#paramour scribbles

[stoneheart-paramour]

trying to come up with a name for a Wonder - actually, not just a name, but the whole... concept. doodled the basic idea here:

but like. what's on the islands that makes them worth visiting y'know? trying to work out that. what would make this worth building a bunch of connecting bridges in the first place. ruins, maybe? humans have been living in telestrata for several thousand years, so perhaps the ruins of an abandoned ancient city could be worth the trouble... idk i'll keep thinking about it

[redocity]

>> Person A starts calling person B during their lunch break everyday. Person A's coworkers, who they USED to hang out with during lunch, are all super interested in this new supposed paramour. They start gossiping, theorizing, as well as hustling person A trying to get information about person B like its high school.

For your holiday event?

𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤’𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 — 𝐄.𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐘

Person A starts calling person B during their lunch break everyday. Person A's coworkers, who they USED to hang out with during lunch, are all super interested in this new supposed paramour. They start gossiping, theorizing, as well as hustling person A trying to get information about person B like its high school.

evan buckley x fem!reader | fluff | 1.2k | masterlist.

𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 !!

You’ve gotten used to your phone ringing right around noon. It’s become something you look forward to, the sight of “Evan Buckley” flashing on your screen making your heart flutter in a way you’d never admit to him—not yet, at least.

The first time he called, it was unexpected. You had barely unwrapped your sandwich when your phone buzzed, and his voice greeted you, cheerful and warm. “Hey! Just thought I’d check in and see how your day’s going.”

Since then, it’s become routine.

Buck calls you during his lunch break without fail, whether he’s at the firehouse, in the field, or even in the middle of a chaotic day. For half an hour, you talk about anything and everything: the weird things your coworkers do, the absurdities of his job, and those little moments that don’t seem like much until you share them with someone who listens the way Buck does.

What you don’t know is that your calls have not gone unnoticed.

—

At the 118, lunchtime used to mean loud banter and ridiculous debates. Buck was always in the middle of it, whether he was challenging Chimney to a chili-eating contest or trying to convince Eddie to finally pick a side in their pineapple-on-pizza debate.

Now?

Buck’s spot at the table is often empty, his voice heard only as he heads to a quieter corner of the station, phone pressed to his ear.

And it’s driving his coworkers insane.

“Who do you think he’s talking to?” Chimney asks, leaning back in his chair and squinting toward the kitchen, where Buck has just disappeared, phone in hand.

“Obviously someone special,” Hen says with a knowing smile.

“Special how?” Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on,” Hen says. “He’s sneaking off every day, giggling like a teenager. It’s gotta be a new relationship.”

Chimney’s eyes light up. “Wait—are we talking girlfriend material? Or is this like… a *situationship*? Because you know Buck.”

“Maybe it’s neither,” Eddie says, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.

The gossip escalates quickly. Chimney starts jotting down theories on the whiteboard in the common area, turning it into a full-on investigation.

Hen provides commentary, while Eddie does his best to pretend he isn’t interested—even though he’s quietly keeping track of Buck’s absences during lunch.

“Do you think it’s someone from his gym?” Chimney speculates one day.

“Could be,” Hen replies. “Or maybe it’s someone he met on one of those dating apps. You know how Buck is.”

“What if it’s a long-distance thing?” Eddie chimes in, finally caving in showing his interest.

“That would explain why he’s always on the phone,” Chimney agrees, scribbling it down.

They even try to corner Buck for answers, which only makes him laugh.

“Come on, guys,” he says one afternoon, grinning as he leans against the kitchen counter. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a deal?” Hen echoes. “Buck, you’ve practically abandoned us for this mystery caller. I think we deserve to know who’s stealing you away.”

“Yeah,” Chimney adds, crossing his arms. “Give us a name. Or at least a hint.”

Buck just shakes his head, clearly enjoying the attention. “You’ll find out eventually,” he says. “We’re just— taking it slow for now,”

—

The truth is, you have no idea any of this is happening.

To you, Buck is just Buck: funny, kind, and entirely too charming for his own good. You don’t think twice about his daily calls or the way he seems genuinely interested in every little detail you share with him.

You certainly don’t realise that his coworkers have turned your lunch break chats into a full-blown conspiracy.

One day, as you’re finishing up a story about the vending machine at work eating your dollar, Buck laughs—a soft, happy sound that makes your stomach do a little flip.

“You know,” he says, “I think my friends are starting to get jealous of you.”

“Jealous of me?” you ask, confused.

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re all trying to figure out who I’m talking to during lunch every day. It’s kind of hilarious.”

You pause, sandwich halfway to your mouth. “Wait. Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Buck replies, his grin evident even through the phone. “Chimney’s got this whole theory board going. Hen’s playing detective. And Eddie—well, he’s pretending he doesn’t care, but I know he’s keeping track.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up before you can stop it. “You’re telling me the 118 is trying to solve me like I’m some kind of mystery?”

“Pretty much,” Buck says, and there’s that warmth in his voice again, the kind that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. “It’s actually kind of sweet. In a very weird, invasive way—”

“What do they think? That I’m your secret spy contact? Your long-lost twin?”

“Oh, the theories are wild,” he says, leaning against the wall of the firehouse kitchen. “Long-distance girlfriend, someone I met in a bar, a *matchmaker* trying to help me find someone else—Hen’s personal favorite, by the way.”

“Wow,” you say, shaking your head in disbelief. “I didn’t realise our calls’d become the talk of the firehouse.”

“Don’t worry,” Buck says, his tone softening. “I haven’t told them anything. I like having this… whatever this is, just for us.”

The admission makes your breath catch. It’s the first time he’s really acknowledged the unspoken connection between you, the one that’s grown stronger with every call, every shared laugh, every small moment that feels far bigger than it should.

“I like it too,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

There’s a comfortable silence between you, the kind that speaks louder than words ever could.

“So,” you say eventually, trying to lighten the mood, “what happens if they figure it out?”

“Oh, they will,” Buck says, laughing again. “But until then, I’m having way too much fun letting them wonder. And honestly? I think they’ll love you.”

The words hang in the air, full of meaning you’re not quite ready to unpack.

“Bold assumption, Buckley,” you tease, though your voice is soft, your heart racing. “What makes you think they’ll even meet me?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” he says confidently, and there’s that grin again, the one you can hear even without seeing it. “One day, I’m going to bring you by the station. You know, when we’re ready.”

“When we’re ready,” you echo, the words settling somewhere deep in your chest.

“Yeah,” Buck says, his voice steady. “And they’ll love you.”

And somehow, you know he means it.

[strniohoeee]

Masterlist

Masterlist Pt. 2

��️- My Favorite

💋-smut

💋💋- really really smutty

💅🏽-friendship

🗣️-angst/sad

🫀-fluff

🦋-cute

🦇-fantasy/supernatural

Matt Sturniolo

Revenant pt. 1-🫀🗣️🦇

Revenant pt. 2-🫀🗣️🦋🦇

Hearth- 💋🦋

Disdain-💋💋

Poignant-🗣️🦋💅🏽 (‼️)

Poignant Pt. 2-🗣️🦋

Polar-💋🦋

Voracious-💋💋

Undefiled-🦋

Puppy Love-🦋 (‼️)

Vigilance-🫀🦋

Panic-🫀🦋💅🏽

Salacious-💋🦋

Stainless-💋🦋

Requisite-💋🦋

Confidential-💋

Confidential Pt. 2-💋🦋

Safe Haven-🗣️🦋🫀

Torrent-💋🦋🫀

Reserve-💋💋🦋

Gravid-💋🦋

Stuffy-🦋🫀

Drive-💋🦋🫀

Frantic-🗣️🦋

Hurt-🗣️🫀

Creepin-💋🦋

Stay Right There-💋

Mortified-💅🏽(💋not really smut)

Sharp-💋🦋

Parasite-💋🦇(‼️)

Parasite Pt. 2-💋🦇(‼️)

Besotted-💅🏽🦋

Healer-🦋🫀

Abscond-🦋(‼️)

Abscond Pt. 2-🦋(‼️)

How Good?-💋

Remedy-💋💋🦋(‼️)

Broken-🗣️🦋

Disregard(Matt’s Version)-🗣️🦋

Sunshine-🦋💋

Tightening-🗣️🦋🫀

Scribbling-🦋🫀

Can’t You See?-🗣️🫀🦋

Save A Horse-💋🦋

Dally-🦋

Foe-💋🦋

Fall-🗣️🦋

Inamorata-💋🦋

Moonlight-🦋

Tell Him-💋🦋

Not Mine-🗣️

Wait Line-🦋

Oblivion-🦋💅🏽

Chris Sturniolo

Belong To The City-💋💋(‼️)

Cutting Dead-🫀🦋

Ache-💋💋💅🏽

Amorous-💋🦋

Ardor-🫀🦋

Vain-🫀💅🏽🗣️

Disregard-🫀🗣️🦋

Guide-🫀🦋

Vile-💋💋

Racketeer-🦋(‼️)

Racketeer Pt. 2-🦋(‼️)

Racketeer Pt. 3-🦋(‼️)

Racketeer Pt. 4-🦋(‼️)

Corrival-💋🦋

Unplanned-🗣️💅🏽🦋

Adoration-🦋🫀💅🏽

Mishandle-🦋🗣️

Feigned-🦋

Brutal-💋💋

Taciturn-💋💋

Cinnamon-💋💅🏽 (‼️)

Luster-💅🏽(more of a triplet imagine, but I’ll put it under Chris) (‼️)

Dolor-🗣️ (‼️)

Dolor Pt. 2-🗣️🦋(‼️)

Timeout-💅🏽

Leech-💋🦇(‼️)

Crass-💋 (‼️)

Detained-💋

Envious-🦋🗣️

Her-🦋

Thought I’d found a real man…💋💋(‼️)

Admirer-💋

Vie-💋🦋

Rough-🦋

Rouge-💋🦋

Paramour-💋🦋🗣️

Paramour Pt. 2-🦋🗣️

Paramour Pt. 3-🦋🗣️💋

Bicker-🗣️🦋

Butterflies-🦋

Messy-🦋

Vanished-🗣️

Nick Sturniolo

Desolation-💅🏽🗣️🫀🦋(‼️)

Minder-💅🏽🫀🦋(‼️)

Nate Doe

You Lookin?-💋🦋

Justin Carey

Clouded-🦋

[apomaro-mellow]

King and Prince 29

Part 28

“Summer will be upon us soon”, Nancy said while scribbling away on some parchment.

“Mhm, that means a new crop of squires, ready to start their trials”, Eddie was lounging on a chaise, playing with a mess of thread in his hands.

“You know I can’t give Lucas any special treatment. Not because he’s my brother’s friend, nor your paramour’s protege.”

Eddie turned over onto his stomach to look at Nancy sitting at her desk, his eyes sparkling. It wasn’t quite the reaction she had been expecting. He had heard her, right? That she wouldn’t be giving anyone preferential treatment? She never did.

“You think Steve and I could be paramours?”

“....I swear you only hear half the words I say.”

“I heard you loud and clear. I just don’t think Lucas will need a leg up or anything like that. But your thoughts on me and the little prince would be news to me.”

Nancy let out a breath. “I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with you pursuing him.”

“The ‘but’ is so loud you might want to get your intestines checked.”

“But, you should know you’re playing with fire. Even if he’s been unofficially disowned, he’s still a prince. One whose family has wished for our destruction. If this goes to your favor and you are wed, have you thought about what your subjects might say?”

Eddie stopped fiddling with the thread. “I have. And I’ve decided that while I am open to hearing concerns, I’m not giving up on him. Anyone with a problem with that can take it up with me personally.”

“Hm. I thought as much. Just don’t, you know, burn the whole kingdom just for him.”

“Do you really think I’m that far gone?”, Eddie asked.

Nancy thought about how she’d seen Eddie around the training grounds more and more and how that had everything to do with Steve taking Lucas under his wing. And because of that, she deigned not to answer.

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

“You really think I’ll pass?”, Lucas asked, panting as he put his wooden sword away.

Steve was wiping the sweat off of himself with a cloth. “I think you’re one of the most passionate kids I’ve ever met. You’re on your way to mastering swordplay and archery. You’re going to ace this.”

“So like, are you planning on actually marrying Eddie?”, Lucas asked.

He wasn’t the only one curious. Everyone in the castle was abuzz with this new development and of course, the news began to move from within the walls to outside of it. The gossip traveled and everyone had their own spin on it. The king was courting a young man was what everyone got right. But as to the identity of that man, people couldn’t quite agree.

He was a prince, no a duke, no an earl, no he wasn’t from the aristocracy at all. He was in his thirties, no his twenties, no he was only fifteen because he was around the children of the castle often, no he was, but as a mentor so he had to be at least a few years older. He was very handsome, no he just looked okay, well their immortal king had written so much about his appearance so he must be ethereal. The king had written a few, no many, no an entire tome’s worth of letters courting him.

“Either way, can you imagine it? A royal wedding?”

Jason could hear some woman prattle on with his mother while he wrapped up a few chops in the back.

“I can’t even imagine what that would look like”, his mother replied. “King Edward has never done anything like this.”

“He must truly be in love. And if the rumors are true, he’s a real bonafide prince.”

Jason slammed the meat down onto the counter, jolting them both. “Has anyone figured out which kingdom?”

“Oh, this is all just gossip, Jason”, Mrs. Carver said. “If His Majesty is truly courting with foreign royalty, it would be for the good of our kingdom.”

“Well how do we know it isn’t completely selfish? How do we know he didn’t just snatch someone up?”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“Or how about this? If they are a prince? How do we know his intentions are pure?”

“Oh you’re being paranoid”, his mother said placatingly. She muttered something to the lady about him recently breaking things off with a lover and the woman nodded sagely before grabbing her order and leaving.

But it wasn’t as simple as all that to Jason. He alone, knew the truth of what was happening and yet he had to hear misinformation everywhere he went. In his own family shop, on the streets, even in the tavern. The very place he had met Steve one night and while he was trying to drink himself to numbness, he had to listen to a group of guys sitting at a table, trading rumors about Steve’s true identity.

“He’s not what you think he is”, Jason finally spoke up, pushing his drink away.

“Huh?”

“What’s the butcher’s boy going on about?”

“The man our king is trying to tie himself to”, Jason clarified as he stood up from the bar and walked over to their table. “He’s a lying snake.”

“And what do you know about him?”

“I know him too well. Met him right here, even talked to him at this very table. He looked sweet. Until he wasn’t.”

The men scoffed and that riled up Jason enough to raise his voice, garnering the attention of the other patrons. Even the musician in the corner stopped playing. Emboldened, Jason continued.

“His name is Steve. And he would come into town. He would, he would spread his legs and break hearts and damn those he left behind.”

“Ahh, he’s just a spurned lover”, someone commented.

“That’s how it was at first!”, Jason quickly regained control of the conversation. “I thought I was just another person on his trail, to be left behind when he moved to the next town because that’s what he led me to believe. That he was just a traveler. But then he gave me this letter. This letter told me everything and now I know the truth.”

When no one interrupted him, he kept going, telling them of the kingdom that Steve had come from. That he was a Harrington, someone who had actively pushed against their borders and that wasn’t enough for them. People began to leave, not wanting to hear the drunken ravings of a man who had been dumped.

But the seed had already been planted. And the longer this courtship went on without an official decree, the more doubt began to spread among the people. The story turned from their wise king finally giving his heart to someone, to an invasion in the form of a seduction.

“Why else would he be going after our king, huh?”, Jason posed the question to a crowd that gathered outside the butcher shop. “He was literally walking these streets, stringing people along, he could’ve had anyone. But he goes for the most powerful man in the country. Nothing he ever did made sense to me but when I got this-” He brandished the letter, crumpled but still legible.

“This made everything so much more clear. Within those walls”, he pointed to the castle, “Is an imminent danger. Today it’s just him, tomorrow it could be his whole army at our doorstep.”

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

Eddie was pretty good at keeping his ear to the ground. So he could tell almost immediately when the rumor mill began to turn against him and Steve. He hadn’t wanted to make an official announcement and thus thrust Steve back into the royal spotlight too soon. But what was happening was getting too much to ignore.

He knew of it, even before his council brought it to his attention. He was pacing about in a sitting room, Robin, Nancy, and Jeff there as he figured out how to bring it up to Steve, and how to move forward. Of course, as if summoned, Steve pushed the doors open and stomped in.

“Have you heard what they’re saying about you?!”

“I have”, Eddie said. “As well as what they’re saying about you.”

“It can’t stand. He can’t talk about his king that way. That isn’t why I gave him that letter!”

Eddie came over to Steve, clutching his hands. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you look with the fire of righteousness blazing in your eyes?”

Steve would have been embarrassed to say how fast he melted if it wasn’t for the fact that it came with how warm Eddie’s gaze was on him. It almost made him forget why he had come in here in the first place. 

“As I was s-saying, you can’t let this stand. You can’t keep letting him spread these lies about you.”

“What lies? You came from another country with the sole intent to seduce your way to my throne”, Eddie teased, bringing Steve’s knuckles up to his lips.

