#Neon Gold Records

[dgspeaks]

TEHYA: Illuminating the Alt-Pop Scene with "crowd pleaser"

Introducing TEHYA, the prodigious 23-year-old singer-songwriter, producer, and multi-instrumentalist whose debut track “crowd pleaser” is set to captivate audiences worldwide. Hailing from the vibrant music scenes of LA via Seattle, TEHYA emerges as a formidable force in the alt-pop realm, marking her arrival on the esteemed Neon Gold Records alongside luminaries like Charli XCX and Tove…

[trevlad-sounds]

Penguin Prison Animal Animal Sebastien Tellier Benny Jean Tonique Dynomite Chromeo Don’t Walk Away Pacific! Hot lips Chromeo Needy Girl (Zdar dub mix) Pacific! Break Your Social System Laid Back Cocaine Cool - Lulu Rouge Edit The Books Beautiful People Mika We Are Golden Siriusmo Gummiband Breakbot Baby I'm Yours (feat. Irfane) The Samps Peppergood MillionYoung Hammock Sebastien Tellier Kilometer

[hitlikehammers]

take the call

rating: t ♥️ cw: off-screen car accident (but EVERYTHING IS FINE), hurt/comfort, softness ♥️ tags: established relationship, married steddie, hurt/comfort, rockstar Eddie/teacher Steve, Steve's heart of gold is very possibly going to be Eddie's undoing one of these days, well-worn-soul-deep love

for @steddielovemonth day eighteen: Love is terrifying (@starryeyedjanai)

set in the 00s, with Steve and Eddie having two decades of loving under their belts, now ♥️

Eddie isn’t expecting a call, any call, really; he’s in the studio, like, if he gets a call someone takes a message or whatever.

And in fairness, Eddie doesn’t get the call.

He gets a message.

“Eddie?”

He rolls his eyes kinda automatically, kinda thoughtlessly at the cut of the audio track to let the mic system override from outside the booth.

“Okay, so, like, don’t freak out.”

He’s not thoughtless at all about the way he clocks the tension in Jeff’s voice even across the speaker system; it’s entirely automatic how he freezes, how he looks up and locks eyes with his friend through the glass and sucks in a sharp breath for the look on his face: pained.

Maybe, maybe scared.

Eddie’s heart drops somewhere near his knees, but beats there so fucking hard.

“This lady called, and she said she found Lainie’s card inside the case of a phone she picked up,” and okay, okay, that’s…that’s random but maybe it’s about their assistance manger, who just got her contract confirmed and got fancy new business cards for it and has been handing them out to everybody she sees, even gave Eddie extras to pass on to Steve, maybe he can share them at the school as if anyone at even a hoity-toity private 6-through-12 school would have a reason for a card from a record label but she’s excited, and Eddie’s excited for her, and Steve loves the people Eddie works with, and not just because they’re attached to Eddie and he loves the things that come with Eddie as a given—but that’s also true, and always has been, but—

“She, um,” Jeff’s voice is filtering through again, and Eddie clocks that there’s…there’s something more to it, more than his brain’s willing to grasp just yet but his body’s apparently picked up on because he thinks the slightest breeze would knock him over and shatter him into pieces, for the tightness in his body; he’s not focused enough to count the separate beats of his pulse but he can tell it’s quick enough already, still weighed down near his feet, that counting would be kinda hard, would take effort:

“She found the phone at a car crash?”

So: the more-to-it. The thing his body already knew.

Eddie…Eddie doesn’t even need to know what comes next to know he cannot fucking breathe.

“Sounded kinda like, uh, like it could have been Steve’s phone,” Jeff is trying to tell him, and part of Eddie hears it, part of him does but most of him is white noise, is pins-and-needles, is underwater and drowning and not even fucking thinking of fighting the pull because he can’t, he’s heavy at the legs and his lungs are seizing and there’s, he’s—

“Because it, umm, she found the card because the case was broken?” and just last night Eddie’d watched Steve pop off the case and slide the cards behind with a laugh and a promise to take them with him not today—because it’s one of those federal holidays that only schools notice happening, like the post office is still open—but definitely tomorrow, never knew which of the kiddos at the Rich People School might be a budding metalhead underneath their uniforms—

“And she said the case was, um, like bright—“

Green.

Electric lime neon fuckin’ green because after three times of Eddie taking Steve’s phone by accident he’d come home with that endearing eyesore, and a kiss to the bridge of Eddie’s nose and a soft hard to confuse that, babe nuzzled against him and—

“It could maybe have just been a coincide—“ Jeff’s talking but Eddie can’t fucking hear it, not really, not when he’s letting the door slam behind him and ripping off his headphones to drop to the groundnut when he’s gasping hard enough to crack a rib, not when the floor’s gone out from underneath him and his vision’s tunneled and nothing seems real, and everything feels too real, every world ending possibility shuddering through his foggy mind alongside every heartbreakingly perfect memory blossoming up unbidden just to serve as a reminder, an underscoring of what he stands to lose, what maybe he’s already fucking lost—

He meets Jeff’s eyes without the glass between them as he grabs his keys from his jacket on the couch and makes himself take the breath that’ll fuel the voice, that’ll give him words, just one word, he needs, he fucking needs—

“Where?”

_______________________

Eddie shouldn’t have driven himself, he knows that.

Like, on some other plane of existing, he’s sure he knows that.

But on this plane, he rips past his bandmates, all the extra people with them for recording, jams the close-door button before anyone can follow him into the elevator because he happens to know this one’s quicker than the stairs even on a good day, and this—

Eddie’s shaking so goddamn hard he can barely get one foot in front of the other, he really doesn’t think he can manage ten fucking flights of steps.

He burns rubber on the way out of the parking lot, and the nearest hospital to where Steve would have been—on his day off, because holiday, he’d have bene close to home, he mentioned food shopping, he thought he might make stir-fry but he wasn’t sure, they hadn’t made a vegetable haul from the Asian market downtown in a couple weeks and they need to, they need to but Steve wasn’t feeling like going on his own, because he might not say it out loud but they both know he enjoys Eddie’s excitability when new items hit the shelves and he can’t read the language they’re labelled in so he guesses frantically until the man who owns the place takes pity, only laughs a little and explains what this spice is for, or that that crazy looking thing’s a fruit, and they ultimately buy whatever it is because Eddie wants to try it now, because he got invested and—

Eddie should pull off the fucking road; his head’s a mess, he can’t see for the way his eyes are welling, streaming, the way he’s shaking with sobs that don’t exactly burst forth, just leak from his lashes as he trembles horrifically because…

Because they were maybe gonna have stir-fry, tonight. Even without the good vegetables.

They were—

Eddie thinks it’s fucking cruel, kind of unbearably so, that his brain’s dead-set on still processing the mundane little perfections of his life as if every single one of them might be dashed to pieces, might be hanging by a thread, might be entirely fucking gone, and he, he…

He can’t. He just, he fucking can’t.

Because that the thing, isn’t it: the scenarios he’s imagining aren’t hypothetical—they’re all memories, too. Steve bloodied, Steve bruised, Steve’s bones broken and flesh torn. Steve still, too still; Steve’s skin under Eddie’s hands when he can’t find a pulse because Eddie’s shaking, same as now how Eddie is fucking shaking—

Eddie knows all those things. They’re so long ago, now, so distant but his fucking cells will never forget every single moment he saw the man he loves bigger than his own goddamn life hurt like that; be risked like that. Be lost like—

And that’s the difference. That’s what is unravelling him as he speeds through the streets quicker than he should, probably breaking more laws than he could count and definitely more than he gives a shit to notice: it’s the losing.

Because the first times, even the times that came after Steve was his: they didn’t come with the loss of so much time, so much of themselves, so much glorious life that they’d built between them, the struggles and the triumphs, the hard choices and the easy things that weren’t choices at all: everything hand-in-hand, every night spent curled around each other, all of them, all of him, inside that chest since he was twenty fucking year old, and Eddie doesn’t just not know how to be outside of what he shares with Steve.

Eddie doesn’t think his own heart can survive, if if Steve’s isn’t next to him.

Eddie’s damn fucking sure no part of him would want to.

It takes him a minute to steady himself enough to get out of the car, once he finally reaches the ER. Steady his body, but more his fucking soul because the whole of him is shaking, is crying out, is wailing unfettered and breaking because he’s terrified, he is goddamn terrified of what he’s going to find when he walks in but he has to, he has to because whatever awaits him, that’s his husband, that is the love of his whole goddamn life and if the worst is going to come for him he’ll face it like he’s faced everything else: at Steve Harrington’s side.

If the worst comes for one of them, then it came for them both.

So he’s stumbling, shuddering, but resolute in his chest when he flies through the sliding doors, eyes still swimming, unfocused but he makes himself take a deep breath—it takes a few tries, and he doesn’t quite succeed, it’s still a tremorous thing and his lungs are still in revolt, but it’s something, and he’ll take something; he has to to take something—

“Eddie?”

He almost doesn’t register it, the voice from the sick-spiral of his memories, all the love on the table to be forfeit—

He almost doesn’t register that his name’s not coming from inside his head.

“Oh my god, what happened?” There’s a flurry over motion in front of him, and he blinks rapidly to try and pin it down because it looks familiar, it smells familiar, it aches familiar in his chest but:

“What is it, what’s wrong?” and fuck, it feels familiar when a hand reaches for his cheek where it’s still damp, tacky for the tears; when another hand slides itself into Eddie’s and draws him in, a hand that fits like no other hand in this world or any other, ever—

“Are you okay?”

And the hand on his cheek turns him and follows his eyes and it takes that long for him to clear his vision properly, but now he’s just blinking so much because that, that can’t be, even if it feels in every goddamn way like it really is, but it can’t…

It can’t be Steve here, whole and on his feet and looking at Eddie with so much worry, so much heart as he tilts Eddie’s chin a little this way, that way, squints to try and see…something.

Eddie’s breath tears out of him in a wet fucking gasp;

“Am I okay?”

Because Eddie’s really not the one to fucking worry about here, Steve had—

“You’re in a hospital, Eds, that’s not usually where you go when you’re okay,” Steve’s eyes widen as he he slides both hands now to Steve’s head, holding him still and assessing…something, maybe, Jesus: Eddie doesn’t know, but he does know that the touch on him now makes his…makes his heart feel safe and he’d been fucking terrified he’d never feel that again.

“Fuck, what happened, baby, did you hit your,” and fingers are dancing gentle across points on Eddie’s skull, so delicate and careful and he can’t fucking help it—

“Are you real?”

Because he needs to know, he needs to know with words because this feels…this feels right and warm and impossible but also true, so.

He needs to know. “Am I…?” Steve’s lips part and his brow furrows before his jaw clenches in that dependable way he has of squaring up to the monster at hand, no matter the kind.

“Shit,” he breathes out slow but then he nods: resolved; “shit, okay. Okay, let’s find—“

“You are real,” and it turns out Eddie didn’t actually need him to say it. He just needed to see the flash in Steve’s eyes when he was ready to take on the world for the sake of love, the way he positions himself a little different in front of Eddie as he keeps one hand at Eddie’s cheek but then slides to brace more at his neck, purposeful, like he’s splinting a wound or something, and then a hand grabs for Eddie’s own again and: oh.

Oh yes. That is Steve Harrington, living and breathing and solid and real, because no one else protects like this.

No one.

Eddie’s heart stumbles, jackrabbits around a little, almost like a reset: like it knows as the implications sink in to Eddie’s mind that it’s not destined to break anymore.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees too easily, distracted as he tugs the gentlest bit at Eddie’s hand, toward the nurse’s station; “yeah, and we should—“

“And you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Steve shrugs it off, but Eddie…Eddie’s vision is clearing. His pulse is settling. He can hear above the static and his limbs are getting lighter.

“You’re one-hundred-percent okay, not a scratch on you, not a single thing wrong,” he needs to make sure, like, so fucking sure.

“I am fine, Eddie,” Steve turns to look him straight on, exasperated and anxious and vibrant with it, so alive in it; “but you’re—“

Eddie’s hand moves almost without his conscious consent, definitely without a plan to grab at Steve’s arm and pinch his skin because Eddie was vaguely toying with the idea of pinches himself, and maybe with poking Steve a few extra times to make sure he didn’t disappear, but apparently his brain landed on: pinch Steve, avoid confirmation bias if your head wants to lie enough to make him real just you you, because you need him that bad.

Steve startles, and turns those beautiful brilliant bronze eyes on Eddie, stretches wide as he gapes a little at his husband.

Eddie…Eddie is here, in front of his living-breathing-gorgeously-aghast husband.

“Okay, oww,” Steve drops Eddie’s hand and pulls back, leaving Eddie’s head to its own devices as he looks a little shocked, shooting just shy of a glare Eddie’s way: full of questions.

Eddie—now that the biggest one’s solved, and solved so perfect, so gentle and sure and he doesn’t have to bury the soul of him; he doesn’t have to bury his soul—but now?

Eddie also has some fucking questions.

“Where’s your phone?” seems the most relevant to start with.

Steve blinks, frowns a little:

“It got lost in the crash—“

“Crash?” Eddie’s tone pitches up to squeak a little because: Steve’s here and whole in from of him, yes. But fuck, there was still a crash? He was—

“Not mine, my car’s still parked at fucking Jiffy Lube,” Steve adds with a huff; “I saw it happen so I stopped and—“

And Eddie knows his husband. He knows his husband better than he knows himself, and Eddie’s kinda made it a point of pride for how self-aware he’s grown to be these days, in living this life and loving Steve beyond the bounds of living at all. But he knows his Steve, and so he knows damn well what happened.

Car runs into car. Steve sees it and jumps out to help. Because Steve Harrington is a protector. Steve Harrington is a helper. Steve Harrington is the best man Eddie’s ever known.

Soon as he jumped into the fray, he wouldn’t have thought once about a fucking phone.

And Eddie, Eddie just, he needs to—

He grabs Steve’s hands and wraps them around his own waist, lets them go and then pulls Steve tight to his chest and buries his face in Steve’s shoulder as Eddie winds his way around his husband, feels him breathing, feels the tickle of his hair.

“You’re gonna kill me, Stevie,” Eddie whimpers, that going tight now all over again:

“You’ve got the biggest heart of fucking gold the world’s ever seen,” he moans into Steve’s collar; “and you’re going to fucking kill me.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but his hands move up to rub Eddie’s back, rote and learned and he might not wholly get, yet, what Eddie’s putting together, and where Eddie’s head’s been, what his heart’s been through, but the first thing he knows, and does like clockwork, is to love of his partner, to soothe him even if he doesn’t know what for.

“Someone found your phone, and they, umm,” Eddie licks his lips, takes a suffering breath and tries to straighten but he’s not ready, not yet: he slumps right back onto Steve’s shoulder:

“They called the studio.”

“Shit,” Steve hisses, bunches his hands in Eddie’s shirt and draws him tighter to his chest: “shit, they interrupted,” and oh, fuck no, fuck regretting the interruption—

“They told me they found it at a crash site,” Eddie grits out, the hurt of it still raw, like just saying the words no matter where they landed in trust, just recalling those minutes that felt like full nightmarish lifetimes, reopens the tender wounds it’d left in hims; “they found it with the case broken,” and Steve leans back, then, eyes saucers as he meets Eddie’s gaze, breath catches harsh.

“Oh,” Steve whispers, eyes darting back and forth between Eddie’s, taking the whole of him in and then he exhales so heavy:

“Oh, babe,” he murmurs, fucking mournful before he takes his hands and links them behind the base of Eddies’ skull and draws him in to the center of his chest, envelopes him there whole: “come here.”

And Eddie falls into that chest—rising-falling-living—he falls into Steve so fucking fast

“I am totally fine, I promise you,” Steve breathes again Eddie’s ear, close and dear and real: “car’s fine—“

“I don’t fucking care about the car—“ Eddie tenses up, appalled at the implication that he gave one single goddamn thought to the car— “No, like, as proof,” Steve’s quick to correct him, to ease the hackles on him; “I wasn’t in the crash, but it was pretty bad and,” Steve shrugs a little then adds soft: “I keep my first aid certs up to date for a reason, I figure, right?”

Jesus; yes, okay. Steve’s savior complex had largely mellowed to a non-interdimensional-threat level with time but he’s meticulous about keeping every skillset he’d gone out of his way to learn from professionals before they’d gone up against the Upside Down for the last time sharp and at the ready for anything: even now.

Fuck, but this beautiful, brilliant, impossible man.

“I was helping, best I could, until the EMTs got there,” Steve tells him softly, fills in the gaps because he knows Eddie’s mind, all the pictures it paints for itself, and in times like these it’s always the worst possible pictures—he knows Eddie needs the slate wiped clean with the truths, blessedly softer, in this:

“Police wanted me to stick around for a statement but the girl who was driving the first car, she was so panicked and she didn’t want to go alone so, umm,” Steve huffs a little, shifts against Eddie gentle and solid and here: “she said she knew me, she was pretty desperate I think, so I rode here with her,” and of course he did, of course he did because he’s Steve; “now I’m just waiting to make sure she gets out of surgery okay,” he squeezes Eddie then, like a punctuation, and it feels so, so fucking��good; “also still have to give the goddamn statement, but fuck knows that’s just hurry-up-and-wait,” he turns, and he kisses Eddie’s hair then and Eddie feels something snap in him, give way and the lingering tension spill from his frame as he gasp a little on a breathy exhale:

“I love you so much,” and he does, god: god, but how much he loves this man.

“I love you too, baby,” Steve mouths against his head and Eddie closes his eyes and nuzzles his a little closer as he puts it into words, because it feels like he needs to, it feels like in Steve’s arms like this, pressed up close to him to feel this undeniable life in him: it feels like the coast is clear enough to risk it, to confess:

“I was so fucking scared,” and the words only break a little, and that’s more than Eddie honestly expected.

“I am so sorry,” Steve bows his chin down to graze lips against Eddie’s hairline, delicate and intimate and shivery, trembly down Eddie’s spin for the best of reasons, now.

“Not your fault,” Eddie’s quite to counter, to make clear, because: “shit, you didn’t do anything, I just…”

Eddie makes himself pull back and meet Steve’s eyes, reaches out to frame his face, dear and desperate:

“I can’t lose you,” he moans a little, begs a little, says it with a bare line of something primal echoing in it, scraped straight from his bones: “I cannot ever lose you.”

“I know,” Steve turns and kisses one of his palms, and those two words hold the promise of five more they’ve said so many times, and held so true between them for so many year, through so fucking much:

It’s the same for me.

And to be loved the same as he loves is a fucking privilege; it’s heady and it’s wonderful and Eddie needs it, needs Steve, more than goddamn air.

“Sit with me?” Steve covers Eddie’s hands with his at his cheeks, and nods a little toward the blessedly-quiet collection of chairs by the windows; “while I wait?”

“Nowhere else I’d go,” Eddie says it like the given that it is, and pulls Steve close to kiss him full, to press his lips to Steve’s and drink his warmth, his breath, to feel it sink int past his heart and pump through his veins:

“Not ever, Stevie,” he speaks against Steve’s lips, all of him in it, every vow inside it:

“Not ever.”

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

divider credit here

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 9: Clarence House]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, Adventures with Aegon (ft. Sunfyre the Ferret), Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, and no more hints for you, start reading!!!

Word Count: 8.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥰🧁

He returns in an afternoon of inescapable golden sunlight, hot and muggy, bumble bees and ladybugs wheeling lazily above tall grass, cumulus clouds like tufts of cotton in a sky the color of Aemond’s eye. You hear him talking to Cadi—she’s out in the front yard making mud pies, earth for sugar and sprinkles of stray pelican feathers—and then the weight of his footsteps on the sinking, sloping porch. He opens the door, never locked, and walks through the living room into the kitchen. From behind, his arms circle around your waist; and you’ve missed him so much—dreaming of waves and storms, chains and blood—that you have nothing for him but softness, gentle smiles and a voice hushed with relief.

“How was Norway?” you ask as you roll out dough on the counter. You’re making a buttermilk pie.

“Fine,” Aemond says, resting his chin on your shoulder. But he sounds tired, low.

You turn around to look at him, raising your fingertips to his unscarred right cheek; he won’t tolerate you touching the left. You leave a dusting of flour across his skin like snow, which you have never seen in person and likely never will. The air conditioner is humming. The little pink Panasonic boombox is playing Africa by Toto. “Did something happen?”

“I just missed you.” Then he brightens. “But I was greeted by some very welcome news when I got back to the house this morning.” He’s wearing his neon teal duffle bag. He drops it to the floor and unzips it; inside you glimpse several Nintendo game cartridges, presumably for Cadi. And you think: I’m always here making things, he’s always bringing them from far away. Aemond takes two small dark blue booklets out of a pocket in the inner lining of the duffle bag and gives them to you. On the front of each is embossed in gold lettering, along with an emblem of a bald eagle: Passport, United States of America.

“…Aemond?!”

“There’s one for you and one for Cadi. I submitted the forms a month ago, but even with expedited processing it took this long. Ridiculous. What does the government do all day besides hunt down social programs to defund?”

“But…but…” You open one of the booklets. A photograph of your own face gazes back at you, serious and serene, taken against the white wall of your bedroom before you knew about Aemond being a Targaryen, or Christabel, or Amir’s exodus to San Franscisco, or the profound futility of everything, it seems. “How…?”

“I took the pictures, obviously. The rest was easy enough to find. You store birth certificates and social security cards the same place where you keep the business records that Amir showed me. Typically people have to go to a passport agency in person, but Criston and I have ways around that. Your signature might have been forged on the applications…but I suspect you won’t be filing any police reports.” Aemond grins, pleased with himself. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It’s definitely surprising.” You stare down at the passports, amazed. “Aemond…this is a lot. But you already know that.”

“The whole time I was gone, I was wishing you could be there too. And now I can take you anywhere.”

Your heart is pounding, helpless childlike exhilaration. “Where are we going?”

“Clarence House in London.”

London: it’s another world, a distant planet, a constellation whose name you don’t know, the lost city of Atlantis.“Clarence House? Is that a hotel?”

“It’s a royal residence,” Aemond says, amused. “It’s officially the home of the Queen Mother, but the whole family goes to Balmoral in Scotland every summer, and while they’re gone they often rent out one wing to guests, not just anyone, trusted people like distant cousins or longtime, aristocratic friends. And the Targaryens…”

“You’re marrying Christabel, and she’s nobility. So you’re basically nobility now too.”

“Yes,” Aemond admits, a little guiltily, perhaps. “But you’re the person I’m inviting.”

“And Cadi.”

Now he’s genuinely puzzled. “Of course. We couldn’t leave her behind.”

Maybe I can handle this. Maybe I can make this work.

