#Give me a Queen Jane with agency any day | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

Text

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

word count: 16k+ (holy crap i’m sorry)

warnings: idiot-strangers to lovers, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), frightening situations & suspense, alcohol consumption and drunkenness, language, innuendo, timeline inaccuracies

a/n: please bear with me as this is my first time writing rog and i’m relatively unsure about it. anyway, have a vaguely spooky fic just in time for halloween! xoxo! also: big thank you to @ineloqueent for helping with this fic! y’all, she literally held my hand and walked me through every paragraph what a saint

january, 1982.

“you’re off your rocker if you think i’m going to go through with this, jim.”

from his place on the couch, john snorts. “what? afraid she won’t be pretty enough for you, rog?”

roger levels john an uncharacteristically dark look, jabbing his finger through the air like a knight brandishing his sword or a cowboy his gun. “watch your mouth, deacon.” john holds his hands upwards in surrender, and roger returns his piercing gaze to jim. “i’m not getting married. that’s absolutely out of the question.”

long-suffering band manger and unofficial rockstar wrangler, jim beach drops his face to his hands with a harsh groan. roger cringes in his seat, shifting uncomfortably. he knows what this is about; they all know what this is about.

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

god, he’d gotten so wasted. even now, two months later, he can barely remember that night.

brian, ever the diplomatic, is the first to break the tense silence. he leans forward from his place on the couch beside john and offers roger his most sympathetic look. it does nothing to ease the growing knot of dread in roger’s stomach. “maybe we should leave you and jim to talk, rog.”

jim lifts his head. “i think that might be best, yes.”

roger huffs and falls slack against his chair. he drops his head back, and the ceiling turns topsy-turvy. if jim and the rest of management get their way, his life is bound to feel the same: flipped upside down, all that he knows turned on its head.

john squeezes roger’s shoulder as he slides by, a silent expression of solidarity, but it doesn’t feel like much. john’s got a wife, a parcel of kids. he’s happy at home. roger—he’s never been that way, never seen the point in all the domestics. he isn’t about to join the bloody women’s institute just because a little fun upset a few highbrow jackasses who can’t tell a party from a funeral.

the door to jim’s office shuts with a soft click, and roger imagines the lid of his coffin closing with the same resolute noise. he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. from behind his tinted shades, jim stares across the expanse of his desk. he drums his fingers, worrying his lower lip. roger’s nose twitches to the side. jim isn’t playing around. the proposal typed and printed in the manila folder under jim’s hand is serious, deadly so.

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

there’s a heavy beat of silence. jim blinks once. “roger, you went streaking through a group of nuns and priests.”

roger squeezes his eyes shut against the words, thankful, for once, that he has no memory of the event. “did i?” he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “honestly couldn’t tell you what i did or didn’t do that night.”

“you did.” jim opens the manila folder and reads from a crumbled newspaper article. “queen’s roger taylor bared all this evening after the explosive conclusion to the game tour, filmed before thousands in montreal’s biggest arena. in a rare display of vulnerability, taylor stripped naked and exposed himself in the hotel lobby where queen resided. he stood on a table and beat his chest like a wild gorilla, chanting about the success of the evening’s filmed concert. lookers-on included none other than a group of nuns and priests recently arrived to canada on special assignment from the vatican. john deacon, bassist for queen, could also be seen laughing in the background.”

jim’s hand thumps against the desk as he drops the article, his stare decidedly unimpressed. “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

running his tongue over his teeth, roger hesitates. not his best moment, he would give jim that. but if he remembers anything about that party, it’s that he wasn’t the only sinner present that evening. john had gotten into his fair share of antics; crystal, too. it seems arbitrary that he should be the one singled out for punishment—and with a strange, archaic, probably-unethical punishment at that.

he shrugs, tossing his hands up in defeat. “i’m not going to be able to say what you want me to say. it was just a party. it got a little out of control. that’s all. i’m sorry if i gave the nuns a little show. i’ll—i dunno—write a letter if you want me to.”

jim scoffs. “write a letter if you think it’ll make me feel better—which it won’t—but that’s not the issue here.”

“then what is the issue? and where the hell does marriage come into it? because i’m not seeing the connection.”

jim sighs. his desk chair creaks as he leans back. taking off his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose before meeting roger’s eyes again. “this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, rog. remember new orleans?”

roger holds up an accusatory finger. “you were in new orleans too, jim, so you can’t attack me on that front.”

jim leans forward, his glasses between his hands. he runs his finger back and forth across the top of the frames. “i’ll be blunt. some other people in the office think you’re becoming too—how shall i say it?—explicit for the band. you’re not twenty any more, and raucous parties don’t fit queen’s image. they’re concerned that if more incidents like this hit the press, there will be a drop in sales or concert attendance because nice, suburban families don’t want to go to a concert with a drummer who flashes nuns. do you get what i’m saying?”

roger itches his temple and pushes against the sudden pain behind his left eye. “yeah. yeah, i do.”

“the marriage thing—that was barnaby potter’s idea. if you have beef with it, take it up with him.”

it’s roger’s turn to scoff. he throws his head back on the sound and curls his hands against the cool wooden arms of his chair. when he looks back at jim, he is surprised to see the older man rifling through a filing cabinet in the corner, his back turned.

roger surges forward with his ire anyway. “of course i have beef with it! slap my ass and scold me, sure, but hitch me to a woman i don’t even know for publicity? you’ve got to be joking.”

“personally, i think it’s an idea that will work if you give it a chance.” jim returns to chair and hands roger a sealed packet. “we’ve already got it all lined up, picked the lass and everything. it’s just for a year or so, until the tabloids calm down. then you can get divorced and go your separate ways.”

“wait, hold on—you picked her? without telling me? before even approaching me with the idea?”

“roger—” jim’s tone borders on a warning, but roger ignores his better judgement and cuts the other man off.

“you won’t even give me the option to choose the woman i have to shack up with? god, jim, i’m getting fuckin’ railroaded here!”

jim clenches his jaw. “i’m sure it feels that way, and i’m sorry for that. but it’s this—well, to be frank, it’s this or you’re out. the montreal party was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

roger can’t be sure but he thinks he sees red. never in his life has he so badly wanted to wring someone’s neck. it takes every fiber of his being, every molecule in his body, to keep from lunging across the room and tackling jim to the floor. he bites his tongue hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. it coats his mouth in a metallic taste, but it’s nothing compared to the rage boiling in his stomach.

still, he knows what his answer must be. it’s this—a sham marriage, a year of hell—or losing the life he’s worked so hard to build.

he rips the envelope from jim’s hand as roughly as he can when he stands from his chair. he hopes he gave the man a papercut.

“i’ll do it, you bastard,” he mutters. “but i damn well won’t be happy about it.”

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

with a playful roll of your eyes, you offer ivy a smile. “thanks, love, but you and i both know this is just part of the job.”

ivy laughs and steps closer to adjust the puffed sleeves of your dress. “it might be a job, but damn, if it isn’t a comfortable one. i just about fell out of my seat when you told me you were quitting the agency to marry roger fucking taylor.”

you slide ivy a bemused smirk in the reflection of the long, oval mirror before you. “we’re not really getting married, ivy. you know that, right?”

ivy frowns and jabs her thumb over her shoulder, confusion awash on her round face. “unless i’m mistaken, we’re at a church, you’re in a wedding dress, roger taylor is the groom, and there’s a priest waiting for you right outside. did you read the memo wrong or something? feels like a wedding to me.”

sighing, you turn away from the mirror and reach for your bouquet of flowers. the white roses interspersed with springs of green leaves smell sweet, their stems tied together with a long white ribbon. you adjust one of the wayward petals then sit on the edge of a cushioned chair to slip on your heels. ivy leans against the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

“are you happy?” she asks, her voice soft.

you look up and pause. the heel of your white mary janes squeezes around your achilles’ tendon, and you wince as you shove your foot into the shoe. “what do you mean—am i happy?”

“i dunno.” ivy shrugs. she picks at an invisible piece of lint on the shoulder of her blue bridesmaid gown. “when we were kids, you always used to talk about your wedding day. now it’s here and—”

“ivy.” you rise from the chair and cross the floor to grab her arm. when you speak, you keep your tone firm and stare into her wide, brown eyes. “i’m doing this for the money and nothing else. it’s not a big deal. i don’t even consider today my wedding day. when roger and i get divorced i’ll find some other chap and make my childhood dreams come true, but that’s not today, and i’m okay with it. so yes, i am happy. this is what i want.”

ivy doesn’t appear convinced what with the way she continues to gnaw at her lower lip and shift her concerned look about your face. but she relents when someone knocks on the door, moving to allow you to grab the doorknob.

“wait, [y/n].” you turn at the door, eyebrows lifted in expectation. “how much are you getting paid?”

you press your pointer finger to your lips. “handsomely,” you whisper, dipping your head as though you are about to spill a secret. ivy leans in. her eyes sparkle with interest, and you inwardly smirk. she’s always been a sucker for drama and intrigue, your cousin. “but,” you continue. “that’s for me to know and you not to know.”

before ivy can respond, you pull open the door to see none other than your future husband waiting for you in the vestibule of the chapel.

he stands poised to flee the premises. he’s half-turned toward the closed chapel door, his hands worrying before his waist, his gaze hinged on the flurry of life outside the chapel, visible through the windows on either side of the door. you realize he’s fiddling with an unlit cigarette, not merely rubbing his hands together in an external sign of nervousness. you can’t make out whether or not his eyes are wild with fear or anger or some other emotion; the black tint of his sunglasses obscures the majority of his eyes. he’s handsome in his suit, but, then again, he’s roger taylor. you would be surprised to find a time in which he isn’t handsome.

when you clear your throat, his head whips to face you, and his fingers stop fidgeting. “sorry,” he mutters. “i was just—” he rubs a hand across the back of his neck and sighs. “they’re ready for you.”

“okay.” you nod with a smile and hope the gesture will ease whatever consternation plagues him. “i’ll be up in a moment.”

“right.” he nods once.

from behind his shades, you see his eyes trail from the top of your head to the soles of your shoes. it’s not sexual, not lewd; he’s just inspecting you, and you don’t blame him. who are you to him other than the model pulled out of a catalog, prepared and willing to be his wife until his time served is complete? you’ve spoken only once before this moment, and that phone-call was terse at best. roger made it perfectly clear his opinions on the arrangement, and he wanted to be sure—no, he needed to be sure—you understood his feelings on the matter. you assured him you had heard him loud and clear; your ear had rung for the next hour if only to remind you of his extreme distaste.

“roger,” you say, pulling his attention back from wherever his mind has drifted off to, his stare gone vacant but hardly serene.

his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to focus. “hm?”

“i said i’ll be up in a moment. you can go in now.”

he nods again, this time his chin smacking his collarbone in his urgency. he rubs his jaw, mutters something unintelligible beneath his breath, and turns on his heel, slipping back into the chapel sanctuary with heavy footfalls. your brows rise on your forehead in the wake of his exit. ivy hovers behind your shoulder.

“that’s him?” she squeaks. “that’s roger taylor?”

“yes.” your mouth twists in pity. “poor dear. he really doesn’t want this.” after waiting the appropriate amount of time to be sure roger has made his way to the front of the church, you step towards the entryway, but not before you can ask ivy one last question. “do i look okay? the pictures taken today are bound to be published in the papers.”

ivy chuckles and shakes her head as she lightly pushes your shoulder. “you look gorgeous and you know it. now go get married to a rockstar, you lucky bitch.”

the actual wedding ceremony itself is a formality. truly, it cannot be called a ceremony. there’s no wedding march, no attendees gently dabbing their tear-filled eyes, no heartfelt vows or kiss to signal the joining of two souls. instead, there’s you and there’s roger and there’s a red-faced, balding priest who points to the solid lines on which you must affix your signature to make the marriage certificate valid. roger signs first, and his knuckles are white against the ballpoint pen. you sign second, and the pen feels overly-warm against your cool palms. the priest blesses you with a sign of the cross and promises the certificate will be notarized and sent to your home address within the week.

then it’s done. you’re married. you feel largely the same as you did this morning. if it weren’t for the giant rock on your ring finger and the recent transfer of seventy-five-thousand pounds into your bank account, you might wonder if this was all a product of your over-active imagination, run away with a plot stolen from a b-list film.

the most vital part of the day, the reason you’re here and dressed in a gown with your hair crimped and nails painted, comes right after the priest scurries away to tend to his more important duties. jim beach stands from his place in one of the pews and ushers a photographer forward. he points between you and roger.

“all right, get snug, you two.” jim chews on a large wad of gum, and his words are slurred with an excess of saliva. “just a few pictures and then we’ll go eat. we all know that’s the only reason john showed up today.”

lounged against a pew, john raises his finger in agreement, and his wife elbows him in the chest. he sputters, doubling over in pain, while freddie laughs in amusement. beside you, roger watches the interaction with a back as straight as the pew benches, his jaw tight. you push your arm around his elbow and tug lightly. he inhales before turning to meet your eyes.

“what?” his voice is not cruel or unkind; it’s just tired.

“try and look happy, yeah?” you say, offering him a gentle smile similar to the one you’d given him in the vestibule. it’s the only thing you have to give him other than your hand in marriage and a chance to salvage his reputation; yet, again, it does not alleviate the tension pinching his brow. “the faster we smile the faster we can eat.”

roger shifts, as though he wants to pull away from you, but knows he shouldn’t. his feet dance back and forth on the carpeted stairs leading to the sanctuary state. “i should be telling you to try and look happy. this is just as much an inconvenience for you.”

you shake your head with a chuckle. “hardly. i make my living pretending to be happy, or moody, or sultry. whatever the director wants. i’m a pro at this. and besides,” you add. “it’s my job to make you look good. though, to be honest, that’s not very hard. you look good all on your own.”

roger sniffs and rubs the underside of his nose. he ignores your compliment and keeps his eyes trained on the photographer setting up his equipment at the base of the stairs. “maybe i could use some tips…”

he’s being glib but you take the opportunity to try and break the ice—the rock solid, absolutely frigid, polar ice-cap style ice—between you both. holding up a finger to the photographer, you slide to stand in front of roger. he’s taller than you, not by much, but enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye-contact. his blue eyes very much resemble the ice with which he’s surrounded himself. you can feel the chill on his shoulders, even as you smooth the wrinkles on his tailored dress-shirt.

“whenever i have to fake a smile,” you say, adjusting his thin tie. “i always think about the thing that makes me happiest.” he doesn’t ask you to expand, but you do anyway. “for me, it’s when my cousin ivy moved in with my mother and me. i was seven and she was six and it’s been one giant slumber party ever since.”

“is that your cousin?” roger’s eyes flick to the girl sitting across the aisle from the band and management. ivy has her hands beneath her thighs, her head dipped, her dark black hair covering a curtain over her face.

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

“right, sorry.” roger exhales deeply, and the weight of the world slips from one of his shoulders to the other, tilting his body in a stiff hunch. “i’m feeling out of sorts today, as you can probably imagine.”

“just think about what makes you happy, roger.” you dare to lift a hand and press it against his cheek. his skin is smooth beneath your fingers. he must have shaved his morning. he looks boyish up close, and you wonder if, like you, he had ever dreamt of what his wedding day might look like. you wonder if, like you, he had given up those dreams to make today a reality.

the photographer takes a picture of your hand against roger’s cheek, and the sudden flash of light has you blinking in surprise. you look over your shoulder, mouth slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering to clear the white spots over your vision.

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

the shrill of a ringing telephone wakes you the morning after the wedding, and you groan, pulled from a heavy slumber by the incessant and high-pitched tone. there’s a dull ache at the base of your skull, and your tongue feels like it’s coated with a fine layer of sand. beside you, a man snores softly, his face pink and eyelashes soft on his cheekbones.

oh yes, that’s right. you’re married to roger taylor, aren’t you? you’d drunk so much at the celebration supper that you’d nearly forgotten. the evening itself is but a hazy memory, but you think you recall freddie imitating a russian style jig atop a table, and phoebe going into great detail about all the fabulous dress-up parties you’ll be expected to attend now.

one thing you can’t remember is how you ended up in roger’s bed, dressed in one of his oversized t-shirts. your hair is still stiff with sticky hairspray, your legs still encased in a pair of nylon tights, and you don’t feel… sated, for lack of a better word. it’s probably safe to assume that you did not sleep with roger; you merely slept beside him. why you didn’t take up residence in his guest room will be the first question out of your mouth once his day starts.

you might be his wife and he might be your husband, but you don’t want him getting any funny ideas about the nature of your relationship.

this is a job for you. nothing more.

the phone continues ringing and, lest roger wake before he is ready, you move to reach across him for the phone on his bedside table. you speak into the receiver on a whisper, adjusting your fist on the mattress to keep from falling flat on roger’s stomach.

“hello?”

“uh—hi.” there’s a pause, as if the speaker is uncertain how to react to your voice on roger’s line. “is this [y/n]?”

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “yes, i know who you are, brian.”

he chuckles softly. “sorry—i can’t remember much of last evening. it’s probably best i make a second introduction if i can’t recall the first.”

“well then, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n]. [y/n] taylor now, i suppose. pleased to meet you.”

“brian may. the pleasure is all mine. ours, really—me and the guys. what you’re doing is—we appreciate it, truly. you’ve saved the band, in a way.”

“that’s kind of you, brian.” you glance at roger out of the corner of your eye. he hasn’t moved a muscle, and his face is the most serene you’ve ever seen it. saved the band? you doubt it. smoothed a few ruffled feathers? that’s certainly more likely. “it’s no trouble, though. it’s just my job. what was it you called for?”

“roger was supposed to be at the studio an hour ago. we have a recording session today.”

“shit, really?” pressing the receiver to your shoulder, you twist your wrist upwards, but find your watch missing. you scan the unfamiliar room. a digital clock glows red on a built-in bookshelf. “is it really nearly one o’clock?!”

“afraid so.”

“shit, i’m sorry. i only just woke up. yesterday was hectic—to say the very least. i’ll have roger out the door in half an hour.”

“thanks, [y/n]. you’ll find this happens a lot after a night out. but, hey, at least you’re not shouting at me like rog does.”

after passing pleasantries a moment more—brian asks you about ivy, who you are surprised he remembers, and you ask him about his stargazing habits—you reassure brian that roger will be on his way as soon as possible. you drop the receiver on its base with more force than necessary, but the crack of plastic on plastic and the slight ring of the internal bell gets roger moving.

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

you shake his shoulder gently. “wakey wakey, sleeping beauty. the day is already half gone.”

roger yawns as his eyes blink open. he rubs a hand down his face and arches his back like a cat as he stretches. slumping back against his pillows, he stares at you for a moment, his eyes roaming your face.

“are you an angel?”

you laugh at this, and he winces, holding the heel of his hand to his forehead. “no. i’m your wife. are you still drunk?”

“maybe a little.” his eyelashes flutter rapidly as he adjusts to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. he waves his hand around your head, and you lean back slightly, away from the exposed skin of his chest and striking collarbones. “you look like an angel with the sun all around your head. ‘s like a halo.”

“that’s kind of you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “just sayin’.”

“i think you’re still drunk.”

as if to prove your point, he hiccups then falls to his side on the bed. “maybe.” his cheek is pressed firmly against the mattress, smushing half of his face flat. soft, steady breaths filter in and out of his parted lips, and his eyelids begin to grow heavy as he is dragged back to his dream world. he looks more tired child than grown man, but the sight is endearing. still, your current job is getting him out the door and on his way to the studio. you can’t let him be any later than he already is.

“oh no, you don’t.” grabbing his arm, you pull as you slide from the bed. roger resists your strength and moves to push his entire face against the mattress. he mumbles something against the sheets, but you can’t make out the words. “brian already called. you’re late, pretty boy.”

roger rolls over onto his back, and the movement causes you to lose your grip on his wrist. you stumble backwards then plant your hands on your hips.

“come on, roger. you’ve got to get up.”

“i don’t want to. yesterday was shit, and all i want to do is stay in bed.”

with a sigh, you gather your wedding dress from its heap on the floor. you lay it over your forearm and pull open the closet door. “nice to know you thought our wedding day was shit,” you say.

you mean it only as a joke, but roger sits up fast, swaying slightly with the movement. he catches your eye as you exit the walk-in closet, and you pause, turning the light off slowly, held by his angry stare.

“fuck off,” he says. “i don’t want this. i don’t want you.”

to say his words don’t sting would be a falsehood. no one wants to hear such a thing, least of all from their spouse. the words make your heart clench painfully in your chest, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. he doesn’t look at you, though; he cradles his forehead in his hands, his back hunched where he sits on the edge of the bed.

inhaling deeply, you reach up and begin to remove some of the pins lost in your hair. you head for the bedroom door. “well, while you sit and sulk, i’ll pack you a lunch. you’d better shower, though. you reek.”

from your place puttering about the kitchen, you hear the shower start up a few moments later. good—at least he’s moving. you haven’t the foggiest idea where anything is in his kitchen, but you make do with what you can find in the poorly stocked fridge, and pack him a light lunch. you start a pot of coffee, too, and lean against the counter as you wait for the pot to fill.

the ancient coffee pot takes too long, and you can hear roger humming in the shower down the hall.

your nails tap against the counter.

you’re antsy, unsure of what to do with yourself now that the wedding is over. how do you be a wife to someone who doesn’t want a wife? how do you be a friend to someone who doesn’t want a friend?

it’s too big of a problem to solve in the span of time it takes for roger to finish his shower, so you slip into the bedroom and peel off your stockings and his tee-shirt. you put on a sweater, some jeans, and wipe the day-old makeup from your face with a wet-wipe. the movements are tried and true, and they calm your racing thoughts.

you have an entire year to figure out how to live with roger taylor. you don’t need to have it all figured out this morning.

the coffee pot dings, its job complete, just as you and roger both enter the kitchen.

but he hesitates before taking another step, and so do you.

his hair is wet from the shower. a white sweatshirt swallows his torso. part of the hem is tucked into his white-washed jeans, and you’re struck by the narrowness of his hips. the weariness is gone from his face, replaced with a youthful sort of glow and stubborn cheekiness. you aren’t sure how he’s managed it, but he looks well-rested.

you lift a hand to your cheek. you must look a state. it takes a lot longer for you to put yourself back together after a night out.

he stares at you for a moment, then shakes his head and crosses the kitchen to fill a travel mug with hot coffee. gnawing on your lower lip, you lean your hip bones against the kitchen island as he putters about the room, quiet as the grave.

it’s only your first day as husband and wife, and under such unique circumstances, you shouldn’t expect him to—what? make conversation? ask about you and your life?

“so… what do you think you’ll work on today? in the studio, i mean.”

he glances over his shoulder then shrugs. “not sure. probably something related to the rest of the tour.” bending at the waist, he pulls a drawer out from beneath the sink. his ass looks good in those jeans, but you doubt he’d like you staring, so you look away, mouth screwed to the side. “do you know where the sugar packets are?”

you frown and push away from the island, rounding it to stand beside him. “no?” he turns at the sound of your confused voice, and his head jolts backward to see you standing so close. “i don’t live here, remember?”

“well, you do now.” he swivels on his heel and pulls a small white jar across the counter. lifting the lid, he sighs. “i can’t find the sugar.”

“actually, about living here now...” you follow as he starts for the door, grabbing his keys from a small table in the foyer. “the bedroom situation? i figured we’d have separate bedrooms but last night—”

roger opens the front door and silences you with a hard stare. “the only other bedroom is my practice room.”

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

“i wasn’t going to make it a guest room if you’ll be gone in a year.”

“but where will i—”

“fuck it all, [y/n].” he curls his hand around the doorframe, hanging his head. a cold winter breeze sweeps through the hall, and you pull your jumper tight around your waist. “just sleep in my bed, okay? i don’t fuckin’ care.”

you swallow hard, nod. you’d been prepared for some measure of hostility, some measure of resentment. what you hadn’t been prepared for is the way his rebuffs settle like dead weight in your stomach. he alone can be blamed for this; it was his actions that drove management to force you upon him. yet, he seems to look at you with nothing more than dread and disgust. perhaps it is because you are the physical embodiment of his wrongdoing. his antics created you, and he is powerless to wipe you from his eyesight as he might a clump of dirt. you are a permanent stain—at least for the next year.

maybe you can’t begrudge him his disdainful attitude, then.

you come to when a car horn blares outside.

roger is gone, the door open, void of his claustrophobic presence. leaning around the frame, you catch sight of him and his blond hair as he reaches his car parked on the side of the road. spinning on your heel, you grab his sacked lunch from the fridge and race after him.

“roger!”

he looks up from his car door, and you can’t help but note the way his shoulders lift, tensing at the sight of you running barefoot down the sidewalk. the winter air quickens your steps, and you’re out of breath and huffing when you reach his side. white plumes escape your mouth and drift towards the gray sky.