“Is that how it happened? Because I remember carting a package and dumping it in the dungeon”, Nancy piped up.

“I remember you handing him off to me with little regard”, Robin added.

Jeff started, “And I seem to recall-”

“Now those are lies and slander that I will not allow”, Eddie said. “I have always treasured you above all, my sweet.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Don’t try and change our story, I was there for it. I will say, I think I’m getting to my favorite part…”

“Hey your faces need to be six inches apart at all times”, Jeff reminded.

“We are such good chaperones”, Robin shook her head.

“Eddie, let me do this for you”, Steve said, taking a step back from him.

Eddie’s brow raised. “Do what?”

“Fight for your honor.”

Part 30

Taglist CLOSED

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent  @snakeorsquid  @ignoremyworld  @theclichefortunecookie 

@goodolefashionedloverboi  @just-a-tiny-void  @0body0disphoria0  @cinnamon-mushroomabomination  @samsoble 

@jamieweasley13  @y4r3luv  @xtkxkrzrizir  @un-knownperson  @greekgeek24 

@justdrugsformethanks  @potato-of-the-lord  @notaqueenakhaleesi  @swimmingbirdrunningrock  @queenie-ofthe-void 

@nebulainajar  @lil-gremlin-things  @nicememerino  @robininblue  @hornedqueenofhell 

@anne-bennett-cosplayer  @moomkin77  @here4thetrama  @bookworm0690  @autumncrocusandladybug

@lil-gremlin-things @littlebluejane @puppy-steve

[caesariawritesstuff]

According to Plan

Summary: Edward and Jonathan attempt to get David Payne fired when they think he's getting too close to you. A sequel to my other fic, Payne & Suffering.

Word Count: 6.6k

Content Warning: Angst, jealousy, possessive behavior. Spoilers for the end of Arc I of Cat & Mouse.

A/N: In honor of my dearest friend and fandom bestie's birthday, @synocence requested a sequel to my other fic! I really hope you enjoy, friend, and have a wonderful birthday!

There were many things in his life that Edward did not like.

And one of them was standing right in front of him at this very moment: the man named David Payne, who had been assigned to be his new handler at the GCPD. It’d been two weeks since Payne joined the GCPD, and he was certainly living up to the nickname that Edward had pegged for David that very first day: a pain in his ass.

And oh, that’s exactly what David had become.

Now, Edward would say he wasn’t a stickler for the rules. In fact, he rather enjoyed breaking them when it was to his own benefit, when others weren’t a part of his own game, which was a different matter entirely – but Edward was determined not to let David bother him, not to let the man get under his skin.

Even though that was exactly what he was doing now.

Edward frowned, signing in at David’s desk as he was required to do every morning upon his arrival into the GCPD, as if punching in with a timecard. David was busy hunched over his desk, scribbling away at a stack of papers; his brows were furrowed, a look of frustration written across his face that Edward couldn’t help but notice. The sign-in sheet David had printed for him was resting across the edge of the desk, and Edward scribbled in his name at the bottom. Two more sign-ins and outs and he’d need to flip the page over.

“Good morning, Mr. Nigma,” Payne greeted without looking up at him.

“Good morning,” Edward muttered, barely sparing Payne a glance. As he finished signing in, he looked back up and around at the department bullpen: it was busy today, with officers and detectives mulling about. You were already heading to your desk and taking off your jacket, draping it across the back of your chair.

Edward’s heart ballooned in his chest as he took note of the way you moved, the way you walked, how you carried yourself and settled into your seat for the workday. His heart leapt into his throat, as it always did when he watched you, but he finally pulled his eyes away and headed into the Cybercrimes Division office. As he flicked on the light and began booting up the computers and monitors for the day, he couldn’t help the stirring of annoyance bundling deep within his gut. Ever since he learned about your past relationship with David Payne, he couldn’t help the jealousy rumbling deep within his bones. Edward wasn’t an idiot. He knew you weren’t a virgin – far from it, in fact – but still, having your ex-paramour here, and acting as his handler, bothered Edward more than he cared to admit to you. Especially when he watched David saunter over to your desk like he was doing now, with a cup of coffee—

Coffee?

Oh, absolutely not. Edward’s eyes immediately narrowed into slits as he watched David approach your desk, coffee in hand, as he set it down in front of you, a soft mist steaming from the mug’s opening. Rage rushed through Edward’s veins, and he clenched his teeth, grinding them together so hard they might as well shattered to dust.

Absolutely not.

Coffee was his thing with you. Not David Payne!!!

With a furious huff, Edward tore off his jacket and draped it across his chair haphazardly, instead of with the careful precision he always took, and headed back out of his office and over to your desk just in time to hear a snippet of conversation.

“David, you really didn’t have to go through the trouble of getting me coffee,” you were saying, looking between David and the mug with wide, concerned eyes.

David waved his hand nonchalantly. “I thought you’d like the pick me up. You always were a coffee fiend, princess.”

Princess. There was that nickname for you David seemed so content to use. A nickname which made the hairs on Edward’s body stand straight on end with a prickling heat. Just before you could open your mouth, you noticed him standing there and swiveled in your chair to face him, forcing a smile onto your face, but it was one of your fake smiles, the kind Edward knew meant you were trying to hide your real feelings.

“Something wrong here?” Edward asked, his tone like ice.

“Actually,” David said, looking between you and Edward, before his gaze slid to you once more. But he shut his mouth and shifted, before saying, “No. No problem here.”

And then he turned on his heels and walked back towards his desk. Edward smirked, triumph and satisfaction racing through his bloodstream. Take that, Payne, he thought. Getting David to back down was one thing, and it was clear who the winner was here.

“So,” Edward said, his gaze sliding to you. “Coffee, hm?”

“David’s just being nice,” you mumbled, but looked down at the mug, wrapping your fingers around the handle. You brought it to your lips and sipped slowly.

Edward’s smirk quickly vanished when he realized you were, in fact, not dumping out David’s coffee into the break room sink and forgetting about it entirely. The triumph in his chest fizzled to cold ash, deflating his heart like a popped balloon as it sank to his empty gut.

“Too nice,” Edward murmured.

You shot him a look. “He’s fine, Edward.”

Edward knew that look well: you were telling him to back off. To not be jealous. But he couldn’t help himself. He did not like someone else encroaching on you, trying to stake a claim over you, marking you as their own – not when you were his and his alone. Even if he was sharing you with Crane, you were still his only. And Edward would not let anyone take you from him, as long as he lived on this damn Earth.

“Just…be careful, all right?” Edward asked.

You nodded, but Edward frowned, turned on his heels, and headed back into his office to get to work for the day. But as he soon discovered, he found he couldn’t focus. His gaze continued to stray to you, and to Payne, wondering just when the man would come over and invade your personal space again. He wasn’t normally so distracted, but he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate with each passing minute. Not only that, but Edward couldn’t help but compare himself to the man – his achievements, his medals, his accomplishments. Could David Payne calculate pi to the trillionth digit? Could he build a robot army from scratch, engineering, designing and programming them all himself? No, Edward did not think he could, and that was why he had the upper hand against Payne and always would.

At least, so he thought.

It was around lunch time when Edward made his way out of his office, ready to join you in the break room, when he discovered you weren’t at your desk. Edward frowned, looking back and forth, wondering just where you could’ve gone. He made his way to the break room next, but he peeked inside and found it empty, besides two officers eating a very smelly lunch that reeked of tuna casserole. Turning away, Edward frowned, trying to find out where you might’ve gone. You’d never mentioned you were leaving to go check out a case. So where were you now? Worry bundled in his belly, and he hurried through the bullpen, checking around each corridor and nook and cranny that he could find for any sign of you, but he saw nothing. His brows furrowed, and he returned to his office, quickly pulling up the GCPD security cameras. A dozen screens appeared before him, and he searched each one, desperately wondering where you’d gone – when he finally spotted you: you were down on the lower level, where the firing range was.

But you weren’t alone. Because David Payne was with you.

Edward’s eyes narrowed into slits, his heart beating heavy against his chest. Heat prickled along his skin as he shook his head and forced himself back to his feet. You’d never mentioned going with David to the firing range – and he wasn’t going to let you stay there alone any longer with him. Edward hurried back through the bullpen, took the elevator down, and made his way to the lower level, stepping out onto the floor. The firing range was divided into two sections: the armory, where other officers were busy cleaning and putting together guns, and the firing range itself, where he could hear the echoing pop pop of guns being shot against a backdrop. But you and David were standing nearby, around one corner where Edward had seen you on the monitors. As he approached, words hanging on his tongue, he paused as he caught snippets of the conversation the two of you were having.

“I’d really like to take you out to dinner,” David was saying.

“David…” you said, quietly.

Edward paused, the breath catching in his throat. He stood there, hands curling into fists, as he listened for your next response – your rejection, anything.

“I have a boyfriend,” you finally said. “And Edward – he wouldn’t like it if he found out I was down here talking to you about dinner.”

David scoffed. “You really let him control you, don’t you?”

You sighed. “He’s not controlling me, David. He’s—”

“Then what is it? He hovers around you constantly. I can’t even bring you a damn cup of coffee without him coming to see what’s wrong, for Christ’s sake,” David said, his voice growing exasperated and breathless. “And now you’re worried about being caught with me.”

“Well, yes. You dragged me down here so he wouldn’t hear us.”

“Because I know he’s going to hover,” David replied.

Hover? Is that what Edward did? Was he guilty of hovering? No, of course he wasn’t. He was simply worried for your wellbeing, for making sure you were being safe and protected. There was nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with Edward keeping an eye out for you.

Was there?

“Please,” David said. “I just…dinner. As friends. That’s all I’m asking.”

Say no, detective, Edward thought, desperately.

But another word slipped from your lips instead.

“All right,” you said. “Dinner. As friends.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

Edward’s heart deflated, popped like a balloon. He immediately turned on his heels and stormed back through the armory, taking the elevator, but instead of heading upstairs, he took it down two floors to forensics. His heart hammered in his ribcage, each beat driving him mad, as anger churned hot like a wildfire in his belly. How dare David ask you to dinner. How dare David even try to butt his way into your relationship with him. David was nothing but a nuisance, a bug that needed squashing – something to be destroyed and ruined. The man couldn’t be as perfect as everyone thought he was, could he?

The doors opened, and Edward stormed down the dimly lit hall into the morgue, where he quickly found Jonathan working at his desk, surrounded by vials and beakers and chemicals, all with an acrid smell that filled Edward’s nose. As he quickly noticed, Dr. Collins wasn’t in the room, which Edward was grateful for – which meant he didn’t need to hold back.

“He asked her to dinner. Dinner! With him!” Edward cried, throwing his hands into the air in frustration. “In secret! Can you believe that?”

“Are we speaking of David Payne, or some other tiring imbecile?” Jonathan sighed.

“Payne. That – that idiotic brute,” Edward hissed through his teeth. He was trembling, hands shaking at his sides, fingers tucked into a white-knuckled grip.

“And I assume she said yes?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes. She said yes. Why would she say yes?” Edward asked, exasperated. He didn’t understand why you would say yes to David – why you would bother. Why you would want to pay the man any attention at all. Wasn’t Edward good enough for you? Was he not paying you enough attention? Was the sex not good enough? Was David offering you something more, some need that Edward was failing to meet? His mind was spinning with a thousand questions, picking apart each one, trying to find some semblance of an answer for your behavior.

“You know the simple answer is to ask her,” Jonathan said. He finally perked up from his desk of chemicals and swirled around in his chair to face Edward. His eyes were narrowed into slits, the thin scars on his face reflecting white in the light.

“But I—” Edward opened his mouth. Shut it. Jonathan was right. The simple thing to do was ask you – but there was another solution, too. He turned away, bristling, as he rubbed a hand across his jaw in consideration as a new plan began to form in his mind.

“I know that look, Edward,” Jonathan said. “What are you thinking?”

Edward turned back to him and smirked. “I have the perfect plan, Crane.”

“And what’s that, Edward?” Jonathan raised his brows, smirking.

“We’re going to get Payne fired.”

______

Edward was a believer that everyone had secrets. Everyone. Small or big, it didn’t matter what, but everyone had them in some capacity. And a man like David Payne – a man who grew up in Gotham – had to have a few secrets of his own. It didn’t matter how illustrious his career was, or how many medals he’d received – he was too perfect. So perfect, in fact, that he had to be hiding something – and Edward was determined to find it.

Edward soon found himself looking into Payne’s past. Deeper than the surface level stuff. He looked into Payne’s family history, his heritage, his school transcripts. He found old social media of Payne when he was younger, but even in high school, it seemed Payne was a rockstar: not only was he captain of the football team, the debate team, and volunteered his time at a local animal shelter in high school, but he got a free ride to Gotham University on a football scholarship, where he majored in Criminal Justice, before joining the police academy. By all accounts, all transcripts and records of David from his teachers and peers were flying colors: he was a remarkable student, well-mannered and well-liked. There was absolutely nothing Edward could find about David’s history in Gotham that sent alarm bells off on his head.

Later, when he returned to the forensics lab to find Jonathan, Edward slumped into the nearby seat and leaned back, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“The man is perfect,” Edward muttered.

“No man is perfect,” Jonathan said, shooting him a look. “Every man has a weakness of his own. Something to exploit and bend to your will. Payne will be no different if you look hard enough.”

“I have been looking,” Edward sighed, cupping his hands over his eyes to block out the blinding white lights overhead. And dammit, he’d been looking hard. But maybe…maybe the truth was that David really was perfect. Maybe there was nothing wrong with him at all.

“Have you looked into his time in Metropolis?” Jonathan asked.

That made Edward perk up. He’d been so focused on David’s history in Gotham that his missing years in Metropolis had slipped Edward’s mind. He’d been so determined to find something in David’s younger years, that the most obvious thing was escaping him now.

“Not yet,” Edward said, because he didn’t want Crane to know he hadn’t looked into it.

But Jonathan only shot him a look that said he didn’t quite believe him. The way his eyes bore holes into Edward’s skin made his own skin crawl. At least Jonathan didn’t look as scary as he did when he had that God-forsaken mask grafted onto his face.

“All men have secrets,” Jonathan said. “Don’t let him fool you, Edward.”

Edward nodded, letting Jonathan’s words sink in. David might claim he didn’t have any skeletons in his closet, but Edward wasn’t inclined to believe him. There had to be something he was missing – something David was hiding. But what was it? No man was as self-righteous and self-sacrificing as a man like David Payne seemed to be.

“I’m not easily fooled, Crane,” Edward mumbled, looking away from Jonathan’s piercing stare that could drill holes right into his skin.

“Well, you’re certainly letting him make a fool out of you,” Jonathan replied.

That made Edward’s stomach roll with anger, churning like a tidal wave. “And he’s not making a fool out of you, too, Crane?”

Jonathan blinked once. Twice. Lifted his chin slightly as his eyes narrowed into slits, before he said, “David Payne’s intentions with our little pet does not go unnoticed to my eyes, Edward. But unlike you, I’m not so easily riled up by the competition.”

Edward lifted his chin in return. “That sounds like a challenge, Crane. How about this: the first one of us to find something on Payne that can get him fired, gets, oh…a whole week with our little mouse? No sharing.”

A sparkle filled Jonathan’s eyes then, and his lips curved upwards into a smile. “Very well then, Edward. If you insist on a silly game, I’ll indulge you for now.”

Edward grinned. Oh, he had no intention of losing this one, not at all.

______

It was later that day when Edward returned to his office and soon began digging further into Payne’s past, only this time he focused his efforts on the MCPD – the Metropolis City Police Department. A cursory search only concluded that, as he’d discovered before, Payne was well-liked amongst his fellow officers and had a laundry list of five-star recommendations from his superiors. Edward supposed the only skeleton in Payne’s closet he could find at this moment of time was that he slept with a student (you) at the academy when he shouldn’t have, but it’d been so many years ago now and he no longer worked for the academy, that Edward doubted anything would come of it if he unveiled the truth to Cash.

No, he had to dig deeper.

It was a good thing Edward was good at finding people’s dirty little secrets.

And so, Edward dove deeper. Against, perhaps unsanctioned methods, he found himself hacking into the MCPD’s database, pulling up Payne’s old file and reading through it with care. There was an extensive backlog of Payne’s activities before leaving the department, but nothing that stood out or raised any alarm bells in Edward’s mind.

There was absolutely nothing.

“Dammit,” he muttered, curling his hands atop his fists in frustration. There had to be something – something Edward could use. But what was it? But the longer time passed, the more Edward was beginning to believe he just might not find anything at all.

?

There were three things Jonathan Crane was absolutely sure of: one, all men had secrets; two, there were no innocent men, and three, David Payne was keeping skeletons in his closet. Jonathan knew enough about human psychology to know that everyone – no matter how squeaky clean their record – that people always had something to hide. Some kind of moral failing or secret that they locked tightly away for no one else to find.

But find it, he would.

Jonathan was not the competitive sort, but if it meant getting to have you all to himself for one week and not having Edward breathing down his neck, he’d gladly win this little competition he and Edward had arranged.

