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aspirationalpeony · 3 months

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Dark Horse

Summary: As a cameraperson on the Abbott documentary crew, you've always had a good working relationship with Melissa Schemmenti. One flirtatious night at her home sends you spinning as you try to figure out if this is really real—not to mention how everyone at Abbott seemed to know about Melissa's crush on you, long before you ever did. (See author's note at the end for prompt credit.) Content Warnings: Lots of smut, a bit of emotional confusion, and me having absolutely no idea how filming anything works. I just faked my way through it, very horribly. Oops! :) AO3 Link

It all starts with a late shoot.

It's just you and the mic guy and one other crew, and your camera trained on Melissa Schemmenti. She talks, in a way she's done rarely so far. A season and a half and she's always conscious of the stare of the lenses, quick to dart around a corner or cut herself off if she knows the opps are listening.

She takes big sips, almost gulps, from her wine glass. She leads you back and forth across her house, reaching over tables or pointing along walls to find a photo here, another there, and talks. "Me'n Kristen-Marie... This one—" pause for more wine—"from my college graduation." It's the two of them, almost mirror images of each other at that age, with a tall man whose lean face makes you think he has to be their father; on the other side of the girls is their Nana.

There's no trick in this photo: no wedding dress, no blood, no hint of drama between the sisters at all. They just look hopeful and desperately young. This feels private, that Melissa could have been so young—something that shouldn't be content for the show—and you feel an impulse to duck the camera away, hide her secret. When you look at Melissa again, she’s watching you; there’s a glitter in her green eyes you can’t interpret: not hostile, and not the look she gets when she’s hustling someone, either. The gaze she’s giving you is strangely soft.

“Whaddaya think?” she says, to you, not to the camera.

You swallow. Nothing you say will make it to the final cut, but the editors will hear your answer, so you can’t tell her she’s beautiful in that picture. “I think I’m lucky you’re showing me this,” you say at last.

Her eyes move over your face. You feel it almost like a touch, intimate and slow, and you aren’t making it up: her gaze stops at your mouth and hovers there. She bites her lower lip before she lifts her wine glass again for another pull. “Maybe I like ya,” she says. “Maybe you’ll get luckier.”

You’re still blushing when you wrap for the night. You sit on your couch at home—you’re always insomniac after shooting at night, your brain and body still buzzing with the work—and put on Netflix on low volume and you don’t watch, just feel your cheeks still burning, thinking about her lipstick on her wine glass.

Of course, the whole crew knows the story by the next morning. When you turn up, Pedro, your best friend on the crew, says, “Look at you! Dark horse!” and it makes your face sear with heat all over again. He lowers his voice, leans in and nudges you. “C’mon, nothing in the contract about that. You deserve a little fun. Let your Italian mama take care of you.”

You cringe. “Please,” you say, “never say ‘Italian mama’ to me again. Okay?”

“Just sayin’,” he says, and leaves it alone.

Of course, it doesn’t leave you alone. You’ve learned the best way to sneak up on a conversation with Melissa and Barbara is to come at it around a corner, so you’re hovering down the kindergarten hall, camera on the two women, when you hear your name, making you stiffen.

“You said that?” Barbara’s voice is incredulous, sharp. “What did she say?”

“Nothin’, really,” Melissa says, “she was on the clock, y’know.” The smile starts in her voice before it grows on her face. It’s a Cheshire smirk bigger and deeper than you’ve ever seen. “She got all flustered. It was cute. You think she knows I was shootin’ my shot?”

“I think you could have ‘shot your shot’ with a little more dignity,” Barbara says crisply. “Like an adult does. Politely. Pleasantly.”

“Soberly,” Melissa says. “Listen, if it works, it works. I just gotta find out if it did, y’know. Work. She’s kinda shy.”

“I didn’t know you cared for that.”

"What, the quiet ones?"

You have to pull away. You're going to miss the rest of the conversation, but your face is burning again, your heart is pounding, and you're grappling with the reality that Melissa and Barbara are talking about you, that you're subject enough between them to be chatted about so casually, that all this footage is... God, are you ever going to live this down?

You'll go shoot some Janine and Gregory. That's always a crowd-pleaser; the audience loves the sweet tension between them, the way the space between their bodies turns tangible the longer their eye contact holds. You try not to think about Melissa's gaze on yours last night. You try to do your job.

That goes as well as you might expect. Fifteen minutes into some uninspiring quiz-grading ("oh, I never fail anyone," Janine says, "I just give 'em a different colored star—they like the gold ones best, so—") Pedro comes to find you.

"Hey, listen," he says, "I need you to come take care of your Calabrian chili pepper."

"What?"

"You know, your spicy linguini. Your Italian ma—"

"Stop." Your head whips toward Janine at her desk and then back to Pedro. The only thing you can think of to say, your heart thumping all over again, is "She's Sicilian, not Calabrian."

"She's giving us nothing. You got to come do her talking head. She keeps trying to square up to Kai and he doesn't wanna fight her."

"What makes you think she won't fight me?"

He gives you a look over his glasses.

The change in Melissa is instant when she sees you approach. Those folded arms, her squared shoulders, her broad, foot-planted stance—it all melts. She leans into the wall, her head tipping, one booted foot lifting for her toe to play in idle lines along the floor, and, yeah. Whether you picked her or not, this is your Sicilian chili pepper, and you swallow hard as you approach.

"Heya, hon," she says, "who's this clown they got me workin' with? Don't they know I only do this with the professionals?"

You mumble a little as Kai looks between the two of you, rolls his eyes, and backs off.

"We were talking about her Friday night plans," Pedro says. "It's school game night and she's not going."

"Yeah, the kids are too easy to hustle," she says, "it ain't even fun. What, do I look like I wanna spend all Friday winnin' their, I dunno, their Yu-Gi-Oh cards?"

Now's when Pedro should prompt her, ask a question. You glance at him; he nods his permission. "Not sure those are a thing anymore," you say.

"Their Pokemon cards," she says. "Whatever. Point is, it'd be like taking candy from a... Jacob."

You don't look at her; you focus on the camera. It's easier than holding her green gaze. "Is that where you draw the line?"

"Gotta draw it somewhere," she says.

You can't help it. Cautiously you look up, try to make your voice neutral: "So how are you going to spend Friday night?"

She lolls her head to one side and looks at you. She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Prob'ly practicing tricks," she says.

"Tricks?"

"Yeah," she says. "With my magic wand."

You don't really remember the rest of the interview. You sure you babble some other questions, and she gives you some smirking answers, but your head is full of white noise and a singular image: Melissa Schemmenti with a vibrator between her legs.

You're sure other things happen that day. Pedro definitely ribs you some more, you and Kai go get lunch and he complains for a while, Gregory and Janine have one of their not-flirting conversations where he draws up a tightly-plotted itinerary for game night, trying to prove it's possible to run a children's event without delays (it all goes back to his father, of course), at some point you go home and numbly resume your post on the couch in front of your TV screen, trying to make sense of it all.

That picture won't leave your head. You think of the look she gave you that night at her house—intimate, caressing—and how she'd look deep in her pleasure, drunk eyes half-open, her face pink, her hair wild. Does she get naked when she touches herself? She seems too impatient—more like a jeans around her thighs kind of woman—but for a night she's planning ahead—a night she's set aside, just for her pleasure...

Your head drops back and you shut your eyes to see her more clearly. You can imagine the scattering of freckles over her shoulders and chest, the shift of her heavy breasts and the hard peaks of her pink nipples—how does she like to be touched there? Maybe she grabs one breast while she uses the vibrator, plays with a nipple, imagining the rough, confident hand of a lover. You can see the soft field of her belly, the abundance of her hips, her thighs, picturing her cunt, the head of the vibrator against her clit—she doesn't tease, can't tease herself, you imagine, not Melissa.

You can almost smell her sex, you think, until you realize it's yourself you're smelling. Your cunt throbs. You could shove a hand into your underwear now and just take care of it, but...

Your small toy collection lives in a box under your bed. It's nothing fancy, but you do have a small wand vibrator. You peel off your trousers and underwear and drop onto your bed, back against the pillows, holding the purple toy in one hand. Does Melissa have one this size? Or a big, classic one, the kind that could buzz your clit right off? You click the toy on and draw it up your thigh. As it nears the sensitive crease between your leg and your sex, your thigh twitches without meaning to, your clit aching, and you think, okay, no foreplay.

You can't help but wonder as you delve the thrumming head between your folds: does she know you're doing this? Was that the idea—plant herself in your head, grow over everything, including your common sense and your inhibitions, until your whole world flowers Melissa? Could she be doing the same—getting a head start on Friday's plans—thinking of you, right now? You're normally quiet when you do this, but that makes you groan aloud. Your clit pulses.

How does she do this, on a school night, like tonight? Back to the image of her with her trousers halfway down her legs, her hand and her toy crammed into the space between the fabric and her body. You can't help but see her in the outfit from today, that green, clinging top, the black blazer discarded somewhere, slacks caught just above her knees, her hair mussed and tangling against the pillows as she works the vibrator over her clit. No playing games for her, either; just getting the job done, hard and fast.

You come, watching her in your head, her name on your lips; you hope she comes tonight, too, thinking of you, of what she’s doing to you.

The next day, Janine, Gregory, and Jacob are in hushed conversation by the supply closet. You pick an angle from just inside the nearest classroom and train your camera on the slight crack of the open door and you can hear them, even though they think they’re being quiet—classic them.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” Janine is saying. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

“I think,” Gregory says, “it’s like…” He pauses, picking his words. “Like watching a dog shake a chew toy.”

“I think it’s very brave of Melissa,” says Jacob, and your heart drops into your stomach. “Considering the historical era in which she grew up and started her teaching career, being openly bisexual in the workplace must be a very—”

“Please don’t let her hear you call her ‘historical’,” Gregory interjects.

“It’s cute she has a crush on the camera lady,” Janine says. (“Cameraperson,” Jacob corrects.) “I just want it to turn out nice. You know, the vending machine guy didn’t work out, so. And now he doesn’t stock Gushers anymore.”

“Maybe she’ll be a little more relaxed,” Jacob says. “A little more… Open, fun—”

“She’s not going to start liking you because she’s dating somebody.” Gregory, with characteristic bluntness.

“One can hope,” Jacob says.

“The camera lady—person—is so quiet, though,” Janine muses. “Melissa is so intense.”

“Bet that’s what she likes,” Mr. Johnson says, making them all jump. He steps out from the supply closet; he’s holding a Teachers Without Borders coffee mug you know has to be Jacob’s. He takes a long, slurping sip, making sure everybody sees the logo on the cup. “Melissa gets a sweet little thang to take care of. Camera lady gets an Italian mama.” He says it eye-talian. (Where is everybody getting this phrase from?)

“Please don’t say ‘Italian mama’ again,” Gregory says, giving you a little flush of vindication.

“Why not?” Mr. Johnson says. “When I was on tour in Rome—”

That’s enough for you. You decide the rest of the conversation can go unrecorded. You check the time and it’s nearly lunch—thank God, because you don’t want to make eye contact with any of them for a while; you don’t know how to feel about them all talking about you. You know it’s not you, really, they care about. It’s Melissa, her caginess at odds with how boldly, openly she’s been flirting with you, an attraction so obvious even the younger teachers that she’d never confide in can see it.

Something light and effervescent swirls in your stomach, but there’s a leaden weight there, too. Nerves. And desire. You let Pedro know you’re taking lunch and leave your camera behind, finding Kai a block down, away from the school, hitting his vape. He passes it to you and you take a pull, letting candy-scented vapor out of your nose. You don’t really smoke anymore, but anybody would need a little comfort under these circumstances, you think.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks.

“What?” You didn’t know Kai cared about that. “I mean, I guess I’ll talk to her, maybe give her my number, then see—”

“For lunch.”

“Oh.”

You get hoagies together, eating them over a public trash can, standing up. Back at the school you scrub your hands clean in the bathroom and duck Pedro and your camera and you find your way down the second-grade hall to the classroom that's usually the noisiest. It's quiet now: the kids are at the library doing a reading circle with the librarian. Maybe it says something that you know their schedule.

She's in there, glasses low on her nose, working. You pause just on the threshold of the open door. You try to piece together everything you know about her, to make it all fit into the person you see, just a small woman with a love of pleather and a never-ending supply of high-heeled boots, a baseball bat taped under her desk (you've seen it), a guitar propped in one corner of the classroom (does she ever play?), how now she's focused and reading with scrupulous intensity, doubling back on a sentence from time to time, her manicured hand coming up to twitch away a lock of red hair.

You knock on the open door. You see her hand pass under the desk toward the bat before she realizes who's standing there. She cracks a grin, lifting her glasses up to the top of her head. Her eyes travel up and down your body in another look that feels like a touch.

"I was wonderin' when you'd stop by," she says.

You give a little hum. You cross the room to lean against a student's desk, just opposite hers.

"No camera?"

"No," you say, "I wanted it to be just us."

"Huh." She taps her pen on her paper a few times. "You here to let me down easy?" She lifts her chin. The look she gives you isn't intimate now: it's far-removed and challenging, like the gaze of a duelist across a plain. You've seen this before, the way she starts closing herself off, armoring up.

You shake your head. There's a shift in her expression, but the walls don't quite come down. "I guess I wanted to ask what you want."

"That ain't obvious?"

"I mean..." Your arms come up, folding over your chest. "You know, I was here last season, when you were dating that guy... Hulk Hogan."

It surprises a laugh out of her. "Yeah, Gary."

"You asked him out and it was... Different. I mean..." You can't think of how to say it. At last, you say, "Do you take me seriously?" No, that's not it. "I mean, are you just trying to hook up with me? Because, I..." You're starting to burn up again. You rub the back of your neck. "That's not the kind of... Listen, you're beautiful, and sexy, but that's not what it would—I mean, to me, it—"

"You're so cute when you're all shy," Melissa says, sounding equally mystified and amused. She stands. "Look... Maybe I did this all wrong." She circles the desk. "Kinda treated you like a piece of meat."

"Just a little bit," you say.

"I take you serious, hon." She doesn't cross the gap between you two, but mirrors your pose, leaning on the edge of her desk, arms crossed over her chest. "Look, Gare was a nice guy. But he didn't have, you know... He didn't make me wanna..."

You think of Gregory's metaphor. "Shake him like a chew toy?"

Another laugh. "Yeah, that. And I guess I felt... You know, I'd kinda uncorked the bottle, datin' him, when I thought all that part of my life was done, and when you were at my place the other night, you just looked so good, and I just wanted..."

You smile, eyes down. The cold uncertainty is trickling away and there's warmth pouring into the spaces it's left behind. "Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

When you look up, she's moved a little closer. You can smell her perfume again, warmed on her skin over the course of a long day. You've had the privilege of seeing her in detail, so many times: the fine, thin skin around her eyes, the creases at the corners of her mouth that forecast her smile, the tiny hint of gray growing in at her temples, the mellow warmth of her green gaze, the slope of her nose crooking slightly to her left. It's different with no lens between the two of you, when you're close enough to touch.

"Yeah, okay," she says to whatever she sees in your eyes. She lifts her chin and drops her gaze to your mouth. It's a clear request.

You answer it. You dip your head; there's a moment where your noses nearly bump, but you change your angle, catch her lips with yours. There's a tackiness from her lip gloss and an incredible softness underneath. The warmth of her almost shocks you, vivid past your imagining. Her hand pets at your jaw; you feel the other curl into the collar of your shirt. She pulls you closer by the fabric and you gasp.

You renew the kiss, lips sliding over hers. Your hand rubs down her lower back. You can feel the divot in her spine where it meets her pelvis, just above the generous curve of her ass. Before you can overthink it, your palm is gliding over that curve, your fingers digging into its lushness, Melissa gasping against your mouth as you squeeze.

"Oh," she says faintly when the kiss is over and you're catching your breath. "Huh." Her look is glazed and a little bewildered.

"I, um, I don't want to send mixed messages," you say, "but about Friday..."

"Friday?" she echoes.

"Yeah." You bite down on your smile, watching her try to remember what the hell you're talking about. "I was thinking... I know a few magic tricks of my own."

"Oh," she says again. You watch her eyes spark with understanding, her smile appear slowly, then all at once. "I guess you could come over and show me your stuff." Her hands tighten in your shirt and pull you back in for another kiss.

"Hey, gimme your phone," she says, much, much later, when you're wearing more of her lip gloss than she is. "I want to give ya my number." You don't think before you're unlocking it and passing it into her hands. She lowers her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose and thumbs her way around your phone, creating a contact for herself.

You have a flash of nerves—what if she opens your Instagram and sees all the stupid accounts you follow? A vision comes of her seeing all the dog-using-buttons-to-talk videos you've liked, her libido instantly withering... Then she's giving you back your phone and smirking at you, wiping at your lip with her thumb. "Might wanna stop in the bathroom before you get back to work, hon," she says.

When you leave her classroom, it's like floating; you've never felt so light. You stop in the bathroom and you wipe all the lip gloss off your smiling mouth. You catch yourself humming as you and Kai catch some footage of Ava pretending to organize game night, Gregory trying to involve himself, Janine admitting to a little competitive streak.

Your phone buzzes, chimes. "Sorry," you say to Janine and Pedro, who's leading the interview. You wait until you can lower the camera lens to check the notification. You always keep it silenced during the day—did Melissa turn the ringer on?

Italian Mama iMessage

Your face burns. You take a corner away from Pedro and unlock the phone.

Italian Mama You made me real happy

Your blush intensifies; something flutters in your chest. The phone vibrates in your hand as another message comes.

Italian Mama Don't know how I'm going to wait until Friday

The echo of your own thought in her words makes your heart flutter again. You bite your lower lip and type back, Me neither. An electric spark of daring moves you, makes you send her, Maybe I'll practice some magic just to make sure I'm on top of my game.

Is that too much? You hope not. You've basically made a sex appointment with her for Friday—sex appointment, you think, and wince at yourself, your own awkwardness; it's a date—and you don't—your breath hitches as three dots appear on your screen, showing that she's typing.

Italian Mama Oh yeah?

Italian Mama Better practice hard

You feel a pulse low in your belly. You're ready to type a little more flirtation when another message arrives and makes you gasp aloud, quickly clamping your hand over your mouth before Pedro or somebody else can hear you.

She's sent you a photo. It's herself pulling down the scoop neck of the hot pink blouse she's wearing today. You can see just the tip of her nose, her chin, the proud line of her soft neck, her freckled sternum, and, holy shit. She's showing you her breasts cradled in a bra made of black lace. And you stare. And you stare.

Italian Mama Little incentive for you

Your mouth is watering. You can see the rosy shadows of her nipples against the lace. You barely register yourself typing back, You're perfect.

Italian Mama Thought you'd like em

You're typing before you can stop yourself. All I'll be able to think about now is what I'm going to do to you.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Appear, then disappear. Your confidence wavers.

Italian Mama I want you to tell me

You've never imagined you'd be turned on in the halls of Abbott Elementary, but suddenly you're so aware of your cunt, you can't stand it. You're throbbing. You peer around the corner; Pedro isn't even looking your way, he's talking something over about the schedule with another producer. You have time. You glance up and down the hall; nobody except an aide going into a room at the far end.

Your fingers fly over the keys. If you stop to think, you'll psych yourself out, so you blurt out every thought, the iMessage equivalent of babbling—what you'd be doing in Melissa's ear if you could have her right now, in your arms, again...

You're so fucking sexy

I've thought about you so much

I touched myself thinking about you the other night

I'm going to kiss you until you go crazy and you're so turned on you can't take it

I'm going to undress you and I'm going to kiss every fucking inch of you

I'm going to play with you until you're begging

Do you like it rough or gentle?

Three dots.

Italian Mama Little of both

You're typing again in a flurry. You can feel your heart pounding, your breath coming in harder. You probably only have a couple minutes left to really make her feel it.

I'm going to be so gentle with you until you beg me to be rough

I want to bite you

Do you like being bitten?

Italian Mama Yeah

I know you do

On your neck, on your breasts

I'm going to bite your thighs before I eat you out

"Homie, you coming?" Pedro says, with the best and worst timing—and phrasing—he could possibly have.

"Yeah, one sec," you say, and you're proud of how your voice doesn't wobble at all. "Let me just send this. Sorry."

I have to get back to work

Italian Mama Fuck you

Italian Mama How am I supposed to teach like this

Italian Mama Come here and finish what you fuckin started

You laugh, breathless and surprised. You text her, YOU started it! If she hadn't sent you that picture... You scroll back up and look again. In the bit of her face you can see, she's smirking, because of course she is. The luscious curve of her breasts—you can almost feel them, what it would be like to drag your nose down between them, mouth at the soft skin...

Pedro's waiting. You send her a bunch of blowing-kiss emojis and put your phone away again. You're still buzzing with arousal, but you feel a strange satisfaction, knowing that Melissa is a few halls away, squirming behind her desk, thinking about all the promises you've made.

The day passes, somehow. It's a strange mixture of slow, syrupy boredom and electric, frenetic activity as more preparations are made for game night, and your phone periodically buzzes with another message from Melissa. Thankfully (for your pussy—you think it might fall off if it keeps aching like that), the two of you leave the subject of sex, and just talk.

She asks you your birthday, your favorite food. Where did you grow up? What's your favorite color? Each one makes you smile. You feel like you're on the receiving end of a Schemmenti interrogation, a mob boss with her goons behind her. You get her answers back in turn: July 19. (You respond in shock, You're a water sign??? and you can almost hear her voice when she dryly responds, I got no clue what that means, hon.) Pasta con sarde. Grew up here in South. Pink.

Your heart flutters with every new thing you learn. Even though you go home (and rub one out) alone, she's a presence with you, not just in your fantasies; you find you're texting her until you fall asleep, phone sliding out of your hand onto the bedspread. And when you wake up the next day, preceding your alarm by a bit, you find a text from her waiting for you, just a few minutes ago: Good morning, baby.

You levitate all the way through Thursday. You spot Melissa a few times that day, but it's a packed day for her two classes, so mostly it's in the hall as she marches lines of students to and fro. She gets you back for yesterday, though: pauses in the doorway of her classroom as she's filing the kids in after lunch, and gives you an up-and-down look of such searing intensity that your body heats, scalp to toes. She smirks before she vanishes into her room.

She makes you crazy. God, she's incredible. You're texting her every chance you both can get, though she's sparser while she's with the kids; it's all light stuff. Get lunch here today, she tells you, Shanae made beef patties, and when Shanae slips you a couple of golden-crusted pastries, you bite into them, smelling warm, floral curry, savory beef on your tongue, and think of how Melissa it is, feeding you from a distance.

That afternoon, just after dismissal, she calls, "Hey," to you from her classroom door. You try not to jump to attention. "I gotta do a lot of work," she says, playing with the strap of her Apple Watch, "or I'd ask you over, but..." Strangely, her eyes drop. It's a hint of shyness and it makes your heart patter, tenderness and affection for her pouring into your chest. "I was thinkin', why don't we go out and get, like, food or a drink or somethin' tomorrow? You know, before you come over."