“you forgot this,” you say, pushing the brown paper sack against his chest. you curl your toes against the frigid bricks beneath your feet.

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

for the first time since meeting him, the ghost of a true smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he stares down at the sacked lunch. he lifts a hand, and you are surprised by its warmth when he covers your knuckles with his palm. his eyes flick upwards, meeting yours.

“thanks, [y/n].” he tilts his head to the side. “i’m sorry i’ve been a prick. this is all… really new for me.”

you slip your hand from his grasp, sure that your smile is somewhere between girlish and shy. a sharp wind whips through the stitching of your sweater, and you shiver.

“we’ll figure it out,” you say, and it’s a message to both him and yourself. you will figure this out.

“yeah.” he slides his key into the slot on the car door. “yeah, we will.”

“oh. rog, wait.” you stop him by putting a hand on his shoulder. when he twists at the waist, you wind your arms around his neck before he has time to react. you squeeze tight, your toes skimming the ground. he feels firm, stiff like a board. “hug me back,” you whisper against his ear. “there’s someone across the street taking photos.”

the sound he makes in your ear—a grumble, a low growl—sends your blood pumping into overdrive. he’s angry, but he dutifully embraces you as any newlywed husband might. his arms are strong around your lower back, and you melt into him.

god, he feels good. you can’t remember the last time you were held like this. he smells like the soap from his shower, and his sweatshirt is soft. his hair brushes against your cheek, and your eyelashes flutter in response. you should pull away; you’ve hugged him long enough to appear the besotted wife, desperate for her husband to stay home the day after their wedding. the paparazzi surely got what they wanted.

so, why is it so hard for you to let go?

you shake yourself free of the feeling, whether it be longing or desire or something else entirely.

sliding your hands across roger’s shoulders, you drop from your raised stance. you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and without hesitation. just in case.

“go on.” you hurry to step back, to allow him the space the leave. “you don’t want to keep the boys waiting any longer.”

roger’s eyes linger a moment more, his stare somewhere between searching and assessing. then he mumbles an oath beneath his breath, wrenches open his car door, and slips inside. the door slams behind him, and the engine roars to life. you retreat further at the sound, wrapping your arms around your stomach when the car tires squeal against gravel in his haste to get away.

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

biting the inside of your lip, you turn back to the house. the front door remains open wide, and it’s likely the heat has long since left the warmth of the halls. you pause long enough to lift the paper from the front stoop. what you see beneath the fold makes you hesitate all the longer.

there’s a photo of you and roger on the left side of the page beneath the headline, roger taylor marries model. the grainy, black and white image of your wedding day presents you, the smiling bride, and roger, the smiling husband, joined hand-in-hand beneath a heavy wooden cross. to the untrained eye, all is joy in the taylor household. the article describes the ceremony, though the details are patchy and entirely false, as intimate and “drenched with love.”

you scoff before you can stop yourself. clearly, the author of the article has encountered roger taylor under duress.

but it’s not the article which holds you frozen to the front stoop, your exposed toes and fingers sticking like icicles to the newspaper. rather, it’s the smear of red paint slashed over your picture. it’s the word slag scrawled over the article, an arrow pointed in the direction of the wedding photo.

still, in a one-on-one meeting you’d had with jim beach prior to the wedding, he’d warned you of something like this. though all four queen members are undeniably attractive, it is roger who makes the fans go gaga.

maybe it’s his boyish good looks contrasted with his raspy voice. maybe it’s the frenzy with which he plays, his easy charm and sunkissed skin. whatever it is—roger’s fans are a possessive lot.

jim had told you to prepared for a few nasty letters or scathing criticism in the papers. he had told you it wouldn’t last long, just until the initial shock of the marriage wore off, just until roger’s fans accepted the reality that they were not be his lawfully wedded wife.

so, truly, the first incident does not scare you. you just hadn’t realized the scrutiny would begin so soon. if anything, the painted paper makes you chuckle. roger’s fans certainly don’t like to waste time.

you toss the paper in the bin beside the stoop, and it’s forgotten before the day is over.

a week bleeds into a month, and you find yourself falling into some semblance of a life with roger.

you cohabitate for the most part. he does not outright rebuff your attempts at friendship, nor does he accept any olive branch you extend.

conversation is stilted, his contributions terse and monosyllabic. he prefers your home-cooked meals be eaten before the television, and not at the dinner table, where he would be forced to engage with you. he doesn’t even give in when you ask if there’s anything he’d like to rant about. he just shakes his head and bangs on his drums well into the evening, despite having banged on them the whole day at the studio.

yet he sleeps beside you, allows you to sleep beside him.

without fail, he appears more at ease come nightfall. he sheds whatever protective shell he wears throughout the day in favor of something softer, something more tender. you’re not sure what changes him when he walks over the threshold of the bedroom, but something does. perhaps it’s the soft lamplight or the hum of the fan he insists be kept on despite the chill of winter.

there’s a part of you that wonders if it might be your very presence that softens him, but you’ve taken to silencing that part as of late. he’s long-since proven that you hold no sway over him whatsoever, and that’s okay. your job is to be a buffer between his antics and the all-seeing eyes of the public. nothing more.

two months to the day after your wedding, you’re stood in the hallway, slipping on a pair of earrings, and brushing away roger’s hurried attempts to get you through the door. he has one hand on the doorknob, the other wrist tilted to expose his watch face.

“[y/n], please!”

“roger, the party doesn’t start until queen arrives. give me just a minute more.”

tonight, the savoy hotel, the first music industry party you’ll attend by roger’s side as his wife.

you’re nervous.

your hands shake as you press the earrings into your ears, and you rub your lips back and forth, feeling the slick lipstick rub over the flesh. you’re thankful the dress you chose is a gauzy sort of chiffon. if you sweat, no one will be able to tell, thanks to the pale blue of the fabric.

impatient as ever, roger drags himself from the door to stand behind you, as though prepared to throw you over his shoulder. however, a smirk pulls at your mouth when he pauses in his frustration long enough to primp and preen his hair in the mirror. you catch his eye, your fingers paused in snapping your clutch closed. he sees your smirk, and his own lips pull on a wry smile.

the moment hangs in the air, thick with—what? tension? no. something else. camaraderie comes to mind.

your eyes remain locked with his, and his grin spreads until he is shaking his head with amusement. he pushes your shoulder, but the touch is friendly, almost brotherly in nature.

“come on,” he says. “i don’t want to miss all the good wine.”

nodding, you start for the door, trailing behind him to flick the lights off. darkness engulfs the house, the only light the white glow of the moon spilling through the window above the kitchen sink and a night light plugged in along the hallway baseboard.

but then the phone rings.

roger stamps his foot against the floor, the door already half-open. “fuckin’ hell!”

“let me get it.” you’re halfway down the hall before he can stop you. “i’ll tell them to buzz off. hold on!”

“i’m going to get the car started,” he says. his voice echoes through the hall to meet you where the phone hangs in the kitchen. “you have two minutes, [y/n]. two minutes!”

lifting the phone from the receiver, you press it against your ear. “hello?”

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

but you’re sure you heard the phone ring, so you lean closer to the receiver and plug your opposite ear in a piss poor attempt to hear better. “hello? this is [y/n] taylor speaking.”

the sound of heavy breathing—deep inhales, hard exhales—meets your ear. deep inhale, hard exhale. over and over and over.

your throat tightens, but you push past the lump. “hello? who’s there?”

a stuttering of breath on the inhale, a shaky exhale. a croak, voice poised to speak.

only you slam the phone back on the receiver before the person on the other end can say a word.

for a moment, you stand still, eyes glued to the phone, mouth parted in shock.

but then roger honks the car horn, and you shake yourself free of the unsettling feeling. a missed connection, you tell yourself. a wrong number. a mistake. that’s all it was—a mistake.

still, you are shaking when you slide into the passenger seat of roger’s car. he glances at you before pulling into the busy street.

“are you cold?” he asks. he turns the heat up, blasting the air against your face. “you’re shaking.”

“no,” you say, and, truly, you aren’t. he loaned you an ostentatious fur coat for the occasion, lined with a smooth brown fabric, and you are comfortably warm beneath the heavy material. “just nervous.”

roger snorts, his eyes sliding to you. “nervous? surely you’ve been to parties before. you’re a model, for god’s sake.”

“i’m not sure what kind of model you think i was, rog. i did mostly print, never runway. parties were never a part of my nine-to-five.”

“oh.” his mouth screws to the side. “i guess—well, to be honest, i kinda thought models all did the same kind of work.”

“most people do. that’s in the past now, though.” you shift, glance out the window, and watch the streetlights blur in a hazy streak of orange and yellow. he’s driving fast, and you grip the side of the door, willing your heart to stop racing.

the car slows to a stop beneath a red light. roger taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and the silence in the car is deafening.

you should strike up a conversation. he seems willing tonight, and maybe that’s due to the cramped nature of the car, but it’s an opportunity nonetheless.

only you can’t stop thinking about the phone call, about the heavy breathing and the unanswered questions. you shut your eyes and find yourself mirroring the caller’s breathing patterns.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

you open your eyes and turn to look at his profile. why he insists on wearing sunglasses in the dead of night you will never understand, but the sight alone makes you smirk. he knows he’s attractive; you have to give him credit for embracing it.

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

roger laughs—and you realize it’s probably the first time you’ve heard the sound. his laugh aligns with the light timbre of his voice, and the anxiety in your chest eases to hear him sound something other than malcontent.

“i knew you were a gold digger!” it’s a joke—you can tell by the quirk of his mouth and the lines around his eyes—but you rush to defend yourself all the same.

“no, i’m not!” you hesitate before shrugging with a rueful chuckle. “well… maybe a little. i won’t deny that the money i get from this arrangement really helps. i was looking for a way out of modeling, anyway.”

“really?” roger’s eyebrow arches, and, as the car turns into the savoy, the wrap-around drive clogged with limousines, sport cars, and photographers jostling for a good spot, you catch a glimpse of admiration on his face. “what do you want to do now?”

“i’m not sure. go back to school. i’ve got a head for maths, so maybe accounting or something.”

roger twists his head to meet your eyes, and his smile is earnest. it steals the breath from your lungs.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“you don’t strike me as an accountant, dove.”

“why not?”

“accountants are stuffy, greasy men. you’re… you know…” he waves a hand, inches the car forward as the line moves. camera bulbs flash in the world outside, but within the car, all you can focus on is roger and his next words.

“i’m…?” you’re fishing, but this is the first time he’s given you more than the time of day, and you’re eager to get something, anything, out of your husband.

he shrugs, and his hands curl around the steering wheel. a muscle in his jaw ticks. “you’re too nice.”

you look away. “ah—nice.” not what you’d been expecting him to say.

he pulls the car to a stop along the hotel’s entrance, and a sharply dressed attendant opens the door. sliding out after roger, you instinctively reach for his hand. he spares you a short glance and squeezes your fingers together in a gesture of encouragement.

a black—not red—carpet lines the walkway from the drive to the open hotel doors. velvet ropes hold back the crowd of photographers, reporters, and fans lucky enough to have squeezed their way to such a prime viewing spot. camera flashes paint the inside of your eyelids with bright, white spots. despite the chill of winter, the air is hot, heady with glitz and glamor. it’s hard to distinguish any one voice over the plethora of people vying for attention, and your head swims in the chaos of it all.

roger moves easily from one side of the rope to another. he is in his element, grinning for the cameras and joking with reporters who grab him long enough for a quote. his moments with the press are short, few and far between. he much prefers the fans—their simpering smiles, tear-stained cheeks, and waving slips of paper begging for a signature. you don’t blame him. who could ever resist such unfettered adoration?

near the end of the carpet, a reporter snags roger’s attention with his waving arm. palm still clasped in roger’s, you trail behind your husband, hovering just behind his shoulder. the cool smile you perfected in your modeling days remains fixed on your face, even as the reporter acknowledges you with a tilt of his head.

“is this your wife, roger?”

the reporter has to shout to be heard over the sudden surge of excitement as a new celebrity takes their first step on the carpet. it’s kate bush, if you aren’t mistaken. you could be wrong, though. the reporter’s query pricks your ears, dividing your focus between the cacophony around you and the question at hand. thus far, you’ve remained nameless by roger’s side. no one—fan or press alike—has asked after you, and you’re happy for it.

roger turns to look at you, and his grin spreads. he goes so far as to slip his arm around your waist, tugging you against his side, keeping his gaze on your profile. a sudden rush of blood floods your cheeks, and you duck your head beneath his watchful eyes. yet you find your own smile widening. the action is not one you have to force or fake, though. it’s easy to smile when roger is smiling.

“yes, this is my bride,” roger says. “[y/n].”

the hand he’s placed on your waist squeezes the flesh of your hip, pushing you further against him. to keep from tripping over your own legs, you press a hand against his chest to steady yourself. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers; his heart pulses to a steady rhythm. your own heart beats twice as fast.

the reporter checks something on his small pad of paper. “is it true that you used to be a model, [y/n]? there are rumors that this marriage is a publicity stunt.” he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as someone bumps his back, pushing him against the velvet rope. once righted, he continues. “there are rumors that you were hired to get the press to stop talking negatively about the montreal incident.”

you open your mouth to speak, but roger jumps in before you can utter a single syllable.

“are you joking?” he tosses his head back in an easy laugh and pulls you even tighter against his side. you’re afraid if he draws you any nearer you will absorb into him completely. but with the way the lights dance off his eyelashes and his hair looks perfectly tousled and his body feels strong against yours, you aren’t sure that would be a bad thing.

“i’m crazy about my wife!” he says, and the words go straight to your heart like a wildfire. “you should get yourself one, mate.” he playfully slaps the reporter’s upper arm. “they’re great fun!”

the reporter arches an eyebrow. “it’s just that i know you’ve gone on record as not exactly believing in marriage and—”

“what do you want me to do? kiss ‘er? would that make you happy?” a shit-eating grin rises on his face, indignant and cocky all at once. he shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye; you bite your lip. “will that get you off my back?”

“that’s not really—”

“here.” he taps the wrist of a bystanding photographer then points to you, twisting his body so that you stand face to face. “put this in your bloody paper!”

grabbing either side of your face, roger dips his head to capture your lips with his. for a moment, you remain unsure. you hold fast to his wrists, your mouth unmoving. the blood in your veins stands frozen in shock, and your heart presses painfully against your ribcage. somewhere in the back of your mind, your conscious screams for you to react, to play along, but it’s not until roger slides one hand from your cheek to the small of your back that you register what part you must play.

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

with a tilt of your head, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold tight. he tastes faintly of cigarettes and the mints he uses to freshen his breath. his lips are soft, softer than you’d anticipated. you can hear the clicking of cameras, feel the blinding light of flashbulbs pierce your eyelids, sense the growing interest in your display of affection, but none of it penetrates the bubble—the bubble of you and roger, of his lips and your lips, of his arms holding you close, his very air becoming yours.

he pulls away entirely too soon, and his smile is all the more cheeky. you press your fingertips to your lips, lower your face, and draw in a sharp breath.

“there! that could enough for you?”

roger steers you away from the reporters and into the sanctuary of the hotel at last. a rush of cool air meets you and, though it is mid-winter, you sweat beneath roger’s fur coat. the gentle whoosh of air-conditioning is a blessing against your hot skin.

as you enter the ballroom transformed for the event, roger lowers his mouth to your ear. “sorry about that, poppet.” the low register of his voice and the feeling of his breath against the back of your neck sends a shiver down your spine. “i’ve dealt with that tosser before, and he really grinds my gears.”

“‘s fine, roger,” you manage to say through your tight throat. “it’s what i’m here for, yeah?”

he stops walking, and his hand moves from your back to your wrist. his eyes drift over your face, calculating, searching. you let him look. you aren’t sure what he’s looking for, but you get the feeling that he’s truly seeing you for the first time. even in the manufactured blue light of the room, even with the myriad of tables surrounded by producers and singers and agents alike, his face visibly softens and his hand curls around your wrist.

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

three tables away, freddie waves his hand, beckoning you over. roger drags you along, his fingers intertwining with yours as you sidestep people already lounging at their seats. once at the table set aside for queen and guests, roger pulls out your chair, and you sit, smoothing your hands over your skirt. he sits beside you and leans to his side to whisper something to john. on your right sits chrissie may, and you offer her a smile in greeting.

the function—a charity benefit organized to bring awareness to the falklands disagreement—comes and goes without issue. the dinner is bland, but the wine is good. chrissie is pleasant, and it’s your first chance to speak to another band member’s wife since the wedding. you appreciate her advice, laugh at her stories, and enjoy yourself without restraint. it doesn’t hurt that as roger drinks more, he more pays attention to you. you really shouldn’t encourage him, but when he slings an arm around your chair and pulls you closer, when he turns his head to whisper a joke in your ear at brian’s expense, when he plays with a loose lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger, it’s all you can do not to melt like the ice-sculpture in the center of the room.

come the end of the event, you find yourself walking between chrissie and veronica, your steps slow as the boys stumble through the hall. roger and john cannot stop laughing, though no one has said anything remotely funny for the last few minutes. they cling to one another like koalas to trees, as though the other might drop to the ground if released. brian and freddie aren’t any better. they sing off-key, their voices bouncing off the empty walls and laminate floors. you aren’t sure what part of the hotel you’ve wound up in, but it’s certainly less plush than the ballroom. still, you smile when roger slides his sunglasses over his eyes and snorts at one of john’s inane comments.

your smile falters when the sound of veronica’s labored breathing, pregnant as she is, reaches your ears.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

in the flurry of the evening—amidst the kiss and the dinner and the joking and the drinking—you’d forgotten about the phone call.

chrissie reaches out to grab your arm when your steps stutter. “are you okay?” she asks.

you stop walking. if the boys get into trouble around the corner, you’ll surely hear it.

meeting chrissie’s wide eyes, you frown. you hate the put a damper on the evening’s chipper mood, but the memory of the phone call crashes to the surface, bringing with it anxiety and unease. roger doesn’t need to know, but perhaps the other wives experienced a similar phenomenon. perhaps it’s all in your head. either way, you’d like a second opinion.

“this is going to sound weird, but… have either of you ever gotten a strange phone call?”

“phone call?” veronica rubs a hand over her swollen stomach. “what do you mean?”

you explain the events prior to your departure earlier in the evening, and the concerned looks that settle on chrissie and veronica’s faces stir the uncertainty in your stomach.

“that doesn’t sound good, [y/n],” chrissie says.

you gnaw at your lower lip. “no, i suppose it doesn’t.”

“have you told rog?”

you shake your head. “i don’t want to trouble him. not if it’s just some practical joke. it very well could be our kid neighbor having a lark.”

another memory drifts to the surface: the newspaper, the red paint dripping across your photograph. slag, they’d written.

you’d forgotten about that too.

veronica pulls you back to the present with her even tone. “i think you should tell him. if someone is harassing you, even if it’s just the once, don’t you think he should know?”

“i guess but—”

“hey, party people!” john sticks his head around the corner, breaking the conversation with his over-loud voice. “guess what we found?”

“judging by your wet trousers, i’d say a pool.”

john trips down the hall to grab veronica’s arm. “have i ever told you that you’re brilliant?” he presses a noisy kiss to her cheek, and even veronica isn’t capable of remaining firm under such affection.

like a child who has found an interesting twig, john crooks his arm in a follow-me motion, tugging his wife toward the pool. “come on. come see!”

veronica follows john around the corner, but before you can follow, chrissie presses her palm to your shoulder.

“you should tell roger,” she says. “before it gets serious.”

you nod, promise her you will, then make your way to the indoor swimming pool, knowing full well roger won’t hear a word of the incident.

the savoy’s pool room is understated in comparison with the rest of the hotel. though the ceiling stretches high, skylights allowing moonlight to shimmer over the undisturbed water, the room is just as hot, just as stuffy, as any other hotel pool. you drop your coat and rog’s to a plastic lounge chair as soon as you enter, swamped as you are by the thick air.

all nerves, all worries about the phone call, fade away as you slip your shoes off and watch roger and john’s poor poolside rendition of abbott and costello’s “who’s on first” routine. roger can’t keep up with john no matter how hard he tries, but their combined effort is valiant.

laughing, you clap as they take their theatrical bows and only laugh harder when john trips over the edge of the pool mid-bow. he lands belly-first in the clear water, rising a sputtering, drenched mess, his hair and clothes sodden to the bone, though his eyes are bright with mischief. he swims to where veronica sits with her ankles in the water and, before she can sternly admonish him, has her pulled into the churning pool beside him.

brian is next in. he cannonballs in the deep end, and chrissie follows of her own volition. the impact of their jump launches a tidal wave of water in your direction, and you screech, nearly falling in your attempt to avoid getting wet.

but then a pair of arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the cool, albeit slippery, floor.

“roger, no!” you twist in his tight hold. “no, roger, don’t!”

your voice echoes in the room, bouncing off the windows and walls; yet roger ignores your pleas for release. he shuffles to the edge of the pool at the behest and cheering of his friends, each treading water, watching as you struggle to break free.

the water beneath your feet rises and falls, sloshing this way and that. you can see the bottom of the pool from where roger holds you, and there’s a delicate, inlaid design of a turtle twelve feet down on the pool’s stone foundation.

you curl your nails in roger’s arm. “roger, i can’t—”

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

you fall through the air with a scream, land on your back, and sink beneath the surface of the water. chemically-laced water fills your mouth, your nose, and your lungs scream for air.

for a moment, fear grips you, not unlike the way it gripped you in the hallway of your own home, the phone cradled against your ear. only this time, you know exactly what will happen if you don’t get help.

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

kicking to the top, you break through the water and cough, shaking your head. tears cloud your vision when you open your eyes, but the liquid that’s caught in your eyelashes disguises them, and for that you’re thankful. roger bobs beside you, a grin on his face, looking much too pleased with himself and his antics. without a second thought, you reach for him.

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

his face falls. “oh.” he blinks then, realization striking as you grab onto his shoulders. “fuck, [y/n]. i’m sorry.”

clinging to him, you wrap your arms around his chest, your legs around his waist. you rest your cheek against the back of his neck and sigh, inhaling deeply. “i tried to tell you,” you whisper.

beneath the water, his hand curls around the skin of your ankle. he squeezes, and it’s all the apology you need.

the band stays in the pool for entirely too long. freddie starts talking about the next album, and the other boys chime in, clamoring for their opinions to be heard over the others. despite their drunken state, music brings a sense of clarity to their speech and thought. it’s their life’s work and something about which they care deeply. there’s no denying that. even when brian tries his hand at a backwards flip and freddie challenges john to a diving contest, they are always thinking, always working, toward their next goal. you admire them for that.

roger remains steady where he stands. you cling to him like a barnacle, even though you just as easily could remove yourself and find a place where your feet touch solid ground. he feels nice, though. his body is a comfort against yours, and as the business talk continues, your head lolls to the side on his shoulder, a gentle smile on your lips.

you could get used to this.

at some point, veronica complains about her aching back and drags john from the pool. they are the first to leave, but brian and chrissie soon follow. you aren’t sure if you want to go, if you want the evening to end. if it means roger will go back to ignoring you, shoving you aside, you think you could stay in this pool until your skin wilted and dripped off your bones.

“we’d better go, love,” roger whispers.

you know he’s right.

“yeah.” you try to keep the disappointment from your voice.

he moves to the side of the pool, and you heave yourself over the edge. your dress is heavy, weighed down by the absorbed water. you wring out the skirt as best you can, but until you can give it a proper wash and dry, it’s really no use. gooseflesh breaks out on your arms where the cool air hits, and you shiver.

roger appears behind you, turns you gently with a hand to the shoulder, and lifts a fluffy white towel. “here. i found these.”

“oh!” you move to take the towel from his grasp. “thank you.”

“i’ve got it.” with a smile—a boyish, gentle sort of smile—roger unfurls the towel and wraps it around your shoulders. he tugs the corners beneath your chin and laughs through a short breath. “comfy?”

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

lifting your mouth from behind the towel, you tilt your head with an impish grin. “you once told me i looked like an angel. so, which is it? angel or marshmallow?”

“oh, angel for sure.” he thumbs a finger over the end of your nose. “you always look like an angel.”

you roll your eyes and hope the action does not expose the sudden flutter in your chest. “you’re just saying that ‘cause you’re drunk.”

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

he looks at you for a long time. you look at him for just as long. the unease cadence of your breath, the way his breath whistles through his nose, the lap of the pool against the tiled walls—it all sounds so loud to your ears, though nothing can compare to the beating of your heart. it fills your entire body: bump bump, bump bump, bump bump. your cheeks feel hot with blush, and you finally look away, casting your eyes to the floor. you wiggle your bare feet against the tiled floor; roger wiggles his toes back.