As he left the GCPD, claiming to stay behind to do some paperwork, Jonathan waited until Payne was preparing to leave as well. As he’d come to learn, Payne stayed later than his assigned shift, often into the wee hours of the evening. That was fine with Jonathan – he had plenty of work to do, anyways, and time ticked by quickly. But as soon as he saw Payne getting ready to leave, Jonathan followed him out of the precinct. You and Edward had already left for the evening, which was good; he wanted the moment to look into Payne himself. He was certain a man like Payne would let his guard down when he believed he wasn’t being followed.

And follow him, Jonathan did.

Payne got into his car and took it out of the precinct. Jonathan called a cab, instructing the driver to remain on Payne’s tail, to which the driver only shot him a look and puffed a waft of smoke into his face from the cigarette in his hand. Jonathan waved it away, frowning deeply, the stench of nicotine filling his nose. Jonathan offered the man a thick wad of cash if he followed Payne, and as he suspected, the driver was quickly inclined to agree without question.

Typical, Jonathan thought. People were so easy to read.

Payne took his car through Gotham, weaving in and out of traffic, careful, yet with the controlled precision of a practiced driver. Jonathan’s gaze remained peeled on him, the cab careful not to be too close or too far (as if the man had done this before), before Payne pulled over to a small business downtown in Otisburg. A club named The Moonshine, with blinding white lights overhead, sparkling in hues of yellow and pearlescent, the symbol of a moon their logo, hanging above the tiled sidewalk. Payne parked out front, got out, and headed inside.

“Don’t wait for me,” Jonathan said to the driver and got out of the car. He slammed the door behind him, tucking his brown coat tighter around himself, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he followed Payne inside. The cab peeled away, tires roaring against the pavement.

Jonathan made his way into the club and looked around. It seemed Payne hadn’t noticed him. His head was held high as Payne made his way through the central lobby of the club, filled with a relaxing jazz music that Jonathan quite enjoyed. The club had dark blue walls with paintings of the moon and stars sprawled across, and black leather booths scattered about. The scent of wine and perfume and tobacco filled Jonathan’s nose, but he kept his eyes glued to Payne as he made his way to one singular booth in the back corner of the room and sat down beside another man, one with dark hair and beady eyes like a sharks.

Oh? Jonathan wondered, quickly finding an empty seat to take where he could keep an eye on Payne. True, Jonathan didn’t know the ins and outs of Payne’s personal life, but he found himself curious as to what the man was doing here and who he was meeting with. The more Jonathan could learn, the better. He had every intention of weeding out the competition.

Besides, any time he got alone with you was worth it.

A waitress came by, and Jonathan ordered a simple glass of Pinot Noir. From here, and with the sound of the music, he couldn’t hear the conversation Payne and the other man were saying. But what he did notice was how close they were sitting, the low conversation it appeared they were having. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as he stared, curiosity swirling in his stomach. He leaned back slightly in his seat, eyes focused as he watched for a long time, long enough for his wine to arrive and for him to down half the glass with slow, careful sips. By the time he finished his glass, he noticed Payne and the man exchange a few words – before the man suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled something out: a wadded up brown paper bag, and he slid it Payne’s way. Payne grabbed the bag and opened it, glancing inside, before looking back up and nodding, a smirk twitching at the edge of his lips. And then he stuffed the bag into his coat pocket, before shaking the man’s hand and standing, heading out of the club.

Jonathan watched him go as his mind swirled with questions. There was plenty that could be in a brown paper bag that size: money, drugs, perhaps? Certainly it wasn’t big enough to conceal a gun, but it was big enough to conceal numerous other things – things that, clearly, Payne did not want anyone to see. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as he grabbed his wine stem and sipped the rest, downing it in one swallow, even though it burned on the way down. He didn’t mind the burn, didn’t mind the taste of alcohol on his tongue. He didn’t drink often, but when he did, he preferred the good stuff, top shelf.

Licking his lips, Jonathan got up and headed out of the club. He couldn’t be sure what the man had given Payne, but he certainly had a feeling that the man was hiding something from everyone – including you. And Jonathan was determined to find out what it was.

?

Edward had spent all night diving into Payne’s bank accounts. He’d stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, looking into everything he could find, including the transactional history of the MCPD – but what he soon discovered was something he hadn’t expected: a series of unauthorized transfers into an offshore bank account owned by Payne himself. The money was taken from the MCPD and deposited into Payne’s account, and there was quite a hefty amount of money involved – numerous funds in large amounts sent to the account itself. From what Edward could tell, the transfers seemed to be hidden deep within the MCPD – buried away from anyone who gave a simple glance. But for someone like Edward, who knew how to dig deep, it wasn’t hard to find. But he couldn’t help but wonder what the money was from or who it was for – but he was determined to figure out why David Payne was getting it at all.

Frowning, he rubbed at his tired, exhausted eyes. He’d been up for hours, and he was regretting it; he’d been getting far too comfortable developing a normal “sleep schedule”, and his body was growing too used to it. The printer roared to life beside him, as he printed off all of the documents he’d so far discovered. As he waited patiently for the stack to finish, he leaned back in his seat and sighed. He hoped this wasn’t a wild goose chase and would be worth it. Seeing Payne get fired, winning a challenge against Crane, and having you all to himself for a week, well…that was certainly something he was looking forward to.

All he’d need to do know was present the evidence to Cash – these shady deposits into an offshore account – and then Payne could be fired on suspicion of taking internal bribery. Yes, that’s exactly what it had to be. Why else would these transfers be hidden?

A knock on the door suddenly got his attention, and he looked up to find Mack standing there, leaning slightly into his office. He raised his brows and asked, “Hey, Nigma. I need you for something, mind giving me a hand?”

Edward glanced at the stack of papers continuing to print, but nodded, and said, “Very well. What do you need, Detective Rollins?”

And he followed him out of the office, leaving the stack to continue printing.

______

It was sometime later when Edward finished helping consult on a case for Mack when he returned to his office to find the stack of papers still where he’d left them. Frowning, he took a quick look over at them before thumbing them, curiosity lingering in his belly. It still wasn’t enough – but he’d need something more secure, more proof. Perhaps he could get Payne to fall for a trap – something to prove he was taking bribery and taking money under the table. If he had a history of this at the MCPD, he’d have to have a history of it here in the GCPD now, too. If only Edward had an opening…and that was when the idea struck him.

He slid back into his seat, fingers flying across the keyboard, as he quickly made a false program in the GCPD’s serves and set it up to be sent to Payne’s email. It would only take a few moments, just a basic question: Looking for an officer who knows the benefits of discreet. Anyone know any blues up for the job? Got myself in a situation.

The email would be sent to Payne and Payne only. No one else would get it, and if Payne responded, Edward would know almost immediately. But he’d made sure to hide the email amongst layers of encryption, so Payne wouldn’t be able to tell who it came from. If Payne responded, taking up the offer to do some dirty work, Edward knew he’d have him then. Edward smirked; oh, yes, his plan was bound to go smoothly indeed.

And as he suspected, Payne responded within minutes: I can handle it. Time and place?

Edward’s smirk returned, and he shot off a meeting location and time. This was perfect – he was going to nail Payne for this! All he had to do now was show it to the Commissioner, that Payne was willing to take bribes for anything. Once he met with Payne and proved it, it’d be over, and he’d win.

Oh, yes. It was all going to go according to plan.

Later that night, Edward told you he was staying late to do some work and waited until you left for the night. When he was certain you were gone, he headed down to the basement level to find Crane still working, hunched over his desk, scribbling on a pad of paper.

“Care to join me in seeing Payne make a fool of himself?” Edward asked.

Jonathan perked his head up and turned around. “I take it you have a plan.”

“A plan which is much greater than whatever you were doing,” he said. “And what exactly have you been doing, Jonathan?”

“I followed Payne to a club last night,” Jonathan replied. “Someone gave him something in a brown paper bag. Drugs? Money? Either way, the man is not up to anything good.”

“Then come see for yourself what happens when I catch him red-handed,” Edward said.

Jonathan smirked.

Together, Edward and Jonathan made their way out of the GCPD and headed to the Stacked Deck, a small bar. The cab dropped them off out front, and the both of them headed inside – but neither of them saw Payne anywhere. Sharing a glance with each other, they slid into one of the booths in the back, keeping their heads down and eyes open for any sign of Payne.

Except, when the door opened, it wasn’t Payne who walked in at all.

Because it was you.

“Oh shit,” Edward muttered, heat crawling up his throat.

Almost immediately, your gaze seemed to narrow in right at them – hardening when you found both of them sitting in the back, and you frowned, storming over. Edward knew the look on your face: you were mad. More than mad.

“Ah, detective,” Edward said, forcing a fake smile onto his face.

“Cut the crap,” you muttered. “Sorry, am I not the one you wanted to see? Or were you hoping David would show up instead?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Edward said in a sickeningly sweet voice.

You shot him a look, before reaching into your purse and slamming several emails down on the table in between them – the stack of files Edward had been printing earlier. Edward blinked, heat continuing to crawl up his throat as he stared long and hard at that.

“Care to tell me what you were doing digging into David’s bank accounts?” you demanded, your brows furrowing, lips pursing into a thin line.

“We believe he’s not who he says he is, pet,” Jonathan said, his voice cool and collected. “As Edward has proven, he has accepted the invitation to—”

“To catch you two being idiots?” you muttered. “He showed me the email. I know it was you who sent it, Edward. And don’t play dumb, because you’re too smart for that.”

Edward blinked. “How did you know?”

You raised your brows, your head tilting slightly to the side. “Because I heard you and Jonathan talking yesterday. I came down to surprise you both and heard you talking. Did you two really think you were going to get away with this?”

“Oh.” Edward’s gaze slid to Jonathan, who was staring at you long and hard, as if he was trying to recall when you might’ve been listening in.

But finally, Jonathan leaned back and smirked, lips twitching upwards. “Well, well, it seems you’ve played us both, pet. I’m surprised by you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly thrilled by this, you know,” you said.

“But he asked you to dinner,” Edward muttered, as if that would somehow make this better, as if it was a good enough reason for his behavior.

“So that gives you free reign to get him fired?” you asked.

“Well, I…” Edward didn’t know what to say.

“Well, for starters, we’re going back to the GCPD and you’re both telling Cash everything. And then apologizing to David. Are we clear?” you asked.

Edward groaned, throwing his head back like he was a small child. He felt Jonathan’s glare on his skin, burning holes into him, drilling all the way down into his soul.

“But how do you explain all of this?” Edward asked, gesturing to the stack.

“Cash will explain all of it to you when we get back to the precinct,” you muttered, before spinning on your heels and heading out of the bar without another word.

Edward sighed, looking back at Jonathan, but the two of them followed you out of the bar. Together, the three of you returned to the precinct, and you led the way into Cash’s office – where David Payne was already waiting.

“Well, well,” Cash said, smirking. “My two trouble makers are here. Care to tell me what’s been going on?”

“Why, yes, if David here explains first,” Edward muttered.

David looked between everyone, before shaking his head and laughing. “The offshore bank account payments were from an undercover operation,” he said. “I was working on an under-the-radar case. The head of the precinct didn’t want the funds to be known in case someone went digging into the MCPD bank accounts. You can call him if you want and ask. Cash has the file about the operation right here.”

In response, Cash slid a case file closer to Edward across the desk.

Edward frowned, snatching it up – and sure enough, David was right: he’d once been involved in an undercover operation, taking down a series of gangs within Metropolis. As a result, the funds he was given to continue his undercover case had been placed in an offshore account, out of the view of most prying eyes.

“Then how do you explain what that man gave you in the bar?” Jonathan asked.

David threw his head back and laughed. “He’s an old friend of mine. We met up for a drink. He said if we ever met up again, he’d owe me this.” From his seat, he pulled out the brown paper bag and handed it over to Jonathan.

Jonathan shot him a curious look, before opening the bag and peering inside. Edward raised a brow, leaning over slightly to attempt to glimpse a better look, before Jonathan turned the bag towards him fully – but as soon as Edward looked inside, his insides deflated.

Because staring at him was a pair of google eyes attached to glasses to a large, fake bulbous nose. The kind of googly eyes that bounced out and wiggled with movements. Edward blinked once. Twice. A third time. Tried very hard to wrap his head around the ridiculousness staring at him in the face. This was the bag Jonathan thought that was so suspicious? He raised his hand, his gaze sliding to him, narrowing into slits, but Jonathan only looked just as perplexed.

“I lost a bet a few years ago,” David said by way of explanation. “He said if I ever returned to Gotham, I’d have to wear that the next time I volunteer at the hospital. I volunteer and read to the children there who are sick. The kids will get a kick out of it.”

Of course David Payne volunteered at the hospital and read to the children. What else didn’t the man do that was so spectacular and made him the golden boy of the precinct? Edward frowned, grinding his teeth together, as he looked around the room, before his gaze finally landed on Cash’s smug smirk, the self-satisfied smile across his lips. Heat crawled up Edward’s throat and he turned to you next, but all he saw was the fire burning in your eyes. Your arms were crossed, your brows furrowed, looking less than pleased with him.

Shit, Edward thought. This was not good.

“Well?” Cash asked, leaning back in his seat. “I think you two owe Payne an apology. What were you even hoping to achieve?”

“Well, we, I—” Edward stumbled over his words. How was he supposed to explain what his master plan was? A master plan that had spectacularly failed.

Payne smirked at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “I told you: I have no skeletons in my closet, Nigma. Dig all you want, but you won’t find anything. Maybe that I got a C on a math test in high school, but that’s about it.”

Edward’s frown deepened as embarrassment flooded all throughout his bloodstream. It ignited like a wildfire in his veins, and he clenched his fists together, the brown paper bag balling in his hands. He grinded his teeth together and felt his cheeks burn with deep crimson. Jonathan looked back at him, but Edward swore he saw the same redness crawling up his throat, too.

“Actually,” Cash said, pulling back Edward’s attention. “I want to thank you for bringing David’s brave heroics to my attention. I think I’m gonna offer you a promotion, David. You’ve earned it.”

“What.” The word slipped out of Edward’s mouth.

What?!?

No – this was the complete opposite of what Edward wanted. Payne was supposed to get fired, supposed to be packing his desk up right about now and be on his way out of here. Not this! Anger churned in his belly, and he watched the way you smirked at the new development.

“Now, you two get out of my office while I discuss David’s promotion with him,” Cash said. “And don’t let me find you pulling this kind of BS again.”

Like a dog with its tail tucked between his legs, Edward turned around on his heels and headed out of the office, Jonathan close on his heels. But when Edward looked back, he found you following, shutting the door behind yourself. As soon as the door was shut, you turned to both of them, an enraged look crossing your face.

“You two have a lot of nerve trying to get David fired,” you hissed. “I can’t believe you would do this – that you would try to get him fired!”

“Detective, I—” Edward started.

“No,” you snapped, shaking your head. “I don’t want to hear it. You two are both on my shit list right now. And I’m not speaking to either of you.”

With a huff, you sauntered past them and headed through the department, a swish to your hips that Edward figured was very purposeful, and you disappeared around the corner, out of view. Edward’s skin heated to the millionth degree, embarrassment and shame burning him from the inside out, and he looked back at Jonathan.

“Well,” Jonathan said. “That did not go as planned.”

“No,” Edward muttered. “No it did not.”

Absolutely nothing had gone according to plan, and Edward knew he was going to feel the full brunt of your anger for the next few weeks to come.

[arduousflame]

For just one night

I'm still just playing around with who I want Rook to be. So have a little bit of the team finally getting a breather and a little backstory on Rook. I think I have settled on her being part of the Crow's but not an assassin per se. No spoilers at all.

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

For just one night

Lucanis moved behind the three women seated at the table, clearing the last of the evening’s dishes as his eyes skimmed over the pages of Rook’s book. Neve and Rook had relocated the detective’s case notes to the dining hall after dinner, working together to decipher coded messages. Rook’s knack for shorthands and cants had proven invaluable, and her personal key—a small leatherbound book—lay open on the table. It was filled with snippets of stories and songs, shorthand exercises, and codes she had accumulated over years as Viago’s eyes and ears.

“Westford Bay? Why does that sound familiar?” he wondered.

“Oh, that’s a classic! It used to be all the rage with the Ferelden minstrels” Harding chimed in, grinning from her seat near the hearth. “Rook, you know how to sing that one?”

“It is indeed a classic, but it’s been a while sing I last sang it,” Rook agreed, with a faint smile “I used to pull it out as a surefire way to keep a bar full of drunkards entertained. Works surprisingly well on Grey Wardens, too.” She flashed a toothy grin at Davrin, who shrugged but returned the smile. “We’re simple folk,” he replied. “Doesn’t take much to entertain us—a sweet smile, a song, a dance…”

Lucanis bit back a sharp retort—Spite’s retort, not his own—just as recognition flickered across his face. “The Castillon job! That was a joint contract—de Riva and Dellamorte. Illario insisted on a lookout for that one, someone who could entertain a crowd. Viago hesitated, but good thing we had one. That job went sideways fast when that paramour started screaming in the closet. The lookout got the whole bar singing—it drowned out the noise and gave us a clean escape.” He paused, his gaze locking onto Rook. “That was you?”

