#Blinds Nottingham

[todisrael]

Fortunately, many deals and discounts abound, and all you need is a good supplier like www.boydsblinds.co.uk. Some materials are particularly friendly on the budget, such as aluminium and faux wood, but if you are looking for something sturdier, go for wood or cellular blinds, which are often available with great deals.

[rbf451]

BC's ig story 28.3.2023

[sweetimpurity]

Robin Hood: A quest for love and freedom

A Miguel O'hara Fairytale Chapter 1

Ever since the war started, the kingdom is in ruin and the King is far away. With no-one to protect them from the evil Sheriff taking over the throne. Who will save them? Will he be able to do it and preserve his love with the girl he's been dreaming about for a decade?

w.c. 5k masterlist

“It’s that Hood!” “Don’t let the Bastard get away!” The guards shout, chasing him through the castle halls and corridors. All this for a small sack of gold coin. A small sum that could change a poor village family’s life around. He’s been doing this for months. Since he got back from the war, the crusade. The seemingly endless trek with the promise of fortune only to be confronted with the stunning reality that the grail might not even be real in the first place. His loyalty to his king and country blinding him to harrowing truth. 

But he’s back now. Back in Nottingham. With a new mission, a new war. A determination to change the times. To steal from the rich and give to the poor!!

“Agh!” He grunts, climbing up into a castle window, overlooking the castle grounds, the ground far below coming into dizzying focus, his eyes on the towers across the way. It's a longshot but he’s made further jumps before in higher stakes than this. He can make the jump if he just- just-

“Stop him!!” A guard yells and they ascend on him like hounds running down the corridor from both ends. Their boots stomping and metal clanging. Armor and swords and a furious desperation to finally get their hands on him. Without a chance to think it through any further, he’s leaping across the open space, everything almost slowed, his long legs extending as if to push him further. To get him there. Guards watching in awe and horror as he makes it across. Like a flash of dark green, a shadow in the night, his silhouette whispering over the cobblestone in the moonlight. The top of the castle wall catching under his arms. He holds on with a grunt of pain at the stress on his muscles, grabbing onto the other side with all his might. His boots sliding over the stone and shoulders aching from the strain. Hanging onto the ledge of the opposing wall and pulling himself up. “You won’t get away so easily Robin!” One of them shouts through the window, watching him climb over the castle wall. He only chuckles, glancing back over his shoulder while still keeping his face concealed in shadow under his hat. No one’s seen his face, they only know the name. Robin Hood. If that’s even his real name at all. 

Then he’s gone. From what they can tell. Gone into the night of Sherwood forest most likely. “Send the dogs out! I want him caught tonight! Have them search the grounds!” The Captain shouts in anger. The guards rushing around, metal clanging and boots thumping on the stone floors. A mess of incoordination and desperation. And yet no Hood to present his ‘majesty’. The guards disperse, with the determination to find Robin in the edges of the forest. Even in the dark of night, they won’t give up, they know what happens if they don’t find the infamous outlaw soon.

…

“That could’ve been bad…” Miguel mumbles softly to himself, his usual sarcastic manner coming out even in the aftermath of trouble. Still hanging onto the edge of the wall. Staying up in the darkness where the light from their torches below doesn’t even reach the soles of his boots. He looks down, watching the hounds scouring the grass and the tree line. Countless guards fanning the area. Miguel shakes his head at their stupidity, their utter foolishness. Just waiting until the guards think he’s gone into the forest. Pulling himself up, looking over the edge of the wall and seeing it’s clear. Hoisting himself back over, he balances on the edge of the castle wall. His nimbleness and flexibility allowed him to walk across the stone like a tightrope. He walks carefully to the end, where the wall connects to the next tower over, stabilizing himself with his hands. Grabbing an arrow from his quiver and jabbing it into a crack in the stonework. Making sure it’s stable before pushing himself up and using it as a step to the windowsill. Holding onto the stone that outlines the opening in the wall. He pops his head in, looking both ways. 

If he can just get to the top of the east tower then he’ll have a clear shot to climb down to the forest and hopefully avoid all that mess down there. He’ll spend less time on the castle green where the hounds might be searching and guards lurking. And the castle seems much less crowded with all the guards looking for him outside. He stealthily climbs stairs and walks down hallways, admiring the portraits on the walls, the treasures lining the place, so lavish, so rich. 

He walks to the end of a corridor, catching a portrait of King Richard on the wall. The rightful King. Not that greedy Sheriff who thinks he’s royalty. The Sheriff who’s raising taxes every chance he gets and bleeding this kingdom dry. He looks down at the sack of gold pieces in his hand. It’s the first time he’s managed to steal directly from the castle. He’s been stealing from that blasted old Sheriff for months. Taking from his wagons as they travel through the woods, distracting his men and trapping them in the forest, taking the gold and riches that were stolen with the intent of giving it back to the victim it was taken from. The King would never let his kingdom go to ruin. But the King isn’t here. If he were, these people wouldn’t be starving and dying in the village. He’s seen children, the elderly, pregnant desperate women needing food, needing clothes. Many of their husbands, fathers, and brothers died in the war. He’s one of the lucky ones that managed to come back home. Many never made it back. But he’s come back to this. A dying kingdom, a greedy bastard thinking he can take the throne just because it’s empty. His actions have earned him the title of wanted criminal. A bounty on his head and a poster with his alias on it. 

There’s noise at the other end of the hallway. Without a second thought, he’s gone. Flipping up the dark hood of his phthalo cloak, turning the corner, he’s out of view. And he’s got to get out of here while he still can. Moving faster now. Not wanting to spend a minute longer in this trap. He climbs some stairs to a new hallway and finds a door. Feeling the breeze of air through the crack with his fingers, knowing there must be an open window or something inside. He quietly sneaks his way through and finds open doors on the other side of the room, open to a balcony. Drapes billowing in the breeze. The forest thereafter. A clean escape. 

He doesn’t even look around the bedroom he's passing through as he rushes through to the balcony doors. Pushing them open more and the night air hits his face. The smell of the forest, so familiar, and not those perfumes and oils that castle is pumped full of. He marches across the balcony and to the edge, hoping he’ll get down and back to camp in one piece. He happens to glance back and he-

“Miguel…?”

Across the balcony. 

Time seems to stop as he sees you. Hears you. Is his heart that hopeful? Is his mind so tortured by your memory that it would taunt him with visions? Are his senses so depleted of your presence that his ears make up the song of your voice? But there you stand, the light of the moon glowing through the fabric of your nightgown, through the abundance of your hair. Across your cheek. Is this a memory? Is this a cruel joke? He’s dreamt of nothing but you and now here you are at last.

But you’re different now. You’re not the little girl he remembers. When he too was a young boy. Two kids together. No. You’re grown. You’re all grown up and stunningly beautiful. The kind of beauty that would bring a mourning dove to song if only for your ears to enjoy. The kind of beauty that brings angels to sweet sugary tears. 

He takes a tentative step forward, as if you make sure you’re not a puff of smoke, a figment of his desperate imagination. But you start walking closer too. One step, then another, two more and you’ve crossed the distance into his arms. He’s stunned, shocked by the warmth of your embrace. He’s thought of only you for a decade. “Hah…” He sighs in relief, melting into your arms. Could this really be happening?

“You’re alive…” Your voice is a heavy hushing whisper next to his ear. 

“You’re beautiful…” He whispers into your shoulder, his lips pressing to the bare skin there. His dark eyes watching his fingertips graze over your skin. So soft, so warm, so here and real; holding you like a most precious perfect specimen. Like pure beauty blown in glass. 

He pulls back to look in your eyes. Only now does he really believe this is real. That he’s seeing you again after all this time. His arms around you, fingers coming to caress your cheek and he just can’t help himself. He’s dreamt of this for so long, too long. His lips meet yours. Crashing into you with the need of a man deprived. A man starved and thirsty. A kiss that would erupt over many kingdoms and countries, it would shake the ground with its passion, its connection, its need, desperation. A kiss that would be felt around the Earth five times over. His arms slide down your back, pulling you in more, only slightly off the ground with your toes just touching the floor, his eager tongue delving into your soft perfect mouth. Is he even worthy of tasting such precious perfection? Yet you taste so sweet, sweeter than any of the times he dreamt of you. He swallows down your gasps, your hitched needy breaths, feeling your delicate fingers digging into his back; soothing you, holding you. He’ll never let you go again. 

“I want him dead!” The Sheriff shouts from his throne. Well it’s not actually his but he’s sitting in it. His death black robes clinging to his calves, a pout on his face, gems decorating his fingers cast in gold. Gold and jewels that don’t belong to him. “I want his head and I want it warm!” 

“I know sir, we’ll get the Hood next time for you, sir, we just need a bit more time.” The guard Captain bows his head in fear and reverence. “-I’ve given you enough time. He dares to defy me- steal from me and you do what? Nothing!” He growls, pacing across the throne room floor. “I have enough to do as it is, I don’t need some… some ghost stealing what’s rightfully mine! And making a damn fool of me!!” He frowns almost like a child. His robes hitting his feet as he huffs, sitting back down in his throne. Crossing his arms and pouting. “And the bastard won’t even show his face! Some phantom determined to ruin my plans!” He knocks a pitcher of wine off the table next to him. The crimson liquid pooling on the stone floor, like spilled blood swirling and dribbling down the uneven cobblestone. 

“Don’t force me to make an example out of you. Captain.” He drawls, pointing his finger at the man, an evil glint in his eye. The Captain gulps, feeling an uneasy sense of dread. “I have no issue with public execution. Unlike our good old King.” He glares at the stained glass decorating the throne room. The red and purple hues, oranges and yellows glowing in the moonlight. Greens, blues, teals, cascading on the floor like water in the stream. An image depicting King Richard, who is at this moment halfway across the continent still on a hunt for the evading holy grail as the war rages on, shown with his family. His siblings, his parents, his cousins. You. His last living cousin. The Sheriff’s only option. An evil one at that. 

The Sheriff bellows, grabbing his gauntlet of wine and throwing it at the stained glass window. Glass shards shattering and clinking on the cobblestone. Echoing off the walls, ringing loud against everyone’s eardrums. Breaking the glass to bits, blowing a big hole in the image. The guards in the room gasp and the Captain takes cover from the falling glass overhead. Purified moonlight streams in through the shatter, lighting the Sheriff's face in an evil white light.

“JUST GET ME THAT ROBIN HOOD AND GET HIM NOW!!!”

“Th-this… you-” You stutter and sigh, unable to believe what you’re seeing. What you’re feeling. The last time you saw him he was 15. You were 14 and tearfully saying goodbye as you were sent away for schooling across the continent. You wanted to stay. You wanted to marry him. As a teenager you knew. Even as a little girl you knew in your heart. From running in the blackberry fields to swimming in the nearby streams, spending everyday with each other growing up, even if you're parents may have disapproved of you spending so much time with a peasant boy, as a lady of royal blood. To be separated from him was like ripping the sun of its warmth. By the time you returned at 18 he had already gone off to the war. He was expected to be a man. Fight for King and country. You were the King’s cousin and expected to be a lady, go to church, continue the royal bloodline. But you’d both taken pieces of each other’s hearts. Your heart was broken those long 10 years ago. “I know…” He whispers, keeping his hands on your shoulders, your cheeks. Any place he can keep touching you. Feeling you.

