#Static Questions Tuning Answers

[spacedkey]

shrimps247 and jazz radio save me

[stars-obsession-pit]

John Constantine sighed loudly, interrupting the discussion in the meeting room. He rubbed his forehead, clearly looking like he wanted to light a cigarette.

“Well, I do know someone who could probably help, but it’ll be… awkward.”

Zatanna raised an eyebrow. “Another jilted lover?”

John scowled. “I’ve pissed people off for far more than just sleeping with ‘em, you know. But… yes.”

Batman butted in, “And you’re sure they’ll help?”

“Hopefully.”

“That doesn’t reassure me,” Flash remarked snidely.

John opened his mouth to rebuke Flash’s words, but Wonder Woman spoke up first. “It’s still better than nothing. Unless they’re likely to attack you.” She turned towards John. “…Are they likely to attack you?”

“Nah, Clockwork ain’t the type. And a few years won’t have changed that.” John paused, then sighed again. “Anyway… give me a couple hours and I should be able to set up a summoning circle. Even if he doesn’t show up immediately, he should be able to feel it.”

When they reconvened, John stood in front of a decidedly unimpressive looking ritual circle, wearing a strange medallion.

“Really? That’s it? You’re sure this guy is powerful enough to deal with this?”

“Fuck off. I told you we’d dated, of course I have a leg up in contacting him. It wouldn’t work if you tried this.”

“Is everything ready?” Batman cut off further arguing.

“Yeah, should be.”

John uncorked a small vial of a glowing fluid and downed it in one gulp, grimacing. Clearing his throat, he turned around and began to chant. Except instead of words, what came from his mouth was an sibilant hiss of static, like a radio tuned to dead air.

At first, not much appeared to happen, but then the world began to slow down, the colors graying further and further as the effect intensified. Only Constantine seemed untouched, continuing his chant unabated.

Suddenly, time seemed to skip like an old record, and the effect was gone. Blinking away the haze from their eyes, the gathered heroes noticed a new figure in the room.

A baby.

Everyone turned to stare at John Constantine, silently demanding answers to the same question.

“Did you seriously have a kid with a godlike being and then abandon them?”

[catrianaghvst]

Hip Thrust

SimonRiley x f!reader

You’re at some kind of open day on base—part family event, part PR stunt. The sun glints off steel, and the air is sharp with oil, dust, and gunpowder. Equipment is lined up like a museum exhibit you can touch, civilians wandering wide-eyed among armored trucks and weapons displays. Soldiers in fatigues stand at intervals like monuments—present, polite, untouchable.

You stick close to Simon. Not out of discomfort, but because this is his terrain, and yours isn’t built from concrete and discipline. This place thrums with precision and memory, coiling beneath the surface like a loaded spring.

He’s in uniform—multicam pressed crisp, sleeves rolled to the elbow, mask in place. His rank—Lieutenant—is embroidered clean and sharp above the name “RILEY,” but it’s more than cloth. It’s in how he moves, how others step aside without question. Some salute. Most just nod, a quick flick of respect. Ghost. Myth and man in one.

He answers with nods, always measured, always distant. But his eyes keep returning to you, anchoring. Like you’re the only familiar note in a place tuned too tight.

Eventually, you both drift toward a quiet bench in the shade of a parked APC. He sinks down with a grunt, legs spread, forearms resting on knees. Cargo pants stretch tight over thick thighs as he leans back, shifting his hips with a subtle roll that sends a flicker of heat straight to your gut.

You sit beside him, close but not touching, breathing in diesel and sweat and sun-baked metal. The moment stretches—radio static, distant voices, the scent of grease.

Then he shifts again. Not much. Just enough—pelvis tilting forward slightly, deliberate. Controlled. His knuckles twitch once on his thigh like a warning.

You glance over, lips curving. “Comfortable, are we?”

He hums low in his throat. “Bench is shite. Back’s worse. But you—” his voice lowers, private, warm, “—you’re not.”

You raise a brow. “I’m not what?”

He turns his head enough that you catch the gleam of his eyes through the mask. “Not helping.”

The pause stretches.

“Didn’t know I was supposed to,” you murmur.

You lean closer, lips brushing the edge of his mask. “Where’s your office?”

That crinkle appears at the corner of his eye—his real smile. The dangerous one.

“Admin wing,” he murmurs, rising without ceremony. “Come on.”

You follow, step behind. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t need to. Moves like a man who owns every inch he walks on—shoulders squared, head high, that particular military grace that makes people step aside instinctively.

The noise of the open day fades behind you, replaced by sterile corridors and scuffed tile. The door to his office clicks shut, locking behind you.

He peels off his gloves first, tossing them on the desk. The sound is loud in the silence.

Then the mask.

You’ve seen him without it before, but here—after the weight of the outside world, after the mask of Ghost has been shed—it feels different. His eyes remain sharp, dangerous. But the rest softens just enough for you to see the man beneath the lieutenant’s uniform.

Simon.

He steps forward, one hand sliding over your wrist—warm skin against yours—and pulls you in.

His palms brace on the desk, backing you up until your back hits the hard edge. His hips brush yours, and it’s like a dam breaking.

His breath shudders through the quiet air as his hands slide to your thighs, lifting you up until you’re perched on the edge. Your legs part instinctively, drawing him closer.

“You gonna be quiet?” he asks, low and rough, mouth near your ear. Not mocking, not playful. Serious—the question of a man who knows exactly what he’s about to do to you.

You nod, throat tight, eyes locked on his. “If you are.”

He laughs—a low, breathless sound, like he’s already halfway gone. His hands slip beneath your clothes with practiced ease, fingers dragging fire across skin that prickles with every inch uncovered. His touch isn’t rushed, but it’s precise, mapping you out in his mind.

You’re already wet when his fingers press between your thighs, and he groans like it’s his own name you’re wearing there. The mask is gone, but the sound reverberates through the room—dark, low, hungry.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breath ragged. “You really came out here like this?”

You nod again, hips lifting toward his hand. “Didn’t think you’d—”

“Liar,” he cuts in, mouth against your jaw now, pulling you closer. “You knew exactly what this would do.”

His belt buckle clicks as he unfastens it with one hand, the metallic sound sharp in the quiet. You help, fumbling past zippers and fabric until he’s hard and hot against your thigh.

Slow, careful, he pushes in—stretching you open inch by inch until your breath hitches behind clenched teeth.

You clutch his shoulders, anchoring to the solidity beneath you. He doesn’t replace the mask, but his mouth is busy—kissing your neck with open-mouthed hunger that doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate. It just takes.

His pace is steady, deep, punishing thrusts that leave you gasping. Hips braced against the desk, your body folds around him like you were made to be kept just like this—hidden, claimed.

He grunts softly with every movement. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other grips your thigh as if needing to hold you in place.

And the way he says your name—muffled but reverent—breaks something low in your spine, sending heat spiraling outward until you’re trembling, clutching him tighter, teeth catching on fabric as you fight the urge to scream.

He follows with a shudder, hips pressing deep as breath catches and he spills inside you with a guttural growl that sounds almost inhuman.

For a moment, neither of you move—just breathing, foreheads pressed, heat still flowing between you. The world outside is distant, unreal.

Then he chuckles—low, hoarse. “That’s definitely not regulation.”

not proof read

[static-radio-ao3]

jegulus microfic // words: 681

Marry me.

It’s a Friday night. Winter has melted into spring and the evening breeze floats through the open window. Silence has settled over them like a blanket, Regulus sprawled across James on their too-narrow couch. He has a knee slung over James’ hips and his head is tucked beneath James’ chin, that secret place where Regulus seems to fit perfectly.

“Marry me,” James says, voice a whisper that somehow still carries over the static tune coming from the radio.

“What?” Regulus asks. He probably, definitely, undoubtedly heard wrong. Carry me. Very me. Bury m—

“Marry me.”

Oh.

“James…” Regulus mutters, still tucked away in that secret place. He doesn't elaborate. The silence stretches but James doesn't wait for it to snap.

“Say something.”

“Like what?”

“Yes, no, maybe? Those are generally a good starting point.”

James says it lightly, but Regulus hears the uncertainty. The waver in his voice like a ripple in a still lake.

“I always pegged you for a romantic gesture kind of guy.” It’s a non-answer, but it’s also true. James is a boom-box-under-your-window kind of guy. A rose-stem-tucked-between-his-teeth kind of guy. A flash-mob-in-a-busy-street kind of guy.

Regulus is none of those things. James knows this.

“Is that why you’re saying no?” James asks. “Not romantic enough?” The question is genuine and curious and genuinely curious, but Regulus still tenses minutely.

“I’m not saying no,” he mutters.

“But you’re not saying yes, either.” Because James can read Regulus like a book. Knows his darkest pages and his favorite lines. Knows why the spine is cracked just so and where the words are faded.

“I’m—” but he doesn’t know how the sentence ends. Not yet. So he is thankful when James cuts in with a soft Regulus.

Regulus savors the sound. He loves all the ways James says his name. Fond or exasperated or fondly exasperated. Lovingly. Longingly. He lets the syllables drip through his veins like honey, steeling himself for he inevitable.

“I'm not breaking up with you if you say no.”

James drags his fingers along Regulus’ arm as he speaks, a meditative act that he probably doesn’t even notice himself. His hand stops when Regulus’ head whips up.

“You're not?” Regulus asks, eyes wide and voice shaking.

A smile breaks open on James’ face, like sunshine after rain. His eyes are soft when he asks, “Why on earth would I?”

Some tension that Regulus hadn’t even notices bleeds out from his spine, softening into James’ touch once again.

Why on earth indeed…

It’s a Friday night. Spring has turned into a sweltering summer and summer has softened into fall. They’re in the kitchen, James by the stove and Regulus digging through the fridge for the chili James swore they bought but Regulus put back on the shelf when James wasn’t looking, too busy cooing at a dog in a stroller.

James is humming under his breath now, a gentle thing. It warms Regulus even as a chill starts creeping through the thin walls of their apartment.

“I would say yes, I think, if you asked me again,” he mutters. He spoke so softly that he’s sure James hasn’t heard him. And even if James did, he might not even remember what Regulus is referring to. A spring night that seems like a lifetime ago.

James stops humming, but he doesn’t speak. Regulus sighs. He supposes it’s fair enough. He’s not sure how James was able to get over the rejection so easily.

How he was able to track a trail of kisses down Regulus’ chest until he was panting with it, how he was able to wrap loving fingers around him and hold him while he fell into pleasure. Fell into pieces.

The fridge beeps, alerting Regulus to the fact that it’s been open far too long. He lets the cool, stale air wash over his too-warm face for one more moment before closing the door. He steps back, knocking into James, who steadies him with a warm hand on his lower back.

“This is me asking again,” James says.

They both know the answer.

[sophiewritesworld]

Tension and Temptation - E.M.

Eddie Munson x Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI

Summary: A midnight ride in Eddie Munson's van can't go wrong right ?

PREVIOUS PART - NEXT PART

Part two

The laugh between you fades fast, swallowed by the heat still simmering in the van. Eddie's smile lingers, but it's sharper now, like he's caught the scent of something he's been chasing. His hand's still under your shirt, fingers splayed against the curve of your waist, warm and possessive. The contact burns, not painful but intense, like every touch is a question he's daring you to answer. You're pressed so close, the gearshift digs into your thigh, but you barely notice - every nerve's tuned to him.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy, searching your face like he's memorizing it. His hair's a mess, strands sticking to his forehead, and you realize you're the one who did that, your hands still tangled in his jacket, gripping like it's a lifeline. "You sure about this?" he asks, voice low, rough with something that's not just want but need - like he's giving you an out, one last chance to pull back before you both dive too deep.

But you’re already gone. You nod, quick and certain, and lean in, brushing your lips against his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there. "I’m sure," you murmur against his skin, and it’s like flipping a switch. He exhales, sharp, and then he’s on you again, kissing you with a hunger that feels endless, lips moving from your mouth to your neck, finding the spot just below your ear that makes your breath catch hard.

Your hands move on instinct, sliding under his jacket, finding the thin fabric of his shirt, the heat of his body underneath. He’s lean but solid, and when your fingers trace the line of his ribs, he shudders, a low sound rumbling in his chest. It’s intoxicating, the way he reacts to you, like every touch is unraveling him. His lips graze your collarbone, and you tilt your head back, giving him more, wanting more, the world narrowing to the press of his mouth, the slide of his hands.

He shifts, pulling you closer, half-guiding you until you’re nearly in his lap, the awkward angle of the van’s seats forgotten. Your knee brushes the steering wheel, and you both pause, catching your breath, foreheads pressed together again. His hands are everywhere now—one on your hip, steadying you, the other tracing slow, deliberate circles on your lower back, each touch sparking heat that pools low in your stomach.

"Eddie," you say, and it’s not a plea this time but a spark, a challenge, a thousand things wrapped in one word. His eyes snap to yours, and for a second, you see everything—want, fear, something softer you can’t name. Then he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring it, tongue teasing just enough to make you chase him. It’s deliberate, controlled, but the way his fingers dig into your hip betrays how close he is to losing it.

The van’s windows are fogging up, sealing you in this bubble where nothing else exists. You can feel the tension winding tighter, not just between you but inside you, a pull that’s equal parts thrill and danger. You’re both balancing on that edge again, and this time, you know there’s no going back.

His hand slides higher, just under the edge of your bra, pausing there, brushing the fabric like he’s asking permission without words, and your heart stumbles, anticipation crackling like static. Your breath catches, loud in the quiet, and you arch into him, just enough to answer. His eyes flick to yours, dark and molten, checking one last time, but all he finds is want mirrored back at him. That’s enough.

His touch slides under, slow and deliberate, calloused fingers grazing sensitive skin, and the sensation hits like a shockwave, making you gasp. Eddie’s lips curve against your neck, not quite a smirk but close, like he’s reveling in the way you unravel. "You’re killin’ me," he mutters, voice muffled as he presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, then another, lower, mapping you with a focus that’s almost too much. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the worn fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself as the world tilts.

You tug at his jacket, impatient, and he helps you shove it off, the leather landing in the back of the van. Without it, he’s all sharp angles and warm skin, and you’re greedy for more, fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the lines of his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breath. He hisses when your nails graze his side, a sound that sends heat curling through you, and retaliates by nipping at your earlobe, just hard enough to make you shiver.

"Careful," he teases, but his voice is wrecked, and the way he’s holding you—hands firm on your hips, pulling you flush against him—says he’s just as lost. You’re straddling him now, the driver’s seat too small for this but neither of you cares. The steering wheel presses into your back, but it’s a distant annoyance compared to the way Eddie’s mouth finds yours again, kissing you like it’s a fight he’s desperate to win. It’s all tongue and heat, messy in the best way, and you can’t get close enough.

Your shirt’s rucked up, his hands roaming free now, exploring every inch he can reach. Each touch feels like a spark, building to something that’s ready to combust. You rock against him, instinctive, and he groans, the sound vibrating through you, raw and unfiltered. His grip tightens, guiding you, and the friction’s enough to make your head spin, a haze of want blurring everything else.

You pull back, just enough to catch his eyes, and the sight of him—lips swollen, hair wild, pupils blown—steals what’s left of your restraint. “Jesus," you breathe, and it’s a spark to dry tinder. His hands slide to your thighs, urging you closer, and the world narrows to this: him, you, the heat between you, and the unspoken promise that neither of you is stopping anytime soon. The van’s a sauna, and every second feels like it’s pulling you deeper into something irreversible, something you’re both chasing with reckless abandon.