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

roger pays an attendant to ferry you home, and the drive leaves your entire body close to overheating.

the back seat of his car feels strangely intimate compared to the front seat, but that might just be your imagination. surely, roger didn’t sit so close to you on purpose. surely, his hand isn’t pressed against your leg because he wants it to be. his car is just… cramped.

“did you have fun tonight?” you break the silence, but when you do, your voice sounds strange—slightly strangled, nervous, earthy—and you wish you’d remained quiet. you continue toying with a loose thread on your coat, ignoring the way roger’s eyes traverse your profile.

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

from the driver’s seat, the attendant coughs, and your gaze shifts.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

chrissie’s words of earlier surface in your mind: you should tell him about the phone call. it’s only right.

twisting, you look to your right, meet roger’s eyes, and promptly lose all sense of direction. his face is so near, his mouth parted, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed. your throat runs dry, but you can’t look away.

“roger–”

“hmm?” his lips tighten, but his smile is just as sly as it had been the moment before he kissed you in front of the reporters. the touch still lingers on your mouth, but you will the memory away.

“there’s something i should—”

his fingers sift through a lock of your hair, and he moves his head almost in a nuzzling sort of gesture. you swallow hard. “i was wrong about you,” he whispers. when did his voice get so raspy?

“what?”

“i was wrong to judge you,” he says. his hand moves from your hair to the side of your neck, one long finger tracing the lines of your skin. “to be honest, i thought you were some cheap girl looking for a way into my bed, but i was wrong. you’re more than that.”

“what—” deep inhale. “what am i, then?”

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

his mouth claims yours, and you don’t fight him. you melt against him, his chest pressed against yours in the narrow space of the car. you’re vaguely aware that a driver sits not two feet away, more than able to hear the way roger pulls a soft whimper from behind your lips and the rustle of clothes as you both scrabble for any exposed skin. but you don’t really care. you’re drunk off of roger, and have been since you met him. it’s his looks, yes, but tonight—tonight you saw him in his element. you heard him laugh and saw him smile and preened under his attention. you would go to hades and back to live in a world shaped just like tonight, every bit of it.

roger can’t keep his hands off you as you make your way from the sidewalk to the front stoop. his hands roam your body, skimming every inch, squeezing the parts he seems to like most. you giggle like young lovers experiencing one another for the first time, and maybe that’s because you are.

when you drop the front door key because you’re too focused on returning roger’s eager kiss, it doesn’t seem to matter. you just stand on the stoop and kiss beneath the light of the moon a little longer.

when you finally get the door open and his palm hits your ass at the same time, you squeal, and he dissolves into laughter.

when he fumbles with the hallway light because he’s too focused on getting your coat off, you tell him to forget it. you don’t need the light anyway.

halfway down the hall, limbs and lips tangled, the phone rings.

you laugh as you peel yourself from his grasp. he puckers his lower lip in protest.

“i’ll be just a minute,” you say, lifting the phone from the receiver. he sticks his tongue out, but then sheds his shirt, leaving it on the kitchen floor as he slips into the bedroom. you bite the edge of your thumb as you watch him go, your head as muddled as creamy soup.

someone clears their throat on the other end of the line.

“oh, sorry. hello?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

cold dread extinguishes any joy lingering in your chest at the sound of the sickeningly smooth voice.

your fingers curl tight around the phone. “who is this?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

angry tears spring to your eyes as you scoot to stare out the window over the sink. nothing but darkness meets your eyes, but still you try in vain to search for an answer in the inky blackness. “i said: who is this?” your voice cracks, but you push forward. “how did you get this number?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

“i swear i calling the fucking police if you keep this up!”

a beat of hesitation then: “what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

with a helpless groan, you slam the phone down for the second time in one day. your fingers creak as you let go and step back, chest heaving. your skin feels slimy—slimy with roger’s lingering touch, slimy with the possibility that someone had been watching you kiss your husband, slimy with the possibility that someone could be watching you now.

you don’t stop and admire roger, clad only in his boxers, as you make your way to the en suite bathroom. you can’t stand to look at him, to know that somewhere someone cares for him so much they would take to harassing you. god, it makes you want to vomit.

you don’t bother with the bathroom door so intent are you at getting in the shower and scrubbing your slimy skin raw. you struggle with the zipper at the top of your spine, the tears hovering over your eyes threatening to spill over if you can’t be rid of your soaked clothing. you stamp your foot with a grunt and drop your hands, hanging your head in defeat.

roger’s soft chuckle sounds from the doorway. you don’t turn to look at him.

your back stiffens when he undoes the zipper, the pads of his fingers pressing along your shoulder blades, your ribs, the small of your back.

“that eager, huh?” he presses a wet kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

you want him; you really do. there’s some part of you that wants to drag him into the shower and work out your fears with the aid of his body against yours. but you won’t do that. you won’t use him, not when he confessed he thinks you better than that.

you twist to face him, holding the dress against your chest. “rog, i…” you place your hand on his smooth chest, feel the small hairs peppering his collarbone. “you’re drunk,” you finally say. “you’re drunk and you should go to bed.”

he smirks and pushes his hips against yours. “so? you’re drunk too.”

you shake your head. “no, not anymore.” you push him away gently. “believe me, roger, i want nothing more than to go to bed with you but—”

he plays with a lock of hair beside your face, and your desire to resist him weakens. “but?”

“i won’t do it while you’re drunk. besides, you’ll be over this by morning. you’ll go back to not wanting me. so i won’t do it—not while you’re drunk.”

with a huff, he lets you go, but not without kissing you once more. a traitorous tear slides down your cheek, and your throat seizes with emotion. somewhere in the back of your clouded mind, you wonder if you love him. or, if at least you are on the edge of loving him.

but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be gone in a year, and he will move on to someone else, someone strong enough to withstand his rabid fans.

he pulls away first and kisses your temple. “goodnight, angel,” he whispers.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and, once stood beneath the hot water of the shower, let the sound of the creaking pipes drown out the sound of your crying.

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

he leaves you a note on the kitchen island, scrawled in his plain script: “angel, i’m hungover now, not drunk. i’d still like you in my bed. – rog”

the note should send a thrill to your stomach, but it manifests itself in a ball of dread instead.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

you crumple the note and toss it in the bin, jumping when the phone rings. you hesitate, your gaze locked on the inanimate object that has come to haunt your dreams.

eventually, the phone stops ringing, but the shrill sound echoes in your head as you go about the day.

after the second phone call, tension becomes your constant companion. the days pass, and you withdraw into yourself, scared by the slightest sound, the never-ending line of cars outside the front window, and roger’s growing interest.

he seems to like you now that he knows you. he makes you laugh, asks you questions, even goes so far as to help you research university entrance exams.

but when he comes home from the studio, your stomach takes to twisting with apprehension as you wonder if your faceless friend watched him drive home and wonder further if your faceless friend can see roger kiss the side of your neck.

you try not to push him away. his attention is what you’ve wanted all along, and, though the romantic turn of events was certainly unplanned, he does make your knees weak and your head giddy like a schoolgirl’s.

still, the phone calls persist. it’s not every night and every day. you can’t trace the caller’s pattern because there is none. you never know who will be on the other end of the line. it could be roger calling during his lunch break as he is wont to do; it could be the university to which you’ve applied; or it could be them, the phantom who chills the blood in your veins.

there’s a pad of paper tucked beneath your side of the bed. the words of your faceless friend are scrawled across the page in frenzied handwriting, the handwriting of a madwoman.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

will he ask john to help you study for the maths entrance exam?

you should stop answering the phone; you know you should. but each time the phone rings, you respond like a pavlovian dog. you rush to answer, to frantically write down the day’s comment just in case there’s some sliver of information that might shed light on your faceless friend’s identity.

the caller is a woman; that much you know. her voice is deep and gravelly, but she’d referenced herself as the better woman for roger before. she seems to cling to the idea that you will leave him and the position of roger taylor’s wife will fall to her. if only to spite her, you will remain married to roger until your dying day.

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

when you first met him, he was sullen, dragging his tail between his legs like a scolded pup after the montreal debacle. it took a while, but you see him now for his true self. he’s carefree in a grounded sort of way, sold out for his music and the lifestyle it affords him. he’s gentle and kind and surprisingly considerate. he picks up the groceries when you ask it of him; he cleans the dishes from supper without complaint. he doesn’t pressure you for anything more than a make-out session on the couch when the lights are low and a record spins on the turntable. you would go further, but you can’t—not right now. he doesn’t ask any questions.

it would break you to tell him about the phone calls, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. each morning, you imagine his crestfallen face. you imagine the anger and the shouting and him calling the authorities and—

it’s easier for him—for everybody—if you just stay quiet.

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

one evening, after dinner at an expensive restaurant, you let roger to take you to bed. he’d looked so pretty in the candlelight, and he’d listened to you talk about your hopes and dreams for the future. you think you fall in love with him when he drags you onto the bed and whispers sweet praises in your ear the whole night long.

when you wake the next morning, he is still there, and you snuggle into his chest. you breathe him in, and it’s bar soap from the shower and dried sweat and lingering cologne. his arms circle your back, squeezing you tighter.

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

for a moment, you don’t respond. you keep your eyes closed and think back to yesterday.

there’d been no phone call. a blessed reprieve from three days in a row of randomly timed messages. roger had held you, and he holds you still. he is a comfort amidst your turbulent sea.

you should tell him. he can handle it. you’re tired of running from him.

rising to your palm, you meet roger’s gaze. he stares at you through his lashes, a sleepy smile on his mouth. he lifts a hand to cradle your face, and his thumb skims your cheekbone.

“how come you get a halo every morning and i don’t?”

you ignore his compliment before the bravery rushing through your veins dissipates. “rog, there’s something i haven’t told you.”

“yeah? is it about the freckle by your left ass-check?”

gasping, you slap roger’s chest. though he laughs, a red handprint remains in the center of his sternum, and he clutches his skin in pain. once settled, he apologizes and promises to behave.

deep inhale.

“about a month or two ago, i started—”

the phone on the bedside table cuts you off with its sharp bell-like ring.

your stomach plummets to your feet.

your eyes widen as roger holds up a finger and reaches for the earpiece.

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

some part of you hopes it’s your faceless friend. roger could deal with her himself. the other part of you prays it’s just a wrong number or john or—

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

you slump to the side, leaning your weight against roger’s hip. thank heaven.

roger’s eyes slide to you, and he grins, winking. he squeezes the point of your chin between his forefinger and thumb, his eyes locked on yours as he nods and hums in response to freddie on the other end of the line.

“no, we won’t be late,” roger says. “yes, she’s coming. i promise i won’t forget.” he leans closer to the bedside table in his effort to end the conversation. “okay, fred. yes, i will.” finally, he heaves a sigh. “oh, for fuck’s sake, fuck off! i’m trying to woo my wife, so scram!”

“now,” he says, once the earpiece is on the base. “where were we?”

tugging on the back of your neck, he closes the distance between his mouth and yours. even with a hint of morning breath, you dissolve in his capable hands. he kisses you earnestly, and you struggle to remember what it was you wanted to tell him. he has this way with his mouth and his tongue and his hands that makes you forget everything but the feeling of him.

pulling back a moment later, he mumbles against your mouth: “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

you blink rapidly. “i—” damn, he looks so happy, glowing with youth and perhaps an inkling of love. you press your palm to his cheek then shake your head. “never mind. it can wait.”

he cocks his head to the side. “you sure?”

“mhm.”

“you remember the movie thing tonight, right?” he asks as he slides from the bed, drawing up his sweats from the floor and padding to the window. “that’s what fred called about.”

he throws the curtains open. the morning sun shines through, piercing every hidden corner, and your heart trips in your chest. your hands shake as you lift one of the bed sheets to cover your naked chest.

someone could be watching.

roger grimaces. “oh, shit, sorry, angel.” he tosses you his shirt from the floor, which you gratefully tug over your head. “anyway, tron, you know? we’re supposed to go to the premiere. something about flash gordon and—”

“i remember.”

“good. wear something nice because i don’t give a fuck about this movie, and i’d rather be looking at you anyway.” he smirks as he presses his palms against the mattress and leans in for another kiss.

you oblige him without hesitation.

“gotta go,” he says, pulling away only to firmly kiss you once more. “be ready by six, okay?”

you nod, and he leaves.

the majority of the day, you putter about the house. there’s chores to do—laundry and bills to catch up on and research for university admissions. it’s domestic work, mind-numbingly dull and repetitive. it leaves far too much space for your thoughts to run wild.

you admonish yourself for once more failing to tell roger of your faceless friend. you’d had the moment, and you’d blown it. with his unreliable schedule, there is no telling when you’ll have the chance to sit him down for a serious conversation again. you consider going to jim beach for help, but know once roger hears wind of it, he will fly off the handle because you didn’t come to him first. perhaps rightfully so, too.

you resolve that until you can find another peaceful moment, you will continue to suffer through it. it’s a step in the right direction, though. at least now, you have plans to tell him.

by five-forty-five, you are ready for the event. you sit in the living room, gnawing at your lower-lip as your leg bounces in anticipation. you haven’t gone anywhere with roger since the charity function earlier in the year. your faceless friend will surely be watching tonight, and already you feel sweat gather along your underarms.

roger unlocks the door and sticks his head into the living room upon his arrival. “car’s running. ready to go?”

you lift your handbag from the floor, nodding as you make your way to his side. roger stops you with a flat hand against your stomach. he bends to catch your eyes.

“you okay?”

“yes,” you say, but your voice sounds too rushed and eager even to your own ears.

he doesn’t hassle you for a more illuminative response. he just leads you to the car, opens your door, and makes his way to the theater, foot hard on the gas pedal.

as soon as you see the carpet—red this time—stretched along the sidewalk leading to the movie theater, bile rises in your throat. you reach for roger’s arm and squeeze tight. his head whips to the side.

“roger, i don’t think i can do this,” you breathe.

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

he pulls the car to the side. an usher opens the door, sound and light and chaos breaking the comforting quiet of the ride. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

“[y/n], what is it?” roger’s voice is low, on the edge of irritation.

this is not the time. yet why do you feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t—

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

purging the emotions clawing at the front of your mind, you push roger’s shoulder and avoid his searching gaze. “nothing. go on! i’m right behind you.”

roger huffs as he slides from the car, but he dutifully offers his hand to aid you onto the red carpet. as he did before, he leads you toward the theater doors, stopping at the appropriate moments to pose for photographs. you hold on to the back of his jacket so tightly your knuckles crack. your eyes scan the crowd in search of your faceless friend. you will know her when you see her. she is a part of you now, like a demon on your shoulder.

roger rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture and leans to whisper in your ear. “you feel a stiff as a board,” he says. “what is it?”

you shake your head and nudge him further down the carpet. “we can talk about it later.”

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

he studies your face a moment longer before nodding and returning his smile to the crowd.

near the entrance to the theater, a gaggle of girls wave their hands in an attempt to grab roger’s attention. he glances at you, and you nod, backing away to allow him one of the moments he so enjoys.

but one of the girls calls out your name. you lift your eyes to stop tracing the intricate weaving of the red carpet and stare at the girl in question until roger has to drag you over with a laugh. the girl shoves a newspaper in your face, your wedding announcement crinkled with affectionate wear-and-tear. she asks for your autograph, and you chuckle, feeling rather ridiculous as you scrawl your name across the page with a fat green marker.

it happens before you have time to react.

your head is bent as you sign the girl’s newspaper, your attention diverted from scanning the crowd for your faceless friend. but you feel her when she arrives, sense her eyes on your neck, and her fingers reaching for the sleeve of your dress. you have time enough to turn and catch sight of her long fingernails descending upon your cheek, but not time enough to stop her.

you scream more out of fear than pain as her nails scrape your face. truly, it does not hurt, though blood does begin to trickle down your chin and along the column of your throat.

it’s just that she’s there, before your very eyes, and she’s much smaller than you imagined. yet her eyes are dark with envy, and her nails are sharp. you recognize her labored breathing—deep inhale, sharp exhale—as she tries to move backwards and disappear within the crowd before she can be seen. you cannot look away from her, even when roger grabs your shoulders and wrenches you away from the iron gate. he’s shouting in your ear, cradling your uninjured cheek, but everything sounds like you’re underwater.

her face—round and childlike in its innocence—does not match the picture you’d created of her in your mind. she does not resemble the evil witch of your childhood fairy tales. she’s just a child, a little girl with a heart full of love for someone she cannot have.

your faceless friend is pointed out by the girl with the newspaper, and someone—maybe theater security, maybe queen security, maybe a good samaritan—drags her away.

roger grips your chin harder than he should considering the circumstances, but it brings your attention back to him. his eyes are ablaze with fury, and you suddenly feel the urge to cry.

“are you all right?” he demands. “are you hurt anywhere else?”

only my pride, you think.

“no,” you manage with a shake of your head. “no.”

“come on.” he slips his arm around your waist and pushes your head into the curve of his neck, away from prying eyes and flashing cameras. “we’re going home.”

the trip home is silent. your head moves back and forth across the passenger window, in time with the bumps and dips and curves of the road. there’s a fast-food napkin pressed against your cheek to stem the blood. you aren’t sure if it helps. roger keeps his hand firm on your thigh.

once inside the house, he forces you to sit in the middle of the bed as he scurries to retrieve the first aid kit. while he roots around in the bathroom, muttering to himself when he can’t find what he’s looking for fast enough, you strip yourself of your dress and return his old t-shirt over your head. you lift the collar to your nose and inhale his scent. when you draw the collar away, crimson blood and fresh tears stain the fabric. you sigh.

“fuckin’ hell.” roger drops to sit in front of you, his legs skewed to the side. a white, plastic box sits in his lap, and when he opens it, the contexts spill onto the bed sheets. “i’ve had this thing for ages. i think brian got it for me when i moved in.”

his hand returns to your chin; only his touch is gentle now. he looks over your wound, frowning at the sight.

“this is gonna sting, angel,” he warns.

it does. the antiseptic hurts, and you wince, but he keeps you from drawing away, his grip on your chin firm. he unwraps a butterfly bandage and presses it over the shallow scratch on your face. then he shakes his head, his face drawn tight.

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

“there is—was this girl… and she kept calling, saying things.” you twist and unearth the pad of paper from under the bed. rubbing your eye, you hand it to him and watch his face darken as he reads the words.

he looks up, and you can’t bear to see the anger—the anger directed at you—in his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me?”

your first instinct is to shrug, to obfuscate, but he deserves the truth.

“you never wanted a wife,” you say. “you certainly didn’t want a wife who brought a stalker into the house. i figured—” deep inhale. “i figured i could live with it until our year was up.”

“oh, baby.” roger presses his forehead to yours. he cups your untainted cheek. “fucking up in montreal was the best thing that ever happened to me. it brought you to me, didn’t it?”

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

“no.” he draws back and grabs both shoulders in his hands. “i mean it. i never was one for marriage. didn’t make sense. but i get it now. it’s about partnership, yeah, but it’s about more than that. it’s about trust, too.” he smiles softly, pressing his thumb against your lip. “it’s about affection.”

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

“don’t apologize. this whole arrangement is weird, and i don’t blame you for keeping quiet. i just wish you would have told me so i could help you.”

you sigh, dropping your head. “what do you want, roger?”

he lifts your chin, and you are struck by the love so firmly etched in his eyes. it knocks the wind from your lungs, leaves you breathless.

“i want you to keep my last name,” he says.

“what?”

“you heard me: i want you keep my last name.”

tears flood your vision, but not for fear or worry or regret.

you begin to smile, but the skin of your cheek pulls tight, and you wince, touching your injury. “ow,” you mutter.

roger laughs and pulls your fingers away from the bandage. he kisses each knuckle then rubs the wedding band along your ring finger. “can we give each other another chance?” he asks. “can we forget all the assumptions and just be us? i think we started on the wrong foot and somewhere along the way we switched—”

“yes.”

he stops mid-sentence, his brows drawing together in confusion. “what?”

“i said yes. i’ll keep your last name. i want your last name, roger taylor.”

he grins, and the happiness in every line on his face outshines even the sun’s rays. “god, you’re perfect.” he kisses you hard, and you laugh as you drop against the pillows, pulling him with you. he stops attacking your neck with his lips long enough to prop himself up and stare down at you. “but don’t you ever pull something like that again! if someone starts nagging you, tell me first thing. promise?”

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

he smooths the hair on your forehead, and your stomach somersaults to watch him examine you so openly “good girl,” he mumbles before lowering his mouth to yours again.

you lose yourself in him. he loses himself in you. somewhere along the way, you find one another, and all is bliss.

in the morning, legs tangled in the sheets and steady rain pelting the window, roger adjusts his hold on your waist. he’s still asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his gentle breath. you pull his arm tight around you and smile into your pillow.

your cheek is still sore, and you’re sure there’s some poor nun who remains scarred for life after witnessing roger’s montreal incident.

but this morning you cannot find it within yourself to feel bothered by your faceless friend, nor by the scarred nun. indeed, you think, you should write them each a thank you card, because in a funny sort of way, they brought you to your husband. in a funny sort of way, they gave you love of your life. and for that, you are indebted to them.

you twist at the sound of roger’s yawn. taking his face in your hands, you smile at him. “good morning, husband,” you whisper.

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

taglist (italicized handles wouldn’t work): @im-an-adult-ish @bluewillowmom @deakygurl @aprilaady @dancingdiscofloof @six-bloodyminutes

#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #queen #queen fic #j writes

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catherine-parr-1512 · 3 years ago

Text

SixVengers - The Beginning (Fic 1) Chapter 5

Everyone sat in silence, not knowing what to do. Nobody expected to be here because of the literal end of the world. Especially by the hands of someone they’ve never heard of.

“Who is this Lord Henry? I’ve never heard of him and by the looks of everyone else’s faces here, it doesn’t seem like they know who that is either, Director.” Jane said from her seat, a gentle smile on her face.

“I agree with Captain ‘Been Frozen For Too Long’. I’ve never heard of this guy but like, isn’t Henry a common English name?” That question was asked by Boleyn which gained nods of agreement from Cleves, Howard and Parr.

Meutas sighed and pointed towards a screen on the wall opposite of windows and the PowerPoint started. Some numbers and calculations could be seen but nobody knew what to make out of them.

“We found an unusual amount of radiation coming from outside of our solar system a few months ago and we worked on it in secret with many cosmic agencies around the world. However, last week, we registered a large cluster of them around the London area which made us believe that something is definitely not right as none of the areas around the world have experienced anything like that. In fact, “ here Meutas brought up two maps of the world. One had many dots across the continents whilst the other map had most of them centred around England, especially London, “most of the sites where this radiation was recorded, moved towards London and have since disappeared from their previous positions.”

“We have reached out to our contact in space…” Started Lee but was quickly interrupted by Parr.

“Contact in space? I didn’t know there were any humans in space or anythingthing…”

“There is a very limited number of them but thankfully, they are unknown to most of the world, Parr. Now as I was saying, our contact in space, Captain Castillo told us something concerning - a space villain named Lord Henry, was amassing an army and took it towards Earth. Nobody in the universe acted on that as he wasn’t doing anything dangerous yet.”

It was at this point when Agent Blount picked up the explanation.

“By our calculations and from what Castillo gave us, we can assume with 98.35% accuracy that tomorrow at 2 PM, Lord Henry will start an attack on London. We do not know his motives yet but we suspect that he plans to enslave Earth and the humans there.”

“So you knew about it for how long?” Inquired Boleyn, hoping she would not get an answer that would disappoint her.

“4 days. We already contacted most of the high ranking officials like The Queen and Prime Minister who have already evacuated from the city. This is the same with many other influential figures.” Said Meutas in a calm yet strict voice. This only made Aragon angry.

“You knew about all of this for 4 days and I was never informed about it, Director? I’m your second-highest-ranking agent. I’M ABOVE IN RANK THAN THOSE THREE! ” The Spanish agent ranted, getting up from her seat and pointing towards the other agents. "All those years ago I agreed to work with you, Meutas, but I never thought something like that would be kept from me."

"Not to get political or anything but it seems like you know, common people like not very important ones, weren't informed either. I'm pretty sure I heard nothing about ' alien attack on London' on Twitter or Insta." Said Katherine and yet again, everyone looked towards her.

"The kid has a point. Nobody knows that it's happening. Any explanation as to why you would hide something that risks the lives of millions of people, Director. " Said Anne, her hands slowly turning into a lime colour. Jane gulped visibly seeing that.