“I thought you were dead” You practically sob and his heart snaps at the sound of your voice. The look in your eyes. “I-I thought… I mourned you” You could cry. You’re nearly crying already. “I know- I know, I’m sorry…” He whispers, fearing anything louder than a hush would rupture your aching heart, wanting to explain, it wasn’t his intention to keep his return a secret. And he wanted to find you but wasn’t sure you’d still be here. That you’d remember him like he remembers you. 

“I’ve been back just a few months now… I’m back, I'm here now…” He whispers, trying to soothe your broken heart.  “This… is what you’ve been doing? Robin Hood…” You cry, tears brimming and threatening to spill over. He’s been back and you’ve thought him dead for years. Mostly everyone died in the war. Or was taken prisoner. You take a look at what he’s wearing, the quiver on his back. He’s the outlaw that everyone has been talking about. The criminal the Sheriff is hellbent on putting down. “I-I had to… the kingdom. It’s in ruin, my love… it’s all ruined, people are dying and it’s all his fault…” He explains, wiping your tears away with his thumb, looking right in your eyes, his words like a prophecy. “I can’t just stand by and watch. And once the Sheriff caught onto me I… I had to disappear. That’s when the alias arose…” He whispers, watching your face contort in emotion at his explanation. He wishes things could be different. 

“It’s been so long…” You whimper, leaning into his hand on your cheek. “Why didn’t you come for me?” 

“I wanted to, my love, mi amor, but I... didn’t know you’d be here, I thought you’d be… far from this place.” He whispers. He thought you’d be gone and married by now. With children and a husband for him to envy. Your children should be his children, your husband, he should be. 

“I thought you’d forgotten me” He admits, an urgency in his voice, met with the despair and heartbreak written all over your beautiful features. “I’d never have forgotten you!” You cry, more of a protest than anything, shaking your head as if to refuse reality. “I’ve thought of only you in your absence…” You confess, taking his breath away. 

“The Sheriff he- he’s after the throne, he’s taking over the castle.”

“I know… I know.” He nods, trying earnestly to understand your desperate ramblings. “But the King-” 

“My cousin is too far… too unreachable…” You sigh, speaking through the tears. “The Sheriff has too much power already. The guards listen to everything he says. I even think the priest is on his side.” 

He listens to you explain. All that’s gone on. All you’ve been through.

“I’ve been locking myself away in here. Only leaving when I must. He’s kept some distance and my ladies in waiting have been keeping me safe for some time but… I fear he’ll get too comfortable. He thinks he’s King already.”

“Oh, my love…” Miguel wraps you up in his arms, holding you close and listening to every word, wanting to wipe away every tear, take away every ounce of pain. To think the Sheriff’s has been practically keeping you prisoner in your own home, weaponizing your fear. It makes his blood boil with anger and hatred. His heart hammer with the need to protect you, defend you from this abuse. That must be why he hasn’t heard one peep about you. He’d have known you were in Nottingham. If he’d known sooner, he would have come. “It’s okay now… I’ll help you, we’ll do whatever necessary.” He whispers into your hair, his arms wrapping you up in such a safe and secure embrace.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you…” He whispers, his hand running up your back and gently holding the back of your neck. Your body seems to mold to his like soft fine clay, his fingers brushing against your warm skin, arms wrapping around your body. It’s amazing for him to see you this way. A woman. All grown up now.

“You’re so tall…” You smile and pull back to take a look at him, a sight that takes his breath away once more. He looks down at you, smiling himself. “You’ve grown more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.” 

Your heart soars at his words. To know that he’s remembered the pure, innocent, yet true love you shared as kids, then teenagers, only to be ripped apart. To have found one another again and feel the same way. Only love true as this could last. 

You pull back a bit to look up at him. He’s grown. He’s a man now. Not the boy you once loved, but a man. He’s still got that boyish smile, a lopsided one with those soft brown eyes, so familiar. As if the sight is ingrained into your very heart. It’s almost as if no time has passed at all. You still feel just as comfortable, just as familiar. He feels like home. 

His shoulders have broadened, his jaw, chin and nose sharp and handsome. His arms feel thick and strong around your back, his chest feels firm under your hands. His hair curling up slightly by his ears, just like it was when he was 15. 

“Oh, won’t you stay? I don’t… I don’t want to be apart from you…” You whisper, leaning into him again, looking up into those eyes. The eyes that have you fawning all over again. “I don’t want to be apart from you either, love. I don’t think my heart could withstand it.” He says.

Your hands slip into his, fingers intertwining, like your souls lacing back up. Like the stars aligning in the sky, everything in their rightful place once again. “I can’t bear your heart being far from mine…” He whispers, his nose brushing up against yours, the night breeze rustling through the trees off the balcony and through your hair. 

He kisses you once more. The little girl inside of you squealing with glee. This is the boy you fell in love with and he’s alive. He’s back after all this time. 

…

“...so I escaped and somehow made my way back home…” He finishes explaining. The two sitting on the balcony floor, side by side on the stone, under the moonlight. Discussing his time in the war, then as a prisoner and his efforts to return in one piece. Going over all that's happened since you've seen each other last. “How did you ever bear it? I can’t imagine how hard that must have been…” 

“We lost many good men… A few of them managed to come back with me. The battle was hard but dreaming of you was much more difficult to bear. I always wanted to return. I always knew I needed to be with you.” He says, making you smile, his fingertips gently stroking the back of your hand. “Then I saw what the Sheriff was doing in the King’s absence and I couldn’t just stand by. I knew the villagers would have no one to protect them with half the army and the King still away searching for that damned grail.”

“I begged my cousin not to leave. I told him the kingdom would be in ruin. That we needed him more than ever. But he thought the grail would be the answer to our prayers.” He listens to you explain, his eyes scanning over your pretty face. A small smile on his lips as he admires your features. A feeling of nostalgia deep in his heart. His fingers coming up to brush some hair behind your ear. “He thought it would end the war, it would end disease and illness, and it would bring back peace. But all this has brought is pain and suffering.” You say, thinking back on the past year. When your cousin left to find the grail and hopefully end the war. Then the Sheriff got too comfortable in the empty role. 

“The Sheriff thinks he can be King. I don’t know how he’ll do it but he’ll find a way.” You sigh. Miguel’s expression hardens. Knowing they have to be careful. If the Sheriff is going around Nottingham with some twisted plan, he won’t just stop if asked nicely. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.” He nods, squeezing your hand gently. 

It’s quiet for a moment. The breeze in the sway of the trees. The sounds of the night in the forest. It’s like the first moment of peace for both of you in years. Holding each other. Sitting beside each other once more. “So… Robin Hood? What’s the meaning behind that name?” You smile, leaning in closer.

“Oh…well…” He chuckles, smiling bashfully. “I must say it is an impressive hood.” You tease, reaching over his shoulders and lifting the dark green material over his head. Watching the shadow cascade over his smiling face. “Thank you…” He grins, his hands coming to your wrists as you hold onto the edges of his cowl. “And I suppose you are robbing… Robin.” You figure out. Pulling back the hood just a bit so you can see his eyes, the way they sparkle in the moonlight. “Robin Hood.” You whisper, his thumbs caressing the inside of your palms, his eyes completely captivated by your beautiful face and your smile. This still feels like a dream. Like he’ll wake up any minute and be back on the battlefield thousands of miles away. 

“I am in love with you…” He sighs, a half hum, leaning forward slightly with that same boyish grin on his face. Watching your face as you giggle and blush at his sudden confession. Although you already knew it to be true. “You are?” You tease, pulling on his hood just slightly to bring him closer. “Yes… hopelessly… helplessly.” He whispers.

His nose brushes yours, lips ghosting just across yours too, so soft and gentle. “Wonderfully… desperately…” He whispers against your lips, turning his head and tilting it, as if to find the perfect angle to kiss your perfect lips. Your eyes flutter closed, feeling so calm and peaceful, allowing his lips to find yours at the exact right moment, not a second later or before. His lips pressing to yours with the smallest amount of pressure, a whisper of a kiss. That sends a chill down your arms and your back, a flush to your cheeks, heat through your body. From then on, he kisses the corner of your lips, then your cheek, moving down to your jaw. It’s the first time you’ve ever been kissed in such a way. His head tilting slowly into your neck and leaving chaste kisses below your ear. The night breeze blowing past your cheek, feeling so weakened by his touch, desperate for more. For all of him.

One of his hands comes to the other side of your face, cradling your cheek and tilting your chin back with his nose, pressing kisses up the column of your throat. The girl of his dreams, in his arms again. 

“Maid y/n…” A voice calls from inside the room, beyond the curtains that billow in the breeze, the only cover the two of you have. Miguel instantly draws back from your neck, his fingers gently wrapping around the back of your neck protectively, his eyes trained on the curtains, the candlelight behind them. “Are you alright? You’re not in bed…” It’s one of your ladies. Someone you trust but not enough to see Miguel here. For someone to find out the Hood's true identity. “Yes, I’m fine. Just fine, thank you… just breathing in some fresh air…” You say before she can come out onto the balcony to check. You both watch the light flickering inside. The flame from the candle she’s holding. Hoping by God’s will she won’t venture onto the balcony to check. After a moment, the light flickers and disappears as the woman leaves your room. His arms relaxing from their tense and coiled position. He looks back at you. 

“Won’t you come with me? I have a safe place… in the forest. Completely safe for you… for us…” He whispers, knowing he’s risking everything to stay here longer. His fingers caress the side of your face with pure love and affection. He wants to keep that promise to himself and to you. That he won’t allow you into danger if he can help it. He’ll protect you from harm. He’ll get you out of here. He’ll marry you. You’ll run away, find a safe place far from here. He’ll fill you up with so much love and care, you’ll both be bursting with true love and children. Symbols of your everlasting love. This is his promise to you.

“I don’t think it's wise. If I go, the Sheriff will notice and we’ll lose what little control we still have. I don’t want to leave the people with him. They deserve more.” You explain and he nods, fully understanding and admiring your nurturing soul and courage to do the right thing even if it proves difficult or painful. Your loyalty to the kingdom and her citizens matches his own. “But I will come to you tomorrow night… I promise.” He whispers, nodding in sincerity. Cradling your face in his hands. “I’ll be here…” You smile, heart overflowing. You both rise off the floor.

“Stay safe, my love…” He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then a slow soft peck on your lips. His arms wrap around your waist, slowly walking backwards towards the edge of the balcony with you in his arms. “Just a little while longer and everything will be right again.” He wants nothing more than to take you away from this place. Sleep with you in his arms, finally make love to you for the very first time after years of desperation. But soon everything will be right once more. He has to keep believing that. 

“Stay safe yourself… please.” You whisper, feeling him let go and sit on the edge of the balcony, getting ready to climb down and return to the forest. He turns around, expertly finding his footing and starting to climb down the edge of the balcony. His hands and feet lodged in the stones, ready to climb down. But his heart doesn’t want to leave yet. “Sweet dreams, my love… mi amor…” He whispers with a smile. You lean down to kiss him. The big, golden, low hanging moon shining right through the space between your lips until it’s smothered out by their union. Each kiss you share feels as if it could shake the ground, level this corrupted castle in an instant. You don’t want to but you pull back, smiling down at him and seeing that lopsided grin once more. He’s a dream come true in every sense of the saying. 