Every breath you take laced with the scent of Eddie—sweat, leather, and that faint edge of smoke that clings to him like a second skin. The driver’s seat creaking under the weight of you both, but it’s irrelevant. All you feel is him: the hard press of his chest against yours, the rough slide of his hands as they grip your thighs, anchoring you exactly where he wants you. His shirt’s gone—yanked off in a blur of impatience—and your fingers dig into the bare skin of his shoulders, tracing ink and muscle, feeling him tense under your touch.

His mouth crashes back to yours, hungrier than before, all teeth and tongue, like he’s trying to devour every sound you make. You match him, biting his lower lip just hard enough to draw a low growl from his throat, and the sound sends a bolt of heat straight through you. Your hips roll against him, deliberate now, and the friction—God, the friction—is dizzying, pulling a ragged moan from you that he swallows with a kiss. He’s hard beneath you, unmistakable even through denim, and the way he shifts, just enough to meet your movements, tells you he’s feeling every second of this as intensely as you are.

"Fuck," he breathes, breaking away to rest his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded but burning. His hands slide up, one cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheek, the other slipping under your shirt again, higher this time, deft fingers working the clasp of your bra with a skill that makes your pulse spike. The fabric loosens, and his touch is on you, warm and sure, drawing a gasp that you can’t hold back. He pauses, just for a heartbeat, watching you, like he’s savoring the way you’re coming apart.

"Keep going," you whisper, voice shaky but firm, and that’s all he needs. His lips find your neck again, trailing fire down to your collarbone, then lower, teasing the edge of what’s left of your restraint. Your hands are relentless, one tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss, the other clawing at his belt buckle, fumbling with the metal in a haze of need. He laughs, rough and breathless, against your skin. "Impatient, huh?" But his hands are just as frantic, helping you, his knuckles brushing your stomach in a way that makes you shudder.

The belt gives, and you feel the shift in him, the way his breath catches, the way his grip tightens like he’s holding onto control by a thread. You rock against him again, harder, and the groan he lets out is raw, unguarded, vibrating through you. It’s too much and not enough, the heat between you building to a breaking point. Your shirt’s half-off now, his hands everywhere, mapping you like he’s staking a claim. Every touch, every kiss, every grind of your hips is a step closer to the edge, and you’re both racing toward it, reckless and unapologetic, the fogged-up van your only witness.

[d1etpeps]

i love your aesthetic!!! if i can request something? protective vi x reader? maybe someone is bothering reader in public and vi stands up for her. no violence or anything, just her telling them to back off and taking care of reader. some reassurance maybe? idk i trust your creative process

Headcannon. #3. Protect Me. Roommate!Vi x Fem!Reader, Vi protects you against unwanted attention.

authors note: thank you anon! sorry for the wait, but i wanted this to be perfect (considering you trust my creative process don't). I took it in a bit of a different direction, so hopefully it's worth it.

warnings: descriptions of anxiety/anxiety attacks, gross men and their unwanted opinions, not proof read!

The Last Drop was buzzing with loud voices and sweaty bodies, an unusual scene, although it was a Saturday night. It wasn’t what you’d expected. Every other night, the booths were full, bartenders wiping down one side of a bench just to dirty it again with missed pours of different spirits, but the voices carried conversations, with deliberate laughs.

But tonight? An unusual crowd had found its way through the streets of Zaun, finding one of the most beloved bars, popular for its decorated hero and owner, and began soaking in the spotlight of their makeshift dance floor. 

The music reverberated against the walls, at the demands of the people who found themselves up and around the bar, disrupting those hidden away in booths, just trying to enjoy their time nursing a beer. 

You, like many others, were tucked in a corner booth, lips wrapping around the black straw of your gin and tonic, taking small sips to soothe the bubbling pit of nausea settling in your stomach. You felt the gentle back and forth of Vi’s thumb on your wrist, friendly enough to not cross the line, yet still planting a small seed of doubt, readily awaiting its period to bloom. 

The thoughts in your head had only become a muddy mess of absolutely nothing a few minutes ago when the rushing bodies of Zaun’s most lower-class citizens had come bumping into you, splashing their drinks here and there, enough for Vi to have that twitch in her brow, telling you how frustrated she really was.

She just wanted this to be a nice night for the two of you, to celebrate you after completing a particularly difficult assignment, (she had heard the words molecular biophysics and biochemistry within the same sentence and automatically assumed that the assignment had in fact, been a bitch to hand in). 

What Violet had failed to notice was the way you were beginning to tune out to everything that was being said. She couldn’t blame you, it was almost impossible to hear her own voice over the chanting, dancing and brawls of the newfound crowd. 

You could see her lips moving, powder blue eyes taking hold of your own, attempting to trap you, in which case but this would have imprisoned your mind, willing to listen to her voice until the end of time. Instead, your mind was static. The world was becoming too loud for comfort, the stickiness of countless bodies rubbing against your own, despite being shielded by a booth, with blood feeling like it was draining from your head, there was a crushing heat taking its place.

When your skin started losing colour, replacing the pink of your lips with a sickening colour, Vi knew you were checking out. 

“Hey, Doll? Are you okay?” It was a dumb question to ask; she knew the answer, even if you were to stare her dead in the face and lie, swear on your heart and soul that you were fine, because honestly, you were not prepared for this. 

You tried shaking your head in a desperate attempt not to trigger the swaying of nausea in your stomach, but it was futile. the sweat was beginning to build along your hairline, the warmth of the bar's air only increasing in temperature. 

Vi wasted no time in interlacing your fingers with her own, assisting you on getting up on your feet. With broad shoulders and long strides across the floor, she was shielding your body with your own, always looking back behind her to make sure you were still with her, even though she could feel the radiating heat off your hands. 

When the back door of the bar was pushed open, you could immediately feel the night robbing you of your heat. The pressure of nausea, the thickness in your throat, and the tears welling up were all subdued, frozen in time along with the frost of Zaun’s winter. 

“Are you with me?” Violet asked, her hand brushing the stray pieces of hair framing your face to the side. 

Again, you nodded, less fearful of triggering the nauseated bubbles in your stomach. “I just need to sit down, that’s all.”

You softly hit the brick wall of the alleyway, sliding down slowly against the chilled concrete. Your roommate got down carefully beside you, watching gently at how the cool air kissed back the colour in your face, replacing the sickening feel with a slight brisk presence. 

She observed how you pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging the perimeter of your legs in an attempt to try to keep some warmth as the night's bitterness fed into your body temperature. Violet couldn’t help putting her hand forward to rest on your kneecap, picking up where she left off with the back and forth swaying of her thumb. She knew it was bordering on being more than friends, yet some part of her wanted to see if one day, your facade would slip and that maybe you would react. 

“The crowd-” you started, only getting so far before you chest felt like it was caving in, shallow breaths returning to the surface for just a split moment, before Vi gave a comforting squeeze, looking at you like you were her world, hopes an dreams, but that was something to decipher for another day. “They were all affected.”

Her lips dropped into a frown. She hadn’t wanted to say it or bring it to your attention, watching the glow of fluorescent purple illuminate the Last Drop. It wasn’t something you talked about, preferring to live in a bubble where things were peaceful and safe, almost hiding behind Vi as she protected you from every dark shadow that lingered around the corner.

Violet knew this. She knew that your biggest fear was an apocalypse, and as stupid as it sounds, she never made fun of you for it. Especially not when the distribution of shimmer began. In some ways, the epidemic of the drug infiltrating Zaun was equivalent to the dead roaming the land. Losing themself at the first taste, becoming something more than they ever should have. 

“We don’t have to stay,” It’s soft, something you just catch. But just for a second, you wanted to stay within the two walls of the alleyway, not minding the smell of rubble, as long as you had the girl that you loved appreciated next to you. 

Violet almost jumped when she felt your head rest against her shoulder, taking that as a can we just stay here, in this moment, together? Or maybe dreaming, that’s what was whirlling around in that pretty head of yours. 

Letting you stay perched up against her, she let her eyes flutter shut, just listening to the way your breathing was becoming spaced out at a more regular pace. It had always calmed her in some strange way, just knowing that you were there, even if you were as sweet as sugar; you scared all her monsters away. 

However, her utter concentration on the slow puffs of air you breathed out had distracted her from the fact that a lone man had stumbled into the confinements of the two walls you considered as yours. 

The low whistle snapped you both from the illusion of your own world. 

“Nice legs, gorgeous.” his voice dripped with paralysing venom. 

Vi immediately got up. She towered with her shoulders pulled back, slowly flexing her bandaged hands. You were waiting to get back home to help her wrap her knuckles with fresh bandages to rid the bloodiness of the old ones. 

“Do we have a problem?” Her voice is scarily stable, merely she commenting on his words. 

And, of course, when your head had raised to look at the man who stood only a few feet away, you were cursed by his eyes, watching how each movement of his head was followed with a blur of purple. 

You were scared. Not only of the man, but of what Vi would do. What she could handle and what she thought she could handle were two very different things. 

“I was just complimenting her.” He smirked. “Just take the compliment, sweetheart.”

Her fists clenched again, watching the muscles of her arms strain against her shirt, tauting up into power you were only used to seeing while she was in the pit. 

“Violet.” 

“You want to say that again?” Her voice wavers, cracking under the pressure of her irritation. Yet, it’s nothing short of intimidating.

“C’mon, why don’t you share that fine piece of ass around.”

Your desire to stay cowering down in some form of defeat was gnawing at your gut, however, your heart was telling you to not let this eventuate into something that could injure Vi. She of course, was insanely strong, but she had only ever fought against those who avoided the substance, or even if she had picked a fight with one of them, Vi had the technology that one of Piltover’s finest had gifted her. This was entirely out of her league.

"Violet."

Standing up on two shaky legs, you slip your hand into Vi’s. Intertwining your fingers with hers as best you could, as a silent depiction that whatever masculine energy he thought he was alluding, was not welcome.

The mans face scrunches up, watching as Vi’s eyebrows soften, firmly squeezing onto the hand in her own. 

Mercifully, whatever god above had protected you. You could see the glow of his eyes roll, highlighting the scowl on his face better than the shitty street lights that flickered as one of the undercities latest shimmer addicts disappeared into the loneliness of the night. 

Violet turned to you, a softness replacing the ferocity of her blue eyes. 

You couldn’t help but slip your hand against her cheek, cradling it as she hesitantly leaned into it, appreciating how the warmth of your palm contrasted with the ice of her skin. 

“I’m sorry.” She murmured.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Vi.”

Violet closes her eyes, allowing her arms to wrap around you, hoping that her embrace was enough to tell you everything that was rushing through her mind.

Her lips press to your head, offering a promise within a whisper. "You are nothing like what they say. You're my perfect, doll."

copyright© 2025 d1etpeps

[safination]

Our Little Adventure

|Masterlist|

Pairings: Alastor x Wife!Reader TLDR: Car ride to destination unknown

This is for @voxtekinc's week 4 prompt: Is that a dead body in the back seat? Finally back to my Alastor roots. I've missed you my pookie. Adam was great but ALASTOR

Sulfur air enters through the open window, and brings in a nice but smelly breeze. The scent of sulfur barely registers through your sense now. It’s been so long since you’ve arrived in Hell that you’ve been living in red skies longer than the blue one.

Alastor keeps his eyes on the road, humming along the tune of the radio. His filtered voice contrasts the clear sounds coming from the car speaker. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, timing it with the beat of the song.

You lean back on the seat, keeping your eyes on the way he smiles and the way he enjoys the music. It’s one of the rarer times when Alastor seems to be . . . well, relaxed. His smile reaches across his face because there’s something to smile about and not just the forced ones he likes to display.

Hell’s version of the sun beats down across the outskirts of Pentagram City, but the cool breeze makes the weather just right

Alastor places a hand down the seat, opening it palm-up. It’s an invitation, and one that you take eagerly. You intertwine his fingers with yours, and pull it to press a kiss across. A happy hum escapes Alastor, and you know you did good.

“Sweetheart,” you say, tracing the back of his hand, careful not to press too deep just in case his claws pierce your skin.

Alastor glances at you, then turns back to the road. “Yes, my dear?”

“Alastor.”

“That is, indeed, my name.”

“Darling.”

Alastor keeps his eyes on the road, but squeezes your hand. “Shall we go through all our lovely terms of endearment together?” he says. “Or shall you get to your point?”

“My deer,” you say, laughing. “My buck.”

“Hmmmm.” Faint radio static emit from his filter. “Yes?”

You squeeze back. “I have a question.”

“And I will have an answer.” Alastor hits the blinkers, and rounds the corner. “Go ahead and get to your point, my dear.”

“Is that a dead body in the back seat?” You glance towards the backseats, and stare the wrapped limbs across the cushions. “I figured you would have brough it up by now if it was a surprise for me.”

The car jerks a little to the side, and Alastor’s eyes widen. “Oh dear . . .” He groans into the steering wheel, pressing his forehead on it. “It seems I have forgotten something in my excitement.”

“Sweetheart!” You laugh at him, wheezing into the air. “Did you forget about a whole body?”

“It’s pieces of a body, actually.” Alastor’s ears flatter across his head before they flick right back up. “Some miscreants troubled the hotel, and I thought I would drop a quick gift to Rosie before our little adventure.”

“Except you never detoured to Rosie’s.”

Alastor snaps his fingers, and the body disappears into a pool of shadows. “Much better.”

“Darling, if you could do that the whole time then why did you need a car?”

“To drive around, of course!” Alastor taps his fingers across the steering wheel with a wide smile. “Our little adventure.”

“You haven’t told me where we’re going,” you say, and glance back out the window. The city blurs into the background. “Are we headed to Imp City?”

Alastor smiles at you, staring straight into your eyes, and runs over one of the few Sinners in this area. The car bumps from the sudden force of the body splatter, and you’re hurled straight into his open arms. “If you’d like,” he says, nudging you closer with a squeeze. “This will be just like our good and old days of our youth! The open road to an unknown destination.”

You settle into his side. “Our living youth?”

“Exactly!” Alastor takes a sharp turn, but his arm keeps you flushed into him. “We drove as far as the gas could take us. I thought it would be fun to do so again. Keep things familiar but exciting!”

“Me and you,” you say, and the words slip out in a familiar way, “to destination unknown, but together.”

“You remember!”

“Our little adventure.” You smile at him

“Indeed.” Alastor smiles back. “Our little adventure.”

[fushiguruuzzzz]

wc 520 . mentions of drinking . mentions of throwing up

the moment sugawara koushi knew he loved you, he felt like he was going to throw up.

that is not to say that was your fault, though. there was not a breath of fresh air in his lungs, and he was sure the singular shot he’d taken (courtesy of the overly enthusiastic noya and hinata — he made a mental note to not let himself be persuaded next time) was taking its effect on him more strongly than he anticipated. the television static creeping in the edges of his mind did nothing to aid his composure, which was quickly diminishing as he caught the way you glowed beneath the dim, warm lights.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, nearly in time with the beat of the song, out of breath from hours spent yelling the lyrics to all the music you liked. he had memorized all of them beforehand, but he would not tell you that. he just loved the way your face brightened and your eyes lit up when you heard him sing along with you, and he feared that if you knew how carefully planned the manner was, the light would contort into something else. something more knowing.

looking back, he wonders how he only realized then. it was not at all normal, the way his hands felt alight as they ghosted over yours, lit into a flame fueled by the smallest traces of your being. how with every important moment came with the meeting of your gaze, how worn hands itched to reach out for you as you stood at his side; the longing for the gentle embrace of your palms anything but platonic.

there, on the muggy summer night surrounded by what would one day be ghosts of the past, you were more beautiful than ever. he was tipsy and you were dancing and he loved you, and he knew it now.

your fingers interlaced with his. “what’cha doing, suga? come dance,” you said, words stretched out like a sultry tune and followed by a hearty giggle.

usually, although a rhetorical question, he would answer you. but you cannot tell your best friend you love them when you have barely realized it yourself, and suga would never dare to profess such a thing to you in this setting. he would die before taking your hand and baring his soul to you in a place as sluggish as there. you deserved far more than that — he wanted to give you more than that. so, instead of telling you that his heart ached as his hands slipped to your waist, he dragged his tired body behind you and moved in sync with every breath you took. he watched you laugh and stumble and breathe light into the room around you, and he waited for the moment it would fill his lungs and take the place of oxygen, and he waited for the moment you would finally realize it. patience was a virtue that suga had no issue practicing, and he was certain he’d turn to dust slipping from your fingertips if it meant loving you when it was right.

gen taglist @sh0ot1ngst4r @azinniyaa @kashee-h @fiannee @bubybubsters @lizbix @adoresia @gumims @cinnamxnangel @aldebrana

take this while I work on thdla chapter three lawl

[cutielando]

the 90s | charles leclerc

synopsis: in which you wish you'd loved him in another era

a/n: based on this request!

pairing: charles leclerc x girlfriend!reader

my masterlist

The faint hum of a radio fills the room, the static cutting in and out as an old tune plays softly in the background. You're seated cross-legged on the floor of Charles's apartment, a stack of vintage vinyl records scattered between the two of you.

