#and did not want to accept the taste of guinness At All.

[cahootings]

@ambientwitch made us Angel’s Laments and reader, I don’t need to drink it again. But I‘ll try anything once

[cuddyclothes]

I saw a "quote" from Ursula K. Le Guin's speech at the National Book Awards in 2014. It claims that she "rails" against Amazon, and says, "Your empire will fall".

In fact, it is a passionate speech that makes its point eloquently. It's probably not to current tastes for vigorous outrage, which is why it's partly quoted for maximum effect. Here is the speech in its entirety.

To the givers of this beautiful reward, my thanks, from the heart. My family, my agents, my editors, know that my being here is their doing as well as my own, and that the beautiful reward is theirs as much as mine. And I rejoice in accepting it for, and sharing it with, all the writers who’ve been excluded from literature for so long – my fellow authors of fantasy and science fiction, writers of the imagination, who for 50 years have watched the beautiful rewards go to the so-called realists.

Hard times are coming, when we’ll be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now, can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being, and even imagine real grounds for hope. We’ll need writers who can remember freedom – poets, visionaries – realists of a larger reality.

Right now, we need writers who know the difference between production of a market commodity and the practice of an art. Developing written material to suit sales strategies in order to maximize corporate profit and advertising revenue is not the same thing as responsible book publishing or authorship.

Yet I see sales departments given control over editorial. I see my own publishers, in a silly panic of ignorance and greed, charging public libraries for an e-book six or seven times more than they charge customers. We just saw a profiteer try to punish a publisher for disobedience, and writers threatened by corporate fatwa. And I see a lot of us, the producers, who write the books and make the books, accepting this – letting commodity profiteers sell us like deodorant, and tell us what to publish, what to write.

Books aren’t just commodities; the profit motive is often in conflict with the aims of art. We live in capitalism, its power seems inescapable – but then, so did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art. Very often in our art, the art of words.

I’ve had a long career as a writer, and a good one, in good company. Here at the end of it, I don’t want to watch American literature get sold down the river. We who live by writing and publishing want and should demand our fair share of the proceeds; but the name of our beautiful reward isn’t profit. Its name is freedom.

[lsholland]

London Lights (pt. 1) - Tom Holland

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader (1st person)

Genre: Party!Tom

Warnings: swearing; alcohol; nothing much but I don’t recommend -18 to read.

Word count: 1.9k

Author’s note: Hey guys! That’s my first story on this blog. I hope you’ll like it. I’m not native so there may be a few mistakes. I’m trying a new genre of fiction. It’s my first Tom Holland fiction. It’ll be a series of 2-3 chapters. If you want to be part of the master list for Tom please like this post and message me. 

Synopsis: Quarantine has been tough. I’ve lost my boyfriend, and I’m feeling lonely. Clubs and restaurants are open again, but I feel like it’ll never be like it used to. My friends have been pushing me to install Tinder and go on dates. Well, tonight, I’m going on a date. I don’t really want to but I’m going to try and have fun for once. Just a few drinks and I’ll go home. What else could happen?

PS. You can read the story on Wattpad.

What am I doing here? I think to myself.

I matched with this guy on this famous dating app . . . And now I'm supposed to meet him here, at this bar. But I don't want to. I'm just hoping he won't show up so I can escape from this shit-place.

I've been seated at the table for a good 5 minutes. The waitress cleans up the table next to mine and asks if I'm ready to order.

No, I want to leave.

I quickly glance at the drinks menu.

"Ehm . . . A pour over Irish coffee, please."

She nods and leaves. I don't even know what I just ordered. I hope it tastes good. Hopefully it'll make me drunk enough not to remember this awful date.

It hasn't even started yet.

I'm sweating.

"Hey there" says a husky voice right behind me.

I turn around and see my date. His name is Jordan. He's good-looking and I bet he's intelligent, but I don't have this feeling with him. I don't know why I accepted to go on a date in the first place. It's awkward.

"Hey!" I grin.

"Have you ordered something already?" he asks, touching his short, clean beard. "I'm thirsty!"

He looks nice.

*

The waitress hands me my third drink. They help the clock tick a little faster.

He's been talking about his job, his passions. He loves football and practises daily. He has 2 sisters and lives in Camberwell.

Cute.

For a moment, I feel sad for him. He drove all the way to this East London bar, put effort trying to look nice and being cool . . . and yet, he doesn't know it but he has no chance to get lucky tonight. Not with me.

I shouldn't be sorry.

But I am.

I glance around looking for something that might be a little more entertaining than him. I realise I've avoided eye contact since he arrived. I finally glimpse at him. He has beautiful hazel eyes.

Still not enough.

I quickly check my phone. It's getting late. I don't know how to end this.

"Look," I slightly bend over the table. "I'm so sorry but I don't feel like it tonight"

"I noticed." He smirked. "Kinda awkward, innit?"

I chuckle. I am so embarrassed.

"It's okay, though." He added. "I'm just trying to meet new people. I broke up with my ex-girlfriend a few weeks ago. My mates told me I should try these apps."

Okay, now I feel worse than ever. He's been so nice with me and that's how I treat him. I grab my drink and gulp it down.

I shouldn't have done this.

"Let's go dance. I owe you one." I say as I grab his hand and walk towards the dancing area. It becomes difficult to keep my head straight.

I'm drunk, I must admit.

I'm going to regret it, my sober-self shouts in my head.

I don't care is what I reply.

The dancing area is not crowded, but there are already a few people. Most of them are girls.

Girls . . . I wish my friends were not so busy all the time. I would've come to this bar with them instead of wasting my time with strangers.

I start dancing. I stare at him. He looks amused.

A group of guys join the dancefloor and all the girls on my right start screaming. It's so high pitched I cringe.

"What the fuck guys?" I shout, trying to focus on the music.

"Woah, that's Spider-Man!" says my date. He grabs my chin and makes me look in his direction.

No way, I think. It's actually him.

I know he lives in the area, but I've never met him before. It's always weird to see movie stars in real life. They look so much more attractive.

He is so much more attractive.

I try not to be a drunk fangirl and shyly wave to him. He doesn't notice.

"You wanna go and take a picture with him?" my date asks.

"Oh, no, no!" I answer. I'm blushing. "I don't even know what I'd tell him."

He laughs.

The worst thing that could happen is to annoy him during a night out. He needs privacy and I must respect it.

But it's so difficult.

I can't stop staring at him. I don't even control it. Being drunk doesn't help.

"D'you want a beer?" I ask my date whose name I completely forgot.

He nods.

I weave my way through the crowd. I can't believe there are so many people on the dancefloor. The area is so busy since the Spider-Man actor walked in.

Even the bar area is crowded.

I let my body rest against a barstool but quickly lose balance and almost fall on the dirty floor. The flickering lights are making me feel dizzy. I grip the counter and get up. I peer around to make sure nobody saw me.

He did.

I dust off my dress trying to save the dignity I have left.

"Want something?" someone asks behind me. I turn around, it's the barman.

"Two pints of Guinness, please."

I glance back at the same spot, but he's gone. It must've been a dream. I'm so drunk I can't trust everything I think I see.

I'm grabbing both my drinks and look around trying to find my date, but there are too many people. I take a sip of my beer and hold the other one above my head.

Someone hits my arm.

Oh no.

"Oh my God I'm so sorry!" yells the drunk blond girl.

I look at my dress. It's soaking wet. I politely smile at her. "It's okay," I mouth.

What a mess. I glance at the lavatory door. I need to go and save my dress.

"You haven't been lucky here."

I turn around to find out who's talking to me.

It's him. Tom Holland. Talking to me.

"What?" is all I manage to say.

"Do you need a hand?" he politely asks.

I blush so much it's noticeable in the dark.

I'm choking. I'm panicking.

I give him my two beers and walk towards the lavatory. I'm surely starstruck. And drunk. This isn't a good mix.

Once in the room, I grab a handful of tissues and try to soak up my dress. I groan. Did I expect to make that beer mark disappear? Yes. Did it work? Of course not.

I watch my face in the mirror.

I look like shit, I think.

A door slams shut. Two young girls just walked in.

"OH, MY G—THAT'S TOM HOLLAND!" shouts one. They are both panting.

I roll my eyes.

Oh . . . I've given him my beers. What about my date?

"Shit!" I hiss.

I violently open the door and frown my eyebrows as the lights blind me.

He's just here gazing at me. Two beers in his hands. One of them is half empty, the rest being displayed on my dress.

"I'm so sorry!" I say embarrassed as ever.

He smirks. "No worries." He hands me the full glass of beer.

I give him a questioning look as I grab it. What about the other one? Oh, right—He's drinking it.

"What's your na—"

I stop him.

"I know who you are." I peer down. "I'm sorry I didn't wanna disturb you" I say as I'm walking away.

This time I'm smart enough to avoid the crowd on my way out.

"That's rude to leave without saying goodbye!" Tom shouts from a distance.

I turn around and stare at him. He's got a soft smile; he doesn't look drunk at all. I wave him goodbye.

Now, he's approaching me.

"I meant to your boyfriend" he nods in the direction of my date who was dancing with a group of other people.

"He's not my—" is all I can say before he chuckles.

"I figured."

"How?" I clench my jaw. I'm hypnotised by his hand running through his hair. And his smile. And his lips.

"I can barely hear you," he points at a booth in the corner of the room "maybe we could sit there" he suggests.

My mouth softens into a smile.

It's difficult to walk with Tom Holland. Every couple of seconds he's stopped by fans requesting a picture. And he accepts every time.

I'd never be so patient.

"What's that?" he asks.

"It must be so annoying sometimes." I tell him as I sit on the booth.

"When they're nice and ask me, it's cool." He chooses to sit next to me. I can feel his arm touching mine. My heart is racing. He uses his other arm to hold his chin; he looks at me with so much intensity. Sometimes peering down my lips.

His face is so close, but he keeps talking. I can feel his breath on my skin. I'm going to burst into flames. "But when they're taking pictures without asking first, that's delicate."

I nod. I can't really listen to what he's talking about. I'm trying not to lose control.

"So, what's your name?"

He smiles when I tell him. "Why did you leave your date alone?" he asks.

I'm so nervous I stutter. I can't find my words. "I . . . I wasn't in the mood. He knows it. I shouldn't have come here."

"I'm happy you came." He says looking me in the eyes.

I raise my eyebrows. "Are you flirting with me?"

He barks out a laugh and breaks the eye contact. He rests his head on the wall behind us.

He isn't as confident as I thought he'd be. I don't know what's up with him, but I enjoy it.

I suddenly remember he's a movie star. He's always being watched. I glance at the crowd and see flashing lights. They're taking pictures of us.

I'm getting dizzier.

I don't want to see my face on a dumb article talking about Tom Holland's mysterious partner. I don't even know him.

"This is stupid" I mumble.

Tom is intrigued. He hasn't got a clue what I'm talking about. He hasn't even noticed the fans stalking him.

"I'm sorry, I gotta go" I abruptly say as I stand up. "Have a good night."

I grab my phone and leave the venue. I'm upset because I really wish I could've met him in a different context. I open my Uber app: there's no driver available.

Shit.

How's that even possible on a Friday night? In London?

I refresh the app, but it doesn't work. I guess I'll have to walk home.

A part of me wants to go back in this bar and spend time with Tom. He's sweet and I'm sure we would've had so much fun together. I glance through the window trying to see his face one last time, but I can't find him.

"What are you looking for?"

I cringe.

"Oh, sorry I didn't mean to startle you."

It's him. It's Tom.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Going home too. The fun of the party is leaving . . ." he sighs. I smile back at him. I'm embarrassed.

I stand in front of him, none of us say a word. It's awkward. I'm getting anxious and walk away. I'm so overwhelmed.

He grabs my shoulder. "Wait, are you walking home?"

"Yeah, it's okay don't worry." I smile.

"I can drive you home."

"Sorry, but you've been drinking. I won't let you drive me." I curtly say.

He grins. He looks at one of his mates and nods.

"No way I'm letting you walk home alone," he sighs "besides, you're drunk."

"Come with me then" I instantly reply without thinking.

He nods.

What?

He's coming with me. My heart is racing. I won't survive a 30-minute drunk walk with him.

Not with his beautiful glossy eyes staring at me.

Not with my burning desire to kiss him.

[butchniqabi]

You reminded me of this by discussing the classic sci-fi boys... I find classic sci-fi kind of unbearable because so much of it is dominated by men who want to tell me what they think of women via their female characters. I did really love Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin, though, so clearly the sci-fi problem is not incurable!! Do you have classic sci-fi you would recommend to an uncertain reader...? Authors of any gender accepted because I trust your taste!! (-yvesdot)

YVESDOT MY BELOVED!!! scifi is so saturated with gross men and it absolutely sucks to read some "staples" of scifi bc theyre so misogynistic and racist and its awful. as for an uncertain reader i recommend:

how long til black future month by nk jemisin: book of short stories with many different moods. it found it to be INCREDIBLY good and had all types of scifi to enjoy

annihilation by jeff vandermeer: its not for everyone but its a quick read and so so good with descriptions and mood

the dispossessed by miss le guin: it can be a big confusing at it just throws you into it but once again its a great read with so much in depth and its set in the same universe as the left hand of darkness!

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Tuesday 24 April 1832: SH:7/ML/E/15/0058

8 10

12

- finis morn[in]g F[ahrenheit] 58° on my dress[in]g tab[le] at 8 10/.. - ver[y] lit[tle] poky r[oo]m b[u]t slept pret[ty] well and feel the bet[ter] for it - br[eak]f[a]st at 9 3/4 - wr[ote] a lit[tle] no[te] to L[ad]y S- [Stuart] for Miss H- [Hobart] to gi[ve] on h[e]r arriv[a]l to say I w[oul]d dine w[i]th h[e]r tomor[row] - w[e]nt out at 10 55/.. (alone - too early for Miss H- [Hobart] to venture out in the so m[u]ch cold[e]r sharp[e]r air th[a]n that of Hast[in]gs) - walk[e]d all r[ou]nd the place - to Calvary park - none admitt[e]d b[u]t by a tick[e]t fr[om] the propriet[o]r who nev[e]r refuses it to respectab[le] visit[an]ts - nice place to walk in - sev[era]l neat look[in]g h[ou]ses there - on[l]y 2 of th[e]m to let - then walk[e]d r[ou]nd and g[o]t int[o] the park n[ea]r the houses - w[e]nt int[o] the ch[ur]ch - ver[y] new and neat plain goth[i]c - serv[i]ce at the ti[me] - w[e]nt in for a min[ute] or 2 - w[e]nt int[o] Sharp’s gr[ea]t Tunbridge ware shop n[ea]r Mount Ephraim (on the Lond[on] r[oa]d) the gr[ea]t court end high airy situat[io]n chosen by all who can get there - In the h[ei]ght of the seas[o]n (July Aug[u]st and Sept[embe]r) apart[men]ts are at a guin[ea] a bed per week (i.e. lits de maître) serv[an]ts beds includ[e]d - b[u]t at oth[e]r ti[me]s and ev[e]n May and June a 12 guin[ea] apart[men]t to be h[a]d for 3 or 4 guin[ea]s - gr[ea]t deal of good comp[an]y co[me] for the east[e]r holidays - a fortn[i]ght or 3 weeks that the houses of parliam[en]t do n[o]t sit - bought a playing card case for Miss H- [Hobart] who dad [did] give me a purse got yesterday at Hastings and a little Tunbridge ruler got last night on our arrival -  she said it was the first thing I had given her since the Denouement (that is the offer and acceptance) - It rain[e]d a lit[tle] - walk[e]d b[a]ck al[on]g the fine op[e]n com[mo]n that seems a contin[uan]ce of M[oun]t Ephraim, and intersect[e]d in all direct[io]ns w[i]th walks br[ou]ght me d[o]wn in front of our hot[e]l - then exam[ine]d the Sussex hot[e]l a new, clean, large handso[me] look[in]g h[ou]se - then met Miss H- [Hobart] in the Pantiles now call[e]d parade and took 2 or 3 turns togeth[e]r there and I tast[e]d the spring a ver[y] weak chalybeate at the near end of the parade - s[ai]d I w[a]s qui[te] charm[e]d w[i]th the pl[a]ce and jok[e]d ab[ou]t return[in]g or liv[in]g there or near - It is really one of the prett[ie]st nicest wat[erin]g places I ev[e]r saw - I sh[oul]d ha[ve] no object[io]n to being there w[i]th L[ad]y G- [Gordon] if go[in]g to Fr[an]ce just now is n[o]t qui[te] practicab[le] on acc[oun]t of cholera - our bill at the Roy[a]l Kentish hot[e]l n[o]t sm[all] consid[erin]g our hav[in]g no wine, and our mod[era]te din[ner] and sm[all] r[oo]ms = 40/2. for our 2 selves and my 2 servants - c[oul]d n[o]t surely ha[ve] been dear[e]r at the Sussex, c[oul]d we ha[ve] been tak[e]n in there - Off at 1 40/.. - pret[ty] dri[ve] (5 m[ile]s) to Tunbridge - beaut[iful] dri[ve] fr[om] T- [Tunbridge] to Sevenoaks (pron[nounce]d Senoks [Se..?] ŏks) and ver[y] pret[ty] to the top of Madame’s court hill ab[ou]t 1/2 way bet[ween] 7 oaks and Bromely and fr[om] all along w[hi]ch a fine look d[o]wn (left) on the rich wood[e]d valley bel[ow] - n[o]t so pret[ty] b[u]t still pret[ty] fr[om] this long hill to Bromley a nice lit[tle] vil[lage] or town en[ou]gh - th[e]n beg[a]n to shew of nearness to Lond[on] by crowds of peop[le] and carr[ia]ges - Miss H- [Hobart] s[ai]d it w[a]s Greenwich fair w[hi]ch w[oul]d ma[ke] so[me] diff[eren]ce - at Whitehall at 6 1/2 - L[ad]y S- [Stuart] w[oul]d ha[ve] me go in for a min[ute] or 2, and th[e]refo[re] I d[i]d oth[er]wise it h[a]d been plann[e]d bet[ween] Miss H- [Hobart] and me n[o]t to do so - 10 min[ute]s th[e]re and alight[e]d at 29 Albermale st[ree]t at 6 50/.. - ord[ere]d tea immed[iatel]y, b[u]t h[a]d to wait for it an h[ou]r - amus[e]d mys[elf] w[i]th read[in]g the 2 last Globes - L[ad]y S- [Stuart] look[in]g ver[y] well, and all kind[ne]ss, h[a]d told me how b[a]d the chol[er]a w[a]s in Paris - I sh[oul]d be mad to go th[e]re now - she has ten times more heart than Miss H- [Hobart] and was all kindness wanted me after all to stay dinner offered me her carriage tomorrow  thought she might have or sorry she had not taken me into Whitehall somehow I could scarce keep up at all Miss H- [Hobart] followed me out saying she hoped I should not go and take on so ‘com[e] give me one good kiss?’ I did and so we parted we had not had much conversation in the carriage  but what we had was well enough tho’ the least thing would have made her crossish but I avoided all this  talking of congratulations ssaid she had not had mine except that I had said I was glad  she said ‘oh I know you are both glad and sorry’  she had laughed and said  shall we turn and go back to Hastings  yes ssaid I directly if you will then I joked and said I ought not to have said that but something different  she said she should not have liked it if I had   true thought I she loves the attention and attachment of others  however little she herself may return either  but after all the work I have somehow made at parting and I could not help it yet still she thinks me desolate about her than I am my remembrance of her will soon pass over to what is comfortable  I could not have lived happily with her and the being without will soon cease to pother  I have really been very comfortable all this evening - I ha[ve] a ver[y] nice

SH:7/ML/E/15/0059

handso[me] apart[men]t and am ver[y] comf[orta]ble I fear it will be expensive but I must do as well as I can  I only wish to see Lady Gordon and know my fate with her   till then I must be in doubt wr[ote] all the ab[ov]e of today and h[a]d just done it at 10 10/.. - how forlorn and solitary I might feel but thank God I do not   if I had but a little money I should do  I only fear getting rather beyond myself  Mrs. Hawkins is ill - a chill she g[o]t the oth[e]r day - I hope n[o]t any deg[ree] of chol[er]a w[hi]ch is b[a]d en[ou]gh here - L[or]d Durham’s moth[e]r is just dead of it - well! if I h[a]d made my will to my mind, I feel as if I c[oul]d say in calm[ne]ss, God’s will be done! I ha[ve] liv[e]d long en[ou]gh to be content[e]d to be call[e]d hence whenev[e]r it may be the good pleas[u]re of that provid[en]ce w[hi]ch ordereth all th[in]gs wisely - I h[a]d made up my  mind to go out early in the morn[in]g, and do all my jobs - th[e]re is so[me]th[in]g brok[e]n ab[ou]t the rumble of the carr[ia]ge that I can[no]t ha[ve] it tomor[row] I h[a]d best  perh[aps] sit at ho[me] and be busy ab[ou]t my will - How quiet and tranquil I feel! If I live, may it be for good! If I die soon, how m[u]ch mis[er]y I n[o]t escape! a lit[tle] r[ai]n at Tunbridge wells and a lit[tle] en route at 1st and for so[me]ti[me] aft[er]w[ar]ds - qui[te] fair latter[l]y, b[u]t thickish and foggy ov[e]r Lond[on] and too thick for  good view all the way - F[ahrenheit] 61° now at 10 20/.. in my salon - ca[me] to my r[oo]m at 11 1/2 -

[swanqueeneverafter]

Sins of the Past Pt.4

Kingdom of Valencia. Main Square. Present. (Gareth and Catrina prepare for a ride.) Catrina: "What a charming idea this is, Gareth." Gareth: "Yes. A ride before breakfast always gives me a healthy appetite. I’ve had the kitchens prepare something special." (Catrina looks revolted when she sees the display of food, but puts on a smile.) Catrina: "Oh, how sweet of you." (Chef Vincenzo watches Catrina suspiciously as she and Gareth leave.) Dun Broch. Forest. (Merida and Mulan arrive to confront Anhora.) Merida: “Here. This is where the unicorn was slain.” Mulan: “So how do we contact this ‘keeper of the unicorns’?” Merida: “I don’t know, he just appeared. (Calling out:) Anhora! Show yourself! Anhora!” Anhora: (Appearing behind them:) “You wanted to talk with me?” Merida: “I’ve come to accept your challenge. My people are starving.” Anhora: “You must believe me when I say it gives me no pleasure to see your people suffering.” Mulan: “If it pains you, put an end to it.” Anhora: “It is not in my power to lift the curse.” Merida: “Then tell me what I must do. As Queen it is my responsibility, and I will prove myself worthy and lift the curse.” Anhora: “You must go to the Labyrinth of Gedref. There, you will face a final test. If you fail, there is no hope. The curse will destroy Dun Broch.” (Anhora begins to disappear.) Mulan: “Wait! What kind of test will she face?” Anhora: (Fading out of sight:) “That is for Merida alone to discover.”