And you climb onto your tiptoes to circle your arms around the back of his neck, embracing him, thanking him, thinking: Christabel will have his ring, his last name, his family’s mansion, his acquiescent kiss at the altar of the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens…but I have what he’s made of, dreams, soul, bones in the abyss of an ocean of blood. Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe.

~~~~~~~~~~

First class, cheerful stewardesses, an array of magazines purchased from a gift shop in New Orleans International Airport: the National Enquirer and Food & Wine for you, The Face and Smithsonian for Aemond, and National Geographic Kids and Zoobooks for Cadi. The Zoobooks animal this month is the eagle, how quintessentially American. You are served antipasto Italiano, shrimp cocktail, Perrier, and champagne (Cadi gets a Shirley Temple) over the Atlantic Ocean. Aemond shows you and Cadi how to chew gum to pop your ears as the pressure builds to pain. When there is turbulence and he leans in close to tell you everything is fine, Aemond smells like Wrigley’s Doublemint, cologne, Marlboro cigarettes like the logo on his red and white jacket. You press your palm to the cool window, and clouds float by through the gaps between your fingers. The world is older than anything you could fathom; the world is brand new.

There is a black limousine waiting outside Terminal 3 of Heathrow Airport. The driver gets out to load the sparse luggage: Aemond’s teal duffle bag, a frayed and battered rolling suitcase that you borrowed from your mother, a Super Mario Bros. backpack that you found for Cadi at Kmart. Aemond doesn’t have much time to spare, only 4 days, practically a long weekend; but it feels like an eternity stretches out in front of you as the limousine zooms through the narrow, winding streets of downtown London, Starship’s We Built This City piping from the radio. You have never had more than a few uninterrupted hours with Aemond before. Now you will have a hundred.

The London air is cool, grey, misty; fresh rainwater bleeds into puddles, dark pools of mirrorlike reflections. With the windows rolled down and clean slate-colored air unfurling in your lungs, Aemond points to the landmarks you pass: Gunnersbury Park, Chiswick House and its gardens, cathedrals, museums, shopping districts, centuries-old cemeteries, stations of the London Underground, the River Thames, Hyde Park, the Ritz Hotel, Buckingham Palace, Saint James’ Palace, and at last Clarence House. It is a boxy white four-story townhouse with columns at the entranceway that remind you of the Targaryens’ estate on the shore of Lake Verret, the beautiful yet temporary home they call The Last Desire.

Aemond says that the entire first floor will be yours for the duration of your stay. There is the Lancaster Room, red and gold, and the Morning Room of creams and weak watery blue. There is the Library, the Dining Room, and the vibrantly pink Horse Corridor named for its ample equine paintings and sculptures; Cadi immediately proclaims this to be the best part of the house. She lingers in the hallway examining the art pieces as you and Aemond proceed to the Garden Room, which looks out upon a sea of lavender and shrubs meticulously shaped into a maze no higher than your waist. It has a golden harp and a grand piano, and a vast bed large enough for at least five people, in your estimation. I wonder if Aemond has ever tried that, you think distractedly. I wonder if there are temptations I can’t satisfy for him.

“You and Cadi can have this room,” Aemond says. He keeps wincing and bringing his hand up to the left side of his face; you doubt he’s even aware of it. “I’ll sleep on one of the couches.” Of course he will; Cadi thinks you’re just friends, and she’s aware he’s getting married to someone else. He knew exactly what it would mean when he bought a passport for her. “Queen Elizabeth and her husband Philip lived here before she ascended to the throne. They loved it so much that at first they refused to move to Buckingham Palace, which is the traditional residence of the reigning monarch. But their insolence was worn down. No one gets to break the rules.”

I shouldn’t be in this place, you keep thinking as you gaze around at the portraits on the wall, the stiff unnatural photographs of royals, the vases, the chandeliers, the fireplaces, the plush intricate rugs, the garden on the other side of the windows. People like me don’t belong here. “Aemond, are you alright?”

“It’s my eye,” he confesses with an uneasy, apologetic smirk. “Sometimes flights…the altitude changes…it aggravates the nerve damage. It’s like needles in my skull. But I’ll be okay.”

“You fly a lot for work, don’t you?” You hurt yourself for Viserys, in body and soul.

“I do,” he agrees. He unzips his duffle bag and produces a bottle of Percocet. “Why do you think I carry these around?”

“Take one,” you say. “Lie down, rest. Cadi and I can entertain ourselves for a few hours.”

He’s relieved, he’s grateful. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You can even borrow the bed.”

“Back between your sheets, huh?” Aemond says, in pain but smiling through it. He draws a semicircle from the part in your hair down to your chin, a weightless sweep of his fingertips like a kind breeze. “You are incurable. You can’t resist me.”

“I have my own scheme in mind.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” You grab the front of his Marlboro jacket, appropriate for the overcast London weather. He belongs here, this house, this city, this way of life. He wasn’t made for the primordial heat of the swamplands. You fold into him, close enough to tease, to quicken his heartbeat and momentarily clear the wounded furrows from his brow. “I want my pillows to smell like you. I want to breathe you in all night. It’s how I sleep best.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint,” Aemond says, a little stunned; but he’s elated too. For a moment, you’ve distracted him from his suffering entirely. “I’ll roll around all over them. I will mar the bedding irrevocably, the Queen Mother will never invite me back.” And he watches as you leave, his gaze transfixed and meditative and—more than anything else—hopeful.

“Hey, honey,” you say when you find Cadi in the Horse Corridor, poking a 100-year-old oil painting that she is definitely not supposed to be touching. “Let’s go explore and grab some dinner. Aemond isn’t feeling great, but we’ll hang out with him later.”

“Is it his face?”

You are startled. She knows so much. “Yeah, actually, it is.”

“He showed me,” Cadi says casually, still peering up at the horse; and you remember the day when he took her out to the front yard after she said she wished you were more like her friends’ mothers. “He even let me touch it. Radical, right? It’s so gross, but super cool too.”

Aemond couldn’t stand for me to see how he was maimed, but he forced himself to endure it for Cadi. “What did he tell you?”

“That I should appreciate having a good mom, because not all parents treat their kids right. He said his dad let his eye get crushed. And he told me he’d bet $1 million that you’d snap someone’s neck if they hurt me like that.”

You reach out to skim your fingers through her dark disheveled hair, smiling faintly, fondly. Cadi doesn’t seem to mind. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“Can we get fish and chips?”

“Totally. I have 50 British pounds in my wallet, I assume that’s enough for dinner.”

“Wow! How much is 50 pounds in dollars?”

“I have no idea,” you say. “Let’s go spend them.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the evenings, you, Cadi, and Aemond gather around the television in the Lancaster Room and help yourself to the extensive VHS collection stocked for guests. You let Cadi pick: Raiders Of The Lost Ark, The Terminator, Firestarter, the Karate Kid, Aliens. You make popcorn in the extravagant kitchen in the basement of Clarence House and the three of you devour bowlfuls of it as you giggle on the couch, engulfed with throw pillows and playfully kicking at each other beneath the blankets. One night at Cadi’s request you bake Betty Crocker’s Party Rainbow Chip cupcakes with mix purchased at a Tesco down the street; on another you make hot chocolate to sip from antique tea cups. Each day, Aemond has new destinations picked out to tour. You ride the Underground like true Londoners to the Hampton Court Palace, the British Museum, Westminster Abbey, the Natural History Museum, Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, Tower Bridge, the National Gallery, the Kew Gardens, Imperial College where Aemond received the petroleum engineering degree he never wanted.

As he shows you the classrooms where he attended lectures and seminars—you aren’t sure what the difference is, though you can sense that there is one—Aemond doesn’t talk about math or oil drilling. Instead, he tells you and Cadi about the people he learned about in the history classes he managed to slip into his exacting schedule like splinters into flesh: Sir Harold Gillies who pioneered plastic surgery in his treatment of World War I veterans, Phillis Wheatley who was enslaved as a child and became a renowned poet and abolitionist, Boudicca who led a rebellion against the Roman invaders and upon her defeat succumbed to some tragic, enigmatic doom. Aemond loves stories like this, you can see the light that sparks into the crystalline blue of his right eye. There is nothing he deems more heroic than people who took circumstances beyond their control and made something worthwhile out of them.

The night before the flight back to New Orleans, you’re staring at the crown molding of the Garden Room as Cadi snores softly from the other end of the massive bed and silvery moonlight covers the world. You can’t stop your thoughts from roiling like the North Sea; you can’t stop thinking about desks and chairs and books and clever blue-blooded girls jotting down in their notebooks not cake orders but mathematical equations or dates of conquest. When you breathe in the smoke and cologne Aemond left on your pillows, it tastes dark and forbidden. You climb out of the bed, roomy Bob Dylan t-shirt, pink cotton shorts, hair loose and wild, bare feet.

He is outside pacing around the sundial in the center of the garden, puffing on a Marlboro cigarette and pondering the full moon. “Can’t sleep?” Aemond asks, exhaling smoke as he glances over at you.

“You must think I’m stupid.”

“What?” He stops pacing. “Why?”

“Imperial College,” you say. “And the sorts of people who go to places like that. You must have known a lot of women who could recite Shakespear and name all the kings of England, all of Jupiter’s moons. Things I never learned. Things that I have no use for. I don’t write books or design machines or study the secrets of the universe. I bake cupcakes.”

“And they’re brilliant,” Aemond says, smiling. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“No?”

“No,” Aemond insists. “I think that if you’d been born where I was, you would have done far more with it.”

“Aemond…” You walk across the wet cobblestones to meet him by the sundial. It’s been raining again. The night air is chilly, foggy, painting you with goosebumps. “You still have time to become who you want to be.”

“No. I don’t.”

It’s coming from somewhere, distant but still audible, a parked car or a nearby building: Kyrie by Mr. Mister. Aemond chuckles, flicks the end of his cigarette into the lavender bushes—surely against the rules—and takes your hands in his.

“I remember this,” he says as he dances with you slowly, clumsily; you don’t know the steps. Still, you don’t want him to stop. “In your kitchen.”

He remembers everything. “Right before we went to Olive Garden for the first time.”

He sighs, pretending to be exasperated. “Of course that’s the part you committed to memory.”

“I’ve held onto a few other details too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like how small the back seat of your Audi Quattro is.”

“A limousine would be far more comfortable. I should invest in one.”

You laugh as he twirls you and you trip over your own feet; he pulls you upright before you can fall to the slick cobblestones. And you think: This is real. No matter what happens between him and anyone else, what we have is safe and extraordinary and real.

“I’m glad you’re here, Cupcake,” Aemond murmurs through your hair, holding you without seeking more. “You and Cadi.”

You want him again, or you’re so close to wanting him that the line is less of a boundary than a quagmire, indistinct edges and quicksand that can drag you down to drown in it. “I never knew that this was possible. Thank you, Aemond.”

“It can be like this all the time.”

Not all the time, you think, knowing that there will always be Jade Dragon, the Targaryens, the stock market, the world, the past and the future, Christabel. But some of it.

Is that enough?

~~~~~~~~~~

Willis agreed to you and Aemond taking Cadi out of the country on one condition: that you return her to him the second you arrive back in Napoleonville. It’s late Tuesday afternoon when the plane’s wheels hit the runway and squeal to a halt. Aemond has left his red Audi in the Park-and-Ride lot. You collect the car and soar west on Route 10 into the red-gold horizon, chasing the setting sun.

“Daddy!” Cadi bellows when she throws open the front door of the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office, waving his gift bag excitedly. Inside is a refrigerator magnet, several packages of McVitie’s Digestives in different flavors, and a miniature red-coated Queen’s Guard to keep on his desk, perpetually covered with disorganized papers and crumbs from innumerable desserts. From her poster on the wall, Heather Locklear simpers at you. At the center of the dartboard, poor Tommy Lee is impaled in four different places.

“Comment ca va, cherie?!” Willis opens his arms to hug Cadi when she barrels into him. He guffaws, his eyes are shiny; he has missed her. “Ya had a real good time, I reckon?”

“It was totally tubular. But I’m glad I’m home now. Can I get a horse? His name is Patches and I love him.”

“Huh? What the hell ya need a horse for?” He peeks around Cadi to look at you, a curious blue gaze beneath the thick dark bangs of his mullet. “What’s she talkin’ ‘bout, sugar?”

Beside you, Aemond groans irritably. Then you hear a voice from one of the holding cells, almost always empty: “Hey, cake lady.”

“Aegon?!” you and Aemond say at once, and sure enough, when you check the last holding cell there he is: unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, blue shorts, rainbow flip flops, hair like he’s been in a hurricane, a new eyebrow piercing.

Aemond asks Willis: “What did he do?”

Willis picks up a clipboard from his cluttered desk and begins reading. “Possession with intent to distribute cocaine—”

“I told you, I wasn’t distributing anything! It was for me!”

“Aegon, shut up,” Aemond pleads.

“Possession with intent to distribute marijuana, possession of drug paraphernalia, possession of methamphetamine less than 28 grams, operatin’ a vehicle while intoxicated, possession of MDMA, possession of alcoholic beverages in a motor vehicle, operatin’ a vehicle with a suspended license, resistin’ an officer…” Willis flips the page. “Speedin’, reckless drivin’, disturbin’ the peace while in an intoxicated condition, possession with intent to distribute Xanax, theft—”

“What the hell did you steal?!” Aemond demands.

“Burritos. I forgot my wallet at home.” Now Aegon is indignant. “But I saidI’d get them back! They didn’t need to call anybody about it!”

“Aegon, Taco Bell does not offer payment plans!”

“I can release him to ya, I guess,” Willis tells Aemond in a slow drawl.

“I really appreciate that. I’m so sorry about him, I’m absolutely mortified, I’ll pay whatever fines you want—”

“Wait, no,” Aegon says, panicked. His hands are gripped around the iron bars. “I don’t want to leave.”

Aemond stares at him. “You’re asking to stay in jail…?”

“I can’t go home. Stephanie’s there.”

“Of course she’s there. You knew she was flying in for the wedding.”

“Please let me stay here until she goes back to Monaco.”

“Definitely not. How’s everything else?”

“There’s something wrong with one of the Lake Verret rigs. Viserys mentioned a…a…I don’t remember, a dirt dump or something.”

“A mud pump?!”

“Yeah! That’s it. That’s what he said. It exploded.”

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses, then remembers that Cadi’s still there. She gives him a sly grin. You messed up, she means. Aemond looks to you, apologetic, disappointed. “I’m going to have to drop you off and then head straight home. There are messes to be mopped up.”

“No,” Aegon moans as Willis unlocks the holding cell and then wrestles him out of it when Aegon resists. “No, I’m a felon! I’m a danger to the public!”

“Don’t,” Aemond snaps, and this time his brother listens.

You say goodbye to Cadi—she barely notices—but as you go to follow Aemond and Aegon out of the Sheriff’s Office, she has a question. “Aemond?”

He stops. “Yeah, Cadi?”

“Can I go to the wedding?”

“Weddin’?!” Willis exclaims. “Already?!”

“Not mine,” you say.

“You really want to go?” Aemond asks Cadi with some reticence. But he seems to be considering it.

“Well, yeah. Mom said she and Amir are going. You’ll be there. Lots of cake will be there. And I’ve never been to a wedding before. I want to see what it’s like.”

Aemond turns to you, then to Willis, searching for permission. “It’s alright with me,” Willis says. “As long as someone there is keepin’ an eye on her.”

“It’s your choice,” you tell Cadi. “If you’re interested, I have no objections. But you have to be nice to Christabel.”

“Christabel?!” Willis says.

“That’s Aemond’s fiancée.” And there is a collective uncomfortable silence: Willis nodding slowly as he squints at you, Cadi chewing on her thumbnail, Aemond looking down at his Adidas sneakers, Aegon staring vacuously at the Heather Locklear poster on the wall.

With Aegon squeezed into the back seat, Aemond drops you off at the home Cadi calls the Fall-Down House. The new house hasn’t closed yet, but probably will in the next week. The adolescent gator is sunbathing in the last of the daylight in one corner of the yard; you can hear the pink Panasonic boombox inside playing Another One Bites The Dust.

“Ho, you’re back!” Amir cries, jubilant. He hugs you energetically, staining you with the flour on his hands; he’s been watching the bakery while you’ve been gone and keeping every cent of the profits in recognition of his labor, as agreed upon. “How was London?”

You give him his souvenir: a purple t-shirt with Princess Diana’s face on it. “Rainy. Wonderful.”

“Did you have any kinky sex in the royal grandma’s bed?”

“No,” you say, laughing. “But it was…I don’t know how to describe it. Calm. Normal. Easy. Like we could live that way forever.”

“So you’ve decided to be his Camilla.”

“Some moments I have. Other times I haven’t. But more and more, I just…” You try to decide what you mean. “The thought of giving him up feels impossible. And Christabel…they’re so distant with each other, so disconnected, so platonic. Their relationship doesn’t feel real. Maybe I can ignore it. Maybe this is the best I can hope for.”

Amir pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose and raises an eyebrow. “It might feel more real in three days.”

The rehearsal dinner is on Friday; the wedding is only 24 hours later.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You really should consider writing a cookbook, dear,” Alicent says from where she sits across from you. The dining room table is covered with flickering pink candles, bouquets of wildflowers, drinks garnished with cotton candy and Pop Rocks. Balloons bump against the ceilings, their long ribbons streaming down like the tentacles of a jellyfish. The stereo is thumping out Caught Up In You by 38 Special. Everything is pink and red: the colors of love. Yet just like at the engagement party, no one is talking about the couple getting married tomorrow. You could almost forget that there’s going to be a wedding. That makes it easier; and if denial is the terrain you live on now, so be it. That is far less agonizing than the alternative.

“Oh, no,” you demur, taking a sip of a cotton candy cocktail. You exchange a glance with Aemond, sitting several seats down from his mother. He is in a suit—black and white, fitted, faultless—and smiling, proud of you. “A book?! I couldn’t. Not in a million years.” I never even finished high school English.

“But all of my friends from home are captivated by your recipes, darling, and it would be so much easier if I could simply send them a copy of a cookbook rather than trying to describe every dish to them! Please consider it. Do you promise?”

“That I’ll think about it? Not too taxing a commitment. I suppose so.”

“Good,” Alicent chirps, then turns to whisper something to Criston, who drapes an arm briefly across her shoulders and gives her a reassuring little embrace. Amir is chatting with Aemond about San Franscisco. Christabel is talking to Helaena, who has been forced into a voluminous, magenta taffeta dress that she clearly despises; her chameleon Dreamfyre lurches around the table, occasionally stealing tastes of people’s food. Daeron, with Tessarion perched on the back of his chair, is trying to discuss something called seismic testing results with Viserys but getting ignored. Viserys is deep in conversation with Christabel’s father, the marquess, a large loud man whose booming voice drowns out everyone else. The two of them seem delighted, celebratory, very much in their own world. Their schemes have come at last to fruition. Christabel has several younger sisters in attendance—her bridesmaids—but no mother. You gather from pieces of dialogue you’ve overheard that her mother died when she was a child, a terrible and irreparable loss. Otto is so bored he’s flipping through a picture book about Kiribati. Aegon’s wife, Princess Stephanie of Monaco, is a headstrong, charismatic, and rather critical woman with short dark hair. She notifies Aegon each and every time he fails her, which happens frequently: You’re using the wrong fork. You missed a button on your shirt. You haven’t fucked me properly in over two years. You didn’t send flowers to my grandma’s funeral. This is evidently Aegon’s worst nightmare; he has disappeared upstairs in an effort to escape her.

Dinner is finished, and dessert has been brought by the servants. It turned out more like a crepe cake than a Napoleon cake—the layers of puff pastry didn’t want to fluff up as much as they should have—but no one seems to notice. This time, you and Amir knew the dress code expectations. You are both wearing black to fade into the backdrop like shadows, like distant memories. You are invited guests, but you are also locals, inferiors, recipients of charity.

“Where’s Aegon?” Helaena says. “He has to try this cake, it’s delicious! The cherry jam cuts the heaviness of the cream and pastry dough and makes it a perfect dessert for summer! And the color is delightful! It looks just like blood!”

“Where the hell is he?” Viserys demands, looking around, twisting in his chair. “It’s his brother’s rehearsal dinner, for Christ’s sake. One night of this importance and he can’t handle it? I swear to God, if he’s snorting or smoking anything up there I’ll have him committed to an institution—”

“I’ll find him,” you offer as you stand from the table. You have to visit the bathroom anyway, too many glitzy pink cocktails; two birds, one stone. You depart from the table and Aemond’s gaze follows you, a low heat that is building towards incineration, a baiting promise of dark euphoria that you can no longer pretend you don’t want desperately, defenselessly. Christabel gives you a sweet little wave. She is dripping in gold—dress, heels, jewelry—and seems happier tonight, more self-assured. Perhaps with the wedding so close, her trepidation concerning Aemond’s commitment has evaporated. Surely it is too late to call off the ceremony now. Tonight they feast, tomorrow they recite their vows, and then…

But no, you don’t think about the honeymoon. You will not allow yourself to. It can’t exist to you, and that is how you’ll survive this. Christabel will be in one universe, you in another, two timelines that never cross like something out of Star Trek. And the way she and Aemond interact is so impersonal, so untactile, that it is not so difficult to treat anything beyond chaste pecks on cheeks as an impossibility.

At the top of the staircase, Vhagar is lurking. She wags her long twiglike tail when she sees you and licks the knuckles of your left hand. You give her a pat on the head—and then several more when she whines as you try to leave—then at last she lopes off down the hallway.

Aegon is exactly where you’d assumed he’d be. He’s in his bedroom hunched over his computer and hammering furiously at the keyboard. There’s white powder on his fingers and in his thin mustache. On the screen, bizarrely, is what appears to be neon green grass and an ox-drawn wagon like the ones from the pioneer days. Sunfyre the ferret is stretched out across the bed napping, his angular face resting on his paws.

Aegon whirls around to face you. He is wearing a lime green satin suit but has forgotten to put on a shirt under it. “What? What? What do you want? I’m playing Oregon Trail. I have dysentery.”

“You have what…? Never mind, it’s not important. You need to come downstairs and eat some dessert. People are wondering where you are.”

“I’m busy.”

“If you don’t make an appearance on your own, Viserys will come looking for you. Also there are some Cap’n Crunch treats I left on the kitchen counter that you might be interested in.”

“Consider me tempted. I’ll be down momentarily.”

“You better be,” you tell Aegon, then retrace your steps back to the kitchen. Amir and Christabel are both there getting cans of Pepsi from the fridge and making very cumbersome small talk…or perhaps only Amir thinks it is that much of a burden. Christabel is chattering blithely away about different types of wildflowers. He gives you a look like Oh thank God, an excuse to escape and wastes no time heading back to the dining room.

“Did you notice what’s playing now?” he asks you just before he vanishes, then points towards the stereo in the grand foyer. You listen; it’s Money For Nothing by Dire Straits. “You think they know this song is about class warfare?”

“You should tell them,” you joke.

“Yeah, if I want to end up on Unsolved Mysteries.” Then Amir is gone.

“How are you doing?” you ask Christabel to be polite. You open the refrigerator and start hunting for your own can of Pepsi. “Excited? Nervous? You seem a little more relaxed than the last time I saw you. Are the wedding jitters finally dissipating?”

“They are,” she says, and when you glance back at her she is wearing a bashful sort of smile. It’s not an expression you can read. You resume digging through the refrigerator for a can of Pepsi; Amir and Christabel might have taken the last ones.

“That’s good,” you say noncommittally, hoping she’ll leave. But Christabel doesn’t leave. She seems to have something she needs to say. Just as you spy a lone can of Pepsi at the very back of the refrigerator and lean in to grab it, she proceeds to unburden herself.

“Well, you know, I was so concerned about me and Aemond before. I had no conviction that he especially liked me, and we never had anything to talk about, and he was so dreadfully undemonstrative…I was just beside myself, truly. I didn’t know what to do. But I feel much better about everything now. Norway was so good for us.”

Norway?

You close the refrigerator, your ice-cold Pepsi can clutched in your hand. You’re going cold all over. Slowly, you turn towards Christabel, glittering in her gold dress.

Norway???

“He took you on the North Sea trip.” You hear the words, but it doesn’t feel like you’ve said them. They sound flat and dazed.

“It’s a bit of a secret,” Christabel says; and again, her smile has no cruelty or sharp awareness in it, but her cheeks are pink. She’s blushing. What does she have to be embarrassed about? “My father doesn’t know. He wouldn’t approve. But I just felt…I felt ready, you know? I’m sure you understand what I mean. You aren’t so clinical and aloof about everything. I had to know if Aemond and I really had something between us before we got married.”

“You felt…ready?” Ready for what? Ready for WHAT, Christabel?

“I asked Aemond to take me with him. I begged, actually.” She giggles. “I won’t try to be proud about it! And finally he said yes. We stayed at a lovely hotel in Bergen, and during the day he would have to fly by helicopter out to the rigs, but at night…”

You’re staring blankly at her. You can’t believe what you think she’s going to say. Surely it must be something else, anything else—

“It wasn’t my plan to ever be intimate with a man before marriage, but sometimes…things change. Minds change, circumstances change. And I knew I wanted it. And it went so well! Now what do I have to be nervous about? All the uncertainties are resolved. Now we just sign the paperwork and start our lives together.”

He took her to Norway.

He slept with her in Norway.

“I hope it was just as good for him,” Christabel muses, a compulsive sort of oversharing. But she has had a few cocktails and she thinks you’re nonjudgemental and there’s probably not a single other soul she feels she can be truthful with…so why not the girl who got knocked up at prom and had a baby at seventeen? Surely she’s in no position to judge. “It’ll be even better once we can…you know. When we’re officially trying for a baby and there’s no need to worry about any precautions. I want Aemond to enjoy himself as much as possible. I want to be a good wife to him.”

You feel dizzy; you feel violently ill. And now you see everything: Aemond kissing her with his mouth open and ravenous, his hands between her legs, his hips pressed to hers, peeling off her clothes and learning how to make her moan, make her wet, make her come, and you think of how careful he must have been with her, a girl with no past, no ex-husband, no childbirth that nearly killed her, no stretchmarks and no baggage, just a smooth pristine rivulet of flesh that was so pure and uncontaminated it was weightless, and you can hear—though you don’t want to, though it feels like it will kill you—how tender he was, how encouraging, not a dominant who drinks down fantasies like a vampire sustained by blood but just a man, and a man who has at last found a woman he doesn’t need to grab, bite, bruise, handcuff to a bedpost to feel satisfied with.

He took her to Norway and he never told me.