"Okay," you say. Her eyes flick up and as soon as she sees your goofy grin, her shyness melts away, turns back into the smirking self-assuredness you're more familiar with.

"You pick the place," she says, knocking the wind out of you at once.

Oh, crap. You remember what it was like with her and Gary: he tried to take her to a shitty spot for their first date, and she flicked him away from her like a bug. She's challenging you, you think, asking to be impressed.

You can do that. Dark horse, right? "Okay," you repeat. "I'll pick."

She leans back against the doorframe. All at once she's in that lolling, casual, flirtatious posture that she assumes for you and only you, her face tilted up, gaze intimate and a little sly. "You headin' out? I get a goodbye kiss, or what?"

"Okay," you say a third time, and you can barely kiss her, you're smiling so widely. You take your fill of her, in every sense, one more time before you leave for the day, nerves and excitement and that thread of arousal all tangling together, like a knot of live wires.

You're texting her later, because of course you're texting her later. Do you want it to be a surprise?

Italian Mama I dunno

Italian Mama Surprises never seem to work out for me

That gives you a little twinge. You find yourself running the tip of your finger up and down the side of your phone, the way you'd touch her hand or her cheek, if you could. How about just this one? you ask. And if you hate it, I'll never surprise you again?

You wish you could see her face. It would help you know if she's resigned or wary or scared. You don't want her to be antsy or nervous going into tomorrow; you want her to feel like she makes you feel: like you've got balloons and not bones, like a wind could catch you and carry you off, you're so light and so happy.

Italian Mama Ok

Italian Mama I'm gonna trust ya

It makes your heart do its now-familiar flutter in your chest. It's like there's a bird in there, some delicate fledgling thing eager to start flying. It wants to soar, holding its precious cargo: Melissa Schemmenti's trust.

The next day. Friday. Friday. Somehow, the school day rockets past you. Game night preparations have gone disastrously, and it's time for a patented Ava save, with the help of Janine and Gregory.

"Wow, who could've guessed," Kai mutters to you, and fidgets in the pocket you know holds his vape.

Your hand fidgets in your own pocket, around your phone. You and Mel exchanged good morning texts, a few kiss emojis, promises to meet up before dismissal to solidify your plans, but you haven't had a chance to see her at all.

"I don't know," you say, "I think they'll get it figured out."

"I think she's probably going to use it to mine Bitcoin somehow," Kai says.

Honestly, that sounds plausible. You shake your head anyway and make an excuse and scoot past Pedro. He's not encouraging Ava to stream game night live on Instagram, per se, but everybody knows that will guarantee some Coleman-style silliness, so he needs to get her there somehow. (Can you mine Bitcoin through Instagram?)

You don't need to send any directions to your feet; they're already walking you toward the second grade classrooms. Mel doesn't have lunchroom duty today, so you know she'll probably be catching up on two classes' worth of quizzes, or restocking art supplies, or prepping the next lesson's props and tools. Her door is shut and you peek in through the window.

She's writing on the whiteboard, looking back and forth from a worksheet in her hand, glasses on her nose. You knock. When she sees you, the narrow-eyed look of interrupted concentration melts away; she gives you a smile that shows her teeth, the kind that changes her whole face, turning her girlish, almost a little goofy. It makes your heart melt.

You open the door. "Hey," you say as she puts her glasses on top of her head and caps the marker. Being in the room with her, after not seeing her all morning, feels like coming out of the cold to a blazing fire. "Uh, hi. You look beautiful today." Then, for the third time, stupidly, adoringly, "Hi."

"You missed me, huh?" she says, putting down the marker and paper. "C'mere."

As soon as you're in grabbing distance, she takes two handfuls of your ass and pulls you in for a kiss. You're lost in it for long, long seconds.

She pulls back after giving your lower lip a bite that makes you squeak. She tucks her hands squarely in the back pockets of your jeans, holding you against her. "You look beautiful today too."

"Thanks," you say, barely registering the compliment, the way you're chasing more contact, kissing the corner of her mouth, nosing at her cheek. She's so warm in your arms. She's wearing one of her tough-girl outfits, a blazer and matching top in military green, and you sneak your hand under the jacket, finding a little stripe of bare skin between her shirt and her slacks. You touch her there with a teasing trace of your fingernail.

She shivers. Is she sensitive on her lower back? You file it away to investigate later tonight. The thought of being able to have her all to yourself tonight—hours and hours—sends sparks skipping through you. You have to kiss her again.

"You think it's unprofessional, doin' this at work?" Mel asks you breathlessly when you part again.

"I don't know," you say, "but whatever Gregory and Janine have been doing is worse, kind of."

"Yeah, that's for sure," Melissa says, and gives you a third kiss; this time, the delicate muscle of her tongue laps at you, little frissons of heat that go right between your legs.

"I came to talk about dinner," you say at last, when you think you can survive without kissing her.

"Oh, yeah," Mel says, "right. What am I wearin'?"

"Uh..." You hadn't considered it. You're just going in your usual date outfit—a button-up, a nice pair of trousers. "Business casual?"

"Okay, easy. Do I get a hint where we're goin'?" One eyebrow goes up. Her gaze acquires a competitive glint, one you've seen a hundred times through your camera. "I bet I can guess it."

"Here's your hint," you say, "it's not Italian."

"Smart cookie," Melissa says, which leads you both into another kiss, and then another. "It ain't a sandwich shop, is it?"

"No," you say, "I can't beat cousin Rocco."

"Soul food," she says.

"No. I'll come pick you up, is that okay?"

"Yeah, come, like, at five. I gotta change and do my face and stuff." She leans back, giving you a squint-eyed look of scrutiny. "Tell me it ain't French."

"It ain't," you promise, and seal it with a kiss. "I have to go. I'm pretending to be in the bathroom."

"Oh, shit," she says, eyes going wide, "we gotta catch up on this freakin' math unit and I forgot, I haven't peed in, like—"

"Go, go," you say with a laugh, letting her extract her hands from your pockets.

When you return, Kai narrows his eyes at you. You shrug at him and you're ready to get back to work, when he reaches across and plucks something off your shoulder: a single red hair. Crap.

"Damn," he says. "Dark horse."

"What's up?" Pedro glances over at you two. Fuck, you don't know if you can take his teasing today—you know he'll want all the details, and you love him, but you want to just get through work and get to Melissa...

"Nothing," Kai says, and drops the hair. He gives you a nod.

You nod back, warmth and gratitude making you smile. He doesn't smile back—you don't think you've ever seen him smile, actually—but you think you see the corner of his mouth curve up, just a little, as he peers into his camera.

Dismissal, a quick goodbye kiss with Melissa, home to get ready. You're normally an all-black kind of girl—it's just easy—but you pause in your closet and find a pink button-up. It's a mellow, soft shade, the same color as a silky blouse you've seen Melissa wear.

You put on your cologne, you style your hair. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s funny: this is the same face you’ve always had, but three days of Melissa have done something to you. Your eyes look larger, softer; there’s a smile on your lips, small but persistent, that’s been there all day.

You haven’t always been lucky with women. You have love in your heart—God, a lot of it. Sometimes it feels like the water of an ancient lake, going down almost infinitely deep, and yet somehow about to overflow. You spent years going around offering it to anyone who would take it, and once they’d drunk their fill, they just moved on, satisfied, never giving a thought to you, never thinking you might want something back, even just gratitude.

So you pulled away. You just hurt too easily: keep them at arm’s length, never close enough to bruise. The quiet one, the shy one; that’s who you became over time, knowing that if you gave out of your abundance, you’d only be depleted. No one’s ever filled your cup.

You find yourself chewing your lip, staring at yourself. You want this to be different. You want this to be something else. Can it be?

You park your car in front of Melissa’s and find yourself wondering: text, or knock? You’re starting to get out of the car when the front door opens, and a rush of surprise and pleasure comes at the thought of Melissa waiting, watching for you. Then your breath catches hard in your throat.

She’s wearing a little red dress that… “Wow,” you say, before she’s even close enough to hear. The square neck of the dress is cut lower than her usual wear, and shows an abundance of skin that makes your mouth water. There’s a princessy quality to the cap sleeves, a delicate detail that’s perfect for Melissa: blazing, challenging red, with a hint of sweetness. The hem stops just above her knees. The fabric shows her body in intimate detail, the delicate rounding of her stomach and the flare of her hips, straining across the perfect shape of her thighs.

Her hair is down. Even late in the day it has a bit of curl. Her green eyes are like gemstones in the early evening light. Her heels have got to be four inches, but she walks with the steadiness of a queen. She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

You circle the car to get the passenger side door. “Hey,” she says, surprised, coming closer, “it’s pink,” and touches your sleeve. It’s not even contact with your skin, barely contact, period, but it sends tingles up and down your arm. “That’s my favorite color.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, grinning like a fool.

Her eyes drop—that hint of shyness again, that tenderness that makes your heart strain against your chest, trying to reach her—before they flick back up. “How do I look?”

“I could look at you for hours,” you tell her honestly.

"I'd kiss ya, but you'd mess up my face," she says. "Here, you get one." She turns and offers her cheek.

You're smiling as you lean down to kiss the offered skin. She's soft and warm, and you get the powdery scent of her makeup, the richness of her perfume.

"Now, c'mon, feed me," she says, and you laugh and open her door.

You drive. She's exactly the kind of passenger you expected: "Hey, check it," every time she sees a car nosing out past a stop sign, or "On your left," when you're trying to merge. "Hey," she barks when somebody cuts you off, a gesticulating, accusatory hand in the air, "cazzo, you wanna watch where you're fuckin' going?"

Melissa. Abrasive, loud, bossy, and you don't feel bulldozed at all. You feel charmed. The smile won't leave your face. You don't know if she could be more herself than right now, in your ancient Volvo, wearing the sexiest outfit you've ever seen on her, looking simultaneously bold and delicate and delicious, and hollering out the window like an angry truck driver.

She's checking her phone as you pull up outside the restaurant, and doesn't look up again until you're opening her door. "Oh," she says, surprised, looking at the place: it's a red brick building, no sign; just a single hanging red lantern beside a white door. You can see her trying to puzzle it out, glancing at you and back to the door.

"It's a bar," you explain. You open the door to your favorite izakaya. Low, golden light and warmth spill out with the Jrock playing over the speaker system.

Melissa cocks her head and looks at you curiously. You only notice that her hand's in her clutch purse when she draws it out again; you hear the rattle of her keys dropping back to the bottom. "Thought you might'a been about to take my other kidney," she says. "I was gonna fight ya."

You blink. It's one of those Melissa-isms, delivered in her dry voice, that you think might be a joke, but it might not be, either. "I wouldn't win if you did."

"You sure as hell wouldn't, baby," she says, and lets you hold the door for her as she steps inside.

You love this place. It feels a bit like your first apartment after you left home, a lot of exposed brick, shoddy white paneling creating an accent wall, and decor that's a little vintage, a little silly: a big, ornate mirror that might have once decorated a cheap theater, brass sconces for lights, Gojira posters in the style of classic ukiyo-e. There's booths on one side of the room and a mirrored bar on the other, with a wall of sake and Japanese whisky.

The hostess recognizes you, waves hi, gestures toward the room for you to seat yourself. It won't start filling up until a little later, so you have your pick of the booths; you take the side that puts your back to the door, letting Melissa have the sightline to the exit.

The low light flatters her. Any light flatters her, but there's something about the dim, intimate, golden warmth of it that makes you stare as she studies the menus, first the drinks, then the food; her eyelashes cast delicate shadows on her cheek, the curve of her lips carving lines there.

She looks up and catches you. The thoughtful twist of her mouth turns into a smirk. The question, though, isn't what you were expecting. "What made you pick here?"

Huh. "I..." You rub the back of your neck, dropping your gaze. "I really like it." That's a start, but not all of it. "I thought you might not have this kind of food all the time. I never see you eating it and I wanted you to have a nice change. And..."

"I come here alone a lot." You shrug. "I have... Good memories here." They are good memories: people-watching, trying new drinks and food, chats with the bartenders, a karaoke night where you fell in with a group of laughing, drunk women who all worked at the same office, who tried to persuade you to bar-hop with them until last call.

But it's always been you, alone; sometimes folded in with somebody else out of goodwill, sometimes noticed for your familiar face and your generous tips, spared a few more minutes of a busy mixologist's time, but always a separation, a glass wall between you and the rest of the room. No one's been on this side of it with you before.

"I wanted you to have a good memory," you say, finally. "I wanted to share it with you."

You glance at Melissa. She's watching you with a look you recognize. It's the one she gave you that night at her house—just earlier this week, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It's tender and intent. It's encouraging. Like she's watching a flower bloom.

"It's already a good memory for me, hon," Melissa says. Something nudges your ankle. It's her foot in its killer heel, gently insinuating between both of yours. You feel her knee against yours, your calves aligned together. She smiles at you. "We're here together."

Your heart does one of its aerial flips.

"You sure get shy for somebody who was talkin' about suckin' my tits before, though," she says.

You choke on nothing. Your face and ears burn. She laughs, her head dropping back, the light glinting on her saints' medals.

"Biting," you squeak, when you can get air. "We were talking about biting."

"Biting," she says, "right. How come you can say all that to me but you're nervous tellin' me you like a bar?"

It's not a bad question. You trace the grain of the wooden tabletop for a second or two, eyes down. "I'm used to giving other people what they like," you say. "I don't mean—it's not that I was lying or faking. No way. I meant it, I mean it, everything I say to you. So much, Melissa." You dart a look up to make sure she understands. "I mean, it's easy for me... For other people, I can express..."

Her hand finds yours on the table and stills it. Her manicured finger gently swipes along the curve below your thumb, down to the sensitive inner skin of your wrist, and traces slowly there, back and forth. She's giving you that look again, gentle and focused and intimate. "I get it," she says simply.

A rush of relief fills you, settling the rattle of your anxious nerves. You turn your hand over and hers settles into yours.

The server appears for your drink orders. You order the house sake, and Melissa says, "Yeah, me too." With your small glasses of sake, the two of you pore over the menu, picking a few things Melissa knows, a few things she's never had before.

The first few plates come out: shumai, hamachi, a bowl of spicy pickle. She gets pieces of toro, unagi, and salmon, and you get a roll and a plate of chashu buns. She gives those a look of pure lust.

"Take one," you say, and push the plate toward her.

She doesn't hesitate. At her first bite, she lets out a guttural moan that goes right between your thighs. You're suddenly much more aware of her ankle still caught between both of your own.

"You think I could get this recipe?" she says of the chashu after the bun has vanished.

"I think you can get whatever you want." Especially from you, especially if she keeps making those noises.

"I sure can," she says with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes.

You've seen Melissa eat before, scraping the last bite of salad out of a tupperware or sipping from a Stanley Tucci mug, but it's different like this, sharing a meal. You love watching her small, plump hands with her chopsticks, her drinks; you love her expressive eyes, the way they widen or flutter shut at a perfect bite. Everything she tries she makes you try—insistent, "Here, you taste," like you're not the one who's had the whole menu before, and you oblige, trying to taste it for the first time, like her, letting each one blossom over your tongue, letting yourself fall under her spell.

The bar is packed by the time you're through and she's nibbled her way through a couple of frozen mochi. "We gotta come back here," she declares as the two of you leave, hand in hand. "I wanna try more. You got good taste."

"Yeah, I do," you say, looking at her. It's full dark now, but the streetlights and the moon illuminate her, outlining her red hair in silver, the shape of her hips.

"You gonna take me home now?" she says. She moves closer. "You made a lotta promises, you know."

"I know." Your hands settle on her hips. She tilts her head up; you catch her lips, tasting the plum wine you two shared. It's your first real kiss of the night, and she's mellow, soft, delicious. Still, you tell her, "We don't have to, tonight. I want to, but I don't want you to think..."

"I know," she says, and gives you another kiss. "If I thought you were buyin' dinner to make me put out, I would'a had way more food." Another kiss. "Come on, let's go. Or maybe you don't wanna get lucky?"

You drive back to Melissa's place, her hand on your thigh the whole way. Back over the welcome mat that reads GO AWAY, into the picture-lined place where it all started over a glass of wine.

Melissa takes your coat and her own and gives you her back, hanging them up in a closet by the front door. "I can get you another drink," she's saying, but all you can see is the back of her dress: the silver line of the zipper running from collar to hem, almost invisible.

You move closer and she stiffens when she feels you there, your chest to her back. You gather her hair, move it aside. Above the collar of the dress you can see the line of her nape and the muscle where her neck and her shoulder join. You lean down and kiss it.

Breathing in, you can smell her perfume again, her makeup again. Now, her skin. It's a scent you couldn't begin to describe, something living and animal and sensuous. And her hair: warm, intimate, a little bit of hairspray. You kiss the side of her neck.

"You have no idea," you say quietly. You nose against the shell of her ear. Its soft cartilage is cold from the night air outside, but warming quickly, flushing pink as you kiss it. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are. You don't know what you've been doing to me."

You lift your hands and find the tongue of the zipper. Her breath hitches. You slowly draw it down. The rasp of it is loud between your bodies.

The band of her bra. Red lace. Down her back to the luscious curvature of her hips. You're holding your breath. Her panties are red lace, too, a high-waisted thong that hugs her belly and hips but, oh, fuck: leaves her ass almost totally fucking bare. Of course, in that clinging dress. Couldn't risk panty lines.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you say, and slide the dress fully off her body. It's a puddle of red fabric on the floor. You push her chest-first against the closet door and drop to your knees.

"Oh my God," she says weakly as you hold her hips and kiss your way up the back of one thigh, then the other. The flesh here is dimpled with cellulite, a mark of her perfect abundance. You nose over the curve of her ass and bite one cheek and she squeaks and gives a weak, "Huh," afterward, like she'd surprised herself, and you bite the other cheek and her hips rock back into you.

She's still in her heels. You're starting to smell her sex. You think about having her bend over and put her hands against the door and let you eat her from behind until her knees shake and give out. Fuck, you want to, but you've been making promises; you have plans.

You straighten back up, brushing kisses up the line of her spine. "I want to see your bedroom."

"Fuck," she says dizzily. "Okay. Uh..." She starts to step away from the closet door and for the first time all night, she wobbles in her heels. She gives a little growl of frustration that's so Melissa you can't help but laugh, making her glower your way as she toes out of the shoes.

She leads you up to her bedroom. The big bed is made, but there are plenty of signs of life: the vanity against one wall, scattered with makeup; the bedside table with a dog-eared book and a pair of her glasses; there's a bra tossed over the cracked closet door.

She turns to face you, unself-conscious, and grabs you for another kiss, deep, dirty, her tongue licking into your mouth. "Can't believe you wore my favorite color," she says breathlessly, and starts fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. "God, you look so hot."

Your shirt's halfway open when you get your mouth on her neck. She groans, hands loosening on the fabric. Soft, right along the line of her jaw, under her chin, down her throat where you feel a moan vibrate through the skin. "Harder," she says.

You stay soft. The hollow of her throat, her clavicle. You nose one strap of her bra. She whines, "Harder," and grips your hair.

"I told you," you say. "I'm going to make you beg." She gasps. Your cunt pulses. You wonder if the same thing happened in her classroom that day, if she sat at her desk squirming, little hitches of her breath betraying her.

You squeeze her ass and she sways into you. Your hands shape her hips, up her sides, over her back, feeling the landscape of it, the valley of her spine. You trace the band of her bra. It's so pretty, you almost don't want to take it off.

"Where's your vibrator?" you ask.

"Huh?"

"Your vibrator," you patiently repeat, and lean back. You see in her eyes when it clicks. She leans away from you toward the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer. Inside, there's a pack of melatonin gummies, a lavender and chamomile room spray, a mini bottle of Jack Daniels, and a hot pink wand vibrator. Her sleep aid drawer, you realize.

You pick up the toy. It has a good weight, and the silicone is almost as soft as her skin. You find the power button, click it on, and cycle with a few presses through the three strength settings. You settle back on the first one and test it against the inside of your wrist, feeling the rumble against the sensitive skin there.

You look up again and Melissa's sitting on the edge of the bed. She's breathing hard, staring at you, and she's blushing.

"Lay back against the pillows for me, baby."

She scoots back, gives you a challenging look, and spreads her legs. You can really smell her, a thick, rich, saline scent that makes your mouth water. The drawer's still open and you spot a small bottle of lube; you take it out just in case, then slide the drawer shut.

"You gonna get naked?" she says as you join her on the bed.

"Not yet," you say and kiss her again. And again. The vibrator sits on the mattress, turned off, and you want to make her forget it's there. You take your time, licking at the serrated edge of her teeth, sucking on her lower lip until she's whimpering.

You couldn't have imagined that sound coming from Melissa Schemmenti. You chase it, have to have it again. Her lipstick is smeared, almost gone. She keeps tugging on your hair as you kiss her, starting to squirm beneath you, saying things like "More," and "Harder," but not please—not yet.

She slides down against the pillows, laying herself more fully under your body, and the motion makes the vibrator roll down the mattress to bump her side. Her breath speeds up all over again, and her eyes flick from it to you.

You pick up the toy and click it on. "Keep your legs spread."

"Oh, fuck yes," Melissa says, then whines aloud when you touch the vibrator not to her clothed pussy, but to the inner crease of her thigh. "Fuck, c'mon."

"C'mon, what?" You trail the vibrator up the inside of her thigh, toward her knee, and back down again.

"You know—" her breath stutters when you switch legs. "You know what I want."

"And you know what I want."

That makes her moan. Her head drops back, her chest heaving. You lean down to kiss her sternum, to finally nose against one perfect breast, the way you've hungered for it since that photo. The lace of her bra scratches your cheek. You can feel her nipple through the cup, taut against the fabric. You bring the vibrator up and tease its rumbling head over that peak, making her shudder, then replace it with your mouth, letting her feel the heat and wet, just barely, still separated from you by her bra.

"God, fuck," she says, "fuck you," and you switch breasts, teasing her other nipple to aching stiffness. You nuzzle the skin that her bra offers up, the plump perfect roundness of her breast, part your lips, drag your teeth over it. She's so soft here, so much, and it's perfect. Your hand drops with the vibrator and you trace it over her hip toward her sex, making her squirm, as you busy yourself with soft bites and sucks.

You change your angle a little, propping a hand against the pillows so you can lean over her. Your body casts a shadow and her green eyes look up at you from beneath it, somehow both pleading and mutinous. You idle the vibrator back up along the waistband of her underwear and then slowly down toward her cunt, playing it over the plumpness of her mons.

"Fuck," she says, "fucking fuck you, okay, please," and you smile. "Please, I said please, will you fucking please—"

You bring the wand down over her pussy. Her head rolls back and she groans, starting to squirm. "Pull down your bra for me," you say.

"What?" Her voice, face, are foggy and vague, but after a few seconds she understands, lifting her hands to tug down the bra's cups, showing you her perfect breasts. They're begging for your mouth, and you promised her you'd give her what she wanted when she begged, didn't you?

