#and then I spend the whole morning drowsy which is fine at work and less fine when I need to sit quietly and pay attention to an 8am lectur

[gaytheropods]

[ID: A woman in a plum-colored dress standing in front of a TV screen in a room decorated with many old lights and books. She holds a pointer and speaker cards. The words on the TV screen and the caption of what she says are the same: "Morning People are an Oppressive Class" End ID.]

Ok wait let her speak

[sylvies-chen]

Suggestions - Melendaire

(AO3 link)

// Neil accidentally lets something slip on a drowsy Sunday morning in bed with his girlfriend. Claire, naturally, panics. //

Word count: 2384

Neil Melendez wakes up with Claire Browne in his arms just about every morning.

The feeling still hasn’t gotten old.

Their one-year anniversary is coming around the corner. Just under two weeks away, the surgeon realizes when he does the math in his head. And even after all this time, the feeling of waking up with her head on his shoulder and tucked under his arm has never lost its luster. The rush of excitement and pure affection still rushes through his veins all the same. He’s still groggy as that dawns on him, barely awake enough to move away from the blinding sunlight coming in from the bedroom window. All he does is squint and tilt his head the other way, right into Claire’s brown curls. Getting a face full of hair should bother him, but he’s used to it by now— it only makes him smile.

They don’t need to get up right away today. It’s one of their few days off, which means they’ll spend most of the morning the way they usually do when they get a day off: sleeping in for a while, going a few rounds if they’re in the mood, and then making pancakes for breakfast. It’s a nice routine they’ve gotten into over the past year, one that’s made Neil dread work the next day. He just likes spending time with her too much; likes getting lost in her and her soft brown eyes.

Suddenly, he feels her stirring in his arms and she opens her eyes, waking up slowly with a tired moan. “What time is it?”

“Early,” he replies, sitting up in the bed leaning against the backboard.

“Ugh, I hate early. I want to kill early,” Claire groans. “Do we have to get up?”

“No. It’s our day off, we can sleep in. No surgeries, no difficult patients, no paperwork. None of it.”

“Good,” Claire sighs contentedly, pressing a lazy kiss to his cheek and sitting up to snuggle into him. “I like staying here with you.”

“I like it too,” he admits, smiling. “Hey, what do you say we go running this afternoon?”

“Yeah? You think we’ll be fully awake by then?”

“Definitely,” he affirms. “We can sleep in and then go after lunch. And the only thing I love more than you and my work is beating you at the track.”

“Oh, really funny, Neil,” she quips sarcastically, giggling. “If you win, it’s because you cheat!”

“I prefer to call it being creative,” he protests. “Besides, you’re the one who keeps falling for the old ‘fake an injury’ trick. I’ve done it a hundred times now and you fall for it every time.”

“Well excuse me for trying to be a good girlfriend,” she mumbles teasingly, accepting defeat.

“Don’t worry though, sweetheart. When I beat you this afternoon, it’ll be fair and square,” he comforts teasingly, pressing a kiss to her head. They normally spend their mornings like this too— exchanging quick kisses.

“You’re unbelievable,” Claire giggles. “Always so—“

“Arrogant?” He guesses the end of her sentence, because it’s one of the first things she’d called him when she came to St. Bonaventure’s.

“Self-assured,” she corrects him. “But if you want to say arrogant then I won’t argue with that.” She gives him a teasing smirk, which sends them both into a fit of laughter.

“I want to marry you,” he lets out as he chuckles, before he can really think about it.

Oh crap. Something he hadn’t even expected to say, something lingering underneath the surface of his mind, just slipped out.

Oh crap. Claire’s staring at him with eyes like a deer in headlights.

Oh crap. What the hell did he just say?

It’s not like he doesn’t want to marry her. He definitely does. They’ve been dating for quite some time now, ever since that close call during the earthquake nearly a year ago. But they’d both agreed to take things slowly, especially since it had taken everyone at work a little while to adjust to the idea of him and Claire in a relationship. Dr. Melendez and Dr. Browne, secret lovers. It wasn’t exactly a smooth transition, but they’d weathered it together. He loves her and she loves him, that’s all that ever really mattered. Now, they’ve built this life together— a routine of date nights and tender kisses. He’s never felt happier, and his love for her has only grown stronger with time.

So yeah, the thought of marrying her has crossed his mind more than once. Although apparently, it’s crossed his mind more frequently than he’d thought because here he is, blurting out a proposal while tangled up in bed with his girlfriend on a Sunday morning.

“What?” Claire gets out of bed and stands up, pulling the sheet up to cover her chest. Suddenly, through Neil’s fault and his fault alone, she’s wide awake and alert.

Neil winces, his nose scrunching up into his eyes. “Nothing. I mean, I didn’t— that’s not...”

“Oh my god,” she lets out, quiet and stunned as she gets up out of the bed and takes the sheet with her, keeping it wrapped around her body. “You just asked me to marry you?!”

“No no no,” he replies frantically, reaching to grab his boxers and yanking them on before standing up to face her. The bed separates them, but her eyes are wild and piercing with shock. He knows he’s just done something monumentally stupid. “That wasn’t a proposal, I swear.”

“Then what the hell was that?”

“It was...” he pauses to rack his brain for something to say to get him out of the corner he’s backed himself into, and he only lands on one thing. “... a suggestion,” he finishes with a shrug.

“A suggestion?” She looks at him skeptically, her arms crossed in front of her.

“Yes,” he confirms hesitantly.

“Ok, that’s it,” she nods curtly. “you’re insane. This— this is insane!”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “It was a nice moment, I was happy and still half asleep, and- and it just slipped out. Like it or not, I said it. But if you want to go back and pretend like it didn’t happen then fine, we can do that.”

“Well we can’t go back now, Neil,” she huffs. “I can’t go on pretending you didn’t just say that. I mean— god, I can still hear it in my head even now! We need to talk about it.”

“Ok,” he sighs— a little defeatedly, since he has a gut feeling that this conversation isn’t going anywhere he likes (and his gut has never steered him wrong, being a surgeon has taught him that much). “The floor’s open for discussion, Browne. How do you want to go about this?”

He tries to be as clinical as possible he waits for a response. This whole situation is a little embarrassing, really. In the small amount of time since they’ve woken up in each other’s arms, Neil’s somehow managed to blurt out a proposal to his girlfriend of less than a year and has nearly ruined everything. They’re both standing on opposite sides of the bed, in nothing but their underwear, and Neil swears the tension is thick enough to choke them to death. He can picture his colleagues attempting some hypothetical surgery, can picture calling the time of death of their relationship and marking the cause of death off as asphyxiation on some intangible substance. It’s funny, in some weird and twisted way. He’s beating himself up over where this conversation is heading, but at least Glassman would get a kick out of it.

But then, by some miracle, it doesn’t head that way at all.

Claire exhales quietly, deep in thought. Melendez can see her muscles relaxing, the tension leaving from her shoulders as she sits back down on the bed. She leans in a little, staring shyly at her fingers sunken into the bedsheets. “Well, for starters... I think you should ask me again.”

“What?” His brows furrow as a small smile creeps onto his face. Neil sits down across from her on the bed, delightfully stunned. “Are you being serious?”

“I am,” she replies calmly. Her tone is a hell of a lot calmer than Neil feels right now. He can practically feel the excitement rushing through his veins.

Is she saying what he thinks she’s saying?

Neil hasn’t expected this conversation to come for a long time. They grew into each other’s love in time, but it doesn’t erase the scars they have. Claire’s pain and trauma is actually what made her so scared to admit she loved him in the first place. It’d taken him being on the brink of death for her to admit her feelings. Now, they’ve finally grown more comfortable with their feelings but Neil still knows that taking it slow is the right move. It’s why he was so surprised when that proposal slipped off his tongue. Proposing after nearly a year of dating isn’t exactly moving at a slow pace. He supposes his feelings for her— the overwhelming urge to marry her— overcame all the voices of reason telling him to take it easy for fear of scaring her off.

Now though? Now it’s a whole different story.

He stays quiet for a second too long and the small smile on her face fades, bringing in a nervous glance instead. “I mean, only if you want to ask me,” she adds awkwardly after a moment.

“God yes I do,” he assures her. It sparks a small giggle from Claire, her eyes now sparkling and glossy with what Melendez thinks are tears of joy. “I just... I figured you might want it to be a bit different from this. I don’t even have a ring.”

“Well you know me, I’ve always hated romantics,” she dismisses with a watery chuckle.

He laughs in return and smiles until his cheeks hurt. The space between them on the bed slowly closes as Neil inches forward, dragging the sheets with him and taking her hands in his. “You... you are the single best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he starts. The awe in his own voice surprises him a little, but it’s not unexpected. Spend enough time around Dr. Browne and you’ll get used to incredible. That’s what he’d said around a year ago, and it still rings true now. He’s also said being around her makes him a better surgeon and person, which is also very true. She just makes him better, in everything he does. “I love you more than I thought was possible. So, Dr. Browne...” Claire lets out another watery laugh but her hands start to shake in his, so Neil holds them tighter. “... Will you marry me?”

There’s a moment where everything is quieter than silence. Neil starts hearing ringing in his ears, a throbbing sensation that this could go very wrong. Or, as he suspects (and hopes), it could go very very right. And he knows this is weird— that not-so accidentally proposing to your girlfriend while half-naked on a Sunday morning isn’t exactly the traditional way to ask someone to spend the rest of their life with you— but he just doesn’t care. Neil wants to have a life with her. He wants the whole package, the thing they’ve both been searching for long before finding each other. The life they’d almost given up hope on. And not for the first time since he’s met her, he wants it with Claire Browne.

And the silence is broken, like a dam flooding with a river that ends up only being one word. “Yes,” she whispers, tears welling up in her eyes. “Yes, I will marry you.”

Neil can tell, even without looking in a mirror, that his face lights up at those words. His cheeks hurt from smiling so widely, his body practically aches for her.

A year ago, he wouldn’t have dreamed of unprofessional touches or intimate moments. He’d been so scared to cross the line, the point of no return. But now, he’s about to spend the rest of his life with the most talented, kind, incredible woman he’s ever met, and he doesn’t have to be scared. He leans over, meets her in the middle of the bed while on their knees, and kisses her without hesitation.

It’s sweet, the way Claire’s kiss is always a sweet release to him, and beautiful. Admittedly, he feels tears of his own coming on and tastes the salt streaming onto their lips from both of their eyes.

Claire pulls away after a while, laughing and smiling while crying. They’re both blubbering messes at this point, filled with overwhelming tenderness.

���What do we do for a ring?” Neil finally asks after they both compose themselves a little bit.

Claire looks around the room, ruffles around the drawer of the nightstand for something, and then finally pulls out a sharpie. “Here,” she says, pulling the cap off. Melendez watches in shock as Claire scribbles a line all the way around her ring finger, forming the trace of a ring with black ink. “It’s not a permanent solution, but it’ll do.”

Neil laughs giddily. Only Claire Browne would draw an engagement ring on her finger. There’s truly no one like her, and he loves her for it. “It looks beautiful, Dr. Browne,” he teases.

“It’s just until we get something nice. And when we do, it better not be anything big or tacky or expensive. But that’s just my preference. You know— just a suggestion,” she finishes with a smirk.

“Right,” he chuckles. “And I suggest you kiss me now.”

“That can be arranged,” she quips back teasingly, smiling as she leans in with her hands on his bare chest.

Neil smiles into the kiss, his lips pressing against hers. His hands find her hips and pull her in until they’re flush against each other. They crash onto the bed in a frenzy of blankets, Neil settling on top of her gently, and he sees Claire’s beaming smile and the black ink around her ring finger.

It’s the last thing he sees before he moves in to kiss her again. Neil tastes her lips on his, and thinks proposing to her was the best suggestion he ever made.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Collapse- Prompt Fill

Jon is a Dune fan. How can picking up one book change things? Idea from a tumblr prompt and a post by @roseunspindle (permission was granted for writing this)

cw all the typical episode 160 stuff and references to nausea and of course manipulation and fainting. Some dialogue from 160, and a quote from Dune, of course!

I am still accepting bingo prompts (card by @celosiaa​) Pick a prompt from the card and a character and let me know if you want art of fic! (I am much faster at art). I have several outlined that I need to write, and I will get to those... Soonish?  Have an excellent day and I hope 2021 treats you well!

Jon isn’t sure why he grabbed the book.  He’s read it before so it doesn’t hold the same interest it once did.   He had to work on that reading habit of his in school, and now he’s managed a few rereads, but he still prefers the unknown and interesting.

But he did love this book when he read it.  He was too young for it, of course.  But that hadn’t mattered.  He sucked the whole world into his young and greedy mind.  

And now that glossy, second hand cover.... makes him pause over it.  He doesn’t know how it survived evictions and his absences.  He must have subconsciously stored it out of the way.  But he grabs it, with a few statements, and his small collection of clothes into a very battered backpack that he’s sure once belonged to Melanie.  

He wishes he had more books.  Maybe once he and Martin reach the train station, he can pick up something else to read.  Or maybe he can borrow some books from Martin….

He stuffs Dune into his backpack.  It’s on the top, distending the fabric slightly, straining the zipper as his grandmother had always reprimanded him for when he shoved too many pleasure books into his school bag, (always to read under the desk and he was always inevitably caught and reprimanded again, but what could you do with an inattentive student who still pulled good marks?).  

He boards the train with Martin.  Battered and aging backpacks filled with worn clothes and statements and books and granola bars.  The station had been loud and busy enough to send Jon reeling with the information spilling off a crowd of people as well as the less eldritch sensory overload.  His head aching dully as they settle into their seats.  

Medicine for motion sickness sends him drowsy as soon as it is effective.  He spends the time before it works staring queasily out the window, clammy hands holding tightly to Martin as much to sooth his uneasy stomach as to hold Martin in this plain of reality.  He nods off, hands still clasped with Martin’s.  Wrapped up in the elation of having Martin with him, around him, talking to him…. almost safe.  

He wakes up in a storm of hurried breaths and crashing thoughts…. precarious as the crashing waves that haunted the lonely, but far closer and more oppressive.  Statements tumbling with his own crashing thoughts.  Fear on his breath.  His fear making him Hungry in the nauseous way of autocannibleism.  

He presses his face into Martin, only just then realizing that he’s been using Martin as a pillow.   Martin, who is dozing.  Martin, who is still a little foggy.  The last of the haze burning off with the contact.  Jon can see the steam rising between them, mainly and gentle.  The sun burning the fog off a meadow in the early morning.  

Jon sits himself up, but stays pressed against Martin.  The imprint of Jon slowly thawing Martin as the train gently sways them both.  