Storybrooke. Granny's Diner. (Regina and Emma are finishing up breakfast at the diner when the Charmings arrive with baby Maria.) Snow White: (To Maria:) "And there they are, there are your mommies." (Emma smiles as Regina rolls her eyes.) Granny: (Walking towards Snow:) "It's about time you got here. (Holding out her arms:) Let me at her. (Everyone looks on bemusedly while Granny takes Maria into her arms and takes a deep breath:) Ah! That's the stuff. The fountain of youth. I just can't get enough of that newborn smell." Emma: "Kinda makes you wonder when we'll get a chance to hold her again, huh?" Regina: "Indeed. Still, it beats the alternative I suppose. Back when it was just Henry and I, there were times when I would've given anything for someone to take him for a few hours." Emma: "Now you've got more friends and family than you know what to do with." Snow White: "So, you guys ready to see some houses? You know if I had realised Henry would need a place of his own so soon, we could've kept the apartment for him." Regina: "Well thankfully for Alice and Robin, you didn't." Emma: "Yeah, besides I don't think Henry would want to go from his parents house to his grandparents house." David: "That's a fair point." Emma: "So, where to first? Mom, I'm sure you have some- (Sees Snow pull out a ring binder:) suggestions." Snow White: "Oh, just one or two." Regina: "Of course she'd bring a binder." Emma: "Just relax and think of Henry and Ella's happiness." Snow White: "And don't forget, it's the second Thursday of the month so you know what that means." Regina: "Oh no." Zelena: (Bursting through the diner door, proclaiming loudly:) "Game night!" Regina: (To Emma:) "Remind me again why I stopped being evil?" Camelot. Past. Lower Town, Market. (A young boy, Mordred, walks through the market with his father, Cerdan.) Cerdan: (To a vendor:) “Do you have my supplies ready? We must leave the city without delay.” Vendor: (Handing him a pouch:) “Everything you asked for, it’s all here. I’m sorry.” (Cerdan tenses and looks up at the vendor, as Mordred sees guards approach. Mordred and his father duck under the merchant’s table to run through the market.) Guard: “Seize him! Stop there!”

(Mordred and Cerdan are forced to run into the palace grounds. A guard jumps at them and slashes Mordred. The boy lets out a scream and Cerdan uses his magic on the guard. The spell throws the guard into the rampart wall. Mordred can’t run far, so he and his father are stuck on the drawbridge.) Cerdan: “Abannan átí. (The spell shuts the drawbridge gates:) Run! Run, run!” (Mordred runs through the gates before they close while Cerdan allows himself to be caught. Holding his wounded arm, Mordred continues running, into the castle and up the large stairway.) Guard: "In there. Quick, down there. We’ve got ‘im." Morgana's Chambers. (The boy bursts in while Morgana and Guinevere stand talking.) Guinevere: "You can't be in here." Mordred: (Telepathically to Morgana:) "Please. You have to help me. They’re going to kill me." Morgana: (Shocked at being able to hear him:) "It's alright Guin, he's scared." Guard: (Knocks:) "My Lady? (Knocks:) My Lady?" Morgana: "Take him in there." (Morgana waits until Guin and Mordred are behind the curtain to open the door.) Guard: "I’m sorry to disturb you, My Lady." (Mordred collapses into Guinevere's arms.) Guard: “We’re searching for a young Druid boy. We believe he came this way.” Morgana: “I haven’t seen anyone. It’s just me and my maid.” Guard: “Best keep the door locked till we find him.” Morgana: “Of course. Thank you.” (Morgana closes the door and runs to check on the boy. Guinevere’s hand is covered in Mordred’s blood.)

Wonderland. Present. (Having climbed the tree, Ella walks carefully along one of the large branches.) Ella: (Spotting the house in the distance:) "I can see it! The Hatter's place, it's not that far! Will? (Ella turns at the sound of purring and watches as the Cheshire cat materialises before her eyes:) Oh, you scared me." Cheshire Cat: "Yes, scary... and strange. Seems to sum this place up well doesn't it? Wonderland has grown stranger. I'm stranger, you're stranger. Together we are strangers." Ella: “Well, then how do you do? My name is Ella. Now that we're friends, you wouldn't want to eat a friend. Would you?” Cheshire Cat: “Mmm, certainly not without pepper. The pickings are slimmer these days. These woods used to be full of food, but now the only thing it's full of, is you. (The cat lunges at Ella who leaps out of the way, reaching for another branch but falling from the tree. Getting to her feet quickly as the cat lands beside her on the ground, Ella backs away. Taking a swipe at her with his claws:) You look like you’re going to be the sweetest meat I’ve ever tasted. Let’s see shall we?” (Before the cat can lunge at Ella again, Will appears and stamps on the Cheshire Cat’s tail.) Will: (Breaking off a piece of nearby mushroom:) “Oi! (Will hurls the mushroom at the cat just as he roars causing him to swallow it. Immediately the Cheshire Cat begins to shrink:) Now then, go pick on somebody your own size.” (The Cheshire Cat gives a meek meow before running away into the bushes.)

Ella: (Getting to her feet:) “Where were you?” Will: “Oh Will, thank you for being so brave! So daring! (Ella folds her arms:) Look can we focus on the part where I came back and saved your life?” Ella: “This place really freaks you out, doesn’t it?” Will: “I happen to be the consort to the Queen of Wonderland.” Ella: “But no one out here knows that, do they? The people around these parts still think that... what was it... the Red Queen is their ruler?” Will: “Wonderland is large and expansive, far larger than most people realise. So naturally there are areas where Tiana’s messages of peace and prosperity have yet to reach. It pays to keep on your toes out here so that’s where I was, checking our perimeter for any surprise attacks. It’s not my fault you got yourself into trouble without me. Now, did you find the Hatter’s place?” Ella: (Not believing a word of it:) “Yes.” Will: “Good, then let’s get going.” Labyrinth of Gedref. (Merida and Mulan arrive at the entrance to the labyrinth.) Mulan: “Let me come with you. You don’t know what form of test will take. I might be able to help.” Merida: “No, I can’t ask you to do that. Thank you for getting me this far, but this curse upon Dun Broch is my responsibility. I’m gonna be the one to lift it, or die trying.” Mulan: “Alright, how does you dying help anyone?” Merida: “I’ll die knowing I did everything I can.” (Merida enters the labyrinth. After waiting only a few moments, Mulan enters, taking a different path.) Storybrooke. Past. Granny's Diner. (On a dark, stormy night, the diner appears closed as Regina sits alone in one of the booths. It is a few days after Cora's death and Mayor Mills has been keeping a low profile. When the door behind her opens and closes, Regina doesn't need to turn around to know who's standing there.) Regina: "I reserved the diner for my mother's wake, Sheriff Swan. The very least you can do is respect my wishes." Emma: "That's what I came to do. Pay my respects, I mean." Regina: (Scoffs bitterly:) "Well I'd invite you in but as you can see, there's no room." (Glancing around the empty diner, Emma walks further inside, towards the seated woman.)

Emma: "I mean it, Regina, I'm sorry for your loss and I'm sorry things had to end the way they did." Regina: "Thank you. Now would you please let me grieve in peace?" Emma: "Actually I thought we could talk?" Regina: "Well, Miss Swan, as I've come to expect from the Sheriff's department these days, you thought wrong." Emma: "I'm not leaving until you talk to me." Regina: "Then you're in for a long wait." Emma: "That's fine, I've got time. (Swinging her arms around awkwardly for a moment, she heads towards the counter:) Do you like pie? (Silence:) Of course you do, you're always baking. Well I love pie. I've never made one myself but, I love all kinds. (Moves behind the counter:) Sometimes when I can't sleep, I take out a slice of pie from the fridge, warm it up in the microwave. That and a cold glass of milk? Beats counting sheep every time. (Regina continues her silence:) Now let's see, we've got apple pie. (Smirks:) Of course. Then there's strawberry rhubarb. Then, ooh, lemon chiffon, very nice. Ah, here we are, my favourite (Pulls out a plate:) cherry berry berry." (A thunderclap rumbles overheard and causes Regina to jump out of her chair.) Regina: "God dammit!" Emma: "Regina, relax, it's just a thunderstorm." Regina: "No, you relax! Lightning scares the hell out of me, alright?" Emma: (Standing, mouth agape:) "You're kidding?" Regina: "No. I mean yes, obviously it doesn't scare me... the storm's just another reminder of...” Emma: “Cora?” (Regina nods, then slowly moves over to the counter and takes a seat.) Regina: (Sighs:) “Growing up, my mother was never the warmest of people, but whenever there was a storm, she'd always let me cuddle up with her until it had passed." Emma: "That's sweet. (Moves to place her hand on Regina's but the Mayor pulls her hand away:) Well, I've never been afraid of lightning." Regina: (Scoffs:) "Does anything scare you?" Emma: (Walks around the counter:) "When I was little, sure, growing up there were plenty of things. (Takes a seat beside Regina:) Then I got older and the fear just sort of went away. But now that I have people in my life, a family, friends, people I care about? The thought of losing them scares me more than anything."

Regina: “I’m not going to kill Mary Margaret if that’s what you’re worried about.” Emma: “It’s not.” (They stare at each other for a long moment.) Regina: (Shaking her head:) "You know I was expecting you? Back when I first adopted Henry, I knew who his mother was and what that meant. That somehow you'd find your way here to Storybrooke, find a way to break my curse. I just didn't expect you to be so beautiful. But I knew, if I waited, that one day you'd show up in my life. Now here you are, the woman fated to end my evil schemes. (Reaches for Emma's hand and holds it:) Turns out she's the woman of my dreams." (Ever so slowly, the two women close the distance between them and share a soft, lingering kiss.) Emma: (Softly:) "So what now?" Regina: "Maybe you could keep me company, at least until the storm passes?" Emma: (Nods:) "Until the storm passes."

[fishyspots]

ooh could you write 38 for david + patrick?

38: anything else that makes you SOFT (i chose making low-stakes bets over inconsequential things)

“Let the record reflect that I’m hating this.”

“Let the record reflect that, of the two of us, you’re the only one who would ever consult a record. Also: I do not care.”

“Hurtful,” Patrick said, but he accepted the paper bag of popcorn David passed his way. David probably meant for it to shut him up. He grabbed a few kernels anyway.

“You know,” he said, still chewing moodily, “I kind of figured this wouldn’t draw a huge crowd, but I still didn’t think we’d be the only people here.”

“It’s Tuesday,” David reminded him. “It’s not the Elmdale Arthouse’s fault that we have a weird schedule.”

Patrick refused to be placated. “I can’t believe you knew all those U.S. state capitals.”

“Make bets at your own peril,” David said sagely, around a mouthful of popcorn. “Besides, it’s sci fi. You like sci fi. You wanted to watch that end-of-the-world-because-aliens movie a while back.”

“This is a documentary about sci fi, not a sci fi movie.” Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Same thing.” David waved a hand dismissively.

David loved rom coms, the cheesier and older the better. He’d forced Patrick to sit through every movie Reese Witherspoon had ever been in—okay, it hadn’t been too forceful, because Patrick loved giving David what he wanted and Legally Blonde was really very good—and he had strong opinions about plots and characters and even the role that a strong and consistent friendship ought to play in a believable love story. Yes, Patrick was quoting. David had opinions about My Best Friend’s Wedding. When Patrick had bet David that he couldn’t get at least ten state capitals right in the Buzzfeed quiz Patrick had pulled up on his phone, he was thinking that, on the off chance that David had actually learned geography at his performing arts boarding school, his Tuesday plans would be relatively unchanged. He would still lean into David’s side on Ray’s couch, feet pulled up next to him. Shoes off, because David had opinions about footwear and furniture. And David would dictate a movie choice while Patrick did his level best to distract David from whatever was on the screen.

But David had chosen a screening of a documentary about Ursula K. Le Guin instead.

Patrick shouldn’t have been surprised that David loved documentaries. His boyfriend’s tastes were a study in contradictions. He drank cheap boxed wine and the local bottles he’d sourced for the store the same way, with his eyes closed for the first sip. He listened to Mariah Carey loudly and often, but he also had playlists filled with nothing but French synth-pop. Even his movie snacks were varied; David brought a container of dried mango and then bought them popcorn.

Patrick groaned, pouring all of his frustration into the sound. “This wasn’t even a fun bet. If I won, my prize would have been fun.”

“For you,” David said. “Your prize was a back rub, not a night of intrigue and debauchery.”

“And you’d call this a night of intrigue and debauchery?” Patrick asked. He raised an eyebrow.

David hummed. “Too early to tell. Day’s still young.”

The lights went down. Patrick sensed his window was closing—even though they were the only people in the theater, David fiercely enforced his own rule about not talking during movies.

“Better be a lot of debauchery,” he muttered. He reached for David’s hand and held it tight. He was seated to David’s left in anticipation of this move. David liked to be close when they watched movies, but he also liked to snack.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” David squeezed Patrick’s hand and rubbed at the joint between his thumb and forefinger.

Patrick made a disagreeable noise, then dropped his head to David’s shoulder. He smiled when he felt David brush a kiss against his hairline. It was dark, so David couldn’t see him. Patrick didn’t want his boyfriend to think he was enjoying himself.

He rubbed his cheek against the soft fabric of David’s sweater and let his eyes close. He may have promised to go to this movie, but he never promised to stay awake for it.

[chickensarentcheap]

Sanctuary -Chapter 25

Warnings: none really

Tagging:  @alievans007,  @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @thorsbathroomchicken

It's seven thirty in the evening when they park three blocks away from the Slainte pub; sidewalks crawling with pedestrians, streets packed with cars, restaurant patios standing room only and offering up not only booze and traditional Irish and American dishes, but live music as well.  At first neither of them move or speak. The only sounds the clicking of the cooling engine and the muffled sounds of conversations and laughter filtering in from the outside world. Tyler grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white; his eyes dark and stormy, brow furrowed, lips set in a thin, stern line. Everything is telling him that this is a bad idea; that aching pit in his stomach, the tightness in his throat,  the anxiety that sits heavily on his chest.  He's tempted to just say 'fuck it' and turn the car back on and return to the hotel. Or to actually accompany her to her destination; sitting inside as opposed to being separated by hundreds of feet and walls of brick and glass.  

“You have to trust me. Tyler.”  

Her voice plays over and over in his head.  It isn't that he doesn't trust her. He trusts her with his life. With his children's lives. It's that the threat of losing her is becoming all too terrifyingly real. The thought that anything could happen while she was in there alone. Someone in that bar could have seen her at the hotel or with him out on the street or at the airport and 'make her' as soon as she stepped through the door.  If they know who she is...who she is tied to...it's game over. There is no coming back from what will happen to her. They will beat her. Rape her. Torture her. For days on end until they finally got their fill. And then they'd kill her. It has happened before; women tied to mercenaries captured and unbelievably savagery and brutality unleashed on them.   Even if they did manage to survive, the effects and the trauma were long lasting. Life altering.  And it's fate that is just too painful to consider.

He thinks of his kids. At the thought of actually having to do it alone. Raise them as a single father. And it makes him nauseous. His head pounds; sweat gathers at his temples and upon his brow. And he reaches into the side pocket of his cargo pants and takes out a bottle of anti anxiety meds; twisting open the cap and dumping four into his mouth.

Esme notices but says nothing. Simply resting her hand on his thigh and and giving it a tight squeeze. She never judges him; she knows his struggles with mental illness. The effects of his PTSD and depression. The often crippling anxiety. All seemingly kept at bay until McCann had stepped into their lives and torn it all to shit.

She moves beside him now; grabbing the laptop bag that rests between her feet, pulling those fake eyeglasses from a side pocket and slipping them onto her face.  “Well?” she inquires, and turns to face him. “What do you think?”

He can't help but smile. She looks years younger. With that fresh face devoid of any make up and shimmering red hair and those freckles across the bridge of her nose.    Looking the part of the working girl in a simple pair of black dress slacks and a cream short sleeved blouse that plunges just far enough to both capture attention and send any mortal man's curiosity into overdrive.

“I think you should get glasses for real,” he replies, and leans across the front seat to kiss her. He can taste her tinted lip gloss; a mix of coconut and strawberry. And he wishes he could keep kissing her forever.  “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “I need you to be sure about this.

“I'm good,” she assures her. “Are you sure about this?”

“No,” he admits. “I'm not.”

“I'll be okay,” she promises, laying a hand on the side of his face and pecking his lips. “I've got this. I know what I'm doing. Just hold up your end of the bargain, okay? You only come in if you hear something going wrong.”

“It'll be too late if I wait that long.”

“Give me a chance,” she implores. “If I'm not out in twenty minutes, then come in and get me. Don't talk to anyone, don't make every contact. Just walk in and grab me and we leave. But I need at least twenty to get anything out of these people. Even if it's just names of other people to talk to.”

“There's a restaurant across the street. I'll be waiting there. On the patio. When I see you come out, I'll wait until you've turned the corner and then I'll catch up. Okay?”

She nods.

“I don't like this. Not one fucking bit.”

“It's going to be okay, Tyler. You just have to trust me.”

He nods, then presses a kiss to her forehead. “Just be careful.”

“I will,” she vows, a gentle smile curving her lips, so much love and adoration in her eyes and written all over her face as she reaches up to push his hair away from his eyes.  She gives him on last peck on the lips and then opens the car door, stepping out on the street and slinging the laptop bag over her shoulder.  Shooting him a smile and a small wave of the fingertips before crossing the busy street.

He watches through the rear view mirror as she goes. Then waits until she disappears around the next corner before climbing out himself.

****

He arrives first; his gait longer and quicker. And he takes a seat at one of the remaining tables on the restaurant patio. A table for four; sitting in the very middle, facing the other side of the street and the busy pub that is their target. Taking in the surroundings; the bouncer at the door, several couples sitting outside under umbrellas emblazoned with the Guinness logo, an acoustic guitar player completing the equipment set up before his gig.  Through the pub's front window he can see the wet bar that stretches all the way from front to back; a handful of customers on the stools, a waitress moving around with notepad and pen in hand, a lone bartender tending to thirsty patrons.

