#catch me not knowing when people started using just the word phone instead of telephone

[fanficsandthings]

The Traveler

Jack Kelly x reader, a series

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: You wake up in a strange place, having no clue where you are or even when you are. 

Author’s note: I got the idea for this story from this fic here. I’m making this into a series, though. I have no clue how long it’ll be or when I’ll be posting updates. I’m really bad at planning out stories tbh. I know there isn’t much actual Jack in this, but it’s really just a set up for the series. 

Tagged: @ajdolphin19 @actually-races-erster @theaterkid821

Your head was pounding from the pain coming from within as you opened your eyes. Before you, all you could see was a dirty alleyway, litter strewn across the ground. You had no idea where you were or how you got here. The last thing you remembered was getting off the subway in lower Manhattan. 

The sounds of the city seemed to be blocked out from your severe headache. You sat up slowly, pushing your back against the brick wall behind you. Putting your arms around your head, you tried your hardest to will away the pain. 

You sat for a few minutes until the pain started to recede. Once you were able to think properly, it occurred to you that you had no idea where your bag was. Your phone and wallet were both in there, and you needed to find it. All you had on your person was a couple of crumpled up dollar bills and a few coins in your pocket. 

You searched the alley to no avail, not being able to find your bag anywhere. Deciding to search a wider area, you stepped out of the alley onto the main road. You still weren’t quite sure where you were, not being able to recognize any of the buildings around you at the moment. You weren’t even quite sure if you were still in New York City. 

Your mind was racing around all the thoughts of what could’ve happened to you. You were certain that you had been knocked out and robbed, but where had they taken you? You looked at the buildings around you, head spinning faster than you ever thought possible. You needed a way to get home. You needed a way to call the police, to call anyone. You just wanted something familiar and to be safe right now. 

You spotted an older man, in a nicer suit, walking on the other side of the street. It was an odd suit to be wearing, seeming to be made of a tweed or wool material, but you didn’t have the time to think about the man’s fashion choices. You approached him slowly, observing the way he took the pocket watch out of his pocket. You could barely make it out, but you were pretty sure it said that it was around 3pm. You had gotten off of the subway at 9am, so six hours of your day were missing. 

“Excuse me, sir?” you greeted him from behind. He stopped and turned to look at you. 

“I don’t want to buy whatever it is you’re selling,” he stated bluntly, taking in the dirt on your face and clothes from sleeping in an alley. He must’ve thought you were trying to scam him or something.

“I’m not selling anything,” you explained. “I was wondering if you had a phone I could borrow.” 

The man scoffed at you. “A telephone? I’m sure one of the businesses around here has a coin-operated one you could use.” He turned from you and continued walking, mumbling something under his breath about there being too many children around. 

You turned around to head in the opposite direction than the man was going. Standing on the corner of the street, was a boy about your age, with dark hair, holding a newspaper in the air, shouting about burning buildings. As you walked closer, you could see that the newspaper he held up said “The World” on it. You knew that was an old newspaper that hadn’t ran in decades. It was the newspaper from the musical Newsies. You were beginning to think someone was playing the world’s meanest practical joke on you. 

“Hey!” you shouted at the boy. You were done being nice. You just wanted to go home. He turned to look at you, confusion etched on his face. “What the hell is that?” you asked, pointing to the paper he was holding. 

He looked between you and the paper in his hand for a second, trying to figure out how to respond to you. He eventually responded, talking slowly, in a suspiciously familiar accent. “It’s a newspaper.”

“I know that it’s a newspaper,” you snapped at him. “Why the hell does it say ‘The World’ on it?” 

“Cuz that’s the name of the paper.”

“That’s the name of a paper that went out of print years ago. What kind of stupid prank are you trying to pull here?” By now you were pissed off and tired of whatever game this was. “I just saw a production of Newsies last month, and now someone decides that they need to do this to me? What the fuck did I ever do to deserve this?” You wanted to get in his face and scream at him, but you could feel the tears starting to form in your eyes, so you kept a few feet away, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“Listen, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not tricking you or nothing.” The boy started to take a step back from you, probably hoping to make a break for it and get away from you. “If The World didn’t exist, I’d be out of a job. I ain’t sure what you’re going through, but I gotta go.” He started to turn to get away from you, but you stopped him first.

“Wait,” you held up a hand, hoping to get his attention back on you. “Can you at least tell me where I am before you go?”

“We’re on Park Row,” he informed you. “Just south of City Hall Park.” 

“Park Row,” you whispered to yourself, looking down at your feet. There was no way in hell you were on Park Row. You knew what Park Row looked like and where it was, and this definitely wasn’t it. “This can’t be Park Row.” You looked back up at the boy in front of you. “I know Park Row, and this isn’t it.” 

“The Brooklyn Bridge is right over there.” He pointed to his left a bit. “Believe me or not, but this is Park Row.” Your eyes followed his finger to the direction he was pointing. You could see the top of the Manhattan tower of the bridge looming over the buildings. There was no doubt that it was actually the Brooklyn Bridge. 

When you turned back to the boy, he was gone. You assumed he saw his chance to get away from you and took it as fast as he could. Nothing made sense at the moment, and you weren’t sure where to go or what to do. You decided you’d walk the few blocks it was to the bridge and see if you could find anything familiar there. 

As you walked, the buildings around you looked eerily familiar, but still oddly different from what you knew of Park Row. The city hall building looked almost exactly the same, but something about it still didn’t feel right to you. As you approached the Brooklyn Bridge, you were overcome with a sense of familiarity. It was the first thing you’d seen since you woke up that made total sense to you. There was nothing different about the structure that stood before you. 

You looked past it to try to get a glimpse of the Manhattan Bridge just behind it, but there was nothing there, besides the open water and a view of Brooklyn. Something in your chest tightened as you tried to wrap your head around what this could possibly mean. The Manhattan Bridge couldn’t just disappear. It was there yesterday, and even if something did happen to it, it wouldn’t be totally gone like it seemed to be. 

You saw another boy selling newspapers near the entrance of the Brooklyn Bridge, so you made your way over to him. You figured if anyone knew what had happened, it’d be someone who read the news every day as a part of their job; or what they were trying to get you to believe was their job. It still wasn’t entirely clear to you on whether this was real or not. 

“Hey, kid!” you yelled to catch his attention. The redhead turned towards you. “What happened to the Manhattan Bridge?”

You could see the moment his face went from showing straight confusion to showing something a little more devious as he responded to you. “Buy a pape, and you can find out.”

You rolled your eyes at his response, but pulled one of the few coins you had out of your pocket. You handed him the quarter and quickly took the paper from him. You caught out of the corner of your eye how his eyes widened as he looked at the quarter before quickly shoving it in his pocket. You turned away from him, hoping he would ignore you and carry on with whatever he was doing before. 

Still, he tried to start a conversation with you as you quickly flipped through the paper. “You rich, or somethin’?” 

“No,” you answered him shortly, trying your hardest to find any mention of the Manhattan Bridge in the paper. 

“So you’s just givin’ out quarters then?” He moved his body so he was in front of you now, trying to get your attention back to him. 

“It’s just what I happened to pull out of my pocket,” you said, turning the page of the paper. “It’s just a quarter.” 

“Just a quarter? You just paid for my whole day’s work.”

You looked up at him for a split second. “I guess you should be thanking me then.” Before he could get another word out, you angry pulled the paper down and crumpled it a bit in your fist. “There’s nothing about the Manhattan Bridge in here.”

His face grew into a small smile, almost a smirk. “That’s because it don’t exist.” 

“What do you mean ‘it don’t exist’?” You pushed the paper into his chest, letting him catch it before it fell to the ground. “It was built over a hundred years ago! It can’t just not exist! It should be right there!” You pointed out past the Brooklyn Bridge. 

He looked off across the bridge into the water behind it. “I means, there’s talk about them buildin’ another bridge there, but that ain’t for a few more years.” 

You were getting real fed up with whatever was happening to you. You just wanted to know what was going on. You wanted your life to make even a resemblance of sense again. Tears were forming in your eyes again, and this time you didn’t have the energy to try to hold them back. When you spoke, your words came out soft and quiet. 

“It was right there yesterday.” You refused to look at the boy next you, as you sat on the ground. You brought your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around your legs. You rested your head on top of your knees, as you stared off towards the Brooklyn Bridge. You decided you might as well ask the question that had been on your mind for a while. A question that you knew you didn’t really want the answer to. You looked back up at the redhead, who was looking at you with slight sympathy, but you could tell that this was an awkward situation for him. “What day is it?” you asked him. 

“July 15th,” he responded. 

“But what year is it?” 

He handed you back the paper you had bought, having folded it back so the front page was facing out again. “1899?” 

His answer sounded more of a question to you. It was probably more of a “how could you not know the year?” question than anything else. 

You looked at the paper you now held in your hands. “July 15, 1899” was clearly written right under the words “The World.” You didn’t want to believe it. How could you? Just six hours ago it had been 2019, but whatever was happening here seemed way too real for it to be fake. 

“Are you alright?” the boy asked, though you could barely hear him. The world around you seemed to be going quiet again, like it was when you first woke up. “You look pale.”

You looked up at him again through blurry vision. “I think I just need to lay down real quick.” You moved so you were laying on your back, not really caring that you were in the middle of a sidewalk. Your eyes fluttered shut quickly as your mind whirled around in your head. Maybe you’d wake up to the real world again.

[merci-bitch]

Happier Than Ever

Angelique Bouchard x fem!reader 

Request : Would you consider writing some jealous or possessive Angelique? It’s okay if not! :) - Anonymous 

Warning(s) : swearing, angst, small nsfw, trauma, claustrophobia, 

Words : 3k

A/N : I do apologize, this probably wasn’t what you wanted but it just came to me. I like this, even if there’s spelling mistakes. I don’t proof read :/. I do hope you all enjoy it! Sorry it’s taken so long! Xx

"Angie, this isn't fair!"

Angie only grinned at you as she finished tightening the chains that were wrapped around you. Standing up straight, she looked down at you. A pouty smile on her lips. Angie placed her hands on her hips.

"You know, we could have avoided this situation of you loved me."

"I do love you! Please just get me out of here." Your tone desperate. Struggling against the chains despite the small amount of space you had in the box. Angie threw her head back in laughter.

"Angelique!" You barked at her. Catching her off guard at the harsh tone. She stopped laughing at the sound of her full name. She leant down slowly again. Letting her slim fingers trace against your cheek. Despite your obvious fear, you couldn't help but lean into her touch. Your eyelids closing as you felt her lips on your forehead. Sniffing softly, looking up at her with glossy eyes. Expecting her to let you out.

"Better keep your head down, goldwing."

"Angie don't do this to me. You know I hate small spaces!" You nearly screamed. Feeling panic arise in you. Angie said nothing as she stood at full height once again. She seemed to think of something to say. It wasn't usual for the elegant Angie Bouchard to not know what to say. Moment cut short as she broke the silence. "So here's the deal."

Angie moved her hands up under her lace dress, watching with pleasure as she saw how your eyes widened in shock. Pulling the lacy panties down her legs, snapping it at her left ankle. "I'm gonna destroy everything you love." She said as she leant down and covered your lower face with her underwear. Tugging it behind your ears. "And you're gonna take some time to think about us."

Angie grinned from ear to ear as she grabbed the lid of the coffin and started to close it. "See you soon my love."  Blowing you a kiss before closing the lid. Leaving you in complete darkness with your lover's underwear as a mask on your face. +

-

"It's not like I don't want her. Sometimes I feel as I'm more honest in my dreams and she's been in quite a few."

"Does she make you happy?"

"The more time goes, I feel as if I was made for her. Angie's comet that comes around more then I do."

"Have you been getting sleep Y/N?"

"I haven't slept since Sunday. Midnight is like 3 AM to me."

Julia leant back in her chair and crossed her legs as she watched you. Something was off. "You never answered my question if she made you happy Y/N."

You sat up and looked at Julia. Feeling your nerves burn. "Was this Liz's idea? Of course it was!"

Your tone caught Julia off guard. Stumbling with her words as you walked your way towards the door, only to watch you come back.

"I hate the way she looks at me. I can't stand the dialogue she can't speak. I know she'll never be satisfied and though I ty to tell myself that I hate her - I can't. It's all I think about when I'm behind the wheel. Is this how I'm going to feel forevermore?"

Your tone cracking at the end of speaking. Sniffing and clearing your throat, drying your eyes; looking back at Julia. Seeing her surprised eyes.

"I could never hate her. She's all I've got left of mother."

With that you left Julia's office. Nearly running down the stairs. You felt your throat tighten. Ears ringing like high keys of a piano being played. A storm forming inside your head. Sounds of loud speaking blasting in your head. Vision black and white, spiralling.

Reaching the front door, using your strength to open the old wooden door open. As if someone hit you in the face with a pillow, the wind hit you. The heavy rain flooding down replacing the blasting sound in your ears. Closing your eyes, feeling everything go away for just a moment. Letting your shoulders fall back down.

"Y/N!"

Turning around you saw Liz standing at the top of the stairs. Her face tense. You turned around again and started walking outside. Hearing her fast steps behind you. Gasping, the raindrops cold against your burning skin. Taking a moment to collect yourself, a moment too long as Liz grabbed your arm, nearly dragging you back inside.

"Are you insane?!"

Ripping your arm from her grip. "What do you mean Liz? Am I not allowed to have my opinions?" Turning so your back was facing her. Looking out again, waiting. You heard Liz groan of frustration. "Your mother wouldn't ha-"

"Don't talk to me about mother! I thought we both agreed to keep her out of this Liz!"

Your mother died when you were a teenager, when Carolyn was little. She wasn't sick. It was a sudden passing. One morning she just collapsed and didn't wake up. Of course, everything changed after that. Except Roger. Roger is Roger. Still an asshole. You and Liz became more distant and cold against each other. You never really understood why. You loved your aunt. Then Angie happened. It ruined your relationship completely. Silly you to fall in love. You'd gone to therapy to help with the trauma of seeing your mother die in front of you but you stopped years ago. You got over it, or at least pretended to. Nothing lasts, you knew the deal.

"Y/N, are you waiting for someone?" Liz asked.

"Maybe."

"She won't come, you know. She never does. She has you as a souvenir, just waiting to sell you off."

"And you think making me talk to Julia will change my mind?!" You turned around to look at her. Daring her to continue, but of course. She didn't. It's so weird that we care so much, until we don't. Things you once enjoyed, just kept you employed now. The things you longed for, will one day be boring to you.

You turned around around again, silently agreeing with Liz. She wasn't coming. You started walking.

"Y/N! You'll catch a cold!"

"So be it! It's not like any of you would care if I actually got sick, or collapsed like mother!" You screamed back at her.

"Y/N stop walking, god dammit!"

You turned around and saw Liz running towards you. Wrapping her jacket around you, the one you loved as a kid. She squeezed your arm. "Be back to dinner." You nodded your head short and flipped up the hood and made your way into town.

The walk was mid long, but cold in the rain. And of course wet. leaving you looking like a wet dog by the time you reached the town. People giving you weird glances as you stepped into Angel Bay. Stepping into the elevator, breathing normally again after walking through stinking fish. Pulling down the hod and scratching your scalp. Brushing through your hair with your fingers, trying to make it look presentable. Ending up with tying it in a ponytail. Opening the jacket, to show that there was some part of you that was dry.

As you stepped out, you bumped into someone. The person nearly knocking you to the ground, had they not held a strong grip around your waist.

"I deeply apologise! I didn't see where I was going." A man said as he helped you stand up straight again.

"No worries! I am as much to blame as you. I'm Y/N." You chuckled and held your hand out.

The guy didn't take your hand, but hugged you instead. Catching you by surprise but sooner or later you hugged him back. "You're a hugger I see."

He pulled back and scratched the back of his neck and looked to the ground.

"I'm sorry, I should have asked."

"No. Not at all. It's alright. I do love a good hug." You smiled at him and softly hit his arm. He gave you a small smile back. "I'm Matt."

"Nice to meet you Matt. I sense you're new here."

Matt nodded his head and collected his papers that'd been on the floor. "Yeah, I had an interview earlier. With Ms. Bouchard?"

You nodded. "Scary thing, isn't she?"

Matt seemed hesitant to answer. As if he was scared people would hear his answer. It made you laugh. "No need to be scared. She can't hurt you, not while I'm around, buddy."

Matt seemed to relax as you said it. Giving you a smile back. "Thanks Y/N."

"You wanna grab coffee tomorrow? At the little cafe by the corner at 11?"

"I'd like that. See you then Y/N!" Matt waved as he stepped inside the elevator. You waved back until the doors closed and then made your way towards Angie's office.

"Hello Miriam, is she in?"

"Good morning Y/N. Yes, I'll le-"

You opened the door to her office to see her on the phone. Closing the door behind you. Angie raised an eyebrow and looked you up and down as she continued to speak with whoever it was on the line. Suddenly, locking eye contact with you.

"Well, I'd be dammed."

She kept the eye contact as she put down the telephone and stood up. Not saying anything, but just looking at you. Taking you in. It almost made you feel uncomfortable. Your gaze turned to her desk, on the left corner. The little cow you'd given her as a present years ago.

"You still have the cow I gave you."

"Don't change subject."

The sharp reply caught you off guard. Nearly making you flinch. Rolling your shoulders back, looking up at her, seeing how tense her shoulders were. She'd clenched her jaw.

"What subject? You didn't even speak."

"Oh, but you certainly did."

"What on earth are you talking about Angie?"

"Coffee? Tomorrow at 11?" She mimicked your voice. That's when it hit you. Of course she'd know.

"You have some secret spy out there?"

"Do not take me for a fool Y/N!" Angie rarely shouted at you. You heard her scream and shout at others but never at you. It made you flinch and want to crawl out of your skin. Slowly, you sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk. Pulling the jacket tighter to you.

"I-I don't think you're a fool Angie."

"Then give me one good reason I shouldn't fire him."

"Fire him? He was just being nice!"

"Nice? Darling girl, he likes you."

Angie's tone got slick. Her lips curling into that familiar wicked smile. She slowly leant over her desk.

"He doesn't like me. He was just being nice since be bumped into me." You shrugged your shoulders.

"I think I know when someone smears themselves over what's mine." Angie crosses her arms and straightened her back.

"Alright, don't start with that. He was just being nice. You scare him." You crossed your legs and leant back in the chair. Trying to get comfortable in an uncomfortable chair was impossible.

"You know when you said you'd get me anything?"

"Yes."

"Get new chairs."

Angie groaned and walked around her desk, stopping behind you. Letting her hands rest on your shoulders. Automatically you tensed up at her touch. Making her tsk.

"So tense, my dear." She gripped your shoulders more firmly and leant down to whisper in your ear, "Do I scare you?"

A small blush crept up your chest. No matter how many times she touched you, it always had the same reaction and you doubted it'd ever change. Clearing your throat. "A little."

Angie's low chuckle sent shivers down your spine. Her hands squeezed your shoulders as she left small little kisses on the back of your neck before standing up again. You heard her do something behind you. "Why do you smell like a wet dog."

You snorted. "Well, someone forgot to pick me up as they promised."

"I had another meeting darling."

You rolled your eyes. "When don't you have one."

You felt Angie stand right behind you. Her front pressing against your back.

"Let me make it up to you." Her hands slid down your shoulders, further down your chest. Slipping under your shirt, cupping your breasts in your bra, giving them a squeeze. Leaning down and brushing her nose against the back of your neck. Her scent filling you up. Leaning your head slightly back, pushing your chest up in her hands. Angie's lips curled into a satisfied smirk.

"No, no stop."

You jerked away from her, standing up and shaking your whole body. Readjusting your shirt and bra. Angie turned around and glared at you. "What's the matter with you?"

"I don't want it."

"Don't want what Y/N."

"Just - can you step away."

For once she did what you asked. It was a first for both of you. You'd never neglected her touch. In one way or another. "Sorry. I had another fight with Liz before I came here. She mentioned my mother, that's all."

Angie watched you with curiosity. "No, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"I'm not telling you about it."

"I never said you had to, sweetheart." Her tone was smooth like butter. Her posture told a different story. You looked up at Angie. Those piercing blue eyes. You'd get lost in them like an ocean.

"She said you only kept me a souvenir. Planning to sell me off." It was barely a whisper. You saw how Angie's whole aura changed again. Angie scoffed and walked back to her desk. Lightning a cigarette. "Liz and her extraordinary thoughts."

"Am I a souvenir to you Angie?"

"Of course not." Angie said as she sat down and opened her folder again. Setting her brain on work again.

It went quiet and you just stood there. Watching her work. Of course. Work. If she didn't get what she wanted, what was the point?

"I'm not a mirror you know."

She didn't answer.

"Times have changed, haven't they?"

Angie hummed. Clearly not listening. You knew her motto. When she got bored, she got something new. In this case it involved you.

"What a drag to love you like I do."

This caught her attention. "What do you mean Y/N."

"You know, Julia asked if you made me happy. I didn't answer her question."

Angie slowly stood up as you spoke. Her expression hard. Serious. Frightening.

"You're all it takes for me to break a promise. Silly me for falling in love with you."

You turned your back to her and walked towards the door only to jump away as a vase was thrown behind you at the door. Shattering all over the floor around the door. You turned around and looked at Angie with shock written across your face. "Are you insane?!" You looked back to the broken glass laying across the floor. Stepping away from it.

"Everybody dies. Surprise, surprise." Angie said as she walked towards you. Backing you up against the wall. Trapping you.

"You could have hit me!"

"I could never dare lay a finger on you, my dear."

"You almost did!"

"Don't tell, goldwing."

You looked over to the glass again. Angie pulled your chin back and leant in to kiss you. The kiss bruising. Harsh but full of passion. Something she never lacked. Pulling away when she needed air, but not too far. Brushing her nose against yours.

"I'd be dammed before I ever see that man touch you again."

"You're jealous."

"Not in the slightest. I don't share what's rightfully mine."

"Rightfully? Let's get one thing straight, you don't own me Angie."

"Oh, I don't? You have been to clarify that many times, my darling girl."

The statement made you blush. You hit her shoulder. "I'm allowed to have friends."

"Friends who don't touch."

You rolled your eyes at her. Stepping away from her once again. Stepping over the glass. Careful not to step in it. "You know, if you can't handle me having friends. I can't handle you." -

+

You don't remember how you got into the coffin in the first place. You remember walking to the door again and then everything going black. Then waking up with Angie leaning above you, and you tied up in a coffin. You knew she was a witch. Since Barnabas came, everyone knew. Everyone who was a Collins. It didn't really change anything. It made you understand her outstanding beauty. A powerful woman, quite literally.

Struggling once again with the chains that were wrapped tight around you. The underwear making it hard to breathe, the air dampening your face; making it hot. Panic started creeping up inside you. Your eyes started to sting as you continued to struggle. The general air inside the coffin was musty, and bad. Small tears making their way down your cheeks. Sobs bubbling up in your throat, threatening to spill.

"Angelique!"

You screamed the best you could as a sob covered it. Feeling your whole body sake with fear. Your ears were popping the moment you started screaming. You didn't knew what you were screaming, if it was for help or Angie. The more tears, the more screams and the more fear. You knew Angie would do the opposite of what she said she would. If this was her idea of a punishment, you weren't sure if you'd ever recover. Different thoughts went through your head. Was Liz right? Was Angie right? Were you the only bad person here? Were Angie the cause of everything?

"Angelique! Come back! Please!"

You knew she wasn't there. You knew she wasn't coming back. A point of you wanted her to come back and another didn't. People heard you, but listened to her. You were never heard. Happier than ever, and you wished it wasn't true.

You were wasting your breath. You didn't relate to her. You ever told anyone anything bad about her. You loved her. She was your everything but at what cause? She ruined everything good for you.

Nearly choking on your tears, the air getting tighter. Using the last you had, screaming your lungs out. The ringing in your ears getting worse. Was this how you were gonna die? By the hands of the woman you loved? Was this the price you had to pay for loving her? You'd never get over her. She held your heart, even if you didn't want her to.

Happier than ever. A fake story. Nothing lasts, you knew the deal.

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 6

A/N Where does the time go?  I lugged my laptop 7,000km round trip with the sole intention of working on this fic, but that apparently didn’t happen.  For those who found the last chapter hard to bear, I apologize in advance.  I am not quite finished being cruel.  With that said, trigger warning for character death, childhood disease, suicide ideation.  The chapter title is Sleeping in the Clouds.

The first five chapters are available on my AO3 page.

Five Months Later

A persistent mechanical bleating lifted Claire from the indeterminate depths of medicated sleep.  The emergency contact number she provided to all her patients was programmed to forward to her mobile, where a particularly aggravating ringtone ensured she would never miss a call.  Even at one am on a Tuesday night.

Fumbling for the device, she glanced at the unfamiliar number before answering.

“Doctor Beauchamp speaking.”  Her voice was gritty and rough.  She reached for a half-filled tumbler of water while waiting for the caller to identify themselves.  Over the line she could make out muted traffic noise, and perhaps a distant foghorn, but no-one spoke.

“Hello?” she inquired, torn between concern that a patient needed her and frustration that she might have been woken by a misdialed number.

“If you’re one of my patients, you need to talk to me so that I can help you.”

There was an intake of breath, a weepy sniffle, and then the click of the call being terminated.  A prickle of gooseflesh washed over her.  She couldn’t say exactly how, but she knew who had called, and that he needed her.

One of the grim perks of her job was that she had backdoor access to reverse look-up for telephone numbers, in cases where there was a threat of self-harm or harm to others.  As Claire hastily donned socks and grabbed a winter coat, she waited on hold for the PSAP operator to provide an address.

“We’re in luck, Doctor Beauchamp.  It wasna a mobile number.  In fact, tis a telephone booth.  Gote Lane, in Queensferry.  Down near the... umm, next tae the bridge.”

Without so much as a thank you, she hung up and frantically punched the app for an Uber.

Fifteen nail biting minutes and an excessive tip later, she stood in front of an empty phone booth.  Predictably, the directory had been torn out, leaving only a thin metal cord and car-key graffiti inside the cramped interior.  But on top of the phone itself she found a familiar ecru business card, her name and credentials embossed in black font.

“Damn it, Jamie,” she muttered to herself, palming the card.

If he’d hung up and started walking towards the bridge, she might be able to catch him if she ran all out, but something called her towards the nearby shore instead.

The tide was out, leaving a narrow strip of beach and sharp, slimy rocks exposed to the heavy air.  Her nostrils were assaulted by the briny vegetative rot of the retreating sea.

On a weathered bench facing the river, encircled by a cone of foggy streetlight, sat a man, his eyes trained on the smudgy lights of the Queensferry bridge hovering high above.  Even bundled in a heavy black jacket and watch cap, she would recognize his long limbs and the set of his shoulders anywhere.  She let out a long breath of relief.

She approached the bench cautiously, not certain if her presence would be welcome.  Instead of turning to greet her footsteps, Jamie addressed the bridge.

“Maggie passed t’day.  I called ‘cause I wanted ye tae know, but then I couldna find the words tae tell ye.”  Despite his refusal to look at her, his words were calm and without a hint of the bitterness she’d expected.

“Oh, Jamie.  I’m so terribly sorry.  I didn’t know her well, but she was a very special little girl who loved you dearly.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of her words, but didn’t reply.  She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, suddenly aware that she was still wearing her pajamas, her hair doubtless a veritable cumulus of tangled curls.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.  “I still have some contacts at the hospital, I could...” she broke off, knowing it was ridiculous to offer professional assistance when she’d been the one to sever their relationship.

“Would ye, if it’s no’ too much tae ask, would ye mind jus’ sittin’ here with me fer a bit?”

He finally turned to look at her, and she could see the spider web of red veins that surrounded his irises, testimony to his heartbreak.  His mouth, usually such an accurate barometer of his mood, was strangely inert.  She nodded, unable to deny him such a simple request.

It was the time of night when the daytime symphony of the city broke into its component parts, every passing car, every lapping wave a single instrument singing its own plaintive song.  They sat in silence for long enough that she could feel the damp creeping up the legs of her pajamas.

“Maggie loved tae cross that bridge,” Jamie said at last.  “She’d lower her window, rain or shine, and stick her wee arm out, sayin’ it felt like she was flyin’.”

Claire smiled at the image, trying to picture the little girl with the giant imagination.

“What colour was her hair, Jamie?” she asked.  “Was it red, like yours?”

“Nah, dark, like Jenny’s and our Da.  But wi’ curls like mine and my Ma’s.  A little like yours, actually, Sassenach.  That is, before the chemo took it away.”

She grimaced, not knowing what topic to choose that wouldn’t lead Jamie on a path directly back to his grief.

“She fought sae hard,” he continued before she could attempt another distraction, “but the cancer wouldna let her win.”  Tears were rolling down his cheeks, glinting in the sodium light like stars, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.  “She was the best person I knew.  Sounds strange tae say of a wee lass, but she truly was.  An’ it made me a better person tae love her.  What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

Jamie was looking straight at her, as though he truly expected her to offer useful guidance.  All her training, her professional distance, fell away in the face of one broken man.  She swallowed, searching for words that weren’t a platitude.

“You’re going to go on living, because she can’t.  Because your happiness, when you are ready to feel it again, will be a gift to her memory.”

Jamie sniffed, then wiped his sleeve across his face.  He placed his hand on the bench between them.  Without allowing herself to think, Claire reached for it, finding his skin surprisingly warm.  There was an agonizing fermata, when all the instruments held their breath, and then he turned his palm upwards to meet her own.  Beneath the fog the river slipped by, blending endlessly into the sea.

"Look, Jamie, I know it’s not the right time, but I want to tell you that I’m sorry.  For the way I treated you, and ended things, and...”

“Nay, Sassenach, it’s me who should apologize.  I had no right tae throw my diagnosis at ye like some kinda weapon.  An’ when I think of how I heedlessly brought up yer becoming a mother.  I, of all people.  Weel, suffice it tae say I’ve spent many an hour regretin’ my words an’ actions.”

She squeezed his hand, wordlessly declaring them equal in remorse.

“How have ye been?” he inquired, peering at her as though trying to read her state of mind on the planes of her face.  She chuckled, looking away when the intensity of his gaze became too much.

“About the same, I suppose.  Better some days than others.  Geillis has started ordering my lunches for me, so I no longer have any excuse not to eat.”  Jamie nodded, seemingly pleased with this news.

“And you?  Are you still seeing Dr. Rafferty?  I... uhh, I know his office requested your file.”

In fact, Giles Rafferty had called her the week after her confrontation with Jamie, wondering why his new patient’s record of treatment contained no more than his biographical details and the time and date of each of his appointments.  She told him the same thing she’d told Geillis when she asked the same question in significantly cruder terms: that her weekly interactions with Jamie had never led to a professional diagnosis or a recommended course of treatment.

“Aye. He’s a good man, although tragically immune tae my charms.  Unlike some.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Fraser,” she warned, although his rakish grin warmed her from the inside out.

“I’ll be darkening his doorway wi’ some frequency, after t’day,” he continued with a return to solemnity.

And yet you called me, Claire wanted to say, but didn’t.  When his beloved niece had slipped away, hers had been the number he had dialed, despite everything.  The very idea made her thoughts flit about like fireflies.

“I missed ye, Sassenach,” he confessed quietly after a time.

“I missed you too, Jamie.”

They sat together through the thin hours of the night, talking, sharing memories of Maggie, but mostly in silent companionship.  As dawn brightened the eastern sky, the fog began to lift, revealing an overcast sky.  The lights of the bridge blinked out, and the city’s music began anew.  Claire wished futilely that day would never break, knowing that it would bring them both the pain of two very different kinds of goodbye.

Her hand, when Jamie finally let it go, felt strange, as though it had been separated from its source.  She tucked it quickly into her pocket.

“I.. errr, I need tae be goin’,” Jamie said by way of apology.  “Ian and Jenn will be needin’ me.”

“Yes, of course.  I’ll just, um, call myself an Uber.”

They were both standing, neither seemingly knowing how to part.

Jamie opened his mouth, paused, shook his head in frustration, then looked away.  Her traitorous hand escaped her pocket and found its way to his chest.

“I’ll be thinking of you.  All of you.  If there’s anything, anything at all..”

“How long until your no’ my doctor anymore?  Ethically speakin’.”  He was looking at her in a way that made the fireflies whirlpool about.

“What?” she asked to buy herself some time to breath.

“Before I go an’ face everything that is wrong about t’day, I want tae ken, how long must I wait before I can kiss ye again wi’out riskin’ yer reputation?”

“There’s no written timetable,” she stalled.  “It’s a question of a doctor exerting undue influence or the exploitation of the patient’s trust, and there’s really...”

“Those rules are meant tae protect the patient, aye?  So I should be allowed tae waive them, no’?”

“Jamie...”

“Fine, let me rephrase my question.  Doctor Claire Beauchamp, when can I, James Fraser, ask ye tae look upon me as a potential suitor and no’ a former patient?  Six months?  A year?  Two years?”

“You really are the most infuriatingly stubborn man,” she huffed.

“Aye, I ken.  Sae, two years?  Do we have an agreement, Sassenach?”

“Fine, yes, two years, but Jamie, I don’t expect you to...”

A finger was placed across her lips, silencing her protests.

“Two years are naught if I can kiss ye again once they have passed.  Until then, Claire, please take care of yerself.”

She stood by the bench long after Jamie was gone, staring out across the river.  A flock of geese flew by in formation, broad wings nearly touching the surface of the water as it reflected the steel gray clouds above.  She thought of little Maggie, and her birdhouse surrounded by clouds.  A sob wrestled its way up her throat, surprising in its urgency.  And then, she allowed herself to cry.

[petersasteria]

The Package - Harry Holland

Harry || Main || Taglist

Requested? Nah 1,583 words Heavily inspired by Key and Peele.

* * * *

Harry was in his office bored out of his mind. He was sipping around in his office chair while throwing his stress ball up in the air and catching it repeatedly. The young CEO hated his job despite the multiple and grand benefits that came along with the job. He hated that his brothers Tom and Sam were allowed to decline the offer when their father asked them if they could take over the family business. Tom declined it because he wanted to focus more on the carpentry side of the business. Sam declined because it wasn’t his passion; he wanted to be a chef. But Harry was never asked about what he wanted. His father told him that he’s the heir of the company. With that being said, Harry hated it and he resented his brothers and father for it.

He loved them dearly, though. He knew that no one else would take over and Paddy was far too young to be a CEO. Harry just unwillingly took his fate as his father retired. Now that he’s seated on ‘the throne’, as everyone in the office called it, he felt powerful but at the same time he felt judged by the people who work for him because they were all older than him and most of them saw him and his brothers grow up. It was awkward.

Harry stopped spinning around his chair and heavily sighed before grabbing his phone to play games on it. There was nothing better to do and it was a slow day. All the shipments were done yesterday, all the forms were signed before lunch, no meetings until next month, and no new applicants to take up the job of being his assistant. His last assistant, Margaret, was his dad’s assistant. Harry loved Margaret like a family member, but she was too old, so he allowed her to retire.

The game on his phone started to become boring and with a sigh, he exited the game and went on Facebook to see anything new about the people he went to school with. He loved, for lack of better term, tea. He loved spilling tea and he loved being told tea. He and Sam bonded over it.

Just as Harry was reading a post about his former schoolmate being involved in a scandal with one of his former teachers, his office telephone rang. Without an assistant, Harry was forced to answer calls without knowing who it was on lines 1, 2, and 3.

“Hello, this is Harry Holland of Holland Industries. Who am I speaking to?” Harry asked. At this point, it was engraved in his mind now. He knew what to say and what not to say.

“Hi, Harry! This is Y/N Y/L/N. I’m calling from Master Travel Incorporated to tell you about an exciting limited-time offer, exclusive getaway to the Philippines. Can I have a few moments of your time to tell you about this new package?” Your tone of voice matched the exciting offer you asked, but it wasn’t enough to entice Harry. He didn’t even know where that pine place was.

“You know, Y/N, I would love to, but I just don’t have the time-”

Upon hearing that, you immediately hung up the phone. Harry stopped talking and looked at the phone with furrowed eyebrows.

“Huh, rude.” Harry muttered under his breath as he put the phone in its place. He grabbed his phone and continued reading about his schoolmate, but he couldn’t shake off the rude thing you just did. He sighed to himself and grabbed the phone, somehow directing the call to you, and waited for you to pick up.

Your telephone rang and you answered on the first ring, “This is Y/N Y/L/N, Master Travel Incorporated. How may I be of service?”

“Hi, Y/N Y/L/N. My name is Harry. I think we just spoke not too long ago.” Harry said as he fiddled with a pen that was on his desk. “Did we just get disconnected?”