Her cup hid most of her face, but not the faint blush creeping across her cheeks and ears. “Yes,” she mumbled into the rim, avoiding his gaze.

He leaned in closer to examine the lyrics, catching the shorthand scribbled in the margins: Vi, you owe me for this one. offspring of that old vulture or not, if he dares that again, I’ll give them a reason to draw up a contract on me. I’d sign it myself.

Before he could ask her about the comment, Taash piped up. “Rook, you sing?”

From where he stood, Lucanis swore she was trying to crawl into her cup.

“Show us! It must have been good if Lucanis here remembers it,” Taash was oblivious to the embarrasment of their leader.

Rook groaned. “I don’t think I said anything about the skill of that lookout,” Lucanis replied with a smirk, “just that she managed to distract a bunch of drunkards.”

She shot him a mock-pained glare, but he grinned back. “Knowing the people in that bar, I doubt much skill was required.”

“I don’t think it would be wise to expose Manfred to this kind of music,” Rook deflected, gesturing toward the skeleton.

“Nonsense, my dear, any exposure to art, even those considered more folkish, is very educational.” Emmrich joined in. She sighed at the eagerly hissing skeleton. “I was counting on you”, she mumbled. Manfred gave her a thumbs up instead.

"I don’t have any instruments here…”

“You didn’t need any that night either, if I remember correctly,” Lucanis replied, his tone laced with a mock challenge.

This time, she shot him a look brimming with betrayal. “They were too drunk to…” she began, grasping at a final excuse.

“Easily fixed,” Davrin interrupted, cutting her short as he rose and headed for the bottles of wine and spirits stashed in the kitchen.

By the hearth, Harding and Bellara sat side by side, their eyes alight with expectation as they looked to Rook.

Rook turned to Assan with mock severity. “And what will you add to this treachery, boy?”

The griffon spun in a quick circle, then flopped dramatically in front of the two women, who were still watching with eager anticipation.

“Of course,” she muttered, resigned. “It seems I’ve met my match.” With a long-suffering sigh, she stood and leveled a finger at Harding and Davrin. “You’d better join in at the chorus.”

Harding nodded enthusiastically, while Davrin leaned back with a shrug and a grin. With a sigh, their leader stood up and gave a theatric bow to her audience. And started to sing the well-known ballad.

He did remember that job—and that young lookout. He must have been, what, twenty-five? Which meant she would’ve been in her early twenties. Illario had handled the preparations. He’d even petitioned Viago for a backup. Just in case it goes sideways, Illario had said.

He recalled how Illario had asked for someone specific. How had he described her again? That silver-tongued one, Gwynn is her name, no? The one whose wit’s sharper than a dagger.

Viago had tried to dissuade him. Warned him that she was a lightning rod for trouble.

All the better, Illario had replied with a grin. I might even help the Fifth Talon file down some of those burrs from her. Temper her, if I can.

He flinched at the memory now, realizing what Illario’s “tempering” of the younger fledglings usually entailed. They had met briefly before the job began—she’d been quiet then, wary of both Dellamortes. By that time, Lucanis had already earned his moniker, so he had not thought more of it.

They didn’t see her again until they reconvened at House de Riva. She’d been present for the debrief, where Illario had given her a glowing commendation. A nightingale among Crows, he had practically purred. A glance back between her and Viago and he had stepped in front of her, pushing her further back—a rare and uncharacteristic show of protection from the Talon.

Oh, Illario… That memory cast fresh light on the tense meeting at the Diamond, after they’d left the Ossuary. Whatever had transpired back then, it was clear Rook hadn’t forgotten—and had certainly not forgiven.

Her voice was more mature now than he remembered—more assured and steady—but still just as clear and melodic. The ballad told the tale of a sailor falling in love with a spirit on a drunken night. A lively dancing tune, despite its tragic story.

It didn’t take long for her to pull Bellara and Harding—who kept her promise to join in at the chorus—into the rhythm, dancing with her. The three women moved together, laughter spilling from their lips as Assan bounded playfully around them. At the table, Neve was laughing too, both she and Taash clapping along with the beat.

If Lucanis didn’t know her better, he might have accused her of weaving a spell through the song. She had enchanted their little group. Davrin hummed along, and even Taash had risen, joining the impromptu dance. With a graceful twirl, Rook handed Harding off to the laughing Qunari and swept Bellara into the steps, leading her with ease. The Dalish elf took to the Ferelden dancing steps with natural skill.

Manfred swayed at the edges, content to just watch. Emmrich, though he remained seated, tapped his foot to the rhythm. Lucanis couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

And then, just for a moment, Rook’s eyes met his. Her smile—genuine, unguarded—caught him off guard. Spite crooned in the back of his mind. Make her. Smile. More! Smells of cinnamon and cider. Just for a split second, before a twirl took her away again, to the other side of the room. He had not paid much attention to her that night all those years ago. He would not make that mistake again.

The song ended fartoo soon, with a floorish and a bow. Bellara collapsed in front of the fireplace, still laughing as she stretched out on the floor.

“Rook, you need to do that more often!” the elf gasped. Rook dropped into a chair, gratefully taking the beer Neve handed her. After a deep swig, she laughed breathlessly. “I’m severely out of practice. This is harder than taking on darkspawn, I’ll tell you that. Viago severely underpaid me, now that I think about it.”

“Oh, harder than killing Darkspawn, really?” Davrin took the obvious bait.

“I’d like to see you coordinate song and dance, Warden,” Rook shot back with a grin. “In my experience, Wardens are a bit… single-minded.”

She ducked just in time as a wine cork sailed past her head, prompting a round of laughter.

“But I’ll admit,” she continued, hands raised in defense, “some of my best stories came from Wardens. I’d be honored to add yours to my collection.”

The case notes were forgotten as the evening turned to jokes, stories, and laughter. Davrin eventually relented, sharing a tale of his own after Rook bribed him with another beer.

Rook, as Lucanis realized as he sat back down in front of her, did what she always did best: disarm and distract. He caught her looking at him when he reached for the wine bottle in the center. The smile she offered him was tired, but just as warm as before. Spite did that crooning again, somehow content for once. For just one night, they laughed, sang, and drank. Morning would call soon enough. But for now, they could breathe.

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 7

Chapter Links: First, Previous <- Chapter 7 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour!

---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Rosie had arranged for Hal to escort you across town for the event.  

“You'd be an easy target, all gussied up and fancy looking,” she'd explained.  “And Alastor is nothing if not a gentleman.  He'll see ya’ home safe.”

So Hal had put on a bow tie and his least blood stained trousers and the two of you had set off towards the Hazbin Hotel.  It took longer than expected thanks to your heels making the pitted sidewalks an absolute terror to negotiate, but a good number of people were still entering the hotel by the time you arrived.  

“Ya’ got knives on ya?’” Hal grumbled.  

“I've got two in my purse, one strapped to my leg, and Ms. Rosie leant me her sharpest hat pin,” you say, reaching up to fiddle with the accessory in question.  

“Attagirl,” Hal says, squeezing the arm laced through his in approval as you passed through the gates and meandered along the cobblestone driveway.  Hal prattled on as you drew closer to the entrance, seemingly overflowing with paternal advice, but it was hard to focus on his words over the thundering of your heartbeat in your chest.

“- and a kick to the pussy hurts just as much as a kick to the dick.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmured distractedly, reaching into your beaded pearl clutch to pull out the invitation with shaking hands.  

You handed it to the doorman, some sort of egg-like creature with a large chunk of shell missing from the top of its head, providing a clear view of a pulsating yolk where its brain should be.  The egg man called out your name to the uncracked egg beside him, who scribbled on a clipboard wildly before shooting you a dopey smile and thumbs up.

“Don't stay out too late,” Hal said gruffly, patting your hand reassuringly as he released your arm.  “You're opening tomorrow.”

Alone for the first time since the sun came up, you decided to linger in the lobby of the hotel for a bit before following the garishly flashing signs directing visitors to the rear garden.  

With as deep a breath as your girdle would allow, you grasped the back of a wing back chair and gave yourself permission to panic, hoping that briefly indulging your baser instincts would clear your mind enough to stay focused on the task of surviving an entire afternoon on the Radio Demon's arm.  

A few minutes and an uncountable amount of breaths later, you felt the knot in your chest loosen and heartbeat slow to an acceptable rate; still fast, but as good as your were likely to get walking into an event that would likely draw out some of the most powerful demons the Pride Ring had to offer.  

“Whatcha doin’ in here, toots?”

Adrenaline crashes through your veins, undoing all of progress you'd made in centering yourself as you spin to face the man addressing you.  You recognized him, of course.  Not because you'd personally watched any of his many works, but because of the plethora of billboards bearing his face and other, more delicate parts, that loomed tall over every corner of the city.  

“The garden party is, y'know, in the garden,” Angel Dust said, tone acerbic as he rested a full watering can on a jutting hip.  “So what're sneaking around her for?”

“I'm not sneaking,” you rush to defend yourself, fiddling with the cuff of your sleeve nervously.  “I'm just… lurking.”

“Ain't too sure there's much of a difference between the two.”

“Sneaking implies some sort of underlying mischief.  I assure you that I'm simply waiting here.”

“Oh?  And what're you waiting for?” Angel Dust asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he crossed one set of arms across his chest.

“An excuse to leave,” you say dryly, casting a wary glance out the open double doors leading out to the patio.  Something about your response seemed to set Angel Dust at ease, because the next time you looked at him he was smirking down at you, suddenly more amused than distrustful. 

“You and me both, girlie,” he snorted, unfolding his multitude of hands to smooth down nonexistent creases in his floral halter top and leather hot pants.  “I can't stand all this hoity-toity bullshit.  It's exhausting playing nice with folks who wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.”

“I think I'd rather burn anyway,” you said, wrinkling your nose distastefully at the thought.

“No promises, but I'll keep your preferences in mind,” Angel Dust snorted, beckoning you down the hallway with a wave of his willowy arm.  “Why don't you come outside with me?  I'll show you the best parts of the garden- all the ones I planted, of course.”

The gardens at the Hazbin Hotel could be generously described as eclectic; an absolutely miss-matched and uncoordinated array of plants that honestly had no business being in the same hemisphere as each other, let alone the same garden bed. 

“Charlie had the grand idea of givin’ everyone their own chunka’ land to cultivate,” Angel explained, pointing at various sections of the garden.  “Husky put in the lemon tree so he can have fruit to stock the bar with and all the goddamn mint that won't stay where it fucking belongs!”

A surly looking catman casually flipped off Angel as you passed by, likely the one responsible for unleashing the minty scourge if Angel Dust's playful sneer was anything to go by.  

“Satan below, I love that man,” Angel sighed, grabbing a glass of champagne off a passing waiter's tray before continuing down the rough cobblestone path. “Anyway , all these pretty blossoms belong to moi-”

You nodded in sincere appreciation.  “They're absolutely gorgeous.”

“Course they are!  They take after their daddy,” Angel Dust cooed, blowing kisses at a cluster of puffy white chrysanthemums.  

“I didn't know Earth flowers could even grow down here,” you murmured quietly, struck nearly breathless by the beauty of the blossoms.

“They can't.  Not naturally, anyway,” Angel explained, flicking an aphid off the petal of a perfectly symmetrical dahlia.  “But having Lucifer constantly hangin’ around definitely comes with some perks.”

“I didn't think I'd ever get to see them again,” you whispered, blinking rapidly to banish the tears welling in your eyes, frustrated at how they made your vision blur when you wanted to remember everything with sharp, crystal clarity. 

“It's like seein’ an old friend again, innit?” Angel smiled knowingly, having gone through a similar experience when the scraggly stalks he'd obsessively tended had sent out their first, tentative buds.  “Now, c'mon.  You gotta see the rest of this place.  Shit starts gettin’ fuckin’ bizarre.”

‘Fucking bizarre’ didn't even scratch the surface of describing the rest of the garden tour.  Your next stop was Princess Charlotte’s sad plot of withered and wilted plants. 

“She bought every half-dead plant at the nursery.  Thought she could rehabilitate ‘em,” Angel had explained with a long suffering sigh. “I don't wanna talk about the symbolic implications of that, if ya’ don't mind.”

The next section was a barren stretch of land without a single plant.  Rising from the ground instead were hundreds of insects skewered on sharpened sticks; everything from tiny house flies on toothpicks to large horned beetles impaled on whittled down twigs. 

“Niffty,” Angel Dust had offered up with a helpless shrug, as though the single name provided any sort of reasonable explanation for the eerie tableau.  Deciding that you didn't actually want Angel Dust to expound on the situation, you simply nodded and continued on your way down the row.  

The air quickly soured as you left Niffty's sacrificial plot, the ground on either side of the path softening with every step; eventually shifting into a churning, fetid swamp.  The understated appeal of the shoulder high cattails and thick swaths of pillowy moss were lost on you, distracted as you were, by the thick cloud of gnats that swarmed the area. 

“Whose area is this?” You grumbled peevishly, swatting at the bugs flittering around your face. 

“Why, this area is my handiwork,” Alastor's familiar voice called out from behind you.  Both you and Angel Dust visibly stiffened at his sudden appearance, turning in unison to face the Overlord.  

“Alastor,” Angel Dust greeted flatly.  “What're you doin’ all the way out here?  Don't you have some rich schmuck to schmooze?”

“Always,” Alastor sighed dramatically.  “No rest for the wicked and all that.”

“You must never fuckin’ sleep then,” Angel groused, folding his many arms in front of himself defensively.  

Alastor ignored his barb and instead extended a hand out towards you, wiggling his fingers expectantly.  

“Come along now, dear.  I'm not sure how you managed to slip by me, but you've deprived me of your company long enough.”

“Wait a minute,” Angel bellowed incredulously, eyes impossibly wide as he watched you place your hand tentatively into Alastor's; his spindly fingers clamping around yours like a vice as he guided you closer to his side.  “You're Alastor's guest?”

“She's a fair bit more than that,” Alastor grinned, undeniably smug as he guided your small hand into the crook of his arm; turning his head to give you an unmistakable, pointed look.

The performance has begun.

Tag List:

For the first time ever I have been requested to create a tag list, so let me know if you want to be added!

@wendds @matpatsstuff @qardasngan

[18catsreading]

Ayda: you're Cheese of Cannoncourt, correct?

Cheese: yeah, yeah, er wow, uh yea, I'm Cheese. I'm Cheese.

Ayda: my apologies for my lateness. In addition to being the mistress of the Compass Points Library, I also am in a committed relationship with a rockstar who lives in Solace. So I have to split time between those two locations.

Cheese: yeah, oh yea, I know. I keep up with all the papers, and all those -- that's amazing, yeah

Ayda: I am Ayda Aguefort, mistress of the Compass Points. It's been brought to my attention that you are a young wizard, is this correct?

Cheese: uh, yes

Ayda: may I observe your trapper keeper?

Cheese: uh, ooh, yeah. [As Carlos]: he pulls out the trapper keeper and hands it to her. Starts kind of making excuses for it. [As Cheese]: oh, a lot of these, a lot, a lot of the pages are torn. It's a lot, a lot of stuff that I'm scribbling in the notes I had to like, I don't know the real languages or exactly how this stuff works exactly. A lot of that I put, I put together. it's not, it's not --

Ayda: your voice keeps stuttering over and over again, are you nervous right now?

Cheese: -- -- -- I'm always, I'm always nervous, yes

Ayda: why?

Cheese: um. -- --. [Sighs heavily]. I don't know.

Ayda: I'm going to be frank with you. I command the ind and stars. I am a powerful wizard. Last year I stormed the nine Hells to save my paramour. And I also get nervous a lot. It's okay to be nervous, but I hope you are not nervous around me. I heard of your story and that you are off on an adventure to save your brother. This is a noble calling. I hope you do well. Am I conveying to you affection correctly? You're getting that I'm being affectionate, yes?

Cheese: -- -- I don't have a lot of experience, but I guess so, yes. I mean, on paper it sounds 100%.

Ayda: you don't have a lot of experience with affection? I understand that. Leviathan can be an unkind place to grow up. Do you have any family left here in the city?

Cheese: -- -- y- no, not in the city.

Ayda: [narrowing her eyes] very well. [As Brennan]: she casts a spell. Some act of divination, and she says: [as Ayda]: I've asked the winds and the mist of all the 17 seas to come together and agree with you that you have no family here in the city. Any who live in this city that operate under the mistaken assumption that they are your family will find locating you, troubling you, or harassing you, or ever being unkind to you again to be an impossibility. For you and your brother.

Cheese: Thank you

Ayda: here is a very large book of spells. It's a present. I hope you enjoy it. Don't tell me if you don't, it will hurt my feelings.

Cheese: oh! Thank you!! This is, oh, it even has that new spell smell. Thank you! So much!

Ayda: your adventure awaits. The Crows Keep will be open to you whenever you are ready. I'm out of things to say. Do you have any things to say, or are we done talking?

Cheese: -- -- we're done talking. We're done talking, yes.