He orders a beer and pretends to be interested in seeing a a menu. Even the littlest things can spark suspicion,and it's better to be safe than sorry. And he's just slipped his sunglasses onto his face when Esme finally rounds the corner,  and he sees the nervous way she tucks her hair behind her ears and constantly looks over her shoulder. It's been a long time since she's done something like this. Walked into the unknown and lied and conned to get her way. But it's like riding a bike; once you hit the right stride and your confidence comes back

She pauses before approaching the door, casting a glance in his direction. A tiny smile tugging at her lips.

He raises his hand in a small wave, then gives her a reassuring smile of his own, followed by a stiff nod.  Sipping his beer, watching over the rim of the glass as she briefly engages with the bouncer, flashing the hulking man a dazzling smile before reaching into the pocket on her pants and  pulling out one of the fictitious business cards that Nik had made up.  Chatting amicably, gesturing animatedly with her hands, cocking her head to the side and giving that flirtatious little grin that he knows so well.  He hates it. Seeing her that way with other men, Whether it's for a job or not.  And he'd never considered himself a jealous or possessive man. Until her. And he actually frowns when she lays a hand on the other man's bicep. Legitimately angry at how the younger man is so obviously checking her out; the way he gallantly opens the door for her and then his eyes focus on her ass as she steps inside.

Gulping down a mouthful of beer, he takes his SAT from the side pocket of his pants and sends Nik a quick and simple text.

SHE'S IN.

*****

The wooden floors are scuffed and bowed; peanut shells and wood shavings cracking under the soles of her heels. It fits every stereotype that her mind has ever held of an Irish pub;  Guinness on tap, the smell of fish and chips hanging heavily in the air, polished wood tables and booths, chairs and stools and benches clad in rich green vinyl. The Tiffany glass swag lamps that hang over diners as they eat,  the dart pools and pool tables taken up by the young and old alike.

She notices the attention she attracts; a fairly young woman clad in modest business attire, the black patent pumps and the vibrant hair. She feels the eyes on her with each patron she passes; the curious, the intrigued, the suspicious. A fresh face in a place like this is bound to turn some heads, and puts an extra sway in her hips as she walks, licking her lips and making them glisten,  shy smiles for the men her age and younger, broader and more friendly ones for the elderly gents.  It's been a hell of a long time she's had to play that game; lure men in, giving them a false sense of confidence, encouraging them to approach yet not wanting to come across as too eager.  She's missed it. The sense of satisfaction that you get when you know you've got someone on the hook and you just keep reeling them in until they're eating out of the palm of your hand.

“May I?” she address an older man as he drinks at the bar, casting a glance down at the overcoat and the copy of that day's paper that sits on the stool beside him.

“Of course, love. My apologies,” he hurriedly removes the items, then gallantly offers a hand to help her up onto the stool.

“A gentleman,” she muses, and curls her fingers around him, accepting the gesture with a smile.

“Can I buy you a drink, love?” he sounds a little too eager. But he's encouraged by the fact that a woman more than half his age has chosen the seat beside him...out of all the empty stools remaining at the bar...to perch herself upon.

“I'd love to accept, but I'm actually on the job.”

“Something non alcoholic, then. Just to quench your thirst.”

She relents, laying a hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly.  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Billy!” he calls down to the bar keep, a younger man that leans against the end of the bar, watching soccer on the flat screen mounted on the nearby wall.

Esme estimates his age; twenty five, thirty at the most. Tall and and thin but blessed with broad shoulders and a wide back. Rowing perhaps. Maybe even swimming. A brush cut that draws attention to the thick silver hoops in each ear lobe and the tribal tattoos that decorate each side of his thick, strong neck.  Faded and well fitting blue jeans. Doc Marten boots. A black and red button down plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and a white tee underneath. Casual, yet well put together.  And he regards her suspiciously as he wanders towards them, both hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

“Something for my new friend here,” the older gentleman says. “And another for me. “

“Just a diet coke,” she orders with a smile. Not too broad. Not too dazzling. Just right to break the ice. It's a process; some people are more easily charmed than others. She can tell he's going to be more of a challenge. If she seemed too friendly and chatty, it would turn him off from continuing a conversation. Too standoffish and he won't even engage.  “Busy in here tonight. Is it always like this?”

“One of our most busy Thursdays,” the bartender confirms, as he moves way to gather their drinks.

“I'm sorry love,” the man beside her speaks up. “But I didn't catch your name,”

“That's because I didn't give it to you. Patience is a virtue, after all.” She pulls out her cell phone...her personal line...and uses the front facing camera as a ruse to fix her make up and touch up her hair, sneaking a picture of the young bar keep as he pours a stein of Guinness.  She slips her phone back into the laptop bag, then turns to the older man with her hand out. “I'm Meghan. Meghan Young.”

“George,” he says in return, politely shaking her hand and then going the extra step of pressing his lips against the top of it.  “You're not from around these parts, are you? An outsider. What brings a pretty young lass like yourself to these neck of the woods?”

“Business,” she offers a smile of gratitude as the bar keep places her drink in front of her, then takes the plastic straw behind her thumb and forefinger and places just the tip between her lips, eyes never leaving Billy's as she takes a long pull.  “I'm here for work,” she continues, and removes one of the business cards from the side pouch on the laptop bag, placing it on the top of the bar and then sliding it across with the tip of her finger.

“What kind of business?” George inquires, sitting sideways on his stool now, leaning towards her ever so slightly.

Billy picks up the card, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he reads the information. “Journalist.”

“For the Chicago Tribune.”

“And they send you all the way here on business?”

“They send me everywhere. Nothing can stop a reporter from chasing a good story. And I've stumbled upon quite the winner, here. I was hoping maybe you gentleman could help me. Give me a little information. Or at least point me in the right direction.”

Billy slips the business card into the breast pocket of his shirt, then leans back against the bar, arms folded across his chest. “What kind of information?”

She leans forward, elbows on the bar, hands clasped around the glass of soda. “I received an anonymous tip. From someone in Chicago that has connections. To the IRA.”  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the way George's eyebrows shoot up, mug of beer pressed to his lips. “Is it true. That this place is owned by a member.”

George is more forthcoming with the information,  eager to please and impress. “Indeed it is. Been in the same family for more than fifty years. All of them in the IRA. What makes you so interested?”

“I've heard there's some trouble brewing.” she keeps her voice low. “Between the IRA and one of their ex members. Who has ties to a New Zealand crime family.”

George nods enthusiastically, then looks at the young bar keep. “She's talking about McMann.”

“How do you know of him?” Billy asks her.

“I already said. An anonymous source with his ties to the IRA.”

“What's his name?”

“A journalist never, ever gives up her sources. I'm sure it's the same way with you. I'm sure you'd never out one of your informants would you.”

His smirk grows.

“Look,” she sips at her drink, then taps her fingernails against the glass. “Journalism is a dying art these days. Everything is on the web. There's no substance. No spice. There's no one out there delving into the hard topics and writing truly valuable human interest stories. I want to bring that back. I want to bring back the passion for the written word. A story like this could launch my career. I could really make a name for myself. And I'd really appreciate if you'd help me out.  If not now, then maybe we can arrange something? Talk in private?”

He nods down at her wedding band. “You're married?”

“Separated. He's out of the picture. Chose work over me. What's the saying? His loss is another man's game? I really, really, really want this,” she adds a slight plea to her voice. “Badly. And there's nothing I wouldn't do to get the information I need. Is it true? That the IRA kidnapped McMann's wife and son's?”

Billy shakes his head. “Rumour. We...they...had nothing to do with it. It's that crime family you mentioned. Trying to stir up trouble.”

“Do you think we could arrange something? Perhaps I could come back after hours? Or during the day when it isn't as busy?”

He nods, a slow grin spreading across his face. “We can definitely arrange something.”

“And I was thinking...” she runs the sides of her fingers along her straw, her eyes never leaving his. “...it would really help if I could get more than one perspective on things. Perhaps someone higher up the chain of command? A boss? Someone with a little more...pull?”

“I could arrange something.”

“You're a life saver, William,” she shoots him a wink, and she sees the slight blush that creeps into his cheeks at the use of his full name. “Here...give me your hand...” she motions for him to do as asked, and when he steps forward, palm down, she turns it out to face her. Then fetches a pen from her back and scrawls her SAT number into his skin. “This is a better, more private line to reach me on. Non work related. If you catch my drift.”

“Oh I catch your drift alright,”  he says, and then gives her hand a squeeze before she pulls it away.

She pulls her cell phone from her back, gasping dramatically when she checks the time. “I'm running late. I have another place to be. More people to talk to. It was a pleasure, William. I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Pleasure was all mine,” he declares.  “I'll be in touch.”

She flashes him a dazzling smile. “I hope so. George...” she lays a hand on the older man's back, rubbing softly as she slides off the stool.  “You're a gentleman. And incredibly charming. Thank you for the drink.”

“Hope to see you again,” he calls after her, as she slings the laptop bag over her shoulder and heads for the door,

******

Tyler glances down at his cell phone.

Five minutes to go.

He sips his beer, leans back in his chair, nervously rubs his palms against his thighs.  The world continues around him; despite the fact that fifteen minutes ago his entire life...his heart...disappeared through the front door of the pub across the street. He hasn't felt the effects of the booze and the anxiety meds; his nerves and senses still on high alert. Eyes always watching. Ears pricked for any hint of trouble across the street.  His stomach in knots, chest tight.  He can't sit still. He drums his fingers against the table top, nervously shakes his legs or taps his foot, runs his hands through his hair, chews absentmindedly on the corner of his thumb nail.  A frown crossing his face when someone deliberately plants their body in front of him. And he's about to look up and ask them what the fuck when a voice beats him do it.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

What in the actual fuck?  He thinks, and glances up.  Nostrils flaring. Brow furrowing. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Thought I'd pop by,” Mark says, hands shoving his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “Esme's inside, isn't she,” he nods in the direction of the pub across the street.

“What the hell do you want? Why are you here? How the hell did you find me?””

“I know how to tap cell phones. You used your private one about ten minutes ago. This is where I tracked you to.”

Oh for fucks sakes.

“What's she doing in there? Intel?”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Tyler hisses. “What is wrong with you? Keep your fucking voice down.”

“How long she been in there?”

“I said shut the fuck up. Are you trying to get her caught? Now sit down and keep your mouth shut.”

“She's a feisty one, huh? I can imagine how hard she had to talk you into this.”

“I said sit the fuck down. Now.”

He finally relents, slipping into the chair across from Tyler.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Mark? What the hell is going on? How'd you know where I was?”

“Who do you think Nik came to for help? To arrange all the secret meeting stuff back at the hotel? The secure satellite feed? The new SAT phones. The fake Ids. You really think she pulled all that off on her own?”

“Why you? What the hell do you have to do with any of this?”

“Come on now, you honestly didn't know I was FBI.”

Tyler frowns. “You're a Fed? Are you serious right now?”

“I'm surprised Esme didn't tell you. She probably didn't tell you the rest, either. About asking me for help.”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“She was worried about you. Said you'd got mixed up into some mess with the IRA. Asked me to tap your phones and trace your whereabouts. In case something happened to you.  I told her she probably didn't need to be so concerned. You're a big boy. You can take care of yourself. But you know how she gets. All worked up and anxious. A real mother hen.”

“Are you always this big of an asshole? Is it a gift or...?”

“I'm actually quite flattered. That she'd even think of me. Guess maybe she's still hanging onto some of the past. Just can't quite seem to let me go.”

“You're about five seconds away from getting my foot up your ass, mate. Now either shut up or fuck off. I don't have time for your shit.”

“Ever the busy man,” he smirks. “Always running off to solve everyone elses problems but never dealing with your own.”

“Mark, I swear to Christ, if you don't shut the fuck up...”

“Bitter pill to swallow, huh? Knowing she still thinks about me.”

“Listen you little shit...”  Tyler leans across the table. “...I don't know what you want or why you're here, but either keep your mouth shut or I shut it for you.  I don't have the time or the fucking patience for this.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “I'm just here to help...mate.”

Tyler's blood boils.  But he refuses to take the bait. The games won't work on him, no matter how hard the other man tries.

“Kind if a shitty move on your part, don't you think?” Mark asks. “Getting her mixed up in all this? Considering how she thinks of you as her hero. Her knight in shining armour. The one that came along and helped her get over me. That one that was able to give her the life that she really wanted. A happy marriage, a bunch of kids, nice place to live. That's kind of a bitch thing to do, Rake. Give her all of that and play the role of her hero and then fuck it all up like this. You'd think you'd want to keep her away from all of this. You know, seeing as you are always going on and on about how much you love her and would never hurt her.  Not exactly walking the walk, huh?”

“I will fucking kill you, Mark. If you don't keep your goddamn mouth shut, I will bury you. Do you honestly believe the shit that is coming out of your mouth right now? Or do you just like to hear yourself talk? You know nothing about my marriage. About my wife. About our lives together. So just sit there and keep your mouth shut,” he glances down at his phone. It's well past the twenty minute mark. “Fuck,” he mutters, and stands up, taking money out of his wallet and tossing it down on the table.

“Sleeping on the job, huh? Not quite on the ball when it comes to keeping an eye on her, are you.”

“Just...stop...just shut the fuck up and...”  he notices the door to the pub open up and Esme finally step out, watching as she exchanges parting pleasantries with the bouncer before hurrying off down the sidewalk. “I gotta go.”

“Are you serious right now?” Mark asks incredulously. “You're going to leave her in there while you chase after another woman?”

“You idiot. That's Esme. She dyed her hair. You absolute fucking idiot. Stay here. Don't follow me.”

“Like hell I'll stay here,” Mark says, and stands up as well. “What are you going  to do, Rake? Stop me?”

“Don't fucking tempt me,”  Tyler retorts, eyes on Esme until she rounds the corner and disappear. “Let's go. If you're coming, let's go. Now.”

****

They reach the car first, Tyler using the keyless entry to unlock the vehicle, then tossing open the back passenger  door.

“Get in,” he orders.

“I don't get to call shotgun?”

“Just get in,” he snarls, and then slams the door shut when the other man finally complies.  Pacing by the side of the car until he finally hears the hurried click of heels against the payment. Relief washing through him when she finally comes around the corner, pausing momentarily to lean a hand against a building in order to remove her heels. Now in her bare feet, shoes in her hand.

  “That was twenty five minutes,” he informs her.

“It took a little longer than expected,” she admits, as he lays a hand on her hip and kisses her softly.  “They were chatty. Not particularly helpful, but chatty.  My feet were killing.  These things are bullshit. Remind me never to wear heels again.”

He takes the shoes from her, a hand on the back as he escorts her to her side of the car. Pausing before opening her door, instead tossing open the back one and tossing the heels into the back seat with enough force to catch Mark on the side of the head and leave some damage.

“I'm starving,” she announces, as her husband opens her door. “Let's go and get something to eat. We'll have to drive pretty far out of the way so no one recognizes you or sees us together. Do you think they sell tacos somewhere?”

“Just get in,” Tyler says, and gives her one last peck on the lips before she slips into the car. “Let's just the fuck out of here, yeah?”

She nods in agreement, and reaches for her seat belt as he closes her door.

“Hi Esme,” Mark greets her from the backseat, and she nearly jumps clear out of her skin.

“What the hell?!”she shrieks. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“He's here to help,”  Tyler says, as he slips behind the wheel and starts the ignition, tires squealing as he peels away from the curb. “You know. Like you asked him to.”

She glares at her ex husband.  “You dumb ass motherf-...”

“Like the man just said, you asked.”

“You weren't supposed to show up here!” she hisses. “You were supposed to send someone! This is not what we agreed to!”

“I had some time off coming. I figured why not to the deed myself? I could use a little excitement.”

“You're going to get a little excitement when I come back there and beat your ass!” she threatens.  “What is wrong with you? I told you not to tell Tyler. I told you...”

“Uhhh...excuse me...” her husband speaks up.  “...Tyler is right here. Tyler can fucking hear you.”

“It's not what you think,” she says.  “I did not ask Mark to come here. I asked him for help. But I never told him to come here.”

“Why didn't you just leave it alone? After I told you McMann?  I told you all of that in confidence.”

“In her defence,” Mark pipes up. “She was just worried about you.”

“You shut up. I''m not talking to you. I'm talking to my wife. You know, your ex wife.”

“Okay...guys...take it down a notch...” Esme insists. “....there's too much ego in this car right now.  Mark, shut up and mind your business, okay? This doesn't involve you.”

“Well it does considering you're the one who asked me for help.”

“Just...shut...up...” she spits out every word. “Or I'll have Tyler stop this car and get him to toss your ass out in the middle of the road.”

“I can stop right here,” Tyler suggests.  “Throw him right out into traffic.”

“You'd like that wouldn't you,” Mark snorts.

“You know what? I actually would. I would love to toss your arrogant ass right in the path of an eighteen wheeler.”

“Simmer down...please...” Esme begs. “Yes. I asked him for help. I told him about McMann. Because I don't trust him and I was worried about you.”

“It was between us. In confidence.”

“I was worried about you, Tyler. You were walking into this blind with nothing but McMann's word to go on.  Maybe I overreacted...”

“You think, Esme? You really think?”

“...but I wanted to help you and keep you safe and that was the only way I knew how.”

“You had my phone and my SAT traced? Are you serious?”

“I wanted someone to have your back. To keep an eye on you,” she reasons. “I didn't do it to betray your confidence. I did it because I was worried. That's all. I'm sorry.  I didn't meant to upset you, Tyler. I did it because I love you and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He sighs heavily, shaking his head.

“I'd be pissed too,” Mark says, and Tyler glares at him through the rear view mirror.  “Just saying.”

“You really need to just shut up and stay that way,” Esme tells him. “See that vein throbbing in the side of his neck? That's the vein that throbs when he's about to impale someone with a garden rake. So just...shhhh...”

There's finally blissful silence.  Tyler's head pounds ferociously, his stomach growls.  “How'd it go?” he asks.

“It was like taking candy from a baby.  They just bought it hook, line, and sinker.  The bartender is definitely IRA. No doubt about it. I gave him my card. He says he's going to call.  And pass my name and number around to other people that can give me info.  They honestly think I'm here to write an article about the what's going on between the IRA and the Buckman's. And McCann's wife and kids. It was so easy, Tyler.  You would have been so proud of me.”

“I am proud of you,” he says, and she smiles.

“You guys realize I'm still back here, right?” Mark speaks up. “And that we're now about half an hour from where I left my car?”

“For fucks sakes!” Tyler bellows, and makes an erratic U turn in the middle of oncoming traffic.  

“You might want to do up your seat belt,” Esme suggests to her ex. “Tyler doesn't know what stop signs and red lights mean.”

It takes half the time to get back into town. The blatant and dangerous traffic violations making for a quick, yet nerve wracking trip.  And Tyler pulls up in front of the restaurant he'd ran into Mark at.

“Get out!” he orders.  “Just get out! Now!”

Mark puts up little resistance. “Your shoes,” he says, to Esme, holding out the heels.

“You're a real fucking tool,” she declares, as he drops them into his lap.

“We'll be in touch,”  Mark says, more to Tyler than her. “I look forward to working with you, Rake.”

Tyler smirks. Then floors the gas.

[singledarkshade]

The Usual Plan

Summary: Accepting Gideon's offer of help to find an object he's been looking for, John does not expect the help to be Rip Hunter. John intends to find out what happened to the other man after they finish the job at hand. If he doesn't deck Rip first. Author’s Note: This was written for the RipChat Holiday Exchange. Enjoy.                                 ********************************************* John walked out the portal onto a beach, staggering slightly when the soft damp sand gave way beneath his feet. Confused he looked around the empty expanse before him, grimacing as it began to rain. Not heavy but enough to make the day miserable.

“Well, typical,” he sighed, starting to walk along to find his way off the beach wondering why Gideon had dumped him here of all places.

When Chas had called with a sighting in Ireland of one of John’s top ten ‘need to get’ magical items, he’d told Sara he was taking some time away to check into the sighting. While he was pulling together a few things he would need, John was surprised when Gideon advised him of co-ordinates from her database near the village he was going to, that would lead to someone who may be able to assist in the search. It didn’t make any sense that she’d sent him to a deserted beach.

“What the hell am I doing here?” John sighed to the ocean.

“Gideon thought I could be of some help with your search,” the familiar voice came from behind him.

John spun, nearly falling in the soft wet sand and stared as Rip Hunter, supposedly deceased almost two years ago, stood leaning against a large rock with an amused smile on his face.

“What the bloody hell,” John demanded marching over, annoyed by the way the sand made him sink with each step, “You’re not dead.”

Rip shrugged, “And you are as observant as always, John.”

John clenched his fists, trying very hard not to just deck the smug arse, “Why…”

“Why have I not let everyone know I survived overloading the time-core?” Rip asked lightly, “Let me think about that for a few minutes.”