Jon doesn’t want to sleep more.  He would much prefer to read, but it is still more than a bit of a gamble for him to even medicated.  But…. he’s bored.  

Dune.  

Right on the top of his bag.  Leaning over starting to make him queasy (which doesn’t bode well for reading attempts), he pulls it out and straightens up.  

He turns it over in his hands a few times, until his stomach settles.  He’s fine.  Just a few more minutes before the medicine works… probably anyhow.  

He flips through the pages, still waiting for his breathing to calm as well.  

Oh.  

He remembers this words… in a half remembered haze of childhood and tracing those words on his limbs and his walls.  With his eyes, and markers, and pencils.  On the inside of his eyelids.  Carved into the air about his bed as he repeated them to himself.  

‘I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.’

Reading those words again makes his hands shake like they had when he first read them… with Mr. Spider fresh in his nightmares.  Still missing the life he could never have with his parents.  

Jon fumbles for a pen.  

He traces them again on his forearm.  

Poorly written, of course.  Hands far from steady with the rocking of the train and the rocking of his stomach and the rolling of his world after the day he’s had.  But he is once more too tired to focus on anything much, so he tucks his book away again, and shoves the pen in his pocket.  

He tucks himself up against Martin again, using an old jumper as a blanket.  He knows he is taking a bit of a liberty, but he buries his face in Martin’s neck and breathes deeply.  He’s asleep again in moments.  

The trip isn’t eventful.  Lots of track clicking past.  Lots of drowsy hours.  A disappointing sandwich and a tasteless cup of tea.  Jostled shoulders.  Cramped restrooms.  Cramped necks.  Jon’s bad leg protesting the seating arrangements.  Then the slightly uncomfortable walk to the safe house.  Weighed down with hasty shopping and their lumpy bags.  Jon limping more heavily by the time they drag themselves over the threshold.  

In the domestic bliss, time stretches.  Lazy afternoons on the couch Jon and Martin entwined stretch into years in the golden light of afternoon.  Two weeks of cups of tea.  Of trips to the store.  Of statements that Jon goes through way too fast, try as he does to ration them.  Frantic phone calls to Basira as Jon can’t make the trip to town anymore.  More cuddling on the couch.  Bickering over who does the dishes, over who makes the best eggs.  Over what to have for dinner.  Discussions of what counts as a sandwich and whether cereal is a soup.  Jon being appalled that Martin eats cereal from the box directly with a spoon.  Martin being horrified that Jon eats dry cereal from a bowl with a glass of milk.  Playing footsie through dinner.  “Yes Martin, another soup.  Means less cooking.”  Sloppy kisses over glasses of wine.  Jon being too dizzy to go on walks.  Jon retracing Frank Herbert’s words on to his arm.  Over.  And over.  And over again.  

“I must not fear…”

“I must not fear…”

“I must not fear…”

“I must not fear…”

Until a package arrives.  

It’s unassuming and labeled in Basira’s careful penmanship.  If Jon expects to see tear-staines over a lost partner, he doesn’t see them.  

Martin kisses him soundly, and leaves to take pictures of good cows.  

Jon has been tucked up on the couch.  Under a thick blanket.  Finally in better spirits now that he has statements again, ready …so ready for his limbs to feel like his again.  

He tastes copper as he started to read.  The words don’t sit right in his mouth.  Before he can even properly start… before his mind is lost to him, he can feel the wrongness building.  And when the betrayal occurs, he can’t find it in him to be surprised or hurt.  All he can feel is a hollow fear…. a hungry fear.  Gaping and endless.  Tearing into his skin as he tears at his clothes, his skin, the statement that does not belong to Hazel Rutter and has nothing to do with a fire.  Aside from the fire in his throat and in his hand, and leaping from mark to mark as Jon learns what they actually are.  A map of manipulation.  A tool to make the actual tool.  The wood and hammer and nails that make him the door.  The door that he… that he.  “ Come to us in your perfection.                         

                                                                                               Bring all that is fear and all that                    

                    is terror and all that is the awful                    

                    dread that crawls and chokes and                       

                    blinds and falls and twists and                        

                    leaves and hides and weaves and                        

                    burns and hunts and rips and bleeds                    

                    and dies!                                              

                                                                                               Come to us.                                            

                                                                                               I-“

“I…”  Jon chokes.  His eyes sliding helplessly over the room.  Over many tokens of a happy life that he is never going to have.  Because of this…. this… he can’t even call it a betrayal.  His entire life has lead to this.  Every unhappy moment.  Every instinct he has ever had.  Every poor choice.  Every step another step towards the inevitable.  His eye catches on a familiar cover.  Somehow still glossy.  Despite Jon having carried it around like a safety blanket for the last few weeks.  And he catches those smudged and traced over words on his arm and he tears at himself, trying to stop.  

“I…”

He chokes again.  Around those last few words.  The words that will wrench the thunder from the sky and rend it asunder.  

“I…”

He breathes.  Possibly for the first time since his hands ghosted over the unassuming manilla folder.  

“‘I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.’”

His vision cuts out.  He must have stood at some point, because he is falling.  Stings cut.  Nothing to manipulate.  The puppet is broken.  

He wakes with a head full of cotton, but a heart devoid of fear.  There is a clarity in his limbs.  But exhaustion sits heavily on his chest.  He feels… clear.  And real.  And… like utter shit.  

But the arms around him are solid and warm and smell like tea and toast and all the good things Jon can think of in the world.  And even if Jon could bring himself to move… he wouldn’t have dreamt of doing so.  

There is burnt ink in the air.  

“Wha’?”  Marble-mouthed.  Heavy with the exhaustion of years of poor sleep, of running and fearing and the adrenaline crash of something horrifying being…over.  

“It’s alright, Jon.  Everything’s fine.  I…. I don’t know how you did it, but you stopped reading… and I burned it.  It’s gone.  We’re okay.”  

And Jon isn’t sure he understands…. but he doesn’t care.  Because he is not afraid, and Martin told him that everything is okay.  And he thinks… just Maybe.  Just… maybe… that it might be.  

He lets himself be tucked in.  He lets himself sleep.  

Jon takes up calligraphy.  He hates it.  Utterly despises it… but he becomes decent enough to write one thing for their mantel.  In the safe house.  Miles away from fear and Jonah Magnus… if the bastard is even still alive…  

Framed in gold, traced out in neat and flowing calligraphy:

‘I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.’ - Frank Herbert, Dune.  

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 94

Chapter Summary -   The Skull Island tour has been long and tedious, taking a lot out of Tom. When he returns home, it is too much and his body tells him he needs to rest, which leads to him needing care, thankfully, his ex-paramedic girlfriend comes home to assist.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​​ @nonsensicalobsessions​​ @damalseer​​ @hiddlesbitch1​​ @winterisakiller​​ @fairlightswiftly​​ @salempoe​​​ @wolfsmom1​​​

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

Tom fell onto the bed and groaned. He could tell he was on the verge of being ill, his stomach felt odd and his head felt fuzzy. He had not drunk very much at the awards, but he suspected that the little he did drink after all the tiring travelling over the last two weeks and the now suspect stomach upset was not helping. Looking at his phone for a moment to see what the beep noise he had heard in the car back to the house was. He did not tend to check his phone in cars, he left it in a car one night and it cost him a good opportunity at a role in the time it took to get it back. He had to squint to see the words on screen.

Danielle - Delighted for you, you deserved it. The food is so weird here, I am scared to try some. I cannot wait to be home with you tomorrow, I love you and I am so proud of you. Xxx

He grinned on realising that Danielle had taken the time to text. Over the past few weeks, they did not talk often, mostly by text, but he ensured to contact her every day as he got ready for whatever the day held and before bed, she did the same, but usually added another text on days he was on tv shows or the red carpet to give him encouragement and her thoughts. It made him excited to check his phone after such events. To watch the Jimmy Kimmel show, she had to get out of bed after a day of work and with more work the next day, as well as spending her evening's correspondence with the Lucas man she was working with in America, but she did it willingly. Her words and the smiley face or x’s at the end of her texts and the ‘I love you’ at the end of her day made him smile goofily without fail any time he received one. It made the tiring days and the lonely nights in hotel rooms so much easier. They spoke twice, but time zones and workloads made it difficult. Danielle’s week of work was one of intensity and insane hours, especially with her other work too. He knew she would be reluctant to speak too because he would scold her for overdoing it. The only grace he had was because it was in Suffolk and she was next to his mother, he had Diana keep an eye on her.

Feeling drowsy and unwell, Tom kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed, not even taking off his pants and fell asleep lying across the bed, his head on Danielle’s pillow, inhaling her scent as he drifted off.

*

Danielle tried Tom’s phone again, but it was still turned off. Thinking he was driving, she sat in the airport café and waited a little while longer. Her flight had been fifteen minutes early, though she suspected that that was because it gave itself a little longer flight time to declare itself ahead of time on a lot of services, and it was a time of day where traffic in London could be a tad mad, so she knew there was a high probability that Tom was delayed. She had texted when she got to Orlando on the stopover for her flight, and again at Schiphol, but Tom never replied to her texts, so she could only assume that even if there was an issue with his phone, he would still come at the time they had arranged. But as it came to an hour after that time and he was still not there, she began to wonder what to do. She rang him one last time, but as soon as she heard the automated answering machine, she hung up. Part of her thought to get a cab, but considering she was only in the US for two days and only brought a small backpack, she decided the Tube was far more cost-effective.

It took a little over an hour to get back to Belsize from Heathrow, and the entire way, Danielle thought over the time that Tom had been on the press tour. It was doable, or so she thought anyway. Not fun, not ideal, but very doable. She had spent time with Emma, feeling as though it was as good as before the whole Christmas debacle and they arranged to go out another time soon. Herself and Nacelle had a great time at her house, even if she had to hide her clothes in Diana’s, much to her neighbour’s utter bewilderment when she answered the front door to see Danielle standing there with clothes in her arms, not even packed in suitcases, asking her to mind them for a few days. Nacelle met Diana, who apparently knew her mother from her days in theatre and the trio had dinner any time that Nacelle and Danielle returned to the house at a normal hour. The nights they did not, there was food waiting for them in the fridge.

Luke had informed her halfway through the first week that Tom was away that the photos of her on the internet had caused little reaction. Most assuming her to be Tom’s dog walker, but one or two tried to link her to being the girl Tom was seen with for dinner with his mother, but her makeup and hair had thrown most into rubbishing it. But the small few were adamant it was the same person and were declaring their love or hate for it accordingly. He also warned her that there were a few that were certain that he was still seeing Taylor, and nothing would waive them. Danielle was not in any way bothered by such accusations, if anything, it meant she and Tom were less likely to be on people’s radar for the time being, which suited her.

When she walked to the house from the Tube station, she frowned at seeing Tom’s Jaguar and her car both in the driveway. She opened the door and walked into the house. “Hello?” She noted Tom’s keys and suitcase. “Tom?” looking around, she realised Tom had done nothing of note since he came home. His laptop bag and his wallet were in the kitchen, as were his two new Empire Awards. “Tom?” She called out again, but again, there was no answer. She walked up the stairs and towards the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar and to be honest, the irrational part of her brain began to think of more and more outlandish worst-case scenarios, but she dismissed it and walked in slowly.

The room was in darkness and there was clearly someone in the bed. As soon as she entered, she got her reason for why he had not come to the airport. Looking at the figure in the bed, she felt herself feeling pity for him. There was a strong smell of sweat and vomit. Her years as a paramedic meant that though others would recoil, she only noticed because it was so strong. The first thing she did was went to the window and opened it slightly before then going to the bathroom to assess the damage. She cleaned everything that was required there and then put a fresh spray of air freshener inside. When that was done she left the room again and went downstairs. She put on a wash, knowing they would need to get the laundry sorted before going to the kitchen and making a rehydration drink for Tom, as well as bringing a few headache tablets. When she went back upstairs, she noticed Tom had not even stirred. Sitting on the side of the bed, she placed the drink and drugs on the beside locker before trying to wake him.

Her hand went to his sweat covered hair and brushed it off his forehead. “Tom, hey…” Tom groaned. “Hey, handsome.”

“Elle?”

“Hey.”

“What…what are you doing here? You’re not home until tomorrow night.”

“It is tomorrow night; my flight came in this evening as it was supposed to. Have you been sick since yesterday?”

“I came home from the awards, I felt like shit, then I…” He rushed off the bed and back to the bathroom and heaved into the toilet violently. Danielle followed him. “No. Out.” He ordered as he spat into the cleaned bowl.

“Not a chance, I am trained and desensitised to this,” She pointed out, getting a face cloth and dampening it before putting it to his forehead. “You’re run down.”

“You’re one to talk, you look like you could sleep for a week.”

“Running across one of the largest airports in the world for a connecting flight was not fun, but overall I am fine, I miss my bed.”

“I ruined it.”

“The bed?” He nodded sheepishly, “I’ll get clean sheets, you sit here for a moment,” She put down the toilet seat. Tom silently did as instructed.

It took only a few moments to change the bed, she also opened the window slightly so that the room would get some fresh air. It was raining, but not overly cold so it would not require her to put the heating on for longer. When she was done she brought the sheets down and placed them beside the washing machine before heading back upstairs, making sure the lights were off and the doors were locked as she did. It was only eight at night, but she was tired and Tom was sick, no one was going to get up again soon, she thought.

In the bedroom, Tom was almost like a zombie as he made his way back from the bathroom to the bed. “Come on,” She led him back. “No, stay standing for a second, I need to get these off you.”

“You just want me for my body,” He joked as she pulled off his pants.

Danielle couldn’t help but laugh, “We both knew that from the start.” She jibbed. “Drink this.” Tom did as instructed and though he hated the taste. She then helped him with his shirt and lifted the duvet up for him. “Are you tired?”

“Yes.” Tom groaned again as he fell into the bed.

“If you’re still ill in the morning, we’ll get you to the doctor, until then, we’ll catch up on sleep.” She smiled, getting into the bed next to him. Tom pulled her to him, even though he was still warm from his bug, Danielle curled into him. “I missed you.” She kissed his hand that was around her.

“I missed you too,” Tom kissed her shoulder.

“Get some rest, Tom.” Danielle was falling asleep as she spoke.