Ayda: okay. I consider you a friend. I hope you do the same to me. You can think about it, you don't have to answer now. Goodbye, Cheese.

[irrlicht-writes]

scribbles on your spine

Read this and its updates on Ao3! Updates will be semi-weekly~

The light of the moon shines right into the small of the alleyway and Vox whimpers. He stares at Alastor’s back, and the demon’s head twitches, turning back around. The bullet had hit him right straight through the eye, and blood is pouring out of the socket. There’s blood on his shining yellow teeth, and it’s dropping down his chin onto his shoulders and chest.

“Little fool,” Alastor croons in a deep, warbling voice, “do you want me to kill you?” | When promises were made, years and years apart, sometimes it's worth remembering what those promises were for. And when they dance again, in a hall full of light, they might just tear each other apart.

*

Vox is staring at the calendar as if it’s somehow going to solve the problem for him. February is fast approaching, and with it, Valentine’s Day. He’s not sure what to do. Are he and Alastor an item? They’ve kissed, sure, but they’ve done little else... well, what happened in the studio non-withstanding. Vox still blushes when he thinks about that. He’d like a repeat.

Regardless, he’s getting distracted. Valentine’s Day. What the fuck is he going to do – is he going to do anything? What if Alastor will do something? Fuck, if only one of them were a girl, then this wouldn’t be so complicated. But Alastor is a girl, right? He’s got all the girl skills. Vox isn’t actually sure what girl skills actually are, but Alastor for sure got them, right? Cooking, cleaning, sewing, that sort of shit. And! And he has gossip parties with Rosie, doesn’t he? So yeah. Alastor is the girl. While Vox is the man. With all the man skills. Like. Like, uh. He’s surely got some deeply buried, manly man skills. Yup. Absolutely. Vox the Man, at your service.

Fucking hell.

Back to the damn point!

Valentine’s Day.

What the fuck is he gonna do?

Does Alastor even want to be wined and dined? Not that Vox can even afford that shit. What about flowers? Chocolate? Does Alastor even like chocolate? Can deer eat chocolate? What if he doesn’t like it? Gods fucking damn it. He curls up in his bed and hugs his pillow tight.

Alastor likes singing, and he likes dancing. That at least Vox knows. So maybe a trip to the club? But that hardly feels appropriate for Valentine’s Day. And does Alastor even like going to clubs? He’s never mentioned going to any before. Vox groans into his bedding. This had been easier when he had been alive. He really had to pull the baddest bitch in town in Hell, didn’t he?

If at least the bad bitch were uncomplicated...!

“Gods, you’re my last hope, I beg of you!”

Yesterday, Vox had shyly asked Rodriguez for advice. He hadn’t specified who his paramour was but judging by the man’s more than tired look, he had known. He’d also said fuck you in nice, flowery words. And then the asshole had walked away. Rodriguez was the rudest, useless assholes Vox had the misfortunate to know. He had definitely not run after him in tears, begging him for help. Nope. He would never, he’s a man.

And right now, in front of him, are sitting Husk and Niffty. He’d been lucky to get them both at the house while Alastor had been away. Niffty is chugging her coffee like it’s a sport – she’s on cup five already – and Husk looks like he just got rumpled out of sleep, although the grumpy look is definitely a staple for him anyway.

“I find that hard to believe,” Husk says and looks at his coffee. He’s complained about not being able to get whiskey – they are at a café, for fuck’s sake, they don’t serve fucking alcohol also it’s bloody midday!

“You know him better than I. Husk, please, just tell me what I can get him for Valentine’s. We’re... together, or something. And – and he’s the girl, so I have to get him a gift, but I don’t even know if he likes chocolate!”

“No,” Husk answers instinctively. “Wait, Alastor’s the girl?”

“Alastor’s not a girl!” Niffty pipes up. “He’s the bestest bad boy I know! Hey! I need another coffee!”

“No, Niff, you don’t need more coffee. Anyway – no, Red doesn’t like chocolate. He’ll eat it, but he doesn’t like sweets. And, Vox, I – I don’t think he cares about Valentine’s. So, don’t stress about it? If you really wanna do something – shit, I dunno. Also, what the fuck you mean when you say Red’s the girl?”

Vox whimpers and lets his face fall onto the table. He doesn’t know what to do! Ugh, he’s a terrible boyfriend. Is he even a boyfriend? Gods, why is this so complicated? Getting married had been simpler than this shit. He’s lucky to not have hair, he surely would’ve turned grey already.

“What do I do,” he whimpers against the table, his one and only friend in this hellscape.

“Pay the fucking coffee bill,” Husk says and Vox slumps.

He needs friends that are useful.

Later that day, Vox sits on the low wall, staring off into space. Somewhere above him is a transmitter mast, and he can hear Alastor broadcasting. He’s not really listening to the words – it’s early afternoon, and that’s when Alastor is running most of his cooking advice or actual skits. Speaking of, maybe he could cook for Alastor...? Well, yeah, he could do that, if he never wants to see the demon ever again.

Most storefronts are decorated in pink hearts and whatever else is considered cute. So, the easy solution is out: no chocolate for the radio demon. What about flowers? Maybe some nice, red roses? But – that feels so basic. Alastor is special, and so Vox should do something special. But what? Okay, let’s think; what does Alastor like?

He likes radio. He likes blood. He likes murder. He likes carnage. He likes Vox – probably.

Vox pulls a face. That’s not exactly a list he can do much with. Sure, maybe he could try to buy him a radio, but – it’s likely Alastor would already have it, no? And sure, Vox could try and import stuff from the living world, but he doesn’t have enough money for that and the demon is severely allergic against things that are younger than he is.

Vox sighs and hugs his legs.

Even after all this time, it’s jarring how similar Hell is. They celebrate the same holidays as back topside, and money is still a ruler over everyone. If something can get exploited monetarily, then it will be. Vox doesn’t really mind, but it sure as fuck stresses him out. Maybe he should just buy the demon a card. Something like bee mine or something, but instead something with a deer pun. You’re deerest to me, or some corny shit like that. But that would hardly be special, wouldn’t it? Anyone could do that. Vox wants to be different. He wants to be special.

But – how?

“You’re kinda pathetic, you know?”

Vox blinks, and looks up to see Maggie standing there. Huh. He hadn’t really expected her.

“Leave me alone,” he murmurs and hugs his knees tighter. He wants to sulk.

“Roddie said you got Valentine’s problems. Why? Flowers ain’t good enough?”

“No!”

Maggie rolls her eyes and sits down next to him.

“Why not? Creepy fucker would like ‘em, no? I hear he’s tryna to be a gentleman, or somethin’. And why don’t you think he’s gonna get you something?”

Vox blushes. He’s really obvious, isn’t he? But well, how could he not? Alastor is everything, and he doesn’t quite understand why he’s alone in this – not that he minds, he really doesn’t want to share, and he’s afraid that in a straight-up battle he’d lose pathetically. So maybe nobody sharing his viewpoint is a good thing.

“I want it to be special. Only thing I could do that’s different is organise a murder fest, but how the fuck would I do that? Like, walk up to someone and be like Yo wanna get slaughtered by the radio demon as a Valentine’s present? Yeah, no.”

Maggie hums, and kicks her legs a little. It’s kind of nice, Vox supposes, that she stopped. She didn’t have to, but she did.

“If it were reversed,” she says then, “what would you hope for?”

Vox looks at her and thinks. If Alastor were to give him a gift for Valentine’s... honestly, he’d be happy with anything, as long as Alastor were the one giving it. But it’s different for him. Vox knows he’s more in love with the demon than the demon is in love with him; if Alastor is really in love with him at all. But he feels dumb saying that. And to Maggie, of all people, not that it matters much.

“I dunno,” he settles on, then, because he doesn’t want to leave her hanging. “Maybe something that shows he thought about it for more than a moment.”

Maggie nods, seemingly lost in thought a bit. “You know,” she continues, “if it were me, I think I’d want something that reminds me of him. You know? Like, I’d look at it years down the road, and I’d still remember who it’s from, even if we’re not together anymore. A nice memory, no matter what happens, you know? Something to prove that there had been someone, even if it’s no longer true.”

Befuddled, he looks at her. Huh, that’s actually kind of profound. Something that’ll always show you were there, once, even if you’re not any longer. Sure, Vox won’t ever leave Alastor’s side, but he likes the poetics behind the statement.

“Can’t you be this profound when we shoot our fucking movies?”

Maggie laughs, and punches him in the arm.

“I could be,” she chuckles, “if the scripts were good. See you later, Vox. Don’t think too hard, yeah? I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

She hops down the wall and saunters away. Vox looks after her for a bit, before he directs his gaze onto the pavement. What could he do, that is unique to him, that would remind Alastor of him for years to come?  He touches his face. He has an idea, but he doesn’t know if it’ll work. He could just try it. What’s the worst that could happen? But he needs help with it. He hopes Alastor is still out. He slides down the wall, and makes his way to his destination.

He’s lucky.

Alastor is still out.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Niffty says. “How big do you want it?”

“Not big,” Vox replies, “It just needs to fit something of this size into it, so it’ll need a zipper or something in the back.”

He shows Niffty with his fingers, and she gets paper to draw a line on it. “Is it okay if I need a week?”

He nods. “Yeah, sure, don’t worry about it. I need to make the thing first, anyhow. And thanks for helping me, Niffty. What can I give you in return?”

Niffty taps a finger against her chin, thinking hard. “Nothing! It’s for Alastor, so it’s okay. He always finds the best bugs for me, and lets me do my puppet shows. I like him a lot! And don’t worry, I won’t tell him. He usually doesn’t care what I do in my free time.”

Vox breathes a sigh of relief. That’s good to hear. He’ll still think of something to do for Niffty – he can’t really do his plan without her, after all. Maybe some energy drinks supply, or something. She seems to be finding bugs and bad boys on her own well enough – such an odd combination.

“My my, is that a bunny I spy?”

Vox doesn’t shriek, really, he doesn’t, when Alastor speaks up behind him. Fucking hell, he hadn’t heard the door open.

“H-hey, Allie,” he croaks like a frog and turns his head, looking at the demon over his shoulder. Behind him is Husk, holding grocery bags. It surprises Vox every time, seeing the demon be so domestic he goes and buys groceries like a regular motherfucker.

Husk drags himself in the direction of the kitchen, clearly thrilled with his current situation in life.

“I wasn’t aware you’d be visiting, dear. Will you be staying for dinner? I was told a new recipe I simply must try out.”

The demon swings his cane around and pats Niffty on the head absent-mindedly. He doesn’t even seem to notice and fuck, Vox is in love. He looks up at Alastor, smiling like the fool he is.

“Yeah, I’d like to. I’d really like to stay.”

I’d really like to stay forever.

Vox doesn’t really have much space in his home, but he makes do. In life, he’s liked to tinker a fair amount, so he’s feeling pretty confident. He’s got no idea if Alastor will actually like his gift, but – maybe in the end, the thought is what counts most. And boy, did Vox think about this. Even if this turns out to be a failure, he can always look back and say he’s tried his best. But it won’t. It won’t be a failure, it’ll be a huge success. Holding his trusty screwdriver in hand, Vox smiles.

He looks out the window. Dinner at Husk’ house had been an experience, and Vox is eager to repeat it.

“It tastes like garbage!”

“Now, you’re just saying that because I didn’t put the cheese in. You know how terrible you react to cheese, Husker! Vox, dear, what do you think?”

“Hey, that ain’t fair! Of course he’s gonna take your side! No, we need someone neutral and the only neutral party here is me, so I’m fucking right! Give me the cheese!”

“Bushwa! How in the hells are you neutral on this stance? I shall in fact eat all the cheese myself!”

“You won’t fucking dare!”

Yeah, it had been funny. And Vox hadn’t said it then, but yeah, cheese would’ve been better.

He laughs and presses his hands together in front of his chest. He loves the demon so. So, so much, he could explode. Gods, he wants to kiss him again. Again and again and again, until the end of time.

“Here you go. Is it okay?”

Vox takes it from Niffty’s hands and squeezes it. He smiles. “It’s perfect, Niffty, thank you. Allie didn’t see it?”

“Nuh-uh! I told you, he doesn’t care what I do in my free time! Are you giving it to him now?”

Vox shakes his head. He still has some time, and he’s unsure on where to give it to Alastor. Inviting him home feels weirdly intimate, and laden with expectations he’s unsure Alastor would be comfortable with. Not that Vox... wouldn’t want, but... he’s a considerate boyfriend, is all. Truly an angel, he is.

“Not yet. Don’t tell him, okay? I’ll do it on Valentine’s.”

Niffty smiles, posing adorably. “Okay,” she answers, “I hope everything goes well, TV man!”

She skips away and Vox holds the gift close. His heart is beating fast. He’s even picked the right song. Well, at least he hopes so. He’s gotta admit, he’s a little giddy. However, with the gift in hand, he’s rather not be caught by Alastor again – being in his house is excusable, but holding this thing? Yeah no, the demon might get curious and we can’t have that. So he starts hurrying home. Sure, he would like to see Alastor, but Valentine’s is soon.

Having arrived home, he gets to work. It’s not much left to do, but Vox takes great care in it. When he’s done, he tests it out – it would do no good if it would blow up into the demon’s face first thing he does. But it works. Sure, it’s not perfect, and it might not sound like the things you can buy, but – Vox made this himself (well, with Niffty’s help, but mostly himself!).

He hopes Alastor will like it. He really, really does.

The radio demon’s not cruel, is he?

It’s Valentine’s, and it’s early evening, almost still afternoon. Vox sits on the bench, nervous as hell – he’s wearing his good suit, one that he rarely ever puts on. Husk and Niffty had promised to get Alastor into the park at roughly this hour, and Vox needs to think of something to thank them with. He had considered wrapping his present, but he decided against it. He didn’t even put a bow on it, or anything. What if Alastor didn’t like cute, and would look at a bow with disdain? No, no, best to play it safe. Best option would probably be to toss that thing at Alastor’s head from a distance, yell something vaguely romantic and run for the fucking hills before the demon would even get what was going on at all.

“Oh! Are you the surprise Husker mumbled about?”

Vox’s breath hitches in his throat. Looking to the side, nervous as hell, he can see Alastor stroll over. He looks like he always does – of course he does, why would he look any different? Before the demon can reach the bench, Vox jumps to his feet, hiding his gift behind his back. He feels like a little boy.

“I – I, uh – yes, I am!”

Alastor stops two steps in front of him and tilts his head.

“Whatever are we meeting in the park for? You know where my house is. If you want to look at the roses, they’re best enjoyed around midday! They are also free to take, in case you wish to decorate.”

Vox takes a deep breath. Husk said that Alastor doesn’t care much about Valentine’s, so he’s probably unaware. That’s okay, Vox is hyper-aware for both of them.

“It’s Valentine’s Day!”

Alastor had turned his head towards the rosebushes, and now he looks back at Vox, blinking confused.

“It is? My, time sure does fly, does it not? I’m unsure as to what importance it is, though. Is it... your birthday?”

Bless his heart, he sounds truly confused. Vox can’t help but smile. He’d been so nervous these past few days, but standing here now, with Alastor, he can feel it all melt away, like it never even mattered. If Alastor won’t like his gifts – that would be okay. He’s here. He’s here. That’s all that matters.

“I have a gift for you,” he says, calm for the first time in days, “for Valentine’s.”

He holds his hands outward and Alastor blinks, taking it. In his claws, he holds a small plush TV that Niffty made. Curiously, the demon turns it. He looks at Vox then, clearly waiting for some more information.

“It’s, uh, it’s –“ Okay, now he’s nervous again. “Here, if you press it – try pressing it, gently.”

Blinking, confused but ever so cute, Alastor squeezes the little plush toy and then You’re Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile starts playing. Surprised, Alastor holds the plush closer, and his ears twitch – gods Vox wants to lick them.

“You like that song, right? I – Niffty helped me with sewing that toy –“

“I see,” the demon interrupts Vox’s attempts at rambling, and he turns the toy over. “How does it work?”

Eager, Vox steps forward and opens the plush TV. He points to the device he’s put in there – whenever the pressure point is pressed enough, the song starts playing, and it runs on battery, so it’s easily exchangeable.

“Do you – do you like it?”

Alastor hums, squeezing the toy again. Then he looks at his cane.

“I do,” he admits, “but I can play the song myself. Can you change the song the device plays?”

Vox deflates a little – he should’ve thought about that. Alastor is a radio host, after all, of course he would have access to all his favourite songs on demand. But hey, the thought still counts, doesn’t it?

“I – yes, I can,” damn his voice for sounding so detached, “what song would you like?”

Alastor looks at him, and smiles. “Yours.”

Vox blinks, confused. Huh? “Huh?”

“I can play any song I want with my microphone. What I can’t do,” he says, voice sultry sweet, “is have you sing it for me.”

Vox can’t breathe. Did he really – did he – for real? He – he hadn’t even thought about that. Vox isn’t a singer, not really, but – Alastor – he – he really – gods. Oh fuck, he’s so in love.

“You – you really want me to sing it?”

“Yes,” affirms Alastor, still smiling. “Whichever song you please, as long as you sing it. Can you do that?”