“We are making sure that there is no unnecessary panic…”

“CUT THE CRAP MEUTAS! THERE ARE PEOPLE OUT THERE IN THIS CITY THAT COULD GET INJURED OR DIE TOMORROW” Anne Boleyn was angry now. Her skin was now of an emerald colour. If someone didn’t do something soon, she could transform into Hulk. Thankfully, Parr was already working on that.

She stood up from her chair and went behind Boleyn, putting her hand on the other woman’s shoulder and looking towards Meutas.

“I don’t think you can give any excuses for your behaviour, Director. Dr Boleyn here is right - people might die tomorrow because neither you nor the government did anything about it. Let’s settle on this deal,” The young woman said as she took out her phone and turned the screen towards the rest of the room. “Here I have a message addressed to my PR team about how the Director of T.O.W.E.R. has just informed me that there is an upcoming attack on the capital and one of the most important cities in the world but for some strange reason nobody seemed to think that they should’ve informed the public. So you will either do it yourself, or I will click send and my team will make sure that the world knows what’s happening.”

“You can’t do that, Parr. This is serious and sensitive information that cannot get out to the public.” Meutas got up from her seat and eyed the younger woman.

“You’re wrong Director, she can do that. You never asked us to not reveal the information we learned here nor gave us any document to sign thus we would not be breaking any agreements by bringing this information up to the public.” Anna smirked with a raised eyebrow. Anne started turning back to her normal skin colour seeing how the situation was turning out.

The Director of the T.O.W.E.R. looked towards all the superwomen in the room and sighed, seeing only Seymour not glaring nor looking smugly at her. Parr held her phone, waiting for an answer, both Aragon and Boleyn looked frustrated, Cleves was watching it all with a smirk and Howard was observing everything with a small frown on her young face.

“Very well... I will contact the government and inform them that it will be best that most of London will be evacuated. However, I cannot let any of you go back to your homes tonight as we don’t want you split up in case of an attack. So any family you have will have to move out without you for the time being.” Meutas said and got mostly nods as a response, most of the women there didn’t have family in London thus would not have to do anything about it and staying together would allow them for better reaction time should the attacks start earlier.

“Um… sorry but I told my mum that I would be back tonight sooo… I think you will have to ask for her permission for me to be her, Director.” Said Katherine timidly.

“I don’t think you should ask your mother for permission to save the world kid.” Chuckled Lee, showing for the first time today that she had a sense of humour.

“It’s the law for her to give me permission.”

“What? How old are you?” Asked Meutas, not liking how this was going.

“...” Katherine looked around the room with lips pulled tight “... 15 but 16 in 2 months!” She said with an excited smile.

Everyone looked shocked and Aragon was the first one to break the uncomfortable silence.

“MEUTAS WHY DID YOU BRING A LITERAL CHILD INTO THIS?!” She exclaimed and Katherine stepped back as if Agent Aragon would do something to her.

“I didn’t know! She never told me her age! Nor her real name for that matter!” The Director looked towards the teenager whilst saying that and Katherine visibly gulped.

“Ha… my name you say… hehe, so it is Katherine but Howard is my father’s surname. I go by my mother’s name Culpeper in real life. So Katherine Culpeper I guess.” She said, laughing weekly at that.

“Why did you lie to us then? About your name?” Salinas asked, looking at the kid in front of her with a hard gaze.

“I panicked! I didn’t know if I should give my real name or something fake so I went in the middle? Also, it is still kind of my name, just not legally I guess.”

“Okay, I know that we have a kid among us but could we please go over a plan for tomorrow’s battle please?” Captain Jane Seymour spoke for the first time. Everyone looked towards each other but they took their seats nonetheless, grumbling about a teenager on the team while Anna gave Katherine thumbs up and a smirk.

#six the musical #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #jane seymour #anna of cleves #katherine howard #catherine parr

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kiitsume · 4 years ago

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a few thoughts on six the musical because nobody asked for them

(also excuse any historical inaccuracies, i've done only cursory reading thank you)

let's start light. the costumes are pretty but they completely take away any sense of historical context, unintentionally minimizing the degree of awareness the audience has of the culture surrounding the women at the time, which is actually pretty important to the message the writers are trying to construct.

the music is good. like, it's catchy and generally well written, and of course well performed. but the writers giveth and the writers taketh away. mostly they take away. all of the songs are reductive and collapse six people-- who they claim to attempt to honor the memory of-- down into platitudes and general notions of people, caricaturizing them into something that's barely recognizable.

the set up the musical to be a "competition between these six women to get the respect the deserve for the amount they suffered" and then they turn around at the end and shame the audience for doing that-- for picking favorites along the way and actually considering which ones they empathize most with.

the opening song, "ex-wives" uses modern lingo and whatnot, but it's not any more jarring that the costumes, so it's not until "don't lose your head" that the text speak really throws you off. it was honestly uncomfortable to watch in context of the musical, at least upon my viewing.

do i know they went chronologically? yes. will i ever forgive them for putting the most jarring joke of a song, "haus of holbein" right after arguably the most heartfelt song of the musical, jane seymour's "heart of stone"? absolutely fucking not.

haus of holbein has it's merits. i won't lie. it addresses the beauty standards of the time and the way that women were expected to destroy their bodies and give up their lives in order to appeal to men, which contributes to the larger narrative the writers were trying to build in saying that all these women would've led remarkable lives if they hadn't been forced to give themselves up to a life that made them miserable. but all of that is erased by the fact that it has air horns in it, i'm sorry, that can't be overlooked. literally die.

katherine (we're going with the musical's spelling okay) howard's song? a fucking bop. "all you wanna do" is iconic. but it has been brought to my attention by my girlfriend, who is much more knowledgeable on the six's actual history and writings, that pretty much the entire song is a complete disregard for who she was in life and her actual feelings, and that's especially irritating because they did it specifically for the purpose of constructing a much more simple narrative and, in the process, did the exact thing they claim to condemn: writing over her, and all the others, with what they think they know and bending them and their lives to fit their ideal message. how so? my girl k howard actually did have feelings for thomas. you know, the one person in the song she's like, "just mates, no chemistry/ i get him and he gets me/ and there's nothing more to it." they just throw that out to make thomas look like a nice guy and like people were just constantly taking advantage of her, which to some extent was true. but it also strips all the agency out of her life, and ignores the fact that "serious, stern and slow/ gets what he wants and he won't take no," francis dereham was the one who got jealous of her and thomas' relationship and snitched to the king and got her executed. there's literally no acknowledgement that he was anything other than just another fling or something. and, by omission, it implies that her music teacher, henry mannox, was the one and only one who groomed her (and molested her at 13). in reality, dereham's relationship with her started when she was 15 and he was 32. oh, and she was 17 when she married the 49 year old king. if the musical is supposed to form a cohesive narrative around how these girls were taken advantage of and thrown out by history as a joke, her story is literally ideal for that purpose. but instead we got naive girl uses sex to get ahead and then it backfires and she's killed for it.

not that thomas is innocent in all of this-- when the affair was brought to public light he blamed everything on howard and continued to deny ever sleeping with her, though he eventually admitted to intending to. there's some debate over whether their private meetings were actually an affair, but howard's writings on it make it seem as if she did have feelings for him, so. we may never know. but again, this is just to show the disservice the musical did to her.

i don't know as much about the other queens i'll admit, but here's just a few things that would be useful for the narrative the musical tries and fails to build: catherine parr was 15 when she was married to henry's brother arthur, who she couldn't speak to because they'd corresponded in latin but had different pronunciations-- this marriage was to give arthur greater legitimacy, because she was considered more strongly royal by blood; anne boleyn resisted henry's attempts to make her a mistress-- she was extremely smart, which was desirable in a mistress but not a wife!-- as her sister mary had been, and her daughter, unlike parr's is never acknowledged by the musical, the subjects called her "the king's whore" and blamed her for his tyranny, and-- oh, did i mention? historians debate whether there were any actual grounds for the charges brought against her that led to her execution, and most scholars regard it just something the king did so he could move on to seymour; jane seymour was married to henry the day after anne boleyn's execution, and she was never publically coronated in part because of a plague (woo!) but some also theorize that henry didn't want her to be coronated until she'd done her "duty as queen" and bore him a male heir; anne of cleves was described as extremely beautiful, so when the king met her and described her as "plain" he was incredibly let down, and immediately decided that he wanted to avoid the marriage altogether-- she was not considered ugly, as the musical makes it sound, just not good enough for the kings "selective" tastes (you know, the same henry who had a festering, ulcerated wound on his leg from a jousting accident); catherine parr is done the most justice, actually acknowledging the work she did in education and writing, the role she played in the establishment of the Third Succession Act which allowed her daughters access to the throne, and her two previous marriages (one of which was to someone twice her age) but it fails to acknowledge that her protestant sympathies got her targeted by arrest warrants before she reconciled with the king, and she was able to marry her lost love thomas seymour (different thomas, different seymour) in secret four months after the king's death, only to die a year and four months later.

also this: catherine of aragon was the only wife older than henry when they married, with her being 24 when and henry being 18; boleyn was 32 while henry was 42; seymour was 28, married to a 45 year old henry; anne of cleves was 25 and henry was 49; i repeat, howard was 17 when she was married to the 49 year old king; and parr was 31 and henry was 52.

and they were all flawed individuals, too, don't take my defenses of them to mean otherwise. in fact, as historical figures, i don't necessarily like all of them. but despite their flaws, they didn't deserve what happened to them, which is something the musical fails to portray in every way. it glosses over everything so quickly, which i understand is to be expected to a degree when you give each queen a six minute song to tell the story of their entire life, but the writing distorts them so badly they're hardly recognizable, and their stories are changed willy-nilly to fit the lazy empowerment theme rather than addressing them as they were.

the final song, "six." boy do i have thoughts. it's meant to seem empowering, and to an extent it is, because the characters they've given us get to talk about having a happy ending and making something of their lives that made them happy to have a legacy. but none of it's true, and it feels incredibly forced, especially because they take the concept of these women and pay no attention to them historically or what the figures they're based on would've actually wanted, and instead just says, "they all sing and dance and have a great time! question nothing!" and it just feels so hollow. it honestly made me feel even worse about the historical figures themselves and the suffering they endured, because it felt minimizing and shallow, like a platitude to make you stop thinking about how horribly they were treated. it was genuinely upsetting from that point of view, and despite how uplifting it's meant to be in the context of the show, it acknowledges that it's only a dream by giving a time limit to their happiness-- five minutes. and after that point you're supposed to go on continuing to be happy, having connected with these people and been empowered by their stories, when you are given very little of their actual stories and are shamed for analyzing things through the lens they gave you at the opening of the show. not to mention how horribly they trample over their message of how restrictive and repressive their lives were by nature of their station and says that, "well, if they could've just made different choices they would've been happy!" ignoring how the culture gave them no other choice and there's a pretty good chance that, even if they had made the choices they wanted to, they would've still been held back by virtue of their gender and station. the story behind six is not empowering, and it feels horrible to have it twisted around that was to make it seem empowering. i understand not wanting to beat down your audience and make them miserable, but rather than reducing these women down to such simplified caricatures and then having them all bond and have a girl power moment, it would've been much more impactful to have their actual concerns be what they bonded over-- being forgotten, talked over, held back, so on-- and talking about the people they actually were. having them write their own stories is fun and all, but having them actually tell their stories and feel heard, even if it's in a time they'll never see, is a much less reductive sentiment.

tl;dr: so basically i thought the musical was badly written for the message they were trying to send, and no amount of good music or talented performance can save a boring or badly written musical, and the six queens still deserve better.

#long post #this took me all morning and i still feel like i didn't address everything i thought about it #but if i think about it any more i'll start crying because it distresses me to that degree that it didn't do them justice #and for other reasons but. staying on theme that's the reason we're going with.#not gonna put hate in the tags though have fun #i still listen to the soundtrack it's great it's just a bad musical when it's all put together

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olicitytropes · 5 years ago

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Olicity Tropetastic Awards: Other Inspirations

One of the coolest, and most popular, things about fanfic is that you don’t have to stick to canon for inspiration. We can plop our favorite characters into almost any situation using the books, movies, and tv shows we love. Call it an alternate universe, call it a crossover, call it awesome. Our love for Arrow and for Olicity brought us together, but here are some writers who used other sources to give us the best of both worlds!

@allimariexf’s recs:

Gotta Be Compatible - theshipsfirstmate

Magic Mike AU.

Felicity and the girls go to a strip club in Metropolis for Caitlin's bachelorette party.

**Award: Best Lost-Boy Oliver and Playing-It-Safe Felicity (who find themselves in each other!)**

Breaking All The Rules - griever11

Five letters that were never meant to be sent, two ex-friends who soon rediscover their friendship, and one fake relationship that honestly, isn't really fake at all.

Or, you can't really pretend to be dating each other when what you really want is to be really dating each other.

An Olicity AU, loosely based on To All the Boys I've Loved Before.

**Award: The Longest Mutual Pine Award**

Someone Else’s Sky - punchdrunkdoc

Oliver Queen, the Starling City Vigilante, moves out of his family home into a small apartment.

But he has an unexpected roommate.

A 'Just Like Heaven' AU

**Award: Most Brilliant and Beautiful Season 1 “What-If” (also known as: THIS FIC MADE ME CRY REAL TEARS and FEEL ALL THE THINGS)**

Baby Daddy - moreorLessJess

Bartender Oliver Queen was living his twenties to the fullest, he lived with his best friend John Diggle, and his brother in everything but blood, Tommy Merlyn just moved in to their apartment as he started his professional baseball career for the Starling City Rockets. On top of that, his childhood best friend Felicity Smoak, who was no longer goth and instead blonde and beautiful, was back in town and they were hanging out again.

Oliver thought his days were going to be filled with partying, one night stands, and boys weekends while also spending quality time with the girl everyone kept telling him he was in love with.

Until his ex girlfriend dropped a baby on his doorstep who turned out to be his son.

After a lot of thought and Felicity Smoak peptalks, Oliver decides to keep and raise his son with the help of his friends.

Or the Freeform sitcom Baby Daddy AU that no one asked for but I needed to write. Aka Oliver and Felicity are childhood friends and are hopelessly in love with eachother and everyone knows but them, oh and now they're raising a baby.

What could go wrong?

**Award: Fluffiest Childhood Friends Trope**

Absolutely, Probably - theshipsfirstmate

Oliver tells his ten-year-old daughter a story about the loves of his life.

RomCom AU based on the Ryan Reynolds movie "Definitely, Maybe" for the Arrow Summer Movie AU Challenge.

**Award: Most Achingly Beautiful Delayed-Happily-Ever-After**

The time to make up your mind about people (is never) - nashtag

Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak had a whirlwind Vegas romance—and a tornado of a divorce a year later. Two years after that, Oliver is about to marry his old flame, Laurel Lance. But when his father is caught cheating with another executive, he must let two journalists cover his wedding to preserve the family name.

Philadelphia Story/Arrow AU, with a dash of Flash crossover.

**Award: Most Heart-wrenching But Hopeful Second Chance at True Love (with a happy ending, of course)**

@tangled23works’ recs:

The Governess - @laurabelle2930

Felicity Smoak is a 22 year old Governess for the newly orphaned Thea Meryln. Thea's caregiver is the mysterious lord of Thornfield manor Oliver Queen. Based on the amazing novel by Charlotte Bronte "Jane Eyre" inspired this prompt from @lalawo1

**Award: Best Affectionate Bickering**

Welcome to the Party - @bushlaboo

Die Hard inspired AU – Oliver Queen, an SCPD officer, tries to save his wife, Felicity Smoak, and several others, taken hostage by terrorist Edward Fyers during a Christmas party at Nakatomi Plaza in Los Angeles. [Borrowed some dialogue from the show and the movie; it was too good to pass up.]

**Award: The Olicity/Die Hard AU I Didn’t Know I Needed But Enjoyed Immensely**

Velocity - MachaSWicket

SUMMARY: There's a bomb on a bus. Once the bus goes 50 miles an hour, the bomb is armed. If it drops below 50, it blows up. What do you do? AKA, the Olicity Speed AU.

**Award: Best ‘If you’re not leaving, I’m not leaving’ Moment That Made Me Cry**

Separate Lives - shannyfish

It was luck that Madelyn Smoak and Mackenzie Queen met at summer camp during a fencing match. Neither of them expected to pull off a mask and find a reflection of themselves staring back. But in the days that followed the girls learned that they were sisters– twins, separated by their parents. Madelyn had been raised in London with tech genius and blonde bombshell Felicity Smoak, while Mackenzie grew up with their father, Oliver Queen, the owner of Green Arrow Vineyards. When the girls devise a devious plan to switch parents, neither of them expected that what they’d really be fighting for was putting their family back together again. (Parent Trap AU)

**Award: Most Entertaining Olicity-Have-Kids-Who-Plot-Against-Them Fic**

@msbeccieboo’s recs:

Two Weeks Notice - LucyHatesJosh4Eva

Oliver Queen has a reputation as an insufferable playboy and a habit of hiring very inept, very attractive attorneys to represent his multi-billion dollar family corporation. So when an act of corporate espionage lands Felicity Smoak in his office on the heels of his last hiring debacle, her law degree and tech experience seem like the way to please his shareholders and his unhappy mother. He expects her smart mouth to cause him a huge pain in the ass; however, he doesn’t expect to trust and like her. Over time, Oliver starts to rely on Felicity for everything, and his world comes to a crashing halt when she gives her two weeks notice.

Retelling of the adorable rom com “Two Weeks Notice” starring Sandra Bullock and Hugh Grant. I love this movie, and borrow some plot and some dialog with appreciation and joy. Updates on Mondays.

**Award: Most Wonderfully Frustrating ‘Just Tell Each Other How You Feel, Dammit’ Fic**

In Every Star, I See Your Face (Call Me in the Morning) - @jsevick

Felicity's new internship is full of... complications. (Grey’s Anatomy AU)

**Award: Best Olicity Playing Doctor, Literally**

Love Like Battleships - @callistawolf

Six Days Seven Nights AU - Felicity is a driven career woman on a much-needed vacation with her doting boyfriend. Oliver is a charter pilot with a history of running from complications (and his life). They clash from the start, two wrongs rubbing up against each other the wrong way. What happens when a nasty storm causes them to crash on a deserted island, alone, together?

**Award: Most Untraditional Appearance of a Trousersnake in a Fic**

Between Hello and Roses - charmingwords23

Felicity Smoak had no idea what she was getting herself into when she signed on to be the star of the new season of The Bachelorette. With plenty of drama, adventure, heartbreak, and romance, this season promises to be the most shocking and dramatic yet!

**Award: Cheesiest (in the best way) Reality TV Olicity**

Surreal but Nice - angelica

"After all... I'm just a guy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him."

a.k.a.

One Wednesday, Felicity Smoak of Tech Village meets Oliver Queen, the movie star. (Notting Hill AU)

**Award: Most Adorable Bumbling Felicity**

@memcjo’s recs:

Are These Your Glasses? - IIIIRENE

When Queens Consolidated throws a masked ball for New Year's Eve, Oliver and Felicity meet for the first time. They dance all night long until Felicity mysteriously flees from the venue dropping her glasses in the process. Unfortunately Oliver never got the name of the gorgeous blonde in the emerald dress, but he has her glasses and he will stop at nothing to find her so that they can continue where they left off.

Olicity AU inspired by Cinderella

**Award: Best Olicity Fairy Tale**

How to Save a Life - witchy2008

DWTS!AU. Oliver Queen has been pushed into competing to improve his image and subsequently the QC stock prices. His professional partner, Felicity Smoak, is working on coaxing him into putting some of his ghosts to rest.

This week, Team Olicity presents Oliver's most memorable year with a contemporary dance dedicated to Shado.

**Award: Best Sexy Olicity Dancing SO Sexy**

seemingly impossible (but not untrue) - @alexiablackbriar13

Genius historian Dr Felicity Smoak unknowingly and accidentally calls up a bewitched alchemical manuscript within the Oxford Bodleian Libraries - a book that has been lost for centuries.

Felicity wants nothing to do with magic, despite her heritage and unruly, powerful abilities. But her discovery of Ashmole 782 sets the world of creatures stirring.

With a mystery afoot and new, dangerous magical abilities manifesting for her to navigate, she is approached by the enigmatic vampire biochemist Professor Oliver Queen, who seems to have a deep interest in both the manuscript… and her.

Based on A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness.

(No knowledge of ADOW or background is needed for you to read this fic!)

**Award: Best Felicity and Oliver Being Drawn Together Against the Odds**

Move - @bushlaboo

Push inspired AU. When people with psychic abilities are discovered governments around the world setup agencies to handle and secretly experiment on these enhanced individuals, one such agency is ARGUS. They're testing a powers boosting drug, Mirakuru, which will allow them to build the most powerful psychic army in the world. The only thing standing in their way is the vision of world’s most powerful Watcher who set in place the means to allow her daughter to foil their plan over a decade ago.

**Award: Best BAMF Felicity Smoak**

@smoaking-greenarrow’s recs:

How To Train Your Vigilante - @alexiablackbriar13

In a world where dragons exist and roam the earth, Felicity Smoak considers herself to be a normal if not slightly nerdy IT girl, with complicated family issues, a fascination with the winged predators and a slight ‘saving people’ complex. Her entire world changes when she meets Oliver, the infamous deadly Night Fury - and a genetic experiment - who flies around Starling City taking down criminals.

Their partnership will be one that rocks the world.

(How To Train Your Dragon AU)

**Award: The ‘Oliver as Toothless is Brilliant and Spot-on’ Award**

The Big Catch - @nodecaff4me

The lives of Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak could not be more different.

He was an infamous billionaire playboy and heir to a fortune 500 company who did everything he could to reform himself into everything his family wanted him to be. She was a struggling single mother of two girls, doing her best she could do get her family through after her whole life in Boston had fallen apart in the aftermath of her ex-husband’s criminal mischiefs.

Both their worlds collide after his yacht’s Wifi-network collapses somewhere along the Oregon coast and he is forced to harbor in a small sleepy town called Elk Cove and hire an IT specialist to fix it only to refuse to pay her for her work in the end.

All bets are off when she learns that he was laying in the county hospital with amnesia after an accident and she could finally get her revenge...

An #Olicity Overboard AU (WIP)

**Award: The ‘I’ve Never Seen This Movie but This Fic is Everything I Need’ Award**

Stones of Time - arrow_through_my_writers_block

AU. Felicity Smoak is halfway across the world on a mission to recover the rumored mystical waters known as the Lazarus Pit. But when fate tosses her back in time and into the company of rogue League of Assassins members, she's caught up in a dangerous game of cat and mouse... soon falling for the mysterious Al-Sah-him, otherwise known as Oliver Queen. Will she find a way back to her time, or will love and adventure keep her in the past to possibly change the future? *inspired by Outlander

**Award: The ‘Perfect Fic for Your (my) Arrow and Outlander Obsessions’ Award and a Bonus ‘Fangirl Swoon’ Award for Al-Sah-him**

Fate, Luck, and Tequila - Emilyymay_x

The Olicity AU based on the film 'Just My Luck'

Oliver is a billionaire playboy with all the luck in the world.

Felicity Smoak is an excellent IT assistant at Queen Consolidated, with the most rotten luck ever.

When they meet at a masquerade party, they have no idea how much the tables will turn.

**Award: The ‘Better Than the Movie’ Award**

Werewolves and Vigilantes - Emilyymay_x

When Felicity finds out who her father is, and finds out he lives in Beacon Hills with his son, Felicity has to go and meet them. Little does she expect the crazy in Starling to be ten times worse in Beacon Hills... a whole new level in fact… (Teen Wolf inspired)

**Award: The ‘Best Combination of TV Shows Crossover’ Award**

Let us always find each other (in every world, in every story) - imgoingtocrash

Instead of asking Felicity to work on the ATOM Exosuit, Ray brings Felicity on to help him create a device that allows the user to theoretically travel to parallel universes. When Ray turns the theoretical into reality by stealing one of the prototypes and attempting to find his dead wife at the cost of ruining other universes, Felicity follows him. What begins as an attempt to stop her boss from going places he doesn’t belong turns into a realization that some people will always find a way to be together, no matter what.

A Thousand Pieces of You inspired AU, but no book knowledge is required.

**Award: My New Favorite ‘Exploring Other Universes Fic’ Award**

@blondeeoneexox’s recs:

Kerosene and Desire - @smoaking-greenarrow

An Olicity Notebook AU with a darker twist.

**Award: Most Intense, Sweet, Topsy-Turvy, Beautiful Notebook AU (With the Best Cliffhanger!)**

Home is Where the Heart is - CSM

AU. This fic is loosely based on the movie Sweet Home Alabama. Puppy love is for fairytales and storybooks, they don't exist in the real world and all Oliver wants is for her to sign on the dotted line, a clear cut divorce. But being married to the most stubborn woman in the world and their equally opinionated mothers, Oliver knows this trip back home is going to be anything but easy.