You are saying something, and Christabel is nodding appreciatively, accepting the sage wisdom of a tarnished life. Your words don’t matter. They are folktales and charms, the croaks of bullfrogs, the whispers of the wind through Spanish moss, the Morse code of ripples in the water of the bayou. You are a novelty and your counsel is a souvenir; one day when she is living in California or Argentina or Australia or Alaska or her ancestral castle back in the U.K., Christabel will tell Aemond’s children: Once I met a nice single mom from Napoleonville Louisiana, and she told me to follow my heart and not let anyone shame me for wanting to be close with my soon-to-be husband.

Vhagar trots into the kitchen and begins nudging her massive head against Christabel’s bare knees. “Hi, big girl!” Christabel coos as she pets the blue merle Great Dane, clearly accustomed to this. “Who’s a giant gorgeous girl? You are!”

What did I expect? I knew they were getting married. I knew they were going to sleep together.

Yes, you knew it, but you hadn’t felt it, and now you have.

I can’t do this, you realize. I thought I could but I can’t.

“Christabel?” Alicent is calling like a windchime. “Darling, there are just a few more things we have to discuss before tomorrow, will you come back to the table please?”

“On my way!” Christabel replies obediently, and she gives you a quick, impulsive hug before vanishing.

I’m going to be sick. I’m going to have a heart attack. I’m going to drop dead right in the middle of this fucking kitchen.

Leaving your can of Pepsi forgotten on the countertop, you escape to the living room and then out the French doors into the garden. You run past the pool all the way to the pond full of multicolored fish you once hadn’t known were koi. You drop to your knees, then lie down on the cold cobblestones, and when it hits you again—Aemond touching her, Aemond loving her—you rupture into sobs that are breathless and shuddering. You try to stifle the noise with your palms; you clasp them over your mouth and smother your wails. It feels like you’re being ripped apart; it feels like you’re in labor, but there is no end, no consolation of a new life, no point at which your body chooses whether you live or die. It is only a razored wheel that turns in you again and again and again, shredding muscle and splitting bones.

There is a hand on your shoulder; someone is patting it awkwardly. You look up to see Aegon standing there. “Sorry,” he says. “You look…not good.”

“I’m really not good. I’m fucking terrible.” Your face is soaked and stinging with tears, your voice is strangled.

“Do you want some coke?”

“No, Aegon.”

“Do you want a ride home?”

“From you? Yeah, for sure, getting impaled by a stop sign would be a great next move for me.”

“I’m totally fine to drive.”

“Can you just pull Amir aside without anyone else noticing and tell him to say his goodbyes and then meet me in the driveway, please? He drove me here. I need him to take me home.”

“Okay,” Aegon says, and then: “Thanks for the Cap’n Crunch Treats. Thanks for remembering something I like and caring enough to bring more. No one really does that around here.” And he’s gone before you can think of a reply.

To get to the driveway without going though the house, you climb over a 5-foot wrought iron fence swarmed with rosebushes and ivy, no easy feat in a black Kmart dress and matching ballet flats. You acquire a dozen shallow gashes on your hands and forearms, but make it to the Ford Escort just in time for Amir to meet you under the full, cloudless moon, tossing his car keys from one hand to the other.

“What did—?” Then he sees your face. He gasps, knowing how bad it is. He’s never seen you like this. He didn’t know it was possible for you to look like this. He unlocks the Ford Escort and joins you inside, turning the key in the ignition. “What the fuck did Aemond do to you?!”

“I have to go home. It’s over, it’s over, I can’t do this.”

Amir is spinning out of the driveway. “Did he hurt you, did he—?!”

“He fucked Christabel in Norway,” you say, sobbing uncontrollably. “And I know I have no right to be jealous, I know we don’t have a conventional relationship, I thought I could handle this but I can’t. I can’t stop picturing him with her, and hearing it, and I…I…I don’t understand why this hurts so goddamn bad.”

“Babe,” Amir says gently, a palm on your trembling thigh. “You’re in love with him. That’s why.”

“This is killing me,” you whisper. You’re shaking all over. You feel like you’re battling for every breath.

Your best friend—your only friend—is quiet for a long time. “Don’t go tomorrow,” Amir finally says. “You don’t need to see the wedding. You shouldn’t put yourself through that. I’ll go, I can handle the cake alone, especially if Cadi’s with me to help with carrying plates and stuff.”

You don’t say anything. You stare out the nightscape window and mop tears from your face with McDonald’s napkins you find in Amir’s glovebox.

“Did you hear me? I don’t think you should go to the wedding tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” you agree hoarsely. “I can’t watch them have my wedding.”

“Willis is dropping Cadi off in the morning, right? I’ll pick her and the cake up from your house and bring her back when it’s over. You can tell her whatever you want…you have another cake order to work on, you’re sick, you’re injured, your mom needs a ride to the doctor, whatever.”

“Okay,” you whimper.

“Hey, look at me.”

You do, sniffling, shivering, in agony.

“You don’t deserve this. You deserve better than this.”

I don’t think I do. I think if I did, it would have happened by now. But you know Amir will not accept this answer. “Okay,” you say again, trying to make yourself believe it.

In the gravel driveway of your sinking house, Amir asks if you want him to say. You tell him no, you want to be alone, you have to think, you have to plan. Really, you just don’t want anyone to see you this shattered. It’s humiliating, it’s like you’re an animal, like something less than human needing to licks its wounds in a dark place. You walk into the Fall-Down House and flip on the kitchen light, artificial yellow luminance. You don’t start the air conditioner. You don’t touch the Panasonic boombox. You stand there mindlessly in the sounds of the bayou: cicada screams, owl hoots, the far-away hissing of gators. The wedding cake is in the refrigerator, banana bread, cream cheese frosting, a kaleidoscope of wildflowers painted by Amir’s expert hand. He’s leaving. Aemond’s leaving. Everyone is leaving.

There are tires crunching on gravel in the driveway, there are footsteps on the sloping porch. He is able to yank the door open because you never lock it. He blows in like a storm that kills.

“What the hell happened?!” Aemond shouts. “Why did you leave?! You didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye to me—”

“You took her to Norway.”

Aemond’s face goes from furious to lost. “Why would she tell you that?”

Not That’s not true, not Let me explain, not It didn’t mean anything. Your stomach sinks, a basket full of stones. “Because she thinks I’m her friend.”

“It wasn’t…” Aemond sighs. “It was a last-minute thing, and it was her idea. She really, really wanted to go to Norway, and I figured…you know…what’s the difference between the wedding night and a few weeks before it? So yeah, it happened—”

“Oh God,” you whisper, starting to sob again.

“And then I came home to your house, to your doorstep, because I missed you the entire time. The entire time, every hour, every minute, and there are no exceptions, okay, are you listening to me? I took her to Norway because I had to. I took you and Cadi to Clarence House because I wanted to. What I do with her is a reflex, an obligation, I’m on autopilot, I’m thinking of you to get myself hard, I don’t know how else to express to you how completely different these situation are in every single goddamn way.”

“She said it was good,” you say huskily, tears snaking down your cheeks that are raw from trying to dab them dry.

“Of course it was good for her!” Aemond flings back. “I’ve had a lot of casual sex, I know how to make women come, it’s a math equation, it doesn’t mean we’re soulmates!”

“I know I have no claim to you, but I…” You gaze out the kitchen window, dark and still, nothing to see but stars and lighting bugs. “I can’t do this.”

Aemond asks, kindly now: “What do you want?”

I want to not have to beg you to choose me. “I want this to be over.”

“No,” he says, panicking. “No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You’re going to give this up as soon as it gets painful? I’m not worth fighting for, what I can do for you and Cadi isn’t worth a little pain? Because I’m no stranger to it either. You think I’m not hurting, you think nothing ever keeps me awake at night?”

“You could leave your prison any time you want to. But instead you built a brand new one around me.”

“You don’t understand what the kind of responsibility I’m beholden to feels like.”

“Yeah, a town named after Napoleon is the right place for you,” you seethe, enraged. “You’ve felt so fucking small your whole life that now you’re starving for what it tastes like to be in control. But I can’t let you destroy me. I can’t let my daughter grow up watching me settle for less than I need from a man. She’ll learn to live the same way.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Aemond,” you say, and you wait until he looks at you. “Do you really want children?”

When he answers, his voice frayed and his right eye misty. “I love Cadi.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you want children of your own with Christabel?”

“I have to,” he says, miserable.

“No,” you plead. “You cannot have a baby with that girl. You can’t, Aemond. You are going to ruin so many lives, not just your own.”

“I have to,” he says again.

“Then get out. Viserys owns you, and Viserys wouldn’t want you here. He would want you back at the mansion impregnating your child bride.”

“She’s a legal adult, she’s 19, and she wants me, she begs for me, I’m not twisting her arm—”

“Then go!” you roar, striking him hard, both palms to his chest. Aemond doesn’t budge. “Get out, go home, go have kids you won’t give a fuck about just like Viserys never cared about you. Go repeat the cycle all over again. I’m done. I can’t be a part of it.”

“I won’t be like him,” Aemond swears.

“You will be. You already are.” You shove him again, but still, Aemond doesn’t move. You know what he’s waiting for, you know the right word to say. But you can’t get it to launch from your lips; it catches in your throat like a blade through the windpipe. “Get out!”

Your fingers hook into the lapels of his black suit jacket and stay there; you can’t let go. You’re both breathing heavily; you can hear it, you can feel the heat in the air. You keep his jacket gripped in your hands, he can move no closer, no farther away. When he leans into you, you breathe in his smoke and cologne; when his hands cradle your face, you feel the benevolent power that once gave you peace.

I want him. I need him. Not forever, no, I understand that’s not possible. But just for right now.

You look up at him and Aemond kisses you, his lips and tongue claiming you like untouched land; he puts down roots, he slits the jugulars of trespassers.

Here. Now.

You drag him down with you. When you drop to the floor, you strike the back of your skull against the scuffed, sloping wood and bite back a yelp.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Aemond says, though it isn’t his fault; he reaches for your head and cushions it with his right hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” You’re tearing open his white shirt; tiny translucent buttons go flying in every direction. Your palms glide over his chest, up to his throat, to his jaw, to knot in his hair. He reaches beneath your dress to slide off your panties, then buries his fingers between your legs. You moan helplessly, needfully, spreading your thighs wider for him. No man has ever been able to do this to you before: to make you forget everything, to make you feel—if only for a moment—beloved, worthy, chosen. He’s kissing you like he knows this is the last time. You’re touching the left side of his face and he doesn’t even notice, he won’t realize until later that there was a time when he was cured.

Aemond pulls his wallet out of the pocket of his suit pants, flips it open, and roots through it until he finds a condom. He starts to rip it open, moving with desperate speed, dire impatience.

“No, don’t,” you say. “Please don’t. I want all of you.” And I won’t get another chance.

He exhales in deep, ecstatic relief; he wants it too. You’re soaked, you’re ready, you’re aching for him like mending bones. He eases himself into you, gasping, and you are stunned by how good it feels already, how close you are, every rope of nerves and muscle glimmering with an opening heat that builds higher and higher, the reverse of a tornado finally touching down on earth. His hands are linked with yours and pinned to the floor above your head; he’s kissing you, he’s moaning into you, he thrusts deeper and harder when you beg him to do it.

Aemond untangles one hand from yours and reaches low to stroke you. Your fingers find his again and catch him, capture him, bring his hand back to the floor where it can be entwined with yours and his weight can hold it to the scraped wood. “I don’t need it, I’m close. Stay here. Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” he whispers, panting; and the friction of his body against yours overtakes you, and when you come it is blinding, bone-breaking, a whirlpool that traps you for what feels like over a minute, soaring highs punctuated by the illusion of fading over and over again until you think you can’t stand it, and only then does it end, Aemond collapsing on the floor beside you covered in your sweat and your wetness, you feeling the remnants of him bleeding down your bare thighs.

You drag yourself upright—muscles sore in your belly and back and thighs—and roll onto your knees so you can stagger to your feet. You tug on your panties so he doesn’t drip out of you onto the floor. Then you straighten the skirt of your black dress, turn on the little pink Panasonic boombox—it’s a U2 song, Where The Streets Have No Name—and begin washing a muffin tin that was left in the sink.

Aemond stands up and runs a hand through his hair, getting his bearings. He looks down at his pants and fixes his zipper and belt. He tries to close his shirt and then remembers you tore off the buttons. They lie scattered across the floor, useless.

As you scrub the muffin tin, you hear Aemond’s footsteps behind you. His palms begin at the small of your back and then skate around your waist to encircle you.

“Stop,” you tell him; and immediately his hands fall away. Aemond waits for you to say more, but you don’t. You don’t even look at him.

He walks to where the kitchen becomes the living room—you can tell by the creaks in the floor—and again, he waits. After a while he says: “I’ll call you when the new house is ready.”

“No. Have Criston handle it. I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”

“You get that I’m in love with you, right?” Aemond forces out, and when at last you turn to him there is the metallic glistening of tears on his right cheek. “I never feel this way about anyone. I don’t know how to handle it, I didn’t even know it was possible. But it’s true.”

“It’s not enough,” you say simply, and resume scrubbing the muffin tin.

He waits in silence, thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes. Then the door opens and shuts—like the jaws of a beast—and he’s gone.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader[4.1k] that nick millar line that's like "stop being mean to me i'll fall in love with you." scoops!steve, record store!reader and some weird drabbles about how steve gets flustered i don't like this i'm sorry

Steve knew he was a goner when he spotted you stacking shelves at the record store. He’d asked Eddie your name and the boy had cackled, slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Harrington, she’d eat you alive.’

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Steve had answered. 

You wore boots with laces that were never fully tied, fishnet tights, bike shorts and too big T-shirts that served as dresses, gold rings on your fingers and ruby red lipstick on Saturdays. 

You looked like trouble, like a whole lot of fun and Steve took Eddie’s warning as a personal challenge. 

The first time he spoke to you, it was on his day off and he shoved some dollar bills at Dustin, Lucas and Max, told them to go to the arcade and stay in the arcade. 

He found you behind the register, perched on a tall stool and flicking through records, cassettes littering the desk and your foot tap, tap, tapping against the wooden legs. Your store was quieter than the rest of the mall, so Steve tried to act casual, thanked everything holy that he wasn’t wearing his scoops uniform and browsed the boxes of music. 

He kept letting his eyes flicker to you, the store dimly lit and smelling like old books and smoke, a stark contrast to the sweet sugar and bright lights of Scoops Ahoy. 

It was nice, Steve noted, cosy, warm, a strange kind of quiet despite the music that played overhead. He didn’t even own a record player, not anymore, not since he’d been gifted a shiny new Walkman for his Christmas after his parents were out of town on his birthday. 

But still, there was something calming about thumbing through the sleeves, some pre owned and fraying at the edges, arranged in their own box that was labelled ‘already loved.’ The handwriting was neat and romantic looking, big swirls and loops in the L’s and Steve wondered if it was yours, if you were sweeter than your big doc martens suggested. 

But then he took his choices to the cash desk and you looked up from the price labels you were sticking to each record, a smile that was like sunshine and sin on your lips. You looked him up and down, one eyebrow raised and now that he was closer, Steve could see a gold hoop in one nostril. 

He swallowed, tried to say something cool, something flirty, something alluring, but his throat was sticky like honey and he was suddenly speechless.  Steve Harrington had lines, he knew how to flirt - sometimes it didn’t work, he could admit that now - but not a single word came from his mouth. 

You were really something. A smirk rather than a smile, jewellery making you glitter, eyes lighting up at the sight of him and Steve felt like he had a neon sign above him, a shiny big arrow saying ‘fresh meat.’

He suddenly knew what Eddie had meant. He was out of his depth. 

“Hey, pretty boy.”

God, scratch that, he was drowning.

Your voice was sweet, lined with a laugh, like you knew something he didn’t and Steve Harrington had never been shy in his life but your words had his cheeks tinted pink and he could feel the same heat at the tips of his ears. 

“Did you find everything you needed?”

He stuttered, stammered, licked his lips and nodded instead. It was that magic kind of flirting, the kind where no one really spoke but the idea was heavy and thick and tension in it made your head spin. And maybe you weren’t as affected as Steve was, but the boy felt a little giddy with it, eyes nervously dancing between yours and your hands, watching the way you bagged up his records. 

He didn’t even know what he’d bought. 

But he took the bag from you with a smile that made him look really soft, hand warm as it brushed your own and he didn’t even wait for his change, he just backed out of the store with a dazed look in his eyes and the sound of your laughter following him. 

—————

The second time Steve saw you, was half way through his lunch break, his hands full of soda cans and wrapped up sandwiches for himself and Robin, ‘cause there were only so many tubs of rocky road he could have instead of real food. 

You were rounding the corner the same time as he was, barely managing to avoid colliding, shoulders bumping and a can of Dr. Pepper falling to the floor and making a break for it. It rolled enough for Steve to deem it a lost cause, telling himself he’d share his drink with Robin instead of trying to juggle it back into his already full arms. 

But then you were catching it, wiggling it at him between a finger and a thumb as you carefully tucked it in the free space under his chin. He gaped, realising who he’d bumped into too late. You were a pretty painting, black lines above your lashes all cat like, lips coloured in a soft rosy shade. The sweater you wore was too big, bike shorts barely peeking out from the hem and you made music as you moved, necklaces catching against each other. 

You were lovely. But your smile was dangerous. 

“Thanks, uh, thank you- for that,” Steve managed, trying to gesture to the soda but almost losing two sandwiches and a bag of chips in the process. “Shit.”  

“S’alright,” you told him softly and Steve had almost forgotten what your voice had sounded like, because after the first visit to the record store, he’d been too embarrassed to return. 

He’d kept watch from behind the ice cream freezer, sighing over you as he refilled mint chocolate chip and scattered more sprinkles on floor than he did atop of cones. Robin thought it was disgusting. 

“Lunch time?” You asked and it was obvious, the way you were making conversation, seemingly actually wanting to talk to him but Steve couldn’t wrap his head around why. 

He nodded, too fast, hair flopping into his eyes and he had no free hands to smooth it back. Was he red again? He felt warm. You were smiling, eyes on his, scanning his face, taking in each of his features without any shame, bold in each of your actions. 

Fuck. You were really pretty. 

“Uh yeah, yeah,” Steve managed, “for me and uh,” he looked back, saw Robin leaning over the cash register with a grin on her lips as she watched on, more than amused. “And uh…”

“Your girlfriend?” You prompted. You sounded intrigued, voice still soft. “The pretty one in the hat?”

“Oh no, god no,” Steve replied and you grinned at how quick he spoke. He shook his head, fumbled another sandwich was still gazing at you from behind his messy hair. “I mean, fuck, she’s pretty and yeah, she’s wearing a hat but— no, not my girlfriend.”

“Oh,” you were smiling, arms crossed as you tried not to full on grin at the way the boy was floundering, trying his best to assure you that his co-worker was definitely not his girlfriend. 

“I mean, we’re friends,” he was telling you, “best friends but like, super platonic. So platonic. I’m single.” Steve swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “So single.”

You didn’t miss the little ‘fuck,’  he whispered into the lunch he was still clutching to his chest and his cheeks went from rosy to ruby, a flush across the high points of his face that you would adorable. 

You didn’t say anything, not yet, but you leaned a little closer and pushed yourself onto your toes so you could sweep a hand through the front of his hair, pushing back the locks that had fallen into his face. 

Steve wondered if he had stopped breathing. 

“That’s better,” you hummed and you couldn’t help but huff out a laugh at his stricken expression. He looked panicked in the best way. 

Steve nodded and you took it as a thanks because his lips were parted and his brown eyes were turning into honey and he looked a little wrecked. It was fun, you realised, watching the way he reacted to you. 

“It’s Steve, right?” You tapped at his name badge, still standing too close for what some people would consider polite but Steve smelled like sugar and mint and the forest, like cedar or pine. 

Steve cleared his throat, tried not to stare at your lips when you said his name and he nodded, “yeah, uh— Steve Harrington.”

Another grin from you, wide and bright and fucking magical, because Steve decided that every time you smiled at him he felt like he was turning inside out. 

“Okay, Single Steve Harrington—” he cut you off with a groan and it was suddenly your new favourite sound. “—I need to get back to work, enjoy your lunch.”

“Right, yeah, shit,” he winced at the way his voice cracked and Jesus Christ, he thought to himself, what was he? Sixteen again? “Uh, do I get to know your name?” It was a lie. He knew your name. He’d asked Eddie weeks ago. 

And you must’ve been thinking the same because you laughed, reallt fucking cutely, Steve noticed, nose scrunched and eyes bright as you said, “don’t play coy, pretty boy, I know who your friends are.”

You left him standing there, cheeks still flushed, soft hair perfectly rumpled from how you’d pushed it back and you couldn’t help yourself. You turned, a head over your shoulder, lashes lowered as you looked him up and down, doing the least you could to try and hide it. 

“Hey Steve?”

The boy's head snapped round to you, eyes wide as ever. His pretty face was a question mark. 

“Nice shorts.”

—————

The third time, Steve was almost confident enough to say you sought him out. 

Because it was a slow Tuesday and the summer outside had reached its peak, the sun warming the mall through the glass roof like a greenhouse, the air stifling and hazy. It was too warm for even ice cream, most of Hawkins had seemed to decide, and even the kids had passed up on free samples in favour of spending a day at the pool. 

But there you were, record store lanyard missing from your neck which told Steve it was definitely your day off. And besides, if he happened to have remembered your shifts, well, that was just a coincidence. 

You swaned into Scoops with your usual confidence, a glint in your eye and a surprisingly bright sundress on your frame. You were still glittering with jewellery, chains and trinkets on your neck, delicate rings on each finger, tiny gold daisies hanging from your ears. Your dress was a startling red, cherry coloured and all the bare skin on show meant that Steve could see fine black lines of ink peeking out from beneath the cotton. 

He smiled at the way you still wore your boots, laces undone and rolled socks peeking out the top. You had spent some time talking between shifts now, “accidentally” bumping into each other when the mall was still closed, early morning starts spent standing in line together for a coffee as Steve tried his damn hardest to remember how to speak in your presence. 

It got a little easier and Steve could hold a conversation without his voice cracking, but every now and then he’d spot you already gazing at him and you had a look on your face that could take a man down to his knees. 

And god, did you know how good you looked in that dress? Did you understand what you did to him? Steve thought that maybe you did because you were leaning over the counter on your elbows and invading all of his personal space with the smell of your perfume and cocoa butter body lotion. 

You tapped out a beat with your fingernails, Ruby red to match your dress, hands dancing in gold, rings that Steve knew woild look so fucking pretty wrapped around his—

“Hey, pretty boy.”

The boy dropped his ice cream scoop and from an empty table behind you both, Robin snorted. 

“Hey, hi… hi,” he settled on, ducking behind the counter to retrieve his scoop and he tried not to wince at how decidedly unsmooth he was around you. 

He’d panicked to Robin more than enough times about it. How he managed to trip over his words, even his own feet, when he was around you. But, despite his friends usual teasing and unsupportive behaviour when it came to his dating like, she’d surprised him with:

“Well shit, Steve, she keeps coming back, doesn’t she?”

“Hi,” you repeated, grinning. “How’s it going?”

Steve smiled back, wider than he’d have liked, too happy, too pleased that you were here on your day off, in his store, standing talking to him whilst you looked like that. 

The hem of your dress swung at your thighs as you tapped your foot to music only you could hear and you were looking up at him with the most wicked expression. Steve had realised you seemed to save those looks for only him, the rest of your time spent in the record store ignoring the boys who tried to chat you up with cheap lines and shit chat. 

Steve sighed and looked around the empty store. “It’s going,” he replied. “What’re you doing here? Aren’t you… off today?”

“Keeping tabs?” You grinned and Steve flushed. 

It was your favourite thing. 

“What? No, no I—” if Steve could get away with volleying a ball of raspberry ripple at Robin right then, he could’ve. She was hiding her face in the pile of delivery notes but he could hear her laughter. “I just— yeah, shit, maybe I am.”

His admission made you preen, straightening up to catch the ends of that stupid, little sailor scarf between your fingers. You lifted one brow, looked at the boy through your lashes and wondered if you listened carefully enough, would you be able to hear the thumpthumpthump of his heart. 

Steve was almost certain you would. 

“That’s cute,” you mused, sighing dramatically, wistful almost, as you tugged at the scarf. Steve jolted closer, lips parted, eyes hooded as he tried his best to keep his gaze on yours. But your lips were right there. And so were your tits. “It’s a real shame you don’t use that knowledge to work out when to take me out on a date.”

Even Robin stilled. 

“A date?” Steve asked and you were so close, closer than you’d ever been ‘cause he could tell your lipgloss was cherry flavoured, he could smell the artificial sweetness, could count the freckles on your nose. 

You nodded, smiled, let your eyes flicker down to where he was licking at his lips and you felt the way he sighed. He had a knuckle white grip on his side of the counter, arms flexed as he leaned in, letting you hold him as close to you as you dared. 