“I love you…” You hum, watching him start to climb down. “I love you too…” He says, getting a bit further down but still looking up at you, watching your figure back lit by the light of the moon. “I love you unconditionally…” You say, teasing him lovingly. “I love you endlessly…” He says, climbing further down the tower wall and playing into your little competition. 

“I love you breathlessly…”

“I love you absolutely…” 

“I love you infinitely…” 

“I love you perpetually…” 

“I love you forever…” You say and see him finally reach the ground. Watching him step back across the grass below. He can only just barely hear your voice now but he caught every word. “I love you forever.” He echos, looking up at you. Pretty, perfect you all the way up in that tower. He walks backwards towards the tree line, keeping his eyes on you the whole way, blowing you a kiss before he disappears into the shadows of Sherwood forest. Only love true as this could last. 

to be continued...

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[rbf451]

Nottingham 28.3.2023

ollimatela story

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [8]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 4.8k words

Your hunter isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.  

He’s not subtle, when his blackened lids droop heavy over his burrowing glare, shifting from disdain to a dark hunger; potent enough to taste, hot and salty. When he adjusts his position in his seat, mammoth thighs spread in egotism, as he bucks his pelvis and leans back to find greater comfort while he indulges in the sight of you. When he sucks his teeth in feigned contempt at your proposition, masquerading as a stoic hunter only interested in the kill – and not the kind that plays with his food.  

The atmosphere between his body and yours has suddenly become heavy. Warm and dense. Weighed down by some mutual cognisance, the sudden awareness that you can read the animal instinct that runs through his mind, and he yours. You feel it in your chest. 

It was a quick and sore distraction, at least, from the revelation of your husband’s true nature. You knew of his tendencies, you caught wind of his exploits. Had some vague understanding that it was illegal, that it operated in the shadows – but you had convinced yourself his money was plucked from deserving pockets. That his industry only stained white collars.  

You’ve been blind. Too focused on the only little world he granted you, your glittering snowglobe, uncaring and uninterested in what he had to do to afford you. But, to give yourself grace, what could you have done?  

Your husband was a smart man. Shrewd. Cunning. There were no feminine wiles you could have employed, no means to mould nor manipulate him, beyond a request for a newer sports-car or a softer mink coat. There was a prescribed window within which you could operate, only a few strings you could pull. To venture outside would have been to seek dire punishment.  

And now he’s dead. Not smart enough to avoid that, was he?  

Whatever love you once felt for him, whatever twisted desperation you had mistaken as affection, has soured into bile. Any fond memory now mutated into some depraved reproduction, ugly and horrid.  

Now, you’re forced to face whatever pitiful life might await you. You’re forced to wonder whether or not he wrote you into his will, left anything in your name for you to survive on – and after his tirade of bitter abuses leading up to his unceremonious death, you sincerely doubt it.  

What is there left for you? 

You truly, truly, have nothing. Not even the faint optimism that you have at least experienced love and luxury in your short and bitter life. All has been tainted. Nothing sacred remains.  

So what now is there left to do but to entertain your abductors? To oblige whatever use they have for you? The only alternative is to give up and await your execution. If it gets to that, you hope it’s quick.  

Not ready to die yet, though, you decide to entertain him.  

“What use, then,” you utter, barely louder than a whisper.  

He leers at you through the shadowed pits of his mask. Dark eyes sharper than piercing bullets, they fire at you, warm the areas of your body that they linger on. Clouded and distant, plainly distracted. 

You know what he’s distracted by. You could see, feel him undressing you through his glare alone. 

He bounces his knee, crosses his arms. Impatient, is he?  

Maybe he just needs you to offer one more time. Give him one more excuse.  

Why are you considering it so heavily? 

“Do you want to go home, Mia?” There’s a thickness in his tone. Not a sincere offer. You foretell a catch.  

The image slithers back to you of that convulsing sentry, choking on his own foaming blood, pleading wordlessly for you to put him down. Just as vivid and squelching as when you had been confronted by it in the bowels of your mansion.  

“There’s too much blood to clean up,” you breathe, staring absently into the floor. 

“To England,” he clarifies through his jaw, “back to Nottingham.” 

Your heart skips. Rush of air escapes your lungs. He notices, quickly, he tilts his head as though to analyse your reaction.  

“You’d like that, eh?”  

Tongue is too heavy. Thoughts indecipherable. Fly through your mind in a blinding, strobing picture show. You hadn’t been home since you were a teenager. Can’t even remember the name of the street you lived on, wouldn’t want to if you could.  

“I…” you hesitate, “I don’t have a passport.” 

“We can get you a passport.” 

Through teeth. “How.” 

“Doesn’t matter how,” he grumbles, a slight roll of his eyes. “We can.” 

You bite the gummy inside of your lip, hoping you split the flesh; suckling at it for some comfort, maybe to pacify yourself for a moment of jittery contemplation. 

“For what,” you ask eventually, voice shaky. 

Fingers interwoven apathetically; he seems to ponder for a moment before he speaks.  

“You’re an asset,” he grunts, tone cold. “A valuable one.”   

You clench your jaw. “What, is it Victor’s money you want?” 

He almost chuckles at that, a huff of disdain. “No. I want the man who helped him get it.”  

“Who?” 

He pauses, tense and fuming, leans forward.  

“Vladimir Makarov.”  

Him again.  

The blood in your swollen head drains out through your neck at his mention. Fills your lungs, thick and dark, plugs your trachea and prevents you from sucking down another breath.  

Ever-observant, he sees that, too. “Familiar, is he?” 

A slow nod is the only answer you muster.  

“How familiar?”  

“Enough,” you croak.  

He squints, dissatisfied. Leans back in his seat. “Gonna need more than that.”  

“You already know who he is. You already know what he does.” You spit, but the quiver in your voice betrays you.  

“There's only so much intel we can get by drone or spy,” he disputes, a severity woven through his words. You can see his fuse burning short. “You know him personally, don’t you?”  

A second to breathe. Two. His questioning, his presence, is suffocating. You stare knives into the floor, wrestling with an amorphous terror that you fail to conceal behind your cracking veneer of bravery.  

He shifts forward slowly, a prowl. Hunting. “Don’t you?”  

“I don’t... I don’t know him well,” you breathe. “He worked with Victor. That’s all I know.”  

“Careful, Mia,” he murmurs, bitter and aggravated. “Don’t lie to me.” 

 You swallow quietly. “He, um. He visited the house a lot.”  

“For what.”  

“Victor would have him over for, for meetings. Not just Vladimir, other men too. But he, uh, he made himself at home. I think he worked more closely with Victor than the others, though. Victor didn’t like him.”  

“They didn’t get on?”  

Cautiously shaking your head, you keep your eyes glued to him. “They were professional. I don’t... I don’t know the details. Victor never said so, um, but I could tell. He would always be in a shittier mood when they had to work together.”  

Riley licks his teeth, crosses his arms as he chews on his next question. “What about you,” he grumbles. “What did you think of him.”  

“He...” you hesitate, glower darting away from him, you stare into the fluorescent bar above him. “I didn’t like him either.”  

“You spoken to him?”  

He must be able to see your shakiness, your jittery disposition, as you bite words out like they’re too thick to fit in your mouth, burn your tongue. “I avoided it.”  

“But you did.”  

An anxious sigh escapes you. “Yes.”  

“Civil?”  

“I was polite,” you murmured. “I was always polite. I had to be.”  

“What’d he think of you?”  

You chew your tongue. Pick at your fingernails almost viciously enough to draw blood. “I don’t think he thought of me at all.”  

Again, he bounces his knee. Fuse burns shorter. “Am I going to have to show you what happens when you lie, Mia?”  

“No–” you squeak, hands landing flat on your knees as if you had been called to attention. “I – I’m sorry. I... he, uh. As far as I could tell he didn’t dislike me. He – he would’ve... he would’ve made it known if he disliked me.”  

“How so?”  

“He has a... a short temper.”  

“He would’ve hurt you?” 

Your jaw tightens, stare at him not breaking. “What do you want me to do,” you utter through your teeth. “Why are you asking me about him.”  

He tilts his head, as though in thought. “I want a quid pro quo.”  

“What’s the quo,” you shiver. 

“You’re going to host your husband’s wake,” he insists, stern as if reminding you that you have no say in your fate. “And you’re going to invite him. All of them.”  

You fall silent. Fall still. Heart thunders in your chest, it aches hot with exertion. You shake your head cautiously, a reflex. “No.”  

Refusal hurtles from your throat with an intensity that startles you; by turn a plea and an avowal.  

“No?” He snarls, a quirk of his head – you’re yet unsure if you had surprised him or infuriated him.  

“No – I – I can’t,” you stammer, vigorously shaking your head in dispute. “I can’t.”  

He scoffs. “You don’t have a choice.”  

Hands grip the edge of the mattress you sit on, bunching the foam in claws, white knuckles, you hyperventilate so vigorously that you feel yourself spinning. “I can’t. They – you don’t understand. They’re–” 

“You know what’ll happen to you,” He growls, suddenly seethingly aggravated. “If you don’t cooperate.” 

Through sore tears you scowl, lips curling, betraying the thunderstorm of turmoil behind them – terror, anguish, fury.  

“There is nothing, nothing you can do to me that could be worse than what they will do. Nothing,” you seethe, enervated voice shaky and pitiful. “They... without Victor, they’ll...” 

“Think you’ll be spared anything here?”  

Through a laboured breath, flared nostrils, a tear trickles into the corner of your mouth, salty on your tongue. “You’re not the one I’m scared of.”  

“That’s a mistake,” he fumes, as he stands up from his seat – stalks towards you slow. Threatening. “I don’t keep prisoners, Mia. If you’re not useful, you’re deadweight.”  

Looking down on you menacingly, he hangs his burly arms by his side. They twitch, he stretches out his fingers before clenching them into fists; a warning. A reminder of how they can hurt you. “I’ll kill you myself.”  

Steadfast, you don’t shift as you glare up at him; boring into those dark eyes, pools of black tar in the darkness cast by his shadow.  

“Then kill me,” you croak. “I’d be better off dead.”  

Ghost lights himself a cigarette the second he barges out of your cell, catching glimpse of you through the miniscule steel-mesh window in the door. You lie down on the deteriorated mattress, curl up, face the wall like you can hide there.  

Better off dead.  

Maybe you’re right.  

He’s well aware of what fate will befall you if he doesn’t put a bullet in your head. Even honourable soldiers will inevitably seek the warmth and comfort they can take from you. Will use you to sate their hunger after weeks, months, of fighting in the barren snow and washing off the indelible blood.  

You think you’re safer here, cooped up in a locked cell, out of reach; than back in the anarchy of your Russian circle of warlords. Here you’re surrounded by the gun-wielding puppets of powerful governments. But their laws won’t protect you. Not here. Nothing will.  

He’ll give you time to think it over. Let you come to your senses.  