Vox wants to fuck him, he wants to kiss him, he wants to marry him.

“Yes,” Vox breathes and he takes the toy when Alastor hands it back. He can’t look away from the demon.

“Thank you for the gift,” the radio demon croons, “I look forward to receiving it.”

He brushes his fingers along Vox’s face, and Vox whimpers. He’s behaving like a fucking teenager, but he can’t fucking stop.

“Come,” Alastor says, unbothered, “let me invite you to drinks. A new bar has opened up, and I had planned to visit it with dear Husker sometime, but your company is much more pleasant! Come, come!”

Without waiting, he stalks on ahead and Vox only has time to stuff the toy into his bag before he runs after him.

The bar they go to is actually kind of fancy, not the usual garbage clubs Vox tends to visit. There’s even a stage, and a singer is performing. Well, at least Vox isn’t underdressed, even if these people aren’t his, well, people.

“Allie, I don’t think I fit in here. They’re all fancy and stuff.”

Vox presses against Alastor’s arm, his only shield against all the looks he surely must be getting.

“Bushwa! If they have a problem with you, they might dare and come to me. No, no, dear sheik, worry not your pretty square head. Come, let us try out the drinks. If they are bad, I mustn’t bring Husker here at all, ha!”

They wander over to the bar and Vox only really felt safe if he was physically pressed against the demon. Luckily, Alastor seems not to mind.

“Hello, my good man! Give us your best quilt, now will you?”

The barkeep just grunts, and complies.

“Shall we make it a competition, dear? Whoever of us can drink more?”

Vox pouts. “What do I get if I win?”

“So focused! If you win, love, then I might be persuaded to sleep in your bed tonight.”

“Get us all the drinks!”

Alastor laughs and Vox desperately tries to drink straight from the bottle. He can drink that twig under the table!

He, in fact, could not drink that twig under the table. Alastor is a fucking bottomless barrel. Like, seriously, where is storing all that alcohol? Vox can barely walk straight, and the only effect on Alastor seems to be a slight blushing of his cheeks. It’s fucking adorable, but that’s not the point!

“You should’ve said you can drink like you bein’ paid for it.”

Alastor laughs, a clear sound in the night. “I don’t recall you asking, darling. Never take a bet if you don’t know all the relevant factors. I’m win-orientated!” 

An asshole, is what he is. An asshole Vox is sadly madly in love with.

“So, what did you win, exactly?”

The demon gives him a side-eye, smirking only.

“Why, I won my right to sleep wherever I want tonight! Also, of course, I won you, didn’t I?”

Before Vox can fully comprehend that sentence – he is drunk, after all – Alastor pushes him against the wall and presses himself along Vox’s body. Vox’s breath hitches and he’s blushing, not just because of the alcohol. It’s dark, and Alastor is so pretty. Vox wants him. He just fucking wants him so much. He bites his lip, and stares into the red eyes before him.

He wants to – he loves him. He wants to say it, but he doesn’t dare. Why not? It’s Valentine’s. Now’s the day he should be able to say it. But something stops him. Vox whimpers and puts his hands on Alastor’s waist – it’s so tiny, so thin and Vox presses against the body before him.

“Cash,” Vox doesn’t beg, because he’s a man and men don’t beg. Alastor curls his lip in a snarling smile and reaches forward, slow, always too slow. Vox opens his mouth in advance, waiting, eagerly waiting and he smell Alastor’s rancid breath already when voices sound from the corner.

“You the radio demon?”

Oh, Vox hates them and wants them to die.

Alastor turns his head towards the voices, but he hardly removes himself from the position he’s in. His upper lip is curled in the grimace of a smile and he blinks slowly.

“So sorry, gents, I’m not on air at the moment. If you have song requests, please keep them to yourselves.”

“Nah, you fucker, we’re here to beat you up.”

Alastor sighs and rolls his eyes. “Really,” he grumbles, only to Vox, “can’t they tell I’m busy?”

That’s him! That’s Vox! Vox is busy!

But he does push away from the nice position they’ve been in and he fully turns to the sinners that have started coming closer.

“Let’s do this quickly, then. Seven against one! It’s not like I stand a chance. My, what a bind I’m in! Whatever shall I do, woe be upon me.”

He’s undermining his own words by focusing on the dirt under his fingernails. He’s so fucking silly, Vox loves him. However, the sinners seem to take courage from it, as they begin to advance more quickly. Sobering up faster than Vox ever thought to be possible, he pushes himself from the wall, ready to stand with the demon.

“Hush, my love. Don’t get in the way. Stand there and look pretty, will you?”

The sinners are close now, and Alastor snaps his head around with a loud crack. It echoes in the alleyway they’re in and Vox – he expects to see something like he saw at the gala, but he doesn’t. Instead, Alastor rushes forward, faster than Vox even knew was possible and he lands exactly in the middle of the intruders. With black hands and claws, he swipes through the air, ripping two people in half. Blood splatters onto the ground and the other five shriek in terror, and they separate.

Alastor grins wide, more smile than anything else, and there’s blood on his cheek. Without missing a beat, he jumps after another two, smashing their heads against the nearby wall. They burst open like ripe watermelons. One of the remaining three finally fumbles out his gun, and he aims at Alastor with shaking hands. Vox gasps when he hears the shot – Alastor’s head jerks, and Vox wants to scream already, but the demon just laughs, deep and full on static. His head cracks back up and Vox can hear the sinner mutter a very heart-felt “fuck” before Alastor jumps him too, chomping his teeth on his head, ripping it clear off. The two that are still alive have scrambled back to the entry of the alleyway and Alastor turns his head, with the head of their, their leader, still in his mouth.

“Running already? But I’m not even done yet! Come! Come beat me up, I’m all open!”

As if to prove his point, he throws his arms to the side, laughing. The ripped off head falls to the ground with a wet sound and the sinners scream, and they run away.

The light of the moon shines right into the small of the alleyway and Vox whimpers. He stares at Alastor’s back, and the demon’s head twitches, turning back around. The bullet had hit him right straight through the eye, and blood is pouring out of the socket. There’s blood on his shining yellow teeth, and it’s dropping down his chin onto his shoulders and chest.

Alastor turns around fully and starts stalking towards Vox – it’s only a handful of steps and Vox sinks to his knees. Alastor stops before him and he grins wide. With the moonlight behind him, he looks like he belongs exactly where he is. Vox presses his legs together, trying to get some friction. Slowly, Alastor bends over, never ever needing a spine and he grabs Vox’s face with bloody hands. He pulls Vox back up with him and slowly, too fast, slams him against the wall. There’s something fleshy moving in his eye socket and then Alastor presses himself up against Vox, kissing him. Needy, Vox whimpers and pawns at Alastor’s back, trying to press in closer. He can taste the sinner’s blood on Alastor’s tongue and he wants – he wants – it’s embarrassing, but oh gods, how he wants.

“I wanna fuck you,” he pants with hot breath against Alastor’s lips.

The demon growls in response and pushes his claws softly into Vox’s flesh. Vox’s hips buck forwards and he can’t help the wanton moan that escapes his throat.

“Hold onto me,” the demon rumbles in a low tone and he doesn’t need to say that twice. Desperate for his mouth again, Vox presses back in, kissing him again, wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders, fisting his hands into his hair.

It’s dark, then, and something feels cold and wrong, and when Vox opens his eyes, they’re in his shoebox. How did they – what - but Alastor pushes him back, onto the bed behind him. Vox catches himself on his elbows and he stares up. Half of Alastor’s face is smeared in blood, his eye is still a bloody, fleshy mess, and he tears his bowtie off.

“Undress to your liking.”

Vox must black out for a moment, but when he comes back to himself, he starts tearing his clothes off. He’s not gonna ask, and he’s gonna take it. This wasn’t how Vox had suspected today to go. And still, he’s a little insecure, so – he leaves his underwear on. Shyly, he glances up at the demon – he’s gotten rid of his bowtie, his suit jacket and his shoes, apparently. Well, Vox never thought he’d get to see Alastor’s shirt this clearly, although it is a bit of a shame.

The demon climbs on top of Vox, and presses him into the mattress. “Little sheik,” he croons with a voice as smooth as silver, “displease me, and I’ll rip you apart. But, you would like that, wouldn’t you?”

Teasingly, he strokes a sharp, bloody claw along Vox’s throat and he whimpers. Yes. Yes, he would like that, actually. Alastor bends forward, and licks his tongue along Vox’s neck and he shivers. Instinctively, he spreads his legs and Alastor slots himself right in, as if he belongs there and gods – the things it does to Vox’s head. Sharp teeth tease at his Adam’s apple and he – he wants. He wants Alastor to push his teeth in, rip it out and swallow it down. Fuck, fuck, what in the hells is wrong with him?!

The demon sits back up again, still smiling. With his thumb, he wipes away some blood on his cheek and holds it close to Vox’s face – so close, and yet too far to lick it clean. Vox wants. He wants to lick it clean. The demon shuffles back and blindly, Vox follows. Alastor lets himself fall back onto the mattress, and Vox follows, hovering over him. He’s out of breath already.

Smiling like a cat, Alastor reaches his hand up, pushing his thumb into the corner of Vox’s mouth. But before he can properly start sucking and licking it, Alastor pulls him down and shoves his tongue between Vox’s teeth. He moans and shivers and he leans down, lets his body fall onto Alastor’s and he responds to the kiss with wild abandon. The demon’s dainty legs sling themselves around Vox’s hips and Vox could die right now and wouldn’t regret a thing. Well, maybe he wants to get off first, but that’s a secondary objective here.

Pulling his thumb out of his mouth, Alastor wraps his arms around Vox’s neck and pulls him impossibly closer. Vox rakes his fingers on his bedding, shredding his blanket but he doesn’t care. Heart beating up to his ears, he starts to grind forwards, fully expecting to be shoved off, to be slammed against the wall and threatened within an inch of his life and that wouldn’t be so bad either. But – Alastor doesn’t stop him. He simply shifts his legs a little and if Vox weren’t dead already, he’d surely die now.

Pushing the ball of his hand against Vox’s throat, Alastor temporarily interrupts their kiss to growl, deep and dark: “Do your worst.”

Then he pulls Vox back in, biting hard onto his tongue, and Vox rams his own claws into Alastor’s shoulders, holding him as close as he can as he starts rutting against him. He can feel the demon’s blood over his fingers and fuck, he’s getting high. His own blood pools in his mouth and he bites the demon back as good as he gets. In his mouth, their blood mixes and Vox can’t tell the taste apart anymore. He loves it. Fuck, he needs more, he needs everything.

“Allie,” he pants, desperate, “Allie, fuck, I need you, gods, I can’t –“

He starts rutting faster, and he’s expecting Alastor to stop him at any moment. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t.

Vox is different. He’s special, and only he gets this. Only him, only him, only him.

“Only me,” he growls, as deep as he can go, and he pushes his claws into Alastor’s throat. The demon looks up at him, with half-lidded eyes – eye, rather – and the tip of his tongue pokes out of his mouth. It’s full of blood. Vox breathes hard, tearing his claws down, leaving bloody streaks in his wake. Alastor doesn’t seem to mind and Vox roars, rutting faster, tearing his claws through the demon’s chest. He can feel Alastor’s claws scratch at the back of his neck and gods, he wants to. He wants them to kill each other in the bloodiest way.

Vox grunts and his thrusts become erratic. He’s so close, and Alastor’s legs are locked so tight around him. Gods, fuck, he doesn’t want to stop, how could he ever stop?

“Little fool,” Alastor croons in a deep, warbling voice, “do you want me to kill you?”

“Yes! Yes yes yes yes!” Vox shouts and he comes, smashing his lips against Alastor once again. The demon’s legs tighten around his hips and Vox is riding his high. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck he wants more, he needs more, he needs it again.

Pulling away, because he needs to fucking breathe, he sinks down onto the man below him, and he breathes hard next to the demon’s face. He feels cold claws trail along his spine and he moans, closing his eyes. He swallows, his throat dry as fuck. He doesn’t know what the fuck just happened. But frankly; he kind of doesn’t care. This was – fuck, this was better than he could’ve ever fucking dreamed of.

“Wait,” he pants, “did you – ?”

“Shush, sheik. Don’t push your luck.”

Vox’s heart stops for probably a little too long, but it’s okay. Fuck. He’s never expected that Valentine’s could go like this, that – that it could feel like this.

“Your eye,” he starts.

“It will be fine. Give me two days, and why, you’ll never even know it was gone at all!”

Alastor pushes him away and sits up, looking only a little rumpled. He’s bloody all over. Vox whimpers. He wants him. He wants him more than is healthy, probably, but what is he to do? He’s so gone, he’s so far gone.

“Stay here tonight. Allie – please. Just sleep next to me. I won’t touch you, but – please.”

Alastor blinks at him. He seems to contemplate the idea.

“So needy,” he comments, but falls back all the same. “I suppose you can hold my hand.”

Vox smiles, and he does. Alastor’s hand are ice-cold, and there’s blood that’s just starting to dry on them, but it’s perfect. It’s perfect and Vox – Vox wants things to never change.

In the morning, the demon is gone.

There’s a note in his stead, though: Rest well, little fool.

Vox smiles, and keeps the note close.

[spyridonya]

Knight Commander Kadira's Companion List (as noted to Avenia)

little notes found in the files that Avenia has about the companions, sent to her by the knight commander

Arueshalae: in the future please don't give away you have a truesight charm

Camellia: (Censored scribbling) please find out if REAL Gwerm has distant relatives - tolerate until 'Horgus' war is over

Daeran: paramours might be spies, please keep an eye out are you sure?? since heaven's edge?

Ember: please let me know if we get a group from Kyonin - how rare is andoletta worship?? hopefully not too rare!! we could track her mother!!

Greybor: a little expensive but keep around; he'll slip about who gave him fake Darazzaned weapon

Lann: please make sure his quarters are near the UG crusader families - safer for him and them!!

Nenio: yes!! you need to go along with the experiments!!

Regill:  place all unused battle plans under lock and key!! regill is bleaching despite obsession with order - may not be ambitious but someone in his circle might be?? Its ok to let it leak to regill if that's the case!! (hi regill - she's found no one yet; will keep you posted)

Seelah: (There are no notes about Seelah)

Sosiel: worried about Andorean propaganda affecting his faith

Wenduag: keep an eye out when she hunts - she doesn't fool me

Woljif: talk to Irabeth about pardon at Drezen wring his neck with his tail!!! never mind - ask him about tiefling designed boots instead

Ulbrig: good natured, likely still recovering from a sky diving accident

inspired by @mountainashfae companion list shared on discord! Tagging @silversiren1101, @dujour13, @cassynite, @dmagedgoods, @offsidekineticist, @undyingembers, @baneschosen and @another-heroine if you want to make a list about the companions for your KCs!

[spoke9]

Dancing with Strom

Play Audio

By Nikky Finney

            I want to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, there’s not enough             troops in the army to force the southern people to break             down segregation and accept the Negro [pronounced Nigra]             into our theatres, into our swimming pools, into our homes,             and into our churches.                                     —Strom Thurmond, South Carolina                                     Senator and Presidential Candidate                                          for the States’ Rights Party, 1948               I said, “I’m gonna fight Thurmond from the mountain to             the sea.”                                     —Modjeska Monteith Simkins, Civil                               Rights Matriarch, South Carolina, 1948  

The youngest has been married off.

He is as tall as Abraham Lincoln. Here, on his

wedding day, he flaunts the high spinning laugh

of a newly freed slave. I stand above him, just

off the second-floor landing, watching

the celebration unfold.

Uncle-cousins, bosom buddies, convertible cars

of nosy paramours, strolling churlish penny-

pinchers pour onto the mansion estate. Below,

Strom Thurmond is dancing with my mother.

The favorite son of South Carolina has already

danced with the giddy bride and the giddy bride’s

mother. More women await: Easter dressy,

drenched in caramel, double exposed, triple cinched,

lined up, leggy, ready.

I refuse to leave the porch.

If I walk down I imagine he will extend his

hand, assume I am next in his happy darky line,

#427 on his dance card. His history

and mine, burnt cork and blackboard chalk,

concentric, pancaked, one face, two histories,

slow dragging, doing the nasty.

My father knows all this.

Daddy’s Black Chief Justice legs straddle the boilerplate

carapace of the CSS H. L. Hunley, lost Confederate

submarine, soon to be found just off the coast of

Charleston. He keeps it fully submerged by

applying the weight of every treatise he has

ever written against the death penalty of

South Carolina. Chanting “Briggs v. Elliott,”

he keeps the ironside door of the submarine shut.

No hands.

His eyes are a Black father’s beacon, search-

lights blazing for the married-off sons, and

on the unmarried, whale-eyed nose-in-book

daughter, born unmoored, quiet, yellow,

strategically placed under hospital lights to

fully bake. The one with the most to lose.

There will be no trouble. Still, he chain-

smokes. A burning stick of mint & Indian

leaf seesaws between his lips. He wants

me to remember that trouble is a fire that

runs like a staircase up then down. Even

on a beautiful day in June.

