon Musk gave out $1 million checks to voters in swing states last year, one California lawmaker wrote a bill to prohibit people from offering cash “with the intent to induce” others to vote or to register to vote.

As CalMatters’ Ryan Sabalow explains, in addition to the presidential election, Musk offered $1 million checks in the lead up to this year’s Wisconsin Supreme Court race, as well as $100 to voters who signed a petition opposing “activist judges.” In lawsuits filed against Musk and his political action committee related to the giveaways, Musk’s attorneys argue he was exercising his right to free speech.

Out of a concern that wealthy people will hold more lotteries to boost voter turnout, Democratic Sen. Tom Umberg of Santa Ana has a bill that would make it illegal to pay people, including through lotteries or other prize-drawing contests, based on “whether the person voted or the person’s voter registration status.” The bill sailed through the Senate with bipartisan support and is now before the Assembly.

Read more here.

 

And lastly: Lake Tahoe’s clarity levels

A UC Davis research boat from the Tahoe Environmental Research Center in Lake Tahoe on Sept. 27, 2024. Photo by Miguel Gutierrez Jr., CalMatters

Despite the state and federal government pouring billions of dollars to improve the health of the Tahoe region, Lake Tahoe is still polluted. On Monday UC Davis published a report revealing how murky the iconic alpine lake has become. Find out more from CalMatters’ Rachel Becker.

California Voices

CalMatters columnist Dan Walters: Trump’s anti-immigration policies have been a political gift to Newsom, though a bid for the presidency by the governor would be long, winding and include plenty of opportunities to stumble.

As Trump and other Americans vilify immigrants, many immigrant students are eager to learn, work hard and harbor horrific stories of how they got to the U.S., writes Glenn Sacks, a teacher at the L.A. Unified School District.

Other things worth your time:

 

Some stories may require a subscription to read.

 

We caught four more states sharing personal health data with Big Tech // CalMatters

This is how you stop data trackers from sucking up your health data // CalMatters

Sen. Padilla denies clash at news conference was a ploy for attention // Politico

Sacramento lawmaker asks feds about courthouse closure, immigrant detentions // The Sacramento Bee

CA bill taking aim at artificial intelligence in the workplace advances // The Mercury News

We set a big chunk of CA wilderness on fire. You’re welcome // Los Angeles Times

Signs to police ‘negative’ history went up at Manzanar. Historians are nervous // SFGATE

At Home Depot, ICE raids terrorize the workers who helped build LA // The Guardian

Raid in Montebello stirs fears that federal agents are detaining US citizens of Hispanic descent // The New York Times

CA says OC doesn’t qualify for federal fire assistance grant for 2024’s Airport Fire // The Orange County Register

 

See you next time!

Tips, insight or feedback? Email whatmatters@calmatters.org. Subscribe to CalMatters newsletters here. Follow CalMatters on Facebook and Twitter.

 

     

 

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CalMatters 1017 L Street #261 Sacramento, CA 95814 United States

 

[dv-travel-advice]

GO! Make Those Memories!

Most people pick their vacation spots based on photos. That’s why they miss the trips that change how you see the world: Here's how to plan a meaningful 2025 vacation in under 30 minutes. Scrolling TikTok doesn’t count as trip planning. You deserve more than influencer beaches and tourist traps. Some of these so called experts are just promoting their product to make a $Buck$ and never even traveled to their destinations. Last year, I sat down and planned out a trip that met a pre-determined criteria. I wanted to take my daughter on her first cruise, she is also a MAJOR Harry Potter fan. Could I financially kill two birds with one stone? Was it possible? It was! The trick? I used a curated list created by researching top rated travel editors, forums and travel advisors articles. posts, TiKTok, Etc and took their top 5 recommendations and applied that to my travel plans. What happened was I was able to plan and execute a Top Level vacation for my family that had something for everyone but also found cost saving ways to approach my booking. Most of us vacation to escape—so why do we keep choosing destinations packed with everyone else? My planning process allowed for my family and I to visit Universal with NO lines and NO waiting. This allowed us to explore the whole park in less than two days! This meant cost savings on park tickets, savings on eliminating multi-day, multi-park upsells and less money spent on accommodations. Leaving us with enough money in the budget to book and spend the night pre-cruise in a great hotel with a huge pool area, waterfall and most importantly a TikiBar slinging frozen drinks to get us in the mindset and ready for the cruise. Doing my homework also meant I knew to book the hotel with a shuttle service directly to my ship first thing in the morning. We were on the boat and at Shaq's Big Chicken by 10:30am! Step one: Create your Criteria. Do your homework. Educate yourself. Use anything and everything as a resource. Step two: Eliminate the "Influencers" and stick with the proven professionals. Step three: Plug it into Google Flights. See what’s possible. Find the cheaper flights by being flexible. Step four: Do not be afraid to utilize AI. Leverage AI to summarize your findings whether they are in a pdf format, blog post, article and even YouTube Video. You’ll get more peace, more stories, and zero regrets. Travel smart in 2025. Go where you feel something but more importantly go make memories!