Because he’d prefer not to kill you. Not out of any particular compassion, he tells himself, not because he would find it difficult to do so. No, instead, because he had been the one to suggest your abduction at all. The others would have left you amongst the strewed corpses of your guards. Would’ve shot you dead if you screamed too loud. That likely would’ve been the more altruistic approach, but Ghost knew you were not an innocent bystander. Knew you’d serve a valuable purpose.  

Now your value is running thin.  

Yet as he saunters down the empty hallway, to the beating echoes of his boots on vinyl-coated concrete, the image of you persists in tormenting him. The glint of your lips, the sheen of your cheeks, damp with fear and sweat. The strain of the fine tendons in your neck as you draw in your careful breaths. The lilt of your depleted voice, hoarse, pleading.  

Still he stares ahead as if he can see you there, standing winsomely in the tunnel; still he glowers at you with a ravening appetite, far beyond his control. 

Could you read his mind?  

He had seen you shift edgily. Lips part in apprehension. Knees press together. Fingernails dig into your thighs and inflict little red moons in their wake.  

Could you feel his hunger?  

He hopes you couldn’t. Hopes you can’t. Hates you for having any sway on him, for coaxing out whatever fucking animal sits behind his teeth and leers at you so shamelessly. Hates himself for losing his grip.  

Swirling the bitter smoke in his empty mouth, letting it pour from his nostrils, he marches to the gear room to grab his Goretex snow jacket. Needs to get some air. Needs the winter dawn to cool the burning heat that swells in the back of his neck.  

He’s out there for an hour. Silently thankful nobody bothers him, as he tucks himself against a wall near the back of the maze-like concrete compound. He sucks down three Russian cigarettes in his solitude, exerting every effort to focus on the war, the objectives, the strategies, the orders – and not you.  

After a long while, once the encroaching sun licks the sky a deep shade of lilac from behind the black horizon, he eventually cools off. Whatever flare had overwhelmed him finally settling into a simmer he can for now keep a handle on.  

So he heads to the Captain.  

Not sure yet what he’ll report to him. Admit that he has failed to convince you? That the very thought of you has infected him like some encephalitic disease, eating away at his mind from the inside out? 

He pushes down the rattling door handle and storms into Price’s makeshift office without knocking. Ghost doesn’t knock. He enters with impatience.  

“Fuck – Simon,” Price barks, startled by the Lieutenant’s arrival. He stands at his desk, leaning over a fraying map. “Y’really are a fuckin’ ghost, eh?”  

“She refused,” Ghost declares in a growl, curt and frustrated.  

“’Course she did,” the Captain dismisses uninterestedly, turning to lean on the edge of the desk.  

Crossing arms over his chest, Ghost licks his teeth. “She’ll change her mind,” he shrugs. “Give ‘er a couple days o’ this place, she’ll change it.”  

“We don’t have days, Simon.”  

“Then what’s your suggestion.”  

Price lets out a crude chuckle. “Graves had a couple.”  

Ghost grits his teeth. “What?”  

“Y’know the yanks,” the Captain snorts, “definitely their area of expertise.”  

“The fuck are you talking about.”  

“He said he could convince her,” he shrugs.  

Jaw clenches to the point of ache. “You know what that fuckin’ means, don’t you.”  

Price curls his lips into a thin line under the shadow of his beard. The same sort of expression that always betrays his own reluctance to do what he calls the dirty work. To the Captain it’s rational. Any cruelty is allowed when the ends justify the means. Pretends he’s too moral for filth even when he finds such humour in it. No, he can orchestrate the savagery, shift the pawns around on the board, so long as he needn’t witness it.   

“Frankly, Simon, I don’t give a shit what it means,” he grumbles, “if we get a spy out of her, doesn’t matter to me what it takes.” 

“Not like you to abide rape and torture, captain,” Ghost seethes, venom slick and pointed in his throat. 

“Mh, well, you made sure we had no other option when you shot her fucking husband.”  

“Piss off. He wasn’t gonna give us anything and you know it.” 

“You got cocky, Simon, that’s what happened,” the Captain chides, irritation flushing warm in his once jovial cheeks. “Happy to pull the trigger on our VIP but haven’t got the balls to beat some sense into his goddamn hooker.”  

“She knows shit all about the Konnis,” Ghost protested, rage only burning hotter. “Torturing her is a waste of time.”  

“Fuck’s gotten into you?” Price spits, “This sort of business is your M.O.”  

“My M.O. is getting the fuckin’ job done without collateral. Graves is a dog. He’ll only make a fuckin’ mess.”  

Price rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Then go clean it up.”  

Ghost straightens his back, knuckles straining, fists trembling. “He’s got her now?”  

“Yes, Jesus. We’re on a fucking deadline, remember?”  

“Fuck’s sake,” Ghost snarls, immediately swivelling on his boot and ramming open the door with his forearm.  

“You’d better have a backup plan, Simon.” Price barks after him, but his hoarse command is cut short but the deafening bang of the slamming door.   

~

Cement melts beneath his boots as he thunders through the intestines of the compound. Wool of his balaclava traps the steam that he exhales with each ragged breath.  

Stalks like a wolf. Dark red of shuddering blood pulses thick and hot into his vision; encroaches his periphery until the remaining pinpricks of acute sight turn to crosshairs. Knows his target, can smell him from here.  

Can hear him, too. Hears that blustering, cocksure laughter reverberating through the clinical halls, muffled by the thick door that keeps you trapped at his leisure.  

Ghost’s fury is rational. It always is. There’s always some detached, intellectual justification for his explosive reaction to whatever it is, slight or significant, that inflames him. This time, it’s imprudence. Stupidity. Arrogance. The stupid fucking privateer will lay ruin the meticulously considered strategy Ghost has been weaving since he caught you.  

There won’t be even a dream of coerced espionage if you’re covered in bruises and bleeding from flesh wounds and violated orifices. If you’re too shaken to even utter a sensical word to the very men you’ll be wringing information from.  

But Graves has no sense of subtlety. Blindly follows his depraved impulse like a spoiled little boy. The kind of disturbed kid that picked the legs off insects, would throw kittens into firepits just to hear them howl. He’d happily drop nuclear bombs on an entire city if it meant a confirmed kill of a single target. Ghost finds himself sordidly repulsed that Price is growing desperate enough to give the fucking dog a bone. To embolden him by allowing him to experiment with your suffering.  

Can hear your noises now, too.  

Not quite screaming, broken cries as though holes had been torn in your throat. Sore and wet. He sees the door to your cell, painted muted teal and chipping around the handle, scratches where keys had cut through the varnish.  

His handgun now nestled in his palm, didn’t consciously notice that he had pulled it from where he had left it tucked in the back of his trousers. Par for the course that the dumb fuck had left the door unlocked. Done Ghost the favour of letting him hurl his boot into the door and kicking it open in a single blow.  

You let out an anguished squeal following the thunderous whack of the door, as it flies open and slams into the cinderblock wall. Not the crashing door that made you scream, though – instead, the closed fist that had just been thrown into your cheek, narrowly missing your eye. Loud and vicious enough to be heard amongst the commotion, the tender crack of bone hitting bone.  

His flaming eyes land on you. 

In the centre of the cell, the arches of your bare feet graze the floor as you’re hung by a fist around your hair; held in a ponytail tight against your scalp, you dangle from it. Too close to the ground to stand on your own feet, too high to kneel. The red welts of your scratches scour the forearm of the man that suspends you, where you’ve tried to hold yourself up to spare your scalp from being torn from your skull like Velcro.  

It’s not Graves that dangles you. Too tall. No, instead, it’s one of his shadows. A myrmidon, muscle to no doubt prevent you from kicking the Commander in the fucking head again. Too much of a pussy to be by himself in the same room as you. Even as he tortures you. Pathetic fuck.  

The bootlicker that carries you is expendable. Disposable. Not Ghost’s comrade. It’s instinct as Ghost raises his gun. It’s reflex as he pulls the trigger, iron sights unconsciously aligned with the skull of the mercenary in black. He seizes before he drops, hot blood spitting in a geyser from the hole that the single bullet tore through his forehead.  

You tumble down with him, erupt out a bonechilling scream of terror as you hold your arms over your head to protect yourself. You scurry, slipping in the blood as you attempt to crawl to the corner of the cell. Only then does he notice your cruel nudity, the rags of your soft negligée left in pink confetti where it had evidently been cut from you.  

Ghost’s fury is quickly redirected to the Commander, then, who merely gawks in the moments it takes him to register the sudden series of events that had erupted before him. The consequences of his actions.  

“What the fuck!” He roars, gesturing with open palms in confused horror at the twitching corpse of his henchman.  

Ghost points the end of his gun at him, jutting it; not to aim, but to emphasise his anger. “You’re a reckless fucking idiot, you know that?”   

“Jesus – what the fuck is wrong with you?” Graves rages, shaking out the fist he had used to pummel you, before wiping his forehead as though he had overexerted himself. “I was following your captain’s orders.”  

“Yeah? Did the captain order you to fuckin’ strip her?”  

“Oh fuck off, you know the playbook, Riley,” he barks, a furious vein bulging in his forehead as he spits out his curses. “You’re not some champion of morality because you leave her fucking clothes on.”  

Therein lies the opportunity that Ghost savours so fondly. One that has him foaming at the mouth. An excuse. An excuse to lunge at the American mercenary, to hurl the butt of his handgun into the side of his head with a crack. Graves narrowly dodges the worst of the blow, instead the metal leaves a brutal scrape in his forehead.  

So Ghost follows it with a launch of his calloused fist into his cheekbone, an uppercut under his ribs, a roundhouse into his ear. God, he missed it. Sure, he’s thrown a punch or two in his uniform, wearing those padded gloves, impeded by a bulky helmet and a painfully cumbersome tactical vest. But why bother, how can one justify old-fashioned combat when they’re holding a heaving automatic rifle? 

It’s this he missed. Back to square one. He likes it raw. Meat hitting meat. Bone hitting bone. Bare, bruised knuckles pulverising rippling skin pulled tight over flesh, over and over, over and over. Thud. Thud. Thud.  

Gun cast aside, he doesn’t care where it had vanished to. Nothing but a red blur as the two men entangled into a bloody, fuming knot on the floor of the cell. A flurry of fists and elbows and boots; Graves landed his fare share, no dismissing that MARSOC training. But he didn’t have the decades of resilience that Ghost had built, layer by layer, fractured bone by fractured bone. No, Ghost can eat strikes to the head like fucking pudding.  

One final blow to Graves’s pig head ricochets the back of his skull off the solid floor with a whack, and he is swiftly decommissioned. Splutters blood from between his teeth and blinks vaguely at the ceiling. Ghost could keep going, fantasises about it – he’d find an abundance of pleasure in beating him to death. But, unfortunately, they need the Commander and his army of over-armed shadows. And, despite how much he yearned to, killing him over the abuse of a single prisoner would be, frankly – humiliating. An overreaction. A reflection of his lack of control.  

But Ghost has control. Tightens his leash, fastens his muzzle, as he pushes himself to stand with an aching hand on his knee. Maintains a violent glower down his nose at the American on the floor, who takes his time to recover. The beaten man grimaces, holding the back of his fist to his nose, smearing the dark blood that had poured from it.  

“Fuckin’ asshole,” he grunts; Ghost fights the urge to throw a kick into his ribcage.  

