#this chapter got long dude

[figthefruitfaeth]

Mail, Murder, & Other Mysteries

From the Nancy Wheeler Files

Chapter Two: The Anonymous Letter(s) (prev chapter) (ao3 link)

Eddie wakes up to the shrill ring of the landline and stale taste of sugar rotting his teeth. A weak ray of mid-morning light streams in through the windows. The ringing stops. The faint sound of traffic and city life drifts into the quiet of the apartment. He breathes, in, then out.

Just when he starts to relax, the ringing starts up again. He groans, rolling over and shoving his face into the back of the couch.

Eddie knows what he’s doing is stupid. Not just stupid, but a fool’s errand, because trying to avoid Chrissy Cunningham is about as easy as avoiding sunrise. Bright, blinding, and only averted by the machinations of the solar system or God himself. He should write that down…

The ringing stops. Then, a click and—

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

Christ, she’s leaving a message.

Looks like we’re unavailable at the moment, so leave your name and number at the tone and we’ll get back to you when we can—BEEP.

Eddie! It’s Chrissy. I know you’re there, unless you’re checking the mail again, which I guess means you’re not there. Well, if you’re actually busy then give me a call back when you can! And if you’re not, I’d really appreciate if you’d stop avoiding me. I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but most people would consider that rude! Alright, well I’ll call back later, we’ve got a lot to talk about. Byeeeee!

He sighs, rolling himself flat on his back. This wouldn’t be so hard if she wasn’t so nice about it. For their five years of friendship, he’s never seen her get mean, not even when her shitbag ex-boyfriend showed up at her house drunk and calling her every name in the book (Eddie keyed his car for that, because of the two, he’s the mean one). Worse than that, Chrissy knows it too, using her sweet small-town charm to weasel him into meeting his deadlines. He works best under pressure, and guilt is a motivating pressure alright.

The ceiling is the same ugly off-white color that dominates the rest of their apartment, but it’s also got a popcorn design, which he knows Nancy can’t stand, but he likes it. Maybe not like—intrigue is the better word. It’s a bit like TV static, in that if he stares at it long enough, his brain will drift past himself and the answers to all life’s problems will sail in. It’s how he figured out the twist ending of his last novel (that the Queen’s guard had survived after all) and what to get Nancy for her birthday (a lock-picking kit you could only get at specialty stores).

He lingers in a patch of sunlit popcorn near the edge of The Board. It’s not like he wants to avoid Chrissy’s calls and it’s not like she deserves it either. She’s a good friend and she’s good at her job, which means she won’t let him sulk around in his writer’s block no matter how much he wants to. And God, does he want to.

His latest work, the next in the series, just won’t come together. Nancy had balked at his villain’s third name change, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. His plot is all over the place, the dialogue stilted, motivations out of character. His editor keeps saying it’s fine, that it’s exactly what the readers (all six of them, he’s not exactly flying off the shelves) want, but it feels wrong. It’s overplayed conformist bullshit he doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.

The phone rings and Eddie is suddenly very aware of the gnawing pit in his stomach. So much for those answers.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment—

He shoves a handful of store-brand cereal in his mouth, washing it down with the rest of the milk straight from the carton. He ditches the takeout containers in the trash, wipes down the table, and starts a load of dishes.

I’m trying to contact a Nancy Wheeler. This is John from KX News. Like I’ve said before, we don’t have the capabilities—

He sits at his keyboard for five minutes, then makes himself a sandwich.

Eddie, it’s Jeff. Can’t make the next jam sesh, does Thursday work?

The couch would look better against the windows, actually. Or if he moved the coffee table—

Ms. Wheeler, please stop calling me, I don’t know—

You’re not happy with it, I get it, but I can’t help you fix it if you won’t talk to me about it—

You’ve reached Nancy and Eddie’s apartment—

2:30 pm, his watch beeps. He breathes a sigh of relief, throws on a pair of jeans, grabs his keys, and heads downstairs.

Though Nancy may tease him for it, to Eddie, the mail is serious business. Though his fanbase is small, they’re a dedicated bunch, and he gets a nice little chunk of fan mail. He’s particularly fond of the ones he gets from a local group of high schoolers, who send weekly letters with theories about his newest novel or asking for his opinion on movies they’d seen recently. The highlight of his life had to have been when he dedicated, The Battle of Starcourt, to them, and received a 20pg letter in all caps from the group.

It also gives him the chance to get out, or close to out, of the house during daylight hours, which is apparently important according to Chrissy. When he eventually calls back, he can at least give her that.

On the second floor, he passes Mrs. Romero, a withered old woman only ever dressed in floor length floral nightgowns. He waves, she rolls her eyes.

It also, also gives him the chance to, outside of Nancy which apparently does not count according to Nancy herself, engage in more regular social interaction. If maybe one of those interactions includes seeing the cute guy from 3B, would that be so wrong?

He jumps the last few steps, landing against the black and white checkered tile with a satisfying slap. The lobby, which is really just a long hallway with a few signs and a wall of mailboxes, is empty.

Eddie tries not to pout. It’s not like he sees the guy from 3B every day, but when he does, it always seems to be about now. If Nancy’s Nancy Drew act is anything to go by, which, it usually is, then he doesn’t have a reason to check the mail anyway because he’d already picked up everything he’d end up getting for the week. Not unless he’s actually flirting with him, which after yesterday’s fiasco, isn’t likely anymore.

Maybe it’s better this way anyway, Eddie reasons, jamming his key in the lock when it won’t budge open the first time. No 3B, so at least he won’t have to face his humiliation so soon. Big boy? He couldn’t have gone with something a little more casual? And the guy’s face—

He lets his head fall against the mailbox, cold metal biting against his forehead.

“Bad news?”   

Eddie’s never been a particularly lucky guy. He failed his last year of high school twice, been arrested for weed that was actually his friend’s, and always dies in campaigns he isn’t DMing. Today, however, luck definitely isn’t on his side because the voice behind him is none other than 3B.

3B saunters up next to him and leans against the mailbox, a hand at his hip and an eyebrow cocked, like he knows just how good he looks. Which, Eddie bites back a groan, is particularly good today—snug in a pair of the world’s tightest Levi’s and a yellow sweater brighter than the sun. It’s just a tad dated—something he’d see the popular kids in high school wear rather than the loose fit everyone’s starting to sport now. He can’t tell if that means 3B is trying to hang on to the last vestiges of his high school glory days or is sticking to his guns despite the popular opinion, and more concerning, knows the answer wouldn’t change much.

It’s actually really unfair how much Eddie is into him.

“No news, actually,” he swallows, tugging on his key for effect. “I can’t get the stupid little door to open—” he tugs again, and the door swings open, and with it all of his mail.

“Oh shit—”

“Here, let me—”

Together they collect the mail, which isn’t even a lot this time around, but spread out across the hall it takes an awkwardly long time. Eddie can feel his face flush red, and while he hopes it isn’t noticeable, the look 3B is giving him suggests otherwise.

“Well, that’s a newsflash for you,” Eddie mutters more to himself than anything.

3B tilts his head.

“Cause, you asked if I had news…”

“Oh,” he nods. “Right, yeah.”

If the ground could open up and swallow him whole that would make the situation a lot better.

“Well, thanks for the assist, I guess—”

“Oh, hold up,” 3B stops him, a hand clutching his forearm. He lets go just as quickly, but Eddie stays kneeling in his black square, struck still by the other man’s order and the ghost of his palm along the soft of his arm. 3B leans over to the far side of the mailbox, sweater riding up just past his hip, revealing a thin strip of scarred skin. They’re relatively new, still pink and shiny near the bone, but they must feel fine if the way he’s twisting is any indicator. Eddie thinks back to Nancy’s observation, and desperately hopes it’s not true.

“Here we go,” 3B smiles, pushing a few loose strands back with one hand and flashing Eddie his bounty with the other. It’s the latest edition of Fangoria, one Eddie had finally managed to get an article in. “My kids love these.”

“Kids?”

“Not mine!” He scrambles, cheeks tinting a rosy pink. “Not that I don’t want some of my own someday. Or, they don’t have to be mine mine, adopting is just as good, better sometimes in fact, actually. But I’m not ready for kids now, obviously. I mean the apartment is way too small and Robin—” he winces. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

“No, go on,” Eddie grins. Getting his terribly hot neighbor to fall apart on him, well, it’s certainly a confidence boost that’s for sure. “You got names picked out yet?”

“Haha, very funny.”

“Oh, I haven’t heard those before. Family names?”

3B pushes him, but laughs as he does it, the sound a bright and clear echo in the hall. Eddie falls over with little resistance.

“God, this floor is disgusting,” and then there’s a hand in his face. Eddie grabs on and is heaved up with a surprisingly little effort on his part, bringing him close to the warm, sunny chest of 3B. He’s got a soft smile, one that pulls at the corner of his mouth and leaves a crinkle at his eyes. Eddie’s solidly on his feet now, and still, 3B is holding onto him.

“I’m Steve, by the way. Steve Buckley.”

Steve. It’s exactly the kind of name a yellow sweater wearing prep would have. Steve, a guy’s guy, who plays sports and flirts with pretty girls and who lives a nice, normal life. It’s such a cliché it should turn him off.

“Eddie Munson.”

“Ah, so now I know who’s name to yell when Metallica comes on at 3 am.”

“I thought you didn’t know who they were?” He squints, desperately ignoring the part of his brain playing the idea of Steve yelling his name on a loop 

Steve shrugs, “I might’ve picked up a CD yesterday on my way home from the center. Not really my thing, I think. Too much noise.”

“Too much noise? What are you, sixty?”

“Fifty-nine, actually,” he smirks, drawing another laugh from Eddie.

Steve is leaned in close enough that Eddie can get a good hard look at him. He’s got a few dark moles dotted across his face and trailing down his neck, almost black where they meet the collar of his sweater. There’s a whisper of a mustache on his otherwise clean-shaven face, like maybe he forgot to shave this morning. And although Eddie can’t imagine he’s actually any older than himself, Steve’s already got a few lines along his forehead. Not a lot, and they mostly fade when he relaxes his face, but enough to make him think he spends a lot of time frowning. Or laughing. He hopes it’s the latter, he wants to be the latter.

“Well,” Steve says after a few moments, finally letting go of his arm and pressing the long-forgotten magazine into Eddie’s unoccupied hand. “Try to hold onto these this time.”

Steve leans back, like he knows he should go, but expects Eddie to say something else. Maybe even, Eddie hopes, wants him to say something else.

“So, the Buckley twins are fans of horror?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s leaning back into his orbit.

“Again, I don’t actually have any kids. I’m a Big over at Big Brother, Big Sister. Technically, I’m only a Big to Dustin, but his friends are clingy so I end up driving all of them around when we hang out. They love all this kind of nerd shit,” he points at the cover, featuring a sickly pale Dracula leering over the title, “and apparently their favorite author’s in it or something. An Edwin something?”

Eddie sighs. Of course, this would happen, of course—

“Edgar M.W.?”

Steve snaps a finger, “There you go. Yeah, they go crazy for those books, won’t shut up about them. You know him?”

He bites down on a panicked laugh.

Edgar M.W. His pseudonym. His publishers had thought ‘Eddie Munson’ wasn’t a right fit for his brand, which was bullshit, and almost made him keep it just to piss them off. Ultimately, he’d wanted the anonymity a little more than that, so he’d made up Edgar and added the ‘W’ for his Uncle Wayne.

He’s got six fans, and they’re definitely not adults. They don’t sign their full names off, but he’s got more than a sneaking suspicion that the letters he’s been getting, always signed Yours Faithfully, D. and Company, may in fact belong to Steve’s children. Of course—

“Yeah…we, uh, run in similar circles. I’m a writer, too. Fantasy horror.” It’s technically a lie, but it doesn’t feel like one since he’s not legally Edgar M.W. It’s also not a lie in the way he really hasn’t felt like Edgar M.W. in a long time.

“No way,” Steve’s eyes light up, honey brown in the dead of winter. “Publish anything I’d know? Or, that the kids would?”

“Nah, not lately.” The last work he’d published under ‘Eddie Munson’ had been in high school. Not to mention his work in progress, Untitled (1), which he hadn’t touched in the New Year.

“Why’s that?”

It, or, some variation of it, is the question that’s hounded him since he first started writing it. Where his work was, when was it going to be ready, why couldn’t he pull it together. The question he can’t avoid try as he might, what sends him running, because at the end of the day, Eddie’s only brave in stories.

That’s what should be happening now. He should be giving Steve a polite answer and excusing himself back to avoiding his responsibilities. But…

Steve is watching him. He’s not flashing a smile, but the crinkle around his eyes is still there, still happy talking to him. He’s only an inch taller, if that, but he’s got his head titled down the way tall guys always do when they’re trying to listen—trying to catch what Eddie’s going to say, the same way he had pointed at his bleached-out tour t-shirt yesterday. The t-shirt he’d asked about, and then went and bought a CD just to understand what Eddie meant.

Eddie feels…maybe not brave, but less like a coward.

“Cause it’s shit.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow.

“It is! Grade A, 100% bullshit, as my roommate would call it. It’s overwritten and predictable, it’s got absolutely no heart. And the worst part is, I mean, I’ve written something that could be published. It’s a pile of garbage, but it’s ‘sellable’,” Eddie laughs bitterly.

“My editor loves it,” he continues, everything that’s been rolled up tight in him all pouring out at once, “and the guys who sign my checks really love it. Forget making a statement or art, forget trying to wake people up and do something for a change. Sellable is good! Sellable means the readers get to enjoy a nice bedtime story and we all get to pop champagne. It certainly shouldn’t be a problem, because I do like being able to afford more than canned meat and cold showers, but, uh—” God, he sounds stupid, doesn’t he? He could still be stuck in the trailer selling poppers to high schoolers. He could be Munson Senior, behind bars for a rap sheet longer than his IQ, and he’s worried about selling out. Back then it was easy to talk about artistic integrity when he didn’t have shit to lose.

“Sounds hard,” Steve nods sympathetically.

He rolls his eyes, “Thanks, but it’s really not. I mean—”

“Give yourself a break man,” Steve jostles him, the arm just barely grazing his stomach a shock down his spine. “It sucks, trying to live up to expectations and shit and not getting to be who you are. It’s not fair. And maybe it’s not the biggest deal in the world, but uh…it still hurts. Just, quietly.”

Eddie nods.

“Well, whoever said life was fair, huh?”

“Yeah…yeah, you’re not wrong,” Steve hums, eyes still on him but looking past Eddie to something painful. He wonder if Steve would tell him what he’s thinking, which lines in his face hurt and which he’d wear with pride.

Just when Eddie thinks he’s really brought the mood down just after salvaging yesterday’s mess, Steve comes back to him. He smirks, and he can tell it’s a little put on, but not disingenuous.

“Shame though, I was looking for something new for my bookshelf.”

“I thank you for your artistic integrity, but honestly, if I’m selling out, I’m gonna need you to buy a copy,” Eddie grins at the laugh the bursts from Steve. “Maybe even ten. Something to sandwich between all those Sports Illustrated and the high school copy of The Catcher in the Rye I know you’ve got squirreled away.”

He casts Eddie a wary eye. “How’d you know about those?” He asks, leaning back just slightly, a razor thin edge to his tone.

“Just look the type,” Eddie shrugs, uncertain where he’d fallen off track. “I’ve met a lot of jocks and they’ve all got the same library. And you, Steve-o, with the polos, and the hair, and the clear lack of fine musical sensibilities, well. You fall right into that sweet, sweet preppy jock stereotype.”

Quick as it came, the tension melts from his shoulders, and Steve is back on him again.

“Ouch. I’ve got layers, you know.”

Eddie gives him a considering once over. He’s not exactly the tough guy he’d expected, but there’s something in Buckley he wasn’t prepared for. The flat, small-town plain he’d anticipated had suddenly turned off into a forest without a clear path. Deep, winding, and though perhaps not frightening, something to tread through with a clear mind. An adventure.