The idea to explore the past through music had been yours—something to distract him from the pressures of the present and an excuse to spend a lazy afternoon together.

Charles is perched on the edge of the couch, his focus on a record sleeve he’s been examining for the past few minutes. His fingers trace over the faded artwork, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“I don’t get it,” he says finally, lifting the sleeve to show you. “‘The Cranberries?’ Sounds more like a fruit stand than a band.”

You laugh, your head tilting back as the sound fills the room.

“They’re iconic, Charles. You can’t judge them by the name. Here, let me show you.”

Sliding the record from its sleeve, you carefully place it on the turntable, lowering the needle until the crackling sound gives way to the opening chords of Dreams.

The room fills with the ethereal melody, and you glance at Charles to see his reaction.

He leans back, his arms stretched along the top of the couch as he listens. His eyes are closed, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Okay, I get it now,” he admits, his voice soft. “It’s… different.”

“Different good?” you tease, nudging his knee with your foot.

“Different great,” he replies, his eyes opening to meet yours. “I can picture it. Being alive back then. Everything seemed so… simple.”

You nod, your gaze drifting toward the window where the golden glow of the afternoon sun streams in.

“Sometimes I think we missed out,” you say wistfully. “Life without the internet, no constant pressure to be perfect. Just real connections, you know?”

Charles doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifts from the couch to sit beside you on the floor, his shoulder brushing against yours. His presence is warm, grounding.

“Do you think things would’ve been easier for us?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You turn to him, caught off guard by the seriousness in his tone.

“What do you mean?”

He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize.

“I mean… us. You and me. Sometimes it feels like the world is always watching, waiting for us to mess up. It’s hard not to let that get in the way.”

Your chest tightens at his words. You know exactly what he’s talking about—the scrutiny, the judgment, the way people seemed to think they had a say in your relationship just because Charles was Charles Leclerc.

It wasn’t always easy, but you’d never once doubted that he was worth it.

“I think about that too,” you admit softly. “About how things might’ve been different if we’d met in another time. No cameras, no social media. Just us, figuring things out without everyone else’s opinions.”

Charles shifts closer, his hand finding yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a simple gesture that sends warmth flooding through you.

“Do you think we’d still find each other?” he asks, his eyes searching yours.

The question catches you off guard, but the answer comes easily.

“I think so,” you say with certainty. “It doesn’t matter where or when. It’s always going to be you.”

His lips curve into a smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes your heart ache with how much you love him.

“I wish I could’ve loved you in the 90s,” he says softly, the words barely above a whisper.

You laugh, the sound tinged with affection.

“What would that look like, huh? Us in the 90s?”

He grins, his hand still holding yours as he leans back against the couch.

“We’d be at some diner, I think. You’d have one of those polaroid cameras, taking pictures of everything. Your milkshake, the jukebox, me looking confused because I don’t know how to use it.”

You giggle at the image, nudging his shoulder.

“And you’d probably show up to pick me up in some old car, pretending you know how to fix it when it breaks down.”

“Obviously,” he agrees, his grin widening. “But you’d forgive me because I’d make you a mixtape to apologize. All your favorite songs, of course.”

You shake your head, your cheeks aching from how much you’re smiling.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, his tone playful but his eyes earnest.

Your laughter fades, replaced by a warmth that spreads through your chest. You lean your head against his shoulder, the two of you falling into a comfortable silence as the record continues to play.

After a moment, Charles speaks again, his voice softer this time.

“Do you ever worry that… this won’t last? That all the noise, the pressure will get too much?”

You lift your head to look at him, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his expression. Gently, you reach out to cup his face, your thumb brushing along his cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere, Charles,” you say firmly. “No matter how loud the world gets, no matter how hard it is. We’re stronger than that.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch.

“How do you always know what to say?”

“Because I mean every word,” you reply.

The song changes, a slower melody filling the room. Charles opens his eyes, a small smile playing at his lips.

“Dance with me,” he says suddenly, standing and offering you his hand.

“Charles, there’s barely any room—” you laugh, hesitating.

“Doesn’t matter,” he interrupts, wiggling his fingers until you take his hand.

He pulls you to your feet, his arms slipping around your waist as yours loop around his neck.

The two of you sway to the music, the world outside fading away. The only thing that exists is this moment—his arms around you, the warmth of his breath against your temple, the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

As the song plays on, you realize that while you might never know what it’s like to love him in the 90s, this—here and now—is more than enough. It���s messy and imperfect and complicated, but it’s real.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

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[americaine-noces]

under the bleachers ⋆˚࿔

what starts with one stolen glance across the soccer field turns into a secret-laced spiral of late-night drives, under-the-bleachers kisses, and the kind of love that makes you reckless. in a town that doesn’t understand girls like them, they find freedom in each other—and maybe something like forever. ⟢ a/n : i know that ts is so short but pls bear w ME💜

it’s friday night. the kind that hums with leftover adrenaline—halftime lights fading, the smell of sweat and soft pretzels still hanging in the air. your team lost. not by much, but enough to sting. you still smiled for the pictures, still did your high kicks and pyramids and fake-laughed at locker room jokes.

but now you’re home. in your room. showered and sprawled out across your bed in natalie’s jersey. it’s too big, drowning you in blue and yellow. the number’s faded. it smells like grass and bonfire smoke and her stupid vanilla shampoo. you’re chewing the inside of your cheek, watching the ceiling like it might blink first.

you haven’t heard from her.

you texted her twenty minutes ago:

you: snacks or no snacks? i got chips & that gross blue slushie you like

no reply.

you try again.

you: unless you changed your mind.

still nothing.

you sit up, hug your knees, and curse under your breath. the jersey falls off one shoulder. you don’t fix it.

it’s past eleven when you hear it—the soft clink of a pebble against your window. you freeze. then another. and another.

you slide the window open and look down.

natalie’s there, hoodie half-zipped, cigarette tucked behind her ear. she looks up like she’s been caught red-handed, but doesn’t seem sorry.

“forgot how high up your window is,” she calls up. “my aim sucks.”

you bite back a grin. “you could’ve just used the front door like a normal person.”

“but then i’d have to talk to your dad. no thanks.”

“he’s asleep.”

“even worse.”

you sigh. “get up here.”

she climbs the trellis like she’s done it before—like muscle memory. you step back as she slips into your room, landing with a soft thud. her shoes are muddy. you don’t care.

natalie’s quiet for a second. she takes in your room, your posters, the flicker of a lava lamp in the corner. then her eyes land on you. or maybe the jersey.

“you really wore it,” she says.

you nod. “a deal’s a deal.”

she laughs under her breath, a little breathless. “we lost.”

“still worth it.”

you don’t mean for it to come out so soft. or so honest. but it does.

natalie’s eyes flash like she doesn’t know what to do with that kind of kindness. she walks over, sits on the edge of your bed, and pulls something out of her pocket. a cassette tape, half-labeled in smeared sharpie: van’s mix, vol. 4.

you blink. “you actually brought it.”

she shrugs. “van made me swear on her cat’s life. apparently this one has a song that ‘might make you cry.’”

“great.”

natalie leans forward, pushing it into your old tape deck. the static is immediate—then music. low, fuzzy. acoustic guitar and female vocals. it’s a little off-tune. a little too real. you don’t recognize the song.

you lie back. she does too. your arms brush.

you think of asking her what’s been on her mind. why she didn’t reply. why her eyes look heavier than usual. but then her hand slips into yours, and she squeezes—once, like a question.

you squeeze back. answer.

you fall asleep like that. not tangled. not kissing. just… next to each other. like maybe that’s enough for now.

outside, the town’s quiet. the cicadas are gone. replaced by the soft whir of a neighbor’s sprinkler. inside, natalie dreams of being someone who doesn’t ruin things. and you? you don’t dream at all.

you already have what you wanted.

at least for tonight.

⟢ a/n : edi sorry kung natapakan yung pagka love team niyo!!!!! anyway ill post pt4 soon because i love u guys so much💜 part two ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part three ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part four ⊹ ࣪ ˖

[redroomreflections]

Hotel California | Track 1: Smoke and Mirrors

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, frontwoman of the punk rock band Velvet Rebellion, falls hard for a woman she believes is too good for her. Their intense relationship unfolds in the chaotic world of rock 'n' roll, where they struggle to balance fame, personal demons, and their undeniable passion for each other.

W/c: 7k

Chapter 1/12

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Note: I was going to wait to post this since I have fifty-leven WIPs but to make up for me not being able to write for a while and also finishing two stories in the coming weeks - here we are. I'm nervous about posting this one for some reason. Hope y'all like it.

Themes: love, fame, sex, drugs

Track 1 - Smoke and Mirrors (each chapter is a track)

In the world of music, there's no denying that Velvet Rebellion's sound is electric, their melodies are undeniably addictive. But offstage, the drama and chaos surrounding this band have been the subject of endless tabloid fodder. It's a classic case of the music being sweet, but the rest of the package is a tad sour. Will their rock 'n' roll lifestyle ultimately overshadow their undeniable talent? That remains the question on everyone's lips.

The TV channel flicking produced a rapid succession of blips and static.

"You know, when it comes to Velvet Rebellion, it's clear that Natasha Romanoff is the best thing about the band. Her vocals are just on another level!"

"Oh, absolutely! Natasha's stage presence is incredible, and her voice, that raw emotion she pours into every note, it's what sets them apart. But let's not forget the rest of the band; they bring their own magic to the mix!"

Another press of the button. Another channel emitting the same rhetoric. 

"So, what are your thoughts on Velvet Rebellion, the band that seems to be taking the music scene by storm?"

"Look, I won't deny that they've had their moments. Natasha's got a powerful voice, and they've had some catchy tunes. But let's not forget, there's more to rock 'n' roll than just one person. We bring our own unique sound to the table, and we're here to show that rock isn't a one-trick pony."

Suddenly, the screen goes black. The television has been turned off. The room is silent. 

“Whatever,” The mysterious person tsks. There are better things to do. 

In the dimly lit room, the first flicker of a cigarette lighter illuminated a shadowy figure, and a guitar's haunting melody echoed through the air. It was a simple beginning, a humble birth of sound that would eventually become the anthem of a generation.

Images flashed in rapid succession—a chaotic whirlwind of memories and moments that had defined their journey from obscurity to stardom. The flashing lights of a small, dimly lit club, the very place where they had played their first gig, gave way to a sea of screaming fans, arms raised in fervent adoration.

“Bucky! Bucky!”

“Steve, we love you!”

Talk show interviews brought them into living rooms across the nation, their faces beamed into millions of homes as they shared their stories and their music with the world. The camera panned to Natasha, her fierce gaze unyielding as she answered questions with poise and grace.

And then, there were the guitars. Guitars being smashed in a blaze of glory on stage, a ritual that had become their trademark. The destructive catharsis of the act symbolized the release of their raw energy and passion into the world.

Groupies and fans clamored for their attention, their devotion evident in the longing looks and outstretched hands. Each face in the crowd told a story of how Velvet Rebellion's music had touched their lives.

Late-night studio sessions followed, with the band working tirelessly into the early hours, crafting the songs and lyrics that had earned them their place in music history. In the dimly lit room, the flicker of a cigarette lighter once again marked the beginning of a new song.

Magazine covers splashed with their images adorned newsstands across the country. Excerpts from clippings of their first studio album, "Velvet Love," told a tale of raw, unbridled emotion set to music—a story that had resonated with countless souls.

The montage painted a vivid picture of a band that had journeyed through the highs and lows of fame, never losing sight of the music that had brought them together. Velvet Rebellion had carved its path through the music industry, leaving an unforgettable mark on the hearts of those who had listened and loved.

*************

Sunlight filters through the curtains of Natasha and Wanda's cozy Los Angeles apartment. Disheveled yet determined, Natasha sits on the edge of her bed, cradling her guitar. She strums the strings absentmindedly, searching for that inspiration that once fueled Velvet Rebellion. Her fingers danced over the strings of her trusty guitar, each note a whisper in the quiet solitude of the bedroom.

Natasha's hair framed her face, and frustration lined her expression as she strummed the chords once again. The next album's melodies were meant to be born here. Yet, inspiration remained at arm’s length, teasing her like a fading dream.

"Come on Natalia," she whispered gruffly, remembering the name she had left behind long ago.

With a sigh, she shifted her gaze to the muted TV on the dresser. A NEWS REPORTER's face appeared on the screen, accompanied by headlines that could never escape the relentless clutches of the media. She searched for the remote to turn up the volume as the face of one of her bandmates, Tony Stark’s pictures appeared. 

NEWS REPORTER

(on TV)

“In a surprising turn of events, Velvet Rebellion's Tony Stark was arrested last night for public indecency.”

Natasha's eye-roll was instinctive. Tony always had a way of making headlines for all the wrong reasons.

NEWS REPORTER

(on TV)

“...fans and critics alike have noted the band's gradual decline, and it seems the once-revered punk rock indie sensation is now on the verge of falling apart.”

The reporter's words cut through Natasha's indifference, a scalding reminder of the shadows that had been gathering around them. She couldn't deny it; the band had been stagnant for too long.

Fury sparked in her eyes, and she clenched the neck of her guitar, momentarily abandoning the song. The Velvet Rebellion of yesteryears, the band that had ignited stages and won hearts, couldn't be reduced to this—a spectacle of controversies and dwindling star power.

Returning her attention to her guitar Natasha sighed. The room's stillness hung heavy as she gently laid the guitar down on the floor. It felt like a futile effort, the muse remaining frustratingly out of reach, leaving her with an empty canvas and an aching desire to create.

Her gaze dropped to the small, black notebook, its pages filled with aborted attempts to capture the essence of their experiences and emotions in song. But today, those pages mocked her, an unforgiving reminder of the creative void that had taken its home within her.

Just as her frustration reached its peak, the bedroom door swung open with a soft creak, and in walked Wanda, a bowl of popcorn cradled in her hand. She plopped down on the bed beside Natasha, her eyes rolling in a knowing, teasing manner.

“How’s writing going?” Wanda asked, grabbing a handful of popcorn to plop into her mouth. 

Natasha let out a weary sigh, her notebook momentarily forgotten as she shared her woes with her best friend.

“You have no idea. It's like I've hit a wall, and I can't seem to find my way around it.” Natasha said. “How are we supposed to come up with another album with no songs? It’s been two years. We’re going to be known as one-hit wonders.”