John rolled his eyes, “You are still an utter smug bastard, you know that don’t you?”

Rip shrugged again before noting, “Gideon felt that I would be able to help in your search, so she gave me a call and here I am.”

“Then Gideon knows…”

Rip laughed, “Of course she knows I’m alive. Do you think I wouldn’t tell her? The lecture for using the Time Core against Mallus was bad enough,” he shrugged, “Not to mention I reappeared in the world on the Waverider, so it was not possible to hide from her.”

“So,” John started, not looking back as he headed to the path leading off the sand knowing Rip was following, “Where have you been for the last two years?”

“Six months,” Rip replied, catching up with John, “It has only been six months since I fell out the timestream.” He took a breath before adding, “I headed to Tibet and met up with Wally West again. I’m still protecting time, with his help, just a little differently than before. Gideon makes sure that we don’t cross paths with anyone we don’t want to.”

John mused on this information for a moment before deciding to move to the reason he was here. Rip was hiding something, but they didn’t have the time to pursue that conversation right now. He’d get back to it once they’d finished their mission and had access to a lot of alcohol.

“Did Gideon by any chance give you information on what I’m looking for?” John asked as they reached the top of the hill.

Rip nodded, “She said it’s some kind of knife.”

“Dagger,” John corrected automatically, annoyed to see Rip’s amused smirk that he’d risen to the bait. As much as he liked Rip, and he did, they were good friends but when he was in one of those moods Rip Hunter could be a complete pain in the arse.

“It’s called the ‘Lumen Dagger’,” John explained, “It has been lost for centuries technically except it seems to pop up every few decades to cause trouble before disappearing again. I’ve been after it for years.”

Rip frowned in thought, “Lumen means light in Latin. Is that an indication of what it does or just the name because someone thought it sounded nice?”

John grimaced, “It enslaves people’s souls and allows the person who wields it to control them, but it also steals that person’s soul and they die a slow agonising death.”

“Of course, I should have known better than to ask,” Rip rolled his eyes, they reached the top of the path which lead them onto a street with four houses and he asked, “Do you know where it is?”

John grimaced, “Not exactly but,” he stopped whatever smart remark Rip was about to make, “I have an idea on how to get information on both it and where it might be.”

“And what is that?”

Pointing to the building just across from them, John smiled, “We need a pub.”

 Rip followed his friend inside the building, finding it about half full. Which considering the size of the room wasn’t exactly hard, the addition of the two of them practically pushed it to capacity. He watched thoughtfully as John sauntered up to the bar and ordered one drink.

When Gideon contacted him to help John in his quest, Rip had been surprised as she had, until that moment, been in complete agreement with his decision to stay well away from the Legends.

It wasn’t easy, being away from Gideon once more. Allowing the Legends to take her to stop Mallus had been heart-breaking but Gideon reminded him that it was the only plan they had that had any chance of succeeding. She just wasn’t happy that he had basically had to kill himself to ensure it did. Not that they didn’t talk at least once every day. She kept him up to date on what the team were doing, he made suggestions every so often that Gideon could use to help them. He told her what he was doing, and they just chatted the way they always did but it had been six months since he’d left his ship, his home, again.

Shaking himself Rip refocussed on John. It had surprised him to learn that the ‘Dabbler In the Dark Arts’ had joined the crew but it was good to know he was there since the last Rip had heard of John had been concerning.

“Should I even ask?” Rip grimaced at the single pint of Guinness John was carrying very carefully.

“You know that’s never a good idea,” John replied, walking past him and outside once more.

Rip followed on behind, wondering what his friend planned to do. The Dark Arts had never been something he’d studied much, although he was no slouch because Rip couldn’t not study something, having a friend who was steeped in them meant he always had someone to ask for the really bad or unexplainable stuff. It just didn’t help when his friend was the one doing the unexplainable things. They walked behind the pub across the grass, the rain had thankfully stopped and the ground wasn’t too soggy, until they were far enough away from the village.

John gently placed the pint glass down in the grass, making sure it was steady before fishing out a gold coin from his pocket.

“Oh, you’re not?” Rip demanded, realising what John was about to do.

John nodded, “Best way to get information in this part of the world.”

Dropping his face into his hand, Rip groaned, “Weren’t you the one who told me about the total and utter chaos that happened the last time you did this?”

“Well, if you have a better idea,” John replied, “I’m all ears.”

Letting out a slightly annoyed sigh, Rip motioned him to get on with it.

John pulled out a packet of salt and passed it to Rip, “Just in case.”

“That makes me feel safe,” Rip sighed, taking a step back to allow John to summon the creature.

  Marking out a circle of salt in the grass, John placed the gold piece beside the pint glass. He circled the glass with salt as well and said the incantation to summon the leprechaun. Most leprechaun’s liked whiskey but the one he was aiming to call, the one who owed John a favour, preferred Guinness.

Light filled the circle, fading to reveal a small man standing in the centre of the salt circle. He was dressed in green, as expected but didn’t look anything like tv and movie versions. He had short red hair and carried a small but very sharp looking sword. After checking the edge of the circle, he moved slowly to the gold piece, licking his finger he drew it across the metal before tasting it.

“Real gold,” the Leprechaun stated looking up at them, “And a full pint. This must be some favour you need, John Constantine.”

“It is, Turlough,” John said.

Turlough glanced up at Rip, “And him?”

“He’s not important,” John replied, smirking at Rip, “Look, I need to know if a dangerous object is loose in the country. I need you to check and, Turlough this is and, not if you feel like it. And give me a location.”

The man thought it over for a few moments, “If I do this then my debt to you is paid?”

“Yes,” John nodded.

Turlough grinned, “Then tell me what you want me to find?”

“The Lumen Dagger.”

Surprise filled the Leprechaun’s eyes, “That’s a very dangerous item to be looking for, John Constantine.”

“Which is why I need to get it out of the world and into a safe place,” he replied.

“Then I’ll be back soon.”

The bright green light filled the circle once more and when it faded the small man was gone.

John turned to Rip, “He’ll be back soon.”

  They stood waiting in silence before, in unison, both men’s phones began to buzz. John pulled out his mobile and rolled his eyes seeing who was calling.

“Yes, Sara,” he answered, seeing Rip moving slightly further away as he took his own call.

“Just checking in and making sure you haven’t got yourself in a jam,” Sara told him.

John glanced across to where Rip was talking, his back to John to ensure his conversation wasn’t overheard.

“I’m fine,” John told her, “Met up with an old friend who’s giving me a hand.”

“Are you sure you don’t need some more help?” Sara asked hopefully, “I’m happy to come join you.”

John chuckled, “Bored?”

“Just thought you might need some assistance,” Sara replied lightly, before confessing, “And we have nothing to do at the moment.”

With another glance at Rip’s back, John had a fleeting moment of wanting to say yes just to watch the reunion. He’d heard tales of them butting heads but had never witnessed the bloodshed. John decided against it, as amusing as it might be, he was too busy to make a trip to the hospital. Not to mention Rip would probably never speak to him ever again.

“I’m fine, love,” John assured her, “See you in a few days.”

Without giving her a chance to say anything else he hung up before walking over to Rip.

“Thanks Wally. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back,” Rip said before hanging up and looking at John, “Problems?”

“Just Sara checking in,” he replied.

  Rip waited, expecting John to tell him that Sara was about to appear, relieved that the words didn’t come. Letting John know he was alive had been a decision that was debated for several hours with Gideon, she finally persuaded him to let the other man know. He trusted John but did not want Sara or the others know.

Thankfully before John could ask about Rip’s phone call, Turlough returned.

“What do you have for me?” John asked the small man.

Turlough’s eyes moved to the pint glass sitting in the circle of salt.

“You’ll get it when you give me my answers,” John reminded the little man.

Annoyance covered Turlough’s face before he shrugged, “Your dagger is in a cave. But another group of people have already found it.”

“Who are they?” Rip asked.

Turlough looked up at him, “The kind of idiots who think robes are a good fashion choice.”

Rip and John shared a look, that was never a good thing.

“Where is the cave?” John demanded sharply.

Turlough shrugged, “I don’t know what you call it, but I can send you there. Once I get my pint.”

John laughed, “Like I’m going to give you that first.”

“Then how do we do this?” Rip demanded annoyed.

John frowned, musing for a moment before asking, “Do you have any of your weird little doo-hickey devices that might be able to break the circle after he’s sent us where we want to go?”

“Doo-hickey?” Rip asked amused, shaking his head as he rolled his eyes, “You’ve been spending far too much time with the Legends.”

“And the answer to my question is?”

Rip mused for a moment checking his pockets, finding a small pod that he had created originally to blow the lock off a door, “I could modify this.”

“I’ve seen you use that before,” John noted before asking, “Didn’t it blow a hole in a wall last time you used it?”

“In my defence,” Rip stated, “I was trying to destroy the building so upped the explosive power. But I can fix it so that on a timer this lets out a small energy blast that removes the salt.”

“And doesn’t destroy my pint?” Turlough demanded.

Rip shrugged, “In theory.”

“Well, considering it’s our only option,” John motioned Rip to proceed.

Pulling out his tools, Rip quickly lowered the explosive capabilities of the pod and set a twenty second timer. Nodding to John, Rip held the button down ready to drop it.

  John prepared himself to be transported by the leprechaun into a completely unknown situation. Although Turlough was getting something out of it, there was always a chance the creature would dump them somewhere dangerous just for kicks. Leprechauns could be mischievous little buggers at times.

“Alright then,” Turlough said, clapping his hands together, “Let’s go.”

As the magic enveloped them, Rip dropped the energy pod just before the landscape shifted around them from grassy hills to dark brown rock surrounding them.

“Good luck,” Turlough’s voice echoed as he disappeared, his voice coming a few seconds later, “My pint is intact.”

Rip rolled his eyes, “Well, at least that went well today. Any ideas where we are?”

“In a cave is all I know at the moment,” John replied as he searched his pockets for the detector he’d made before leaving the Waverider, “Give me a minute and I’ll check Turlough sent us to the right place.”

Rip stood silently watching as John made a few additional marks on the detector before murmuring the incantation. The detector began to glow, and a small beam of light extended into the cave.

Rip let out an annoyed sigh, “And of course we have to go into the dark, damp caves.”

John chuckled as they both pulled out torches.

“Just once, can we not find one of these things in…I don’t know…a well-lit pub?” Rip demanded as he followed John into the cave, feeling the air around them cooling.

“To be fair, we found the statue that nearly got us both decapitated in a theatre,” John reminded him.

Rip nodded, “Fine, I concede there was at least one time it wasn’t a dark dank cave or sewer we’ve traipsed through.”

Before John could retort a small light appeared at the end of the tunnel in front of them, “I think we’ve found our new friends.”

On cue, a soft chanting filled the air around them, and Rip winced.

“Why do they always chant?” John sighed, “It’s not asking for much that they do a rock number, hell I’d even take something from a musical but no, they have to chant.”

“I’ll put it in their suggestion box,” Rip said wryly.

John sighed, “At least it’s not ‘Don’t Bring Me Down’. I can’t listen to that song anymore without feeling sick.”

“You chose the song,” Rip reminded him.

“How was I to know the slime demons were ELO fans,” John retorted, “You know I was banned from that pub after the mess.”

Rip chuckled at the memory as the two men continued to creep slowly towards the light and noise, John shutting off his detector so that they weren’t seen as they crouched behind the rocks. In the centre of a small group, who were all wearing black robes with the crest of a dagger stabbed through a heart sewn onto the front of it, was the Lumen Dagger in a clear casing.

John swore suddenly, “The Obsidian Cult, of course it would be them. Honestly you’d think they’d have given up after the last time they ran into us.”

“Is the dagger encased in glass?” Rip murmured, trying to get a proper look around the cultists standing between them and their objective.

John shook his head, “From the stories I’ve read about the last time it was loose, the dagger was supposedly encased in diamond by the sorceress who found it.”

“Well that gives us some time if they’re trying to release it from the encasing,” Rip mused softly, before asking, “How are we playing this?”

John mused for a few moments, “You shoot, I attack with fire and, while they panic, you grab the dagger.”

“So, our usual plan?”

With a slight laugh, John nodded, “What can go wrong?” he smiled at the frown Rip gave him before adding, “Just don’t touch it with your bare hands.”

Rip nodded sliding on his leather gloves before he pulled out his gun, readying it to fire. He tilted his head listening to the sounds coming from the cave nearby, “They’ve started a new chant.”

“Then we have to stop them now,” John readied himself, “For the sake of music lovers everywhere.”

  John spoke the incantation and magical fire began to swirl around his fingers before he turned to Rip, “Let’s go.”

With a quick nod, Rip stepped forward and began to shoot taking out the surprised cultists as John ran in behind him. Several men rushed John who let out a blast of fire, his entire body alight with magic.

“Rip,” John snapped, “Grab it.”

Spinning out the way of one of the robed figures who tried to attack him, Rip then ducked slamming into another’s stomach and flipping the man over his shoulder. John let out another blast of fire just as Rip reached the dagger encased in diamond. The moment he took a hold of the dagger, a jolt of energy went through him and Rip felt power ripple through him.

“Rip!!!” John yelled, his voice sounding far away.

Rip looked at the weapon he was holding, it was so much more powerful than John had told him, it had power to do everything. To save those he’d lost, to save the people his friends had lost. To give Gideon a human form she had mentioned wanting once or twice, although he knew she wanted it mostly so she could smack him around the head for sacrificing himself.

“Rip,” John called again, appearing before him the fire still twirling around his fingers, “I know what it’s offering but you know it’s not real. Remember what the power the Time Masters craved did to them.”

“I can save…”

“No,” John cut him off before Rip could even finish the thought, “The dagger steal souls, and it will steal the soul of anyone you try to bring back before it takes yours.”

Rip stared at the dagger, “But…”

“No,” John interrupted again, “I know you want them back, I know you miss Miranda and Jonas,” Rip’s head came up at the names and John continued keeping Rip focussed on him, “But you can’t use this to bring them back to you. It won’t be them and you know that,” John reached out, “Give the dagger to me.”

Slowly Rip passed John the dagger and let out a gasp as the energy left him instantly. Reaching out, Rip gripped the wall to keep himself steady watching his friend while he wrapped the dagger in a black velvet cloth.

“Sorry,” Rip whispered.

John rested his hand on Rip’s shoulder, “I know how tempting it must have been for you. Unlike others in the past, you didn’t give in.”

Activating his Time Courier, Rip sighed, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

                                  *********************************************

  The Mill House was quiet when the two men entered it. Heading to the main room, Rip watched John pull out a wooden chest covered in symbols, open it and carefully place the cloth covered dagger inside.

“Got to do a few rituals,” John told him, “Make some tea, would you?”

Understanding that John needed solitude, Rip headed to the kitchen. It wasn’t the first time he’d been here, so he knew where everything was. Rip just hoped John hadn’t decided to store something disgusting in the fridge next to the milk again.

“Gideon,” he activated his communicator while filling the kettle.

“Is everything alright, Captain?” concern filled her voice.

Rip chuckled, “We’re fine. We found the Dagger and are currently back in the Mill House so John can neutralise it. Why do you always assume the worse when I call you outside the agreed time?”

“Because it is you,” Gideon replied amused, “And you have a habit of getting into trouble without me.”

He laughed as he pulled out two mugs and found the teabags, “I suppose I do.”

“How much does Mr Constantine know about your return?” Gideon asked.

Rip grimaced, he knew she’d get straight to that question but had hoped they could just talk for a few more minutes before she did.

“That I’ve been back six months and I’m working with Wally,” Rip shrugged, tossing a teabag into each mug.

He could feel her disapproval in the silence before Gideon asked, “Is that all?”

“Gideon…”

“You know he can be trusted,” Gideon reminded him sternly, “That is why I suggested you help him today.”

Rip sighed, “I know.”

“Rip,” Gideon’s concern filled her voice, “Let him know everything. He will not tell the others.”

Finished making the two mugs of tea, Rip took a sip of his own before he sighed, “I’ll invite him for dinner.”

  “Dinner?” John frowned confused as they exited the portal just outside the small village, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m always happy to be fed and I know you can cook better than I can but…”

“But?” Rip asked lightly as he started them walking through the village.

John grimaced before demanding, “Why am I really here?”

Rip swallowed, “Because I wanted you to know the truth about why I’ve not let anyone know I’m back.”

Concern covered John’s face, he knew there was more going on than Rip had told him and had been wondering how to get his friend to talk.

“Okay then,” John said as they reached a small cottage, “What’s the truth?”

Before Rip could answer another voice filled the air the moment Rip opened the door.

“Daddy, you’re back!!!”

“Jonas,” John breathed in astonishment, watching Rip crouch and catch the little boy in his arms who hugged him tightly.

Rip laughed as he held his son, “You didn’t miss me, did you?” When Jonas nodded, he gave him a mock frown, “But you were in school all day. How did you have the time?”

“You didn’t pick me up,” Jonas reminded him.

Rip hugged his son again, rubbing his back soothingly when Jonas tucked his head against Rip’s neck, “Wally was there, and I only couldn’t pick you up because I had to help a friend.”

Realising there was someone else there Jonas turned and grinned in delight, “Uncle John.”

Jonas threw himself from Rip’s arms into John’s and John held the little boy in a tight embrace, “Oh, it’s so good to see you, kiddo.”

“Are you here to have dinner with us?” Jonas demanded.

John nodded, putting the little boy down, “I am.”

“If you stay longer then you can have hot chocolate too before bedtime,” Jonas grinned, looking over at his father with such innocence.

“Nice try, little man,” Rip laughed, kissing his son’s hair, “Go and play, I’ll call you for dinner and, if you’re good, you can have hot chocolate before bed.”

Jonas grinned before he bounced away.

“I don’t know,” Rip pre-empted John’s question not turning from watching his son bounce over to the other children playing nearby, “My last memory is overloading the Time Core to try to give the Legends time to defeat Mallus. There was bright golden light and then it all went black. I opened my eyes and I was on the bridge of the Waverider with Jonas in my arms. I don’t know how I returned and have absolutely no idea how my son was with me. I’m just grateful that I have him back.”

John nodded in understanding, “So you brought him here to raise him in a safe environment.”

“As safe as I could find,” Rip said softly, “Away from the Legends and the Time Bureau, but with someone who could help me ensure time remains protected. Gideon and I discussed it for hours until we decided this was the best place.”

Watching Jonas running around with the other children, John nodded, “He looks happy and healthy.”

Rip smiled, “He is. And he needs to be fed so come on.”

As his friend entered the cottage John stood for a moment and watched the little boy who called him ‘Uncle John’, understanding why Rip couldn’t return to the life he used to live and why he wanted to stay away from people who were trouble magnets.

“So,” John called as he wandered into the cottage behind his friend, “What’s for dinner?”

[let-it-raines]

Second in Command (Ep - Part 4)

Summary: Life as the “spare to the heir” isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be when you’re the supposed screw-up of the family, but people don’t know what really happens behind closed doors.

Rating: Mature

A/N: Just wanted to say that you guys are continuously kind people, and I appreciate every read, like, kudos, ask, comment, and reblog on this ridiculously long story! :D

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr Chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14| 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 |

Epilogue Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 

Tag List: @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @kmomof4 @wellhellotragic  @ekr032-blog-blog @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @a-faekindagirl @mayquita @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @teamhook @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @branlovesouat @dreadpirateemma @alys07 @andiirivera

Indy walks ahead of him, her leash tugging him along, while Emma walks beside him, their steps matching up as their feet move over the pavement in the gardens. The dullness of the winter plants, brown and gray trees barren of leaves, are fading away and blooming into lush greens and vibrant colors. It’s still cold outside, temperatures dipping low, so he and Emma are bundled up as they take their early morning walk, something they’ve taken up together in the past few weeks.

He finds it relaxing with the simplicity of it all, and he knows that Emma feels the same. It’s a way for them both to get some exercise on days when the gym in their home goes unused as well as a way to give Indy more space to run. She’s calmed as she’s gotten a bit older, but she’s still rambunctious and would likely need acres and acres of land to roam and be completely happy with her running space. Maybe they should travel up to Norfolk and go to their country home so she has a larger backyard and he and Emma have more privacy to go out and about outside of their home without the interference of photographers and reporters aching for a picture of Emma’s stomach.

The last two months of their lives have been, quite frankly, some of the most hectic of his life. Finding out Emma is pregnant was honestly one of the best moments of his life, even if how she phrased it was a little cheeky after such an awful scare. God, when she fell on that stage, he felt his heart drop to his stomach. He’d never been more terrified of anything in his entire life. Something was wrong with his wife, his best friend, and he didn’t know what it was. She was conscious the entire time, but she just wasn’t right. And the two hours between her fall and her telling him that they were having a child, well, he felt as if they’d never end.