“Y’know… dinner, maybe a movie, a hot little fumble in the backseat of your car before you kiss me goodnight and go home to take a cold shower?” 

“Christ,” Steve breathed and you watched the way he flushed, eyes drooping prettily as he seemingly thought out your scenario. “Yeah— yeah, I can do that, fuck, we can do that.”

The grin that took over your face was more than pretty and Steve was about done for when you finally let go of his sailors scarf, only to reach up and brush back his hair again. He let you, eyes full of sticky fondness,  a little awe as your fingertips brushed across the top of his forehead. 

“Great,” you told him, backing away, boots scuffing across the parlour tiles. “You can pick me up at eight on Saturday.”

—————

Steve had never been so nervous on a date. 

The good kind, an excitement he’d almost forgotten about and he revelled in the way his stomach tumbled, cheeks flush and lips bitten as he waited for you to appear from your front door. 

You’d smiled at his shyness, ducked your head in a similar fashion when he told you how pretty you looked and then it was a night of feet touching under the diner table, stealing the crispy fries from his plate and Steve pretending that he cared. 

He eventually calmed down enough to talk about everything and anything with you, his job, education, his parents, his friends. And when he’d finished making you laugh like it was his new hobby, you both realised too late that you’d missed the movie. 

But you didn’t seem to care, happy to walk shoulder for shoulder with the boy through the emptying mall, watching him with a smile as he worked up enough courage to hold your hand. 

You let him, hands tangling, a finger gently prodding his pink cheek and he swatted at you with a smile, a fond roll of his eyes and then that was it. 

You didn’t leave his side after that. 

The windows of his car were rolled down as he parked up near the water tower, wheat fields and the forest hiding you both from the rest of the down. The summer air smelled sweet, like leftover barbecue smoke and wet grass and Steve had the radio on low as you teased him about his music taste, the way he’d bitten his bottom lip raw from being so close to you. 

He could take it better now, your little mean streak, the one that liked to push his buttons and turn him pink. He still flushed when you called him pretty boy, heard his breath hitch when you stretched your bare legs over his, back pressed to the passenger door as you let the wind pick at your hair. 

But he got a little braver and let his hands smooth over your shins, eyes flickering from yours to the way your sundress was played messily across the tops of your thighs. Steve was a gentleman about it though, listened when you spoke, asked you questions and got to know you, making those eyes at you, even if he didn’t realise. 

“Did you come in that day just to buy those records?” 

Steve snorted, let his cheek turn and press against the headrest so he could look at you with those big brown eyes, wild hair that you ached to brush away. 

“I don’t even have a record player anymore.”

Your laugh was a whole other type of song and it warmed Steve more than the summer night did. 

“You don’t?” You grinned, nudging a foot into his thigh. “Steve Harrington, you’re a damn fool.”

“If you keep bein’ mean to me,” Steve grinned, voice full of tease and sticky sweet affection, “m’gonna fall in love with you, you know?”

And he did. 

—————

You didn’t grudge Robin for the way she rolled her eyes at you upon seeing you walk into Scoops. You couldn’t. She knew, she knew that you knew. So you just smiled.

“Is Steve….?”

“In the back,” she groaned good naturedly. “You’re lucky we’re dead.”

You grinned, blew the girl a kiss and slipped through the staff only door. The door to the walk-in freezer hummed and music came from the break room, quiet and crackling with static from the old radio. You found the boy at the table, feet kicked up on a stool as he played with his empty bottle of soda. 

Steve lit up when he saw you, an unexpected visit as you were on a late shift at your own store, the chances of you both getting lunch at the same time slim. But you’d bartered with your boss, promising that all of the new stock that had been delivered would get done before close. He’d rolled his eyes and grudgingly agreed, muttering about your new boyfriend and how he was affecting your work ethic. 

You hadn’t used that word yet. ‘Boyfriend.’ And neither had Steve, but that was okay. You were enjoying that inbetween stage that came with uncertainty and butterflies, second guesses and kicking your feet in your bed at night when he dropped you off, each new kiss feeling like another first. 

And you were still making the boy blush, the prettiest pink across his cheeks, stealing reasons to touch him whenever you could, playing with the ends of his hair as he spoke, pressing a hand to the skin under his shirt when you wanted his attention. 

Which was a waste of time, if you asked Steve - you always had his attention, whether your hands were on him or not. Not that he ever complained.

In fact, he looked downright ecstatic when you dropped yourself in his lap, pleated skirt hitching up your thighs as you grinned down at him, pink cheeks, messy hair and sailor boy uniform to boot.

“Hey, pretty boy.”

“Hello to you too, trouble,” he’d gotten better at that part, talking to you without falling over his own words, more flirt and confidence in his voice than the first time you’d met. “I didn’t think I was gonna see you until after work.”

“Sold my soul for you,” you pouted, lifting his little hat and placing it atop your own head. “Promised that a full delivery would be finished before close.”

Steve tried to pout back, but he couldn’t help but smile at how you bargained just to be able to come see him. The sailor hat was perched adorably on top of your head, a little squint and with a cherry ice cream stain on the side. His hands palmed at your hips, squeezing gently and you lifted a brow to gaze down at him questioningly. 

“Robin already isn’t happy I’m back here distracting you,” you smiled, “don’t start something you can’t finish - or win.”

“Win?” Steve scoffed, “sweetheart give me a little cred-”

The boy’s words died in his throat as you stood only to swing a leg over his lap, straddling his thighs with your own, fishnet tights stretched over your skin. You brought your hand to his chin, caught it between finger and thumb and smoothed the pad of it over his bottom lip. You tugged a little meanly, let it fall back with a cute ‘pop’ and grinned at how he was already flushed for you, eyes a little glassy and unfocused, cheeks turning pink.

“You’re too easy, Steve,” you whispered, stretching your arms over his shoulders, fingers tugging through the messy curls at the nape of his neck. You leaned in as if to kiss him, turned before he could catch you and pressed your nose to his cheek instead, letting him feel your smile against his jaw before you mouthed at it.

“You smell so good,” you sighed, voice hitched a little higher than normal, a little breathier. “Could just eat you up.”

“You’re a demon,” Steve huffed, canting his hips up into yours, hands squeezing more tightly at your waist but he did nothing to stop you from tugging at his hair. He let his head fall back, exposing his throat to you and your mouth. “Baby.”

“Baby. Love when you call me that,” you cooed, planting a line of kisses along the column of his neck, nipping at his ear lobe as you pressed yourself against his chest. “Makes me feel so sweet.”

Steve groaned, barked out a laugh that ended in a hiss because you rocked yourself against him, grinding down and grinning. “Yeah? You’re anything but,” he lied.

“Mean,” you teased, bringing your mouth to hover over the boys, lips just grazing his. “You don’t think I’m sweet? That’s not what you said the other night.”

You were pouting, pushing your lips to Steve’s in a barely there kiss before pulling away, running a hand over the front of his hair, pushing it back so you could see the way his eyes glazed over at your words. He knew what you were referencing, of course he did. How could he forget?

“I distinctly remember you telling me that you thought I tasted real sweet in the back of your car,” you grinned, wicked, cupped the boy’s face and smoothed your thumbs over the high points of his cheekbones. “There is it,” you whispered.

A blush, pink and warm and rosy, just for you, even after Steve had spent countless times between you legs, lips sucking, mouth too busy to do anything but moan. He was pink even then. But this? Now?

“I think you’re the sweet one.”

[saintrocklee]

*:･ﾟ✧ RESTRAINT ╰┈➤ part 01 of 05

masterlist | pairing: itachi x reader publish date: 03.28.24 warnings: itachi is annoying and reader is exasperated. you deserve a raise.

“Do you have any plans Saturday evening?”

The speed in which your head comes out from under your desk is record breaking. You'd been working in comfortable silence for over an hour and the sudden noise is startling. Reorganizing your workspace meant going through old files which led to you awkwardly retrieving some that had ended up on the floor — so you couldn't be certain that your boss was speaking to you. Surely there was a client in his office that somehow got past you, regardless of how late in the workday it was. Or maybe he was dealing with an unscheduled phone call. Or maybe the tightly wound man had finally cracked and was talking to himself.

Or maybe something came up and you'd both be sacrificing yet another weekend scrambling to get contracts fulfilled and signatures on the dotted line. The thought fills you with dread and you once again think about how unfortunate you were to be salaried.

You crane your neck to look into your boss' office and can't help but crinkle your forehead in confusion when you're met with an amused look. Both of the large glass doors to the space were propped open today and your employer was currently watching you with a slight curl to his lips. There was a file in his hands he'd no doubt been reading, partially obscuring the way his shirt had become un-tucked and wrinkled. His suit jacket was long gone and his sleeves were rolled up, making you wonder where exactly his cuff links were. He'd been wearing a rather expensive pair you bought for his birthday last year and if they were just sitting out getting scratched up by his glass desk you might strangle him with the tie that was loose around his neck. Which you also conveniently bought for him. Strands of dark hair were starting to come loose from the low ponytail he always wore, falling almost elegantly around his face.

It was completely unfair how effortlessly handsome Itachi Uchiha was. You'd almost be bold enough to call him pretty.

There's a pregnant, almost awkward pause as you continue to furrow your brow

“I’m not sure, I’ll have to check.”

You’re greeted with silence and a perfectly arched brow, him obviously wanting you to check now, and abandon your efforts of reorganization to stand and grab your phone. You're honestly dying to ask why he wanted to know but you’ll only be met with a bored look instead of an answer. Rolling your eyes to yourself while checking your calendar, you miss the way Itachi's mouth curls at your obvious annoyance with him.

A quick flip through your work and personal calendar confirm that you were completely free on Saturday. A rare occurrence.

Something told you that he already knew that.

“I’m free, why? Did Kakuzu finally get back to you?” You toss the words over your shoulder, snorting at the ridiculous email you’d just been sent by a newer business partner. They wanted what felt like twenty four hour access and at the level they were at, they might receive a quarterly sit down. You type out a professional and very sweet no to their request for a last minute meeting before turning and walking into Itachi’s office, flicking through the slew of emails you received since last checking.

Stopping right as you reach his desk, you glance down and immediately notice an extremely fancy envelope. It was thick and gold and shiny and very out of place in the otherwise grayscale office. You'd once said the space felt drained and lifeless, to which Itachi had responded with a comment that sounded like less distractions before handing you a heavy pile of client needs. The evil glint in his eye had been more than enough to warrant a barbed comeback of some sort but you'd rewarded him with a nod and a too-wide smile, already plotting petty revenge.

That entire following week you made sure to only use neon-colored post it notes you borrowed from the new girl downstairs to communicate with him; sticking them all over his computer, desk, and even his door. He never commented on it but you'd caught him glaring at a few neon pink post its and would sometimes hear the paper shredder working overtime.

To this day you still occasionally left him a colorful note when you thought he needed cheering up. Or when you felt like being obnoxious.

Itachi inclines his head toward the gaudy thing while barely looking away from the file in his hands, clearly not going to explain it or himself. Your lips curl to show your annoyance and you pick it up, noting how heavy it was. Further investigation shows that it was already opened and you pull out the glossy paper, eyes widening marginally.

It’s an invitation.

To a gala.

“Itachi ... what is this?” you ask, flipping it over. The date was scrawled on the back in elegant cursive, as well as the location and other impertinent details. Itachi's name is at the bottom, along with room for a plus one, and you blink when you recognize the logo stamped at the bottom.

It was an annual fundraising event frequented by artists, actors, CEOs, musicians — pretty much everyone rich and important that you could think of. This event could be described as the gathering of the year and it was something your boss routinely skipped. You’re almost positive you’ve already emailed the event coordinator to mark Itachi down as a no with some excuse you made up to keep up appearances. He hated events like these and pretty much had you automatically declining any and all invitations extended to him.

You lift your head back up and deadpan at the look he’s giving you. There's the barest hint of a smile on his face and his eyes betray the amusement he's feeling towards your apparent confusion. Itachi didn’t speak unless absolutely necessary which left you to interpret all of his subtle looks and the annoying twinkle in his eye spoke volumes.

It’s obviously for you his perfectly sculpted brow communicates and this time you make sure he sees you roll your eyes.

“You want me to go?”

His lips twitch as he hums, confirming your suspicions, and you blink.

“Are you going?” You question, frowning and tracing your fingers over the delicate raised writing. He made a sizeable donation every year — maybe there were expectations of an in person appearance now.

That still didn't explain your part in all of it.

Itachi’s eyes dance as he speaks, closing the file in his hands and turning his full attention to you.

“Yes. Your attendance is not required, but it is customary to bring a date to these sort of things.”

A breathless laugh escapes you.

“A date.” You repeat, falling back into one of the chairs that faced his desk, finally relaxing when you realized he wouldn't send you to the wolves alone. His amused look quickly morphs into the stereotypical Uchiha deadpan and you feel yourself smile, gearing up to tease him.

As attractive and charming and successful as your employer was, the assumption would be that he’d have no problem finding a woman to hang on his arm, especially for the social event of the year. The only issue was that Itachi was terrible with women. From what you could discern from your position it wasn't from lack of experience, you’re sure he could charm anyone with just a curl of his lips and a warm look, but simply because he despised most people he came into contact with. You’d never seen him date or even welcome advances from other women and now …

Now he was forced to ask his glorified receptionist to attend a glorified ball with him. Because who else would he ask? Who else did the impassive, monosyllabic man in front of you know?

It’s honestly funny. You snort and try to cover it up by clearing your throat.

“You’re having trouble ... finding a date.”

Legendary Uchiha eyes narrow at you in obvious displeasure and you hide your widening grin behind your hand.

“I’m sure there's a list of eligible women I can call to escort you.” You tease, knowing that if your boss was anyone else he’d roll his eyes at you.

Your offer wasn't a fabricated one though. Working this closely with the Itachi Uchiha over the years gave you connections you wouldn’t normally have and there were plenty of models and artists, even a couple of actresses, that you could call. No doubt they would immediately say yes at the chance to be escorted by him. You're already making a mental list when Itachi cuts off your train of thought with three words.

"I prefer you.”

The laughter in your belly fizzles out as you gawk at him. Surely you didn’t hear that right. You wait for him to take it back but Itachi doesn’t move. So, you sort of … freeze.

He said it so casually. Like it was obvious. There was a finality to it that left absolutely no room for discussion. He sounded like he meant it.

A curious ringing starts to buzz in your ears as you swallow dryly in surprise. You can only blink and scramble for any kind of response while your chest stutters in muted confusion.

This was dangerous.

Bottomless black eyes hold yours with an intensity you’re not used to receiving, keeping you pinned to your seat. The message there is clear. You weren’t a last minute choice, you were the choice.

You’re not quite sure what to do with that information.

“Be ready by eight o’clock.” He says in response to your stunned silence, face softening and eyes starting to once again sparkle with amusement. It’s rare, that he’s able to stun you like this, and your jaw ticks.

This was very dangerous.

"I didn't even say I was going."

The office plunges into tense silence and a part of you is already scolding yourself for not just accepting the damn invite and moving on. There's something unspoken hanging between you two now and a line you've tried very hard not to think about begins to materialize in front of you. It's a line you've seen before and every time it appears you seem just a little bit closer to it. This time it feels magnetic but you remain stubborn and ignore the pull entirely. The other part of you, the prouder part that enjoys hiding Itachi's tie clips whenever he forgot to tell you about meetings, the part that is typically infuriated with the man in front of you, wants you to dig your heels in. If he wanted something, he could ask. Until then you would stay where you were and continue on, business as usual.

Safer. This was safer.

Only now the silence was going from tense to uncomfortable. You could refuse him — this wasn't something for work. This was, at its core, a social gathering that for some reason Itachi felt compelled to go to this year.

With you.

As his date.

Not as his office manager. Not as his scheduler. Not as his secretary. Not as his assistant.

His date.

There were implications that went along with it that you were trying extremely hard to ignore. You weren’t like the other women in the office with superficial crushes. You wouldn’t go there. You couldn’t go there.

But he was asking.

This shouldn’t be causing you so much stress. Work was work and when something showed up on your schedule, you went. When conferences and mergers came up, you went.

But this was something else entirely.

And he was asking.

The proud part of you finally wilts and you look away with a long suffering sigh.

"Fine."

You're rewarded with a snort and when you snap your head back Itachi is already back to reading the file in his hands, signaling that this conversation was over. You're half tempted to throw the invitation, gaudy envelope included for maximum impact, at his head but instead stand to go put it in your purse.

Itachi glances up when he's sure your back is fully turned to watch you leave his office. You’d worn a pair of slacks that were climbing to the top of his list of favorites and admires the view you offer while mulling over what had just transpired. You'd given in almost too easily and his pulse jumps at the implication. He expected you to ask for something in return, to tease and poke at him, maybe even flat out refuse — and you exceeded his expectations by accepting rather quickly.

Charming, he thinks to himself as you go back to painstakingly reorganizing your desk. The way your mouth had parted and your pupils had blown when he'd told you why he chose you to attend this godforsaken gala with him had been charming. Endearing. Teeth achingly adorable. He savored moments like those, moments where he could bully past the professional and sarcastic buffer you put up. As much as Itachi enjoyed the banter you both had developed over the years, there was something infinitely more satisfying about the raw moments shared between you two. He knows he's gearing up to cross a line that wasn't meant to be crossed between a superior and their employee but he finds himself selfishly wanting more. He's almost certain you feel the same.

Almost.

Regardless, doing nothing had proven to be useless. You two had become close over the years and he could no longer deny his feelings for you. He couldn't smother the burn in his chest whenever you got too close to whisper something in his ear or slid him a ridiculous note during a presentation. Itachi couldn't fight off the weightless feeling that came with you falling asleep on his shoulder at the airport while waiting for the red-eye. He couldn't stop himself from brushing against you as you walked to lunch, couldn't help but pin his partners with a look when they paid a little too much attention to you, couldn't restrain himself from purposefully getting on your nerves so you'd roll your pretty eyes at him or reward him with a exasperated lecture. Time and time again Itachi found himself helplessly being pulled into your orbit and selfishly wants you to feel as he does. To burn like he does.

Distantly Itachi can hear Kisame calling him a spoiled brat and can't help but curl his lips. In regards to you and you alone, Itachi would begrudgingly agree with his best friend's assessment.

You spoiled him with your time, your hard work, your attention. The sweets you kept in your desk for him, the way you juggled his life almost effortlessly, the way you made sure to have his favorite tea stocked at all times. The way your eyes would sparkle when you'd use glitter pens to write in his personal planner, the way you always anticipated his needs, the way you were always there for him.

Itachi owes you a great deal, personal feelings aside, and this weekend would be the first of many occasions he plans to repay you.

All you needed to do was keep saying yes. He's almost certain you will.

Once you fully agreed, once you knew the extent of his feelings for you and accepted them, once you finally let the barrier come down and crossed the line with him, Itachi's restraint would give out and he would give in to everything he's felt from the moment he realized you were more than just another nameless employee at his company.

You just needed to keep saying yes.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Ch. 1 - The Handsome Stranger

Summary: The year is 1969. The place is the International Hotel. Valerie Pedretti, an aspiring singer, has a chance encounter with one Elvis Presley in an elevator that will change her life forever. Notes: To me, 1967-1971 EP is kind of peak Elvis, and so I wanted to write a fic with him smack dab in that time period. In the 1969-1970 period, especially, Elvis was probably the most handsome and alluring man in the galaxy. Lots of anachronisms and historical inaccuracies in this one, but just roll with it because it's fun! I based Valerie, in a sense, off of a mixture of Kathy Westmoreland, Joyce Bova, and Linda Thompson. Kathy met the real Elvis for the first time in an elevator, and that really inspired this work. Priscilla exists in this universe but she and Elvis get a divorce far earlier than in real life. Theirs, in some ways like real life, is a marriage of convenience and an "arrangement." Lisa Marie does not exist in this universe.

Las Vegas, Nevada, 1969

*

Vegas was shimmering mirage of bad decisions just waiting to snare me—a sucker-punch I never saw coming. The lights, the noise, the impossible promise of it all crashed over me in kaleidoscopic waves as my cab cruised down the strip towards the International Hotel. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching slack-jawed as sequined showgirls and vacationers blurred by in streaks of neon and rhinestone.

The cabbie swerved to the curb with a jolt, snapping me out of my daze. "International Hotel," he barked, his voice an ice bath to my face. I shoved a crumbled wad of bills into his hand and  stumbled out and into a swarm of hairspray and cigar smoke congregating under the hotel's blazing marquee. Blinking in confusion, I took in the frenzied scene unfolding—beefy security shoving their way through the sea of pompadours, vendors hawking glossy headshots, teddy bears and "I 🖤 ELVIS" pins. The realization hit me like a freight train. This wasn't just any weekend at the International. It was the kickoff of Elvis Presley's residency. Ground zero for absolute Elvis mania.

The irritation set in, simmering beneath my skin. "Shit," I muttered, suddenly feeling foolish for forgetting. Of all the rotten luck. Out of all the times to visit Las Vegas, I had unwittingly chosen the kickoff of Elvis's shows—an event drawing crowds I had no desire to mingle with.

I wove through the throng, lugging my cumbersome suitcases behind me. Inside the lobby was even more chaotic—a swirling kaleidoscope of big-haired fans and cigarette smoke lingering over shag carpet. Elvis was everywhere, his angelic face beaming down from posters, gold records, life-sized cardboard cutouts. A veritable religious shrine. Groaning internally, I caught my bedraggled reflection in a mirrored column. Of course I would show up to the Presley Promised Land looking like something the cat dragged in. Normally I'd at least try to pull myself together for check-in, maybe swipe on some lipstick or fluff my chocolate curls into place. After all, I didn't want to look terrible in front of people dressed to the nines. But after the day I'd had, I couldn't muster the effort.

My flight from Chicago had been delayed six excruciating hours due to "mechanical issues," which apparently was airline-speak for "sit tight while we screw you over." By the time we finally took off, I'd already stress-eaten two sleeves of Oreos and read the in-flight magazine three mind-numbing times. To top it off, I'd spilled coffee all over my only nice blouse right before landing. Clearly, some divine power had it out for me today.

Feeling sweaty and vaguely nauseous, I trudged to the front desk. The angular blonde behind the counter, Brenda, barely glanced up from her well-thumbed issue of Variety as I approached.

"Welcome to the International Hotel. Checking in?" She smacked her gum, eyes never leaving her magazine.

"Yes, uh, reservation should be under Deena Lovelace."

That finally got her attention. Her penciled brows shot up as she inspected me, taking in the coffee stains and rumpled slacks. "Wait, you're Deena? The Deena who told me she booked for the Sinatra audition tomorrow?" The doubt was palpable.

I gritted my teeth into a tight smile. "No, actually. I'm her friend Valerie. Deena got sick at the last minute, some kind of exotic flu, so I'm filling in for her."

Suspicion clouded Brenda's face, but after a long beat she shrugged. "Huh. Well, takes all kinds, I guess." She signaled to a bellhop in a red monkey suit and thrust a key into my hand. "Room 2806, elevators are that way. If you need anything, ask for Hector."

Hector the bellhop scurried over and hoisted up my bags with surprising ease for such a slight guy. I made a weak attempt to protest, but he just grinned and ushered me through the cacophonous lobby to the first hallway. The doors slid open and I thanked him, pressing a few crumpled bills into his white-gloved hand.

“I can take it from here, Hector.”

As I walked along, I looked at my reflection in the mirrored wall and exhaled slowly. My nerves buzzed like an exposed wire as I thought about tomorrow's audition. Landing a spot in the Sinatra chorus line seemed about as likely as shooting the moon at this point. I barely knew the song Deena had been rehearsing for weeks, my go-go boots had a broken heel, and my voice was ragged from practicing the whole weekend.

But damn it, this was the first real shot I'd had in ages to claw my way out of the chambermaid grind and actually make something of myself. To prove Ma right for always saying I had stardust in my veins, even when it landed me more trouble than applause growing up. I had to at least try. For all those thankless nights warbling in dim lounges, waiting for my big break. For Deena, who I knew would kill for this chance.

I'd barely begun my little pep talk when someone brushed by me, sloshing their vodka tonic onto my sleeve and snapping me back to the present moment. I weaved through the crowd towards another inner hallway, clearing my throat.

I turned on my heel and started hoofing it towards my room. The hotel's layout was an absolute dizzying mess of twists and turns in every direction. My thudding, ungainly footsteps were muffled by the shag carpet and the dulled roar of fans congregating throughout the hotel.

As I trudged on, the ambiance shifted gradually. The hum of voices faded away, replaced by an overwhelming silence that signaled I was getting farther away from the bustling core. Exhaustion tugged at my bones while I navigated the maze of hallways. My room was somewhere in this labyrinth, but my bed felt worlds away at this point.