But instead he rolls his head to relieve the tension, hears the vertebrae in his neck crack with the stretch. With a clench of his jaw, a wipe of his brow, he returns his menacing glare to the American. Through a growl, he orders; “Get out.”  

Watches in huffing silence as he takes his time to stand, using the wall to get himself up and leaving a bloody print on the white paint. Once up, though, he does his best to conceal his injury. Elbows past Ghost as he marches towards the cell door, hurling it open and storming into the hall.  

“Oi–” Ghost barks, as he lurches towards the corpse of the shadow bundled in the centre of the cell. Hoists it up, heavy and dense, he heaves it over his shoulder. Feels the hot blood poor from its bullet hole down his back. “Don’t forget this.”  

With a crude throw he tosses the cadaver into the hallway – it skids across the linoleum, leaving slippery smears of blood along the speckled blue vinyl before it bumps into the furthest wall.  

He grunts as he slams the heavy door, it crashes closed with an obnoxiously loud bang; before he’s left in the throbbing, hot silence. He takes a second to collect himself, to soften his ravaging breathing, to let the blood and sweat dry on his burning skin.  

As he turns, though, he notices the black pile of wool on the floor, amongst the splatters of blood and black skids of rubber bootsoles.  

His mask. Must’ve lost it in the fight.  

And then he hears a click, and a quiet, squeaking breath – from you. In the frenzy he had almost forgotten you were there, a spectator to all of it, the catalyst of his savagery. There you are. Back pressed up against the walls, knees tucked tightly to your bare chest.  

In your velvet hands sits his gun.  

You barely wrap your fingers around the handle, instead holding it like it’s a small animal, like you might coo at it to pacify it. It’s as if you hadn’t noticed him, your dripping eyes fixated keenly on the cold metal, balanced in your shaky grip.   

He can’t explain, nor justify, nor understand his confidence that you won’t aim the weapon at him. Instead, he concernedly anticipates that you might turn it on yourself. He steps towards you, languid but assertive, until he is standing over you.  

Holds out a careful hand, gestures with his fingers. “Give me the gun.”  

Your head raises only slightly, level with his knees, you stare blankly with a pained grimace as if you had forgotten who he was. Not as though you knew him at all, did you?  

But your red eyes trail up his figure, meticulously inspecting, until they eventually land on his face.  

And your features soften.  

That worried strain, the tense muscles of your face ease, brows curling into some sort of pitying daze. He can’t read anything beyond that, can’t tell what you might be thinking as your eyes flit between his features like you’re scanning him, hunting for some realisation or deeper understanding.  

But you won’t find anything, little thing. There’s nothing there.  

His face is just as hardened and scarred, just as obscuring, just as frightening as the skull-painted mask that has long annexed his jaded identity.  

You blink at him, one of your pretty eyes nearly swallowed by the mauve swell resulting from a fist to the socket. You reach upward, gun in hand, you present it to him. Clever girl.  

He takes it, tucks it into the back of his trousers. Chews on words he feels compelled to say to you, they’re dense and swollen in his mouth. Thank you. I’m sorry. Let me get you some clothes.  

But he swallows them. Goes to pluck his mask off the floor, flicking off the dust, before he tugs it over his head. Adjusts the thick wool over his nose, tucks it under his jaw.  

Your stare returns to the floor. You wrap your arms around your shins.  

“I’ll get you some water,” he grunts, short and murmuring, as he turns towards the door and leaves in bitter silence. 

He locks it behind him.  

[ilexdiapason]

(part one here)

Martyn, as it turns out, only has three phone numbers memorised.

One of them is his own. The second is his mother’s, which he tries, and receives the unfortunate information that the number has been disconnected and leads nowhere.

He finally has some luck with the third, the landline phone number of his house - while nobody picks this up, either, it does connect to somewhere at least. Martyn is able to leave a voicemail explaining that he’s out of the situation he was in that meant he couldn’t come home, and that he’ll be there by tonight.

“Where’s there?” Oli asks, kind of hoping Martyn won’t need a lift to Bristol or anything out of the way like that.

“Nottingham,” Martyn replies, guarded.

Oh - that’s not so bad, then. “I can give you a lift down, if you need?”

“Aren’t you busy?”

“Oh, no.” Oli’s remote working today; as long as he keeps an eye on his emails, nobody should even notice he’s gone, and if he can always call in a family emergency if Martyn does take him up on the offer to drive. It is a family emergency, after all, it seems - just not Oli’s family.

Martyn perks up at the response, though. “Oh, I getcha. Job market, eh?” He makes a cutting motion across his throat, with noise to match.

“No, I’ve got a job! A pretty good one, actually. That’s why I can afford living on my own.”

“Ah.” A silence, and then Martyn flicks the phone back on in his hands. “Oh, god. December 2023?”

“... Yes?” Why did you not know what month it was? Or, from the sounds of it, what year?

“God, my mum’s gonna be out of her wits, that’s awful.” He flicks at the screen - then, sheepish, asks, “What’s your passcode?”

“Here, I’ll -” Oli takes it out of his hands, taps in the shape of a circle “- what d’you want?”

“Oh, I was just gonna google myself.”

Oli pulls up Google. Waits, expectantly.

“Er - Martyn Littlewood.”

And oh, jesus, yeah, that’s a missing persons case. Last seen April 2021, no wonder he was bloody worried about the year, suspect investigated but no proof identified, case well and truly cold.

Martyn must see it in his face the way he’s started, because he grimaces. “That bad?”

“About what you’d expect,” says Oli, turning the phone around to face Martyn. He snatches it, which is unexpected but honestly not out of character for the stuff he remembers from Martyn in-game.

Wait.

“Hold on - how were you getting on SMPs with us lot if you were… whatever you were?”

Martyn grimaces harder. “Long story. Difficult, too. Let’s just say there’s a lotta people who I last saw lunging for my neck, and they’re not gonna stop because I’m here.”

“Are you a wanted man? Do I need to barricade the doors, close the blinds, what?”

“Nah, nah - just keep me away from your computer.” He pauses again to consider that. “Actually. If you’re here, does that mean everyone else is too?”

“What, the other people on the server? Well, they’re not here, but I could message people if you want, say you’ve… I don’t know, turned up at Sainsbury’s?”

“I’m an ASDA man myself,” Martyn cracks, and then frowns at the screen. “So can I go on your Discord? I won’t send anything. I just want to know.”

“Erm - sure.”

He taps through, immediately lights up. “Scott!”

Ah, yeah, he had been DMing Scott this morning. Something about axolotls, if he’s not mistaken. “Yeah! He’s all the way in Brighton, though, I don’t know if I could swing that much of a lift.”

“And Bek. And Eloise, and - oh my god, I need to know what Sausage’s real name is.”

“I’ve never asked.”

“You just call him Sausage, all the time?”

“S’funny, innit?”

Martyn nods solemnly. “It is funny.”

He sits like that for a while, scrolling through Oli’s DM history, muttering names under his breath. “I mean,” says Oli, “we can add you, if you like.”

“God. Yeah, you prob’ly can. Let me try it.”

A few seconds later, and Martyn’s handing back the phone to Oli with a pending friend request to InTheLittleWood in tow. “Don’t know why you didn’t offer that before, if you’re so excited.”

“Couldn’t,” Martyn says nonchalantly.

“Right, and does that have something to do with this missing persons case of yours?”

His face falls. “Yeah, actually. Something like that.”

“Ah.”

They decide to wait until either his mum calls Oli back or Oli is officially clocked out of work to get back in the car. Until then, it seems like it’s time for Oli to get Martyn up to speed on the last… two and a half years, good lord, that’s a while…

(part three here)

[mindblowingscience]

In efforts to tackle the leading cause of blindness in developed countries, researchers have recruited nanotechnology to help regrow retinal cells. Macular degeneration is a form of central vision loss, which has massive social, mobility, and mental consequences. It impacts hundreds of millions of people globally and is increasing in prevalence. The degeneration is the consequence of damaged retinal pigment cells. Our bodies are unable to grow and replace these cells once they start dying, so scientists have been exploring alternative methods to replace them and the membrane within which they sit. "In the past, scientists would grow cells on a flat surface, which is not biologically relevant," explains Anglia Ruskin University biochemist Barbara Pierscionek. "Using these new techniques the cell line has been shown to thrive in the 3D environment provided by the scaffolds." Nottingham Trent University biomedical scientist Biola Egbowon and colleagues fabricated these 3D scaffolds with polymer nanofibers and coated them with a steroid to reduce inflammation. Using a technique called electrospinning, which produces nanometer-wide fibers by squirting a molten polymer through a high-voltage field, the team was able to keep the scaffold sufficiently thin.

Continue Reading

[fizzyxcustard]

Invisible

Fandom: Robin Hood (BBC)

Pairings: Guy of Gisborne x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Pining, angst, insecurity, vague smut mention, attempted ghosting

Word count: 1880

Summary: From the imagine, "You are in love with Guy and he is still pining for Marian. You cannot carry all the pain."

Comments/notes: Takes place around season 2, despite the above GIF being from season 3. This fic was requested by @sazzlep

As always, if you enjoy, please consider a reblog. If you wish to be added to my tag list for any character, fandom, or fic series, let me know.

Marian had disappeared, leaving you with the shattered pieces of Guy’s broken heart. While trying to mend your own heart, you were busy tending to Guy’s. And that pain was becoming unbearable. Shifting the weight of two broken hearts was crippling you. 

Guy had left your home again at nightfall, having borne his heart to you. The woman he loved and had lived in high hopes of wooing, had run off into the forest with her outlaw lover. In the time you had known Marian, you had been on fairly friendly terms with her. But you had always been aware of her manipulative tactics, taking advantage of Guy’s feelings for her. For all those months and he had been completely blind to it, only seeing her sweet smiles as a hope for something more than just friendship. 

You stood at your front door and watched his dark shape, atop a black horse, disappear into the gathering dusk. You and Guy had been close friends for years, being each other’s rock, and this has been the case since he came to Nottingham as a young man. He had been swept up into duty for the Sheriff, but the two of you had still remained close. Guy had been the one who comforted you when your mother died, and had even brought you food when you fell upon tough times. Potential suitors had come to your door, and if they had not been to your liking, it was Guy who had told them to leave. 

How long could you continue this for? Every day you saw him and you felt more of your heart become warped from the inside, like a disease spreading outward. The only cure would be to take yourself out of the situation completely and sever yourself from him. 

The moon was high in the sky and you remained in that spot for some time, feeling the red hot tears fall down your cheeks. All of your pain was invisible to him; in his own anguish, he had completely overlooked you. 

***

Guy woke the next morning, light bursting through the window. 

Realisation hit him hard that he had overslept. 

He shot out of bed and began dressing quickly, only to see a piece of parchment on the stone floor at the foot of his door. Guy reached down and took the parchment, noting that there was no envelope. The parchment had just been folded. Upon opening it, he instantly recognised your beautiful handwriting. It brought a smile to his face. 

Guy, 

While I know that you are in the midst of deep pain, I must leave Nottingham. I plan to move back to my father’s home and search for work. I cannot carry the weight of both our broken hearts on my shoulders. 

May God watch over you and keep you safe. 