**Award: Most Sass-Filled, Funny, Romantic Olicity AU**

Where You Lead (I Will Follow) - @jsevick

Oliver Queen’s careful routine at the diner he owns is disrupted by Stars Hollow’s newest residents, a single mom and her young daughter searching for a new life--and his own simple life will never be the same. (Gilmore Girls AU)

**Award: The Slowest of Slow Burns That I Wish We Could Have More Of!**

The Sound of an Arrow - thecomebackkids99

Five years ago, Oliver Queen lost his wife in a car accident.

Twenty years ago, Felicity Smoak's father kissed her on the forehead and disappeared from her life.

Now, she is the nanny for the six adorable Queen children, fighting to restore love in the mansion and trying to deal with the difficult-to-get-along-with Oliver, all the while as she continues to stumble upon evidence that could drag the Queen family further into darkness. (The Sound Of Music AU)

**Award: Most Emotional Rollercoaster**

Felicity the Virgin - javajunkie

When Felicity is accidentally artificially inseminated with hotel mogul Oliver Queen's sperm, her life changes in more ways than she could have ever imagined. Jane The Virgin - OLICITY STYLE AU

**Award: Most Beautiful Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers to Family Fic**

#Arrow #Olicity #olicity tropetastic awards #Other Inspirations trope #rec list #olicity fanfiction #olicity fic #Oliver Queen #Felicity Smoak

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blueboxesandtrafficcones · 5 years ago

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Queen of Hearts - Chapter 9

Thirty-year-old Rose Tyler’s matchmaking business is doing very well indeed, bringing her clients such as celebrities, athletes, and the now-happily-married son of the mayor. All of which brings her to her newest client - one whose royal rank is a far cry above her own title as Queen of Hearts.

Ian, King of Gallifrey, calls off his wedding four weeks before the happy day as he realizes he can’t spend another minute of his life with his betrothed. The catch - he must take a wife before his Coronation, only a month away. In desperation, his sister and aunt conspire to find him is happy ever after - and it’s going to take a master matchmaker to do it.

Based on the Hallmark Movie ‘Royal Matchmaker’. Chapters will be posted every Sunday.

As always, beta’d by the wonderful @stupidsatsuma! @doctorroseprompts

Masterlist | AO3

---

Tuesday, April 9th (continued)

In hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have been surprised when the car didn’t stop, and Graham merely said “Sir?” while looking in the rearview mirror.

“You can stop,” the King nodded, and the car immediately pulled into the next parking spot. “What is it?”

“Do you trust me?” Rose asked simply, blinking up at him and doing her best to look responsible and trustworthy. Given his unhappiness at her initial hiring, this would be a good test of if his feelings had changed, and if he was truly ready to play ball.

After a moment a smile spread across his face, and he nodded. “Aye. Are we getting out?”

He emerged first, before turning to help her out of the car. His hand was inordinately warm against hers, a pleasant feeling given the cold air around them, and he held on for far longer than was strictly necessary; they were several steps down the road before he let go, though she could still feel his touch like a phantom.

“Where are we going?”

“Come on,” Rose just grinned, heading up the steps of the Children’s Center to the main entrance, the King at her heels and Sarah Jane not far behind. A large knocker sat on the front door and Rose tapped it, fighting back nervousness as she waited for the door to open.

After what felt like a small eternity but couldn’t have been a minute at most, it was opened by an older gentleman with sandy blond hair, whose eyes widened at the sight of them before his brow furrowed. “Can I help you?”

“Hi,” she said brightly with far more confidence than she felt, “my name’s Rose, I spoke with Polly on Saturday, she said I could stop by today for a tour of the place. Is she available?”

The man nodded, blinking, before calling over his shoulder, “Pol, it’s for you!” Stepping aside, he gestured for them to enter. “She’ll be right down. Please, come in. Welcome, Your Majesty,” he bowed his head to his king.

“Thank you,” King Ian said graciously, before turning a curious eye to Rose. “What exactly are we doing here?”

“Mel and I- my assistant- we came into town for the start of the festival on Saturday,” Rose hurried to explain before the woman arrived, “and the Center- City of Arcadia Children’s Center, I believe- was hosting a bake sale. I got to chatting with the girls and Polly, and I had a thought. When you choose your wife, she should have a cause, right? Obviously because of timing she won’t have much time between the proposal and wedding, and I thought her first thing as Queen could be to sponsor the Children’s Center.”

The King arched an eyebrow at her, face impassive, and Rose held her breath. “You think this is an organization deserving of Crown funds?” he asked neutrally. “You know nothing about them, really. Or if they would even accept it.”

“That’s why we’re here!” she explained, as Polly hurried up.

“Sorry, love, I was changing a nappy- oh my word! Your Majesty, welcome!” She dropped into a deep curtsey, and Rose had to hide a smile at her obvious surprise and bewilderment. “How may I serve you?”

“Miss Tyler is assisting with planning the Coronation,” he said vaguely, “and thought I should stop by.”

Rose bit her lip, taking in everyone’s lackluster expressions and wondering if she’d made a huge mistake. Again. Shit. “It was just a thought,” she mumbled, backtracking, her face flushing. “But if there’s a more pressing engagement…”

“I did promise her a tour, Sir,” Polly cut in. “Please, it would be an honor.”

The King’s jaw clenched, but he nodded in agreement, making Rose feel worse. “I suppose we have a few minutes,” he allowed, causing Ben and Polly to both brighten considerably.

“That’s wonderful! Please, if you’ll follow me,” Polly said, turning towards a room on the right-hand side, and Rose waited until everyone else followed to fall in line, shoulders slumping and biting her lip to keep from crying.

Shit, shit, shit! Why do I keep fucking this up?

By the time they were done with the tour of the Center Ian’s jaw ached from clenching it so tightly in an attempt not to smile or laugh. Rose had stuck to the back of the group, looking miserable, which made it easier to keep up the façade.

In truth, he was slightly amazed at her talent – somehow, with no guidance or hint from him, she had managed to key into one of the causes most dear to his heart, after healthcare. That she would see a somewhat run-down building where children would go for free care and think this is a cause a Queen should support, this is the first cause a Queen should support amazed him. When the subject had come up at various times throughout his life, most of the women he asked What would be your first priority as Queen? would respond with some variation of the fine arts. Music, dancing, painting, sculptures, preserving history… All fine things, he would admit, but not his top priority – that was his subjects.

And somehow she had seen that bit of his heart, had translated it so perfectly.

He managed to keep his expression severe until they climbed back into the car.

As soon as the doors had shut and Graham had started driving again she blurted, “I’m so sorry! I should have asked first, that was so stupid of me. I hope you weren’t offended, or annoyed. It was just an idea, and a terrible one. Please forget about it!”

She looked terrified, the poor girl, and he could contain himself no longer, letting out a snort that soon turned to a fully belly laugh, as he truly let loose for what felt like the first time in ages.

“Your Majesty?” Rose’s small, scared voice snapped him out of it, and wiping at his eyes with his shirtsleeves, he fought for composure.

“You did nothing wrong,” he rasped out, gratefully accepting a bottle of water from Sarah and sipping at it. “Quite the contrary.”

“So… you’re not going to fire me? Again?”

Any remaining humor fled immediately, and he made sure to meet and hold her eye when he said, “No. I have no intention of doing so. You’ve been doing an… adequate job,” he allowed, not quite able to say what he really felt, suddenly worried that if he did, the whole sordid truth might spill out. “No, I’m quite afraid you’re stuck here until I marry, Miss Tyler, and not a second less.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, a tentative smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “What did you think of the Center?”

He smiled warmly, digging in his jacket’s inner pocket for a moment before pulling out what he was looking for. Flipping it open to the right page, he held it out towards Rose in offering. “My personal checking account – Ian Docherty, that is, not ‘the King’. Funded by my work as a doctor- that bit’s not important though. See the last entry?”

Rose took it, reading aloud, “A thousand dollars paid to- oh.”

“You see?” He accepted his checkbook back with a nod. “You’ve managed to find the cause most dear to my heart, after medicine.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” Ian blinked, unsure of her question.

She raised an eyebrow, looking more relaxed now that she knew she hadn’t mucked up. “Why is the Center so important to you?”

That was an unexpected question, though he supposed perfectly reasonable. “Polly was our nanny,” he said slowly, “when we were young. Once we no longer needed her she went to start the center, with my parents’ blessing. She wanted to give children who had less than ideal childhoods a safe place. Polly was always firm though, she didn’t want the Crown paying for the Center – private donations only, though we tried to convince her otherwise. We have grants and other programs that would help support her, but she still refuses. I write her a check every month, but most go uncashed – I know they’re struggling when one is. Most over the last year have been.”

A ball of worry twisted his gut, as he let himself think about the Center. Polly and Ben were both dear to him, people he’d known and loved his entire life, and the thought of them struggling made his soul ache. He did all he could to help, continuing to write them checks and sending workers around when he caught wind of a problem.

“Donna actually sends her twins there, twice a week,” he shared unexpectedly. “She hadn’t before, but once the fancy agency opened she started to, to try to encourage others to support it. The rich couples who care about status and money were the first ones to pull out, and she had hoped that the chance to rub elbows, or more specifically share toys, with royalty would be enough to tempt them back. Their donations had been what kept the Center firmly in the black, but the building’s so old that it’s difficult for Ben to maintain on his own.”

The it wasn’t enough went unsaid, but Rose picked it up loud and clear it seemed, based on her sympathetic expression.

And then her face lit up. “What if you hosted a fundraiser?”

“What?”

Rose nodded excitedly, eyes gleaming. “Oh, it’s perfect! It might be last minute, but it could work. You host a ball, or dinner, or whatever, with the price of the tickets going straight to the Center. Ben and Polly would be honored guests. We’ll be doing in-person interviews by then, so whoever is still on our shortlist can attend. We have them mingle – it gives them a chance to meet your subjects, and understand the sort of causes that are important to you. Quite frankly, their opinions afterwards might be quite telling. Especially if it’s not so formal! Host a casual dinner, and see how the candidates react. I know being normal is important to you, and it gives you a chance to see them that way! If they can’t handle it, or sneer, or go over the top, then that helps weed the list down further! Oh, that’s brilliant,” she gushed, digging a notebook out of her purse and starting to scribble in it.

“I think it’s a fine idea,” his aunt offered with a smile. “And the money won’t be coming directly from the Crown, so I think we can twist Polly’s arm into accepting it. We can have it this weekend!”

Ian raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two madly-smiling women. “You think you can pull this off?”

Two heads bobbed enthusiastically.

He let out a sigh, before nodding. “Then do it.”

Rose’s answering beam was enough to make it worth it.

It’s official. I am fucked.

Thursday, April 11th

Naturally, that meant Rose spent the next day and a half running around like a crazy person, trying to accomplish a thousand things at once. Wednesday was the first round of interviews, each of the twelve getting forty-five minutes with Rose. Seven were sent home that day, and the five spent Thursday morning in more intensive interviews with Rose, an hour each.

Now, for a little happy hour get to know you, the King would meet the remaining women for the first time. From there, he would hopefully narrow it down to three, and then finally one.

Rose walked him towards the ballroom where hopefully his future bride and queen waited, doing her best to encourage him. “Look, you chat with them, try to find some common ground. All five are, on paper, if not perfect, then very well suited to you. But only you can feel a spark with one of them, and make your choice.”

“How will I know?” he asked tentatively, as they walked arm in arm down the hall from his apartments to the minor ballroom hosting the small cocktail party.

“Know?”

“Who to keep.”

Rose shrugged, wrinkling her nose. “Whoever gives you butterflies.”

“Butterflies? Is that like indigestion?”

She laughed. “You’ve never had them before? Blimey. Uh, yeah, I suppose, but… happy.”

“Happy indigestion?” He looked so baffled she had to smile despite her own nerves.

“Exactly. It’s okay to be nervous though – this is just a first pass,” she tried to reassure him with a pat on his forearm, privately marveling at the softness of his suit jacket. “Anyone you absolutely don’t click with, or can’t possibly see a future with, we send home. Those left will get an hour or two of your time tomorrow, and attend the fundraiser Saturday night – which is pulling together beautifully, by the way.”

“Right.” They reached the ballroom then, stopping outside the doors, and he let out a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Rose inspected him carefully, adjusting his already-straight tie and brushing off his shoulders just for an excuse to touch him, though she refused to allow herself to dwell on the why of that particular desire. “The most important thing is be yourself. They’re evaluating you as much as you are them – if you both pretend to be something other than you are, you might run into another ‘River’ situation.”

“You think they’ll be pretending?”

“Of course.” She snorted. “One of the women in there will almost definitely become a queen in two weeks. They will do and say whatever they have to in order to get the crown. So, trust your gut, follow the butterflies, and let fate do the rest. Okay?”

He nodded slowly, still looking rather unsure. “I hate this. I wish she would just let me abdicate,” he whined, making Rose smile.

“Obviously, your sister believes you can do this. And for the record, so do I.”

That, at least, seemed to mean something to him, because the deep crease in his forehead mostly smoothed. She didn’t let herself wonder if, perhaps, it was her confidence in him more than Princess Donna’s that was the cause.

“Thank you, Miss Tyler, for everything,” the King said softly, genuinely, raising her hand to his lips, pressing the most fleeting of kisses to her knuckles and sending her stomach into a riot. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ll know,” she promised with a confidence she didn’t feel, tone matching his. “Maybe not the moment you meet, but you’ll know. One of those women will be her. Just have faith.”

With a final nod, he tugged at the hem of his jacket to straighten it before nodding at the footman waiting, who opened the door. Shoulders back and head high, he walked into the room like the King he was, leaving Rose standing outside alone.

God, please let me be right. Please let her be in the palace tonight.

#bbatcfic #doctorroseprompts #ficandchips #Doctor Who #12xRose #12th Doctor #Rose Tyler #AU #Queen of Hearts #royalty AU

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dreaminginsteadofsleeping42 · 5 years ago

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My Brief Thoughts on the 27 Books I Read This Summer

I love reading and I love talking about books and I’d love to give any of y’all some reading recommendations if you’re looking for them, so, here we go!

The Wings of the Dove, Henry James. I actually started this in January, but then Life Happened, so I only finished it in June. I really sped-read this one towards the end. Kind of took twice as many words needed to convey what was conveyed. Kind of had that sexist-ly written, male fantasy, early twentieth century woman element to it (this woman isn’t like other woman in that she is SMART! yeah.). The story was fine, but not my favourite.

King’s Cage, Victoria Aveyard. This is the third book in the series and it was MUCH better than book 2. The problem I have with this series is that I find the main character and her love interest boring af, so I’m not really interested in their story, but that’s just a personal preference thing. I loved some side characters and the villain.

War Storm, Victoria Aveyard. The last book in the series. Very long. Big book. Anti-climatic. My favourite character was done dirty. I was over it. Why were there two characters called Cameron and Carmadon? It was an enjoyable read, if the ending was a bit eh. At least [SPOILER ALERT] the lesbians got a happy ending.

Crooked House, Agatha Christie. This one was fun. Classic Christie, bunch of people in a house, someone dies, someone in the house did it, let’s figure it out, detectives! Interesting ending, something I hadn’t seen from it before and it was refreshing to read a standalone novel of hers (as much as I love Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple).

A Pocket Full of Rye, Agatha Christie. My girl Agatha! Another fun mystery. Old dude dies: was it his sons? His young wife? His young secretary? Wtf knows! Let’s go, detectives!

Venetia, Georgette Heyer. Pretty enjoyable, good humor, likeable heroine. My only problem with this book was that the hero was an asshole and basically assaulted the heroine upon meeting and it was painted as attractive because it was the 1920s or whatever, so yeah. I didn’t like him. Kind of spoiled the rest of the really good book.

The Jane Austen Project, Kathleen A. Flynn. SUPER good, so intriguing, oh my gosh. The synopsis basically is these two people from the future go back in time to find a missing book by Jane Austen and try to stop her from dying. Had me getting confused about the logistics of time travel for a week. Awesome!

Heartless, Marissa Meyer. This was also great. It’s an origin story for the Queen of Hearts and I LOVE how the author incorporated characters and concepts from Alice in Wonderland while also making it a fresh story. Definitely recommend if you’re into fairytales and classics.

Tarzan of the Apes, Edgar Rice Burroughs. Very exciting. A real page-turner, if sexist and racist and uneducated about everything.

The Glass Spare, Lauren DeStefano. THIS. THIS book deserves more hype. I really enjoyed it. It’s about this princess who discovers she has the ability to create gemstones. It was original, I couldn’t predict what was going to happen next in the best way, there was an actually interesting male love interest and it had a wlw relationship. Check it out, do yourself a favor.

The Cursed Sea, Lauren DeStefano. The sequel to the above. Even better than the former, had all the qualities I mentioned above and more. Although there was not one cursed sea in this book and to this day I am still confused about that.

The Mystery of Three Quarters, Sophie Hannah. It was a very interesting murder mystery, in the format was a bit different than what I was used to. Four people were sent letters accusing them of murdering a bloke who died a few months back. Was invested and trying to figure out the mystery the whole way through, so I got my money’s worth in that respect. The ending was a bit of a surprise, but it was a fun read.

Tale As Old As Time. A HUGE book all about the history of Beauty and the Beast. I love that story so much, I was almost crying at times while reading this book, I was so overcome with love. Definitely check it out if you love BATB.

The Life of Charlotte Bronte, Elizabeth Gaskell. I’ve loved the Brontes’ books for years and this book reminded me of that love. Such a vivid picture of her life. Charlotte Bronte was pre-teen-me’s idol.

Victoria, Daisy Goodwin. This was a historical novel about the first year of Queen Victoria of England’s reign. SO interesting, I was so invested and annoyed when it ended. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

Armadale, Wilkie Collins. The gay vibes were strong with this book. I don’t care what anyone says, Ozias and Allan are in love with each other, it’s canon. We got crazy family history and drama here, superstition, mistaken identity, scheming women and an all-round good time. 800 pages of it.

Elizabeth of York, Alison Weir. This is a biography of, um, Elizabeth of York, Queen of England, mother of Henry VIII. I love the British monarchy. They are such a dramatic bunch in pretty gowns. Super interesting book. Very well-written.

The Big Four, Agatha Christie. This was a very different Christie. There were these crime lords all over the word trying to kill Poirot and Hastings. Very fast-paced and exciting, bunch of racist undertones. Reading Christie is like talking to your grandparents. It’s all fun until they throw some random racist comment out there and it sucks.

The Clockmaker’s Daughter, Kate Morton. Everyone go read all of Kate Morton’s books, thank me later. This was excellent as usual.

Jane and the Wandering Eye, Stephanie Barron. This is the third in a series that re-imagines Jane Austen as a detective. I love them, lots of fun.

My Own Book. This is the short story/poetry collection my little story got published in! There were some pretty amazing pieces in here (alongside mine ahahaha). Pretty cool to have my own writing on my bookshelf. Excuse me while I cry.

The Mystery of the Blue Train, Agatha Christie. Jewels. Woman murdered on train. Did someone on the train do it? Did someone go on and off the train to do it? Were they disguised as someone else? Was the murdered woman really the murdered woman? Was it her husband? Her boyfriend? Snow. France. Millionaires. Fun time.

Three Dark Crowns, Kendare Blake. The first in a new series. It’s about these three triplets and one of them kills the other two to be queen. I LOVE the characters in this series. For different reasons too. Great cliff-hanger ending. I love it.

One Dark Throne, Kendare Blake. The second in the series. Continues to be good. We have to stan.

Two Dark Reigns, Kendare Blake. Third in series. Still good, but a little anti-climatic in that a spat of bad weather made everyone decide to cancel the big, climatic battle. There’s one book left in the series I haven’t got yet AND I WANT TO KNOW HOW IT ENDS.

Regina Rising, Wendy Tolliver. A prequel-esque story about the Evil Queen from the Once Upon a Time TV series. Interesting, but not revolutionary.

Partners in Crime, Agatha Christie. This one was so FUNNY. I love Tommy and Tuppence, I wish she wrote more books with them. It was so hilarious. They set up this agency where they guarantee to solve any crime in 24 hours. So good.

#long post

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tachyonpub · 6 years ago

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THE VERY BEST OF CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN preview: “A Season of Broken Dolls”

In celebration for the release of THE VERY BEST OF CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN, Tachyon presents glimpses from some of the volume’s strange and macabre tales by the “reigning queen of dark fantasy.”

A Season of Broken Dolls

by Caitlín R. Kiernan

August 16, 2027 (later, 11:47 p.m.)

Sabit came back with a bag full of Indian takeaway, when she’d gone out for sushi. I really couldn’t care less, one way or the other, these days food is only fucking food—curry or wasabi, but when I asked why she’d changed her mind, she just stared at me, eyes blank as a goddamn dead codfish, & shrugged. Then she was quiet all night long, & the last thing I need just now is Sabit Abbasi going all silent and creepy on me. She’s asleep, snoring bcause her sinuses are bad bcause she smokes too much. & I’m losing the momentum I needed to say anything more about what happened @ CeM on Sat. night. It’s all fading, like a dream. I’ve been reading one of Sabit’s books, The Breathing Composition (Welleran Smith, 2025), something from those long-ago days when the avant-garde abomination of stitch & snip was still hardly more than nervous rumor & theory & the wishful thinking of a handful of East Coast art pervs. I don’t know what I was looking for, if it was just research for the article, don’t know what I thought I might find—or what any of this has to do with Sat. nite. Am I afraid to write it down? That’s what Sabit would say. But I won’t ask Sabit. What do you dream, Sabit, my dear sadistic plaything? Do you dream in installations, muscles and tendons, gallery walls of sweating pig flesh, living bone exposed for all to see, vivisection as not-quite still life, portrait of the artist as a young atrocity? Are your sweet dreams the same things keeping me awake, making me afraid to sleep? There was so goddamn much @ CeM to turn my fucking stomach, but just this one thing has me jigged and sleepless and popping your blue Peruvian bonbons. Just this one thing. I’m not the squeamish sort, and everyone knows it. That’s one reason the agency tossed the Guro/Guro story at me. Gore & sex and mutilation? Give it to Schuler. She’s seen the worst and keeps coming back for more. Wasn’t she one of the first into Brooklyn after the bomb? & she did that crazy whick out on the Stuyvesant rat attacks. How many murders and suicides and serial killers does that make for Schuler now? 9? Fourteen? 38? That kid in the Bronx, the Puerto Rican bastard who sliced up his little sister & then fed her through a food processor, that was one of Schuler’s, yeah? Ad infinitum, ad nauseam, Hail Mary, full of beans. Cause they know I won’t be on my knees puking up lunch when I should be making notes & getting the vid or asking questions. But now, now Sabit, I’m dancing round this one thing. This one little thing. So, here there’s a big ol’ chink in these renowned nerves of steel. Maybe I’ve got a weak spot after fucking all. Rings of flesh, towers of iron—oh yeah, sure—fucking corpses heaped in dumpsters and rats eating fucking babies alive & winos & don’t forget the kid with the Cuisinart—sure, fine—but that one labeled #17, oh, now that’s another goddamn story. She saw something there, & ol’ Brass-Balls Schuler was never quite the same again, isn’t that the way it goes?

Are you laughing in your dreams, Sabit? Is that why you’re smiling next to me in your goddamn sleep? I’ve dog-eared a page in your book, Sabit, a page with a poem written in a New Jersey loony bin by a woman, & Welleran Smith just calls her Jane Doe so I do not know her name. But Welleran Smith & that mangy bunch of stitch prophets called her a visionary, & I’m writing it down here, while I try to find the nerve to say whatever it is I’d wanted to say about #17:

spines and bellies knitted & proud and all open

all watching spines and bellies and the three;

triptych & buckled, ragdoll fusion

3 of you so conjoined, my eyes from yours,

arterial hallways knitted red proud flesh

Healing and straining for cartilage & epidermis

Not taking, we cannot imagine

So many wet lips, your sky Raggedy alchemy

And all expecting Jerusalem

And Welleran Smith, he proclaims Jane Doe a “hyperlucid transcendent schizo-oracle,” a “visionary calling into the maelstrom.” & turns out, here in the footnotes, they put the bitch away bcause she’d drugged her lover—she was a lesbian; of course, she had to be a lesbian—she drugged her lover and used surgical thread to sew the woman’s lips & nostrils closed, after performing a crude tracheotomy so she wouldn’t suffocate. Jane Doe sewed her own vagina shut, and she removed her own nipples & then tried grafting them onto her gf’s belly. She kept the woman (not named, sorry, lost to anonymity) cuffed to a bed for almost 6 weeks before someone finally came poking around & jesus fucking christ, Sabit, this is the sort of sick bullshit set it all in motion. Jane Doe’s still locked away in her padded cell, I’m guessing—hyperlucid & worshipped by the snips—& maybe the woman she mutilated is alive somewhere, trying to forget. Maybe the doctors even patched her up (ha, ha fucking ha). Maybe even made her good as new again, but I doubt it. I need to sleep. I need to lie down & close my eyes & not see #17 and sweating walls and Sabit ready to fucking cum bcause she can never, ever get enough. It’s half an hour after midnight, & they expect copy from me tomorrow night, eight sharp, when I haven’t written a goddamn word about the phony stitchwork @ Guro/Guro. Fuck you, Sabit, and fuck Jane Doe & that jackoff Welleran Smith and the girl with peacock eyes that I should have screwed just to piss you off, Sabit. I should have brought her back here and fucked her in our bed, let her use your toothbrush, & maybe you’d have found some other snip tourist & even now I could be basking in the sanguine cherry glow of happily ever fucking after.