You drop your head. Kiss over one breast, then the other. Mouth at the flesh—so fucking soft, so good against your lips, sucked into the wetness of your mouth. The tops of her breasts have a small scattering of freckles that you have to dust in turn with adoring kisses. Her hard nipple brushes your cheek and you draw it past your lips as you trace the wand vibrator up and down, from her clit to the entrance of her cunt, back again, never letting it linger.

You switch to her other nipple, leaving her breast damp and reddened from your mouth. Her head tosses back and forth against the pillows as she whines, squirms, moans, says, "Fuck," and, voice breaking a little, "You're still fuckin' teasin' me—please, please, I said it, please—"

The words, her need, are electricity surging straight to your aching clit. Your voice is a rasp to match her own when you lift your head and breathe in her ear, "You sound so good like this, Melissa." She gives a broken whimper. "You're so perfect. I'll give you more. I promise. I'll take care of you. Take your panties off for me, sweetheart."

With a grateful sob she lifts her hips and shoves her underwear down her thighs, no further. You flash on that fantasy you had of her, getting off after a school day, slacks and panties around her knees as she fucked herself. Looks like you were right.

"You might need," she starts to say, but you're already reaching across to pick up the bottle of lube. You click off the vibrator and let her watch you drip the lube over your fingers, slicking them up. She's panting harder and harder just watching you.

With your other hand freed from the vibrator, you can pull the thong all the way off her legs, leaning back on your knees to do it. You push one thigh then the other wide apart. Her pussy is plump and gorgeous, red and swollen, her own wetness gleaming from between her spread labia. You add to it: the softest touch of your fingertips against her sex, trailing up and around the peak of her clit, not touching it directly.

She makes a noise you can barely describe, a groan of misery and arousal and desperation. Sliding your fingers back down toward the heat of her cunt, slipping one slowly inside, watching her as you do it. Her eyelashes flutter, her lips parting. Once you're sure she's wet enough, you add a second finger. The lube and her own gathering wetness makes a slick, dirty sound as you begin to stroke inside her, all delicacy, all torment.

"Oh, fuck," she says, "don't stop, Jesus Christ, please, don't stop, I need it, I, I..." Now she's babbling, the way she's made you do, one hand fisted in the bed covers, the other grabbing your wrist. "I need it so bad, I need you to fuck me, I've been waitin', please..."

"You've been waiting?" It occurs to you that this version of Melissa, already begging, might be willing to tell you some embarrassing truths. "How long?"

"Since we met," she gasps. "Since—oh, fuck..."

Since you met? That was the very first day of shooting—getting all the establishing shots, the very first moments and interviews. She intimidated you—her and Barbara both did—but Barbara, at least, gave a little, showed a bit of herself to the camera. You remember how Melissa was, arms folded over her chest, cool and hostile with Pedro as he tried to coax her out, get her to introduce herself.

Her eyes had moved from him to you, looking past the camera. "You Sicilian?" she'd asked you. She smiled at you that day and it transformed her sullen, cagey face, turned her, however momentarily, sweet. "Italian?" she'd continued, then her eyes darted from you to Pedro, over to the boom mic guy, trying to get a read on all of you. "You from South?" Her smile vanished. Her voice tightened up again: "Okay, you guys workin' with the cops? 'Cause you gotta tell me."

You reward her for the honesty with a press of your palm against her clit. Her hips jerk up. "I remember that day."

Her head drops back again, her eyes squeezing shut. The words leave her in a breathless rush: "You were so cute'n I hated the cameras but whenever you were there I would just—and you were always so, you were gentle, and—I always knew when you were lookin' at me—"

"I was looking at you every chance I got." You watch her face as you begin to ease a third finger inside her. This one has to burn a little; you can feel her body, resistant at first, starting to stretch to take it, and you don't push; you wait to see her eyes open again, their needy, yielding look. She lets go of the covers to grab one leg under her knee and pull it wider apart to help you. You add a little more lube, just in case, not wanting to hurt her.

"I was always looking at you, Melissa." She stares up at you. There's a crease between her brows, her swollen lips parted; she looks stunned, overwhelmed, face pink, as you slide that third finger inside her.

"I was always looking at you," you repeat, and begin to gently fuck her. Her cunt opens for you and desperately clenches against your fingers, grasping and irregular, trying to keep you. "You're so beautiful. I always wanted you. I thought you were the sexiest, meanest—" that surprises a panting laugh from her—"woman I'd ever seen. You were so smart, so funny—you protected everyone, and you took care of everybody—" her eyes squeeze shut. "Let me take care of you now."

You reach over and pick up the vibrator. You click it on. Her eyes open again at the sound of its buzz. You press the button again, then a third time, bringing it to its strongest setting. Melissa's eyes are huge. She's panting, staring, knowing what you're about to do, and the look of vulnerability and desire on her face, her smeared lipstick, her messy hair, she's perfect, so perfect, and you need to make her come now.

"I need it," you tell her, holding her gaze. "I need it. Let me feel it, Melissa." You bring the vibrator to her swollen, begging clit.

A moment of nothing but her breath caught in her chest and her wide-eyed gaze on yours. Her pussy clamps down around your fingers and you feel the ripples of her orgasm start before she drops her head back and gives a wounded, animal cry.

You chase the waves of her climax, fucking her through them, coaxing them toward you; you rub the head of the vibrator along her slippery clit. Her head tosses back and forth on the pillow like it's too much, but her hand still grasps your wrist, keeping you right where you are, and her hips are working, riding your fingers.

"I can't," she starts saying when she can heave a breath back into her lungs, "I can't, I can't, oh, please—" you click the vibrator off and throw it aside; it nearly rolls off the mattress. You spread the lips of her pussy wide and you lean down and bite one shaking thigh, then the other, then seal your lips over her swollen, tender clit.

Fuck the vibrator: this is your new favorite toy. You play with it and play with it and Melissa comes again, or keeps coming, you're not sure which. One leg goes over your shoulder and her hips twitch and writhe until you have to hold her down.

"Oh my G—oh my God, oh, baby," then, just chanting over and over again, like you could ever tell her no again, like you can deny her anything in the world: "Please, please, please..."

Anything she wants. The whole fucking world, if it were yours to give. You suck and lick at her cunt as her hands find your hair and yank.

How long can she go for? How many times can you make her come? You want to know. You want to fuck her until she faints. But that's not for tonight—not without planning, not without her consent—so when she starts making airy noises that are weak and almost pained, you ease off, slowing your mouth and fingers, letting her come down.

You rub her hips and thighs and her soft belly, and give light kisses to the mound of her pubis. She stops pulling on your hair, grip going slack at first; then, as she comes back into herself by slow degrees, she scratches her nails gently against your scalp.

Kisses for her stomach, her ribs. "Here, baby," you whisper, and reach under her body; she lifts up so you can unhook her bra, sticky fingers brushing her skin. You ease it off and drop it to wherever her panties went. She's nude under you now, flushed all over, body loose and relaxed against the mattress; you pet every inch of her you can reach.

You cup her cheek. Her head turns into the contact. There's sweat gleaming along her hairline and her upper lip. Her eyes, mascara and liner blurred, open to meet yours; her gaze is bleary at first, then sharpens.

You expect another fuck-you, or a joke, or even a "thanks, I needed that," but what she says is, "Now you sit on my face."

Your mind whites out. It's possible you forget the English language for a second or two. When you're back from wherever your soul departed to, she's pulling on the buttons of your shirt, brow knit and wearing an impatient little scowl, yanking the last ones open. "What?" you say weakly.

"I said," Melissa says, fully herself again, no longer the begging, needy, squirming creature of minutes ago, "now you sit on my face. C'mon. Get this off." She grabs the buckle of your belt and works the tongue out of it with a metallic clink.

"I," you say, "I," and she drags your trousers down your legs. You have to lean back off her to get them and your underwear all the way off. Your shirt still hangs open, showing your bra, your bare stomach. She leans up to kiss your sternum with an open mouth, tongue flickering hot against your skin.

"I told you," she growls against your neck, "to sit on my fuckin' face," and there's no more of anything in your world but her, you scrambling up onto your knees, spread wide, her sliding down the bed to get under your cunt.

You falter for a moment; she grabs your hips and yanks you down. There's no playing, no teasing. She drags the flat of her tongue up the folds of your pussy and takes your clit into her mouth and sucks. Her green eyes are open and staring up at you and you see your own dazed pleasure reflected in them.

It takes about five embarrassing seconds before you come in her mouth. She moans loudly against you and tries to hold you where you are, but your legs are shaking badly; imagine if you broke her nose the first night, God—you lift one knee so you can get off of her and drop onto your back.

She follows you. Clambers on top of you intently but unsteadily, still wobbling from her own orgasms, and kisses sloppily down your stomach to get back to your pussy.

"Melissa—" you're gasping, and she's putting her tongue inside you, angling her head to get it in as far as she can. She licks, sucks, wraps her arms around your hips and holds you against her as you try to buck away. The wet noises of her mouth against your cunt are obscene.

You come again, and maybe one more time, you're not sure; your mind blanks again. When you can think, feel, process again, she's giving little kitten licks to your sensitive sex that send shudders up your whole body.

"Okay," you say. Your throat hurts a little—how much noise were you making? You clear it. "Okay. You win." You tap out on the mattress like a boxer. She's wearing a look of supreme satisfaction as she lets you go, her face covered in slick wetness, her makeup a disaster, her hair a messy tangle. She's so beautiful. Your heart does a now-familiar backflip.

She crawls up your body and flops onto her side next to you, curling onto your chest. There's long minutes of just you two breathing, the sound filling the room, a tingling starting in your pussy that you know is the herald of after-sex soreness, her damp fingertips tracing idly on your skin.

You start to smooth out her hair. It'll take a shower and a comb to really fix—maybe you'll suggest it. You trail your fingers down and follow the freckled curve of her shoulder, the roll of flesh on her side along her ribs, the dip of her waist before it opens onto the perfect field of her hips and ass.

Her eyes flick up to yours. They're softer and happier than you've ever seen them; the look on her face is gentle and content. You bring your questing hand up to cup her cheek. She kisses your thumb.

"I'm hungry again," she declares.

A laugh bursts out of you, full of affection. "What?" she says, clearly about to be offended, but before she can go any further, you pull her fully into your arms, wrap around her and squeeze.

You press your face into her neck and inhale, smelling her sweat and skin and sex. "You're perfect for me," you say into that warm curve, muffled against her skin. "You're just perfect." You peck a kiss onto her jaw and lean back to touch her cheek again. "Should we make something? Do you want pasta?"

She grins at you. It's that big, Cheshire smile you saw on her face a few days ago, telling Barbara about how she shot her shot, full of preening satisfaction. She leans in and brushes your nose with hers.

"I knew I picked right," she says, simply, happily. She laces her fingers with yours. "Come on, I got a robe you could wear. You like carbonara?"

She leads you off the rumpled bed. You can see you've left a blurry pink bite mark on one cheek of her perfect ass. She brings you a fuzzy shortie robe ("I like your legs, baby, lemme see 'em") and puts on a silk one herself, and takes your hand again as she opens the bedroom door.

You feel good. You're happy. You realize as she brings you to the kitchen, to the very heart of her home, that you're not alone anymore.

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

Author's Note:

I received the following prompt from an anonymous reader on Tumblr:

"can you write some fluffy smut for Mel x reader where everyone thinks Mel would be in charge in the bedroom because she’s so tough and reader is so shy. but actually reader takes care of Mel."

Back when Season 2 was airing, I saw a few fan posts saying that Lisa Ann had suggested there was a cameraperson on the crew that Melissa thought was cute, which led to the rare scenes where Melissa opens up to the camera. I'm not sure if this is accurate to what she said, but that idea has stuck with me. When I received the above prompt, it went into a blender with that thought, and this is the smoothie that resulted.

I hope I've done justice to this lovely prompt!

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti #as an FYI: this is my longest fic yet and may be easiest to read on AO3 :)

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morbific-or-felicific · 11 months

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-AGNOSTHESIA Featuring Scaramouche

Part 2 Part 3

Meaning: The state of not knowing how you really feel about something, which forces you to sift through clues hidden in your behaviour, as if you were some other person

Word Count: 3.5k~

Description: A study session with Scaramouche gets spicy

Edited By: @pretty-princess-peach

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“Are you deaf or just stupid? I’ve been explaining this to you for over an hour. How do you not understand?!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! This class is just really hard, and I haven’t really been able to understand anything from the last few lectures. It's all just gotten so complicated.”

“Isn’t this supposed to be your major? Why did you pick something challenging if you’re too stupid to understand any of it?”

“I’m not too stupid! It’s just a challenging class!”

“Why did you beg me to tutor you if you were just going to waste my time?”

You didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t wrong, nearly every study session the two of you have had ended with an incredibly frustrated Scaramouche and an equally confused you. It’s not that you weren’t trying. You paid attention the best that you could in lectures, and you did all the readings. You even used up most of your free time studying! But regardless, you were still hopeless.

Of course, having Scaramouche as a tutor was supposed to make things easier; he was at the top of the class, after all. However, it almost made things more difficult, given the fact that during your study sessions you were constantly getting distracted by how pretty the man was and how close the two of you were to your bed. You probably enjoyed the insults he threw at you due to your lack of understanding just a bit too much too. But no way would you ever admit to that.

~♡~

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit. It was 1:45pm. Your class started at 1:00pm. This was not good. You burst through the doors, immediately drawing everyone's attention and making your professor stop mid sentence. You were mortified. On this particular occasion, you had spent all night studying before dragging yourself to your school's library to continue studying. You had planned to spend your morning studying before your lecture at 1:00pm. You had not planned to fall asleep until 1:25pm and have to run to a whole other building to get to your lecture. You had been spending all your time trying to keep up with your peers in your astrobiology course, but it appears that plan had backfired, as you had already missed half of your class and would need to beg someone for their notes, perhaps an explanation as well. You looked around for a seat, quickly realizing that the only easily accessible spot was near the back next to Scaramouche. Fuck. Scaramouche was the best student in the class, but he was also notoriously unapproachable and impossible to work with. You had been stuck doing a group project with him before, and he had been a controlling nightmare. Ever since then though, he had occasionally spoken to you if you came close enough to insult. You took a deep breath, swallowed your fear, and started up the stairs. The class had continued on in the moments since your interruption, so you didn’t expect Scaramouche to be staring directly at you when you glanced at him on your way to your spot beside him. You looked away and got to your seat as quickly as you could.

“Well, if it isn’t the smartest girl in class.”

You fought the urge to insult him back, but you knew that if you wanted to get any help from him, you couldn’t risk giving him a reason not to help you. You gave him the nicest smile you could muster; he rolled his eyes at your attempt to be nice. You sat down next to him and set up your computer to take notes for the rest of class. After another half hour had passed and you were hopelessly confused, you turned to Scaramouche to ask him for some help.

“Hey, uh, I’m pretty lost; do you think you could give me the notes you took for the first half of the class?”

“Do you really think that’ll help you? It’s not like you even understand the lectures you don’t miss.”

“I understand them!”

“Yeah, sure.”

He turned his attention back to the professor. That’s when you had an idea that might actually work.

“Hey, do you have any spare time that you could maybe use to help me with the work from this class?"

“Do you really think that I would willingly spend my free time tutoring you? Why on earth would I do that?”

You took a deep breath, silently praying that this would work.

“If you agree to tutor me, I’ll give you Kazuha’s number.”

“You’ll what?”

Yes! He was interested.

“I’ll give you Kazuha’s number, and I’ll put in a good word for you with him.”

“Kazuha? As in Kaedehara? Are you serious?”

He was just staring at you, looking very serious. Clearly, this was important to him.

“Yes, I promise.”

Scaramouche chuckled to himself a little before sighing.

“Okay. Text me where your dorm is. I’ll tutor you on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays.”

“I uh…don’t have your number.”

“You don’t? I have yours.”

“Yeah that’s because I gave it to you. Just text me and I’ll send you my building and room number, okay?”

“Fine.”

You sighed. Why did he have to be gay?

A few moments later, you got a text that said, “Hey loser”. You sent him your dorm information and a list of what times on those days you were free. And just like that, you had a tutor.

When you eventually talked to Kazuha about Scaramouche and how you had given him his number, Kazuha seemed confused, but after an oddly long stare behind you and a glance at his phone, he seemed to understand what you were trying to tell him.

~♡~

“Are you really this stupid? Or do you just like it when I insult you?”

“I’m not stupid! And don’t pretend like you aren’t getting anything out of this!”

“Right, I get to have you meddling in my love life. How could I forget?”

“You agreed to this! I didn’t make you do anything!”

“No, you just gave me an opportunity to spend time with the person I have feelings for, but only if I spend all my free time trying to teach an idiot her major.”

“I’m not an idiot! Stop saying that!”

“You can’t expect me to sit here and watch you screw things up I didn’t think anyone could possibly screw up and not insult you. You’re practically begging for it.”

You huffed a frustrated sigh and went back to your work while your tutor sat there on his phone. How was all of this so easy for him when you could barely understand any of it? You were working so hard but had nothing to show for it except for low grades and a tutor who is the furthest thing from being into you, who also somehow kept getting you all worked up and needy. Part of you wanted to just tell him to stop coming over so you could get through a study session without getting sexually frustrated. However, you also didn’t want to stop spending time with him…because, uh, because Scaramouche was helping you improve! Not for any other reason. Oh nevermind, who were you trying to fool? You definitely had feelings for him, even though you knew they would never be reciprocated. It wasn’t long before you reached another question that stumped you.

“I’m confused.”

“What else is new?”

“Shut up. Can you help me?”

He stared at you and raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for something. You sighed.

“Please?”

“What’s the question?”

“What is a carbonaceous chondrite?”

“Have you been paying any attention in class? At all?”

“I-”

Scaramouche cut you off.

“Even if you aren’t paying attention in class, you have my notes, and you’ve been asking me endless questions. Wait, I forgot. You’re just an idiot.”

“I’m not an-!”

Once again, he cut you off.

“No, you are. At this point, I’m not even trying to insult you. It’s just a fact.”

“Why?! What did I do that was so dumb?!”

“Do you really want to know?”

“...Yes?”

“Do you remember how you convinced me to be your tutor? Of course you do. You gave me Kazuha’s number. Do you want to know why he was so confused when you told him that? Because I’ve known him since I was a kid; we’re best friends. He only went along with it because I had followed you and was a ways behind you trying to get him to check his messages because I had to send him a text explaining that the girl I have feelings for thinks I’m gay and in love with him, and since he knows how dumb you are, he went along with it for my sake. I honestly thought that you would have figured it out by how nice I’ve been to you ever since we did that project together.”

You couldn’t believe it. Scaramouche has a crush on you, maybe even for as long as you’d had a crush on him. And oh my god you were stupid; he was best friends with Kazuha? How had you missed that?! Oh god, that means Kazuha knew you were stupid too…how did you even make such a big mistake?

“You…like me…? And you’re best friends with Kazuha…? What do you mean you’ve been nice to me ever since our project? You insult me all the time! Even before you started tutoring me, you were mean to me!”

“I talked to you. As far as I’m concerned, that’s nice enough. Anyway, I guess I should be going now huh?”

“Wait uh, you don’t have to go.”

“Oh? Maybe you do like it when I insult you, hm?”

“That isn’t important. I just need you to stay because you promised to tutor me, and I still need help.”

That gave Scaramouche an idea.

“Huh, maybe you just need better motivation to learn…”

He smirked at you before standing up from his spot on your bed and closing the little distance there was from where he had been sitting and where you were seated at your desk. He turned your spinny chair to face him and leaned down so his face was in front of yours and flicked your forehead.

“Hey, dummy, want me to fuck you?”

He laughed quietly at your slack jawed reaction. He stood back to his full height and sat back down on your bed. He gestured for you to come sit on his lap. You stared at him blankly, confident that you had misinterpreted his action.

“Come on now. You’re not really this stupid, are you?”

That was enough confirmation for you. You stood up from your chair and were about to sit down on his lap when he stopped you.

“Take off your clothes.”

He didn’t exactly leave any room for argument, so, as embarrassed as you were, you started taking off your clothes while Scaramouche watched you. You got down to your underwear and stopped, unsure if he wanted you to continue.

“Go on.”

Okay then. You took off your bra and your underwear, now feeling awkward with your tutor sitting in front of you fully clothed. He motioned you forward again and you sat down on his lap. He moved a hand between your legs and ran a finger down your slit before laughing.

“You’re so wet already, I guess you liked those insults more than you let on.”

His comment somehow turned your face redder than it already was. You would have made some kind of argument, however, you suddenly became preoccupied with the feeling of him pushing two of his fingers inside of you and fucking you with them. You couldn’t help but let out a few moans at the feeling. He snickered at the sounds you were making, even going so far as to mock the sound of your moans.

“‘Mmf ah oh fuck mmm haah,’ you sound so pathetic.”

You tried to quiet the sounds you were making, but that only made him more upset.

“Don’t stop. I like hearing you whining like a bitch in heat.”

He pulled his fingers out of you then pushed them past your lips and into your mouth. While you cleaned off his fingers like a good little slut, he used his other hand to undo his pants and pull out his cock. He pulled his fingers from your mouth and lined you up over his cock before bringing you down onto it. You heard him suck in a breath and let out a chuckle.

“Hah, shit, you feel good.”

You could only let out a whine in response. He bottomed out inside of you. After you took a few moments to adjust, you tried to lift yourself up, but found you couldn’t move an inch with the tight grip your tutor had on your hips.

“Wha…?”

“You said that you needed me to stay to tutor you, so, I’m here to tutor you.”

Was he seriously going to try to tutor you while he had you sitting on his cock? No, this couldn’t actually be happening.

“But…but I can’t…”

“You will. I’m just giving you some extra motivation.”

He smirked at you once again.

“What role do supernovae play in the origin, evolution, and development of life?”

You couldn’t think. You were far too preoccupied with the feeling of his cock deep inside of you.

“I don’t… I don’t know, I can’t…”

“Come on, you answered this correctly last week.”

Had you? Part of you thought he was lying to you just to make you feel stupider.

“I don’t know it…”

Your response came out as a whine.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure!”

One of his hands moved away from your waist. For a moment you wondered what he was doing, but then you felt a hard slap come down on your ass.

“Ahh! What…? Why did you?”

“You need some consequence for your stupidity.”

You tried to clear your head for the next question.

“Why is it more likely that we will find prokaryotes rather than eukaryotes when we finally explore Europa, Enceladus, or Mars?”

“I don’t know Scara-”

Suddenly you felt a sharp pain in your cheek. Did he slap you?

“I don’t want my name in the mouth of a worthless slut like you.”

He paused for a second.

“Did you just get tighter? You really are slut.”

You blushed and looked away from him. You didn’t want to admit it, but you really were enjoying yourself. However, the fact that your tutor still wasn’t fucking you was driving you insane. You prayed that soon enough he would get bored tormenting you and finally fuck you.

“Instead of calling me by my name, why don’t you just call me master, hmm?”

“Okay…”

“Okay what?”