*

When Tom woke the next morning, he was relieved to feel better. Beside him on the nightstand was another one of Danielle’s toxic but effective rehydration drinks. He sat up and downed the mixture so that he would get rid of the last of whatever he was enduring. Turning slightly at the peculiar noise next to him, he looked to see Danielle asleep, her hair covering her face. Chuckling, he pulled it back and bit his lips together as he watched her snort in her sleep, he could not call it snoring, as that had a rhythm to it, but occasionally, whatever way she was breathing with her mouth open, she snorted. He looked at her guiltily, wondering how long she had waited for him at the airport. Had she rung his sister to collect her, gotten a cab or taken the Tube, he felt terrible for not even thinking to contact her. He noted she seemed to be a tad pale, he wondered if he had passed his illness to her. He could not recall if she had looked like that on her return the night before; only that she had tended to him, selflessly and lovingly. She would have been exhausted, but she made the bed with fresh sheets, smiling at him to not worry as she went to do so. Part of him wanted to wake her and thank her, to tell her he loved her for what she was and what she had done, but he knew she was tired, so he left her sleep, instead choosing to get a shower, knowing that he needed one desperately. When he was done, he was slightly shocked to see that Danielle had not even moved in the bed, instead she seemed to be snoring slightly now. Tom realised before that she usually did that when she was at her most exhausted. He went downstairs and looked around. He was startled to see there was no sign of Mac, then cursed for not remembering to collect the dog in his illness. He found his phone, which was dead, and put it on charge. Thinking for a moment, he went to put on the kettle but then thought against it, instead he decided that given the past few days, both he and Danielle deserved a treat, so he ran to the café down the street and got them both their favourite drinks and pastries before heading back to the house. He groaned as a photographer caught sight of him and for some reason thought him getting coffees was something of considerable note and proceeded to take loads of pictures.

When he arrived back, he went straight to the kitchen to see if his phone had enough charge to turn it on. “Hey.”

“Good morning, you look a lot better.” Danielle was standing at the kettle, waiting for it to boil, and loving smile on her face. He walked over and gave her a passionate kiss. “A very good morning then?”

“The best.” He held up the items he bought. “A gift, as my apology.”

“Apology for what?” She asked, taking the caramel latte from the cup holder.

“Not collecting you.” He stated meekly.

“What? Tom, you were sick, you don’t need to apologise for that.” She laughed. “I won’t say no to my favourite coffee and an apple Danish though, no matter what the excuse or reason.” Tom pulled out the two pastries and handed her one. “Thank you. So how are you now?”

“Hungry, what about you?”

“Same, I didn’t eat too much in New Orleans, the food was all gumbo’s and stuff and I just was suspicious of everything.”

“I was down South for I Saw the Light, the food is something you have to be careful with, it can have a huge kick to it and not have any sign of it.” Danielle smiled and nodded, Tom’s face fell. “The interview?” Danielle shook her head. “Elle, I…I’m so sorry, did they give you any feedback?”

“The assistant director is Lena Dunham.” Tom’s face filled with recognition. “She said no, so that was it.”

“Elle, it’s my fault…”

“No, it’s not. You held decorum and class after everything, if her friends or even she wants to get petty, then that is not our doing. I was talking to Lucas, he was asked to do a war film here, Normandy and in Ireland. He’s too busy but he told them about me, no interview or anything, it’s mine if I want it.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Well gunfire, tanks, explosions and filth is the general gist of war stuff, so loads of headaches regarding safety, but it is being done with the help of a good friend of yours.” Tom looked at her. “Branagh.”

“He is an amazing man, honestly, one of the most incredible directors I’ve worked with.”

“I know. He wants to talk to me one on one to see if I can work with his idea. Apparently sometimes when a door closes, the sidewall of the house comes off. Branagh has a lot of influence, Lucas is his usual go-to man, but this redoing this safety thing is his only project this year, so he recommended me. If I can work this…” She smiled, “Jesus if I can actually get Branagh on my resume if I do this right…”

Tom pulled her to him, “You will, you are meticulous and intelligent, I know you will fly through this, wait and see.”

“He is in London next week.”

“Great.”

“I said I would meet him, but also that if possible could I bring my partner with me.” Tom looked at her blankly. “It was his wife I was talking to, when she asked who said partner was and relayed the message, he was elated apparently. So, fancy coming to lunch with me and Kenneth Branagh next week?”

Tom pulled her to him. “I will gladly accompany my beautiful girlfriend to her work meeting with the world-famous director next week.” He beamed. “Look at you Elle, less than a year in and you are getting all this done.”

“Visualisation. I thought it and look what’s happening; you, Mac, who we will collect after our coffees, my exams, my promotions, so to speak, it has to be deemed a promotion when you are a consultant for a huge studio,” Tom nodded in agreement. “Getting to work on Game of Thrones and now, having a business lunch with Kenneth fucking Branagh.”

“You are driven.” He kissed her again.

“I’m swinging with the big dicks now.” Tom looked at her in shock. “It’s an expression.”

“Irish people are nuts.”

[roundtableknight]

Morning after ‘The Outsiders’

In which Reagan never interrupted that precious scene of Cath and Levi after they finished ‘The Outsiders’  before Levi had to screw everything up in the next chapter. This may be horrible, and I suck at Levi’s personality, because I’m not a bubbly person, and also some parts (like Wren talking in her sleep) I made up because not that much info is given to us, but enjoy!

Also this is starting from a scene in ‘Fangirl’, and all characters are of course from the lovely Rainbow Rowell!

                                                   ~

Cath had been in quite a few precarious positions waking up into during her short duration of life she had been allowed so far. You don’t get normal mornings living with a twin sister who tends to be so outgoing, she transfers that energy into her sleep.

    By talking in her sleep.

Or having a father, one who you so love but desperately wish would go to sleep rather than stay up during the night and question if one could put a fireman’s pole through you and your twins room in order for a quicker way to the bathroom. 

    All in the name of efficiency.

This was how it had been for too many years to count, since Cath’s mother walked out on them when they were merely eight, because she quote, ‘Needed to figure things out’ and didn’t know how to be a mother. Cath thought that was a load of rubbish. What mother has twins, surrounds them with love, (not as much as their father) and then just decides that she’s had enough when their in third grade, when they needed a motherly figure then more than ever to lean on.  

    Cath was still angry at her sister Wren for speaking to their mother again, but that isn’t why she woke up.

If you asked Cath, she would probably recall the last things before she went to bed that night in her shared dorm with Reagan would go along the lines of something like this;

    Brushing her teeth earlier that night, so not to disturb herself while writing.

    Eating a Blueberry bliss energy bar because she was hungry gosh darn it.

    Getting a decent amount of Baz and Simon fanfic written since they were getting to the good part (all the parts were good to Cath, but some were just a notch or two higher than others).

    Falling asleep writing said Baz and Simon fanfic because everyone knows a laptop keyboard is as comfortable as a pillow (well maybe a wooden one, or one with all those weird feathers in it that people slept on during the 1900s.)

    This routine to Cath was becoming as normal as waking up to Wren talking about her latest boyfriend that she getting ready to dump (Alex, or Alfred?) in her sleep. Not that anyone could take her sister’s place. Reagan was barely in the room to count as a roommate, and when she was asleep she was practically a rock, making no noise until she woke up, and then the dam broke (not a literal dam, though with how hard she opened their door, Cath wouldn’t be surprised to hear about one breaking down from the shockwaves).

    So the fact that she not only heard someone in their room, but that said person was currently encompassing her in their arm, she was a little more than surprised, and also to be completely honest, freaked out. 

    It’s okay, calm down, just...recite the facts of last night, then if they lead to something disastrous I have permission to freak out.

     Cath thought this was a good plan, since she usually freaked out in her head, and no one seemed to notice, well, except Wren, but she wasn’t here at the moment, and they weren’t on speaking terms since she didn’t come back for Thanksgiving, but instead staying the day with Wren’s backstabbing mom. Their mom in reality, but Cath didn’t like to think of her like that, she didn’t deserve the title of it. 

    She lost that when she never came back. 

Inhaling a scent different from her own, one of cigars and a hint of coffee, brought her back to reality, and resumed the pounding in her chest and tingling in her limbs from being caught up in someone else’s body parts during the night. 

    Oh god, thought Cath, trying to remember the night before. She had a hint of Gingerbread Mocha in the back of her mouth, and a Blueberry Bliss Energy Bar flavour on the tip of her tongue. 

    That can’t be right, I haven’t had one of those since before Thanksgiving, Levi ate them all. 

    Levi.

    Oh god.

Cath immediately remembers the late night session of ‘The Outsiders’ that Cath read to Levi as a thank you for… well, everything he’s done. And also because Reagan was out again partying, and forgot she promised Levi the study session so he wouldn’t fail his Lit. Class exam on the book. Cath thought maybe Levi was dyslexia, but didn’t they get diagnosed before the age of College? Cath didn’t know, and she did care, but two things popped into her mind before that strand of thought could harbor any more room in her mind. 

    Levi is in my bed.

    I’m sleeping with Reagan’s maybe boyfriend.

    Reagan could come home at any time,

    Shit.

Okay, make that three thoughts. 

    The last two were obvious encouragement to what she was supposed to do, which was to get out of the bed, her bed, and wake up Levi. Or maybe she could just leave him here and go get a coffee at Starbucks and come back feigning that nothing happened, because nothing did happen. 

     But there were two things wrong with that statement. 

One, Levi made the best Mochas and nothing would compete, so it would be an utter waste of money to spend. And two, something did happen. 

    We kissed.

Cath remembers it now. It’s funny how the human brain works. When we want don’t want to remember something incredibly painful or not possible, it tends to block out said memory, but one thing about memories were that they connected to other memories, and unless she wanted to forget the whole last night, she was stuck with the memory. 

But to be completely honest, Cath quite liked the memory.

Cath remembered the way Levi had hooked her to his side as she read ‘The Outsiders’ to him, and how her drowsy and impaired mind (she blamed it on the mocha) attached all her thoughts not to the book, which wasn’t half bad, but to the feel of Levi’s flannel against her skin, or the passing look of seeing his lips before she quickly looked up to see if he was still awake, which he was. 

    Watching her with his startling blue eyes. 

Now in the morning, Cath had to be reasonable with herself. Which she did sometimes, once or twice. 

    A day.

Look, he probably thought I was Reagan. Or remember that the first time he saw Wren he said with complete factuality that she was the hotter twin, and that was just by a passing glance. I’m just a quick kiss. Okay, yeah, quick. Kiss.

    But Cath realized she didn’t want to be a quick anything. She deserved way more than that. She wrote dozens of Baz and Simon scenes of their love, wasn’t it time for her to get something like that? A love that isn’t fictional and based on a wizard and (presumably) a  vampire. 

    Cath like the idea of sharing these stories with Levi. He seemed to enjoy them (at least tolerate them) and he always had his opinions and questions on them, which Cath actually liked to answer. It wasn’t everyday you met someone who hasn’t read Simon Snow (because watching the movies don’t count).

    But she also had to admit one fatal flaw in her plan, she hasn’t even asked Levi if he liked her the way she did, and also Reagan.

    Shit.

Cath heard the intake of breath, well, deeper breath, and felt Levi move. Now was the time. Was he going to slowly take his arm that he had encompassing her back and leave without so much as a glance, or was something else going to happen, something more magical. 

    Cath didn’t know what was going to be scarier. 

But what Cath didn’t think of was Levi kissing her on the top of her head, and pulling her closer to him.

    Oh Shit, Oh Shit, Oh Shit

She was completely and utterly screwed. 

    Though at that moment she didn’t know exactly why. There was no menace to the name Reagan, or thought of impending doom if she missed her morning classes. No.

    All she could think of was the way he kissed her on the head, with that small but cute mouth of his, the one hours earlier she was questioning if he could easily eat an apple with. The one that caused her whole body to go flush and red just by that little move. 

    She felt more than saw (because her head was still by/on his chest persay, and couldn’t see him) him smile. The muscles coordinating it gave him away like a whale breaching the water for all to see, it was very obvious. 

    Cath looked up, and got a bruise on her forehead. 

    Holding her head, she reopened her eyes and saw Levi, looking a little less beaten and smiling quite a bit more than her, more than anyone really, at her as she felt around her skull for adjustments to her temple area. 

    “Ouch” Cath said, and mentally scolded herself.

‘The first thing I have to say after we slept together, well...not like that.’

    “Sorry, I didn’t know you were awake.” Levi said, putting his one hand on the bruising temple as Cath brought her hand back down. 

    “It’s fine, just if I was sleeping, why were you tilted downward, since I did not hit your chin. The area I hit was definitely smoother.”

    “Ah, so are you a chin expert as well as a Simon Snow lover?” Levi asked with a smile on his face, a continuing smile. 

    “Of course, one must be knowledgeable in all types of things.” Cath waved her arms vaguely around to show all the types of things. 

    Also, Cath wanted to point out that they were still laying together.

    On her bed. 

    Oh Shit?

“So are their any other area of the body that you and that brain have been studying?” Levi shifted, but still kept one arm under her around the waist while the other was free, watching her contemplate the question. 

    She had, and the answer didn’t need verbal response. She turned red. Again. 

“I’m going to deny all wrongdoing to the court.” Cath mumbled and she shielded her face from Levi, instead putting it against her pillow, but he had already seen her face, and had started to giggle, giggle and not chuckle. 

    Cath felt him stretch again and reach for his phone. 

“Oh.”

“What?” Cath said, a little more nervous than she was before. Not knowing what Levi had seen on his phone. Had Reagan walked in on them and saw the precarious position they were in, and had left fuming and given a threat to Levi that whatever they had was over, done with?

    Cath also realized that she picked a good major to go into, since it seemed she was always so dramatic.

    “I’m an hour late to work, I better go before the customers start to get angry that no one knows their order.” Levi untangled their limbs (which caused Cath to finally be able to feel hers again) and rose from the bed. Grabbing the empty Starbucks cups, he maneuvered between her and Reagan’s bed (Cath had a conspiracy that their room was just a walk in closet converted over to a dorm room, but that’s for a different discussion) and brought them over to the trash by the door to be thrown out. 

    Cath really didn’t know what to do in a position like this. Did she start to say goodbye to him? Tell him that she had a nice time reading (and the things that came with it)? She didn’t know, but what she did know was that he was opening the door to leave, and they barely had a civil conversation, and that was only about various studying of body parts. 

    Wait, reading!

“Levi, you forgot your book!” Cath said as she starts to fumble around the bedsheets, and finally produces the same copy (albeit a little dented) of ‘The Outsiders’ that she read him the night before. 

    “You might need this to study from for the exam.” Cath got up, saw her shirt was riding up a little too high, and fixed it. She continued her trek to Levi when he held up a hand for her to stop. 

    “I don’t need it.” He said, smiling at her again like she just said something funny.

 Did I say something funny? Did I look funny fixing my shirt?

     “Well, I might be a good reader, but even I can’t remember everything in this book, and we just read it last night.” Cath was really grasping for straws here, or needles, but straws hurt less. She started to recite what she had done ever since she woke up, and didn’t find any (too) mortifying as why Levi stopped her going to him.  