For more info about THE VERY BEST OF CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover by Hannes Hummel Design by Elizabeth Story

#the very best of caitlín r. kiernan #preview #excerpts #a season of broken dolls #elizabeth story #hannes hummel

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secret-captain-swan-blog · 7 years ago

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Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 60928/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8 // Ch 9 // Ch 10 // Ch 11 // Ch 12

Read on: Ao3

Emma finds it most surprising of all, how entirely normal the drive to the queen’s palace becomes. The small chateau has joined the ranks of Mamie’s, the university library, and Killian’s pubs as her favorite of Misthaven haunts. It has a homey comfort to it. Just looking at the familiar trees and twisting road up the hill has Emma craving hot chocolate with cinnamon and the stillness of the royal library.

She realizes that she’s relaxed a bit around Mary Margaret as well. Today, Emma is even wearing jeans, with a cable knit sweater and knotted faux-silk scarf, but still- it’s far more casual than she’s dared to dress before. Because Mary Margaret is startling to feel like family.

The car pulls up the palace and a footman opens the door for her. It looks welcoming, framed with bright red autumn leaves. Emma gets out, swinging her tote bag over her shoulder.

Just as she’s about to enter the palace, the door swings open.

“Excuse me,” A voice says, and Emma looks up, stumbling back, as she realizes that she’s almost run into the Prime Minister.

“Oh sorry, Prime Minister Mills,” Emma mutters.

“Oh, Emma, right?” The woman says, with a tight smile.

“Yeah, it is,” Emma says awkwardly. “Sorry again.”

“It’s not a bother,” She replies, “But I would like to steal you away for a moment.”

Emma gives the woman a puzzled look.

“Let’s take a walk through the gardens, shall we?” The woman suggests.

“Sure, I guess,” Emma agrees. Who is she to argue with the Prime Minister of Misthaven?

They take a turn towards a leaf littered grove.

“I’m not going to waste your time with small talk, so I’ll get to the point. As someone enthusiastic about the liberal arts, I assume you are knowledgeable about the history of Misthaven,” Prime Minister Mills says.

“I am,” Emma agrees.

“Well then, as you know, Queen Mary Margaret lost a lot in the revolution,” the woman explains.

Emma nods. “I’m researching the revolution for my thesis. I know it was a really bad time. A lot of fear and loss of human life.”

“I’m glad you grasp it a bit. Our Queen lost everything- her family, her kingdom. And I’m sorry to say that she still hasn’t recovered,” Regina tells her.

Emma looks up at the prime minister. They’ve reached the copse now. There is a stone bench that Emma thinks that they are going to sit on, but Regina remains standing.

“You should know that she’s latched onto a lot of young girls named ‘Emma’ who fake American accents and try to win her affections. And every time, it’s ended in heartbreak.”

“She’s told me a little,” Emma admits.

“Well than you should be advised to not let that happen. The queen can’t take another heartbreak. The kingdom can’t take any more false hope.”

Emma’s stomach churns. Regina is on to her.

“I’m not saying that’s what you are doing. But I also haven’t ruled on the fact that you aren’t. Everyone wants to be the lost princess. Everyone wants her to exist.”

Emma tries to keep her face from getting splotchy and her eyes from welling with tears. She doesn’t know how to react.

“I’m not- I mean,” Emma says, “Queen Mary Margaret is a friend. We just talk about books and stuff.”

The prime minister gives Emma stern look. “It would be a humiliation to our kingdom if the queen was to be publically made a fool again. Are we clear?”

Emma feels an unfamiliar rage flame inside of her. The queen isn’t some random, poor lady. The queen is the woman who discusses books with her, who buys bear claws when she discovers that Emma likes them, and who tells her that’s she valuable.

“I know that the queen can be a little naïve, but that doesn’t mean she’s stupid,” Emma says, surprised at her own avarice. “She can make decisions for herself. You aren’t her parent. She’s wise and thoughtful. Yes, she’s hopeful, but she’s not a child.”

Regina breathes in sharply and then exhales slowly, with a grimace.

“Miss Swan, she may be the queen, but I am the one in charge of this country now. If I see that your relationship with her majesty is becoming inappropriate or dangerous to our country, I will have to ask you to leave. Are we understood?”

Emma bites her lip and resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“Yes, Madame Prime Minister.”

“Good day to you, Miss Swan.”

Prime Minister Mills turns on her heel and walks off. Emma tries not to giggle as a leaf gets stuff in the woman’s heel as she stomps off through the leaves.

Once she has driven off, Emma sinks down onto the stone bench. She’s shaking. She feels caught, scolded like a child.

Part of her does feel guilty. This whole thing did begin as a rouse to convince the queen. Emma has celebrated each success she’s had in convincing the woman that she’s her long-lost daughter. There has been a voice in Emma’s head this whole time that is thinking about the money, thinking about tuition fees and students loans, and all the burdens that could be removed by the queen’s affections.

But there is another part of her that has let go of that goal or possibility. She thinks back often to the afternoon in the church tower where she told Killian her worries. He reassured her that merely her friendship with the queen was enough. She could sip tea and talk about books with her, and if that was it- that wasn’t bad either. And it’s true. Emma likes Queen Mary Margaret. She enjoys her company and if this is all that happens- Emma knows she is lucky enough.

Emma wants to survive, but she also cares deeply for Mary Margaret.

And there is this weird part of her that thinks that maybe it is okay that Mary Margaret believes that she’s her daughter. Maybe that is truly the best thing for the sovereign. She knows that the woman’s heart won’t rest until she knows that her daughter is found. And Emma wants the woman’s heart to be at rest.

“Emma, darling?” The queen’s voice calls.

“Sorry, I’m out in the garden,” Emma replies, hurrying to her feet.

“Whatever for?” The queen asks, approaching her, doting a kiss on each cheek.

Emma thinks of telling the queen about her conversation with Regina, but thinks better of it. The queen needs not know about it.

“It’s nothing,” Emma says, “I just wanted to take some Instagram pictures of the forest out here. These trees are gorgeous.”

Mary Margaret smiles, “They are lovely, aren’t they? It’s cold though, so let’s go in and get some tea.”

“Okay,” Emma agrees.

It is warmer inside, especially settled inside the Enchanted Forest room. Regina’s words begin to fade out of her head and Emma is able to focus just on Queen Mary Margaret- and well, the fresh apple tart made from the apples in the palace orchards. Seriously, Emma never plans on relinquishing her friendship with the queen, purely because of how good the food is.

“Do you know what Killian is reading?” Emma tells Mary Margaret.

“No tell me,” the queen laughs.

“Jane Eyre,” Emma tells her.

“Oh, I rather like the Brontës. It’s good fall reading with all the spooks,” She says.

Emma nods, “It is. I think Killian will like it. It’s just a bit uncanny. Because, well, he’s found out that he might be a father.”

“Oh Emma, are you pregnant?” The queen asked, eyes wide, a smile on lips.

Emma bursts out laughing and puts her cup of tea down. “Oh my god. Not at all.”

The queen lets out a snort of laughter. “Alright then, what is happening with Mr Jones then?”

“It’s a previous relationship, from when he lived in London,” Emma explains. “He thought the child hadn’t survived, but in fact, he or she had. And now an agency is looking to put the child under Killian’s care.”

“And you think it resembles Mr. Rochester and Adela?”

Emma nods, “I mean I hope he’d be a bit more fond of his child is than Rochester is of Adela. But honestly, he doesn’t know if the child is his or not. We’re going over to London next weekend to see.”

“I see,” The queen says. “And what happens if the child is his?”

Emma can’t stop her face from falling. “I don’t know. He’s not in a great situation to take in a kid. He works at a pub and lives above it. He doesn’t a lot of money or space for child. I’m in no position to help him.”

The queen reaches out and takes her hand.

“It’ll work out Emma,” She says softly. “I know it will. I’ll see to it if I must.”

Emma gives her a weak smile, their conversation changing to an upcoming opera star who will be touring on Friday.

After a while, they end their tea. Emma heads to the palace library with her tote bag of books. She settles in a large, plush armchair and curls up, letting her legs dangle off the side.

She pulls out the stack of books she borrowed from the Southern Valley library. She sets the book of Dutch tales aside, reminding herself to ask Killian to translate those for her soon. She takes out the book of fairy tales criticism and settles into it.

It’s typical literary criticism, full of challenging Marxist, psychoanalytic analysis of familiar tales. She reads through two articles, taking a few pages of notes that she isn’t a hundred percent sure will help her research, but it also can’t hurt it.

She get bored and realizes she needs to change things up, so she reaches back inside the bag. She takes out the hardbound volume of Misthaven Fairy Tales. It’s dark blue with a gold embossed cover.

She feels a tingle run down her spine. She thinks it must be the shear anticipation of reading this volume. She knows it will provide a wealth of information that she’s never accessed before.

Emma rubs her finger of the cover and for a moment she feels as if she has seen it before. But she hasn’t, obviously. She never read a book of Misthaven Fairy Tales growing up. It must be a sort of fake déjà vu, like a memory of a dream.

She flicks open to the first page and is surprised to see it inscribed.

My Dearest Daughter Emma,

I had this book made for you with my favorite tales that my mother told me as a girl. Some of these tales come just from these castle walls and are unique to the Nolan family. I hope you love these stories, not just because they feature princesses like you, but because they tell stories of strength and hope. My wish for you is that you live with strength and hope always, no matter what you face.

Love always,

Your mother

Emma feels a chill sweep through her body. This book was meant for little princess Emma. The same one that she’s pretending to be. But in a way, Emma feels like this book must be a gift for her as well- an insight into uniquely Misthavian fairy tales.

She flips open to the table of contents and her heart begins to beat with anticipation. She has an idea of what she might find here and she’s not sure if she’s ready to find it, for the implications the come with it.

A bit of her wants to close the book and put it back and pretend she’s never seen it, her mind on the verge of a connection she’s not quite ready to make.

So, she takes a deep breath and starts to look through the content. There are some traditional ones, a Misthavian version of Cinderella, a version of Snow White, and a rather creepy sounding one called “The Wooden Doll Mystery.”

Emma turns to the other side of the index page and finds exactly what she dreads, but also, has yearned for for months.

The Yellow Carriage p. 57

She swallows and begins to flick through the book. There are notes handwritten throughout it. “I always loved this part,” the queen writes beside the moment when Cinderella’s slipper fits. “My favorite tale,” she pens next to Snow White’s title. At the top of page 57, Emma finds the following inscription:

This tale is one that has been passed down in the family for years. I’m not sure it exists outside our own royal family. It always reminds me to have hope.

Emma’s hand is shaking as she begins to read.

There was once a stranger who came to town in a yellow carriage. She arrived into town, not a princess, but a foundling, an orphan girl now grown and looking for her family…

Emma settles into the tale with its uncanny resemblance to another one she’s read before. It reads a lot like The Yellow Bug as well. The savior comes to town in the distinctive yellow carriage, looking for her family, but instead finds she can speak to animals. She speaks to a small duckling who tells her of a missing egg and the whole adventure begins from there.

It’s a short tale, only a few pages of the anthology, so her hands are still shaking when she stops. Tears play at her eyes as she tries to take in all the feelings bubbling up inside her- confusion, betrayal, hurt, loss- she can hardly make sense of it. But she knows two facts, resoundingly well:

She found the source text for The Yellow Bug.

She finally knows the identity of Blanche Neige.

“Emma, I brought you some cocoa,” a voice interrupts.

She looks up to see the one person she can’t even stomach to see holding a cup of cocoa.

Emma drops the book when she sees Mary Margaret walk in, some sort of gut reaction, wanting to be done with the whole thing. But the woman can see it too, and now she knows, that Emma knows.

“Oh Emma,” Mary Margaret says, putting the cocoa down at the table by the door and crossing the room to her.

Emma doesn’t know how to speak. She hasn’t processed enough to put words to all the upsetting emotions she’s feeling right now.

“How could you?” She finally musters. “How could you not tell me?”

The sovereign kneels before Emma’s chair.

“How could I?” She responds. “What would I say?”

“I don’t know, maybe ‘I’m Blanche Neige,’” Emma mutters, her words still wobbly from the mixture of tears and shock.

“It’s not that easy,” The woman says.

“How?” Emma asks, her voice raising. “How is it that hard? We are friends. We trust each other. I’m horrible, absolutely shitty at trusting people, but I trust you.”

“I know,” The queen says. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Emma. It’s really not.”

“For months, ever since we first discussed her, I’ve felt horribly guilty about my infatuation with her. You made me feel ashamed. You made me feel callas to atrocity. I’ve been haunted by it and it was all for nothing.”

“I’m sorry Emma.”

“But, why? You say you trust me, but clearly you don’t. You don’t care about me. So, tell me the reasons? Because I can’t think of single good reason.”

Emma runs her hand through her hair. Her agitation is making her feel clammy. She just wants to escape. She wishes she never picked up that book.

“I wanted to tell you as soon as you said you loved Blanche Neige, but I couldn’t for several reasons.

“The first being that no one knows. Not my publisher. Not my agent. Not Regina. Not my dearest friends. No one knows. I’ve written everything under a penname because I’ve had to. There is no other choice for me. And I can’t, I could never risk anyone finding out. Just think what people would think about the books, just think for one moment, because I think of it all the time.”

“So it’s trust, it’s got to be a trust thing then,” Emma says. “I understand not wanting people to know, but these book are my life, their research my livelihood.”

“Then you understand the second reason,” The queen explains. “What would happen to your research if it was found out that you were close friends with the author?”

Emma pauses her frustration and swallows. Because she knows it’s at least a little bit true.

“Your research would be compromised,” The queen says harshly. “You know that, Emma.”

“Okay, fine,” Emma snaps, “but that doesn’t justify making me feel like a horrible person for liking Blanche Neige. You didn’t need to guilt trip me about it.”

“I just didn’t want you to bring it up again,” The queen tells her.

Emma’s never noticed how shrill and annoying Mary Margaret’s voice sounds, but not it irritates her in a way she didn’t know was possible.

“Don’t you understand, Emma? That’s how I feel every day. I was the one who was trapped in a different country profiting off the loss. My family, my friends- they were all murdered, and why? So I could write novel about them?” She tells her.

Emma wants to feel bad for her. But honestly, she can’t manage any sympathy for this ridiculous, lying woman.

“I’m disgusted with myself for writing them,” the queen whispers. “I had to write them. I couldn’t do nothing. But I feel sick whenever I think about it. Me, stuck in Norway, away from oppressive regime, the rationing, the violence, just writing stories.”

Emma feels a rage bubble up inside of her, fueled by rage, unable to be reined in.

“Yeah, you’re right. You disgust me too,” Emma says.

She gets up, shoving her books back into her bag.

“Emma, stop, you don’t understand-“

Emma hitches the tote over her shoulder.

“Oh no, I understand,” Emma says, “You lied to me. You lied to everyone.”

Emma walks towards the door of the library.

“Please Emma, don’t tell anyone.”

Emma pauses. She frankly wants to tell everyone and let everyone know what a fraud Mary Margaret is. But she can’t bring herself to do that. Especially not with her research at stake.

She doesn’t know what to say and turns, slaming the library door, before running through the halls and out of the castle.

A driver is waiting outside when she arrives. She doesn’t want to use the Queen’s vehicle, now that they’ve seriously quarreled, but she doesn’t know what else to do. She stuck on top of a mountain dammit. And it’s somehow gotten much colder since she was outside earlier.

“Can you drive me back to town?” Emma asks him.

He nods and she gets into the car. He drives down the mountain as a few of the earliest fall flurries come drifting down. Emma leans her forehead against the window and shivers.

She feels an enormity of emotion resting on her. Betrayal. Hurt. Loss. Relief. She doesn’t know how to make sense of it all. She thinks about how each of those made a fine bottle. A bottle of hurt. A bottle of loss. Two or three bottles of betrayal. She adds them to her walls, watching them as they build themselves higher with this hurt, shooting up at the betrayal. As she’s always been, she’s safe inside the sky-high walls.

“Any place you’d like to be dropped off in particular, milday?” The chauffer asks.

Emma wants to go back to her apartment, but she can’t. If she goes home, she’ll think of this over and over until she goes crazy. She thinks of stopping instead at Mamie’s, but that means she’ll likely see Killian. She’s not ready to talk to Killian about this. She needs to throw herself into something else.

“The Misthaven University Library,” Emma insists.

He drops her off in front of the familiar old library a few minutes later. Emma sighs at the familiar grey stone façade, the anticipation of the wood paneling and smell of old books.

She thinks of Mary Margaret telling her about how she used to sneak into the library as a girl. Stop, no. Emma bottles that up as well.

“Thanks,” She says, getting out of the vehicle. It’s even colder outside and Emma shivers for a moment as she walks outside. She crosses the short distance to entrance and walks into the warm inside. She swipes into the library and heads to find a table.

She absolutely cannot read any fairytale anthologies now, and besides, her hunt is over. She still hasn’t processed what this revelation means for research and she’s not sure that she’s ready to. She needs to focus on something completely different. Instead, she picks up the stack of The Scarlet Letter essays that her undergrads turned into her. Yes, a few hours of reading some obnoxious papers about American literature sounds like the perfect antidote to her traumatic afternoon.

She goes to the coffee cart in the library and gets a crappy cup of coffee, before returning to her table and diving into the essay writing.

Killian is getting suspicious when Emma doesn’t send any messages all afternoon. He knows that she’s meeting with the queen for tea, but normally by 5 or so, she’s done and sending him text updates. It’s nearly 7 now and Killian is starting to get nervous. Perhaps it’s an overreaction, but he decides he might as well catch up with Emma.

He pops by Mamie’s to see if she’s there. She’s been found many a time having a late-night study session. But it’s empty when he arrives.

“I haven’t seen her today,” Ruby’s Mamie says, knowing immediately what he’s there for.

He nods and heads to the tram. A short trip later, he’s arrived at Emma’s apartment. He rings her bell several times, but to no avail. She’s either not home, or totally avoiding him. While they did have a skirmish a month ago, he believes they are on the same page now.

He’s got one last guess as to where Emma could be. He walks back to the tram and heads instead to the university. He heads into the Misthaven U library.

“Sorry, do you have your student ID?” Asks a student at the entrance of the library.

Damn, Killian thinks momentarily, before realizing he’s not sure if he’ll get in. Luckily, an excuse arises easily.

“Ah, sorry mate, I left my ID here earlier. That’s why I’m back to grab it from the lost and found before I head out,” Killian lies, hoping that it will fly.

“Oh right on, mate,” The guy tells him, letting him through.

Killian heads to the long room of the library. Even in the low light, he finds Emma one of the large rows of tables. She’s working intently, marking up a stack of papers with a bright red pen. Her hair has formed a curtain around her face, and for a moment, he’s afraid he might frighten her. But she looks up, just as he’s about to slide into the chair across from her.

“How did you find me?” She asks.

“I had a hunch that if you weren’t replying to my texts, it meant you were hard at work at something,” He teases.

“Hard at work distracting myself,” Emma says.

“Tea went poorly?” He asks, letting an eyebrow lift.

“You don’t even know,” Emma says, burrowing her face in her folded arms.

“And you are distracting yourself by reading,” he glances down at the stack of papers on her table, his forehead creasing, “by reading The Scarlet Letter papers. Crikey, Emma. What happened?”

“I honestly don’t want to talk about it right now,” Emma says. “I’m quite adamently trying to not think of it.”

“Hmm,” says Killian, wetting his lips. “Sounds like you need something to take your mind off this.”

“Gladly,” Emma replies, looking up from her folded hands.

“I know just the place,” Killian grins.

Emma runs her hand through her hair. “Seriously?”

“Yes, and it’s a mite bit more exciting than Nathaniel Hawthorne, so grab your stuff,” He teases.

Emma rolls her eyes and starts shoving papers into her tote, but Killian can’t help but smile. He doesn’t know exactly what burdens are weighting on her, but he wants to do anything he can to help. And she’s letting him help. This is huge.

He nods her to the door.

“You found it?” The lad at the door asks.

“Exactly what I was looking for,” Killian replies, smiling.

It’s totally dark when they get outside. Emma shivers and he wordlessly takes her hand. It’s the most affection they’ve ever showed in public. He’s not sure how she’ll react. In fact, the moment he takes her hand, he’s positive it’s a Bad Idea. Emma struggles with intimacy and he doesn’t want to stress her out with everything else that’s distressing her right now.

But she surprises him by squeezing his hand and resting her head against his shoulder for a moment as she leans into him.

He turns and gives her a smile, before they head to the tram.

They ride on the tram a few more stops past where they normally get off in Old Town. Normally, Emma would be asking about their destination, eagerly looking through the window. But today she’s slumped in her seat. Something must definitely be up.

His guess is that she’s been found out. The queen must have discovered their scheme. This is quite unfortunate. He knows that Emma and Queen Mary Margaret have a strong friendship and this would have thrown it off. Killian feels sad for and hopes that Emma won’t be kicked out of the country or anything reactionary on the Queen’s part.

“This is our stop,” He tells her, as they head off tram and into Misthaven’s North Neighborhood.

The North Neighborhood is an artsy area, full of decorated murals and funky bars. They walk past an arty café where a poetic reading is taking place, both of lingering for a few moments taking in some of the words as they echo out. There is a corner side park a few blocks down with a small memorial.

“This area was a violent area during the revolution,” Killian explains, following Emma’s eyes. “There were a lot of secret meetings that took place here. Eventually they got found out. 14 people died in a warehouse a few blocks from here.”

Emma nods solemnly.

“But we aren’t here to look at his memorial. Let’s get somewhere a bit warmer.” He says.

They walk a few blocks down, till they reach an iron gate connected to a wall that surrounds an enclosure.

“Uh, Killian,” Emma remarks. “This appears locked.”

“Hush, love,” He says.

Killian take out his phone and calls an old friend.

“Bonjour Hugo. C’est Killian. Est-ce que possible que tu peux ouvrir la porte de la jardin?” He asks the man.

“Pour toi, Killian? Bien sur,” He voice replies.

The gates open before him and Killian expresses his thanks to his friend.

“Where are we?” Emma asks. “And why are you speaking French?”

Killian laughs he takes a step inside the gates, whisking his hand into a pose to indicate that Emma should enter. A smile tugs at her lips as she follows him in.

“We are at the Misthaven Botanical Gardens,” He finally explains. “And that was Hugo. He’s an old friend.”

“Let me guess,” Emma supplies, “You helped him clean his garden when he first arrived in Misthaven.”

“Look at that Swan, you’re catching on,” He teases. “Indeed. I helped him tidy the national gardens in exchange for sleeping in a shed for a month or two.”

“You’ve got to be the most helpful person around,” Emma teases.

“Well I came here with basically nothing and the country was doing just as bad as I was, so it was easy to make some bargains,” He tells her.

Killian remembers that time of his life. For a few months, it was repairing roofs in exchange for a warm dinner from the old lady whose house was demolished. Or it was shining floors in the art museum in exchange for sleeping on a plush bench. Until he got his gig at the pub, his only way of sustaining himself was being helpful.

“Just another survival technique, love,” He murmurs.

She nods, her countenance full of understanding.

“So are we going to walk around a weird dark garden or what?” Emma asks, rocking back and forth on her feet.

“One moment, Swan,” He says. He walks over to a lever on the wall and flicks the switch.

The garden erupts with light. Fairy lights are hung along the garden walls, inside greenhouses, and along the paths. The place sparkles in their glow, giving light to elegant displays of flowers.

The best however is watching Emma’s face as she takes it in. It starts with a small smile as a few lights go on, but erupts into a full-on combination of a grin and a gasp as she takes it all in.

“Consider me impressed, and distracted,” She laughs.