My steps sank into the plush carpet as I drifted into a quieter, dimly-lit corridor that seemed less traveled. Finally, I found myself alone in front of a bank of elevator doors. I stabbed the call button and waited impatiently, my arms aching from the weight of my overstuffed suitcases. God, why did I pack so much useless junk?

"Must be close now," I muttered out loud, my voice barely audible.

With barely a thought, I slipped out of my heels and bent my toes backwards and forwards, allowing my sore feet to relish the heavenly softness underfoot. It was soft, springy, and absolute relief for my aching soles. Automatically, I began humming a familiar, nameless tune under my breath - just a few sweet, absentminded notes I always turned to for comfort when I needed it. The thought of finally washing this endless day off my face and jumping into a crisp hotel bed was the only thing on my mind as the gilded doors opened with a tinny ding.

*

The cab was empty. Relieved to finally have a moment to myself, I dragged my heavy bags inside and slumped against the mirrored wall. As the doors started to slide closed, a large, ring-adorned hand suddenly shot out, halting them.

I straightened up with a jolt, my exhaustion replaced by a flash of irritation. Great, just what I needed, another overzealous Elvis fan trying to cram into my personal space bubble.

But as the interloper stepped into the elevator, my breath caught in my throat. Standing before me, in all his smoldering, technicolor glory, was the man himself. Elvis fucking Presley. The aura he gave off was undeniable, that much was sure. And I recognized his face immediately, the same one splashed all over the posters and knick knacks in the lobby. There he was, outshining the garishly glitzy elevator cab like a supernova eclipsing neon. And next to him, a well-built redheaded man, his hand resting at something shiny on his hip. Bodyguard, most likely. Quickly, I shoved my feet back into my heels, silently cursing myself for having taken them off in the first place.

I blinked hard, convinced I must be hallucinating from sheer fatigue. But no, he was unquestionably real, from the polished black shoes to the perfectly coiffed onyx hair that shone like quicksilver in the light. His lean, powerful frame was draped in an immaculately tailored black suit, a shock of pink peeking out from the silk scarf knotted at his throat. But it was the penetrating, electric blue gaze behind tinted shades that truly unraveled me.

I'd never considered myself much of an Elvis fan. Sure, I could appreciate a catchy tune like "Don't Be Cruel" or "Teddy Bear," but I'd always been immune to the mass hysteria he incited in his besotted admirers. Yet here, in such close proximity to his cosmic charisma and undeniable sex appeal, I finally understood. This man was a force of nature.

The redhead caught my awestruck stare and chuckled knowingly. "I see you've met my friend Jon Burrows here," he said with a wink.

But this was no "Jon Burrows." I knew who it was, plain as day. And his affect on me was immediate. Was I dreaming? My pulse started racing. Should I say something? And just how the hell did this happen? I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing hard. Play it cool, Valerie.

Any lingering self-consciousness about my frazzled appearance just evaporated in the sheer force of his presence. Though judging by the unmistakably mischievous curl of his lip, my travel-battered state didn't seem to faze him one bit. His perceptive eyes met mine, always accustomed to the spotlight but now studying me with curiosity. He took in my slumped posture and visible fatigue without a hint of judgment.

"You've had yourself a long day, haven't you, honey?" That voice, richer than a Mississippi smokehouse, sliced right through me.

I could only nod dumbly, a lump forming in my throat. "I—uh, yeah. No. I mean... yes, you could say that," I stammered like an idiot. Get it together!

His smile was pure bewitchment. "Well, you'll be tucked in in no time, I reckon. I hear the beds are mighty comfortable here." 

I looked up at the ceiling in silence, tracing the swirling pattern with my mind's eye and trying to give off a vibe of cool indifference. But my stomach was actually rolling.  

To my surprise, he kept talking. "Pardon my manners. My name's Elvis, and this is my pal Red. Who might you be?"

My throat locked tighter than a cowboy's bullwhip. "Valer—?"

"Valerie." He drew the name out, savoring each note and curve as if testing its ring. Each single syllable seemed to undergo some mystical transformation, alchemized to pure liquid amber from his lips. "A pretty name for a pretty little songbird." A ringed hand discreetly adjusted the bejeweled cups shielding his gaze, maybe hoping to make out my sides better.

Elvis was still steadily playing the blue suede shoes off me, from his elegant bent stance to the teasing half-smirk barely shadowing those indolently hungover features—the whole routine daring me to go chasing his bait. But I was far too busy trying not to spontaneously combust. I screwed my eyes tightly shut for a half-moment, desperately grasping to regain some sense of composure with an oxygen-deprived brain. 

How did he know...?

Dumb question, Sherlock. The very notion conjured images of me, sweat-glazed and punchy-tired, mindlessly vocalizing sweet lullabies straight from my Off-Off-Broadway chambermaid days while I waited for the elevator. Of course he would've overhead that.

I cinched my mouth into what I hoped was a blasé half-smile, refusing to come completely uncorked by his pet name. I replayed the embarrassing moment in my head, wishing I could dissolve into the elevator shaft. Every breath I pulled in seemed to crackle with electricity. First I randomly share an elevator with The Elvis Presley, and now he'd overheard my nervous vocalizing and was complimenting me on it?

"Baby." A rich, salt-cured chuckle melted off his tongue, resining deep in my nerve center. "I got ears like a well-tuned radar dish. You in town for a show?"

I shook my head slowly. "Technically yes, but no. Just an audition," I replied, my heart thundering in my ears. I hoped he couldn't hear it pounding.

"Who for, if you don't mind me asking?" he inquired with that laser gaze.

I sucked in a steadying breath. Might as well take the bait since I'd already been barb-hooked but good. "I'm here for an audition, actually. Tomorrow. For Sinatra. I'm a singer. I mean, not like you, but hopefully one day..." I paused, unsure of how much backstory was worth burdening Elvis with. "Just got a last minute sub-in for a friend who's under the weather."

Something flickered across Elvis' handsome features before the mask of idle curiosity slid back into place. "Is that right?" His gaze raked over me again, slower this time, more deliberate. "And what will you be singing for Ol' Blue Eyes?"

Shit. Why was he asking me so many questions? My palms started to sweat as I racked my brain for a suitable answer. It wasn't like I could admit that I barely knew the material, that I was flying by the seat of my pants on a far-fetched favor for a friend. So I settled for a half-truth instead.

"Oh, you know. Just a little medley of standards. 'To Keep My Love Alive,' 'I Can Cook, Too,' that kind of thing."

Elvis nodded slowly, a shadow of a smirk still playing on his lips. "A classic set list. I'm sure you'll knock 'em dead, honey."

I started to stammer out a thanks, but Elvis was already moving past me towards the door as the elevator finally shuddered to a stop. He paused, throwing a glance back over his shoulder. There was a new intensity in his eyes when they met mine, a dark promise that made my toes curl involuntarily in my heels.

"I'll be rooting for you, songbird. Break a leg."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me weak-kneed and dizzy in a cloud of his smoky-spicy cologne. I sagged against the wall, trying to collect myself. What in the ever-loving hell had just happened? Had I honestly just been shamelessly eye-fucked by Elvis Presley in an elevator?

More importantly, why had I liked it so much?

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the treacherous thoughts as I finally stumbled out into the harshly lit hallway. It was late, I was tired, and I had an audition to rest up for. The last thing I needed was to dwell on smoldering looks from a celebrity Casanova that I had no business panting over in the first place.

But even as I went through the motions of unlocking my room and sinking face-first into the marshmallowy duvet, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to the electric encounter in the elevator. The way Elvis had stared at me, equal parts scorching and inscrutable, as if he was trying to crack some tantalizing code. There was no way I could have imagined that. The effortless command he'd exuded, the sheer magnetism rolling off of him in waves. How ridiculously, unexpectedly good he still looked, hips swiveling in slow-motion in my mind's eye...

I punched a pillow in frustration, annoyed with my traitorous libido. This was so far beyond the scope of anything I'd anticipated when I'd agreed to sub in for Deena's audition. But one thing was certain—my time in Vegas was shaping up to be a hell of a lot more interesting than I'd bargained for. And something told me that a chance run-in on a hotel elevator was only the beginning.

[slowd1ving]

I. THAT'S WHAT ALL THE PEOPLE SAY ･ﾟ FRANCIS MOSSES

"Your usual, Mr Francis Mosses?” you repeat with the same inflection. It has to stay the same. A name to a star will not make it any more personal – it’ll remain the same cold distance away, stay the same burning core of amorphous light, in a fixed set of constellations. It has to. But you’ve overlooked the most salient point. Humans are not stars. There's a reason you stuck with this shitty diner job: routine. So, why the hell does that keep changing for you? warnings + general: amab!reader, nsfw, depression, smoking + unhealthy habits, diner au, trauma, military background (made up unit for doppelgangers) so canon divergence, obsession lowkey

MISC. MASTERLIST

THAT'S LIFE MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

NEXT PART・

‘That’s life (that’s life), that’s what all the people say.’

Tinny, crackling music permeates the small diner. Sound waves echo against the chequered tiles bathed azure in the blue hour, and return to the record player in an endless cycle. Rinse and repeat. Devour yourself and be devoured in exchange. Ouroboros.  

Is there particular meaning to be found in musing over such philosophy? Maybe, maybe not – the only witnesses to tell you otherwise are the winking lampposts stationed outside the building. Thus, these thoughts keep you company on such cold days; there’s no one to tell you otherwise, after all. 

There’s not much else to do here. You’d change the record, but the only vinyl left behind by the old owner is the old ‘66 Sinatra. You’d clean up, but that’s all you really do. You’d talk to someone, but this hour before sunset isn’t the time slot of any of the usual regulars. 

Day in, day out, they come at their methodical intervals: Mr Henryk Jameson at quarter to five, a new woman on his arm each time; Mr Steven Rudboys at six, desperately rushing home with two takeout boxes for himself and his retired father; and Miss Mia Stone at half-past twelve, who talks a big deal about her students while she tucks into her onion rings and beef burger on her lunch break. 

There are others, of course, but these are the ones who remain most salient in these changing times. 

Here, there’s never a rush. It’s a languid sort of pace, one that allows you to be one of only two workers that run this place. The quarterly margin for the books is awful narrow; it dances on the line between profit and loss, and occasionally plays jump-rope with it. But you’re not here at the edge of town to make money.

You like the quiet life. 

You leave making money to the businessmen in the city, with their pinstriped suits and powdered foreheads. They’re regulars at lunch: hands gingerly poised to avoid greasing their harsh charcoal three-pieces, mouths pursed like an asshole sphincter as they sip their scalding instant brew, and eyes constantly honed in on other businessmen hawkishly. 

Some things just never change, just like this diner. It was the same three years back: same red retro bar stools, same fluorescent neon graphics, same polished black counters that left behind countless fingerprints. 

Still no customers. 

You slip a pack of Old Gold from your apron, lighting the last stick with the stovetop. At least you have the courtesy to step outside while you smoke, unlike some of your uncouth patrons. Some people just won’t understand basic manners, and that’s fine (it's not fine). 

The heady nicotine rush soothes you. At times like this, it reminds you of the field ration pack new recruits received on a weekly basis. 

Doppelgänger Detection Department: Special Extermination Unit. Honourable discharge, May 7th, 1973. Humanity’s adapted to its challenges well. 

You breathe the smoke out; it trails grey against the blue fog of the sky. The taste lingers: slightly nutty, moderately sweet. 

You know this flavour well. 

It preludes the adrenaline of battle.

‘You’re riding high in April, shot down in May.’

Why does the Special Extermination Unit want its cadets high on the rush while they fight? The answer’s surprisingly simple. 

Forget fear.  

It’s drilled into each new recruit. Fear clouds your mind. Fear leads to irrationality. Fear tears apart that which must remain compartmentalised. 

Better have cadets slightly out of the loop of the mind than pissing their pants in the face of a doppelgänger. Or faces (plural). Or lack of one. 

On the quiet road, a small van emerges from the mist. It’s nothing special; a white standard model awash with the indigo haze of dusk. You take a drag whilst observing it; when it pulls up into the diner driveway, its wheels crunch on the gravel with a sound that suspiciously resembles a breaking ribcage.

This is new. 

Your universe has been slightly tilted on its axis of rotation. 

When he takes a step towards the fluorescent light blinking from the joint, his breath comes out in neon puffs. Just like you – except, you know, your lung damage is significantly worse. 

You’ve never seen him before. Methodically, you observe him in your scrupulous capacity: a habit from your regiment that you’re hard-pressed to let go of. He’s of shorter stature than you, just an inch or two. Dark brown hair is slicked back neatly under a cap that blatantly reads ‘MILKMAN’ in bold letters. While his white shirt and dark trousers have been ironed, there are slight wrinkles in the fabric that betray his hard labour. 

While you observe him, he observes you. Those tired eyes gleam brick-red when you jostle the stick of nicotine in your fingers, and you don’t doubt the gleam in your own. He moves closer, and you can see the pronounced eye bags under his eyes and the gentle arch of his nose. Closer still, and your eyes can pick up his lashes, while your olfactory senses notice the milky, powdery scent that breaks through the smoke. 

Wordlessly, he moves past you. The heavy glass door swings shut behind him, and you swear quietly as you step on your still-lit cigarette to snuff it out. 

He’s waiting when you go in; his hands roughly loosen his bow-tie as he stands at the counter. No, he leans against it with his hip: tiredness more pronounced in the harsh neon incandescence. 

Your routine has been broken for the first time in three years. 

“Hard day?” 

“Mm,” he acknowledges laconically with a hum, not a word more of affirmation. You give up in your meagre attempts to further crash and burn this aforementioned routine. 

“What will it be for you, then?” The end of your question is markedly more flat. Boredom has seeped in once again. 

“House special.” His voice is low when he replies, vibrating at a frequency that sticks into your own sternum. “And a coffee to-go.”

“It’ll be ready in five or so minutes, sir.” You rip the small receipt from the pager and hand it to him – that marks the end of your conversation. 

Whilst the onion and beef cooks on the griddle, you take the time to watch him. He’s a singularity – an anomaly – in your Frank Sinatra-hazed day. Though, despite his strange role in your life as an unexpected variable, he seems painfully ordinary. His head’s tipped back against the cherry-red leather booth: eyes shut in a way that relaxes his face and makes him look at peace rather than exhausted. No, scratch that. Who are you kidding? He looks even more exhausted like this – hands unfurled on his lap, shoulders loose in their sockets as he slumps. 

Even his hat looks exhausted, deflating slightly on the seat beside him. His hair loses its slick quality; it’s messy in a way that pushes you to add an extra shot of espresso to his cup. He deserves it more than those stick businessmen in their suits, you think. 

You turn down the volume dial of the record player. Just a bit, until the vocals and instruments blend together as a singular ode to swing. It creaks from disuse – you don’t think it’s ever been turned. 

When you walk to his table, you do so soundlessly. Doppelgänger senses extend further and better than human ones; you know from ample experience. In the welcome video for new cadets, the crackling voice mentions such every few minutes. Even with your boots that squeak on newly-mopped floors, you manage the walk silently. 

Just as softly, you place his order down on the table and take that instantaneous moment before the aroma reaches him to observe once more. 

His face is serene. Soot-black lashes flutter as he finally registers the source of warmth and the caramelised aroma of the dish, and you take a step back. 

“Mm,” his hum is quieter this time – sleep-tinged. “Thanks.”

That short exchange is nothing less than your galaxy finally exploding. 

You don’t know his name. But you’ve got a great memory, and he’s currently the crowning supernova in the middle of it. 

‘But I know I’m gonna change that tune, when I’m back on top, back on top in June.’

The unexpected variable turns into an expected one. 

You haven’t seen him for a week, but he shows up during your shift seven days later – eerily at the same time he had previously. He looks the same – you’d know the signs of a doppelgänger, of all people – and you breathe a sigh of relief. 

Wait. 

Why would you care?

You thoughtfully thumb the plastic of the pack in your apron pocket as you deliberate the question. You’re not one to get attached to people – you’ve blown through the brains of faces that looked almost identical to your comrades-in-arms, with nothing more than indifference. 

So, why?

You really shouldn’t have started the philosophical thoughts at this time. It appears you’ve Pavlov’ed yourself into introspecting when dusk begins. 

He sits in the same booth he did last time, half-pressed against a window on the left side. His hair is mussed once more, while his bow-tie is strewn haphazardly on his cap. It almost feels like a routine is beginning. Except it’s not, since he’s awake this time. 

He looks at you with those dark brown eyes, and you don’t look back. 

And you’re determined to stick to your pessimistic and mundane world-view, so once you place his food down, you head into the azure realm to light a stick once more. 

You watch his white van, parked neatly in between those two pale lines while a stray cat circles around the warm tires. He watches you in turn. You can feel those pinpricks of pupils, boring straight into your back as you breath the menthol in, and out, and in, and out. Those instincts and reflexes of yours have been honed to a furious degree, after all. This much is child’s play. 

Are you a deviation from his routine, as much as he is to yours?

You’re not sure what to think. 

‘I said that’s life (that’s life) and as funny as it may seem, some people get their kicks, stomping on a dream.’

It’s the third time meeting him that you learn his name. It’s not like you learn it on purpose, but you’ve finally got a name to put to your blue-tinged anomaly. 

“Your usual, sir?” Your voice is polite, yet anyone could sense your exhaustion clear in your cadence. It’s been a long day, filled with numerous Miss Mia Stones after she brought her colleagues over – an exponential increase of imaginary students to talk about. Ever since he began eating here, there seem to be more deviations to your peaceful boredom. 

“Francis Mosses,” he replies without a hum for the first time. You pause in pre-filling the pager. The world grinds to a halt for a brief, starry moment. 

“Your usual, Mr Francis Mosses?” you repeat with the same inflection. It has to stay the same. A name to a star will not make it any more personal – it’ll remain the same cold distance away, stay the same burning core of amorphous light, in a fixed set of constellations. It has to. 

But you’ve overlooked the most salient point. Humans are not stars. 

“Yes, please.” He maintains eye contact this time. Perhaps it’s the fatigue that’s trained his gaze on you. Perhaps he’s slightly delirious. Perhaps it’s neither. 

Regardless, you can feel a slight shift in attitude, and you don’t like it. 

It’s different when the Businessmen in Pinstripe Suits come by. They’re very Important, they proclaim, so don’t mess up their Coffee and get it done Pronto. They don’t give names, only business cards. They don’t give names, only leave smoke from their Marlboros behind. They don’t give names. That’s how you like it. 

Their seats remain fixed – prime positions to glare at each other while simultaneously flaunting their contracts and suits and new watches. These constellations remain constant. That’s the rule of nature you’ve noticed. It shouldn’t diverge.

It shouldn’t.

It can’t.

You won’t get close to anyone. This is fact.  

‘But I don’t let it, let it get me down.’

The typical reasons for joining the Doppelgänger Detection Department: Special Extermination Unit, colloquially dubbed “Execution Squad”, are one of three: a strong sense of patriotism, a keen desire for revenge, or a death wish. 

You are not a patriot, and you’re definitely unenthused at putting yourself through hell simply to die at the hands of a doppelgänger. Really, there are easier and quicker methods at killing yourself that don't involve this infernal training regime. 

Those invasive pests had broken apart your family. You pick up the weight of the gun to return the favour, losing a bit of your humanity in exchange. 

You take the dangerous jobs – risk is nothing with the nicotine and fury bubbling through your veins. You raid the abandoned warehouses, negotiate and exterminate the intelligent doppelgängers, and cull the ones impersonating animals. 

With each mission, you lose part of yourself. 

You shoot people who look like your friends, fellow humans like yourself. Children. Elderly. It’s exceedingly difficult to remind yourself it’s not human blood coagulating on your hands. 

Your sacrifice serves you well. Your anger bolsters your righteous path as Captain. It doesn't quite feel like revenge when it’s paved with gold and a heavy salary, but what do you know?

All stars burn bright before they die, right?

‘Cause this fine old world, it keeps spinnin’ around.’

It’s been a little over two months, and the supernova has become part of your galaxy. 

He orders, he sits, he takes a short rest. While he eats, he watches you smoke. You think that’s the end of that, but it’s not. 

Mr Francis Mosses stops coming weekly. Rather, he’s begun coming nightly.

Just as the clouds begin turning that alizarin blue, he parks his compact van in the driveway. You hear him before you see him – senses enhanced by your years in this country’s pseudo-military, muscle and sinew tensed in anticipation. Each gravel crunch is a signal, each careful step a firework. You can hear the engine hum as though it was by your ear. 

You don’t know when the anticipation started. You don’t particularly like it. 

“Mm,” his voice has become slightly rougher. Those dark shadows beneath his eyes look particularly deep tonight, when the dusk coalesces faster. “What do you recommend?”

This is new. This is uncharted territory, but your supernova always throws out the map regardless. 

You blink, thoroughly perturbed by his sudden question. Self-consciously, your fingers thread through your apron ties. 

“I don’t know.” You’re carefully neutral, to the point where you’re even boring yourself. “I haven’t really given it much thought.”

You really haven’t. It’s not like you particularly care about what you eat; smoke distorts your perception of hunger, and you just pick whatever’s closest to you.

“Pick something for me, then, anything at all,” he offers. You stare at him like he’s grown another eyeball. This, you think, is the most words you’ve heard in a row from him. It’s slightly disturbing. “I think I’ll like whatever you choose.”

You stay silent, with neon lights dancing on your impassive face as a response. 

When you make his strawberry milkshake and chicken club sandwich, he’s not closed his eyes. Rather, he watches while you work, much like you’d watched him when he first came to the diner. And rather than his usual booth, he sits right on the cherry-red stools at the bar counter, right in front of the kitchen station. 

It’s unnerving.

The streetlamps create halos around him. He’s a cerulean angel, you realise, one that’s tired and exhausted from the divine lifestyle. 

For the first time in three years, you can hear something other than the vinyl. If you stop to think about it, you think it’s your pulse drumming impatiently in your ears. But that would be absurd. 

Everyone knows that when you die, your heart shrivels cold and hard. 

You've died several times over. A pulse is impossible.

‘I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king.’

From the very beginning in the Execution Squad, you’re taught two fundamental rules. The first is that though these creatures may appear human, you should extricate any and all pity you may have for them. 

The second fundamental is that doppelgängers work alone. Amongst apex predators like these, they hunt alone and live alone. These truths were observed when they first arrived, and you don’t question them. As a Captain, you’ve repeated the same tenets to your subordinates dozens of times, and they have served you well. 

That is the ‘routine’ you’ve created. Nothing good comes from its mutations.  

Don’t feel pity for these creatures. They’ll take your weakness and slit your throat with it. 

It’s supposed to be a simple operation. 

Use their lack of cooperation amongst themselves against them. A natural rivalry is present in the species.

You’ve grown complacent. It seems you don’t remember the most pivotal tenet of them all. 

But don’t expect this species to remain constant. 

You’ve already sent your Lieutenant back to base on your foolish assumption that this is just a simple extermination job. 

“Two confirmed doppelgängers in the vicinity, may be more in hiding,” you mutter. Your pistol is strapped to your thigh, whilst your shotgun rests heavy against your back. It’s a comforting weight. 

It’s also a false security. 

No one can deny your experience. You know your subordinates inside and out; you’ve eliminated their doppelgängers countless times. You shoot their faces. You watch the viscera drip from your sleeve. You tuck away your weapon. 

The bile stops rising eventually when you use enough bullets. 

That’s enough reminiscing. 

When you light the stick, you’re under the eaves of a crumbling factory. Rain drizzles from forlorn clouds – it’s winter, and you’re starved for warmth. Anything will do, even if it’s the hot blood congealing off your body in dense rivulets. 

It’s sickening, but you’re sick in the head and have been for a long time now. 

It’s not bloodthirst, but a cold detachment. Even without the nicotine, you think you could stay compartmentalised enough to face hordes of doppelgängers. 

Slightly nutty, moderately sweet. A note of sourness, you appreciate. 

You can sense several figures moving around in the factory. Even though they appear closer to each other than usual, you don’t think anything of it. 

After all, this is your ‘routine’. 

When you stub the smoke out into the soaked pavement, you know it’s time to move. Though there’s some unease lingering in the back of your throat, you dismiss it. 

You shoot the lock open. Your dark coat whirls behind you as the door clicks inwards. 

Several pairs of eyes swing towards you, and you freeze. 

How could you not?

These aren’t the people you’ve spent each day with for the past few years. These are your parents, your siblings, your cousins.  

No one warned you about this. 

This wasn’t in the manuals you read. 

When they say your name, you crumple like the building you’re in. Your tears cascade like the rain outside. 

You know their faces. They’re real, breathing mementos of long-gone humans. You want to believe; you can feel your precious tenets disintegrating with each step you take towards your family. 

Your family.  