“First off that’s a bit dramatic,” Wanda attempted to calm her down. “We made the hot rock and alternative songs billboard charts for our debut. I think the momentum is still there.”

Wanda cast a glance at the muted TV screen, where a news reporter was still busy dissecting Tony's latest escapade. She couldn't help but roll her eyes, mirroring Natasha's exasperation.

“And of course, our dear Tony adds another branch to the publicity tree. It's almost impressive how consistently he manages to get into trouble.” Wanda shook her head. 

After placing her bowl of popcorn on the dresser, Wanda decided to abandon her sitting position and instead flopped onto her belly, propped up on her elbows. She grabbed Natasha's small notebook, a curious glint in her eyes as she skimmed through the handwritten lyrics and scattered notes.

“You know, Nat, I think I see where you're stuck.” Wanda hummed to herself for a moment. 

Turning her attention to Wanda, Natasha felt her frustration momentarily ebb away, replaced by curiosity.

“Oh?” Natasha eyed her. “Please, share your wisdom.”

Wanda's eyes sparkled with an unexpected idea, and she pointed to a particular verse in the notebook. Her voice took on a sultry, poetic quality as she suggested a new lyric.

“How about this: "In the shadows of desire, we ignite the night."

Natasha's eyes widened in surprise as the words resonated deep within her. She quickly reached for her instrument and strummed the guitar, incorporating the new lyric into the melody, and in that instant, it all fell into place. A smile grew on her face, and she turned to Wanda.

“Wanda, that's brilliant! Thank you!” Natasha leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I know why I keep you around.”

Wanda beamed in response. 

"Speaking of," she began, her voice casual yet laced with an underlying purpose, "we've got a gig this weekend. It's a birthday party for Harley Jameson, you know, the producer's daughter."

Natasha's response was swift and uncompromising, her will clear in her refusal. Her head shook slightly as she firmly voiced her decision, her thoughts already drifting toward the disturbing pattern of her bandmates taking liberties with decisions without consulting her, the lead.

"Absolutely not, Wanda," Natasha declared, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Aren’t we better than performing for snot-nosed brats?

Wanda, ever patient and understanding, propped herself up on her elbows. 

“Well, when that snot nose brat is paying us fifty thousand dollars plus a retainer,” Wanda shrugs. “And all the booze and food we want.” Her words were measured, spoken with the calm that came from knowing this conversation was inevitable." Nat, remember," she began, "you're the lead, not the boss. We haven’t been taking gigs because you've been declining. You know we need to keep the momentum going."

Natasha's jaw clenched in frustration. She leaned back, her gaze shifting to the ceiling as she contemplated her response.

"There's a reason, Wanda," Natasha explained, her voice tinged with concern. "Our brand has taken a beating lately with all the scandals we've had over the years. It’s not a good look being so new. I want us to lay low for a while, let the storm pass."

Wanda sighed, her eyes reflecting her understanding of Natasha's concerns. But she also recognized the band's need to keep going ahead despite the challenges.

"Nat," Wanda said, her voice gentle and reassuring, "I get it, I really do. But we'll be fine. Harley's party should be a breeze, and I promise we'll stay out of trouble. We'll stick to the music, no antics."

Natasha's hesitation lingered. Ultimately, the trust she had in Wanda, her lifelong friend and partner-in-crime, began to outweigh her reservations. She finally nodded, a reluctant but willing acceptance of the gig.

"Alright, alright," Natasha conceded. “We'll do it. But just this one, and we'll play it safe."

Wanda's eyes sparkled with a victorious smile, recognizing that she had won this battle for now. With that agreement, they returned to their songwriting. 

**************

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn of Harley Jameson's grand estate, Velvet Rebellion gathered on the makeshift stage. Around them, staff and party planners began to decorate the backyard. Their instruments glistened under the setting and stage lights. 

Natasha, her guitar slung securely across her shoulder, couldn't help but notice Tony, seated behind the drum kit, his sunglasses doing little to hide the lingering effects of his earlier indulgence. She approached him with a stern expression, a hint of frustration in her voice.

"Tony, you better get it together," She warned. "We're not messing this up tonight."

Tony, ever the charmer, brushed off her concerns with an easy smile and a wave of his hand.

"Nat, I promise, I'm fine. See?"

With that, he launched into a lively drum solo, his sticks dancing skillfully across the drumheads. The rhythm was tight, the sound electrifying. Natasha couldn't help but acknowledge his undeniable talent, even as she sighed in resignation.

"Great," she muttered to herself, "the sunglasses are his secret weapon now."

Standing beside Natasha, Steve placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. His quiet and calming presence was a balm to her nerves.

"It's alright, Natasha," He reassured her, his voice steady and comforting. "We'll get through this gig, just like our old days. Tony’s recovering but he seems fine."

Together they glance back to their bandmate who was more than likely inebriated. Tony chugged a bottle of water, before crushing it and dropping it down onto the floor beside him. 

Natasha's gaze softened as she looked at Steve, a small smile forming on her lips. “Yeah, he’s the epitome of fine.”

“Okay,” Steve pulled her gently to the side. “What’s the problem?” 

“Nothing,” Natasha shrugged. “I just can’t help but think that gigs like this are beneath us. I mean we went from performing at the MTV Video Music Awards to this? A sweet sixteen?”

Steve looked at her. He had been through thick and thin with Natasha and knew the depth of her concerns. 

“Natasha,” He replied. “I get your worries, but I promise this is a good thing for us. Todd Jameson is one of the biggest music producers in Hollywood right now. There will be a lot of executives here just to support his daughter. Think of what that could mean for us.”

“Fine,” Natasha nodded. “But if he fucks up I kick his ass.”

“Oh, you bet. Right after I’m done kicking it,” Steve joked causing Natasha to burst into laughter. 

Natasha steps back over to the mic. “Alright let’s take it from the top.” 

As Natasha prepared to lead the band into their rehearsal of the first song, the peacefulness of the backyard rehearsal space was abruptly disrupted by the arrival of Harley Jameson. She swept onto the scene with all the extravagance befitting a Hollywood princess, accompanied by a harried-looking party planner and another woman, who appeared to be a guest.

Harley, the embodiment of a spoiled heiress, immediately began issuing orders with a sense of entitlement that left the party planner flustered.

"No, no, no! These decorations are all wrong! Change them around! The mirror ball should be over here. And I want a live peacock by the pool. It's not too much to ask, is it?" Harley demanded impatiently.

The party planner, clearly overwhelmed, tried to keep up with Harley's demands. "Harley, we only have a few hours before the party starts. It's going to be challenging to make all these changes in such a short time."

Harley huffed, uninterested in the logistical challenges she was causing. "I don't care about that. Just get it done. My dad said I could have whatever I wanted."

Meanwhile, Harley's attention shifted to Velvet Rebellion, her face lighting up with enthusiasm.

"Oh, my God! I've been dying to meet you! I'm a huge fan!" she exclaimed with excitement. “I’m so happy I could get you here.”

She bounded over to the band, seemingly oblivious to the chaos she was creating, and introduced them to the party planner and you.

"This is Velvet Rebellion!" Harley introduced with enthusiasm. "Steve, the keyboardist, Tony on the drums, Bucky on the electric guitar, Wanda, the second lead singer and bass guitar, and Natasha, the incredible lead singer!"

You and the other woman exchanged glances, your expressions a mixture of frustration and amusement at the whirlwind that was Harley Jameson. You gave a small wave, opting to be in the background of this exchange. 

Wanda, ever the peacekeeper, managed to maintain her composure and put on a friendly smile despite Harley's overwhelming energy. She nodded graciously at Harley's enthusiasm.

"Oh, thank you so much, Harley!" Wanda replied with genuine warmth. "We're thrilled to meet you too. Your party looks like it's going to be incredible!"

Harley's energy showed no signs of waning as she delved into the details of the band's performance. When Wanda mentioned their planned first song, "Smoke and Mirrors," Harley immediately piped up with an alternative suggestion.

"No, no, no," Harley interrupted with fervor. "I want you to start with 'Ink and Whiskey.' It's my favorite!"

Natasha, who had been preparing to protest the sudden change to their setlist, hesitated as she saw Wanda's meek demeanor. However, it was clear that Harley's demand had disrupted their carefully planned sequence.

Natasha began to voice her concerns, but Harley's retort was swift and smart-mouthed. 

“We’ve already planned this out for-” Natasha began. 

“Oh, you can change it, can’t you? It’s just a silly setlist,” Harly questioned. 

Before Natasha could respond, you intervened with a calm yet authoritative tone.

"Harley, let's tone it down a bit," You advised, your demeanor oozing an air of authority that surprised Natasha. Harley listened, her earlier defiance giving way to a more composed demeanor.

“Sorry, I’m just excited,” Harley shrugged. 

Natasha found herself intrigued by your presence and the respect Harley seemed to show you.

"Alright," Natasha conceded with a smile, "since it's your birthday, we'll start with 'Ink and Whiskey.'"

Wanda offered a nod of agreement, and the tension in the air began to dissipate.

Harley, feeling triumphant, turned her attention to the party planner.

"Sarah, darling, let's make sure everything is perfect. I want it to be a night to remember!" Harley changed the subject, pulling you both back into a conversation with ease. 

Sarah, the party planner, nodded and tried to hide her relief that the brief crisis had passed. 

"Of course, Harley. Everything will be just as you want it."

Natasha watched the exchange between Harley and Sarah, her curiosity piqued more by you. 

“Who’s the chick?” Natasha pointed over to you with a tilt of her head. She got shrugs from Steve and Bucky. Tony was way too distracted to answer as he flirted with one of the staff. Wanda squinted to see if she could guess. 

“I don’t know,” Wanda said. “She looks vaguely familiar, but I’m guessing it’s not her mom.”

“Interesting,” Natasha mumbled to herself. She shook her head. There was no time for whatever the thumping in her heart was proving to be. She was here for the band and for the music. Also for the money, she couldn’t forget the money. 

As the preparations for the party continued, your cell phone suddenly rang, breaking the conversation flow. You excused yourself with a polite smile and stepped away from the group, heading toward a quieter corner of the backyard a few feet away.

Natasha couldn't help but overhear snippets of your conversation, the tone of your voice suggesting a heartfelt exchange, likely with a significant other. Natasha discreetly glanced in your direction, her curiosity getting the best of her.

Your voice held a gentle warmth as you spoke softly into your phone, your words filled with affection and longing.

 "I miss you too, sweetheart. Yeah, the party's getting started here in a couple of hours. It's not the same without you. Can't wait to see you soon." You smiled. 

Natasha couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but the tenderness in your voice painted a clear picture of a loving connection between you and someone special.

Meanwhile, Harley, always the inquisitive host, began questioning Steve and Bucky about the band and its music.

"So, guys," Harley started, her interest genuine, "Have you ever thought about going solo? I am dying to know the secret."

Steve and Bucky, accustomed to answering these questions, engaged in a friendly chat with Harley, even if they also found her annoying. 

As Natasha discreetly observed you from the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but be captivated by your natural beauty. You were dressed in a simple white t-shirt and form-fitting jeans, a look that should have been unremarkable, but on you, it was utterly captivating.

The way your hair was styled, framing your face in soft waves, added to your appeal. Your skin had a radiant glow, and your features held an understated elegance that drew Natasha's attention. Despite the casual attire, you exuded a timeless charm that was impossible to ignore.

Natasha found herself admiring the effortless beauty that seemed to emanate from you and she wanted to know more. 

Just as Natasha started to pretend she wasn't eavesdropping, you turned around with a warm smile, catching her off guard. She quickly toyed with her microphone stand, feigning indifference.

You found her reaction amusing but were soon drawn back into your phone conversation. Natasha couldn't help but wonder about the person on the other end of that call and what had sparked such a genuine smile on your face. 

She toyed with the mic stand for as long as possible, physically forcing herself not to look your way. It’s a few more minutes before you returned to the group. You turned your attention to Harley and Sarah.

"Harley, don't forget, you have that hair appointment in an hour," You reminded her, glancing at your watch. "We need to make sure you're all set for your big night."

Harley, momentarily distracted by the band's presence, nodded in agreement.

"Oh, right! Thanks, y/n. I'll head out now," Harley replied with a grin. She turned to the band and offered her farewells. "Catch you all later!"

With that, Harley and Sarah departed, leaving Velvet Rebellion alone in the backyard.

As the group began to disperse, you took a moment to say goodbye to the band. 

“See you guys tonight,” You said. “I’m sure you’ll do great. If you need refreshments just ask one of the staff and they will be happy to help you with anything you need.” 

Natasha responded with a small smile and a nod, a subtle acknowledgment of the brief but pleasant interaction.

Once you, Harley, and Sarah were out of earshot, the rest of the band couldn't resist teasing Natasha. Wanda, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, chimed in.

"Uh oh, I know that look," Wanda teased, earning a knowing chuckle from the others. Natasha's momentary fascination with you hadn't gone unnoticed, and her bandmates were more than happy to playfully nudge her about it.

“There’s no look, I don’t have a look.” Natasha rolled her eyes. 

“Sure, you don’t,” Wanda grinned. “Any bets on how long until she gets her number?”

“I say within the hour,” Tony raised his hand pulling out a single, crinkled five-dollar bill from his back pocket. 

“Fifteen says they sleep together after the show,” Bucky shrugged. Steve is the only one to remain silent. 

“I don’t know,” Steve scratched the back of his neck. “I think I’ll save my thoughts for later. The girl barely said two words to any of us.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said. “Now, can we rehearse like a proper band?” 

She tried to erase your image from her head as she positioned herself in front of the microphone. 

From the top. 

*****************

The night was alive with energy as Velvet Rebellion took the stage, the crowd gathered around, eager to soak in every note of their music. Natasha oozed confidence and charisma, a star in every sense of the word. The opening chords of "Ink and Whiskey" filled the air, and the crowd erupted in cheers. This birthday party was a rager if she’d ever seen one. Natasha always considered rich people stiff and uptight. Going to plenty of parties once their debut kicked off their careers. Stiff drinks, weird pleasantries, and even more drugs. She was being proven wrong with this particular shindig. 

She moved to the edge of the stage, her presence magnetic. She sang with a passion that could be felt in every corner of the space, her voice carrying the weight of their lyrics. The audience couldn't help but be drawn into her performance, and they eagerly joined in, singing along and dancing to the beat.

Wanda, standing beside Natasha, bled a different kind of cool and calm. Her steady presence provided the perfect balance to Natasha's fiery performance. It was clear to anyone watching that their dynamic was the secret to their success.

Natasha lowered her head, giving Wanda the floor to sing her part of the chorus. Wanda’s hands moved steadily between the chords as she sang into the microphone. 

Ink and whiskey, the pages of our hearts,  

Tangled in the chapters where love starts,  

In the darkness, our secrets we confide,  

With every word written, our souls collide

Natasha steps forward, moving close enough to the microphone so that she and Wanda could harmonize the last verse. Her eyes travel from Wanda’s, smiling as they share in the energy and joy of being on stage before she maneuvers herself to face the crowd. 

In the night's embrace, our love's sweet refrain,  

Ink and whiskey, like a runaway train,  

Through the highs and lows, we'll find our way,  

With every word we write, love's here to stay

In the front row, Harley danced with her friends, reveling in the music and the excitement of the night. The atmosphere was electric, and the joy was contagious.

As Natasha sang, she scanned the crowd, her eyes landing on familiar faces among the sea of B-listers and music enthusiasts. But the one that stood out the most was you. Your eyes locked, and Natasha couldn't resist a playful wink, a silent acknowledgment of your earlier encounter.