I remember the new research just out:

What the Negro gave America

Chapter 9,206:

Enslaved Africans gifted porches to North

America. Once off the boats they were told,

then made, to build themselves a place—to live.

They build the house that will keep them alive.

Rather than be the bloody human floret on

yet another southern tree, they imagine higher

ground. They build landings with floor enough

to see the trouble coming. Their arced imaginations

nail the necessary out into the floral air. On the

backs and fronts of twentypenny houses,

a watching place is made for the ones who will

come tipping with torch & hog tie through the

quiet woods, hoping to hang them as decoration

in the porcupine hair of longleaf.

The architecture of Black people is sui generis.

This is architecture dreamed by the enslaved:

Their design will be stolen.

Their wits will outlast gold.

My eyes seek historical rest from the kiss-

kiss theater below; Strom Thurmond’s

it’s-never-too-late-to-forgive-me chivaree.

I search the tops of yellow pine while my

fingers reach, catch, pinch my father’s

determined-to-rise smoke.

Long before AC African people did the

math: how to cool down the hot air of

South Carolina?

If I could descend, without being trotted

out by some roughrider driven by his

submarine dreams, this is what I’d take

my time and scribble into the three-tiered,

white créme wedding cake:

Filibuster. States’ Rights. The Grand Inquisition

of the great Thurgood Marshall. This wedding

reception would not have been possible without

the Civil Rights Act of 1957 (opposed by

you-know-who).

The Dixiecrat senator has not worn his

sandy seersucker fedora to the vows.

The top of Strom Thurmond’s bald head

reveals a birthmark tattooed in contrapposto

pose: Segregation Forever.

All my life he has been the face of hatred;

the blue eyes of the Confederate flag,

the pasty bald of white men pulling wooly

heads up into the dark skirts of trees,

the sharp, slobbering, amber teeth of

German shepherds, still clenched inside

the tissue-thin, (still marching), band-leader

legs of Black schoolteachers, the single-

minded pupae growing between the legs of

white boys crossing the tracks, ready to

force Black girls into fifth-grade positions,

Palmetto state-sanctioned sex 101.

I didn’t want to dance with him.

My young cousin arrives at my elbow.

Her beautiful lips the color of soft-skin

mangoes. She pulls, teasing the stitches

of my satin bridesmaid gown, “You better

go on down there and dance with Strom—

while he still has something left.”

I don’t tell her it is unsouthern for her

to call him by his first name, as if they

are familiar. I don’t tell her: To bear

witness to marriage is to believe that

everything moving through the sweet

wedding air can be confidently, left—

to Love.

I stand on the landing high above the

beginnings of Love, holding a plastic

champagne flute, drinking in the warm

June air of South Carolina. I hear my

youngest brother’s top hat joy. Looking

down I find him, deep in the giddy crowd,

modern, integrated, interpretive.

For ten seconds I consider dancing with

Strom. His Confederate hands touch

every shoulder, finger, back that I love.

I listen to the sound of Black laughter

shimmying. All worry floats beyond

the gurgling submarine bubbles,

the white railing, every drop of

champagne air.

I close my eyes and Uncle Freddie

appears out of a baby’s breath of fog.

(The dead are never porch bound.)

He moves with ease where I cannot.

He walks out on the rice-thrown air,

heaving a lightning bolt instead of

a wave. Suddenly, there is a table set,

complete with 1963 dining room stars,

they twinkle twinkle up & behind him.

Thelonious, Martin, Malcolm, Nina,

Dakota, all mouths Negro wide &

open have come to sing me down.

His tattered almanac sleeps curled like

a wintering slug in his back pocket.

His dark Dogon eyes jet to the scene

below, then zoom past me until they are

lost in the waning sugilite sky. Turning

in the shadows of the wheat fields,

he whispers a truth plucked from

the foreword tucked in his back pocket:

Veritas: Black people will forgive you

quicker than you can say Orangeburg

Massacre.

History does not keep books on the

handiwork of slaves. But the enslaved

who built this Big House, long before

I arrived for this big wedding, knew

the power of a porch.

This native necessity of nailing down

a place, for the cooling off of air,

in order to lift the friendly, the kindly,

the so politely, the in-love-ly, jubilant,

into the arms of the grand peculiar,

for the greater good of

the public spectacular:

us

giving us

away.

[princesscolumbia]

As of today, I'm out of buffer.

I'll get to that in a minute.

Tomorrow night I get on a plane in Phoenix, AZ and will arrive in Washington D.C. at 10:30 AM to attend the HRC Dinner, at which we may get to see Democratic Presidential Nominee Harris, though that hasn't been confirmed. What has been confirmed is my flight, my hotel stay, and the money that will just barely pay for my trip before I get work to comp me for it.

This will, of course, mean I'll be tired and (likely) stressed all weekend but it will be worth it to be around people who understand the queer experience and everyone supports each other.

So that brings us back to writing.

The current story arc for CoE is the love story arc, and because it's about a transwoman who exists in the Troubleverse, she gets laid within 24 hours of meeting her paramour.

And because the precedent has been set, I wrote a smut chapter. And because it's me, it's an emotional, intense, and educational chapter that may or may not have plot critical elements to it.

Buuuut because I want to keep the Scribble Hub version available for people under the age of 18, I specifically wrote the chapters that will appear on SH to not be smutty. They mention sex organs and the act of sex, but it's never "on screen." I did this for reasons and I'm not going to get into it now, but it makes sense and everyone I've discussed it with agrees the reasons are sound.

What I intended to do was publish the smut chapters on my Literotica account, but I got word that you're not allowed to have story segments and links out of Literotica, which is dumb and defeats the purpose of trying to post it there, so it's a wash anyway. All smut chapters go straight to AO3, I guess.

Whiiiiich the CoE on AO3 needs to be caught up. I had plans that were going to go a certain way and that obviously hasn't happened, so I'll be uploading all the remaining chapters over the weekend there, including the smut chapter (37.5) that you won't even find on Patreon because I don't want to tempt fate with Patreon being so blatantly anti-trans.

So this brings me back to the lack of buffer.

Long story short, I thought I had buffer until next Monday (9/9), but that was because I screwed up the publication date on SH for Ch. 37, which was supposed to release today. I posted it "late" (at 1pm instead of 7am) and am now without buffer.

This means I'm right back at nothing in the chamber and I'll have to reload to get back to something resembling "caught up."

So chapter 38 will either get scheduled for a Monday (9/9) release or be posted whenever I get to it, and I'm going back to releasing on Mondays only until I have a full four week's buffered out, then I'll bump back up to 2x per week.

(Sidebar: I'm never pushing a primary project to 3x per week, I have too much else I have plans to do with my writing to hammer a main project AND the side projects I'm working on)

So, yeah, there we go. See you when I get back from D.C.

...or when I get the burning desire to write at 2am on the plane.

[pseudofaux]

You! Are! So! Nice! To! Allow! Me! This! Fantasy! BLESS.

I'd be so happy to see (read) you bathe the King of Heroes™️ in spice (the most exquisite, 🔥🔥 you have to offer for Gilgamesh)? Perhaps a focus on how well he can focus on lording (cherishing/spoiling/gifting) over the one who has earned his favor, in bed? 🥰 Honestly, just here to read your take – in whatever shape or form – on his (A+++) horn over his beloved; HCs or drabble. Darker kinks or not, if it rocks your boat for him, I will gladly take anything. Thank you, thank you, pseu xoxo

For cough inspiration/cheering on for your entire pseu slings 🥳, please have:

Friend, I cannot TELL YOU HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS IDEA (and your brain) (and this gif). Thank you for giving me this incredible playground and vent for my own personal, uh, imaginings. 🥰 ilyssssssm!

(Requests are open through May 1 if you would like to get one in, reader!)

Perhaps the greatest benefit of pleasing a king so well as she has is the chance to feel his fine king’s mattress at her back. She is used to humbler surfaces and far fewer pillows. The mattress on his bed is soft and sweet-smelling, dried grasses and herbs and all the other stuffing practically sublime beneath her.

But above her is the king himself, and he is definitely sublime, and the amusement in his gaze is very warm and gentle and knowing, and it makes her hot. She is so glad her king is not a fake, that he does not boast things he cannot claim. When this golden being boasts, his words are the truth. He can claim anything of earth or of heaven; he is both. And tonight there is an unearthly warmth in his eyes, and every second she thinks she can be calm, that strange heat makes her skin feel like it is being gently tattooed with some great mystery. She will not look away. He told her to look.

“Afraid?” he asks.

“Honored,” she says immediately. If she was forced to go without grain she could sustain herself on her reverence for him.

“What a proper answer. Good,” he tells her, and lifts one of her wrists from her silk-covered belly to his mouth. She wears only a gold belt and the high skirt, split at both sides, in a rich blue. It’s the finest thing she has ever worn but he does not seem to care about it at all. He kisses her below her palm, then licks the kiss, and the gasp she sucks in through her nose makes him laugh. “Relax,” he orders. “You are here because I deemed you worthy. Do you question my judgement?”

“Never,” she swears.

He hums and keeps his eyes on her as he moves his mouth back to her wrist and lightly scrapes his teeth over her pulse. She can feel it jump so strongly she thinks he must feel it, too.

“You did well,” he says graciously, placing her arm back on her belly and leaning over her on his bed. He looms. “Few earn this. Know that you are free to enjoy everything that happens here tonight. I will not tell you so again.”

She stares into his eyes, and knows only a want to look at him and look and look, forever. It is as though two bloodred moons look back at her, vibrant from their place in the sky. Expectant. “Thank you, my king,” she says quietly. “I will keep trying to please you.”

“See that you do,” he mutters as he comes down to her mouth. He does not kiss her, exactly, but he sucks her lower lip into his mouth and gently presses it with his teeth. She already feels like swooning and does not hide the lustful cry that comes out of her open mouth. That is his. It is not her place to deny him.

He stays above her, sublime and regal. But he turns her what feels like every which way through the night: onto her side where he grinds into her, on her back where he holds her by the hips and blesses her breasts with suckles and teeth. On her stomach, where he hauls up her hips to come close to him in heaven and pounds into her so fiercely the pillows do nothing to muffle her cries of pleasure. He laughs when she finally stops trying.

“There it is. Let them all hear. My entire great city in every direction, you let them know who is king.”

“Gilgamesh!” she cries.

“Louder!”

“Gilgamesh!” she screams as he presses into her and grinds himself deeper, so deep if he were not half god she knows it would hurt. Everything should hurt, but he keeps touching her and it does not. His fingers are unerring and graceful, occasionally tweaking but almost always blessing her with strokes and circles and zigzig patterns that make her legs fall open like an unrolled carpet, something meant for him to walk upon. She can hear the way her body never stops slicking itself for him-- he never lets up, it is always his heavenly mouth or fingers playing her. She did not know she was a lyre but she shakes at his every pluck, whether he uses the fingers of his hand gloved in gold or the naked one.

In moments of rest they feed each other apricots drizzled with honey, bites of cheese and pistachios. There is cold water flavored with roses and sweet wine. He tells her “Do not swallow,” before he kisses some of the wine into her mouth and her head swims as though she has had a full cup too fast. Some leaks out one side of her mouth and he laughs again-- he laughs so often her heart is weak-- and makes great show of cradling her face and licking from her chest up to her lips.

The sky is more purple than black by the time his energy finally wanes, as though he has kept the world alive through the night by staying awake with her. She is ready to bow beside his sweet-smelling bed and stumble away when he tugs her back to his sweaty chest with a huff and tells her she is to sleep there if she does not want to sour his mood. She tells him she would never dare and promptly falls asleep, where her dreams will never be sweeter than the night she has just endured.

She wakes on her stomach at midday, alone. There is one of the king’s tablets, the ones he magics, under her shoulder.

“You are to return to me tonight,” it says. Every slash of the signs is kingly and without hesitation, so when the moon rises that night she does not hesitate, either.

[chirp-a-chirp]

Court of Darkness: Hand-Made

Below is a series of small stories/notes for hand-made gifts the MC would give her princely paramour and the princes’ reactions.

 Lynt - Enchanted Socks

Everyone gives Lynt blankets as presents. He’s got so many blankets his blankets have blankets. But, Lynt’s feet poke out of the blankets at night, leading to cold feet, and sometimes a fitful night’s rest.

MC knits a pair of green and white socks and enchants them so that they’ll warm his feet if cold or cool his feet if hot. 

Lynt ADORES these socks. He has had the best sleep of his life in these socks. And MC made them!

You will have to pry these socks from his feet before Lynt will take them off. Lynt pouts at the mere mention of taking the socks off. 

Tino begs MC to make a few more socks so he can wash the existing pair. No really, Tino is begging. So are a few of the other princes. Cause the socks are starting to smell. And now Lynt is wearing these socks as a sort of slipper in lieu of shoes. 

MC is given a special pass from classes to create more socks. 

MC makes the mistake of creating a pair of matching socks for herself. Lynt loves them. And pouts if MC does not wear them to match his socks.

Congrats MC—you are now wearing sock slippers for the rest of your life.   

Toa - Bookmark and Magical Book Cover 

MC associates Toa with music and books. With that in mind, MC gives Toa a handmade bookmark. It is a needlepoint design of music notes and an inscription that reads “Follow the voice of your heart”.  

Toa is stunned at receiving this. He’s silent for several seconds. Beyond Saligian holidays, he’s not used to receiving gifts. Even then, it’s more protocol and tradition. Finally, Toa says,

“There is no need for this.”

“What?

“I have done nothing worthy of praise to receive this.” *MC’s heart breaks a little* 

“But,” Toa interjects, “it is a superb example of craftsmanship.” He traces the music notes on the bookmark with his finger. “And you put such thought into this gift.” Toa looks tenderly at MC. 

“I have a second gift Toa.” MC hold up her hand. “And YES, you are beyond worthy to receive it. Ridiculously so.” MC gives Toa a magical book cover that will fit any book. It is a plain grey cover with the title “Saligian History 101”

“The title can be changed to whatever you want it to say.”

“Why is that?”

“If you make the title something boring, you can read wherever you are without people bugging you!”

Toa often reads fiction books people are surprised to see him associated with. And he gets comments about that (*cough cough FENN*).  

MC used complicated transformative magic to create the book cover. She’s been diligent in her studies. And should be rewarded. 

MC is amply rewarded by Toa. 

Toa is able to read his favorite books in the S: Rank Lounge for a month without interruption. Unfortunately, Fenn notices Toa always has a grey covered book with different titles, all in the same style. He says nothing, but chuckles to himself, aiming a finger at Toa’s book cover. A few minutes later, Guy enters the room. He looks at Toa reading and growls,

“Qelsum, what is this?” *points at the book*

Toa glares, and is about to ignore Guy, but he notices the book cover’s title has changed. It now reads “A History of Avari Lovemaking Techniques”

“FENN!”

Fenn - Enchanted Journals

Most people would think to give Fenn something seductive or saucy, like perfume or alcohol. Because that irreverent, pushy, flirty side is the Fenn most people see.

But there’s more to him than that. He’s observant of people and their motivations. And quite a story teller. And Fenn often writes stories to process various emotions he feels but hides behind his flirty mask. MC wants to give Fenn something to reflect that.  

MC goes into Fenn’s room and sees a familiar sight—Fenn at his desk scribbling, piles of wadded paper overflowing from a waste basket. His latest story is not going well. 

“Treasure! Just the inspiration I needed!”

MC swats Fenn’s hands playfully before Fenn can distract her. 

“I have something that might help with your story!” 

MC hands Fenn two journals. She explains that one journal is for story drafts, where the ink can be magically erased. The second journal is where stories can be transferred to once they are finished for archiving. 

“So you can save your hands from balling up all those pieces of paper!”

“How you surprise me Treasure. Allow me to return the favor.” 

Fenn scribbles a few lines in the first journal before handing MC the second journal for her to read. MC reads the journal and her cheeks redden instantly.

“What passage is this for?”

Fenn grabs MC by the waist and whispers in her ear, “Since my hands are now free, that’s something I hope we’ll reenact soon.”

“That isn’t exactly a surprise coming from you Fenn.”

“Oh, wait and see Treasure. This is an area where I am full of surprises.”

OK, so maybe Fenn will always be saucy. 

Guy - Painting of Constellations 

While sleeping next to Guy in his bed, MC looks up at his canopy. She sees the constellations that adorn the canopy’s fabric. An idea springs into MC’s head. 

MC looks up the star charts of the night she and Guy declared their love for one another. 

By declare love, Guy probably said “you are mine” like usual. But this time, said it romantically? With fewer growls, glares, and grunts? Ehhh, I dunno. 

MC paints a small picture of the stars from that night as they would have appeared from Guy’s bedroom window and frames it. The next day, MC goes to Guy’s room and gives him the picture, explaining the meaning behind it.  

“You’re always giving me gifts, so I wanted to give you something too. I know it’s not expensive or exquisite like what you usually give me…” 

Guy is silent, starring at the picture. 

“If-if you don’t like it, I can take it back…” *MC goes to grab the picture*  

“Did I say I disliked it?” *Guy smirks seductively* 

Guy leads MC to his bedroom and places the framed picture on his nightstand. He pushes MC on the bed.