“Oh, I’m not saying you don’t,” he smirks, pocketing Steve’s little moment for further inspection. “I’m sure there’s a lot under there I’d like to see.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve breathes, eyes dark and focused. “And what would that be?”

Eddie swallows, throat dry and wanting. Steve’s eyes dart with the movement, before slowly trailing back up to meet him, a smug smirk playing on his lips. The distance between them is barely a foot, just a few inches at most. They’re not touching, but Eddie can feel every carefully measured breath between them, the warmth emanating from Steve seeping into his usually freeze-numb fingertips.

“Well—” he starts, when there’s a beeping, and Steve is out of orbit in a snap. Eddie blinks, the temperature drop an unwelcome wake up call.

“Oh shit—I gotta go,” Steve resets his watch, other hand buried in his hair. “It’s my day to pick up Dustin and his freeloaders, and the last time I was late I got chewed out for an hour.”

“Right! Can’t delay the esteemed royal court,” Eddie says, still dizzy.

Steve snorts. “Royal somethings alright.”

He takes a step back, then stops, and before Eddie can think of anything cute to say, Steve’s tugging at his mail. He pulls out a thick white envelope, one of the square ones that always means someone’s in trouble, and he’s got a cap between his teeth and he’s writing—

“I’m usually home after seven. If Robin answers, hang up. She’s being the most right now,” he presses the letter into Eddie’s chest, keeping his hand there.

“You can throw it away if you want, but if you need someone to talk to. Or see what’s underneath,” he winks.

Eddie blinks. He blinks again, mouth dropping open for a response he simply no longer has the braincells to muster. This is—

He looks down, and he notices three things in an order of increasing despair. The first being that Steve’s got nice handwriting, and he signed it ‘Stevie’ with a little heart over the ‘i’. It’s cute for someone who just technically committed a federal crime, so he’s going to be obsessing over that for the next few hours. Second, the number lands directly over the mailing address, which isn’t Eddie Munson. The means Nancy’s letter, an official looking document spelling only trouble, has been scribbled over by his crush. She’s going to yell at him. Or laugh. Probably both.

And thirdly, Eddie notices Steve’s hand. Pale, with those same dark moles just lightly dotted along the smooth skin and up his well-manicured nails. He hasn’t had a life of hard manual labor, but there’s strength there. The fingers spread wide across his chest, keeping the letter pinned in place, are holding back. Eddie knows he’s also going to be thinking about those fingers later, when he sees it. A little flash of gold gleaming cruelly in the thin winter light.

Steve takes a step back, snapping a finger gun at Eddie.

“See you later, big boy.”

He trips a little on the outer door, then exits with a wave.

Nancy was right. Steve Buckley is definitely flirting with him. Steve Buckley, who is also married.

—

Eddie trudges up to the apartment one stair at a time, letters heavy in his hand. He walks in, slips his shoes off, and slumps into the seat by the window overlooking the alley.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

He tosses aside a few credit card offers, and sets Fangoria to the side for himself, same with the letter from the kids, which is particularly heavy today. Star Trek VI must’ve been good. D. & Company. Steve’s Dustin. Steve who’s good with kids and cheats on his wife.

Eddie groans, letting his head fall onto the tiny side table. This, this is why he didn’t want to see the signs. Because just his type is also code for unavailable. From ‘straight’ boys wanting to experiment in high school to sleazy one-night stands in the city, he has a knack for attracting the worst guys. So of course, his cute, flirty, kind and considerate neighbor is legally spoken for and less than morally upstanding.

Why else would a guy and girl move in together? Why else would he mention wanting kids?

If Robin answers, hang up. He’s met Robin before, mostly in passing and never for a terribly long conversation, but she’s funny and a little weird the way he likes his friends. There’s also something distinctly not-straight about her. She’s got a pink triangle pin on her bag and she manages to bring up Nancy in every single one of their five-minute conversations. Maybe she’s just a great ally, a true feminist, but it’s more than that. It’s the way she carries herself, the carefully placed confidence along her shoulders, like she’s not used to being loud and proud but fighting for it anyway.

Steve didn’t have those shoulders. His spoke confidence, a lightness to them that detailed a life of things being handed to him, of smiles and pats on the back and the easiness that came with being blissfully unaware of slurs thrown out car windows and nightmares of hospital rooms.

Just, quiet. The lines in his forehead. The tender pink of his hip bone. The CD he bought and the book he wanted to read.

He shoves his hands into his hair, rings knotting up in the greasy roots, and pulls hard, hissing at the sharp pain along his crown. He’s being stupid, he’s acting desperate. Sure, Steve’s hot and good to kids, but at the end of the day, he’s like every other guy. He’s a straight guy bored with his happy marriage. They’ll hook up and maybe it would be fun for a weekend, but he’ll always get The Look. A sneer of disgust and shame, a blank stare when Eddie mentions breakfast. No, Steve’s nice, so he’d get a pitying smile and a pat on the cheek before he leaves to pick up Robin for t-ball practice.

No. Fuck. He’s not going to be another repressed guy’s outlet. He’s not going to call, he’s not going to think about the little heart, and he’s not going to get the look.

Determined, Eddie pops up, sorting through the remaining pile for his number and does his best to crumble it up, the thick cardstock texture unwilling to bend very far. He doesn’t get the ball he wanted, and he’s a little sweaty at this point, but the symbolism is there. He chucks the envelope out the window before realizing that one, it’s still Nancy’s fucking mail, and two, that the window is in fact still shut tight, bouncing back on his face.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

He only screams a little.

Outside, a flock of birds fly over the adjacent apartment building. A car horn blares. That’s when he notices an unfamiliar face leaning up against the trash bin. Cities are big, sure, but their alley isn’t one you exactly wander into by accident. The guy’s got tight blonde curls, a gold tan unhindered by anything more than a short-sleeve button-down, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. There’s a distinct edge to his stance, one Eddie recognizes from his dad’s old buddies. This guy’s done time, and he did it well.

Unease itches along his spine. Eddie might scare easy, but there is definitely something wrong with this guy.

As if sensing his thoughts, the guy looks directly up at him. Logically, Eddie knows he’s not really looking at him, the vantage from the alley into the living room is pretty shit, but there’s a smirk on his lip more akin to a snarl than anything. Like a predator that’s finally caught sight of its prey.

Quick as it came, the cigarette is crushed under the heel of his dark boots and he struts back out to the street.

Eddie sighs. This city is so fucking weird sometimes. God, he’d kill for a cigarette.

What he settles for instead is curling up on the couch with a Lucky Light and the rhythmic flick of his lighter. He misses their TV. Not by much, but it was always a nice distraction. More than anything, he misses the old westerns Wayne used to watch, misses his gentle snores and the death grip he had on his stone-cold mug of coffee. No cigarettes, no TV, no goddamn luck. Not unless you count the bubblegum, which ain’t much.

At some point he falls into a restless sleep, tossing and turning, each time almost drifting off until another call comes in or the radiator screams randomly.

“Hey,” and there’s a short, strong tug on his shoulder. He jerks up, blurry vision focusing on Nancy setting down a take-out bag on the table. “Got Thai tonight.”

“Oh, thank God,” Eddie mumbles, digging into the first plastic container she hands him, groaning as grilled chicken and sweet and sour sauce hit him full force. “Cross that—you are God, Nancy Wheeler.”

 “Jesus, okay. Did you eat today?”

“Yes, dad. Had a sandwich with bread and everything.”

She raises a brow, “That’s it?” 

He rolls his eyes. It’s not his fault his brain doesn’t tell him he’s hungry till three hours later. At least it wasn’t a nothing-in-this-house-is-edible day. “Oh, yeah? And what’d you have?”

Though she doesn’t have the same malfunction, Nancy is just as bad as him, regularly skipping meals in favor of shitty office coffee. A cliché if he’s ever seen one, though he can’t blame her. He’s right too, because suddenly, she seems very interested in her spring rolls.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he smirks.

“Anyway,” she breezes through, shoulders clinched tight, “How was your day? Did you call Chrissy back yet?”

“…no.”

“Eddie—”

“I know! I was going to but—” he sighs. She’s going to get it out of him one way or the other, might as well submit to the inevitable. “I saw 3B again.”

“Oh?”

“His name is Steve. As always, you were right, he was definitely flirting with me and it was going, if I say so myself, really well. That is, until I saw the ring.” He hums a few notes, miming a piano with one hand.

The heavy pit in his stomach from earlier grows twice in size at the sight of Nancy’s face. Mouth pinched, eyebrows slightly upturned. It’s the look he gets whenever he tells her a story from his childhood, even though some of those are actually funny just in an admittedly fucked up kind of way. He shifts uncomfortably.  

“It’s whatever, Nance. Life sucks, and then you die,” he shrugs, trying to play it cool. It doesn’t work, it never works with her, because she’s still got her look. “Probably better not to get biblical with the neighbors anyway. Don’t shit where you eat and all that.”

He itches under her gaze.

“Eddie—"

“Just—leave it. Okay? Honestly, it’s not even that big of a deal. I’m just sorry for Robin if anything.”

The radiator clanks.

“I told you she wasn’t into me,” she says, just as cool.

“I wouldn’t say that, I mean—"

“What would you say, then?” Her voice has the razor-sharp edge to it, the kind that tells him if he pushes, he’s getting cut, and Eddie’s had enough slashes to the heart for one day.

She goes back to her spring rolls, skipping the usual third-degree he’d be getting over his feelings and what exactly he saw. Great. Fucking great. As much as she’s the rock in this relationship, he forgets how sensitive she is underneath it all, and now he’s gone and fucked it up. He sinks further into the couch.

The rest of the meal is quiet, both of them stewing in their own take-out container of disappointment. When they’re done, Eddie cleans up, a quiet apology for ruining the mood.

Nancy’s with The Board now, back turned to him. He slouches over to the couch, burying himself in one of the pillows. It’s always easier for him to sleep with someone else in the room, something about the noise of cohabitation lulling him to sleep, but the weight of 3B presses in on him.

He turns over, still deciding between a joke and a more sincere apology, to find Nancy not where he left her. Instead, she’s by the window, opened envelope clutched in one hand and its contents in the other, brow furrowed.

“What is this?”

Panic floods over him, “Oh, shit—listen, he wrote it down before I realized—”

“No, Eddie—” she crosses the room, thrusting the letter in his face. “What is this?”

Instead of anger or frustration like he expects, her face is almost completely blank, just the slightest twitch of her lip like she’s holding herself back from firing off. She raises a brow at the mail, wiggling it for effect.

At first, Eddie’s sure he’s somehow still halfway asleep, because it won’t come into focus. He blinks, then wipes at his eyes with a clumsy hand. The first page, creased from his earlier attempts, has a row of columns with a series of numbers running down the left-hand side and dotted throughout the main text. The text itself is strange, letters he recognizes but strung together wrong, forming half a word before falling into gibberish. Some of the letters themselves don’t look right, ‘N’s that face the other way or ‘O’s with slashes through them. Wait—

“Is that—”

“Russian,” she nods, eyes shining bright as she shuffles through the pages, “And look. No sender, no return address. Just this.”

The last page has the same column structure but is almost entirely empty save for a few notes in Russian at the top. Scribbled across the center in thick black ink are two distinctly English words:

KEEP. DIGGING.

Holy. Fuck.

“Barbara Holland was murdered,” Nancy says. “We’re going to find out why.”

[bratkook]

.

[tricks-n-illusions]

[Reaction to this post] - [Lady Ombre belongs to @ask-noonescity]

Alts have been added for smaller text.

Silas pulled his hand away in response, he wasn't expecting rebellion towards his threats, especially one he said with such confidence. The sudden physical contact made him cringe, despite his face being hidden his body language made it obvious he felt discomfort at being touched. He didn't like that, not one bit, her lack of fear was unnerving and the sinister grin she gave made his skin crawl. It felt like the power and advantage he had over her was suddenly pulled out from underneath him. He didn't have control over the situation anymore and that terrified him.

As she leered back everything in his body was screaming at him to run, yet just as before when faced with something much scarier than himself he froze like a deer in headlights. He didn't know how to react, he didn't know what to do and he was so confused by the situation he didn't even realize the unexpected stinging pain that was quickly starting to dig into his fur. It was only when he felt his mask finally beginning to slip that his panic and self-preservation finally kicked in.

"Please stop-!" Silas yelped out in fear, his claws were franticly clawing at the vines but he did little damage to them. It was like all his efforts to escape meant nothing to her, he felt so helpless and scared. Of course, he would die this way, a victim to his own stupidity. His breathing quickly spiralled out of control as he felt the vines begin to tighten, he didn't like this. It all felt so sickeningly familiar to him, the pressure around his neck, the way he gasped for air and panicked, it was all much too close to something from his past. This had happened before? Hadn't it? This was something he was acquainted with, something he knew well. She always did this to him, just another punishment on the long list.

And for some reason, everything in his mind couldn't stop him from melting back into those moments. She was here again, wasn't she? Back from the grave to torment him? Despite everything he knew, every logical thought denying her existence in the present he couldn't shake the thought. In one last ditch effort to ease his anxiety, he opened his eyes... But that only gave him a passing glance of a face he knew well.

Lady Ombre was truly gone, her words falling on deaf ears as she lectured the fox. All that replaced her was the terrifying memory of a ghost here to hurt him once more.

Silas franticly kicked and squirmed in the air, his tiny paws were desperately attempting to tear at the magical energy around his neck. Seance merely looked on in annoyance.

"What are you good for if not? You really don't know how to do anything, do you?" Seance scoffed, her magic was slowly tightening around the fox's neck more. Her grip easily constricted his airway. "I asked you to kill... one person." She held a singular claw up as the tiny Giratina spirit drifted around her, "But you couldn't even do that little fox, could you?" "Why do I even ask you to do things, what are you worried they're going to hurt you?" She laughed as Silas struggled. "You should be more scared of me than some stranger, did you not learn what happens when you don't listen? Was the tail not enough? Do you need another reminder?" "What's next, Hm..." The ghost hummed, pacing around the fox in thought. "How about an ear, or maybe." She suddenly grinned as her eyes darted back to him. "An eye? Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you? Every time you'd open your little eyes and realize you can't quite see the whole picture, you'll remember me and think about how much you should have listened... How does that sound, hm? Or I could finally just kill you?" Silas frantically shook his head in reply, the air he was able to breathe in was getting more scarce by the second. "You're right. That'd be too merciful, someone as horrible as you doesn't deserve mercy." With the last bits of air he could get the fox gave a broken plead. 

"Ugh, Seriously?" She groaned.

Silas hit the ground with a loud thud, the sudden allowance of air instantly threw him into a coughing fit. Seance however just stared down in irritation, her ears twitching with every sharp cough. "Are you fucking done now?"She asked in irritation, she obviously felt no remorse for her actions. "Stop the dramatic coughing fit, you're not getting any sympathy from me. You want sympathy then why don't you crawl your way back to your human, hm?" "I'm sure she's stupid enough to reward your misbehaviour with pets and kisses. You always did like being a little pampered pet, didn't you? Having a soft bed and food in your bowl~" She mocked. "Disgusting really, you pets are all the same." Silas only continued to cough before he made a weak effort to stand.

He only looked down in shame, despite her scolding, tears quickly began to fill his eyes. But there was no sadness, no emotion to go along with them all he felt was a disconnect from his surroundings as he drifted back into reality. [ . . . ] It seemed Lady had let go of him long ago, but he was too stuck in his head to have noticed. He only sat there in silence as his hand cautiously wandered to the place where the vines were. The presence of pressure still lingered even if the vines were no longer there. He seemed confused, unsure why Lady Ombre didn't simply kill him when she had the chance.

Just as she left the fox made a frantic scramble for his mask. Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes, all he could mutter out was faint repetitive apologies as he shakily took the kitsune mask in hand.