You raised your glass in a silent toast and clapped enthusiastically when the song came to an end. You weren’t a huge fan of the music genre but you could see why Velvet Rebellion was such a rising star amongst new artists. Their stage presence was undeniable, the song was catchy and the beat was electrifying. It helped that Natasha was cute. All good things in your book. You can’t take your eyes off the stage as they move into their next song. It’s a bit disjointed considering Harley made them change the setlist around the last minute but it seems smooth either way. Natasha dances a bit for this one, her body movements fluid and effortless. Almost as if she’s had some training. 

You’re momentarily distracted when a distant family member comes to say hello. 

The show must go on as Natasha continues to sing her heart out. 

**********************

The final notes of their setlist rang out, and the crowd roared in appreciation. Velvet Rebellion had given their all, and now it was time for the DJ to take over and keep the party going.

Wanda had convinced Natasha to stay a while longer, promising that the night was still young and full of possibilities. Tony, ever the charmer, remarked with a grin, "I see a few MILFs in the crowd that I wouldn't mind mingling with." He slipped into the crowd with ease, chatting up the first single woman he saw. 

Natasha, however, remained all about business. She stood at the bar, surveying the party and keeping a watchful eye on her bandmates. The chaos and revelry around her seemed to blur into a colorful swirl of dancing bodies and laughter.

It was then that you approached her, catching Natasha's attention. Your presence was a welcome change of pace, and Natasha couldn't help but appreciate the genuine compliment she received.

"You guys were incredible," You said with a smile. "I'm impressed."

Natasha, always a woman of few words in such settings, offered a gracious nod of acknowledgment. 

You extended your hand with a warm smile as you introduced yourself, "I'm y/n. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Natasha shook your hand firmly and replied, "Natasha. Likewise."

You couldn't help but notice Natasha's reserved demeanor. Almost as if she felt too cool to be here. 

"I couldn't help but wonder," You began, your curiosity evident as you raised your voice above the music. "why aren't you out there dancing like the rest of your bandmates?"

Natasha offered a wry smile and shot back, "I could ask you the same thing."

“Touche,” You nodded. “I’m not much of a party girl.” You turn towards the bartender. “Do you want a drink? Eric here makes the best mojitos.”

“Sure, I’ll have a sex on the beach,” Natasha asked. 

“You heard the woman,” You jokingly said to Eric as he began to make your drinks. As you focused your attention on grabbing a few napkins, Natasha gave you a once-over. Your party dress was a delightful balance of simplicity and style. The knee-length and backless dress showcased a flattering silhouette, hugging your curves in all the right places. The deep, midnight-blue fabric was decorated with tiny, shimmering glitter that seemed to twinkle with each movement you made. Its sweetheart neckline and delicate spaghetti straps added a touch of femininity to the ensemble, while the mid-thigh slit allowed for easy movement as you moved. The overall effect was a cute yet elegant dress that perfectly suited the festive atmosphere of the party.

Natasha's observant eye caught the jewelry adorning your wrist. It was subtle but tasteful, hinting at a level of refinement that didn't go unnoticed. It was at least half of her salary for tonight’s show. This only interested her more. She needed to know who you were. She wanted to know the mystery behind you and your name. 

“Here you go,” You step back over to Natasha to hand her a drink. “I hope I’m not being too forward.”

“Not at all,” Natasha shrugged. 

"You know, if you're looking for a bit more quiet, we could step inside for a breather." You suggested, tilting your chin towards the house. 

Natasha considered the offer, realizing that a change of scenery might be a welcome respite from the party's chaos. With a small smile, she agreed, "That sounds like a good idea."

You led Natasha through the sea of people and inside the mansion to a nearby office where the music's relentless thump was muffled, and the atmosphere was quieter. It was a welcome change from the frenzied party outside.

As you settled into seats close to each other on the couch, drinks in hand, Natasha couldn't help herself and began to ask you questions. 

“Why did you ask me in here tonight?” Natasha asked. “Not that I’m complaining. I have been invited into much worse places.”  

“Thanks, I think,” You chuckled. You sensed Natasha's curiosity and offered a simple explanation, your eyes holding Natasha's in an unspoken connection."I enjoy meeting new people," you confessed, your voice soft but sincere. "And I've decided I wanted to talk with you."

You took a sip of your drink, your gaze thoughtful. "I also wanted to apologize for Harley's behavior earlier. She can be... spirited at times."

Natasha waved off the apology with a small smile, understanding that spirited was one way to describe Harley's antics.

You went on to explain, "Usually, I don't speak up like that, but my uncle has a way of spoiling Harley. It's... complicated."

Natasha's curiosity got the better of her, and she asked, "Your uncle? He’s Todd Jameson?"

You took a moment before revealing, "Yes. He and my dad are half-brothers. Making Harley my little cousin. I don’t admit it often."

The revelation left Natasha intrigued. She had heard the name Todd Jameson before, a figure of significance in the entertainment industry. The connection between you and Harley was now becoming clearer, and Natasha couldn't help but wonder about the family connection.

“That would make your dad…” Natasha began. 

“Nick Fury, the one and only,” You finished for her. “Different fathers. My dad is somewhere out there tonight. It’s a thing I don’t like to admit to strangers.”

“I get it,” Natasha nodded. 

The revelation about your family connection to Todd Jameson made Natasha pause for a moment. She had always admired the award-winning jazz player turned talent manager, Nick Fury, from afar. His contributions to the music industry were legendary, and Natasha couldn't deny that she was a fan of his music.

She decided not to fangirl, though, and instead offered a genuine smile. "Your dad is a legend. I've always been a fan of his music."

Your eyes lit up with appreciation. "Thank you, Natasha. I'll be sure to pass that along to him." You set your half-empty cup onto a coaster, before turning back to Natasha. “So, watching you on that stage. Not many people have that star power. I was wondering if you have experience dancing? You were incredible.” 

Natasha's eyes sparkled as she recalled her performance. "The way I danced on stage during our set, it's a part of who I am. I guess you could say it's a bit of my background showing through."

Your curiosity piqued, and you guessed, "Ballet, then?"

Natasha nodded. "Yes, I did ballet for sixteen years as a child. I even got into Juilliard."

Your eyes widened in admiration. "That's amazing, Natasha. How did you get into singing and music?"

Natasha took a sip of her drink and smiled as she delved into the story of how she got into music. It was a story that she didn't often share, but there was something about her conversation with you that made her feel comfortable opening up.

"It all started back in high school," Natasha began. "I was really into dancing, and it was an elective at my school. But then, one day, I decided to join the choir on a whim. And I fell in love with singing and songwriting. I grew up in a rough neighborhood. I needed something to keep me out of the house and off the streets."

She paused for a moment, reminiscing about those early days. "So, I started writing songs, and my friends Wanda and Steve would go over to Steve’s small bedroom. We'd play our rented instruments and experiment with different sounds. It was just a fun little hobby at first."

Natasha's gaze drifted, lost in the memories of those simple beginnings. "Then Bucky, Steve’s best friend well, he's always been a bit of a troublemaker, but he's got a talent for the electric guitar. And Tony...his dad's pretty wealthy and bought us all our equipment. Plus, he's good at the drums."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "It was a bit of a motley crew, but that's how Velvet Rebellion came to be. We started playing in small venues, dive bars, and country clubs. And somehow, we made it here."

Natasha's usually guarded demeanor had softened in your presence, and she found herself enjoying the opportunity to share a piece of her journey with someone who seemed genuinely interested in her story.

“I love that,” You nodded. You and Natasha share a smile before she asked. 

“Is your boyfriend here tonight? I don’t want to keep you too long,” She fished for more information. 

“No, no,” You shake your head. “No boyfriend. You?”

“Not really into monogamy at the moment,” She shrugged. She doesn’t know if this statement will bite her in the ass later but for some reason she trusted you. “Tell me about you. Are you in the family business or?”

"I've always had a bit of a connection to the music world," You began. "As a teenager, I sang a few backup vocals for artists my uncle produced. I guess you could say I almost pursued a career in music, but life had other plans for me. I got pregnant at seventeen. Dedicated to finish school and go to college."

You took a thoughtful swig of your drink and continued, "Now, I'm a publicist. I don't mean to brag, but I'm good at what I do.When I'm not working, I'm taking care of my daughter, Isabella. She's nine years old and the light of my life."

Your face softened as you spoke about your daughter, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and joy. "She's with her dad for the weekend," you added, "and we co-parent quite well."

Natasha was genuinely interested in your life outside of the party scene, and she couldn't resist asking, "Do you have any pictures of Isabella? I'd love to see her."

Your eyes twinkled with delight as you pulled out your phone and began to share a few adorable images of your daughter. Natasha couldn't help but smile as she admired the photos, enjoying this glimpse into your world beyond the music and the party.

“Here she is at gymnastics practice,” You flipped through a few pictures of Isabella’s smiling face. “And swim. She is a little spitfire and she wants to do it all.”

“Wow,” Natasha smiled as if Isabella were her own child. “Do you ever want more?”

“Maybe one day,” You said wistfully. “For now I feel pretty full with everything in life. You?” 

You noticed the change in Natasha's expression and asked, "Is something on your mind?"

Natasha sighed, leaning back into her seat. "I just don't know if I'm cut out for motherhood," she admitted. "I have a younger sister, Yelena, she’s attending the University of Cambridge in England now. She's even developed a bit of a British accent." Natasha couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

"But," she continued, "I enjoy the fast-paced life, the music, the performances, and the constant movement. A significant other won’t quite understand that I don't always have the time. Not that I don’t ever want that someday but…” Her voice died down. 

You listened empathetically, understanding the complexities of Natasha's life as a musician. "I get that," you acknowledged. "But it's essential to find the right balance for you, whether it's in your music career, personal life, or something in between. My dad was able to do it. When he crossed over into hip-hop there was definitely a lot he missed but he still made things happen"

“Really? Well, I will have to ask him for pointers.” She grinned. 

Just as the conversation was reaching its peak, there came a polite knock at the office door. A member of the party staff popped in to inform you that they were ready to sing "Happy Birthday" to Harley.

You turned to Natasha with a warm smile. "It was nice meeting and talking to you, Natasha," you said genuinely.

Natasha, not wanting the connection to end, began, "You know, I'd love to..."

But before she could finish her sentence, your cheeks flushed, and you interrupted already knowing what she was going to say, your voice bold, "Are you going to call me, or are you going to leave me hanging in the wind?"

Natasha couldn't help but laugh at your sudden assertiveness. It was a pleasant surprise. "I’m not that type of woman," Natasha said. At your look, she laughed again. “You got me there.”

You returned her smile and handed Natasha your phone, saying, "You'll just have to trust me with your number instead, and I'll call." Asking for her number instead eased the pressure off Natasha, and also your nerves at hoping she’d call. 

You gave Natasha a wink and chucked a thumb over your shoulder to indicate you were going back to the party. Natasha nodded and watched you walk away. When her eyes trailed lower she doesn’t even feel guilty about it. 

Natasha left the office, rejoining her bandmates outside in the backyard, just as they were preparing to sing "Happy Birthday" to Harley. The festive atmosphere was in full swing, and the energy of the party was infectious.

As the crowd gathered around Harley, Natasha's eyes scanned the faces, and they landed on you, who was standing among the partygoers. Your eyes met, and you shared a knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment of the connection you had developed.

Tony, always quick to pick up on things, couldn't help but tease Natasha when he noticed her grin. "So, did you get her number?"

Natasha rolled her eyes at Tony's assumption but then burst into laughter. "No," she replied with a playful smirk, "she took mine."

The party was still in full swing when someone on stage stopped the music with a loud, "Hey, everyone! Can I have your attention, please?"

The spotlight shifted to the stage, and all eyes turned toward the source of the interruption. It was a friend of Harley's, and he had a mischievous grin on his face as he spoke into the microphone.

"I have a special surprise for our birthday girl tonight," he announced. "We have someone here who's agreed to sing 'Happy Birthday' to Harley, and I think you're all in for a treat."

A collective cheer and applause erupted from the crowd as they eagerly anticipated the surprise. The spotlight moved to you, highlighting your face and putting you on the spot. You managed to not look like a deer in headlights which was a feat in itself. Natasha's curiosity was piqued, especially considering you had mentioned you weren’t much of a singer.

You tried to protest shyly, but the crowd begged you to come up on stage. Encouraged by their cheers, you reluctantly made your way up to the spotlight.

Once on stage, you cleared your throat and took a deep breath, your nerves palpable. You began with a little birthday speech, your voice tinged with affection and humor.

"I want to wish a happy birthday to my cousin Harley," You began, your smile directed at the birthday girl. "Even though she's a bit of a brat," you teased, earning laughs from the crowd, "she's my brat, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

Then, as expected, you began to sing "Happy Birthday." Your voice, which you had modestly downplayed earlier, was nothing short of remarkable. It was soulful, sweet, and filled with a depth of emotion that resonated through the entire backyard.

The crowd, including Natasha, was utterly blown away by the unexpected talent that you possessed. Your voice filled the air, making the birthday celebration even more special and memorable. It was a moment of pure magic, and Natasha couldn't help but be captivated by your incredible singing ability.

Natasha decided two things then and there. One, she really liked you, and two, boy, was she in for a ride.

---> next part

[minkshame]

PowerEdd Lovesquare AU - Prologue

Word Count: 4012

On ao3

“Tom, why aren’t you more worried…?” Matt asked, wringing his hands. He glanced his wide gaze at his no-eyed housemate with confusion. Tom was simply shrugging.

They both sat on the sofa waiting for Edd to wake up. The house felt unusually quiet and tense. The TV did provide some static background noise but Matt tuned it out.

“Edd’s tough,” Was Tom’s very simple and straightforward answer. “He’ll be alright.”

Matt imagined he probably broke some bones. He fell off the roof while repairing the satellite, for Joe's sake! Joe? Larry? Matt didn’t know the saying very well.

While he hadn’t been witness to Edd’s injury, both of them had heard the commotion. There had to be some consequence.

Though, they’re all pretty immune to those.

“When he’s awake we’ll know if it’s serious,” Tom commented as he leaned back on the cushion. “Depending on how loud he complains.”

Matt smiled at that. It was all too true.

Then, muffled from the next room, Edd screamed. A loud crash and thump followed. Tom and Matt scrambled up from their seats and threw Edd’s door open.

“Edd?!” Matt exclaimed, rushing into the room in a flurry. He was worried. He didn’t know why. He usually wouldn’t care all that much.

Edd was stood there frozen in place looking a bit shell-shocked. He seemed unharmed. He stared at his feet on the ground like he couldn’t believe they were there. He held his hands out in front of him, balling them into fists.

“I’m okay,” the brunet muttered. “I’m fine. I’m very normal.” He started to shake his head and smile too tightly. Matt cocked his head and frowned.

“Nothing broken?” Tom asked casually. Edd shook his head.

“I’m fine. Just… dizzy.” He blinked his eyes quickly and darted them around the room.

“Told you,” Matt felt a soft nudge from Tom. “He’s a tough one.” He threw up a hand to wave as he turned to leave the room. “Call us if you need something. We won’t rush.”

“Gee… thanks.” Edd rolled his eyes. Matt lingered in the room, looking unsure. He glanced at Edd with furrowed brows. “Uh, Matt? Where you at, mate?”

“In your room,” The redhead answered simply. He hesitated. “You’re sure you’re alright?” Something felt weird. Off. The room had a strange energy. The air felt like how it would before a thunderstorm.

“Perfectly fine.” Edd replied and rolled his eyes again. He cracked his knuckles and put his hands in his pockets. His feet shuffled on the carpet. His gaze darted to the window, then back. He smiled.

“Why did you yell so loudly?” Matt blurted, feeling he had to ask. It would eat at him otherwise. Matt wrung his hands once more.