Now he knows he was being a bit dramatic, but hindsight is always twenty-twenty instead of the blurry, faded vision that comes when you’re in the moment. Emma and the baby are just fine, growing like a weed really. She’s got the smallest of stomachs, something she woke him up and showed him just a few days ago. She was so excited, her eyes lighting up and practically sparkling under the bathroom’s lights, and sure enough, there was the slightest curve to her stomach, more physical proof that they’re having a child, not that he really needed anymore. But it was something special, and he was just as thrilled to get to see the changes in her stomach.  

And in her breasts, but that doesn’t seem to be a very fatherly thing to think. He thinks it, though, and he really appreciates the growth and how her libido has come back in full force in the past few days. That’s simply something he won’t be sharing with the child one day, but he hopes she (he’s absolutely convinced they’re having a little girl even if he can’t seem to come up with the reason why) can see how enamored he is with her mother. If not, he’s failed them both.

“Hey, babe?”

“Yeah?” he questions, reaching his hand out and twining their fingers together while they continue to walk together, nearing Liam and Abigail’s apartment.

“I think we should go on a babymoon.”

“What the bloody hell is a babymoon? I’m pretty sure that’s not a phase of the moon they taught us in primary school.”

She laughs before taking a step closer to release his hand and tuck her arm around the crook of his elbow while resting her head on his shoulder. He knows she’s being affectionate, but he also knows that she’s not willing to admit that her hands are cold because he suggested she wear gloves before they went out and she didn’t. She’s stubborn as hell, his love.

“I mean, it’s just, like, a vacation before the baby is born. The name is a ridiculous thing. I know it’s super trendy and all, but maybe we could get away for a week or a weekend before I’m not allowed to fly anymore. I think something different might be good for us. Something warm.”

“So before you’re heavily pregnant? When can you not fly? Six or seven months?”

“Yep, I was thinking next month or May. Maybe June if we don’t travel too far away.”

“Well next month is busy.” He runs through the plans he knows they have, trying to remember everything off the top of his head while attempting to get Indy to move away from the rose bushes. “We had to push back the Kidding a Goal two-year event already to May, and Liam’s fortieth birthday party is happening. I’ve also got the trip to Poland. Those are just the big things, I think. We’d also have to work around our engagements, but the middle of May would probably work.”

“We could do it for our anniversary. Just earlier.” “True,” he agrees, continuing to run through his calendar in his head while tugging at Indy’s leash again, the dog finally deciding to move on with her explorations. “Why don’t we work on it when we get home this afternoon?”

“Sounds good to me,” she sighs, nuzzling her head into his shoulder before laughing at Indy attempting to chase a bird that’s flittering between bushes

The three of them return back to their apartment twenty minutes later, Indy’s tired legs and the cool air winning out, in order to shower and get ready to drive to Hounslow for their St. Patrick’s Day activities. Emma’s stylists work on her hair and makeup while he gets ready, dressing in his Irish Guard uniform as he did for their wedding. He catches Emma looking at him in the mirror, and he throws her a wink, smiling while bobby pins are attached to her hair to keep her hat in place over her blonde curls.

This is one of his favorite events and though it’s technically Emma’s responsibility, he always joins her for this particular engagement. It’s likely because he gets to pal around and drink a Guinness with members of the Guard afterward, but he enjoys it all around. It’s relaxed and informal, despite the military aspect of it, and those are always his favorite things to do. State dinners and other diplomatic events are not usually enjoyable, but he understands he’s there for the country and his father, not himself. He can help better Britain even if he’s really there to smile and shake hands while telling a cheeky joke that would get him in loads of trouble if his father ever caught wind of it.

(He’s still eternally thankful Brennan has no idea about the joke he once made while slightly intoxicated about the size of his father’s ego having a negative effect on other parts of his anatomy. It’s not the 1600s, he has a good relationship with his dad, and he feels like he still might get beheaded for that one.)

Thomas drives them to Hounslow, and they get out of the car to go and greet the crowds outside, shaking hands and accepting gifts. Over the years he’s grown accustomed to accepting flowers and letters, the occasional handmade jar of jam after he was once pictured as a child with raspberry jam all over his face, but lately it’s been all baby gifts all of the time. They have quite the collection of baby shoes, which he doesn’t understand because infants don’t need them, but they are damn cute. And tiny, so tiny. How can a human’s feet be so small?

He’s obviously well prepared to be a father if he can’t get past the size of infant shoes.

Sure enough, he’s handed several booties and outfits, the colors ranging as everyone tries to guess if they’re having a boy or girl and bugging him as if he’s going to share the private news with everyone. He and Emma don’t even know yet. She’s not far along enough, though he has a sneaking (see: strong) suspicion they’re having a girl. Emma thinks they’re having a boy, and he’s choosing to think that he knows better.

He very rarely does.

“Thank you,” he tells everyone, handing some of the gifts, including a miniature version of his uniform, to their aides, “this is so sweet of you all. Emma and I give you all of our love.”

He finds Emma near the end of the line, sliding his hand around her waist and pulling her closer while she fumbles with a few gifts too, stuffed bears and clothes along with a few flowers that are already causing some of her allergies to kick in.

“You ready to go inside, my love?”

“Yep,” he whispers in her ear as a camera flashes behind him, “we’ve got some Shamrock to hand out and beers to drink. Well, at least I get to do the second part.”

“Shut up,” Emma playfully whines, waving to people as they walk by, “you’re being rude reminding me of that.”

“Well, I do so enjoy pushing your buttons. Maybe I’ll let you kiss me later so you can taste the alcohol.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you should be counting yourself at getting lucky today, no matter how many four leaf clovers you find.” She kisses his jaw before pinching his cheek, and he barks out a laugh while they walk inside to get situated for the parade and the rest of their duties.

He wakes to kisses up and down his arm, soft lips and softer skin pressing into him as the haze of sleep fades away and the darkness of their bedroom comes into view. He can barely see a thing, his eyes still adjusting to the lack of light, but he can feel the heat of Emma’s body pressing into his back and sending pinpricks of pleasure throughout his body.

“W – what time is it, love?”

“A little past two.”

She kisses the back of his neck, right at his hairline, and the pressure of her breasts and her stomach pressing against him while her foot is running up and down his calves is already too much when he hasn’t been awake for more than a minute.

“Emma, love,” he grumbles when she starts inching down his back, her tongue tracing his spine, “you’ve got to give a man a moment.”

She stops then, rolling off of him and onto her back, the mattress slightly bouncing under her weight, and he groans at the lack of heat between them now. He didn’t mean for her to stop completely, but she’s obviously taken it that way. So he scoots over and kisses up her shoulder and her neck, fast flickers of his lips until he’s slanting them over hers and hovering above her.

“Hey, why’d you stop?”

“You told me to give you a moment, figured you weren’t quite ready or in the mood or something.”

She shrugs, her mused hair moving up and down as her eyes blink and her lips tick up on one side. His hand finds her face, caressing her cheek, and he smiles softly when she smiles back up at him.

“First of all,” he begins, pressing a kiss against each of her eyelids, “I am nearly always in the mood to be with my knock-out of a wife, so don’t get it in that head of yours that I’m not.” He moves to kiss behind her ear then, gently nibbling on the lobe. “Secondly, all I needed was a moment. It’s been awhile since I’ve been woken up in the middle of the night when you’ve already kept me up late.”

She laughs under her breath, the smallest, sweetest sound, before twisting her head and kissing him, slow and sweet so that he feels it in every inch of his body.

“Yeah, well, you can blame your kid for that.”

“Yes, I’ll tell her right as she’s born that she’s made mummy and daddy’s sex life slow down before she’s even born. I’m sure she’ll totally get that.”

“First of all, we still don’t know, and you are being super stubborn with the girl thing. And second of all, since we’re making points, our sex life is fine. We literally had sex three hours ago.”

“I said she’s slowing it down, not ruining it.”

“Semantics.”

“Romantic.”

“What?” She laughs, her eyes crinkling up on the sides as her smile stretches across her face. “That’s in no way romantic.”

“Oi, I think it is. Don’t you think sex is romantic?”

“I mean, obviously.” She rolls her eyes before rolling onto her side and pulling the comforter up over her. “But not in this context no. What I was doing before we got into this discussion was romantic sex.”

“That wasn’t sex.”

“It was the preface to sex, which is sometimes the best part. I was doing naughty things to you.”

“Did you just use the word naughty instead of dirty? Darling, you are officially British. Next thing you know you’re going to speaking with an accent.”

“I have an accent,” she protests, scrunching up her nose. “It’s just not the same as everyone over here, which I think makes me unique in all of the best ways.”

He rolls back over on his stomach and hooks his arm over Emma so that she can rest her chin on his forearm while he rests his on his pillow next to her head. “So do you think the babe will sound more like you or me?”

“You.” “Why?” “Because they’re going to grow up around people who sound like you. That’s what influences the accents, not necessarily just the parents. Think about it. I have an American dad and a British mom, and I have an American accent because that’s where I grew up.”

“True,” he hums, moving his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Does that bother you at all?”

“Nah, not at all. It’s like the opposite of how it was in my house growing up. It’s kind of weird when you think about how similar it is.” She tilts her head and smirks at him. “Plus, your accent is damn sexy.”

“Really now?” he purrs, inching closer to her before crawling over her and propping himself up on his forearms and knees, making sure not to press his weight down on her stomach. “You think I’m sexy?”

“I think your accent is sexy,” she corrects, her lips ticking up on one side while her hands frame his cheeks, cool fingertips inching up into her hair and tugging him down so that he can feel the heat of her breath brushing over her lips. “Would you like to get back to where I was trying to go earlier or can I cross off doing naughty things to you?”

“Whatever the first thing was, most definitely.”

He wakes later that morning while Emma slumbers on her side of the bed, hair tangled and falling down her bare back from where the comforter shifted in her sleep. He quietly gets out of bed, attempting not to wake her or Indy who must have wandered into the room while they were sleeping, and makes his way into the bathroom, turning the water in the shower on to get ready for today.

He should have woken an hour ago, but the bed was too comfortable and his body too tired, so he rushes through his morning routine, using Emma’s blow dryer to fix his hair instead of letting it dry naturally. He slips into a suit, putting on a pair of his ever-growing collection of cufflinks, before spritzing on his cologne and grabbing his already packed suitcase out of the closet, letting the wheels trail along the hardwood until he’s back in the bedroom.

Stepping over to the bed, he scratches behind Indy’s ears, the dog opening one eye to look at him before cuddling back into bed as he sits down next to Emma.

“Love,” he whispers, pushing her hair off of her forehead until her eyes flutter open, the green hazy and sleep-ridden, “I’ve got to go.”

“Already?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, leaning down and kissing her forehead, “my flight is in two hours, and Mum likes to travel early.”

Emma yawns before sitting up, pulling the comforter over her and looking every bit like the girl he met nearly eight years ago with her crazy hair and pillow creased face and complete lack of care if she looks put together or not. “Okay,” she sighs, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him into a hug, “but you two be safe. Call me when you land, when you come home, if anything interesting happens, if anything boring happens.”

“I know the long-distance drill, sweetheart.” He brushes his lips against hers then, feeling the softness that comes with Emma. “But it’s only two days. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Ugh, I know. Two days doesn’t give me nearly enough time to have my affair.”

“You’re a cheeky little minx, so I’m sure you could figure it out.”

“Damn right.” She kisses him again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He reaches down and touches her stomach, her skin warm beneath his touch. “And you, little love.” Indy barks then, walking up the bed until she’s breathing in his face. “And you, Indy girl, even if you’re not supposed to be in this bed.”

He and his mother fly to Poland that morning for a dinner the British ambassador is hosting in honor of Liam and his birthday in a few weeks time. They were given short notice on the event, and since Liam couldn’t attend, Killian and Allison agreed to attend, knowing it would be no trouble for them. The morning flies by as all of these official visits do, in a flurry of handshakes and small talk, everyone attempting to fill his head with as much information as they can. It’s been awhile since he’s done an event with his mum, something he used to do when he was younger, but they fall into a natural rhythm. His mum is an expert at things like this, using her quick wit and kind smile to make everyone comfortable, and if there’s ever been anyone he’s tried to emulate, it would be her.

“Oh, this is gorgeous,” Allison compliments as they walk into the dining hall, her hand wrapped around his elbow. “We should decorate one of the rooms at home more like this. It’s more modern.”

“Well then we’d have to get rid of the ancient furniture that no one is allowed to sit on.”

She chuckles next to him as he pulls her chair out for her and waits for her to sit down before taking his own seat next to her. “You and your brother get cheekier the older you get, I swear. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“Well, you can’t take away our video game privileges now, mum.”

The dinner is indeed wonderful and full of Polish dishes and traditions celebrating Liam. He takes a video to send to his brother, making sure to capture the cake he knows Liam would be stuffing into his face and flipping the camera around to show the smirk on his face that he got to eat it.

Should have shown up to his own pre-birthday event.

Later that night he and his mum are driven back to their hotel, and while they have separate suites, she joins him for a cup of tea, settling down into the living room with the television playing the local news. His phone buzzes just as a segment on their visit begins, and he’s thankful for the excuse to mute the sound.

“Hey, beautiful,” he greets Emma, his lips stretching into a smile as he props his feet up on the coffee table, his socks practically falling off next to his glass, “did you miss me today?”

“Obviously. However could I survive twelve hours without you?”

Her voice is dripping with disdain, and he chuckles to himself as he imagines the roll of her eyes and the absolute disinterest she has when he’s being cocky. “You could at least act a little sad.”

“I can cry if you want me to, if that would make you feel better and boost your already inflated ego.”

“So you’re just as cheeky as you were this morning then. What’d you do today, love?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she sighs, the happiness seeping through the phone speaker. “I got dressed in pajamas, took Indy out, and then we settled down in the darkness of the bedroom and watched Gilmore Girls just to relive all of that nostalgia.”

“Ah, yes, I’m sure Indy has a lot of nostalgia about Stars Hollow.”

“Of course she does,” Emma laughs, and he can hear the theme song playing in the background. “Ruby came over for a few hours with food from the restaurant. I may save some leftovers for you.”

“Yeah, I already know that won’t be happening.”

“Hey, I don’t eat that much! I haven’t even gained any more than regular pregnancy weight.”

“Love, you and the Gilmore Girls all have amazing metabolisms. I’ve gained more pregnancy weight than you simply because our walks aren’t quite the same as our runs.”

“I can still run, you know? Dr. Hudson said so as long as it’s just a jog and not too much.”

“I know. We’ll have to do that when I get home. Mum and I ate a lot of cake tonight.”

Emma hums, sighing into the phone. “I’m jealous. Tell Allison I said hi when you see her in the morning.” “She’s sitting with me in the room right now actually, so if you were going to talk bad about her, now probably wouldn’t be the time.”

“Damn. That’s obviously what I was about to do.”

He and Emma chat for a few more minutes, but he knows he has to let her go so as not to be rude to his mother. She’s been fiddling with her phone and watching the muted television, so he’s sure she’s regretting coming over only to be usurped by a phone call.

“Hey, darling, I’ve got to let you go, okay?”

“Okay, is everything alright?”

“Everything is perfect. I’ve just been boring Mum making her listen to our conversation. I love you. I hope you, Indy, and little love have a good time binging the rest of Gilmore Girls and eating all of my food.” “We will,” she promises. “I love you, too. Bye, babe.”

He hangs up the phone, smiling at the picture of he and Emma that pops up afterward, before shutting it down and placing it on the arm of his chair. He looks up at his mother then who is softly smiling at him as if she really was listening to his conversation.

“What?” he laughs, feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“Nothing,” she smiles, pulling her legs up underneath her and curling into the chair, “I was just thinking about how happy you are.”

His lips twitch, and he swallows the small lump of emotion in his throat. “Well, I am happy, Mum. I’m nearly always happy.”

“I know, I know,” she waves him away, tucking her long hair behind her ears, “but you’ve just been through so much and sometimes I look at you and wonder how I got so lucky that you’re my baby. And now you’re having a baby, and I’m emotional about it all of the time.”

“Mum,” he softly laughs, getting up from his seat to cross the room and crouch down in front of her, taking her hands in his, “what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m simply a crazy old woman.”

“Well, we all know that’s not true,” he promises, guessing that it’s not the time to be making jokes. “You’re bloody brilliant and completely and totally young.”

“Thank you, Killian. It was just that I was watching how natural you are with Emma, how good you’ll both be as parents. And I guess sometimes I feel so much regret over not getting to see you both together for all of those years. You were so cheated.”

“Hey,” he soothes, running his thumb over her knuckles and ignoring the ache in his thighs from the squat, “it’s all okay. I know that a lot of it was bloody awful, but if I’m honest, I liked having those years with Emma. We got to fall in love in peace, and as wonderful as it would be for you to have gotten to know her sooner, we can’t change that. So let’s be happy, yeah?”

“I know, darling. I’m sorry, but being a mum and a grandmother, all you want is for your kids to be happy. And you feel a bit accomplished when you realize they are. You’ll understand that soon enough.”

“Well, once we get over the terror and get used to having a person’s entire life depend on us, yeah, sure, I’ll focus on the happiness.”

His mum releases his hand to stroke his forehead, pushing the hair back. “You two are going to be wonderful, and your baby is going to be the most beautiful little thing.” “Can you say that again for me to send to Liam and Abigail? I’d like to have it on record for bragging rights for the rest of eternity.”

His mother winks at him, smiling before leaning back in her chair and asking him what movie he wants to watch. It’s been a long time since he simply spent time with his mum with no one else, so he savors it, laughing with her and talking about anything she wants until she decides to go to bed in her room next door.

The following day is full of engagements, but the two of them manage to slip away to dinner and sightseeing that evening, covering themselves in the cool early April weather and hiding away from anyone who may recognize them so they can have a normal night. Overseas visits, even with all of their setbacks and frustrations, are some of his favorite things to do if only because he can sometimes slip away and be himself in a place where fewer people know him.

Of course, he managed to slip around London for a few years as well, but he’s decided that was some kind of bloody miracle.

Early Wednesday morning they board their flight and make their way home, the four-hour plane ride seemingly stretching on for double the time until they touch down on land again and he and his mother separate into their different vehicles to make their ways back to Kensington and Buckingham, respectively.

Walking in the front door, he knows Emma won’t be home as she’s at the opening of a youth theater, so he takes the opportunity to let Indy in from their garden, indulging her in her excitement over him being home, her tail wagging so furiously she could create a windstorm. After she’s calmed, he settles down into the living room and pulls up his laptop, answering emails and organizing his schedule all while watching the shows he missed.

Multi-tasking in the best way possible, really.

It’s hours later when he hears the front door open before closing and clicking into place as heels click on their hardwood floor, the sounds getting louder the nearer she gets.

“Hi,” Emma sighs when she walks into the living room, immediately walking toward him and straddling his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs, while she presses a lingering kiss to his jaw and scrapes her fingers through his hair, “I’m so, so, so glad you’re home.”

“Hmm, me too,” he smiles before slanting his lips over hers once, twice, three times. “As much fun as I had with my mother honoring my brother, I quite prefer your company. And I was promised leftovers.”

Emma laughs against his lips as the heat of her breath washes over him and he settles into contentment. “Babe, I hate to break it to you, but those did not last.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to figure out a different way to welcome me home.”

She smirks before burying her face in his neck, her words spoken against his skin. “A foot rub would be fantastic, thanks. Those heels are a killer.”

Without his permission, not that it has ever been that way before, the first few weeks of April pass in the blink of an eye. He wants his life to slow down, for moments to pass like waves crashing into the shore, continuous and only quickly during a storm, but that’s simply not how things work.

Of course, there are times when he’d like life to speed up the slightest bit, and right now is one of those times.

He’s been sitting on the bed thumbing through his phone for twenty-seven minutes now, half of it spent reading an article about hair loss genes being passed down simply because that’s what was at the top of the page, but he’s gotten a bit bored. There’s also the fact that they’re going to be late for Emma’s doctor’s appointment if she doesn’t hurry up. She always takes longer than him to get ready, but it’s never like this, especially when they’re just hopping over to the doctor’s office and then coming back home to get ready for Liam’s birthday party tonight.

Sighing, he rolls over on the bed until he’s standing, pulling his jeans up so that they rest on his hips, and walks into the bathroom to find it empty of Emma but with clothes strewn across the floor. He tentatively steps over them, keeping himself from picking them up and throwing them in the basket, and makes his way into the closet where Emma is stretched out on the floor with her arms over her face and her jeans on but unbuttoned and unzipped.