Through blurred eyes, you can’t examine them in detail. They croon towards you – hushed murmurings of love and comfort – and you cannot help but give in. The gun at your thigh, the gun at your back; they’re there because of them, your family. 

Those compartments in your mind. They’re gone, burst open as though they were floodgates. 

You’re held for the first time in a decade. Human warmth envelopes you, before it starts suffocating you. 

Give in, it says. 

You want to. You want to, damn it, more than anything. 

You lied when you said you didn’t want death. 

You crave it the most. 

“I’m sorry,” you plead. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” they coo, and for a minute it feels wrong to imagine otherwise. It feels like betrayal to think of them as anything other than kin. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat through sobs. Your guns are drawn, and you aim at the faces you wanted to see again more than anything. 

This is love, you think. You bear this pain because you love your family. You love them, to the point where you shoot them so they can finally rest beyond the veil. You love them, to the point where you point your gun at yourself and drop it wretchedly when it’s out of bullets. 

You love them, to the point where you’d rip your heart out of your chest to quell their sadness. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Salty tears drip from your face as you shoot for the last time in your career. 

When your Lieutenant finds you, you’re drowning. You’re curled up inside the abandoned factory, bodies strewn around you as you clutch your mother’s face for the last time. It’s not a pretty sight – brain matter and blood drips from you in oceans. They bled like me. They bled like my parents.

You’re choking on the waves. You’ve gotten your revenge. 

You’ve gotten your warmth – the blood and tears and rain scald you. Devils burn when exposed to such liquids, after all; you’re too impure to carry on living. 

Your cries strangle you. Even when you gasp and heave, no oxygen enters your desperate mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. Over and over, over and over, over and over, over and over, over and over, you repeat the same syllables. Even when the tears stop, your eyes are curiously blank and you continue the mantra. 

The lack of tears doesn’t matter anymore. The sky cries for you; weeks after the incident leave the area with relentless downpour that doesn’t cease even long after you’re taken away. 

I’m sorry. 

Revenge wasn’t meant to be like this. You had clear expectations; the doppelgänger was never meant to be family. You’d imagined a faceless creature. You hadn’t imagined this at all. 

I’m sorry. 

Episodes like this happen to even the most experienced within the unit. No one can shoulder this burden forever.

I’m sorry.

You’re honourably discharged. As of May 7th, 1973, you’re no longer part of the Execution Squad. 

“Go,” they say. “You’re free.”

No one says anything when you tumble in from hell into a small town on the edge of the city. There, you’ve been given a blank slate. They’ve scrubbed clean the blood from it – it smells like bleach and a myriad of cleaning chemicals. 

You’re allowed to keep your pistol. Though you’re not a part of the Execution Squad any longer, your badge allows you to keep it for self-defence against doppelgängers as a former Captain. It’s less work for the D.D.D – you take on the vigilant role, while they don’t need to put you on the payroll. It’s a pity for them, however. 

You don’t plan on touching it ever again.

When you sign the job contract for a shitty diner that only plays the same record on repeat, you savour it. Though your looping letters still come out bloody, it’s from beef patties rather than doppelgängers. 

It’s a fresh start. 

Here, you’ll create your painfully ordinary, mundane ‘routine’.

It can’t mutate again. 

Please. You plead with fate. Not again.

You don’t plan on feeling hurt ever again. 

‘I’ve been up and down and over and out and I know one thing.’

“My name?” 

“Mm,” Mr Francis Mosses hums. His eyes lazily trace you, and you know he can see the name tag pinned neatly on your chest. You say as much, with as little emotion as possible. 

This is dangerous. Your stomach churns in what could only be nervousness. 

“I’d like to hear it from you,” he comments neutrally. Or not. If you’re not mistaken, the earlier impassivity of his has melted slightly into amicability. You hope you’re mistaken.

Even so, your name leaves your lips like a promise. 

I hate myself. 

If he notices the hidden loathing, he doesn’t say anything. 

‘Each time I find myself flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race.’

It happens on the eve of ‘77. Snow softly powders the welkin and the earth, yet everything is still blue. There appears to be no purity where you reside; just a sorrowful, mournful despondency trailing behind you like a grave shroud fluttering on the funeral pyre. 

You’re about to light your second cigarette when you hear that familiar hum of machinery. It sings to you, breaks your blood vessels and rebuilds them once more. 

You hadn’t expected him to come today – it’s a day that should be spent with family, not at some diner where even the most rambunctious couldn’t be found today.

The stick is left between your lips like a kiss. 

When he gets out of his van, he doesn’t move past you. You, the Cerebus of the underworld. You, the mad dog who can do nothing but guard. You, who couldn’t do even that, and failed in your duty. Your honourable discharge is anything but. You’re a disgrace.  

No, he doesn’t move past you. 

His jacket slips off his shoulders and wraps around you. You blink in surprise, sturdy muscles poised to act to this unknown danger. What is this?

He still doesn’t move past you – his nose is slowly turning red in the below zero Celsius weather, while his breath comes out in silvery plumes. It’s unfathomable. 

When he pulls out a lighter, you almost go into anaphylactic shock. 

But you don’t, because your body is a traitor who can’t even die properly. 

You bend obediently at the waist to receive the flame instead. 

This is new. 

It seems like your supernova was able to reach past his limits.

This gravitational pull – it has to be a black hole.

Your galaxies need a thorough reshaping once more, it seems.

“Go, Mr Francis Mosses,” you mumble. “It’s too cold out here for you.”

When he enters the warm diner with a small hum, you miss the small smile on his tired face. 

The heavy glass doors swing shut. You’re alone in the blue world, drinking in the menthol and tobacco and tar and all the flavours that exist on this pitiful planet. Yes, you’re a speck on the planet, and Mr Francis Mosses is at the centre of the orbit. It all comes down to him. He’s the sudden singularity that continuously tilts the axis of motion. 

You don’t think the belt of stars can ever be the same. 

When was the last time you felt like this?

He’s not in his usual space by the counter when you shoulder open the door. Instead, he sits at the booth closest to the record player – Sinatra’s mellow tenor can be heard clearest at the point where the sound waves reach their zero order. It’s a good spot, especially for the eve of the next year; it’s in direct sight of the digital clock that currently reads a quarter to ten. 

You step silently towards him, but there’s no use in that. He’s watching each pace, after all. 

You don’t know what he’s thinking. All this time spent among doppelgängers, and you’ve lost the ability to read humans in return. 

He’s unusual. 

What’s he scheming?

“What would you like, Mr Francis Mosses?” you ask instead. It’ll be an easier answer for you to bear, you think. 

This corner is particularly dim, lit only by the back glow of fluorescence from the reflective walls. You can easily pick up the dilation of his eyes as you move closer; with your sharp eyes, you can even pick up the reflection of you and that coat in his irises. 

He should’ve moved to a brighter spot, you think. You’re not particularly discerning when it comes to these matters. 

“I’d like to share a meal with you for New Years’,” his voice is husky-low with exhaustion. You pity him, having to work to the bone each day. “You can decide what we have.”

“Go home, Mr Mosses,” you reply. 

Maybe he’s like you. Alone, without a supernova to shift his axis. 

“I can’t,” he tiredly remarks. “You’re good company.”

This time when you cook, he keeps his eyes closed with the jacket covering him like a blanket. You’re damn sure it smells like any pack of Old Gold, yet he’s conked out like a baby nonetheless. 

You frown.

What’s with this guy?

He’s out for quite a bit – you watch the minutes drag out until it’s half to eleven. By then, you’ve painstakingly made waffles, generously topped with strawberries. There’s other dishes too from the diner menu: burgers dripping with onions and beef fat, fries coated in powdered spices, and a bottle of cognac you were planning on drinking on the steps tonight. 

It’s New Years’ Eve, after all. 

Your hand reaches out to shake him awake, but you freeze just before collision. 

What’s with this feeling?

Your stomach feels tight, but before you can react, your hand’s already clasped around his deltoid. It’s startling how warm it is; you can feel each steady thrum of his heart, each gasp of lifeblood as it oxygenates and pulses through his cells. 

“Mr Francis Mosses,” you rasp, low and just barely above the strains of swing music. The crackle of the record player seems to be louder than your hushed cadence, but the man awakes quickly regardless of your volume. He takes a moment to register his surroundings, before stiffening slightly upon spotting your hand still on his shoulder. 

You quickly retract it as though burnt. 

For the first time in a while, you can taste the food. It doesn’t go up in smoke, and it doesn’t go anywhere save your stomach. 

When you drink the cognac, Mr Francis Mosses drinks with you. His flushed face is something to behold, something that makes your solar plexus tighter and tighter. 

There’s a burning sensation that claws from your chest. You can’t be sure, but you don’t think it’s the alcohol. 

“Mr Mosses,” you say, glancing at the sky beyond the windows. It’s no longer blue – rather, the black firmament reflects nothing but neon motifs. You step outside, lighting a fresh stick as he follows behind you in a tizzy. 

“It’s midnight,” you exhale. 

“It is.” It is, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him smile like that. Eyes crinkled at the edges, teeth slightly on display. Your breath catches, and the cigarette in your fingers twirls, forgotten in that moment. 

“Happy New Year, Mr Mosses.”

Everything is supercharged. 

For the first time, you truly don’t know what the future will bring. 

[hezzabeth]

Everyone who lived on Baker Street had come out from the fog to eat Nanni’s dinner. This made perfect sense; Nanni was one of the few people in the park who knew how to cook meals using ingredients and an oven.

When the park was still open, Revati's home was a coffee shop called the “Mad Hatter Teaparty.” The walls were painted in eye-watering clashing shades of neon pink and green. The light fixtures hanging from the ceiling were all giant velvet top hats. The booths were giant flower teacups with tiny chairs and tables inside.

"Was there some sort of drug in the pineapple?" Revati heard Brigadeiro ask. Revati just ignored him and instead walked past each of the booths, collecting tributes; nobody ate Nanni’s for free.

The Paprikas sat in the blue and gold teacup, their neon orange hair clashing with the paint. The Paprikas were two brothers and their sister who had found themselves trapped in the park as children. Their parents had been vaporized by a towel-warming rack. Now they were in their mid-twenties and worked for Revati as hired muscle for free dinners.

"Who's the new guy? He's actually clean and good-looking," the youngest brother Brie asked Revati. "His name is Brigadeiro Bun; he's an off-world tourist who stupidly went to the wasteland," Revati said. "I was trying to find crystal roses," Brigadeiro smiled helpfully.

"Bridgadeiro huh? So your parents were Goup worshippers then?" The sister, Juniper, asked curiously. Revati vaguely knew that Goupism was a popular religion on other colonies. Over a thousand years ago, there was once a woman who apparently traveled the earth gathering the best health practices needed to be “happy.” "A white woman, and she stole most of her ideas from our eastern religions," Amma, who was a staunch atheist, had snapped with annoyance when Revati asked her to explain the Paprika siblings' religion. Still, despite her thievery, at some point, she had become a god. They firmly believed in things such as “psychic vampires” and “color-balancing therapy.” They also all had peculiar food-related names, mainly because the goddess had named her daughter Apple.

"Yes, they were. They insisted on coming here for a Wellness Day holiday," the eldest brother, Croquette, growled. "I miss mama's Wellness Day Avocado and chocolate cookies," Juniper sighed sadly. "It's not the same, but here I have a couple of factory-made ones in my pocket," Brigadeiro said, crawling into the booth. The Paprika siblings gasped with astonishment as he pulled a packet of cookies wrapped in gold paper out of his jumpsuit's gigantic pocket. "They got a bit crushed when I was kidnapped, but they're still good," he said, opening the package and placing it on the table. The Paprika siblings stared at the cookies, their mouths slack with shock. Croquette slowly shook his head, completely snatched the package, and began to serve the crushed crumbs amongst his siblings. "You need to keep this one forever," Juniper said firmly, and Revati just shook her head, moving onto the next table.

The next table consisted of the elderly Gupta couple. "You adopted another kid? If you want more water for him, we want more dried apples," Mrs. Gupta said, a small scowl on her wizened face. It was Mr. Gupta who had figured out how to gather and purify water from the atmosphere. It was Mrs. Gupta who managed and recorded all the water they collected, rolling it out like a tyrannical dictator. "Fine, one extra package of dried apples per week," Revati said before swishing grandly onwards.

Amma was sitting in the pink cup, her new partner Dusk Brisbane. Dusk Brisbane was a teacher from Titan, who, along with their students on a field trip, found themselves stuck in the park. Like all people from Titan, Dusk had inherited the ability to rapidly change biological genders. Titan had also inherited a name that meant a time of day and a gender. Dusk’s remaining students were sitting with Dityaa on a large cat-shaped sofa. When the invasion began, there were twenty-three of them. Now there were only five nineteen-year-olds left. Dityaa was holding court over all of them, sitting on a couch shaped like a giant grinning beast. "Your sister said you had an interesting night," Amma remarked as Revati sat down next to her. Nanni had laid out a plate of aloo mushroom curry. Revati picked up a piece of hardtack and dipped it into the sauce, refusing to talk. "So you're not even going to bother telling your side of the story?" Amma asked as Revati swallowed. Nanni always moaned that her cooking was so much better before the war. Years ago, Nanni worked in the city as a professional meal prepper for wealthy families that wanted to eat real organic food.

Nanni was proud of her ability to create one hundred percent sand-free meals using the most exotic ingredients. Nanni would bemoan to everyone that her meals were now a mess, that her spices were too basic, and that she never had enough salt. Revati, however, who had never tried anything else, thought her food was delicious. "I'm hungry! Besides, what's the point in telling my side? I'm sure Dityaa's story was more enthralling," Revati replied. "Every story needs both sides and the truth," Dusk remarked. As they spoke, their features shifted from a feminine middle-aged woman's face to a man's face with a beard. "You're not my creative writing teacher, and you're not my parent," Revati pointed out.

Revati knew deep down she didn’t dislike Dusk; Dusk was a perfectly decent person. Not to mention Amma had been so lonely until Dusk offered to help her teach the feral children a year ago. Still, it was a lot to get used to.

“True, but your mother did ask you a question, and I think she deserves an answer," Dusk replied in that same mild diplomatic voice. Revati deliberately ate another mouthful of curry before wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her dress. "Dityaa got attacked by some lady at the ball; the chutiya had A.I. eye implants! They must have switched on somehow," Revati explained. "Mind your mouth, Revati! There will be no swearing at the dinner table," Amma scolded her. "Her implants switched on? That's so odd; one of my students had AI tastebuds, but they stopped working the second we walked into the park," Dusk remarked, their face shifting back into a woman's as they glanced at one of their students. The student in question, Basil Paris, was sitting next to Dityaa, licking their hand. Dusk was right; in order to create true "historical authenticity," the park was surrounded by massive mirrors. The volcanic Martian glass blocked the "AI" life stream. "And what did you do?" Amma asked in a quiet, nervous voice. "I threw a glass of vodka at her face, and her eyes fried up," Revati replied.

"Can you take the children's sign language lesson tomorrow morning? I need to check the mirrors around the walls," Amma said to Dusk.

"Of course," Dusk replied, and Revati rolled her eyes.

"You don't need to do anything, Amma! I'm the elected leader of Baker Street! This is my job," Revati said firmly.

"You're only seventeen!" Amma protested.

"Almost everyone voted for me! Well, apart from Mrs. Gupta, who voted for herself," Revati said, and mother sighed.

"Fine! But you're not going to leave well after the sun rises, and you're not taking Cora and Laila! You can take Vivienne and Jay Jr.," Mother replied firmly.

Nine minutes past midnight.

Revati's eyes snapped open in the blue-glowing darkness. Slowly, she sat up, taking in the familiar shapes of the kitchen's walk-in freezer. Dityaa was sleeping next to her on the souvenir pillows Amma had sewn together into a makeshift bed. In the corner, the feral children slept together in a nest made of old soft toys. Nanni was snoring on one of the plastic shelves that had long ago stored ice cream. Amma insisted on them all sleeping behind the massive metal doors. To anyone who lived near any other planet, it would have been freezing, but Martians had evolved to withstand the cold.

Revati stood up and glanced down at Dityaa. Dityaa had worn her new dress to bed, ignoring the stains. The blood on her dress looked shiny black, her face shadowy blue. She looked just like Princess Savitri in the family book of fairy tales. Revati, on the other hand, had changed into her pajamas, which consisted of a long-sleeved men's shirt three sizes too big. The red fabric hung to her knees, and the words "Olde Landon Halloweenfest 3544" had been printed across the front. Revati picked up her blanket, draping it around her shoulders. Sleep wasn't going to return any time soon. Revati reached underneath her part of the mattress until she found the stories.

Outside the metal doors, Revati could hear distant voices, and carefully she slid the door open. Amma and Dusk were sitting together on the cat-shaped couch, murmuring to each other over tea.

"I don't see how they could know..." Amma began, and then she trailed off, spotting Revati.

"Insomnia again?" She asked gently, and Revati nodded, walking past the two of them.

"If you're going up to the greenhouse, be quiet; I made a bed for the boy up there," Mother replied.

"Really, Amma? You couldn't give him a bed?" Revati asked, opening the front door.

"He would freeze in the fridge, and he said he liked plants," Mother replied.

Outside, the fog was still shifting, and Revati moved ten spaces to the right.

"Evening, boss," Juniper's voice called, and she suddenly appeared holding a jar filled with glowing mushrooms.

"Any problems?" Revati asked.

"Nope, it's been a pretty quiet night!" Juniper said.

"Good, make sure your brother takes over your shift! We don't want you fainting from sleep deprivation again," Revati replied.

[craftyballoonwinner]

Miquella the Streamer

I love the idea of Miquella being a streamer or Instagram influencer.

FYI Pro Miquella/Radahn

Definately posts beauty tips and reviews make up lines.

Has TWO channels. One for beauty and one for games.

Plays mostly RPGs, action or dating sims.

Always looks dressed to the nines and wears a crystal headset in gold cubic zirconia (or at least they hope it's fake)

Catch phrase "if it's gold it's good" even if said item is shit in game.

Does marathons for chairty that includes games he hates (usually with Radahn or Malenia)

Leda moderates his chat and has a zero strike policy.

His icon is a chibi face with the haligtree in the back.

Goes on multiple vacations and posts videos. Always talking to someone no one can see. Chat knows it's not Malenia, he shares the video with her when she's there with Finley.

Does not date although watchers can swear he sometimes looks/ talks to a man off screen and sometimes poses sexily and jokes to said man behind the camera.

Is non binary, loves pretty dresses and soft colors.

Sometimes shows up in drag persona St. Trina with purple highlights.

Can and will drag trolls expertly.

Has depression and mommy issues.

Will review red carpets while being dressed better than the attendees.

Can have a temper. His collaboration with Godrick the Golden will go down in history as the most angry he will ever get when Godrick told him Malenia got rotted because she's unhygienic and Limegrave viewers need to get off their asses and work.

sings well but refuses to do covers.

As his popularity rises so do the stalkers. Someone called Needle Knight really freaks him out.

Takes frequent brakes for all the trips he goes on but works hard to record so online posting doesn't stop while he's away.

Drives an expensive ass car ( he accidently pulled out the keys for a Lamborghini while search for lip balm in his purse) and viewers can sometimes spot several names brand purses in the background of his streams.

Uses an office, with a glowing neon sign of his channel and several high quality action figures of his favorite game on the shelf behind him.

Goes through a horrible break up and stops streaming when some named Starscoruge publicly states they miss him in chat while he struggles to get through Dark Souls 1. Chat talked about that for months on end. Starscourge is never seen again and no one knows who they are. They theorize he was the man Miquella talks to behind the camera.

Stops streaming when university starts. Comes back three months later when he flunked out and hated it.

Things get bad, chat starts to worry about his mental health and freak out when Marika posts an update that she will be closing down his channel for the safety of his mental health.

Is surprised when he comes back a year later on a new channel with a co host. Starscoruge Radahn (who runs gym, games and health channels under his Redmane name). Malenia will fill in when he can't stream with Miquella.

[solomiracle]

when i think of them, i think of...

inspired by this post by @shoccolatine, check it out!

LUCIFER

his smile — whether seductive, sadistic or genuine

reds, blacks/greys/whites, golds

his study — the skull on the wall, fireplace, the red velvet chair | you reading by the fireplace, enjoying the quiet crackling sounds as he works

his demon form — the red gloves, the horns, the wings, the peacock feather details on his clothes, the diamond on his forehead

his fur lined coat, his gloves, his tie

his eyes, specifically the reds at the bottom

apples, poison, fangs, blood

ghosts, grief, loss | him petting a sleeping cerberus as he sits by lilith's statue. he's silent, not wishing to disturb her

how much he loves his family — how he's willing to be a villain to anyone he feels may harm them, from you to his own father

cosmic and body horror, upside-down crosses, eyes, destroyed psyches, crackling, warped reality, the sound of bones snapping

the skeleton in his room

records, wine, comfortable silence, quiet nights

MAMMON

him laughing as he and you drive in a getaway car

his laugh, his smile, his sunglasses, his jacket

that little pose he does where his hand kinda covers his lips, usually done when he's feeling confident

his silliness — the dumb excuses for doing (or not doing) something, his even dumber schemes, running/hiding from lucifer, his tsundere-ness, how he says "yikes!"

gift boxes, jewelery, gold, silver, money (coins and paper)

casinos, the word "jackpot", poker, slot machines, cards, dealers

the casino fight scene in black panther, specifically the part where claw's hand thing shoots the cabinet and the money flies everywhere

his wings

his familiars | him petting and praising them for doing a good job, like catching stray grimm or reporting important info

him punishing people who don't pay back their debts — they find themselves in an empty street, fog rising and crows soon surrounding them

how much he respects lucifer, how he followed him into hell without question

how despite all the fighting and dumb stuff that he does with his family, he still values his role as a big brother

LEVIATHAN

this card (the pre-devil's flower)

him at his pc, laser-focused in on a game. he's glaring at the screen, fangs bared, determined to win

his room — the bathtub, the jellyfish, the aquarium, the figures, henry 2.0 in his little fish bowl

headphones, game controllers and consoles, screens, neon colors (greens, blues, purples), keyboards

anime, magical girls, figures, sparkles

his loud ass OOOOHHHHHHHHHWWOOOOOOOOAHHHHH voice line

his tsundere-ness and shyness, how he gets flustered so easily, how cute he is when he blushes, your love and affection for him being "too high level"

how he seems to have a soft spot for the twins

his demon form — the tail, the diamond pattern along his neck, his weird zipper jacket thing, his horns | (a fic i read where the author described his horns as antlers, and they headcanon-ed that they shed every season)

fish, colorful coral reefs, bright blue seas, bubbles, beaches, snakes

deep dark oceans, octopus/giant squids, sea monsters, ships, the navy, admiral uniforms, lotan

SATAN

orange cats, piano music, books, libraries, coffeeshops, soft greens and browns

him sitting in a greenhouse. sunlight filters through the glass walls and plethora of green plants. he's smiling as he reads a book, an orange cat sleeping in his lap

his professionalism — he has many connections, and he prides himself on his intelligence. "people respect someone who's well-informed."

how he's a gentleman, almost like a fairy tale prince

love and lovesickness | him writing love letters and poetry for you, a giant smile on his face as he comes up with the most beautiful words to describe you

him becoming incapable of reading love stories when you're away, for all he can think about is you while reading them. his fingers delicately trace the spines of his many romance books, but he refuses to open them. just the thought of doing so is too much to bear

his room — the beauitful shade of purple, the window, the books, the candles

fire, chaos, destruction, broken buildings and bones, screaming, rage, fangs

his eyes, a beautiful green

his demon form — the feather boa, the horns, the ribbon ribcage design on his shirt

the things that make him stand out compared to his brothers, compared to everyone — his symbolic animal is a unicorn (the only fantasy animal), his black eye shine, his butler outfit is the only one with three patches on the sleeves

his pose — one hand on his hip and the other on his chest, just like lucifer...