He mirrors her smile, as he reaches his hand out to hers.

“Come on, love. I’ll show you the conservatory,” He tells her.

He leads her past the rows of late autumn flowers along the way and into the greenhouse. The moment they walk in, everything is much warmer. There are enough palmed plants to make it feel like a jungle.

“This is wonderful, Killian,” Emma remarks. “I feel like I’m in a movie or something.”

She steps onto a bench, still holding Killian’s hand. “I am sixteen, going on seventeen,” She sings, lightly and totally off key.

Killian lets out a chuckle. Emma sits down on the bench and beckons Killian to sit down beside her.

“Are you going to tell me about why you are in so much distress?” Killian asks.

Emma sighs, and buries in her face in her hands. He rubs a hand down her back, hoping it will sooth her. He’s been trying to distract her, but he also knows he can’t help her heal until she tells him what is distressing her.

“So, Mary Margaret is Blanche Neige,” Emma tells him.

He inhales sharply. Whatever he was expecting, it isn’t this.

“The source text,” Emma explains, “it was from the castle.”

Killian makes the connection, a flickering memory of him and Princess Emma tucked in bed with the queen as she reads them a bedtime story on a snowy evening. The yellow carriage. Of course.

“A thin volume of just Misthaven tales?” Killian asks.

Emma nods, “Embossed cover. I found over the weekend in the Southern Valley Palace, but I just read it today. You remember it?”

“Only now that you brought the memory up,” He explains.

“Anyway,” Emma says, “I didn’t know what to do. She walked in with a cup of cocoa and cinnamon or whatever. And I just exploded at her and stormed out.”

Killian stops rubbing her back, instead just wrapping his arm around her in support.

“Did she say why she didn’t tell you the truth?” Killian asks.

Emma shrugs, “Fear her story would get out, guilt over hiding out during the Dark Times. I mean I guess those are good reasons. But I’m still upset.”

“That’s understandable,” Killian agrees. “I’d be angry about that sort of thing too.”

“I don’t know what it means. Can I still write my dissertation on her? Is that ethical or allowed? I don’t even know how these things work.” Emma wonders out loud.

“I don’t see why not,” Killian says. “But then again, I was never in a university class, so I’m not sure how that works.”

Emma sighs and frowns.

“I say it’s a perfect time for a holiday,” Killian says. “We’re going to London next weekend. It sounds like it’s time for you to take a bit of a break.”

“I can’t-“ Emma begins.

“If you take a break it will clear your mind and you’ll be able to deal with this with fresh eyes.”

“I guess,” Emma admits.

“Come on,” Killian says, “Let’s look around the conservatory a bit and then we’ll get you home.”

He leads her through various rooms of the giant greenhouse. There is a desert room full of various cacti. There is another of tropical flowers and a trickling waterfall.

“This reminds me of Belle’s family’s business,” Emma tells him. “Her and her dad have this flower shop called Game of Thorns. In the winter, they have greenhouses full of poinsettias.”

Killian likes the way Emma’s face gets wistful when she talks about it.

“Do you spend every Christmas with her?” He asks.

She nods, “Since I’ve started college I have. I don’t really have anywhere else to go to. My foster mom from high school went nuts. Conspiracy theories and weird stuff, you know? I didn’t want to go back to her once I was out of the system.”

Killian nods.

“Belle’s place sounded better than being homeless for Christmas break,” Emma told him. “And it stuck.”

They walk into another room, this one with roses climbing up a trellised wall.

“Will you go back this year?” He asks.

“I’m planning on it. My next PhD semester begins in January, so it’s best I head home before then. I need to see if I can get approved for a private loan or something,” Emma mutters.

Killian feels something akin to dread swirl in his stomach. For the first time, he realizes that his friendship, and potential relationship, with Emma has a deadline. She’s leaving for Christmas. And then she’ll be back in America and he’ll be too broke to ever visit her, or see her again.

He thinks to months ago when he told Emma his dream was a bookshop. It still is. He’d love that. But he’s come to realize that his dream is also her. He wants her in his life securely.

“You okay?” She asks, turning back to look at him.

“Right as rain, love,” He says. “Shall we get you home? You’ve had an exhausting day.”

They walk back through the North Neighborhood. The atmosphere has changed. The coffee shops and cocktails are replaced by funky beats coming out of warehouse bars. They board the tram in their usual fashion and the train moves, winding back through town, past the castle on the hill and opera house and St. Anne’s Cathedral. He doesn’t get off at Old Town, instead taking the train all the way up to Emma’s neighborhood. Disembarking, crossing the canal, they head for Emma’s apartment.

He wonders if maybe he should have gotten off at a different stop, if it was presumptuous to assume that Emma would want him to stay. But as soon as they enter, she puts on the electric kettle.

“I’m going to change into pajamas,” She tells him, heading towards her bedroom.

“I’ll finish making tea,” Killian supplies.

When he’s pouring a dash of milk into each mug, Emma walks out of her room in a pair of floral pajama pants and a grey tank top. In her hands are a pair of sweat pants.

“Here,” she says, “They’re extra-large. If you want to stay.”

Killian feels the tips of his ears going red and feels suddenly shy.

“Sure, Swan,” He says, scratching behind his head, “If you’ll have me.”

It’s not long after that they are sitting in her bed, pajama clad with mugs in hand.

“Can you keep me distracted?” Emma asks.

“Certainly,” Killian offers. “I can read to you. Jane Eyre?”

“Not Jane Eyre,” Emma says.

“More Princess Bride?” He offers.

She nods, snuggling into him. “That sounds good.”

He reads to her until her eyes flutter closed. He has to rescue her half-full tea mug from spilling all over her bed. He flicks off the light and tucks them both into the bed.

It’s later, in the middle of night, when he awakens to her sniffles. He knows she’s crying. She had been trying to hide her hurt all evening, but he can hear it raw now. He pulls her against himself, relishing in the feeling of her back against his bare chest.

“It’s going to be okay, Emma,” He whispers, even though he feels sleep pulling him down. He finds the energy to tuck a kiss behind her ear and to listen to her soft sigh as she relaxes into him.

Tagging some pals: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill@kmomof4@kiwistreetswan@princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story@shady-swan-jones@katie-dub@1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob@midnightswans

#cs ff #captain swan #emma swan #killian jones #cs fanfic #cs au #cs modern au #cs mc #cs mafia #cs crew

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wellamarke · 6 years ago

Note

Ooo another one: Athena and to some extent, V

(For context, this is about this character Q&A challenge thing that I reblogged back when series 3 was airing!)

WOW OKAY so I was just thinking to myself that it was weird that I couldn’t remember what I’d written about V for this, because I wanted to compare if I still felt the same about her after the finale episode, and Lo and behold (haha, see what I did there) I find that I actually never finished answering, which is why I couldn’t remember what I’d said!

(I know, I know, reading that was tiring, but imagine having to BE me)

Looking back now it’s super unfortunate that I didn’t write the V section when this ask first came in, because it would have been an interesting comparison… but I think I was felled by not having much V content to go on, before 3.8, whereas now I can talk at much more length!

I had, however, finished the Athena section, so here you go, this is what I had already in the draft:

First, Athena:

• Do I like them? Yes, she’s a brilliant character!

• 5 good qualities: She’s SO SMART, oh my life, major brain crush. She uses her intelligence in a way she considers ‘pure’, despite the more lucrative options that are open to her, so she has a strong moral code in a climate ruled by selfish gain. She’s motivated by her love for her daughter, which defies all odds and succeeds in pioneering an entirely new scientific field - what an icon! She takes crap from exactly NOBODY and is sassy as hell in the process. And she’s willing to help Karen, for which she’ll always have a special place in my heart.

• 3 bad qualities: She wasn’t exactly quick to accept synth consciousness, umm, so she killed a bunch of them pretty callously. Like Ed, she was able to convince herself they weren’t really people long enough to serve her own purposes, so that’s… I’m less keen on that. Umm.. she can be a little brusque, I didn’t particularly like her scene with poor Helen Aveling, who was another lady in science trying her best! No need to put her down! I guess from a narrative perspective, I could say that Athena is a little superfluous, especially since she doesn’t seem to be coming back. We’ll count that! Lots of her harder, colder edges are due to her grief so I can’t really find it in me to pin them as ‘bad’. Have I mentioned, this show does amazingly with its characters, particularly its women?!

• Favourite episode: 2.8 was the goodbye to V, right? Ugh, heartbreaking.

• OTP: … this is kind of out of the blue but I could see her and Laura, mayhaps? Certainly there aren’t any human men left alive in the show who could hold a candle to her. Oh, but how interesting if she and Neil Sommer had dated in the past. Heh heh heh.

• BrOTP: Well, I’m so glad that she’s got Karen’s brain scans, so that she can recreate her perfectly and they can love and support one another!

• OT3: Athena & V & a weekly lunch date where V shows up on her tablet screen and checks in with what she’s been doing/how many synths she’s resurrected in her Mind Meadow.

• NOTP: Athena and her kind of boring husband, what was his name? One of those unisex names? I want it to begin with L? Oh well.

• Best quote: “Nothing really bad has ever happened to you, has it? Because when it does, you don’t need reminders about your insignificance to the universe.” I’m quoting from memory so it might not be the exact wording. Amazing line, anyway.

• Head canon: I like to think that Athena did, in fact, have something to do with Leo’s early treatment. I mean, Max isn’t even with him when it happens, so at some point the Elster sibs must have pooled resources and talked about what was going to happen with him. (They probably moped about their literal surgeon brother not being there too). Anyway, somehow they found Athena and she did some salvaging (having also recently practiced with Pete when she uploaded his consciousness, pending upload to a new body) and later handed over to Anatole. Basically my headcanon is that nobody has really died in this show since Athena and V were introduced. Athena knows how to save human minds and V can grab the synths. Sorted.

Now V! The only one I had previously answered was this:

• Do I like them? Yes, bless her digital cotton socks!

Although now I might slightly rephrase that in favour of:

•Do I like them? I think so! But in the words of George Millican, she worries me! Moving on to the rest of the questions…..

• 5 good qualities: She cares about others, and is benevolent towards the synths even though she is a separate species in and of herself, with a less defined concept of “them” and “us”. Where she can, she acts to relieve suffering (giving Odi the rest he wanted, even if we’d rather she hadn’t). She’s resourceful. She’s developing/has developed a strong sense of herself and her chosen role, which is lovely to see as growth since her confusion in series 2. Aaaand, she recognises Niska’s worth and potential (even if… well, see next part).

• 3 bad qualities: She’s not too bothered about Niska’s personal agency, and would rather focus on convincing her to carry out her will. Speaking of her will, she does seem to think her way and ONLY her way is the right way for both organic and synthetic humanity - and while she might be the best disposed to predict future events, having access to the entire world’s knowledge etc…. that still doesn’t make her Actually Omniscient, I’m sorry. Whatever she thinks. And for a third, hmm, maybe she was a little harsh to leave her mother all of a sudden, but for all we know they’re back in contact now?

• Favourite episode: whichever one it was in series 2 where she starts to piece together who she was but refers to Ginny as ‘she’ rather than ‘I’ - that was so powerful and chilling.

• OTP: I’ve never thought about an OTP for V, ha. Hmm, not in the romantic sense, but I think she and Niska COULD be a winning combination, if nothing goes to awry in s4, but I am on standby for Niska having to stand against her at some point and take her down in some epic, badass way. ALTERNATIVELY, can V make Q properly conscious, and we can see what on earth a ship between 2 non-corporeal AI characters looks like? Or rather, doesn’t look like?

• BrOTP: Supposing that V stays nice, I would like her and Astrid to bond about how much they value Niska, possibly for Astrid to give V a talking to about straight up manipulating her, but in general for them to team up in making sure Niska is taking care of herself during her difficult reign as Queen Indigo.

• OT3: Well, Niska and Astrid and V, I suppose, given my last two replies!

• NOTP: That creepy dude with eyes on his eyelids can stay far away from the Synth Who Sleeps that he’s so obsessed with, thank you!

• Best quote: Listen, I will NEVER not get chills about “Why did you ask me to lie to him?” Every time I hear that line, I am there in the auditorium watching the extended trailer for the first time and it’s just SOOOO GOOD.

• Head canon: ahem, okay, buckle up kiddos because this answer requires some backstory. So, since the age of like 14, my favourite book has been Speaker for the Dead, which is basically about future humanity trying to peacefully coexist with a new alien race, centuries after they wiped out the first alien race they encountered. The main character, Ender, is friends with an artificial superintelligence called Jane, who like V, has access to every piece of information on every computer, can process billions of thoughts at once, keeps her existence a secret from most of the human race, and can appear as whatever image she likes on a screen. (Unlike V, she grew out of a computer game rather than being a transferred human consciousness). Aaaanyway. In the book and its sequels Jane shows an interest in helping humanity & the aliens to understand and accept each other, and partly it is because she’s just a sweetheart, but partly, too, it’s because she hopes that if humans can understand the Pequeninos, who have physical bodies, as they do, but are fundamentally different from them in many ways… if they can learn to live with and value this alien race, then maybe one day, Jane hopes, they will also be able to understand and accept her, too, even though she’s not got a physical form and is fundamentally different from them. Sooooo, I immediately loved V in series 2 because she reminded me of Jane and I love Jane, but now with her new role in series 3 I can see even more possible similarities. My headcanon (the point of this entire essay if you’ll remember) is that V’s quest to end conflict between synths and organics is not quite as altruistic as it might seem, but is rather part of a larger plan to gain acceptance for herself. There’s this amazing quote from Speaker, about Jane who, being aware of all the science fiction the human race has come up with, therefore knows how many of us fear the potential of someone like her coming to exist, and how many stories there are about her final destruction. V doubtless knows all the same stories. It’s in her interests to foster an environment of human acceptance of AI consciousness, to set the stage for her own emergence. This is probably a conclusion that is easily drawn without bringing Jane and Speaker into it, but what can I say, I love it when parallels between my favourite things present and deepen themselves. Okay, that’s probably enough of this, hmm?

Since apparently I’ve woken this again, why not send me a character! If you want! Or reblog the thing!

#c4 humans #amc humans #I’m sorry this is so long lol #athena morrow #v #character ask thingy

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brigdh · 7 years ago

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Yuletide recs, for fandoms A-M! I have just barely gotten this in before author reveals, and clearly still have half the alphabet to get through. Ah, well. First off, my own gift!! Water Lens Benjamin January, gen, 2.4k, Teen. “The good widow couldn't dump you in the fast section of the river, apparently,” January said. “It had to be the mud.” “If she'd only panicked five minutes earlier,” Rose agreed with a sigh. “We were on the bridge then – although given the state of that particular river I wouldn't necessarily put money on it being that much cleaner.” All my all favorite story tropes are here: bathing together and playing with hair and the OT3 and Rose doing science and there’s even a mystery to solve in here too! It is wonderful and I love it and everyone should give the mystery author more kudos. And here are my other favorites: so come home 12 Dancing Princesses fairy tale, gen, 21.5k, G. A detective is called to a space station to solve the mystery of whether--and how--twelve astronauts are accessing the surface of a forbidden planet. A very well-written sci-fi murder mystery, with great worldbuilding and characters. Recruits American Gods, Mr Wednesday and Mad Sweeney, 4.2k, G. The Norse god of battle and a mad Irish king walk into a bar. This is not a joke, my son: except in a sense, it is. They are Old Gods, it’s the New World, and the game must be kept going. Really great backstory on the gods in WWI. The Locust And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill's Side - James Tiptree Jr., 2.2k, Mature. Letter of Fr. Francisco Nadal to Fr. Bartolomeo Strozzi, 1588. The original short story is about the horrifying effects on humanity of alien sexuality; this fic translates it into Imperial Spain and makes the different cultural setting really work. Because everyone needs some terror on Christmas! And on the seventh... Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Jack/Stephen, 11k, G. This decision might be considered the luckiest, as standing near Jack meant that Stephen was not alone in his fall overboard. Or it might be considered the unluckiest, as standing near Jack meant that Stephen was foremost in the splinters' path, when the ranging shot abruptly found its range. Desert island fic with H/C, angst, kissing in the ocean, and new species of birds. AKA, everything good in fic. And for that riches where is my deserving? Benjamin January mysteries, Ben/Rose/Hannibal, 1.8k, Teen. If Ben was honest with himself, he suspected that one day Hannibal might simply vanish from their lives. He desperately hoped that this was not the day. Delicious Hannibal whump plus the OT3! What more could anyone want out of the tiny fandom of my heart? Family Gathering Books of the Raksura, Moon-focused, 2.8k, G. After some of Jade and Moon's first clutch are confirmed to be Royal Aeriat, Pearl wants the fledgelings brought to her bower. Ember thinks Moon should be there too. Really adorable baby-fic, with some lovely Pearl characterization. Home Books of the Raksura, Consolation gen, 4.1k, G. It turned out that living like people instead of monsters required all sorts of skills and tools. Cleaning required soap, and some inkling of how to apply it. Consolation’s flight, having been raised by monsters, not people, had none of the requisite skills. This is the post-canon fic about how Consolation learns to be a person that was my greatest wish for Christmas, and it's everything I could have hoped for. Mordre, She Wroot Canterbury Tales, Wife of Bath-focused, 8k, G. At least one pilgrim will not make it to Canterbury. Yes, you ABSOLUTELY DO need the Wife of Bath solving murders in your life. Just trust me on this. Underworlds: The Life and Afterlife of Richard Upton Pickman Cthulhu mythos, gen, 3.7k, G. Explore the life, works and enduring influence of Richard Upton Pickman, a controversial artist of the early 20th century. This exhibition includes several paintings never before displayed in public, including all of Pickman's graphic, unsettling "horrors" currently remaining in North America. The Boston Globe called Underworlds "stomach-turning food for thought"— but decide for yourself! Young children may find Pickman's paintings frightening; parents are advised to consider carefully before allowing them to proceed. This program serves as a guide to the exhibit. Audio versions for your mobile phone are available at the Parrington museum website. Such a well-done pastiche of a museum guide to a series of horrifying paintings. What Is Begotten The Eagle of the Ninth, Marcus/Esca, 7.5k, Teen. Esca learns the Latin word by accident, from Stephanos of all people. Soul-mate. A soulmate AU with an absolutely lovely take on the canon. Of Devils and Other Fine Things Fallen London, The Wistful Deviless/Zee-Captain, 1.1k, G. Wooing a devil can only end in tears. Really fantastic interpretation of what a relationship with a devil really means. head above water Gattaca, Jerome-focused, 1.2k, G. “Do you know,” Jerome’s mother asks his coach, “how Jerome first started swimming? Did he ever tell you that story?” Absolutely wonderful backstory for Jerome. Suspect Gattaca, Anton Freeman-focused, 1.8k, G. Five things Anton thought upon seeing Vincent was a suspect for murder (and one thing he said). Lovely character study on a minor part of the movie, this feel so right. Attempt #534: The One With The Bees The Good Place, Chidi/Eleanor, 8k, Explicit. “Eleanor!” Chidi looks even more upset as he blurts out, “The universe doesn’t want us to have sex, okay?” Eleanor chokes. “I’m sorry, what?” In which Eleanor and Chidi repeatedly try – and fail – to have sex. Totally hilarious, and also hot. Care and Feeding of Your Janet The Good Place, Janet-focused, 1.2k, Teen. Please read this guide carefully before activating your Janet. So, so, so funny. Operation: Seduce Michael The Good Place, Michael/Everyone, 2.3k, Teen. If at first you don't succeed, send a different cockroach. Really hilarious fic about the plan to seduce Michael, with pitch-perfect character voices and humor just like the show's. so slip your hand inside of my glove The Handmaiden, Hideko/Sook-hee, 2.6k, Teen. Hideko lets Sook-hee teach her how to distinguish sapphire from spinel and obediently bites the gold Sook-hee brings back to her. Hideko and Sook-hee, after. A post-canon fic that is beautiful and just perfection. Who's Got Who The Hateful Eight, Chris Mannix/Marquis Warren, 6.7k, Explicit. Warren makes inventive use of Mannix's sheriff star. And, for that matter, inventive use of Mannix. He thinks that will be the end of it. You know, as much as love Hateful Eight, I never expected to begin shipping Mannix/Warren. What can I say but that this fandom has some damn good writers? And they know their porn; good lord this one is hot. As Ice in the Desert Historical RPF, Richard I "The Lionheart" of England/Saladin, 2.3k, Teen. Saladin visits Richard's sickbed with fruit, and a question in his eyes. Gorgeously written, really some of the most beautiful descriptions I've read in quite a while. Two people on the opposite sides of the Crusades in a moment of peace. all the nameless that keeps us rising despite IT, Stan/Richie/Beverly, 4k, Teen. When Stan went over to Richie’s house after dinner to tutor him for their math test tomorrow he thought he knew exactly what he was signing up for. Beautiful depiction of loss and love and a game of spin-the-bottle. Epilogue Jane Eyre, Jane-focused, 3.4k, Mature. Not everything, Jane learns early on, is real. Deeply creepy alternative interpretation of the canon. I love this possibility. How Else Would Sailing Ships Ever Have Navigated? Jeeves, Madeline Bassett/Honoria Glossop, 2.3k, G. “Do you think,” Madeline said to Honoria as the more impressive parts of nature gradually crept up upon them, “that all daffodils are the daughters of sunlight?” Absolutely adorable fic for some minor characters with a pitch-perfect tone for the canon. the worlds that spin beyond our atmosphere Jupiter Ascending, Jupiter/Caine, 7.8k, Teen. When Jupiter woke up, there was a small metal sphere on the pillow beside her. She blinked at it, because it certainly had not been there when she had gone to bed the night before. Then Aunt Nino began to stir and grumble as she too woke up and Jupiter snatched up the sphere, lobbing it hastily into her half-packed suitcase on her way to go and make the coffee. In which Jupiter is propositioned by a space travel agency (but fancier!) and introduces Caine to her family. Gorgeous worldbuilding and wonderful expansion of the canon. I love the descriptions of other planets in here. Damsel King Arthur (2017), Arthur/The Mage, 3k, Teen. In which there's a girl, a dragon, and a castle, and Arthur resolves not to let the truth get in the way of a good story. Totally hilarious and a great fit with the canon. Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd Kushiel's Legacy, Phedre/Joscelin, 1.9k, Explicit. There are few things Phedre has never done. There's one she's never done with Joscelin. Wonderful hot and sweet fic. Het anal, which is rare to see in fanfiction, but so very well-done here. Midwinter Queen The Lion in Winter, Henry/Eleanor, 1.6k, G. Christmas at Chinon, 1183. Conversation gambits keep the Christmas fires burning. Cynical and regretful and funny and heavy, this story does a better job of capturing the voice of the canon than almost any I've read. By Degrees Mansfield Park, Mary Crawford/Fanny Price, 16.6k, Mature. Her conscience had been disturbed, and she could no longer dislike Mary Crawford enough to be safe from her, if such a thing had ever been possible at all. Really excellent slow-burn for one of my favorite Austen ships, and the Fanny characterization is just ideal. Canada Gold Mean Girls, Regina George/Janis Ian, 3.9k, Teen. Regina joined the CIA to catch bad guys. Unfortunately, this time, that meant she had to work with Janis. Yeah, so it turns out that the thing that's been missing from my life is Mean Girls f/f rival spies future-fic. I am so, so glad that this story exists because it's amazing.

#yuletide #benjamin january #books of the raksura #Hateful Eight #the good place #fic recs #also this is what I've been doing all week haven't read a word of my actual books

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mdwatchestv · 7 years ago

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Everything I'm Going To Watch In October (Oh God We're All Already Irreparably Behind)

Hi best friend!

I thought doing this was really fun, and brought me closer to you - my core audience. It also helped me organize my TV life (whereas I actually referred to my own blog like an asshole in order to make sure I was watching everything I said I was. Because this is the brutal honesty hour, here is a quick recap of how I did with September:

American Horror Story: Cult - I've watched three of this so far! Boy golly does this season not know what it wants to be.

Top of the Lake: China Girl - I didn't start this yet in hopes my boyfriend would catch up and watch the first season. Yes, I know he never will, and I'm lying both to you and myself.

Broad City S4- Watched it alllll, because I'm just a relationship girl.

Better Things S2 - Jumping back into this was the best choice I made last month. Thank you employees of FX for pressuring me.

The Emmys - Yeah I wrote a whole blog about it, and i was MORE THAN HALF RIGHT.

Channel Zero: No End House - Actually fun and legit creepy (Scarier than AHS...all tea all shade)

The Good Place Season 2 - No biting.

Gaga: Five Foot Two - You guys I'm worried about Gaga.

Transparent: Season 4- Haven't started, don't @ me. God it's depressing to be a whole season behind on something in 24 hours.

