Waiting for my Ao3 Invite to hit my email.
Here's a little (SFW) peek at Part 1 of my Megawatt fic
The steel wheels ground against the tracks in a rhythmic prelude until the intercom popped.
"To the insomniacs and the restless souls," a baritone crackled through the car. "We are descending into the belly of the beast, New York. Hold fast."
Beatrice’s pen flew across the paper, capturing the theatrical cadence of her invisible poet.
Suddenly, north of 125th Street, the train slammed into the high-density maze of switches and interlocking signals known as Homeball Alley. The heavy subway car pitched violently side-to-side.
Caught off balance, Beatrice lurched forward. Her heels slipped on the rubber flooring and the items in her coat spilled into the aisle. Coins, a compact, and her notebook scattered as the train pitched violently side-to-side.
Before she could even scramble to her knees to gather her belongings, the heavy metal door at the end of the car slid open with a grinding screech.
Beatrice froze, looking up from the scuffed floorboards.
A man stepped through the threshold, slightly ducking his head to clear the frame. His transit uniform was taut across his back, and his heavy boots thudded against the flooring. There was a hyper-vigilant tension in his posture, and jagged scars lined his jaw.
He sauntered down the aisle with a lopsided smirk, prepared to deliver a quip. But when he stopped in front of her, the words died in his throat. He looked down - and lying face up, his own poetry stared back at him in neat, frantic handwriting.
The showman instantly took the stage. He didn't offer a hand to help her up. Instead, he slowly bent down and picked up the notebook, his dark eyes scanning the pages with amusement.
"Well, well," the motorman leaned against a grab pole as the steel tracks screeched. "What do we have here? A critic in the front row?"
Taking a steadying breath, Beatrice smoothed her trousers over her hips and slowly pushed herself up to her feet, forcing her racing heart to steady. She tilted her chin up, holding her ground against his height as she flashed him a bold, striking smirk.
"Depends," Beatrice shot back, her tone carrying the resilient edge of a woman who spent all night managing the city's chaos. "Are you taking requests or do you always make a habit of snoopin' through a lady's private diary?"
A rough chuckle rumbled in his chest, absorbing her wit. He flipped a page, his frame shifting with the movement of the train. The dim bulbs bolted to the ceiling seemed to flicker in sympathy with his changing mood.
"'Swear not by the moon...' Transcribed with absolute perfection." The motorman looked closer at the handwriting. "I must say, sweetheart, usually my audience is either asleep or too drunk for a soliloquy. I didn't realize I had a dedicated scholar."
"A girl's got to pass the time somehow." Beatrice crossed her arms. "It’s either listen to you, or count the tiles on the tunnel walls to myself. And I gotta admit... you’ve got a much better voice."
"Careful, doll." The motorman took a step closer. "You keep dropping nickels to write down my words, and a man might start thinking you're actually a fan. I'd hate to disappoint."
He pressed the notebook against her chest, his fingers lingering for an electric second against her coat. The proximity was startling. Heat radiated from his frame, and a snap of static tickled her skin. The scent of iron and ozone rolled off him, heavy and intoxicating.
Before Beatrice could fire back a retort, the deafening screech of the brakes filled the car. The train began to violently decelerate, the station lights flashing through the grimy windows.
Beatrice snatched the notebook from his grip, tucking it safely into her small pocketbook. She felt entirely undone by the motorman.
"Don't flatter yourself." Beatrice moved toward the doors. "I just like the poetry."
"Then don't lose your place in the script, sweetheart," the motorman called out as the metal ground. "The second act is just about to start."
Beatrice stepped out onto the damp concrete platform, the cool air hitting her flushed cheeks. She turned just in time to see the heavy metal doors slide shut, cutting off the sight of the dangerous, magnetic poet who had just rewritten the trajectory of her life.
blakekathryn
areudirty
titsay