ASMODEUS

pinks, yellows, oranges, and more pinks

his cute smile and giggle

his demon form — the bat wings, the gradient horns, the bleeding hearts on his arm, the asymmetrical legs | (the redesigns i've seen from people where they include a scorpion tail)

scorpions, sand, heat, blood, bloodlust, hearts, gore, passion, obsession, love

diaries, glitter gel, sparkles, cute nicknames

spotlights, music, singing, stages, partying, drinking, clubs, sex

bunnies, strawberries, fluffy and fuzzy textures, fangs

his eyes | (the fics i've read where the author describes their color as champagne)

him lying in bed on his stomach, fresh out of the shower in a cute robe, slippers, and headband. he's writing in his diary, kicking his legs, smiling as he thinks about you

lipstick, blush, makeup, nail polish, influencers, devilgram, livestreams

(red) hearts, both the symbol and the organ

his positive energy — his ability to light up a room, how he wants everyone to join in and have fun, asmo nights, how he sees the beauty in everyone

how much he cares for his family — he painted their nails so everyone would know them as brothers, how he's determined to make sure satan feels included

his insecurities — he ties himself to his image and appearance, to the point that when you were the first to compliment his personality alone and not just his looks, he was surprised

how he acts like a helpless damsel in distress while also being the most viscous character

that scene in season one, where he said that if you were thinking about belphie while with him, he would rip your heart out | (it made my heart beat faster, but not out of fear)

BEELZEBUB

reds, oranges, yellows

the sun, bright blue cloudless skies

him being the cause of plagues and famines. a scene of him summoning swarms of locusts to gorge on crop fields, leaving nothing left, still unsatisfied

wheat and corn fields, apple orchards

his wings | (i saw someone describe them as fairy wings)

dense, mossy, and enchanted forests. twisting trees and twinkling fairies, mushrooms and flowers growing everywhere

bugs — bees, butterflies, flies, grasshoppers, beetles, locusts

bears, squirrels, lions, grass, honey, fluffiness, cuddling

his smile, how adorable his blush is

calling him beautiful or sweet, watching him blush in embarrassment. a big, ravenous demon turning into mush after being complimented by a human

how he loves his family more than anything — his extreme survivor's guilt over lilith, how he said he would die for lucifer, how he became enraged and even attacked lucifer once the truth about belphie's whereabouts were revealed

even with how he's a big brother to belphie, they're still twins, making him the youngest of the brothers as well — he has his own bratty behaviors, throwing tantrums, being a karen at restaurants, stealing food from levi every morning. he's the biggest brother, but he's still another baby of the family

his hair

his jacket and shirt | (they both look very comfy, and i would love to wear them)

hunger — hell's kitchen, banquets, expensive meat, clusters of grapes, plates, forks and knives

fangs, tongues, gore, cannibalism

BELPHEGOR

dark purples and blues, blacks, white accents

space — starry night skies, the moon, constellations

sleep, teddy bears, pillows, blankets, dreams, illusions, ghosts, nightmares, fear

the cow jumped over the moon nursery rhyme

cow print — it's on his pillow, his demon form's jacket, and his swimwear jacket too

his horns, which are similar to that of a dorset horn sheep

him looking down at sheep mc's bell in his hands, a solemn look in his eye. maybe mc's in the human world, or maybe it's been years after their death

regret and grief — not being able to save lilith, his love for humans turning to hatred, his fight with lucifer, the attic, lesson 16

how he and lucifer were said to be close before the attic...

beel, lilith, and love — he doesn't blame beel for saving him, and called beel an idiot for believing otherwise. he learned about the circus in the human world, and pretended to be a ringmaster while trapped in the attic. he let lucifer get rid of lilith's room, and said goodbye to her

his sarcastic and bratty little shit-ness — his "innocent" bitchass smile, his giggle, how he embodies the youngest sibling and baby of the family, the anti-lucifer league

a fanart i saw of him in his TSL outfit, the description being "the princess is locked in the tower for a reason..."

[fandomsandflyingstingrays]

Stepping Stones: Chapter 10

“Do you ever regret teaching Luz to sew?”

Hunter walks over to join Darius at the window, following his gaze down to where Luz is making her way to the house. Despite being a good distance down the road, she’s clearly visible thanks to her neon green shirt, bearing the words GO EMERALD ENTRAILS in lopsided, brilliantly gold letters. 

A grin stretches across Hunter’s face. “Not for a moment,” he replies, and Darius sighs deeply. 

Luz knocks at the door a moment later, and Hunter pulls it open for her. She throws her arms around him without preamble. 

“Hunter! You’re going to be amazing today, I know it!”

“Thanks.” As she pulls back, he adds, “nice shirt.”

Luz twirls. “I thought you’d like it.”

As she spins, Stringbean rises up from her shoulders, slithering through the air to nuzzle Hunter’s cheek. “She’s been so excited all day,” Luz tells him.

“That makes two of us,” Hunter replies, gathering Stringbean into his arms. Over the last three months of taking her to school, he’s come to really love her. It doesn’t make him miss Flapjack any less, and he knows she’s not really his— he doesn’t innately understand her the way he did with Flap, and she isn’t as attuned to him— but she still curls around his shoulders when he’s nervous and shifts into different animals during class to keep him entertained, and she’s flown like the wind during every practice they’ve had. It makes him happy to know she’ll be with him today. 

“Are you nerv—" Luz begins, but quick as lightning, Darius sends a tendril of abomination goo to cover her mouth.

“Ah ah ah! We’ve put a ban on that question in this house.”

Raine smacks Darius’s shoulder, and he reluctantly pulls the abomination back. With an apologetic look at Luz, they explain, “it’s pretty much the only question any of us have been getting all week.”

The school administrations have been in contact with the Isles’ makeshift leadership committee, but clearly not enough, because whoever thought that scheduling the first Flyer Derby game on the same day of the election was a good idea had no idea what they were doing. Hunter has heard Raine say more than once that the house hasn’t felt this tense since it was serving as the headquarters for the rebellion, and on top of that, anyone who comes near it has to ask about it. 

“The only thing worse than the waiting,” Hunter tells Luz now, “are the many people asking about how well you’re handling it.”

“Gotcha.” Luz mimes locking her lips and throws away the invisible key. “But for the record,” she adds, “I meant what I said. I really do think you’re going to win today. All of you.”

Eber folds his arms, and since Hunter has been teaching Luz what he’s been learning in Beastkeeping, both of them know what he says. 

“Yes, even you, Eber,” Luz replies. “We win when our friends win!”

Eber rolls his eyes. Darius shoves him lightly. 

“Speaking of winning,” Hunter says, “we’d better get going.”

Stringbean lifts out of his arms and transforms into a staff, but rather than taking her, Luz lets her fall into Hunter’s hands. Hunter gives her a smile, grateful for any extra practice time he can get, and he takes off with Luz behind him and the others following.

The field at Hexside is already packed when they arrive, but it doesn’t take Hunter long to find the Nocedas in the crowd. They’re seated in the front row, Camila blowing him kisses and Vee waving frantically with one arm, her other hand in Masha’s. Amity sits on Masha’s other side and gives Hunter two thumbs up when she sees him looking at her. In the row behind them, Wynne, Gemini, and Ivy are listening to Eda explain something, and Dell and Gwen are giving him bright smiles and reassuring waves from her other side. 

Luz slides off of Stringbean and gives Hunter one last hug. “Good luck!” she says, and races off to sit beside Amity. 

Raine kisses Hunter’s head. “You’re going to be great,” they promise. 

Eber nods, patting Hunter’s arm and scampering after them. Darius ruffles his hair.

“Make us proud, little prince.”

For a moment, Hunter watches them go, and he feels like he’s already won.

Then he takes a deep breath and makes his way to the side of the field where the rest of the Entrails are waiting, Willow ready with his face paint. She draws the fork of green lightning down the left side of his face with careful fingers, and Hunter prays she can’t feel how his face is heating under her light touch. 

She steps back and winks. “Looking good, Hunter.”

Knowing from many unfortunate past experiences not to speak, Hunter gives her a double thumbs-up. Somehow this feels worse.

“All right, team,” Willow says, and they huddle up in a practiced motion at the familiar words.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about the Saint Epiderm Fire Bees— that they’ve been training since the beginning of the year, that their palismen are some of the fastest recorded in the history of school sports… yeah,” she says to their nods, “you’ve heard it all. But you know what they haven’t heard about us? Viney can make a shield so strong it would stop a wall of actual fire bees. Skara has won a grudgby game and a flyer derby game in the same afternoon. Gus can fly on one foot, with his eyes closed!”

“For a short amount of time,” Gus interjects.

Hunter waves this away. “It still counts.”

“And Hunter can teleport, and make turns so tight he might as well have teleported, and fly so fast that…”

“He might as well be part palisman?” Hunter gives her a tiny, wry smile.

“And,” Willow says, wrapping and arm around him, “he’s always looking out for his team.”

But Hunter can hear the tremor in her voice that she gets when she’s worried she’s said something wrong. The team has been full of nothing but praise for her— but Hunter knows all too well that years of harsh words take years to purge. 

He wraps his arm around her waist. “And our captain here, in addition to being an excellent flyer and a summoner of plants I don’t even know the names of, is such an excellent judge of character that she brought together the best flyer derby team the Isles have ever seen!”

The Entrails let out a cheer at this, and Hunter glances at Willow, raising his voice until she gives in and cheers too. 

The distant screech of a bell lets them know it’s time to line up, and Hunter steps apart from Willow, trying to ignore the sudden cold that sweeps across his side. He tightens his grip on Stringbean and walks over to his place— only for a movement in the stands to catch his eye. It’s Masha, waving for all they’re worth. When they and Hunter lock eyes, they point at Willow and nod in encouragement. 

He could have asked Luz or Amity or Raine or Eda, all of whom have lived through the mortification of having a crush on one of their closest friends, all of whom know about Hunter’s on Willow since he is, in Luz’s words, “as subtle as Hooty trying to rip himself out of the house”. Gus and Willow are the only people he’s ever made any real effort keeping the secret for— Willow, because the idea of ruining their friendship makes him feel like he’s going to throw up, and Gus because he doesn’t want to make him keep a secret from Willow.

But somehow it felt easier to talk to Masha than someone he knows well, to ask them how they took the leap. Their words flash through his mind now as he looks at them. 

“I told her because I needed to say it, and I needed her to hear it, not because I needed to hear anything back. She was so scared of herself, and I wanted her to know how deep my feelings went— and I needed to get them out, because at some point, rejection is actually easier than carrying around feelings that big all the time and not knowing what to do with them.”

And he thinks about these flashes of fear Willow still has, how she cares so deeply about other people that she forgets to ask for anything in return. He thinks about all the risks everyone is taking today— Darius and Raine leaving their futures in the hands of a million strangers, five basilisks at a sporting event filled with people who have been raised from birth to be afraid of them, Willow reaching for her dreams with a team no one would expect to pull anything off— and suddenly, he feels like taking a risk too.

He takes his place in like next to Willow but, before getting into position, leans forward and quickly kisses her cheek. She turns to him, eyes wide, and he thinks she might be blushing but he turns away too quickly to tell if that’s anything more than wishful thinking.

“Good luck, Captain,” he mumbles.

Instinctively, he glances up at Masha to find them grinning. Beside them, Amity applauds him, pointing between her and Luz and nodding emphatically. He’s not entirely sure what that means, but clearly she thinks he’s done something right, so he’ll take it.

And maybe she’s onto something, because suddenly Willow’s hand is in his, their fingers threading together as she squeezes.

“You too, Hunter.”

And then the referee blows their whistle, and they’re off.

Two of the Fire Bees streak towards Gus, clearly thinking that he’ll be the slowest. Hunter hurtles towards them, but it’s too late— a third Fire Bee is here now, behind Gus, grabbing his flag, which— disappears. The real Gus appears behind the two Fire Bees in front of his illusion, holding one of their flags in each hand.

“Better luck next time!” he calls with a wink, ducking under them and streaking for the goal. Hunter takes the opportunity to fly for the third Fire Bee while they’re distracted, but they turn just in time, flinging a wad of abomination goo into his eyes. Crying out, he lets go of Stringbean to wipe them— and topples off of her when the Fire Bee knocks into him, trying to get his flag.

Hunter kicks, screaming, and manages to summon a vine from the ground, calling it to curl around him, place him back onto Stringbean, and wipe his eyes.

Someone claps a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Willow speeding past. “Nice work!” she calls.

Hunter glances behind him at the end of Luz’s staff. “They got my flag!” he calls.

Willow’s face turns grim, and she fixes her eyes on the Fire Bee streaking towards their goalpost. They’re so focused on the goal that they don’t notice as she flicks her fingers, sending a tiny vine to lightly flick their flag off of their staff. Hunter teleports beneath it, grabbing it, and makes his body as small and aerodynamic as he can as he flies like mad for the goalpost across the field. 

The Fire Bee closest to it turns and lets out a piercing whistle that cuts straight through Hunter’s ears, slamming the breath from his chest as he careens backwards— and then bounces forwards again, back onto Stringbean. He glances behind him to see a shield of blue light fading to reveal Viney beneath it.

“Keep going!” she yells.

The Fire Bee lunges for her, grabbing her flag— at the same time Skara grabs his.

“Viney’s was our last one!” she cries. “We have to beat him to the goal!”

Hunter puts on a burst of speed without looking back, his heart beating double time in his chest, every one of his muscles clenched so hard they ache. Come on, come on, come on, the thinks, clutching the flag in a clammy hand.

He reaches the goal and slings the flag onto one of the posts, turning back to Skara with a grin— only to see a vine reaching for her from behind. Without thinking, he teleports between it and her, gasping as it wraps around his waist and Skara slams the last flag onto its post.

“And we have a winner!” the referee calls. “The Emerald Entrails take the day!”

Hunter opens his mouth to cheer— but his breath comes out in a sharp exhale instead as the vine tightens around his waist, yanking him off Stringbean. For the second day, he finds himself hurtling to the ground— only this time, it bursts into flowers, and he lets himself fall. 

He brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks up to see Willow lowering her hands and racing towards him. Her arms are open, and Hunter instinctively raises his, intending to catch her in a hug. So he’s completely unprepared when she plants her lips on his.

Hunter kisses her back, wrapping his arms around her, and when they break apart, tears are streaking his cheeks. Willow lets go of him quickly, alarm crossing her face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry— I should have asked, I just thought—“

“No, no— Willow! You’re fine.” He wipes his eyes and beams at her. “I’m just happy.”

Willow’s expression eases into a wide smile, and she kisses the last of his tears away.

“Finally!”

Hunter looks over Willow’s shoulder to see Viney and Skara clutching each other’s hands and grinning, while Gus throws his arms up in exasperation.

“You knew?” Hunter asks.

“Obviously. And frankly, I’m kind of offended neither of you ever told me.”

“I didn’t want to put you in a difficult position,” Hunter and Willow say simultaneously, then laugh.

“What was difficult was watching you two pine after each other,” Skara says, rolling her eyes. “At least that’s over.”

“And more importantly, we won!” Viney shrieks, running for the bed of flowers and pulling Skara with her— and then all of the Entrails are together, tangled in one knot, cheering so loudly Hunter thinks they could be heard from anywhere on the Isles.

…

The victory party at the old CATTs headquarters starts off buoyant and happy. Hunter walks in holding Willow’s hand and feeling like he’s still flying, his cheeks aching from smiling. People keep clapping him on the shoulder or ruffling his hair and congratulating him— on his win or his incredible girlfriend, he can’t tell. Raine breaks out the waffle maker and makes an enormous batch of them for dinner, and people sit on the floor in little groups to eat, the room filling with overlapping conversations and laughter.

But then the evening wears on, and the laughter fades, the conversations becoming hushed. The Nocedas are the only ones who can stand to keep vigil by the crystal ball and watch the votes be tallied, all of them holding each other’s hands and sitting with tense, perfect posture. Everyone else in the room ignores the coverage completely, all finding something to distract themselves with instead. Masha paints Raine’s nails; Eda teaches Rhee how to play her mandolin; Lilith and Amity organize every book in the house alphabetically by genre; Steve and King board Steve's motorcycle and drive around as Gwen and Dell watch with mild fascination; Willow and Gemini play Hexas Hold ‘Em against Gus and Hooty; Wynne and Ivy go from group to group collecting dishes; Eberwolf shows Viney how he takes his beast form; Alador and Darius tinker with some kind of abomination. Hunter just wanders from group to group, watching one for a bit before drifting away.

When he gets to Darius and Alador, he wonders if he’ll have to break up a fight. They’ve been civil lately, but he wouldn’t put it past them to revert to the incessant bickering that was their normal right after Belos’s death under the stress of the situation.

“You’re going to win,” he hears Alador say with quiet conviction as he approaches. He raises his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised.

“If only I was capable of sharing your delusional optimism,” Darius responds dryly. 

“No, I’m serious. You have to. I want to end my marriage to Odalia as soon as someone has the power to do it, and you’re the only person I can trust to do it fast enough.”

Darius looks up from their abomination so quickly Hunter’s neck throbs in sympathy. “You and Odalia are… over?”

Alador snorts. “We should have been over a long time ago. I… being with her was… the wrong choice.”

Darius’s expression softens into something Hunter’s never seen on him before, and he realizes it’s definitely time to stop watching this. He turns around— just in time to catch Luz’s eye as she stands.

“The results are in,” she says, her voice about three octaves higher than usual.

Everyone abandons the pretense of normalcy at once, scrambling to face the crystal ball. Hunter wraps one arm around Luz and feels Willow brush up against his other side, sliding her hand into his. 

Being old enough to join a coven, Hunter was also deemed old enough to vote, so he knows how the process worked. All of the candidates were listed on a form, and he was told to fill out the circle next to the five he wanted to rule the Isles. The five candidates with the most votes will be chosen to serve as councilors for the next five years.

“And our first councilor,” Perry Porter says, his voice conveying all the tension currently choking everyone in the room, “is… Alexis Calian!”

Alador nods approvingly. “They quit Blight Industries a few years ago. Good person.”

“Our second councilor is… Arthur Hanover!”

Lilith snorts. “How did he get elected? She has no opinions on anything!”

“That’s probably why people like him,” Luz points out. “They can project.”

“Our third councilor is… Hettie Cutburn!”

No one can speak for a few seconds. When a voice finally cuts through the horror, it’s Masha, but even they know to whisper.

“Who’s that?”

“She was the head of the Healing Coven,” Raine replies, their voice tight.

“At least it’s not Terra?” Eda offers.

“Yet,” Raine mutters.

Darius pinches his nose. “Well, putting the former Coven Heads on trial just became a nightmare.”

“Maybe we can impeach her?” Luz offers.

“What does that mean?”

Luz’s eyes widen. Just a fraction. Then she waves her hand. “We’ll talk later.”

“Our fourth councilor is… Darius Daemonne!”

The horrified silence is shattered by a wave of outright screams. Raine is jumping up and down, Eber is running circles around the room, and Hunter lets go of Luz and Willow to throw his arms around Darius before he can question the impulse. When he pulls back, though Darius is smiling wider than Hunter’s ever seen.

“All right, all right, settle down,” he calls. “We’ve still got one councilor left.”

But as soon as the word Raine passes Perry’s mouth, settle down becomes a foreign concept. If Hunter thought all the Isles could hear the cheers after the Entrails won, well, he’s sure even the Human realm could hear the noise that erupts. Eda dips Raine into a kiss as Lilith lets out a piercing whistle, Luz and Vee and Masha grab each other's hands and jump up and down, and everyone else is hugging and dancing and screaming themselves hoarse. Hunter picks Willow up by the waist and twirls her around, laughing and laughing, and even though he knows there is more work to do and more games to play, when she leans down to kiss him, he can't stop himself from thinking that things are finally falling into place. 

[necnnights]

.・。.・THE INSTRUMENTS OF NEON NIGHTS

inspired by Kasey @plasticflwrs

( I ) Eunbyul is most often spotted with the PRS SE CUSTOM 24. It’s used in the majority of the band’s performances, and has traveled with her to every country Neon Nights has traveled to.

( II ) For studio recordings, she prefers to use the GIBSON LES PAUL STUDIO. It’s one of her more prized possessions, and for that reason, it hardly leaves her bedroom and its case outside of recording sessions.

( III ) She’s the most emotionally attached to the acoustic YAMAHA FS800, which was the first guitar she learned how to play. 

( IV ) Her latest addition is the SCHECTER HELLRAISER, purchased as their music began to take a louder and more aggressive sound. It also looks cooler in their music videos.

( V ) Though it has yet to make an appearance in any of their music, Eunbyul is also a proficient CELLIST. Prior to joining the band, she considered a pursuing a career as a professional symphony musician.

( I ) Hwajung’s current drum kit is the PEARL MASTERS MAPLE in rose gold.

( II ) Her backup kit is her old PEARL EXPORT set. It lives in pieces between the Neon Nights practice room and their apartment.

( III ) Her favorite cymbals are the ZILDJIAN A line. She’d literally die if she had to use the ones that came with the drum set.

( IV ) Hwajung’s drum sticks of choice are the VIC FIRTH AMERICAN CLASSIC 5A. She always carries an extra pair or two, because one of her biggest fears is trying to twirl a stick on stage, dropping it, and losing it forever.

( I ) Yumi’s main bass guitar is the YAMAHA TRBX504 that she's been using since their debut. 

( II ) She tried to upgrade to the YAMAHA BB734A a couple of years ago, but quickly changed her mind. She now uses it only for studio recordings.

( III ) For special occasions—showing off—she plays the YAMAHA TRBX505, the five-string version of her usual bass. 

( I ) Eden owns one keyboard: the YAMAHA CP88. She spends more time singing than playing the piano, so she doesn’t see the point in getting another one. 

( II ) As a child, she learned how to play the piano on her family's STEINWAY AND SONS K52.

( III ) She's also the band’s resident VIOLINIST, having played the instrument from her days as a student in youth symphony.

( IV ) Her electric violin is the YAMAHA SV-200, though she uses it much less than the acoustic one.

( I ) Qiuyun’s first guitar was the FENDER PLAYER STRATOCASTER, recommended to her by Eunbyul, despite Eunbyul not favoring Fenders.

( II ) As she grew more proficient with her instrument, she upgraded to the FENDER AMERICAN PROFESSIONAL II STRATOCASTER, which is now her most-used guitar.

( III ) From time to time, she can also be seen with the IBANEZ PRESTIGE AZ2204NW.

[oceansssblue]

[THE BAD BATCH]— "CANVAS"

ECHO/OFC 💖

OMEGA HAS THE BEST IDEA. SHE HAS BEEN EYING THE ARTIST ACROSS CID'S SALON FOR OVER A WEEK NOW; AND SHE'S FINALLY GOING TO ORDER THE BEST PRESENT EVER FOR ECHO.

WARNINGS: FLEETING MENTIONS OF ECHO'S BODY ISSUES&EXPERIENCE (NOTHING EXPLICIT). 99% FLUFF.

ONE-SHOT INSPIRED BY THIS WONDERFUL @cloned-eyes ART PIECE OF TATTOED ECHO! 💙✨

Omega counts the credits in her hands. She has been saving them for months, now; no more unnecessary mantel mix or cool accesories for her bow even if they make her momentarily happy. She's sure Echo's reaction will top all of that; and she has finally collected enough to buy the present she has being eying since she discovered the small tattoo parlour across Cid's salon. It's a cool place; full of bright neon lights and colourful images and shapes painted all over the walls. She has never actually entered the parlour; but she has seen enough through the displays of the window. She wasn't actively looking for a place like that at all, to start with; but once discovered, Omega couldn't think about anything else.

It's not just tattoos that the artist makes; but she draws and paints on every single surface imaginable too. Omega has seen a long line of clients bringing her all sort of pieces for her to decorate, to give some life to; house accesories, jewelry, books, speeders... Everything is a canvas for her. Omega's favourite one was probably a landscape design painted in a beautiful modern style on the back of a datapad.

She's got talent, the young woman that works with his collague in the shop. While she does the main art, her co-worker seems to take care of supplies and management. He helps with purely ink-on-skin jobs too. They're both not human, though they're not too far off anatomically speaking. They're definitely on the humanoid range; just small variations to their features and a whole different set of colour palette. Omega wonders if they came to Ord Mantell together from their native planet or if their encounter here was a mere coincidence. She's always curious; even about strangers that have nothing to do with her.

Their skin has a natural faint purplish tint, and they have big eyes with a pronounced double circled iris –the inner layer a darker lilac colour, the outer one a vibrant gold– and washed-out white marks on their neck and face. She has short purple hair, barely grazing her chin, and always wears six or more small braids that sometimes join together in beautiful ways. A bunch of earings hang of each of her slightly pointed ears; and tattoos roam all over her arms and the sides of her neck. She has two small ones on one cheek as well; black figures and dots Omega's not sure if they hold meaning or not. His co-worker looks and dresses in a similar way; comfortable cargo pants with military-like boots, a red T-shirt and black vest. They both look so cool Omega hasn't grown tired of staring at them yet.

The young teenager half skips happily to the parlour; a replica of Echo's prosthetics inside the bag hanging heavily on her shoulder. She had asked Tech to build them a week and a half ago; explaining her idea to the goggled clone and inmediately achieving his aproval. Tech had told her it was a very considerate and original gift. He had jumped at the challenge of building a copy of Echo's three main prosthetics –his scomp, and both of his cybernetic legs– in record time and without any of the others noticing it. Well, except Hunter, who had obviously heard his quiet screwing in the middle of the night and had quickly been informed of the plan.