    Why doesn’t he want his book?

Would it bring back painful memories of last night, of them together. Him (maybe?) cheating on Reagan with her, but they just kissed. And tangled limbs. Did he not like her, and given her that kiss in the head as a friendly gesture, but then why did he watch her sleep?

    Sometimes boys are so confusing. 

“I don’t need it.” Levi says, sounding like he’s been saying this for awhile but Cath hadn’t heard him at all.

    “Why not?” She questioned, she wanted to get to the bottom of this before heading off to her classes, so her head wouldn’t be stuck in the clouds (well any more stuck than usual).

    “Because I’m going to work and I don’t think my coworkers will want me to be reciting ‘Stay Golden, Ponyboy’ to them.” He looked at her however like that would be a fun endeavour, and told herself to warn Levi’s coworkers about him and classic novels. 

    “So what do you want me to do with it.”

    “Keep it”

    “Really, why?” She figured this was the question to get the answer they had both been swimming around for the last two pages, oops, last two minutes. 

    “Because then I have a reason to come see you again, not that I need a reason.” 

Cath starts to speak out of habit from this conversation, then realizes what he means, and starts to go red for the third time that morning. Cath think she broke her record. 

    “Oh, Okay.” Cath looked down at her socks that she left on from the night before (with ‘Carry On, Simon’ on the tops of them. A gift from Wren for her birthday one year).

    She realized Levi had said something. Again. And that she had missed it. Again. 

“What did you say?” She asked as he was about to shut the door, about to end the conversation, one of her favorites to date. 

    “I said six o’clock I’ll be done at work.” Levi said, moving his blond hair back from where it fell in front of his face to look at her. A face full of cute eyes and lips. Oh boy. 

“Great” Cath replied.

“Oh, and also expect the best Gingerbread Mocha to date.” He said, and shut the door, but not before seeing his smile, and heard him walking down the hallway. 

“Even better.” Cath replied to no one in particular, but maybe to the Baz cutout that was currently peeking out from her closet area. 

    ~

And that’s all she wrote folks!

 -Also are Simon Snow Socks available? Because I need so badly!! I also figured out that writing scenes in a characters mind is my favorite, because the two talking isn’t my cup of tea!

[definitelynotaminion]

Hey baby, how are you doing? Right now it's October 26th at 4:57 a.m. and I'm in bed next to you. Twice now I've gone over to cuddle you and you let me, wrapped my arm with your hand and just let me stay there with my face in your shoulder, close enough to hear you breathe. I ever tell you that sometimes I try to match my breathing to yours when you're asleep, see if it helps me sleep? But when we sleep our breaths are a lot longer with more space between them, and I would always do it for a few minutes and give up. But for those few minutes it calmed me right down. Kind of a meditation, I guess. I did it for the first time back at our apartment. I did it earlier when I tucked into your side and you met me with open arms despite being asleep. You're so affectionate in your sleep; I love it. (We all know I'm mean af, more likely to punch you in my sleep than be sweet). It's October 26th but it's really October 25th’s night, because I haven't been to sleep. My birthday was yesterday and we had cake. I'm laying in bed next to you thinking that there’s still cake in the fridge; funfetti, my favorite. I might go have a piece. I went to the gym at your urging; back when you were awake, but drowsy from the melatonin, and I was wearing the work out clothes mom got me as a gift, and still had my socks on because I wanted to go the gym, too. We had just gotten back from Whataburger; you missed a meal that day and had 1200 calories to spare (It’s the day I woke up at like 3pm and immediately made chicken teriyaki over rice; you went for a walk and I made my own teriyaki sauce, because the watery stuff in the fridge smelled off and I have standards. It was delicious. It's the day we took my car to Whataburger later, and I mentioned that it was odd I hadn't been to McDonald's on my birthday for once; you countered that you had offered, however jokingly. I kept joking that we should go to KFC because it was only 9:25, and surely KFC was still open, as though you hadn't spent the whole time we lay in bed discussing food looking up the calories for the specific meal you wanted. I had my hair in a ridiculous pebbles-style ponytail on top of my head, that I removed and smoothed out when we got inside. I was wearing a star wars jacket over my track suit hoodie over a tee shirt.) You gave me your drink cup so I could have two drink refills on the way home, and not have to choose. I filled my larger cup with lemonade-- shit, I brought it to bed with me about an hour ago but havent drank any; I just fucking realized lol-- and your smaller one with Dr. Pepper. It's still over there on my desk. You probably knew I wouldn't drink it but knew that the opportunity would make me happy anyway. We chilled in bed and I kept my socks on, for once, because I was determined to go to the gym, and you were determined to encourage me instead of enabling me to stay in bed. You're a lovely person that way. I did go to the gym, by the way, as I'm sure I'll tell you in the morning when you wake up (or at 3 o'clock in the evening, if that's when I wake up, if I fall asleep without meaning to). (You made jokes about the socks, but ten minutes into our blogging and chill, your foot brushed my leg in such a way that the hem of my pants rode up, and you touched bare flesh, and turned into Skeletor “Noooaa! What was that. Unexpected. Forbidden.”) It’s the day after my birthday but it’s also the first day I’m away at basic training, if tungle dot hellfire scheduled the post properly. (I swear to god, if it didnt... esp after all those tests I scheduled before I left.) (You just rolled over in your sleep to face me and your arm is pressed firm and soft to my elbow. For the first few seconds after the roll you snored softly through your nose-- very cute-- but now it's just little inhales and exhales. The forearm to my elbow is a very understated cuddle. I'm love him. You're so used to sleeping with me that you don't react or wake when I press close to you, you just accept it and sometimes nuzzle me. You'll hold my hand if I touch your fingers.) I am the most loved person in all the land, and right now I’m probably trying to remember that, shoved in a room with sixty people and no walls. (I keep remembering that this is public and then I'm like fuck it, a blog’s a blog; all the people here for my writing or the fandom stuff or the memes can deal with the lovey-dovey stuff and the waxing poetic about the minutiae of our lives. You're still tucked into my elbow breathing all cute and I'm still typing on my phone, which is on 26%; I should charge it but the charger sticks out the bottom in a way that makes it hard to rest the phone on my chest. It's a running joke now that I never keep my phone charged; that I only charge it when it's on 5%. Actually, at your urging-- though I laugh when you lean over me and hiss at the percentage, though we joke a lot about it-- I've started being more conscious of it, charging my phone before it needs it. Earlier today (the 25th) I put my phone on the charger when it was at 56%. I don't think I told you, but I know you'd be proud of me. (Earlier today I put my phone on the charger in preparation for going to the gym, and it was at 32%. I laid in bed with you to play on it and when it was at 39% you leaned over, already victorious, and said “oh? Only 39%? Put him on the charger!!!!” The exclamation marks are in italics to mimic the way you tapped it, rapidly, you know the motion. And I told you it was already charging and you were deeply shooketh, like I was an imposter. You squinted and said “well it's so small, how could I possibly see from here” in the Grinch voice, and rolled over dramatically; laughing, I chased you, and we cuddled some more. It was a lovely time.) It is (at the time you're reading this) the Tuesday I’ve officially had a “full day” at basic. I think. I probably had my first plane ride today, though if I've talked to you-- they let us make the “scripted” phone call on the first or second night-- it says “hello, I'm fine, I got here safe, he's a phone number to call in an emergency (red cross? Reddit said) and here's the address you write to”-- I only had like 30 seconds or so on the phone to choke all that out and an “I love you”. I couldn't tell you about my first plane ride. I could not tell you that “it wasn't actually as bad as anticipated, though you know I tear up when I get yelled at, so that's a thing.” According to the internet I probably sounded miserable; not because I was literally miserable but because hearing your voice probably made everything really sink in and i missed you. Also right now typing this i have like. A single manful movie tear rolling down the right cheek. Truly I am getting all up in my feelings-- but you're in an empty bed so you'd know, I guess. On the 26th, not Nov 6th, that is. I have no idea if I'm crying as you read this; but I'm a dramatic hoe so it's possible. I'm probably chanting to myself “It’s fine, it's whatever; play the game, don't stand out, go from meal to meal.” however, I have it from reliable sources (thanks reddit) that by the second or third week the yelling gets less yelling and you have the routine down. Then it's kind of like a hardcore summer camp. As I'm laying in bed it's hard to rationalize that I've only got 10 days with you left. A week and some change. The impulse to savor it is there but, also, I've literally got the rest of my life with you, so. I’m looking forward to the other side of basic, to how you can (apparently) have your dependents moved out to live with you if your stay at tech school will be longer than 6 weeks. And mine will, so. (If you're not in basic and I selfishly hope you're not, yet, you can come out there and I can spend my weekends with you, in our apartment with all of our stuff. I want lots of dice and candles. I want to just lay in bed and chill with you. “Cuddle” I want to cuddle but I keep remembering that this is public on my blog and everyone can see it. I wonder why cuddle sounds so weird when none of the other words do. I wonder how fast the first week will go if I keep focusing on “just wait until the next meal, just wait until the next meal.” I'm planning to go buy a book of stamps and some envelopes in the morning. Apparently one of the only joys of basic is hearing your name at mail call. I want you to write me so much, which is hard for you probably; but I want to hear about every little detail. You should print off the latest chapters of Yesterday Upon the Stair or Ashes of the Past if they update, stick those behind your letters. It would make a good distraction and only be a couple pages long. But how weird would it be that i wouldn't even care about them? Not weird at all. Its true that i would care about your letters more that the fanfic. That I just want to hear that you're safe and happy, that you've eaten-- tell me what you've eaten, tell me the calories, it'll reassure me and fill the pages-- tell me jokes and memes and manga spoilers for BNHA. Pass along news from-- or hell, even tell them my mailing address, it's not like it'll be secret-- the discord (kink thinktank or maybe the secret lounge, you know the one). I'm not picky. It will be neat not to be cut off from everybody, if they decide to write. Except tuva. @uintuva I love you but please god don't write to me, I told them I didn't have any foreign attachments when they asked. If anything, pass along a letter to Sach, or Dallas-- have them print it and send it to me; mention no countries. I'm laughing rn. I'll warn them that you'll post the address. If you post a letter every day, or every other day, even if they're short, I promise I'll appreciate them. They'll be like a lifeline to the outside world. They'll reassure me you're fine and assuage me that stress and worry. Please remember that I love you, even if I didn't get to tell you in the short phone call. I likely called you before the flight there. It hasn't even been a day since you've heard my voice. Hell, I forgot-- you and mom and the kids are coming to see me off. I probably saw you earlier today-- for you. It's still October 26 (25th) for me. You saw me this morning but now you're going to sleep without me; it probably doesn't feel weird unless you focus on it. I could be in the shower, or in the kitchen, or at the gym. I could be at Brittany’s house. It's okay to tell yourself these lies, or to imagine me there-- imagine me at my desk, maybe, since you go to bed so much earlier-- to make yourself feel better, to help you sleep. Or maybe it hadn't hit yet and you're fine-- that's fine too. Or maybe you'll be okay the whole time. You'll miss me, sure. But maybe you'll smile and wish me luck and go to sleep easy, because I'm getting what I wanted, according to plan. I hope you find the happy parts of your days-- laugh at the kids, at David, and Jesse-- and write down jokes to share with me before you forget. Don't feel guilty at all, because I don't want you to be sad. I love you. I'm going to try to be looking forward to stuff/focusing on the nice things-- I just snorted a little thinking of you going “whole bed to myself” in the silly smug voice; I can already tell that one is going to be what I imagine at basic, the one I'll remember and smile about. I hope you check your tag and see this, though I'm sure I'll tell you about it. Aren't I so clever, figuring out how to write you even if they don't let me write you? I also set posts to schedule, funny things I scrolled past. The usual things that fill your tag. This way you know I'm still thinking of you; it's funny because I always tag you in things, right now in October, because I want you to know I'm thinking of you. Because I see funny things and think “Dallas” and I want you to see them. I'm so glad the technology exists for me to make sure your tag has new stuff every night while I'm away. I'm going to spend the next ten days (from Oct 26) writing you letters and reminding you of things. (Earlier I told you that I love you, that I love how we talk to each other, that I love the way you joke and how, specifically, you choose to say things to me; that I love how my face fits into your shoulder or your face, that the terms you choose to use tickle me pink. I laugh all the time with you. I'm happiest right next to you. I want to be with you forever.) Oh and here is a reminder: I'm so proud of you for getting through the day. Goodbyes are hard, even when they're temporary. You're not fat and I love you. You could lose the weight you need to lose this month and I’d be happy for you; you could delete the app and gain twenty pounds and be my handsome military husband, and I’d be ecstatic. I love everything about you (freckles) and you can reread this as many times as you need to in the next few days. (Not that I'm saying you'll need to. You're very self sufficient. But if you do need the words, they're here, and there’s no shame in giving yourself what you need.) Day one is done and now I've got to get through the first week. The second will be easier and then, the third, routine. It'll be okay. Everything will be fine. I love you. I miss you. I'll be back before you know it. Please write. Even if it's just a single page with “the dankest of dank memes” on it in size bazillion handwriting. Even if it's unimportant. Especially if it's unimportant stuff. Go around and ask everyone to say one nice sentence to me. Write down the sentence. Now you've got a letter. Tell me about your thoughts and your day. Tell me (android 16 voice) you saw a bird and it was pretty.

[pandora-twists]

As long as...

M21 cursed himself. He should have noticed. The signs were all there. M24 being quiet and fidgety since morning, and the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead that he had attributed to the weather. He knew M24′s insecurity and his desperation to rid him of the leash tying them to the Union. He was aware M24 could do something foolish like neglect his medication in a vane attempt to eliminate his over dependence on them. Yet he had been so oblivious. 

Or it would be correct to say that he was just too concerned about this current mission to give anything else much thought. Union had thrown them in this area riddled with enemies much more powerful with next to no resources. M21′s anger had been at bubbling point, he was sure if they didn’t make their stop short here this would be their last mission. Neither death nor a journey back to labs were acceptable solutions for him right now. 

So M21 had just wanted to finish the mission, take M24 and get away from this godforsaken place. He was focused so much on this goal that he completely ignored M24s symptoms until it was too late. Guilt and concern twisted his insides.

And to their good luck, the strongest attack hit M24 just when they were in middle of a fight. M21 had heard a hacking cough and whipped his head around, ready to jump in and cover M24 thinking that he lost his fight. Only to see both his comrade and the opposition down on the ground. Enemy dead, clearly by M24′s hand and M24 twisting on the ground all on his own.