Bloody hell, it’s a mess in here.

“Hey,” he tentatively begins, kicking at her bare feet with the tip of his boot so that she uncovers one of her eyes, “what’s happening here?”

“My jeans don’t fit. Not a single pair of them except for the ones that have yellow paint on the ass because mom decided she wanted to have a sunny yellow living room.”

“And this is surprising to you because?”

“Because last week my jeans fit, and this week they don’t. That is some kind of fucked up thing.”

“I believe that’s called pregnancy.”

Her eyes slant and every bit of joy that was remaining on her face disappears while she stares up at him like she’s five seconds away from murdering him. “I will stab you with the first earring I find if you don’t wipe that smug smirk off your face.”

He chuckles under his breath, knowing that she’ll likely do it, before squatting down and lying on the floor next to her, emulating her position. The hardwood hurts his back, but he imagines they won’t be here for long. If they are, he’ll just have to suck it up until this all important jeans situation is resolved.

“So your jeans won’t fit, love?”

“Nope. And I don’t really think I’ve gotten that much bigger. I still just kind of look like I ate too big of a meal when I’m wearing clothes. I don’t know why this is bothering me so much. Obviously, I can just do the hairband trick until I buy new jeans, but I love wearing the damn things. They make me feel normal.”

“What? Wearing heels and a dress that perfectly matches your coat with a hat that was specifically dyed to match that coat and dress doesn’t make you feel normal? I never would have guessed.”

She snorts beside him while her hand finds his, and she wraps her fingers around his palm before pulling it up and brushing a kiss against his skin. “Surprisingly, no, that does not make me feel normal. That makes me feel like a barbie doll.”

“You’re not a barbie doll, love.”

She sighs next to him, but it’s really more of a huff. She’s frustrated, that much he knows, and a part of him is pretty sure that it’s not only because her jeans don’t fit. So he squeezes her hand, silently encouraging her to share her thoughts as he so often does with a touch or a glance.

“That’s just how I feel sometimes, you know? And I know that’s not how it is with you and me. But to the world it’s like I’m this girl who plays dress up and is a wife and an expectant mother and nothing else, which is fine if that’s what you want. And babe, I love that. I love being married to you and having a baby with you who I am so in love with it’s basically an obsession, but if I have to answer one more question about if I think you’re going to change a diaper or wake up in the middle of the night if the baby’s crying, which is literally what a parent does, while you stand next to me and answer a question about global relations, I’m going to lose my damn mind.”

“I know,” he mumbles, the weight and unfairness of her words settling into him. “I’m sorry that you’re so frustrated, and I’m sorry that some people are stuck in an old-timey world view.” He releases her hand and twists on the ground, propping his head up in his hand while looking Emma in the eye. “Why don’t you take up a patronage or two dealing with women’s rights or something similar? I know everyone was on the fence of that because they thought it was too political, but fuck that, Emma. If that’s something you want to do, you sure as hell should do it. It’s not political. It’s human, and you would be an incredible ambassador. You should do things that make you happy.”

Her eyes light up, lips twitching into a smile. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely. The fact that we don’t have any specifically for that is bullocks when we support nearly everything. You could help so many people, and I think you’d be a bloody rockstar at it.”

“I know I would.”

“That’s the spirit,” he encourages, leaning over and brushing a kiss against her lips, letting it go a little further than either of them should when they have to be somewhere soon. “But right now we’ve got to go see if I’m going to win our bet because we’ll finally see that our little love is a girl.”

“You keep thinking that. Also, there was no bet, and if there was, I never lose.”

“Oh shit, that’s cold,” Emma gasps as Dr. Hudson applies gel to her bared stomach, her bump only sticking up the slightest bit while she wears her jeans buttoned together with a hairband, the determined lass. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to that.”

“Most people never do,” Dr. Hudson assures them. “So all of your tests look good, everything in normal levels. Are we having any dizzy spells?”

“No,” Emma answers, her eyes focused on the screen that’ll show the baby in a few seconds, “I haven’t. And my diet and eating times are so regularly scheduled and planned thanks to the obsessed man next to me, so I’ve been feeling really good.”

Her hand finds his so much like earlier, and he clasps it between both of his hands before leaning down to kiss her forehead. “She’s been doing well, not a lot of symptoms.”

“Well, she’s in that wonderful sweet spot of the pregnancy. It usually only gets worse from here.”

“That’s not very encouraging.”

Dr. Hudson laughs before focusing all of her attention back on the ultrasound, the baby’s heartbeat suddenly sounding throughout the room. God, the first time he heard it, the rhythmic beat so much calmer than his own, he nearly cried. Okay, so he might have cried, a few tears slipping from his eyes. Emma didn’t even cry until later when she came home with the picture and fell apart saying she couldn’t see the baby and felt like Rachel from Friends.

But he’s grown accustomed to the sound of their child’s heartbeat now, and as the picture pops up on the screen, she’s as clear as can be.

“So we’re looking really healthy, heartbeat is good, growth is good. And you’re eighteen weeks now, so while sometimes I can’t tell, I can tell you the gender today, if that’s what you want?”

He looks down at Emma to find her already looking up at him, a smile gracing her lips as she nods in confirmation. “We want to know.”

“Alright,” Dr. Hudson smiles, looking at the monitor one last time, “you two are the lucky parents to a boy.”

A boy.

He’s going to have a son.

Holy shit, Emma’s never going to let him live this down, but he doesn’t care at this point. They’re having a boy.

“I told you so,” Emma chuckles, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. “I am never letting you live this one down.”

“I know.” He dips his head down to brush his lips against hers, squeezing her hand as tightly as possible as this begins to sink in even more. “Maybe I’ll get the next one right.”

“One human coming into the world out of my vagina at a time please.”

“You have such a way with words.”

“Just being honest,” she laughs, the sound as beautiful as the heartbeat still playing on the monitor. “I love you.”

“I love you too. And the little lad.”

“Yeah, and the little lad.”

He and Emma walk across the gardens to Liam and Abigail’s apartment, Emma’s heels clicking against the cobblestone. He already knows that she’ll be wearing his shoes on the short walk home, but she’d insisted she wear the heels for the portrait they’re taking to commemorate Liam’s fortieth birthday. It’s apparently a major milestone in life, deserving of an official portrait, and as much as he loves his brother, he thinks Liam’s a tad bit over the top.

But he and Liam differ in a lot of ways, Liam’s penchant for large celebrations and dinners with several courses while in evening wear one of those things. They were both raised this way, to expect and want dinners and parties like this, and maybe once upon a time had he never met Emma, that’s how he would celebrate all of his birthdays.

His wife, God bless her, is a fan of the simple things in life. She likes eating takeout on the couch with her feet tucked under her legs which are likely clothed in leggings that have a hole on the inside of her thigh. She enjoys sitting around watching television in the darkness of their bedroom for hours on end, sometimes an entire day (or two), and if she could, she’d probably spend the rest of her time in the garden throwing a ball for Indy to chase. For his birthday, all they did was a small dinner with friends and family, and it was perfect. He couldn’t have asked for anything more.

But he doesn’t mind the party Liam and Abigail are having. Everyone can enjoy what they want, and this day isn’t about him. It’s about his brother.

He and Emma step up to their front door, the towering black wood with moss looming above them, and he’s just about to knock on the door when Emma stops him with a hand on his forearm.

“What?” he laughs, turning to face her, their height difference almost gone with her heels.

“You have to be careful with how you talk about the baby. We’re keeping the sex a secret, remember?”

“Darling, I think they know we had sex. That’s not a secret.”

Her face scrunches up, and he leans down to brush a kiss against her lips before leaving a trail of kisses across her face, making her laugh under her breath.

“You’re going to make dad jokes. I already know.”

“I’ve been preparing for it with my humor for my entire life.” He grins, kissing her again simply because he can. “But I promise I’ll be on my best behavior, and I won’t mention our joyful news. As far as anyone in there knows, we know nothing.”

“That’s right Jon Snow.”

“Hey,” he chuckles, wrapping his arm around her waist and tugging her into his side before knocking on the door and ringing the doorbell, “he lived in the series, so that’s totally not an insult.”

The door opens before Emma can say anything else, Liam appearing on the other side of the door in his suit. “Hey guys,” he greets, a bright smile on his face as he takes a step back, “why don’t you come on in?”

“So nice of you to invite us into your home when we were supposed to be here,” he snarks, knowing it’ll rile Liam.

“Well, I was going to say I’m glad to see you, but I’m apparently only glad to see Emma. Hello, love,” he smiles before leaning into kiss Emma on the cheek and wrap her in a hug. “How are you today?”

“Good, great really. Happy birthday, old man.”

Liam barks out a laugh before releasing Emma, clapping her on the shoulder and throwing her a wink. “Has Killian been calling me older brother, emphasis on the older, all day?”

“Surprisingly not, but that’s just because he calls you an old wanker all of the time anyways.”

“No bit of that surprises me.”

Liam embraces him then, wrapping his arms around Killian’s shoulders as Killian does the same. “Happy birthday, olderbrother. What’d you buy for your midlife crisis?”

“Saving the sportscar for the fiftieth birthday. I’m not old yet, thank you very much.”

“You two are ridiculous,” Emma laughs, walking past the both of them and down the hall where he spies Alexander and Elizabeth running between the archways.

“Are we?” Liam questions, patting him in the back before following Emma. “I don’t think anyone has ever described us that way.”

“There’s a first for everything.”

The two of them find everyone in the dining room, roaming throughout the table and the bar that’s set up through the next room. Emma’s animatedly chatting with Abigail, her hands moving all over the place while Lizzie tugs at her dress until Emma picks her up and rests her on her hip. There’s several of Liam’s old military friends as well as a few of he and Abigail’s friends who he recognizes from events over the years. Their home is packed, chatter filling his ears while he goes around greeting everyone before stopping at the bar and ordering a glass of rum.

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in solidarity with your wife?”

He turns to the side and smiles down at Abigail, kissing her temple after he finishes his sip. “Hello, darling. Did Emma send you over here to tell me that?”

“No, but I remember being pregnant and my husband’s lips tasting like whiskey after a party.”

He chuckles under his breath, finding Emma talking to his parents before turning back to look at Abigail. “The only problem with that statement is that Liam drinks whiskey instead of rum. Bloody awful drink. And I’ve cut back on the coffee and tea in solidarity, thank you very much.”

“Oh well look at you Mr. Big Shot,” she jokes, squeezing his bicep. “You’re just so kind.”

“Someone is awfully sassy today, love. Is it because you’ve realized you’re married to an old man and are compensating?”

“Exactly. I’m trying to cope with his ancient age.” “That’s what I thought. I’m going to go kiss Emma so she tastes the rum since I’m just that evil.”

Abigail snorts next to him, and he leaves her with a smile before making his way to Emma and kissing her before she gets a chance to say anything. He lets his tongue flicker out so she can taste the rum, his own little private joke, but he doesn’t think she minds from the way she hums into it. His parents probably mind from the way they cough next to him, but they can wait.

“Hi,” Emma whispers when he pulls back, “did you forget we’ve got company, tiger?”

“No. I just didn’t bloody care.”

His parents laugh behind him, and he turns to greet them then, hugging his parents and asking them how they’re doing before they get called off to chat. Liam really should have held this dinner somewhere other than his home for how many people are in here, and Emma asks him to go sit in the other room, quiet surrounding them until Alex runs in and practically jumps on Emma’s stomach with all the force of his bony limbs.

“Mummy told me that you have a baby in your belly, Emmy.”

“Well, your Mummy is a smart lady because I do have a baby in my belly.”

“Wow,” Alex gasps, his eyes lighting up as he puts his hands on Emma’s stomach before looking up at her and speaking in the cutest little voice with his broken words that are constantly getting better. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“We don’t know yet,” Emma lies, and Killian chuckles next to her, rubbing up and down her back. “That’s going to be a surprise.”

Alex huffs and crosses his arms, obviously cross at them for not letting him know if his cousin is going to be a boy or a girl. It’s likely a good thing he wasn’t old enough to understand this all when Abigail was pregnant with Lizzie because he would have been up in arms about all of the surprises and secrets. “What’s its name?”

“We don’t know that either, buddy,” he answers to try to take some of Alex’s blame off of Emma. 

“I think you should name it Fish.”

Emma snickers next to him, biting her bottom lip to try to contain it. It’s then that he gets an idea, sticking out his stomach as far as he can and making himself look bloated. “What about me, buddy? Does Uncle Killian look like he’s having a baby?”

“Uncle Killian looks like a silly goose,” Abigail coos as she steps in the room, squatting down next to Alex, “and you look like someone who needs to go to sleep.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You have to. It’s bedtime.”

Alex’s bottom lip starts quivering while his eyes begin to water, the meltdown imminent. Within seconds Abigail has him on her hip walking out of the ballroom and meeting Liam and Elizabeth by the doorway, the two of them walking away to put their kids to bed like some kind of well-oiled machine.

“You know, Abigail isn’t even my mother, and if she told me it was time to go to bed, I’d listen.”

Emma giggles beside him, leaning back into the couch and into him before resting her head on his shoulder. He kisses her hair while he rubs her back, knowing she’s likely tired when they’ll still be here for awhile, but it’s only a short walk home if she asks for it.

“You are a very smart man because you listen to all of the women in your life.”

“Damn right. Even Lizzie. She’s two, but she’s the boss.”

“Who’s the boss?” Brennan asks them, settling down on the couch across the coffee table from them. “Because the answer better be your mother or Emma. If not, you are lying, son.”

“Lizzie,” Emma answers for him, patting his stomach before her hand rests on his thigh, squeezing a little too high as if she’s trying to rouse him. “Lizzie is the boss.”

“Damn right,” Brennan laughs, echoing Killian’s words from a moment ago even if he didn’t hear them. “I’ve never seen a kid with such spunk.”

“Oi, I had that kind of spunk, dad. Still do.”

“Yeah, but you’re old now. I don’t remember these things.”

“Your firstborn is forty! I’m still barely in my thirties! How can you call me old? You’re the oldest person at this party.”

“And the most handsome,” Allison adds in, sitting down next to Brennan and brushing a kiss against his cheek. His parents were never affectionate before, and as happy as he is with everyone’s changes, his fifteen-year-old self is cringing watching them be that way. But it’s only in the best way, his family having felt like a family for two years now, and no part of him would trade things to go back to how they were.

Eventually dinner is served and everyone sits down at the large table, silverware clicking against plates and the laughter and chatter in the home only increasing the more people drink (except for he and Emma of course because he does abstain in solidarity sometimes). There’s several stories about Liam told, some he’d never heard before, and his stomach hurts from laughter. God, his brother was such a crack up, something he never really knew, and he wishes they’d gotten along all of those years.

But they didn’t. There was too much of an age discrepancy, too much of a difference in wants out of life, and most of all, too much hostility. He loves his brother, something that took him a long time to admit, but Liam’s not perfect. He can still be a bloody git and they still argue over some things, but he’s changed. And while there are still flashes of the day he came to this very home to confront his brother, to try to work things through only to be rejected and told that Liam’s only trying to do better for his children, he’s come to terms with it. They can’t change the past. They can’t take things away or add words left unsaid, but forgiveness even when the other person doesn’t deserve it is a powerful thing.

Or so he’s been learning over the past few years.

This is infinitely better than any life he could have lived away from his parents and his brother. And he’d have given it all up for Emma. There’s no doubt about it, and he still fully believes that. She’s worth it all. But this is better.

“Hey,” Emma whispers, rubbing between his shoulder blades before her hand finds the hair at the tape of his neck, causing shivers to run down his spine, “what are you thinking about? You’ve zoned out.”

He hums, closing his eyes before leaning over and kissing her temple, the vanilla of her shampoo invading him. “I was thinking about you.”

“Cheesy.” “Absolutely. But also the truth. I just…all of these stories about Liam, they make me realize how glad I am that we went through all of that to fix it and came out better on the other side because now I have stories to tell about him like that.” “I thought you were thinking about me.”

“Well, that came after thinking about my brother.” “That’s kind of gross.”

“Yeah, well, I was thinking about how I’m glad we’re here, but I’d still give it all up for you. And for the little love, my love.” “Well,” Emma smiles, tangling their fingers together under the table, “the good thing is that you don’t have to. We’re all a big, messy, wonderful package that you get for the rest of your life whether you like it or not.”

[addictwithapen-anon]

A Conspiracy  Theory About the Original Happy Feet Movie

Okay, so I was on Netflix and I saw a bunch of movies from my younger days, so I decided to watch them tonight (Happy Feet being one of them). Anyway, I believe that Happy Feet is about being gay or coming out. Here’s why.

At the beginning, you see the father dropping the egg (Of course this has nothing to do with why Mumble hatches late but it was just there.) and when he hatches he does the thing with his feet. The father tells him not to do that because it's "Not penguin". He also says "When your mom comes, stay still." And instead, Mumble keeps being him. Later on we learn that unlike the other penguins, he doesn't have a heartsong because he doesn't know how to sing. (Doesn't know how to "be straight"). The parents take him to a teacher to learn how to sing (Conversion therapy maybe?), but alas, he still can't sing and can't help his "Happy feet". He then is made fun of by the other kids and sits in the back of the class (Like a gay kid would experience this alienation for coming out. Also keep in mind while the mother was supportive of Mumble's "Happy feet", the father was not, and he was worried about his reputation.) He wants to be like the others, so he attends the graduation ceremonies even though the king penguin doesn't allow him to graduate (Maybe a religious leader, maybe irl this would be a Catholic school). The kids, now adults continue to alienate him by not letting him join their songs. He then finds the mexican penguins who think his "happy feet" are cool. He made friends who accept him as he is. They then go back and his friends make a song for him, which he then lip synchs for Gloria (Maybe irl would be known as "Bearding"). Gloria find out the truth, but Mumble then decides to come clean and keeps moving his "Happy feet" in hopes that he will be accepted. All of the penguins of the class eventually accept him, then all of them join in with him. You then hear the lead penguins saying "Disgraceful! Who do they think they are? Where is Noah? This is getting out of hand!"(I'm assuming Noah is the overall leader). The find Noah and say "Behold, this was an omen from the start! And now we have this uprising!" Referring to Mumble and his "Happy feet". Noah then starts yelling, "Stop! Stop this unruly nonsense! A little self control if you please! You bring this disorder, this apparition to the very heart of our community!Have you lost your mind?! " The penguins, confused, stop, and one says "We're just having fun, harmless fun!" (Maybe how we reference gay marriage as harmless. It hurts nobody.) Noah's reply, " Harmless? It's this kind of backsliding that brought this scarcity upon us!" Mumble then realizes the leaders think the food shortage has something to do with his "Happy feet". The leader says, "Do you not understand that we can only survive if we live together in harmony? Then you and your foreign friends lead us into your easy ways? You offend the great Guin! (God?)You invite him to withhold his bounty! He controls the seasons! He giveth and he taketh away! (A Bible reference)" Mumble then replies, "Happy feet can't cause a famine!" Noah says "If happy feet didn't cause it then what did?" Mumble then explains that he believes there are forces out of our control causing it. "Things we don't understand". The city then starts to call Mumble insane. A leader then says, "He drove the fish away, and now he's ranting this rubbish!" He then calls Mumble's "foreign" friend "Filthy vermin" and slaps him. Noah comes in "Descent leads to division and division leads us to doom! You, Mumble 'Happy Feet', must go!" The mom then tells Mumble not to leave and says "You have just as much right to be here as anyone else!" The dad, angry, then tells his wife to let him handle this. He says to Mumble, " You must renounce your 'so- called friends', your peculiar thoughts and strange ways . If we are devout, sincere in our ways, the fish will return. Listen boy, I was a backslider myself (I used to "be gay" myself), I was careless, and now we're paying the price." The dad then says it's his fault Mumble is the way he is (Kinda how fathers blame themselves for their sons being gay). Norma Jean then says "There's nothing wrong with him!" the father says "Face it, our son's all messed up!" They go back and forth, the mother arguing that there's nothing wrong with Mumble. The leader says "You father is right. Heed his suffering heart and repent (just like priests tell you to repent from being gay because it's a 'sin'.)" The father pleads, "Please son, you can do this. It ain't so hard." Mumble then replies, "Don't ask me to change, Pa, cause I can't. (just like you can't change your sexuality.)" He then leaves. Gloria then says "This isn't fair!" Then her parents quickly quiet her. The leaders then chant "Together, we prevail!" Then the city repeats it, almost like it's scripture in a church. Later on, Gloria and Mumble reunite. Gloria proclaims her love for him. He then tells her to go back because they can't keep an egg safe. He adds, "That's... If we ever had an egg"(Maybe Gloria metaphorically is a man, which would be why they couldn't have an egg together). Gloria quickly replies, "We don't need an egg (Baby) to be happy. " Mumble then says, "You say that now, but what about later, when all of your friends have eggs?" Gloria says, "Then I'll have you." Mumble then pushes her away and they fight. She calls him stubborn. He says he doesn't like her singing, she says, "You have a problem with my singing?" And he replies, "No, it's fine... If you like that sort of thing." Maybe then Gloria wouldn't in fact be a man? He says he likes it but it's a "Little fru- fru for his taste" Meaning he isn't into girls. They then leave. He eventually goes back to the city and tells everyone about his findings on why the food is gone. He then starts with the "Happy feet" again and the leaders, again, try to stop it, but everyone else accepts him. The leaders then start chanting their chant again. Mumble then finds the dad depressed. The mom then says "dance with your boy" and the dad then says "Forgive me, there's no music left in me." Mumble replies, "It's just like singing, but with your body (Just like being gay is still love, only the person is the same sex as you). The father then starts dancing. The rest of the movie is pretty irrelevant though, with the humans coming and restoring the food .

