#at this point he mostly did private games with big clients

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

thinking about the fucking cat boy

[thestraggletag]

Roll for Initiative, a Rumbelle D&D Fic

Summary: Tales of the Enchanted Forest was the hottest online D&D game, in part for its charismatic players, in part for the twisted turns of the DM's mind and in part because of the outrageous chemistry between its greatest OTP, the party's beautiful bard and the Dark One, an anti-hero side-character who is there to provide information and uncomfortable levels of UST. Mr Gold thinks it's a harmless flirtation that could never become anything else, just like his silly little crush on the town librarian, Belle French.

He's wrong.

Rating: Explicit.

Author’s Note: Surprise, @argoslight​, it is I, your Gifter! Sorry to make you wait till near the end but I just had way more banter to write in me than I thought. I hope you enjoy your gift. I’m so sorry to not be able to add more D&D elements but since I don’t play I don’t have a lot of idea of what could be done. Also I apologise for any mistakes! And thanks so much to @little-inkstone for her help and D&D knowledge.

The castle was quiet when she entered, her steps echoing against the stone. It was gloomy inside, curtains obscured and decor sparse and sombre, the castle living up to its name. But there were flowers on the table, moon lilies, her favourite flower. They bloomed only in the Eastern Mountains past the Old Wall, but she had long since suspected he grew some on one of his enchanted hothouses, with the excuse of using them for potions. 

“Where’s the rest of your pretty little troop of do-gooders, dearie?”

The voice came out of nowhere, echoing around the empty halls of the castle. Thankfully she did not need directions, knowing exactly when to turn and where to go. Soon she found herself in a vast room, with a table on the centre and curios filled with oddities and the like. Some others were displayed on pedestals, including a rather fearsome sword and a nasty-looking crown made of thorns. None of the artefacts were what she sought, but she was not there to bargain for an item, but rather for information.

“Off on their own quests, taking care of other things that need doing.”

The voice tsked, seeming not to approve.

“They let you enter the lair of the beast alone? Some heroes.”

The woman lowered the hood of her cloak and walked towards the unlit chimney. Immediately a fire blazed to life, as if the castle itself was trying to cater to her comfort. The fire provided much-needed light as well, revealing the profile of a man in the shadows. Or something that looked like a man, at least, if not for the reflective scales that covered his body and its strange eyes: gold irises around catlike pupils.

“I asked to come alone. I felt like we could talk more openly this way.”

She removed her cloak, ostensibly to drape it across a chair near the fire and let it dry. The creature, however, seemed to read more into the gesture, tsking again.

“You come here all alone, a pretty little lamb, and take off the only real bit of protection you have. Reckless, dearie, most reckless.”

 The creature stood up, walking slowly towards the light, revealing more of its form as it approached her. Leather pants and a long, reptilian-looking vest and coat. It wasn’t particularly tall but power emanated from it in suffocating waves. She closed her eyes, finding his cloying presence strangely comforting. Then again, she had always been odd. 

“Once again your pitiful little party of friends needs my help. How they weigh you down, Beauty.”

He stepped fully into the light then, revealing a being more creature than man, the reptilian skin and claws as off-putting as his unnatural eyes. She should’ve taken a step back, should’ve gone for her blade or the dagger tucked into her left boot, but she didn’t. As much as she knew she shouldn't, she felt at ease in his presence. Well, perhaps not quite. She certainly felt a strange sort of anxiousness in his presence, a fluttery sort of feeling that she attributed to being particularly attuned to his magic. None of the other members of her party felt that way. If anything, he repulsed them, which wasn’t something she could understand. To her he was… magnetic.

“Are you in the mood for dealing or not? I can trade for information.”

He snorted.

“With what? Your little band of misfits is dirt poor. That idiotic paladin of yours ruined your last mission. You really should think about ditching the man. All brawn, no brains. At least your rogue is a smart woman.”

His gaze left her briefly, running down the length of her clothing: sturdy black boots, a nicely-cut dress that stopped around the knees and a sturdy belt with a few pockets for her spells. But the clothing, as well-made as it was, was dated, old. Looked worn and was signed and stained in places, and it left a lot of her frail human skin exposed. She had not been able to afford an upgrade in a while, preferring to spend her coin in what could benefit the group.