M21 didn’t need even a second to recognize the withdrawal symptoms of the medication they had been forcing down their throats daily and was momentarily distracted enough for the enemy’s attack to land on him.

Shit! He scrambled back and put up a defensive arm just in time to avoid injury to his vital organs. His heart was saved but the blade cute deep into arm instead.

M21 hissed in pain, and realized it wasn’t his reflexes, but the timely intervention of M24s mind control making his opponent a split second too slow that had allowed him to get away.

Not to be undone by the injury and not wasting a second, M21 took full advantage of the momentarily respite provided by his ailing friend and rushed forward. Sharp nails sprouted up and a single well aimed swipe to the neck was all that was needed to dispose of the enemy.

Phew. M21 slid down the ground at the same time the enemy did, exhausted by the battle. He could already feel the injury stinging by what he presumed was enemy’s poison. 

Still his foremost worry was M24, who despite being in worst situation had stepped in to help him. He forced himself on his feat and ran to his friend and started rummaging around his jacket for medication.

In M24s condition, his bulky body wasn’t exactly easy to navigate however, and M21 had to bodily haul himself on his friends back to reach his chest pocket. This position unfortunately also meant that M21 couldn’t quite dodge M24s flailing arms, and while it took some heavy hits to his face, he eventually managed to find the medicine in a hidden pocket. He kept running circles on M24′s back and neck to ease the swallowing and avoid the pills getting lodged in his windpipe and create another problem. 

There! He did it.

The effect was instantaneous and M24 stopped withering. He was still twitching some and it would take a few minutes to stop, but the worst had passed. M21 almost sagged in relief.

The danger was far from over however. The stinging wound on his own arm was throbbing wildly and needing attention. He quickly went about tying knots at each end to avoid the poison from spreading. It took him no more than a few seconds to slash himself wider and suck all the poison out, but he had all his nerves standing at their wits end in frustration and alert during this short duration.

In just a few minutes the local security would be there. Exposing signs that could lead to the Union were strictly prohibited, so he very much wished to get rid of opponents bodies. But he didn’t have much time left before the guards would catch up to them. M21 furiously ran his brain, still dizzy and weak from the poison in his system, but there simply was no option. M24 came first. If push comes to shove he’d just try to take all the blame on himself, so M24 atleast remained safe.

He could already hear the police sirens at some distance and without further ado he jumped up to his comrades side to collect him. 

Damnit. It would have been so much easier had M24 been less wide. He could have just slung him on the uninjured shoulder and put on his long coat to avoid anyone noticing. Much like M24 had done with his body the few times they’d lost with him out cold and made a dash for it, but that was not a possibility here.

He sighed and grabbed M24 under both shoulders and began dragging the bulky body backwards fast, as much as he could in his condition and disappeared around the dirty alley before anyone could arrive at the scene. 

He dragged him all the way down the alley, into the nearby bushes to the abandoned houses a mile from their attacker’s spot, right up to the empty steel warehouse they had been using as their temporary residence. He was wheezing in exertion by the time he had arrived at this destination. The after effects of the injuries and poison in his system were doing their job well.

Dumping M24 on his back in the middle of warehouse, he hastily went back to the door and closed it tight. Only the narrow splits in the walls their source of sunlight. He peeked out the slits at ready. He had been careful not to let his blood fall to the ground. But each step of the guards in his direction made him less sure. A few tense minutes and the guard dogs moved in the opposite direction. 

Immediate danger out of the way, M21 whirled back to M24 to check his condition.

M24 was still, but his chest rose up and down steadily which gave M21 the indication that he was on time. The medicine had worked and M24 was safe. Only then M21 released the breath he had been holding in for a little too long. 

He would give M24 a piece of his mind later on his foolishness, but right then all he could do was smile and sigh in relief noticing M24s light snoring confirming he was alive. As adrenaline left M21, the pain in his arm started becoming more apparent. Not that he could have done anything but to wait it out. They had to spend the next few days hidden in this warehouse till the situation outside had calmed down. 

Already drowsy, he knew that they’ll be in trouble with the Union later anyway, but now was not the time to think about it. 

M21 took his long coat off and gave it a tug to rid off any dust and then carefully covered it over his sleeping comrade. Then he laid down and rolled himself into the smallest possible ball beside M24 burrowing under the same makeshift blanket. 

He squeezed M24′s sleeve in his hand to wake up in case he stirred, or attempted to leave alone in another of his misguided attempts to relief M21. 

Because he should know that as long as they had each other by their side, they would be alright, and M21 dozed off himself.

Prompt: Concerned. 

I just love M21 and M24 relationship, their explored and unexplored past. This whole fic was meant to be payed off by M21 hauling and sleeping besides M24. Its taken from a response I saw on a site asking whats the most romantic thing your partner ever did for you? To which a reply was that his half sized girlfriend hauled his drunken ass all the way to the living room, then put blanket on him and even curled up sleeping on the floor with him all night. The guy married this girl he was so touched. lol+sweet! I see M21 M24 as bromantic (I was so tempted to name fic bromance) but scenario still fits. It just didn’t came out as impactful lol. 

And it did felt odd to keep focus on M21, 24s plight when two others had just lost their lives at their hands. But to avoid this ive canonized (fanonized?) those 2 were evil like Shark and Jake so rest assured xD

Also on their sleeping pose, this is a good sample. Just a much bigger smaller person to wider ratio, and M21 keeping his legs and head to himself and hand on M24s sleeve. I imagine balled up M21 easily fitting at half his side..

[powertobehandsome]

The Way I See It || Matt and Seth

Part two. || @blindlyburning

Matt laughed a little dryly and shook his head. "No. But speaking of danger... I'm going to head out for a bit. Try not to.. get hit by cars or anything. I'll pick up some groceries on my way back.. just.. don't open the door for anyone while I'm gone, alright? Stay here."

Seth and Ryan both nodded, then Seth cleared his throat, affirming vocally that they could survive for a few hours while Matt went out.

"Thank you."

By the time Matt returned, Ryan was again asleep on the couch, Seth had downloaded a book on his phone and was reading it in Matt's bed. He'd taken his third dose of pills for the day and was settling in, expecting them to make him drowsy again. But he wanted to stay awake. At least for a while longer.

Matt put the groceries on the counter,  went to shower before anything else, and then changed back into his sweats and t-shirt. There was a light bruise forming on his chin when he slipped in to find Seth.

"You uh.. doing okay?" He stood in the doorway, arms awkwardly folded.

Seth looked up from his glowing screen and hummed his affirmation.

"Would you like to sleep here tonight?"

It didn't occur to Seth how his question might sound, and assumed Matt saying yes would mean himself sleeping on the rug.

Which was perfectly fine.

This man had likely just saved someone else's life. "Are you okay?"

"If it won't make you uncomfortable for me to be there..." he hesitated a moment longer, then crawled in next to Seth, although he was careful not to touch him.

"And yeah, I'm fine. For once, the bruise really is from falling." He gave a wry smile. "But there's one less would-be rapist in the street tonight, so..  it's a good night. Did you... find a book to read? On your phone?"

"How did you..." But Seth smiled, and relaxed beside Matt. Of course he somehow knew. "Let me know when I need to let you sleep and go into the other room or something. But I don't mind you... being here. Of course."

He locked his phone and set it aside. "Nope. I gotta know. How could you tell?"

"I could hear the little sounds of its circuits, most smartphones sound alike, and you seemed...less engaged than a person texting, who usually has a sort of... they seem like they're waiting for something. You weren't so alert. More.. relaxed. And you don't have to go sleep out there. It's a big enough bed, we can share, unless... that would make things weird for.. any reason? If so, I'll go. There's no way I'm letting you sleep on the floor."

Matt's bed was essentially a cloud. Everything was ridiculously soft and yielding, from the genuinely silk sheets -- no trashy satin -- to the feather pillows and the memory foam mattress, the velvety blankets. The bed was absolutely a sanctuary, Matt's favorite place to be, but he knew he'd leave it in a heartbeat if he needed to.

"No. Nothing weird about it. If you're sure, I would rather you stayed in here anyway, since you won't hear of me surrendering your own bed to you. I have to insist on sharing."

Seth liked the way this bed felt, how it was generous to all injuries. "You fell... but how far did you fall?" Seth reached with his right arm, the side he could actually stretch and extend with, and carefully touched Matt's jaw, angling his face just enough so that Seth could actually see. "And are you telling me you didn't fight? Or that the fight didn't cause the bruise?"

"Fight didn't cause the bruise. This was after. I was in a pretty cluttered alley and uh," he laughed softly, thoroughly embarrassed, "stepped on a cat's tail. Not on purr-pose. It yowled, I jumped and then tripped and my face met the dumpster. Superhero quality, Seth, right here."

"Not on-- oh my god. We're going to be great friends. You might have gotten a little bent out of shape. But that pun was paw-some. Definitely superhero worthy."

Realizing his thumb was still slowly, and gently passing over the coming bruise, Seth pulled his hand away and smiled awkwardly. "It's still... I mean it's only evening. Ryan won't wake, if you're not ready for bed and need to do things. And I... well, this is the least painful place. And my meds have started making me a little lethargic. But I don't want you to feel like this is where you have to be."

It was a good thing that Seth couldn't hear Matt's heart; the soft caress to his jaw, the feeling of that soft skin against Matt's stubble and his bruise, had given him an unexpected little tingle, a rush.

"Guess we're... both pretty happy to.. be here." He tugged the blanket up around his shoulders, looking happy and awkward at once. "How are your injuries, though? Is there anything you need?"

"They're the same as earlier. I might be a little stiffer from my lack of movement for the past hour or two. And I know I'm still going to hurt in the morning. But I'll survive. I can almost feel the separation of my eyelids if I stretch my face enough. Which of course pulls at the glue. But still. Progress, right?"

Despite all the pain, Seth was comfortable and happy. "No. I don't need you to get me anything. I'm quite content with... um. With you staying here."

"Definitely progress. Let's maybe not pull at any glue or anything though, yeah? The doctors probably made some nice artwork on your face, best to just enjoy it a while."

"Hmm. Perhaps you're right." Since there was no... no tell tale things which would give him away for doing such, or so he thought, considering he couldn't even hear his own heartbeat, Seth rested his head back against the headboard, and just let himself look at Matt for a few moments. A soft smile spread across his lips and he mentally rolled his eyes at himself for being so adoring over a superhero. Matt wasn't tony stark. He didn't seem to want the attention or gratitude.

But that didn't make Matt any less deserving of it -- any less amazing.

"Did you eat?"

"Just the pancakes earlier. But I brought some more stuff home. It's in the kitchen, so there's real food later.. sure you don't want me to cook you something?"

"I had a bite with my last set of pills to keep my stomach from being upset." A bite wasn't a meal, and he knew that, but he wasn't craving, and he wasn't exactly hungry. But if Matt was, Seth would join him. "I'll go sit with you again, though, if you'd like?"

"Mmm-nn," he objected, then stretched lazily and happily before relaxing again. "Until I have to get up, I'm staying put. Bed trumps food."

"That works for me," Seth stumbled through the response as he watched, and wondered how a man like this was alone before remembering what he did for his hobbies. Still. There had to be some girl he enjoyed the company of. "Then bed it is until there is no other option."

"Mmm-hmm." Matt's eyes were closed and he was smiling. "Good bed. Good company. I could use more nights like this." Of course, the whole reason that he'd stopped at just one person was because he needed to be back here, protecting these two, but that wasn't really something to dwell on.

"Anyway. What's on your mind? If it's okay to ask?"

"Honestly wondering where the girlfriend is in all this. I have a difficult time believing there isn't one." He shrugged. "But romance is hard, and you don't have to share details, of course. Just... that's what was on my mind."

"Hey, I asked. And there's no girl. There hasn't been anyone steady for... a few years now. Once in a while, I'll...hook up with someone? But it's more of a casual thing.. I haven't -- until recently, haven't thought about opening up and sharing the truth with someone.. and the thought of lying in a relationship was always... too much.

"What about you? You seem great. Is there anyone special in your life right now?"

"Hmm? You mean besides my reflection? Nah. Even that relationship was a bit one sided and is completely shattered now." He smiled at himself, then continued on, his time a little more seriously.

"Had a steady girlfriend. She moved away. Had a steady boyfriend. We decided together that it just... it was there. We loved each other, but we were better off as best friends. And I live in a town where people only care about money and society. It's hard to find someone my type."

Matt had laughed softly at his mirror joke, then gotten somber and quiet when Seth went on. Afterwards, he asked, "Do you ever get lonely?"

"Sure." Only all the time. "The house I live in is too big. But it's my family home and it's rent free. So, what are you gonna do? He sighed and closed his eyes. "But at least I've got Captain Oats."

"Cat..?"

"Uh. Horse figurine."

"Hence the oats. Right. That.. makes more sense than a cat." Matt shook his head at himself. "Sorry. Tell me about Captain Oats?"

Seth blushed. He hadn't actually expected Matt to be interested in hearing about a toy. "My nana gave it to me when I was eight? I think. It's just a figurine. But I've told him all about my stories. Made him a super hero in some of the stories I've written. Sorry. You have to think I'm a kid now.

"Hey, Tolkien basically has a superhero horse character, if he can get away with it, why not you?"

Seth smiled and looked over at Matt for a long moment. "What about you? Does the long string of criminals keep you entertained and keep you from being lonely?"

"Oh yeah, I mean, who needs to find a beautiful woman when they can exchange punches with men who reek of body odor and shitty life choices?"

Laughing, Seth sighed and nodded in response. "Exactly. What good are the beautiful women for anyway? Conversation and keeping a warm bed and a warm heart? Who needs all of those things?"

"Mmhmm. Much better to be miserable and alone. It's far more Catholic, anyway, which works for me."

"But you know, with moments like this sprinkled it, maybe life wouldn't be so bad. Granted, I could do without the injuries. But the company is quite enjoyable."

"It is." Matt rolled onto his stomach, careful not to jostle the bed at all, and rubbed his face against the pillow for a moment before curling up on his side again. "We'll have to spend some time together when you're well," he said. "If you are still willing to tolerate me then."

"I don't think there is any danger of me not enjoying your company. Quite the opposite, actually. But if you can still stand me, maybe you'd enjoy a few nights away to California. It's hot and suffocating and crowded, all the things my Jewish soul needs." He smirked. "That is. If the city can spare you for that long."

"It can't," Matt said softly, growing serious again, "but I'll go anyway because if... I don't, if I can't leave it.. the guilt will just -- turn into an addiction. And down that road lies madness. Some nights, like tonight, I make myself keep short despite... what I can hear... because the temptation to think I can save everyone is... strong." For a moment, there was real heartache in his voice, but he went on. "But noble as it would be to give up everything for the city... I'll lose.. things I can't replace if I do that... and.. I'm... rambling and being self-centered. Sorry."