Omega radiated energy when she opened the door to the parlour. Her big eyes quickly found their way to the artist that would make her idea come true, and she walked towards the front desk with a spring to her step.

"Hi! I love your work, and I'd like you to draw a bunch of stuff for me, please" she blurted out, her enthusiastic innocent voice inmediately catching the attention of the humanoid.

The artist tilted her head to the side, examining the young girl up and down. The new comer looked to be around thirteen or so; a shock of beautiful blond hair complementing her tanned skin. Her purplish-golden eyes sparkled with curiosity and humour.

"You're a bit young to get your skin inked, kid" she answered with a small chuckle. "Luckyly for you I don't really have an age minimum 'round here. Don't come crying next week when you change your mind, though. Erasing is always a torture, and a loss of my time. You sure?"

Omega's eyes widenned comically. She laughed while shaking her head vigorously to the sides, one hand coming up in a clear sign of rejection.

"Oh, no! No. I don't want to get a tattoo!" she frowned, the posibility passing through her head a second later before she nochalantly shrugged it away. "At least not now. I actually brought you some pieces for you to customize? Like you did with some of your other clients?"

The woman chuckles at Omega's lively personality. She points at the heavy bag hanging of her shoulder.

"I'm assuming they're in there?" She guesses, and Omega quickly nods and carefully places the bag in the floor, opening it up for the artist to see.

The woman crouches down and curiously peers into it. She frowns in confussion, and one hand cautiously hovers over one of the pieces while she tries to make the shape of the pile of cramped metal in her head. She realises what the girl is carrying and tilts her head up to her with clear surprise in her face.

"Are these prosthetics?"

Omega nod's proudly.

"Yeah! My brother Tech managed to make an extra improved pair for Echo –he's my other brother– in no time and I wanted you to decorate them before I give them to him. He's had his own for a while now, but I know he's not fully comfortable with them yet, even if he tries not to show it. So I thought personalizing them a bit would make him feel like they're more him, you know?"

Omega waits for the womans aproval. Tech said it was a good idea, so it must be, right? Anyhow, she kinda wants the opinion of the artist herself too. She makes a living of this; of giving soul and personality to pieces that form a part of others lifes.

To her relief, the woman seems gladly surprised. She slowly takes out one of the leg prosthetics and turns it carefully in her hand, examining the surface and caressing it here and there in an almost distracted way.

"It sounds like a cool idea, kid" she hesitates, not wanting to be the one to break the young girl's heart. "But customizing such large complex pieces is pretty expensive, specially if you want to add specific details yourself. Do you have the money?"

Omega nods proudly and takes the credits out of her pocket. She shows them to her with a smile.

"Yup! I have been saving for weeks now. It's enough, right?"

Omega sees the expression on the artist face fall, and her eyes widen. She looks back and forth between the credits on her hands and the artist; knowing what's going on.

"Is it that much more expensive?" She asks, worried, nibbling on her lower lip, trying to think of a solution to it. "I-maybe I can ask Tech and Hunter for more, uh maybe Wrecker, or I can sell some stuff around and..."

The artist interrumpts her rumbling with a hand on her shoulder, standing up besides her.

"Look, sweetheart... I can't use all my current materials in this pieces for this price, but I must have some old stock somewhere in the back. Outdated stuff is much cheaper, and we can forget about my personal fee as well, so you won't have to pay the extra. Or my time of work. Just the pure old raw materials, that should cut the price drastically" she eyes her expectant expression and the hope in her big eyes and sighs, pulling up a smile. "You can give me what you want and we'll call it a deal, alright?"

"Really?" the blonde nearly squeals, knees bouncing up and down, and the artist's smile widens.

"Yeah. Take the pieces to the front desk and lay them out. Do you have a clear idea of what you want to do with them?"

Omega quickly follows and she inmediately grabs her datapad –one of Tech's old ones– and starts pulling up photos and ideas of designs she had been investigating these last few days. She turns the datapad to the woman and grins.

"I've got loads!"

The artist smiles in amusement and pats the chair next to her. Omega hops on it and tilts her face to her, expectantly. The humanoid nods and points at the datapad with a vague gesture.

"Okay. Let's hear it, then".

(•••)

Viana didn't make a habit of being underpayed. Every inch of the fee for her job was perfectly detailed and taken into consideration; materials, time, number of details, backgrounds, how large was the piece, if it required a special varnish to seal the art, colours, layers... It wasn't the same customizing a watch with barely more than the first letter of someone's name than to decorate someone's speeder; so her prices really varied depending on each request.

The girl's –Omega, she had after learned– story had moved her enough to do a little favor for her. Just an exception to her usual strict rules. The blonde had showed her several images on her datapad –pointing out his brother Tech had runned a check up on her and decided she could be trusted with said information– and the woman had quickly put two plus two together. Those guys were clones, and not the ones that followed the laws of the Empire. These were guys that still remember what was honour, respect, doing the right thing. Viana still remembered how Rak and her had been able to escape their home planet with their help.

Truth is the saasra has always admired them. They were great soldiers, great men; and she had come from a tribe of warriors herself. She had long left those years behind; but she still payed attention to the same things. Plus, Echo's particular story was something else. Omega hadn't really gotten into details; just quickly passing of a coment on how he had been gravely injured in battle and how his body looked like now. Viana had read into the images shown before said change; the proud posture of the ARC trooper surrounded by his brothers and friends. She couldn't imagine what he had been forced to push through; not only accepting his own new body, but coping with the loss of so many dear people too.

She hand't been able to think on anything else after Omega left her workshop. The feeling of a new exciting project surged within her, ideas and splashes of colours and shapes constantly popping in her mind. Viana knew she wouldn't be able to sleep that night unless she started with this unusual project; so she had begun with the initial designs.

She always follows the same process. She draws a lazy sketch; absolutely everything she thinks could go well with the piece. Then she picks them out; re-doing them in better shapes and lines on a new datapad canvas. Once that is done, she meassures the original piece and replicates the dimensions on her app; moving her figures and details and overlapping them in layers so everything is taken to it's destined spot. She plays with colours and details –nothing too specific– in her datapad too; and then she moves onto the real piece. She draws the final selected sketch on it and then it's all a matter of colours and definition; swirls and micro-details. It's her favourite part; watching her ideas finally take life. Making dull pieces stand out.

Three days after Omega's arrival on her parlour, Viana has already drawn the main sketches out. She wanted to personalize everything to the detail, like Omega had requested; every inch of the former soldier's cybernetics was perfectly planned out. Though Omega would probably like something vibrant and jazzy best, the saasra knew it had to be something discreet enough so it wouldn't interfere with Echo's posible future misions. Viana didn't exactly knew what they did for a living, or what the future held for them; but she could get an idea. Times were difficult now, dangerous. She couldn't make the prosthetics striking enough to catch people's attention. It had to be somewhat subtle.

With that main reason in mind, she had designed a background of greys, blacks and reds for all of the three pieces in her hands. The lines parted separetly on the top of the scomp prosthetic before travelling down and crossing each other and swirling at the end; joining together in a splash of dark red. The same went for the legs; full opalascent black for were the top part attached to real skin and slowly switching to a gradient grey as they went down to the feet. Small streaks of dark red also swirled around each other as they went; almost following the shapes of human muscles in soft and precises curves. Not wanting them to look too perfectly made –he was a soldier, after all, not an inmaculate coruscanti model– she added some groundge details too; smearing some black and grey paint together here and there without any particular shape, and with her metalic sharp brushes, simulating scratches and dips on the surface.

Once that was out of the way –she had chosen those reds, greys and blacks to match the rest of the clone's armour by Omega's pictures– she followed with the small details. Viana had given it much thought. She wanted the prosthetics to really feel part of Echo, as Omega had in mind too. She wanted to give him something with which he could feel like himself. That right after he tried them on, he'd feel more confident and reassured. And not just because it was a –poorly– payed comissioned job.

Viana decided on a mix of what seemed to be the clone's most important aspects of his life. Omega had more or less explained parts of his life to her, so she could understand what to work with. Viana knew she needed to include five main pieces of Echo's life in these; the Jedi, Clone Force 99 –Omega's brothers, herself included now–, Captain Rex, the Domino Squad, and his twin Fives.

For the Jedi, Viana drew tiny light-sabers on the edges of each prothesis that at first glance looked like a line of simple stiches. She couldn't plant something on the surfaced that screamed "hey, Empire, right here, i'm your enemy" after all, so it was an unasumming little thing. No-one would find out unless they specifically looked for it. Hell, Echo might not even realise it himself.

For Clone Force 99, she designs four washed-out white skulls to compliment the one already etched on the top left of his chest plate. She adds a very carefully hand-drawn detail for each one, so it represents the rest of the members of the squad; one skull crossed by a delicate black bow, another with a stripe across the head for the long-haired clone's bandana, one with the crosshair on the right eye and the last one with a myriad of scars coming from the left side of the skull and ending on the left.

She adds a splash of a hand print for Captain Rex around the prothesis holding the scomp. The blue sticks up too much with the rest of the colour pattern, though, even if its a dark shade with some black in between; so Viana adds some minor swirls and slashes of the same tone here and there.

Following Omega's idea, she draws five small domino's in black and grey around one of the cybernetic's ankles; tying them up to each other with a thin line of scarlet red. A black five is a perfect replica of one of Omega's pictures on the other ankle; red and greys and blues swirling around the number as if trying to cling to it.

Viana gives a few extra last touches and examines the three pieces in front of her. Satisfied and proud, she gives them a final varnish so they hold all kind of atmospheric adversities; and two weeks after Omega's request, the woman has her art ready to be send on it's way.

(•••)

Viana makes her way to where Omega told her their ship would be docked with her request carefully placed inside a box with the parlour's purple logo. It's heavy, but not as much as she first imagine the prothesis would be; she's able to carry them without much effort til she's standing right in front of the Marauder –Omega's home–.

She examines the external appearence of the ship with intrigue. Omega's a bubbly thing, and she couldn't stop talking in excitement when she visited her workplace. Viana had half-listened distractedly while she pulled out basic designs and drew quick sketches for the blonde to sway in one direction or the other. By the way her eyes filled with warmth and her smile widened while talking of this ship, the saarsa knew it wasn't just a ship for them at all.

There's two men standing on the outside, one crouched down while examining something with a pack of wrenchers and tools by his side; the other observing with his arms crossed. After spending a few hours of the last two weeks staring at Omega's pics, they're easily recognizable; the one with the long hair and red bandana is obviously Hunter, while the one doing the repairs is Tech. She can't see the other two –Wrecker and Echo himself– so she asumes they're either inside or somewhere else in Ord Mantell.

Hunter's eyes flicker around his surroudings before they land on her. It's like he noticed someone staring; she wondered if she had been doing that with too much intensity. To show she's not a threat –this guy is clearly ready and alert– she shows a small gentle smile and hesitantly takes a step towards them.

"Can we help you?" Hunter asks, frowning unconsciously, his stance widening slightly while turning towards her.

Tech glances up and his eyes quickly roams over the newcomer's appearance, quickly drawing the right conclusions by the expresion on his face.

"Oh! You must be the artist from Omega's most recent quest" he nods as a way of hello, standing up and adjusting the right lense of his goggles before continuing talking with her. "I asume that you bring the final results?"

Viana nods and brings the box in her hands up as a demonstration. Hunter relaxes and Tech nods, curiously walking towards her.

"May I have a look?"

They're really polite, and really handsome too. Most clones are, of course. It's no wonder people used to like going to clone's pubs before.

"Sure" Viana answers, her mere observation not making her shy away in the slightest.

She patiently waits while Tech lifts the lid of the box up and takes a peak inside. Hunter can't hold back his curiosity either and follows him. They both stay silent for so long that Viana starts to feel a bit nervous and hesitant about her work.

"Is it... Is it what Omega hoped for?"

She's usually very confident about herself; but Echo's situation is delicate, and the details she has added in the cybernetics, albeit by Omega's request, are too personal for a stranger to play with. She hopes she hasn't overstepped.

"It exceeds my expectations, in fact" points out Tech, to her inmediate relief. "And I am sure Omega's as well. I'm particularly surprised at how detailed and lively this are without drawing too much attention to it, nothing too vibrant or extravagant. It should work perfectly well with our kind of lifestyle. Congratulations are in order, I believe".

Tech has a weird way of speaking; Viana's lips almost tugging upwards in another smile. She feels proud and happy at his observarions, though; and Hunter thinks the same as well by his firm grateful nod.

"Thank you for doing this" the latest says, his voice slightly rougher than the average clone but equally gentle. "I know for a fact Omega doesn't have enough credits to pay for this. She can be very persuasive, I should know. We can pay you a bit extra ourselves".

The offer is tempting, and Viana has spent a lof of her free time doing this; but she wouldn't feel good if she took the credits in. She feels this project has been made personal –there's always one of those once in a while– and she just feels lucky and proud to have produced such an important piece. It's obvious these guys don't have much themselves considering they don't even have a proper house; and she's sure they've already been through a lot. A bit of generosity and genuine compassion wouldn't hurt them.

"Save it for your family" she answers, then. "It has been a fun experience for me. Plus, I'm glad I'm able to do something for you lot".

Hunter watches her in surprise. They're different enough from the original clone templates that people don't usually associate them with clones, specially with a kid by their side; furthermore, they don't usually find people grateful for their service anymore.

Viana smiles.

"I'm native from Saar" she explains, and Hunter inmediately recognises the planet's name. "I remember".

A heavy silence falls between the three of them. Saar was completely destroyed by the Separatists back then; the army of warriors ruled by King Jarelan refusing to lay down their weapons after their monarch's death. They had called for the Republic's help; and two battalions of clones had been sent to them. They hand't been enough to save the planet form the separatist wrath; but they had saved uncountable lives, and the saarsa's had been able to relocate in another planet with the help of the Senate.

In that moment, someone walks down the Marauder towards them. Viana's attention is quickly snapped to the new presence; inmediately recognising the soldier in front of her. He frowns in confussion at the stranger talking with his brothers; but Echo quickly asumes she's just another woman swayed by Hunter's –or maybe Tech's– appeal and doesn't pay her too much attention while he turns to him.

"Hey, Sarge, I'm gonna go replenish our suplies now" he notifies, feeling a bit restless under the stranger's attentive purple and gold eyes. "Com's open, if you need something. Be back in a few".

Hunter nods, gives a small worded agreement and Echo's eyes glance one last time at the woman before walking away. Viana is sure he has some body issues like Omega explained; but right now he looks so confident and handsome –every bit of the perfect soldier– that the saarsa can't help but feel intrigued and attracted to him.

"Always this interested in your clients?" Hunter quietly asks, amused.

Viana tears his eyes from Echo's retreating figure and laughs.

"Not usually, no" she answers calmly, unashamed of being caught by them. "But you can learn a lot about a person from customising their things. And I had a lot of pics and details from him from that blonde girl of yours."

"So you are interested in him, then?" Tech pops in, and Viana shrugs while a telling smile makes her way on her face.

"He's hot, isn't he?" she places the box in Tech's hands, and decides it's time to return to her shop. "Tell Omega I said hi."

Hunter hums thoughtfully while watching her leave.

(•••)

Echo makes his way to the tattoo parlour with a mess of emotions twirling inside his mind. He couldn't even describe what he first felt when he opened Omega's present and his eyes landed on a new customized set of prosthetics; couldn't explain how it felt trying them on. Every swirl of paint, every line and detail... It was all him, the batch's reds and greys and Legion's 501 blue's; the brave people he had sworn to serve and his two families etched on his second skin now, both Force Clone 99 with each of their distinctives, and his Domino brothers. And Fives. Oh, Fives. He would have thought his prosthetics to be the coolest shit ever if he had been there to see him.

Echo had always had a tough time getting used to his cybernetics. He had been forced to accept them pretty quickly, mind you –inmediately jumping back to the fight in Anaxes and after that–; but there had always been a residual disgust and sense of inedequancy in the silence of his mind, after all was set and done. Suddenly half droid, it had been difficult to adjust; even if his new abilities were actually valuable to the team now. This prosthetics, on the other hand... They carried so much meaning. They hold little parts of his story, of his people; and he had felt inmediately conected to them. Echo opened the doors of the shop with a mess on his mind but feeling confident in his steps like never before.

His eyes inmediately found the stranger from the day before and he aproached her in contemplative silence. She was working on something, eyes stuck to her datapad and one of those tech-pencils on her right hand; brow furrowed and lips pursed in concentration.

"We're not taking any more clients for today" she barely mumbled, without taking a glance at the newcomer. "Come back tomorrow, please".

Echo studied her. She resembled a human, but she was undeniably different; her skin a faint purple and her eyes shining brightly even when pointed down at her datapad. His eyes wondered over each mark on her face.

"I just wanted to personally thank you" he voiced, patiently. "You did a great job with these".

She took a fleeting glance at him, nodding distractedly; inmediately abandoning her current sketch when she recognised who he was and straightening in her chair.

"Echo!" she exclaimed, surprised. He gave her a small nod and smile, and tried to stay still while her bright eyes roamed over him.

She hummed appreciately and showed him a wonderfull grin.

"You make a good-looking canvas, soldier".

Echo chuckles, left hand shyly travelling to the back of his neck, and pulls a smile as well.

Gathering up his courage, he tilts his head.

"Fancy going out for a drink, now that your closing the shop?"

Viana is momentarily stunned; but she melts and quickly nods, eager. Hunter and Tech must have pointed out her interest to him; but she doesn't really care. Echo is hot –undeniably so wearing her work–and she hasn't got any other plans for tonight.

"Give me five to close this up and we'll go" she asks.

Echo is surprised –and at the same time, relieved– at how easily all of this is; and waits patiently for Viana to finish her sketch and lock the doors. They walk to none other than Cid's salon chatting with each other and stealing glances along the way.

Maybe he can have some luck after all.

THE END.

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

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

DAMN, THAT WAS A LONG ONE! I FELT SO INSPIREEEED. I'M HAPPY WITH WHAT CAME OUT. DID YOU LIKE IT TOO? LET ME KNOW! HELPS ME STAY MOTIVATED TO CONTINUE WRITING : )

REBLOG IF YOU CAN!

REQUEST/PROMPTS OPENED. WHAT WOULD U LIKE TO READ NEXT?

MORE CLONE WARS & ARCANE CONTENT COMING!

Xx,

Sky.

[robiinurheart33]

Thanks for the tag @sergeantwoods !! I went a little crazy on the questions lols,,,

1. how many works?

Honestly no idea lmao (if ur talking on ao3, I don’t have an account there, but I’ve been thinking about it.) (14 wips atm)

2. Total word count?

Again, no idea LOL! My actual works have been around 1K ish per post? So id say in total maybee 10k?

3. what fandoms do you write for?

Currently, COD. I wanna expand more soon though, so stay tuned in the far, far future

4. top 5 fics by kudos?

I’m gonna list down my fav fics of all time (multi fandom) if im reading this correctly

1. Anything by buzzcut_season really. Their writing is spectacular and made my heart clench on so many occasions. My personal GOD of writing fluff. And the person that got me through the hells of teenage puberty.(for the record, i am still in puberty lmfao) my firsts in the tag tooth-rotting fluff and the magics of slow burn. (Sk8 the Infinity)

2. Neon Void by sugarpastels. The creator is here on Tumblr with the same user so if you wanna check her out go ahead!! FANTASTIC writing, villain Leo au with heart pounding scenes that leave me dizzy. A fic has never made me breathless and needing to pace around my room more than this one (special shoutout to her sister as well who is writing a mutant mayhem fic that unfortunately didn’t get added to the list but is still super well written!!) (ROTTMNT)

3. Anytime You Need Me by thirteenbullets. I really don’t need to elaborate more. Character analysis + fluff + non sexual intimacy + long fics… it’s the perfect series for me. I felt like a stuck gold when i read this. (COD)

4. The Eldest Brother by dEBB987. Classic 2012 x 2018 crossover, but it doesn’t have ooc and is just such. A. Fun. Read. Made me giggle and kick my legs more than one occasion and good family feels all around. (TMNT)

5. Mutant Ninja Midlife Crisis by a_platypus. Old Leo comes back to the past after the events of the movie to readjust to new life. The right amount of drama with the perfect amount of slice of life. This fic actually gives the old turtle a break but also not letting go of the teenage angst and everything that comes with seeing your dead friends young and alive again. Would have been higher on the list but it’s not completed sadly. The author does write for COD as well though, and it’s worth to check it out! (ROTTMNT)

5. do you respond to comments?

Yes!!! I love love love it when people comment and try to interact if possible.

6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably the panic attack Ghost fic. Haven’t written much angst if im remembering correctly. I’m a major fluff person

7. fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Oh god i really haven’t written a proper fic at all helps. I’m frantically swiping through my robs ramblings tag and just realising most of the ghoap stuff i write is about their undying dedication to each other. Jesus. Happiest ending is probably one of my blurbs cause every time i try to write actual fluff i overheat and explode.

8. do you get hate on fics?

Nope

9. do you write smut?

Nah. I don’t think ill ever write smut honestly not because im asexual its just that I don’t think I can write one accurately if that makes sense. Also im a minor I don’t think im allowed to do that

10. craziest crossover?

None yet

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

Thankfully not, but if i have i would take it as a sign that I’ve made it as a writer. Unless it’s more popular than the actual post in that case burn it with fire.

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

Unfortunately and fortunately no. I would LOVE to collaborate, don’t get me wrong. But i would get so anxious about not disappointing the other person or procrastinating and motivation and all the works and just. Yeah I don’t have the mental capacity for that rn.

14. all time favourite ship?

Ooooooh

ghoap, renga, ineffable husbands, solangelo (Off the top of my head rn)

15. what’s a wip that you want to finish but doubt you will?

THE SECOND PART TO DRUNK SOAP. OH MY GOD I NEED TO GET IT DONE ITS BEEN 2 MONTHS

16. what are your writing strengths?

I would say making everything just too dramatic and emotional

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

Dialogue. I can barely talk irl how am i supposed to write witty banter

18. thoughts on dialogue in another language?

Love it. As a bilingual myself i love seeing diff languages it’s like a bonus secret for that language user

19. first fandom you wrote in?

Rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles. That was when i was in my “i think this is so cringy of me and i hold myself back because of it” because wow. I reread some of it recently and it’s horrible it will stay and rot in my notes app. Although i will say it’s so nice to see how far I’ve come in terms of writing and just posting publicly in general

20. favourite fic you’ve written?

The drunk soap one and the Ghoap one where they’re on stakeout together. I didn’t like the second one initially, but i think slaving over it worked. I love how I managed to balance the quietness and mutual respect and fondness of each other.

If you couldn’t tell, i had a lot of fun answering these questions haha

If you’ve made it this far, congratulations!! You know more about me than the average online follower 👏👏👏

[1997thebracket]

Round 3

Deftones' Around the Fur: I think God is moving its tongue, there's no crowds in the street and no sun. Around the Fur is the sophomore studio album from American alternative metal band Deftones, although the expected dressings of the genre would not always stick. The band did not so much enter the scene with their first record as they kicked the doorman in the teeth and brought the scene out into the alleyway with them. Around the Fur, which produced the singles My Own Summer (Shove It) and Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away), does not dial down the aggression of the band's first outing, but centers it more thematically and strikes back against the newly-forming barriers of metal subgenres to encompass nu-metal, post-hardcore, and alternative rock in one. As guitarist Stephen Carpenter reflected on the band's sound, "We didn't make a decision (…) it was just metal." The record was recognized by fans, but not necessarily by the public or critics right away; it took two years to become certified Gold, and fourteen to become certified Platinum in the United States. One critic would write, twenty years after its initial release, "You know that even when Chino Moreno is saying nothing, he’s saying something, venomous words tripping over themselves as they surge from between his lips. And you won’t hear a better vocal performance all year, as the whispering, shrieking Chino takes you on a rollercoaster ride in and out of his personal hell."

End of Evangelion: It all returns to nothing. So says the haunting tune 'Komm, Süsser Tod' by Arianne, which soundtracks the fate of humanity in the End of Evangelion. The film serves as an alternate ending to the original anime series Neon Genesis Evangelion, which bewitched viewers with the then-unconventional match of giant mecha and existential depression all wrapped up in religious iconography. The final episodes of the anime are incredibly cerebral and proved controversial for viewers at the time, which led to director Hideaki Anno further expressing himself in the 1997 film... which took the heady themes and conflicting stylistic choices of the show and put them in a high-octane blender, along with a tall glass of Human Tang. At its core, End of Evangelion asks if individualism is the one great folly of humanity and the source of our suffering, or if it is the very point of it; it shows the loss of barriers between people and subsequent extinction of loneliness as a sort of cosmic horror. Looking back at the scenes, imagery, and music most associated with the anime and its continued influence, much of the franchise's legacy stems from the End of Evangelion.