Leaving? But why? 

Guy raced from his chambers, heading down towards the courtyard where he slipped out to the stables and collected his horse. 

Once he had rode to your home, he jumped from the horse and banged on your door. No answer. Your own horse, a brown and white mare, had disappeared from the small field behind your house. 

Your father’s home was a two-day ride, and within seconds, Guy’s horse was galloping through the small patch of woodland which was to the north, leading out onto the main road. Surely you could not have gotten far. Guy was a far more experienced rider than you so would easily be able to catch up to you, despite your head start. 

***

The ride that morning had been pleasant. The sun was shining amidst a cloudless sky. A gentle breeze took the edge off the early summer heat. A simple breakfast was still sitting in your stomach quite nicely; bacon, eggs and freshly baked bread. There was an inn about half way, at the perfect place for you to stop, before continuing on the next day for the second part of your journey. 

All morning and you had imagined Guy’s face upon opening your letter. Would he even care at all? It seemed that he didn’t. Normally Guy was up around dawn, ready for his duties. He should have caught you just before you left, but you had not seen him. And you had given your letter to Abe, one of the guards, at the castle gate, two hours after sunset. Surely Guy would have received it by daybreak. 

You stopped for a quick break, taking a sip of water from a skin in your leather satchel. You sat down on a fallen tree trunk and took a deep breath, looking up at the rays of sunlight piercing through the bright green leaves. 

Suddenly you heard galloping hooves coming from behind. A figure emerged from the edge of the curving path, and got larger, moving towards you quickly. 

“Guy?” you whispered, feeling relief wash over you, but also fear. 

Guy stopped his horse a few feet from yours and jumped from the saddle, storming over to you. He stood in front of you, his arms crossed. “What is going on?” he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. His silver blue eyes were wide in irritation. 

“I told you in my letter. I can’t carry both of us anymore.” 

Guy sighed and sat down beside you. “Maybe you could start with telling me what you’re carrying and stop being so stubborn in carrying it yourself.” 

You looked at him, narrowing your eyes. “Are you sure you really wish to know? Because after I tell you, you won’t want to know me anymore.” 

Guy scoffed and rolled his eyes in annoyance. 

You looked at him, seeing that all too familiar smirk begin to form on his face. It made your heart flutter. 

“If you really believe that then you know me less than I thought you did. In fact, you don’t know me at all.” His tone was accusing and full of irritation.

You could see the offense written on Guy’s face, and you reached out to take his hand. “I didn’t mean it like that, Guy.” 

“Then how did you mean it?” he snapped. “You’re all I have in my life, yet you seem to think that I’ll walk away from you. Despite you being the one who was ready to walk away from me…” The words trailed off into a whisper and loud sigh. 

“Do you want to know the real reason I’m leaving?” you asked. “And if you do choose to turn your back on me then that is your choice.” 

Guy hissed. “I will never turn my back on you.” He pointed his finger at you in anger as he spoke. 

You got to your feet and took a deep breath. “All these years we’ve known each other and I’ve been invisible to you. You’ve never noticed all the times I’ve had to smile at you but wanted to weep. You’ve never seen how I feel about you. Instead all you’ve ever seen is a woman who has taken advantage of you and used your feelings for her to get what she needed. It’s crippled me.” Tears fell down your cheeks. “I love you, Guy. I love you so much and never once did you ever see it. I know you don’t feel the same way and I’m not expecting you to.” 

Guy got up from the tree trunk, and without a word, curled his hand around your cheek and kissed you. The kiss immediately became wanting, needing and hot. 

Reluctantly you shifted your head away and looked up at him, your tears blurring your vision. “I told you that I’m not expecting anything from you...” 

He smiled. “I’ve loved you from since the first moment we met. I was always invisible to you. I valued and respected you far too much to ever overstep any boundary. I was terrified you would think I was dishonouring you. Marian became my way of letting you go, but under it all, I never could. She was the hope of something I could never have with you.” 

“All I ever wanted was for you to be happy, and because of me, you tried to gain love in a place where you would never find it.” 

“It wasn’t because of you. It was my own cowardice. I would look at her and see you, in everything she did. Then with each man who attempted to court you, I could see how impossible it was for me to ever think you’d be mine. A lot of those men were honourable and so much more than what I could ever wish to be.” 

“I know you, Guy, and all you’ve ever wanted is to be loved and needed by someone. I’m offering that to you if you’ll take it.” 

Guy kissed you again, and then let his lips trail down your neck. “And I will give that back to you tenfold, my love.” 

***

The two of you rode your horses back to your home, watching as thick clouds began to swarm in, threatening rain. 

By the time your house was visible, spots of rain began to fall. 

You pulled on the reins of your horse, bringing it to a stop in the pen behind your house. Guy had already dismounted his horse, his hand reaching out to take yours. You couldn’t help but smile and giggle as he helped you down, his ice blue gaze never unlocking from you. 

The two of you kissed again, the rain starting to pour all around you. The horses by now had wondered away into the small wooden shelter which was situated at the back of the paddock. 

“Let’s get inside,” you told Guy. 

He smiled in response and wound his arm around your waist as the two of you walked to the door of your home. 

Once inside, you started a fire and put a large pot of water to boil. “I need to head into the market for food shortly. I hope the rain stops,” you told Guy, glancing out of the window. “Is there anything in particular you would like for dinner? I can cook us a meal.” 

Guy never answered, but instead kissed you again. 

A short time later and the two of you were idly tangled together in your bed, having just made love. You noticed that Guy seemed the most content he had done for quite some time; he had a faint smile on his face as you rested in the crook of his arm. The only sound was the tapping of rain on the roof, and it soothed you. The heavy weight in your heart had now lifted. 

“Was that how you imagined our first time to be?” you asked. 

Guy grinned and kissed you again. “It was so much better than any of my expectations.” He gripped your hand tight in his and then kissed your head. 

“I suspect the Sheriff will be looking for you.” 

“He can wait.” 

You looked across at Guy as you began to slip from the bedclothes and pull your dress back on. “You’re taking a big risk thinking that. You know what he’s like.” 

“I don’t care anymore. I’ve got you, and that’s all that matters to me now.” 

***

Follow Forever tag list: @lathalea @middleearthpixie @xxbyimm @meganlpie @linasofia @knittastically @guardianofrivendell @asgardianhobbit98 @rachel1959 @luna-xial @mrsdurin @quiall321 @missihart23 @lemond57 @evenstaredits @catthefearless @the-fragile-heart-of-a-lady @glassgulls @sazzlep @solairewisteria @aliasauthor @littlebird-99 @albionscastle @heilith @court-jobi @absentmindeduniverse @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @for-fuck-sake-im-alive @bookworm-with-coffee @danzalladaggers @ourlonelymountain @phantomessangel @estethell @windb3ll

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[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andrew Doyle

Published: Jul 5, 2024

Keir Starmer surely cannot believe his luck. He has achieved a landslide victory by doing very little. He received fewer votes than Jeremy Corbyn in 2019, and yet has ended up with a whopping 412 seats in parliament. The rise of Nigel Farage’s Reform Party has split the right-wing vote and ushered the Conservatives along to their worst ever election result, plunging them to even greater depths than the disastrous election of 1906 under Arthur Balfour.

This was very much a Conservative loss rather than a Labour victory. There is no great enthusiasm for Starmer, and his majority is an indictment of the “First Past The Post” system which, as I have argued previously, should be abandoned in favour of Proportional Representation. It is unsurprising that upon his victory in Clacton-on-Sea, one of Farage’s first public statements has been a commitment to campaign for electoral reform. His party received over 4 million votes and has returned only 5 seats. So that’s 1% of the seats for 14% of the votes. Compare that with the Liberal Democrats, who have 11% of the seats for only 12% of the votes. Most of us will see that there is a problem here, irrespective of our political affiliations.

Worse still, Labour’s victory will empower the culture warriors, those identity-obsessed activists who have accrued so much power already in our major institutions. While the Tory party claimed to be fighting a “war on woke”, all the while enabling the ideology of Critical Social Justice to flourish, leading Labour politicians have cheered on the culture warriors while pretending that they were nothing more than a right-wing fantasy. We have seen some pushback over the past two years in regards to the worst excesses of this movement, but all of this may soon be undone. Now that the identitarians have their political wing in power, we should expect a few years of regression.

Take the example of Dr Hillary Cass, now deservedly elevated to the House of Lords, whose review into paediatric “gender medicine” has catalysed a sea-change in public perception. While many medical journals and institutions are so ideologically captured that they have continued to deny the significance of Cass’s findings - preferring instead to continue with discredited and evidence-free “gender-affirming care” - the Labour Party has pledged to implement her recommendations. Wes Streeting, the new Health Secretary and potential future leader of the Labour Party (who narrowly held on to his Ilford North seat last night by a little over 500 votes), has made clear that the Cass Review will guide Labour policy. Starmer, meanwhile, has turned a blind eye to the bullying of MP Rosie Duffield within his own party and has expressed very little understanding of the issues. He has come around to the view that 99.9% of women “don’t have a penis”, which is still approximately 33,500 female penises in the UK alone. This is our new Prime Minister.

And here is Nadia Whittome, who has just been returned in Nottingham East, claiming that Labour will push through gender self-identification with “no ifs, no buts” and “resist calls to exclude trans women from women’s spaces”.

Such a system would have seen double rapist Adam Graham – who identified as Isla Bryson once he had popped on a blonde wig and pink leggings – accommodated in a women’s prison. Whittome also calls for a “ban on conversion therapy” with “no exemptions”. Such a policy would likely criminalise those health professionals who follow the recommendations of the Cass Review and take a psychotherapeutic approach when it comes to confused and vulnerable children. You can read my piece on why a ban on trans conversion therapy is effectively a new form of gay conversion therapy here.

Anneliese Dodds, who won her seat in Oxford East last night, has continually shown that she has a meagre grasp on gender identity ideology and why it represents such a threat to the rights of women and gay people. She has stated that “Labour will ban conversion practices outright”, in spite of appeals from groups such as Sex Matters and LGB Alliance to rethink this position. It is as though she is determined not to read the Cass Review, which was unequivocal on this matter:

“The intent of psychological intervention is not to change the person’s perception of who they are but to work with them to explore their concerns and experiences and help alleviate their distress, regardless of whether they pursue a medical pathway or not. It is harmful to equate this approach to conversion therapy as it may prevent young people from getting the emotional support they deserve.”

And yet Labour politicians continue to push for a ban on “conversion therapy” which could put parents and doctors on the wrong side of the law simply for rejecting harmful “gender-affirming care”. One can only hope that leading figures in the new Labour government read over this policy response to its manifesto by the Gay Men’s Network and reflect on the issues.

Labour is also promising to implement its Race Equality Act, a regressive policy which will effectively prioritise equality of outcome over equality of opportunity (in other words, “equity” rather than equality). Labour wishes to ensure that those from ethnic minorities are entitled to “full right to equal pay”, somehow not realising that this has been enshrined in law since 1965. As Kemi Badenoch has pointed out, “Labour’s proposed new race law will set people against each other and see millions wasted on pointless red tape. It is obviously already illegal to pay someone less because of their race. The new law would be a bonanza for dodgy, activist lawyers.”