His moue of distaste disappeared once his eyes fell on her cloak. Well, his cloak, since he had been the one to make it. It was a lovely thing in varied shades of green, shot through with golden thread, his trademark. She had bought it off him a long time ago, a simple thing to keep her warm during cold nights and dry when it rained. Miraculously, though, it also did not sustain damage, looking exactly the same as when she had first put it on.

“I’m glad at least my protection is serving you well.”

He ran a claw along the seams of the cloak, making it glitter, like to like, magic calling for its own. He looked smug, as if pleased she was wearing something he had made.

“It does more than we bargained for. I’ve been blasted with magic strong enough to burn through most fabric but it has not even frayed. How strange of you, Rumplestiltskin, to lose out on a deal.”

He shivered when she said his name, walking behind her to the safety of the shadow she cast next to the fire.

“Can’t help it if my magic is just that powerful, my dear. I’m glad you are a happy customer. Always thought that cloak was a nice bit of magic. Can’t fault you for always wearing it.”

She felt him close in on her from behind, to the point that it almost felt like they were touching.

“It smells like you. That’s why I wear it all the time.”

The noise he made behind her was inhuman, a cross between a whimper and a growl. His claws scrapped against the back of her dress, the feeling muted by her stays, but she could feel his breath against the back of her neck and that alone was-

“Hey, this is a decent stream! Keep it PG for the kids, you weirdos.”

“Damn it, Grumpy, I wanted to see how long it would take them to snap out of it!”

“Sorry, Snow, but I ate a big dinner and I aim to keep it down.”

The messages in the chatroom wheezed by, mostly disgruntled complaints about their OTP never catching a break. The other participants in the stream were mostly silent, their mics muted likely to hide the amused snickers. There was no video feed on any of the members of the party, all of them represented instead by artwork to preserve their anonymity. Once upon a time that had been a fanciful choice, and perhaps a way to stay safe when interacting with strangers on the internet. Now it was mostly to keep their private lives from being overtaken by the popularity of their stream. “Tales of the Enchanted Forest” was shaping up to be one of the hottest D&D online streaming shows, already on its third campaign and counting.

“Beauty is just trying to get us some answers, Grumpy. We can’t just go stumbling about hoping to run into some fairy wand by chance.”

“Oh, it’s that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Enough! Can we get back to the campaign already? It took me weeks to plan and it kinda hinges a bit on the Dark One helping, which needs to happen today.”

“Fine by me, dearie, if the dwarf can curtail his temper.”

The party was composed of five characters, a paladin, a cleric, a bard, a rogue and a thief, which along with the Dungeon Master made up the regular cast of every weekly stream. But given the popularity of the show, and the amount of time they had been playing, they had managed to amass a good amount of side-characters, guests invited every now and then to help the campaign move along and keep the interest of the audience. And by far the most popular of those guests was the Dark One, a wizard of unknown lineage and tremendous power that served both as an antagonist and a pseudo-ally depending on the situation. 

His presence was likely the reason why the livestream’s numbers looked so robust. He had amassed quite a fanbase, due in part to the commitment the player put on the character (the voice-acting was above and beyond what anyone could’ve expected from an amateur performer, and the backstory was quite complex, revealed in bits and pieces fans had meticulously assembled together) and in part to the chemistry he had managed to develop with the group’s bard, a half-human named Beauty.

“Okay, let’s all go back to what we were doing.” The DM’s voice was authoritative, though also more than a bit pissed off. “Okay, Beauty, you were about to try and cajole the Dark One to sell you the information you needed in return for a vial of water from Lake Nostos. Though the water is valuable, it’s not guaranteed to be enough to tempt the wizard. You have to roll at least a 13 in persuasion to make the trade. Roll when you’re ready.”

...

Rumford Gold stretched within the confines of the small backroom of his shop, where he had his computer stuff set up. Initially he’d bought the computer to better conduct his online business. His laptop at home wasn’t cutting it and it was better to photograph the antiques, update the website and handle the deliveries from his place of business. He had bought a good camera, some light fixtures and, on a whim, a microphone, for instances where he might need to virtually communicate with clients. It was something that was happening more and more, especially because a lot of his clientele was European. The internet had truly turned his antiquing- more of a hobby than a profession originally- into a profitable business.

He had gotten into watching D&D while waiting late at night for a client to become available in Austria. He had played as a lad, one of the few happy moments he could remember from his childhood in Glasgow, but had given it up once he had met Milah. And after they were over he had been too involved in making something of himself to remember past childhood enjoyments. But apparently D&D had evolved with the times and he had gotten into the habit of searching for and watching online D&D campaigns in his spare time. From that to actually being a side-character in one of them took almost no time. It was frightfully easy to go back to that frame of mind of playing make-believe, only now he had a distaste for the clean-cut heroic types and more of an affinity for the morally-grey, shady characters.