“Um, yeah. I hung up on you.” You said blatantly.

Harry raised his eyebrows upon hearing your answer and asked, “Why? Like, why would you do that? Are you allowed to do that? Because that was rude, Y/N. I’ll tell you that.”

You sat back in your chair and twirled the cord of your headset around your finger with a smug look on your face. “Were you going to buy the Philippines package?”

“What? No! Don’t be daft. That’s not the point I was trying to make. What I’m saying is-”

You hung up on him again and Harry’s jaw dropped. He has never encountered someone so rude such as yourself. “What the fuck.” Harry said before calling you again.

“This is Y/N-”

“Yeah, Y/L/N. Listen. I don’t know why you’re being rude to me, but you don’t get to hang up-” Harry gasped as soon as you hung up again. “Oh my fucking god!” Harry shouted in annoyance. He knew it wasn’t worth it, but he was never disrespected like that in his life. So, he called again.

You answered the call immediately, “What the fuck do you want?”

“What’s your deal, huh?” Harry asked as his eyebrows knit in confusion and slight anger.

“Um, you don’t want the Philippines package,” You started. “So I don’t want to talk. I did us a favor instead of wasting our time.” You were about to end the call and somehow, Harry sensed that.

“Stop, stop! Don’t you dare end this call!” Harry raised his voice, not noticing the attention he drew to himself. Everyone looked at his office and as if it wasn’t enough, Tom and Sam went to visit him just to see how he was doing.

“What’s going on?” Tom asked Edith, the accountant,

“Harry is throwing a fit.” Edith answered before returning to do her job. Edith was a 50 year old woman and she’s so over the stage of being the one to calm a kid down when throwing a fit. Those years were behind her and she didn’t want to calm Harry down. If Harry wanted to throw a fit, she doesn’t care. She just wanted to get paid and get through the day like everyone else.

“He’s… too old for that.” Sam chuckled as he and Tom walked closer to his twin’s office.

Harry never noticed them standing by the doorframe, though.

“Why shouldn’t I?” You asked him.

“Why shouldn’t you?!” Harry shrieked. “What if I wanted the Philippines package?! You know what? I want the Philippines package!”

Tom furrowed his eyebrows in confusion as he looked at Sam and Sam just shrugged. He didn’t know what was happening either.

There was silence between your line and Harry’s. After a few seconds, you broke the silence and said, “Sure, you do.” You hung up the phone once more before Harry could say anything else. This made Harry scream and throw the pen in frustration.

He stood up from his seat and yelled at the telephone, “You motherfucking bitch! I will give you a piece of my mind and you will feel my wrath!”

Neither Sam nor Tom wanted to stop. They wanted to see how it would go down.

Harry called again and this time, he put you on speaker. The phone rang and you answered on the first ring, “Come on, man. Let it go.”

“Fuck you! I WANT SIX FUCKING PACKAGES RIGHT NOW!! You know what- where’s my wallet?” Harry walked around the room to find his wallet as you sat back with a victorious smile on your face.

Harry found his wallet and pulled out his credit card. He quickly walked to where the telephone was and said, “I found my fucking credit card! Now put the details there, Y/L/N! My credit card number is 1185-6514-1109. The fucking expiration date is 12-22! And then the security number is 195! Run the fucking card right fucking now! Run it now, asshole!”

You held back your laughter as you punched in his details and when you were done, you simply said, “Thank you for your business.”

Harry took a deep breath and said, “I hope you learned your le-”

You hung up once more and that made Harry scream in anger. Sam walked further into the room and tapped Harry’s shoulder. Harry turned around and saw Sam, “Mate, stop it! Just stop calling or you’ll get even more pissed!”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He took a few calming breaths before looking up at Sam and finally noticing Tom who gave Harry a small wave which Harry returned.

“What was that, H?” Tom asked softly as he walked further into the office.

Harry looked at his brothers and calmly said, “Pack your things. We’re going to the Philippines for a family vacation. I just bought six packages for it.”

Bonus +

Your boss, Colin, went to your desk with a huge grin on his face. “Y/N, I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve made a ton of sales recently! I’m really proud of you for coming this far! Because of that-”

Colin turned to everyone and shouted, “Y/N is employee of the month! Let’s all leave an hour early and celebrate! It’s on me!”

Everyone cheered and congratulated you. Colin went back to his office and you smirked before calling your new ‘victim’.

* * * *

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @thatforgottenangel @turtoix @givebuckyhisplumsnow @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @yourstrulyamour @euphorichxlland @thevelvetseries @buckymylove @more-like-reyna

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @holland-styles @trustfundparker @calltothewild @felicityparkers @hufflepuffprincess24 @tommysparker @justasmisunderstoodasloki @quaksonhehe @call-me-baby-gir1 @itstaskeen @theonly1outof-a-billion @lost-in-the-stars03 @justafangirlduh @piscesparker @speedymaximoff @miraclesoflove @lexirv @blairscott @getbywithasmile @pqrkerr @lavender-writer @blackbat2020 @hoodpankow @bi-lmg

[blinder-secrets]

White Lies, Twice Over - Tommy

#33 - ‘Please come get me.’

tommyxfem!reader, 3.5k words

prompt list

You’ve had your fair share of bad dates. Boring dates, awkward dates, dates with people you felt sorry for. It’s just never been enough to put you off. This was the first time, though, that a date has felt wrong. Dangerous. Your gut had told you the moment you sat down, but you’d ignored it. And when his foot slid up the side of your shin, you’d ignored that too. But the longer you sit with it, the feeling, the more nervous you get.

He’s being nice enough. Asking questions, smiling. He ordered a starter for you, then a main, now wine between to rest your palette. It all worked. It was all delicious. Every action has been smooth, charming. Flattering without being condescending. You want to enjoy it, but there is just something off about it all. Beneath the jokes, and the compliments, there’s something about him that bothers you. An edge to his questions. A game to the touches he’s placed.

Everything he’s done has felt rehearsed, practiced. So far nothing has happened without a motive behind it; he seems to know the cause and effect of every move that would be made, yours included.

He’s looking for a waiter, to pour you another glass, when you decide to do something about it.

‘I should call Ada,’ you say, hoping to sound convincingly innocent. ‘Do you think they have a phone here?'

His hand drops back to his lap, his eyebrows scrunch. ‘Ada? Who’s that?’

‘We live together.’ You try to smile as you answer. ‘She said she’d wait up for me.’

‘And?’

‘And,’ you drawl, buying time, ‘if we’re staying longer, I should tell her not to. She may as well go to bed.’

‘I see.’ He likes your reasoning. His foot finds your calf under the table.

He must have been successful in catching the waiter’s eye, because now there’s a man stood beside you, smiling and unknowingly offering you an escape route.

‘Do you have a telephone?’ you ask, praying that the answer is yes, and that it’s free to use. And that it’s far, far away from the man that you should’ve never said yes to.

‘By the bar, ma’am.’

‘Thank-you.’ You stand, too quick to be graceful, and bring the purse up from your lap. ‘I won’t be long.’

His lip pulls sideways into a smirk. ‘I hope not.’

You turn and walk toward the bar, hoping your gait is easy, relaxed. Hoping your shoulders haven’t pulled up the way they do when you’re anxious. It’s not that he’s done anything wrong, just that he might, and that the more you sit with the thought, the more positive you are about it. There are always feelings you should ignore, but never the ones that bite hard enough to linger. If it was first-date nerves they’d have passed by now.

The phone is free, hanging on the wall by the bar as he said. You don’t want to look back at the table but you do. It’s more natural. A quick smile over your shoulder to satisfy him, convince him you’re keen still, to make him think his games are working. He nods back at you; he’s been watching the whole time.

You pick up the receiver with a sigh and put in the numbers you need, tracing the vines on the wall-trim in front of you while you wait. They curl up and along, over each other and away.

The line connects. Your finger stills on the wall as it rings.

After what feels like an unusually long time, someone picks up, but they say nothing. ‘Hello?’ you chance, ‘Ada?’

‘So, there you are.’

It’s not Ada, but Tommy. The absolute last person you wanted to speak to. He leaves his statement alone to rot in your ear-drum. He knows it’s you that has to explain yourself, you that needs to fill the silence with answers to questions he shouldn’t have to ask.

‘Tommy…’ You start your plea, but the words sink back under your tongue.

You’d told him you were busy tonight, with Ada, that you couldn’t be free to do what he asked. The truth, of course, was that you had nothing planned. Not until your date had offered his company for the evening. Before that, you had just lied. Plain and simple. He’d asked if you were free to help him, and you’d said no. You hadn’t wanted to. You couldn’t be another peace offering to a scorned business partner, you wouldn’t be the distraction. If he wanted a woman he’d have to find another one.

Stupidly, it hadn’t crossed your mind that he might go to Ada’s. That he’d check what you’d said was true, that he’d keep order of the things that weren’t his. It had seemed like an easy lie when you’d told it.

‘I can explain, Tommy,’ you say, ‘but not now. Let me talk to Ada.’

‘Where are you?’ he asks, his voice so bare of emotion it makes you shrink inwards, against the wall you’re facing. ‘I came here to find you.’

‘Out,’ you answer. ‘Busy, like I said.’

‘But not with Ada.’

‘No, not with Ada.’ You’re holding onto the receiver with both hands. You don’t want to look back again. ‘Please pass her the phone,’ you add quietly. ‘It’s important.’

‘What is it, Tom?’ you hear Ada ask, though the question falls flat on him.

He interrupts you both before you can even get the word out. ‘Tell me what is is,’ he says. ‘If something’s happened, I need to know.’

You’re impatient enough to allow him that one. Ada or Tommy, the result is the same. It doesn’t matter who comes, just that they do, and quickly. ‘I’m at Vitelli’s, the one in Camden. I need you to come get me and give me a reason to leave.’

‘Camden?’

‘I know, I’m sorry, I know.’ You lower your voice again, though with the noise of the restaurant it’s hardly likely your date can hear. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

‘Who is he?’ There’s a pinch in his tone, like he’s finding amusement in your disaster. ‘Must be some man, eh, to have you ringin’ for help.’

‘Does it matter who he is?’ you snap. Tommy doesn’t know him, and he won’t. You won’t let him. ‘I don’t like him,’ you say, adding, ‘I don’t trust him,’ after a pause. It’s that part that makes Tommy stop. When he replies, the humour has gone.  

‘What’s happened?’ his voice is low, serious. ‘Did he touch you?’

The question sinks in your stomach. ‘No.’

‘Will he?’

You hesitate. The blankness of his tone hinders you; whether he’s asking if the man has ulterior motives, or if you were planning to take things further yourself, you can’t tell. He leaves the question open on purpose. ‘I don’t want to be here, Tom,’ you say. ‘Please come get me.’

‘Alright.’

You hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly.

‘I’ll be there soon,’ he continues, his voice steady, calm. ‘If you feel scared, wait in the bathroom. I’ll find you.’

You nod, promising it to yourself. ‘Okay.’

He clears his throat on the other end, the sound acting as static on the line. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘smile. Make him think Ada wished you well.’

‘Okay, I will,’ you answer, louder than before. You smile and the action carries into your voice. ‘Thank-you, I’ll see you later.’

When you hang up, you turn to find your date has left the table and is now a few steps away from you. From the smug-laced smile he’s wearing, your final act was a convincing one. The line had landed as instructed.

‘You’re in the clear then?’ he asks, with his hand falling all too easily onto your side.

‘Yes.’ You force another smile. ‘She said I should take as long as I like.’

‘Well, aren’t you lucky.’

You step away from his hold, putting your hand to his wrist for a moment to soften the blow, to make him think you’re still sweet. ‘I’d like dessert, shall we go back?’

His head shakes once. ‘I’ve already paid the bill.’

‘Oh,’ you swallow the bile in your throat, ‘you have?’

He’s back close again; his hand wants your hip but you twist and force him to settle for your waist instead. ‘Why don’t we have dessert somewhere else?’ he says. ‘Somewhere quieter.’

‘I like it here.’ You won’t leave with him. You’d thought it after the starter, but now you knew it for sure. He’d have to drag you out the restaurant, kicking and screaming, if he wanted you to join him. ‘Can’t we at least look at the menu?’

He laughs in response. It’s a sour noise, one that makes your whole body tense.

‘I know you aren’t thick, but you’re acting like you are.’ He lifts his hand, pushes the shawl from your shoulder to leave your collarbone bare. His gaze falls onto the exposed skin. ’We’ll have something sweet,’ he says. ‘Promise.’

‘At your place,’ you finish, as blankly as you can. It isn’t a question so you don’t pose it as one. Everything in his voice, his posture, the way he’s trying to claim you, tells you that it’s already decided. You’d be going where he wanted you to go, regardless of your feelings toward it.

‘I suppose I should be flattered?’ you ask, faking another smile and ignoring the itch to cover your shoulder again. ‘You must like me a lot.’

‘That’s right.’ He’s said it sincerely but you’d put money on it being false; he’ll take any girl he can home. From the way he’s been watching you all night, you know that liking them isn’t a factor, liking their body is. His routine has worked a thousand times over, you’re sure.

‘Okay, but I need to visit the bathroom first,’ you lie. ‘To freshen up. You can wait outside, if you like.’

‘I’ll wait here,’ he replies, too quickly to be pleasant.

Your smile tightens into a straight line, or a grimace — you turn before he can decide which it is.

Without looking back, you walk towards the bathroom. If he’s watching you go, you don’t want to see it, you’d rather pretend he’s lounging against the wall and thinking about things that’ll never happen. It’s better that he feels like he’s won, that you’ll be out and in his hold again without complaint. It’ll only make things difficult if he suspects the opposite.

Once you’re in the toilets, your shoulders relax. The tension clatters off them and onto the tiles. You pick the cubicle furthest from the door and lock yourself into it; the more layers between you and him, the better. All you can do now is wait, and hope that Tommy finds you like he said he would. It shouldn’t be too hard, if he doesn’t see you in the restaurant, he’ll know to look in here. Your date won’t think anything of it, he doesn’t know Tommy. Or that you know Tommy. It’ll just look like some man, any man, has come looking for his wife. Or his girlfriend. There’s no reason to be nervous about it. For once, Tommy will slip by, unseen, and then the two of you…

You put the toilet seat down and sit on the lid. That part you can’t think about.

The idea of walking back out again, with Tommy in tow, is enough to kick your heart-rate up. He could get in unseen, but getting past your date unnoticed will be impossible. And, knowing Tommy, it wouldn’t be without conflict either. He’s used to that but you aren’t. Aggravating your date could lead to any number of things, scenarios that you’re already beginning to concoct, of course. Even with the tinge of wine in your system, your mind proves to be the biggest enemy. The possibilities it’s coming up with are starting to worry you more than the man waiting outside.

But, you won’t think about that. You won’t. You’ll just sit and wait for Tommy, and what happens after can be dealt with when it has to be dealt with.

Sighing, you sink your face into your hands. The door to the bathroom swings open, but from the giggles, and the chittering of heels on porcelain, you know it’s no-one for you. The girls fill the room comfortably. One takes the cubicle next to yours, the other waits by the sinks. You watch her ankles under the door.

‘I think I’m drunk,’ says the woman to your right.  

Her friend laughs. ‘It’s cause you’re sitting down. It’s always worse on your own.’

You want them to stay. You want them to crack open your door and sit, and talk, and make you forget about men with questionable intentions. If you were anyone but yourself, you’d ask them to. Instead, they talk, and you listen.

‘Come on, Daisy, they’ll get bored without us.’

They leave after that. The door echoes when it closes.

You haven’t got a watch but from the ache of your thighs, punctured by your leaning elbows, you know it’s been long enough to seem strange. If he hadn’t already, your date would soon wonder what you were doing. You watch the lock on your door like it’s going to betray you.

After a long stretch of quiet, you hear footsteps in the corridor. They’re too blunt to be heels so you stand quickly, wishing, wishing and then hoping and then the door opens.

‘[Y/n]?’

You don’t need to hear it again to know who it is. ‘I’m here,’ you say quickly, like he’d leave if you take too long. ‘I’m here, Tommy.’ The lock rattles beneath your fingers, before slipping back to release you.

He’s across the room in two strides, his hands taking your forearms like you might fall. ‘You alright?’

His lips part as he waits for an answer, his breath quiet but faster than resting. He’s been worrying, you realise, like you had. Imagining things that might have happened.

‘I’m fine,’ you say.

He lowers his head to keep your gaze. ‘You sure?’

You nod, the gesture small but enough to reassure him.

‘Good.’ He lets your arms go. The motion causes your shawl to slip, but he catches it before it can fall, and pulls it back onto your shoulders. ‘Can you wait here a bit longer?’ he asks.

Your face folds into a frown. ‘Why?’

Tommy sets his jaw. He doesn’t answer, you get there before he can.

‘No,’ you say, in a voice close to disgust, ‘no, don’t go cut him.’

He sighs, and for a second you remember that he’s annoyed at you. Or that he should be. It flashes onto his features, sneaking between one expression and the next, like he’d forgotten to stop it. ‘Did I say anything about cutting?’

As if every cut he’s made has come with a warning. As if it has to be said, to know that it’ll fall.

‘Tommy, I’m serious,’ you start, ‘I don’t want you—‘

‘You think I would?’ Now his voice is the one teetering on disgust. ‘In a restaurant?’

‘I don’t want you talking to him,’ you finish. ‘Please, I just want to leave.’

You watch a breath fall from his chest, and then another. It’s new to him, to enter a situation and then leave it again, without changing a thing. You can see in his eyes that he doesn’t know how. He wants to help, take control. He wants to fix it for you but some problems just aren’t his to solve.

‘Please,’ you say again. ‘I don’t want anything to happen.’

‘You won’t have to see it.’

‘Tommy.’

He nods. It costs him to agree to it. ‘Alright. I won’t.’

The relief covers you, drips from your head to your shoulders, along your arms to your fingertips. He listened, for once he listened. You’d thank him but he’d take it as an insult.

‘You shouldn’t have lied,’ he says. It drones out of him, turns from his lips like an ache. ‘Someone should know where you are.’

‘Ada knew,’ you offer.

‘Yeah. Ada knew,’ he scoffs, ‘Ada knew and she wouldn’t tell me cause she does what she does, and trusts you before her own brother.’

You sigh and close your eyes just long enough to take a breath. ‘I asked her not to, Tommy.’

His hand flies upwards, gesturing to you as he shakes his head. ‘And look where that got you.’

‘Can we save this for later?’ You don’t have it in you to fight him. ‘I made a bad call, alright? I just wanted  something nice. ’

Your tone catches him, pierces his frustration. Pulls him back to you like water to the moon. ‘You’re sure he didn’t touch you?’ he asks. ‘You’d tell me, ey? If he did.’

He’s serious enough that you resist the urge to roll your eyes. You just nod, and wait for him to relax again. Once he has, your eyes flick to the door, your urgency to leave returning as quickly as it had earlier.

‘Is he still outside?’ you ask, ignoring the small spike in your heartbeat.

Tommy shrugs. ‘There’s no-one outside.’

‘Blonde, tall,’ you list, ‘he’s by the phone.’

Something shifts in the look he’s giving you, recognition maybe. His chin juts down once. If Tommy’s seen him, he doesn’t say. If he’s still out there, you don’t know. It might be the only time you’ve appreciated Tommy’s aversion for words; you thought you’d wanted him to tell you where he was, but you realise now that silence is better. If he isn’t spoken into the room, he doesn’t exist. Tommy knows that. All he does, is ask, ‘Have you got a coat?’

You shake your head quickly. 'Leave it, I don’t care.’ The coat is old and menial enough to be sacrificed. It’d be stupid to risk a trip through the tables for that. ‘I’ve got what matters.’

He nods, reaching for you. ‘Come on.’ He guides you to walk in front of him, his hand gracing the lowest point of your back. ‘You first, I’m right behind. We’ll go out the back, alright?’

Somehow his calm starts to itch at you. You weren’t nervous until he started talking so simply, so ordered. It didn’t feel dangerous until he set a plan in motion. He’s doing it to reassure you, you know that, but the effort is setting you on edge.

You push open the door, meeting the restaurant noise with reluctance. Tommy extends an arm to hold it open and, conveniently, prevents you from looking left, down the corridor to the bar and the phone and—

‘That way, it’s just ahead,’ he explains. ‘S’alright.’

‘I’m okay, Tommy,’ you say. It isn’t loud, you don’t even convince yourself, but he hears and pretends to believe it all the same.

‘I know,’ he answers. ‘Watch your step here.’

It’s easier to let him walk you through it. To let him help you, even if it makes you worry. You hope that it stills the need, keeps that voice in his head quiet, the one that tells him to take control of things. The one that wants to end the date on your behalf.

You feel his fingers pull away from your back. It’s slow, like he hasn’t realised it’s happening, but enough of a loss to make you hesitate. When you turn to search for him, he’s already in the process of turning back to you.

‘I’m here,’ he says, before you can ask. ‘Just checking, that’s all.’

Over his shoulder you think you see the familiar curve of a flat-cap. The peaked-tell of his foot soldiers.

‘Don’t,’ his voice is hush, his face softened in a plea. ‘You don’t want the answer.’

‘But you said—’

He sighs, putting his hand to your back again, though this time his palm’s flat against your spine. ‘Let’s just go, ey? They’re bringing the car round for us.’

You nod. You don’t know why, but you do. If he’s done what you think he has, then he lied to you, he stood and told you he wouldn’t get involved, knowing he was going to anyway. It wasn’t him, but the order was. That should bother you. Instead, when he pushes you toward the exit, you let him. And when he says, ‘We both lied, [y/n],’ you sigh, and tell him, ‘I know. Take me home, Tom.’

The car’s waiting outside, like he said it would be. His hand doesn’t come away from you until you’re in the passenger seat with your bag on your lap.

‘Tommy,’ you say, catching him before he can shut the door. He looks at you, face tilted up slightly. It’s dark; you search for his expression in-between the shadows. ‘Would you always come?’ you ask. ‘If I needed you?’

He holds your gaze for a moment, and then nods — but it’s so slight you might’ve imagined it. His hand slips from the edge of the door to squeeze your knee. You wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t, he just pulls away again and shuts you in.

Perhaps he can’t promise it. Perhaps he’s spent enough time reassuring you, and making sure you’re alright, that he’s hit his limit. If he can’t lie to you twice, he won’t say anything at all.

[hslllot]

Part I. Draft Day

fic masterlist | rated: m, mature | word count: 4.6k content/warning: hockey harry, nosey family members, a very brief mention of anxiety, overzealous hockey stans. 

DRAFT REPORT: The 411 on Harry Styles by John Michaelson for Sportsnet

There’s this kid named Harry Styles. He plays hockey. Ever heard of him? 

At this point there’s not much else to be said about the british Fighting Hawks’ centre, a lock to be the No.1 pick in the 2015 NHL Draft. 

Dubbed a generational talent, Styles’ abilities are at a level typically only seen in video games. We all know the Edmonton Oilers will select him with the first overall pick on June 26. In years to come, hockey fans from around the globe (but especially Oilers fans) will be on the edge of their seats, watching to see if the phenom can develop into a future Hockey Hall of Fame talent the way Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux did. 

Here’s what you need to know about Harry Styles: 

Age on June 26: 19 Birthplace: Redditch, Worcestershire, England Current team: University of North Dakota Fighting Hawks  Position: Centre Shoots: Left Height: 6-foot Weight: 190 lbs NHL Central Scouting Rank (North American): 1st

Harry Styles is a franchise-changing player in every sense of the word. He looked like a pro player even before he flew across the pond at a young age to play in the Canadian Hockey League. This has been a long time coming but the future is finally here.

He is talented beyond his years and always has been… Styles has played against older competition his entire career. Growing up in the small village of Holmes Chapel in Cheshire, England, the options for minor hockey teams were limited. Styles struggled to find a team in his age group that matched his talent level and was forced to play with older kids - and even then his talent was unmatched. Like the two other players from the UK currently playing in the NHL, Styles eventually had to leave home and play junior hockey in Canada, where he still had to play up a year against Canadian kids that grew up in a country that eats, sleeps, and breathes the game. 

He should have been drafted 1st overall last year… Styles shocked the hockey world in 2013 when, instead of declaring for the 2014 NHL Draft, he announced he would be attending the University of North Dakota and lead the Fighting Hawks to an NCAA Championship. Styles, ever the media-trained athlete, dodged questions about why he chose to go to university for a year before joining the NHL, simply stating “University was always a part of the plan, no matter what happened with hockey.” The hockey community let out a collective sigh of relief when his agent, Jeffrey Azoff (whose father was, coincidentally, Wayne Gretzky’s agent), announced shortly after his championship win that after one year at UND, Styles would be declaring for the 2015 Draft. 

His trophy case is full... Harry Styles has won pretty much every individual hockey award he could possibly win in his career so far. During his CHL career with the Vancouver Giants he won Rookie of the Year, multiple MVP awards, the award for most goals, assists, and overall points, and scholastic player of the year. During his short-lived NCAA career with UND, he won Rookie of the Year, the Hobey Baker Award as the top men’s hockey player, and was named to the Academic All-American team. Unfortunately, Great Britain’s ice hockey team will not be qualifying for the Olympics or the World Championships any time soon, so unless Styles applies for Canadian citizenship, international trophies and medals will be difficult to come by. Regardless, I have a feeling that there will be many Stanley Cups in his future. 

He really hates underperforming… The kid puts a lot of pressure on himself. As we have seen with many successful athletes, an insatiable inner drive to compete can lead to greatness. Styles has that drive to be great and can be his own worst critic. “When I was growing up, my mum was worried about me because I was a bit of a perfectionist.” Styles told The Hockey News back in December. “When I had a bad game, I would get so upset about it. It’s just how I am and how I think every athlete should be. Good is never enough. It’s important to always keep learning and growing to better yourself.”

He is excited to play for the Oilers… Not that he would have anything bad to say about any of the 30 NHL teams, but the Oilers do hold a special place in Styles’ heart. “It’s a great hockey town with fans that are super passionate about the game.” He told The Hockey News. “They’ve been on a bit of a slide the last couple years but the team has a great history. Not many people watch the NHL where I’m from, but my dad was always interested in it and that’s how I got into the game. He was an Oilers fan during their dynasty years with Gretzky and Messier… So if they do end up drafting me first overall, I’ll feel honored to be a part of the team, and it’ll be a nice tribute to my dad.” 

Be sure to catch our live 2015 NHL Draft coverage on June 26 starting at 5pm EST/2pm PT only on Sportsnet.

“With the first overall pick in the 2015 NHL Entry Draft the Edmonton Oilers are proud to select, from Holmes Chapel in England, Harry Styles.”

The room erupted in loud cheers and applause as the Edmonton Oilers drafted the National Hockey League’s newest and most sought after commodity. 

Y/N’s closest friends and extended family roamed around her parents’ living room, congratulating one another with hugs and handshakes like one of their own family members was just drafted. That wasn’t the case though, they were all just deeply invested in the hockey team and the boy from England that was meant to turn things around after so many years of losing. They were so invested, in fact, that the family organized a gathering similar to something you might see on a holiday, like Thanksgiving or Christmas.

While it was not a normal holiday, for Y/N’s family it was just as significant. It was Draft Day. And every hockey fan in North America wanted Harry Styles to play for their team.

“That’s quite the suit, isn’t it?” Her uncle Will pointed to the television where the young man is dressed in an ornate red floral suit and black dress shirt. The suit was flashier than what most hockey players would wear, but it’s clear that Harry Styles is not like most hockey players. The camera panned to him as he stood up from his seat and hugged the two brunette women sitting next to him. He stuck out like a sore thumb among a sea of other young hockey players all dressed in variations of black and grey as they patiently waited to be drafted from the stands of the BB&T Centre in Florida. It was clear to Y/N that, much like his hockey skills, Harry Styles’ fashion sense was superior compared to his peers.

There was an air of excitement in the room as the draft party, all clad in blue and orange jerseys, watched the generational talent walk down the stairs of the arena and make his way to the stage. They collectively held their breath, the room becoming silent, when he arrived at the stage where both the owner and general manager of the team were waiting to greet him. Harry shook their hands before they handed him his own blue and orange jersey. As he slipped the jersey over his head and posed for a photograph with the executives, the silence in the room broke and excited conversations and speculations for the upcoming season continued. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a stir in her belly and a sense of anticipation for what the upcoming hockey season would bring. 

Her thoughts lingered on the man on the screen, wondering what it might be like to meet him, when her brother pulled her out of her reverie. “Can you believe you’ll be working with the Harry Styles?” 

No - she couldn’t quite believe it. 

In fact, everything happening in her life right now seemed a bit too good to be true.

Set to start her third year of university in September and having to complete mandatory practicum hours in order to graduate the following year, she somehow managed to secure a placement with her favourite hockey team. The Oilers were only taking three students from the university program and everyone in the program wanted one of those spots. 

The application process was incredibly stressful for Y/N. One telephone interview, one in-person interview, and a practical session where she had to demonstrate her athletic therapy skills to the team’s head trainer. She did well with the phone interview, given that they weren’t able to see her. She was able to look down at the talking points she wrote in her notebook and pause to take a couple deep breaths without making it obvious that she was reeling on the inside. Her anxiety got the best of her during the in-person interview though, freezing up when they asked simple questions like “why do you want to work for the team?” and “what experience do you have working with sport teams?”

She left the interview feeling embarrassed, but instead of taking the time to wallow and feel sorry for herself, she went home and spent hours upon hours taping her brothers’ ankles in preparation for the practical session the following day. There was no way she was going to let the opportunity fall through the cracks. Her dream of working for the Oilers was the whole reason she decided to go to school for athletic therapy in the first place. She was never any good at playing hockey but she knew in her heart that, someday, she would work for the team she loved so much. At the end of it all, she reckons her taping skills saved her, so she took her brother out to his favourite restaurant to thank him for letting her use his ankles for practice.

Fast forward a few months and she’s now stood in her parents living room thinking about how in three months she could be taping Harry Styles’ ankles.  

At the time of her application, no one knew the Oilers would be picking first in the draft. The aura around the team was a bit negative at the time (because of all the losing) and there were rumours circulating the city that some of the star players were rude to the support staff and liked to party a little too hard at The Ranch (which contributed to said losing). 

When she first decided to apply for the position her father warned her, “there’s a saying that you should never meet your heroes. What if they’re all a bunch of assholes and you end up hating the team you’ve loved your whole life?” 

Y/N ignored her father’s warning but silently hoped that others would feel that way, narrowing down the applicant pool. However, the rumours circulating the team had no effect on the amount of students applying for the job. The fans were loyal in Edmonton (a city not known by many around the world unless you follow hockey or are compelled to visit North America’s largest shopping mall) and although the team was losing, every kid studying athletic therapy wanted a shot with their favourite team. Y/N knew of at least fifteen students that she beat out for the position. 

Now, it’s late June and there is a general hype surrounding the team, as if Harry was about to come in and shine a light on the Decade of Darkness (a term Oilers fans use to characterize the recent years in which their favourite team hadn’t made the playoffs). That’s a lot of pressure to put on one person, but Y/N supposed that he’s been dealing with this kind of pressure since he was sixteen, maybe even younger. 

Everyone at her family’s draft party was, yet again, watching the television intently while Harry gave his first interview as an official member of the Edmonton Oilers hockey team. While Y/N normally loved watching these types of interviews, she was a bit zoned out- mesmerized by the look of him. The suit, the wavy chestnut hair, the dimple in his left cheek, the accent. The accent. She had never really been that attracted to hockey players, which many people found hard to believe given that she’s such a fan of the sport. All of the guys from her high school who played minor hockey were rotten and thought they were better than everyone else. She did have favourite players in the NHL, players that she loved and admired, but they were her favourites because she loves how they play the game, not because she wants to fuck them. 

There was something different about Harry Styles though. Not necessarily that she wanted to fuck him (especially since she recently signed an employment contract that would forbid it), but she was certainly feeling intrigued by him. He doesn’t look like the boys she went to high school with. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s British, or that he opted for a suit that set him apart from the rest of them, or maybe it was the duality of the way he held himself with unshakeable confidence in his floral suit, his gaze set intensely on the person interviewing him, posture strong and dominant, while simultaneously speaking so softly, his words laced with kindness and gratitude.

“When do you start working with the team, Y/N?” Her uncle Will asked from across the room, prompting everyone to look in her direction waiting for her response. 

The news that Y/N would be working for the Oilers this season shook the family. As soon as her dad shared the news with his brother, she started receiving messages expressing congratulations from her many aunts, uncles, and cousins, shortly followed by messages asking if she would be getting free tickets to games. 

“Um, mid-September, for training camp.” 

“You get to meet Harry Styles?” her 9 year old cousin, Billy, asked. 

“I do. I will be one of the team’s trainers.” The young boy held a look of wonder on his face, as if realizing for the first time that that his oldest cousin was actually kind of cool. 

“Do you think he’s single?” Her aunt Maria asked with a smirk on her face, turning to the television to look at Harry Styles. Aunt Maria doesn’t care much for hockey but she never failed to mention which players she believed to be handsome. She was also the nosey type of aunt that liked to inquire about Y/N’s dating life. “Maybe you two will hit it off.”

Y/N playfully rolled her eyes at her aunt, waving off her comment. But before she could retort, her father chimed in. “Ha! Yea, right! That’s not going to happen. She’s not allowed to date anyone on the team, it’s the rules. Plus, Y/N knows better than to get involved with any of these guys.” 

Her father was right. It is the rules. Y/N thought back to when she went into the Oilers headquarters back in April to sign her employment contract. She asked a lot of questions, making sure she understood everything about the document she was signing. 

“Personal relationships? Even friendships are forbidden?” she asked the head trainer, TJ, for clarification. 

“It depends. You can be friendly, sure, but I would avoid spending time with the players outside of training and game times. Could be seen as unprofessional.”  

Y/N understood why such rules were in place, and she had no issue with it at the time. A woman securing a position on a professional sports team was rare, let alone a woman securing a position with a professional men’s team. She knew when she chose this career path that it would always be an uphill battle and that she’d have to work harder and be more strategic than the men in her field. She wanted- no, needed to excel and prove that she could be a talented athletic therapist and a valuable member of the team, so she had no intention whatsoever of messing that up with any type of personal relationships. She also understood the power dynamic between the professional athletes and the support staff, the different ways in which power can be abused, and how personal relationships could complicate things. It all made sense to her. Plus, she was happy enough with just becoming friends with the other trainers and she probably wouldn’t have a lot of free time, anyways, balancing her practicum and her school work.

Today, however, she couldn’t help the very slight pull on her heartstrings at the thought of not getting to know Harry Styles on a more personal level. 

As if he’d even be interested in the first place.

In a hotel restaurant in Sunrise, Florida, a few hours after the draft, Harry Styles sat with his mother Anne, sister Gemma, and agent Jeff, celebrating his newly drafted status over a bottle of champagne. He knew he should be feeling elated, like it was the best day of his life, but all he felt was exhausted. The conversation at the table happened around him while he sat in his own head, unable to think about anything but what it might feel like to be tucked into his bed in his childhood bedroom in Holmes Chapel. 

The weeks leading up to the draft were an absolute circus filled with interviews and talking to the media nearly every day (he hates talking to the media), shooting promo for all of his endorsements (he’s thankful for the money they give him but he knows he is an excruciatingly terrible actor), and flying around North America to visit all of the potential cities where he might be drafted (it was a pointless tour because everyone knew where he was going to end up). 

He had only tonight to celebrate with his family before it was all set to start again. Him and Jeff will fly off to Edmonton tomorrow morning for a week to speak to the media there, meet the teammate he’ll be living with, and do a surprise skating session with some kids at a summer camp. Meanwhile, his mum and sister will fly back to England.

“Any idea where you’ll live then?” Anne asked her son, pulling him out of his thoughts and back into the conversation. 

“Hm?” He hadn’t a clue what his mum just asked him but he’d hate to admit that rather than listening to anything the three of them had been talking about for the last hour he’d been thinking about how he’d rather be sleeping “Sorry, I think the champagne’s got to me a bit.” 

“The team’s got him living with one of his older teammates and his family.” Jeff stepped in, knowing Harry wasn’t fully paying attention. “They do this with the young guys to get them used to living on their own. Teach ‘em how to cook, do laundry, and keep ‘em in line. He won’t be partying every night and bringing girls back to his place if he lives with the guy’s wife and kids.” 

“Oh please,” Gemma chimed in. “Not like any of that would be an issue for Harry. He’s been away from home for years. And he’s hardly got time for partying and dating.” 