“The stars you painted are good. But I prefer you look at the stars above instead.” *Smirks* 

The next day, MC notices the constellations on Guy’s bedroom canopy have changed their pattern. After inquiring, Guy says,

“They are the star patterns from yesterday. The day I knew you were truly mine.”  

Roy - Lock of Hair

MC arrives at Roy’s bedroom with a hairdo several inches shorter.   

“Roy, I wanted to give you something to remind you I am always here for you.”  

MC nervously hands Roy a lock of her hair, braided, and tied on either end with fine thread.

“This is a gift written about in Romance books on Earth. Now, you have a part of me with you wherever you are.” 

Roy gasps quietly. He always craves MC and her presence. And here it is, quite literally, in his hand. 

How well she knows me. Creator, I love her.  

He quickly embraces her before becoming overwhelmed, placing a kiss on her forehead. 

“How you live up to your nickname, Heartspell. I only wish there were more of this gift.”

“You mean like this?” MC smiles shyly and hands Roy a second lock of braided hair. 

“You anticipated me.” Roy smiles and places one lock of hair in his pants pocket. 

Roy opens a secret compartment within his desk drawer. He places the other braided lock in it and explains he keeps treasured keepsakes in it. Roy points out the following items:

A signet ring from his father, passed down generations.

A one square foot tapestry of a woman and boy walking in a field of roses made by his mother.

A small ceremonial knife from Grayson.

Several pink rose petals, flattened and magically preserved. 

“Our first kiss—remember how the wind gusted and rose petals swirled around us? I saved a few of the petals.” 

“Umm, can I have one of those petals too?” *MC blushes*

“Of course. But allow me one indulgence first.” Roy tosses the petals in the air, cups MC’s cheeks with his hands, and recreates their first kiss. 

A folded piece of paper with the title “Sherry’s Surprise!”

“Sherry’s first cupcake recipe,” Roy chuckles, handing the paper to MC.

“Three cups of salt and a pinch of sugar?!”

“Some things never change,” Roy smiles wryly. “Look at the back.”

The back of the paper contains large block writing that looks like a juvenile version of Rio’s. The back reads “Rio and Sherry’s Surprise!” This time, the sugar and salt ratios appear correct. Voleri wheat is a prominent ingredient.   

Roy keeps one of the locks of hair in his pocket always. He touches it when feeling stressed or nervous.

A week later, Roy gifts MC a golden charm bracelet. One of the charms is a heart with a few of Roy’s hairs in it. 

Rio - Bread Basket

Rio is the best boy. So good. The walking embodiment of sunshine, rainbows, and puppies. 

Rio the paramour and Rio the best friend have a lot of the same defining characteristics. Including sharing happiness and food with the people he cherishes. The amount of times MC has seen bread rolls appear from Rio from seemingly nowhere is unreal. 

OK, not nowhere. That baby’s pockets have so many crumbs in them. And his hands. And clothes. And these crumbs get EVERYWHERE on the MC when Rio embraces her. 

No time for lunch MC? Well, she DID get some alone time with him earlier in the morning…*Shakes her head absentmindedly, gathering enough blueberry crumbs for a quick snack*

Yeah, let’s find a better place to store food Rio.    

During lunch, MC comes to the dining hall where Rio is sitting with his usual lunch crew (Thoma, Sherry, Lynt, and Tino). She gives Rio a giant woven basket with two dozen muffins of various flavors.

“You’re always sharing food and support to others, so I wanted to help you with that!”

MC picks a banana muffin from the basket and tosses it to Rio. Rio catches it in his mouth. Rio ruffles MC’s hair in gratitude (his mouth is still occupied with eating the muffin) and takes the basket from her hands. 

“Where is Rio going?” asks Tino.

MC points to Rio on the other side of the dining hall where he is passing the basket around to a few groups of students. He comes back a moment later. 

“Were those people your friends Rio?” inquires Lynt.  

“They are now!”

MC, protect this sweetheart of a prince at all costs.

At the bottom of the basket (which Rio does not notice until all the muffins are eaten/given away) is a painting of a sun shining brightly in the sky with the inscription From Your Sunbeam

“Sunbeam!” Rio hugs MC tightly. 

“R-Rio, we’re in public!” *Absentmindedly brushes crumbs from her clothes*

A few days later, Rio eats in the dinning hall with his lunch crew and MC. He’s brought over a basket of Voleri baked goods.  Roy walks over to say hi to the group. Sherry grabs a cupcake and tosses it to her brother. 

“Sherry, what a…pleasant surprise.” Roy tries to smile convincingly. 

“Roy! That’s the same cupcake recipe Sherry and I created when we were young!” says Rio cheerfully. 

“Oh, thank the stars.” 

Lance - Leather Pouch

MC makes Lance a leather pouch to hold various herbs and plants Lance collects in the forest. MC fills the pouch with homemade beef jerky for Gruscha. Because a happy Gruscha is a happy Lance. The pouch can be tied to Lance’s belt to keep his hands free for p̶e̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶G̶r̶u̶s̶c̶h̶a̶ collecting herbs. 

Not that MC would EVER say this to Lance, but Lance’s way with woodland creatures reminds her of an ability usually reserved for Disney Princesses. Maybe that’s why she’s unconsciously humming one of her favorite Disney songs as Lance examines the pouch.  

“What are you humming?”

“Oh, n-nothing!”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing. Oi! Not yet Gruscha!” *Wolf nuzzles leather pouch excitedly*

“Oh Master Lance, whatever is in Milady’s pouch smells divine.” MC’s winged cat familiar Robin files towards Lance, sniffing the bag.

“Wait your turn Robin!”

A flock of songbirds perches on Lance’s limbs, trying to peck at the bag. Using birdseed as one of the jerky ingredients may not have been the best idea. But the image of Lance now actually surrounded by woodland creatures vying for his attention has MC’s heart full to bursting…while laughing her butt off. 

Lance is a Disney princess. Absolute cannon. 

“Some gift this has been!” Lance grumbles, but hands Gruscha and Robin each a piece of jerky. He tears another jerky stick into smaller parts and flings to the ground for the birds. He nuzzles Gruscha’s head with one hand.  

“Oops.” 

Lance pats MC’s head affectionately.  

“Next time, instead of jerky, put a bottle of absinthe in the pouch.” Lance grins. 

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

Manuscript Search Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @avrablake! :D

Words: bad, deny, monster, endure and capture. These are from The Unfortunate Moth:

Bad:

From there the conversation moved on to a discussion of other plays, both good and bad, that Mr. Colman had seen or starred in. The memory of Phil's embarrassing misunderstanding became amusing instead of painful, and before they left the dining room Phil and Mr. Colman had a good laugh about it.

Deny Denial:

After his first twelve murder cases Yo-han had learnt that there were only so many ways for suspects to react. Angry outbursts were the most common, followed by shocked denials, tearful breakdowns, and stunned resignation. He'd become fairly good at guessing which one each suspect would choose.

Monster:

A shadow suddenly fell over the table. A shape, silhouetted against the brightness outside and with a head shaped like a saucer, pushed the window open and climbed through. Nellie yelped and upset the sugar bowl. For a moment all of the cook's wild stories about ghosts and monsters came back to her. Then she calmed down and forced an embarrassed smile, because it was only Miss Ophelia. What she'd thought was a bizarrely-shaped head was only the brim of Miss Ophelia's hat.

Endure:

Now the only real mystery was how Tremaine and his paramour could endure all that noise in such a small room. They must have invested in industrial-strength earmuffs.

Capture Catch:

To return to the events in June: I was aware a detective had been hired to catch Jugashvili's killer. (If I had known what trouble he would cause me, I would never have taken the hit on that [a word scribbled out] I beg your pardon; such language is unfit for a lady's eyes.) I took the most circuitous route possible until I got to Shanghai. By then I had already lost most of my money. I admit it, I am an inveterate gambler. (A hobby I mean to break now.) I heard of another hit put out. The money offered was far less, but it was enough to get me home from Australia.

Tagging @amielbjacobs, @obviousknife, @jasmineinthenight, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D Can’t be bothered thinking of new words, so just reuse mine :D

[iconic-ponytail]

there's always money in the banana stand

riverdale promptathon week 3: yellow + business

Even as the sun sets, even as the breeze blows, the hell furnace of July in Riverdale burns on. It’s triply as sweltering inside the tiny booth running three freezers, offloading heat to sustain the frozen merchandise inside. “How can it be so hot in there when we are supposed to be selling frozen bananas?” JB complains, at least twice a week.

She’s twelve. Complaint is her new first language. She complains about being left in Riverdale while Gladys went back to Toledo. She complains about living in a trailer park that usually does not have warm water. She complains about their father being imprisoned for covering up a gruesome murder. But most of all, she complains about working in the banana stand.

Child labor laws aside, Jughead can’t blame her for that one. He hates the damn banana stand, but it’s their best shot.

Gladys’ monthly check covers rent and utilities for the trailer. Everything else is on him, now. The idiot eighteen year old who decided to petition the court to be his sister’s legal guardian. Well, and his idiot mom who signed off on it. So he needs money, and the Jones family has never been particularly flush with cash, just trampled over by FP’s failed “business opportunities.”

Enter: the banana stand.

It’s not the fastest revenue stream, Jughead finds. But it’s got potential.

Initially, Dilton doesn’t let him sell during the Twilight Drive-In’s concession stand hours. Before or after the movie, sure, but no overlap. “I’m not worried about competition, Jones. It’s just too humiliating for me to watch you sweat through that horrible yellow polo you call ‘branding.’”

But when customers asked him more than twice a night when the banana stand would be open, Dilton caved.

It’s not like being open during the screening hours is a whole lot more preferable. He only just transferred from Southside to Riverdale High last spring; now he’s the rising senior who hands out phallic symbols from inside a giant phallic symbol. Not exactly a boon to his popularity.

Still, recently the money is enough to pay the internet bill and keep JB fed for dinner when she can’t go to the summer breakfast and lunch program at the local park district. It’s still not enough for him to eat particularly well, and the smell of hot dogs and slurp of his classmates’ slushies makes the heat feel like a minor inconvenience.

He eyes the tip jar, willing himself to wait on rampaging the concession stand until the beginning of the film roar dies down. It’s a double feature tonight, which means maybe he can score enough cash to cover those damn college application fees his counselor will start hounding him about week one of school.

Then he sees her—Betty Cooper. She’s laughing, watching Archie Andrews try to catch popcorn in his mouth, tossed by his paramour, Veronica Lodge. She pauses to sip from her slushie straw, her lips—which he’s watched argue against homophobic and racist comments in their advanced lit class, or pressed to the cheek of her other best friend, Kevin Keller. Which he’s imagined, doing slightly less savory things, though the mere thought of said imagining has his heart pounding wildly.

(Jughead’s been eating way too many fucking bananas. Someone needs to check his potassium levels.)

His absolutely pathetic gaze, once available three times a day in their shared classes where Jughead has still not managed to exert any confidence whatsoever regarding speech, eye contact, or general acknowledgement of Betty Cooper’s existence other than whatever drooling may or may not be happening, all of which he finds he has no control over… is all interrupted by the absolute polar opposite of Betty Cooper. Hiram Lodge zooms up to the banana stand on his segway, angling to a stop just before taking out the stand’s foundation.

“Still getting a hang of that, Mayor Lodge?”

Hiram grimaces. “Just checking that you’ve renewed your business permit, Jones.”

They do this once a week. It’s still the same permit.

“You know,” Hiram starts as Jughead rustles for the paperwork to make him go the fuck away, “I could find you an arrangement with a better banana supplier. For a discount. If you’re interested.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “I’m not interested in your GMO, black market bananas, Hiram.”

Hiram gives him a pointed look. Jughead rolls his eyes even harder. “Mayor Lodge.” He proffers the papers, Hiram waves them away. “I’ll take one chocolate peanut butter dip. With peanuts.”

Jughead kisses his teeth. “That will be $3.50.”

Hiram’s whole face goes serpentine. “Not between business partners, Jones. Put it on my tab.”

Jughead grits his teeth, handing the finished banana so aggressively he hopes that the chocolate splatters and stains Hiram’s $500 tie. It is only slightly worth it to watch Hiram struggle with navigating the segway one-handed, frozen banana in the other.

He muffles a chuckle before realizing he’s used the dead end of the chopped peanut topping, and exits the stand to update the order board hanging on the outside. It’s mostly an excuse to feel a ten degree drop in temperature, a sweet relief he might be able to extend by grabbing a hot dog before the intermission rush.

He’s crossing off peanuts from the topping list and spinning around when he hears a shriek and a sudden, cold slosh across his chest. The yellow polo drips with artificial blue slushie, but Jughead swallows his fucking hell when he sees that the shriek, gaping stare of horror, and stumble in question all belong to his very own blonde kryptonite.

“Oh my god. Oh my GOD, jesus, shit, I’m so sorry!”

Jughead is frozen while Betty grabs about half his napkin dispenser and starts pawing at his shirt in a vain attempt to right the giant sticky blue mess all over his chest.

Finally, Jughead swallows the golf ball in his throat and chokes out. “Honestly, it’s fine. That stand is a sauna. I needed that.”

Betty stops, both her blotting and her stream of apologizing (which includes a fair bit of cursing, and he is a little revolted with himself by how much this turns him on).

“It’s going to get very sticky, soon. Maybe I should buy a bottle of cold water?”

Jughead can’t help himself. “Oh, impromptu yellow t-shirt contest?”

Betty grins.

I did that.

“Do you have any employees who could bring you another shirt?”

Jughead shakes his head. “Just my sister. She’s playing video games at home. There’s no earthly way she’ll bring me a spare.”

Betty cocks her head. “I had a feeling you were more than the silent back row kind of guy.”

The fact that Betty Cooper has, at any point, considered what kind of guy he is triggers full-on nervous blathering. “I’m usually very tired at school. I have this little sister—but I’m kind of um, her guardian. So I’m doing this stupid banana stand thing because it’s like one of the three assets to our entire family name I guess? Anyway, it’s hard to engage with Haggly’s basic discussion questions at eight in the morning when you spent the whole night dreaming about wholesale banana margins.”

He’s essentially vomiting words, but Betty is still smiling.

“Anyway, I should crawl back into my fruit-shaped purgatory and let you go back to your friends.”

She’s biting her lip, hedging. “Honestly, they’re probably using the alone time to make out in the car, and I’d rather let them get all their sexual tension out so that I don’t have to feel it radiating off of them for the whole second half of the double feature.”

Jughead laughs and tamps down the impulse to offer her a frozen banana, because he cannot possibly say something like that without making it sound sexual.

“What are frozen banana profit margins like, anyway?” Betty asks, either genuinely interested or legitimately flirting with him. Jughead finds both potentials baffling.

Jughead hesitates, then ducks inside the stand, pulling out his spiral bound notebook. “I’m still kind of figuring it out. All my records are in here.”

Betty sidles up to the stand, taking up the whole window. They’re both leaning over the scribbled line items on college ruled paper; he can smell her shampoo. She takes the notebook, scanning thoroughly.

“Do you have a pencil?”

He hands her one and observes her going to work, writing out some algebraic formula and calculating quickly in her head. There is a calculator within his reach, but he thinks handing it to her might come off as an insult. (Jughead wouldn’t know; he assumes Betty is in an advanced math class. Jughead is not.)

After a few minutes of watching her devoted focus, thinking about her hands touching his pencil, thinking about her hands wrapped around his hand, or his—

“I don’t know how to tell this to you, Jug.”

The shortening of his name stops his heart for a jolt, and his response is embarrassingly delayed. “What is it?”

Betty winces but smiles through it, a combination she’s surely learned to use when delivering bad news. It’s well earned, it really does soften the blow.

“There’s no money in the banana stand. At least, not with these margins.”

Jughead finds himself less than devastated by this news, mostly because it makes a hell of a lot of sense. The messenger doesn’t hurt, either.

“But,” she interrupts. “I don’t know if you’ve nailed down your course load for senior year. But I’m taking AP Econ? This could be, um, a good project. Like, if you want to take the class. Or even if you don’t. Not that you’re like a project or… whatever. I’m just saying we could figure it out. Make lemonade out of… bananas.”

Betty Cooper is extremely cute when she stammers.

Jughead doesn’t know what to do, so he gives her an easy out. “I can’t like, hire you, if that wasn’t obvious by the whole… deficit spending or whatever the whole negative circled number at the bottom of the page really means.”

She flushes. “No, that would be highway robbery. I just thought there might be an… opportunity. For um, us. I mean, for you and I. I mean—” she clears her throat, as if it’s closing up. “An academic opportunity. Or, in your case, professional. Well, a betterment of your livelihood. Okay, um, shit, just… I should go!”

She turns away, her face the deepest scarlet he’s ever seen.

“Betty, wait.”

She pivots back, eyes down at the ground.

“How about I buy you a new slushie and you come back into the booth. Tell me everything I’m doing wrong for the rest of the night.”

Betty looks up, biting the corner of her smile. “Sounds like a deal.”

They shake on it.