"Oh, please, Matt. You are with a kindred, self-centered spirit. Don't apologize. And besides, I enjoy hearing about you. After I talked your ear off earlier, it seems only fair that you be given the opportunity to ramble for a while. You have my undivided attention."

"If you weren't a broken mess, I might actually have to hug you right now." Matt pulled the blanket up over his head, just leaving a small breathing hole.

"What do you like most about California?"

"The ocean. And the warmth," Seth replied, cursing his injuries and trying to give Matt enough free blankets that he'd been sitting on without moving too much. "The people can be shallow, which is perhaps to balance the depth of the ocean, but it's a good place to be."

Finally, Seth decided he wanted to get settled in bed. But removing his pants had been a challenge, and the shirt made him grunt and whimper quietly, but soon he was moving into the covers, keeping carefully to his side of the bed, still wary of making Matt uncomfortable. "But I thought we were talking more about you and Hell's Kitchen."

"Do you need help?" Matt had interrupted, concerned, when Seth first seemed to be struggling with the clothing, and he had reached out to lightly touch his arm, to stop him. "Don't -- don't hurt yourself. Use me if you need help. I'm offering."

And Seth had used him for balance, then asked him to pull on the sleeve of his injured side so Seth could free his arm. But as he ended up in bed, he looked down at the bruises and the patch and the swelling over his ribs, thankful Matt couldn't actually see any of it.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. You're not alone in this, okay? Please don't ever be afraid to ask for help."

"You've already done so much for me. You keep going and I'm going to get a crush on you." There. Playful, yet a blatant honesty underneath. And a warning of where Seth was trying to keep any feelings from popping up.

"I've... never been involved with a man," Matt answered softly after a minute, getting comfortable again once Seth had. "So you'd probably enjoy a crush on someone more experienced much more. Don't waste affection on me." He tried to make it sound light but he suspected he had failed.

Seth looked at Matt for a long beat, trying to decipher exactly what he meant. "Experience is the least of my concerns. But accepting of said affections? Receptive... Open? To them? That's kind of the most important part. Which, you know, most straight men aren't really flattered by the attentions of another man." He shrugged and looked at his hands as they were folded on the blanket. His heart beating faster and he tried to hold it all under the surface. "I'm sorry if I turned things awkward or uncomfortable. It was only meant as a light-hearted teasing."

"Right. Sorry. I have a tendency of taking things too seriously," he said quickly, feeling horrible. A long silence fell then, and Matt was lost in thought. Eventually though, when he could tell that Seth was still awake, he said: "I used to assume I was straight. Most straight people do. Then someone asked me... how I knew. And I didn't have an answer. So I guess there's... an open-mindedness. If that.. makes sense."

"It does." Seth nodded rolled onto his good side to look at Matt through the growing darkness. "You've never explored it, though?"

"No. I mean it's pretty recent that I've even questioned it. And I'm afraid of... inadvertently leading someone on, you know? If I turn out to be... just entirely straight."

"I get that," Seth replied, nodding. There was a lighthearted playfulness back in his tone. "Well, you let me know. If you decide, or if you need help deciding. Either way, I'm happy to help."

"Okay." Matt laughed again, but his words sounded serious. "When all this is over, and thus your ability to consent isn't in question, I'll come to California and you can show me the sights --in a datey way."

Heavy eyelids lifted and he frowned. "I am perfectly capable of consenting. But you've got it. I'll take you out on the sail boat. It's just a tiny thing. So you'll have to stay close."

Matt didn't want to get into an argument about whether or not Seth could consent to being the target of potentially romantic interest when he was injured, drugged, and staying in a stranger's home by necessity, so he was relieved when Seth accepted the deal.

"What's sailing like?" He asked after a while.

"Freeing," he replied finally as his eyes settled closed and his arm found a comfortable place to rest on his hip. "There's something different about being the only person around for leagues as opposed to being the only person in your home or in a city and there's all these people but none of them are with you."

"That sounds nice," Matt said quietly. "I look forward to it... but you should probably get some sleep.. you can tell me more about it tomorrow.."

"You should get some sleep," Seth combatted, but he was grinning again. "I'm sure I'll pass out mid-sentence here in a bit. But tell me about who you fought against today?"

Matt acquiesced, rambling quietly about the man. He told Seth how he'd smelled, the arousal and the hunger and the cruelty, and about the woman he'd been following who would never know about any of this. He told him how the man's nails hadn't been trimmed recently, how he was more muscles than brains, but his body was unwashed and his breath fetid. It wasn't the most traditional sort of bedtime story, but he hoped to satisfy Seth's curiosity enough to let him sleep.

And it did. Before Matt could get much beyond the stench of breath, Seth's had evened out into something deeper. He hummed once, but he wasn't aware of the sound coming from his own chest, and soon he was dreaming of the ocean.

When he woke again, quite a few hours had passed and the sky was just beginning to lighten with pre-dawn. Today they had work to do.

Matt was already up, shaved, and dressed in a suit. He never kept the same sleep cycle as most people, unaffected by daylight levels, and so taking four hour naps at any time tended to be all he needed. He was on his computer, fingers skimming over the braille projections and headphones on, working, jacket over the back of his chair. He was ready to go whenever they were, although he knew it would likely be a few hours before they were done showering, eating, and resuming their roles as human beings.

When he heard Seth wake, he stopped what he was doing and headed over to him. "Do you need any help?"

"I need a shower. I feel disgusting. And I need to change out the bandage over these couple stitches. But I'm not sure you want to help me with either thing. But thank you."

Despite his words, Seth struggled to stand, and ended up taking Matt's extended hand when it was offered. "Did I oversleep? I know you said you needed to go to the office today. And I would like to go with you. I can dress as quickly as possible."

"There's no rush. It isn't even seven yet." Matt helped him stay on his feet. "Think we can get Ryan to help you shower? And after, yeah, I can help with the bandaging."

Seth held on to Matt's surprisingly strong arms, and then slid past him to go poke at the snoring Ryan.

It had been years since they'd been together, and they both tried their best to keep things from being awkward as Ryan used his bare hand to wash over Seth's chest and abdomen. All the bruised areas. His hair. And then he offered a singular kiss to Seth's shoulder when they were finished.

"Do you need anything else?" Ryan asked, stepping under the spray of the water to clean himself next.

"No. Thanks. Matt said he'd redo my bandage. Are you going to the office?"

"Not this time. I'm gonna see if I can get that money wired from Sandy and then hopefully at least, be able to get our clothes from the airport. There was a message on my cell saying our bags finally arrived and that they'd deliver them to us. But I think... I think I'll just go get them. So we keep where we're staying quiet, if you're really so worried."

"Yeah. Thanks. I'm going to stay close to Matt then."

"Seth?"

"Yeah?"

"Just be careful. We don't know this guy. And sure, he's an attorney or whatever, but if he's in league with whoever we're dealing with and..."

"We're safe with Matt. He and his friend are as trustworthy as they get."

"But how do you know?"

"I just know." Seth left the bathroom to go find Matt.

Matt had gotten breakfast started while they showered -- fruit, toast, and some fried chicken. Maybe it wasn't the most traditional breakfast, but considering they’d had pancakes for dinner last night it seemed fine. The chicken smelled amazing -- Matt was a damn good cook when he chose to be -- and when it was done and he set it aside to cool, he went and washed his hands, then gestured at Seth to sit.

"I should have said this before showering, but you're both welcome to my clothes," he said, opening the kit up. "You guys can raid the dresser, wear whatever fits, just make sure he helps you, okay?" Matt cleaned the wounds very carefully, then rebandaged them, his hands deft and careful.

"It smells amazing," Seth commented, realizing how hungry he really was.

As Matt bandaged him, Seth watched in silence, and then mentally scolded himself for watching. His eye was still swollen shut. But the split on his lip was healing, and his forearms hurt less than they had the day before. Ultimately, he was impatient to heal and be done with the weakling nerd boy bit.

"Yeah, thanks," he replied at the offer to clothes. "I imagine walking around with drips of my own blood on my clothing, along with rips and scrapes from being on the ground won't likely make me look very friendly. It's bad enough that my face looks the way it does."

Once the two had found some comfortable stuff to wear, Matt served them up the breakfast, which was exactly as delicious as it smelled. While they ate, Foggy texted and Matt's phone read it aloud.

>> I know you are awake. Go back to sleep, asshole. Office at 10.

Matt smiled. He loved Foggy, too.

Seth and Ryan spared a glance between themselves when the message was read aloud. Seth's eyes shifted and his own smile widened as he watched the way Matt reacted to his friend's words.

Ryan smacked Seth in his leg, not thinking about where he was hitting.

Seth gasped, then glared. "Ow. What?!"

"You woke me at dawn and you didn't have to be somewhere until ten?"

It wasn't why Ryan had hit him, and the look they exchanged made it clear they both knew it.

"You needed to get up. I was tired of hearing you snore."

"I don't snore."

"Okay, pal."

Ryan glared, again not about the snoring.

"I said okay."

"Hey, I asked him to wake you," Matt interjected, feeling guilty that there was strife between them over this and entirely missing their silent conversation. "Seth wanted to shower and I was afraid he might slip... blame me." He sounded fairly lighthearted at least. "Besides. It's already eight so... if we have a relaxed morning, we should be right on time. Question though, Ryan -- how are you feeling?"

"See, Ryan. Even Matt was tired of your snoring," Seth joked

"That makes more sense, I suppose," he replied, ignoring Seth and trying to set Matt at ease. "And I'm okay. I look and feel a hell of a lot better than this mess."

"Do you, though? I may be black and blue and cut up. But I'm still a pretty man, Ryan. And you know it."

"Well, you've still got your hair, at least."

"This is true. All hail the Jew fro."

Ryan shook his head, but he was laughing. "Eat your damn chicken."

Right on queue, Seth took a large bite and smiled his victory.

They were a perfectly weird balance between siblings and married and it was impossible not to be charmed by them. Once breakfast was over and Matt had done the dishes, he asked, "Are you coming with us to the office today, Ryan?"

Seth looked at Matt with a narrowed, but almost conspiratorial glare. Maybe Matt hadn't listened while they'd showered. Maybe he was just playing along with the illusion that he wouldn't have been able to hear. Either way, Seth let Ryan answer the same way he had while they'd been showering.

"Think you can tolerate a day with just Seth? He has a tendency to not shut up. Ever."

Matt hadn't listened to their private conversation, and the look of concern he tried to keep off his features as Ryan explained may have given that away.

"I can definitely handle Seth, but I am a little concerned about your safety. If you insist on going, you'll be on high alert, right? Watch your back?"

"Yeah," he replied, taking a bite of his own food. "I'm pretty good at blending in. And even better at getting myself out of tight spaces. Should be fine. Everything will be done in cash once I get the money. Unless... do you think it's better to have the bags delivered?"

Seth stood, moving to the counter to grab his bottle of pills, and then went back to sit down, wincing a little as he did so.

"If you'd say something..."

"I'm fine. You two can't wait on me hand and foot. If I need help, I'll ask for it."

Matt considered, then shook his head. "Going in person is probably the most reliable option. Take my cell, though, and call Foggy if you get into any trouble. And..." Matt got up and went to find the spare key, giving it to Ryan along with his phone. "Remember that the most important thing here is that you both are alive at the end of the day, okay? Your safety matters more than anything else."

Ryan was beginning to get the vibe that Matt might be more than just an attorney, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. So he lifted the phone as a sort of gesture of thanks, and then nodded.

Seth sighed and his head fell forward. "Matt, you'll have to excuse my brother. He's an idiot and has way too difficult a time stringing words together. He said thanks. And he'll be careful."

"Right. Sorry."

Matt chuckled. "Thank you for the translation. Okay. Good. I'm going to go work until you feel ready to go, Seth, and then we'll head in. Just let me know."

Seth agreed, stood carefully, and then shuffled his way back to bed. Matt's clothes were comfortable, if a little big, and Seth wished there wasn't this looming thing over their heads. This knowledge that somehow, they're going to be found guilty for... whatever happened.

He pulled his phone back out, opening the book he'd purchased and had only made it about a paragraph in when Ryan appeared in the doorway.

"I'm gonna go ahead and go. I've talked to Sandy. He said it's gone through. So, I should just be able to pick up the money, then catch a cab back to the airport. I'll let you know the updates as I receive them."

Seth nodded. "Be safe."

Ryan looked again at Matt. "You too."

The day passed fairly quietly -- at least for Seth -- once they were at the office later. Foggy and Matt came together and the energy between the two seemed to instantly crackle to life as they worked, making phone calls, talking, going through the police reports, and getting hold of other witnesses. Around three in the afternoon, Matt left, and Foggy finally took a break.

"He went back to the station," he said, going over to their kitchenette to put coffee on. "You want some coffee? Or kinda stale bagels? Matt might be gone a while. Also, I'm not sure how much you picked up on, but things are actually going pretty good. Apparently none of the witnesses want to get involved and the security footage from the bar got 'lost,'" he actually made air quotes, "so it'll just be a he said, they said, and you guys are the ones with the nasty wound pictures. I mean not that that's a good thing, but... we didn't expect it to go like this, honestly. This is good."

"Stale... bagels? I'm not sure I understand. Listen. We'll have cash later today. If you can foot the bill for this afternoon, I'm going to find a way to introduce you to a life where stale bagels and bitter coffee are no longer acceptable."

"Stale bagels are totally never acceptable, but when ninety-nine percent of our clients pay us in food or like, painting, sometimes stale bagels are the only way to be." He pulled one of the almost hard objects out of the bag and knocked it on the counter. "Hear that? That's the sound of my partner having a heart that's waaaay too big. He won't turn anyone down. I mean I get it, kinda, but man, we had a pretty sweet gig at a place with free, amazing, perfect New York bagels every day, and you know, it takes a real punk to walk away from that... but we're punks." Thunk, thunk. "They're not so bad once they're toasted.."

Seth ran his hands down his face, shaking his head. "No. No. Hang on."

He text his dad, waited about five minutes, smiling awkwardly at Foggy until Sandy text back. "I'm a California spoiled brat, and sometimes it fucking pays off. We'll have a delivery in about ten minutes."

With an awkward smile, he leaned back in the chair he'd rolled over. "Also, for the record, Ryan and I will pay you in full, in actual dollars."

"While full, actual dollars sound great, if it'll cause a hardship or anything... we're not looking to put anyone in debt, you know?" Foggy turned back to start trying to cut the bagel open, but then looked back. "Wait... did you just... say you ordered food? Um, I might love you. No bagel bricks?" He held the bad bagel up questioningly, the light of hope in his eyes.