KUWTK 20th Anniversary: KYLIE IS PREGNANT, KHLOE IS PREGNANT, WHAT A WORLD!!!!!

The Good Doctor - Haven't mustered the strength.

Law & Order - Did people not like this? LA + bong bong + 1989 + true crime + Dr. Daddy = good.

Brooklyn Nine-Nine - Yas queen.

Great News - Briggggaaaaa

Will and Grace - So similar to the original series it's eery. For you to decide if that's good or bad.

But now October has come! And with it the arrival of new network shows that I'm not going to watch, programming about ghosts that I'm not going to watch, and Keeping Up With The Kardashians!

Sunday, October 1st-

Ghosted (8:30pm on Fox) -

The title and promos for this show have made me as skeptical as Scully in a cornfield at midnight looking at chupacabra bite marks, but I owe it to Adam Scott and Craig Robinson to at least give it a try. Fox has shown they are able to provide worthwhile comedy (talkin bout chu Brooklyn Nine-Nine) and paranormal investigation seems like a sturdy enough basis for comedy.... Let's just say I'm willing to consider the extreme possibility that there is comedy in the unknown. Maybe the laughs are out there.

Keeping Up With The Kardashians (9:00pm on E!)

DID YOU NOT HEAR ME SAY KYLIE. IS. PREGNANT.

Monday, October 2nd - The Halcyon (10:00PM on Ovation)

I barely understand what Ovation is, but this is a British series about a fancy hotel in London during World War II starring fresh-faced youths and Olivia Williams created by a woman. I have bolded all my trigger words in the previous sentence. Even if this is bad, it will still be amazing. How do you suspect one watches Ovation?

Tuesday, October 3rd - The Mayor (9:30pm on ABC)

The Mayor is a half hour about a young rapper who semi-accidentally becomes the mayor of his hometown. I thought the promo for this was genuinely funny, and Brandon Micheal (not a typo) Hall was horribly delightful as Dory's ex on last year's Search Party (don't even get me STARTED on my love of Search Party). With a lovable lead, and the even more lovable Daveed Diggs producing, I'm hoping this show will be able to inject some much-needed optimism and levity into political comedy.

Wednesday, October 11th - Riverdale (8:00pm on CW)

If you are feeling any sort of judgement stirring over this entry it is only because you have NOT YET WATCHED RIVERDALE. Riverdale is Twin Peaks for teenagers, Riverdale is whip-smart dialogue and rock-hard abs, Riverdale is the best cast show on television. I'm not even kidding, this show has my very favorite casting work of any other show. Golden-boy, ginger-haired Archie's parents are Luke Perry and Molly Ringwald. Pretty boy from the wrong side of the tracks? His dad is Skeet Ulrich!!! It is just 100% pure enjoyable. Also did I mention the abs? Archie's abs are crazy.

Friday, October 13th -

Lore (Amazon)

This anthology series from Amazon is based on the podcast of the same name written and narrated by Aaron Mahnke. The podcast consists of creepy short stories that range from mass murderers, to why tunnels make people uneasy. Each episode is beautifully written and delightfully unnerving and if the series is able to capture even a little of the fairytale magic of the podcast it will definitely be worth a watch.

Mindhunter (Netflix)

If I could choose any career to have that is not my career, it would be FBI criminal profiler. Sadly, I recently googled how to have this job and you need do a lot of stuff I don't want to do first, and there are literally only like five of them in the FBI. Feels like a very similar skillset to casting though tbh. This is directed by David Fincher, it is about the BIRTH of serial killer profiling in the FBI, and it stars beautiful cinnamon roll Jonathan Groff. I have watched the trailer almost every day. I want it so bad. SO BAD.

Saturday, October 14th-

Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency Season 2 (9:00pm on BBC America)

Feel what you will (and validly so) about Max Landis, the first season of this show was quirky, clever and funny without feeling overwrought or precious. It handled time travel with mastery, and boasted a host of charming performances. It also had a corgi. And a kitten. I wrote about the first season when I started this blog last year (if you are interested you can read those entries HERE, be warned it may not help you recap the show in any meaningful way). I plan to tackle season two as well, so mark your calendars and the place in your heart that you have carved out for me. Everything is connected.

Sunday, October 22nd -

The Walking Dead Season 8 (9:00pm on AMC)

I am locked too deeply in a hateful, but passionate embrace with The Walking Dead to stop watching now. Whether I can summon the force of spirit to write about this season remains to be seen. (If you would like to re-live the agony and ecstasy of season 7, you can read everything I wrote about it HERE)

Monday, October 23rd -

Scared Famous (9:00pm on VH1)

This is a VH1 reality program starring Tiffany "New York" Pollard, Alaska Thunderfuck and Eva the Diva. Need I say more? I needn't.

Friday, October 27th -

Stranger Things Season 2 (Netflix)

Doo doo doo doo doo do do do

As a disclaimer to my ‘why are you not watching’ section, I don’t watch most network dramas being a) I am tired, b) I try and expose myself to as many new shows as possible, c) I am tired. Besides I am already woefully behind on my September shows, and it’s ALREADY October (and I’m behind). I can’t add 22 more hours of TV into this mix. When will I have time to watch Scared Famous!

But before you ask-

Curb Your Enthusiasm - This show is obviously legendary and I enjoyed it in the past, but it also makes me deeply upset and gives me anxiety. I can’t deal with those vibes right now.

The Gifted - The promos for this show claim it is one of the best Marvel series. If it is truly as good as Legion or Jessica Jones you let me know and I will watch it.

Scandal - I loved this show deeply for many years, but ultimately had to consciously uncouple from it.

Mr Robot- I tried. I couldn’t

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend - I have no excuse for this beyond laziness.

Jane the Virgin - Same.

I don’t know about you but it feels really good and cleansing to confess all of my television sins to you. I hope it’s just as soul-purifying for all of you viewers at home as well. If you think I missed something let me know, and I will tell you more specifically why I’m not watching it. I will see you all back here soon to talk about DIRK GENTLY! You can catch up! First season only 8 eps!

XO MD

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cisco-fics-4-all · 8 years ago

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Did It Hurt When You Fell Into My Universe?

So this is a request from @shanjedi for: “Cisco uses his smooth line from the trailer for Whisper to a Scream on a confused breacher with vibe powers who doesn't know what's happening and has attacked him, thinking he's responsible.” I sort of commandeered it a little bit, because it feeds into an idea I’ve had for a while now for a longer fic, so I’m gonna give y’all this little taste while simultaneously filling a request, cuz I’m cool like that. Anyway, hope you all enjoy! (PS: her name is pronounced BREE-oh-NEE, just FYI)

The last thing Brionne remembered, before waking up in a dumpster in another universe with a killer headache, was falling. Why she had fallen was still a bit of a mystery to her, as the headache was accompanied by frustrating bout of amnesia, which had wiped her memory of a great deal of pertinent information, such as how the hell falling from a building had gotten her to a different universe, and why she had been doing on top of said building before falling. The only reason she knew the world she was in wasn’t her own, was because the information she did have came from a small wallet like pouch she’d found in her pocket when she awoke, it’s contents instantly bringing back the memory of her best friend Francesca, a picture of them together tucked inside the little pouch, along with her military ID which told her what her own name was, and most importantly reminded her that she had powers, with the small stamp on the lower right hand corner that said ‘enhanced’ just under the Star Labs insignia. Those snippets brought back most of the rest of her life up until the fall, accept why and how it came about, which only added to her mounting frustration after spending the past three days wandering around a foreign universe with no money, no place to stay, and no food to eat.

She sat dejectedly on a bus stop bench, tapping her feet idly as she struggled to remember anything she could. Thinking about her blank spots only served to bring back her headache, and the rumbling of her stomach certainly wasn’t doing her any favors. She’d tried everything she could think of, digging through the dumpster she’d emerged from, grasping at straws trying to vibe what had happened to her, but when she finally found something that triggered her powers, it had somehow backfired on her, sending her into a seizure that resulted in her unintentionally sending out a full circle shock-wave vibration, the force of it warping the metal of the dumpster around her. When she’d woken up the second time, all she could remember from her vibe was the hazy image of a man with long hair, his eyes wide with concern as he stared back at her, angled above her slightly as if she were laying in his arms. That piece of information wasn’t so bad, she decided, the man was pretty cute after all so ending up in his arms might not be such a bad thing; but without a name for the face, or even a location to base her search from, she was stuck at a dead end.

Brionne hated dead ends. She hated not knowing how to solve a problem, it just made her feel so helpless that her skin would crawl with the stress of it all. She pulled the wallet out again, looking down at the picture of her and Francesca, frowning as she tried to think of what her friend would do. Francesca was part of her team in her world, they called themselves the Central City Vixens, a team of two speedsters, Francesca Ramon and Wendy West, herself the vibe, and their bookish doctor slash ice powered male colleague Christopher Snow. Together, the four of them managed to solve any problem thrown their way, they were the go to team for any super powered threats to Central City, and occasionally the rest of the world, having been recruited by Lyle Michaels, the director of a government agency called ARGUS through a their mutual friends Olivia Queen and the director’s wife Jane Diggle. She wished they were with her, or at least that Francesca were with her, at least then she’d have someone who could help her think her way back home.

Stuffing the wallet and picture away she looked up at the world around her, deciding that finding food and shelter might help her more than berating her tired and hungry brain for information it didn’t seem to have. The bench she was seated on was situated just across from a coffee shop that she recognized from her world, a place called Jitters that in her universe had a tendency to throw out mass quantities of its non-purchased baked goods at the end of the day. If she was lucky, their dumpster would be full of trash bags stuffed with bagels and muffins and scones, and while she wasn’t too terribly keen on the idea of eating out of the trash, she was beginning to have little choice in the matter.

She stood from her seat, crossed when the traffic cleared, and snuck down the alley behind the shop, finding the dumpster easily a mere ten feet away from the alley mouth. Just as she suspected, she found a relatively fresh looking clear trash bag with a healthy supply of bagels inside. She ripped it open and snatched four out, stuffing three into her pockets and taking a large bite from the fourth, struggling to remember to chew as her stomach realized what was happening. Once her bagel was gone, she moved to the mouth of the alley once again, glancing around furtively in the hope that no one had seen her dumpster dive for food. If anyone had, she couldn’t spot them, so she stepped out onto the street and started walking, hoping she could stop and ask for directions to the nearest public library, at least from there she might be able to find a homeless shelter she could stay in for a while. She got maybe ten steps before she stopped dead, her eyes locked onto the only familiar face she’d seen in this universe since arriving; the long haired man.

The long haired man was walking in her direction, holding a phone up to his ear as he walked, talking to someone named Caitlin about what sort of coffee she wanted. The dumpster bagel Brionne had eaten was already kick-starting her brain, she could feel her instincts clicking into gear as he drew closer, his focus completely devoted to his phone conversation which was going to make Brionne’s next move rather easy. She watched him pause, telling Caitlin he was outside Jitters now and had to get off the phone in order to go get their coffee. The moment he hung up, she struck, grabbing hold of the hood that stuck out the back of his jacket as she put a hand over his mouth and dragged him backwards into the alley she’d just left. Surprisingly the man didn’t struggle very much, probably because he was too stunned to understand what was happening. With her grip on his hood, she spun him around and shoved him back against the red brick wall of the building, a small yelp escaping him as her hand moved to grab his shirt collar.

“Who are you?!” she demanded, stepping well within the man’s personal space as he stared back at her with wide eyes.

“What the hell,” he whined nervously, “you snatch me into an alleyway to ask me my name? Who the hell are you?!”

Brionne scowled at him, trying her best to look intimidating despite how tried she was, “I asked you first Princess Hair,” she growled back at him, “now you have ten seconds to answer me before I break your nose!” she balled up her fist and raised it for emphasis.

He squealed again, raising his own hands in defense, “Alright, alright! My name is Cisco!” he hissed in a panicked voice, “I dunno why you need to know my name, but there it is, ok? Now can you let me go?”

Cisco wasn’t very much to go on, which only added to Brionne’s frustration because how the hell was she supposed to get back home if all she had to go on was ‘Cisco’? She decided to press him harder, “Do you know who I am Cisco?” she demanded, searching his eyes as they flitted across her face, his frightened brown orbs showing no recognition whatsoever.

“Um….no...I-I mean I don’t think so...” he floundered, “should I? I mean I wouldn’t mind getting to know you, maybe over coffee, or like, dinner or something a little less violent-” suddenly his raised hands grabbed hold of her wrists and pulled, yanking her grip from his collar as he tried to shove her away and make a run for it. But Brionne was faster than even she anticipated, grabbing hold of his hood again as he turned to run, this time shoving him face first against he wall, making him groan.

She grabbed one of his wrists next, using it to pull his arm up his back painfully as she leaned close to hiss in his ear, “Try something like that again and I’ll break more than just your nose!” she gave his trapped arm a tug to make sure he understood, earning another yelp from him.

“Shit! Ok, alright, ease up will ya!” he mumbled against the bricks, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know who you are, maybe if you reminded me though, I could-”

“Shut up!” she snapped, deciding to try a different approach. With her free hand, she reached into her pocket, pulling out the wallet, forcing it open to reveal the picture inside, “do you recognize this woman?” she asked, pointing to Francesca as she shoved the picture in his face.

Cisco struggled to turn his head, his brow furrowing as he looked at the photo, “I don’t...I don’t think s- wait...she kinda looks like my mom….wait hang on, how do you have a picture of my mom-!”

“She’s not your mother idiot!” Brionne was really confused now, but she couldn’t show it, then she’d just lose track of her interrogation and then she definitely wouldn’t get any answers, “her name is Francesca Ramon, she’s my friend, and she doesn’t have any children, especially not ones who are the same age as her!” she stowed the photo away, her head beginning to hurt again as she struggled to decide what to ask Cisco next.

Cisco on the other hand had some questions of his own. “Francesca Ramon?” he repeated the name in confusion, “hang on, I don’t know anyone in my family named Francesca, at least not anyone living anyway…”

That got Brionne’s attention, “What do you mean, anyone in your family? I told you she’s not your mom!”

“Yeah no, I got that, but we have the same last name!” he huffed, “My name is Cisco Ramon, Francisco if you wanna get formal about it, I’m named after my grandmother Francesca, but like I said she’s not alive, so unless you’re from the past I don- oh holy shit, are you from the past?!”

“No!” Brionne barked, “this is 2017 right? Besides why would falling off a building make me time travel, that doesn’t make any sense-”

“Woah wait, what? You fell off a building?!”

“Yes now shut up and let me think!” Brionne twisted his arms again, making him yelp for a third time.

“Listen, I dunno how you survived falling off a building, but if you could maybe not break my arm, that would be awesome,” Cisco pleaded desperately, “I’m an engineer and I kinda need working arms and hands to do that so-”

“You’re an engineer?” Brionne cut him off, the job title giving her an idea, “where do you work?”

Cisco huffed out a sigh, “Forreal? You snatch me up to learn my name, now you wanna know where I work? What the hell do you want, seriousl-OWW OK! I work for Star Labs!” he cried as Brionne twisted his arm one last time. At that revelation, she let him go, much to Cisco’s surprise.

“If you work for Star Labs, then you can help me,” she told him as he slowly turned to face her, “I’m tying to get back home, I don’t know how I got here but this isn’t my world, I’m from a different universe….do you understand what I’m saying?”

Cisco’s eyes looked ready to pop out of his head, “Say what now?” he asked, his brain struggling to catch up with her words after being so suddenly assaulted.

Brionne let out a frustrated yell, stomping her foot as she explained, “I’m from a different world, ok? I don’t know how I got to this one, but there’s a Star Labs in both worlds apparently, and if your Star Labs is anything like my Star Labs, then someone there is bound to know how to send me home!” Cisco stared back at her silently, his face contorting as his brain tried to absorb what she was saying while simultaneously coming up with an intelligent response.

“So you’re from another Earth?” he asked finally, squinting at her curiously.

“Yes,” she confirmed swiftly, “and I want to go home, but I don’t know how, and for some reason whenever I try to figure out how I got here I get these headaches, and I saw your face in a vision and I just….” she trailed off, seeing the look on Cisco’s face as confusion instead of the thoughtful face it actually was. She grit her teeth then, taking a deep breath in through her nose as she braced herself for what she had to do next. Taking a step towards Cisco, she held out her hand, “Look, it’s easier to show you,” she explained as he took a half step back, “don’t worry though, this is liable to hurt me more than you,” she lunged towards him, grabbing his arm before he could retreat, and launching them both into a Vibe.

The moment they entered the Vibe, Cisco was hit with another round of confusion, wondering how the heck this chick had triggered a vibe with them both in it. As he looked around for answers, he realized something was very very wrong. Their surroundings were shifting and fazing around them, the glimpses he did catch of solid images were of streaks of purple light, they almost looked like speedster trails. One of the light streaks passed close by and he could just make out the face of the woman in the picture she’d showed him, then suddenly the fuzzy images began moving away from them, almost as though they were moving backwards. Before he could figure out why that was, the weightless sensation of falling hit him, flipping his stomach as their surroundings grew even fuzzier, the only clear thing he could register now was the sound of a woman’s voice desperately calling out a name...it sounded like the name was “Bree”. He turned to look for the girl who’d brought him here, the falling feeling beginning to make him nauseous. To his increased dismay, he found her clinging to his hand as her eyes rolled back into her head and she began to fall herself, her body convulsing as she lost consciousness. He quickly wrenched his hand from hers, staggering backwards as the vibe broke, leaving him dizzy. When he regained his footing, he lunged forward just in time to catch the girl before she smacked her head on the pavement, his heart racing as she continued to convulse in his arms.

“Frack frack frack!” he hissed in panic, “hey, lady can you hear me?” he turned her on her side, remembering that piece of seizure first aid from some conversation or another with Caitlin after Barry snatched Thawne from his timeline. He wracked his brain for what to do, how to help her, how to bring her out of this. He had an epiphany and pulled out his phone, speed dialing Barry’s number and praying that he picked up. “Barry!” he cried as his friend answered, “no time to explain, I need you to meet me in the alley way by Jitters, its a meta emergency!”, on the other end Barry quickly said he’d be there and hung up. In the short time Cisco had to wait, he tried to think of something else that might help this woman in the meantime, his brain going a mile a minute before an idea struck him, “Hey, Bree...is that your name, Bree?” he asked her, running his hand over her forehead, finding it slick with sweat. Somehow that seemed to help her, the convulsions of her body growing slightly weaker as her eyes slowly returned to normal. He wiped her forehead again, hefting her further into his arms, “I’m right here Bree, you’re ok, I’ve got you,” again she seemed to respond to the name, her convulsions stilling further as her eyes focused on him.

“Di-did y-y-you s-see?” Brionne asked in a hoarse whisper, her eyes welling with tears as her head began to pound horribly.

Cisco nodded, “Yeah...well kinda, but yeah,” he answered, managing a small smile, “but shh, don’t talk right now, my friend is on the way to help ok, he’s gonna take you back to Star Labs so we can really help you alright?” Brionne nodded, or at least she seemed to nod though her convulsions made it hard to tell.

“Cisco!” Barry called as he skid to a stop at his friend’s side, “what happened, who is she?” he asked, taking a step backwards, hoping she hadn’t seen his maskless face.

“It’s complicated,” Cisco replied as Brionne’s eyes drifted closed, “just take her back to Caitlin, tell her she’s a breacher, possibly a meta, I’ll be right behind you,” he handed her over to Barry, who zipped away in a yellow flash. Cisco took a moment to breathe deeply, his mind reeling from what all had happened. He’d just been on his way to get some coffee for pity’s sake, and suddenly he’s being kidnapped by a lost meta from another universe? Was it because it was a Monday? He never liked Mondays. After a quick mental regroup, he jogged further into the alley, slipping behind a dumpster so he could open a portal without anyone seeing him. He jumped through to the lobby of Star Labs, cursing quietly about his lack of proper aim before sprinting towards the elevators. By the time he made it upstairs, Caitlin had already gotten everything under control, both her and Barry standing over the gurney where Brionne lay sleeping.

“Cisco!” Caitlin called when she spotted him, “what happened? Barry said you told him this girl is a breacher, and that she might be a meta?” She glanced from Brionne to Cisco nervously as he trudged into the med bay, panting slightly from having run most of the way there.

“She...well she kidnapped me….sort of…right after I got off the phone with you,” Cisco explained, leaning heavily against the glass partition between the med lab and the cortex, “she wanted to know my name, and if I knew her...nearly broke my fracking arm too,” that statement earned him raised eyebrows from both Barry and Caitlin, but he waved it off, “anyway, she uh...she showed me this picture...actually, hang on,” he approached the bed, rummaging in her pockets to find a bagel which he frowned at but set aside, then he found the wallet, opening it to reveal the picture to his friends. “She started asking me if I knew the girl with her in the photo, and I was really confused cuz I thought it was my mom, but she’s like ‘nah, thats my friend Francesca Ramon’, and I was just like-”

“Ramon?!” Caitlin asked incredulously, holding the picture up so she could compare it to Cisco.

“Yeah, I know right?” Cisco agreed with her surprised tone, “but when I told her I work for Star Labs, she starts explaining that she’s from another earth, and she doesn’t remember how she got here, and then, oh ho, and then,” he latched his hand around his wrist in demonstration, “she grabs my arm, and vibes me to when she fell off a building and came through to this earth-”

“Fell off a building?!” It was Bary’s turn to squawk in surprise, but Cisco waved his hand to shush him.

“Yeah, like I said it’s complicated,” he replied, “the point here though, is that she triggered the vibe, not me,” he glanced back at Brionne’s sleeping form, shaking his head as he added, “I think she had Vibe powers guys….”

Barry and Caitlin stood staring at Brionne in stunned silence, Caitlin setting the photo down on a nearby supply tray as she moved to Cisco’s side, “So you think she...fell into our universe?” she asked hesitantly, a slight crinkle forming between her brows as she frowned in thought.

Cisco shrugged, “I dunno...I mean...I guess?” He raked a hand through his hair before shaking his head, “I mean the vibe she showed me was kinda fuzzy, and I’m pretty sure thats what caused her seizure, so maybe she did fall into our universe, and then maybe she hit her head or something and that’s why she can’t remember?”

Caitlin’s thoughtful frown deepened as her eyes narrowed, “That actually sounds plausible,” she commented, “I’d have to do a CAT scan to be sure, but if she fell off a building like you said, then there’s no way she didn’t get hurt, and if she has a concussion or something, then that would understandably interfere with any vibe powers she may or may not have.”

Cisco nodded, “Yeah...ok, you uh...you go do that medical stuff, I’ll just...I dunno, should I try getting our coffee again or-?”

“I’ll get the coffee,” Barry offered decisively, “you stay here in case she wakes up,”

Cisco scoffed, “What, why? She tried to kidnap me remember-”

“She tried to kidnap you so she could get answers,” Barry cut him off assuredly, “if she’s really lost in our universe, then she’s probably scared and wanted to get whatever information she thought you had quickly,” he sighed, scratching the back of his neck thoughtfully, “in any case, she sought you out, which means you’re the only one of us she at least sort of knows, so you’re gonna stay here so that she has a familiar face to wake up to, and I’m gonna go get the coffee.”

Cisco shrugged, nodding reluctantly, “Ok that is, admittedly, a pretty good idea, thanks man.” Barry nodded and zipped off again, leaving Cisco to gaze curiously as Brionne as Caitlin made the necessary preparations to scan her. He crossed his arms over his chest after a moment, quietly muttering to himself, “who are you Bree...” catching Caitlin’s attention.

“Hmmn?” Caitlin asked, thinking he’d spoken to her.

“Wha- oh nothing I’m just...thinking out loud,” he sighed, shaking his head again, “also I think her name is Bree...I heard someone calling that in the vibe she tried to show me, and she seemed to respond to it when I addressed her with that name while she was...seizing.”

Caitlin nodded, “Ok, Bree...that’s a nice name,” she gave him a reassuring smile, seeing the concern in his eyes as he turned them back to Brionne, “she’s gonna be alright Cisco,” she assured him, “we’re gonna do whatever we can to help her.”

Cisco nodded again, “Yeah no, I know I just...” he reached forward, brushing a lock of hair from Brionne’s face as he finished, “I dunno I feel responsible for her...as another vibe I mean.”

Caitlin nodded her understanding, “I’m sure she’ll appreciate hearing that when she wakes up,” she said with a smile.

Cisco managed a smile himself, running his thumb over Brionne’s cheek, “Yeah...I think she will.”

#The Flash #Cisco Ramon #Vibe #Alternate timeline #Alternate Universe #Not so doppelganger doppelgangers #Fem! doppelgangers #Madness essentially

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