“Oh.” Edd looked caught off guard by the question as he hesitated. He continued to glance at his bedroom window as if it was an escape. “I… thought I was still falling.”

“Off the roof?”

“Yeah.”

It made sense… sort of. It would be disorienting to fall and then wake up somewhere new. If it were him, he would be terrified.

Matt managed a smile after a moment even though something still wasn’t sitting right with him. “Alright… feel better soon!”

“Thanks.”

Matt nodded, and exited the room with that strangeness becoming a lingering weight on his mind.

Oh well. He’d probably forget it tomorrow! Certainly.

___________________________________________________________

Oh shit.

That’s his best friend on TV.

That’s his best friend being slammed into a building. On TV.

Tom sits up straight on the couch and the remote falls from his hand. He’d been mindlessly channel surfing without much preference for what to watch, and the news broadcast flashed by.

His blood had run cold. He saw what he thought he saw, right?

There’s some sort of battle going on downtown. There’s a shot from a news helicopter. The camera struggles to keep the strange sight in frame.

Two super-powered individuals with a score to settle, it seems. And Tom isn’t stupid. He recognises Edd immediately. His stupid round face and swept bangs are not hidden by a pathetic piece of cloth over his eyes.

Sure, said eyes glowed green when he snarled, wiped his cheek and kicked off the side of the wall he’d just destroyed, but it’s still Edd.

Oh shit.

“Tom! Don’t be careless!” Matt points to the remote on the carpet. “Pick up your mess!”

“You’re seeing this, right?” Tom ignores his whining words and points at the screen.

“What?” Matt pouts his lip and narrows his eyes at the telly. “Oh. Superhero fights. New film?”

Tom runs a hand over his face. No time for this. He gets himself up from the sofa. Haven’t felt this motivated in years.

“I’m going on a walk.”

He grabs the keys to Edd’s car from their hook.

“Oh! Okay.” Matt smiles, none the wiser. “Are you really not going to pick up the remote?”

“Nope.” Tom’s already halfway out the door, letting it slam unceremoniously behind him.

He hasn’t driven since his DUI, but he floors it anyway. If he gets there in time, they won’t have gone far.

And Edd needs help.

The action is still in full swing when he parks the car. Edd and his opponent swirl around each other in the air, exchanging blows.

Tom looks up into the sky, shielding his eyesockets from the sun. Not that it’s very bright, it’s fucking. England. The clouds make everything grey. Which is why the neon streaks of green painting the air look extra saturated. Tom glances around, seeing that he is the only civilian in the general area. Everyone else has fled. Well, duh.

Who is Edd fighting? They’re moving far too quickly for him to catch a glance of the foe. Tom hoists himself on top of Edd’s car and squints.

The other question he has to ask— how did Edd manage to obtain the ability to fly? Like… What's up with that?

Why wouldn’t he tell Tom about it?

Edd gets pushed again and soars backwards. This momentary pause lets Tom catch a glance at the other superpowered individual.

Oh, that’s definitely Eduardo. It’s totally obvious. Even from this far away Tom can catch his ugly stubble mustache. Damn, he’s kind of jacked. Tom never knew.

Wait… Oh shit. Ohhhh.

The damn roof!

He’d sent Edd up to fix the telly signal about two weeks ago. It was a simple task, yet the brunet had then fallen off said roof and then complained about Eduardo bothering him. He’d grumbled that the neighbour had an advanced satellite that got signals from space. Something about it being radioactive. Tom had not thought much of it at the time. Just Edd being Edd.

But now… the way Eduardo’s hair is literally glowing green makes Tom think the event might be connected to all this in some way. He has to wonder again— why didn’t Edd say anything about all this? He’d acted like it was just a little accident and moved on. Clearly, it was more.

Oh shit. Again.

Tom watches in horror as Eduardo grabs Edd once more and dive bombs towards the ground like a meteor. His strength drives a hole in the asphalt with a thunderous crack, and Edd lays in the crater underneath his enemy. Dust and debris billow everywhere. Eduardo then kneels down and lays blow after blow to the brunet’s face. Hearing Edd’s grunts of pain makes Tom’s blood boil.

He’s really got some kind of vendetta.

Tom is done watching. Time to step in. Because he is pissed off. His digs his nails into his palms. His skin ripples. His form shifts.

He’s a little out of practice, but after a few minutes of mental struggle, Tom is grabbing the neighbour in a giant powerful claw. He lifts Eduardo above his head.

Edd, still sprawled on the ground, gapes up at him with his jaw dropped in terror. He has nothing to fear, but Tom gets it. It’s not every day that you see a towering demon with one hollow eye and giant curling purple horns protruding from its head. Tom hasn’t fully seen himself like this in a mirror but he knows it’s slightly horrific. He tends to emit a strange purple smoke and growl and gurgle in an unpleasant way.

Anyway, Tom chucks the fiend away across the street, and the villain crashes face first into a building, making an Eduardo shaped dent in the bricks. Edd tentatively sits up and worriedly gazes at him, seemingly waiting for his turn.

Tom shows him there is nothing to fear by sitting on his hind quarters with a loud thundering crash. Edd bounces off the ground with the force. His eyes go wide.

The superhero rises up, hovering slightly and tilting his head in a perplexed manner. “You’re…” His neon green eyes squint. “Weird.”

Tom would smile but he can’t actually physically do so, right now. Alright, time to revert back to normal and tell Edd he’s a moron. Turn back. Now!

Hm.

Now… Okay now!

Come on.

Nothing?

Damnit.

He’ll have to do this the hard way, then. He sighs exaggeratedly and it comes out like a strangled animal.

Tom points with a shiny purple claw at the red car he parked in the distance. Edd turns his head in the direction and cranes his neck, hovering higher and closer to Tom’s monstrous form.

“What am I looking at?”

Tom blows air out his nostrils. He yoinks Edd out of the air, pinching his hood in two claws. The brunet yelps. Tom ignores him and pads away from the crater and towards the vehicle. He deposits Edd down next to it.

“What the hell? …This is my—“ Edd quickly bites his tongue as he stares at it. “I mean… uh…”

Tom looks at him blankly. He huffs again like the irritated animal he is. Just put the dots together, Edd…

“The keys are inside!” Edd presses his face against the window. He yanks the driver side door open. Thank god it wasn’t locked. “Who the hell…?” He turns to Tom and continues to examine him, suspiciously.

Of course, NOW his body decides that moment that it will cooperate. Tom grunts as his horns recede because damn it hurts like a BITCH.

“Oh shit.” Edd whispers.

Tom cracks his neck. “Yeah. So. Superpowers?”

“…Yeah. Uh…” Edd mumbles and shrugs one shoulder. “You?”

“Demonic thing.”

“Cool, cool.”

They stand awkwardly next to the car.

“Erm… wanna go home and order a pizza?” Edd has switched to his excited grin he gets when he’s thought of a plan. Tom laughs.

“Yeah. Can you fly the car home?”

“Sure can.”

Awesome. Tom hops back in the driver's seat. He gets a free ride.

“Hey…. LOSERS!”

Oh yeah.

Eduardo limps towards the vehicle. Edd steps forwards and brings up his fists. But… their neighbour seems a bit… disarmed.

Blood drips out of his nose and down his chin. Tom can see that a tooth is missing from the top row of his mouth as Eduardo grits his jaw tightly. He huffs and puffs, his shoulders taught and his thick brows furrowed. Tom tenses, ready to climb back out the window and retrigger his transformation.

“YOU SHORTED OUT MY POWERS!” He snarls loudly.

Edd drops his defensive stance. “Wait, really?” He snorts in amusement. Hearing Edd start to laugh makes Tom absolutely lose it, he throws his head back and cracks up.

“It’s NOT FUNNY!” Eduardo spits as his voice cracks. He stomps closer to Edd until they’re practically nose to nose. “Just face it, Edd. You’re in second place.” Edd steps backwards. “I’ll be back.”

With that, Eduardo grumbles off into the street, limping. Tom snickers a little more at his misery.

Edd crosses his arms and sighs. “I have no idea what his problem with me is.”

Tom shrugs and leans his arm out the car window. “Probably the same as whatever issue you’ve got with him.”

“He’s rude!”

“So are you.”

Edd glares at him. Maybe Tom shouldn’t anger a superhuman. Thankfully Edd likes his friends too much and he simply pinches his nose bridge for a moment.

“Anyway… pizza?” Tom rolls his wrist in a beckoning motion. He grins. Edd’s face morphs into an equally beaming smile.

“Yeah!”

——

He isn’t sure how to describe the feeling of returning home. Nostalgia certainly comes close, but… he’s nervous, in a way. Tord wouldn’t say he was eager to come back, but it is about time that he does. There was always an inevitability to this happening. In the end he’s back where he belongs, if a bit begrudgingly. He’ll grin and bear it.

Volunteering his time in the UK’s Army ranks for the past eight years has definitely reshaped him. The training was intense, the work grueling. He moved around, stationed in several unfamiliar cities and even over country lines, doing labour, guarding posts, helping. Always helping, working. Constantly moving. Always on. Never off. Even in sleep he remained on the clock. He kept himself braced for the next command, mission, or task.

Now he is welcomed back into his old home with a grand smile from his best friend. Edd’s hug of greeting is warm and familiar, and Matt is chipper too. They’re both buzzing in excitement about what they can do now that Tord has made his grand return. He expects nothing of Thomas, who gives him not much more than a grunt. Maybe a nod. Works for him.

Tord drops his bags in his old room and can’t believe it is practically untouched. It’s like a time capsule of his younger self, nearly a decade ago, a person who he can barely remember now. One untouched by responsibility, by the changes he’s been through.

He stands in the middle of the carpet, disoriented. The posters are peeling at the corners. His desk chair is askew. There’s a pen on the floor near his desk, like it had been knocked there oh so long ago.

The norski is looking forward to returning to his old projects. He had some parts and blueprints he had never tinkered with, some half finished ideas that lay dormant for years… he’ll get on it soon enough. First, relaxing. Finally.

Tord flops on his bed. The comforter is old, and the same. He closes his eyes and sighs. He listens to the relative silence, just some regular creaking of the house walls, a car passing by outside, and a very quiet bass plucking from down the hall.

He’s…

Freaking out.

It’s just too quiet.

He should be so exhausted. He’s been through strict regimens for EIGHT YEARS. He knows how to fall asleep fast. He knows how to do this.

But in the barracks, he always had an order to follow, inventory to check, a routine to adhere to. He liked that structure— it gave him no time to sit and ponder the meanings of the world at large.

This bed is too soft. The atmosphere is too calm. Where’s the activity? The scrape of boots on dirt? The yelling of the drills?

Tord grips a clump of his hair in his hand and groans.

Everything feels so tight. His shirt is suffocating him. His heart races.

He needs to get to work! A project, right. His old stuff. He’ll work on something… Tord throws his legs over the side of the bed.

He paces over to his desk and finds old notes. Tord grips the papers in his shaking fingers and finds he’s too stressed to really parse through them. Okay. Just. Hold something. He snatches a screwdriver off the wooden surface and turns it over in his palm.

What was he making all those years ago…? Robots? Weapons… his mind is a haze. He tosses the tool back down with a clatter.

Maybe there’s something around the house that needs fixing! He could ask— make himself useful, for sure. That is easy to do and will keep his hands moving…

Tord leaves his room with a purposeful strut. He wonders what everyone else is up to. Tom’s room will be locked shut. Edd will be working on something to post his webpage that he’s been dedicated to for a decade. Matt… who knows.

Tord wanders down the hallway and… Oh. Speak of the ginger. He’s sitting at the kitchen table… reading? That’s odd.

Tord takes a quiet step up behind him and cranes over his shoulder…

“Hi Tord!” Matt glances back over his shoulder. “I thought you were napping.”

How did he manage to hear and identify him so easily? Was he really obvious? Tord freezes mid-step for a moment before cocking a brow. He had learned to be stealthy in the army… was he already losing touch?

He takes another step forward. “Uh… no. Well— I thought about it.” Tord goes to pull out a chair and sit with a creak. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh!” Matt says delightedly. He slides the reading material over. “Some magazines. Gossip stuff.” He shrugs one shoulder half-heartedly.

Oh, that makes more sense. Matt is not patient enough to be a reader. He doesn’t like books. Or films. Or music. He isn’t quiet and contemplative. Instead, he likes things. Objects. Shiny parts. Superficial stuff. Celebrities.

Tord glances down at the centerfold he has open. There’s a big glossy splash page of a man with a sleek mask across his eyes. He is draped in a green cape, his brown hair glows green at the tips, and his glowing green expression radiates sharp determination. He’s certainly green.

Tord stares.

He’s… captivating.

“Who is that…?” Tord hovers a finger towards the open page. Matt follows with his eyes and his brows shoot up.

“Oh! Oh! That’s London’s superhero!” He exclaims. His own slender finger pokes at the large title splash. Tord reads the text and squints.

“...Powdered?” He’s confused. “Like a donut?” Tord glances at Matt for clarification.

Matt blinks at him and then chuckles. “No, silly! It’s PowerEdd.” The ginger nudges the magazine closer so Tord can better read it at a more appropriate angle.

Tord takes a long look, skimming his eyes over the text. His mind quickly starts to piece everything together. It details how this hero has stopped tragic disasters and keeps London feeling safer than ever. It paints quite a dazzling picture of the elusive masked protector. The public seems rather obsessed.

“A superhero…” He murmurs. “That’s new.”

“Very new! He’s only appeared in the last year.” Matt folds his hands together. “He flies around, he pulls people from burning buildings, saves cats from trees, all that rubbish. But it’s not often! Only sometimes. That’s why they’ve done this article on him! He’s so… mysterious.”

Tord continues examining this man with a strange intenseness. The logo across his chest is a sharp lightning bolt. He’s broad shouldered, his chest stretches the grey fabric. He has that cape tied around his neck. His gloves are yellow, a contrast to everything else.

“He protects London?” The norsk asks with some hesitation. From what? What else has transpired while he was away…? He should ask Edd.

“Mmhmm!” Matt nods thoughtfully. “And they rave about it.” The ginger pouts his lip and furrows his brow. Tord is confused.

“What’s wrong with that?” He asks.

Matt shrugs exaggeratedly. “Honestly, as interesting as it all is… well. He’s just not my type!”

Ah. So the public treated this hero as it would any other celebrity. Tord wants to scoff aloud but he holds his tongue. Instead he focuses on what the article says.

PowerEdd secrets! All that he refuses to reveal! Mail us with your thoughts and theories!

It’s all speculation. Guesses about his age, his job, his secret identity. A few sentences gushing about his looks, his physique. Ponderings about if he has a wife. Just gossip. Eyeroll.

The puff piece does provide what powers the hero has. The ones that are known, at least. Tord drinks it in and leans closer. Flight. Strength. Speed. Laser eyes. Energy blasts.

He wonders if there’s more. He wonders if there are… weaknesses. He licks his dry lips.

“Looks like he’s your type!” Matt breaks through his intense focus with a laugh. Tord stiffens.stiffens.

“What?” He shakes his head in a twitchy manner. What a strange notion. He’s just interested in the abilities… just… “That’s a joke, no?”

“Sure,” Matt replies with a little smile, propping his cheek in his hand.

Matt is just teasing him. Tord taps his fingers on the magazine, antsy again. Something is very clearly missing. It’s obvious!

Why hasn’t anyone pointed it out?

This hero, this shining beacon of safety, he…

“Where’s the villain?” He blurts out.

Matt blinks, his little smile dropping away. “Huh?”

Tord gestures at PowerEdd’s portrait— he’s midflight. “A superhero, he has no nemesis? Every great hero has one.”