Once he felt it in his hands a faint calmness washed over him... He took a long moment to stare at it in silence. His claw was gently scratching at the smooth surface of the mask, a feeble attempt to help ground himself in the present day. He still seemed extremely shaken up from the interaction with her. His hands were unintentionally trembling, and he couldn't stop his tears from worsening as moments passed. He was so tired of this, he was so tired of showing weakness and letting strangers have power over him. He was getting so tired of people treating him badly, pushing him around, finding new ways to get under his skin and bring him to the pathetic tears he struggled to hide. "Everything is fine..." He muttered before he finally flipped the mask, completely set on using it to conceal any leftover tears.

"Why do I always do such stupid things…"

-> Oh? What's this? Seems Silas will remember this interaction. Lady Ombre has been added to the relationships page. -> Silas has been... slightly injured and will have minor scratches going forward.

[junhongsprincess]

Listening to all the songs on the album, and reading the lyrics…if they had released these exact songs as BAP like at the time they were planning to leave ts, I actually think I would have been bawling my eyes out every second of every day until they came back. My god there’s so much emotion in the words and it feels so personal. It makes sense that Yongguk mentioned he wanted to do this when they were still BAP. But also, I’m actually more glad that it ended up how it did, because instead of probably crying every day listening to these songs, we were all celebrating them being able to get out of that hell hole!

[tamaharu]

i love reading fan-translated manga bc one group will make it sound incomprehensible due to the lack of localization, one group will make it sound completely normal, and one group will make it sound incomprehensible due to the extremity of localization. never change.

[psychotic-nonsense]

Alright folks, I have a question for you. A dumb question, yes, but a question nonetheless.

In an alternate universe scenario - where such a situation arises, and no one ends up dying or seriously (physically) wounded - with the S4 Hawkins Party and Chrissy all bearing witness...

(Context below)

-----------

This is part of one of the oldest Stranger Things AU ideas I have.

Vecna, in a desperate attempt to distract/manipulate the town, decides to bring back every single person in Hawkins he's ever killed. Didn't matter the way, if the Upside Down killed them, they were back.

But they aren't exactly themselves. Their memories are locked away in their brains by those Upside Down slugs, all of them trapped in the same day as the dimension itself; November 6, 1983 (unless killed before this date). Alongside that, their bodies aren't theirs, and are instead exact replicas made purely of Upside Down goo. Vecna plans to gain the town's trust using them, and when the time comes, activate the slugs to turn the revived into his personal soldiers (think the season 3 Billy plot but without the flesh Mind Flayer)

Eddie wakes up in the forest, exactly how he is supposed to be. But when he discoveres Chrissy beside him, he panics, and tries to remember what happened. He's unable to, but he knows something is keeping the truth locked away. So, extremely painfully, he finds a way to extract the slug from his brain, freeing himself and his memories from Vecna's control.

But soon, Chrissy wakes up. One who's mind is stuck in 1983 and has no idea who Eddie is. Still, since they're all each other has, she decides to believe and trust him, eventually befriending Eddie all over again.

They spend their days walking through the woods, terrified to return to town. They need no food, and scrapes from the woods never go further than skin deep, yet they remain unaware of their undead status. Eddie spends the whole time theorizing, trying to figure out what purpose this could serve, and how to get back to the group without inciting mass panic.

That is until the group finds them. Everyone he fought alongside, traveling through the woods with Wayne Munson in tow. They're taking him to a hidden grave for Eddie, one far from the vandals in town, to give him a place to grieve in peace. They still can't tell him the truth of what happened, but hope that this makes up for the lies they keep spinning.

But Wayne's gone mad with his grief. He's brought a gun with him and points it at the group, demanding answers for what happened to his boy. Eddie watches in fear, urged away from intervening by Chrissy's own terror.

Just before things get too bad, Steve steps up. Takes the blame, says that it was his word that put Eddie in danger, and inevitably got him killed. The group tries to deny it, but Steve persists. Wayne needs someone to blame, so blame him.

And at first Wayne looks satisfied. He has an answer, finally, one that might actually be sincere considering Harrington's sobs as he confesses.

But his grief and pain and confusion and anger simply aren't. So he raises the gun, pointed right at Steve-

-and that's where Eddie intervenes. Shoving Steve out of the way, barely getting out a desperate "WAYNE, DON'T!!" ...before the gun goes off.

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

After that, the story could go two ways.

The original outline - El goes with the group to Eddie's grave (for reasons I'm not sure of honestly). She watches the whole skirmish with Wayne, not wanting to expose him to her powers until she has to. When Wayne goes to shoot, she redirects his arm, just in time to catch Eddie in the leg.

In this one, Eddie's vocal. A screech of fear before he crumbles to one knee, hunched over and clutching at his leg, groaning in pain. Everyone can see him, hear him, and though they can't believe it, they know for sure it's Eddie. They saw him fall but they don't know how bad it is, and they're too shocked to come any closer.

The changed idea - El isn't there. Everything proceeds as before, with Wayne actually aiming for Steve's shoulder. Just a flesh wound, something to satisfy the squirming in his limbs. But due to Eddie's shove, his position is a little further to the left than Steve's, catching him straight in the heart.

In this one, Eddie drops, hard, with barely a sound. Everyone sees his side recoil with the impact, so they know exactly where he was hit. He lands on his front, the wind effectively knocked out of him, so he's gasping for air the whole way. Everyone sees his clothes, heard his voice, but they're almost hoping it's someone else, please don't let it be Eddie, please.

---------

No matter where Eddie gets shot, the story progresses the same.

Chrissy freaks out, running to Eddie and trying to help him, begging him to stay alive. Eventually he regains his bearings, slowly sitting up, hissing between gasping breaths with a hand clenched firmly over the wound. He slowly peels back his hand, terrified of what he'll see.

But beneath the hole in his clothes is... nothing. No blood, no bullet, no cuts. Just a steadily growing dark bruise, and the pain not progressing past an appropriate ache and some mild burning.

As he tries to process this, Eddie's eyes unfocus, and catch a slight glint of metal in the grass. With shaking hands, he grabs it. When he sees it, he hastily tries to stand, Chrissy rushing to help him. As they do, they turn just enough for everyone - from Wayne's trembling unmoving stance, to the group's collective huddle of fear, to Steve's laid out position on the dirt - to see what Eddie found.

The bullet. Or at least, what's left of it, its entire front bent flat.

Crushed upon impact with Eddie's skin.

[lonepower]

sometimes i want to read or watch fma for the pettiness of not having a satisfyingly shocked reaction to the dog thing but honestly the osmosis’d version seems much more interesting

[strawberryseeded]

sighs...........thats not where those piercings go..........

[eternallytired17]

My dudes, let your fave Fanfiction writers know you love and miss them.

I literally got my shit together and wrote a new chapter for my 50+ chapter long incomplete fanfiction after not updating in two years, just because I got a new review from a reader who said they missed me and hoped I was okay.

Your reviews matter, we cherish them, and they can bring your fave Fanfiction writers back from the dead.

[thatdeadaquarius]

About your language brainrot. I see your "Reader's writing can't match tyvat's long and flowery writing" and bring you "Tyvat isn't used to books over 50 pages long so a short story to the Reader is a whole dictionary to tyvat readers".

Seriously, have you seen how thin the books are? They don't wrote novels, they write short chapters formatted in the way really old stories are. As in, summarizing all the events down into one smooth story then adding a few quotes. Fanfiction writers are insane. They will willingly sit down and write hundreds of words at a time. To them, a proper modern day story of maybe, oh 10k words or so, would probably be like the Oddessy itself.

If we were to combine the two headcanons. It would end up as many historians being intimidated by this insanely long written scripture in the language of the forgotten.

I'm going to take this a step further and say that if the creator asked some people to proofread their things, it would establish a hiarchy of who is able to actually finish the book the creator read and who isn't.

NOW THIS, THIS IS MY FUCKING JAMMMM

I'm so sorry this is so old!! u probably all know this by this point that I've really slowed down as the year has gone on, but I graduated university and then got my first job so its been pretty crazy!

Sun: Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: Headcanons-ish

Stars: dash of all the book/nerds of Genshin, heavy on Sumeru?

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: Cussing, 16+ Mature Audiences, Spoliers for Sumeru Archon Quests/Scaramouche, & Trigger Warnings: mention of shipping/characters shipping themselves with you.

Comment if any missed, please.

☆

FULL STOP.

THE AKADEMIYA, FONTAINE RESEARCH INSTITUTE, HAVE BEEN WAITTTINNGGGG ON YOUR ASS LMAO

You fall from the fucking sky like a 5 star, or pop out of the Irminsul or whatever

and immediately are mobbed by scholars. LMAO jkjk (not really, bc that's what it’d feel like)

can you even imagine the dread older stories(”the classics” to them), that was instilled in the poor students around Teyvat??

id like to think ur works are the most preserved over the thousands of years of Teyvat archeologists excavating them, in comparison to other authors (teyvat just likes you more, suck it William Shakespeare)

also, bc I cant resist language differences/world building I'm sorryyyy 😭 😭

the vocab of Genshin lang vs. ours, has significantly less vocabulary like their actual dictionary is 1/3 the size of ours type of energy

(Omfg all ur fanfics being considered like insanely long realistic romantic classics or tragedies like Jane Austen-level, and only the richest and biggest play companies put on plays about ur stories bc the script goes on for hours)

(ur plays only get put on for rlly big events bc of this, like Lantern Rite or like a Summer/Winter festival/your birthday, which is, yes, an international holiday)

dude the sheer power move of anything you’ve written being essentially “Journey of the West” to them, like Damnnn.

endless like adaptations, plays, Teyvat-short stories condensing it, (THEIR OWN FANFICTION ABOUT UR STORIES)

the power is, in fact, going to your head every time another scholar both deflates at how long ur stuff is, but also lights up bc they get to read it

speaking of scholars… you know who snatched you up first. you know. you don’t even need to read the next line.

Alhaitham.

sneaky bastard he is, absolutely manipulated, mansplained (and manwhored bc he knows he’s handsome, cheeky little shit) his way into getting you to sit down with him and interview you about both translating other classics, your own, giving your own analysis of others works and ur own, and picking ur brain apart of how/why you wrote urs, etc. its fucking endless,

Kaveh had to come rescue you bc u were starving to death after getting stuck with the Haravatat scholar in his office for nearly 7 hours of interrogation��discussion about literature

and Alhaitham wasn't even nearly done, he’d informed you as you left that he already had another appointment for later conversation scheduled (how?? you don't even know ur own schedule??? you have a schedule???) and was looking forward to more of your “creative and enlightening input” :)))

(you’re never going to escape him, not even Nahida herself can save you from his stubborn ass)

On another note, Xingqiu is quaking when you agree to autograph his copy of your stories (of which he has all hard covers of the first edition translations)

Zhongli/Rex Lapis is known for having a near-lifelong passion for searching for your works specifically, and learning how to translate them better into Teyvatian vernacular

like the same way he can absolutely speak on Rex Lapis facts/rocks/adepti info, is the same confidence he speaks about knowing ur work lol

(yes he did also ask for several autographs and another sit-down talk about the works, tho a lot more sneaky then Alhaitham bc he just casually gets u guys into it during dinner)

Barbatos/Venti has written some of the most famous songs based on your stuff, he has his favorites too,

but he always claims the best songs are any that have been written in the story, like either when a character sings something, or there are like quotes from songs ur fanfics are based on lol

(he also demanded to hear what they actually sound like from you, yes, you have to sing them for him lol)

Venti also can surprisingly drunkenly ramble the entirety of at least one of ur stories, like, word for word lmao

(Diluc gave in and did give him a drink on the house for that one, just once, Venti doesn’t remember it lol)

(I forgot to mention, u guys still speak the same language, just like, different versions of it)

ur works being one of the few things all the Archons can freely talk about with each other, like it’s neutral ground bc they’re all fangirling about it lmao

Furina and Neuvillette have had like,, fierce debates over the decades about character dynamics and the general drama of ur stories, they’ve gotten into it enough they’ve stopped talking to each other for a couple days a few times lol

Albedo, Sucrose, Kokomi, Yae Miko, Ei, Raiden, have read every single work they’re gotten their hands on in Teyvat (it took them like a literal year or longer)

Albedo drew you fanart for every single story, bc he’s hyperfixated on everything related to you ngl,

Kokomi had commissioned smaller pocket versions of ur works (which later got popular thanks to Yae Miko) both the OG and the Teyvat shortened versions

THE HARBINGERS ARE THE MOST DOWN BAD LMAO

Childe has literally tried to recreate battle scenes from ur works lmao

and gets especially riled up about fighting someone who resembles any characters from them (esp villains, what a cutie)

You cannot fathom the amount of research throughout Teyvat that has been secretly or indirectly funded by Pantalone/Tsaritsa

from the experts to analyze them, to funding play companies to act them out, to actually excavating places to get more of ur stuff unearthed

(the Harbingers absolutely are the first group of people that got to read several of ur stories first bc of this, like the world’s most exclusive secret book club lol)

Scaramouche used to clown on Childe all the time about how he was too impatient to even “sit down and read the King’s classics”, and he was downright insufferable when he found out about Tartaglia’s habit of recreating battle scenes/that being what motivated him to fight sometimes lol

that being said, Wanderer surprisingly never forgot ur stories.

Even when his memories were wiped for a bit, he found comfort in these fantastical epics still sticking around, even when his old names did not

(he mayyyy or mayyy nottt have secretly namedhimselfafteroneofthetragicprotagonistsherelatesto- )

oh btw, Nahida also found joy and comfort in ur stories when she was trapped, they also helped her literally grow as a person bc she had ur stories to help her sort of process the world/what life was like outside of her dreaming prison 🥺💔❤️‍🩹

◇

OMFG

ANYWAY FULL TONE SHIFT LMFAO-

the ABSOLUTE SPIRAL-RED-STRING-CONSPIRACY-THEORY-BOARD ENERGY IF THIS WAS A BLUNT LANGUAGE AU LMAOOOO

like specifically how Teyvatians like to give all the context ever thru their words, but older deities/beings like you just do simple phrases that can have deeper meanings (whereas teyvat just explains all the meanings behind their words)

STOP there’s like an official display at the Akademiya and Fontaine Institute of red string theory boards 😭😭 (look what you’ve done to themmm LMAO)

for like every story of urs, INCLUDING THE FANFICS STOP

IMAGINE THE SHIPPING WARS IF U EVER WROTE ONE THAT WASNT EXPLICIT OR LIKE ONE OF THE MAIN ROMANTIC INTERESTS HAD CHEMISTRY WITH OTHER CHARACTERS HAHAHAHAA

that's actually what Akademiya scholars argue about the most viciously, it’s like politics you can’t just bring up ships from ur stories casually in regular convos 💀

(poor Cyno has to deal with a shipping war once a year bc someone always makes the mistake of reading ur work for the first time (without being told to not talk to others abt ships lol) and it starts an all out brawl in the cafeteria every time LMAO)

Also yes.

Cyno is a fanboy.

(he has read Creator x Reader-insert fanfiction.)

(As have most of the characters mentioned, and those not lol)

…

(I'm gonna make a whole Creator x reader fanfic post one day i stg lmao)

☆

an iced coffee? for me?? :0

ok but real talk…

wtf do you guys wanna see for new years!!

i didn't do a inktober/october days thingy bc i felt too unprepared (and bc id wanted to post that 1000+ followers eldritch au for Halloween)

but now i kinda wanna, at least for a few days :o

ill post a poll in a minute, so check it out!! but still, please feel free to comment some ideas here! :)

Safe Travels Deafening Dreamer,

💀♒

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks / @devilangel657 / @esthelily

[kyri45]

✨ShadowPeach Bio Parents Bio AU Q&A! 20/09✨

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach Bio Parents AU! If you submitted your ask anonimously, then you’ll have to check the whole post if it’s answered here, if it’s not, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

@funnybadger868 ha chiesto:wait so if mk can hear macaques past can he hear wukongs for example the circlet and the spell

Yeah he could. It's now just a matter of if he wants to use this power ever again

@cryptic-theseus ha chiesto:you're paying for my therapy btw, the bill is on the way

Blame it on the gay monkies not me. It's bc of them that my life is ruined/hj

@ayrza ha chiesto:Hey!I have an important question, where do you get your sources for the AU👉🏻👈🏻p? I mean, I just recently entered the LMK fandom and I see that there are parts that are not mentioned much in the series and it frustrates me because I feel like I only watch the anime but I'm missing the manga 🫠I love your art and your work, it's amazing 🫰🏻✨

Hi! Well I' finishing to read Journey to the West (im at chapter 80) and if I need extra info or just check I go to the fandom wiki.