Harry shot Jeff a look warning him to keep his mouth shut. When Harry found out about the living arrangements the team had planned for him, he was less than pleased. After all, he’d just spent the last year living in a dorm room at the University of North Dakota where he had complete freedom. Gemma was right, he didn’t have much time for partying and dating. But he liked having his own space, and he really liked being able to invite someone over after a game, either to celebrate a win or relieve some stress after a loss. 

“You never know, some of these young guys get their first big pay cheque and a taste of the big leagues and it can go off the rails pretty fast.”

“I like to think I raised my baby to know better than to get caught up in a pay cheque.” Anne placed a comforting hand on her son’s shoulder and he quickly reciprocated, reaching up to place his hand over hers.  

Not liking where this conversation was going, Harry finally cut in. “You did. And Jeffrey, you know I’m not that kinda guy. Either way, none of this matters if I don’t make it past training camp. For all we know I could be going back to the juniors for the season.”

“Doesn’t matter who you are or what kinda guy you are, H, it’s just what the team does. It’s tradition. And c’mon, I know you like to keep your expectations in check, but the team’s made it pretty clear that you’re gonna be in the starting lineup come October.” 

Jeff was right. The team had all but promised that he would make it past training camp. The question wasn’t if he’d make it past training camp, but in what shape he’d be in and how long it would take for the team to start winning games.  

“The coach said I’m small and need to bulk up, especially since I’ll be playing against older, more experienced men.” Harry could feel the weight of his mum’s gaze as she gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m not quite where I need to be yet, but I’ll get there.”

Harry and his family were stood in the hotel lobby with Jeff, convening on plans for the morning when he felt a small tug on the hem of his red floral suit jacket. He spun himself around, ready to confront the individual bold enough to touch him without his consent, to find a young girl, no older than five years old staring up at him. 

Harry looked at her, a bit taken aback and undoubtedly with a bit of confusion written on his face, and then spotted, a few feet behind her, two individuals who were most likely her parents. Suddenly, he realized that he may have actually had a few too many glasses of champagne and immediately tried to compose himself, standing straighter and trying to will away the exhaustion in his eyes and the haziness in his mind. 

“Oh - um, hello there.” He cleared his throat before using the soft voice he reserves for adorable, small children like the one stood before him. 

“Are you Harry Styles?” She asked with wide eyes and a small, timid voice.

“I am, sweetheart. What can I do for you?” 

A bright smile etched itself onto her face. But instead of answering him, she looked back at the adults standing behind her, motioning for them to help as she was too shy to proceed on her own. The man, who Harry presumed was her father, moved to stand beside her. 

“This is Millie. She wanted to say hi to you because she’s a big fan of yours.” 

Harry lowered himself in front of the young girl so that he was crouched down and eye-level with her. “Hi Millie, it’s a real pleasure to meet you.” He reached out to shake the young girl’s small hand. “Have you got anything that I could sign? Or I suppose we could take a photo if you’d like?” 

The young girl removed her hand from Harry’s, nodding her head eagerly. She began to unzip her jacket, revealing a bright orange Edmonton Oilers jersey underneath. 

“Oh? Look at that! You’re an Oilers fan. In Florida?” Harry lifted himself from his crouched position and directed his question toward at the girl’s father.

“Yes, well, we actually travelled here from Edmonton, to watch the draft in person.” Harry raised his eyebrows in shock. He knew that the flight from Edmonton to Florida is long, and likely expensive. The tickets to attend the draft live probably weren’t cheap either. “It’s not every day your favourite team picks first overall! Let alone gets to pick a player like you. We were so excited so we decided to make a family trip out of it. Turn around, Millie, show him the back!” Millie’s father handed Harry a sharpie as Millie turned her back to Harry. 

It was at that moment that Harry started to understand the weight of the moment. The name ‘STYLES’ was embroidered on the back of Millie’s Oilers jersey, above the number ‘15’ indicating his draft year. He was speechless. This was, after all, the first time he was seeing his name in the classic Oilers’ orange and blue colours adorned on a fan’s back. 

The feeling was different from earlier at the draft when they presented him with his own jersey. This one belonged to someone else. Someone bought his jersey before he’d even ever played a single minute for the team. They flew across the continent, from Edmonton to Florida, just to watch him get drafted. It was a lot for his hazy, champagne-diluted mind to take in.

Realizing he’d just been standing there staring at the jersey, he cleared his throat once again in hopes that he could hide the unknown thoughts and emotions he was trying to reconcile. “Wow, um, I didn’t realize you could get these already.”

Millie’s father laughed, “Man, they’ve been selling these in Edmonton since they announced we’d be picking first in the draft.” Again, the feeling was overwhelming for Harry. 

We’d be picking first in the draft.

To this family, and probably others in Edmonton, the Oilers were “we”. They win together, they lose together. If the Oilers pick first in the draft, they all pick first. It was their team. And now he, Harry, was a part of that “we”.

Harry reached down to sign the jersey on Millie’s back, quickly scribbling his autograph on the left side. As he straightened himself, he felt Anne move to stand beside him, apparently having sensed her son’s unease and unconscious need for his mother to join him in this moment.

“Hi, I’m Harry’s mum, Anne. Would you like me to take a picture of the four of you?” Millie’s father eagerly handed his phone to Anne and waved his wife over to be in the photo. Several photos of Harry and the family were taken, followed by a few of just Harry and Millie. 

“Would you mind if I took one of Harry and Millie on my phone as well?” Anne asked as she snapped the last photo. “This is the first time Harry’s met a fan wearing his name on an Oilers jersey. We’d like to remember it.” 

The family was more than happy to oblige so Anne took a few more photos on her phone, including one where Millie’s back was to the camera and the ‘STYLES’ name in full view. 

It was so like his mum to understand how special the moment was and to come in and save him. He couldn’t quite articulate what he was feeling in that moment, as understanding emotions and sentimentality were not his greatest strengths, and he most definitely never would have asked to take a photo to keep for himself had she not done it. 

The obvious feelings were joy and gratitude. Every day he was thankful to play the game he loved, to be successful, and to have fans that loved and supported him. It didn’t always make sense that complete strangers paid him so much attention just for playing a game, but he accepted it and always tried to show those strangers kindness in return. However, there was another feeling lingering, one that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Looking at his mum, he knew that she knew what it was. She always knew. And certainly she would make him talk about it later.

As they separated from the family and walked toward the hotel elevators, where Gemma and Jeff were waiting, Anne grabbed onto her son’s arm, holding him close as they walked side by side. 

“Do you see that they love you already, my darling?” She asked. Harry raised an eyebrow at his mum, unsure of what she was going on about. “I know you. I know that you care what people think and that you are scared to disappoint them. You just need to step out on the ice and be yourself. Just be Harry. They already love you and this is only just the beginning.”

WOW! OK. I know it’s a bit of a slow start, but I wanted this chapter to be more of an introduction to harry and the mc and to the fan culture that harry is about to experience!! I’ve already started on the next part so that should be up before Christmas! If you’ve made it this far, all I can say is that I love you and appreciate you. If you liked it, please let me know. I debated not posting this so many times (and I might even regret it later) so feedback will certainly ease my troubled mind!! I ALWAYS LOVE YOU, BUT ESPECIALLY TODAY!! xx Shan. 

Harry’s Draft Day Look

talk to me about generational | fic masterlist

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Phone Lesson (5/5/2021 chat log)

Alastor/Astor (hi there) visits Sir Pentious/Ruddy’s (@ruddygore) ship to help teach Alastor/Offal (@offalgore) how to use a smartphone. But mostly to try to get to know his supposedly “mad” alternate.

Offal doesn’t seem particularly mad to Astor. Just really sad and, like, super insecure.

(Technically this thread happened months ago, but like, stuff happens.)

Ruddy & Offal

Sir Pentious had clearly never spent a day in Hell before now, he decided. No, his time in this inferno was nothing. A jaunt. A slither in the park compared to what he'd sat down to start attempting today.

His local Alastor was sitting on his couch after the disastrous voice to text attempt, smiling that stupid smile, nodding along as Pentious went over how a smartphone touchscreen worked... And then didn't take his gloves off before trying to poke the on screen keyboard.

If Pentious had hair, he'd be ripping it out by the fistful.

Astor

And who is here to save Sir Pentious from Alastor but another Alastor! A veritable hero.

As soon as work's over, he hops over to Sir Pentious's dimension, looks around for the most important-looking airship, and teleports in. From there it's easy to follow his alternate's signal. "Hello, hello! How are we all, having fun?"

He can tell that they are not, in fact, having fun.

Ruddy & Offal

Alastor looks at Alastor. Sir Pentious looks at both Alastors, one at a time.. and quietly decides the one local to his universe is going to be called Offal now.

Sir Pentious clears his throat, ushering Astor closer. "FUN IS ONE WAY TO PUT IT. IT'S STRANGE, IT DOESN'T CARE FOR HIS VOICE IN THE SLIGHTEST. TELL HIM TO TAKE HIS GLOVES OFF TO TOUCH THE SCREEN."

Astor

"Oh, that's a common problem! Not to worry, we can fix that. The gloves though, *that's* interesting." Astor leans over to examine the phone, presses a gloved finger to the screen, and tries to scroll it around. It works. "Well! Time to figure out if the issue's electrical, physical, or magical! What's your glove made from, my friend?" He holds out a hand to his alternate, palm up.

Ruddy & Offal

Offal watches Astor wiggle the lights around on the horrible little rectangle, almost missing the question entirely. A blank stare for a moment, then his brain catches up and he jerks a hand up to show off an impressively worn deerskin glove... Which he peels back just a touch to reveal the edge of another glove underneath, this one a softer fleece. "Which one, my good self? There's a selection!"

Astor

"Ah! *That* might be the problem." He taps the glass screen with a claw. "You see, the way this thing works is that there's just the faintest layer of static on the surface! You break it when you touch it, and where you break the static layer tells the phone where you're touching! Like when you touch a doorknob and get a little shock. Now, clothing can't break it, skin *can* break it, and that tiny little field of magical energy that hovers right by our skin can break it—but I'd guess that field can reach through one glove layer but not two!" He pauses for a second to think; then nods at the phone and says, "Try reaching for it like you're going to make a deal with the phone—with all that energy focused in your hand. Let's see if *that* lets you reach through your gloves."

Ruddy & Offal

There's hesitation, a flash of discomfort before Offal looks back to the phone. He hasn't made a deal of any sort since... Well. It didn't matter. He does as Astor says, letting his finger smoothly scroll up to refresh Ruddy's dashboard. Which serves as a perfect distraction, he can read more words from other people instead of thinking about the feeling of his magic surging through his hands again.

An eggboi chooses now to come bring Astor some coffee and a scone. He's helping!

Astor

Astor makes note of the look; but his alternate doesn't object, so he doesn't say anything either. He casts a quick glance to Sir Pentious—*look at that, progress*—and then focuses on his alternate again with a broad smile and a modest round of applause.

"There you go, just like that! With a bit of practice, you'll be able to do that second nature, without needing to spend so much of your own energy on it—thank you, my good egg." That last comment is directed to the Egg Boi as Astor takes the coffee and scone and straightens back up. "Or, if you find you don't want to waste a *drop* of magic on such a lowly machine, you can take your gloves off. *Or* you can get these new pens they make these days that have nubs on the end that look like black erasers, they're designed like fake skin to touch the screen for you. Like this!"

He opens up a portal, rummages around, and pulls out a cheap-ass pen with "CALL SINNER SALES STRATEGY FOR YOUR ADVERTISING NEEDS" on the side and a stylus tip on the back. Don't mind the stain on the pen. It's probably just blood.

Ruddy & Offal

Sir Pentious nods, accepting his own coffee before shooing the eggs away so they can't distract from this delicate display of Alastor to Alastor communication. Progress indeed. Astor was far better suited to helping another Radio Demon solve the puzzle of modern technology, no surprise there.

What's a little blood between Alastors! Offal takes the pen, squishing the nubby stylus tip a few times before scribbling on the screen. Oh, that was MUCH better. "Is THAT what these are? I thought they were a ah...." Give him a second, he's thinking. "Stim toy! A discreet little one for those high minded professionals out there!" How hilarious to be so wrong about such a simple thing!

Astor

"'Stim toy'?" He can guess that "stim" is short for "stimulation." He is absolutely prepared to be informed that a "stim toy" is some new form of sex toy.

Ruddy & Offal

Offal reaches up to brush his too long bangs out of his eyes, trying to get a good look at Astor to see if he's joking. No? *Well then*. Time to reach into his pockets and pull out a little fidget cube to press into Astor's hands, all shiny brass and black leather. Looks like Sir Pentious made this at some point, it was *heavy*. "These little doohickeys, my dear me! Completely pointless busywork for your hands. Helps stave off the gnawing teeth of boredom!"

Astor

"Oh! Hand busywork!" He hefts it and pushes some of the buttons. "Like desk toys! Newton's cradles and magnet sculptures, and those trays of sand and polished rocks with those little rakes they sell at bookstores, that sort of thing? *Stimulates the mind,* I take it?" He has, of course, immediately zeroed in on all the buttons and wheels that make click sounds. "I've always been partial to slinkies."

Ruddy & Offal

"Just the ones, never did understand why people wanted to rake sand so badly! I thought people hated yardwork!" A nod. "Slinkies are fine toys, my good self, but unfortunately, one wrong move and they twist themselves out of shape like a.. me!" He barks out a laugh, but quickly moves on. "Not very good for carrying around, unfortunately! A damn shame."

Astor

Well, that's a telling statement. "I'd sit there and painstakingly untwist them! Completely forget what I was doing! Do that with telephone cords too, you know, the curly ones."

He's gone from click-click-click-ing to clicliclicking; he offers the cube back. "Funny little thing."

Ruddy & Offal

The cube is tucked back away into a different pocket than he'd pulled it out of, coat smoothed out with a quick pat. "Funny indeed! Now.." Back to the matter at hand. The phone! Sir Pentious' phone at that, comically large in the hands of someone under twelve feet tall.

"How do I get to the typewriter, my self? Which horrid little mock buttons do I get no tactile sensation from?"

Astor

Typewriter, typewriter. He pauses as he translates that. "Now, see, that bit depends on what you want to do with it. The little typewriter will automatically appear and disappear when you need it, and there's quite a few tools in here that use a typewriter at some point. So—what, specifically, are you planning to do with the typewriter once you have it?"

Ruddy & Offal

He nearly titters. "Oh! Write one of those little telegrams that Pentious here is always on about to the public pinboard. No, dashboard. That's the one."

Astor

The "telegram" mention has him nearly redirect his alternate to the texting app, but by the end he's figured it out. "Ah! Well, lucky you, we're already looking at the dashboard, so... you see the five little symbols lined up in a row at the very bottom, there? The one smack in the middle, in the box to make it easy to see. It looks like a simple pencil but then it pulls up a typewriter and a fresh telegram, but I suppose it's close enough, isn't it? They'll both let you put words on the page."

Ruddy & Offal

"Oh! How.. intuitive." He says that with the driest voice he can muster, but quickly sets about tapping at the screen with his little stylus. He manages to figure out the backspace and shift keys, at least, though the emoji key seems to surprise him. So many tiny pictures..... A problem for later.

A once over, and he pokes around until he figures out how to send the "telegram" off. And there it is, out for everyone to see!

Astor

Astor watches obnoxiously over his alternate's shoulder to see whether he needs help, then plays a little trumpet fanfare when he successfully posts the "telegram." "And there you have it! Nothing to it, is there?" He nods at the phone, "What other tricks were you looking to figure out?"

Ruddy & Offal

Oh, other tricks? He squints at the phone. He hadn't paid enough attention to technology after... When had he lost touch with-- No. No time for that. He prods the button again, pointing at the other symbols. "What do these do? How do I put a photograph in it?"

Astor

He goes over them one by one: "The first one with the letters changes the type face—bigger letters, cursive letters, so on, they've got half a dozen different types. The second that looks like two chain links, it lets you put in what they call a 'link' on the Internet; it's less like a chain link and more like a street address, if touching an address instantly teleported you to the location. The third one is for... I'm not really sure what that's for." He shrugs at the "gif" button. "But the *fourth* one, the one that looks like a stack of papers with a drawing on top, *that's* how you put in a photograph! And then the headphones at the end are for music, obviously." *Obviously.*

Ruddy & Offal

"Oh! A music button? Tell me more, my dear self." *Now* he's interested in the horrid little rectangle and all its bright little lights. "I met another self, the one with the wife and son? And I believe Sir Pentious mentioned he used the tumbler too.... Do you two run your stations on these?" Actually, maybe ALL his alternates were married. He didn't know. Seemed probable enough, he'd been a charmer in life after all.

Astor

"Touch the headphones and then touch at the top where it says 'search audio,' and you can type in the name of a song you want to find. It's not a very effective way to listen to music, but to be fair, you *are* trying to insert a phonograph record into a telegram! One doesn't go to the telegraph station to listen to music, does one—one goes to the record store, or the jazz club, or the theater. And there's record stores hidden elsewhere in this thing."

Wife and son? Which alternates does he know who have wives and sons? None that he's close to. He'll circle back around to that question later. "Most alternates I know are still broadcasting on AM! A few on FM. One's picked up a TV station, believe it or not. Some of us, myself included, use v#xblr—what did you say it's called in this universe, tumbler?—to advertise for our stations." He likes "tumbler" better. "I know one self who has his station set up to play on the radio *and* on the Internet at the same time, but I don't know any who are *only* broadcasting on the Internet."

Ruddy & Offal

Offal happily taps away, adding and removing a few songs and photos to get the hang of this strange system. "Oh yes, Once Sir Pentious took Vox out," and he can say Vox without censoring himself, how lovely, "he went and rebranded most of the properties he inherited. Still though, a TV station of all things? My Goodness what a shift! Good for him! I myself haven't put out a broadcast in quite a while. Not since--"

Ahem. Moving on. "A dual broadcast sounds like a good way to get the younger generations interested, goodness knows I've heard enough about Pod Casts. Sir Pentious is unfortunate enough to listen to them." And oh, his heart breaks at the very THOUGHT.

Astor

*Not since.* Astor wonders—would that be his alternate's rampage after cannibal colony fell? From what Astor's heard about it, he wouldn't consider that "quite a while"—but maybe his alternate is trying to distance himself from the incident.

Either way, his alternate doesn't want to talk about it, so Astor won't pry. "*Podcasts.*" He scoffs. "For the people unwilling to commit their time to a scheduled radio program but unwilling to commit their money to an audiobook. The worst of both worlds."

Ruddy & Offal

The accused snake is rolling his eyes, but refraining from commenting. He's had this debate a *hundred* times. Offal, on the other hand, seems QUITE pleased that his Dear Self shares his opinion, nodding firmly as he side eyes Sir Pentious. You hear that, buddy? Yeah that's right.

"Ah well! No accounting for taste, this is Hell after all! Shouldn't surprise us that a bunch of loathsome sinners have no appreciation for the wonders of radio!" A comical shrug, and he looks around. What, no coffee for him? Fine. A concerningly long silly straw appears in Sir Pentious' tea, half of the liquid vanishing into Offal's mouth in one SUCC. He doesn't even like tea, he just needs something warm to lube up his throat.

Astor

"It's a pity! But it's their loss!"

Oh, c'mon, dude, don't antagonize one of the only two people in this universe willing to talk to you. Astor quietly holds out his coffee cup. Here. Take it.

"A bit ago, you mentioned an alternate of ours with a wife and son? Which one was that?"

Ruddy & Offal

Sir Pentious SIGHS.... And pours himself more tea. He's used to Offal's antics at this point, though why the eggbois are so hesitant to be around him is a mystery. Coffee for ONE of his guests was just insulting. And look, here comes an egg already to offer Astor another cup. *Embarrassing*.

Offal accepts the coffee, immediately taking a hearty sip to get the taste of earl gray out of his mouth before he speaks. "Ah! Yes! I'd give you a name, my dear me, but. Well. You know! I mean the one with the long black hair and the glasses. He visited Sir Pentious with his wife once or twice while I was over, lovely couple. Very cozy! He's a smidgen overprotective if you ask me, but I suppose if I got married I'd hover over whatever unfortunate soul dazzled me too! And a second child on the way! Incredible!" Another of those sharp laughs. "Does that narrow it down enough, my self? I know there are *apparently* a number of us out there!"

Astor

Long black hair, glasses, recently visited... Alastor narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Is his 'wife' Valera?" he asks. "Valera and child Pelagios?"

Ruddy & Offal

"I didn't catch his son's name, and I'm not certain on the wife, he wouldn't even let me near her without looking ready to snap my neck! Is Valera a bit of fish? Tall? Big horns? Big tail? Big... eyes?" He's miming around himself, trying to portray various aspects of his alternate's spouse's grandiose features. Honestly he wasn't sure how his alternate didn't get lost in the hair alone, but to each their own.

Astor

"... One moment." He reaches over to the phone his alternate is using, does a quick search, and pulls up one of Valera's selfies. "Is this the fish in question?"

Ruddy & Offal

Give him a second while he squints at the phone.. "That's the one! Though she's quite a bit slimmer in this picture than in person." Snrk snrk. "But yes, that's the one! Are *all* of my alternates out there getting domesticated into doting husbands?"

Astor

"They're not married," Astor says flatly. "If they told you they are, either they were playing a little joke, or else they're conducting the world's most poorly concealed affair. I certainly hope they *didn't* tell you they are?" Because if they did, then Astor has to go fucking ask them about it, which is going to be excruciating for everybody involved and won't even resolve anything.

Ruddy & Offal

Well *that's* a weird reaction. Offal raises an eyebrow, but takes another sip of his coffee and decides to see where this is going. "My own self informed me they were in a rather intense on and off again relationship. Seven times divorced and counting, or somesuch? I found it rather hard to believe, really, but after seeing the way he looked at her?" He snorts. "No, those goo goo eyes wouldn't be on anyone who was just playing at a bit. And I haven't had a chance to ask his wife yet, as I said. Can't go near her."

Astor

*Oh.* The divorce gag is back. Or never left, whichever. "The divorces are an inside joke. But however goo goo his eyes were, they are not and have never been married—or else I think the Sir Pentious that Valera's been engaged to since long before meeting our alternate would have had something to say about it. The son was adopted from deadbeat relatives, and the egg on the way is said Sir Pentious's." He leans back over to the phone and keeps on scrolling through the selfies until he finds a picture of Valera and Penny being cutesy together.

Ruddy & Offal

Offal tilts his head one way and then the other, his ears twitching slightly as his brain turns the information over. So his dear self had lied to him, then. Or this dear self was lying. Was his own self an unreliable narrator? Maybe he'd forgotten. He did forget things, sometimes important things. Was this dear self going to mock him for believing another dear self? Maybe. But he knew what he saw! Probably. Maybe. Maybe not? Probably not, really. This sounded like something he'd misunderstand.

He feels heat creep over his cheeks, and his head ducks down to let his overgrown hair hide his face.

Astor

No comment? Odd. Odd and uncomfortable. Better fill that silence. "Although they *can* get..." He's silent for a moment, grimacing, a clock ticking sound unfortunately highlighting just how long he's struggling to find a delicate way to put it. "... Clingy."

Although if Leal had guarded Valera from even *talking* to this alternate, that was quite a bit more protective than usual. Is Leal really *that* afraid of this alternate?

Ruddy & Offal

Offal clenches his jaw until his teeth creak. He'd ask later. He'd ask his dear self about it later, if he remembered. Deep breath, and he sits back up with the same smile as always. "Hah! They certainly can! The way he wrapped himself around her, you'd think my dear self thought I'd lay a finger on a pregnant woman! And his *"beloved"* At that! No no, I would never harm a mother OR my dear self's beloved! I wouldn't!" He wouldn't. He didn't think he would.

He stares at Astor for a moment, a beat of dead air and a blank smile. Then he continues. "So what IS the deal with them then, my dear self? Has a casual friendship turned from the occasional embrace to protective amulets and wrapping around your beloved like a fashionable scarf while I wasn't paying attention?"

Astor

The radio doth protest too much. He's trying to convince himself as much as Astor, isn't he? "Oh, I'm quite sure you wouldn't, my friend, *quite* sure!" And for the purposes of this conversation, Astor believes it wholeheartedly. This alternate needs somebody other than himself to believe in it, doesn't he?

"Oh, well—I wouldn't call that a *casual* friendship. That other of ours has a tendency to... Well, you know how touching another person's flesh feels like dipping one's hand in a vat of acidic mold! I think when he meets people that *don't* feel like that, something in his head concludes it's some sort of spiritual bond." A shrug. "That's the best I can make of it, anyway. But no, I wouldn't exactly call that the norm."

Ruddy & Offal

Offal is seized by the sudden, wild urge to grab his dear self by the shoulders and beg him to repeat that. He's sure? Is he sure? He wouldn't do it he swears but is his dear self SURE he believes him? But no. That's pathetic. So instead he brushes the reassurance off like it didn't affect him, biting the inside of his cheek as he hears the rest out.

... Someone who DOESN'T feel like acid? Well, it made sense. No wonder he could drape himself all over her and have two children-- Wait no, this dear self said they *weren't* his. But still. The hugging and nuzzling and all the kisses he'd watched his dear self pepper all over the fish's face made much more sense when it wasn't something he'd have to fight through the screaming urge to recoil to do. His mouth moves before his brain can, voice thick with bitterness. "Lucky him."

Astor

Lucky? He *wants* that? Poor fellow, Astor doesn't think there are any alternates he pities more than the ones who can't handle physical affection but long for it. Except maybe for the ones who have no trouble with it and get themselves into the same torrid affairs as the rest of the human race. Or the ones who find physical contact so revolting they can't stand to so much as think about it, much less hear anyone else discuss it.

... Which means he pities just about every alternate who doesn't share his *exact* personal levels of indifference, doesn't it? Maybe he's biased. Oh well.

He doubts his alternate would appreciate hearing that it's really not all it's cracked up to be—grass is always greener—but maybe he can help another way. "Well, here, have you ever tried direct contact with another of yourself?" He tugs a glove down to his knuckles and offers the back of his hand to his alternate—not to shake, no threat of a deal. "Most of us find most of us safe to touch, if you want to test it out."

Ruddy & Offal

The bolt of panic that shot through him when he realized he'd voiced his thoughts, surprisingly, didn't get much to work off of with Astor's reaction, and thus fizzled out somewhere between his fourth and fifth rib as he watches his dear self start peeling his glove back and exposing *scandalous* amounts of Bare Hand.

Well he can't just leave his poor dear self be the only one exposing himself here. If the man is going to offer up something wildly uncomfortable, it's Offal's job to match him. His own gloves are peeled back with a bit of a struggle, the back of his hand pressed to his dear self.

......... Well it. Wasn't acid. It didn't really feel like anything at all, really. Which was an improvement, but not the bolt of near euphoria he remembered from life in the rare instance of being able to tolerate someone's touch. "It feels like I sat on my hand! Still, that's the best I've handled any physical contact since I was a teenager!" Poor maman had been heartbroken when he started wriggling out of her hugs... Why did he remember that?

Astor

He idly wonders what changed when his alternate had been a teenager. Maybe nothing; maybe that was just when he'd let himself become aware of how unpleasant touch is. "Not all that exciting, is it? Just like touching anything else, except this time it happens to be a person. I think that's all it is for most people, most of the time; it's only remarkable when it's an exception."

Ruddy & Offal

"I'm sure!" And the gloves are slipped back down to their proper position. Experiment over, send those results in to be filed away! "Say, my dear self! How well do you know my dear self's.... *Companion?* Is she as scaly as she looks? Cold and slippery? Physically, not emotionally! But if she's both, well that'd be fitting!"

Astor

"Huh. Well..." He has to stop and think about that. "I've only had reason to touch them a few times, never without clothes in between, but... I wouldn't say cold and slippery, but cool and smooth, certainly. And the scales are really scales, yes."

Ruddy & Offal

"Cool and smooth.." He ponders that. So she really felt like a fish, then! Fish scales had certainly never made him recoil the way human touch did. Maybe that's how his dear self had managed it. Simple and effective. Negate the problem by just. Not touching skin.

He nods to himself, tapping his chin. His dear self was certainly clever. "What is she like? You said she was engaged to a Pentious, so I can assume she's either deaf or has the patience of a saint." Sir Pentious huffs from his chair, but stays out of it.

Astor

"Well, I've spent the last couple of months rehearsing with Valera for a musical, so either she's not deaf or she has a clairvoyant sense of pitch!" Astor laughs. "She *is* patient, as it happens; but her fiancé isn't as difficult to get along with as you'd think! Get through the first hour of defensive posturing without trying to poke holes in his shield, and he'll set it aside and have a civil conversation with you. It's just most people don't see the point in enduring that first hour, see. I'd even say he's easier to get on with than this one!" Astor tips his head toward Ruddy. "Sure, at least this one starts out cordial, but you've practically got to hand him a resumé and two character references before he'll let you do him a favor."

Ruddy & Offal

There's an AWFUL lot of little tidbits Offal could follow up on, there. But he'll come back for those in a moment, it seems like his dear self has a lot to say about snakes. "I disagree, my dear self! Sir Pentious here is the least cordial being I've ever met AND he never lets me do him any favors."

Anyway, enough about snakes. If he talks too much about Sir Pentious he might get kicked out again. "So! The fish-- Valera. I should call her by name, my goodness. You know her fairly well then? Working together for your musical and all. Is she.." He has to consider his words, here, lest he imply things. "She's patient. Is she.. kind? To my dear self? If my dear self got attached so quickly, I would hate to hear it was to someone unsuitable!"

Astor

"Did your resumé's cover letter say 'Dear Sir Pentious' or did it say 'To whom it may concern'? Maybe that's the difference." A wink, he's just teasing. ... But no yeah that probably is the difference.

"I know Valera well enough! And they're kind, yes—if anything I'd call them a little *too* concerned with how everyone else is doing, but that's a matter of personal preference, isn't it! Some people put on a mask as a test to discover who wants to see underneath, other people put on a mask because they're actors and they don't appreciate audience members getting on stage to tug it off.

Ruddy & Offal

Vaguely disgruntled noises from Sir Pentious, and a single sugar cube goes sailing over to bounce harmlessly off Offal's mass of hair. He doesn't even seem to notice.

TOO concerned... Interesting. "I take it you're the latter, my dear self! I imagine most of us are. She sounds like a bit of a busybody, no good for letting a performance run smoothly." Not that he necessarily minded that. If his dear self was anything like he was, having someone fret and fuss over his _feelings_ of all things had probably been an unexpected high.

Astor

Astor is momentarily terrified but then relieved when the incoming sugar cube bounces off his alternate's head instead of his. Okay good, he was right.

"I certainly am! Most of our others tend to be the same—only a handful of people are allowed backstage. Although there are exceptions, of course, all perfectly within the normal variations of Radio Demons." Offered just in case this alternate happens to be one of the exceptions. Astor doubts it—he doesn't think this alternate's been giving peeks behind his mask because he wants people to see so much as because the ribbon that's supposed to keep it up is fraying—but from what he's heard, if *anyone* could use someone peeking in, this one could.

But no prying. If this one doesn't invite Astor in, then it probably means that what he wants most is to be treated like everything's perfectly normal, so that's how Astor will treat him.

Ruddy & Offal

Normal variations... Oh, yes now there's a topic. "If it isn't too much to ask of you, my dear self, tell me about some of the other varieties of radio demon around. I've only seen two and the differences are already rather stunning!"

Astor

"Well, who do you want me to start with! There's me, the one I mentioned with a TV station, you've met the one Valera knows, another who spends most of his time mentoring a college radio station, one that's ascended to some sort of godhood... These are just the recent local ones, mind, I've met more than I can count beyond that—but I figure you'd want me to start with the ones you might actually meet! What or who do you want to hear about first?"

Ruddy & Offal

Offal was expecting the first few. Yes, he could see a better version of himself working with a college, if he squinted. A bit out there, but not unbelievable. But the casual mention of godhood had him choking on his coffee. Pardon him while he tries to pretend he isn't hacking up a lung here. "Apologies, my dear self." *Ahem.* "When you say godhood, you're exaggerating I hope?"

Astor

His smile widened. "He goes by *the Engineer*—Engi to friends. He independently devastated his own Earth with nothing but his own raw power, and plays around with the surviving population for his own fun. He can transport himself anywhere unaided, absentmindedly wander backwards and forwards in time without noticing, plant visions in your head more real than any hallucinogenic you've ever had or signal you've ever received—all while never once breaking character! Why, half the time he speaks in advertising jingles! Whether or not that qualifies him for godhood depends on one's definition of a god, doesn't it? But consider what you or I can do, and imagine how powerful one of us would have to be before I'd consider him out of our league entirely. Whatever you call him, he's something that's moved beyond humanity."

Ruddy & Offal

He keeps as neutral a smile as he can as Astor spins what can only be *incredibly* out there lies, nodding politely and taking a much more measured sip of his drink. So this dear self was the liar, then, and Leal really did have some kind of fish wife. Really, a dear self that was that powerful..? That was just too far. Not remotely plausible. But quite the story! "Well well! What a fellow he must be! Perhaps I'll meet him someday, if I ever get out of this pit! In the meantime though, what about that college radio chap? What's his bag, my dear self?"

Astor

He could see that change in demeanor, that quick shift from shocked disbelief to indulgent neutrality, that rapid loss of all curiosity. Why? What could he stand to gain by lying about something so outrageous? Did this one simply assume Astor would spin tall tales to his own self—why, for the fun of it? To mock him? Out of some pathological need? Did he think he was delusional and the Engineer was some fantasy? Astor quickly cycled through anger and hurt and humiliation before he managed to snap on his own polite smile. "I'm sure you will, he likes his alternates. Turn the dial on any radio all the way to the left until it cracks a little and ask for him." Let this one get his *own* verification. And Astor's going to kick Leal when he sees him next. Maybe he wouldn't have gotten such a cold reception if this alternate had never been given reason to think his other selves were untrustworthy.

What does he say about Alexa to distinguish him from the others—that in his universe all radio stations broadcast from a singular tower and he's the self-appointed guardian of them all? "You might not find him convincing." Astor smiled wanly and sipped his coffee.

Ruddy & Offal

Ah, not as subtle as he'd hoped. Damn, he'd fallen out of practice. Offal's smile twitches a bit, but he chuckles and waves an airy hand. He's fine. It's fine. This is fine! "I'll have to give it a go sometime, meet this.. Engineer, you said? For myself!" He glances at Ruddy, still curled up in his armchair and seemingly oblivious to the radio chatter. "Off of Sir Pentious' ship, of course! I'm already overstaying my welcome, having a surprise guest over would get me dropped from the bay doors in a heartbeat! Again!" There's a rumble of agreement from the snake. Not as oblivious as he seems, then. But any drive to talk about this other self was nipped in the bud, Astor's less than subtle jab hitting its mark with enough emotional impact for Offal to outright flinch. So he just.. nods, and grips his cup tighter.

Astor

It hadn't been meant as a jab, but a shield. He didn't think it had been taken that way. He had no idea how it *had* been taken, but a flinch wasn't what he thought it would cause. Well, great. Now he didn't just feel stupid and small; he felt stupid, guilty, and downright microscopic.

Come on, Alastor; you're the professional communicator, salvage this. "Anyway—pretty soon you'll find that anything that can vary between two people, does between our alternates somewhere. Including the things you wouldn't expect to be variable, even..." He tried to think of an example; but any that were big enough to make his point would probably be too big for his other to believe now. "Well—I don't yet know enough about you to say what you'd find unusual versus what you'd find mundane, do I! Any trait I could try to name as an outlier, you might say 'why, but that's just what I'm like!' And then wouldn't I look the fool?"

Ruddy & Offal

Oh no. This sounded like he was being nudged to talk about *himself*. Was he being nudged to talk about himself? That was the LAST thing he wanted to do. Offal wanted to find the perfect, most average Alastor experience, adopt that as his story, and never draw any attention to himself that wasn't one of his dear selves nodding in agreement at how very... Alastor..y.. he was. But he'd already screwed *that* up, and it was sounding like, from what his dear self was saying, his little plan was doomed from the start.

Deep breath. "I suppose so! You'll ah.. Have to excuse me, my dear self. I am still struggling to grasp the notion of seeing other people running around with my face!" A slightly too high pitched laugh. Come on, rein it in. "Perhaps it will be easier to grasp the differences if I don't think of them as my selves! Just.. Cousins."

Astor

Was that nervousness? Astor was just fucking up all over, wasn't he. "Why, I don't know what you want to be excused for!" (He really didn't.) "Mutiversal variations are endlessly fascinating, really—you get used to seeing your face on other people, but you never quite stop being surprised at the new variations. For my own part, I see my others as... as something like cousins and brothers and my own self all at the same time. An alternate is never quite the same person as you but never quite a different person from you, either; but there's no comfortable place in between the categories to put them either, so they're in all categories at once."