“Okay master…”

“Aw, so the slut can be good! Well, since you’re so stupid, I’ll give you an easy question next. What substances are emitted from cryovolcanoes?”

Oh thank god, you actually knew this one.

“Water, ice, ammonia, nitrogen, and methane…right?”

He just watched you for a moment with a little smile while doubt started to build in your mind.

“That’s correct. But it really was such an easy question, maybe I should continue teaching you…”

“Please Sca- master…”

“Oh? What are you asking for?”

“I want you to fuck me…please…”

He watched you for a few moments, contemplating his decision.

“Beg.”

“What?”

“Beg, and I’ll fuck you. I won’t ask again.”

There was no way you were going to beg Scaramouche to fuck you. That would be humiliating. But if it would get him to fuck you…no. You weren’t that desperate for him, were you? However, all of your reasoning flew out the window when Scaramouche lifted you up his cock and dropped you back down.

“Fuck please master, fuck me, I need it so bad, need to feel you wreck me, want you to use me however you want, please!”

“However I want, hmm?”

Before you could reply, he had lifted you off of his cock and moved you so you were on your hands and knees. He got up from his spot and knelt behind you.

“But master I wanna- mmf!”

Your tutor pushed your head into the pillows.

“Stupid little sluts don’t get to touch me or watch me fuck them.”

With that, he pushed his cock back into you. God, why did he feel so big? He’s short, so why does it feel like he’s in your fucking throat from this angle?

“And arch your fucking back, whore.”

You did as he asked, and all you got in response was him letting out a little laugh. He started fucking you slow but deep, and you couldn’t help the moans that were escaping your lips, but thankfully, they were muffled by the pillows, so he could barely hear them. Fuck, this felt so good. The fact that he tortured you before getting here didn’t even matter anymore, as long as he could make you feel like this.

Before too long, you could feel an orgasm approaching, and though you tried to let him know, the pillows obstructing your mouth caused your warning to come out as, “mhmhfm hm hmhm hmm!” and your tutor continued to ignore you. Eventually however, you felt yourself start to tip over the edge. You really did try to tell Scaramouche, but he just wouldn’t listen. He was far too wrapped up in the feeling of fucking you. When you finally tipped over the edge, Scaramouche stopped moving entirely, effectively giving you a very shitty orgasm. He grabbed your hair and hauled you up to him so he could talk to you without pillows getting in the way.

“Did you just fucking cum without asking, princess?”

His voice was sickeningly sweet, and you were terrified of what would come next. He twisted the hair he had grabbed making you cry out.

“Hmmm how should I punish you? Dumb sluts like getting spanked, don’t they?”

You shook your head the best you could with how he had your hair.

“Aw, of course they do.”

He pushed your face back into the pillows and let go of your hair. There was a moment of silence as you waited for what would come next. You felt a sharp pain as his hand came down on your ass. Was he this strong before? You were confident that there would be a red handprint on your ass now. He landed another smack, causing you to emit a little yelp. He continued your punishment until you were shaking and crying. Finally, he decided he was done and wrapped a hand around your throat before once again hauling you upright. He moved his lips next to your ear.

“Don’t try to act like you didn’t like that. I could feel how tight you were.”

You blushed, but before you could respond to him, he started fucking you again, this time hard and fast. Fuck, how did he feel even deeper in you now? He reached a hand around to play with your clit. Fuck, were you going to cum a second time?

“Can I cum? Please, need to so bad.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Instead of stopping like you had expected, he kept fucking you, and within a few seconds, he had you seeing stars. He kept going this time, fucking you through your orgasm. However, he didn’t stop when you were done. He kept going, looking to reach his own end.

“Do you want master to fill you up with his cum? Hmm? Is that what you want?”

“Fuck, yes please, please!”

Scaramouche leaned in to whisper in your ear.

“No.”

“What?”

Suddenly, he let go of you before pushing you back down and flipping you over before finishing on your stomach. Fuck, you were glad you got to see that at least.

“Worthless little whores don’t deserve to be filled with my cum.”

After he said that, some switch seemed to flip in his brain, and he got up to go search for a cloth to clean you up with. He returned and sat next to you on the bed, wiping the cum off of your stomach.

“Are you okay…?”

You were amazed. He looked like a concerned puppy. Was this really the same guy that was telling you how worthless you were a second ago?

“Uh, yeah, I’m alright.”

You stared back at him. But after your confirmation, he seemed to go back to his usual self.

“So uh, does this mean anything…?”

“What?”

“I understand if it doesn’t. It’s okay, I get it. I was just-”

He flicked your forehead.

“Did u miss the part where I told you I have feelings for you? Why would this mean nothing? God, you really are stupid.”

Yep, definitely back to his usual self.

“Wait, so does that mean you wanna like, date?”

He let out a big sigh.

“I suppose I’m willing to have an idiot for a girlfriend.”

“Fine, then I’m willing to have an asshole for a boyfriend!”

He rolled his eyes at you and let out a little laugh before laying down in bed next to you. You didn’t realize how tired you were until you had your head resting on Scaramouche’s chest, and before too long, you had fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

Tag List: @lilia-sspouse @but-a-peach @stannazuna @yourlocal-bunny @lordbugs @randomlycockroach @licensedsimp @leena-shi @cesimaaa @welpthisisfine @dainself-when-playable @fic-rebloga

morbific-or-felicific.

#mae’s daily paper☕️*•̊ⴰ✧#scaramouche.❣︎•*✧ ̊ⴰ #mae.melts🧊*•̊ⴰ✧#this took a surprising amount of time to write the first half of but the second half was so fast so that was good #also i think the scaramouche x kazuha thing was really funny but im also an idiot so #longest fic yet babyyyyyyy #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche smut #genshin smut #genshin x you #afab reader #female reader

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firenati0n · 1 month

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cause you're classic, and i'm reckless

by firenati0n on ao3

T | 5.4k

tags: actor au, first kiss, fluff, alex pov, banter, falling in love

“I've, actually, uh. I've never done this before.” At this, Henry stops short, takes a second as his gaze moves up and to the left, trying to recall something. “I've seen your films. You most certainly have done intimate scenes.” Alex clears his throat. He hopes his nerves aren't completely obvious, the slight waver in his voice about to give him away. “Yeah, well. Never with a man, so. Not at this scale, anyway.” “Would it help to, er, practice?" Henry winces a little as he says it, which does not inspire confidence. But Alex is shocked nonetheless. What the fuck?

xoxo roop

P.s. this was absolutely inspired by THEEEE ryan gosling/rachel mcadams MTV 2005 video. You know the one.

also tagging some folks who expressed interest in this don't mind me <3 ilysm

@sail-not-drift @onward--upward @suseagull04 @littlestar2911 @welcometololaland @dragonflylady77 @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @ninzied @sherryvalli @piratefalls @indestructibleheart @onthewaytosomewhere @heybuddy-drabbles @priincebutt @cactusdragon517 @junebugclaremontdiaz @kiwiana-writes @rmd-writes @eusuntgratie @cha-melodius @bigassbowlingballhead @getmehighonmagic @celeritas2997 @nontoxic-writes @porcelainmortal @4rthurfox

#rwrb fic #fics #rwrb #rwrb fanfiction #roop writes #fic: kissing as practice #hope you love it xoxo #my longest fic yet #kind of came tumbling out randomly and unplanned #thank you to my friends for always uplifting and encouraging me #i love you guys so much

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emlovessid · 3 months

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@jegulus-microfic january 23, perform, 486 words part one, part three

After he gets over the shock enough to sweep up the shards of his mug from the floor, Regulus sits down on his couch and pulls out his phone, googling James Potter. While there was still a tiny sliver of him that wasn’t completely convinced, there’s no doubt left in him now as he looks through the search results.

Because pictured under the headline Global superstar, James Potter, set to headline summer tour across the US is the very same James who was here in his flat only last week; in his kitchen, in his shower, in his bed.

Pulling up his contacts, he clicks on James’ number and brings his phone to his ear.

After ringing a couple of times, James answers, “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise.”

James isn’t wrong. While they text back and forth, and literally can’t stay away from each other whenever James is in town, they haven’t really progressed to just chatting on the phone; until now.

“How’s Edinburgh?”

“Oh, you know. Raining.”

Regulus looks out his own window at the rain that has been steadily falling for days; it comforts him, like he can almost pretend that James is just across town, instead of in another country.

“So, this is a little embarrassing, but I’ve just come across a bit of information that makes me think I might be the least observant person on the planet,” Regulus begins, the sound of James’ laughter filling his ear.

“Okay, go on.”

“I heard your new song.”

“Oh, they’re playing it already? I sent you a vinyl with a very nice thank you card that you were supposed to get before it was released,” James groans. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not. It’s a beautiful song. It’s just,” Regulus pauses, a little nervous as he says, “You’re James Potter.”

“Yes?” His confusion is obvious in his voice, and Regulus can imagine the exact look he’s sure he has on his face right now.

“You’re James Potter. And I had no fucking idea.”

A pause. “Wait, really? Holy shit, I definitely thought you knew.”

“Here I was, imagining that you perform in pubs in front of like, fifty people. When you’re actually out there performing in front of fifty thousand. I’m such an idiot.”

He can hear laughter in James’ voice, laughter he’s definitely trying to hold back as he says, “I’m sorry. I really thought – it’d be a bit pretentious of me to introduce myself and be like, I’m James Potter, you might have heard of me, you know?”

“Oh this is definitely on me, not on you,” Regulus says. “Anyway, just wanted to fill you in on that revelation. Now I’m going to go off and listen to your entire discography. And read every article ever written about you. Bye.”

The last thing he hears before hanging up is James’ booming laugh.

#famous james is back you guys #in i think my longest microfic yet #jegulus #jegulus fic #marauders #sometimes i write things

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ambrozjas · 2 months

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Could you do a song-fic with Sodapop Curtis w/ the song "Stupid Cupid" by Connie Francis? Love your writing, take your time 💕

stupid cupid ꨄ︎

sodapop curtis x fem!reader

✧˖*°࿐ notes 🧸ᰔᩚ

THIS WAS SITTING IN MY INBOX FOR SO LONG BUT I LITERALLY LOCKED IN FOR THIS FIC ITS SO CUTE I SWEAR JUST READ ITTT

✧˖*°࿐ warnings ᰔᩚ

reader is referred to as a girl and a lady, reader is called gorgeous and beautiful, beginning of this fic has soda in highschool so it takes place before the outsiders

✧˖*°࿐ word count ᰔᩚ

1609 words, 8588 characters

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄

stupid cupid, you’re a real mean guy

i’d like to clip your wings so you can’t fly

it felt like the roman god of love had shot sodapop right through the heart, and boy did soda hate it. that’s all that he thought while he gazed at you, chin held in palm as he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. when the school air had a chokehold on everybody, it left out you. you looked absolutely divine. soda wondered if the gods, if there were any or it was just some stories made up to fill the minds of lovesick kids like himself, favored you. because as he looked at you, the sun just seemed to reflect off you just right, to where it coated the side of your face with a honey orange. you looked like an angel sent on earth, disguised as a teenager in soda’s highschool. he asked himself what you were doing in tulsa rather than some other fancy state like california.

i’m in love and it’s a crying shame

and i know that you’re the one to blame

“mr. curtis.” a stern voice broke through to sodapop, breaking the stained glass that in soda’s mind, was a mural of you and only you.

he snapped his neck to look up at the teacher, hovering over his desk as a finger harshly pointed at the paper on soda’s desk, almost empty.

“uh—sorry, sir.” mumbled sodapop as he grabbed his pencil and put his best thinking face on, hoping that the teacher would take the hint and retreat back to his old scratched up desk that looked like it had survived world war one.

the teacher narrowed his eyes at him, his upper lip curling into a sneer as he looked down at soda, before slowly walking back to his desk.

soda comically sighed in relief, taking one more glance back at you. he pressed his lips together tightly as he saw you talking to your friends. he always loved seeing you smile.

he exhaled sharply, earning another warning look from his teacher. soda tilted his head down as he studied the math problems below him, cradling his hand in his hand as his brain tried his best to work.

hey, hey set me free

stupid cupid, stop picking on me

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈ ｡ﾟ

i cant do my homework and i cant think straight

“what’s up with you?” ponyboy asked, not looking up from his book. in the corner of his eye, he watched sodapop bounce his leg vigorously as he tried to rub his temples to somehow think better.

“nothin’, pony. don’t worry ‘bout it.” soda responded. he threw his head back to lean on the top of the chair, he was really out of ideas. all that occupied his mind was you. he was writing an essay? you pop up into his brain, he accidentally writes your name to which he has to erase afterwards with red ears.

i meet her every morning ‘bout half past eight

i’m acting like a lovesick fool

you even got me carrying your books to school

how could sodapop miss this once in a lifetime opportunity? he just had to talk to you. one day, when you guys met before school, your breath both evident in the cold oklahoma morning, you made a joke about soda carrying your stuff for you.

“here, be a gentleman, yeah?” a laugh slipper past your lips, and when soda heard that gorgeous sound come out of your mouth, how could he deny you?

your mouth fell into an ‘o’ shape, not even getting the word out before soda grabbed the books from under your arm and held them under his.

you tilted your head as a smile graced your face. gosh, were there wedding bells? soda definitely heard them.

“y’know i was jokin’, right?” you asked, making sure you weren’t forcing him into doing anything. “i can take them back if you want—“

“nah, it’s alright.“ he brushed it off, waving his free hand dismissively before starting again, “plus, you’re right. how could i leave a pretty lady to carry her books on her own?” to that, you sheepishly grinned wider as you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear shyly when you looked away.

you mixed me up for good right from the very start

hey now, go play robin hood with somebody else’s heart

the more that soda talked with you, the harder it was to get you out of his head. but the more he talked with you, the less he minded.

soda had dropped out of school. sure, you somewhat contributed to him failing with how much you occupied his head, but it was also on his own.

he was working at the dx with steve, working on cars all day to especially help darry out.

soda wiped his face with his forearm, cleaning his oily rag as steve rambled about something in the background. he hadn’t seen you in awhile, considering that instead of walking with you to school, darry had dropped steve and soda off at work.

but suddenly, the door tripped the bell, giving it a loud ring as soda looked up at who was walking through the door. and speak of the devil.

he could recognize you just from your sneakers. his head whipped back up to meet your eyes, and gosh was it refreshing to see your face again. a soft smile still remained on your face, as it usually did.

“sodapop! so you really was workin’ here, huh?” you asked, eyes roaming around the multitude of shelves in the gas station interior.

soda’s mouth gaped, opening and closing like a fish. he watched as you walked up to the register and drummed your hands lightly on the counter.

“yeah!”, soda finally managed to blurt out, “how’ve you been? anythin’ new happen at school?” he asked, hearing steve finally shut up. soda could just imagine his ears pricking up at the sound of a pretty girl’s voice appearing.

“nothin’ much,” you leaned in and put a hand to the side of your mouth in a secretive manner, “mandy got pregnant.” soda gasped as he comically brought a hand up to his mouth. you guys whispered and gossiped, steve eyeballing both of you cautiously before slinging an arm around soda’s shoulders and brashly giving him a loud, “who’s this, soda?”

sodapop squinted at his friend and slowly turned his head, full of embarrassment. your eyes darted between the two of them, before giving steve a small wave and quietly giving him your name. your eyes fell back on soda, “well, i was just wonderin’ if you’d like to go to the drive-in wit’ me on saturday?”

“yeah, sure!” why was he acting like such a dork now? in front of the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen? but he sighed with relief when you nodded, giving him the same sweet smile you always greeted him with.

you got me jumping like a crazy clown

and i don’t feature what you’re putting down

once you had left the dx, soda went out to the garage and almost squealed, punching the air in excitement. steve narrowed his eyes as he watched through the garage windows, genuinely considering if soda was possessed or not.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈ ｡ﾟ

saturday couldn’t come quicker. it was already a great time leading up to the date, soda was confident. he was looked at himself in the mirror, popping his collar with assertiveness and heading out the door.

during the actual date, he tried to make subtle moves. shifting closer to you, touching thighs or linking pinkies. although you seemed okay with it, there was no engagement on your part. that almost worried soda, he knew you asked him on a date, but he was still overthinking. was he not all you expected? was he doing too much? too little?

but at the end of the date, when he drove you home in darry’s car that he begged to drive in, a small silence fell over you when you had reached your destination.

“y’need me to walk you up?”

“it’s alright, but do me a quick favor, will you?” soda couldn’t tear his eyes off your mouth when you spoke, lips painted a wine maroon color that somehow flowed so delicately with your words.

“anything.” was all soda said, before you placed your hand on the side of his cheek, giving him enough time to pull away, before closing your eyes and kissing him.

in that moment, it felt like you two were the only people in the world. just you, and soda, crammed into darry’s truck in the darkness of the night, only illuminated by the small light above you two on the car’s roof.

when you pulled away, you looked at soda’s lips, slightly parted and stained with a light purple-ish red as he looked at you, absolutely mesmerized.

“thank you. i’ll make sure to drop by the dx on my way home, ‘kay?” you said, not waiting for an answer as you bolted out of the vehicle due to your nearing curfew.

well since i’ve kissed her loving lips of wine

the thing that bothers me is that i like it fine

all soda could do was gape as he watched you depart into the sea of outside lights surrounding your front door and windows, watching you turn around give him a small wave once you opened the front door.

still dazed, all soda could do was wave back. before a wide grin appeared on his face as he covered his eyes with his hands.

stupid cupid, sodapop thought.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ this better get some likes i worked my ass off for this little fic and it’s only a thousand words 😭😭

kiss kiss ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

#the outsiders x reader #the outsiders #sodapop curtis #sodapop curtis x reader #i love sodapop omg #literally my bae #sodapop blurb #sodapop the outsiders #sodapop x reader #sodapop imagine #the outsiders sodapop #i’m so proud of this fic #my longest one yet #1k words #i legit locked in #ambrozjas #kiss kiss

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takonxmz · 3 months

Text

A series of stories about modern exorcists, the ghosts to whom they become tied, and the various vengeances that they may or may not take.

(A modern-with-cultivation AU for MDZS, originally inspired by Beetlejuice and now gone entirely off the rails.)

A takonxmz series of podfics of ghost stories written by @dangerouscommiesubversive

Listen on ao3 here 🔗⤵️

Jiangzai x3: A Story About Death

songxuexiao | total podfic length: 01:25:13

Interior Design

sangcheng | total podfic length: 01:58:51

Gimme Shelter

wangxian | total podfic length: 2:10:28

Writ In Blood

xiyao | total podfic length: 2:08:45

#aaaaaaaaaaaaaa #i just finished the most high production podfic series i have ever done #there are accents i never touched before until this series #if all the fics in this series were just one big fic then this would be considered my longest podfic ever #and there was editing ... so .... much ........ editing !!!!#i didn't realized how much growth and development i'd go through in the process of recording and editing and producing these #some of my more highly produced works are these podfics (maybe after 39 Seconds podfic which had a LOT of foley effect and sfx?)#anyway the last fic of the series hasn't been posted yet so .... for me this is like. the end. for now. the completion of this series.#so i'm a bit emotional ok!!!!!#self promo #tako podfics #mdzs #my art #pentel brush pen #xiyao #songxuexiao #sangcheng #wangxian #lan wangji #lan xichen #a-qing #jiang cheng #colored ink

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kaaaaaaarf · 4 months

Text

Guys I have 8k of Hatefuck 3 written and I haven't even gotten to the smut yet 👀

#this is going to be the longest one yet #might have to split it into two chapters #fic: hatefuck #wolfstar

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serasfanfiction · 29 days

Text

CW for Alastor being Alastor, but that's to be expected. This chapter is all from his POV.

Alastor was having what he might call an exceptionally good day, if he did say so himself.

His mobility was almost back to normal, that pesky little parting gift Adam had left him having practically healed itself overnight. Why, he'd even been able to remove the stitches!

He had seen some improvement over the last month, agonizingly slow as it had been. Consuming the flesh and souls of other sinners had certainly sped things up a bit, but only finitely. He had resigned himself to the fact that healing would be a slow process, especially after the first time he pushed too hard and undid all the work he'd done up until that point. It had grated on him, but he could be patient.

If there was anything he was good at, it was being patient and bidding his time.

Getting a taste of angel's blood, though? Not just a taste, but a real go at it? Oh, now that had changed everything.

He hadn't had a chance at the holy feast following the last Extermination. He'd been too busy licking his wounds and trying not to bleed out. By the time he'd been able to pull himself together, figuratively and literally, the bodies were long gone. There had been claims about the rejuvenating effects some had experienced following eating of the flesh and drinking of the blood, but as it hadn't been a process they could readily replicate, it had done him little good.

Then none other than Lucifer Morningstar had offered himself up, willingly placing himself on the menu.

When the little king had done that little trick, the thought had crossed Alastor's mind. He was only human (deceased though he may be) and this was the father of temptation himself. Granted, it was likely Lucifer was used to being sexually desired, but hunger of a carnal nature had never been one of Alastor's sins. His hunger for the flesh had stopped at the actual eating of the flesh.

And Alastor craved nothing more than he craved the flesh of others like him.

He appreciated the irony of the whole deer situation. Karma being a bitch, and all that. His death in a hunting accident, of all things. Him, a predator in life, being reduced to a prey animal in the next. The Wendigo that lay beneath the surface, a very real manifestation of his hunger now a permanent part of his being. In life, he had hungered for the flesh of humans. In death, while he could still enjoy the odd sinner here and there, it was akin to 'empty calories,' he believed they were called. They curbed his hunger, for a little while, but it never quite seemed to hit the spot.

No, nothing quite filled him up the way venison did.

Before the creation of his bayou, he'd had to rely on the odd deer demon that appeared on the rare occasion. He was hardly the only one, but there never seemed to be enough of them. Butcher shops occasionally helped, but it never seemed enough. He'd been near ravenous towards the end there.

It had played a part in him making his deal. He'd wanted power, make no mistake, but he'd also wanted some control back over this gnawing pit in his very being. The ability to bend reality in small patches, to create the bayou (to reclaim a hint of home), had been such a welcome turn of events he'd almost felt what he gave up in exchange was worth it.

So he couldn't help but wonder, while Lucifer flashed those ears at him and called the very features that had nearly undone him 'cute,' how deep did the transformation go? Could a mimic sate his hunger as good as the real thing? The possibility that the seraphim blood might have rejuvenate powers didn't hurt, either

It would have been everything he needed, served to him in a little red and white package.

It had been pipe dream, he'd thought at the time. Nothing to seriously entertain. Despite appearances to the contrary, he did know he had limits. Adam had just been an oversight. His growth in power had never truly been tested and well.

Lesson learned. He wasn't keen to try his luck just yet, especially not injured and his microphone broken, limiting his power.

But then Lucifer had done something so left field, Alastor still wasn't entirely certain he hadn't imagined it: a trade of his blood for some good behavior. In deer form, no less! The opportunity had been so good he'd had to hold onto his eagerness by the skin of his teeth.