@feyqueen91 feyqueen91 ha chiesto:A question for your Shadowpeach Bio Parent AU (btw, I just saw your recent post for More Than A Successor Arc & I thought something light hearted was needed to even out the Angst), is Macaque able to summon something like what Red Son did with the Samadhi Sprite, and he teaches MK to do it too?

Wait what exactly? I haven't understood what you meant by sprite.

@og-glitch-punk ha chiesto: Honestly I expect this to be hidden but i also love your work on both comics, keep it up!! I forgot their names but dude- how would the lotus prince and our moon chef feels about wukong and Macaque being MK's parents? HELL. WHAT ABOUT THE TRIO? YELLOW TUSK, PENG AND THE LOIN (CANT REMMEBER HIS NAME EVEN IF HE IS TECHNICALLY DEAD/GONE). Hell even this chaotic snake man may even use MK to his advantage with the fact he is the child of Wukong and Macaque. So many possibilities and guesses, so many twists and turns we will never know bro

Oh he absolutely woud. Also about the others. They would probably act like protective aunt/uncles to that poor traumatised boy.

@thenerdnico ha chiesto:Oh my GODS that last bio dad's chapter broke me, your expressions are always amazing. I'm going to assume that at the end of Wukong's and Macaque's fight, Wukong realised Macaque wasn't moving and ran up to him, and ended up sobbing and screaming when he realised he was dead??? If that is the case, do you think MK listened to it long enough to hear that as well?

Oh for angst reason yes. He did.

@shadowpeachera ha chiesto:AHHHH YOUR SHADOWPEACH BIO AU IS SOO GOOD!!!! I SCREAMED AT THE LAST UPDATE!!! I have a question though. You know in the series i think season 3 epsiode 5 where Wukong goes into a deep mystic monkey meditation, yeah. Well i was wondering if Mk has ever tried that but got disrupted and lost his memories or started acting strange infront of his monkey parents. It would be hilarious i can imagine him shouting, “TUDI, TUDI!”KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK, no pressure though! HAVE A GOOD DAY!

Lmaooo ok ok I don't think I'll go witha small amnesia arc in the AU but this doeß sound adorable.

@sakuralotus03 ha chiesto:It will probably be quite heavy, but I suggest that after Wukong saw the monkey like that he had a huge attack of guilt and anxiety and ended up injuring his left eye with his claws

Poor baby!! Nono don't worry his eye is fine.

@raylamoongirl ha chiesto:question for macaque: what was the hardest thing to teach Mk?Lmk bio parents Q&A

Mmmm so they tried really hard to teach him shadow teleportation, but he seems to not be able to do it.

@lmkobsessedmoth ha chiesto:For the Shadowpeach Bio Parent AU What if macaque and wukong go on a date and wukong doesn’t know it’s a date because he’s as dense as the rock he hatched out of

He truly would be. May the gods give him a clue or smt otherwise we wont end up nowhere here

Anonimo ha chiesto:Hey!I love your Shadowpeach bio Parent's AU But I Wonder,Does Wukong and Macaque already dance together before?

Danced??? I think so?? When they still were lovers friends I think (i think i m missing something)

Anonimo ha chiesto:I am on my knees, heart giving out, HOW IS BABY MK SO CUTE AND SHADOWPEACH SO ALLERGIC TO JUST KISSING ALREADY LIKE COME ON YOU TWO Anonimo ha chiesto:When I read the other part where swk and mac where talking about wanting MK to view them as parents at first I thought swk was proposing having another kid with Mac and I went “WOAH HEY- HOLD UP FOR A SECOND THERE U NEED TO GET UR SHT TOGETHER FIRST” and thank god it wasn’t that I thought swk was JUMPING AND ACCELERATING THEIR PROGRESS LMAOOOSo I’m actually glad they are taking baby steps, they need them

This slowburn is gonna be so slow-burning you all are gonna die when they actually kiss (will they kiss? Oh that's just for me to know ahah)

Anonimo ha chiesto:Since macaque is called mama by mk does that mean macaque is like a mother figure to mk in your au mama macaque is adorable and he gives off motherly in his character

Anonimo ha chiesto:Whos mom if there is considered a mom by MK or only dads? Is it Wu or Mac? My headcanons is Wukong basically the mom cuz he gives off mom and dad vibes together and Macaque just gives off dad vibes to me

He gives more motherly vibes, yes (Mamacaque and DadWukong forever)

Anonimo ha chiesto:Hi in you bio parent au for monkie kid how were monkey king and macaque as teenagers when they had a good relationship were like they a romantic couple or had secret crushes on each other and never told each other or were they just friends love this au it's amazing

Oh I think they were definitely lovers once. And that makes their past and what happened even more tragic honestly.

@ayrza ha chiesto:I don't know who is more adorable: Baby MK or Macaque and Wukong blushingPsd. I love your AU and your art 💖

Both. Both is good

@diamondwolf23 ha chiesto:THOSE TWO BETTER KISSSSSSSSSSS-I’m gonna miss Baby Mk ;-

Me too. Me too.

Anonimo ha chiesto:You could say Wukong is a...... simpian?(like simian but yknow >>)

LMAO YES

@scififeather21 ha chiesto:You can't believe how much I love your Shadowpeach AU comic series that last part made me grin so much. Mostly because my husband and I have done that exact thing when our kids were small babies and the looks and smiles were the same too. OMG it such a nice thing to see after a long day at work yesterday. :)

THAT'S THE- SWEETEST THING?????? LIKE IM SO GLAD I WAS ABLE TO MAKE IT A SIMILAR EXPERIENCE???? TO HEAR IT'S THE SAME THAT HAPPENED TO YOU IS THE SWEETEST THING EVER

@snsp6 ha chiesto:I love ur bio dads au! I wanted to ask what would happen if smth similar to the baby mk incident happened to the immortal monkeys.Like either they were de-aged to their youth or had an amnesia rules type of situation!(I am in love w the world building in this!!! And ur art is delectable!)

I don't thing the world would be ready for non-reformed Wukong#like-#not really reformed but the guy killed so many people bc of impulsiveness#until he learned that murder is not fine

Anonimo ha chiesto: This might be a stupid question, but for your bio parents, AU is MK just always in his monkey form, or is this just how he permanently looks now?

He's on his monkey form when he trains / stays at the weekends at FFM or when he friendly duels/train with Mei and Red Son.On weekdays he's constantly in his human form

@meisawkwardashecc ha chiesto:Is Wukong potentially shorter than Macaque? 👀🥺Avatar

Yes

@miraclecactus ha chiesto:Can you show us what's going on in the Freenoodles house? I'm looking forward to knowing how they manage to calm MK down :( Puedes mostrarnos que es lo que sucede en la casa de Freenoodles? Estoy ansiosa de conocer como ellos manejan el como calmar a MK :(

They used Wukong and Mac advices until he feel asleep.

Anonimo ha chiesto:I like how Wukong asks Macaque how he knows MK won't hate him after this. Like my guy, you literally killed Macaque, and he still hangs around I think he knows a thing or two

True. Although let Wukong be the dumbass he is.

alizardonfire ha chiesto:I love the idea of macaque being wukongs *rock* if that makes sense? It gives so much character to him.

Aaaahh ty! Yeah I feel like he's pretty good at understanding when he s just out of his mind and bring him back to earth.

Anonimo ha chiesto:If this isn't to much spoiler will the next lmk comic be angsty

This will be answered too late but I will always warn you in advance if there s angst coming.

Anonimo ha chiesto:I love your art! Lighthearted question since your about to bring the pain- do you think Mac and Wu fight over who gets to be little spoon/big spoon or are both of them 100% happy with Mac as big spoon and Wu as little spoon every night

So as for now, they are good with Wukong being the little spoon. Both bc Wukong is the the one who constantly craves for touch amd bc Macaque feels more comfortable in a position of "control" let's say. He can decide how much closer or not to get to Wukong.

Then in the future they would be more comfortable to switch (and the bicker about who should be the big or small)

@sallyvanna ha chiesto:HAIII FIRST OF ALL I LOVE YOUR BIO PARENT AU it makes my day every time I see a new page postedI was just wondering, why was macaque kinda nervous when he summoned rumble and savage? He was like 'ah shit I didn't want that-' 👀

It was because the kid would be afraid of them! Of course he wouldn't. But I guess Macaque still feels like his powers are a threat to him.

@redwrathroit ha chiesto:Hey, note this is something you can completely ignore but I wanted to know if you had a ref sheet for your monkey Bois, I'd love to take a try and drawing them plus I had made an Oc character of my own but I did it once and then art block hit me like a train and said; nah, never again. So it would really help me out if you have a ref, if not ignore this and have a nice day/night

Unfortunately I don't. I have a lot of panels where you can see them full body in various stances though.

Anonimo ha chiesto:Wukong being the little spoon is too cute, he spends years being the big spoon platonically to everyone that someone finally gave him what was needed, to be protected instead of being the protector

Yesss he iss!!!!!!

@froggyofdeath ha chiesto:Question abt Shadowpeach bio parents! Sooo, who kills the spiders, who screaming abt them, who the one who picks it up and try to scare the screaming one?🫠✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️☕️☕️☕️☕️

Mk is screaming, Wukong picks it up, Macaque kills it.

Anonimo ha chiesto:Can we see exactly when they decided to prepare the courtnapping room? Like when exactly did they know oh we need to prepare that our son has apparently followed in our footsteps

Unfortunately in this AU for now I don't plan tp draw a full spicynoodle arc as well. There will be moments for the ship as well but more like extras and side stories.

Anonimo ha chiesto:Your shadowpeach bio au reminds me of something..... I remember you saying to someone that they should Read a Son of Two Dad's. Have you read the entire thing? and the sequel?

Yes I did! Also the sequel, but i think it s in hiatus.

Anonimo ha chiesto:In you newest update for the shadowpeach parent au, that one scene of Macaque looking at Wukong as MK holds his finger kind of reminds me those flashback scenes in movies of the dead lover/wife that is looking at the main character from under a flowing blanket. I have no clue why but the image popped up in my head when I read that part of the comic lmao

I bet when they are back together they will re-create this exact image eventually

Anonimo ha chiesto:I love that Macaque is initiating contact with Wukong. Hugging him, holding his hands, cuddling with him. It makes my heart melt 🥹🥰 And Wukong is giving him opportunities to do so

He is opening the door for Mac to come closer, so that it's his choice how much he can get closer. The last thing Wukong wants is to rush things or do something that would make him more uncomfortable.

Anonimo ha chiesto:Omg! I love your art especially your shadowpeach parent bio au, it's adorable! Although I'm terrified for the next page. Anyway, my question is, why won't you let the monkey trio breathe from the trauma? 😅🥹

Bc apparently chat asked for it

[foulphantomllama]

My Secret Desire | AESPA Winter x Male Reader

I decided to post the new chapter today because I was supposed to post something else today. But as you can guess, I did not liked it enough to post it. So enjoy the new chapter!

4. The Package

She send me a pair of her underwear. With a little note on them saying “Make good use of them until i come back and get them.” And she drew a little emoji winking at the end.

But she wasn’t coming over. Neither to school nor my house. She was barely texting me. And when she does, she only makes me horny and disappear completely. I asked about her to one of her friends but they were in it too. I all got for a response was to wait. So I waited. After nearly a week and a half later, my door was knocking. It was her. I looked at the peekhole. I opened the door. She went straight in. Saying nothing. She took off her shoes and jumped to my bed. Getting ready to take a nap. I closed the door and started watching her. After a moment of silence I wanted to check on her. She was sleeping. She literally was gone for nearly two weeks and now she is back sleeping in my room.

But no. This was my time to act. I couldn’t just let her win every time. I sit beside her and woke her up. “What?” she asked me. Her attitude was making me angry. This attitude of her was the main reason I hate her as much as I love her. “What do you mean “What?”!” “You come into my house, crying. You’re not saying a single word. We fuck, you disappear for nearly two weeks. Than you sending me your panties. And after a few days later you appear on my doorstep and pretending none of this happened?” She looked at me. Holding her laugh. “Yes.” She said. Then burst into laughing.

I hold her arms. I mean, I hold them pretty tight. Her laugh was disappearing quickly. She realized that I’m really angry now. But she was not holding back either. “Come on big boy, what do you have in mind?”

I knew her intention. She wants sex again. But no. She needs to know that she does not always get what she wants from me. We fuck when I want to fuck. She grabbed my cock. But my cock was not hard this time. Because I was furious. “Come on, stop resisting. I know you want me.” She was thigtening her grab as she talks to me. I pushed her to the bed. “Okay, now we’re talking.” She said. But the following event was not someting that she would expect. I dressed up, took the keys and locked her inside my apartment. She has no other option to wait for me. My apartment was pretty high up so she couldn’t use the balcony to run away. But also, I had zero worries that she wants to escape. I was confident that she will wait for me. No matter how long I took to come back to my apartment.

I grabbed some ramen from my favourite store. It was just around the corner of my apartment. Then I rented a film from one of the stores that is not far from my apartment. Then I go to my apartment. Opened the door. There she was. Sitting on the toilet without closing the toilets door. “You should at least close the door.” I said to her. She rolled her eyes and answered. “You should be grateful that I did not pissed on to your carpet. You dick.” She was acting just like I imagined she would. “I am hungry. You did get something to eat, right?” I showed her the ramen I bought. “You’re the best boyfriend in the world.” Then she added. “Probably.” I asked her while I put the ramens on the kitchen counter. “What do you mean boyfriend?” She got up and came towards me. “Duh, dude you fucked me and cum into my throat. And I fucking swallowed it. What do you think we are? Study buddies?”

“So, you loved me from the beggining.” I asked. “Both.” She answered. “I fucking love you so much and I hate you so fucking much.” She also said. I can take that. “I love you because you’re the most precious person ever. I hate you because you’re too precious to be real. That you will gone to your own country an forgot about me.”

Her words hurt me a lot. But not in a bad way. I was hurt because I did not see it before. She was never bullying me. She just wanted my attention. Because she was thinking that I will leave her because she was not clever enough. What a bad way to think about yourself. And this was the exact reason I hated her to my guts. She was so hard to get along with. She was meaning the world to me. Yet, whenever I tried to show her this, she accused me by being delusional. Saying she is not enough for me or so. I may be too harsh to say I hated her just for this, trust me this kind of toxicity can kill. But my love for her was always getting the spotlight. It was the same for her too.

“I am so sorry If I ever hurt you with my words. I was never a bully. I just wanted your attention. And you weren’t giving me.” She hit me with your little fist as she talks. I hugged her. “No, I won’t be going anywhere. Not now at least.” She showed me her middle finger. And then she realized the film I rented. She took the dvd and started inspecting it. “I heard that this one is so shit.” She said. “It is pure shit.” I answered. Her response was hilarious, and expected. “Then why the fuck you rented this?” It turns out that this was just the way she communicates. Not exactly helping her with the social life but, kind of makes her hot and cute. Or I was just obsessed with her.