Ruddy & Offal

Sir Pentious snorts, lowering his newspaper to look pointedly at Offal. He knows what this idiot is on about, and he's not about to sit through thirty minutes of agonizing social awkwardness while Astor fumbles for a clue. "I'VE SPOKEN TO A NUMBER OF ALASTORS BY NOW, AND IT IS MY _EXHAUSTED_ OPINION THAT YOU'LL FIT RIGHT IN WITH THE PARADE OF _THESPIANS_. DON'T TAKE THAT AS A COMPLIMENT."

Sir Pentious slithers from the room with a huff, off to refill his empty cup. Offal looks.. weirdly reassured. And so he turns to look his dear self, and blurts out the first thing that comes into his fool head. "I died at twenty seven. How old were you?"

Astor

Astor's struggling smile wilts even further at Sir Pentious's jab. He's just striking out with everyone today, isn't he? He keeps his mouth shut until Sir Pentious is gone, then mutters, "Figures, doesn't it. You go above and beyond to help a man with his work, and after that he calls you a 'thespian' like it's some kind of vermin that'll spoil your picnic." He sighs harshly. "*Sorry.* I think I tuned out for a moment, there. You were saying?"

Ruddy & Offal

Offal's smile twitches down, head cocking to one side as he loosens his death grip on his coffee. Well _that_ came out of nowhere. Astor's question is dismissed with a sharp shake of his head, and Offal uncurls to lean towards his alternate. "My dear self, you think he dislikes you?"

Astor

Eyebrow arched, he says dryly, "He's certainly never suggested he *likes* me. I know Sir Pentiouses are much louder when they're peeved than when they're pleased, but generally they drop *some* hint if you've won their approval. I suspect he finds me forgettably neutral."

Ruddy & Offal

Offal shakes his head. "He likes you quite a bit, my dear self! If he didn't, he'd never leave you unattended in his ship. Or even let you in." He shrugs, gesturing around them. "I know he's.. prickly, but he's talked about you with respect."

Astor

Astor isn't so sure about *that*—thus far he's been allowed on board when he has something to offer and has demonstrated he won't cause trouble. That makes him *minimally trustworthy and occasionally useful,* not *likable.*

But that last bit gives him pause. "Has he. With *respect*-respect, or just without *dis*respect?"

Ruddy & Offal

"Respect-respect! I've known Sir Pentious since I landed here, and in that time the only people he's ever been anything approaching sweet to are ladies. If you want him to speak kindly, try wearing a bonnet and fluttering your lashes!" He snickers, but he's completely serious.

Astor

A huff. "In my experience, his others reserve 'sweet' for lovers and 'kind' for close friends—and infrequently at that. No, I'm not expecting any of *that* out of him." But there are ways one can demonstrate approval for a person without having to be *kind* to them. Like by publicly stating that a given person is the only version of them that one respects. And Astor is not the Alastor that received that honor.

He decides not to ask what exactly Sir Pentious has been saying about him. He's afraid to find out that it isn't genuine praise but rather *you'd be less insufferable if you were more like your alternate, let me tell you what he does that you don't measure up to—* Besides, it would feel needy. "Well, you've known him longer—I'll trust that you've had more experience picking up his subtleties." It's half true.

Ruddy & Offal

A shrug, and Offal puts down his empty cup. He's rubbish at reassurance, but he wants SO badly to connect to his self.. "I do! Earlier, what made you wilt? That was him.. reassuring me." Oh, that IS embarrassing to admit. Soldier on.

"I'm sure you've figured out that I'm not quite. Matched up. To yourself. Or others of my dear selves." His shoulders droop, but he squares himself back up to continue. "He's aware of my feelings. Not that I ever _admitted_ them." Hrmph. "It's horrible, I'm freeloading in the airship of a man who can _read_ me!"

Astor

Oh, was the wilting that obvious? He very nearly internally cringes at himself too hard to catch the substance of what his alternate is really saying. But he does catch it.

"My goodness, aren't you the unlucky one—stuck with the only Sir Pentious capable of reading anything subtler than a billboard." Dumb joke to lighten the mood; but Astor quickly sobers up. If his alternate is openly talking about the subtext now, then he can talk about it too.

"I've figured out you're having a bad year, yes. But I don't think the rest of us are as matched up as you might think. Or if what you mean is you think you're *lesser* than us?" He snorts dismissively. "Sure, you look at the Hell Broadway performer, the TV manager, the college mentor, the *god,* all of that, and my oh my don't they sound like an impressive lot! Living their best afterlives, aren't they? But that leaves out all the drug habits, the suicidal gestures, the identity crises, the breakdowns, the burnouts... Oh, we're quite the pack of fireworks, aren't we? Flashy and loud, and all too prone to catching fire and exploding."

A wink, "But none of that's fit for broadcast, is it? A good announcer puts on a smile and his best persona and makes sure the audience can't tell he's got a hangover! Even if his audience is his fellow announcers. See—you match up with us, after all."

Ruddy & Offal

Offal's smile is thin, but he nods appreciatively towards Astor as his cheeks turn slightly pink. It's a comfort to hear, he'll just need time to roll the thought around in his head. At least this dear self is being honest with him, or if he's lying, doing a damn good job. It makes it less humiliating to have done what felt like pulling his own organs out to show off.

"I suppose you're right, my dear self. Easy to get razzle dazzled even by your own selves, if you're already full of self loathing. And I'm afraid I've let myself fall rather far from my own graces! No broadcasts, I haven't even been to my own house in.. Who knows HOW long. What a waste of a good garden, I'm sure the flowers are all dead by now." He sighs, reaching up to brush his too long hair out of his face. "A shame, it's a nightmare getting plants to grow down here, let alone flower and reproduce. Maybe I can.. try again. Eventually." Now that's wishful thinking. But his dear self doesn't need to hear him get TOO melancholy over some ridiculous flowers.

Astor

Astor leans closer, fixes him with a look, and says meaningfully, "You have a *house?*" The corner of his mouth twitches. He sits back up. "Oh, that's the trouble, isn't it? We're good even at dazzling each other! And then trying so hard to be dazzling in return nobody can see past the lights to realize that *most* of us think we're the one black hole in a sky full of stars." Astor doesn't think he's ever managed to discuss this with an alternate before, even though he's sure he'd met enough alternates to figure it out a couple decades back. Ironically, the fact that this alternate currently can't keep his mask on makes things easier—not that Astor is going to make him self-conscious by mentioning that.

"I've got some okra and bell pepper potted right now—remarkably hardy strains, too. I could give you some seeds if you need to restart your garden. I'm making plans for a little herb garden, too—nothing ambitious, just what I can squeeze into a window planter."

Ruddy & Offal

"Of course I-- Ah. I see your point." He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. His dear self was right, though having such an honest discussion still felt incredibly wrong. But maybe that was good. They were both breaking rules, talking like this.

"A window planter? I think you could manage a decent selection of herbs with that, if you're not too worried about the aesthetics. You could probably even manage some cherry tomatoes if you fashioned a little trellis. If anything in my garden is left, we can trade cuttings."

Oh, that wasn't supposed to be the topic here. But it was a nice distraction at least, gave him something to dig his nails into while trying to navigate difficult terrain.

Astor

"Of *course.*" Huff. He crosses his arms loosely, casually, hoping it's not obvious how painfully he's digging his fingers into his arm. It's a hard, rare thing for him to admit, *especially* to an alternate. This conversation really is breaking all the rules.

His eyes light up. "Oh, a trellis, I hadn't even thought of that! Wonderful! Hold on—" He opens a portal, pulls out his grimoire, and flips it open to two pages at a right angle so that they stand like a desktop and an adjoining wall; on the desk he's pencil sketched out a magical workspace and altar, and on the wall a couple of cabinets, a planter, and a round window. He roughly sketches in a pair of trellises curling up along the curved window frame, and then, inspired, adds some over the window that something could hang off of. "Brilliant. Yes, by all means, let's trade—the only way to get any decent produce down here is to swap snips of the stuff that survives!"

Ruddy & Offal

"Gladly, my dear self. The less I have to try and comb the market for fresh ingredients, the better." Offal tilts his head, trying to get a look at what Astor is drawing. A curved window? That looked like.. Well. That was none of his business, now was it? He pulls back, glancing at his empty coffee before his head suddenly swivels up at the sound of scales on the floor.

Ruddy enters, a fresh pot of coffee in hand, and glances between the two Alastors before nodding his head towards Offal almost imperceptibly. It was as close as he'd ever get to asking "do you need help". The returning shake was equally easy to miss, but enough for the serpent to come refill empty cups. "I'M ONLY HERE FOR A MOMENT, SUPPER IS COOKING."

Astor

Lots of places have circular windows, probably, maybe.

Astor starts. "Oh! I believe I'm being reminded not to overstay my welcome, aren't I? I won't intrude upon your supper." Pity, they were just getting somewhere.

Ruddy & Offal

Offal opens his mouth, but Ruddy responds faster, staring at Astor like he'd just grown a second head, and that second head had started speaking tongues. "IF I WANTED YOU OFF MY SHIP, I'D TELL YOU TO GET OFF MY SHIP. THERE'S A PLATE FOR YOU TOO, ALASTOR."

A loud scoff, and Ruddy twists around to slither back out of the room, leaving Offal to give Astor a 'what did I tell you' look.

Astor

"Oh, then my mistake for thinking you might be tactful about it!" He meets his alternate's gaze and rolls his eyes. "How do you like that? It takes real skill to offer someone an invitation without letting them feel the least bit welcome. I bet he's practiced."

Ruddy & Offal

"Incredible, isn't it? And this is how he is with the people he *likes*." He shakes his head, giving his coffee a tentative sip before putting it back down. WAY too hot to drink, he'll have to wait. Oh well, more time to try and reassure his dear self that Ruddy wasn't, in fact, JUST a foul tempered old man, but ALSO a cantankerous bastard of a friend who never just SAID nice things. "You may have missed it, if you weren't looking. He came in to see if I was alright. I don't know about the snakes you know, but he's rather *subtle* about any care he shows."

Astor

"Hm. 'Likes' or 'tolerates'?" Astor's still dubious of the claim that this Sir Pentious so much as respects him—and it's a steeper climb still to get from "respects" all the way up to "likes."

"They run the gamut, but some are... well, it's hard to call anybody that loud 'subtle,' but certainly they've got ways of showing concern that no one else would recognize as such. I wasn't looking until he mentioned dinner, I'll take your word for it."

Ruddy & Offal

"Of course, my dear self." Offal leans back into his seat, giving Astor a once over. Now that he wasn't in the middle of shrinking away or flinching, he had a chance to see his alternate as something other than the pinnacle of what an Alastor should be. There were flaws, probably, even if he didn't see them yet.

He was forgetting something... Oh, yes. "*Did* you want to stay for dinner, my dear self? I'm sure you could sneak out without any fuss."

Astor

"Sneak out, after getting an explicit invitation? Not without insulting him." Which didn't quite directly answer the question, but it meant he was staying.

Ruddy & Offal

"I'll take that as you're staying, then! Good. Sir Pentious always cooks enough food to put my own mother to shame, and we wind up feeding the leftovers to some college students he knows just to clear out the fridge!" Why does he know college students? Offal has no idea, but it seems like Sir Pentious just *knows* people.

Astor

Considering Sir Pentious had just helped a university worth of them unionize, Astor isn't too surprised. "Oh, well, I'm always happy to help rescue people from leftovers."

Ruddy & Offal

Offal didn't know about Sir Pentious' adventures, unfortunately. He simply nods and reaches for his coffee again. It's still too hot of course, but he's going to do his damndest to cool it down by blowing on it before the dinner bell sounds. He has nothing else to say, so unless Astor has more to say, they're just going to sit in silence.

Astor

Astor very rarely doesn't have more to say. What had they been talking about before Sir Pentious came in? Gardening, Radio Demons dazzling each other—ah. "You uh, asked something when Sir Pentious first left that I didn't catch, and we never looped back around to it. What was...?"

Ruddy & Offal

Oh, he remembered. Damn, and here Offal had thought that had been conveniently forgotten in the rest of the mess. Ah well, he'd already spilled his guts to this alternate, he may as well commit to it. A polite cough, and he nods. "Ah, I'd asked how old you'd been when you died. A bit of a silly question, feel free to ignore it, my dear self. What does it matter when we've been stuck down here for so long, really?"

Astor

"Oh, it makes some difference. Not the age itself, maybe, but what it means you lived through. I was in my mid thirties," he says automatically, before immediately amending himself: "Thirty-five. Although I don't give just anyone the exact number. You?"

Ruddy & Offal

Oh no, he's OLD. Offal's smile turns almost apologetic, coffee cup lifting to his lips as he mumbles his response. He's talking to the coffee, it's fine. "Twenty five, I think. Maybe twenty seven at most. I don't remember. Younger than thirty, that's for sure."

Astor

Oh no, he's a BABY. Never mind the fact that the gap between 113 years old and 123 years old doesn't mean much. This is an infant. "Well—see, that's a perfect example of an age that *does* make a difference. It means you're one of us that didn't fight in the war. You must have been... what, eleven or twelve during the draft?" He blinks as another thought occurs to him. "My goodness. You were still a teenager when I first went on air."

Ruddy & Offal

Just an old man and a baby, hanging out in an even older man's glorified blimp. This is going great. "Correct! Not that my father's side of the family didn't try and tell me I should go lie about my age and serve the country like a proper man. If looks could have killed, I tell you, my mother would have had a body count!" His laugh is a little bitter, but at least it's a laugh. "I don't envy your service, but it certainly sounds like you had more time to enjoy being on air. Felt like I'd barely started before I was six feet under."

Astor

"She wasn't too happy about it in my neck of the woods, either. I'd never seen her like that before."

And over a century later, it's still uncomfortable to think about. Move along. "You were on speaking terms with your father's side, then? I've found that's one of the most inconsistent things among our others. I think you and I are in the minority."

His smile thins grimly. "I'd been on air just a few months short of a decade—and it still felt like I'd barely started, too."

Ruddy & Offal

That was the way of things, wasn't it. It was always too soon to go, when you were doing something you were passionate about. He sighs, the hand not holding his coffee pushing his hair out of his face again. Maybe he should find a pair of scissors soon... But that's for later.

"I was on speaking terms with them, yes. Although they could never completely hide that they were disappointed that my father's only child was, well.." Mixed, but he's not going to say it outright. A gesture towards himself should get the general idea across, hopefully. "But I was never mistreated, and I was never left wanting."

Astor

Astor nods energetically in agreement; yes, his too. He gets it. "They kept me on the family tree and stared down any neighbors who looked puzzled when they introduced me as a cousin. There was never any question that I wouldn't become the next patriarch of the family; but they always had the decency to make like it was because I lived so far out of town. Of course, not *all* of them were quite so circumspect, but—well." Astor clicks his tongue. "Interesting how a tragic hunting accident can lighten the atmosphere at Thanksgiving dinner." He sips his coffee very coolly.

Ruddy & Offal

That startles a laugh out of Offal, but he nods in turn. Good! Good, someone understands where he was coming from. That was a relief. Some things were hard to talk about with someone who didn't share the experiences. "Couldn't put it better myself! I have no idea how they never figured me out, I doubt I was *half* as clever as I thought I was at the time. Being the patriarch would never have worked out, I barely tolerated the questions of when I'd get married to one of the nice *white* girls from the church they insisted I attend with them."

Astor

Astor blinks in amazement. "No. And I'm sure it never crossed their minds what a fix *you'd* be in if a stranger came to town and objected to the marriage." He shakes his head. That's his father's side of the family, all right. "I was far enough outside the line of succession that they saw my bachelorhood as a subject of gossip rather than as a problem to be solved. Anyway, Pa never married and only had a child with a woman he *couldn't* marry, I don't think anyone was surprised I followed in his footsteps. Ma certainly wasn't."

Ruddy & Offal

"Hah! I was.. pale enough, I suppose? That I'm sure they hoped they could just pass me off as tanned from hunting. Or maybe they just didn't think at all, who knows. Once mother died and I was stuck with them full time, they wasted no time trying to make me presentable. I'm just glad she never had to see what they did to my hair!" His smile twitches at the corners, but he wastes no time on *that* little memory. Natural causes his *ass*.

"Were I so lucky to only be gossiped about! No no, I had the misfortune of being the eldest son of the eldest son. A barely passable bastard, but one too well known to hide away. I suppose I was proud of it, in some way. I made myself quite the thorn in their side while I could!"

Astor

"I was pale enough to get away with *some* things, but not enough that I was about to try fathering Désirée's baby." Not that he'd planned on being *anyone's* father, but.

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the revelation that his alternate's mother died; and again, this time in anger, at the thought of anyone touching his hair. In life he'd had the same hair as his mother, and proudly so; if they dared try to take that from his other—

But he presses his lips together. That's not a can of angry worms he wants to open now. Instead, he says, "I only spent summers with them. Ma survived me."

Ruddy & Offal

They'd done a bit more than *try*, but that wasn't something either of the alternates present wanted to get into at the moment. The news that his dear self's mother survived him was enough to distract Offal from memories of hot irons and wet combs. His eyes close as his shoulders hunch, smile twisting for a fraction of a second before it snaps back into place. Deep breath, relax his posture, come on then. He'd already crossed enough lines with his alternate without *crying* over things from a hundred years ago.

"I. Well. I don't know if I should be glad to hear that or not! But it is what it is! I wish I'd had more time with mine, but I'm glad she never had to bury me." He clears his throat and goes for the coffee. A few gulps to help steady himself, that does it. "So! Do you speak French then? That was one of the only things they were happy about, though they insisted I learn *proper* French once I was in their house. And piano, though I didn't mind the piano. I'd always liked music."

Astor

None of the possible endings were good, were they? "I wish I hadn't made her bury me." It might be the plainest and opennest thing he'd said all afternoon.

But that kind of thing can only be taken in a grain or two at a time. Back to lighter topics. "*Bien sûr, mon ami!* I practiced with my father's family in the summers and with ghosts the rest of the year. In Paris a man told me I looked like somebody's grandson but spoke French like somebody's grandfather. I don't remember which side of the family got me started on piano—both had ones I could play—I was young when I started. I do know I was with Ma when I started the violin, although it was Pa's side of the family that put the idea in my head to learn. He probably paid for it, I don't know; children don't keep track of that sort of thing..."

Ruddy & Offal

"You went to Paris! How fantastic, I never got the opportunity. I... never got the opportunity to do a lot of things, really." He really *had* died young, hadn't he? It was easy to forget, until he remembered all the things he'd been *planning* on doing. But that was *depressing* to think about, lighten the mood there buddy! "The experiences are half lined up, but my French is tragically standard. Not a hint of my poor mother's accent!" He tosses his head back dramatically, the back of his hand daintily pressed to his forehead.

And then its several seconds of trying to arrange his hair once he's sitting properly again. Pthhbt. Hair in his mouth. Give him a moment. What had he been saying? "So, what was Paris like, then? Everything people said it was, or a disappointment all around?"

Astor

"Now, here's the thing, in Louisiana they thought *my* French was standard, too. It was the *French* who disagreed. I'm sure if you'd ever made it to Paris, they'd have found your French charmingly antiquated, too!" This is probably meant as reassurance.

He's watched his alternate fuss with his hair a time too many and his desire to mind his own business is now outweighed by his pity. He opens a portal, rummages around inside, and emerges with four glittery plastic barrettes that are just slightly too pink to blend into Radio Demon red hair. He wordlessly offers them. "When I was there? Lamentably full of soldiers. I'm afraid I didn't have an opportunity to absorb the culture, although I glimpsed a little in the distance. I always wanted to go back after the war, but, well." A shrug. "As it is? All I got out of Paris was my first honest-to-God demonology book."

Ruddy & Offal

It takes Offal longer than it should to figure out what his alternate is offering him, several seconds wasted on puzzling over the barrettes before he realizes what they're for. Astor gets to watch him haphazardly pin back his bangs. It doesn't look good, the man has never used a hair clip before.

"Is THAT how you got your start, my dear self? I got mine from poking my nose into the pittance of belongings I was left by my mother that I was _allowed_ to keep."

Astor

Completely satisfactory. Barrettes aren't to help you *look* good, they're to help you *see* good.

Astor is just about ready to strangle his alternate's paternal relatives. "You'd have to specify what, exactly, you're asking about the start of! I had many starts at many different things at many different times, and that was certainly *one* of them; but I'm quite certain my mother never worked with demons, so I suspect we're talking about different things!"

Ruddy & Offal

"We may just be, my dear self!" Offal plants his cheek into his own palm, finally able to look at his alternate without a curtain of hair obscuring his vision. It was strange, seeing himself sitting across from, well, himself. It wasn't like the illusions or shadow copies, this was an independent person who happened to share a face, and apparently several other things as well. "My mother didn't work with demons either, to my knowledge. She worked *against* them. It wasn't her main area of focus, not her religion, not her circus, not her monkeys. But apparently it was something she picked up when she got involved with my father? Or so the letters said, if I remember correctly."

If he were anyone else, he'd frown. But he furrows his brows instead, and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm afraid that in the absence of my mother, I was raised almost entirely Catholic. Demonology was my bread and butter once I got my hands on it. Learning how to counter them was a fine start in learning to *deal* with them."

Astor

"What in the world was your father up to that necessitated getting into demon fighting?" A huff.

"Half with Catholicism, half with Voodoo. I've been communicating with spirits since before I was born; Ma started teaching me magic before I learned to read. But I didn't start working with demons until the war. The Catholics discouraged it and the Voodooists had no business with it." He nods to his alternate, "Did you only work with demons, then?"

Ruddy & Offal

"I don't know! Never got the chance to ask." His grin grows. It's a vexing mystery, but some part of him thinks it's *hilarious* that somehow, his blandly pleasant but ultimately spineless father was out there attracting the attention of demons.

"Oh, almost entirely. I wasn't allowed any of the, as my grandparents put it, *"Blasphemous Voodoo Hoodoo Garbage"* after I moved. No no! That was a good Christian household, anything out of the ordinary was scolded out of me." He rolls his eyes, now that Astor can see them. "I did try and relearn what I could once I moved out, scrounge the scraps I could remember together, but it wasn't the easiest thing."

Astor

It's impressive how effective a sneer Alastor can produce while technically still smiling. "'Blasphemous' my entire... I used the Bible far more for conjure than I ever did for church! Try telling *that* to average 'good Christian'! Or that Hoodoo is practiced on nearly every page in the book, just by a different name!" He sighs harshly. "You were robbed." Which he's sure his alternate already knows, but sometimes it helps to hear someone else say it. "I wish I could offer to teach you whatever you didn't get to relearn, but I'm afraid I'm not qualified anymore. Maybe for some of the rootwork, but not the deeper stuff. Certainly nothing of Voodoo."

Ruddy & Offal

Offal nods, taking a few seconds to get his feelings in check before he responds. He was robbed. It was painful to think about, painful to acknowledge. And there wasn't much to be done about it anymore, unfortunately. And it stung.

"I appreciate the thought, my dear self." A shrug, and he shakes his head. "I didn't mean to turn this little social into a deep dive into my history! You've already heard enough prattle to last your whole afterlife! I'm just glad to hear my other dear selves weren't also cut off."

Astor

"Think nothing of it, I find these little compare-and-contrast sessions tend to go that way! We'll start with 'so what's *your* favorite food?' and end up on, '... and that's why I still have lingering trauma around blonde women and golden retrievers!'" He laughs. "For what it's worth, our experiences run the whole spectrum. You're not the only one who's been cut off for one reason or another. Even I was eventually. It's unfortunate, but, well! At least it means you aren't an outlier."

Ruddy & Offal

It's less of a comfort and more of him feeling a twinge of sympathy, but it's kind of his alternate to offer up that kind of knowledge trying to.. comfort him? Relate? Either way, it's appreciated.

Offal nods, empties his cup, and puts on his best grin. "Well, I can tell you my favorite color isn't red! I'm more of a fan of pink, personally. Or yellow. My mother adored yellow."

Astor

His eyes light up. "Oh, my mother's favorite was yellow too! Perhaps I should say 'is'—I doubt it's changed in the last eighty-odd years. As long as I lived, every year she'd grow yellow angel's trumpets right outside the kitchen window. It's among my favorite colors too, yellow or gold. But I'm afraid I'm terribly predictable and really do favor red just as much as my wardrobe would suggest!"

Ruddy & Offal

Should he ask his alternate why he's speaking about his mother in present tense? It's tempting. But the idea of her being, well, not *alive*, but any sort of present, is absolutely terrifying. And it wasn't even *his* mother, it was none of his business. Don't be a freak, Alastor.

"Angel's trumpets! Now those bring back memories.. I managed to get some of them growing at one point, I'll figure out how to do it again. I hope the honeysuckle is alive at least, its a stubborn enough plant that it may still be limping along." He taps his lips thoughtfully, staring off into nothing. Later. He'll worry about that later. Along with everything else. "Red is a fine color! Pink is just a bit softer, easier on my eyes. Though it'd clash *horribly* with my skin tone now!"

Astor

"Did you? *Oh!*" The corners of his mouth and eyes twitch a bit, threatening to betray just how much hearing of an alternate with living angel's trumpets yanks at his heartstrings. "I've only seen them a few times down here, and never growing free, just dried parts in tea bags. I do hope yours survived! I'd ask for a cutting, but goodness, where would I plant it? I'm sure I'd just kill the poor thing." He tuts chidingly at himself—but there's a flash of genuine melancholy in his eyes.

"I've seen a few of us with pink wardrobes! I don't think it clashes all that terribly, but then I've never had much of an eye for that sort of thing. I'm sure you could find someone to exchange fashion ideas with, at any rate!"

Ruddy & Offal

Forget the pink, look at the way his poor alternate had responded! No no, unacceptable.

"Despite the sizes I'm sure you've seen various plants reach, Angel's Trumpet *is* a shrub. You can keep a one in a pot if it suits your fancy! Mine filled half the sunroom before I moved it outside, QUITE the display!" A shake of his head, and he leans in towards his alternate again. "You've already done enough for me, you think I wouldn't help you learn how to keep a plant alive? Really, my dear self. Even if I have to start from seedlings all over again, I'd be happy to show you how I strangled life out of Hell's soil."

Astor

"That would be..." He's *tempted.* But he shakes his head. "No, no—Ma took hers inside when it got cold, and she had to plant that thing in a washbin. And I don't have a *sunroom*! Goodness me, wherever I put it, the poor thing would starve for lack of sunlight! I've got one spot with a window, but just the one window, and small; I'm going to try out those sun lamps in another place, but that's a *kitchen*, and a crowded one at that, I can't grow a massive poisonous shrub in there—I have the makeshift greenhouse at the hotel, but I was hoping to move everything out of it soon, I couldn't possibly tie myself down at the hotel again for the sake of an ornamental plant..."

He shakes his head again and smiles sadly. "I just... don't have anywhere for it."

Ruddy & Offal

Offal nods. He wasn't about to insist his alternate saddle himself with a plant just for emotional reasons, so... "Entirely understandable, my dear self! I suppose you'll just have to come see mine once its all back up to its former glory. May take some time, if my house is half as dusty as I think it is. I couldn't *possibly* have a guest over until the place looks passable again. But we can do coffee in the garden, if you'd like."

He didn't like having guests over even when he HAD lived in his house full time. But he hadn't known any versions of himself then, either. It might be interesting. Or disorienting. But if his dear self had half the emotional attachment to a few plants that he did, maybe it would do him good to be able to see some again. It was the best way he could think of to try and pay him back for this bizarre peptalk.

Astor

"Yes—yes, I'd like that. It sounds—pleasant. Whenever is convenient for you." He clears his throat and takes a sip of his coffee. Damn, almost slipped up and had emotions for a second. "If you find you could use a second pair of hands to help get your garden back in order—well, I don't get nearly enough practice these days!"

Ruddy & Offal

He is not going to comment on the nearly emotional display. Glass houses and all that, this alternate had already tolerated him being as close to hysterical as he could tolerate, let the man have a dignified wobble. Instead Offal cheerily snaps his fingers, letting himself speak more loudly. Bombastic! Cheery! No emotional anguish here! "Oho! And here I thought I was going to have to beg Sir Pentious to loan me a few eggs. Yes, you'd be most welcome to come help me dig out my... What did he call it.. *Depression Pit*. It'd be good to trust in my assistant's competence instead of having to run to hide the fine china."

Astor

*Depression pit.* Well, *that* wasn't very optimistic. "I imagine all they'd be useful for is  contributing their shells to the fertilizer! I'm sure I could offer much more help! We'll get your garden back in shape, never you fear."

Ruddy & Offal

"Fertilizer, certainly, and they don't make bad starter pots if you clean them out well! You just have to make sure you crack them apart once you're putting the plant in the ground." He pauses, then taps a fingertip to his own cheek. "I... appreciate the assistance. Once we have it fixed up, we'll have to at the very least set you up with a fresh bouquet. Less permanent, but you can dry the flowers."

Astor

"Now there's an idea! I suppose their shells would be thick enough for it, wouldn't they?"

His face lights up at the offer of a bouquet. "I'm sure it would make a lovely decoration! Thank you, my friend, that sounds delightful!"

Ruddy & Offal

"Glad you think so! I'm sure we can keep you well supplied with flowers when you want them, this Hell doesn't have much in the way of seasons beyond Hot and then Hot and Raining. At least the plants love it!"

And there's the dinner bell, right on schedule. Offal gestures towards the doorway, tilting his head towards Astor. "I hope you're hungry, my dear self!"

Astor

"You have *hot and raining*? We got the short end of the stick! All we have is *hot*! With a few surprise days, peppered in like sprinkles in a confetti cake!"

His ears flick at the bell. "Aren't I *always* hungry!" He heads for the door—but his alternate has better catch up fast, Astor isn't actually sure where he's going.

Ruddy & Offal

Uh oh, time for Offal to do the awkward little half jog everyone hates, look at him go. Once he's caught up to his alt he can settle into a more dignified walk. "The kitchen and dining room are this way! Just follow the sound of Sir Pentious humming! Or, failing that, the line of eggbois. They're like ants, I tell you!" It's okay to kick eggbois out of the way. It's fine.

Astor

"Why, do *they* eat?" Squinting at the Egg Bois. The ant comparison may have thrown him off, he's imagining they're invading the dining room like ants at a picnic. He's not about to kick them though, he is a *guest.*

Ruddy & Offal

"Do they eat? My dear self, they'll eat anything you let them shove into their mouth." His grin widens. "Don't ask me where it goes, I have no idea! I saw them swarm a sinner and eat him once, though. Gone in seconds, never saw the fellow again." He nudges another eggboi out of his way with the side of his foot, one of the fancy faberge ones.

"...I don't think they get hungry though, they just like putting things in their strange yolky mouths."

Astor

"Hm! The one I've seen, they'll eat if you tell them to, but they won't do it on their own." He regards them curiously. Multiversal differences. "Self-seasoning omelets."

Ruddy & Offal

There's a loud snort. Seems like Astor managed to almost get a laugh out of Ruddy! Not that you'd guess it by his expression when he leans out of the kitchen. A fistful of rolled silverware is shoved at Offal, and then Ruddy vanishes back into the kitchen before he emerges properly with a tray of garlic bread. A last minute addition he'd thrown in, but EVERYONE likes garlic bread. Off to the dining room, a comically huge amount of food was waiting!

Astor

Oh, he was overheard. He doesn't think he caused any offense, but just in case, he throws in, "Of course, I'm not going to scramble any without permission!" He's pretty sure this Sir Pentious isn't accustomed to Alastors asking permission, it can't hurt to throw in a reassurance.

And it's a good thing Astor reminded *himself* he's asking for permission, or else he might have casually snagged a slice of garlic bread off the tray on the way to the dining room. In a herculean display of self-control he holds off, and in the dining room waits eyeing the feast to be told how seating is to be arranged.

Ruddy & Offal

Such strength... Such restraint. Offal has no such thing, and tries to grab for a slice before the tip of Ruddy's tail darts up to slap the back of his hand. Neither of them comment on it, and Offal meanders off to one end of the table on his own. Ruddy pulls out a seat for Astor, and sits at the other end of the table, tail coiled around and around his seat to keep anyone from tripping on him.

A moment to get himself arranged, and Ruddy plucks up a slice of the bread. Better to do it now, before the radio demons inhaled it all. "HELP YOURSELF, THERE'S MORE GARLIC BREAD IN THE OVEN."

Astor

Astor made the right move on the garlic bread. He hates to try to make himself look good merely by avoiding the decisions that make the alternate he's decided he'd like to help look worse; but like, he'll take it.

He takes his seat and then a slice of garlic bread—but it's a close race. "Quite hospitable of you to let me stay!"

Ruddy & Offal

There's that look again, like Astor had grown a second head. Ruddy takes his time to respond, fixing his plate up before he *harrumphs* at his guest. "WHY WOULD I NOT? YOU WERE HERE WHEN IT WAS TIME FOR SUPPER, I HAVE PLENTY TO SPARE FOR A GUEST OR TWO." A pause as he sets his napkin in his lap, can't forget his manners here. "TAKE SOME WITH YOU WHEN YOU GO, TOO. IT'D BE A SHAME TO WASTE THE LEFTOVERS."

Astor

"If you hadn't wanted a dinner guest you could have made some excuse to kick me out. Or skipped the excuse! Now, you accept my gratitude without making a fuss." He serves himself. It's time to Judge this cooking.

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy opens his mouth to respond, but closes it again with a huff. *Fine*. He has to see what his guest thinks of his cooking anyway, it'd been a while since he'd cooked for anyone but himself or his squatter guest, and Offal was expected to praise his cooking just to keep from getting booted off the ship to find somewhere else to freeload. Astor was under *no* such obligations.

Offal of course, is already plowing through his serving and getting ready for a second. That garlic bread had his name on it, watch out.

Astor

Well, clearly this Sir Pentious doesn't think "seasoning the food" meant "adding salt," which is a good first step. The cooking style is definitely British (derogatory), but if Alastor couldn't drum up an appreciation for foods low on additional flavoring, then he wouldn't have a penchant for raw human flesh, now would he? Satisfying him takes either a high-quality recipe or high-quality ingredients.

And luckily, Sir Pentious has the latter. Alastor gives him a pointed look. "*You* have a supplier."

Ruddy & Offal

Look how that serpent preens, he's so VERY smug about his food. Oh, did you notice? Did you notice the fresh snap of the vegetables? The decided lack of that almost spoiled aftertaste to the meat? Oh, it's nothing special..... He hums, and then answers as matter of factly as he can despite the insufferably smug aura.

"SUPPLIERS. PLURAL. OF COURSE I DO, WHAT, YOU THINK I'D EAT HELL'S IDEA OF FOOD IF I COULD AFFORD NOT TO?" Ruddy grins with all his teeth, waggling his fork with a piece of broccoli skewered onto the tip. "NO NO. EVERYTHING HERE IS EITHER FROM THE SURFACE, OR FROM A SPECIALTY SELLER WHO KNOWS HOW TO GROW IT JUST AS WELL. I AM A MAN OF CLASS AND STYLE, I EXPECT MY FOOD TO BE *EDIBLE*. COSTS A FORTUNE, BUT THESE DAYS, MONEY IS ONE OF THE THINGS I HAVE IN ABUNDANCE."

Astor

"And the quality shows! We'll have to trade lists of suppliers sometimes. I'll bet there's some overlap, cross-universally speaking; but we move in different circles, I imagine I've got some sources you don't and vice versa."

Ruddy & Offal

"OH, ALMOST CERTAINLY. I'LL GET YOU A LIST SORTED BY WHAT THEY SPECIALIZE IN. PHONE NUMBERS, ADDRESSES, YOU CAN SEE WHAT MATCHES AND WHAT DOESN'T." He didn't want to think about how long it had taken to track down some of his suppliers, he'd had to attend a NUMBER of what passed for high class functions these days before he'd managed to get a few of those names. But who knew, maybe Astor had a more reliable fellow for finding decent chicken. It was worth investigating, at least!

Astor

"And I'll do the same! As far as I can, anyway. Some of them don't have *addresses* so much as farmer's black markets where you can catch them if you're lucky."

Ruddy & Offal

"AH, I'M FAMILIAR WITH THE TYPE. MINE MOSTLY CAME FROM THE... *HIGH SOCIETY* CIRCLES. A BIT OF ACCESSIBILITY IS REQUIRED FOR REPEAT CUSTOMERS." He'll get the list after dinner, if he remembers. Though he doubted Astor would let him forget, the fascination Alastors had with food was one of their more respectable features, after all.