Everything about the experience had not been a disappointment. Not only had he'd gotten quite a bit of entertainment out of the exchange, but it turned out the stories had been true. Within a few short hours of consuming Lucifer's blood, the wound indeed showed marked improvement.

The real treat, however, was that the hunger had indeed fallen silent. Oh, it had returned in due time, but how long it had stayed away! His appetite had only just been seriously returning when the first attack on the hotel happened, providing him with quite the meal and even a handful of angel's blood. He'd felt positively spoiled.

Getting to see the little seraphim in his full demonic glory had been interesting, as well. He'd known Lucifer had wiped the floor with Adam, despite Niffty being the one to kill him, but it was always different seeing it.

This was Hell's King. This was the entity the stories had talked about. All that power, right there on display, and all Alastor had wanted in that moment was to have this being underneath him again. Wanted to see how far he could push. To see how much Lucifer would let him take.

(Alastor wasn't certain what had possessed him to reach for Lucifer in that moment. Wasn't certain what he would have done had the little king decided to take him up on his offer. Had he simply wanted to hold that power in his hands? To burn himself on it?)

And oh, how his patience had paid off.

Such a huge gain and all it had cost Alastor was a night of his company and some information. Information Lucifer really should have already known, at that.

Now, Alastor was full and so very near hale and hearty again. Why, he was close to being able to tackling fixing his microphone soon!

Perhaps if he could have another feeding in the future...

Ah, but it wouldn't do to get used to this. Three times was already far more than he could have ever imagined, plus it never paid to put his wellbeing in the hands of others. They were so often unreliable. There were only two people in Heaven or Hell that he trusted, and neither of them resided in the hotel.

So, Alastor put the idea aside and went about his day as normal. If he had an extra skip to his walk, and his smile a touch more sanguine that normal, to the point he was receiving some nervous side glances, well, all the more entertainment for him.

He was feeling so well, in fact, he felt up to taking a little jaunt to visit one of his favorite people.

Cannibal Town was as lively as ever, despite their numbers had seen some reduction during Heaven's assault on the hotel. Rosie's Emporium, always the main attraction, was not lacking for people lined up to see their Overlord. The line was already starting to snake out the door.

Alastor strolled in, not minding the line in the slightest. Rosie always made time for him.

Sure enough, the woman in question looked up at the sound of the door opening, her ever-present smile widening in delight on seeing him. She never paused in whatever affair she was discussing with her current client, but she did make an effort to finish it up a touch bit faster.

He stood off to the side politely, waiting to see if now was a bad time or not. He wasn't bringing her anything other than his company and this was an impromptu visit.

"Alastor!" She greeted, loud and affectionate. "A visit twice in one month! You certainly know how to spoil a girl."

Alastor felt that little black thing that served as his heart warm with the genuine sincerity being shown his way. He matched her smile with an honest one himself. "Only those who deserve it, my dear, and you always do."

Rosie placed a hand to her cheek, bemused. "Oh, you." She waved over to one of the tables. "Now tell little ol' me what brings you here. You haven't gotten yourself into any more trouble, have you?"

He could hear a hint of concern in her voice and resolved to bring her a gift the next time he came over. "Oh, you know me. I'm always up for something exciting." He let her maneuver him into a chair set up at a table for two. "In this case, I was up for a walk and thought I'd indulge in your company, if you'll have me."

The Victorian Overlord's body language eased ever so slightly, adding to the suspicion she might have been worried. "Always, dear." She pressed a seemingly delicate finger to her lips. "Give me 30 minutes to clear this lot out and I'm all yours!"

He nodded, and she gave him a light pat on the shoulder as she went back to her work, pausing only briefly to have one of her workers send over a pot of tea. He spent the next half hour sipping on the latest delightful blend she was offering, watching the cannibals coming and going. Most were asking for the same thing they always did: someone wanting someone else to disappear, usually in a body bag they would of course hand over to Rosie.

After what he was sure was thirty minutes and no more (not that he would have honestly timed her, why, that would have been discourteous), his fellow Overlord was escorting the last of her clients out the door. Business completed, she turned on her guest. "Now that all of that work stuff is out of the way," Rosie said as she came to sit in the chair across from the redhead, "Come now, tell me all the gossip! Surely something juicy happened with how lively you're looking today."

Alastor supposed he shouldn't be surprised that she had seen through his mask the last time he'd been here. He'd needed to get away from hotel, just for a bit, as the strain of hiding his wound was wearing on him. None of his usual acquaintances had suspected a thing, and he had wanted to keep it that way.

But Rosie was hardly an 'acquaintance.'

He supposed since she knew already, it wouldn't hurt to assure her the worst was past. He also supposed he had a gift for her after all. Lowering the cup to the saucer on the table, he assured, "You could say I recently benefited from a rather unexpected deal recently."

Rosie raised an eyebrow expectantly, "Well, don't keep a girl waiting! Details!"

Because he was a little bit of a drama queen, he waiting until she had raised her own cup to her lips before he stated, "It turns out that all the rumors about angel blood is true, even more so for seraphim blood."

It was only because she had perfect control that she did not, if fact, choke on her drink. Rosie started at him for a long moment, trying to see if he was serious. When it became clear he was, she stated, "Well, shit, you certainly don't go small, do you?" She leaned forward, placing her free hand over one of his. "This deal didn't put you in a tough spot, now did it?"

Alastor's smile softened. "None of that, my dear." He didn't like to touch people, anymore than he liked being touched in return, but Rosie had always been kind to him, so he placed his other hand on top of hers and gave it a squeeze. "All that was asked for was a who's who on Pentagram City's current political landscape."

Rosie tilted her head to the side, the feather in her hat swaying with the motion. When she withdrew her hand, Alastor released it. "Our King is showing interest in his kingdom?" She blinked, more than a little surprised. He didn't blame her. "My, what could have brought this little development about?"

Alastor pulled both hands from the table, a subtle cue he had had enough tactile contact for the day, although he wasn't completely closing himself off from it. "Someone has been sending mercenaries to attack the hotel. Drivel, mostly. Little more than snacks on the whole." He hummed in memory of all the free morsels that had been sent his way, lately. "The attacks haven't done anything, really, other than rile his Majesty up." He gave her a look of amusement. "He's begun an investigation into who might be behind the attacks and asked after us Overlords. I gave you a good word, of course."

It was a testament to how quick-witted she was that Rosie barely blinked over the idea that their sovereign had apparently not only crawled out of the wood work, but was also finally taking an interest in his kingdom again. "Oh, of course you did." She flapped a hand at Alastor. "Do tell him if he ever want to visit, he's more than welcome!"

Alastor made a noise of acknowledgement. "He's quite the character, our king. I'm sure you'd find him... amusing." Amongst other things, he thought to himself as he sipped on the last of his tea.

Ever the host, Rosie noticed. "Oh, dear me, let me refill that." She raised the pot of tea to do so, offering, "You know, I just remembered: we got in a fresh body just this morning. Would you like an arm?"

The redhead considered the request, but found himself much too full. Whatever room he'd had available had already been taken up by his drink. "I thank you kindly for the offer, but sadly must pass this time." He placed his now empty cup on its saucer. "Why, I dare say I might have to wait on another cup of this delicious tea."

Rosie didn't have pupils that Alastor had ever been able to track, yet he had the distinct impression he was being looked up and down. "That blood must have been quite the thing to curb an appetite like yours." She shrugged before pulling over a box of ring fingers. Some even still had the rings on them. "Hm, knowing you, a certain someone might have to worry about her seat - if she ever intends to come back."

Alastor paused. Rosie did that sometimes: said things that threw him for a loop. "What now?"

She waved a finger in a circle to indicate the entirety of her guest, her smile all teeth and knowing. "Come now, Alastor, I don't think I've ever seen you in such a state before. I almost think you have intentions towards the king!"

The redhead tilted his head to the side, considering. Did he have intentions towards Lucifer? He certainly wouldn't mind having another go at his blood. Riling him up had yet to get old.

The urge to hunt, sated though it was at the moment, thrummed through his veins. Here was the ultimate prey, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to turn the tides.

The memory of the smell of apples and something he'd come to associate with Lucifer rose to mind. Of warm, pale alabaster skin beneath his lips. The feel of hands that could so easily crush him carding gently, absentmindedly, through his hair.

For the first time since their little games had started, though, Alastor realized that sitting beside the urge to devour was the urge to keep.

He examined the thought. He meant it when he said he delt primarily in favors. There were so few souls that interested him enough to keep long term. They were usually individuals who ranked as powerhouses themselves. Investments first, entertainment second.

This urge resembled that desire, but not quite. He certainly wanted access to the power contained within that tiny little package that called himself the King, but beyond that, he was beginning to think he might want to own Lucifer in every sense of the word.

Well. That was certainly quite the turn.

He turned his attention back to the world outside his own head, finding his fellow Overlord watching him and patiently waiting for him to sort out his thoughts. "I'm afraid, my dear, I don't have an answer to that, but you have given me quite the food for thought."

Rosie, bless her, didn't press. Knowing how perceptive she was on matters of the song and dance that was interpersonal relationships, it was likely she knew more than he did.

He really was thankful he made an ally of her rather than an enemy.

The rest of their chat was turned to less deep conversation. Soon enough, she sent him on his way, but not before warning, "Now be careful, Alastor. Kitten our King may be, I saw how fierce he can be when pressed."

If it didn't mean acquiring one of those silly picture boxes, Alastor might have been inclined break down and watch whatever that voyeur Vox had filmed of the fight on Extermination Day. Incidentally, his pride point blank period refused to allow him to let such a thing anywhere near his person if he didn't have to. "Don't worry, dear. It's all merely a thought. I won't do anything lest I know there's a chance at success."

That seemed to mull her over. They said their goodbyes, and he was off back to the hotel.

The conundrum that was his entanglement with Lucifer followed him all the way back to the hotel, dogging his steps as he went through the rest of his day. He didn't see the blonde at any point before he retired for bed, which was likely for the best, as Alastor was distracted and unlikely to be at the top of his game.

He didn't see him throughout any point of the following day either, not that he was looking for him. He didn't give it a second thought, not until he came upon Hell's princess halfway into a tizzy in the main gathering room.

"But Vaggie! He hasn't come down in almost two days!" Charlie wrang her hands together, glancing at the ceiling in the general direction of her father's room. "What if something's wrong?"

Vaggie had a hand on her girlfriend's shoulder, as much a comfort as it was a restraint. "What did he say when you knocked on the door?"

The hotel's owner bit her lip. "Just that he wanted to stay in for a bit. But that was yesterday. He didn't even respond at all when I knocked this morning."

"And you're sure he's still here? That he didn't leave?"

Charlie nodded. "His door is locked. He doesn't bother to lock it if he's not in."

Well, that's a silly thing to do, Alastor thought to himself. He filed it away for later. Deciding he was curious enough to join the conversation, especially since it seemed he might have been the last to see Lucifer. It would be bothersome if anyone thought he'd done anything to him when he really hadn't yet.

Alastor allowed his corporeal form to dissipate, only to reform right behind Vaggie. "What's this I hear about our esteemed leader disappearing?"

"Shit!" The fallen angel jumped, just as he hoped. Predictably, she spun around, bringing the point of her spear right up to his nose. "Cut it out, asshole. We don't have time for your games right now."

Alastor smiled down at her, as calm as a undisturbed pond, taking hold of the end of the spear and redirecting it away from his face. "And who's playing around? I heard our dear Charlie in distress and just had to see if I could help in anyway."

Vaggie narrowed her eye at him. One day, he was going to drive her to actually attempt to stab him. It would be such an entertaining day when it happened.

Charlie sniffed. She didn't necessarily look relieved to see him becoming involved, which, fair, but he could see something easing in her stance.

It was such a delight to see how much she'd grown to rely on him.

Stepping around the most hostile entity in the room like she wasn't holding a certified deadly weapon, Alastor came up to stand beside Charlie. "Tell me, do you have any reason to believe something might be wrong?"

She searched his face for any hint of falsehood. Any hint that he might use this against them.

She wasn't going to find any. She was learning to be more cautious of him, but she still had a long way to go before she'd see through his carefully constructed persona.

"Well... maybe?" She offered at last. He could see it in her eyes, her drooped shoulders: a certain helplessness. It was different from the kind that had driven her to make a deal with him. This kind was old, the sort that came from a time before the autonomy of adulthood. Likely this issue had roots in her childhood. "Mom used to say that Dad just kind of shut down sometimes. Worse than normal." She glanced at her girlfriend, likely for moral support, and then back at him. "Mom said it wasn't good to leave him alone during those times."

Alastor pushed down the eager swell that might have given up the game. Was it really going to be this easy? "And you think this might be one of those times?"

She mulled over this. Nodded, and then shrugged. "It's possible, but without getting past the lock..."

"I tried to pick the lock," Angel put out from where he was lounging on the couch, feet across Husk's lap. Husk, curiously, didn't appear to mind.

Charlie winced. "Yes, which is really not good! We shouldn't pick people's doors."

Angel shrugged, unbothered by the reprimand. "Didn't matter, either way. Turns out the door's magically locked." He made a handsy gesture with his top set of hands to emphasis his point.

Alastor looked between the two. "Is it warded?"

Everyone turned to look at him in confusion. Charlie blinked. "Warded?"

Oh, how quaint this lot was. "Magically locking the door means no one can unlock the door without breaking the spell. Unless the door is warded, there's nothing to stop someone from going, say, under the door."

Vaggie crossed her arms, posture irritated. "We can't go under the door, Alastor."

If he had his mic, he might have bopped her on the head just to mess with her. As it was, Alastor settled for smiling ever so sweetly at her as he pointed out, "Ah, maybe you can't, but it just so happens, I can."

Charlie shifted, uncertain. "You promise you won't make things worse...?"

She was so close that he could practically taste it.

Alastor placed a hand on her shoulder, softening his expression. "Now now, dear, we both know your father is hardly helpless. If he doesn't want me in there, he's more than capable of kicking me out."

Vaggie snorted, glaring viciously at him. "Yeah, not that that's ever stopped you."

Charlie glanced at her, warningly, before looking back at Alastor. She sighed and placed her hand over his. Feeling generous, he let her. "Alastor, please check on him, just... don't push, okay?"

Nothing but a formal deal was going to guarantee that, but he didn't have to advertise it. "I promise to be on my best behavior."

Her smile really was like sunlight breaking on the horizon when it wasn't being forced. She jerked forward as if she'd wanted to go for a hug but had aborted it at the last minute. Instead, she squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Alastor."

He disappeared into his shadow, partially to avoid her changing her mind and going for that hug, but also to avoid any further stipulations on his task. Between the quality of his last meal and the leaps and bounds in the healing of his wound, traveling by shadow was almost as easy as it had been before his injury. Seraphim blood was a marvel. It was such a pity that there was so little of it in Hell.

Alastor had studied the entirety of the hallway that made up his and Lucifer's floor along with the rest of the hotel the first opportunity he got upon his return. His inspection had stopped at white doors, whose handles were adorned with the same apple accents that littered the rest of the hotel. As he slipped under them, he could smell the magic on the handles. True to his suspicion, the spell was only on the lock itself, with nothing to guard again something like a shadow slipping right under the door.

It seemed Alastor's self-restraint in light of his injury had paid off, because nothing hindered him in anyway as he made his way into the room of the most powerful being Hell.

Alastor stuck to the outskirts of the room, where the darkest shadows gathered. It wasn't difficult, as most of the room was in shadow, the curtains drawn with very little natural light peaking in underneath them. The room was silent in a way that, at first, suggested that no one was in.

Perhaps Lucifer had gone out and failed to tell anyone, after all?

Tentatively, Alastor returned to his corporeal form, keeping to the darkest shadow the room he could find. When nothing and no one came flying at him, he turned his attention to the room at large.

Overall, the room appeared sparsely furnished. There was a rug laid out in front of the door. Chairs surrounding a table big enough for two over on one side of the room. The fireplace didn't appear to have ever been used, but it was there. A couple of bookshelves and a desk were the most lived in, but that was only because they were covered in small, yellow shapes he couldn't quite make out in the dark. A bed took up most of the final wall. It was perhaps the grandest thing about the room, looking every bit fit for the king who slept in it. Two side tables sat on either side of it, both with a lamp of their own.

As for the king himself, now that he was looking for it, Alastor could see the faintest outline of a shape near the left side of the bed. Creeping closer, he could see a pair of familiar boots and coat laying on the floor. A little closer, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room, he could see a pair of mimicked deer ears poking out the top of the nest of blankets.

For a long moment, Alastor simply stood there, looking down at the lump. His ears were strained for the first sign that his presence had been noticed, but so far there had been none. He could feel his grin widening with each beat of his heart that passed. There were so many things he could do in that moment and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

There was a part of him, the part that was still human and remembered what it was like to be human, that wanted to finish the job he'd started two days ago. When he'd been alive, allowing a victim to live would have been tantamount to a death sentence. A living victim could become a witness who could identify him to the authorities and then the game would be up.

Lucifer wasn't just a potential victim. He was the authorities. He was the highest authority.

After his death, Alastor hadn't had to hide who he was or what he was like. It was simply a kill or be killed world, where one's continued existence depended on brains and reputation.

And oh what a reputation the Radio Demon would gain, if he took out the King of Hell himself?

The chain - noose - around his neck sat heavy and loud, ever grating against his sanity. The memory of Husk's deal held so easily in a dark grey hand brought him back down to himself. Reminded him why he wanted to keep the little king around.

There was no other reason. There could be no other reason.

He admitted to himself that it might be interesting to just stand there, looming as he waited for Lucifer to awaken. The subconscious was a funny thing and people on the whole didn't appreciate being stared at when they slept. The general consensus was that it was creepy. It was half the reason he enjoyed doing it and it always left the victim feeling off balance. When his majesty continued to not respond, Alastor also admitted to himself that while he did normally enjoy such a plan, he wasn't that patient.

Ready to spring away, if necessary, Alastor reached out until those tantalizing ears were just under his hand. Unrepentantly, he flicked one of them.

The ear twitched violently, the lump beneath the blanket shuddered, ear going flat. Grey hands appeared along the edge of the blanket, pulling it down for Lucifer peer up at him.

The sinner waved his fingers by way of greeting at his king, who stared back at him with a pair of tired, dead eyes.

Lucifer blinked at him, once, twice... and then pulled the covers back over his head??

Alastor felt the glitch to his system, spitting static. Did Lucifer think he could just ignore Alastor and he'd go away?

Oh, no. Oh no, that wouldn't do at all.

Time to throw away the preverbal Nice Guy gloves. He clapped his hands once, sharply, one shadow going for the lamp on the side desk while another went for the end of the covers. With vindictive amusement, the covers were ripped clean off the bed, while the flick of a switch bathed the room in light. A third shadow went for the curtains, yanking them aside to let the afternoon light in. Over the low groans of the bed's occupant, Alastor proclaimed at just high enough a volume to be annoying, "Rise and shine, your Majesty! You've nearly slept the day away, but there's still some time left to enjoy it."

The blonde still didn't look like he gave any sort of fuck that someone was standing over his bed harassing him. Alastor took in the rumpled state of his king's clothing - he was still dressed in his suit, sans the pieces on the floor - as Lucifer threw an arm over his eyes in a futile attempt to block out the light. Without a word, he merely rolled over, presenting his back to Alastor, as if he wasn't a concern in the slightest. His tail didn't even so much a flick once.

Alastor narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth. It ground his gears more than a bit to be so blatantly treated as so little a threat, but the more he took in the situation, the more it drove home what Charlie had meant by 'just kind of shut down.' With the absence of the quilt and sheets, the reek of melancholy wafted off Lucifer in waves, nearly overpowering his usual scent. Little things observed over time - the most damning being what was glimpsed during their last encounter - and Alastor recognized what he was looking at.

Lucifer Morningstar, the Devil and King of Hell was depressed. Deeply, truly, very depressed.

This was the potential opportunity he was looking for. Alastor would have to be blind not to see it. Getting close to Charlie had given him influence over Hell's future ruler as well as a possible solution to his ...other problem. It was a long game he'd been more than willing to play for the potential future rewards.

This here was the king, himself, though. As he'd just thought to himself: the highest authority in Hell. Lucifer didn't have much by way of political influence beyond the people's fear of his power. He clearly wasn't willing to use his authority to rule over his kingdom, first advocating it to his much more interested wife, before abandoning it altogether when she left.

On the other hand, who didn't know who he was? The other side of the coin to God himself, Lucifer was one of the most well known beings in all of creation, the originator and father of sin himself. The being who'd given humanity their free will and so neatly interrupted his holy father's plans.

Lucifer's interest in politics may have been nonexistent, but his reputation more than made up for it.

Could he do it, Alastor wondered to himself. Could he force himself into something companion shaped enough to meet the needs another just for power? He'd already debased himself so much already - it was how he landed in his current situation, in every sense of the word - could he do it a little more?

Static emitted from his throat, his desire - his desperation - to be free at war with his pride, tattered though it's remains were. Companionship usually came with other expectations. Expectations that included touching, amongst other things. The mere thought made him want to claw his own skin off and nothing had even happened yet.

He hadn't realized he'd moved until he heard a squeak from the direction of the floor. Attention diverted, Alastor craned his head around, hearing his own neck cracking in the process, as he tried to get a better look at whatever it was he had stepped on. He blinked when he saw the object, unable to resist reaching down to pick up the item to better exam it.

It was... a rubber duckie?

Lips parting in his bafflement, he twisted around to look towards the desk and shelves he remembered seeing earlier. The light of the lamp and the outside world illuminated the yellow objects, revealing them to be a mass pile of what were indeed rubber duckies. Every single one of them was some degree of different from the others, but they were all unmistakably the same thing. There had to be over a hundred of them. Some of them were new, but some of them were old, likely brought over from the palace.

Disgust curled up in his chest like a living thing. Disgust at himself. Disgust at Lucifer for being living proof that power doesn't mean a damn thing in the end. His anger made him reckless, blind to the potential consequences, as Alastor asked, "Is this why they left?"

For the first time since entering the room, he finally gained Lucifer's attention. "What?"

The single word sounded like a warning, but Alastor had already picked up too much momentum. He knew he liked to poke where he shouldn't, that it could be the death of him one day. Perhaps today was going be that day. In that moment, weighted down by everything, he almost didn't care. "While your people were getting slaughtered and your wife's kingdom was being burned to the ground, were you making children's toys?"

Lazily, damningly, like the final nail in his own coffin, he spun around back to the lump that would be his king. He sneered.

"How pathetic."

The only warning he had was the flicking of that silly, ridiculous tail.

Suddenly, the room was spinning. No, he was falling - being pulled? - onto the bed. His back made contact with the mattress and he got a brief glimpse of the ceiling before it was replaced by Lucifer.

Who was livid. Hands like stone pinned Alastor down at the wrists. The rest of Lucifer's body weight rested on the sinner's hips, one leg resting on either side of his body. Every single one of his fangs were visible as he bared his teeth in a snarl mere inches from Alastor's nose. "Who are you to judge me? You dare to speak of things you know nothing about?!"