So he had auditioned for the role of evil-wizard when there had been an opening for a side-character in his favourite D&D stream, The Enchanted Forest. And though the DM had written what he considered to be a very flat, uninteresting character, he had been able to give it his own spin. He knew the DM hated him for it, hated when he deviated from what was expected of him, but people loved him. It was half the fun, pissing the DM off.

The other half, he had to admit, was Beauty. The one with the brains in the group, clearly, a half-human, half-fairy bard with an uncanny ability to think ahead, and arm herself with knowledge. Most of the other members of her party were more apt to try and decapitate something than negotiate with it, or even befriend it. Beauty prided herself on more of a gentle approach, which sometimes got her treated as the “fragile” one. He thought it just made her all the more interesting.

Their flirting had just kinda happened. He was half into it before he realised it had begun at all and by the time he had grown conscious- and self-conscious- of it fans were lapping it up and loving it. Even the DM, as loath as he was to admit it, found the banter engaging, even as if stole the spotlight from his story and where he wanted it to go. So every now and then he got invited into a stream, sometimes to interact with the whole party and sometimes, like the session he had just finished, to speak only to Beauty. And what was supposed to be a brief conversation before the party moved to greener pastures became a whole session, with the chatroom full of engagement and the view count off the charts.

But the DM had had a short tolerance span tonight, and had nipped things in the bud much sooner than usual. He felt… unfulfilled. Unsatisfied. Itchy, almost, in a way. So he was more than happy when he received an email from Beauty, who seemed to share his dislike of how the session had played out. They had started doing that more often, sharing emails after a session, even when he did not participate in it. It was harmless, he thought. Just an innocent online flirtation that could never realistically turn into anything. Not that his more in-person romantic overtures could ever pan out. He was in his third year of being completely smitten by the local town librarian, and in his second year of being able to put two words together in front of her without the help from Scotch, something he was perhaps a bit too proud of. And though he had decided very early on that the whole thing was utterly hopeless he had not been able to steer his thoughts or affections away. Realistically he was perhaps more in love with the idea of Belle French than the reality itself, given how little he had personally interacted with the woman. But he knew just enough to fill in the blanks and create a beautiful picture of how he imagined her to be: bookish- an easy assumption given how many times he had caught her in public places absorbed in a book-, kind, generous and delightfully able to hold a grudge and enact revenge when the time came. A bit reckless, and sometimes quick to form opinions, but also quick to revise them. A tactile person, with a great sense of fashion and a carelessness about what was expected of her.

He saw her in his head as clear as day, but little of that image was based on any personal knowledge of her. So, perhaps, he had found in Beauty a fictional substitute, someone he could talk to, and flirt with, without consequences, adopting the persona of someone more confident, more at ease with that sort of thing. The Dark One was comfortable in his skin in a way that he could only pretend to be sometimes. All the money and power he had accumulated over the years had helped him evolve from the spineless, cowardly lad he had once been, but when it came to certain situations, especially those that necessitated a level of vulnerability, he was still hopeless.

Perhaps, he wondered, it was better to think about his online liaison with Beauty as the real thing. They wrote to each other often, in and out of character, and over the course of their correspondence he had confided in her more than he had in any other person alive. Small things at first, every day peeves and details. Nothing that could identify them, certainly, but surprisingly intimate nevertheless. And over time it had grown to stuttering confessions and barings of the soul on both sides. She had told him of her teenage years in a mental asylum, the product of an overwrought widowed father trying to do right by his grieving daughter. He had had a few choice words to say about that, uncharitable thoughts about her father prompting his own willing sharing of the sad story of his childhood, neglectful father and all. It had felt nice, to confide in someone, someone he trusted.

He glanced at her email, where she lamented how their scene had not been as long or as satisfying as she had wanted, and saw she was proposing to meet later in a private stream to finish it the way they had both wanted. She had proposed something similar once or twice before and he had politely declined but now he wondered why not take her up on her offer. What was stopping him? His imaginary idea of Belle French, who in reality had never given him more than a polite smile in passing? Too young, too good, too beautiful to ever see him as anything other than an old cripple? Whatever he had built with Beauty felt infinitely more real, and attainable. A relationship without ever meeting in person seemed ideal in many aspects and, perhaps, if and when it came to meeting in the real world, his physical shortcomings would not be relevant, nor would it his rather uncharitable reputation.