[i-am-the-gay-shit]

My only Sun - Chapter 3 ‘The Sun and the Moon’

Two chapters in one day... I really have no life, ya'll. ALSO I really have no plans going into these chapters. Whatever I write comes to me on the spot ^^' I know where I want to end up, but everything in the middle is pure chance. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! It's longer and has more Maylor fluff <3

Click this link to be directed to the full story

“Are you sure this is a good idea…?” Brian asked. Nervous about everything Freddie was planning. It’s been a few nights since Brian had met his… soulmate… and Freddie freaked out. Ever since, Freddie has been making Brian hunt and feed until he grew sick at the thought of stuffing his fangs in anything else. Freddie also made plans for them to head back into London, to that same bar in hopes to run into the young blonde again. Brian didn't know if he was ready to face the young man again. He knew his hunger wouldn’t drive him away this time, but still…

“Brian! Ask me that one more time and I’ll shove my shoe up you-”

“Okay! Jeez. I get it.” Brian huffed before Freddie could finish. Follow the older man through the familiar streets and to that same nose cringing bar. He already knew his pretty blonde wasn’t there, so he went straight to the bar and ordered a guinness again. Watching Freddie chat up a group of guys. He couldn’t help but wonder what happened to Freddie’s soulmate… He felt bad…

Human lives are only a blink to us… Don’t forget that… Freddie’s words echoed in his mind, making him frown and look down at his bottle. He had to find Roger again. He wanted the blonde to be with him…

And just then was when he felt that strong presence take over the room.

Quickly looking up, he saw the blonde walk in with his head down. Easily moving past the people on the floor before hopping up to the bar. Not even noticing the tall man from the other night.

“Stella Artois, Please.” He asked, looking up at the old man.

“Can I buy for you?” Brian spoke up, turning himself to face the blonde. He felt annoyance rise in the blonde quickly.

“Can you bugger-....off….” His voice started off strong as he turned to the older man. But as their eyes met, his brilliant blues widened and annoyance quickly turned to shock.

“I don’t really think you want me to do that.” Brian teases, smiling softly. Sensing the younger man's emotions jump from shock to happy, then shame.

“Sh-shit! So-sorry! I didn't know-...I didn't think-.... Jesus bloody christ!” Roger stumbles over his words making Brian laugh. “Don’t laugh at me!” He exclaims, throwing a peanut from a nearby trey directly at Brian’s forehead. Making the older laugh harder.

“Well, don’t throw peanuts at me!” He shoots back, still laughing. Making Roger smile, throwing another at him.

“I threw it cause you’re laughing!!” He laughs out. An irritated huff brings them back to reality. Looking at a rather displeased bartender. Roger giggles and clears his throat before looking down. Brian couldn’t help by muse at the way Roger shifted his body and bit his smiling lip.

“Sorry, sir.” Brian says, not looking away from the blonde. Taking a random amount of money and putting it on the table. “Put the extra toward any of our other drinks for the night.” He comments simply, taking the beer from the disgusted man and handing it to Roger. Slipping his arm around the smaller mans shoulder, he guides them to an isolated booth in the back. Letting Roger slip in first before settling himself down.

“I-... I didn't expect to see you again.” Roger says softly, finger gently tracing the tip of his bottle as his eyes slowly look up to meet Brian’s own hazel ones.

“I know… I’m sorry for the other night. I just… want to get to know you first. I really like you… I haven’t been able to think of nearly anything else but you.” He admits, quickly regretting. Shit. Did that sound weird?! He probably thinks I’m fucking creepy!! He thinks. Mentally punching himself. But he just hears a small giggle. “Really…? Cause I really like you, Brian… And… I’ve had the same problem…” Roger says. He looks up at the blonde to see him smiling warmly and his eyes shining. He doesn’t feel Roger trying to lie, and that makes him smile right back. All he could do was stare at the perfect man before and marvel at the fact that they were made for each other.

“You’re perfect…” The comment slips out, making the blonde stare at him in shock. But he doesn’t feel shy about the comment. “You remind me of the sun, in fact… Just… a feeling of awe…” He smiles watching a blush creep onto the younger man’s cheeks.

“The… the sun…?” Roger asks a bit shyly. Brian nods.

“Yes. The sun. You could be my sun, Roger.” He says softly. Those blue eyes looking away shyly. Funny… Brian thinks He gets shy at cute, simple things like this but has no problem flirting. He finds it slightly amusing. “I-... do you need a sun in your life?” Roger asks, just to act casual. Brian hums.

“I do. I need a sun only for me. To warm me and shine when I feel low. Roger, be my only sun?” He asks, catching those blue eyes and locking their gazes.

“I-...” He clears his throat. “If I am your sun… then-” “Allow me to be your moon.” Brian cuts off. “Allow me to calm and captivate you. Lead you through the darkness of your life and keep you safe.” He finishes. The feeling emitting from the young blonde is enough to almost make his heart beat again. Such a pure feeling…

“I-... I think… having a moon in my life would really help me…” He says softly, a shy smile spreading on his lips. Brian can’t help the urge and leans over, taking those warm lips to his cold ones. He loves the feeling of Roger’s hands fly up and grasp at his shirt, pulling him closer. Their kiss deepening. Brian loves it. The taste. His scent. How they touch. Everything is perfect.

Opening his eyes slightly, he watches how the blondes eyebrows furrow slightly and eyes are closed tightly. It was a stunning sight until he saw something in his peripheral vision. Quickly he looked over, careful not to break the kiss, and instantly regretted it. There stood Freddie at the other side giving hima thumbs up, making kissy face and even moving his hips in a lewd fashion. He hadn’t noticed their kiss broke until Roger giggled.

“Uh… Friend of yours?” The blonde asks, laughing softly.

“.....yeah… Unfortunately…” Brian replies, absolutely hating the older man at the moment.

“Well, he seems to be enjoying the show.” Roger says simply, making Brian smirk.

“The show?” He asks teasingly. Roger smiles and gives a hum before pulling the older man into a deep kiss. Brian happily accepted the kiss and wrapped an arm around the blondes waist. Shocked when Roger took it upon himself to shift them so he was straddling the taller man. Their kiss broke again, but noses were touching. Now Roger had to face down at Brian. Smirking softly.

“This okay?” He asks. Brian knew from the tone that the pretty blonde wouldn’t take no as an answer, so he just went with it, wrapped both arms around his waist and leaned up, kissing Roger deeply. The younger man letting his arms drape around Brian’s shoulders.

They sat like that for what felt like hours. Barely touching their drinks and completely tuning the rest of the world out. They went from making out, to just sitting there and talking, to Roger leaning against his chest, sharing a few small kisses here and there. And it was absolute bliss.

Brian learned that Roger was a 20 year old college student studying to be a dentist, but had a true passion for music. Songwriting, singing, guitar, and especially playing the drums. He learned that he was in a band, but apparently the other guys were a bunch of dicks, so he’s just been playing by himself and focusing on school. He also learned that Roger had a sister, Clare, whom he seemed really close with.

“What about you, Bri?” Roger tilted his head with a smile.

“Me?” Brian chuckled, trying to hide his extreme nervousness. What the hell was he supposed to say? ‘Oh yes. Well. You see, I am a vampire. I kill people often to survive. Almost killed you the other night!’

“Yeah. You.” Roger said, eyes shimmering with anticipation. Brian felt the curiosity rise. He cleared his throat.

“Well-... I… I like music as well. I actually play the guitar.” Brian said. He hadn’t played an actual guitar in years, but he could remember what it felt like…

“Really? What kind of guitar?” What kind? What fucking kind? How many fucking guitars are there now?! Back then, there was just the bloody guitar! Brian struggled to think, but Roger laughed. “Oh. I get it. You’re some master guitar player or something. Probably play them all!” Roger teased.

“Uh… ye-yeah!” Brian lied, hoping this wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

“We should play together!” Roger chirps. Ah. There it is to bite me in the ass. Brian thought bitterly.

“Yeah, that’d be cool.” He smiled up at Roger.

“What else? You go to school? Job?” The blonde inquires.

“I-...um… I…” He looks around desprately for a clue to help him before his eyes land on a poster above them. “I… work at a studio.” He says quickly, eyes flashing back to Rogers.

“Really? Which one??” Roger asks sweetly, not seeing the harm in his simple questions.

“I-...just… Not a specific one… I actually travel… to different studios… that need… help?” Brian tries to sound as convincing as humanly possible. Roger just stares at him for a moment.

“...That sounds cool.” Roger smiles. Brian can feel the doubt sink into the younger man, but is secretly glad Roger doesn’t try to push the matter.

“Yeah. It’s fun.” He smiles.

“I’d love to meet you at the studio and play together. We could make it our first date. Really get to know each other through music.” Roger says sharply, Brian’s smile faulerting ever so slightly. “... Yeah. That’d be… great.” He tries to sound excited.

“When are you free?” He asks the older man.

“I… I’m a bit busy for the next few nights… ya know… with work… But Friday night?” Brian says.

“Night?” Roger asks, cocking his eyebrow.

“Er… yeah… I’m a bit of a night owl. I work during the nights and sleep during the days. Sorry, I know our schedules will probably collide a lot…” He looks down, already sensing the struggle of keeping his curse a secret.

“Oh. That makes sense. Okay then. Friday night it is. I’ll be here around… hm… 8? To wait for you.” Roger says, looking down at Brian still.

“...Yeah… Friday night at 8… I’ll come get you and take you to the studio…” Brian repeats, mostly just for himself to realize what a fucking mess he just got into in less than 5 minutes.

“Cool.” Roger smiles before slipping off Brian’s lap. “Well, I have classes in the morning. I should head out… I’ll see you friday?” “See you friday…” He confirms, smiling as Roger leans down to kiss him softly before turning and leaving.

…...Shit.

“Well! That seemed to go quiet nicely!” Freddie squeals, skipping up and throwing himself onto Brian. “The chemistry between you two was just-” “Freddie, I’m in trouble.” Brian cuts him off. Freddie immediately straightened up. “I need help, Fred…” “Brian, what did you do.” Freddie asked in a serious tone.

“Well… everything was going fine!... then he started asking about me. I wasn’t prepared! I told him I played guitar, which wasn’t entirely a lie, but then he asked what kind! What kind! Then he asked if I had a job and I told him I worked at a studio!” Brian exclaimed, growing light headed and sick feeling.

“...okay? So you lied about a few things? Brian, it’s oka-” “AND THEN!” He cuts Freddie off again. “He asked if we could play together. Friday night. At the studio I work at. For a date.”

“...Brian, you didn't.” Freddie closes his eyes, hoping Brian wasn’t that stupid.

“I-... I did, Fred…” Brian admits, hanging his head down in shame.

“...God… DAMMIT, Brian!” Freddie yells. Sitting back, chewing his bottom and looking away before sighing. “Fine. I’ll pull some fucking strings. I know some people. But I swear, Brian Fucking May, you owe me!” Freddie exclaims dramatically making Brian smile weakly.

“Thanks, Fred…”

So, I know ya'll probably thinking that they got together SUPER fast. Right? Right. Well, that's part of the plan. A: Brian ain't wasting time. B: They're soulmates and these things usually happen quickly. C: It can lead to juicy plot later ;)

[themiddlelayer]

And so it is...

I’ve had that song from “Closer” stuck in my head... “The Blower’s Daughter” 

And so it is... just like you said it would be.. life goes easy on me.. most of the time. 

I ended things with Java Bear yesterday. I’d been dreading it and I was worried about telling him while he was alone with Olive’s kiddo but he asked a question that I just couldn’t side step. I’m sure he saw it coming. And he handled it really well. He thanked me for my honesty and asked for clarification on something so that he could “learn and grow” from it. 

This afternoon he messaged me and asked if I was available to talk. He was not in a good place and needed distraction to get through the rest of his work day. I walked him through the 5 Senses exercise that my therapist taught me last week (Find 5 things in the room you see; 4 things you physically feel; 3 things you hear; 2 things you smell or want to smell; one thing you taste or want to taste) and he said that it helped lower his heart rate. It really sounded like it was a panic attack. 

During the conversation I could hear my therapist’s voice asking me why I was engaging with him. And I kept thinking, as much as there were red flags, there was good and I knew it. There was a lot there that I can’t be entwined with, but me last year would have stuck it out and fought for it. Me last year would have dove in deeper and drowned myself and I know it. But it still gave me that same ‘heart chakra’ ache that’s been coming and going since that last reiki session. 

The rest of my weekend was good. Cookie and her kiddo came up Friday night to get him on an early flight then we did breakfast together Saturday. From there we hit the lapidary and a craft fair of sorts where I spent about $100 on stones and a couple rings. The draw of the woo-woo was strong and I’ve needed that. 

On Sunday MM and I decided to check out a local place that was serving corned beef and cabbage. It was the first time I’d eaten red meat in at least 6 months and the first time in almost that long since I’d consumed alcohol. The Guinness and St. Patty’s food was totally worth the tummy ache I got afterwards when we went grocery shopping. 

Last night I had crawled into bed and was just dozing off when I heard Bleu barf under my bed. Without getting into the gross details, I’ll say that I ended up wrapping a long-handled BBQ spatula in saran wrap in order to reach it and clean up that far. While I was doing that, Bleu ran for the water bowl. She then proceeded to jump on my bed and go full exorcist on my comforter and floor. It was a late night but she seems to be fine today. Now to figure out how I’m going to properly clean the carpet under my bed. * Yuck! * 

The fridge is still full of leftovers so after I log out for the day it’s Yo-Yo night and probably John Oliver with MM. Things with us continue to be “normal” in that we are just moving through the day without any real issues. He did “dial it back” with Pixie like he said he would and he hasn’t gone out at all since then. I want to get back to my life. I want to get back to my marriage. But I’m really enjoying having my own room and my own space. And as much as I love him, the love still feels more “family” than “romantic.” I don’t know how to work through that but as my therapist keeps saying, “Consistency over time...” is the only way to really know. 

I’ve also had Nomad on my mind a ton the last week or so. I finally got to the place where I could delete his pictures from my phone.. then I un-deleted them... then steeled my own resolve to keep moving forward and deleted them again. When I talked to my therapist about him she asked me if I was over him (she knows I’m not) then asked what I miss about him. In the moment I couldn’t find the words beyond “He made me feel safe.” When she asked why, I couldn’t express it and she suggested that it was possibly just his energy... loving and accepting. She was right. I talked to her about our last night together and how I had been a weepy mess and Nomad had literally picked me up and carried me into the kitchen to feed me blackberries. 

The day after my therapy appointment, the thing I posted about hair washing came across my facebook feed and I lost it. He used to wash my hair... and dance in the shower, and laugh while we were having sex.. being with him just make me feel so alive. And there goes that literal heartache again. 

 At one point on Tuesday, my therapist said, “Well, since we are thinking waaay outside the box, what says you can’t have a relationship with him?” And I had to rehash the reasons... because he couldn’t let go of Gypsy even a little. His insecurity about her and MM was all-consuming and it left me in a place where I always felt like I was the consolation prize both for Nomad and MM. I felt small and pathetic when I wasn’t completely on top of the world. It’s pretty fucked up. 

Like I told Java Bear, “I love you but I have to love myself more... “ If I can’t do that, then I’ll end up doing this again... and again.. ad nauseam until I’m too old to keep going. This week... with my back pain and literal heartache I’m already feeling much older than 40 and I just want to feel that joy I felt singing in the truck and making not-peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Boy1Der & Lil Hulk. Fucking ouch.

[erotic-literature]

Lost Friends

If there was anything worse than losing a lover it was losing good friends, but staring at their old picture stuck to his wall Marc knew that was just what had happened. Their friendship that was never supposed to end decayed swiftly like sand running through his fingers, all just because Marc had lost his nerves and admitted feelings he knew he had best kept to himself.

It had been a fun run while it lasted, the first time Marc had ever felt he could trust people in a world were trust seemed synonymous with disaster. Oh well, he had always been better at burning bridges than building them. The part of him that had stopped believing in the world was glad his last ties to said world had been cut, the smaller part that still believed cried silently.

The playlist he had created just for days like this was perfect, full of songs no anti-depressant could ever attempt to counter. It did a fine job of making him feel twice as drunk as he was, even blurred out the ringing door bell to a degree. With a sigh he wondered if he could just ignore it, not feeling like talking to anyone but then the music made it clear he was home.

If there was anything that could possibly worsen his mood the look through the eyehole did just that. Y was this friendly neighbor he got along with whenever they met and with whom he would likely have become friends if his social circle hadn’t been so tight and if he hadn’t been so focused on the ultimately futile task of winning over another woman. He had always felt bad about pushing her away when it was obvious they liked each other, but now he hoped she hadn’t come to talk and just needed some milk or whatever.

There were times when a friendly face and an ear to listen to problems eased the pain of mental scars, but before that the fresh wounds would have to be licked and heal slowly for a night or fortnight. Scars were something to be proud of, wounds just symbolized defeat and weakness.

Opening the door he tried to put up his best impression of a cold hearted, stone faced Marc, fully prepared to deal with her in the doorway and get back to feeling like shit as soon as possible. Something in her face and that posture with her arms locked behind her back let that plan fail before he had a chance to execute it, involuntarily putting a friendly smile on his face.

“Hey.” Not that cold hearted either, he was on to a damn good start.

“Hey, I walked past your door and couldn’t help but notice you need someone to talk to.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah, that music on that volume screams ‘someone rescue me please’, and I just happen to be that someone.”

Again he couldn’t help but smile, there was something incredibly saddening about her genuine smile.

“That’s incredibly nice of you, but I’m afraid the music really just screams ‘let me suffer in peace’.”

“Nonsense, you’re not going to let me stand out here, are you?”

“'Fraid so. Look, I really don’t want to be impolite, but…”

Instead of the insulted expression he had expected her smile only widened as she brought her hands to the front, to his surprise holding a sixpack of Guinness.

“I didn’t think I would have to bribe my way in, but if you don’t feel like talking to me maybe you feel like talking to these bottles.”

He felt his resistance dwindle, there was something about someone actually caring about him that he just couldn’t ignore or push away in his current state.

With a sigh he stepped aside and opened the door a little wider, provoking a snorting snicker as she slipped in.

“I guess I should feel a little insulted.”

“Don’t, it’s not about that beer.”

Nelly kicked off her shoes and looked back over her shoulder with that stupidly cute smile that could just wipe away sadness like a windshield wiper, each back and forth keeping the rain at bay until the storm eventually passed.

“Not just any beer, that’s liquid sadness. Perfect for a night like this, tastes best dilluted with tears. Come, I think you have a story to tell.”

He realized the damage was already done and that he might as well adapt to the change of plan, talking just might help after all. Before long they found themselves on opposite ends of his couch, passing bottle opener and bottles. They pulled up their knees and snuggled into blankets, not unlike he had with the others not that long ago when his home had still been a frequent meeting place for them.

She hadn’t been wrong, the dark and bitter taste of Guinness was certainly never out of place but now it fit his mood perfectly, running over his tongue as if it had to tell stories of its own and enticing him to stop holding back his own.

He smiled wrily, wondering where to start.

“Must be a woman”, Nelly helped him while smiling into her bottle, “ain’t no way anything else can leave you that shattered.”