Eyes void of pupils glared down at him, staring down into his very soul. Feeling exposed, feeling vulnerable, Alastor's flight or fight response kicked in, sending his heart rate through the roof. He tried to dissolve into his shadow, only to find himself unable to do so.

In response to his distress, he shadows rose up, diving in to take out his attacker. Lucifer didn't even acknowledge them. His wings appeared behind him, flooding the room with a bright light that drove away any and all shadows.

Sensing he was caught, the part of Alastor's brain that was every bit the prey animal he worked so hard not to let himself be forced him to go still under a dangerous predator.

"You are nothing more than a rapid dog nipping at my heels." Lucifer growled, the smell of smoke heavy on his breathe. "I should put you out of your misery, once and for all."

Alastor swallowed, forced himself to think through the molasses of his fear. He may be pinned and powerless, but he wasn't completely without weapons. He was never more glad that his smile was fixed in place as he stated, "Ah, there you are, your Majesty. You had Charlie worried about you."

He was almost able to keep the grimace out of his voice. Almost.

Alastor wondered if that had been perhaps the wrong thing to say, as Lucifer tightened his grip until bones began to grind together. Red tipped fingers curled inwards, the only sign of his pain.

Golden pupils appeared between one blink to the next, tracking the movement. As if he actually cared about the pain he could be causing, Lucifer's grip loosened, just enough that they were simply pinning instead of inflicting harm. His voice, on the other hand, held no mercy, as he asked, "What does my daughter have to do with this?"

Growing more confident the longer the king didn't kill him, Alastor explained, "Well, when she didn't hear from you today, Charlie asked me to come check on you, of course!" It wasn't entirely the truth, but it was close enough to hold up under any immediate scrutiny.

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously, all to happy to bring on the scrutiny. "Why would she send you?"

Alastor shrugged like he wasn't pinned under someone who was just trying to kill him mere moments ago. "Because I was the only one that could get into the room. Perks of being the Hotel Manager!" As his panic began to settle with each passing moment Lucifer was slowly returning to his normal form, the feeling of his skin crawling from every point of contact between them was beginning to rise. He needed to get Lucifer off him and soon. "In fact, she's waiting for word back right at this moment!"

Lucifer's eyes, pupils red and sclera yellow again, searched him, likely to see if he was telling the truth. Upon seeing that he was, he proceeded to finally make a mistake.

He took his eyes off of his captive to glance at the door, hands loosing just that tiny, crucial bit more.

Alastor caught his heels on the edge of the bed, using the leverage to raise his hips up into a bridge. The new position forced Lucifer to either release his wrists to catch himself or face plant as he was thrown forward. Luckily for the redhead, Lucifer went for catching himself, releasing Alastor, who immediately sprung up, catching the blond around the waist. Twisting, the two toppled over.

Within mere seconds, their positions were reversed: Alastor on top and Lucifer pinned to the mattress on his back.

The little king blinked up at him. He almost looked impressed with the move. He glanced at the hands pinning his wrists, flexing them as he tested the strength of the grip. Squirmed a little as the new position was likely putting an uncomfortable weight on his wings.

Good, Alastor thought. At any other time and situation, Alastor might have been fascinated by them. At the moment, his grip on those deceptively dainty wrists and any signs of discomfort were the only thing allowing him to hold onto his sanity.

For a long moment, they simply remained still, both parties regaining control over their frayed nerves. As his heart rate settled, his breathing normalizing, Alastor became aware of something he hadn't noticed over the stench of melancholy: his own scent.

It was becoming stale, but he could still was still there, separate from what he was currently leaving behind. It clung to Lucifer's person like a neon sign to tell anyone with the nose for it that he had let the Radio Demon close enough to him to make a claim.

He hadn't gotten rid of it.

The knowledge awoke a beast of a different kind, possessive and wanting, the scales tipping from Alastor wanting to devour this prize to wanting to keep him, if only he could figure out how. It left him nearly dizzy with whiplash.

Movement pulled him out of the thought. The redhead focused back on the outside world in time to see Lucifer directing his attention down the length of his own body. Alastor, without thinking, did the same.

Something hot and mortified clawed at his throat as he realized that while the blonde had been sitting on his hips in the original hold, the change in position had Alastor pinning Lucifer to a bed while sitting between his legs.

Alastor threw himself off of Lucifer and the bed, feeling like every point of contact had burned him. Lucifer raised himself up on his elbows, raising an eyebrow at him. The redhead didn't know what he saw in his expression before it was all locked away behind his mask, but it resulted in the blonde's own expression growing tired.

Lucifer let himself fall back onto the bed, seemingly heedless of his wings, running a hand down his face. "Message received." He waved a hand at the door. The spell on the door fell away with a light shower of sparks. Task down, the limb fell limp down onto the mattress. "Please tell Charlie I'll be down shortly."

It was a clear dismissal. Usually Alastor would have bristled at such a thing, but considering he did not want to be in that room anymore, he let it go. Forcing everything back into place, despite the ways his edges were feeling frayed, he said faux pleasantly, "As you wish, sire."

He paid little attention to the half assed wave of goodbye he received in response. When he disappeared into his shadow, he refused to look too deeply into how much it felt like he was running.

Again.

tbc

Part 8

#radioapple #alastor #lucifer morningstar #deer lucifer fic #alastor took over this chapter #and of course its the longest one yet #yay for development of their relationship #but is it good development #i'd hoped certain scenes would go differently #but alastor does what he wants #and here we are #we're back to lucy's pov next chapter #and some more time with the plot #i need to actually think about where it's going #so i have no idea when the next part will be out #but it has been started #yay #this fic now has a title #the inherent intimacy of courting death

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itsjaywalkers · 4 months

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making ghosts, ch 9

#WHAT DID I SAY #I PROMISED . AND HERE IT IS #even tho it actually almost killed me #anyways it's near 5am #im exhausted #im falling asleep as im writing these tags #so i'm just gonna shut up and go to bed #really hope u guys like it #despite being the longest one yet..#happy new year again!!#love u all very much #fic: making ghosts #jegulus #james potter #regulus black #sirius black #jegulus fanfiction #marauders

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peaches2217 · 6 months

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It's not unusual for Peasley to host extravagant parties. He's a people person, a Bean's Bean, and a skilled politician to boot. Parties are as much an excuse to mingle and have fun as they are an opportunity to strengthen bonds with nobles and the common people alike. Admittedly, Luigi's fascinated by his methodical approach to an activity typically considered gratuitous. It's a lot like Peasley himself: at first glance garish and full of himself, but shockingly thoughtful beneath the surface.

Some months into their courtship, Peasley invites him to his latest party at the capitol. In a first, it's a themed party; all guests are encouraged to dress in the fashions of the Metro Kingdom.

"I've always found it so charming," Peasley reasons, "all the colorful suits and elegant dresses!" And Luigi can't help but agree; from what Mario has described to him, a classy evening in the heart of the Metro Kingdom looks a lot like a high school prom in Brooklyn. (Or so they would presume. They didn't go to their senior prom. Long story.)

With no shortage of encouragement from his brother, Luigi gets himself a veridian suit, spends the day prior to the event in total isolation so he's got enough energy to survive the night, and then charges in head-first.

Peasley greets him outside of the hall where the excitement is being contained, and phew, he looks good. His gold hair is tied back for once, a thin braid running through it just above where his left ear would be if he actually had ears, and he's wearing a white suit that's equal parts tacky and enchanting, his rapier fastened to his right hip as usual. Luigi feels kinda woozy just looking at him.

He clings to Peasley's arm (or at least makes his best attempt to, being nearly a full foot taller than him) as he's led into the thick of the gathering. He expects Peasley to acquaint him with a few people, make sure he's comfortable enough to hold his own, and then split for short bursts of time to tend to his own royal matters.

Except he doesn't. Not once, not the entire night.

He proudly shows Luigi off to what must be every last guest in attendance, sparing no opportunity to divulge great detail about his heroic exploits (they mostly involve ghosts, because everyone already knows about the Cackletta incident), his great works of philanthropy (helping Toads repair pipes, fix roofs, and other assorted physical tasks in his free time), his unparalleled ability to coax life from unassuming seeds, filling entire gardens with color and cheer (he has successfully grown one (1) rose in his entire life, and he only managed because Peasley walked him through every step of the process).

Just listening — heck, just watching, seeing how proud Peasley looks to have Luigi on his arm, how he lights up at every chance to talk about him, how his name passes his lips with such reverence — you'd think Luigi was the Crown Prince and Peasley was his unassuming date.

When he's not waxing lyrical about Luigi, he's feeding him tiny squares of cake (raspberry vanilla — his favorite!) or pouring another serving of punch into a champagne glass for him (coconut cream — also his favorite! That's lucky!); if he's not doing that, then he's pulling him into the middle of the room and sweeping him into graceful waltzes, the sort Luigi can only keep up with because 1) waltzes are all-in-all simple and predictable and 2.) Peach was insistent on teaching him the ins and outs of ballroom dancing just last week. All eyes are on them, and yeah, it's pretty overwhelming, but Peasley's just so happy that it's easy to get lost in the music with him.

But Luigi can only handle so much social interaction, and as soon as he starts focusing too hard on his hands and clicking his tongue in the back of his throat over and over, Peasley whisks him away to a private balcony for some fresh air.

"So?" he asks as Luigi decompresses from all the socialization. "Have you enjoyed your evening, my dear?"

Now that he's not surrounded by so much stimuli, Luigi can honestly say that yeah, he has! In spite of being the center of attention for most of it, he's never been able to enjoy himself at a party so much as he's enjoyed himself tonight. And now that he's away from it all, now that the music and the laughter are muffled someplace behind them and they're finally alone in the gentle night breeze, he's able to appreciate that in full.

And he's also able to think a little more clearly. This whole thing seems... off. Not unpleasantly so, but there's something going on, something beyond the straightforward premise presented to him initially. Why did Mario seem so eager for him to come to this gathering, when normally he would encourage Luigi to weigh the pros and cons of attending such a stamina-draining event? Why did Peach seem so eager to teach him all of the dances that he coincidentally found himself in tonight when she's normally so respectful of his need for personal space?

And why does Peasley seem so eager to hear more affirmations, smiling that I'm-so-terribly-pleased-with-myself smile and staring him down proudly as if he's just claimed some great victory?

"...Okay," Luigi finally chances, "what are you not telling me?"

Peasley, all but vibrating with excitement, finally spills everything.

In one of his letters, Luigi spoke of an old emotional wound from the world in which he was raised: he once tried asking a boy to his senior prom. This boy was a good friend, and he knew about Luigi's sexuality, so Luigi had foolishly assumed it was a risk worth taking. Even if he rejected his advances, there would be no hard feelings. Right?

Wrong. Very, very wrong. The friend was mortified to learn that Luigi had a crush on him. He proceeded to subject Luigi to an onslaught of insults and beration, in the middle of a busy hallway for everyone to hear, and by the end of it Luigi had lost both a friend and what little sense of self-worth he possessed.

By the following school day, the ex-friend had two fewer teeth, Mario had been both suspended and grounded for it, and Luigi had accepted he'd probably be alone for the rest of his life. The brothers spent the night of their senior prom playing video games together.

And hearing this tale, Peasley had been crushed. To be given something so sacred as this perfect human's heart and react with such vitriol! To fill him with such sorrow that he would be denied access to a pivotal coming-of-age ritual (which is absolutely what he believes this "prom" ordeal is)!

And that's why everyone was asked to wear fashions from or styled after the Metro Kingdom tonight. In speaking with Mario behind Luigi's back, Peasley learned that this "prom" ritual was much like a party, and that the clothing worn for the occasion greatly resembled Metro fashion. With that, Peasley set out to correct that ancient heartache.

This is Prom 2.0. This entire party is for Luigi.

And hearing it, Luigi is almost embarrassed he didn't figure that out sooner. The simple but intimate dances, the earnest flattery, the snacks and drinks in his favorite flavors — this was never one of Peasley's standard parties. This was one giant, carefully crafted, probably very expensive love letter from a prince to a plumber.

"But... but that was years ago!" Luigi eventually manages to stammer. He hardly even recalls telling that story in the first place. He never imagined it would have such an impact.

"That doesn't make it alright." Peasley palms at the handle of his rapier, dark eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. "My goal is to one day seek out the portal between our worlds so that I may deliver swift, karmic justice to he who so terribly wronged you! But until that day comes... I do hope this makes up for it."

Luigi realizes, not for the first time overall but for the first time with mind-numbing certainty, that he wants to marry this man.

Neither of them return to the party. They remain together beneath the moon, laughing and sighing and sharing dizzy words of love. Hey, it’s Luigi’s party, and he can play hooky if he wants to.

#this may be my longest Informal Fic yet...#I got the idea from someone on twitter months back and only now have I been able to bring it into words!#phew... that felt good 😆#super mario bros #smb #m&l rpgs #superstar saga #luigi #prince peasley #mario #princess peach #luisley #luigi x peasley #peaches' fancy fics #peaches has opinions

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honnelander · 7 months

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friends….i have some news….i think part 3 of go fish! will be the final chapter of that mini series 😶

it’s going to be so 🤌🏼✨ fluffy and intimate that it just makes sense that the confessions will just come out then….but maybe i’ll change my mind idk 😜 sometimes the characters have a mind of their own

so….be prepared 👀

#go fish! au #I’ll def make other fics with mutual pining but like for THIS particular storyline….i wouldn’t know where else to take it after part 3 #idk we’ll see #I haven’t started writing it yet but I have ideas of what I plan to write #you have been warned 👀🚨#I can also feel it being a BEAST of a chapter #probably the longest thing I’ve written for this to date tbh

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princesssmars · 5 months

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im not even done man

#this #my longest fic yet #and despite some stumbles one of my best tbh #abby #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader

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chestcongestion · 28 days

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Demon-to-Demon Ch.5/5: Ha//zbin Ho/tel

Warnings: Contagion, Mess, Plot thread might still be a bit too close to current events for comfort even if it has nothing to do with current events

Word Count: 9,917

This has been a wonderful journey, and it's super satisfying to have wrapped it all up so I can work on new things! This was an absolute joy to write, thank you guys so much for all of the incredible feedback. As always, the fic is under the cut, and I hope you enjoy! Feel free to leave prompts or rqs for certain characters in my askbox.

“Eh’KzZssCHEW! Eh’ksScHEW! Eh’KSsSHiih!” Charlie’s erratic sneezing roused her ailing friends from their messy slumber. Tiny starbursts of magical fireworks appeared after each sneeze, crackling and popping around Charlie’s head.

“Fuck’s sake- snFF- you sneeze like there’s somethin’ inside you tryin’ to rip its way out,” Angel croaked, rubbing underneath his tired eyes as he tossed Charlie a box of tissues.

“That’s what it fe-eel’s li-iike…EHH’KSHHHUE! H-HEH’KSssHhiew! Eh’KzZCHEW!,” Charlie replied, pinching a few tissues around her nose and letting loose a heavy, gurgling blow, sneaking a peek at her soiled tissue and wincing in disgust, “Is a’dybody else’s uhb…snff!... ‘stuff’...sorta yellow?”

“Nope!” Niffty said proudly from her little nest of blankets.

Angel pulled one of his soiled tissues out of the trash can next to the sofa, peeling it open to look inside, “Uhh… kinda? It’s really pale yellow,” he said, turning his head to cough into his elbow, his spasming chest rousing Husk from his comfortable position pressed against his torso underneath the blankets.

Charlie flashed Angel with the contents of her tissue, wrinkling her nose with a damp, heavy sniffle, “I thig’k mbine is a little brighter…snRK!,” she said.

Angel chewed nervously on a slender finger, “Shit, that is pretty yellow,” he replied, “I don’t think it means nothin’, though… it’s probably just cause you’re so clogged up.”

“Probably… E-EHH’TsSHIEW! ‘Tshhiew! ‘TSssHIIEW!,” Charlie drowsily ran her sleeve under her streaming nostrils, wincing at the friction from the fabric of her pajamas stinging her raw skin, “Oww.”

“It’s 9 in the morning, 666 News should be starting now!” Niffty announced, turning on the chunky cathode ray television and watching the screen with slight anticipation.

The 666 News theme leaked from the television set’s speakers, and the transition graphic appeared, only to begin broadcasting a sleeping Katie Killjoy, curled up in bed and feverishly clutching one of her pillows as though it were a stuffed animal. The anchorwoman was snoring heavily, unappealing bags under her eyes and crumpled-up tissues scattered across her bed.

“Miss… Miss Killjoy, we’re live,” the intern behind the camcorder whispered.

Katie gave no reply, letting out a hacking cough into her pillow, but still fast asleep, even as the intern attempted to shake her awake.

“Uhm… we will… we will be back with your update on day number 40 of the Red Spread… after these messages,” the intern said in a meek voice, still hiding behind the camcorder, “Shit… which button do I press to cut to commercial?!”

The video feed for 666 News quickly fizzled out, cutting to a random commercial for VoxTech night vision goggles.

“Awww, that was cute, Katie was sleepy,” Niffty giggled.

“Her and me both,” Angel sighed, wiping his drippy nostrils with a tissue, “I can’t fuckin’ believe I’ve been… Hh… Hhn’Ktshh! Hah’KSshuhh! Ha-ktshhew!...’Ksshhiew!- been sick for almost two months.”

“I can’t believe it either, this is incredibly suspicious,” Vaggie pointed out as she walked into the parlor with a small bowl of cold water, setting it down on a side table and wringing out the face towel that was resting in it, placing it on Alastor’s forehead and trying not to acknowledge the radio demon’s whimpering response to the cold fabric.

“Mbaybe we could check to see- snff!- if this has ever happened before,” Charlie proposed, plucking two more tissues out of the box and blowing her nose.

“I can’t… the library where the historical archive is held is closed to visitors because all of the staff are sick,” Vaggie said with a defeated sigh, “I don’t know where else I could get that kind of information.”

Charlie gasped, flapping her hands until her excited cheering devolved into a hoarse cough, “Ow… sorry,” she said, clearing her throat, “Mby dad would probably be able to help- snff!- but he does’dt have his phone od hib.”

“Why doesn’t he have his phone?” Vaggie asked, walking over to Charlie’s armchair and gently massaging her girlfriend’s tender, puffy sinuses with gentle fingers.

Charlie blew her nose again in an attempt to regain access to her consonants, “He dropped it on the-ehh…EH’Kshhiew!- the Hellivator, and it got stepped on… I thig’k he’s stayi’g in the Lust ring right now,” she pondered, whipping out her phone and coughing into her elbow, her chest aching, “I cad call Asmodeus, he’s who Dad is visiting with.”

Multiple rings down, in Hell’s Lust ring, Lucifer was kicking his feet at his makeshift-brother’s kitchen island in his massive penthouse, waiting for Asmodeus to finish drinking his morning coffee.

“So… I can’t help but notice your little friend isn’t joining us for breakfast this morning,” Lucifer teased, taking a hefty bite of his powdered sugar covered pancake.

“He’s sleeping in, he checked in with some of my incubi who work in Pride the other day… went straight to bed when he came home, I think he might be comin’ down with something,” Asmodeus replied, nervously circling the rim of his mug with a single finger.

Footsteps coming into the kitchen made Asmodeus pause, peeking over the kitchen island to see the sleepy face of his cyborg life partner.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping-” Fizzarolli said, pausing to cough, “-I promise.”

“G’morning, Short Stuff,” Lucifer greeted with a wave, leaning over the kitchen island to see the imp from his bar stool.

Fizzarolli shot Lucifer a nervous half-bow, half-wave, “Hi… Your Majesty?” he replied before grabbing a glass from the dish rack near the sink and filling it with tap water.

“Please, Lucifer is fine, anyone Asmodeus considers family is family to me,” Lucifer said with a smile, taking another massive bite of his pancake, “There’s still a few flapjacks left if you want one.”

“I’m okay,” Fizz insisted, guzzling down his glass of water before pouring himself another one.

“Froggie, you good? I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you choose to drink water,” Asmodeus laughed.

“My throat hurts,” Fizzarolli said, knocking back another glass of water, “I don’t want it to be something water can’t fix, so I’m just gonna chug until it goes away.”

“Okay, denial doesn’t work if you acknowledge that you’re in denial, Fizzie,” Asmodeus teased, gently pulling a fourth glass of water out of the imp’s hands and hoisting Fizzarolli into his lap.

“Those fucking incubus assholes got me sick,” Fizzarolli grumbled, folding his arms with a frown, only to melt into a relaxed smile upon Asmodeus’s warm fingertips massaging his swollen, tender lymph nodes, “Mmm… that feels good.”

Asmodeus smiled, “Good, glad that helps… you do feel a little warm, though,” he said, cautiously bringing his other hand down and pressing his palm against Fizz’s forehead.

“I should’ve known those pricks were carrying something, one of ‘em mentioned something going around in the Pride ring, but I didn’t pay close enough attentionn- Hnk’Tshhuh!” Fizzarolli muttered, using a napkin Asmodeus handed him as a makeshift tissue.

Asmodeus nodded, suddenly remembering a thought he’d had earlier, and turning to Lucifer, “Speakin’ of Pride, I’m surprised your baby girl hasn’t called you since you’ve been here,” he said.

“She probably has… I don’t have a phone ‘cause mine got crushed on the Hellivator,” Lucifer sighed, “I can’t just make myself a new one because it won’t have cell service… and I don’t remember the numbers of half my contacts list.”

Asmodeus rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone after it vibrated in his pocket, checking to see who was calling so early, “Oh! Speak of the devil, she’s callin’ me right now!” he said, answering the video call and setting Fizzarolli back down on the floor so he could focus.

The call finished connecting, and Asmodeus was met with the image of a sleepy-looking Charlie, whose face brightened when she realized that the call had been answered.

“Uncle Ozzie!” Charlie cheered drowsily, smiling at her phone’s front-facing camera and shooting the King of Lust an eager wave.

“Chucky Ducky!!” Asmodeus greeted, “It’s been too long, baby girl, how’s it goin’?”

“It’s fide…snfff!... I’b mbaki’g pretty decent progress od mby passio’d project…snRK!...sorry, ‘scuse mbe…eee..Ehh…Eh’kshuu! Eh’KsSshhew! Eh’KzZsschEW!,” Charlie rambled, dabbing at her chapped nose with a tissue after her explosive sneeze, “Sorry…”

Asmodeus frowned, “Gesundheit,” he said, noticing Charlie’s flushed cheeks and sunken, tired eyes, “Everything okay? You look tired… and you sound like you’re gettin’ a cold.”

Charlie blew her nose, tossing the damp tissue into the trash, “Yeah- snFF!- I’b a little stuffed up, but I’b fide- EH’DdtshhIEW! EH’Kshhue! Ihh-EH’KSzZshew!... ‘Scuse be,” she said, blowing her nose and wincing at the ache of congestion moving through her raw sinuses.

“Only a little?” Asmodeus asked, unable to mask his concern.