"Yes. Bagels and cream cheese and the whole lot is on the way. Even a jug of orange juice. And technically my father ordered them. So I'll send your declaration of love his way.

"And for the record, I know New York is all about endless amounts of old money. But... you cannot set me back. I don't care if you charge as much as your most expensive competitors. If you get us out, you'll be worth every dollar. My... grandfather essentially owned all of Newport. And granted he was broke when he died, my mother did well and just... you can't make me go broke. You'll get paid."

"Holy... crap. Um. Thank you. Thank you. We've been... thank you. Newport must be pretty amazing, apparently the people from there are waaaaay nicer than like, pretty much everyone in the city."

There was a knock on the office door then, which surprised Foggy. "That was quick..." his momentary elation quickly cooled. "Hey how about you just... roll into my office and shut the door, kay? That was way too quick."

"No. No the people in Newport are terrible. But Ryan and I are annoyingly well off thanks to my parents. Our parents, I guess. I don't know. He was adopted into our family when he was sixteen. So, our family..."

Seth's brows furrowed and he nodded, pushing himself back into Foggy's office, watching the door close. "Be safe," he called through.

Foggy gripped the bagel brick tightly, fairly certain it would be an amazing weapon, and then went to open the door -- and shouted in delight.

"Andrew!!" He threw his arms around Andrew and crushed him with a hug, then stepped back. "Seth, it's okay, it's a friend. Andrew, wow, come in." He dragged him in and shut the door and turned to give Seth a delighted smile when he reappeared, then looked back at Andrew. "Are you actually back in New York now? Hey, Seth, this is Andrew Gale, the nicest corporate bloodsucker you'll ever meet. Andrew, our client Seth."

"Nice to meet you, Seth," Andrew said with a smile, and he offered Seth his hand. Perhaps it was strange, but even though Andrew's suit was neatly tailored and had likely cost a mint, he didn't seem out of place here. He looked completely natural and at-ease standing next to Foggy, and somehow didn't make Foggy look at all frumpy in contrast. "I hope things are going well?"

"Nice... to meet you, too. My mother would insist that I apologize for my appearance. But, it is the reason I'm here. Botched plastic surgery. Obviously."

He gave a crooked smile and tried to straighten out the shirt he was wearing.

"I'm Seth Cohen. If you guys have business to do, I can make myself scarce."

"No business. I just came by for a quick visit. But if I'm interrupting..."

"Nope. Late lunch break." Foggy held up the bagel. "But not this. I was going to brain you with this if you were a bad guy."

Andrew couldn't help but look concerned. "Another of those cases?"

"You betcha. Uh." Foggy put the bagel away. "So how was New Orleans?"

"Restorative," Andrew smiled, then looked back at Seth. "You're in the best hands here, you know. Nelson and Murdock never give up on anyone."

Seth nodded. "They've taken good care of me thus far. Offering a place to stay, getting us out of jail. Matt has made food for me and Ryan. I feel... pretty fortunate."

Offering an awkward smile, he pulled out his phone to check on Ryan. He looked up again when there was another knock on the door.

"That should be lunch."

Foggy went and got it, and he was oblivious to the way Andrew's eyes followed him, to the little way the other lawyer changed his position in order to be able to jump to help him if needed.

The smell of the food was amazing -- Foggy had been on ramen for the last few days -- and he all but kissed the delivery man before bringing it in. "Seth, you're an actual angel. Andrew, have you...?"

"I'm good, thanks. But can you do something for me?"

Foggy went still. "You need a favor from me?"

"Just a small one. Tell Matt that -- I've met Miss Natchios. She's in town."

"His ex? I don't understand."

"He will," Andrew said, and he sounded a little sad. He nodded to Seth and bid them both a polite farewell, then slipped out.

"Weird. Super weird. Sometimes, I don't wanna know what kind of stuff Matt gets mixed up in... anyway. El feast!!! Uh. Fiesta! You're amazing. Okay. You sit still, you're all banged up, just tell me what you need." He had laid the food out on Karen's desk, since she was taking a sick day, and Foggy was fairly certain he'd never seen a more beautiful sight.

Seth watched Andrew with narrowed eyes, but as he bid them both adeiu, Seth managed a smile and a weak wave.

The bagels did look amazing. Smelled amazing. "Blueberry. With plain cream cheese. Then a cinnamon with strawberry cream cheese." He smirked. "I can spread my own schmear. I think there's plain cream cheese in there too."

Foggy helped him prepare his meal before seeing to his own. When he bit into it, he sighed with genuine pleasure and closed his eyes. It took a minute for him to chew and swallow. When he did, he looked at Seth. "Yep. Angel. Are you okay, though? Did Andrew freak you out? You seemed to kinda, go back in a shell or something. No offense intended, and totally not judging if you're shy."

"No. He's nice. I like him. I... I'm not sure why he made me feel like a loser teenager, a kid, but I'm just... tired, I think. But I talked to Ryan. We have money. We've put an express order on replacement debit cards, but you guys will get cash, at least an upfront payment."

He smiled softly, chewing. "I didn't mean to be... unfriendly, or anything, to your friend. He seems very kind. But he is the most kind of intimidating to a guy like me."

"I feel you," Foggy nodded. "He's all smooth and put together. He's like a real life shark. All his kind are. I mean not that sharks aren't real, but.. it took me a while to stop feeling like.. the fat, sloppy, broke-ass reject around him. I still do most of the time, when we have to work with others like him. He's like... the epitome of everything I wanted to be as a kid, but never was..." Foggy sighed.  "Sorry. Didn't mean to take you for a walk down Foggy lane."

"All of his kind?"

"Fancy lawyers from big firms, decades behind the names, paid their debts in one or two cases... the big lawyers."

"Gotcha. And... It's inappropriate. I understand this. But... who's the girl?"

[ahzrenbooks-blog]

The Alves: Chapter 1

Marek was a child who did not sleep easily.  Others exhausted their energy playing and learning during the day, to slip gently into dream once the torches were doused.  They didn’t need to linger awake in the dark, the soft cloth of night lying weightless over their eyes, drowsiness lengthening the scary shadows, the hours dripping by with exaggerated slowness.  It was easier to believe in things the daylight mind scoffed at; easier for tired eyes to see the shadows move in terrifying living shapes.  Ever since he could remember, the ghost would creep near and stand by the headboard.  Its woeful gestures carried no sound and stirred no air, yet were so real that Marek couldn’t convince himself it was only a nightmare figure.  Because it came only to him, he assumed it was his ghost.

“Is anyone else’s ghost this troublesome?” he asked himself nearly every night of his young life.  He wondered how others dealt with such a thing, and whether his parents had any advice.  Although it had never hurt him, it was more terrifying because of the lack of explanation.

He asked his father, the Baron, but Baron Beorn merely scolded his teacher, warning her not to indulge in fantasy during the boy’s lessons.  Then, Marek asked the taciturn court mage and received some chilling news.  She not only believed in ghosts that lingered after death, but had encountered evidence of their presence during her study at the Collegium.  The mage’s school acknowledged such an existence and had been aware of that type of being for a long time.  Then she tried to comfort him.  There was no reason for Marek to have seen one, as the mage had not found any proof of ghosts on the premises before, despite all the battles that had been fought on their land in the past.

“That means I am the only one,” he realized.  No one saw as he did, and no one believed that he could see what he saw every night.  He steeled himself, because this thing was after all not a ghost, according to the court mage.  He could either fear it because it was an unknown, or decide not to fear it.  Was there really any cause to, being that the shadow who wasn’t really there might not even be real?

At night, lost in fear and loneliness, Marek curled up and pretended to sleep.  Night after night, the little shadow who wasn’t there hovered around his room and wept soundlessly before fading away with dawn.

Marek was very young yet when he decided he was too lonely to bear it any longer.  “Maybe I am the only one,” he thought, “but could it be that… you’re also the only one?”  Their situations were different, but perhaps more similar than he had ever given credit to.  Perhaps they were both lonely because no one understood or believed them, and might better be alone together.

Marek hid under a pile of blankets with his eyes screwed tightly shut.  His heart raced faster than ever before as he reached out his hand into the dark-

-And became the first lonely child to have something reach back.

“I am a friend.”

The words were so close it was as though he’d thought them himself.  They lit something warm and needy inside, something delicious and forbidden.

“It’s because I’m a secret.”

Yes, that was it, exactly!  A secret friend no one else could see.  How fortunate!  All of a sudden he was the most lucky little boy!  But he couldn’t see his new friend clearly.  The ghost was but a shadow without visible details, mostly Marek’s size and shape, and vaguely human looking.

“I don’t know what my face would’ve been.  That’s why.  But we’re obviously linked, so I think I’ll borrow yours.”

What delectable fun!  An imaginary friend that looked just like him.  Marek believed, and started to talk.  It didn’t matter what they talked about.  His new friend absorbed everything he said, rabid for information.  All this time he’d just wanted attention.  But where had he come from?  Or did it even matter?

“If you’re going to be my friend, I’ll need something to call you.  You need a name,” Marek suggested.

“A name.  I have a name.  Doesn’t everyone?”

“Who gave it to you?”

“I don’t know, but it’s branded on my heart.  My name is Dayn Ater Beorn.”

Marek let fly more questions.  “Then you’re family?  How old are you?  Are you my ancestor, or yet to be born?”

“Does it matter?  It makes sense that we’re blood if you’re the only one that can see me.  We have a bond.  I don’t need more than that.  I don’t need to understand.”

So they were bonded, the boy and his ever present shadow.

***

“Things were so much easier with my first son,” Hallon Beorn muttered through his gnarled fingers.  His head was heavy against his hand, his elbow on the table, his shoulders unaccustomed to their current slouch.  “Jurick is so much like I was as a boy.  It makes him easier to understand.”

Instead of sitting in the chair Hallon had provided her, the court mage Jona stood behind it.  “Whoever told you that having sons should be easy?”  That wasn’t quite what she’d meant to say, but three decades of magic had done nothing to improve her ability to comfort others.  Even had those sorts of books been written, she wouldn’t have been interested in them.

“Of course not.  I couldn’t have asked for better sons,” the Baron replied tersely.  He shifted, lowering his hand heavily.  “But that little dreamer of mine…  He must need some kind of encouragement that’s new to me.   Lady Yuuna coddles him, her maids coddle him, his sister dotes on him.  He spends far too much time around skirts and not enough time being a bratty boy with his brother.  I fear that the wrong kind of attention is turning him into less than a man.”

“Why not forbid him from spending so much time with them?” Jona suggested.

“And force a wedge between he and his mother?  No, I’m afraid not.”  Hallon rose and began to pace around his stateroom, dragging one foot more than the other.  Jona listened to the uneven footfalls caused by his old knee injury.  “I hate talking like this, but if I were to deprive her of time with any of her children, the Goddess would never forgive me.  Who knows how long she has left?  By the Bleak, I’d never forgive myself.  There’ll be time enough to turn the little goblin into a man… after.  Ah, part of me is eager to help him find his place, and part would rather let him just be a child like any other.”

Jona twisted her quill between her fingers.  Anything to keep her purposeless hands busy.  “Goddess forefend.  Surely My Lady will have years left, yet.”  She knew they both understood how empty a statement that was, but silence could only be more awkward.  “It’s a pity that a Baron’s son doesn’t have that choice.  He must learn to be fit to lead in case he is needed.  For the good of our people.”

“Well, what else do we need to cover?  I believe I’ve side-tracked the original intent of our talk yet again,” Hallon mused.  “You have news of the King’s son?”

“Yes, Baron.  A letter from a colleague arrived this morning confirming the rumors that had circulated to us earlier this month.  The young prince did indeed sustain a grave injury, and though the capital won’t admit it in any meaningful way, it seems he has the worst complications that could be expected.  If the infection were to take him, it would leave the throne in contest, of course,” Jona explained.

“Hm.  The King has the girl child, though.  I wonder if he’s expecting something of that?”

“The Alves haven’t had a female ruler in generations.  Not since Gevruitha Astrazaltr.  It’s been three hundred years since rule turned into a patriarchal monarchy,” Jona said.  “Everyone is used to the tradition of a female goddess and a male king now.  If those other whispers about the king’s impotence are true, we can’t expect any more male children from that line either.  More likely the rule will pass laterally, to the next uncle or cousin in line.  Could you imagine a Queen of the Alves?  None of the southern territories would abide that.”

“Of course not,” Hallon replied, “but they may have no choice.  I’d like to see what kind of mettle the girl has.  We’ve gained more independence in the past ten or so years, but that’s the ailing power of the capital for you.  A weak King whose reach can only extend as far as his army and his big mouth allows.  Incompetence causes the whole country to suffer.  Whether he can sire more children or not, or whether the problem is with the Queen’s womb or not, nothing he does alone will restore the people’s faith in him now.  The core northwestern territories support him because he’s their direct supplier.  The rest of us have been eager for a power shift for years.”

“He’s always been rather more eager to send a warrior where a scribe or healer would do,” Jona agreed.  “That shows lack of character.  He doesn’t understand what his people need, and now he’s drained financially.”

“What it shows is a lack of balls,” Hallon replied, grimacing.

Jona did as well, and arched her eyebrow meaningfully.  “I’d rather a lateral power shift.  Think of how much work needs to be done now, with such a power void in the capital?  Someone like a brother close to power would have the experience and wisdom to lead.  A brand new child on the throne, much less a girl, would simply have too much to contest.  Not to mention, she’s being raised by the same people whose rule we’re currently demeaning.  How could she be any better if she’s got the same education?  How could such a person step first thing into a civil war and hope to succeed?”

“I couldn’t say,” Hallon argued.  “I’m as much an old man as the king is, and I’d just like to see something new for my children.  Whomever rules at the Capital has no great impact on us, other than what they ask as tribute, and how much we pay them in taxes.  They leave our Barony alone and forgotten until they have desperate need of manpower, and it suits us just fine.”

“Hm.  Speaking of which, the letters I received this month weren’t requesting that.”

“Good.”  Hallon’s brows lowered with scorn.  “They’ve taken enough of my men to fortify themselves.  Goddess knows what they do with them.  What they need is more sense, not walls and soldiers to guard the Alvan Capital from itself.  The territories haven’t been this fractured since the last war.  I fear whoever comes to power next will be the dividing line between north and south once and for all.”

“The only way to avoid that would be to marry the next ruler to a leader in the opposing faction,” Jona suggested.  “But the girl isn’t nearly old enough for that, either.  They could promise engagement, but no one would trust the King - not with his reputation.”