I prepared the ramen and we started eating. “Put the film on.” She said. I put the film on. In under ten minutes our meals were finished. She paused the film and said “Okay let’s agree on something.” I said go on. “If i get bored in the next ten minutes, we fuck. If I don’t we don’t fuck.” I was confused a little. “Why do I get punished for choosing I film that you probably like?” I asked. “Haha. That is how I work, honey.”

She watched that entire film. I can realize that she wasn’t really liked it. But she did it because she wanted to annoy me. But I wanted her. So I started to kiss her neck. “No hickeys.” She said. “My mother will fucking kill me.” Of course I was going to give her a hickey. “If you’re going to give me a hickey just do it on a place my mother wouldn’t be able to see.” She said. I took of her tshirt. I left a hickey on her left shoulder. “Your mother wouldn’t see that, I think.” I said. She mimics me. Then laughs. “You ruined the ending.” She said. “Come on! It was already shit how I could possibly ruined the ending.” I answered. She nodded.

“I’m just going to give you a blowjob, and get the hell out of here. I’m already late. I was gone to buy some rice. My mother still waiting me to bring rice.” She said. “I have an unopened package of rice. You can take it on your way out.” She gave me a thumbs up. Then took off my pyjamas. She was on her knees. She licked my cock over my underwear. Then she took of my underwear. Took my cock inside her mouth. Her mouth was so warm. And I already knew that she is very skilled when it comes to sucking cock. But she was too shy to make eye contact. I did not pushed her to her limits just yet. I just let her give me head peacefully, in her own terms. “Are you going to swallow it again?” I asked. She took it off from her mouth to answer me. “Well, i want to but you bought me a gigantic ramen. I don’t want to throw up the first meal you bought me.” She started sucking it again. I asked her to look into my eyes. She started to look up. She was looking so good with my cock in her mouth. I mean, she was probably the cutest girl I’ve ever seen. And she was my girlfriend.

“I’m going to swallow it.” She said. “Do not pull it out when you’re about to cum.” I pulled my cock out. “What makes you change your mind.” I asked her. “You forgot to buy me beverage. Can I please finish it and go???” “Okay, okay sorry.” I answered. “All yours.” She got faster and faster. Then I came into her mouth. First she showed me her mouth full of my cum. Then she swallowed it and showed me her empty mouth. I pull her closer to me and kissed her lips. “You just kissed your own cum.” She laughed. “But off your mouth.” I answered. “But it makes you gay.” She answered. I looked at her face laughing. “Okay, I’m going. Give me the rice.” I give her the rice I bought the other day. “Hey, mom! I just blowed my boyfriend and he give me a packet of rice.” She was laughing out loud while saying that. “At least you keep the money.” I said.  “You’re so very right sir. Goodbye.” She saluted me and went out the door. I followed her. “No kiss goodbye?” She came closer, I was taller than her. She signalizes me to bow down. I did. She put her middle finger into my mouth. “Here’s your kiss.”

God I love her.

[tricks-n-illusions]

{ @askoinari } So, your one true wish in this whole entire universe is to die, hm? Tragic, pitiful really. All this fuss and a temper tantrum because you couldn’t win mommy’s love? Even your own god does not grant you the peace you so desperately long for, stringing you along like a puppet. Do you honestly think your death will solve all your problems? Knowing your god, they’d probably spite you back to life in the form of a ghost for a laugh, wouldn’t that be ironic? I suppose nobody else would care about your death considering your track record for violence, but what of your No-so-apparent companion here? Wouldn’t they mourn you, at the very least? Judging from your charming nature, probably not! Good luck on your fools’ errand. - Yako

Silas's ears flattened as he backed away from Yako, for the first time it seemed he was fearful of someone. Though you couldn't place why... But, Silas knew, he knew exactly why, it was that damn mask, the posture, the aura, the way their tail seemed to become a wisp. It was like looking at a ghost. Once he realized why Yako scared him Silas couldn't do much but freeze in place and squeeze his eyes shut, hoping they would just leave. His fear response became painfully apparent as the moments passed. All he could muster up was a feeble anxious whimper, maybe that would magically make them spare him from the incoming verbal assault. Then they spoke. It sounded just like her. In his terror it WAS her.

Seance's tone was mocking, something Silas was guilty of doing... or maybe he was just copying her the whole time. Even so, she just quietly hummed in thought, looking over him as she ever so slightly inched closer and closer.

"Even after all these years, you're still chasing after her love? Desperately hoping one day she'll forgive you for all the pain you caused her?" Though Seance's voice was soft, her words were not. "I told you, She doesn't love you and she never will. Why can't you get that through your head?" She paused, giving her words a moment to sink in before she spoke up again. "Silas." She sounded upset. "What did I tell you about not looking at me while I'm talking to you?" He cringed at that but didn't reply.

When he didn't do what she said, she just gave a soft, "Tsk." Well, He always was a coward, of course he didn't have the guts to even look at her. She gently brushed a claw over his face before finally letting go with an annoyed sigh. Despite Seance's words, Yako's voice was still loud and clear, mocking him along with her. Her voice seemed to compliment theirs perfectly.

Seance quickly broke into laughter at the thought of that herself.

"Isn't that right, Little fox?" Truth always hurt. Silas couldn't deny it, Yako was right. Seance was right, every word every insult was right. When tears finally began to well up and Seance's voice faded, Silas found the courage to speak. His voice was soft and faint. A mere whisper compared to the onslaught of words from Yako. "Please..."

Silas's words obviously went unheard. His claws just dug further into his skin, blood beginning to trail down his arm, the moment it finally seemed like Yako was going to stop talking, Silas broke from his fearful trance. In one quick sweeping motion, Silas threw out a Night Slash.

"JUST SHUT UP ALREADY." He shouted. "You have NO right to TALK DOWN to me like I'm beneath you! I AM NOT BENEATH YOU." He sounded unsure. "You don't know who the fuck I am, and I don't think you want to find out. So, Shut the fuck up or I'll make you! I have no fucking problem with killing you right here. Unless you want to be gutted I suggest you FUCK OFF." Silas lowly growled, his teeth bared, a blatant attempt at aggression, though his behaviour portrayed more fear than anything. Yako obviously touched a nerve with his words.

He didn't care. Finally, after everything the tears began to flow, all he could do was sniff and wipe them away. "...Fucking pathetic." He grumbled, his words seemed to be addressed to Yako but it quickly became clear it was for himself.

→ Yako has been added to the relationships page. → Seance has been added to the characters page. → Silas is now injured and will stay that way until he addresses it.

[ Ask from @askoinari ]

[macfrog]

you shook me all night long sex on fire chapter one

requested by @whore-4-pedro (hope u enjoy lovely)

lived all my succession fantasies out writing this one icl. enjoy 🖤 check out my masterlist for more joel fun ‼️

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: as joel miller's assistant, you're expected to meet all his needs. some are a little more personal than others

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) creepy dude at the beginning, lotta teasing and touching, mentions of female masturbation, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, semi-public sex, daddy kink, age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), alcohol and drug use, cursing, low-key inappropriate work relationship (if bad then why sexy?)

word count: 7.8k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more. You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin. “I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?” “Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”

It’s Friday night.

You only got home from work an hour and a half ago. Tired, hungry, sore eyes from staring at a screen all night, sore back from sitting hunched over all day. Dumped your bags at the door, ripped your clothes off by your bed, dove straight into the shower. You’d picked an outfit, curled your hair in record time, and even done your makeup before Deb called to say she was out front.

It was a ten-minute drive from your place to the hotel – it’s only a couple blocks from work. The cab driver made light conversation, talked about his daughter and her new puppy, and you both nodded and uhuhed in all the breaks in his sentences. Deb made some comment about it being easier if you’d just stayed at the office until the party, and you’d hummed in agreement, looking out the window at the regal hotel.

Truth be told, you’d rather be doing anything other than attending a work function. You’ve had a long week. A lot of meetings, paperwork, emails to be answered, and most of all, running around after your boss. It’s not all fun and games being Joel Miller’s assistant, regardless of the pay, or the view from your desk over to his.

Your head’s elsewhere when you waltz through the revolving door, heels clicking along the marble floor. The elevator – gold, by the way – slides open and you both step inside, hitting the highest button before you’re swept up twenty floors to the penthouse.

“Did you send those documents over to us yet?” Deb asks.

“Nope,” you reply, slipping out when the elevator dings. “Had to sit in on a meeting with Joel and take the fucking minutes, spent all night writing them up.”

“He won’t be pissed at you?”

“If he hadn’t insisted I was in there with him, you’d have your reports, wouldn’t you?”

She shrugs, agreeing.

“Anyway,” you continue, “I can take angry Joel. He doesn’t scare me.”

Deb chuckles as you shoulder the doors to the penthouse open.

It’s a moody dull, lit only by the lights lining the bar and small lamps decorating mahogany tables, sat next to deep green velvet couches. There are clusters of people everywhere you look; stood near shelves filled with leather-bound books, examining the view from the floor to ceiling windows, sprawled out over luxurious chairs with champagne flutes in their hands. There’s a tree in the middle of the room, branches decorated in blinking string lights reaching to a glass dome in the ceiling.

It's, like, sickeningly pretentious. You know it. Hell, you all know it. Still, in your little black dress, you strut over and take a champagne of your own, sipping on the fizzing drink with one elbow resting on the wooden bar.

“There’s my girl,” his voice coos over your shoulder. “Been watchin’ for you all night, took your time.”

You lean back, bored expression on your face.

Joel’s broad chest pulls on the white shirt he’s wearing, same one you just saw him in little over three hours ago, only without a tie; the top couple of buttons are undone to reveal his chest hair peeking through. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long.

“You look fuckin’ ecstatic to be here.”

He leans against the bar next to you, arms crossed. When you don’t reply, he nudges you. Your champagne jolts in its glass.

“I always look like this. I’m always ecstatic to be everywhere.”

He smiles. “Why aren’t you mingling?”

“Don’t wanna.”

“’s a work event. That’s the whole point.”

“Then why are you over here talkin’ to me?”

His eyes flash across your lips, and you swear they drop for a nanosecond to your chest.

“Come on,” he says, taking your wrist in his huge hand, “some people you oughta meet.”

Joel ignores your sigh and leads you over onto a plush rug, sidling between knees to sit you down on the soft couch between himself and some bald dude in a jet blue suit, whose shirt is also undone, though much further than Joel’s. He has a chest like a hairless cat.

Cue Ball snakes an arm over the back of the couch; his fingers dance across your back. You shimmy a little closer to Joel and he notices instantly, jaw turning slowly to glance over. When he sees your knees angled toward him, seeking protection, he leans back and wraps his left arm around your shoulders, his right coming down to cup your knee.

“This,” he shakes your leg, left arm pulling you tighter against him, “is my wonderful assistant. My right-hand lady. Couldn’t do anything without her, could I?”

“Could wipe your own ass, that’s about it,” you mumble into your glass, and a roar of laughter sounds from your audience.

Joel, still leaning back, pulls his arm from you but keeps his shoulder firmly behind yours, making sure whatever the creep on your left tries, he’ll feel first. Your elbow rests in the crook of his, and you keep it there, quietly enjoying the intimacy of his body caging yours.

His left hand is settled on your thigh. You realize it after a swig of champagne, and start counting in your head how many seconds his fingers stay gripped on your skin.

He talks with his hands – always has. Walks around his office, ranting and raving sometimes, arms swinging around in the air while you take notes, or file your nails, or just watch until he’s done. For the next half hour, though, he only talks with his right hand. Only sips his beer with his right hand. Only scratches his beard, or pulls his phone from his pocket, or reaches up and passes you a second drink, and then a third, with his right hand.

You stay rigid, legs unmoving, eyes barely leaving his knuckles, locked tight around your thigh. There’s heat from his touch siphoning from his palm down through your skin, rippling like waves all through your body and pooling somewhere south of your belly button. No matter how hard you try, you can’t shake it. Can’t stop thinking about it. You barely notice when Cue Ball’s hand ghosts across your back a second time.

But Joel notices, straight away. He flashes the guy a look, and you swear he’s baring his teeth. Eyes locked on the blue suit like it’s a target, never blinking. He doesn’t say anything when his prey excuses himself to the bathroom, and you don’t turn to watch him go, but you do notice three other sharp-suited pricks stand and wander off in that direction after him.

Probably not a coincidence.

Joel still has a hold on your leg. Your flute is empty, and you lean forward to place it on the wooden table at your knees, beginning to stand.

His grip loosens, but he looks up at you as you tower over him.

“Cocktail,” you tell him with a sweet smile, and he nods, letting you go.

You know he’s watching you as you slink away. Is it the alcohol in your system, or something darker, that makes you sway your hips a little more for his benefit?

Deb’s over at the bar with Martha, another of Joel’s assistants. She’s around his age, worked for him much longer than you have, but when he hired you, you took on most of the groundwork. Following Joel’s orders– sorry, requests, organizing meetings, filing paperwork for him. Martha sits at a desk outside Joel’s office, answers the phone and directs anyone who happens to wander up to the top floor of the building.

Did I say directs? I meant strikes coldblooded fear within them and sends them back running the way they came, with just one look and a nod in the opposite direction.

Unless they’re there for a meeting with Joel, that is. And if they are, that’s where you come in. Good morning, Mr. Salazar, Mr. Miller will be right with you. This way, he’s just finishing up a call.

Martha’s a tough nut. But she likes you enough, so she smiles warmly as you approach.

“I’m hearing all about your note-taking this afternoon,” she hums when you hop up onto a barstool, catching the bartender’s eye. He trots over.

You sigh to Martha, eyes wide. “I didn’t leave until, like, eight. What the fuck’s that about? Can I just get a cosmopolitan, please?” you ask, and the bartender nods. He looks about fifteen.

Martha shakes her head, laughing. “He did it to me when I was first startin’ out, too. Told him to stick his minutes where the sun don’t shine.”

“I’ve been here three years,” you mutter, and Deb snorts.

“You’d think Joel would’ve changed his ways in the, what, seven decades since you started, Martha?”

It earns her a slap across the shoulder. You stifle your laugh behind your glass, thanking the teenager who served you it with a nod.

“Twenty years next March, actually,” Martha says.

“That so? D’you think he’ll get you anything for it?”

“If I’m lucky,” she sighs, eyes travelling up to the ceiling in thought, “a lunch break where he doesn’t bother me once.”

“Knowing Joel, that means a lunch break where he bothers you twice.”

You smile, glancing past the pretentious tree to where Joel is, and notice he’s already staring right back. A swarm of butterflies flutter around your stomach, dancing over the heat his handprint left within you. They only grow more violent when he stands and walks over, broad shoulders swaying, eyes flitting up and down your body.

You lean back, sitting up straight, eyeing him right back as he joins the three of you.

“Speak of the devil,” Martha says, and Joel chuckles in response, but his eyes never leave you.

“We were just talkin’ about Martha’s twenty years,” says Deb, winking.

He finally turns to answer her. “Oh, yeah? When’s that, then, old-timer?”

“Dirtball!” Martha yells, and Joel smirks. It goes straight to your core.

“How many Manhattans tonight, then, Deb?”

Deb holds her glass up. “I am on my second, and I will not be exceeding three. We don’t need a repeat of Christmas.”

“Aw,” Joel complains, tutting, “I liked hammered Deb.”

“That’s ‘cause you didn’t have to deal with hungover Deb,” you mutter, and she shoots you a look.

Joel smiles at you, takes a step closer as Deb and Martha begin comparing past hangovers. He leans forward, waves the fifteen-year-old down, and asks for a beer. As he leans back, you notice the weight of his wrist on your right hip. Nicely done.

“You know there are four guys in the bathroom doing coke?”

“I hope to God that’s all they’re doin’. I don’t need another orgyhappenin’ at one of these things.”

You giggle like a fucking schoolgirl. He looks pleased with himself, and you instantly regret it. You try to play it off by lifting your glass back to your lips.