“Does it sou’d that bad?” Charlie asked in reply, wrinkling her nose with a dense, heavy sniffle that accomplished nothing, her sinuses fighting the shift in pressure with a squeak.

“It sounds awful,” Asmodeus said, fidgeting with the fabric of his shirt as worry tied his stomach in knots.

“I k’dow… I’b sorry, it probably sou’ds ridiculous- snff!- but blowi’g mby ndose does’dt do a’dythi’g… EHh’Tsshew! Eh’KSHHEWW! ‘ksSHEW!...snff-snff!... Oh! That feels a little better,” Charlie croaked, her violent sneeze seemingly popping the cork on her sinuses, allowing her to give her nose a productive gurgling blow, “Phew… that was ni-iice Eihh’KSHHUE! Eh’ksschuhh! Eh’ksschew! Heh’KSshew- ‘Kshhew!- K’SSHHEW!”

Asmodeus opened his mouth to speak, but quickly realized that Charlie’s attention had been consumed by her fit. Peering over his phone, Asmodeus shot his makeshift brother a concerned look.

“I’m finished- snFF!- sorry… phew, that was a lot,” Charlie said with a wet sniffle, the skin around her nose an angry shade of pink, and her nostrils shiny- constantly threatening to leak.

“You wanna talk to your dad? He’s right next to me, was just in the middle of sayin’ that he can’t get a new phone until he goes back to Pride cause he can’t conjure one with cell service,” Asmodeus scoffed, rolling his eyes at Lucifer from the other end of the counter.

“Yes, please,” Charlie replied.

Asmodeus passed Lucifer his phone, getting down from his bar stool and hoisting Fizzarolli in his arms, “While they talk, let’s get you, taken care of,” he whispered, kissing his lover’s neck and smiling at the hoarse giggle Fizz gave in response.

“Charlie!” Lucifer cheered, staring at Asmodeus’s phone and shooting his daughter an eager wave.

“Hi Dad- Hh’DddTSHHEW! EH’Kshhew! ‘Kshhew!- Sorry,” Charlie greeted, wiping her nose off with a tissue.

“Bless you! I’m so sorry you’re sick, Sweetie- I-if you need me to, I can cut my tour short and come back home!” Lucifer said enthusiastically, carefully examining his daughter’s exhausted eyes and her streaming nostrils, “Looks like it’s really takin’ a lot out of you.”

“I’mb fide- EH’Kshhhue! Eh’kshhew!- Plus, you can’t get back to Pentagramb City, they shut down the Hellivator to the Pride Ring,” Charlie explained.

“Why?” Lucifer asked, nervously toying with a strand of his hair.

“There’s this really bad infectio’d going around… snFff! Snff-snff!... it’s really contagious, so they wanted to keep it contained to Pride since it’s already infected 96% of the city,” Charlie replied, shivering and pulling her blanket tighter around her, “Sorry about the camera shaki’g… I’b cold.”

Lucifer stared at Asmodeus’s phone in shock, “I’m sorry… what?!” he exclaimed.

“I take it fro’b your reactio’d that this has’dt happened in Hell before,”

“Nope! No it has not!” Lucifer exclaimed, “Sorry! Sorry, I’m not panicking, I’m not panicking, this is fine!”

Charlie turned away from her phone to cough, a heavy, barking cough that sounded slightly painful, “It’s okay, Dad, relax,” she said, “Vaggie is planning on heading out to get to the bottom of it! We’ve got this- eh…Eh’ktsshiew!- ‘scuse mbe.”

“Okay… i-if you’re sure, take care of yourself and don’t be afraid to call Asmodeus again if you wanna talk to me, alright?” Lucifer requested, staring at his daughter’s feverish face and shimmering eyes.

“Okay Dad, I will,” Charlie replied, “I thig’k I’m gonna take a nap. Talk to you later, Dad.”

Lucifer waved his daughter goodbye and hung up the phone right as Asmodeus re-entered the room, noticeably impless.

“Fizz’s head hit the pillow and he practically passed out… so cute,” Asmodeus crooned before regaining focus, “So, what’s up with my niece? I feel bad, she sounded awful.”

“Somethin’s going around in the Pride ring, apparently it’s gotten so bad that they shut down the Hellivator,” Lucifer said, trailing off at the end of his sentence as he and Asmodeus exchanged a look.

“My demons can travel ring-to-ring when the Hellivator is closed by going topside and coming back through a different portal with their crystals,” Asmodeus mumbled, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek, “And Fizz got sick after meeting up with a bunch of incubi…who were in the Pride ring.”

Lucifer’s eye twitched audibly.

“The incubi he met with work distribution at my factory,” Asmodeus said, his tone becoming manic as he paced around his kitchen.

Lucifer gripped the back of his head with both hands, clawing at his blonde hair, “It’s no big deal, Oz, it only infected 96% of Pentagram City!” he exclaimed, rocking in his seat.

Asmodeus leaned against his kitchen counter, gripping his phone desperately in his left hand before straightening his posture, “I’m gonna go make some phone calls and I’m gonna try really hard not to panic,” he said, taking a deep breath before leaving the room.

Lucifer sat alone at the kitchen counter, tracing doodles into the marble with his fingertips, “Let’s hope Maggie knows what she’s doing,” he muttered to himself, “-Vaggie… her name’s Vaggie.”

Three rings up, back in Pentagram City, Vaggie was preparing to leave the hotel on her incredibly makeshift hero’s journey.

“Okay, I am going out to try and get to the bottom of this whole thing, while I am gone, Niffty is in charge because she is the most lucid out of all of you, understood?” Vaggie asked the gathering of barely-awake patients as she paced back and forth through the parlor.

“Got it- Ahh’KsShhiew!-” Angel replied, gently massaging his tender sinuses with his fingertips.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Husk chuckled from his position nuzzled against Angel’s chest.

“Okay Niffty, Alastor gets a dose of fever reducer every three hours, I set an alarm on your phone for you and it’s on the wall in case you forget. Everyone else only gets one dose a day at 8pm, got it?” Vaggie asked, brushing Niffty’s bangs away from her face.

“Kay!” Niffty replied, swiping the back of her wrist against her face to fend off an itch.

“Behave yourselves until I get back, hopefully I’ll be back with some answers and a way to treat this thing,” Vaggie said with a nervous sigh, “Wish me luck.”

Angel shot Vaggie a drowsy thumbs up, Husk providing a thumbs up of his own from under the blankets.

“Good luck Vaggie,” Charlie yawned, draped across the armchair with KeeKee in her lap.

“Fingers crossed, my dear- snff!- because if your efforts turn fruitless we’re all royally fucked… Hnk’tshhew! ‘Kshh! Hh’kzZhht!” Alastor said deliriously from the loveseat, staring at Vaggie with rheumy eyes.

Vaggie gave her girlfriend and friends a final farewell and set off towards the Weapons District of Pentagram city. Alastor- when he was still lucid- grumbled about Carmilla almost constantly, chastising her for her unsanitary habits and ‘careless workaholism’ until he was blue in the face, so obviously she was a significant piece of the puzzle.

After a good half hour of walking through the empty streets, Vaggie arrived at the receiving entrance to the Carmine Weapons Facility, banging on the back door in a way that felt far too familiar.

“Fuck… how do I open this thing?!” Vaggie asked herself through clenched teeth, jumping up and peering at the surveillance camera attached to the peep hole in the door, “Carmilla- cabron- I know you’re in there!”

“SnfF! We have a front door y’know,” Clara announced from behind the receiving entrance door as she pulled it up to let Vaggie inside, “Mom’s in her bedroom- Iih’tshuu! Hih’tshhuuw!- ‘scuse me.”

“Thanks, sorry… keep forgetting I don’t have to sneak in through the back anymore,” Vaggie said, chuckling as she rubbed the back of her neck.

“It’s fine,” Clara replied, “Mom’s room is on the second floor, furthest door on the right.”

Vaggie nodded, quietly sneaking up the steps and down the dark hallways until she reached a set of greyish-purple double doors, “Carmine?” she called, patiently waiting for a response.

“H-hihh…HIH’KtsSHUHH! Hih’KSsSHUH!... Snff!...Come in,”

Vaggie carefully opened both doors, slipping inside as they closed with a thud behind her, “Miss Carmine, I-” she began, only to trail off upon noticing the sight in front of her.

Carmilla was wearing navy blue sweat pants and a bleach-stained T-shirt from an old Verosika Mayday concert, her hair was put aside in a slightly-messy fishtail braid, and she was sat up in bed, cross-legged on top of her blankets, playing video games.

“I didn’t think you’d be into this sort of thing,” Vaggie said, bewildered, “Slaughterhouse V- Collector’s Edition…”

Carmilla rolled her eyes, not taking her focus away from her game even as she muffled a ticklish cough behind clenched teeth, “I normally don’t have time to play,” she remarked, “I’ve beaten this one twice and I’m going for my third run on a new save- snff!”

Vaggie winced at the raspy quality of Carmilla’s voice, but said nothing of it, “You seem… surprisingly lucid,” she said.

“One of the perks of selling things to all of Hell is that you have connections to all of Hell,” Carmilla snickered, gesturing towards her nightstand with her head, still mashing buttons on her controller.

Vaggie followed Carmilla’s gesture with her eyes, picking up a pink bottle full of blue liquid medicine, “Sloth Pharmaceuticals… you’re taking drugs from the sloth ring?” she asked.

“Good shit,” Carmilla said, feeling her throat struggle as her voice cracked, wrenching her eyes shut briefly to clear her throat, “Might not be able to fix the rest of me, but keeping my temperature under control has been great.”

“Nice… can we talk? I have some questions I wanted to ask you,” Vaggie requested, still enamored with the speed at which Carmilla was pressing buttons.

Carmilla shot Vaggie a brief nod, pausing her game and setting her controller aside before reaching over to grab a handful of tissues, blowing her ‘nose’ until the tissues were damp, “H-hih’tshhuh! Hih’KTSCHUHH!...snFF!”

“Do you remember anything from the day you got sick?” Vaggie asked.

“I was-” Carmilla paused to cough, “-on a walk in the Doomsday District, and I went shopping for nail polish… that’s basically iihh- H-hihh’ktshhuh! Hih’ksshh!”

“Did you come across anyone else who was acting suspicious? Or anyone else who looked or sounded different?” Vaggie asked, trying to piece things together.

“Nope,” Carmilla replied, grabbing the reusable cup from her bedside table and taking eager gulps from it, only breaking away to cough hoarsely into her elbow before taking another sip.

“Water?” Vaggie asked.

“Yes, with mango and honey… and Beelzejuice,” Carmilla said, choking back another hoarse cough and taking a few heavy chugs from her cup.

Suddenly, as though a gust of air blew through her bedroom, Carmilla shivered, rubbing her upper arms with her large hands and struggling to contain the trickle of mess down her face with a few wet sniffles. Desperate, Carmilla burrowed slightly under her covers, tucking her legs and feet under her blanket and fighting against her teeth to keep them from chattering.

“Are you okay?” Vaggie asked, her fingertips twitching as she watched Carmilla give a shuddering exhale, noticing the skin on her cheeks was tinged a pinkish-red.

“My medicine just w-wore off… snff!...I can’t take any more for four hours or it’ll damage my li-Iihh-HIH’KTSCHUHH! Hih’KssHHUH! Hnk’TShh! Hi-IH’KTSsXHHT! Hih’KTSHHUEW!- liver… snFFF!” Carmilla replied, plucking three tissues out of the box on her bed and loudly blowing her ‘nose’ with a resounding honk that sounded like her sinuses were vibrating, “Euch…”

Vaggie walked closer to Carmilla’s bedside, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed, and reaching out to tuck a strand of Carmilla’s hair away from her fever-warmed face, “Are you sure there’s nothing that happened the day you got sick? I know it’s hard to remember,” she asked.

Carmilla wracked her brain, briefly turning away from Vaggie to cover a hacking cough with her arm, one throat-scraping cough coming after another until her itchy, sensitive lungs were satisfied and her voice had been thoroughly wrecked.

Upon regaining her composure, catching her breath, and taking a big sip from her water mixture, Carmilla turned back to address Vaggie, “I uhm-” she paused, clearing her throat with the harshest grunt she could manage, “-when I was out on my walk- snff!- there were pockets of that red mist- Hih’ktshh! Hnk’Txht!- hanging in the air. I stopped twice to smell them because the mist smelled like flowers… I think my throat started to feel sore after the second time.”

Vaggie grinned, two pieces of the puzzle finally managing to click together in her head, “You have no idea how helpful that is, Miss Carmine,” she said with a bright smile, “I just need to find the source of the mist… and hopefully that’ll bring us one step closer to finding a treatment!”

“Well- snRK!- ‘scuse mbe… if you’re going to try and find where it’s coming from on foot, it’ll take a long time, at this point the mist covers half of Pentagram City now, you’d need someone who could point and zoom on any random area in town to see if you can find the source,” Carmilla pointed out, her entire body being rattled by a violent shiver, causing her to slide a bit further under her blankets, pulling them up to her chest.

“I don’t even know if there’s anyone in town who fits that description who’d be willing to help me,” Vaggie sighed, tugging at her lower eyelids in frustration, “This is going to take forever.”

Vaggie’s grumbling was interrupted by Carmilla’s flat screen television swapping from her paused game to an emergency broadcast of 666 News, the blaring music making Vaggie jump out of her skin.

“What the hell?! If this jump cut ruins my save file I’m going to-” Carmilla waved a hand in front of her face as her sinuses itched, “-to… to… Hih’Kschhuh! Hih’KTshuhhh! Hi-Ihh’KSHHUuw!... nevermind.”

“Good Afternoon citizens of Pentagram City, I apologize for the lateness of this news bulletin, our esteemed anchorwoman Miss Killjoy is incapacitated at present, so I, CEO of VoxTech and head of the VoxTech Broadcast Network, will be delivering today’s news!” Vox greeted from the other side of the screen with a charming smile.

Vaggie stared at Carmilla’s VoxTech television in awe, “I forgot about him… the Voyeurscopes capture footage all over town 24/7,” she muttered to herself, “I have to try and talk to him.”

“Welcome to day number 40 of the Red Spread, while infection rates seem to have capped out at 96% of Pentagram City, we’ve received word from Imp City and neighboring territories in the Pride ring that infections have raged out of control practically overnight,” Vox explained, gesturing to a bar graph that was next to him on screen, “With the infection coverage added up, The Red Spread has infected approximately 79% of the Pride Ring.”

Carmilla folded her arms, “I can’t believe he interrupted my game for this… Hi-ihh’KSshhuh!...Hnk’tchew!” she grumbled, scrubbing the back of her hand under her nostrils to wrestle with the ever-building itch in her sinuses.

“While research is still being conducted with an incredibly reduced team, treatment options that completely eradicate infection are still nonexistent,” Vox said, shifting from his usual broadcast grin into something more somber and collected, “In spite of this infection raging on, no severe complications or mortalities have been observed.”

Vaggie continued watching, scrolling through her phone in between glances at the screen to try and get the location of the Vees’ studio tower on the Northwest side of the Pentagram. After a bit of searching, the studio tower wasn’t very far from the Carmine Weapons factory, she could make it there in about half an hour if she hurried.

“We are also pleased to announce that due to this ongoing crisis, we have not released our typical programming block due to new material not being filmed with the majority of our staff out sick,” Vox began, clasping his hands together and returning to his charming smile, “so the VoxTech Broadcast Network will be operating free-of-charge for the remainder of this tumultuous time, and our premium network clients will be refunded for the past two months of service. Thank you for your continued patronage, Pentagram City!”

With those words, the emergency news broadcast ended and Carmilla’s screen returned to her paused playthrough of Slaughterhouse V, which caused her to let out a sigh of relief that quickly devolved into a rough, wheezy cough, that only let up when Vaggie gave Carmilla an anxious pat on the back.

“I’m going to try and speak with Vox, he might be exactly who I need to help me find the source of the Red Spread,” Vaggie said with a determined look on her face, “Do you need anything before I leave?”

Carmilla fought back another febrile shiver, sniffling pitifully and burying herself further into her blankets, “Not really,” she yawned, her voice still painfully hoarse, “just turn out the lights on your way out- the switch on the wall- I’m too tired to play with this stupid fever… I think I’ll just take a nap.”

“Sounds like a plan, rest well,” Vaggie said, brushing a strand of Carmilla’s hair out of her face after she got comfortable under the covers, turning to leave the room and flipping the switch on Carmilla’s bedroom wall to turn off the overhead lights, “Oh… by the way, I made that recipe you gave me, it was good. Thanks again for that.”

Carmilla yawned, stretching out and clutching her pillow like a stuffed animal, “Don’t mention it… Hnk’Tchew! Hi-Ih’Ktshhew!” she replied drowsily, her eyelids drooping as she slowly fell into a peaceful sleep, her slight snoring audible from behind her bedroom door.

Gathering herself and preparing for another lengthy walk, Vaggie wandered down the halls of the factory until she managed to find the front door, heading out and following the path laid out by her phone’s GPS system toward the Vees’ studio tower.

On her walk, Vaggie was stunned by the empty streets, not a person in sight for blocks and blocks, and occasional sniffling, coughing, and sneezing could be heard- albeit muffled- from the windows of the various apartment buildings.

Eventually, Vaggie reached the revolving front door to the Vees’ broadcast tower, better known as the VoxTech Enterprises headquarters. Crossing her fingers, Vaggie slipped through the revolving door and was surprised to find that the building was still teeming with noticeably-healthy workers and interns… and also a handful of noticeably-ill ones, including the runny-nosed cat demon who was running the front desk on the ground floor.

“Welcombe to VoxTech E’dterprises- SnFF!- how cad I help you today?” the secretary asked, looking at Vaggie from her desk as she sifted through various papers.

“I- I’d like to speak to Vox,” Vaggie said with a patient smile as the secretary loudly blew her nose before tossing her crumpled tissue in the trash can next to her desk.

“You’re id luck, due to the Red Spread- Ih’pshew! I-ihh’pSshew!- his schedule is wide opend… I’ll let hib kdow you’re od your way up- SnRK!- uch, ‘scuse be,” the secretary said, dabbing at her sensitive nostrils with a tissue, her sniffling accomplishing virtually nothing outside of slightly shifting the congestion packed into her head.

“Thank you… I’m sorry you have to work while you’re sick,” Vaggie said, attempting to offer sympathy, looking a bit confused when the secretary chuckled.

“It’s fide… I was healthy whe’d I cabe id this mbordi’g… it’s hit mbe like a ton of bricks… Ih’pshew! Ih’pSzzshieww!... I cad’t wait to go home and take a ndice hot bath and crawl into bed,” the secretary replied, giving a wistful sigh before plucking two more tissues out of the box on her desk and pinching them over her sensitive nostrils, “i-iHh’TsSshiew! Ih’pshew! IH’PSshiew!”

“Bless you,” Vaggie said nervously, watching the secretary pull out another handful of tissues, emptying her sinuses with a heavy gurgling blow, her eyes beginning to water.

“Thag’k you,” the secretary replied, pushing a button on the phone at her desk and waiting until the line clicked to speak, “Mbister Vox, there’s someone here to speak with you- Ih’kshhew!- mby apologies, Sir.”

“Send them up, I’m on the 30th floor… bless you, by the way, feel free to head home if you can’t finish the rest of your shift,” Vox replied from the other end of the line before hanging up the phone.

“30th floor, you can take the elevators that are down the hall to your left- SnFF!,” the secretary instructed, packing a few of her items into her purse and tugging a heavy sweater over her frame, shivering slightly, “I’b goi’g hobe.”

“Thank you,” Vaggie replied, preparing herself to head towards the elevator, “Hope you feel better!”

“Thag’k you,” the secretary said, wiping her nose and leaving the building through the revolving doors as Vaggie wandered down the path she was given until she approached a row of elevators, hopping on the first unoccupied one she could find and pressing a button to take her to the 30th floor.

Upon arriving at the 30th floor of the broadcast tower, Vaggie looked around, peeking into a few random studio doors and finding no one, wondering if she’d gone to the wrong floor or lost track of him, when suddenly she ran face-first into a large, lanky figure wearing a blue suit.

“Oh! There you are,” Vaggie said with a nervous chuckle, dusting herself off, “Hello, Vox.”

“Ohhh… hello there, you’re the angel girl the princess is romantically involved with, aren’t you?” Vox said with a curt wave, “Any reason in particular you’re in my building snooping around?”

“I- I know that you don’t really want to speak to me due to my connections with Alastor, but I’m looking for the source of the Red Spread to attempt to find a treatment and you’re the only one with access to every corner of the Pentagram thanks to your surveillance drones,” Vaggie explained, her words rambling as she silently crossed her fingers that her plea was convincing- she’d forgotten to take her spear with her before she left, so she unfortunately had no leverage.

“Hmm… a noble cause, if ever there was one,” Vox snickered, “Right this way, I’ll have to take you to my secondary surveillance room, the primary one is for my eyes only.”

“R-really? You’re just- really?!” Vaggie replied, a bit bewildered.

“Of course, anything to help!” Vox replied with a camera-ready smile, only for his face to soften into something much more neutral and comfortable, “-if you want to know the truth, I’m just happy to be having a conversation with someone who isn’t constantly sneezing.”

“Haha… it is kinda nice,” Vaggie said, following Vox into the elevator and getting out on the top floor of the tower- the location of the Vees’ personal penthouse, “I honestly don’t know why I’m not sick.”

“I mean, the answer is pretty obvious, this infection only attaches to demon immune systems- resident of Hell or not, that golden blood in your veins isn’t what the germs are looking for,” Vox scoffed, dusting off the front of his suit with a splayed hand before hanging up his jacket on the wall.

“That makes sense,” Vaggie said, staring at a recently-healed cut on her thumb that was noticeably a dull gold, bottling up a heavy sigh and deciding to redirect her focus to something else, “what about you?”

“What about me?”

“How come you aren’t sick?”

Vox leaned down until his face was at-level with Vaggie’s before knocking loudly on his head’s glass screen and running his fingers along the array of buttons, wires, and switches on his metal neck, “I don’t have an immune system, or lungs, my soul is basically the only trace of my humanity that I have left.”

“Oh… that makes sense, actually,” Vaggie said, quietly shuddering upon noticing the 10 foot figure hunched over a kitchen island, draped haphazardly across a bar stool.

“H-ihh… Ih’psshoo! IhH’Pshhuue! Hiih-Ih’pssshiEW!,”

Vox rolled his eyes, walking over to the other side of the kitchen island and pinching his lover’s face with icy claws, “What are we doing out of bed?” he asked, his tone warm in contrast with his exasperated and threatening eyes.

“SnFF!- Mby throat hurts… a’d I can’t find mby replacement Voxxy,” Valentino whined, his consonants dulled heavily by congestion and his red eyes brimming with tears.

Vox turned to face Vaggie, gesturing for her to wait a moment before turning back to Valentino, “I’ll have Kitty bring you some tea with honey, but you aren’t supposed to be out of bed,” he said, gently wiping the tears out of Valentino’s eyes with a tissue from his pocket.