Labour is taking its lead from Critical Race Theory in assuming that all disparities in outcome are evidence of systemic racism. This faith-based position was challenged by the Commission on Race and Ethnic Disparities, which found that there is no evidence at all that the legal and educational systems of this country are rigged against minorities. Activists were so furious that the facts went against their precious narrative that the commission’s chairman, Tony Sewell, was compared to Joseph Goebbels and the Ku Klux Klan. These privileged and predominately white “woke” activists simply cannot tolerate black people who don’t know their place.

And so under Labour we are likely to see these racially divisive ideas implemented under the guise of “anti-racism”. In its manifesto, Labour also pledged to “reverse the Conservatives’ decision to downgrade the monitoring of antisemitic and Islamophobic hate”. This looks very much like an insinuation that the party will reinstate police recording of “non-crime hate incidents”, a clear affront to freedom of expression. It is a staple of “woke” activism that censorship is necessary to ensure social justice. Given Labour’s ideological steer, it is likely that under its watch free speech will erode even further.

I very much hope to be proven wrong in all of this, and that Labour will learn to reject the regressive and divisive influence of intersectional identity politics. The Tories were bad enough, with their restrictions on peaceful protest and their attacks on free speech via the Online Safety Bill. But now we have a government whose authoritarian instincts are even more pronounced. Progress is often an inchmeal affair, and sometimes we have to suffer the occasional retrograde lapses along the way. So we would be wise to brace ourselves for the next few years. For now at least, the culture warriors have the upper hand.

==

If you want to see where the UK is heading, look where Canada is now.

[todisrael]

From vertical blinds for sliding or large glass doors to Roman variants for smaller picture windows, it’s unlikely that you’ll run out of options. For example, Boyd’s Blinds in Nottingham offers many different styles and various price points, and is worth checking if you’re located in the city.

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

I don't buy that Mr. Markle was blind to his daughter's narcissist rage and abusive behavior.

"Sharp Elbows" is how the mother of Meghan's childhood friend described MEgain.

Does anyone remember the story about the raging argument Sparry and wife had on palace grounds while they were dating?

If so, correct me if I'm wrong: staff reported they had never overheard anything comparable to this level of shouting & screaming by a BRF member. Allegedly it was this argument that caused the dog's injuries.

I didn't believe the story until they shared photos from the so-called trying to roast a chicken engagement event (at Nottingham Cottage) which included the dog & his broken legs.

We received first hand reports of her narcissist rage while from Australians who witnessed: slamming doors, profanity, disrespectful tone to hosts, and of course the hot tea incident.

I wish I had saved Rebecca's notes bc Sparry and wife have managed to live up to their reputation.

Please follow the link to 👍🏿LIKE You Don't Fool Me

[wastelandmoony]

Déjà Vécu: Peace

Chapter Thirty-Three : Peace

Summary: The wedding of the century, and the demise of a star.

Characters: Remus Lupin/Reader, Sirius Black/Reader (no use of y/n), James Potter, Petter Pettigrew, Regulus Black, Marlene McKinnon, Mary MacDonald, Lily Evans

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI

Déjà Vécu Masterlist

Companion Playlist

Read on AO3

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

December 18th, 1978

It didn’t feel like the holidays, at least not to her. Being a member of the Order had proven more draining that initially thought, though she’d yet to receive any official missions other than random patrols here and there. She was actually beginning to almost enjoy patrols in a sick way; they allowed her the chance to get to know other members of the Order. Molly Weasley had immediately become one of her favorite people. Molly (along with fellow Order member and husband Arthur) had 5 children, including twins which had just been born that past April, so she had retired from going on missions and had taken on a den mother role instead; ensuring everyone was fed and healed from any injuries acquired in the field (which was becoming more and more commonplace). She tried to help Molly whenever the chance arose, spending countless hours dancing and singing in the numerous safe houses while also trying to wrangle her boys; though only 9 months old, the twins were already turning out to be quite the handful. Molly tried her best to bring the holiday spirit out of everyone, but unfortunately each day became harder and harder.

A fatal attack on a goblin family in Nottingham.

The murder of Alan Winger and his wife Elena.

The torture and subsequent slaughter of the McGregor’s, a muggle family from a quiet town up north.

Every day the news was worse. Every day she held her breath and waited for word that someone she knew, someone she loved, had been caught in the crossfire. 

Sirius and Remus both went on their first missions, much to the former’s joy. Thankfully, it wasn’t anything too dangerous, just a short bit of reconnaissance tailing a suspected sympathizer, but Sirius came back to the apartment practically sizzling with excitement. Both Dumbledore and Kingsley had began to use him more and more due to his animagus abilities, the two older wizards turning a blind-eye to the fact that he wasn’t registered. 

Kingsley called an emergency meeting towards the end of December, as always not providing any insight into the cause in case of interception. As they arrived at Potter Manor (this month’s designated meeting house) the air was thick with undetermined tension. Sirius laced their fingers together as they walked through the front door, James nodding grimly at them from the sitting room entryway. Sirius motioned at her to take a seat in the last remaining armchair, choosing to stand solidly beside her. Remus stood by James and Peter, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed as Dumbledore swept into the room. 

“My apologies for the last minute summons, but there has been a shake up in the opposing ranks,” he spoke calmly but deliberately. In a moment of stupidity, she quickly thought it was Voldemort himself, immediately followed by a mental chastising as how utter implausible that was; no one knew where he was, he was a master at disappearing without a trace. Dumbledore’s attention landed on her, or at least she thought so, freezing her heart entirely.

“Regulus Black has been reported missing.”

Her hand shot up to Sirius’, fingers closing around his slack palm; he didn’t squeeze them back, just stood perfect still in what she knew was an attempt at being perceived as indifferent. 

“When?” He managed, barely choking out the word.

“Your father sent word yesterday, we intercepted the owl before it reached the intended party.”

Sirius’ hand twitched in her grip, “And there’s no leads on what happened, or where he could’ve gone?”

Dumbledore bowed his head a fraction of an inch, “From what we understand, Regulus was last seen meeting with three unnamed sympathizers on the outskirts of Knockturn Alley earlier this week, after that there has been no trace.”

Sirius nodded once, his movements robotic and restrained, “I’m sure my parents are beside themselves.” Kingsley gave him a slightly pitying glance, to which she knew Sirius was internally flogging himself. As Dumbledore moved on to different matters, Sirius silently excused himself from the sitting room, quickly escaping to the kitchen away from prying eyes. She followed, not before shooting James and Remus a quick reassuring look (Peter hadn’t even noticed they’d left, he seemed too entranced by their old headmaster’s explanation of a new patrol tactic). 

Sirius stood in the dim kitchen, hands on his head and breathing deeply. Her heart broke for him. She placed a gentle hand on his ribs to alert him of her presence. 

“Let’s go home,” she whispered, “We don’t have to stay, Moony can fill us in on anything important later.” He nodded slowly, eyes closed in an attempt at dissociating. She took his hand, leading him to the back garden, and apparated them back to the apartment. 

She had to hand it to him, Sirius held his shit together pretty well all things considered. He remained quiet during the walk up the stairs to the door; he was calm as they went inside and didn’t bother to turn on any of the lights; all the way down the hallway he was silent as she led him to the bedroom, even shutting the door softly. As soon as they were truly alone, Sirius broke. 

Burying his face in his hands, he let out a cry. She immediately wrapped him in her arms as he clung to her body. As selfish as it sounded, this was the Sirius she loved most, the one that the rest of the world never got to see; the one that let his emotions flow freely when they were alone, no longer afraid of judgment or ridicule for simply feeling.

“He’s just a kid…” he whimpered into her shoulder. Reggie was young, that much was true, but then again they all were. None of them should have to be living through any of this.

“I’m sure he’s okay,” she smoothed his hair, not believing her own words for a moment. They’d both heard too many of these stories recently, the people that had mysteriously gone missing without a trace. Half of them turned up dead at a Death Eater’s hand, the other half vanishing indefinitely. Sirius pulled away, beginning to pace the carpet. 

“I knew this would fucking happen…” 

“Knew what would happen, love?” She kept her voice gentle, feeling like she would need to pull Sirius back from the emotional cliff he was dangling from.

“Once he took the mark, I knew he’d try to rise too quickly, try to be one of the greats, just like our parents always told him he was. They put this idea in both of our heads when we were younger, that we were destined for greatness simply because of the house we were born into. Obviously I found out pretty early on that it was complete rubbish, but Reg…he believed it.” 

She kept quiet, letting him vent and get it all out. 

“I reckon he got in too deep, tried to impress his Dark Lord with whatever crafty bullshit he could manage…only to get completely fucked over by one of those cretins.” He stopped pacing and stared blankly out the bedroom window. 

She was at a loss for words. The overwhelming need to comfort him was suffocating, but the action never came. Regulus wasn’t her favorite person in the world, that much was known, regardless of what he had done to help her in the past. But she knew how much guilt Sirius harbored for his younger brother, the bone crushing regret of not doing more to get him out of that toxic house sooner. As she watched him standing there, pale face illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window, she knew he was blaming himself. 

“Sirius,” she whispered, “Let’s go to bed.”

He didn’t look at her, just turned and began to walk towards the door.

“Where’re you going?” A slight panic prevalent in her voice.

“Out,” he growled. 

“Sirius, stop!” 

“I need to be alone,” he shoved away from her reach and stalked towards the door. The words hit her like a bullet in the chest. Since they were kids, he had turned to her for comfort, more so than the others. She’d always been his safe haven. It was the foundation of their entire relationship. 

“Sirius, please, let me help—“

“You can’t.” He turned slightly as he grabbed the front door handle, and she saw the intensity and sadness in his eyes, though they still refused to look at her. “He’s my brother. You wouldn’t—I just…I’m sorry. I love you.”

Her voice cracked as she stood helplessly in the hall, “I love you too.”

The slam of the door echoed through her soul.

She never asked where he went that night. That was between him and the ghost of Regulus Black. 

———

May 10th, 1979

“Leave it to James to get married on the hottest day of the year so far,” she grumbled, fanning herself with a hand, taking in the meticulously decorated grounds of Potter Manor. Though it was only Spring, the summer heat had decided to arrive early, baking the garden for what was going to be the most physically uncomfortable wedding ceremony of her life. 

“I’m already fucking sweating…” she grumbled, moving to walk inside and join the rest of the girls upstairs to finish helping the bride get ready. Sirius followed, looking immaculate and unbothered in his black dress robes. As they reached the top of the stairs to head in opposite directions, her to Lily and Sirius to James, he reached out and kissed the top of her head. 

“In case I forget to tell you later, you look beautiful,” he mumbled into her hair. She beamed as he pulled away, taking a step backwards to make his way toward his best friends’ childhood bedroom. “…and I can’t wait to tear that dress off you later.” 

Her jaw dropped in faux shock, the fluttering of her heart picking up immensely.

He winked, turning fully to join the rest of the boys. 

Taking a deep inhale to calm the butterflies in her stomach, she pushed open the door to help Lily get ready to marry the love of her life.

———

“What if I trip?” Lily whispered nervously, waiting for the back doors of the Manor to open for their turn to walk down the aisle. 