For some reason that sentence alone gave him back that distance to the events he had so desperately lacked and he couldn’t help a snorting giggle. “Sure is, and it’s really not much of a story. She was my best friend, I got stupid and couldn’t keep my mouth shut, now I’m out a best friend and a whole group of friends in the process. Happens to everyone at some point I guess.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier.”

He took another sip, enjoying the silence and clarity it brought to his mind. “No, no it doesn’t.”

“The blonde chick? I think I’ve walked past her on the stairs once or twice.”

“Yeah, it’s probably the one you’re thinking of. Hard to turn away from, harder to look at.”

“Fits the image in my head. What’s her name?”

“I am kind of trying to forget.”

“Not for now, try to remember things while they are still fresh. In a year she might be a fading memory, a ghost of the past that makes you shiver and hiss in shame when you think about her, hardly knowing why you liked her enough to do this to you.”

Leaning back into the pillows Marc smiled to no one in particular. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Tell me about it. So, come on. Name, what was it you liked so much about her?”

“Aw, whatever. Sarah. Actually I don’t think it fits her that much, or rather the person she really is. A bit bland and if you look at her the first impression is just that, bland. Then I got to know her a little and my impression changed to 'a little bland, a little bitchy’, but with a fun note. The kind where you’re happy you are on the right side of things.”

“Then you get to know her more, start seeing the hidden layer where she’s a bit lonely, a little desperate for friendship and trust. You start seeing parts of yourself in her, next thing you know every movement she makes kind of looks divine, the smile looks mysterious in the dying light of the evening and the sentences you exchange seem to have a hidden meaning.”

“You sure sound like you’ve gone through that before.”

“Mh.”

“I guess in the end I liked the challenge more than the actual prize.”

“If you can see that already you are off much better than I was. Took a good year out of my life the first time, really not a time I like remembering too much.”

“I can imagine. Thanks that you are though, it feels a lot better to talk than I imagined.”

“And thinking you almost closed that door for good.”

And there it was again, that feeling that Nelly was talking on two layers. With an inner sigh he leaned back again. Not this time.

But there was that smile again, how had she called it? A little mysterious, a little teasing and with a hint of 'don’t even think about it’ mixed in for good measure. Only this time it was followed by a slightly embarrassed and apologetic giggle.

“I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t play with you that way, not now.”

He was more than slightly annoyed, but his 'I’d appreciate that’ came out a lot softer than the words had sounded in his head. A little weak, a little begging and a whole lot pathetic considering the circumstances.

The tension was almost palpable for a second, but then Nelly branched the distance between them by extending a foot and bumping his knee with her toe.

“Hey, lighten up. I’m sorry, I mean it. It’s funny to tease most of the time.”

Marc smiled, relaxing his muscles. “It actually was funny coming to think of it. How can it be so easy to walk into the same trap twice in days.”

“Because it’s easy to sell people what they need or want. Like, I’m pretty sure I could sell you a foot massage right now.”

Against better knowledge Marc chuckled. “And what would that cost me? Hypothetically speaking of course.”

“Oh, just a new bottle because mine’s empty.”

“That… feels like an acceptable price, but you know you can get that for free.”

He opened another bottle and handed it over before finishing his own and grabbing one for himself. He wasn’t exactly sure if beer and talking had eased enough his mind enough or if he was just getting too drunk for his own good, but he sure wanted that foot massage now. Any physical contact, really.

“Yeah I know, but maybe I simply like to make up for my slip. Come on, no excuses.”

While he was still wondering if he should or not Nelly had already moved forward, lifting his feet and resting them in her lap. Marc slid down, resting his neck against the pillows with closed eyes, enjoying the moment.

“You know, for what it’s worth you’re not so bad at making up.”

Her fingers dug into his feet. “Nothing compared to my making out skills.”

“There, you’re doing that again. That just earned you another five minutes.”

“Right, my bad.”

They were in that strange zone now where they could freely joke. A demilitarized zone, combatants realizing they weren’t all that different in the end, tossed around the battlefields by forces outside their influence. Even her touch felt friendly, caring when the same from Sarah would have put his senses at full alert and steered his thoughts into weird directions. Not that his thoughts were all that pure now, but this was a different game altogether and he could handle it. For now.

“You are thinking about her, I can feel the tension.”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s hard not to.”

“That’s okay. Try to relax though, it’s like pressing squares into round whores.”

Marc let out a little laugh, part to the joke and part to her fingers tickling the sole of his feet.

Nelly stopping momentarily to take a sip before she continued ripped him out of the flow enough to realize in a moment of clarity that the demilitarized zone he had thought them in was a mere illusion, the cease-fire fragile and temporary.

In the end they belonged to different sides of the ever raging war, but for a few invaluable moments nothing of that mattered and Marc realized he liked a good enemy much better than a bad ally.

The feelings inside his head were conflicting wildly, the majority warning him that he was playing with fire, likely to get burned. The minority put up a hard fight though, and the longer he felt Nelly’s fingers circling around his toes the more its voice seemed like the reasonable one.

Finally he realized that he could either lose a fight he had never fought at worst or fight a winning battle at best, all signs pointing to the latter.

Opening one eye he looked at her, the smile on her face in that irresistible triangle of inviting, waiting and playfully innocent. “You know exactly where my thoughts are going, don’t you?”

Her head tilted to the side she nodded ever so slightly, smile transformed into a grin. “Mh. I’m just afraid I can’t just make a move on you when you’re half drunk half vulnerable and you can’t make a move because you don’t want me to feel like a rebound fuck.”

Marc’s dick was telling him he definitely could and should make a move, but instead he snickered. “I guess that means we won’t get anywhere from here then.”

The snicker turned into a barely suppressed squeal as Nelly dug her fingers deep into his feet. “Wrong answer, try again.”

There were only so many times Marc could lie to himself that he didn’t want any part in this game. “I’m sorry, I meant to say 'let’s get naked’.”

A second later her fingers were gone from his feet, leaving a cold harsh lack of touch in their wake, but when he opened his eyes he noticed they were needed to get her out of the worn sweater. Marc tried to get upright to help Nelly out of her clothes, but she pushed him back down. Catching her hand in the process Marc pulled her down with him, catching her fall with hands, body and lips that offered a landing pad for hers.

His hands around her neck he pulled her in close, their lips not leaving each other’s until they were both out of breath. There was something in her eyes that outweighed everything else, a genuine desire that had nothing devious and even seemed… relieved. Only now did he realize that Nelly must have waited for this moment a lot longer than the hour Marc had had to see the light, such a feeling didn’t develop overnight.

Marc ran his fingers across her forehead, brushing a strand of hair out of the way before they continued their way down her cheek and neck and slightly tucked on her chin to bring her in for another kiss. This time their lips only touched for a brief moment before she put a finger on his lips, keeping him locked down harder than any weight could  have.

“We have all night to be nice together, but I don’t feel you inside me in ten seconds flat I might just die in a case of spontaneous combustion.”

“I can do it in nine.”

“All talk no walk”, she uttered while she got up from the couch to get out of shirt and pants, standing over him naked before he had even gotten out of his shirt.

“Too slow. Poof, there I go. Hope you enjoy fucking my smoldering remains.”

“All night long. Was nice knowing you.”

“Oh, you’ll get to know me alright.”

With that Nelly helped him out of his jeans that had barely found their way to the floor before she was on top of him, her hand guiding him into her. There was no resistance, only wet warmth engulfing him as he slid into her. Marc followed her gaze go through phases of hunger, love and hate with everything in between before she settled on a determined look that could have scared weaker minds.

Her hips played along, bouncing up and down on him at a furious pace as soon as she had balanced herself with her hands pressing his shoulders down. He wasn’t a player in this game, he was the playing field. Not that he could complain, all room for complaints in his head filled with the image of her breasts hypnotizing him.

He knew she wouldn’t be able to keep that pace for long before she would have to slow down, but then his time would come and their roles would change. For the time being he just had to lie back, hold her hips and push his own hips up now and then to make sure she couldn’t settle into a rhythm.

The moment she slowed down noticeably his hands on her hips turned her around before he was on top of her. Her eyes told him she was confused, as if she had just woken up in her bed with her head facing the wrong direction. His first thrust came hard, harder than she had expected and forcing a squeal out of her. An embarrassed, slightly annoyed smile raced across her smile, then disappeared when his next thrust made her eyes lose focus, staring at some point in the distance.

Marc grabbed her by the neck, holding her steady while he watched Nelly go from hungry over begging him to keep fucking her to only begging with her eyes because her voice was gone, all air used for moans, squeals and half-hearted attempts at words that made no sense.

She came almost silently, her head sinking into his hand and her body losing all tension in a series of shivers. Her pussy tightened up so much that he came close to coming himself, only kept from filling her up immediately by the desire to look into her eyes while he did so. As soon as some sense returned into Nelly’s eyes she looked at him and nodded with a satisfied and exhausted grin. Marc tightened up all muscles and thrust as deep into her as he could, a myriad of bad memories and decisions wiped from his mind as he came inside of her and struggled for balance while his dick tried to move in any direction and ultimately decided there was no way out.

Only now noticing how cold a properly heated room could feel without clothes on they hurried back under the blankets, looking at each other from opposing sides of the couch like they had not long before, only completely different.

Nelly put up a smile that seemed to tell a story of its own even though Marc couldn’t read it, her left cheek pulled up in a sleazy, secretive way that fucked with his mind worse than her body ever could have.

“Any regrets?”

Marc nodded, feeling the same kind of smile distort his own face now.

“Yeah, wasting a year of living next to you on another woman.”

———————-

I hope you enjoyed the read! 

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[nextlevelguypodcast]

Episode #93 Leah Shutkever on eating your flaws on the way to success

Today’s guest is Leah Shutkever. Leah is Europes No.1 female competitive eater, multiple official Guinness World Record Title holder, proud non-conformist and all-round good woman.

In this deep dive interview, we discuss her story, her struggles with her body image, her relationship with food, how she learnt to be herself which brought about her amazing confidence, her rugby playing days, and how a sibling rivalry helped her to start her very successful YouTube channel. 

Leah is phenomenal and deserves her amazing success. However, it is not just her channel that is awe inspiring, it is how Leah is so open and honest about her struggles with confidence and bullying when younger and the impact it had on her. She is very vulnerable and honest throughout, and shows how successful people are just people in the end, with their own worries and insecurities about themselves just like normal people. It is Leah's frank discussion on how she learnt to accept herself as she was, to realise the things she disliked actually made her unique, attractive and someone that people loved to watch ... and it helped create a juggernaut of a YouTube channel and career, that is a brilliant take-way message for listeners - she did it, so why can't you? This is a great interview to list to for people who are struggling with their confidence and self-esteem, those who have a goal or dream and don't believe in themselves to try as much as it is for those who love Leah's channel and her brilliant food challenges. 

  In this interview, we discuss gems like:

Who they are

How did her upbringing influence her diet 

The importance of food in your family, culture and the affect it can have on you

Her experiences with yo-yo dieting and how societal pressures affect our confidence as much as our look

Her Rugby career and why she was known as the Chiropractor! 

How food can be an emotional fix and why it is important to teach and educate kids on the virtues of food but more importantly to have a healthy relationship with food. 

How she overcame the bullying she experienced when she was younger 

The realisation she had about our place in this world and the motivation to make an impact on the world

Her goals for and the achievements she wants to make her mark on the world

How her entry into competitive eating was done to annoy her brother

What does she feel is the appeal of her channel

 The joy of food and how a little experimentation can open up a whole new world of tastes 

How her physique reacts to the different challenges 

How does she deal with large quantities of food consumption

How she has made fitness a priority and a habit, that centers her and keeps her motivation

Dealing with negative comments, trolls and the 'interesting' extremes on social media

How has she been affected by the COVID-19 outbreak

How she can reverse engineer her diet to accommodate for the vast quantities and calories she consumes while filming 

Content creation and being an inspiration to others

Has she got a favourite type of challenge

The importance of attitude in what you can achieve in life

How she has learnt to deal with interviews and PR 

How you can connect with them 

Check out this episode!

[steamshovelmama]

Too many jokes about warm beer...

OK, guys, This has cropped up about five times in the last week in the, “Do you Brits really drink warm beer?” sense. A few people actually seem to be serious, so here is a Public Service Announcement about British Beer.

Firstly the question, “Do you drink your beer warm?” (which for the sake of this post is defined as room temperature, or more likely, a little below because no one actually drinks warmed beer whatever the Americans think...) This is like saying, “Do you drink your wine warm?” To which the answer is: it depends. White or Rose - hell, no! Red - of course.

Only a philistine would drink chilled red wine. It would taste horrible. The complex flavours would be lost and it would just taste thin and bitter. On the other hand, white wine is distinctly unpleasant when not chilled. Different products.

Thus it is with beer. Many USians do not seem to realise that what they casually refer to as beer is actually only one style of beer. It’s descended from a European lager. Lager is brewed with a bottom fermenting yeast that is specific to that style of beer. Lager is relatively young as a drink, dating back only to the late 15th/early 16th C. The yeast is much more cold tolerant than traditional ale yeasts (of which more shortly). This strain of yeast ferments slowly in cold temperatures producing a clean and crisp but relatively uncomplex flavour which is very different to ales whereas ale yeast stops fermenting in cold conditions. The yeast is also sensitive to alcohol so lagers cannot be brewed to as high a strength as ales. Lagers were traditionally laid down in the cold atmosphere of caves (actually known as lagering, giving the style its name) and the long slow fermentation followed by a long settling period means the sedimentary particles present in the brew dropped out leaving, again, a clearer, crisper, simpler drink that is most suitable served chilled - or traditionally, at the lagering temperature which would be considerably warmer than we now, in the age of easy refrigeration, usually drink it. However, the clean, simple taste copes well with temperatures associated with modern refrigeration. Just like white wine.

Ale does not.

Ale is a style specific to the British Isles. There are similar style beers scattered throughout Germany and Belgium - and Northern Europe generally - but they are so much of their own local tradition that it is fair to say that ale is a British drink.

There are several types of ale - mild, bitter, porter, stout, barley wine etc - plus subdivisions of each of these. They all share the same process of fermentation with a traditional ale yeast which is top fermenting. This yeast (Saccharomyces cerevisia - also used in bread and wine making) ferments at a higher temperature than the lager yeasts and is stopped dead in its tracked by cold weather. This meant that in most places, ale brewing did not take place over winter. The fermentation process was faster and shorter than lager’s, producing a drink that retained a lot of substances that affected the flavour. Because of this, ale’s flavour is heavier, more complex, and bitterer than lager. This is why, in Britain, lager is often derided as a young person’s drink - what you drink before you can cope with the Real Stuff. That or a Lady’s Drink (in half pints, in a suitably goblet shaped glass...) There is a grain of truth in this because many of the commercially available lager styles in Britain are utterly awful, being (sorry guys) basically bland, US style lagers. And, overall, US style lagers are pretty bad. Guys, you lead the world in many things, but not large scale lager/beer production. That’s why so many areas of the US have a flourishing craft beer and micro-brewery culture. Proof? Get a bottle of your Budweiser and a bottle of the original Czech Budweiser (usually marketed as Budvar) and compare the two. Budvar is a gorgeous traditional mid-European lager. Clean, crisp, but with a proper mildly bitter flavour. Budweiser... well, frankly, it’s piss.

All the lagers that are worth drinking in Britain are European imports or brewed under license - Stella Artois, Becks, Peroni etc. They are also noticeably more expensive.

But ale... ah, the ale styles are cheap, numerous, individual and very, very interesting. They are “live” beers (ie not pasteurised), served from tap or handpump and you have to have a level of skill to keep and serve them succesfully. They are best served at their traditional temperature which is “cellar” temperature. That would be cool but not actually refrigerated. Chill it and it loses the flavour - mostly. In fact, stouts are usually chilled these days, and the lighter end of the scale - the golden ales - are often served lightly chilled as a summer drink. But your true bitter or mild is best drunk at slightly below room temperature. Just like red wine.

Having said that, many chain pubs in the UK (looking at you, Mr Wetherspoon...) have taken to serving all their drinks at virtually sub-zero temperatures. This renders the shit lagers drinkable (you can’t taste them) and the ales undrinkable (you can’t taste them). There is a fashion amongst younger drinkers to want to have ice cold drinks, regardless of the style. For proper UK beer, find a smaller local pub, and you’ll find out how this stuff is actually supposed to taste. Probably... Although, it’s also possible you get some nasty, ropey crap that will give you a bad stomach - remember what I said about the skill needed to keep this stuff? If it tastes vinegary, or has a faintly stringy feel (”ropey”) don’t drink it, demand your money back and go elsewhere. There aren’t many pubs with truly bad cellarmen these days but you run into the odd one now and then.

Having said that, the best cellarman in the world can have the odd barrel that’s not as it should be. It’s perfectly acceptable to return a pint that’s a bit not right. The barman should taste the drink himself and if he agrees the barrel is off, or coming to the end (beer may be a bit sedimenty) he should get it changed immediately. Well, immediately after offering you another pint, either from a different barrel of the same beer if there is one, or another beer if not. It’s also acceptable in many pubs to ask for a small sample of a beer you haven’t tried before to see if you like it. This will be free. And, yes, the beer flavours do vary to that degree.

Every area of Britain has its own local brew, often available from a pub attached to the brewery “the “brewery tap”). Popular ones can also go nationwide - Doombar Ale is probably one of the current most fashionable ones. Black Sheep Ale is another.

TYPES OF ALE

Stouts and Porters

Originally Stout was a term for a strong beer, but now it means a very dark one. The colour of an ale is dependent on how dark the barley was roasted. Obviously this also affects the flavour. The term porter was coined because the drink was popular with London porters in the 18thC. Eventually different strengths of Porter were brewed with the strongest being known as “Stout” porter - which just became stout. WIthin this group are:

“Milk Stouts” (contains lactose which cannot be fermented so it is sweeter. Was thought to be healthy and used to be given to nursing mothers)

Dry/Irish stout (basically just standard stout without the lactose/sweetness. The style became associated with Irish brewing and Guinness is the most famous example though there are several others)

Oatmeal stout (contains oats as well as barley)

Chocolate stouts (usually just a stout with chocolate notes in the flavour but a few of these do contain a small amount of chocolate)

Oyster stouts (yes, these are actually brewed with a handful of oysters in the barrel. I did say complex flavours...)

Imperial Stout (a style similar to the stout that was exported to the court of Russian Empress Catherine II. The only real difference is the strength which is usually above 9%)

There’s a Baltic Porter too which is a (usually Polish) recreation of the Imperial stout exports.

Bitters

The “standard” beer served in British pubs. Not actually that bitter - the term was coined in the 19th C to differentiate these sharper, hoppier beers from the... well, milder milds. US drinkers are probably familar with IPA (India Pale Ale) which is a style of bitter that ended up closer to lager in look/taste (though remaining more complex and less crisp) because of the effect of the export journey to India. People liked the flavour and IPA became a style of its own.

Bitters vary from pale gold to deep brown but, unlike stouts and porters, are not opaque. They are descended from the everyday drink of the British and should not be noticeably alcoholic as you drink, though they can creep up on you if you’re not careful... in pubs you can generally find ABVs between 3.5%, suitable for drinking all afternoon, and evening, and about 6%, suitable for 3 or 4 pints over a night out, preferably with food!. Pubs don’t usually serve stronger bitters as a matter of course, though near Christmas you may well find an Old Ale or a Barley Wine, which are much stronger. The Golden Ales which are popular lightly chilled on a summer afternoon fall in the bitter category.

There are traditional names for the various strengths. Session beers are below 4.1% ABV, Best or Special Bitter is between 4.2 and 4.7, Premium or Strong Bitter, is 4.8 and above.

Milds

Originally meant “young” beer with less of the hoppy tang of aged beer. They tend to be deep brown and have an ABV of 3 - 3.5%. However, just to be confusing, there are paler “light milds” and the occasional one as strong as 6% ABV. Sometimes you’ll see them called “dark milds” or “ruby milds”. This just refers to the colour of the liquor and has no other significance. The darker ones are sometimes called “Brown Ales” though this term is a bit old fashioned now.

Incidentally milds are where the Xs in beer names come from. Originally the number of Xs denoted strength so a name like “Castlemaine XXXX” (another dreadful gnats piss lager, but Aussie this time) would indicate the strongest brew.

Old Ale

A strong, dark, malty beer, over 5% ABV. Some are called “Winter Warmers”.

Barley Wine

Strong to insanely strong beer, between 6% and 16% ABV. There’s little meaningful difference betwen the Old Ales and Barley Wines, except you’re marginally more likely still to be able to walk after an Old Ale... Like the Old Ales, it is most often found in pubs around Christmas. If bottled they can be extensively aged. Expect it to be served in half pint glasses.