“Okay,” Valentino replied, “Help mbe find replacement Voxxy? I can’t see mbore thad two feet ahead of mbe-ee…IHH’TSHUU! Ih’pshew! I-ihh’PSHHEW!”

Vox blinked, pulling up security camera footage from Valentino and Vox’s shared bedroom onto his screen and scanning the room for a giant stuffed shark he’d bought Valentino to keep him occupied while he was in bed, “Aha! There it is… it’s on the floor on my side of the bed, I’ll have Kitty hand it to you,” he said, gently rubbing the back of Valentino’s hand.

“Thag’k you Voxxyyy-Yihh’tshhew! Ih’tshhuu! Ih’psshiEW!,” Valentino said, the sharp, squeaky sneezes scraping his sinuses on the way out, “Ohhh… all this sdeezi’g is givi’g mbe a headache.”

“I know, it’s okay… what flavor of tea do you want?” Vox asked, massaging his lover’s sinuses with his cool fingertips.

“Ginger- snrKK! SnfFFF!- Ughh,” Valentino replied, squeaking in frustration at the pain building up in his swollen sinuses, “I’b so tired of bei’g sick.”

“I know, I know,” Vox replied, stroking the back of Valentino’s cheek, “Come on, get up and get back to bed, Kitty will be right in to take good care of you, one of the succubi on staff even went topside to get you some more of this.”

Vox fished around in his pockets before pulling out a dark blue jar with a teal lid, unscrewing the top and gently wafting the menthol-scented fumes into Valentino’s face.

“Vaporub!” Valentino exclaimed with relief, dunking two fingers into the jar and slathering the fragrant balm on his chest, his squeaky clogged sinuses suddenly loosening as mess trickled down his face, “Mmm… oh that feels good, thag’k you Voxxyyyi-ihh’pshuu! Ih’pshuue! IHH’PSchhew!”

“Bless you, bless you, you sound like you’re breathing better already,” Vox said with a smile, patting Valentino on the back and sighing with relief when he disappeared down the halls on his way back to bed, “Phew…”

“So, where’s your secondary surveillance room?” Vaggie asked.

“A few doors down, I’ll show you- wait a second,” Vox said, whipping his head around at the significantly shorter figure trudging into the kitchen wearing boxer shorts and a bralette, “Why are you out of bed?!”

“Don’t shout at me,” Velvette replied, punctuating her sentence with a desperate, wheezy cough as she fought back an aggressive shiver from the chill of the air conditioning, “I’m getting more cough syrup.”

“You just took a double dose of cough syrup an hour ago,” Vox argued, folding his arms, “You can’t have any more.”

“I’m a grown woman, I can have more if I want,” Velvette replied, sticking out her tongue and struggling to open the cap on the bottle- a bottle that was not child proof by any means.

“No, you can’t,” Vox said, plucking the bottle of raspberry cough syrup out of Velvette’s grasp and putting it on a shelf out of her reach.

“This is bullshit!” Velvette huffed, turning away from Vox to muffle a violent coughing fit into her elbow, “I can’t stop fucking coughing, I can’t sleep!”

Vox leaned against the kitchen island and shot Velvette an all-knowing glance, “Maybe if you drank something- don’t open your mouth and lie to me, I know you haven’t, I have today’s entire footage reel to prove it- that might help,” he said.

Velvette rolled her eyes, “I don’t want to, it hurts too much and it’s too cold, I can’t stand having anything to drink right now,” she huffed.

“Okay, let me rephrase,” Vox said, snapping his fingers as Velvette’s metal drink tumbler- filled to the brim with hot Yorkshire Gold with honey and lemon- appeared in his hand, “you are going to drink this, and you are going to put on some long pajama pants and a shirt with sleeves, and get under the covers in your bed.”

Velvette opened her mouth to object, but was instead met with another violent cough, “Fiine,” she replied, taking the cup from Vox and taking a cautious sip, her previously cranky gaze melting as the liquid gold cascaded down her raw, scratchy throat, “Mmmm…”

“Mhm, feels better, doesn’t it?” Vox teased, paying Velvette no mind when she raised her middle finger in response, “Yeah yeah, fuck you too, go change and get back in bed.”

“Fine,” Velvette replied in between desperate gulps of her tea, walking out of the kitchen and heading back into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

“Okay, I think we’re done with diversions, now we can go look at the surveillance footage,” Vox announced, clasping his hands together and gesturing for Vaggie to follow him as he wandered down the halls of the penthouse until he approached a set of double doors decorated with the VoxTech logo, “here we are.”

Upon entering the room, Vaggie was bewildered by the massive wall of monitors that showed live footage from the voyeur scopes that hovered in the air all over Pentagram City- not to mention security cameras for basically every business and institution in town due to VoxTech’s virtual monopoly on camera sales.

“So,” Vox began, cracking his knuckles and sitting in his office chair at the desk against the wall, “Where do you need to look?”

“I spoke with one of the first people to get sick with the red spread, and she told me that she didn’t start feeling sick until after she went for a walk in the Doomsday district and breathed in that red mist,” Vaggie said, “If we can find the source of the red mist, I think that will be the source of the red spread!”

“Makes sense,” Vox replied, pulling up every camera he had available in the Doomsday district and scanning each monitor with careful eyes, “Hmm… not that one, not that one either… there’s so much smog everywhere it’s hard to know where to look.” Vox wiggled a joystick on his desk, gently adjusting the position of a cluster of security cameras stationed on the rooftops of a few buildings.

A harsh cough from the doorway made Vox straighten his posture and turn around, seeing a drowsy Velvette standing in the doorway- now wearing a pair of fleece pajama pants adorned with gummy bears and a long-sleeved pajama shirt.

“You keep looking, I have to deal with this- Why are we out of bed now?” Vox asked, raising an eyebrow as his voice gained the typical tinny electronic quality that it took on when he felt particularly intense emotions.

“I need some more m-medicine,” Velvette replied, vigorously rubbing her upper arms and fighting to keep her teeth from chattering, “I-ihh’tssshoo! Ih’tshhew! I-ihh’kxhsshew!”

Vox rolled his eyes, briefly turning to make sure Vaggie was still attempting to check the screens for the source of the smog, before turning back to address his colleague, “We just had this conversation, you are not taking any more cough syrup… besides, your cough sounds much better, you should be able to get some sleep now,” he said.

“I don’t need cough syrup… snFF!... I need the paracetamol, I’m freezing,” Velvette complained, the slight and refreshing breeze of the air conditioner making the fashion designer shiver as though she was wading in icy water, her forehead shiny with sweat.

Vox shot another cautious glance back at Vaggie, before cupping Velvette’s face with his left hand and scanning her body with the infrared filter applied over his eyes until a temperature reading of 103.8 degrees flashed in the corner of his screen, “That is a little high, and the more comfortable you are, the sooner you can get to sleep,” Vox said, pulling a bottle out of his pocket and handing Velvette two tiny square pills, “There you go, that should make you feel better, now get back to bed.”

“Thank you, V, have fun in your creepy stalker room- Ihh’tshhoo!” Velvette replied, waving Vox goodbye as she headed back to her bedroom.

Vox approached the wall of monitors again with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking gently on his heels, “Any luck yet?” he asked.

Vaggie shook her head at Vox, continuing to scan the wall of screens with her eyes, squinting against the harsh blue light, until she saw something peculiar on one screen in the left-hand corner of the wall.

“There!” Vaggie shouted, leaning against Vox’s rolling chair and gently shaking it, pointing to the monitor she’d located a clue on, “Right there! Look at how the mist is moving in that shot, see?”

Vox directed his attention to the monitor and noticed that the red mist was billowing out of the back corner of a building, almost like smoke from a chimney, “That must be where it’s coming from… it’s on Tsunami Boulevard behind the gun store,” he said.

“Alright! Let’s go, if we hurry we can get there in twenty minutes,” Vaggie said, excitedly bouncing on her heels, only for Vox to grab her by the hand, the two of them vanishing into a crackle of electricity and teleporting to Tsunami Boulevard by way of the surveillance camera pointed at the gun store, “Woah… you can do that?”

“I can at least, it’s fun most of the time, sometimes you get bored of it and decide to walk, but when urgency is key it’s very helpful,” Vox replied, dusting himself off and peering through the dense cloud of red mist into the alley behind the gun store, “I think there’s something back there.”

Vaggie walked closer to Vox and leaned over, squinting and straining her vision to make out a dark form behind all of the mist, “There is… let’s keep going, slow and steady,” she instructed.

Vox took slow, careful steps through the alley, barely making a sound as Vaggie attempted to make out more details of the figure they were approaching, eventually realizing that the something was in fact someone.

“Someone’s back there-” Vaggie whispered, cupping her hands around her mouth to call out to the figure as they approached it, “Hello?!”

No response outside of Vaggie’s own voice echoing throughout the alley, but the pair continued to inch their way forward, the figure seemingly unfazed by their presence.

“It might be a decoy… or a mannequin,” Vox said in a hushed tone as he practically tip-toed forward, having trouble keeping such a slow pace with someone half his height.

“Helloo?! I know you’re over there… we have some questions for you!” Vaggie called out, her voice still rippling off of the brick walls and echoing for at least another two blocks.

Silence.

“Okay, what the fuck?!” Vaggie asked no one in particular, shrugging in frustration as she quickened her pace, deciding she was fed up with the kid gloves technique, “Hey! I know you can hear me, jackass!”

Vox snickered, sighing with relief as he began to walk with his regular stride while Vaggie stomped ahead, still shouting into the mist.

“If you aren’t gonna run away, the least you could do is fucking acknowledge me, shithead!” Vaggie exclaimed, shaking her fist at the motionless figure whose silhouette was becoming clearer as the pair got closer, with Vaggie’s tirade being cut off by the sound of a window screen sliding open.

“Will you shut the fuck up?! I’ve got a killer fucki’g headache and I’b tryi’g to sleep it off,” a cranky demon with particularly long and curly horns called out from his bedroom window.

“Oh! S-sorry! I’m used to shouting over the city’s background noise,” Vaggie replied.

“Look arou’d, girl, the ed’tire city is id bed… E-Eihh’kxxhhtt! E-eeihh’kzZzht!”

“Bless you!”

“Thag’k you,” the demon paused to let out a barking cough, “Look, I was godda threaten you or somethin’, but I’b tired… so please just keep it down?”

“I will, I’m sorry,” Vaggie replied, shooting the demon a remorseful thumbs-up, “Feel better!”

“I wish,” the demon grumbled, shutting his window and going back to bed, leaving Vaggie and Vox to their own devices once again.

“Kudos to you for acknowledging him, I’d have just told him to fuck off,” Vox snickered, his air filtration system whirring slightly as it processed the dense red mist in the air.

“People are at their most vulnerable when they don’t feel well… being an asshole to someone when they’re in that state just seems cruel,” Vaggie said in reply, marching forward and attempting to make out the details of the silhouette at the root of the billowing clouds of red mist.

“Fair enough,” Vox said, readjusting his stride to allow Vaggie time to keep up with him.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of walking- but was only ten minutes- Vaggie and Vox managed to cut through the mist to find its source leaned up against the back wall of the gun store.

Standing in the alley, unfazed, was a slim demon of average height with hands that appeared to be shaped like pangolin claws, a long scaly tail, and a long face that was covered by an intricate gas mask. The mouthpiece of the gas mask was where the red mist was coming from, leaking from the holes in the mask like a toxic fog machine.

Vaggie swallowed a bit of embarrassment, as she realized why the demon had been ignoring her loud pleas for their attention- they were wearing a heavy pair of chunky over-ear headphones and bobbing their head as though listening to music. Waving her hand in front of the demon’s face, Vaggie watched them lower their headphones and finally give the pair their undivided attention.

“What’s up? I’m not a dealer, fyi, I just like this alley, coke guy’s a block down, peyote’s three blocks down, and there’s a weed vending machine around the corner,” they said in a monotonous voice.

“Not here for drugs, we’re here for you,” Vaggie said, “Who are you?”

“My name used to be Cassandra Sinclair… but I go by ‘Noxxious’ these days,”

“Okay ‘Noxxious’, you do know that the shit you’re pumping out is making everyone sick, right?” Vaggie asked, placing her hands on her hips as Vox hovered over the two of them from behind, intimidating Noxxious with a scornful look in his eyes.

“Well yeah, that was kind of the point,” Noxxious replied, tilting their head to one side.

“You did this on purpose?!” Vaggie asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

“Mmhm, turned out better than I expected, no one’s dead, right?” Noxxious inquired, excitement and pride in their voice.

“Almost the entire city has been sick for over a month!” Vaggie shouted, balling her fists and cursing herself for leaving her spear at the hotel.

“Oh shit, it’s been that long? I got lost in time, man… it’s been so peaceful,” Noxxious said with a wistful sigh, stuffing their hands in their pockets.

“If I may ask… why did you do this, exactly? It’s not like you stand to gain anything from it,” Vox asked.

“Listen for a second,” Noxxious requested, the group listening to the heavy silence of the empty city streets for a few moments, “No cars, no shouting, no footsteps, no talking, no chewing, nothing. It’s wonderful.”

“You did all of this so you could have some peace and quiet?!” Vaggie asked, “You have headphones!”

“They weren’t enough, nothing was enough,” Noxxious said through clenched teeth, taking a deep breath, “Mind if I ramble about something personal?”

Vaggie, in spite of her obvious rage and frustration, simply shrugged at Noxxious, motioning for them to go ahead, turning to Vox and staring at him incredulously.

“I’ve only been here for six months… when I was alive I hated noise, I’d rather rip out my eardrums than listen to all of the noises overlapping all day, every day,” Noxxious began, straightening their posture, “I realized that people are pretty quiet when they’re sick… they keep to themselves. It made perfect sense.”

Vaggie gestured at Vox, still puzzled, but decided not to interrupt.

“I went to school for microbiology, and I figured if I could get enough people sick, I could have peace and quiet,” Noxxious said with a determined- albeit hidden- smile, “Except I wasn’t very careful, and I got into a little bit of trouble when my first attempt went sideways.”

Vaggie and Vox squinted their eyes when Noxxious held up a frayed, coffee-stained newspaper clipping that read ‘Bioterrorist Cassandra Sinclair due to receive death penalty’.

“Is that your plan?! To kill everyone?!” Vaggie asked, scanning the area for something she could use as a weapon.

“No! I already said that was an accident, I never wanted anyone to get hurt, I just wanted a break from the noise!” Noxxious explained, near tears, “Look, when I got here after my execution, I noticed this blue stuff coming out of my mask; when people around me breathed in the mist, they would start sneezing.”

Vox’s face brightened, an impressed smile spreading across his screen, “So you can just infinitely leak mist filled with custom viruses?” he asked rhetorically, “That is impressive, you could have some real sway with that kind of power if you weren’t a walking biohazard.”

“I don’t want ‘sway’, I don’t wanna hurt anyone, I just wanted quiet,” Noxxious explained, twisting the filtered discs on the end of their mask so that the holes were covered, stopping the red mist at the source, “I can produce an antidote, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Vaggie sighed, relaxing her shoulders as she watched Noxxious fiddle with their mask, briefly opening the discs and shooting out a puff of blue mist before closing their mask again as the blue mist seemingly clung to the red, slowly spreading through the air.

“There, that should be enough to get it to stretch across the Pride Ring, and then eventually it’ll disappear on its own,” Noxxious explained, “Once someone breathes it in, they’ll be cured.”

“Good, things can finally get back to normal,” Vox scoffed, cracking his knuckles before pulling something out of his pocket after seeing Noxxious’s pitiful face, “As a reward for producing the antidote, here’s the final prototype for VoxTech’s ‘DJ Deafener’ headphones, with active noise canceling so good, you can’t hear a train coming.”

“That’s a good tagline,” Vaggie said, chuckling.

“It isn’t just a tagline, eight of our product testers were crushed gruesomely by trains,” Vox replied.

Noxxious carefully placed the headphones on their head and their body immediately relaxed as they reclined against the back wall of the gun store once again, “These are incredible, I can’t hear anything!” they exclaimed, tears leaking from the plastic eyes of their mask, “Thank you!”

Vox opened his mouth to respond, only to remember that Noxxious was effectively deaf, and opted to shoot the bioterrorist a thumbs up instead as a sudden boom of thunder could be heard overhead.

“Well, I think I should go spread the good news, haha-” Vox chuckled to himself, “I’d offer to teleport you back to the tower with me, but it’s about the same distance to walk there from here as it would be to walk there from the tower.”

“No worries, I’ve got it,” Vaggie replied, “Thanks for your help.”

“Same to you,” Vox said, shooting Vaggie a playful salute before teleporting back to the broadcast tower in a crackle of blue electricity, just as a light drizzle began, raindrops falling on Vaggie’s head as she made her walk back to the hotel.

Twenty minutes passed, and back at the hotel, the parlor full of drowsy sinners jumped when the peaceful nature documentary they were watching was interrupted by the blaring theme of an incoming 666 News bulletin.

“That scared the piss outta me,” Angel panted, emptying his sinuses into a tissue with a damp blow, “Wonder what the hell happened this time...snff!”

“Hello citizens of Pentagram City and the greater Pride Ring, I am happy to announce that a cure for the Red Spread has been found!” Vox’s voice rang out from the speakers of the CRT television, “It has been released into the air for ease of access, take a step outside or open a window and the formula should resolve your infection! Have a wonderful day, and stay healthy! This message was brought to you by VoxTech Enterprises!”

“Vaggie did it- SnFF!- she figured it out! Yaay…” Charlie cheered weakly, wiping off the drippy underside of her nose, “Who’s gonna get up to open the window?”

“I got it,” Angel croaked, clearing his throat as he slowly untangled himself from Husk and stood on his two wobbling legs, slowly walking towards the large stained glass doors on either side of the bar and struggling a bit before swinging one open, revealing the intense rain that had developed outside but also letting in a burst of antidote-heavy air into the room.

Taking a shallow breath through his mouth, Angel blinked and felt his sinuses clearing up, his tender throat healing, and his fever breaking. Angel’s fur was suddenly damp with sweat as he stood proudly and energetically on his own two feet, spinning around to face the rest of the group and flashing a bright smile, “It works! Oh my god, I never thought I’d be this fuckin’ excited to be able to breathe through my coke holes again!” he cheered.

Niffty took in a brief whiff of air and hurriedly got up from her nest of blankets upon returning to her full energy, “I feel so much better!” she cheered, suddenly wincing upon realizing that she was surrounded by germy blankets and used tissues, “Euch… this is awful, what a mess- gotta take a shower first, wash all the germs off me, then I can clean this up- be right back!”

In less time than the rest of the group could blink, Niffty had vanished upstairs to shower.

Husk poked his head out from under the blanket where he’d been resting while cradled against Angel’s torso, taking a sharp breath and purring contentedly as he felt the watery congestion in his sinuses dry up, and his ears unclogged with a satisfying Pop! “Mmmm, that’s more like it,” Husk muttered, slowly moving until he was back on his feet, ignoring the dampness of his sweaty fur.

“I gotta rinse all this sweat off and condition my fur, you comin’ Pretty Kitty?” Angel asked, attempting to finger-comb some of the excess sweat out of his fuzzy white hair.

“Right behind you,” Husk replied, following Angel as the two wandered upstairs together to take a hot shower in Angel’s bathroom.

Charlie inhaled with a watery sniffle, sighing with relief as her symptoms faded away and the tired bags underneath her eyes vanished, “Phew… much better,” she yawned, rubbing her eyes, turning to look at Alastor, who was still deep into a fever-induced slumber, shivering under his blanket whale draped across the loveseat.

Charlie walked over to the loveseat and lifted up Alastor’s head from the back, gently pinching his chapped nostrils shut to force him to take a crackling inhale through his mouth. Once Alastor had taken an inhale of panacea-heavy air, Charlie backed away, wanting to be sure that Lucid Alastor wouldn’t know she was touching him.

Alastor slowly rose up from his reclined position, muffling a final wet cough behind clenched teeth and arching his back to stretch, finally in his right mind after nearly two months of fistfighting with his immune system, “Ahh, that was a satisfying nap,” he muttered to himself, only to notice his body was still slick with sweat, and his hair was about half an inch longer than it was when he last checked.

Suddenly, Alastor was hit with the memory of what had happened before fever rendered his mind blank, and he struggled not to flush with embarrassment, “Whatever transpired while I was indisposed isn’t to be discussed. At all.” he said, threateningly brandishing his microphone.

“Gotcha! We don’t have to talk about it, Alastor, don’t worry, I’m just glad you’re feeling better!” Charlie said with a jovial grin.

“Splendid,” Alastor replied, tapping his microphone against the floor before vanishing into his own shadow.

Right as Alastor disappeared, the double doors to the hotel’s entrance swung open, and a sopping wet Vaggie stepped inside.

“You did it!�� Charlie cheered, rushing over to embrace her girlfriend in a tight hug, “What was causing it? I have so many questions!”

“A sinner who used to be a bioterrorist was leaking the virus into the air… honestly they were persuaded to stop pretty easily… snff!,” Vaggie explained, dragging the back of her wrist under her nose to scrub away an itch.

“That’s good, I’m glad the antidote is a mist too, that way pockets of trapped air will sanitize the Hellivator when it starts operating again,” Charlie said, “It’s so nice this is all over, and it’s all thanks to you, Vaggie, I’m so proud of you!”

“Tha-a-ahh… thanks, Baby,” Vaggie replied, smiling when Charlie planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Heyy, now that I’m feeling better, I think you deserve a special reward for all your hard work,” Charlie whispered suggestively, kissing Vaggie’s neck and gently pressing her palm against her girlfriend’s thigh, “What do you think?”

“I uhm… Snff- snff!... I… I-ihh,” Vaggie began, her breath hitching as a tickle built to a crescendo in her nose, “Hi-IIhh’Ddtssheww! Ih’Ddshhoo!”

Charlie’s aroused smile flipped, concern shimmering in her eyes as she watched Vaggie sniffle against a slightly runny nose, cold rain water still trickling down her face from her soaked hairline.

“I think I’m getting a cold,” Vaggie groaned, a pitiful look in her eyes as she plucked two tissues from a box on a nearby table and blew her nose with a sharp honk, “Hih’dDtshhew! Ih’DdshhEWw!”

Charlie’s sensitive heart melted and she scooped Vaggie into her arms, not even pretending to care about the fact that Vaggie’s rain- soaked body was getting her pajamas wet, “Aww, Vaggie… you did such a good job looking after everything, now it’s my turn to look after you,” she said, kissing Vaggie’s forehead, “Let’s get you a hot bath and a change of clothes.”

“Yaaay,” Vaggie cheered softly, wrapping her arms around Charlie’s neck and trying not to shiver as she was carried upstairs, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Vaggie,” Charlie replied, gently massaging Vaggie’s back over her wet shirt as the couple disappeared up the staircase.

#ha/zb/in ho/tel #snz #snz kink #snz fic #illness kink #gingey.rtf #PHEW #Longest one yet #This was incredible #I wanted to tie up all the loose ends as best I could

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