Astor

"Oh, I gave up on those high society functions in the sixties. They're so insufferable." Astor tuts, shaking his head. "For most ingredients I prefer to go the working class route! Sure, any prince with a taste for human cuisine can hook you up with fresh produce—but what are the odds he's personally maintaining a cellar full of dirt and mushrooms, or hopping over to China to harvest asparagus? No, he's paying some imp servant to do that for him! It's far easier to just befriend that imp!"

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy shrugs, cutting his meat into little cubes so he can better arrange little bites of everything together. "I SUPPOSE, BUT THE PRINCE IS THE ONE WHO CAN SEND THE IMP TO THE SURFACE. BEFRIENDING THE IMP WON'T DO YOU ANY GOOD IF THE IMP IS KILLED OFF OR REPLACED, YOU WANT TO GET IN GOOD WITH THE ONE ACTUALLY HOLDING THE POWER."

Astor

"See, that's why you don't *stop* at befriending the imp. You bring gifts and favors for *all* his coworkers. You make yourself a staple at the farmer's market. If he disappears, they'll know you well enough to give you an honest answer when you ask who's replacing him—especially if they know you're a middleman who can get things they can't." He's trying not to watch Sir Pentious cut up his food and not quite succeeding. Makes him think of Penny and how he preferred his meat cut up just so. "One strategy that works if you have more money than time, another if you have more time than money. It all gets the job done!"

He glances at Offal. "Or you could cut out the middlemen and grow your own produce, can't you?" Hi he didn't forget you're here.

Ruddy & Offal

Offal jolts at the sudden acknowledgement, his fork scraping across his plate with a screech that makes him and Ruddy both wince. Can't play that one off, so he elects to ignore it entirely. "Why yes, my dear self! That's always worked well for me."

Ruddy has no green thumb to speak of, so he's not going to comment on that. He'll settle for watching the Alastors.

Astor

Make that three for three on the wincing. Astor also chooses to ignore it. "I *do* appreciate the offer to trade cuttings, by the by! You mentioned a couple of flowers, what else have you gotten to grow down here?"

Ruddy & Offal

Offal blinks at his alternate, brain stalling for several seconds as he tries to remember the name of any plant, ever. What had he grown? Think, Alastor, think. What had *mother* grown?

"Green beans, okra, potatoes, a few herbs.. I had sunflowers, too. Pumpkins and corn, occasionally. I had a few fruit trees..."

And NOW Ruddy decides to poke his nose in, snorting loudly. "HE'S BEEN GRAFTING TOGETHER A HORRIFYING CITRUS AMALGAM IN ONE OF THE STORAGE ROOMS. IF YOU WANT A LEMON, AN ORANGE, _AND_ A GRAPEFRUIT, HE'S GOT JUST THE NIGHTMARE SHRUB FOR YOU."

Astor

Astor is sorely tempted to play the sound of a car engine trying to start—but no, no doing that to an alternate.

He nods appreciatively at the list. Good mix of ingredients. He's about to ask about growing corn in a garden when Sir Pentious's addition scatters more mundane questions completely. "Oh, like the... hold on, I heard a story about this once—the Bizarria hiding somewhere in Italy, right? But from how I hear it, that one only had *two* citrus trees. But *three!* Now, there's a trick! To think I've been talking to the high king of horticulture, here!"

Ruddy & Offal

"Well, I haven't seen any chimera fruit yet, but the grafts are still fresh! I'm sure given a year or so, I'll have plenty of bizarre combinations to hand out to a lucky few unsuspecting victims! But high king? That's far too generous. I've heard tell of SEVEN citrus grafts." Offal waves a hand. "As long as they're in the same family, you can graft any number of trees together. Citrus is one of the more forgiving ones. Now, stonefruit? Finicky. The peach tree fought me for months when I put an apricot branch on there, and getting cuttings of trees fresh enough to graft is a NIGHTMARE in this place."

Astor

"Seven! Now, that must be a sight!" He shakes his head. "All right, maybe not high king—but you're at least a Dr. Frankenstein, stitching all those limbs together. I wouldn't have the foggiest how to do it myself—although if you're in need of an Igor, I *might* be able to help find fresher parts for your creation."

Ruddy & Offal

"It's not nearly as complicated as you might think.." Offal trails off, Ruddy's sudden sharp look making him snap his mouth closed. Right. Try that again.

"I mean. Thank you!" He imitates the Pentious Preen. This is what you wanted, you big snake, this is what you get. "The offer is appreciated, once I've got my garden under control I'll be happy to enlist your assistance in more Frankensteining. I'm sure we could find a favorite fruit of yours to graft on somewhere."

Astor

He doesn't catch the look, but he certainly makes note of the sudden shift it caused. Hmm.

"Favorite *fruit!* Huh..." Don't mind him as he momentarily zoned out, picking at his food as he tries to think of a favorite fruit. "Do tomatoes count? Hah! But no, they don't grow on trees. Lemons are useful, but you've already got those..."

Ruddy & Offal

"Spoiled for choices, my dear self? I understand! I barely knew where to start, the idea of having fresh produce in my own backyard was a SHOCKING possibility! Not having to beg barter or steal a lemon for my zest? Unthinkable!" A chortle, and Offal pulls out a very expensive looking sketchbook, complete with Sir Pentious' crest embossed into the leather cover, and starts scribbling away with the attached pen. "If you've got a hankering for tomatoes though, we COULD graft together a pomato plant! Potatoes down below, tomatoes up above!" Behold, his terrible doodle showing a hastily rendered visual of exactly that, right next to several other doodles of various eggbois doing their strange egg activities.

Astor

He's tilting his head to try to see that fancy notebook cover for a moment before he finally tilts the other way to see the actual drawing. "Is that a *thing?* The tomatoes don't come out tasting like potatoes?" He glances at the egg doodles. Huh. An alternate who does art.

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy makes an annoyed huff when he sees the notebook, but just gives Offal a *look*, which is returned with an innocent smile before Offal turns back to his alternate to answer. "It's a thing! A far more recent thing than grafting trees, granted, but a thing!" Tomatoes tasting like potatoes? He hums, considering the possible applications. That may not be so bad, he had hated the texture of potatoes when he was young, even when his mother had made them. Maybe he'd have liked it.. But it had been a *question*. "They taste normal, I assure you! You're grafting different plants together, not mixing their genetics!"

Astor

"Huh! You'd think they'd be fighting over..." Vague hand wave. "... nutrients." He's only got an approximate understanding of nutrients as applied to agriculture. Vegetables are full of Nutrients, and plants wither if prior crops have taken too many Nutrients out of the soil, so either a tomato-potato would take twice as many Nutrients or else each half would contain half as many Nutrients as it should. Right? This is far more complicated gardening than he's ever had to worry about. "Impressive, all the same!"

Ruddy & Offal

"Fighting? Not at all, they're cooperating. They're one plant after a certain point. The tomato part is doing all the leafy business of energy gathering, and that provides for the potato part that is doing the other half of the equation." Offal is a bit baffled at Astor's rather interesting take on plant civil war, but he moves along. "It IS impressive! I'd have never considered it on my own, but modern science has come a long way!"

Astor

One plant making twice as many veggies; or maybe they produced half as much of each? Something for him to look for when he actually saw the thing, he supposed. "It certainly has! My goodness, the marvels they're coming up with these days! Did you know back in the mortal realm, they've put *robots* on *Mars?* Honest-to-God robots!" Listen, he's only known this a few months, he's still amazed,

Ruddy & Offal

Offal blinks, processing the information. Humanity did what??? "They put *robots* on *Mars?* I can hardly imagine what good that does for them! How and why would you put a robot on Mars? Do they come *back?*" Give him a moment while he tries to imagine a reason humans would send multiple robots all the way to Mars. "What, did we discover alien life and decide to do a hostile takeover?"

Astor

"Win the *War of the Worlds* before it starts? Ha! No, no, it's for scientific study! Scientists broadcast signals from Earth telling them where to drive around—like the controls of those fighting robots Sir Pentious let us play with—and in return the robots take photos of the surface of Mars and broadcast them back! And I think they study some other things too, chemicals and such. Maybe nutrients." He's only thinking of nutrients because he's still thinking about vegetables and soil quality. "I don't think they're designed to come back—the scientists just make them hardy so they can last a while out there without a mechanic to come tune them up, then send a more advanced replacement once they've come up with some more equipment to strap on. I expect they'll pick them up and stick them in a museum once astronauts make it up there in a decade or so." Alastor is very optimistic about this hypothetical Mars mission's timeline.

Ruddy & Offal

That was a lot of information to take in, though Ruddy seems to be completely unsurprised by it. Mentioning him by name only gets a vague hum of acknowledgement and quick glance to confirm Astor isn't talking to him. Of course the old snake's kept up with the accomplishments of topside. Offal on the other hand, seems entirely flabbergasted. "Scientific study! Who'd have thought. Next thing you know we'll have... Cities on the moon, or some nonsense like that! Tell me, what do they look like? They must be rugged little wonders to survive a trip to another planet entirely!"

Astor

For a split second after he finished talking, Alastor was worried that he'd come across as unbelievable again. But no, apparently either Mars rovers were more believable than a godlike alternate or else their heart-to-heart had raised Astor's credibility in his alternate's eyes.

"Oh... let me think, it's been a while since I saw the pictures." He looked up as sketchy red shapes floated over his plate, chunky vehicle parts he was trying to shift together into a shape that reminded him of the robots. "They did look tough, though! I remember thinking they looked like something halfway between a beach buggy and a real bug—they must have had bits and bobs sticking out like legs and antennae, I suppose, although I can't quite reconstruct it." He glanced at Ruddy. "Say, could I trouble you to pull up a picture for us?"

Ruddy & Offal

Both, Astor. It was both. But mostly the former, humanity had already been meandering in that direction the last time Offal had been caught up on current events, no surprise they'd raced ahead by now. Little robots on Mars, using radio signals.. how strange.

Ruddy takes a moment to register that he is now being spoken to, but obligingly wipes his mouth and sets about finding a picture before handing over his phone, comically oversized in the hands of the smaller sinners. "HERE YOU ARE, THEN. THE MARS ROVERS. CHARMING CONTRAPTIONS, REALLY. WERE SOLAR POWER AN OPTION DOWN HERE, IT WOULD CERTAINLY SAVE _ME_ SOME MONEY."

Astor

Astor lets his alternate take the phone, but leans over to look at the picture as well. "There they are, *that's* why I thought they looked like bugs! The panels make me think of insect wings."

He glances back at Sir Pentious, surprised. "Do solar panels *not* work here? Not even off of Heaven's light?"

Ruddy & Offal

"THEY DO NOT. AS IF HEAVEN WOULD EVER DO SOMETHING *USEFUL* FOR US SINNERS." Despite not having an immediately apparent nose, Ruddy manages to make a haughty sniff of disgust, dismissing Heaven's failure with a wave of a hand. "NOW, PERHAPS THE PANELS I USED WEREN'T SENSITIVE ENOUGH, THE TECHNOLOGY HAS IMPROVED SINCE MY LAST ATTEMPT. BUT I AM INCLINED TO THINK NOT. BUT IT DOESN'T MATTER, MY ATTEMPTS TO HARNESS GEOTHERMAL ENERGY HAVE BEEN *MUCH* MORE SUCCESSFUL, IF LESS IMMEDIATELY USEFUL..." Oh, but he's taking the conversation into a tangent. He cuts himself off, adjusting his glasses before returning to his mostly empty plate.

Offal has been staring at the various mars rover pictures, completely fascinated by the strange little science cars. They looked AWFULLY silly, but he had to admit they were.. cute?

Astor

What is a conversation but a series of tangents tied together at the ends? And Astor's alternate seems momentarily preoccupied, they can pursue this one a bit further.

"I've seen folks show how a solar panel under the moon can light up a tiny bulb—but then, I suppose a panel that can charge a bulb can't charge a room! Here I thought adopting solar panels was going so slowly just because Hell's so terribly disorganized!" He laughed. "Now, why isn't geothermal energy useful? From the sound of it I'd think it'd be easy to use, considering how hot Hell is!" A pause. "Oh. Because you're in the air, I suppose?"

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy snaps his fingers, nodding at his guest with a pleased grin. "GOT IT IN ONE, ALASTOR. THAT IS PRECISELY THE ISSUE. IF IT WERE A MATTER OF STRAPPING PANELS TO THE TOPS OF MY AIRSHIPS, THEY COULD STAY AFLOAT PERPETUALLY. BUT WITH GEOTHERMAL, I HAVE TO DOCK EACH SHIP AT A PLANT TO CHANGE OUT AND CHARGE THE BATTERIES. STILL A DAMN SIGHT EASIER THAN SOME OF THE ALTERNATIVE ENERGY SOURCES, THOUGH. HAVING TO DEDICATE SPACE TO STORE COAL TO BURN? ABYSMAL." And here he preens, twirling his glasses chain around a finger. "MY SHIPS ARE MUCH FASTER AND LIGHTER NOW, BUT I ALWAYS SEEK TO IMPROVE THEM FURTHER."

A pause, and he gives Alastor a considering look. "THAT REMINDS ME, ACTUALLY. I HAVE DESIGNS IN THE WORKS FOR A MAGIC ENGINE, PARTIALLY BASED OFF OF THE MATERIALS YOU'VE PROVIDED ME WITH. IT IS STILL IN THE EARLY STAGES, BUT REST ASSURED YOUR RESOURCES ARE BEING PUT TO WORK."

Astor

Oh! He *has* been useful! And is being recognized as useful! He puffs up. "Is that so! Well, you're quite welcome!" (Even though Sir Pentious didn't say "thank you.") "You know, it seems like every version of you I run into these days is looking into using magic as a power source! Don't take that the wrong way now, that's no accusation of uncreativity—I'm just marveling at—well, when one looks at alternates across parallel universes, one's first instinct is to look at what events in their pasts make them parallel to each other, isn't it? Hometowns, hobbies, death days, the like. The moment they meet, one assumes, is the moment they branch off in divergent directions. But no! They continue going on, being nearly the same people, making nearly the same decisions, and—well, here I am rambling! It fascinates me, that's all."

He rested his chin on a hand thoughtfully. "But, here's a thought, back on the topic of geothermal energy and magical engines—you've got those portal makers of yours now. What if you opened up some sort of permanent portals between your geothermal plants and your engines? I know an alternate who's made doorways permanently bridge two points, I've been meaning to look into doing it myself—I bet that could solve your power problem."

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy shrugs and nods where appropriate as Astor prattles on about the similarities between alternates. He's mostly met alternates of Alastor, and they were difficult to tell apart without their little emojis next to whatever nonsense they'd decided to ramble at him. Besides, of course his own alternates would turn to magic! Penny lived on a planet riddled with the stuff, and Telly... Well, he wasn't keeping up with Telly's activities whatsoever, but if he was entangled with this Alastor that was probably reason enough. Why waste such an ample power supply?

"I'D CONSIDERED IT. HOWEVER, THAT DOES LEAVE THE MATTER OF..." His tongue flicks out as he hesitates, thinking of an appropriate comparison. Thoughtful blelele. "LEAVING THE FRONT DOOR WIDE OPEN, I SUPPOSE. THERE ARE MANY MAGIC USERS IN HELL, I AM NOT CONFIDENT IN MY CURRENT ABILITY TO ENSURE THEY CAN'T EXPLOIT A PORTAL DIRECTLY TO THE POWER SUPPLIES OF MY FLEET."

Astor

"Well! I think the chances are low, personally. If permanent doors can be constructed the way I think they can, it wouldn't reduce your security any more than installing a door between two adjoining rooms would—which is to say, the door's only useful to an intruder if he's already in the right room to go through it. But still, it's a fair concern. It's something I'd planned to make absolutely sure of myself in my own research into such doorways. I could let you know if I find anything interesting either way?"

Ruddy & Offal

"I WOULD APPRECIATE THAT, YES. OBVIOUSLY THE POWER PLANTS ARE HEAVILY GUARDED INSIDE AND OUT, BUT I DIDN'T DRAG MYSELF TO THESE HEIGHTS BY ASSUMING THINGS WOULD GO WELL FOR ME." Ruddy sighs. "IT'S HELL. THE PLACE IS TAILORED TO DRAG YOU DOWN BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY GIVEN HALF A CHANCE. YOU KEEP ME POSTED, AND I WILL SEE ABOUT SEEING WHAT I CAN DIG UP THAT YOU MAY BENEFIT FROM IN TURN."

Astor

A wry, dry laugh. "Don't I know *that.*" But a polite dinner that he'd really only gotten himself invited to by accident wasn't the place to get into his grand theory of How Some Days He Thought Even Being Careful Wasn't Enough Because Hell Probably Only Let You Achieve Good Things As A Setup To Cause Even Worse Things, so he'd leave it at that. "And I'd appreciate anything you find too, of course."

Ruddy & Offal

"WE'LL SEE WHAT I COME UP WITH." A wiggle in his peripheral vision catches Ruddy's attention, and he turns from Astor to accept his phone back from Offal, who finally seems to be done staring at pictures of robots on Mars in favor of hastily shoveling more food into his face before it gets cold. Ruddy glances at his empty plate, and then looks between the two radio demons. "NOW, ALASTOR. I ASSUME YOU DON'T HAVE MUCH OF A SWEET TOOTH, SO I DOUBT YOU'RE INTERESTED IN DESSERT?"

Astor

He flashed his grin toward his alternate as he passed the phone back. "They're sure something, aren't they?" And then turned his attention back to their host. "It depends on what it is, but probably not, no. What is it?"

Ruddy & Offal

Offal grins at his alternate, nodding enthusiastically. "They are! I can't believe I hadn't heard about them sooner, how exciting!" And back to Ruddy, who's pushing his chair back to take his plate to the kitchen. "COFFEE CAKE WITH A RUM GLAZE. *PROPER* COFFEE CAKE, WITH COFFEE IN IT, NONE OF THAT GARBAGE THAT JUST HAS SOME COFFEE POWDER DUSTED OVER TOP OF IT." The very THOUGHT makes him sneer. The nerve of some people.

Astor

He considers it. Coffee flavored. Probably won't be completely overloaded with sugar. "Oh... it would be rude not to if everyone else is eating. I'll try a thin slice!" He hops up to take his plate to the kitchen as well. Good guests move their dirty dishes.

Ruddy & Offal

"A THIN SLICE, THEN." Finally, someone with *manners*. Offal is entirely content to let Ruddy pluck the plate out from in front of him and doodle in his sketchpad while he waits to be served.

Into the sink with the dirty plates, where Long Eggboi can wash them from atop his little egg stool, and Ruddy pulls the cake from the fridge to cut slices. How thin is thin.. An inch? An inch. Alastor is getting an inch thick slice of cake, here's a plate. Shoo back to the table.

Astor

An inch is perfect. That's exactly how much he wants.

But he feels odd toddling right back to the table with only his own dessert, so he asks, "Anything you want me to carry back with me?"

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy hadn't expected Astor to actually want to be helpful. After a moment of confused staring, Ruddy offers up another plate with a similarly thin slice of cake. "I SUPPOSE YOU COULD TAKE THIS TO YOUR OTHER SELF WHILE I GET MY OWN SLICE AND PUT THIS AWAY?"

Astor

"Happy to!" It's a Task, he'll take it. He accepts the second plate and heads back to give it to his alternate his dessert.

"And one for you!" Plop. "You're using that book there as a sketchbook, aren't you? Are you much of an artist?" That's right: it's time for more small talk. But Astor's genuinely interested; all Radio Demons sing and dance, but not many draw.

Ruddy & Offal

Astor's approach gets an ear twitch from Offal, the younger alternate looking up in time to Accept Cake. Ah, cake. Always better when someone else makes it.

"You flatter me, my dear self!" He trades his pen for a fork, waving it dismissively before cutting himself a tiny bite of cake. "No no, I'm just a doodler I'm afraid. No real skill to speak of, it just helps me keep track up here." His other hand taps the side of his head. "If you want an actual artist, get Sir Pentious to show you his charcoal sketches sometime! Seems the arts were mandatory for the upper crust back in, what, the 1830s?"

Ruddy & Offal

[[ We NEED to find the worst possible design from the pilot for philip. maybe that weird naked dude with the face on his chest

Astor

"You've seen my sorry excuse for artistic record keeping! Now, *that's* what I'd call doodling." He scoffs. "Is he that old? I wouldn't have guessed. Mine never gave me a year, but I would have put him around 1840 at the earliest."

Ruddy & Offal

"He might be! Or not? Well, let me see..." Offal pops his nibble of cake into his mouth, humming thoughtfully as he watches Ruddy slither back to the table and sit down. "Sir Pentious! When were you born, you fossil? The spring chickens in the audience want to know!"

Ruddy looks unamused, but answers over the rim of his... glass of milk. Seems he wanted a drink with his cake. "I WAS BORN ON THE SECOND DAY OF JUNE, IN 1826, AND DIED AT SIXTY TWO YEARS OF AGE ON AUGUST 8TH, 1888. NOT THAT IT'S ANY OF YOUR *BUSINESS*, ALASTOR..S."

Astor

Astor starts when his alternate abruptly asks Sir Pentious. Oh, he's going to think they're rude—

Aaand he thinks they're rude. "I wasn't going to ask," he mutters, turning his full attention on his cake.

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy looks from Offal, who is completely delighted, to Astor, who looks considerably LESS delighted. Ah, of course. He saw plenty of this in his lifetime. Usually from his kids, but still. "I KNOW YOU WEREN'T, ALASTOR. I CAN'T BLAME YOU FOR THIS MAN'S LACK OF MANNERS." There, a single crumb of patience as a reward for being helpful. If he were anyone else, Ruddy may even reach over and pat his shoulder. But alas, Astor will have to settle for a quick little flutter of a hand in his direction. A strange little air pat, and an almost apologetic look from Hattie.

Astor

Well, he hates throwing his alternate under the bus, but slightly less than he'd hate undeservedly going under the bus *with* him. An almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment is all he offers in return before digging into the cake.

Ruddy & Offal

Ah, good, they had an understanding. Ruddy turns his face to Offal with a hiss, and Offal responds with a shit eating grin before he cheerily goes back to nibbling his cake. No remorse from this deer, then. Ruddy will remember this. For now though, the three can eat their cake in silence as the eggbois start to gather to lift food away from the table and carry it back to the kitchens. A very organized little army, not even a WoooOooOOooO between them.

Astor

It's been silent for more than three seconds and that's far more than Astor can tolerate. He would have preferred the WoOooOOoos.

"Anyway! We were talking about art!" He nods toward his alternate, "Or *doodles*, as you say."

Ruddy & Offal

Offal looks up from his cake, staring blankly at Astor for a moment before his brain catches up. "Oh! Yes! What about them, my dear self? Curious? I'm afraid I don't have a wealth of examples on hand for you to page through. Come back in a month and perhaps I'll have sweet talked Pentious into letting me use his supplies!" Not likely, judging by the snort that Ruddy made.

Astor

That wasn't a promising sound. "Or you *could* get your own." That was one of the perks of being the Radio Demon, after all: people give you free stuff.

Ruddy & Offal

Offal laughs, a strained bark of noise. "I suppose I *could*, were I so inclined." He quickly shakes his head, as sudden and stiff as his laugh. "I'd have to find something decent to wear, my my! The public hasn't laid eyes on me in far too long to show up looking so rough!"

Astor

He glanced at his alternate, then glanced at himself, then reached down to lift up the tail of his coat and pointedly examine the atrociously tattered hem. "You know, as long as you're still recognizable from your warning poster, I don't think they'll care about the rest."

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy covers his mouth and turns away as Astor pointedly examines himself, trying to disguise his wheezing laugh as a cough as Offal gets mildly called out by his own alternate. "That's the thing! People see me and run screaming, my dear self! I can't really avoid that just by changing into something less.. *me*, but I could at least look less like I dragged myself straight off the posters to terrorize Hell for a *third* time."

Astor

"Well, that's how you get the art supplies, isn't it? They scream and run, you browse the store at your leisure, you leave with what you need!" This is just how Astor conducts his shopping trips.

Ruddy & Offal

Offal's smile tightens for a moment before he nods and cheerily waves a hand, voice rising an octave as he cheerily exclaims. "... Yes. Of course! That *is* how I get most things, isn't it! I suppose there's no need to worry about my appearance if it doesn't matter, hm? Silly of me to forget that!" He is the radio demon, after all. He can hardly just walk away from *that* reality!

Astor

Astor studies his alternate's face for a moment; then looks back at his own plate. "A new suit won't undo what's been done," he says, more subdued. "Nor would depriving yourself of something you want by using the lack of new clothes as an excuse not to go." He'd have to apologize for giving his alternate a far more pointed call out in front of Sir Pentious, but Astor doubted it was anything Sir Pentious hadn't figured out himself.

Ruddy & Offal

Both of the locals at the table have gone very still, for entirely different reasons. Ruddy is the first to break the tension, loudly dropping his fork on his empty plate before standing up to hastily exit the room under the pretense of cleaning up after himself. Excuse him, pardon him, he must go make a strong cup of tea for himself.

Which gives Offal a moment to breathe in, hold it, and sigh forcefully. He has to control himself better, he's slipping too much too quickly, if this self can read him so blatantly this soon it spells terrible things for the future when he inevitably gets seen by anyone else half as perceptive. Chin up. "I am aware, my dear self! Apologies if I've made it sound like I resent you for pointing out the obvious, it simply stings to hear something you're avoiding. But you're right, as I always am!" Another laugh. "I suppose I'll have to face the music, eh? I set the band going, I can hardly walk away from it!"

Astor

"A little *too* honest?" he mutters. Nice work ruining dinner. Well, he hadn't expected to get invited back to a second one anyway.

He gives his alternate a wan smile. "Afraid so. But, think of it this way: if they don't have the courage to face their own damn customer, then they're getting what's coming to them if their customer walks out without paying, *aren't* they." There's a faint hint of a sneer on his face as he says so.

"Sorry for..." sigh, "scaring off our host." He stabs at what's left of his cake.

Ruddy & Offal

Scaring off..? Oh right! Of course, Sir Pentious left the room rather hastily, of course it would look terrible. He laughs, more genuinely this time. "Don't you worry about that, my dear self! It takes more than an awkward conversation to scare that uppity old rope off. I assure you, he'd said far blunter things to me at much greater volumes! He likely just thinks I'd take it better one on one rather than if he joined you for a surprise intervention. Not a lick of social graces to delicately excuse himself though!"

He cocks his head, thinking. "He's right, too! It's quite a bit easier to take this from myself in private, like a pep talk in a bathroom mirror without an audience on the side."

Astor

"Yes, well, I shouldn't have brought up something he'd feel the need to excuse himself for, delicately or otherwise." He tuts. "Anyway, that's all I had to say on the matter. He hardly needed to leave."

Ruddy & Offal

Offal holds a finger up, voice far too chipper. "Ah, but he knows how I usually respond to getting confronted, you see!" He doesn't elaborate on *what* exactly he usually does, instead fussing with his hair clips before they can lose their grip. "I'm sure he'll return with tea and his sour attitude before long once he notices the lack of reaction. Though of course, he may also be packing you some leftovers to take home. What did you think of the cake, by the way?"

Astor

He's going to politely stare at his alternate in quiet invitation to elaborate on how, exactly, he usually responds. No? Okay then.

A shrug. "It tastes like cake." The review's utter neutrality is scathing.

Ruddy & Offal

Offal raises an eyebrow, but decides to drop the conversation in favor of turning to watch Ruddy slither back into the room. As expected, a serving of leftovers had been packed away for Astor, and was placed on the table in front of him after a quick glance around. Not even a tear in the tablecloth, how refreshing. A sigh that might be quiet if he hadn't been a massive serpent escapes him, and he nods politely at Astor. "I HATE TO INTERRUPT A CONVERSATION, ALASTOR, BUT I'M AFRAID I NEED TO BORROW YOUR OTHER TO DEAL WITH A RAID ON ONE OF MY FACTORIES BEFORE THE IDIOTS MANAGE TO BREAK ANYTHING *TOO* EXPENSIVE." And to Offal he hands a paper with an address, huffing irritably.

Ah, of course. Offal pushes up from the table, plucking the clips from his hair to toss back to his dear self. "Ah! A sinner's work is never over, I see! I'll be seeing you, then. Ta!" A hasty exit on his part, but it's not like Astor was expecting social grace from this shaggy man, right? No of course not.

Astor

"It's fine, as luck would have it we'd exhausted the topic anyway." Astor wondered whether Sir Pentious would manufacture a crisis of that scale as an excuse to tell Alastor to leave. He didn't think so—especially after being quite insistently informed that Sir Pentious didn't have that kind of tact—but considering that he'd also just received a hint that his other tended to get violent when confronted (what kind of violent, Astor wondered), he wasn't going to rule out the possibility of lying for self-preservation. It certainly was convenient timing.

Pity, though; Astor had hoped to have one final private word with his alternate before he left. He supposed it could wait til next time.

He gestured at the hair clips on the table. "Tell him he can keep those. I have more and he can make better use of them right now." He picked up his leftovers with a word of thanks. "I suppose you'll need to go supervise the counterattack?"

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy wouldn't admit to it even if he had, but he gives Astor a considering look as this strange alternate of his resident squatter speaks. "I DON'T, NO, BUT I WONT KEEP YOU HERE IF YOU'D LIKE TO HEAD HOME." A gesture from Ruddy, and a decorated eggboi slides the clips off the table and into a small bowl, scampering off down the hall to deliver them presumably to whatever room Offal has claimed as his own.

"ALASTOR, A QUESTION BEFORE YOU LEAVE." Ruddy shifts back, his tail sliding over itself as he tries not to accidentally crowd his guest. "WHAT DO YOU.. *MAKE* OF HIM. IF YOU GET MY MEANING? I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO."

Astor

A surprised blink, and Astor says hesitantly, "No, I'm not in a particular rush..." As long as they aren't trying to out-polite each other into Astor overstaying his welcome.

He gives Sir Pentious a thoughtful look. "There's a dozen different ways I could answer that, so I think you'd better narrow it down for me a little more?"

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy's face scrunches. An internal debate, a sigh, and he flops back into his seat, elbows planted on the table as he rests his chin in his hands. Well, damn it all, he certainly wasn't going to get anywhere trying to play games with radio demons, now was he? If he could get along with Alexa by speaking frankly... "YOUR ALTERNATE, ALASTOR. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO WITH HIM. HE ACTS LIKE WE'RE BOSOM COMPANIONS HALF THE TIME, AND THE OTHER HALF HE SEEMS TO WANT NOTHING MORE THAN TO SEND ME INTO A RAGE."

He shrugs, rubbing his forehead. "FORGIVE ME FOR BEING INAPPROPRIATELY BLUNT, ALASTOR. BUT HE IS *MAD*. OFF THE ROCKER. ATTEMPTS TO SPEAK TO HIM GO IN CIRCLES, AND DESPITE MY GENIUS, I AM NOT THE SORT OF DOCTOR WHO CAN FIX AN AILING MIND. I WOULD LIKE TO SEE HIM GET *HELP*, AND THEN GET *OFF MY SHIP* TO REJOIN SOCIETY IN SOME CAPACITY."

Astor

He slowly takes his seat again. This doesn't seem like it's going to be a short conversation.

"You know—I've heard quite a lot from you and my other alternate about how supposedly mad this alternate is—but I've seen no evidence of it so far. Maybe that says more about my mind than his, hah. But what I've seen is a sinner who suffered a single brain storm, and who's now terrified of his own potential to break again. Maybe *that's* what you're calling madness; but if there's more to it than that, I need to hear about it." He props his chin on his hand and leans toward Sir Pentious. "Have you asked him why he acts like a friend one minute and a pest the next? I'm not suggesting you do, I'm just wondering what his answer was if you have."

Ruddy & Offal

He really shouldn't be surprised that Astor didn't respond with a glib comment or an insult, but he is. Perhaps his expectations have been a bit unfairly skewed by his local radio demon. Astor isn't Offal, they wont respond the same way to everything. Possibly even most things. Another great, heaving sigh, and Ruddy gives Astor a very tired look. "I HAVE ATTEMPTED TO ASK THAT QUESTION ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS, YES. IF HE WISHED TO BE FRIENDS, WHY DID HE TURN AROUND AND BARB ME WITH WORDS? IF HE WISHED TO BE HATED, WHY DID HE CLING TO ME SO DESPERATELY? I HAVE TRIED ASKING DIRECTLY, AND I HAVE TRIED COUCHING IT IN THE NONSENSE RIDDLING FRILLS DEALMAKERS SEEM TO LOVE. AND NO MATTER HOW I APPROACH IT, HE DOES ONE OF TWO THINGS."

His head reads heavily in one palm, the other curling into a fist to raise two fingers for emphasis. "ONE, HE WILL INSULT ME VIGOROUSLY AND PERSONALLY. IT DOES NOT MATTER HOW I APPROACHED IT, HE WILL INSULT MYSELF, MY CHILDREN, MY PAST FAILURES, ANYTHING HE POSSIBLY CAN, UNTIL I HAVE TO LEAVE BEFORE I LOSE MY TEMPER. OR TWO, HE WILL DANCE AROUND THE QUESTION MORE SKILLFULLY THAN I HAVE THE PATIENCE FOR. HALF TRUTHS, MISLEADING STATEMENTS, I KNOW WHAT HE'D DOING BUT I SIMPLY DO NOT HAVE THE PATIENCE FOR IT." He hesitates, then raises a third finger. "OR. AND THIS HAS ONLY HAPPENED *ONCE*. HE WILL RESORT TO THREATS. VIOLENCE, IF I PRESS FOR TOO LONG. I MAY NOT FEAR HIM THE WAY OTHERS DO, BUT I AM NO FOOL. I'VE EXPERIENCED WHAT YOUR LOT IS CAPABLE OF ONCE, AND THAT WAS MORE THAN ENOUGH FOR ME."

Astor

Astor nods slowly, thoughtfully, turning that over in his head, asking himself when would he react like that, what would it mean out of him.

"Tell me more about this 'madness' of his."

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy shifts in place, face twisting for a moment. "I SUPPOSE YOU SHOULD KNOW. AFTER HIS THREATS AGAINST ME, THE ONE TIME HE CROSSED THAT LINE, HE WAS INCONSOLABLE. I NEVER SAW HIM IN WHATEVER STATE HE WAS IN, BUT I COULD HEAR HIS WAILING THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT. LIKE A DAMN BANSHEE HAUNTING MY AIRSHIP. IT TOOK A WEEK FOR HIM TO SHOW HIMSELF IN MY PRESENCE AGAIN, THOUGH HE KEPT LEAVING THE HEADS OF SINNERS AROUND IN WHAT I ASSUME WAS APOLOGY." Oh that felt awful to say out loud. Spilling other people's business *sucked*. "HE LEFT AN ANGELIC WEAPON ON MY NIGHTSTAND, AFTER THAT. MILDLY TERRIFYING, BUT CONSIDERING HE DIDN'T KILL ME IN MY SLEEP..."

Another shrug. "IN THE DAY TO DAY, HE GENERALLY HOVERS AROUND ME AS I WORK. *GENERALLY*, IF I ACT FRIENDLY AND ATTEMPT TO ENGAGE WITH HIM, HE EVENTUALLY LASHES OUT. IF I LASH OUT IN RETURN, HE TRIES TO BACKTRACK AND ACT LIKE A BOSOM COMPANION. OCCASIONALLY HE'LL VANISH FOR A FEW HOURS AND RETURN EITHER DESPONDENT OR GIDDY. USUALLY WITH SOME PRIZE CLUTCHED IN HIS HANDS, OR COVERED IN SOME SORT OF SUBSTANCE. NOT BLOOD. PAINT OR DIRT OR DUST, USUALLY. ONE TIME HE CAME BACK WITH SOME RATTY TORN UP SATIN THROW PILLOW AND ASKED ME TO REPAIR IT."

Astor

Astor clicks his tongue thoughtfully. How long had he spent alone wailing after he'd betrayed his Sir Pentious? "Well, he doesn't sound mad to *me.*" He's mainly referring to the strange cycle of hostility and penance, and the mysterious day trips; but it probably says something about Astor that he doesn't even bat an eye at the decapitations. "He just likes you and hates himself—hates or fears—that's all there is to it! Did you work out that the angel weapon was his apology?" Probably not, since Sir Pentious only mentioned the heads. "He's given you self-defense. So you can exterminate him if he threatens you again." Because that's what Astor would have done.