“What a fine mess,” Hallon sighed.  “Hopefully the young prince will recover and grow up fine and strong.  But then, that’s never a certainty.  That’s why a good ruler ought to have as many children as he’s able.  One of the batch ought to be able to carry the weight of tradition and wisdom.”

“Yes, Baron.”  Jona watched Hallon’s expression as he grew quiet.  After a moment, the Baron startled in place, and nodded reflexively.  Jona bowed herself out, recognizing his distant dismissal.  Probably worrying about his own wayward son again.

Copyright Ahzren Books ©2017

[howtotechpress-blog]

Ars does Soylent, Day 2: My God, what is this disastrous situation I no longer need to put any substances of any sort into my mouth ever again.

Two days back, Senior Reviews Editor Lee Hutchinson took a promise to spend seven days eating only Soylent, a nutritiously finish feast substitution made by architect and business visionary Rob Rhinehart. He's archiving his flexibility from strong sustenance by day. Perused about Day 1 here.Day 1 recap: Like trench fighting in France

I finished the past passage saying that I would take off running, yet that did not occur. As it got closer to 7pm, I began feeling dismal thunderings in my stomach—the kind that could either be the indication of some safe gas or the harbinger of the poopocalypse. I remained in, rather watching a few scenes of The Wire with my significant other, who had a fine solid supper while I tasted my Soylent with a constantly souring gut. Somewhat after 8pm, the gas began.

It was terrible. These weren't unimportant ha-ha toot sorts of discharges; this was hair-raising. It was room-clearing, horse-slaughtering, World War I mustard gas-sort gas. I moved from space to room in the house like I was surrendering domain to the Kaiser, my face settled in a look of frightfulness as green hellfire vapor trailed behind me, peeling paint and withering plants. My significant other, favor her heart, said nothing. Eventually, I advanced back to the PC and pulled up the email correspondence between Soylent organizer Rob Rhinehart and me.

"Other than a touch of gas at first (a few people's gut microorganisms are not acclimated to the dissolvable fiber) there have been no unfriendly responses," he wrote in light of my question about potential versatile reactions. At that point my eyes begun to water from the gas and I needed to keep running once more into the parlor.

Substance fighting farts aside, I finished off Day 1 with completely zero issues with appetite. Truth be told, other than a couple brief twinges, I didn't feel real for-genuine craving even once. It even felt like there was excessively Soylent in the pitcher—it was a test to eat every last bit of it.

Day 2, 07:30

I woke up with a light migraine, which is surprising for me. I haven't gone off espresso, and it doesn't feel like a caffeine cerebral pain—it's quite recently sort of a scarcely there disturbance. I trundle into the workplace, get up to speed with overnight email and tweets, and consider my breakfast presenting with expanding fear.

My stomach has never been especially responsive to breakfast, and right now we have the most uneasy of détentes going on—any wrong move could start an episode. As I taste espresso, a few Soylent flatulates issue forward and I pull my shirt up over my nose. My better half has somewhat of an icy and dozed in the visitor room the previous evening, and I'm in reality quite thankful. In case I'm as yet gassy now, I was likely gassy throughout the night. Luckily, I was oblivious and did not take note.

The inescapable part where we discuss crap [skip to the following subhead if squeamish]

Consistency has never been an issue for me—even as I push ever assist into my late 30s, I keep on being honored with accuracy guts. My first post-Soylent crap happens ideal about at the typical time—8:30-ish—and it feels like the same old thing: neither a wild splash nor a rough hard press. I'd give it a four on the Bristol scale. From an amount point of view, it was unquestionably less, yet it wasn't especially unique. Perhaps a couple shades lighter than regular, yet at the same time a typical darker.

The lavatory business is joined by quite roused tooting also. I envision my gut microscopic organisms are altogether wired up and moving their little gut microbes hearts out. My digestive organ is murmuring and pounding like a Soylent-filled discotheque.

Day 2, 09:00—Soylent Green

I enjoy my some espresso, putting off the Soylenting to the extent that this would be possible, however as 9am gravitates toward I can put it off no more. I approach the sack and blender gradually, haggling with myself. Only a little glass at the beginning of today, I think, my canyon ascending as I envision bringing down another extensive serving like I had on Day 1.

Once more, the custom: pack in bowl, blend substance. One liter of water in blender, half of powder into blender, half of a vial of oil. This time, I include a capful of vanilla concentrate and a dash of green sustenance shading. I have now gotten roughly nine hundred hillion jillion squintillion remarks, messages, and tweets discussing "SOYLENT GREEN LOL." So on Day 2, my Soylent will surely be green. This time, I utilize super cold water and the most minimal setting on the blender, giving the blend a chance to rest after a couple seconds.Out of the blender and into the pitcher, then rehash with second liter. The pitcher has no foam today, for which I am grateful. Gradually, I pour an espresso mug-sized serving and taste.

The vanilla has a gigantic effect in taste discernment. The strange non-specificity is gone, similar to the yeasty breadiness—in its place, there's essentially an indication of vanilla. The sweetness is a great deal better now as well, feeling like some portion of the light vanilla flavor as opposed to a simulated idea in retrospect. There's very little to be done about the sticking pastiness however, and the dregs coats my mouth like mud in a riverbed. Still, I control through the mug of thick pistachio-green slurry and really feel OK about it.Day 2, 10:00: Second breakfast

This is turning into a standard hold back: I'm not eager, but rather on the off chance that I don't drink the Soylent, I won't complete the pitcher. Since the calories are incorporated with the sustenance, I have to complete the entire day's serving keeping in mind the end goal to get everything my body clearly needs to work.

The green shading isn't especially off-putting—it looks sort of cool, really, similar to it ought to taste of peppermint. My stomach reels at the possibility of peppermint-enhanced Soylent.I don't especially make the most of my second glass. I am drinking it while I work, similar to a quick paced present day kind of fellow, however regardless i'm full from breakfast and the more I drink of the second glass, the heavier I feel. It takes me 30 minutes to traverse the container, and the prospect of that whole pitcher as yet holding up in my ice chest is truly weighing at the forefront of my thoughts. Now, a light lunch of a modest bit of flame broiled chicken sounds appallingly, unpleasantly engaging. No, scratch that—now, not eating for whatever is left of the day sounds shockingly better.

I'm additionally feeling lovely darn uncreative. Morning is generally when I chip away at short news things and reports, and concentrating on a site sufficiently long to peruse something beyond a couple sections sounds like a preposterous measure of work. Reports of Soylent bringing on mental lucidity and enhanced execution and vitality can be discovered somewhere else on the Web, yet I feel the inverse: drowsy. The cerebral pain from today is starting to strengthen.

I pop some ibuprofen to help with the cerebral pain, and the little piece of water to make the pills goes down makes my stomach feel much more full. I attempt to disregard it and compose.

Day 2, 13:30: I am compelled to eat

The migraine has kindly blurred, and all the more reassuringly, I'm really feeling a little, exceptionally black out measure of craving. I'd love to give it a chance to stew longer and check whether it blooms into a real undeniable yearning to eat, however I don't have time. There's around 1.5 liters of green vanilla Soylent that I need to traverse.

The pitcher has stratified significantly less today than it did on Day 1, as well, for which I am thankful. I feel...odd, is the most ideal way I can put it. It's neither a decent odd nor a terrible odd—I simply feel a little off kilter. I get a decent whiff of Soylent as I whisk away its layers and I feel all the while queasy and hungry, however significantly more queasiness than craving. When I begin drinking it, it's not shocking, but rather I'd truly recently begun to shed the overwhelming feeling from breakfast and I'm not especially anticipating jumping again into feeling so weighted down and un-hungry.There's a considerable measure of gut moving as I drink this specific serving, as well—my digestive organs have been for the most part calm since breakfast, however evidently that is not going to last. When I'm finished with the glass, I've completely demolished any sentiments of yearning I may have been feeling and I truly have confidence in my heart that I will never need to put anything sustenance related in my mouth again for whatever is left of my life.

This sounds like overstatement, however man, Saturday is resembling it's a long, long way away.

As I come back to work, I need to accomplish something to consume through the Soylent funk I feel myself falling into. The previous evening's prematurely ended endeavor at running truly annoys me and I frantically need to get retreat there today, yet there won't be a shot in damnation if my gut doesn't quiet down and my mind remains this foggy.

It's conceivable this is a self-propagating cycle I'm in—Soylent's 2400 calories are more than I requirement for my standard "sit in this seat and compose throughout the day" level of action. Perhaps in the event that I get up and accomplish something, the action will jumpstart things and I'll get more empowered.

Running needs to hold up until some other time at night however, in light of the fact that I live in what might as well be called overwhelm hellfire. Furthermore, I have meetings and due dates and things—flying out for two or three hours today truly isn't an alternative. As the evening extends on, my gut cycles into high action, having a craving for seeming like an organization of dump trucks snarling and slipping their way through an Ice Capades execution. It's unsettling.

Day 2, 17:00: Do not need

Shane Snow, composing for Tim Ferris' blog, talks through his two week Soylent travel with mind and talkative, bypassing the days and clearly feeling great through it all. He describes that by Day 2, he's getting the fragrance of sustenance all over the place and envisioning about eating, about gnawing into a brownie.

I don't feel anything like that. Not by any means remotely. Sustenance is terrible. I have an inclination that I need to sew my mouth close. I would prefer not to ever expend anything again. No water, no Soylent, no chicken, no steak, no lager, no nothing. My stomach is finished. I have broken it.

[recordofmyreverie]

It’s About the Ride, Not the Destination (November 2016)

Eventually the month of October flew by pretty fast. I was having too much fun, but it came time to pay my really expensive speeding ticket in Georgia. While I originally had booked another reservation with Paulette in Panama City Beach for this time, I needed to cancel it because I wasn’t going to see anyone anymore. I didn’t even know if that person was still there or not. 

I told her over Airbnb chat that if that person somehow showed up at her door, to give him the middle finger for me. Assuming he wasn’t very confrontational since he liked to run away, I didn’t think he’d really show up though. 

I considered still going all the way to Florida just to knock on his door and give him a scare. Or I thought about just going to the beach and seeing what I could have done while I was there instead. 

I didn’t do any of that though. It would have been a huge waste of time, and a lot more trouble than it was worth. Instead, I opted for a tour of Georgia to convince myself that this state wasn’t so bad after all. I was trying to look on the bright side and see what made this state so peachy. 

I planned to drive up to a place called Helen, Georgia, in the mountains which resembled a German town, and then from there I’d spend the night in Athens. 

When I arrived in Helen, the first thing I noticed was a lot of Confederate flags. The second thing I noticed was a lot of people wearing Confederate flags in the German restaurant. People that were all white and staring at me. It also didn’t help that it was two days before the election, and I was definitely in Trump country. 

Finishing what I could of the reindeer and purple cabbage I had ordered, I wasted no time at all getting out of Helen, GA. It was extremely touristy, and not very authentic German at all. There were also, strangely, mannequins at fake windows that sold funnel cakes. It was a bit disappointing to walk up to one of the windows to see a dummy and then feel like one for talking to one on accident. There was really nothing there except a lot of gift shops that sold the same crap. 

Onward to Athens!

Driving through Georgia, there were so many more Trump signs than when I’d driven through in September. The crops were also mostly dead by now, so there was no more drowsiness from seas of cotton. I’d only seen one field of cotton, and that was on the way out. 

Athens was definitely a more progressive town. You could see that there was art, music venues, cool restaurants, so it was my kind of place. I’m glad a place like that existed amongst all the red. Unfortunately, I stopped by there on a Monday night, so there wasn’t much going on. I stopped at a bar called the Manhattan Café to have a glass of Sangria, and then I went to the record store called Low YoYo Stuff where I met a cool guy named Christian and talked to him about music for about 3 hours while we drank LaCroix.  

I’d never even heard of LaCroix until it started getting popular on the internet as a “hipster drink” and there I was, chatting to the record store clerk while drinking this stuff and having the most stereotypical accidental hipster experience ever. I told him that I liked to drive long distances and that I needed something to help me stay awake. I liked instrumental, but I didn’t want to fall into a trance and fall asleep on the road. He tested out a few CDs for me, and I ended up buying a 2-Disc set by Aphex Twin and the Low album by David Bowie. He was so easy to talk to, and he inspired me to stop by a record store every time I found one because it was an exciting way to find new music through the suggestions of the people who worked there. 

I left the store after accidentally staying there 30 minutes after it had closed because we had so much fun listening to music, and then I walked to a donut shop to buy some donuts for my friend, Mia who I spontaneously decided to visit the next day since I was down south already. I texted her when I was in Athens to ask her if she was going to be busy the next day, and she said she was actually off for the whole day, so it was perfect timing. 

I slept in Athens at an Airbnb that was some guy in grad school’s apartment. I never met him. It was kinda like I was never there, and he even said that in his review about me. We’d talked through the chat about where I could go and cool places to eat, but that was about it. The next morning, I got up early to go in the direction of Warwick, Georgia, but I actually had some extra time, so I went to see Providence Canyon State Park in Lumpkin, Georgia. It was about an hour away from Warwick, where I had to pay my ticket, and it looked like a small-scale Grand Canyon. 

After seeing what sights I could see in Georgia before having to fork over a lot of money, I arrived in Warwick on November 8th. It was election day, so everyone was at the courthouse voting. They had moved the location of the actual court to the police station, and people had to sit outside on chairs on the lawn for the hearing. Every single one of them was out-of-state. I thought that my ticket was bad, but then I witnessed grown men cry because their tickets were even worse. One ticket was $800 because of lapsed insurance. 

I patiently waited to pay for my ticket, and I just wanted to get out of there, so I already had my money in an envelope in the exact amount that I needed to pay. I didn’t expect them to want $50 more than what they’d asked for online, nor did I expect to need a probation officer to report to for 12 months and have to pay an additional $100 a month. I thought the $580 was enough, but I guess not. 

Doing a quick internet search after I left, I found that it’s actually better to not pay your ticket to Georgia because then they won’t bother you anymore. If you do the right thing and do pay, they’ll ask you for more money. I tried to do the right thing anyways and paid my fine, then called the probation officer when I was supposed to, but there was only such a small window of time for me to do that. It was the first Thursday of every month at 11am-1pm, and twice I’d called and heard that she was the only officer on duty and was on her lunch break. 

I never got a hold of the officer. I never paid the extra fines. How could I when they were unavailable? Too busy eating lunch, so not my fault. 

For extra measure, I changed my phone number. I was reinventing myself anyways, so why not have a new number identity as well? 

After paying my ticket, all of what I saw of Georgia was good enough to have zero desire to return. I got into my car and drove for 5 hours to Mobile, Alabama. It would have been less, but I hit rush-hour traffic on the way.