Matt squints at the page as if it will come to life and answer the question. Tord can see the metaphorical smoke coming out of his ears. “Well… I guess he doesn’t!” The ginger resumes his smile and seems satisfied with his own non-answer.

“Not yet,” Tord mutters darkly, clenching his fists on the table.

“What’d you say?” Matt cocks his head. Why does he hear so well?

“Nothing.”

Tord suppresses his smirk. His hands quiver with anticipation as the idea takes root in the fertile soil of his mind. It grows, it blossoms.

How lonely PowerEdd must be. His job must be fretfully boring.

The army was something like that— Lots of drills, preparations, simulations. Tord and his bunkmates lived for the action that they managed to see, the times they were truly tested. They arose to a challenge when they happened to have it.

PowerEdd looks like he could use something like that. Something to challenge him.

…Or someone to give him one.

Tord stands. His chair scrapes the kitchen floor. “I’ll take that nap now.”

“Huh? Oh, um! Okay…” Matt frowns at him, but the norsk hardly registers it. “I’ll tell you more about PowerEdd next time he’s on the news, alright?”

“Sure,” Tord calls as he is already striding out of the room. His pulse thrums, sharp, restless. The small mental bud is becoming a full blown tree. It teems with life, branches stretching outward, out of control.

It is only natural that PowerEdd find an equal. An opposite.

A villain.

His villain.

It takes three weeks but Tord manages. Sleepless and hungry nights behind him, he is ready. His room and lab are scattered like a warzone with torn blueprints and broken prototypes, and the final iteration has taken its menacing shape. He finally steps back from it all. Tries it on.

It’s done.

His suit is very dark, the only color being red. Green’s complement. Of course. Metal lining his fingers and protecting his chest, weapons woven into the fabric, wires secured to each of his limbs… it’s a straitjacket of firepower. Sleek yet brutal.

His large mask lays dormant on his desk, the piece de reaistance. He spent a large chunk of time programming it just to his liking, and assuring that it would give him a striking, threatening image.

Once he puts it on, there will be no mistaking just what he is.

After all this isolation in his lab he is ready to get out there. He’s done his research— watched every bit of footage of the hero in action and read the countless articles… he’s seen that initally there was some other superpowered individual fighting the green hero… but that person seems to have fled. PowerEdd works alone. He fights nothing.

London has grown too complacent under PowerEdd’s protection.

It’s time to spice life up a little.

It begins now.

Tord slips his mask over his face, his nose slotting into the custom printed shape. The screen flickers to life and all the important readings flicker across his vision.

Introductions can certainly be difficult, but he thinks he’ll enjoy this one.

Ok hero.

Time to meet your villain.

[destinyisastar]

Lost in your Love pt 4

Read Part: 1 2 3

Summary: After the day's events Alastor decides to go visit his beloved friend to see if she has any answers.

Vox x Reader, (Alastor x Reader)

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈ ◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

Alastor runs his hands over the panel, fiddling with the switches, his head pulsing. He needs time to think, needs his questions answered. Anyone will do! Of all the thoughts to pass through his mind an idea is finally presented in his head.

Rosie!

Why hadn’t he thought of that before?!

With smile on his face Alastor makes his way to the wonderful cannibal town.

The emporium is full as always, the line is out the door, children sinners press their faces on the windows drooling, the women gossip while eating pinky fingers, men are chatting about nothing too interesting.

There among the crowd of people hovering over her was the delightful Rosie.

Alastor made his presence known by letting out a few static sounds.

Roise perks up her head, “Alastor? Oh, Alastor is that you?! My, my where have you been?!” Rosie stands up from her seat making her way over to him, arms ready to hug him. “Have you been eating?! You’re looking more flimsy than usual dear!” she giggles.

“I’m doing just fine my friend! I’ve just been busy with a new project!”

“Why that’s good to hear! Come sit, sit I’m sure you have much to discuss!” She brings him over to a table.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay to long, I just have some questions, and I was wondering if you may be able to answer them.”

“I’ll doing anything I can my friend!” She sits in her chair, sipping her teacup.

Alastor takes a breath while he sits down, “Have you heard from my wife lately?”

Rosie spits out her tea, she begins to cough rapidly, punching her chest, “I’m sorry, but what do you mean your wife?”

“Yes, my wife, Y/n, have you spoken to her?”

“Wife? Y/n?” Rosie looks confused.

“Rosie, please do not play any games with me, I’ve brought Y/n to your emporium many times, you two always swapped books.”

“I know a Y/n, but that Y/n isn’t your wife, why I believe I would be the first to know if you had a wife!”

“Then who’s the Y/n you know?”

“Vox’s wife of course!”

Everything is still.

Still and silent.

Rosie is still talking, but Alastor hears nothing. His hands begin to claw the table. His eyes begin to turn into dials.

“Alastor?”

Vox.

Y/n.

Y/n is Vox’s wife.

Vox is Y/n’s husband.

“Alastor!!”

Alastor jolts up, “I’m sorry my dear, I’m just a bit surprised, that Y/n is married to vox...” He grits his teeth.

“Of course they’re married! They were married in life, might as well be married in hell! Oh, and they’re so cute together, you can definitely tell that Vox loves her.”

He feels like his teeth are about to break with how much he’s smiling.

Married in life?

Alastor and Y/n WERE married in life. Not Vox and Y/n.

“My dear Rosie, Y/n simply cannot be his wife… you know most of all that she is my wife.”

Rosie tilts her head, “No, she couldn’t be your wife, I would remember an such an important detail! Alastor... did you have a bit of crush on Y/n? Its understandable but you can’t go after a married woman! That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly!”

Alastor runs a hand through his hair, slightly pulling it.

He knew that Vox had feelings for his wife, he just never thought he’d have the guts to take her from him.

But that doesn’t explain why Roise doesn’t remember Y/n being his wife.

“Thank you for answering my questions my dear! Unfortunately, I must be going now!”

“Oh, Alastor I’m sorry if that wasn’t what you wanted to hear! I’m sure you’ll find someone someday!” She yells out to him as Alastor leaves the emporium.

Just what in the hell is going on?

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈ ◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

In your bed you lay awake thinking of the day’s events. The Radio Demon held your hand so gently. Why? Why would the demon look at you with such care? He must be scheming. Your eyes grow tired, and you feel yourself being pulled into a dream.

 A sweet tune of jazz is playing as you dance with your husband, your eyes are shut placing your head on his chest. He’s swaying you slowly as the tune comes to an end.

“I love you dearest.”

You raise your head to meet his gaze.

“I love you too Alastor.”

You immediately awaken.  You sit up in your bed, you raise your hand to your face, breathing heavily, feeling sweaty.

Alastor.

Why were you thinking of Alastor so lovingly? He’s not your husband.

You place your hand to the other side of the bed to find Vox still sleeping. You reach your hand closer to his screen, gently caressing his face. This man….is your husband.

Yes… that’s right.

Vox is your husband.

That Radio Demon must have put those ideas into your head. Holding you so lovingly, tenderly. It was just a dream… did you want to have those feelings for him? No, of course not. You loved your husband.

But the dream…. it felt so right.

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destinyisastar 2024

Hi everyone!! Uni has been kicking my butt but I'm getting through it, (I just procrastinate a lot, I'm working on it) Also some exciting news Alastor's pilot VA is coming to my local convention, and I might meet him!

Stay tuned for part 5!

wordcount: 855

Taglist: @songbirdpond @diffidentphantom @vxllys @sirens-and-moonflowers @bethanythehazbinfan @martinys-world @quinceylikesanime @sweetsaladpainterranch @killer-nightmare0 @ginny-higgins

[edawgz]

begging for some more 40s bucky cuz i need more of that in my life tbh <3

ofc! i love writing for 40's bucky, i wanna write for 40's steve too tbh

ᝰ.ᐟ cold coffee

| 1940s! bucky barnes x reader. ~1k words. fluff.

masterlist. | oneshot masterlist.

The wind in Italy was sharp that day. It was all dry, fast, and biting, like a whisper trying to outrun the echo of artillery. You sat on the edge of the camp’s makeshift medical tent, your boots half unlaced and your sleeves rolled to the elbows, still streaked with someone else's blood. The cup of weak coffee you cradled between your hands steamed, warming your fingers if not your chest, and you stared across the horizon like you were trying to memorize the shapes of clouds before dusk swallowed them whole.

There had been no time to process anything lately. The days bled together, filled with groans and orders barked over too many open wounds, too much red. You barely had time to sleep, let alone think. But in these five stolen minutes between shifts, you let yourself pause, just long enough to feel the exhaustion settle in your bones like wet cement.

“Guess the rumors are true,” came a smooth and familiar voice came from besides you. It was slightly tinged with the kind of charm that always made you brace for a wink or a crooked grin. “They really do let angels into combat zones.”

You didn’t look right away. You were tired, and flattery rolled off your back like so much rain, but your lips did twitch upward, just barely.

“You’re late, Barnes.” You teasingly scolded.

Bucky chuckled, the sound warm and low as he stepped closer. He leaned against the tent post beside you, arms crossed casually, his uniform unbuttoned at the collar and dusted with dirt from the road. His hair was longer than regulation allowed, curling a little at the edges now, like the war had softened him in strange places while hardening others.

“I’m exactly on time,” he said, glancing down at you with a glint in his eye. “They told me to report to the medical tent.. said the best nurse in the division was hoarding all the good painkillers.”

You gave him a sideways glance and looked over him for any cuts, bruises, or ailments. “You’re not even injured.”

“Not physically,” he said with faux seriousness, placing a hand to his chest. “But I’m pretty sure I was emotionally wounded by that insult you just threw at me.”

You snorted and looked away, but your smile lingered longer than you expected. Despite the banter, you could tell that he was tired too. The kind of tired that didn’t go away with a few hours of sleep because it came from watching too many friends fall, too many close calls, and having too much weight pressed onto a single set of shoulders.

“Want some coffee?” you asked, holding out your cup.

Bucky looked surprised, then touched. He took it, careful not to brush your fingers too much. “Sharing rations? That’s love.”

“It’s recycled,” you said dryly.

He made a face after the first sip, but didn’t hand it back. “Figures.”

You both fell into a silence that was heavier than the quiet moments back home, but somehow lighter than everything else around you here. The sun had started to dip lower, staining the sky with strokes of burnt orange and navy blue. Somewhere nearby, an engine sputtered to life, and the faint crackle of a radio drifted on the air... some old swing tune made distant by the static.

“You okay?” he asked after a moment. It wasn't a casual question, not from him at least, he asked like he’d been waiting to ask because he needed to.

It was a soft question, and it came from someplace real. It wasn't from the part of him that flirted like breathing, but, instead, from the part that sat with you during blackouts and brought you a chocolate bar after a bad day.

Regardless, you didn’t answer right away. The day had been long and filled with three surgeries, two lost, and a young private who cried for his mother the entire time you stitched his leg back together. You weren’t sure what “okay” meant anymore. But still, you nodded, just once.

He nudged your knee with his. “Liar.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curled faintly at the edges. “You’re not supposed to psychoanalyze me, Sergeant.”

“I’m not psychoanalyzing,” he said, settling beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. “I’m noticing.” Afterwards, he looked at her with a slight smile

You let out a breath, slow and shaky, and shrugged one shoulder. “I’m… here.”

He nodded, like he understood that was the best you could offer. And you knew he actually did understand.

Bucky wasn’t all jokes and charm, not really. He had this depth to him that most people didn’t bother to look for. You, however, you had seen it in the way he carried injured men without complaint, in the letters he wrote for the ones who couldn’t anymore, and in the quiet moments when he didn’t speak at all, just sat nearby to let you know you weren’t alone.

“Ever think about what you’ll do after all this?” you asked suddenly, the words escaping like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He stared out at the horizon, brows drawn.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Hard to imagine anything that doesn’t smell like gunpowder and blood, but… yeah. I think about it. I think I’d like a little place somewhere, maybe in Brooklyn. Close enough to hear music from the windows, but definitely somewhere I can sleep in without a siren screaming me awake.”

You looked at him then, the gold light caught the angles of his face, and for a moment, you could see it. You saw a version of him untouched by war, younger, freer. You wondered if he’d ever get to be that man again. If any of you would.

“You could have that,” you said, and your voice was steadier than you felt.

He turned toward you, his eyes softening, and for once, there was no joke on his tongue. “Only if you’re in the picture too.”

The breath you took was shallow, and you weren’t sure if it was from the weight of his words or how gently he said them.

Then a shout rang out from the next tent -- your name, followed by an urgent “We need hands!” -- and just like that, the spell was broken.

You stood quickly, boots crunching against the gravel, and handed him the cup. "Don’t let it go cold,” you said, already pulling your sleeves down as you headed back in.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice followed like a promise, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

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

what if i made this a series tbh i love the concept of a field medic reader x bucky bc i love that dynamic literally in everything LMAOO

[loveharlow]

SEVEN Blurb

TR Finds Out Her Dad is Dead

swearing, mentions of death, mentions of vomiting

"Hell's goin' on over there…" JJ mumbled, and your group of friends slowed to a stop. The shortcut home from the beach had taken an unexpected turn, your attention seized by a cacophony of chatter and the pulsating blue and red lights. It was close to midnight—why were so many people out, and what had happened?

"Is that a body?" A high-pitched, reedy voice cut through the air; some young girl strained to peer over the surging crowd.

"I told you guys we shouldn't have taken this way," Pope voiced, his gaze darting around the encroaching darkness. The area was notoriously sketchy and crime-ridden. "Bodies have been dropping on this side of The Cut for weeks. Probably another stabbing…"

"I say we check it out." John B, ever the thrill-seeker, jumped up, turning to face all of you before walking closer to the unfolding scene.

"What the hell?" Kiara's voice was laced with repulsion. "No way." She defied, crossing her arms.

"I'm with Kie." You sided with the curly-haired girl, mirroring her stance. "Someone is probably dead, and you want to go look at their body...for fun?" You reprimanded, a brow cocked in disbelief.

"It's probably not even that bad." JJ shrugged, moving to stand beside John B. He then turned, tapping the man closest to him who was snapping pictures of the scene, getting as close as possible. "Hey," JJ began, "You know what's goin' on?"

"Dead body." The older man's statement was blunt, his eyes momentarily flicking away to snap another picture. "They think it's that guy that went missing."

At his words, your body stiffened, your arms falling slack. An instant cloud of dread washed over you, a feeling you'd never known. "Wh...What guy?" you asked, your eyes glued to the photographer as his attention finally turned to you.

"I don't… I can't think of his name…" He stuttered, his eyes scanning you with an endless pit of curiosity until he seemed to find whatever answer he was looking for. "Oh, shit. Aren't you his—"

"Y/N-" Kiara called after you, but you were already moving, brushing past your friends and the crowd, making your way to the front. You ducked under the caution tape, only to be stopped by an officer.

"Young lady, you can't do that," she warned, a hand outstretched. "Get back—" she tried, sidestepping as you attempted to go around her.

"Do you know his name?" you pressed, your breath quickening with each passing second. Your eyes were fixated on the stretcher, covered with a white tarp, a body lying limp and lifeless beneath.

"I can't answer that—"

"Do you know who he is at all?" you pressed again, your eyes burning as your mind flooded with the worst possible thoughts. "You—you didn't find an ID or anything?"

"I need you to step back—"

"Hey, boss, I think we got a positive ID." A man's voice cut through the commotion, drawing your attention. You turned to see an officer approaching his superior, a wallet that you swore you recognized in his hands. He flipped the material open, both men leaning in to read the card inside. "It's muddy but I'm seeing an Owen somethin'…" He shrugged. Your heart plummeted, the female officer's words fading into background noise as your entire focus tuned into the two men. "I can't read it for sure, but I'm pretty sure it's that guy—"

"Carter!" you called across the beach, the two authority figures looking up to find you. "Is that what it says?!" you demanded, your voice booming as you finally pushed past the initial officer and strode directly to the two men in question, snatching the wallet from their hands.