Joel’s studying you, though, mapping every inch of your face. Watching your mouth as it curves around the shape of the glass, your tongue licking your lips after your sip. He tracks the glass as you set it back down on the bar, then his eyes trail along your arm to your dress, and your stomach leaps.

He looks so fucking good, it sends another wave of energy through your body. Dark hair lined with grey, beard much the same. Strong jaw, lips wetting with every sip of beer he takes, dark eyes flitting across yours, holding your stare long enough to melt you a little, and then dipping just before you can read the thoughts behind them.

His skin a little tanned, his neck thick with muscle. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, you’re so close. Close enough that you could lean up, part your lips and sink your teeth under his ear, suck a mark there, taste him on your tongue.

Your head cocks after a few minutes silence, just the two of you enjoying the fucking look of each other. You lean a little against his arm, steady around your back.

“I hate work parties,” you sigh.

Joel scoffs. “Free alcohol, nice penthouse. Cocaine, if you want it. What’s not to like?”

You narrow your eyes and he laughs for real.

“I hate ‘em, too, baby. Gotta keep up appearances, though, don’t we?”

Baby. This fucker.

“Do we?” you squeak, after a few seconds dazed.

He shrugs. “’s what I hear.”

He’s so close you can smell the beer on his tongue. It makes your heart quicken, your body hum with energy. That could just be the alcohol in your system, though, right?

Who are you kidding? It’s fucking Joel doing it to you.

You have no idea how long he was here before you arrived. He left the office around six, and you presumed he’d come straight here to check everything was in order before guests started arriving. How many beers has he had? Is he just drunk, feeling up on you with liquid courage?

You’re mulling over the thought when a pair of hands clamp down on Joel’s shoulders and his hold on your waist loosens. He mumbles an apology as he’s dragged away by a couple of loose-collared, baggy-suit drunks. You shake your head in response, trying to be cool – It’s all good, man. I’m good. I’m not totally fawning over you right now, no way.

Deb swings her barstool around when she notices you’re on your own, inviting you back into their conversation. Thirty seconds into talking about childhood pets, you’re wishing Joel was back around you, igniting your skin and peaking your adrenaline. Max the Pomeranian is a nice picture; Joel’s nicer.

Martha says something with a hand motion, and Deb nods, elbow knocking into yours.

“What?”

She nods toward the balcony. “We’re headin’ out for a smoke, you comin’?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll save your seats.”

They nod and wander off between a crowd, swallowed up by bodies in the direction of the open sliding doors, the blinking lights of the skyline ahead.

You’re twirling the base of your empty glass around on its napkin when you feel that same heat behind you again, and a hand rests on the small of your back.

“Coat,” Joel mutters, pulling his suit jacket on.

“Huh?”

“Get your coat. Everyone’s headin’ across the street.”

“Why is everyone heading across the street?”

He shrugs. “Afterparty, I guess.”

“It’s a work function. It’s like–” you check your phone, “–oh, fuck, it’s almost midnight.” You screw your face up, watching as the small crowd slowly melts away through the suite doors.

“I know. I throw a good party, right?”

“So good, people are leaving it.”

He tuts. “Coat. Now.”

“I didn’t bring one.”

“You didn’t bring a coat?”

“You told me the party was here. I didn’t think we’d be walking all over town.”

“’s not all over town, baby,” Joel murmurs with a sigh. “Here.”

He peels the jacket off his shoulders and you hold a hand out to stop him.

“Joel, it’s fine, it’s–”

“Quit moanin’,” he groans as he throws it over your shoulders. He scoops your hair and pulls it softly out from under the collar. “Alright? C’mon.”

He takes your hand and leads you past some stragglers down the hall toward the elevator, where a group are waiting for the doors to open.

“Tight squeeze, Miller,” some dude chuckles as you follow Joel in, his hand still gripping yours.

He turns, backing into the corner, pulling you with him until your back is flush against his chest.

His hands drop to your hips. You swallow back a scream.

One of the accountants is stood in front of your – Harriet? Helen? Something beginning with H – anyway, she keeps knocking back into you, pushed by the sway of the packed elevator. It means you knock a little into Joel, and feel his chin on the crown of your head.

You turn ever so slightly to mumble an apology to him, but when you feel his breath on the shell of your ear, your words die in your throat.

“Hazel?” – That’s her fucking name – Joel reaches around you to tap her shoulder, and her bobbed haircut swings when she turns. “Did you get those balance sheets yet?”

“Not yet, Joel,” she tells him, and your face prickles with heat.

“No? That’s weird.” Joel’s grip tightens on your hips, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. In a low whisper, only to you, he says, “Thought I asked to have ‘em sent over by this afternoon.”

You muster up the courage to reply with a deep breath. From the corner of your mouth, through gritted teeth, you tell him, “That was before you forced me to sit in on a buyers’ meeting.”

You feel his chest rumble between your shoulder blades as he laughs. The elevator shudders to a stop and the doors slide open; the crowd spills out.

You step forward, ahead of Joel, and make it maybe three steps before he’s back on you, an arm draped over your shoulders. You reach up and take his hand, leaning against his strong torso to let him guide you toward the exit.

No idea what makes you do it. Maybe you’re drunk. Maybe not only on alcohol.

You’re the last of the pack, stumbling over air across the gleaming floor toward the revolving door, which Joel pushes open for you. The cool night breeze hits you as you slip out.

The crowd ahead are rushing across the street, yelling and whooping as they go. It’s juvenile, a little cringe. A bunch of rich corporates skipping across the street toward cheap alcohol and peanuts. You’d care more about the way it looks if you were sober.

Joel’s hand finds yours again and he’s leading you down the steps, cutting between parked cars toward the dive bar. You link your other arm around his elbow and he glances down, noting it. You wish the walk was longer.

A flickering fluorescent light drowns you both in a red glow, and Joel pushes the doors open. The place is flooded with half of your party, drowning booths, leaning against the bar, dancing in any open floorspace.

The floor is sticky, the bar dim. Joel takes you over to the same crowd he introduced you to earlier, and makes space for you to sit. You slide along the booth to the wall and he follows, squeezing up to you to let two more in after him.

“Beers?” a guy with a loose tie asks, to a chorus of yeses and a show of thumbs up. Mitch? Mark?

You tug Joel’s jacket from your shoulders – the movement nudges him and he turns to lift it from your back and tuck it behind you, brushing the hair off your shoulders. You smile in thanks, and his hand falls back onto your leg.

It takes you a few minutes to notice it this time. The gentle squeeze of his fingers around your thigh, the way it slowly bumps up each time he adjusts in his seat or shifts to allow space for someone else to join the booth.

His hand moves slowly, dangerously close to pulling your skirt up with it. Mitch or Mark returns with your beers and you take a massive swig, nerves and anticipation and fucking need for Joel to keep doing what he’s doing, taking over.

Under lights blurred by the alcohol in your system, the table buzzes with energy and chatter and laughter. There are posters and stickers all over the walls, graffiti of names and initials, numbers and dates scored into the walls. Joel traces them with his finger and you laugh at some of the messages.

“Lydia and Jack,” you mumble, “12-24-19. Wonder what happened then.”

“Bathroom sex,” Joel replies, eyes scanning the wall.

You scoff, beer to your lips. “On Christmas Eve?”

He nods, like it’s obvious. “Magical time ‘n all.”

You look past him with a smile to the opposite side of the bar where, through silhouetted bodies, you notice a jukebox.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your eyes widen, your mouth agape.

Joel follows your eyeline and then twists back around. “C’mon,” he says, taking your hand and motioning for the others to let you by. He drags you over to the machine, lighting your faces up in yellow light, and your drunk eyes scan the screen.

“Nope." You swipe Joel’s hand away right before he can pick some Pet Shop Boys song.

“Really?”

“Good, but not the vibe,” you tell him, and budge him out of the way with your hip. He sways off, laughing, and leans a palm against the jukebox, his chest on your back for the second time tonight. As your tired eyes scan the songs, Joel’s chin rests on your shoulder.

He’s judging every fucking song you linger on. “Queen? Little before your time.”

“Dick.”

“Fleetwood Mac. Definitely before your time.”

“The entire fucking jukebox is before my time, dude. Shut up. These are good songs.”

You settle on a track and turn to face him. He has you almost fucking pressed against the box.

“Change, please.”

“Oh, I’m payin’, am I?”

“Mhm. Your work party, your wallet.”

He sighs and pushes a fist into his pocket for coins, tossing a quarter into your outstretched palm. You turn back and select your song, put the money in, and the old machine barks out the intro.

Joel sighs, shaking his head. “AC/DC? That’s your thing?”

“It’s not yours?” You’re taking him by the hand between bodies, swaying as you go.

He’s laughing, following you until you’re in the middle of the cramped bar, chest to chest, moving together. His hands find your waist again and this time you don’t even flinch; your fingers trail up his shirt, across his chest, settle on his collar.

You fucking swear he’s leaning in, each beat of the song drawing his jaw closer to yours. If you weren’t in a room full of co-workers, you’d probably let him kiss you.

I mean, what you’re doing right now is hardly innocent anyway. His hands are splayed on your lower back, your hips flat against his, rubbing, dancing. Your head rolls back and your lips are under his chin, smiling up at him and singing along. Joel sings the words straight back, your breath meeting and mingling in the tiny gap between your lips.

As the song ends, it fades into another. And another, and another. It’s two in the morning before your group of partiers begin to call taxis. You stumble out of the sweaty bar with an arm linked through Deb’s, still singing along to Whitney as you catch your breath.

She staggers off to a quieter part of the street to call a cab, and you hang around under the red light waiting for her. Joel’s stood at the curb; the back door of his sleek black Rolls-Royce open.

“Where you goin’?” he asks.

“Deb’s callin’ a cab,” you reply, arms folded, shoulders hunched.

Joel shakes his head. “Get in.”

“It’s cool, I’m jumping in with those guys. Thanks, though–”

“Baby,” Joel holds a hand out, “get in.”

Your eyes trace from his palm all the way up his sleeve, to his tired, handsome face. You’re sobering up. He looks clearer. Maybe that’s just the streetlights.

“Get you home in five minutes. C’mon.”

You swivel around to look for Martha and Deb, but they’re nowhere to be seen. The cab will come, they’ll assume you’re staying a while, and get in. No big deal, right?

Well. Stepping into your boss’s car after a night of highly inappropriate touching is kind of a big fucking deal.

That’s why you do it. Waddle over to him, take his hand, let him guide you to the car. You swing a leg in and slip across the seats, admiring the ceiling dotted with hundreds of tiny white lights, like you’re staring straight up at the night sky.

They blur through your drunken gaze, which doesn’t pull from them until you feel the weight of Joel on your right and hear the door slam shut.

“Mind puttin’ the partition up, Rand?” Joel’s voice says, though you mostly hear the vibrations through his chest, where your head is lying. His arm slips around your back, pulling you closer into him as the two of you are granted privacy by the quiet whir of the screen closing.

“Good night?” Joel asks, lips on your hair.

You nod. “You?”

“Mhm.”

His fingers are drawing shapes on your left hip. His right hand intertwines with yours. Your left hand starts to wander.

You liked his hand on you. Liked feeling his grip there. Wanted him to keep moving it up, wanted to see how far he’d take it. So, you put your own hand on the inside of his thigh, just like he did. Starting at the knee, and slowly sliding north. Joel’s breath tightens, his chest lifts, his jaw ticks.

The movement knocks you sober for a couple seconds. You realize what you’re doing. You draw your hand back.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

He unlinks your hands and places a steady palm over your withdrawn fist.

“’s okay, baby. You can do that if you want to.”

The drawl of his voice makes your eyes roll back, your heart leap. Your fucking legs clench.

You let him replace your hand where it was, and his legs widen a little. His crotch more available. You’re watching what you’re doing like you’re not even in your own body; watching it how Joel must be, thinking Higher, higher, keep going, keep doing that.

You lift your heavy head, resting it on his shoulder, and look up into his brown eyes. He’s framed by the starlit ceiling of the car. He’s looking at you, brows furrowed, face lined with his expression.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod lazily. “Tired.”

Just then his hand takes yours again and shifts it softly, stopping what was probably about to happen but still holding onto you, still wanting your fingers locked in his. Not halting the train, just switching tracks.

It’s not a long journey, certainly not as long as you’d like, until you’re parked on your street. Rand lowers the partition to call back, and Joel thanks him.

“You okay gettin’ to your apartment?”

“Yup,” you groan, hoisting yourself out of the comfortable car.

“Sure? I can walk you up if you want.”

You bend down, one arm on the roof of the car. “I’m good, thanks. Thanks for the ride, Miller.”

“Be safe, baby.”

“You be safe, too. Bye.”

You throw the door closed and meander off up the steps toward your building. Joel’s car doesn’t roll off until your elevator arrives and you disappear inside.

You spend all weekend in bed, recovering not only from the party but from the week of work you’d endured. You keep yourself busy, though. There’s a Desperate Housewives marathon on TV. And when you’re not watching that, your hand is stuffed down your pants, Joel on your mind.

All. Fucking. Weekend.

In the shower, you’re picturing him on his knees in front of you, lapping you up. Hands gripping your thighs, draped over his shoulders. Your hand plants firmly against the wet tile when you cum, your orgasm threatening to collapse you in a heap.

In bed, you’re on top of him, knees either side of his waist, letting him buck his hips up until you’re screaming, covering him in your wet. Your vibrator battery dies by Saturday night.

Monday morning, you’re getting ready to leave for the office, and need to take ten minutes out to relieve the ache between your legs again. This time, he has you pressed against your bedroom wall, fucking you quick and messy, cumming deep inside you before he’ll let you head out.

It’s just a crush, right? It’s just because of how touchy you guys were on Friday. When you were drunk. And in a cramped, dark dive bar. Everybody gets crushes. And who wouldn’t, on a six-foot-whatever man with a jawline that could cut glass, hands that take a grip of you with minimal effort, a cock probably the size of…

No. Nope. That’s enough. Cut that the fuck out.

It’s just a crush. That’s what you keep telling yourself in the elevator, lights counting down the floors until you’re going to see Joel again. Is the sparkling feeling in your chest fear, anticipation, or excitement?

And is your cunt beginning to throb again?

You give a curt nod to Martha as you arrive, hauling your bag a little further up your shoulder and adjusting the folders in your arms on your hips.

“Where’d you go?” she asks, eyes still on the computer in front of her. Her chin propped on her elbow, face inches from the screen, reading something intently.

“Huh?”

“On Friday. We couldn’t find you when the cab arrived.”

“Oh, I, uh,” you clear your throat, “Joel gave me a ride. Yeah.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Generous of ‘im.”

“Yup.”

“He’s in the conference room waitin’ for you.”

“Cool, thanks.”

You hover for a few seconds, then take your cue to leave. You hurry over to the conference room door, knocking twice before pushing it open.

Joel’s sat at the top of the table, leant back in his chair, feet up on the wood in front of him. You feel like you could collapse.

“Mornin’,” he says, over the dull droning from the phone. Your eyes flit down to it, a question, and he answers, “weekend update.”

“Anything good?”

He shakes his head, leaning forward to hit the unmute button, affirm whatever the hell the other dude had been saying, say his goodbyes, and then hang up.

“Feelin’ fresh?” he asks when he’s sat back.

You take a deep breath and wobble your head as an answer, laying files and folders out on the table in preparation for the meeting Joel has this morning.

“That bad, huh?”

“I was fine by Saturday afternoon. How were you?”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t that drunk.”

Yeah. Sure, Joel. Your fingers took the brunt of the alcohol.

He stands up, wanders around the table to join you. Your fingers begin to tremble at the thought of him so close. Your thighs heat.

“This all of it?” he asks. He’s closer than you thought.

“Y-yep. Some copies there, too, if anyone needs a spare.”

His hand slips up between your shoulder blades, patting you gently at the base of your neck.

“Good job, baby.”

You almost fucking shudder. Your stomach jolts, your chest tightens. The ache between your legs pangs, reminding you it’s there, even though you can’t fucking do anything about it.