Ruddy & Offal

Radio demons will do as they please, it seems. Is an Alastor really apologetic if he isn't leaving severed heads around for you? No better token of remorse than a slain enemy. "HE'S ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL SINNERS IN HELL. GIVING ME A WEAPON CAPABLE OF EXTERMINATING HIM WONT DO ME MUCH GOOD IF HE CAN CRUSH ME FROM HALFWAY ACROSS THE RING. BUT IT'S SOMETHING, AT LEAST." Ruddy taps his claws on the table, frowning deeply. "AS FASCINATING AS THIS IS, AND IT *IS* INTERESTING TO HEAR AN INSIDER-BUT-ALSO-OUTSIDER PERSPECTIVE, IT DOESN'T TELL ME WHAT I CAN DO TO GET HIM BETTER AND OFF MY AIRSHIP."

Astor

"Do you want him better or do you want him off your ship? Because those are two separate matters! If all you *really* want is to get him off your ship, and getting him better just seems to you like the easiest way to make that happen... well, that opens up quite a lot of much faster options. But it depends on your priorities."

Ruddy & Offal

He looks outright offended at Astor's suggestion, his entire torso rearing back as a hand rests daintily on his chest. Gasp! The NERVE.... "I WISH TO SEE HIM *IMPROVE* HIMSELF, FIRST AND FOREMOST. I MAY NOT WANT HIM AS A ROOMMATE LONG TERM, BUT I HAVE STANDARDS, ALASTOR. IF *I'M* THE BEST SUPPORT HE HAS, HE MUST BE *TRULY* DESPERATE, AND I AM ABOVE KICKING A MAN WHEN HE'S DOWN."

Astor

Color him surprised. He tries not to let it show too much on his face. "Then I'm afraid I can't offer you a solution in one visit; but I could keep coming back. My alternates have a tendency to open up more easily to each other. If he's determined to keep *you* at arm's length, that's that, but I bet I could get through to him instead." He's not going to mention that his alternate already all but cracked like a walnut under a jackhammer. That's private. "You claimed what's left of the Cannibal Colony, didn't you? What have you done with it?"

Ruddy & Offal

Of course he couldn't get a nice easy solution, nothing in life was so quickly wrapped up in a bow. Not even another magician could fix the one living in his home. Pah. The question, however, is unexpected enough that his displeasure is forgotten for the moment. "THE COLONY? NOTHING, REALLY. I HAVE SOME EGGS WORKING ON CLEARING THE RUBBLE, BUT MY ATTENTION HAS BEEN MOSTLY TAKEN BY MAINTAINING MY BORDERS AT THE MOMENT. IDEALLY I'D LIKE TO SEE IT REBUILT IN SOME CAPACITY, I FOUND IT A CHARMING LITTLE DISTRICT..." He turns his head almost entirely sideways, giving Astor a whole other kind of side eye as he smirks. "EVEN IF THE RESIDENTS *WERE* PRONE TO BITING."

Astor

"Bite back, it's how they say hello." It *was* how they said hello, he reminds himself. "You might want to hold off on rebuilding it for now—and keep an eye on it. I'd bet you anything that's where my alternate is going when he leaves the ship: to scavenge in the ruins. Did that pillow he brought back look like it coulda come from the colony?"

Ruddy & Offal

Did cannibal colony pillows come with some special signifier woven into them? Were the tassels special? He may be overthinking it. Astor probably just meant to ask if it looked old enough to be from the era. "I.. SUPPOSE? IT'S A VERY FEMININE PILLOW, I'D EXPECT SOME YOUNG HYSTERICAL HEIRESS TO HAVE IT ON HER BED TO SCREAM INTO IN A FIT OF RAGE. VERY LUXURIOUS."

Astor

You never know. Maybe it has "BLESS THIS CANNIBALISTIC MESS (1910)" embroidered on it. Maybe it can be immediately ruled out because it has a Pikachu on it. Worth asking.

"It could be." Sounds like something Mimzy could have owned, although Astor wouldn't put it outside the realm of what would fit in Rosie's quarters. "Anyway, I'd leave the colony be for now in case that's where he's been going. If it *is*, then discovering it's been leveled before he's found whatever panacea he's digging for probably won't help his mental state." The corner of his mouth quirks wryly. "Especially if he's not ready to admit he's looking for anything at all."

Ruddy & Offal

He squints, then turns to wave an eggboi over with a cup of tea. Add a little scotch, and he's got something worth drinking for this talk. "I SUPPOSE IT'S NO LOSS TO LEAVE THE WRECKAGE BE, IF YOU THINK IT'S FOR THE BEST. WHAT THE DEVIL *WOULD* HE BE LOOKING FOR THOUGH?"

Astor

"Something to remember his friends by? Maybe something that smells like them, or something he once gifted them, or something he always associated with them whenever he visited." He's totally just listing the things he rummaged for in his Sir Pentious's abandoned safe houses. Projecting is useful when it's an alternate. "Or something he knows they'd hate to see buried and abandoned. Or, hell, maybe he's rebuilding a room or two by himself—you said sometimes he's got paint on him. He's recently lost almost everything; why wouldn't he want to salvage whatever's left over?"

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy decides to keep his suspicions to himself, even as Astor goes down a list that sounds less like pure guesswork than seems completely plausible. You know what that sounded like? None of his business. The losses of a man a few universes over weren't his to pry into. So he nods, and hums, and drinks his tea. "I SUPPOSE THAT'S TRUE. I CAN'T SAY I ACTED ENTIRELY REASONABLY WHEN I FIRST LANDED DOWN HERE AND REALIZED I'D NEVER SEE MY FAMILY AGAIN." Huff. "I DON'T THINK IT'S AN ENTIRELY COMPARABLE LOSS, BUT THEY'RE SIMILAR ENOUGH. SO YOUR SAGE ADVICE IS TO LEAVE HIM ALONE AND LET YOU HANDLE HIM, IS IT?"

Astor

"It's comparable enough! It's enough to understand that he's grieving. Now keep in mind that the only people he could have shared that grief with are the ones he's grieving for, and he's spent the last eighty-odd years pretending his only two emotions are 'bored' and 'entertained,' and it makes sense he'd act a little unreasonable, wouldn't it! Poor man's trying to squeeze everything he feels through the eye of a needle."

Astor shakes his head. "No, don't leave him alone, just the colony—at least until you figure out if that really is where he's going. If you leave *him* alone, I think he'll self-destruct from social deprivation, and the only question is whether he'll implode or explode." But what can Astor offer that Sir Pentious *can* do? "In the meantime... I wish I could offer concrete suggestions, but without knowing more about how he is when he isn't trying to make a good first impression, I'm afraid I have nothing but 'don't push him too fast.' If you have any specific scenarios you want to know how to handle, I can offer my best educated suggestions?"

Ruddy & Offal

"HRM." Yes, very helpful Ruddy. Try that again, with more words this time. "FINE. I WILL DO WHAT I CAN. I DON'T HAVE ANY SPECIFICS YET, BUT IF ANYTHING COMES UP I'M SURE I COULD FIND SOME WAY TO CONTACT YOU."

Astor

"Yelling into the nearest radio always works! You might have to narrow down which Alastor you're asking for, but I've never had trouble with it! Although I *suppose* you could contact me online, too." He says this like the Internet is clearly the inferior of the two options.

Ruddy & Offal

"AND HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO NARROW DOWN WHAT ALASTOR I'M ASKING FOR. WHAT, DO YOU ALL HAVE YOUR OWN.." Ruddy flicks his wrist, vaguely gesturing at the air as he tries to remember a word. "CALL SIGNS? YOU CAN HARDLY EXPECT ME TO REMEMBER TO TUNE IN TO FREQUENCY 666.06, THE SLAUGHTER, AND ASK FOR ALASTOR *"DON'T-ASK-THE-RADIO-DEMON"* LAST NAME, THE RADIO DEMON."

Astor

"I generally broadcast on 670 AM, actually! Call sign KTRD! But don't you worry, you can yell for me on *any* frequency and I'll hear it." The biggest grin. Isn't he just so helpful. "If Alastor Don't-Ask-The-Radio-Demon-Last-Name-The-Radio-Demon is too much of a mouthful for you, you could also try asking for Marquis de Lafayette, I doubt there are any other Radio Demons answering to that. Or President Jefferson, if you *must.*" He has briefly forgotten that he has a nickname.

Ruddy & Offal

There's the classic Pentious Scrunch again, and Ruddy spends longer than remotely necessary giving Astor a *look*. Then he resumes the conversation like it never happened. "RIGHT. WELL THAT WONT BE NECESSARY, I DON'T KEEP ANY FUNCTIONAL RADIOS ON MY AIRSHIPS UNLESS I AM USING THEM AT THAT MOMENT. CONTACTING YOU *ONLINE* WILL WORK JUST FINE. BESIDES, IT SEEMS EXTREMELY ILL ADVISED TO SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT A *RADIO DEMON* OVER THE RADIO IN MY OWN HELL WHERE HE'S QUITE LIKELY TO PICK UP THE TRANSMISSION. UNLESS YOU'RE SAYING YOU'D BLOCK HIS ACCESS SOMEHOW?"

Astor

Astor gives a *look* right back. Why's Ruddy bothered by the fact that he's got a call sign. Of course he's got a call sign.

"I *can* block my alternates, actually; not enough to really keep one out, but enough that most wouldn't notice the signal unless they went looking, and I'd notice them knocking down my wards to listen in. I'd really only expect you to use it to tell me you want to talk, not to have the full conversation. *But*—" he offers a tight smile, "—as I said, online is fine, so all of this is a moot point!" *So whydja bring it up, Ruddy.* "But do keep the radio thing in mind in case of emergency. Not that I expect any, but it's the nature of emergencies to be unexpected, isn't it?"

Ruddy & Offal

"HM.." Now before he gets too interested in the specifics of *how* Alastor does that, he'd better stop letting his curiosity get away from him and actually stick to the point. "I WILL BE SURE TO WRITE YOUR INFORMATION DOWN IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, AS YOU SAID, AND ALLOW OFFAL TO FINALLY PUT SOME OF HIS OWN LITTLE RADIO CAPABLE KNICK KNACKS AROUND THE SHIP JUST TO BE SURE YOU ARE ACCESSIBLE." He didn't even notice the tight little smile, too busy wrapped up in himself. Typical. "NOW, ABOUT YOUR ONLINE ADDRESS. YOU SHARE YOUR BLOG WITH A TRANSCRIPTIONIST... OH, WAIT. GOODNESS, I FORGET. IS YOUR HELL STILL HOSTING A VOX? I'VE ENTIRELY TAKEN FOR GRANTED THE NOTION THAT HE'S DEAD!"

Astor

*Offal*, is that what his alternate has been dubbed? *Awful.* Poor thing. "We have an agreement, one we've shaken on. Among other things, she's not permitted to read my private messages. I trust her to honor it." He sighs heavily, *Vox.* "As for *him*—yes, he's still around, but I can completely keep him out of tracking my online activity. If he tries, all he'll get is static. All the same, I prefer discussing more sensitive matters in person, just in case he proves me wrong someday."

Ruddy & Offal

Ruddy drums his claws on the table, other hand rubbing his chin as he thinks. Does anything else spring to mind, any other immediate concerns...? Didn't seem so. He nods. "VERY WELL. IF I REQUIRE YOUR ADVICE, I WILL CONTACT YOU EITHER ONLINE OR OVER A RADIO DEPENDING ON URGENCY. HOPEFULLY YOU WONT HEAR MY *LOVELY* VOICE RATTLING AROUND YOUR AIRWAVES ANYTIME SOON." A self deprecating joke from good old Sir Pentious, he knows EXACTLY how grating his voice is. "I JEST. BUT TRULY. I AM SORRY THINGS WENT A BIT SIDEWAYS THERE IN THE MIDDLE, BUT YOU HAVE BEEN HELPFUL."

Astor

Maybe the self-deprecating joke would have landed if it was said to somebody who thinks Sir Pentious's voice is grating. However.

Receiving an apology is surprising enough that he starts, even though he doesn't know what it's for. "Which part was the middle?" Speaking of self-deprecation. However, he's afraid Sir Pentious might give him an answer, and then he'll know exactly what he's being judged for; so he hurries onward. "As long as I've done *something* helpful! I suppose I saved you having to explain the basics of v#xblr, didn't I?" He pauses. "Or whatever it was called around here." He's sure he's been told. He's already forgotten.

Ruddy & Offal

Oh, Satan, he forgot Alastors could do *that* with their mouths. He physically jolts, head jerking back before he can catch himself. But he plays it off as best he can, smoothing down his vest and hem hemming loudly. "YES, WELL. YOU HAVE DONE THAT. BEYOND THAT, OUTSIDE PERSPECTIVE ON THE BEFUDDLING FREELOADER IN MY HOME IS ALWAYS APPRECIATED. I AM A BIT TOO CLOSE TO THE SITUATION, AND A BIT TOO LEGLESS, TO TAKE A STEP BACK."

Astor

"Ha!" Snake jokes. Alastor's going to pretend he didn't accidentally startle Sir Pentious by revealing he knows how to pronounce a hashtag and quickly moves on: "Consider yourself welcome to ask me more about the befuddling freeloader at any time. I hope you don't think me too sentimental if I say I'm rather invested in my alternates' well-being; they're the closest things to cousins I've got left."

Ruddy & Offal

Ah, good, neither of them will comment on his Moment Of Surprise. Don't mind him as he adjusts poor Hattie, the poor thing was a little sideways. "NOT AT ALL. I'M INVESTED IN MY OWN ALTERNATES AS WELL, TO VARYING DEGREES." Lets ignore that his relationship with Telly is strained at best. He never said the investment was strictly positive. "NEXT TIME, I'LL EXTEND A PROPER DINNER INVITATION AND PREPARE SOMETHING SUITABLE TO SERVE A GUEST. YOU DESERVE COMPENSATION FOR YOUR TIME." This whole being nice thing does NOT come naturally, but he attempts a smile that's only SOMEWHAT lopsided. Very good effort.

Astor

*To varying degrees.* He can guess what *that* means. "I appreciate the consideration! Not that there was anything wrong with tonight's dinner, mind!" At least he'd know next time he wasn't overstaying his welcome by having dinner.

Ruddy & Offal

He COULD argue that tonight's dinner was incredibly basic fare, or he could just accept the compliment and move on. And who is Sir Pentious to turn his nose up at praise? So he hums, nods, and smooths his lapels. "I'M GLAD TO HEAR IT. UNTIL NEXT TIME THEN, ALASTOR. I'VE KEPT YOU LONG ENOUGH. DO YOU NEED ME TO ESCORT YOU TO THE EXIT, OR CAN YOU FIND YOUR OWN WAY HOME?"

Astor

Sure, it was basic, but like, the ingredient quality was top notch and it wasn't quite totally bland. He knows how to manage his own expectations. "I think I can make my own way out, thank you." He tips his head. "Until next time. And convey my regrets to my alternate for not being able to say goodbye to him in person."

Ruddy & Offal

"I'LL LET HIM KNOW YOU SAID GOODBYE, I'M SURE YOU'LL BE HEARING FROM HIM SOON ENOUGH." A polite nod, and Sir Pentious turns to begin his long and dramatic slither out of the room. No time to waste, he must go back to his workshop and continue whatever ridiculous project he's got on the table today.

Astor

One portal to dimensions unknown, and Alastor was gone too, headed back home to think over his alternate and what else he might do for him.

[mickmarstookmyheart]

Bad Memories

Pairing: Mick Mars X Reader

Synopsis: While you are trying to enjoy your peaceful morning with Mick, your sister calls you with az unexpected demand. Your past comes up again which you don't like.

(I will correct the mistakes tomorrow)

Being the girlfriend of a musician meant constant tours and music all the time at everywhere. Seeing the guys almost every night on stage playing their chosen instruments made you jelaous. Then you remembered that you wouldn't stand on stage and play. Never.

It was a rainy and overcast October day. You and Mick chose to stay in bed a bit more since you had nothing to do that day. Your head was laying on his chest which was rising slowly. You loved listening to his steady heartbeat. His fingertips were caressing you bareback while his other hand were behind his head.

"Miiiiick. Please!" You asked nicely.

"Yeah?" He sighed.

"Would you be so kind and make some coffee?" You looked up with puppy eyes. He rolled his.

"I made it yesterday, too." He stated. He knew that these kind of peaceful mornings are rare and tried to enjoy every second of it.

"Good point. Then give me 5 minutes." You murmured into his chest. After a while you heard Mick's quiet snoring making you drift back to sleep, too. A loud ringing noise woke you up from your peaceful dreams.

"I will kill whoever this is." Mick groaned reaching for the telephone. "It's your killer, what do you want?"

"Hey, Mick. It's me, Isabelle. Sorry if I woke you up." Your sister apologized on the other end of the phone.

"Oh, hey. What's up? Haven't heard from you like in ages!" Mick's face brightened up while you frowned thinking who this lucky person could be.

"Nothing special, just the usual. Is (Y/N) there? I really need to talk to her." She asked.

"Yeah, sure. Is there a problem?"

"Well, nothing serious." Mick handed you the phone.

"It's (Y/N)." You said with a quite sleepy tone. You sat up while pulling some blanket from Mick who answered with a pillow behind your head. "Hey!" You snapped making him smirk.

"It's me. Your sister." Isabelle started to get annoyed. "(Y/N)! Are you here?"

"Yeah. What is it?"

"You know there is gonna be a party. Here at university. A Halloween party."

"That's good, I guess?" Making a phone call this tired didn't help.

"Sure. Also, me and some guys formed a band you know."

"Really? You haven't told me." It was good to finally speak to her. It was quite a long ago since you have a nice sister to sister conversation. You glanced around in the room and spotted an oversized tee on the ground. You got out of bed which was hard cause Mick didn't let you at first. You couldn't help it cause you felt the urge to walk when you were speaking on the telephone. "And... what's the name of the band?"

"Eggheads."

"That's what I call creative." You giggled.

"Wasn't me who came up with the idea, you know." Isabelle huffed.

"Maybe you should've asked Mick. He has some ideas." You glanced at the guitarist who tilted his head not having any clue why he was mentioned. "So what's the deal, sis?"

"There is this party and the head of the uni asked us to perform."

"Congrats. That's a big thing!" You cheered.

"Let me finish. So yesterday our guitarist, Mike, had an accident and broke his arm. He sure won't be able to perform."

"Oh, that suck. I'm so sorry. Also, sorry for not performing." You played with the wire of the phone.

"Well, don't be. Cause I have a wonderful idea!" She had a devilish smile on her face, unfortunately you couldn't see. If you could, you would've known what she was up to. "There is a girl I know who could play instead of Mike."

"Good to hear. Is she at the uni, too?" You asked still not suspecting a thing.

"Not exactly although one of my best friends." She said sighing. "I'm talking about you, (Y/N)."

"What?" The blood froze in your veins. "You aren't serious, right?"

"Don't tell me you are still not over what happened years ago!"

"I am...just.. it's pretty hard." You were rubbing your arm with the other.

"Please, (Y/N)!" She begged. "It will be fucking cool, I promise."

"I don't know. I haven't played since then. I will mess up."

"Give the phone to Mick."

"Why?"

"Heard me. Give me the guitar lord." Isabelle ordered. You handed the device back to Mick who took it happily. He was really fond of your sister.

"Did you manage to solve the problem?" Mick asked while he was eyeing your worried facial expression.

"Almost. Would you refresh my sister's guitar skills in two weeks?" Mick's eyes widened while you shook your head.

∆

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mick asked watching the red light from the car.

"Tell you what?" You were looking out the window to avoid eye contact. You knew what he was talking about and it wasn't your favourite topic.

"That you can play the guitar."

"I thought I can have secrets. And it's not a big thing."

"If you say so." He was watching you from the corner of his eye. He noticed that you were worried, well, rather freaked out. "Would you mind telling me why are you like this? Or is it a secret, too?"

"I fucking knew." You pulled your hoodie's strings stronger so nothing could be seen from your face. You crossed your arms and didn't say a word.

"You look like a kid who didn't get her Barbie." He chuckled.

"Haha. Very funny." You murmured.

"Aren't you happy that you can meet with Isabelle? Cause I sure am!" He smiled. Sometimes you were wondering why he liked your sister this much. Mick only tolerated people. "Hey. Mars to Earth. Are you here?" He asked while poking your belly making you giggle.

"Stop." You tried to catch your breath. Mick smiled, he loved hearing your laugh. "And I'm sorry for my behaviour. It's just a quite sensitive topic for me. Only Isabelle knows about this and she doesn't think it's important." You were playing with the strings of your hoodie. "I guess, you want to hear the story."

"Only, if you want to. But yeah, I would love to hear it." He smirked. You took a deep breath and started you monologue.

"Not a long story, don't worry. So years ago some friends of mine formed a band. It were the boys and me. We were a cover band but tried to create some original ones though I was the only one who wanted that."

"Sadly, I can relate." He sighed.

"I'm sorry." You took a look at Mick who placed your hand into his. "Unfortunately, this was the minor problem. After one of our concerts, I had an accident. I fell of my motorbike. I broke my arm and one of my legs. The doctor said I was lucky." You had a sad smile on your face. Later, deep down you wished you had died instead.

"We were on a so called mini tour, we were performing at universities and high schools. Since I was at the hospital I felt horrible because we couldn't perform. At least, that's what I thought."

"You were replaced, right?" Mick squeezed your hand feeling sorry for you.

"Yes. But that wasn't my problem. I thought they were my friends. They didn't even visit me. After, I recovered more or less, I went to our place where we usually practiced. There was a new guitarist, a guy, who told me to fuck off." You laughed. "I was on my way to punch the guy, but our singer stopped me. He asked why I was there and that he fired me. His reason was that they didn't want a girl in their band and that I wasn't playing well anyway." You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. A tear ran down your face and your eyes were gloomy. You chest was heavy but you tried your best not to cry.

"Fuck them. Fuck them for embarrassing you. And where is that famous band now? Nowhere! Darling, I'm so sorry. But they don't deserve your tears." He wiped your tears with his thumb. "And I'm sure they still regret their decision. If you play as good as good pictures you take they are a dead band." He pecked your lips making you smile.

∆

"Are you ready (Y/N)?" Your sister asked. You and Isabelle's band along with Mick were at drummer's garage and were about to practice. It was the 5th day and you were improving. That's what Mick said though you didn't believe him. You nodded and started to play "Live Wire." On the set list there were Mötley, AC/DC, Van Halen, Scorpions, Bon Jovi and many more. An old good feeling took over when you touched the strings. Your fingers remembered and it made you happy. During the solo, Mick was admiring you, he adored your concentrating face and he noticed that you were enjoying it. When the band finished the song you were still in shock how good it had turned out. Mick was clapping as well as the others.

"Wow, (Y/N)! It was hell of a solo." Robert, the singer congratulated. Isabelle was the bass player, Tim the drummer who owned the garage. You ran your fingers through your hair in embarrassment. You still didn't get used to compliments regarding your play.

"Thanks. And are you sure Mike isn't angry?"

"Nah. He said it's pretty cool that the girlfriend of Mick Mars will substitute him." Tim snickered. "Also, he is apologizing for not being here. His mother didn't let him."

"Poor little 22-year-old boy." Isabelle chuckled putting down her bass. She walked over to you and took Mick's precious guitar from your hand.

"Don't worry. I won't smash it on the floor." She yelled seeing the guitarist's facial expression.

∆

Halloween. Costumes, candies, and spooky decoration everywhere. You wished you could dress up as a witch or something cause that fluff you called your hair was hidious. Vince lent his bandana as a mascot and Mick one of his guitars.

"I look horrible." You looked in the mirror dealing with your hair.

"Babe, this is how we normally look on stage. You look badass. Also, very sexy." He murmured to your neck hugging you from behind.

"He is right, sis." Isabelle came back to the dressing room with a bigger fluff. You held your hand over your mouth not to laugh loudly. You noticed that Mick's was in the same state.

"I think I will go. Find those idiots and keep an eye on them." Mick said while pressing one last kiss on your cheek and left the room.

"(Y/N)! Listen, you will be great. Just remeber to relax. Take a deep breath and the key is to enjoy. Concentrate on the music, feel the music. Watch Mick, pretend you two are the only ones in the room." She placed her hands on your shoulders looking in your eyes.

You were the last one who stepped on stage and the crowd were already insane.

"Alright, alright ladies and gentlemen. Before we start this hella concert, I would like to introduce our temporary guitar player, (Y/N). You will see a powerful sister duo on stage tonight. Prepare yourself. The show is beginning. Are you READY?" Robert screamed in the microphone as the crowd shouted as one person.

During the concert you felt an energy which you couldn't compare to anything. You felt powerful and you thought you could accomplish anything at that moment.

"I would be scared if I were you, Old Man." Vince stated as he was watching you from the side of the stage with Mick. "We might get you replaced with (Y/N). She is sexier." Mick kicked the singer in the ankle making him groan.

∆

Taglist: @leatherandheels @safari-karrot @littlemisscare-all @crazyrockrlady

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

The Rumor Around Hogwarts (prologue)

Hi everyone!! This is the prologue and it is pretty much exactly what the author wrote and I don't take credit for it. I made a couple of changes to the chapter but it is towards the end so if you want to skip through you can until about the last paragraph to find the part about Y/N L/N. Enjoy!!

Male reader insert for now, future addition of they pronouns as it will lean more towards a non-binary insert with the only change being less reference to Y/N as a young boy and more gender neutral terms. Still masc/male aligned.

Previous // Next

Prologue:

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had two small sons, too, but they had never even seen them. These boys were two good reasons for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realise what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. "The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard--" "-- yes, their son, Harry--" Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey Or Harold There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drill that afternoon and when he left the building a five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside of the door.

"Sorry" he grunted as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary his ace split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerbys stare,

"Don't be sorry my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?" "Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early -- it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son -- he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on -- he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't affect them...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, I've been celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone--"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what they're saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..." Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder.

"I know... I know... " he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's -- it's true ?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore.

"We may never know." Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here ?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!?"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous -- a legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly." said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore. "I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild -- long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -- ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" "Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map o

f the London Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house. "Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles--"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"

The boy who lived, however, was not the only threat to Voldemort's plans. There was another baby boy who would grow up to be extraordinary. His fame would not reach the height of Harry Potter, but he need not be the boy who lived for he will be the boy who decided to speak.

        "I heard a rumor"

[mork-lee-bee]

Broken Lovers VII

Summary: Y/n is a hopeless romantic in love with someone who will never love her back and Jaehyun is helplessly in love with someone who only continues to hurt him over and over again, sounds like a match made in heaven right?

Pairings: CollegeStudent!Jaehyun X CollegeStudent!Y/N X CollegeStudent!Jaemin

Warnings: cursing,

Genre: angst/fluff/smut

Word count: 2.6 k

Masterlist

Previous

Next

Jaemin drifts out of sleep as he reaches for his phone to hit the snooze button of his alarm that goes off in his room while his roommate mumbles out for him to shut it off. He finally gets it off while his eyes are still closed before his eyes flutter open, hair scattered in every which way as he tries to wake himself up, he drags his body out of bed.

“Need… coffee,” He mumbles to himself as he fumbles around in the dark trying not to wake Jeno up while also trying to find some clothes to change into to meet up with someone. After a struggle in the dark, he finally manages to throw on a clean pair of clothes and head out as Jeno continues to sleep in.

The early hours of the morning means that fewer people were up as Jaemin opens the door to his favorite cafe, his gaze turns to the counter out of habit where he spots someone working but to his dismay, it’s not his favorite barista. Frowning he makes his way over to the counter giving the man his order his usual tone laced with sleepiness.

“Uh, are you sure? This is going to be a strong drink…” The barista warns as Jaemin nods before paying for his drink and looking around the rest of the cafe his eyes landing on the person he was meeting up with, he was wearing a grey hoodie and sipping on an iced coffee his eyes closed trying to savor sleep.

“Hey, Johnny,” The blue-haired boy greets his fellow photography club member who slowly opens his eyes as he motions to the seat in front of him.

“Hey, Jaemin,” Johnny offers a sleepy smile as he rubs his eyes. 

“Morning,” The younger of the two mumbles as he waits for the barista to finish making his drink.

“How are you?” Jaemin wonders but his mind is still hyper-focused on coffee as his headache starts approaching as the smell of coffee completely takes over his senses.

“Tired…” Johnny drifts off eyes closing again for a moment before opening up again.

“Then why the hell would you want to meet this early in the morning?” Jaemin asks confused rubbing his temple stealing glances at the barista taking his time when you would have had it done by now.

“I’m super busy like all week, ya know classes, work, the Frat,” Johnny lists off as Jaemin mentally curses him.

“So you decided to make me suffer?” Jaemin sets his head against the table waiting to hear his name like a child.

“Sorry I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important,” Johnny admits seeing as he’s also exhausted himself.

“What’s more important than sleep?” Jaemin pouts thinking about his comfy bed.

“Coffee for Jaemin!” The barista finally announces and Jaemin is up and over by the counter in no time at all as he snatches the drink off the counter and takes a sip of the very pungent drink he loves so much letting out a sigh of delight as if it’s happiness in a cup.

“Much better,” Jaemin smiles before taking his seat in front of Johnny once again.

“As I was saying, what’s more, important than sleep?” Jaemin claims again as he slowly feels himself waking up.

“My friend’s love life,” Johnny uses his straw to mix around the contents of his drink.

“What does this have to do with me exactly?” Jaemin raises an eyebrow in confusion try to understand.

“You know ____, right?” Johnny watches as Jaemin takes a drink and nods.

“Yeah, well I think my friend and her would be a good fit,” Johnny points out before drinking his coffee.

“Ohhhhhh, I see,” Jaemin smiles knowingly wiggling his eyebrows at the older guy.

“See what exactly?” Johnny hesitates watching the glimmer of mischief in Jaemin’s eyes.

“Do you like her?” Jaemin asks leaning forward interested in his answer as Johnny pinches the bridge of his nose.

“No, it’s not like that- I really mean that I think my FRIEND and her would be a good fit I just don’t know her that well,” Johnny emphasizes the word friend trying to explain the situation.

“Okay, so what does your FRIEND have to do with me?” Jaemin leans his head to the side not catching on quite yet.

“I need to know more information before I try to get them together but I don’t have any time to spend with her which is where you come in,” Johnny starts laying out his plan to Jaemin who listens intently.

“So you want me to get to know ____ and then pass the information to you for your FRIEND,” Jaemin asks unsure of this plan or even if this FRIEND exists. this whole thing starts to sound like a big game of telephone.

“I don’t know… about this, it seems wrong and why not let them figure out if that’s the case.” Jaemin suggests as a much more reasonable option.

“Please, My friend isn’t in the best mindset for making decisions so I just want to make it easier for him,” Johnny begs as Jaemin reluctantly looks at his friend across from him who’s clearly trying his best as he agrees.

“As long as she doesn’t end up hurt…” Jaemin adds as a smile clause as Johnny nods thanking Jaemin for his agreement to do this for him.

“I owe you,” Johnny gives a tired smile before getting up and leaving the small cafe while Jaemin stays in his seat drinking his coffee lost in his own thoughts.

-------

Jaehyun’s finger hovers over the button he’s dreading with the contact with Heejin’s picture on it but the name has been replaced with a simple devil emoji followed by DON’T CALL. Jaehyun runs his fingers through his head internally debating whether to click the call button eventually exiting the contacts and scrolling till he gets to the contact labeled ‘Gym Buddy’ proceeding to make a call to him instead as the phone rings.

“What’s up?” The person answers, their groggy voice making it obvious they didn’t wake up too long ago.

“Sorry, did I wake you up? I can call you later,” Jaehyun offers getting ready to end the call as they speak again.

“Nah, you’re fine I need to get up anyway.” The voice explains.

“Okay, I didn’t know who else would give me an unbiased answer,” Jaehyun starts off his free hand messing with his hair out of habit.

“Ummmmm, what do you mean?” The girl asks needing more than that.

“Just that you don’t know my relationship like my friends, so I need your opinion Soora.” His voice is fueled with confusion.

“Okayyyyy, go for it,” she happily agrees as she listen’s to her friend’s voice.

“So my Ex-girlfriend…” Jaehyun takes in a shaky breath before letting it out and continuing.

“Our relationship, it- it wasn’t healthy but she keeps telling me she’s changed and wants to give us a try again… But I don’t think I can take another heartbreak from this girl, I don’t really know what I’m asking from you I’m just getting this off my chest since you’re a new pair of ears.”

“Don’t go back to her,” Soora puts it simply before elaborating.

“No girl is worth that much pain, find someone who genuinely makes you happy to be around,” She explains her stance on his situation.

“But for the longest time that’s how she made me feel, and that keeps bringing me back to her trying to get back to that point.” Jaehyun counters reflecting on the start of the relationship.

“Look, Jaehyun. You could find someone who you know won’t hurt you or go into a relationship you don’t trust, just think about it…” Soora’s voice trails off as she lets out a yawn.

“I’ve got to go, I need to get ready for class but don’t go to her because you want to fix something too beyond repair, why try to fix a broken vase that will still have those cracks when you could find a new vase,” She ends her opinion looking at the time.

“Thanks, Soora, See you at the gym later,” Jaehyun’s voice sounds less anxious at the end of the call.

“Yup, I hope I could be of some help,” And with that, the call disconnects as Jaehyun leans back thinking over the conversation with a little less internal confliction.

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

A/N: Sorry I kinda took an unexpected break, but I’m back! <3 net part should be up on 9/12. ❤️

Taglist (Leave a note if you want to be added):

❤️ @yourchasingsunsetslove​ ❤️ @justineasian​ ❤️ @captainsjoongs​ ❤️ @theworld-accordingtocasey​ ❤️ @Yee-hawwwwwwww ❤️ @renjunstarlight​ ❤️ @soothingjae​ ❤️ @marklexleaf​  ❤️

[harringroveficlibrary]

Harringrove ABO Masterlist

someone asked for an abo masterlist, so here it is! 

this list isn’t sorted in any particular order, other than by date posted, which is the default on ao3. (newest -> oldest) i also didnt include every single fic in the abo tag because this list was already going to be a large post. if there are any fics i missed that someone thinks should be included, feel free to send an ask or to just reply to this post! :^) ♥  -cade 

updated: April 16th, 2020

Carnal by mrhiddles (1/1 | 4,001 | Explicit)

Steve goes into heat when Billy pulls up to school. Billy's the only one who can help him, or so Steve says.

The Case Where Billy Hargrove Turned Out To Be Not Your Average Alpha by Anonymous (1/1 | 3,249 | Teen+)

“I don’t spend heats with alphas.” Steve said, his gaze avoiding Billy’s.

Billy faltered at that, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I thought you’d spent your heats with people before?” Billy asked.

“Well yeah, but not with alphas.” Steve huffed.

“So— You’re a faggot?” Billy asked, his eyes widening.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Perfectly Unnatural by ImNeitherNor (1/1 | 3,255 | Explicit)

‘You’re not an alpha in this house, boy. You’re not strong. You’re not even responsible with your sister. You don’t respect Susan. I thought I taught you enough in California.’

Neil’s words clang around Billy’s skull and burn the inside of his bones as he sits on the hood of his Camaro. The metal below his ass is warm from the engine just having been turned off, but the lights still spill out across the cliff. This place, nestled at the top and shrouded by trees, catches the wind just right. The wind bites through his jean jacket, settling close to his skin. The cherry red glow of his cigarette gives a false sense of warmth and puts Billy’s teeth on edge.

‘You’re unnatural.’

warnings: references to childhood abuse

Puppy Pile by Strawberry_Sweetheart (1/1 | 2,432 | Not Rated)

Steve forgets about his heat and thinks he has enough time to make a grocery run before it really hits.

He seems to have miscalculated.

Luckily, Billy is there’s to get him home safe.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

One Last Time by Strawberry_Sweetheart (1/1 | 3,157 | Not Rated)

It came with a phone call late at night, just past the witching hour. It was deathly quiet and dark, a new moon withholding any moonlight to chase the shadows away, and in that silence the piercing ring of the telephone downstairs cut through their dreams. A sleepy noise and wiggle came from the lump under Billy, shifting until it escaped Billy’s arms and legs that held it hostage.

Or

this is a requested fic for Alpha El + Billy and Steve being good parental figure types and helping her figure things out

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

So messed up, I want you here by Boudoir_Writer (1/1 | 3,942 | Explicit)

“I turned you bitch, Harrington.” His voice is gravel and petrol, his limbs and heart lead. “We’re never going to be done.”

warnings: dubcon

Smoke by Carerra_os (1/1 | 468 | General)

Billy is ditching class for a smoke break when Steve comes along. -

Originally this was written for You're Extra Special, Something Else. However that story went in a different direction.