"Who is this?" The older detective questioned, looking around at his deputies who were supposed to be securing the area. "Who are you? Who let this kid through?"

"Hey, kid, you can't…" Again, words blurred into static as your eyes focused on the item in your hands. A sodden wallet, a mud-smeared identification card… with your father's name on it.

Your chest constricted as you looked up, the wallet shaking in your hands. "Kid," A hand on your shoulder startled you, tears welling in your eyes as you found Shoupe next to you. "…You can't be here." He looked sad. Pitiful.

No.

"…It's not." You whined, your shoulders dropping as you shook your head. Your voice cracked and choked with a heavy sadness, a premeditated grief. "It's not him. Tell me it's not." You breathed, your face contorting deeper into sorrow as you spoke, looking at the stretcher as Shoupe put both hands on your shoulders now, attempting to guide you away from the crime scene, but your feet stayed glued to the sand.

"I can't do this, right now." The Deputy sighed. "Sheriff!" He called over his shoulder as Peterkin's attention was caught, the woman approaching the two of you immediately. "Someone needs to get her outta here."

"Young lady—" Peterkin started, taking a step closer.

"Is that my dad?" you asked, a single tear rolling down your cheek. The two officers remained silent, shooting each other a brief glance. But you didn't need a response. The look in their eyes said it all—the same look you'd been getting all week from strangers since your dad went missing. It was the same look you saw at funerals. The same pity swirling in their gaze. But it was stronger this time. More certain.

At their wordlessness, you pushed Shoupe's hands off of you, weaving between the two uniformed individuals. "Hey!" Peterkin called, attempting to chase after you as you ran for the coroner's van where the stretcher hadn't been loaded yet. Multiple hands reached for you the closer you got, but you managed to dodge them all.

There was no way.

Just as you were within arm's reach of the stretcher, a particularly large gust of wind decided to make an appearance—blowing the white tarp off of the body, causing you to pause in your tracks. You stood violently still at the sight in front you, wind whipping through your hair.

His body. And everything from the past seven days flashed before your eyes as you took in every piece of confirmation.

The police call, remembering your mother's voice as you stood helplessly in the driveway.

"…I think he had on a, um, yellow-ish button down…"

His yellow shirt, now a sickeningly dull—almost completely void of its original vibrancy.

"…And a pair of, like, jean shorts…"

His shorts—the denim so heavy with salt water, they clung to his skin. Molded to his frame.

"…And these shoes I'd just bought him, they're just generic white sneakers. I can't remember the brand…"

The shoes. The unbranded, bright white sneakers that were now the color of coffee grounds.

Seven days worth of pain hit you all at once.

You wouldn't dare let your gaze drift towards his face. You couldn't.

Bile rose in your throat, the foul taste of metal and whatever you'd eaten just hours prior bubbling to the base of your throat. One of your hands flew up to cover your mouth as you hunched over, the other hand clutching your stomach. Your nostrils stung and your knees grew weak.

And all you could think was… why? Your head spun, the world around you blurring so badly that you didn't register the sound of officers shouting as someone else ducked under the yellow caution tape, headed in your direction as he ignored everyone who told him to go back.

As the vomit building within you reached its peak, you let yourself fall as it left your lips—only to be caught at the very last second within his embrace, him pulling you against himself as he sat down with you in the sand, brushing your hair away from your face as you threw up.

When your vomiting ceased, it morphed into the saddest sobs JJ had ever heard from you. They were gut-wrenching and relentless, and you clawed at his arm that held you for some kind of solace or connection to reality. The tears coming from your eyes wouldn't stop—like endless waterfalls of a deep grief that you weren't familiar with and never sought to be.

It wasn't long before your cries turned to hyperventilation—unfinished sentences and breathy words as you tried to ground yourself. JJ just held you tighter, rocking back and forth slowly in an attempt to do something as the rest of your friends watched the two of you with the rest of the crowd still behind the barrier—a heavy silence now washing over the beach, the only thing to be heard being your wails as JJ whispered to you.

"It's alright," He tried to comfort, tears building in his own eyes as he quickly realized there was no calming you. "What do you want me to do? Tell me what you need me to do..." He pleaded in a whisper, holding you closer as he looked out at the people around him with helplessness in his blue eyes. "I…I don't know what to do." He mouthed quietly in the direction of his friends that were some feet away, still cradling your sobbing frame.

"…You can't do anything, kid." A voice sighed from above him, JJ looking to find Shoupe looming above him. The deputy looked stressed—licking his lips and palming his forehead. "Just…sit with her. Her mother'll be here soon." He said simply, voice ridden with guilt as he shot JJ a tight-lipped grimace and walked away with a deep sigh.

So, he did just that. He sat with you for half an hour until your mother showed up. And even then, he never let you go.

[bonesxbows]

Once Upon A Dream - Chapter 4 (Lucifer X Reader) (Alastor X Reader)

My Masterlist

In a sleeping beauty-inspired AU, a curse is placed over you when you strike up a deal with Heaven to protect baby Charlie, causing you to lose your memory. You remember nothing once the curse takes over; not your marriage with Lucifer, not the family you had with the two of them, nothing. So when a strange smiling demon offers you a place to stay when you can't remember where 'home' is, you take him up on his offer. 

(WARNINGS)

Gendered terms used (mom, good girl, wife) but otherwise gender neutral pronouns used

Heavy depressing themes

Loss of a parent (temporary)

(CHAPTER WARNINGS)

Relationship coercion/manipulation

Updates might be a little slower now due to school and everything but I promise I haven't given up on this story! Also wanted to say that this is still mainly a Lucifer X Reader, he's coming back into the picture soon I swear, I'm just pulling some strings behind the scenes for now ;)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 (You are here), Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17

Banners by @strangergraphics

It was an awkward-looking building, monstrously tall and squatting on top of a hill, cobbled together from various parts and visibly repaired multiple times. But it had an air of charm to it that you didn’t mind, it seemed…homey. Comforting. Alastor had walked you through the door, arm still linked with yours. 

“Alastor! Sooo glad you're back! We’ve been meaning to look into branching out our recruiting services and we were wondering if…we…could…” A bubbly blonde bounced in front of the two of you but she lost her energy when her eyes landed on you, her whole body coming to a dead stop as her words faltered and died into silence. You could feel the heat rise to your face as she stared you down. 

“A moment, Charlie, if you would. I found this lovely individual wandering the streets and in need of some help. They’re looking for a place to stay, poor thing can’t seem to remember much of anything currently. Surely we have room for them here?” The static surrounding his voice seemed to fill the room. 

She seemed caught off guard by his question, as if she had been locked in a trace staring at you. “Oh…oh! O-of course! Yeah, absolutely! Um…why don’t you show them to one of our empty rooms for now,” she told Alastor, then turned back to you, “and then I can show you around the place after you get settled in? There’s a few others I’m sure you’d like to meet. My name’s Charlie, by the way, but I’m sure you already figured that out.” She smiled, blush adorning her pale cheeks. 

“Wonderful. We’ll catch up soon, then!” Alastor answered before you could, pulling you away from Charlie and towards the grand staircase on the other side of the room. 

You acted fast, twisting your head back and telling her, “It was nice to meet you, Charlie,” as he practically dragged you away. Her name seemed to click off your tongue. Strange. You didn’t know any Charlies. Maybe you had? 

The place was sprawling, twisting hallways that all looked alike, spidering off in all directions. You were grateful Alastor was with you, however creepy he seemed. One wrong step and you could have easily gotten lost here yourself. Your eyes roamed the halls as he guided you, cane clicking against the hardwood as he hummed a tune. Crimson red wallpaper lined every wall, adorned with a print of off-color snakes, apples, and wings. There seemed to be tacky circus decor everywhere; decades-old if the layers of dust were to speak. This place was odd, and even with your stunted memory you could remember a lot of strange places around Hell, but this one took the damned cake. 

“Here we are, your new room!” He opened the door, revealing a quaint little hotel room, set with what you had expected; a bed, dresser, desk, and a small armchair. “It’s a modest little setup, I admit. If you’d like, I’d be happy to help fetch you some things to make it more of your own. All you need do is ask.” He leaned his back against one side of the door frame, ears brushing the top of the framing with his cane outstretched in front of him, as you curiously roamed the room. He sounded sincere but that smile was still so…off-putting. 

“Thank you, Alastor, I’ll…consider it. I’d like a moment, alone. Please.” You plopped down on the bed, mentally exhausted. Well, your bed now, you supposed. 

“Hm. Very well! I’ll let Charlie know you’ll be down shortly, then.” And with that he disappeared, sinking into a black cloud of smoke and vanishing through the floor. Your door was still wide open, but you didn’t care, flopping backwards against the mattress and sighing. Your hands smacked against your face, covering your eyes as your whole expression scrunched up in frustration. This whole situation was more than you could handle. Tears burned underneath your eyelashes but you forced them back, anger replacing the despair. You felt a lot of things, but feeling sorry for yourself would not be one of them. 

A sniffle broke through your barricades anyway. 

This shit was hopeless. 

“Are you…doin’ okay?” You heard a voice call out, a knock reverberating off of the wood of your door as they spoke. You shot up, spooked, and pulled your knees up to your chest, curling into a ball against the headboard of your bed. “Woah, hey, sorry, didn’ mean to scare ya. You just…seemed like you coulda used a friend.” He held up his arms in peace, all…four…of them, as he walked into your room, still staying a good distance away from you on the bed, though.

“Sorry, it’s been…a really long day.” You relaxed a little, lowering your guard. This demon was different, far different than everyone else you had met today. He was dressed femininely, all pink and short hems, long spidery legs accentuated by tall boots. But his smile was kind, the metropolitan accent rolling off his tongue in a way that put you at ease. 

“Sure looks like it. You’re new, right? Neva seen your face round before.” He sat on the very edge of your bed, still conscious of giving you space. 

“Yeah, I…I just arrived today.”

“You got a name, sugar?” 

“It’s…” You hesitated, debating if you could trust this demon with the truth of your situation. He seemed sincere enough. “I don’t know, actually. I can’t remember.” 

He leaned back on all four of his arms, his eyes widening as he processed what you had said. But eventually he closed them for a moment as he nodded his head; a look of sympathy. “Memory problems, huh? I can understand that. Name’s Angel Dust, though you can jus’ call me Angel, sweet cheeks.” He winked playfully and you couldn’t help but stifle a small laugh. He was adorable, in an over-the-top eccentric sort of way. “Charlie show ya around yet? Meet the rest of the bunch stayin’ here?” 

“Not yet. I stopped here for a moment first to…catch my bearing, I guess. Didn’t seem to help as much as I’d hoped, though I appreciate you trying to help, Angel.” Your shoulders slumped, but there was a small smile on your face as you thanked the spider. 

“Course, sugar. Wan’ me to walk you down to the lobby? This place can be a fuckin’ maze if you’re not used to it.” 

“I’d like that, Angie.”

He beamed at the nickname, golden tooth shining in his sharp toothy grin. 

When the two of you made it down the stairs you knew you were in for a long night. The patrons of the hotel were sitting around in sofas and armchairs in the foyer, surprisingly only six of them, and they were a colorful bunch even from afar. 

Alastor and Charlie, whom you had met earlier, along with a fluffy-looking winged cat, a peculiar woman with a missing eye, an anxiously jittering snake, and a tiny cyclops girl who was perched atop Alastor’s head, tiny hands busy stringing dead roaches together on a string. As soon as Alastor saw you descending the stairs next to Angel his face creased and his smile became strained. He picked up the girl off of his head as he stood up, placing her down where he had been sitting. She hadn’t seemed to notice. 

“Ah, there you are dear! We were beginning to wonder when you would grace us with your presence again.” Alastor’s voice carried twice as much static than usual as he walked over to you. Out of the corner of your eye you caught Angel grimacing, but you couldn’t tell if it was out of fear or disgust. You hadn’t been around him long enough to know. 

It had sounded almost sarcastic to you, until Alastor grabbed your hand gingerly and placed a gentle kiss onto your knuckles. The gesture sent heat straight to your face. 

Before anyone else had time to react to the strangely loving gesture he had grabbed your hand and led you over to the circle of furniture, taking a seat next to the small girl he had placed on the couch earlier and pulling you down to be next to him, not giving you any other option of whom you could have chosen to sit by. 

It was disorienting at first, being manipulated like a doll, but once you settled into a comfortable position you realized everyone’s eyes were on you. Your eyes widened and then fell to the floor, the stained carpet suddenly a lot more interesting than the people in front of you. Anxiety thrummed through your veins as you shifted uncomfortably under the group’s gaze. 

“It’s rude ta stare, ya freaks.” You heard Angel speak up, breaking the aggressive silence. He was sitting across from you, lanky legs outstretched almost to the point of touching yours, and your eyes flicked upwards towards him at the sound of him defending you. You mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to him, grateful for the rescue, and he nodded in return. 

“Would you like to introduce yourself? And we can share about ourselves too, get to know each other better!” Charlie exclaimed, a beaming smile on her face as she gestured a pointed finger between you and the group. You heard the winged cat grumble in the corner after her statement. 

“Well, I, um…I’m having memory issues, I guess? Can’t remember my name, can’t seem to remember much of anything, really. That’s why I came here. I’m looking for help to fix…whatever this is.” The words had started to tumble out but you eventually put your train of thought on a coherent track. The reactions around the room were mixed. 

“We’ll help in any way we can! Though we don’t specialize in that sort of thing here. We’re more…rehabilitation focused.” Charlie had seemed the most reactive to your disclosure, her face shifting from shock to sadness to understanding to sympathy within seconds. 

“If I become too much trouble I have no problems with finding a place elsewhere to stay.” You told her, giving her a nod of your head confidently. You refused to be a burden on these people, even if you had just met them. You weren’t incapable of fending for yourself. 

“Nonsense, there’s plenty of room here for you to stay for however long you’d like. Though we will need some way to address you, of course. Can’t have you running around this place without a proper name.” Alastor shot your words down and threw an impossible task at you all in one breath. He had leaned back into the couch, his body tilted towards you, arms outstretched and leaning against his cane propped in front of him on the floor. 

His smile seemed to mock you. A name? Where were you supposed to get a name from? Your mind was a mess! 

“Um…”

You wracked your brain for something, anything. There had to be some memories left, buried underneath the layers of fog. Your brow furrowed as you weaved your way through your subconscious, getting lost in thought. It was mostly static, blips of scenes and half-finished faces, all of which would flit away before you could focus. But there was one that kept resurfacing, scratching at the back of your mind. It was fuzzy, but it was there. A blurred-out face, someone important, calling you by a name. 

“Ducki. I'd like to be called Ducki.” 

They had all been arguing with Alastor, apparently, while you were lost in thought, but their attention snapped to you once you spoke. 

“That’s a weird name!” The little girl exclaimed, speaking for the first time that evening, her hands flying into the air and showing off her now-finished dead roach garland. 

“Nifty!” Someone scolded her. 

“If that’s what you’ve chosen then Ducki it shall be,” Alastor said, supporting your choice. 

The group fell into casual conversation after that, chatting with one another, and you, about anything and everything. Though there was a sense of nagging crawling through your skin as you talked with the other residents. It was persistent, and you couldn’t place your finger on the reasoning, until you scanned the room, tired of the feeling and desperate to find the source. 

Charlie’s eyes had been boring into you the entire time.

To be continued in Chapter 5...

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