You spin around, settling back against the table, ankles crossed. Tense.

“How long do you reckon it’ll go on?”

“No idea. Why? Somewhere you gotta be?”

You shake your head. “Just organizing lunch ‘n stuff for you.”

“That can wait until after.”

“I’ll have it ready for you comin’ out. Be easier.”

He steps forward. Your heart stutters.

“You’ll be in here with me.”

You cock your head. “Again? What– Why?”

“I need you in here. To take–”

“–minutes? Yeah, figured as much. You gonna have me up here all night again writing ‘em up?”

He smirks, dimples in his cheeks. There are two options here: either smack him, or jump his bones – he deserves the first and you deserve the latter.

“I like having you in my meetings, darlin’,” he says, as the door handle turns, “stops me wanting to blow my brains out.”

Martha enters and Joel slots in alongside you on the table. She sets a tray with a coffee pot and packets of sugar and milk on the sideboard.

Your head is fucking dizzy. There’s a ringing in your ears. Energy sparkling in waves from the tops of your thighs all through you. Joel’s shoulder brushing against yours, his eyes boring into the side of your face.

You won’t look at him. Won’t take your eyes off of Martha, laying paper coffee cups out in rows, her back to you guys.

Joel lays a palm flat on your thigh, rounding the curve until his hand is firm between your legs, threatening to push your skirt up. You feel his breath hot on your neck, his voice like honey in your ear.

“Makes for a nice view, too.”

You whip around to glare at him. He leans back, chuckling to himself.

Through gritted teeth, you whisper, “Can I talk to you? In private?”

Joel shrugs, excuses you both to Martha, and then follows at your heels out of the conference room and over to his office door. You waltz in without permission, shoving the door open and waiting for him to close it behind himself.

Joel’s office is bright, clean. Giant windows lining three walls, huge desk with an even bigger bookcase behind. Two black leather couches opposite, facing one another with a glass coffee table between. Soft white rugs, obnoxiously huge lampshades, small fern plants dotted here and there. You found and booked the interior designer for him, and not a day’s gone by since that you don’t remind him of how nice a job you did.

Today, though, you break that streak. You round on him as soon as he closes the tall, wooden door behind him.

“Will you fucking quit it?”

“Fucking quit what, baby?” He’s almost laughing, strolling around his desk and settling into his leather chair, leaning back. Casual. Fucking – arrogant.

You stammer, holding up a shaky finger. “Okay, first of all – that. Don’t call me baby, that’s not appropriate. Second – the teasing?”

“I don’t get it, you liked me callin’ you baby on Friday night.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth and give him a furious stare. He holds his hands up.

“My mistake.”

You stalk over to the windows separating Joel’s office from the reception area. Martha’s still in the conference room, the door ajar. You haul the shades shut to give yourselves some privacy.

“Stop – fucking with me. Stop it. We were drunk on Friday night. It wasn’t– Stop.”

“’m not fucking with you.” He leans his head to scratch his eyebrow. He repeats it when you turn away, hands flying up in the air. “I’m not.”

“Let’s just forget Friday happened, can we do that?”

Wandering around Joel’s office isn’t doing anything to relieve the weight between your legs. If anything, it’s making it worse. You make your way back to his desk and place your hands down on the wood, leaning over.

“Wh…what’s next on the agenda?” you ask, almost panting, your eyes closing.

You hear Joel’s chair rock when his weight leaves it. His footsteps pad across soft carpet, around the desk. Nearing you. They come to a halt and you feel the air stop short, right behind you.

For someone not trying to fuck with you, he’s doing an awfully good job at it.

You surrender, leaning back, your shoulders making contact with his chest. Then his hands find your hips, light, gentle. No pressure on them, not until your ass presses against his crotch and your head tilts, allowing Joel to hook his chin over your shoulder.

He’s hard, under his pants. Against you. You can feel it, still, steady. Rock solid beneath four layers of clothing.

His hands lift from your waist and glide up your shirt front, your stomach tensing when they brush over it. They come to rest over your breasts, squeezing and pinching your nipples through your shirt. And you fucking let him; lifting your right arm to hook around his jaw and pull him closer into your neck, where his lips leave soft, wet marks.

It feels like the first gasp of fresh, sea air after being underwater. The first gulp of chilled water after a hike. The first wave of aircon in the car. It’s relief. It’s desperate, borderline orgasmic relief.

You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more.

You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin.

“I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?”

“Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”

“Fuck me?” you repeat, and he nods. You take a breath. “S-sounds good.”

Joel’s hands find the hem of your skirt and start to pull it up your legs, painfully slow, revealing more and more of your bare thighs as he goes. He’s rubbing them, massaging until your skirt sits on your hips, little black panties exposed. His hand comes down to cup you, fingers gently applying pressure to your clit through the lace.

You moan, finally being touched by him again, finally feeling his hands on you where you need it most. Already, he’s doing better, making you feel better than you could ever by yourself. Than you did, by yourself. Involuntarily, you breathe out, “Daddy…”

Joel’s fingers pick up the pace. He fucking loves it.

“That feel good, baby? Like it like that? Tell me how it feels.”

“So – fucking – good,” you whisper, legs parting more to grant him better access. He dips his hand lower, thumb staying planted on your lace-covered clit, fingers shifting the fabric under your entrance aside.

He toys with you first, middle finger swaying back and forth through your folds, collecting slick, spreading it around. Then, a second finger, pushing upward, dangerously close to entering you. You’re gasping, leaning into him, letting his strong form keep you upright.

“That’s my girl,” Joel’s whispering into your ear. “You ain’t gotta do nothin’, just enjoy.”

And then he pushes up, two thick, curled fingers entering your cunt in one motion. He has you down to his knuckles, limp against his chest, mouth wide open in a silent gasp. Your head rolls to the side to watch him as he feels you for the first time, and his expression mirrors yours.

“So fuckin’ wet, babygirl,” he whispers, lips on your forehead.

“Fuck, daddy,” you whimper as his fingers press hard inside your soft pussy, starting to pump gently before picking up the pace and fucking you good.

The office is silent, save for your gasps and moans, and the wet sounds of Joel’s fingers in your cunt. He hums into your neck, thumb pressing hard against your clit, drawing tiny circles over the swollen bud.

It doesn’t take fucking long before you’re collapsing, walls clenching, teetering on the edge of your orgasm. It’s all that’s been on your mind for almost three days, all you’ve imagined, dreamt about, thought of.

Joel feels you, knows you’re close.

“Wanna cum all over daddy’s fingers, pretty girl?”

“Mhm,” you bite back a yelp, “so – close.”

“Know you are, baby. It’s okay, you can cum. Let me feel you.”

That coil, slowly winding since approximately nine-thirty on Friday night, not relieved by your hands, your toys, or your fucking pillows, snaps in one second. The tension breaks across your stomach. Your legs give; Joel’s free hand wraps around your waist to hold you upright.

You throw your head back against his shoulder again, jaw slack with a moan you know you can’t give voice to. Joel fucks you all the way through it, fingers coated in your cum only to dive straight back in, wetter and slicker than before.

There are stars in your vision. You can’t feel between your legs. The office is slowly blinking back into view, but Joel gives you no time to recover.

He pushes you face down onto his desk roughly, hastily, like someone’s about to wander through his door any second. One ear pressed to the cold wood, you hear his belt clink, feel the teeth of his zipper graze your thighs. Hear his deep breaths as he drags his pants and boxershorts down to free his cock.

You’ve never seen him, obviously. You’ve pictured it, dreamt up what it would look like with your fingers deep inside yourself. And from this angle you still don’t see it, but when the weight of it springs against your ass, when Joel lines himself up and his tip dips between your cum-covered folds, you fucking feel it.

His thick head pushing slightly into your entrance, coating him in your slick. He’s big. You moan at the time he’s taking to just shove into you; it’s probably seconds, but it feels like fucking hours.

“I hear ya, I know,” he’s saying, but your hearing’s starting to fade. Blood pumping through your head, white noise rattling against your eardrums.

He pushes in, length separating your clenched walls, entering your wet, warm cunt with a deep growl from Joel’s lips and a gasp from yours. You open up around him, swelling as he pushes deeper and deeper.

“So – fuckin’ – tight for me, baby,” he groans, hands on your hips pulling you back onto his length. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are?”

“Mhm,” you reply, the stretch of his thick cock burning and igniting you in flame. Your eyes screw shut as he keeps pushing, further than you ever thought anyone could, until his tip kisses your cervix and you whine.

“Quiet, babygirl,” he says, pausing and placing a steady hand on the small of your back. “We don’t need anyone out there knowin’ what we’re doin’.”

“So good, daddy,” you whimper quietly, and he knows. He fucking knows.

He begins to draw back, hips leaving your ass, cock pulling out of your pussy. Your eyes roll closed, missing him the more he withdraws. Before he’s fully gone, he snaps back inside, entering you harder, faster, deeper.

You gasp, knuckles whitening with the grip of your balled fists. You bend one arm, biting into your sleeve to stop your whimpers from slipping under the door.

A couple more thrusts and Joel’s fucking you. Hard. He’s fucking huge, so huge it blurs the edges of your vision every time his cock hits against your cervix. He’s almost fucking whimpering behind you, growling your name with every stroke, groaning each time he bottoms out inside you and your tight hole wraps around his length.

You can feel the edge of the table bruising your pelvis, and it feels so fucking good. Everything about this feels good. Joel’s cock stretching you out, his hands gripping you roughly, your own hands outstretched to hold onto the desk for some sort of stability.

The only thought going through your head, only words your lips can part to utter: daddy daddy daddy.

“Good girl,” Joel hums, your moans like music to his ears. “Good fuckin’ girl. Know how naughty you are for me?”

You smile. “Yeah, daddy.”

This is the filthiest thing you’ve ever fucking done. Sure, you love sex, especially when it’s rough. But nothing you’ve ever done with anyone else, nothing you’ve ever had done to you by anyone else, compares to being bent over your boss’s desk and fucked dumb by him.

Calling him daddy, corporate managers slowly filing into a conference room just outside. Only an unlocked door separating them from you, writhing and throbbing under Joel’s cock, his rough hands on your hips, your name passing his lips in breathy moans.

Is it wrong? Yes. Do you care? Fuck no.

You know he’s close; his thrusts become sloppy, hips start hammering against you.

“Where d’you want it, baby?” he grunts, skin slapping.

You’re on the pill, and if you answered honestly, you’d tell him to finish inside you. But you know that if he wanted to do that, he’d just fucking do it. Wouldn’t ask. And you’re not prepared to waste time arguing.

“My m-mouth.”

“C’mere.” Joel slips out of you with no effort, you’re so fucking soaked for him, and spins you around. A gentle hand on your shoulder, he pushes you onto your knees, free hand jacking his cock over you.

It’s the first time you see him, fist tugging up and down a thick, veiny shaft; swollen, reddened tip spilling precum which his thumb collects and drags down his length, gleaming with your wet.

On instinct, you push forward, one hand coming to rest on his thigh, the other taking over from his on his dick. You pump him a few times, and then open your mouth wide enough to take him all the way until he’s brushing the back of your throat.

With a choke, you begin bobbing your head up and down, cheeks hollow, breathing deep through your nose. Joel moans, head rolling back, hand coming to hold your hair in a fist. He drags you back and forth a few times before he begins to shudder and you draw back, holding him steady on your swollen bottom lip.

He looks down at you and your eyes lock as he cums all over your tongue. You moan as your mouth fills with his warm, salty load. When his cock stills and he stops spilling all over you, you lean back and close your mouth, licking your lips and swallowing him.

“Aw, babygirl,” he coos, stroking your hair. “Good job. Such a good girl for me.”

You both take a few seconds to catch your breath before Joel’s hands hook under your arms and he pulls you back up, letting you lean against his desk.

Still in a daze, you feel him tug your skirt back down, fix your shirt. Tuck your hair behind your ears, wipe either saliva or cum from your lips.

“Good?” he asks, and you lace your fingers in his.

Your breath is still shaky, but through a sigh, you say, “Good.”

He nods. “Can hear Ken out front, must all be arrivin’.” He pulls you over to the door.

His fingers wrap around the handle, free hand coming up to cup your cheek. He leans down and presses his lips against yours. You open your mouth and let his tongue past, moaning into the wet, messy kiss.

Something in you almost wants to laugh, thinking about the fact you let him fuck you before you’d even kissed him.

When he pulls away, your hands take hold of his jaw, keeping him at your height.

“Have a good meeting,” you whisper, pecking him on the lips, “text me what you want for lunch.”

He growls, yanking the door open and passing by you, granting your wish to sit this one out. Something in you tells you not to wander far, though.

He’ll probably want to blow off some steam when he’s done.

----------

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[whirlybirbs]

BEYOND THE VOID — !

1. THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

( MASTERPOST   |   AO3  |    SPOTIFY ) summary: torn from time yet again, it's thursday. six months pass. while you grapple with a newfound uncanny ability to premeditate, loki grapples with the fact he's slipping back into his old self without you. enter brad wolfe. now playing:  a whole lots gonna change by weyes blood word count: 3.3k pairing: loki / f!reader, established in from the void, with love tags: enemies to friends to lovers, soulmates, we-are-in-love-in-the-future but how did that even happen, angst & comfort, redemption arc, lots of time travel, loki season 2 (2020) spoilers a/n: finally, they return in "beyond the void". i can't thank everyone enough for the unending enthusiasm for this little project of mine. it's fitting to have the first chapter release with an eclipse. this is for all of you :) the beautiful gif for this chapter is from this set by @tomshiddles.

"Okay."

"Okay."

There's a long stretch of silence between Darcy Lewis and Jane Foster. 

In the liminal stretch of the apartment building's hall, there's little sound except the loud drone of some horribly, desperately sad song beyond the door of Unit 1131. The two women share a long look with one another, and then Darcy gestures urgently to the door.

"Go ahead," she nudges her colleague. 

"What?" Jane asks in a harsh whisper, "No, you knock." 

"You were the one that said we needed to do an intervention—" Darcy argues back in an equally low tone.

"Oh, so now this is on me?" Jane fires back, "She's our friend—"

"Our friend who has been babbling nonsense about things that have not happened and has been seriously obsessing with that Low-key dude—" Darcy rushes out, bringing her face closer to Jane's, "I don't even know what we're walking into here!"

Jane inhales. She pinches her brow. With a long rub of her face, she exhales. Then, she knocks.

She gives Darcy a 'happy?' look before stepping back and crossing her arms.

Almost immediately, the music stops. There's the sound of a shuffle. A meow. And then, the door opens only wide enough that one exhausted eye can peak through the chained gap.

"Heeeeeeeeeey, girl!" Darcy chides, waggling her hands in the air, "Surprise!"

On the other side of the door, your heart clenches. 

It feels a little bit like a cruel joke, y'know?

All that wishing, begging, clawing to go home and — well... you are. You're home. You've been home. For six months, you've been home in New York City. You're back in that little studio apartment, with Sigurd, with your research, with your doctorate. 

ALL I WANT  TO DO IS  GO HOME.

You try your best to give both Darcy and Jane a smile, but it comes out mangled and exhausted and not quite right. You've been crying. Sort of par for the course these days.

"Oh, uh... Hi guys."

Sigurd meows.

"You got a sec?" Jane asks, raising a folder in her hands, "We, uh... Erik gave us some new anomaly data to look over and we figured... you're the one for the job! Y'know? It's... kinda... your thing... have you been crying?"

Your eyes dart between them both. You wet your lips.

"No. Nooo, no. It's..." your mouth hangs open as you search for a reason, "...Allergies."

There's a beat of embarrassing silence, and then Darcy moves fast as lightning. She wriggles her arm through the gap and unlocks the chain — almost as if this is definitely something she's mastered before — before pushing her way through the doorway of your apartment. Jane follows close behind, and Sigard squawks as he scurries away from underfoot. 