Black silk and wild flowers by Catharrington (1/1 | 3,015 | Explicit)

Steve’s birthday was really just another day. The only thing that made it special was his fathers insistence on going to a party thrown for just him, a party filled with starving alphas with fat wallets all rutting against themselves to buy their own little omega. Steve hates what his father makes him do. Steve hates his birthday. Until Billy Hargrove crawls through his window to remind him it’s not all bad, silver lining in the clouds and shit, and brings him a present.

Drop (The Game) by MissGillette (3/3 | 42,080 | Explicit)

Billy has wanted a piece of Steve since spotting him on the school parking lot his first day. So when Steve flees the bathroom at Tina's Halloween party, distressed and about to drop, Billy does the only logical thing: follow the scent.

The Lucky One by wingedbears (1/1 | 6,881 | Mature)

In a world where on one arm is your soulmate's name, and the other's is your enemy's, omega Billy has to learn to let shit go.

Princess of the apocalypse by Boozombie (2/2 | 15,034 | Explicit)

Steve just wanted to keep his kids safe, and Billy knows how to use that.

warnings: rape/non-con

Princess that runs his world by Boozombie (3/3 | 11,747 | Not Rated)

Billy takes Steve to wash up and plans to get him alone for a date. Steve wants to bring his pack along.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, rape/non-con elements

lately i feel like i've been losing (my mind) by ToAStranger (1/1 | 3,162 | Explicit)

Billy hasn't felt right since the summer straight out of a horror movie. His instincts are all off. And Steve Harrington keeps looking at him.

Pothos by moonflowers (1/1 | 6,714 | Explicit)

He felt like the rabbit and the fox all at once, the thrill of chasing and being chased, a circle, whole. He might’ve felt stupid about it, if it hadn’t been so intense. Robin always told him he fell for people too easy – and fine, she was right – but this was something else. Or maybe not yet, but oh man he was starting to think he wanted it to be. And it was probably idiotic of him to get his hopes up, but he couldn't help but think maybe Billy did too; watching Steve from behind a tired and quietly angry veneer, a little twist of hope just visible through the mask.

Dubious Hijinks by Corvin (1/1 | 3,998 | Teen+)

Steve needs a buffer between him and the alpha his dad picked for him. The best option he can think of is an uncooperative Billy Hargrove.

with them indiana boys (on them indiana nights) by ToAStranger (1/1 | 4,842 | Teen+)

The thing is, when Billy first saw Steve Harrington, he knew.  

He grew up knowing.  It was hard not to, with all of those hormones and instincts running through his fucking veins.  He knew, one day, he’d run across someone that smelled so right, so fucking perfect that he’d want nothing more than to bury his face against their scent gland and breathe in until the smell becomes a taste becomes a sensation becomes--

Well.  The thing is, he’s always known.

None Brighter Than Your Eyes by Doodsxd (1/1 | 9,991 | Explicit)

Sex Ed course came once again, and, for the first time, Billy listened.

He listened, because it started to match and make sense with what Max’s little troup told him over and over again.

Apparently, it was biology which dictated that omega jewelry wasn’t just a futility or decoration, or even a signal that the omega was taken. It wasn’t a trade, sex for jewelry, like Neil had taught him all his life. No: scientists had found back in the sixties that omega jewelry has a soothing effect, especially during heat, as a reminder of love and affection; something tangible and available at all times, even when no one is.

warnings: graphic depictions of violence

"is that what you want, princess?" by greeneyedsourwolf (1/1 | 4,008 | Explicit)

Steve asks Billy if he wants to spend their first heat together.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Pool Time Stress by AMemoryDelayed (1/1 | 2,610 | Explicit)

Steve's been visiting the pool pretty frequently. He can't help it when he'd been carted along that one time. He can't stand to watch Billy eye other women. It makes him regret it too, and yet. He's excited when Billy barely even moves his gaze over to him. He gives Steve the slightest of grins from where he's sat at. He doesn't make any other sign to warn him of what's to come beyond that. Steve knows though.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Thanks Phyllis by Corvin (1/1 | 11,764 | Explicit)

Steve wants to start a family and asks Billy for help. What was supposed to be a purely professional exchange turns a lot more intimate than he expected.

Everything falls back by Crowweb (1/1 | 1,302 | Teen+)

Billy isn't home like he's supposed to and Steve gets a bad feeling through their bond. The alpha turns up beaten up after a couple of hours.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, blood

push him down (spread him out) by tol_sirion (1/1 | 3,529 | Explicit)

“It’s embarrassing.” Steve whines and covers his face instead.

Billy tuts. “None of that, now,” he says, and Steve slowly looks up, hands falling to each side of his head instead. “Just one more picture. One more, and I’ll give you what you want.”

And maybe it’s cruel, holding it over Steve like that. Like only if Steve is good and does what Billy says, he’ll finally get dicked down the exact way he wants, and not a minute before.

Woke Up Thirsty by trashcangimmick (1/1 | 3,256 | Explicit)

Billy shows up at the Byers house looking for Maxine. Instead, he finds Steve Harrington and a kind of surprising proposition.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Grace Me With Nothing But Patience by itscrybabyharrington (icanspelliero) (1/1 | 6,587 | Explicit) 

It started off as an itch beneath the surface of his skin, no matter how hard Steve pressed his nails could never dig through, could never scratch the discontent that simmered just beneath.

Tommy says it’s nothing, signs of an early rut approaching, meds wearing off after taking them for so long. Only Steve knows Tommy is full of shit and this doesn’t feel like a rut.

warnings: underage, offensive language used, homophobia

Buzzcut Season by Senowolf (1/1 | 6,332 | Teen+)

Steve always waits for Billy to come back to him.

I Wanna Be Loved by harringrovecryptid (13/13 | 51,993 | Explicit)

"Brenner Relations" was one of the most lucrative businesses in the modern age. But only its clients and staff actually knew how it made its money. Billy Hargrove found himself being one of those people. But the deeper he got involved with the shady industry, the more secrets he began to uncover regarding the omegas that are considered company property.

warnings: graphic depictions of violence, rape/non-con elements

Assigned Alpha by Kiram (2/2 | 3,415 | Explicit)

Steve used to just be an unknown secondary gender till Billy Hargrove rolled into town. Steve’s stuck in a rock and a hard place and is inevitable forced to fold and give into his nature. Billy likes bugging Steve while simultaneously protecting him.

war song by themundaneweirdo (1/1 | 1,789 | General)

Steve misses his soldier.

Don't Take Your Time With Me by trashcangimmick (1/1 | 6,864 | Explicit)

Billy is usually a light sleeper. But when he’s drunk, it’s a completely different story.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, rape fantasy, implied/referenced sexual assault, implied/referenced child abuse

I Can Do That by captainwingdings (1/1 | 1,971 | Explicit)

Billy wants to help out with Steve's heat, so he shows him a taste of what he can do.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Hot Blooded by captainwingdings (1/1 | 4,463 | Explicit)

The new guy from California catches Steve Harrington's attention for more than one reason. Not only was he hot as hell and didn't know how to button his shirts, but he was the strangest omega that Steve had ever seen. 

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Moaning Lisa Smile by trashcangimmick (1/1 | 3,735 | Explicit)

Billy maybe kind of hides the fact that he’s an Omega because he’s too queer, and too pretty, and would rather not deal with a bunch of idiot Alphas trying to screw the gay out of him. But Steve’s not an Alpha. Steve is also very pretty.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, consent issues

Sweet Dream (Saccharine) by Highsmith (1/1 | 16,039 | Explicit)

Billy and Steve aren't friends, until they are, and they're not more than that, because the world doesn't work that way.

warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, recreational drug use

Pressing the accelerator down by Etnoe (1/1 | 6,229 | Explicit)

Heat season takes a toll of two alphas who can't find anyone to share a rut with. Aside, of course, from each other.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Keeping a bit of you by peirypatt (1/1 | 697 | General)

Over the years Steve's room has had several changes and seen many trends and phases, but there was only one thing that didn't belong to Steve inside his bedroom. A denim blue jacket.

It came naturally to us by peirypatt (1/1 | 650 | General)

Saying that Steve and Billy held hands in 1999 for the first time would be wrong and right at the same time. It's complicated, and at the same time, it's not.

Don't Belong To Anyone (Else) by sparkleeye (2/2 | 31,145 | Explicit)

And he does, just Billy’s fucking luck, because Harrington licks his lips and hoarsely goes, “I fucking knew it, fuck Hargrove, you’re in heat.”

He shudders as Harrington takes a step towards him. The tangy, warm scent of alpha has him struggling to stand upright, already slipping into the too far gone state and it’s fucking Harrington’s fault because he still won’t leave.

Better yet, he knows, he can smell the sweetness of omega, particularly herbal and saccharine like lavender and vanilla - Billy knows he smells like a girly little candle, okay - flooding the air between them. He could push Billy over and take him there, on the floor, push his face down onto the cracked, dusty concrete and fuck him stupid.

aka -- Billy is a stubborn idiot and goes to school during his heat.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Upside Down, You're Turning Me by ImNeitherNor (1/1 | 7,885 | Explicit)

“Let me get this straight. You want me to go into the middle of the fucking woods in below zero temperatures to find someone who is probably high as a kite and just having the time of his damned life?”

“We’re worried--” Max starts and Billy sneers.

“That sounds like a personal problem, Maxine. Steve is a big boy, an alpha, and can handle--” Billy tears his gaze away from Max as Dustin climbs on top of his hood and sits there. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Not moving,” Dustin shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Doctor’s Visit by HalfNakedWriter (1/1 | 2,320 | Explicit)

Steve goes for his 38 week appointment. 

'Cause We Feel Young and Wild by BeautyInChains (1/1 | 1,515 | Explicit)

Soon, is Steve’s best guess. Soon like the subtle itch beneath his skin that intensifies with each passing day. Soon like the voracity of his appetite as his body begins to prepare itself for the upcoming marathon. Soon like the aggression that continues to build and threaten to spill whenever another Alpha so much as glances Billy’s way. Soon like the way he’s been tenting his sheets, his slacks, his gym shorts at so much as a gentle breeze.

So when Billy texts him that morning, an eggplant emoji followed by the fire, peach, and splashing water emojis with not one but three question marks, Steve replies with Soon.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Lost My Mind by trimorning (1/1 | 1,564 | Teen+)

"I don't want to be dramatic."

He doesn’t know what Steve is going to say, which isn’t normal because he’s a predictable kind of mess, so it makes him feel vulnerable.

But its fine, its just Steve so it will undoubtedly be fine. Billy looks back at the other boy, “I can tell you right now, that you are physically incapable of not being dramatic, so continue.”

---- An a/b/o Harringrove one-shot that has little to do with a/b/o and more with Steve's flirty and messy ass. enjoy

Lavender by PoisonousFlower3 (1/1 | 756 | Mature)

"Billy hated being an alpha. He hated how it made his sense of smell stronger and smell the despair that always seemed to linger in this town. He hated how he was always so angry, though he knew that part of it was the abuse from his dad and his temper.

What he didn’t hate was how it let him get a good whiff of Steve whenever he was around."

In which case home starts to include Steve Harrington for Billy.

Red by PoisonousFlower3 (1/1 | 602 | Mature)

"Yeah, maybe things hadn’t started off the best for them but Billy was definitely in love." Another little drabble for two idiots in love

now I got you drunk, hot, and vulnerable (how do you like me now? do i turn you on?) by brawls (brawlite), ToAStranger (1/1 | 6,807 | Explicit)

The first thing Billy notices is the scent.

Heady, sweet, electric. It makes his mouth water, the second he walks in. Makes every bone in his body sing.

Heatstroke by HobbitSpaceCase (1/1 | 8,022 | Explicit)

Billy is out of suppressants and going into Heat. Steve finds him. It's too bad Billy can't have this every time.

warnings: dubcon, sad ending

Steve Forgets by femmesteve (1/1 | 1,242 | Explicit)

Steve forgets his heat and Billy is there to be a jerk and fuck him how he needs.

you scratch my back, i'll bite yours by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 2,363 | Explicit)

Billy rushes Steve's fraternity and gets in, which sucks, only when it doesn't. Drunk Steve has a hard time staying away from what isn't good for him.

bite me, but not too hard by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 3,854 | Explicit)

Steve debates whether or not he should spend his heat tranquilized.

your teeth go deep (it seems) by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 3,554 | Explicit)

Nothing about his life, or his love life, has been simple thus far. The trend continues.

eat me (let it run down your chin) by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 2,837 | Explicit)

Billy ends things with Steve. Sorta.

Nine to five. by Fanflick (9/9 | 34,301 | Explicit)

Steve knew that everything would ultimately come to this, working for his father at a boring office job. It wasn't easy being an omega in hiding, especially now since Steve's boss is the arrogant alpha Billy Hargrove. Now Steve has to work alongside his high school rival while also trying to save enough money to get away from his father. How hard can that be?

warnings: boss/employee relationship

Drunken Things by Rhiw (3/3 | 10,566 | Explicit)

Nancy and Steve break up before Tina's party. Steve finds himself on the rebound, damned and determined to have some fun. Billy just wants to get laid.

Aka: The ABO of Stranger Things no one asked for. Written while drunk, with drunk characters, and lots of angst and smut and shit. Enjoy.

warnings: underage

what a wicked game you played (to make me feel this way) by brawls (brawlite), ToAStranger (14/14 | 119,016 | Explicit)

Billy knew Steve Harrington would ruin him. Steve knew Billy Hargrove was nothing but trouble.

They never expected it to end up like this.

warnings: misogynistic language, ableist language, mentioned dubcon

turn me loose by hoppnhorn (1/1 | 3,321 | Explicit)

Billy is a dominant, powerful alpha with a slew of omegas dying to win his affection. He loves it, lives for it, except when he’s in rut. Steve is an omega and fights it every damn day. But when his body goes into heat, needs to breed, he can’t do anything to stop it. Billy is in rut and Steve is in heat when a freak heatwave knocks out the air conditioning in their shared apartment complex. Open windows and rampant hormones? What could go wrong?

Punch by hati_skoll (1/1 | 2,330 | Teen+)

Steve is dragged off by another alpha, Billy handles it.

A Start by ImNeitherNor (1/1 | 5,574 | Explicit)

The quarry was always Steve’s go to when he needed a place to breathe, an area where the smells weren’t in his face and he could think straight. It was strange how one person’s heat could trigger another. Steve, a slightly cowed alpha after Hargrove rolled in, was done with the overpowering scents and the looks that were being thrown around.

He wasn’t interested in any of it. None.

So, when he pulled up onto the edge of the quarry and stepped out, he almost groaned at the smell that hit him. An omega. An omega in heat. Fuck. This is exactly what he had hoped to get away from. He was ready to slide back in and yank his car in reverse when he looked up and saw, exactly, what car was sitting to the side, shaded by an overcast of trees. If he hadn’t actually looked, it would have slipped away. He blamed his sharper senses, his need to search out the omega.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Slick by hati_skoll (1/1 | 2,028 | Teen+)

Steve gets wet for Billy.

(Less porn inside than implied.)

Hold Me Tight Or Don't by BTSBlossom (1/1 | 4,808 | General)

Billy has some news for Steve, he just doesn't know how to tell him. At least he knows he's got Ms. Byers on his side. She'll be there for Billy if Steve isn't.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, abortion discussion

Wrap Me Up (In Your Love) by LadyMoonveil (1/1 | 1,254 | Teen+)

In which Steve keeps stealing Billy's clothes, and Billy is terrified of the implications when he comes to the realization that Steve is nesting.

After everything that Steve has done for him, all Billy wants to do is be good to his mate. (Even if it means adding things to his wardrobe that sadly isn't denim or leather).

Make me feel special by pizzz_10 (1/1 | 1,577 | Explicit)

A short sweet omega fic where Billy is an omega and Steve is his alpha who loves to spoil him

bück dich by Rebldomakr (1/1 | 966 | Mature)

Billy Hargrove arrives in Hawkins, with Steve Harrington's name written on his neck.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings, mild blood/slight gore

sandman by Rebldomakr (1/1 | 2,226 | Explicit)

Steve’s not a fighter. He sucks at it, actually. He’s a little soft, but he isn’t totally weak or awfully tiny. He’s a good Alpha in many of the ways that count! Just because he isn’t running around sleeping with anyone willing, picking fights, and beating people to death doesn’t mean he’s a bad Alpha. And though Billy might do all that, but he isn't a bad Omega.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

Silk by Rebldomakr (1/1 | 3,393 | Mature)

In Indiana, Omega suppressants are banned. Billy runs out after a while.

warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings

[bangtan-madi]

All Of Our Lifetimes — Three: Samothrace

Pairing — Taehyung x Reader

Tags — boyfriend!Taehyung, husband!Taehyung reincarnation au, lovers to strangers and to lovers again, established relationship, implied soulmate au

Genre — fluff, angst, crime (ish)

Word Count — 2.5k

Summary — Does love ever truly end, or does it simply take another form in a new life? The cycle is like clockwork: your lives end and you’re reborn again. You’ve lived it over and over. Each cycle, one of you loses your memories and is tragically unaware until the other finds and awakens their lover. After all these eons, all these lifetimes, is it possible to find each other again—even when neither of you awakens with your memories? 

Part — 3 / 15

Warnings — language, mentions of murder (no description)

Previous — Next

On your way to breakfast the next morning, you get the call from Director Hyeon. What she tells you in the next few seconds nearly causes you to drop your phone and shout for joy, right in the middle of the sidewalk.

"We're offering you the job, [Y/n]. You're the most qualified and capable, by far. Everyone in the leadership has agreed that we can trust our boys to you. If you're interested...the position is yours."

Without giving your lungs a second to catch up with your erratic, excited breathing, you're exclaiming a vibrant, "Yes! Yes, I am very interested."

The details are finalized over the following week, which gives you just enough time to fly back home and pack up your belongings to ship overseas. Milo is a huge help, despite the fact that she's so jealous. While she has several interviews scheduled via telephone or Skype over the next few weeks, it will be a month or possibly more before she will join you in Seoul.

"I'm so jealous!" she tells you over and over. "So happy for you...but damn! I'm the one in the BTS army over here!"

"I'll see if I can snag you an autograph or something," you reply, half-joking.

Milo looks at you like you hold the world in your hands. "I would fucking marry you if you did."

"You'd marry me anyway."

At that, Milo merely flashes a wink and giggles to herself.

After your clothes and transportable belongings are packed and shipped overseas to your new apartment, the two of you drive to the airport in unusual silence, only a few items in your overhead luggage. It's not uncomfortable, but along the way, you both realize that this will be the last time you'll see each other for at least a month. 

Milo has been your best friend since middle school, and you've lived together since college. To be without her for that long, after all you've been through together, it's hitting you hard as the airport draws near. You reach for her hand over the armrest, lacing your fingers through hers.

"You're not gonna go run off and find some boy that keeps you in America, right?" you ask in a semi-joking tone.

Milo tilts her head as she stares at you from the passenger's side. "Only if you don't find a cute K-pop boy to fall in love with and forget all about me."

You make a faux gagging sound, drawing a smirk from your best friend. "Not a chance."

"Then don't test me, [Y/n]. I'll get a job and be with you in Seoul before we know it. A month isn't too long, and then we can be roomies again!"

Your hand tightens as you flash a genuine smile. "Wouldn't change it for the world."

You remain attached to each other until you get to the security check-in. Turning to Milo, you pull her into a tight embrace, one that she whole-heartedly returns. 

"Don't make me wait too long, okay?"

"'Course not," she chimes back, trying to keep her voice it's usual happy-go-lucky. "We're Siamese twins, you and me. Not gonna separate us!"

You say your temporary goodbyes—the only reason you don't break down being that you constantly remind yourself that it is only temporary—and depart for the security line. Passport in one hand, the other waving back to Milo, you hold tight to the shred of the past while running headfirst into your future.

One thing is for certain: things are going to change.

The first few days as a permanent resident of Seoul are spent settling into your new job and new apartment. And, as per usual in a major life change, there are things that go wrong that you couldn't have anticipated. You get lost on your way to work on your first day and end up being a few minutes late, one of your packages of clothing has not shown up yet despite everything else has arrived, and the office space at Big Hit evidently used to be occupied by someone who never cleared out their shitstorm of a file cabinet.

Needless to say, by the time the weekend arrives, you want to do nothing more than relax and recuperate and do something other than stare between two monitors. If you have to translate another word from Hangul into the English alphabet, you're going to chuck something out the window.

But, understandably, your apartment isn't in the best shape. Boxes are half-way unpacked, and plenty of furniture still needs to be bought. What has been unpacked is haphazardly tosses on any clean surface you can find. It's not exactly a den of peace and serenity, and probably not the ideal place to relax.

So, after doing some online shopping for said furniture and organizing as best you can, you decide to take the rest of the Saturday afternoon and do something you genuinely want to do. An idea pops into your head, and you grab your coat from the counter as you head for the door.

You never finished your tour of the Seoul Museum of Art, knowing for a fact that you haven't gotten to the architecture wing or portrait gallery. You feel your heart longing to go back and explore the remaining spots of the building, knowing in your soul that you need to be there.

What better time than the present?

You find your way easily, enjoying the brisk air that catches your skin and under your coat. The seasons are changing, shades of winter like white and grey settling into post-New Year's hues of mocha and beige. The city smells like green tea and feels like an ever-changing living organism.

Something tells you that more than just the seasons will be changing this year. 

Enter the museum, you find your way back towards the gallery where you left off. After the conversation with the stranger from yesterday, you were a bit too weirded out to really enjoy any of the other exhibits. Wandering for another hour, you hardly remember any of it. The story he told, the bloody fingerprint at the corner of "Vase with Honesty," it was all a bit too eerie for your liking.

But something in the back of your mind keeps prodding at you, and you desperately wish who that man was so that you could ask him more questions. How did he know about the murder? Why was he as drawn to the painting as you were? Why did he leave so abruptly?

All these questions circulate your mind as you round the corner, passing by the Van Gogh exhibit to your right. Just as you pass out of the entrance, you stop mid-step and turn on your heel, peaking back into the open space. 

Standing in front of "Vase with Honesty," the stranger from yesterday wears the beige hoodie and a white facemask. You might've missed him if it weren't for the way his eyes followed you from the entrance to the exit of the temporary exhibit, dark eyes dusted by curly hair. You think it unusual to recognize a stranger just from a few minutes of interaction, but your life has been anything but usual the past two weeks.

Instead, you offer a tiny smile and wave, stepping out of the arched entrance and towards the man. "Hi...again."

His eyes avert yours, shifting to the wall behind you, the paintings, the ceiling. Anywhere but at you. "Hi."

"Seems like we keep running into each other, hm?" you offer in a friendly tone. "Come back to see 'Vase with Honesty'?"

The stranger nods. "I'm a...big fan. Van Gogh's art is comforting. I've never known why."

His confession causes a genuine smile to spread across your face. "That's what art's for, silly. Van Gogh was a tortured soul, but I think he'd be happy to know that his life's work gives comfort to people, even..." You glance at the description card in front of the piece, searching for the date. "Even 136 years later."

His brown eyes flicker to yours again for a brief moment, and it's long enough for you to nod your head towards the expansive hallway. "Wanna walk with me? I got a few rooms in the museum yesterday, but not much more than that. Always nice to explore with others, don't you think?"

The shy man nods once and joins your side as you turn towards the interior, keeping a couple of feet between you. 

As you make your way to other wings, you and the stranger make small talk to pass the time. Well, you do most of the talking. You're not sure if this person doesn't trust you or if he's just catatonically shy, but he's refused to lower his hood or raise his head enough for you to get a good look at his face. His features are still obscured by his clothing and hair, but his voice is soothing the few times he does reply. His presence is calming. Something about the man puts you instantly at ease, and you find yourself being more friendly than you might be to any other stranger.

"Is Korean your first language?" he inquires, as you step into the empty room full of 20th-century modern art.

You shake your head, a slightly embarrassed heat rising in your cheeks. "That obvious, huh? I mean, I know I don't look Korean, but I was hoping I was passing all right."

He stops in front of a work by Georgia O'Keefe. "Not that obvious. I just heard a bit of an American lilt in a few of your words just now. You're very good."

"Oh...then, thanks."

"Why are you in Seoul, then? Visiting?"

"Working," you respond, moving to the other side of the room to view the other works of modern art. "I got a job in Yongsan. I just started this week."

The stranger's head perks up at your response, turning his face slightly towards yours. "How's that going?"

You shrug, making a non-committal noise. "I mean, it's a great job, don't get me wrong. It's just a lot. I moved away from America, from my long-time best friend and roommate, from everything I'd ever known for this job. And it's been a long first week full of things I didn't realize I was going to have to handle."

You shove your hands into your jacket pockets as the two of you turn to leave the room, enter back into the stark white hallway, and turn towards the next expansive opening.

"I shouldn't be complaining," you laugh. "The job is so much more than I could ask for, and I haven't even met a few of the people I'm supposed to work with. One of which I know I have a ton of questions for..." You shake your head. "I've have had this...let's call it a gut feeling, for a long time now. Go to Seoul. Go to South Korea. I knew my fate would bring me here one day, just didn't realize life would be so..."

"Hard?"

You turn towards your companion with an understanding sigh. "Yeah, hard."

A few moments of silence pass, and just as you're about to ask him about the bloody fingerprint and how he knew about the artist being murdered, you feel a chill run down your spine at the sight of the object in the room to your left. Not a chill from the cold or from nerves, this is a chill of familiarity. You turn your head slowly towards the object of your subconscious horror. 

"Winged Victory of Samothrace," or a copy of the one in the Louve, stands high and mighty, the lone object in the fluorescent-lit room.

"What is it?" the stranger asks, voice low and muffled by his mask.

You stare at the statue, unmoving for a full thirty seconds. "I—Does that statue look familiar to you at all?"

There's hesitation in his response, though you can't see his face. "I—I've seen it in Paris. That must be it."

You shake your head, clenching your trembling fists at your sides. "I've never been to Paris. I've never seen it before, not in person."

The stranger reaches out towards you, asking, "Are you okay? You're trembling."

In an attempt to clear your head, you drag your gaze away from Winged Victory and turn back towards the hallway. Visions from your nightmare force their way into your mind, but you shove them out, trying your hardest to keep them at bay as you walk ahead of your confused companion.

"Just a coincidence," you whisper to yourself. "Just a coin—"

Your sentence falls flat as you raise your gaze from the marble floors to the open space ahead. The chill returns, and your knees feel even weaker than before.

Pillars stretch up, cradling a spectacular glass ceiling, surrounding a spherical water fountain.

Your heartbeat races, and your throat closes up. The door you'd tried to lock in your brain crashes open, releasing all the terrible things your brain keeps replaying over and over and over. Doesn't matter if it's day or night, these visions never end.

An artist murdered. Two lovers on the run. A mad-man with a thirst for blood. 

And the death of you both in that very water fountain.

You stumble back, bumping into the stranger as you do. His eyes are wide and locked on the fountain, but you're too panicked to stop and investigate further. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run. To run as fast and as far as you can. 

Without explanation and without fail, you let your fear take you the mile's distance from that spherical fountain to the nearest metro station.

If you could physically go any faster or longer, you're sure in your heart that you would still be running.

[fedeipox]

The Way of Time (Rdr2 fanfic) - Chapter 9 (2/3)

Soo, I’m thinking about my graduation travel and I’d really like to go to America. Something like a road trip around the States. But I definitely need more money for that to happen. 

DUTCH!! I NEED HELP WITH A BANK JOB!

No. Considering how your last heists are going, better not.

Part 1 here: https://fedeipox.tumblr.com/post/645629699195846656/the-way-of-time-rdr2-fanfic-chapter-9-13

Chapter 9 (2/3) - Ghosts and chickens

Words: 2,5

After a few days from everybody’s departure, John decided to check Emerald Ranch for those sheep he wanted to steal. Emily changed her clothes again, wearing something that wouldn’t catch attention and with John they took a wagon: he was still recovering from Blackwater and the wolves attack, and he couldn’t ride. To the wagon they tied John’s Old Boy and Emily’s Drover.  

“Why don’t we just… I don’t kn0w, ask them to do the job and get payed the half from the sheep sale instead of robbing them blind” said Emily while they headed to the ranch.

“Because that way we get paid for half of it. By robbing them we get the whole reward” replied John.

“But they are good people, trying to make a living from those sheep. It’s not right.”

“If you wanted to make things right you shouldn’t have joined a gang of outlaws.” “But why don’t you try to make things differently? It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Too late for that. We’ve been doing it this way all our life.”

Emily huffed. He had such a narrow mind. For them it was black or white, good or evil, outlaws or fine people, while in reality there were so many shades, so many chances to do things in a different way.

They didn’t want to be “slaves of the government”? Good, they could live that life - in 1899 it was still possible - but they didn’t have to steal sheep from a ranch to do that.

“So what? We walk inside and tell them we want to rob them?” she asked annoyed.

“We meet the people and ask if they have cattle to sell. I reckon we’ll soon find out where and when they’ll move it, so we can ambush them.”

“Wow, you thought it through.”

“I’m not as stupid as they say I am” he joked.

“They don’t say you’re stupid, they say you’re an idiot. It’s different” laughed Emily, but she soon realized her words had offended him.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that, I only repeat what they say.”

“Who says that?”

“Nah nah, I’m not snitching on them” she laughed, shaking her head.

“Ahh… I don’t care anyway.” The road they took was definitely longer than the one she was used to do to reach Valentine and during their journey Emily asked John about his past, just like he had done with the others, and she found out he was an orphan too, and that he had joined Dutch when he was around twelve. 

“What kind of life has it been?” she asked. For her it was impossible to think of living like that.

“Restless. But I know I wouldn’t be able to live any other kind of life. I feel like I was born to do this” he answered.

“Born to be an outlaw?”

“To be free.”

Emily didn’t have the courage to tell him she though that wasn’t freedom at all. How can a life lived on the run be considered freedom? Without considering the moral wrongs they did on themselves every time it happened they killed someone. But how could she explain that to John? He couldn’t understand, he had an “Old Wild West” mindset. She decided to change topic.

“How long will it take to reach this place?”

“Not much.”

“With a car it would be much easier. Can you believe that we can travel across a state in one night?”

“In one night? They are fast those cars of yours” laughed John.

“If I had a car right now, I could reach Saint Denis in half a day, maybe less. Maybe I could be home for lunch and eat the wonderful roasted chicken my mum does.”

Silence fell as Emily lowered her eyes and studied every single straw of grass on the side of the road. John of course hadn’t sensed the change in her mood.

“How long does it take with a horse for Saint Denis?” she asked looking at the horizon.

“I ain’t sure, but… I’d say two days.”

“Two days” she whispered and her eyes fixed on the road again, while in her head she was thinking about how to get to the city.

The road led them through the Twin Stack Pass, and, as soon as the rocky promontories ended, something made its appearance, something that, at least, could lift Emily’s morale of an inch: a herd of wild horses.

“Whoah! They are beautiful, in their own way, aren’t they?”

“I guess they are.” “Oh my God! It’s just like that movie… oh, what’s its name? The one with the wild horse!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The movie! The movie!” she kept yelling and pulling John’s sleeve pointing at the horses running away.

“Oh, I wish I had my phone with me so I could take a good picture” she complained.

“Don’t you have one of those things to make photographs back in camp? I saw you was trying to take a picture of Mary-Beth the other day.”

“Yeah, but with that thing I need fifteen minutes to get the angle and the light and I never know how the photo will be in the end, if I got it right… that machine is a nightmare” she said gesturing widely.

“With my phone or a normal camera, one of those we have in the future, would be much easier.”

...

John glanced at her. That was the second time she mentioned the “future” in his presence and from the natural way she pronounced those words, John was having a hard time believing that she was crazy, because she didn’t sound like a deluded fool, she sounded normal.

“You use telephones for pictures? Not for calling people?” he asked perplexed.

“We use them for both. You can call people, send a SMS, Whatsapp and make photos. Or watch a movie, listen to music…”

She rattled off a series of actions she could do with that magic phone of hers, but the more she tried to explain, the more John was confused. 

With silence falling, they both looked at the green landscape around them and smelled the fresh air of the morning. The temperature in the Heartlands was ideal: not as cold as the mountains, not as hot as the south, but something in-between that made it perfect for a journey under the sun like the one they were making. 

With another whip on the reins, John’s attention was caught by some far buildings with high chimneys. Emily followed his example and saw them too. She knew exactly what it was, there were so many of them in the future, even if with a little more modern style. 

“Oil factory” murmured John.

“Yeah, I know. Who does it belong to?”

“I have no idea.”

“Maybe Leviticus Cornwall?”

John jerked his head around to look right at her face.

“What do you know about Leviticus Cornwall?” he asked.

“That he was a great man with a great business.”

“You mean a pompous son of a bitch with a lot of money” John laughed bitterly.

“How can you say that? You don’t know him.”

“Dutch told me about him.”

“But from my understanding, he doesn’t know the man either” she replied frowning.

“Dutch knows people like him. He’s been fighting them all his life.”

Fighting? What was he been fighting? Economists? Businessmen? But those people are only a representation of a greater thing: progress. And you can’t fight progress. 

Emily was starting to understand Dutch’s character a little better: a man with wrong but strong beliefs who had succeeded in convince a bunch of people to follow him in a life of sin and misery, but presenting that life to them like the best they could aspire to, some sort of guru, a mentor. 

Again, Emily didn’t find the courage to tell John that Dutch’s fight seemed useless and impossible. She didn’t want to attack that man who everybody saw like a light in the dark, the head and heart of the group. It wasn’t wise. 

They focused their attention on something else, talking about futility and ordinary things until they finally reached the Emerald Ranch. In Emily’s eyes it was a very peaceful place - at least at the beginning - quite big, but with most of the houses abandoned, which was something she found strange.

Maybe the place was having a period of recession and many had decided to leave, or worst, they were fired. The thought made her feel awful. Those people were probably having much trouble already on their own, they surely didn’t need them to steal their sheep. It could have been the final blow to make them fall in ruin. 

The three men inside the yard stopped what they were doing to look at them when they jumped down the wagon and walked down the street. The man with the scarred face and the limp and the little maiden. What a strange couple. 

“How can I help you?”

The words caught Emily and John’s attention. A man had spoken them, a gray-haired man with clear eyes. 

“Hi partner. We’re looking for, erm, sheep” said John walking towards him, hiding how he could the hurting leg.

“We’re starting a little business of ours as ranchers and we need animals” he added.

The man eyed John from head to toe frowning slightly at his words. 

“You don’t look like a rancher. What happened to you?” he asked nodding to John’s leg.

“Wolves.”

“Ah… nasty bastards.”

“You can say that. So, about them sheep?”

“Listen buddy. We don’t sell privately. If you want some sheep there will be an auction one week from now. You can buy your sheep there.”

“One week from now you say? And I’ll find some of your animals there?”

“Sure, we are the best around here.”

Relieved by the fact that everything was going as expected, John entertained a conversation of a few minutes with the man about cattle, pretending he really wanted to start his own business. Emily in the meantime had already lost herself. She was looking around at that strange place, so quiet, so old.  

Emerald Ranch had the stables and the animals on one side and the houses on the other, and the main house was perfectly distinguishable from those of the employees because it was definitely bigger and fancier, with its green and white exterior. 

Studying the building, she saw a woman at the window, looking down at her in the street, but Emily’s eyes had passed on her too quickly to understand that she was actually there, and returning on that window a fraction of second after, she had already gone.

At the beginning she thought of a reflection, a game the light had played to her eyes, otherwise, why should that woman hide from her? The fact struck Emily in such a way that she started looking round, at the other houses, the other people, and she noticed there wasn’t a single woman among them, just men. 

Her mind started to roam: she imagined the ghost of a woman hunting the place at night that scared all the women out of the place so that none of the ranchers could take wife, and without the chance to accept new people because of the ghost the place had started to fall in disgrace. 

“Are you looking for something?”

The man who had spoken had red hair, green eyes and a walrus mustache. Well built and tall, according to Emily he could be around forty.

“Just looking around. Why are those houses closed?” she asked pointing at the ruining buildings.

“This was a sort of little town once, but it didn’t work. That was a saloon, and that one was a general store.”

“Why didn’t it work?”

The man smiled, looking away and Emily found his smile incredibly attractive, but at the same time she was sure he was hiding something. 

“It just didn’t. Mr. Wagner, the owner, is a little jealous of his property and didn’t want any stranger to come here. That’s why you and… your friend should leave as soon as possible.”

Something inside Emily trembled at those words. The red haired man looked nice, but the worried way he had said those words was scaring her. She dared to ask just one question more.

“What about the woman at the window?”

The man took some steps backwards and shook his head slightly.

“Good day to you, Miss” he said and just walked away.

Once alone, Emily glanced again at the window before she ran back to John, who, in the mean time, talking with the man, had reached the fence and was pointing at some cows. 