“You won’t, just take it one step at a time.” She said calmly, taking in the panicked green eyes of her friend. Lily look gorgeous in her dress, it was simple but fit her like glove. A long veil trimmed with lace made her look like a goddess amongst mortals. Fleamont stepped up beside her, offering his arm for Lily to take. The elder Potter had graciously offered to walk her down the aisle, given that Lily had not spoken with her family in years. The sight of the two of them standing arm in arm made her tear up, the sound of the procession music shook her out of it before her makeup got ruined. She squeezed Lily’s hand one last time, and turned to face the doors as they opened, signaling her descent down the white aisle to where her friends were currently waiting. 

The journey was nerve wracking, and she absolutely loathed having all of those eyes on her as she tried to focus on not falling on her face. Halfway down, she looked up and immediately met Sirius’ stare. He stood beside James, gaze locked on her. She gave him a small smile, and he matched it, his bright blue eyes sparkling in the afternoon sun. As she took her place at the end of the altar, the music began to hit its peak. The back doors opened one last time, and everyone stood to watch as Lily Evans made her way out into the sunlight. 

James cried three times during the ceremony. Once when he saw Lily for the first time, once when he read his vows, and once more as they were pronounced husband and wife. Remus owed her 5 galleons, he had bet it would only be twice. 

Sirius’ eyes didn’t stray from her during the entire ceremony, something she was acutely aware of while trying to pay attention. The moment they filed from the altar, he took her hand and held it tightly, kissing every knuckle as they met up with Remus and Peter at the doors back inside the Manor. 

“Ready to go party with Mr. and Mrs. Potter?” Peter smirked as they approached. 

Sirius groaned, “That sounds so weird to say…”

“But also kind of…right?” She cocked an eyebrow at him. Remus chuckled softly, shaking his head, “Let’s go in, I need a drink.”

Sirius grinned, still holding onto her hand, “Me fuckin’ too, mate.”

The Potter’s had transformed the library in the east wing of the manor into a reception space. She knew some sort of magic alterations had been done the moment she saw the room, but she had been too entranced by the transformation that she forgot to ask questions. Remus immediately grabbed two firewhisky’s from a passing server, handing one to Sirius as he took a sip. She gave him a look that screamed “what the fuck?”

Remus shrugged, “I only have two hands!” 

Peter left and brought her back a drink, a matching bubbly one to his own, and they clinked them together conspiratorially.

They mingled and chatted with various attendees, eventually joining the rest of the group at their shared table beside the dance floor. Sirius draped an arm over the back of her chair as they relaxed and watched their two friends took their first dance as husband and wife. 

———

The rest of the night was filled with laughter, raucous singing, and so so so much dancing. Remus and Peter were completely drunk, James not far behind them. Even Lily was beyond tipsy, her red hair slightly disheveled as she spun around the dance floor with Mary. Towards the end of the night, a slow ballad began to play and Sirius pulled her to dance for one final time. She leaned her head on his shoulder as they swayed, his one hand playing with her fingers as the other rested gently on her back. 

“Did I already tell you how beautiful you look?” He murmured, the evidence of a smirk in his tone. 

She giggled, feeling light as air from the drinks and cheerfulness of the night, “Yes you have, a few times actually.”

Sirius echoed the laughter, pulling her closer, “Well, I mean it. I couldn’t breathe when I saw you walking down that aisle…”

She felt his hand stiffen against her back.

“I couldn’t help but think…” he trailed off, and she pulled back slightly to look at him.

“Of what?” She brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes.

He paused, a look of uncertainty and what she clocked almost as embarrassment crossed his beautiful face. 

“It’s okay,” she cooed, “you can tell me.”

Sirius inhaled and brought his gaze back to hers, “I couldn’t help but think about what it would be like…if it was us instead.” 

Her heart skipped a beat so violently that for a moment she thought she would pass out. Sirius was it for her, she’d known that for a while now, but neither of them had talked about any long-term plans regarding their relationship; the war was too unpredictable, and they didn’t want to lose sight of that. 

“I love you…” she melted into him, wrapping both arms around his neck so she could breathe him in. He tightened his grip, burying his face in her hair.

“Marry me.” It wasn’t necessarily a question, more of a statement; a definitive declaration of where their story would end up. She ceased breathing, wanting so badly to say yes and kiss him until he was just as breathless. But she couldn’t. He knew she couldn’t.

She pulled back and took his face in both hands, kissing him softly. 

“Ask me after the war,” she whispered, looking deeply into his eyes. They didn’t hold any animosity, nor offense at her words. If anything, there was a glimmer of promise. “Ask me after the war, and I’ll say yes.”

[orphankin]

thank you @wearileigh 💖

Tagging @duolingosbitch because you've tagged me in a game before! And @tabbycatplushy @piratedboobs @goggledwreck If anyone wants to be tagged, tag me in a game and I'll write down that you tagged me so i can tag back! Now that I've said tag enough

Last song i listened to

Here we go - lemonade mouth

Favorite color

Oh I'm so curious i wonder if it's pink

Currently watching

Oh so so so much drag race this entire year so far has been nothing but drag race. I haven't even finished love is blind 6 because of drag race

Current obsession

Hmm i wonder if it's perhaps drag race

Relationship status

I own a tiny orange kitty

Favorite board game

Sheriff of nottingham

Coffee or tea

Caffeine makes me want to kill myself and i don't know if that's a fucked up allergy or what. But. Decaf flavor wise i guess coffee because of all the stuff i can add to it

Favorite piece of clothing i own

My pink pants that are so so comfy and the first time i washed them my cat left an ink pen in its work shirt so now there's ink on it but it adds to it

Last movie i watched

Get out

Dogs or cats

I'm a 6 on that one scale. Full cats. I hate so many dogs

[littleshopofchaos]

The Night The World Started Turning

The Night The World Started Turning

Summary: Samantha Preston hasn’t had a great life, there have been troubles. But her world is rocked when a woman named Tara Clarke promises her a night she’ll never forget. 2nd Theme of the 100 Theme Challenge: Love.

Samantha

Tired of running. Tired of chasing dreams that will never be. I have tried love before and its ended with me in cells, or in the mental health hospital because they’ve put me there.

My world stopped turning a long time ago.

I’m tired of being the assassin everybody wants to kill. I just want to be loved and I’ll love in return. I’m tired of being used in a game, like chess. I’m tired of life.

I just want out.

Sometimes I wonder if I should truly disappear, or make it off planet somehow. Everybody talks about Angels and Demons, but I never seem to bump into them. I want to see those heavenly wings and the halo’s so sharp they could behead a man. God, what I’d pay to see that up close.

What I’d pay to have them take me away from here.

I want a dog, a life where I have a family...but here I am, drowning my sorrows in some bar in the middle of Nottingham. The night is still young but I can hear screaming in my head. And I’m not quite sure who the screaming belongs to. Is it myself or my victims haunting my ass?

I’ve been here in Nottingham for about a week. I used to work for the god damn President of The USA. But here? I’m a nobody. And I like it that way. The only people who know who I am, are government figures that have better things to worry about than trying to live through another depressing day and trying to avoid death at any cost.

The bar is full of lively young women, looking for a good time. Chatting amongst themselves and showing off some jewellery they get for cheap or passing around shots like they’re the holy grail. Some men are serving others; the chatter almost as loud as the music and its drowning all other thoughts out.

I’m drinking a lemonade. Alcohol is just full of regrets and I don’t want to wake up tomorrow with anymore of them in my bed; tired of sleeping in a hazy mess and bloody sheets and not being too sure of whose blood is who. The lemonade is refreshing. Slow sips, to savour.

A song comes on in the bar – Tragedy by Steps. Gotta say, I love this song. It gives club vibes and its fun and -

The heat is rising in the club and its wrapping its arms around my shoulders; suffocating me. Trying to breathe, I drag my head to look to my left, towards the door.

“Are you alright, my love?” A gentle hand touches me and its amazing; like a burst of ice, a shield blasting back the heat like a knight protecting a damsel in distress.

I turn to my right and my heart stops. I check to see if I’m still breathing, but my eyes never leave this person’s face. They are beautiful.

Shivers run down my spine and I turn my entire body to face her. She is a siren and I am her victim.

In the blinding halo of the lights above, this woman is like an Angel...or rather, is she the Demon I've been holding out for?

Long curly black hair to her hips, with tints of a mossy dark green thanks to the light and matching ivy green lipstick. This woman is rocking this look. Her clothes are matching too; a black tank top with green shorts made of denim. And she’s got tattoos. She must look around my age, around thirty but her tattoos are incredible. Big dragons swirl up her thighs in bursts of all the colours of the rainbow and -

Oh god. I’m staring.

I hear her begin to laugh and her whole body shakes. She orders a rum and coke from the bar and pulls up a chair beside me. I’m getting colder. The whole room seems to be getting colder, but how can one woman be doing that?

“I’m Tara Clarke. Its nice to meet you, darling. You come here often?.” Her voice is bubbly.

She seems sober. For how much longer, I can not answer.

“Samantha. Samantha Preston.” I stumble over my own name, the screaming in my head slowly beginning to fade. Like magic. She’s doing something to me.

She is most definitely doing something to me.

The bartender slides the rum and coke her way and she offers me the coke, whilst she takes the rum. I down the lemonade, an urge to finish it washing over me.

“Thirsty?” She teases. “You look like you haven’t had anyone care about you in a long while.”

I put the lemonade glass on the table, looking at her again with a sense of curiosity.

“What are you?” I ask; something within me is telling me Tara is not human.

“I’m whatever you need me to be.” Tara smirks and sits down, one leg crossed over the other.

“What are you?” I ask again, more urgently.

“How about you fuck around and find out?”

We end up talking for a while, as if we’re old friends reuniting from time apart. It became easier somehow, to talk about my problems to someone who genuinely wanted to listen without shoving drugs down my throat.

It becomes easier when you’re just nicer. When you’re beautiful. When you’re genuine.

I had felt weird the entire night, like I had been called here for a reason. And now the world seems to be turning again; I can feel it beneath my feet,

We get up to dance, the earth spins, my own feet spinning as we dance to the songs that come on and we melt and move around the other girls at the bar.

“Tara.” Her name falls off my lips like a shock to my system and she draws me in closer, her hands around my waist.

“Yes, Samantha?” She whispers in my ear, nibbling as she pulls away.

“If God has sent you to me, then who am I to decline?” I gasp, everything and everyone disappearing.

All that is in my vision is her. Me and her and nobody else but the music to play with. I can’t remember what I’ve drank. Time has passed in a blink of an eye and yet, I don’t want this to end.

Is this what its like to fall in love? How do you know it won’t hurt when you fall? Will you be able to get back up again?

Whoever this woman is...I want her. I want to take a chance on her, for a brighter future.

“I can show you a night, a future that you’ve been dreaming of. If you’ll let me.” Tara holds out a hand to me

I nod, eagerly taking it. Only a fool rushes in, and a fool I will gladly be. For one ounce of happiness, one slice of cake that can provide the love that I want.

“Now. Since when have you ever believed in God?” Tara teases and laughs as my eyes widen.

She knows who I am because who wouldn’t….she knows me because she’s a demon.

And she was sent to save my soul.

We run away, into the night.