The infiltration is almost immediately regretted because... woah. 

Like, big woah.

Darcy has seen crazy. Like, she has an Uncle on her Dad's side who is totally in on the whole "they're coming for our thoughts" thing and does not leave the house without at least six layers of Great Value tinfoil stuffed under his baseball cap. She knows crazy. She works for Erik Selvig. 

But this?

This is, like, soooooo above her pay grade. 

Jane's jaw is slack. The folder is immediately forgotten on the kitchen island in favor of the wall-to-wall documentation of... whatever the hell this was. 

LOKI MISSING? in the center of it all, with string and equations and runes and news articles and tabloid pages. There's an alarming amount of photos of the God in question pinned up beside ramblings on... Time? And... Quantum mechanics...? 

There's another loooooong stretch of silence. And then, Darcy and Jane both turn slowly to look at you pressed against the door.

You swallow.

Your face is set in horror.

"It's not what it looks like—"

"Uh, dude, it totally is what it looks like—" Darcy starts, stepping closer to the board and pointing a black, manicured finger at a paparazzi photo of Loki being carted off from the now-Avengers Tower, "What's with all the Loki paraphernalia?! Need I post a lil' throwback Thursday to when he tried to kill us all?"

IT'S THURSDAY AGAIN.

You wince. "You wouldn't understand—"

Then, it happens.

The same thing you've experienced dozens upon dozens of times these last six months happens again: A rush of chatter in your mind, a cacophony of whispers that claw at your thoughts and flood them with has-beens and will-be's. A million things all at once, a little bit of everything from all of time, and then— one thread. One thread that stands out against them all. 

"Jane, don't."

Across the room, Jane's fingers pause on the contact number for that pretty S.H.I.E.L.D. agent they've met once or twice now — the one who is managing the Asgardian anomaly cases. With Loki missing, S.H.I.E.L.D. has been desperate to track him down. If this is a lead... If you know where he is...

Jane's face freezes.

Her brows knit.

Your face is split in panic. "I know you think calling Agent Hill is the right thing to do, but—"

"...How did you know I was...?" Jane's voice falls off, her eyes searching your face.

Your voice splinters as you step forward. "If you call Agent Hill, she is going to section our entire division within the week. Thor will be exiled from Earth on conspiracy four days later. We will sit in a cell for five years until they decide we have nothing to do with Loki's disappearance from Asgard."

Darcy's eyes bounce between you and Jane.

"Why are you saying all that like you know it's going to happen?" Jane asks slowly, putting her phone down and closing the gap between you. "Doc, what's going on?"

Your eyes flicker with fear. 

And then exhaustion. The walls you've built to keep this away from the others crumble with one worried look from Darcy, and you crumple against the kitchen counter. 

Your voice is far away.

"It all started that Thursday."

You thought it would be better now that someone knows. 

Truth be told it might be more trouble than it's worth if not to soothe the burden of secrecy — because Darcy keeps treating you like a Magic 8 Ball that, when shaken, is going to spit out readings on the future. 

It isn't that easy. I mean, if it was, you would have definitely done everything in your power to avoid the commute traffic this morning. 

You don't know why it happens. Or how. You have a theory it has something to do with Alioth, but... without any sort of control, there's no way of knowing. All you know is that in those moments, you're presented with a weave of potential sequences. And in those moments, you can choose to act. Or not. 

So far, acting seems to be the best course of action. 

But, yea, no. No fortune-cookie-level stuff. No crystal ball, no tarot cards. Just... weird time-whispers. And a migraine that seems to never go away. And dreams. Really vivid dreams. Dreams that happen? And dreams that don't.

If it was a horoscope sort of thing, maybe you wouldn't have missed your morning bus after waiting in line at that coffee shop three blocks down. They always make your coffee a little too bitter, but the girl behind the counter is an NYU grad student you recognized from a mechanical engineering lecture you sat in on three months ago. You've got a soft spot for her. She's always nice to that guy in the baseball cap who seems unhoused. 

You hope it all works out for her in the end. 

But, Christ this coffee is bitter. 

You buzz into Stark Labs at 9:37 am, and you're setting your stuff down at R&D by 9:43 am. 

Bruce Banner looks up briefly from his work to slide you a welcoming smile. You return it gently as you settle down on your stool and reacclimate yourself to last week's work. 

Mondays, man.

Tony is, as always, later than anyone else. His entrance is followed by the usual boisterous chatter meant as a morale booster. More often than not it's a genius-level comedy routine built on absolutely torturing Dr. Banner. You opt, more often than not, to refuse to enable the bad behavior. 

Any laughter is buried deep into these readings from the Tesseract. 

And so this has been home for the last four months. 

Avengers Tower. R&D. Erik Selvig's Research Team. Theoretical Physics and Quantum Mechanics. Day in, day out.

No TVA, no TemPads, no Sylvie, no Mobius, no Capybaras. 

...No Loki.

But, plenty of whispers. 

It rocks you out of your focus, iced latte halfway to your lips as you're rooted in this little pocket of voices and threads and whisps of time. There's a thousand, then a hundred, then one. 

Your voice is soft.

"Bruce, try the equation again."

From across the room, Tony's voice dies down and Bruce's eyes rise to meet yours. He points to himself, with a questioning raise of the brows.

You nod, then continue to take a sip of your coffee.

And so Bruce does. Wordlessly. And, after a minute, he looks up with a grin.

"So it was right."

"Woulda never known if Iron Dick over here didn't shut up for one second."

Tony's grin is bigger than Bruce's as he meanders over to your lab table and throws an arm around your shoulder. He squeezes you gently. You avoid his eye contact — and in doing so, you miss the momentary grace of concern. 

(Tony has known you for a few months now. He knows you adequately enough to gauge that your triple-shot espresso should have been a sextuple. The bags beneath your eyes are dark. There's an edge there. Something jumpy. You're exhausted.)

"Now, that was mean."

"You're torturing him," you fire back lightly, non-the-wiser to his scrutiny. 

"It's called exposure therapy—" Tony croons, leaning back and thumbing through some of the notes on your desk. You allow it. 

Good. Still sharp. Still better than anyone else at what you do. 

"Exposure to workplace terrorism?" You rib back with one cocked brow, "No offense, Bruce, but I like you better not green. Okay, Tony?"

"None taken!" Dr. Banner calls lightly from across the room. He's working on the second part of that equation now. 

"Sure, sure, alright, Doc," Tony heads your words, raising both hands and stepping back, "I guess someone hates fun."

"Absolutely," you say blankly, chewing your straw; you point at him, "No laughter."

"None," Tony waggles a finger.

"Not a peep," you remark causally as you spin in your stool and snag your pen from the drawer behind you. 

"Any news on the other green guy we hate?" Bruce asks slowly, eyes bouncing between you and Stark. 

Your blood goes a little cold. Just like always. It's hard not to react — especially when that other green guy is all you think about day and night.

WHEN YOU LOSE HIM YOU WILL DO ANYTHING TO GET HIM BACK. 

You wordlessly shake your head. You shrug. Bruce turns to Stark. Tony is hunched over his bench. His words are a bit muffled by the soldering project he's turned his attention to. 

"None. According to Thor he just up and poofed. He was in the middle of atoning before the Buckingham of Asgard and... just warped on out."

So you've heard.

"Hill has been working every lead she can but... the Asgardians are a little touchy-feely on the whole 'earthlings in the domain of the Gods' thing."

"Understandable," you mutter absently.

Tony sits up. "Only time will tell."

...Indeed.

Home.

Unit 1131. 

Lonely.

It wasn't before all this... It was full to the brim with contentment. It was comfort, it was bliss. It was indulgent mornings slept beneath the covers and bright music in the kitchen. Cheap wine from the liquor shop on the corner and homemade meals. It was "I finally made it". 

Now, it's none of that.

Because he's out there — and you know that you don't belong here anymore.

You drop your bag by the door. 

Your boots follow in a trail. 

Sigurd mews expectantly, and you scoop him wordlessly into your arms as you weave through the chaos of papers and books. Your carpet is hidden beneath a layer of obsession masquerading as research.

But, there's one thing that pulls you back in each time.

It's that photo. 

The one Darcy had pointed at earlier.

Loki is being carted off from the now-Avengers Tower. He's looking back at something, and his expression is broken.

It's you.

You know he's pleading with Thor at that moment through a muzzle, desperate to call your name. He's looking at you, being whisked away by S.H.I.E.L.D. as they clear the area, and your voice is silenced by grief. 

You wish you had called out to him then — told him you'd find him again. 

Regret is a hell of a thing.

Grief, too. 

How do you mourn something you never really had? Not here, not in this timeline. 

So you stand there, in the dim lights of your apartment, staring at the photo. And you cry. Just like every night, for the last six months.

In your desk, that magical little daisy made of grass waits.

If they find Sylvie, they find you.

That's the mission.

Mobius M. Mobius thinks it's funny — back then, man if only he would have known that lil' hunch of his was right. Maybe a part of him did. And... Now? Things are different. I mean, everything is different. The TVA is different. 

Loki is different.

They say to be loved is to be changed an' all that. 

The first thing out of Loki's mouth was your name when Mobius finally saw him again — and then a word vomit of panic, induced by the death of He Who Remains and... time-slippage as OB called it. Lotsa moving parts. Lots to keep track of. But, ultimately, they're in a better spot than they were yesterday. 

1.) Loki is no longer falling through the metaphorical cracks in time. 

2.) Mobius did not get toasted alive when standing before The Loom.

3.) He never, ever, ever has to do that again.

And now!

They're in London. 

1977, huh. Zaniac. 

If they find Sylvie, they find you.

...Unless you find him first.

Loki isn't exactly thrilled. 

No, Loki knows better than to get his hopes up. Sylvie isn't here. He already told Mobius that. It's too safe. It's a damned movie premiere. There are no radiation burns, no falling stars, and no rampant gunfire. It's too quiet. 

It's a movie premiere and you're out there, somewhere, alone. You're... you're lost. He can't protect you here. He can't protect anything. You... You're all he has and you're gone. 

And he's here, wasting his damn time. 

Brad Wolfe is about to waste more of his time. 

Loki's gaze is sharp. His strides are long, and as they approach the fray, the God stands amongst the tallest of guests. He cuts a mean profile. It's times like these that Mobius remembers he is a God.

(It's times like these that Mobius can also see the ever-increasing edge in his partner-in-time. It's a little... worrisome. But understandable. I mean, rip a God's soulmate from his hands and see what happens, right?)

"So, he's an actor now?" Loki comments off-handedly, his irritation grating his heartstrings in a way that reminds him of who he was before all this. He hates it. But, he's angry. He will get you back. Without you...

Without you, he doesn't know what he'll do.

"Or he's undercover."

As they weave, Loki's brows knot in distrust. "Looks pretty real to me."

It smells like cigarettes and perfume, and the flashbulbs bite sharply into Loki's peripherals. The raven-haired trickster winces, tucking his hands into his slacks. 

On the red carpet, X-5 moves from interview to interview. Occasionally his laughter rises above the clamor. Each time, Loki's nostrils flare and he rolls his eyes. 

It's when he reaches the end of the line that Mobius moves in. 

"Will there be a Zaniac Two?" 

The look on Brad's face says enough for Mobius to know there's more going on here than just an undercover bit. Brad's laugh, as equally pained as his smile, just cements the fact. 

"Mobius! Woah!" A clap on the shoulder, a big hug. "I used to work with this guy!"

Still a show. Still a weasel trying to survive on his little slice of time. 

"We're going to need to catch up," he begins, backing up slowly, "You know, why don't we chat after the show?"

"How about now, maybe?" Mobius counters just as Brad turns on his heel and comes face to face with Loki. 

The God sneers.

"Woah. Okay, ha, whole gangs here!" he chirps, "Isn't that... great? Wow. I mean, you look — you look great, Loki."

"Why thank you, Brad."

Brad's eyes are manic, and he's searching the crowd quickly — no doubt looking for an exit. Then, they catch something. When Brad claps his hands together and pats them on both Loki and Mobius' shoulders, the two TVA agents pause.

"Everything alright?" Loki asks, head tilting in faux concern.

"Everything is great, actually, because when I was here," he begins, words quick and anxious as he tries to weave some sort of story, "I met a mutual friend!"

"Sylvie?" Mobius asks tightly.

"No, no, uh, better—"

Loki's jaw tightens. Enough of this. "We have some mutual friends back at the TVA who would like a word, as well—"

"Doc!" calls Brad after finally finding her in the sea of people, turning on his heel and calling out over his shoulder, "I got people I need you to meet!"

And just like that, it's like Loki's whole world splits wide open again.

In the fray of photographers and journalists, in the fray of drinks and the haze of smoke, there's you. You're smiling at Brad, positively beaming. You're bright as a star and Gods, there's no one in the room when you step forward with a laugh.

Your dress is green. Your hair is different.

There's a beauty mark on your left cheek. His version of you has a scar that lies there. A mistimed gift from Sylvie before their period on Lamentis. 

"Doc, these are some of my friends from work," Brad points, his hand falling along your waist in a way that makes Loki's blood boil; the ex-TVA Hunter leans close to your cheek, "They're the real deal."

You laugh into your drink, then extend your hand to Mobius. He's trying his best to hide his growing dread. "It's a pleasure."

Mobius takes it and shakes it gently. "And how do you have the pleasure of knowing our starlet, Brad?"

Damn it. He's losing Loki in real time here.

"Doc here did all the practical effects on set for Zaniac," Brad's eyes connect with Loki's — but the God is focused on only you... Her. Until Wolfe digs in with a low murmur meant to do just what it does, "She's a real wiz with her hands."

The God's face snaps. He will kill Brad, he decides. But, then this other-you moves to offer her hand and he can't help but melt. 

His fingers are trembling when he touches her skin. 

"Have we met before?" comes the soft lilt of her voice — this Variant's eyes are brown. They search Loki's face for a shred of recognition but all that's there between the two of them is raw attraction. A law of time and space unhindered by meddling hands. No matter where, no matter when, you will find one another.

Loki's mouth is dry. Your lipstick shade is a dark rogue. He thinks about that kiss back in the Void. He's stuck there, with your hand in his, when Brad bolts.

Her face contorts in confusion. She pulls away. But, Loki lingers. 

He has to... He...

He needs you back. 

Now. 

[caleohateclub]

Soos's AO3 updates:

Notes: ---------------------------------------------------- Happy summerween! this chapter is not read through because i thought i was gonna get eaten by the summerween trickster, but then i realised the guy was just made out of candy! hahaha! nom nom nom! so if you see any typos, let me know so i can fix it!

Notes: ---------------------------------------------------- sorry for the delay, dudes! i was stuck in the body of a pig and almost got turned into bacon. plus, i had to break it off with my fiancée who i have no memory of meeting... anyways, enjoy!

Notes: ---------------------------------------------------- hey, i'm back! the party at my job went south and i kinda became a zombie for a couple of days haha! but luckily my bro found a cure (still kinda want brains tho... )

Notes: ---------------------------------------------------- sorry for the delay again, dawg! i wrote this in the bathroom at cousin's engagement party. my computer got hacked and everything i had written for this chapter got replaced with the words "Just GIFfany." over and over again! had to rewrite everything last minute so there may be a couple of typos!

Notes: ---------------------------------------------------- this chapter was gonna to come out yesterday, but i kinda discovered a secret memory wiping society in town? wish they wiped ducktective season 4 outta my mind! am i right?

Chapter 30: Updates

Notes: ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- dawg, you are SO not ready. this is 20.6k words of life updates.

Hey! I didn't mean to be gone this long, but you will understand why... So my boss asked me to watch the vending machine in our shop with-

Chapter 40: Duckmageddon

Notes: ---------------------------------------------------- for legal reasons i have to state that this chapter is definitely NOT based on real events!

also this was an hour late because i got my head stuck in a honey pot, 10/10 would do again.