[thevisionarywriter]

5 Smart Image Optimization Tips to Boost Your Photography Portfolio Website

A photography portfolio is your digital first impression—and while high-quality visuals are a must, slow-loading images can ruin the experience. If your website takes too long to load, visitors may leave before they even see your work. That’s why optimizing images is essential for both performance and SEO.

Here are five key image optimization strategies that will help you create a fast, professional, and search-friendly photography website.

1. Choose the right file format Using the correct file format ensures that your images load quickly without compromising quality. JPEG is ideal for most photos, offering good compression with minimal quality loss.

PNG is ideal for images that need transparent backgrounds or precise, sharp edges, such as logos and graphics. WebP, supported by most modern browsers, offers superior compression, reducing file sizes even further—often 25–35% smaller than JPEGs while maintaining clarity. By selecting the right format, you improve load times and enhance site speed.

2. Resize images to display dimensions Don’t upload images in full resolution unless absolutely necessary. Large files from your camera—often 5000px wide or more—are much bigger than most screens display. Resize your images to match the dimensions they’ll appear on your site, such as 1200px or 1920px wide. This significantly reduces file size and improves page load speed. Use tools like Photoshop, GIMP, or online editors to resize before uploading.

3. Compress images without losing quality Compression reduces file size while preserving visual quality. Tools like TinyPNG, JPEGmini, or ImageOptim can cut down the size of your images without making them look blurry or pixelated. For WordPress users, plugins like ShortPixel or Smush automate this process. Always test the image quality after compression to maintain a balance between speed and visual impact.

4. Use SEO-friendly filenames and alt text Search engines can't interpret images without context. Rename files like IMG_0101.jpg to something descriptive, such as sunrise-over-grand-canyon.jpg. Also, add alt text that describes the photo accurately—for example, “Landscape view of the Grand Canyon during sunrise.” This boosts image SEO, helps visually impaired users, and improves your chances of appearing in Google Image Search.

5. Enable lazy loading and use a CDN Lazy loading defers the loading of images until they come into the user’s view, boosting the page’s initial load time and improving user experience. Most modern platforms include this feature or offer plugins. Additionally, use a Content Delivery Network (CDN) like Cloudflare or ImageKit to serve images from servers closest to your visitors. This significantly speeds up loading, particularly for users around the world.

Conclusion Optimizing your images is essential if you want your portfolio to load fast, rank high on search engines, and impress your audience. These five tips—choosing the right format, resizing, compressing, adding SEO-friendly text, and using performance tools like lazy loading and CDNs—will elevate your site’s speed and visibility. Make your work shine online without slowing things down.

[rosiewalks]

April Hobby Recap

Favorite Photos

⭐ Overall: Sakura Venus See more of Venus in the cherry blossoms here.

⭐ Restyle: Fern See more of Fern in the azaleas here.

⭐ Cover Model: Cleo (I also really liked this book)

⭐ Lighting: November (read more about her here)

⭐Pose: Bubbles and Dru -- more of this story to come, once I get it written well enough that I feel good sharing it.

Numbers and Stats

Number of dolls photographed: 23

Dolls acquired: 4 G3 Ghoulia (ebay, in a lot, $37) CR Frankie (gift from B.) 2 Cave Clubs (gift from B.)

Hobby things acquired: Blow dryer ($10 from the thrift), for eye/hair mods Addy's school outfit & accessories (gift from my mom) Mini books, Addy boots (gifts from B.) Mad Science Ghoulia's dress and lab coat (with the above ebay lot)

Dolls sold: 7 (March and April) Twinpack Sunny; Custom Luna; Thrift Bella; Margot; TLC Ghoulia x2; stitched Frankie

Memoa Uploads: 19ish Monster High Dead Tired, Roller Maze, and one-offs (15), National Library Week, added fungus reference pics, April reads, Venus

Looking back

- Accomplished half of my goals:

- Rearranged storage to be more functional: moved all lighting, backdrops, and props into the chest on which I take photos; put all craft & restyling supplies in my dresser, and rearranged dolls in the storage bins - Worked on Bubbles & Dru's story - Took photos and made posts for National Library Week - Hybrided November (and named her) - Addy got very spoiled for my birthday month: two dresses made by B. as well as boots; plus her school outfit and supplies from my mom - Posted a bunch of backlog things for sale. Made a few sales and given the current economic volatility I'm not surprised that there hasn't been more movement.

Looking forward

- The formatting on Tumblr posts is being annoying. I have to switch to the HTML editor to fix the rich-text errors; shout out to C. for helping me figure that out. - I've saved ~$300 towards my smart doll goal, but with tariffs and nonsense, I'm not sure if I'll be able to get one. Still trying to think of a dolly side-hustle.