“John, John, I think we should go” she urged him with a trembling voice.

“Yes, I think I have all the information I need. I’ll see you at the auction then” he said to the gray-haired man stretching out a hand. 

“Oh, no. Not really. We always send the young ones to herd the sheep to the auction.”

“Oh, well, goodbye then, partner.”

The two shook hands and, finally, John and Emily walked back to the wagon.

...

“They’ll move around ten heads one week from now, walking past the Twin Stack Pass. A perfect spot to surprise them. They sell each animal forty dollars. It’s not much but I reckon it will do for now.”

John looked at Emily, seated next to him on the wagon and suddenly realized there was something wrong: she had a troubled face.

“What? What happened?”

“That place… that place gave me the shivers.”

“Why? Seemed normal to me." “Something happened there, something terrible they’re trying to hide.”

John scoffed and shook his head. She was definitely 

exaggerating. 

“And what would it be?”

“A murder” she said without hesitation.

This time John laughed openly, but he hadn’t considered the still painful stitches on his face and the laugh chocked in his mouth and turned into a moan of pain. 

“What gave you the idea?” he asked.

Emily wanted to tell him about the ghost of the woman at the window, but she knew he would have probably called her crazy.

For all the way back, she was rather silent. Heading to Emerald Ranch, she had chewed John’s ear off, and honestly, he preferred her when she talked, because that silence was making the journey long and boring. 

“Oh! I forgot!” she exclaimed slamming her hand on her forehead.

“What?”

“I wanted to buy a chicken.”

John’s expression doesn’t need a description, he was more than bewildered at those words.

“What?”

“A chicken. The other day Jack told me he never ate chicken. I wanted to cook one, or try to cook one for him.”

“He’s never eaten chicken?”

It was Emily turn to look at him in bewilderment.

“You don’t know that your son has never tried chicken?”

No, John didn’t want to talk about that, Abigail already burdened him with fatherly questions everyday in camp. 

“Never mind, we’re almost home” he diverted.

[galoots]

Leave me a comment!!!!

————–

Scrooge tossed aside a financial ledger with a deep, prolonged yawn. It hit his desk with a thump accompanied by a faint, subtle click. Scrooge didn’t hear it through the loud yawn that filled his ears.

Normally, Scrooge was alert and on the ball at work. A force to be reckoned with. Today, he was but a shade of his normal ferocity. His mind was clouded and unfocused, knocked loose by lack of sleep. The night before, a colicky Donald had kept him up. He had paced the long hallways of his home while he rubbed Donald’s back, singing soothing songs to lull them both back to sleep. It hadn’t worked. Neither of them got a wink of sleep. Without a care in the world, Donald was peacefully snoozing away in the carrier seat, placed on the center of Scrooge’s desk. His exhausted guardian wasn’t as lucky as the duckling. Instead of catching up on his rest, Scrooge had work to attend. What’s more, Duckworth was away on holiday and Scrooge was tasked with watching the darling duckling while he worked. And watch he did.

It wasn’t the exhaustion that distracted Scrooge from his work, but the little cutie on his desk. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, even though his lids were heavy with sleep. Donald need not do anything to command his attention either. Scrooge simply watched Donald sleep. He was enraptured by the gentle rise and fall of Donald’s chest. The occasional fidgeting that broke up a restful sleep. The little smiles that graced Donald’s beak. The way Donald clutched at his baby blanket. How his thumb found its way to his mouth without fail.

Scrooge placed a hand on Donald’s stomach, feeling the soft belly move with each breath. He was Scrooge’s joyous little yellow fluffball. He could look at him forever.

He might have, until Donald sneezed and farted. His tiny eyes shot open in surprise. He had startled himself awake.

“Bless you!” Scrooge said.

Donald stared up at him in wide-eyed surprise, as if he wasn’t sure who had made all that noise.

“That was you, cutie.” Scrooge booped Donald on his beak. Donald’s perplexed expression didn’t fade as Scrooge fished a handkerchief from his coat pocket. “Let me wipe away those boogies for you.”

With Donald all cleaned up, Scrooge resumed admiring his young ward. How one person could be so utterly captivating was beyond him.

Donald’s surprise at his sudden awakening had dwindled. He blinked blearily up at his uncle, letting his thumb slip from his beak to let a small yawn slip out with a high-pitched squeak. Scrooge couldn’t stifle an aw in response. His affectionate little sigh morphed into another yawn mid-way through the vocalization.

Scrooge lay his head gingerly on his nephew’s stomach. Heavenly. The combination of baby fat and down feathers made for a sublime pillow. He wondered idly if the boys in the lab could whip up a mock prototype that felt like this. They’d sell like hotcakes. He could see the billboards. McDuck Brand Pillows: Sleep Like a Baby Again.

He thought about pitching the product idea to his head scientist, Fulton Gearloose. Fulton was uniquely suited to the project. He had a wee one of his own. Gyro, he believed the babe’s name was. About a year or two older than Donald.

I should set up a playdate. A partnership between Donald and Fulton’s son could come in handy in the future when Donald takes over the company. It’s never too early to start networking after all. Scrooge’s eyelid drifted shut as he daydreamed about business opportunities both real and imagined. His mind teetered over the edge of sleep, ready to fall into that abyss, when a loud angry quack startled him away from that precipice.

He lifted his weary head and rubbed at his tired eyes. “Sorry, boyo. Didn’t mean to use you as a pillow,” Scrooge yawned. “It’s just that you’re so soft. And I’m so, so tired.”

His eyes blurred from lack of sleep. When they refocused, Donald’s tiny face was screwed up in an angry pout.

Scrooge poked Donald’s puffed-up cheek. “You are just adorable, you know that?”

“Nah!” Donald cried with a noticeable degree of irritation.

“Its true! Look at you! You don’t even know how wee you are. I could just gobble you up!” Scrooge grabbed Donald’s clothed feet and mimed nibbling on his toes. “Narm narm narm! I’m hungry for baby!”

Donald pout changed to smile with a giggle.

“Look at your toesie-woesies.” Under normal circumstances, Scrooge wouldn’t be caught dead using such schoompy baby talk in the office. But the combination of exhaustion and sheer adoration had made him careless and loopy. He wiggled one of Donald’s webbed toes with a lopsided smile on his face. “This little piggie went to the market—”

His beeper went off, cutting his recitation of the nursery rhyme short. Without bothering to check the message, Scrooge shut it off and dropped the offending piece of tech into a drawer. He shut it with a smug sense of satisfaction. Take that. Whatever was going on couldn’t be that pressing.

             Scrooge struggled to recall what he’d been doing prior to the beeper’s rude interruption. Just as he seized upon his abandoned thread of thought, the loud ringing of his telephone severed it once again. Scrooge picked up the phone and slammed it back down on the receiver without hesitation.

How annoying. He abandoned whatever he’d been doing before. He switched over to tickling Donald’s foot with one finger. “Can you say unca?”

For the past week, he’d been prompting Donald to call him unca; all to no avail. All Donald could manage was the same old meaningless baby babble.

“Come on, lovebug.” Scrooge cradled Donald’s little foot in the palm of his hand. “Unca. Say un-ca.”

Donald gazed back at him. Scrooge’s anticipation grew as Donald opened his beak to say: “Ma-ma.”

“What?” Scrooge was taken aback. That was, without a doubt, the first word Donald had managed to squeak out so far, but it wasn’t what he’d expected. “No, no. Not mama. Un-ca.”

Scrooge slowed down and stretched the syllables, pointing at the movements his beak made.

“Ma-ma!” Donald yelled back.

Scrooge frowned and pointed at himself. “Me un-ca. Not ma-ma.”

Donald laughed. He liked the reaction this strange sound triggered in his uncle. “Ma-ma!”

Scrooge hung his head in defeat. He was talking like a caveduck. Oh, if people could hear him now.

He dropped Donald’s foot from his loose grasp. Scrooge stretched his arms out widely, the movement knocking the financial ledger he tossed earlier and sending it hurtling to the ground.

“Whoops.” As he bent to retrieve it, he heard his intercom crackle to life.

“Um sir?” His receptionist’s voice was backed by a chorus of awkward tittering and hysterical laughter. Scrooge straightened slowly, feeling dread wash down his spine.

He said… he said… He heard one of his employee’s gasp for breath in the background. He said toesies woesies!

Scrooge felt his heart drop into his stomach. Oh no.

Another man guffawed heartily. Boogies! He yelled. Mama Scrooge!

Scrooge looked at the ledger in his hand. When he’d thrown it down earlier, it must have hit the transmit button on his intercom. The entire staff of his main office located at his central headquarters had heard every last word of his sleep-deprived, mushy ramblings.

Hysterical laughter crackled over the line as his receptionist hemmed and hawed about trying to reach him earlier about the situation.

Scrooge violently yanked the power cord to his intercom, cutting off the echoes of his employees yelling Mama Scrooge at each other. Wide-eyed and mortified, he plunked his head back down on Donald’s stomach. This time he ignored Donald’s angry little quacks. He needed the comfort of his baby’s soft warm belly. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he heard the nickname Mama Scrooge around the office. Not by a longshot.

[mackwritess]

Westwood Road

Word count: 3k+

Summary: It’s your average high school romance. The boy meets a girl who accepts him despite his hidden secret, and in turn he changes her. But what happens when she’s got her own little secret?

A/N: Hi! This story represents a lot of milestones for me as this is both my first commission and my first attempt at romance! I hope you like it!

He’s running late. It’s a character flaw of his, really. A problem he’s never been able to correct, no matter how many alarms he set to go off in time. This time though, it isn’t just some unimportant thing he’s late for, oh no.

Today, he’s meeting her parents.

He takes a sharp turn down her street, the street people normally avoid. He doesn’t have time to think about the warnings he’s gotten about this old gravel road. He has somewhere to be.

He finally decides to slow down a bit in order to ensure he doesn’t pass up his destination by mistake. Slowing down to what feels like a snail’s pace, he pays close attention to each disheveled home he passes by, looking out for the house that was described to him.

Luckily, he didn’t have to look particularly hard, as she was standing outside the very place he was looking for, waiting for him to arrive.

He slows his vehicle to a stop and jumps out immediately, trying to make up every second he may have lost. Running over to where she stands, he tries to rush out an apology, explaining his situation. Instead of lashing out as he fears, she offers him a serene, almost eerie, smile. She assures him he’s right on time, and takes his hand to lead him inside.

~

How they met was something straight out of a romantic comedy.

He was running late, of course, to a special event at his local video game store. He insists it’s not his fault this time, really, it’s not. He’s got a reputation to uphold, he can’t be caught hanging out with a bunch of people who’ve never even been to prom without a group of friends rather than a date, he rationalizes. He’s ducking around corners and hiding behind telephone poles in a borderline cartoonish manner, hoping he won’t run into someone from school, specifically anyone he’s on a team with.

After finally arriving at the store, he can finally drop his elaborate manner of movement, certain that he’ll run into no trouble here. Upon arrival, he spots the table set up for the event he’s attending, already surrounded by others who are there for the same reason he is. He scans the scene quickly, looking for a place to sit, and his eyes find an empty seat next to a girl.

He thinks nothing of it and takes a seat next to her, offering her a small smile when he does. It’s only when she turns to look at him that he realizes he knows her from somewhere. Perhaps he’s seen her in the store before, though he isn’t quite sure.

Today’s event is for a game tournament. It’s a relatively popular game, if the attendance of this event is anything to go by. After the order of the tournament is decided, he’s careful not to take his eyes off his other opponents' game play, hoping to catch on to any tricks they may have.

The girl he had sat next to doesn’t appear to have any particular strategy. Unlike her more animated competitors, she remains calm, her expression blank.

Eventually, after making his way up the tournament bracket, he finds himself facing her in the final. He’s nervous, having been unable to learn anything about her potential, but can tell that she’s skilled.

“I’m nervous,” she says suddenly, “You’re really good.”

He’s caught off guard. She hasn’t spoken a word this entire time, and he’s certain he’s only gotten this far by luck. All he can do is offer her a sheepish smile, before the game begins.

He’s feeling a little misled by the time their turn concludes. Not only was he utterly destroyed, but their match was the shortest out of all the others, lasting a measly two minutes. She’s given her prize, a gift card to be used in the store, and immediately stands from her seat, presumably to begin her shopping with her newly earned funds.

He finds himself following after her, not to berate her or accuse her of cheating like some people his age might do, but rather to ask how the hell she managed to do what she did in such a fashion. He finds her looking at the old used games, likely because of their relatively low price range compared to the rest of the items in the store.

He’s unsure how to approach her, the first time he’s ever been nervous about such a thing. He can’t quite place it, but something about her is making him feel sheepish and insecure in a way. It’s when he finally decides what he’ll start with, a simple “hello” that he sees her pick up an old game he recalls from childhood. Immediately, he calls out to her, seeming to startle her, and explains the relationship he has with the game.

“It’s one of the first games I ever owned,” he elaborates. “I’ve never even gotten to complete it. Haven’t seen the cartridge in years.”

The girl seems to consider his words. “What if I let you borrow it? After I’m done with it, of course.”

He lights up at her offer. “I would love that!” He says, albeit a little loudly, attracting the attention of other patrons in the store. Taking note, he lowers his voice. “But how would I know to get it back from you, and how would I return it?”

“Well, it is the twenty-first century after all. I could just give you my number.” He cringes at himself, realizing how clueless he must seem.

“Right, yea, we could do that.” He moves to take her phone to enter his number before pausing. “Wait. Do you mind keeping this a secret?”

“I mean, sure,” she says, clearly confused by his odd request, “Can I ask why?”

“No one knows I do things like this, it’s a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine. If people found out, my reputation would be ruined.” He expects her to get angry. To tell him he has no respect for the hobby or the people who play professionally.

Instead, she laughs.

“What year is this? Dude, everyone plays video games these days. What, do you think you’re gonna get bullied if you tell your friends you like Mario?” She laughs again, and he decides he likes the sound of it.

“It’s a long story, alright? Just promise me you won’t say anything,” he says, trying to preserve what little dignity he has left after today.

“Fine, fine. I’ll keep your dirty little secret,” she says. She hands him his phone, and he quickly inputs his name and number. Upon finishing, he looks up and hands the phone back to her. Though, he’s afraid to make eye contact, so instead he finds himself watching the fly that seems to have appeared out of nowhere.

“How long do you think it’ll take for you to finish?” He asks, trying to shift the conversation back.

“Not sure,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve never played, could be weeks, months even. But I’ll get back to you as soon as I finish.” He nods, already eager to talk to her again.

Three days later, he receives a message.

~

What had begun as a simple exchange had quickly turned into a friendship between the two of them. The two of them clicked better than he had ever expected. Upon talking more to her, he realizes she looked familiar because they have a few classes together. He worries that she’ll be upset that he didn’t know her, but instead she laughs it off.

They’ve made it a weekly tradition now to meet once every week at the game store where they first met. They talk about their favorite releases, look at new equipment that the store has gotten in, and comb over the clearance section, hoping to get their hands on a cheap game or two.

This time, though, his luck appears to have run out.

The two of them are making their way around the store, looking for a particular pair of headphones that professional gamers swear is the best product in the business. Upon examining them, deciding they won’t look at the price tag just yet, he hears a familiar voice call out his name.

He looks up, and is met with the confused expression of his teammate.

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

“I’m looking for some game for my brother, he’s got his heart set on it so I’m getting it as a Christmas gift. What are you doing here?”

He stutters, trying to come up with an explanation, when she peers from behind him to see what the sudden commotion is about.

“It’s a game store, can’t you read?” She asks, obviously irritated by the interruption. “Why don’t you look for what you came here for and mind your business?”

He’s shocked by her sudden outburst, and when he turns to look at her, she’s back to browsing the shelves as if nothing happened.

“You’re here with her too? Man, you really must be desperate for something to do,” the other boy responds, unphased by her words.

“What’s wrong with her?” He lets slip immediately, wanting to return the favor.

“You’re telling me you haven’t heard? She lives on Westwood Road. You know, that old freaky abandoned road at the edge of town?”

“So what?”

“What do you mean, so what?” The boy balks. “That place is haunted, no sane person would ever live there, besides, even ignoring the fact that she’s probably some undead weirdo, this place is for nerds.”

He moves to say something, but a fearful expression briefly moves past the other boy’s face, and he’s backing away.

“You know what? Forget it. I won’t tell anyone I saw you, just keep that freak away from me.” He turns around and quickly moves to another part of the store.

“Well,” she says, drawing his attention back to her, “that was something.”

He profusely apologizes to her, which she brushes off and insists is fine. She continues her shopping, deciding she’ll buy the overpriced headset she’s heard so much, and he asks when he’ll be allowed to borrow them.

~

It had been a few months since the incident, and rather than growing farther apart like he feared, they’d actually grown much closer. They spend almost every day together now, whether it be just goofing off or working on school assignments together. With spring break underway, today is one of their goofing off days.

He decides that today he’s going to ask her to go to prom with him.

He doesn’t really have a plan, deciding he’ll keep it simple and wing it rather than some big display of affection. He’ll wait for the right moment, and then he’ll ask her and hope he doesn’t get rejected.

They’re at a local diner now, having decided after last time that if they get confronted again that they can handle it. He’s listening to her explain the plot of a game she’s been struggling with lately. She’s clearly frustrated, having never struggled with a game before, and he finds it endearing.

“Will you go to prom with me?” He asks, not realizing he’s said anything until she stops ranting, a shocked expression appearing on her face.

“What did you just say?”

“I was just thinking, since we’ve been hanging out so much. I don’t know, I don’t really talk to any other girls and I really like spending time with you and I just thought-“

She cuts off his rambling by throwing a napkin at his face, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Relax, already. I just wanted to see you freak out a little,” she chuckles lightly. “I’d love to go with you.”

He lets out a sigh of relief, pulling another laugh from her.

“I really thought you’d reject me for a second there.”

“Do you really take me as being that heartless?”

“Heartless isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Intimidating?”

“That’s the one.”

They continue to talk for hours on end, until the street lights outside the diner turn on. Another fly appears in his field of vision, though his focus this time is entirely on her.

~

“What are you smiling about?” She asks, having stopped at her front door, waiting for him to snap back from whatever thought he was having.

“Remember prom?” She laughs immediately.

“Yea, how could I forget the wonky chocolate fountain they had that got all over everyone’s clothes?”

“I still can’t believe I talked you into going to an after party.”

“Listen, I heard there was a pool, I wasn’t about to say no.”

The two of them laugh again, reminiscing on the night they decided to make their relationship official.

“C’mon,” she says, suddenly much quieter, “let’s head in.”

He follows her through the door, and is met with a surprisingly nice house compared to the disheveled appearance. There’s a few paintings hung up on the wall, and an old fireplace lit in the living room.

He makes his way through the house, curiosity overtaking his thoughts that he may be acting a bit rude for digging around. He finds a decently sized kitchen, and a dining room straight out of a centuries old painting.

While he looks around, she’s following him slowly, hoping the old furniture is enough to distract him from her presence. She lifts the weapon above her head and, right as he moves to turn around, brings it down on his head.

~

He wakes up after what feels like days, when in reality it’s only been about an hour. His head is throbbing, and when he tries to move, he finds himself unable to, his hands having been tied behind him. He’s in a dark room, barely able to see anything as his visions adjusts to the lack of light. The smell of sulfur invades his nostrils, worsening his headache.

“You’re awake, I see. I thought you’d be out for at least another hour or two.”

He hears her voice before he sees her. When she steps forward, he notices something is different. Her demeanor has changed, and he finds himself sitting up in the chair he’s tied to.

“What happened? Where are we? Are you okay?”

“How sweet, you’re worried about me?” She sighs, “Don’t do that, my dear boy. You’re starting to make me feel a little bad for what’s about to happen.”

He’s about to ask her what she means, when she speaks again.

“Oh, have you not figured it out yet? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. This has been one of my most successful catches, after all.”

“Catches?” He asked, still not understanding.

“Must I explain everything?” She shrugs. “Fine, I suppose I can tell you how you’ll be dying.” His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to scream when she interrupts him. “Don’t bother, we’re underground. No one will hear you.”

“What the hell is going on? Who are you?”

“I have many names. It’d be easier if you think of me as the one I already gave you.”

“Why am I tied up? What are you doing?”

“Well in order to get to that, we’ll have to start from the beginning, wouldn’t you agree?” He doesn’t respond. “Why don’t we play a little game? Did you notice anything strange when we first met?”

He thinks back. Nothing particular stands out to him, except for one thing.

“There was a fly, that was pretty weird.” He finds himself laughing, despite his situation. “I was too afraid to look at you, so I watched the fly.”

“Judging by the way you’re laughing right now, I assume you don’t know what this means.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“Anything else you noticed? A certain smell perhaps?”

“Sulfur. I smell sulfur.” She says nothing. He’s deep in thought. “So you’re a demon?”

“Ding ding ding! Smart boy, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

“Why me? Why did it have to be me?”

“Oh, it’s nothing personal, really. You just seemed the perfect target. Looks like I was right.” Again, she’s met with silence. “I know it’s hard for you to accept, but I never loved you. You’re a food source for me, nothing more.” Still, he says nothing.

“So now what happens? You eat my soul or something?” He asks, finally.

“Precisely! And since you’ve won the game, I've decided to let you have your last words. Go ahead.” He looks her directly in the eye.

“You’re lying.”

“W-what?” She stutters, caught off guard. “I’m not lying, why else do you think your loud friend ran off that day?”

“No no, I believe that you’re a demon. What I don’t believe is that you never loved me.” It’s her turn to stay silent. Taking note, he continues. “It’s not hard to tell when feelings are real, and yours clearly were, whether you’re ready to admit it or not.”

“They weren’t!” She yells, beginning to shake.

“Now that I think about it, I’ve heard of your kind before. Your death relates to lost love, and now you live as a demon, breaking hearts and feeding on the souls because this is how you survive. How you get your revenge.”

“Stop it,” she screams, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you love me, really, but I know you no choice.” She’s crying now. All she can do is shake her head violently in denial. “But it’s okay. Because I still love you. And I forgive you.”

~

She leaves the house covered in his blood. She found herself unable to consume his soul, as even after all she’d done, she was still unable to break him. Out of anger, and sadness, she had ripped him apart, leaving his body scattered across the room.

For years, she’s been living on this road. She’d never encountered any problems, and she never had to think too much about what she would ultimately end up doing to her victims. This time was different.

She was suddenly disgusted with herself, after doing what she’d done to so many people. Maybe she’d find some other way to sustain herself. Perhaps one day, she’d reunite with him, one day when she felt she was worthy of a love so pure.

For now, though, she would leave Westwood Road, and start somewhere new.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Feeling kinda dumb asking this tbh. Not sure if you even watched TVD, but in case you did, you know how Bonnie uses Expression Magic which is considered extreamly dark and powerful form of magic (I mean, she literally destroyed hell!) do you mind writing Freddy x victim!reader oneshot where he mets a witch who also practices Expression and is extreamly powerfull? He tries to kill her at first obviously

Omg, this one started out so light hearted but oh my god.

Don't feel dumb!! Its a good ask!! I do watch TVD, and I hope you like this ^^ 

~~~

I wake up the same way I have for the past 3 weeks. With messy hair, slashes through my favourite pyjama shirt and a finger in my hand- well, it isn’t always a finger. Sometimes its an ear, a portion of his ugly sweater, his hat, once even his eyeball. You get the picture though. Unimpressed, I watch the finger turn to gunky, dirty dust. Then promptly get up and tiredly get out the vacuum cleaner to clean up the mess.

Once I’m done, I put the vacuum back in its cupboard down the hall, which at this point I could totally do just from muscle memory and no other senses due to how often this month I’ve ripped something of Freddy’s back out into the real world in my attempt to take him out and kill him off the clean way.

But, I take a deep breath and let it out, exhausted and resigned, as I pull on pants and search through my closet for a shirt to wear out today. I guess I’m going to have to do it the hard way.

Finally, I discard the ruined shirt and wrench on a clean, yellow t-shirt and leave my house.

___TIME SKIP___

“Hey, Bernard,” I beam towards the grassy haired barista. The café’s basically empty, apart from a group of teenagers watching Netflix and Disney plus on their laptops and phone sin the far corner, so I think we’re fine to talk. He looks up from the mug he was drying out, sees my expression and promptly scoffs. Immediately he starts down the bar, past the glass case with all the sweets inside including a delicious jelly slice with lavender for safety that I get when I come here for breakfast, rounds it, and comes all the way to stand very close to me. He holds up his pointer finger between us sternly, almost mad and I focus instead on his hair rather then his face. It really is grassy- not because he’s been playing footy which he likely was before he came to work and not just because its green. Its messy, and multiple shades of different, environmental green. Representing his element.

“Don’t you dare.”

I sigh, and roll my eyes as I sit down in a bar stool, successfully putting space between us as he doesn’t move. “Its kind of a dire situation.”

“A demon?” He doesn’t look at all like it would change his mind on the subject of my using magic if it were a demon. Which it is.

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that draws strength from attention, lets move on.” Again, I roll my eyes. Not at Bernard though, this time its Freddy. Yes, he totally is that kind of demon. Not even just because he needs people to believe he exists to work. He’s just an attention whore.

Bernard crosses his arms and rolls his shoulders back, more than expressing his parents’ shared fire element. And, also, his cranky streak. “You will not use magic.”

“I’ve tried doing it the easy way. I’ll be safe, I promise.”

“I’m not worried about you, I’m worried about your neighbours, and the rest of the known universe if you fuck up. Actually, scratch that. Unknown universe, too.”

“I’m not asking you for permission anyway. Just- come on, gimmie the book.” I hold out my hand, looking around for where he could possibly be hiding it. Cupboards? Behind the cupboards? Has he digitised it? He just continues to glower, and its so forceful that I lower my hand and pout. He’s always been the scary cousin in our family.

“Oh, you so are asking me for permission. You don’t know where the book is!” He sneers, and I deadpan deeply at his immaturity.

“Look, Ber, we’re grown adults. Grown! Ass! Adults! I can make my own decisions, now- where is the book?”

“No!”

“Gimmie!”

“I’m older than you, and I say no!”

“Berrrrrrrr- Oh hi Boyd.” I pause in glaring at my Bernard to look at his brother, Boyd walk by from the upstairs apartment, clipping the vizor attachment to his glasses as he’s going out. He looks boredly at me smiling at him and keeps going to the door with an old-fashioned bell fixed to the top.

“You’re here for the grimoire?” He asks, opening the door and turning over his shoulder, and I nod sweetly- he’s sure to be more helpful! “Yeah, Bernard lost it. Hid it so well even he cant find it anymore. Now, I have a date.” He leaves the, now very tense and cold café with a curt, “Later.”

Slowly… I turn to Bernard. He is now avoiding eyecontact. He misplaced… our families… century old… grimoire??! “Find. It.”

Having a change of heart, he heads behind the counter again with a lowered head. “Oof, I’m on it.”

It must take hours, before I give up looking alongside him and sit down to take a rest. The teenagers have gone by now, and Bernard turned the ‘Open’ sign on the front window around to say ‘Closed’. I don’t know how it happened, but at some point, I rest my head on the bench and the exhaustion from not getting full rest for weeks catches up to me, and I fall asleep.

“Back so soon?”

I jump. “Gah!” Turning around to where the voice came from and I see Freddy- clearly, not in a creative mood because otherwise he wouldn’t have appeared so quick. “Why are you here?!”

“This is my domain, sweetheart.” Freddy explains, something I already knew and he knows I already know and I groan.

“It’s the middle of the day! Can’t I have this one moment to sleep in peace??” A wide smile spreads across his face, and I slouch over. Course not. Oh god, I am so tired. Another yell escapes me though, exhaustion making me incredibly jumpy, when suddenly he appears beside me. Physical form and everything, I can feel the fuzz of his sweater on my arm. “Don’t touch me.” I flash him a glare, not daring him. Definitely not daring him- he’ll take it. Just telling him to back the fuck off because I’m tired not only from his unfaltering ability to keep me busy and working, even when I’m asleep, and also now because my dear older, moronic cousin has lost our grimoire which was entrusted to him, which I need to get rid of Freddy, in order to sleep and actually feel rested!

Oh, my goodddddd, I would do almost anything right now to dream about stupid normal stuff like flying, or running from an encroaching car, or falling. Even falling, which wakes you up. At least I can fall right back to sleep.

“Okay, now, see, if you tell me that, I’ll just wanna do the opposite! ~” The clawed glove nears my face and my right eye twitches, but I stand still there with my arms crossed and glare at it. The rusty, nearly black metal nearing my eyes, reflecting the sharp, gross grin on Freddy’s burnt face.

“So, its opposite day then?” I ask, humouring him because what else are you going to do? When he gets bored, he’s even more dangerous.

“Yep!” Visibly, the stripe sin his sweater switch places so its green and red, and not red and green. He thinks he’s funny.

And, clearly I’m exhausted otherwise I never would’ve fallen for that. “Then please touch me Fredrick.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, raucous laughter escapes him, and he holds his belly as he doubles over and laughs. I groan and dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. I need to wake up. “Out of all the obnoxious murderers out there… “I got the worst of the lot.

“Yep, you got me. Now, let’s stop fucking around shall we? Let’s get to the good stuff!”

“Oh no.” I half groan, half whine in dread and fear. Suddenly, the fact that I fell asleep feels like stupidest move ever- at any time, he might kill me. Its just blind luck that he hasn’t felt like ending the game so far. But he could at any time, including this time.

Freddy disappears again, and I whip around to look for him. My heart starts to beat thunderously in my chest because nothing good has ever occurred when Freddy disappears. I’ve been shot, I’ve been crushed under a stone slab, I’ve been choked with 80’s twisted telephone phone cables- I’ve even been kissed. And every time, I get closer to dying. I lose oxygen, I lose blood, I lose morale. Every time I get hurt, Freddy takes me closer to death then before and I think I’m actually gone this time. He’s bored, I’m not enough anymore, the torture is over.

Which is both a relief and even more horrifying then anything else. Tears cluster in my eyes as time goes by and nothing happens. I just see the boiler room around me, everything tinted red and everything damp and shiny with grease and rust. I don’t want to die.

Suddenly, smoke starts to fill the room. Until I can’t see anything at all except the white in front of me and my hand if I would raise it, but I don’t. I just stay very still, afraid of what’s about to happen. “Fr-Freddy?” I call, weak and disappointing myself. I’m a fucking witch… but that doesn’t really mean much in this world. Not without the spell that I need from the grimoire that’s nowhere to be found. I’m a witch, and I’ve raised to think that means something, means I’m a force to reckoned with, but here I am being reckoned with and I’m useless.

The ground underneath me starts to vibrate, and the smoke slowly starts to clear.

I squint, but I can’t see much through the remaining smoke and the tears shielding my eyes except a bright light.

The vibrating gets worse, and I look down and notice that the smoke has cleared enough at the point to see what beneath my feet, and the realisation of what’s there makes fear swarm throughout every crevice of my being. Mind, body and soul.

Train tracks.

My head snaps up again to see the light, a train, barrelling closer and closer to me. It’s so loud now that I’ve realised, I’m about get his by a fucking steam train, that my ears pop and protest to the pain of it all. The train gets closer and there’s Freddy. The fucker. Wearing a conductor’s uniform and hanging out the side of the driver’s compartment. He grins and waives.

I try to use rational sense and move out of the way, but rope shoots out of the earth between the tracks and twists tightly over my shoes. I try to wrench my feet out of my shoes, panicking now as the train tracks are practically jumping, but the ripe starts to climb… higher and higher up and around my legs and my hip and my arms, until I can’t move at all. It’s so tight I can’t barely even breath- not that I’ll need to for much longer.

I brace myself, and squeeze my eyes shut against the now blinding, all-encompassing brightness of the trains light. And then the train hits-

“FOUND IT!”

I’m wrenched suddenly, and violently from my sleep on the counter and straighten up so vigorously that I nearly slip right off the bar stool. There’s drool on the bench from my sleep, my cheek feels stiff from resting on it for a while, and whip around to look at Bernard who’s standing beside me now with the leather bound, yellow paged book that he’s found. I snatch it from his fingers, dropping it on the bench and start frantically looking through it, eyes still filled with tears and now they start falling. I slap a hand over my mouth, stifling the heavy sob that racks my back and shoulders and mouth from the shock and horror of what just nearly happened. I can still see fuzzy blue dots in my vision from the light, and my nose tingles because the train just touched. It smelled like smoke and coal and that’s still in my nose. Theirs white scrapes on my wrists from the rough rope.

“Y/N,” Bernard touches my arm and I don’t push him off, but I don’t respond, either. I barely notice him, too preoccupied with looking for the right spell. I need this to be over, that can’t happen to me again! I’m not brave enough for it. Another terrible sob forces its way from my chest and I feel half like curling into my cousins chest and crying my heart out and half like killing that bastard Freddy. Wrenching his entire nasty existence from unwritten history and tearing it so it will never be salvaged again.

The second half wins, as I go back through the book backwards, and this time find the spell. “Ow-Okay.”

“Y/N, take a moment- “

“No,” I snap. I nearly got h i t, by a t r a i n. A monstrous thing the same colour as Freddy’s blades. Bernard can’t understand that, but I sure as fuck can. Stammering, but sure, I start to recite the incantation under my breath. Slowly it gets louder, as words start to become harder to say and I need concentrate more. Latin mixes together into one big word, and its har don the best of days but when there’s expression magic involved, it takes an army. More.

And I am that, right now.

Bernard looks around as wind, not coming from an open door or window, starts picking up in this room and rushes to shut the curtains and block the rest of the world from seeing in. Napkins go flying, then the chairs topple over, and then finally the wind is so strong that coffee maker rips from the wall and smashes into the glass sweets case.

I don’t see it, because I’m still following the words in the book, but I hear it. But only just, over the terrible wind screaming through my ears. Finally, the spell reaches its peak and the air in front of Bernard and me, who has gotten back to where I am, opens up. Like someone took a knife and tore literally through the fabric of space and time and magic, revealing the familiar boiler room.

The words start to speak on their own. Whispering in the wind and my lips don’t even have to move, so I let Bernard take the book. Its all so chaotic, I don’t know how I know what to do. But I reach forward and just, lightly touch the hole and its like the magic knows exactly what I want.

Dirty dust, like what Freddy turns into when you bring out of a piece of him from the dream world that I’ve been vacuuming for the past weeks appears, connects together into the shape of a man and then twists together slowly, disturbingly like vines until it isn’t dust and vines anymore. Its burnt flesh and knitted, red and green cotton.

And he looks mad. “You bitch.” Is all he manages to say, but it’s got so much hatred and fury in it that I nearly get scared. I feel it creeped into my bones and organ in my chest.

But then I remember. This is my world.

And I don’t want him in it. “Get out.” I spit, and just like the world seems to crash. Eliminating an existence -anything. Much less a person, - is a lot of work and a big deal. It shouldn’t be possible at all, and I believe that. But I believe it like some who believe murder shouldn’t be possible.

But it is and sometimes it happens, in dire situations.

It feels like I’m being torn on the inside, and scraped clean on the outside- punishment, for doing such a thing. Something to make the world balanced for this.

And Freddy warps like The Scream or a computer glitch. Half of him gong up and the other half going down. Its horrifying sight and I’m in so much pain, but I make my eyes stay open.

And then everything goes black.

___TIME SKIP: A Week___

The whole week has gone by like dream. Not a Freddy dream. Not even a happy dream. Just, like its unreal. I don’t feel much, except a slow, soft blankness like when you’re totally out of it in class after a really, really bad day.

Its not particularly a bad feeling, not compared to the horrors I endured before. Its just like I need to rest, after I used so much power, and feeling so much in general.

Oh, and I have. I’ve been sleeping all the time. Day and night. It’s been uninterrupted and nearly… empty, feeling. Bizarly, I’m well aware now when I’m asleep that I’m dreaming. I’m lucid. Like when Freddy would be there, but without him. Its not exactly restful, but still. It’s better than the nightmares.

Right now, I’m going to sleep. Feeling tiredness expand and unconsciousness take over.

Immediately, I nearly jolt right awake again from fear. Nearly. But his hand grips onto my arm before I can.

Freddy’s right in front of me, smiling sharp like a much madder, pissed off the Cheshire cat. “Heya again sweetheart.” His voice sounds too real. His touch feels to real. This cant be- “It took a fucking lot. Pulled a few strings, don’t know how. Don’t ask. But I’m back. Don’t worry though, I’m not about to kill you. That was a real neat trick you pulled… “I jump, and whimper when the a blade on his glove touches my cheek, and he leans much closer.

“So, we have a lot to talk about.”

You didn’t think you could rid of this Slasher, did you?