He sent her a quick reply to arrange a meeting, feeling like a bit of roleplaying was, in the end, quite harmless. And if it were to lead to something a bit more meaningful, well, perhaps it was about time.

…

“Water from Lake Nostos. A key ingredient in most powerful potions and even some spells. I’m sure it could prove useful to you.”

The bard showed him the glowing crystal vial hanging from a long chain around her neck, with the glowing milky-white water from the cursed lake in it. He made a move to get closer to inspect it but the woman took a step back, tucking the vial back inside her bodice. The wizard’s eyes lingered there, hiz gaze growing intense. The bard felt her skin flush in response, something that felt a bit like fear but wasn’t running down her spine.

“And I’m sure a new wardrobe could prove useful to you, dearie. You’re practically wearing rags.” Rumplestiltskin made a show of running his eyes up and down her form with just enough disgust in his face to make it seem as if he was only noticing the rather sad state of her dress. 

“It’s my best gown, I’d thank you not to insult it.”

He made a moue of disapproval, shaking his head for good measure.

“You’re far from your days as a princess. I hope seeing the world is worth putting up with your band of idiots that waste most of the gold they earn with your wit in pointless goose chases that you know will lead nowhere.”

Beauty didn’t respond. There was nothing she could say to contradict what he thought of her party, none of which was charitable to say the least. And she also knew that he was aware that all of it was worth the freedom she had won when she had left her life in her father’s castle behind. She did miss one or two things, perhaps. Her mother’s vast library being one and, perhaps, some of the fashions. Not so much the silhouettes- she had never liked how the sea of petticoats she was always forced to wear restricted her movement- but the fabrics and colours, certainly. And the shoes.

“I’m here to make a deal, Dark One. Are you doing business today or not?”

Lesser creatures would’ve rather bitten off their tongues that throw cheek at the Dark One, but Beauty did not even bat an eye, lips curling in a defiant little smile that had the wizard smirking, something like admiration blooming in his chest. It’s what he loved most about his little bard, her spine of steel. And perhaps her blue eyes, but that was neither here nor there.

“I don’t do business with raggedy urchins, dearie. If you want to sit down and negotiate you’ll need a bath.” He made a face, as if he could smell her across the room. “And a change of dress, while I put your current outfit to wash… Or set it on fire, I haven’t decided yet.”

She could tell that he was pulling his punches, that he was playing at being repulsed by her state of dress and hygiene just bad enough that she would see he did not really mean it, not in any real way. She would’ve been able to tell either way, but it was nice that he thought it important to spare her feelings. And she couldn’t deny that a bath sounded heavenly after so many weeks on the road, sleeping out in the open and washing in freezing-cold creeks whenever possible.

“Well, if you insist…”

He took her to a well-lit and spacious bathing chamber, with the biggest copper tub she had ever seen, already filled with warm, soapy water that smelled of vanilla. She wasted no time after the door closed behind him, stripping quickly, careless of her worn and mended garments, and slipping into the tub. It was heaven on her tired muscles, and her dirty skin, and though she would’ve stayed there for hours she knew that every minute spent bathing was a minute less with the Dark One. Their time was limited. If she didn’t return to camp in the morning her party would venture into the castle, likely thinking the most dreadful scenarios. She could picture Charming attempting to kick the front gate open and getting hurt for his troubles. She could not let them worry for her, or risk the rapport she had developed with the Dark One by coming in unannounced. 

She got out of the tub with only a bit of reluctance and found a towel that she was convinced was enchanted to dry her faster than possible. She found clothing laid out in the adjoining dressing room, the undergarments soft and made of pale cream fabric and the dress of a lovely velvety, forest-green fabric, with a belt embroidered in small pearls that matched the detail about the neckline. She put it on gladly, twisting every which way to lace it up at her back. Living a less princessy life had made her acquire a number of small skills, including the ability to dress up mostly by herself even in gowns that did not lace up at the front, like most of her travelling clothes.

She did not spot her mauve travelling dress or her boots, but she was sure that Rumplestiltskin had whisked them away and would subtly mend them with magic, though she was sure he would deny it if she were to point it out. The green dress was accompanied by matching slippers, butter-soft and silent as they touched the stone floor. She made sure to dry her hair out, noticing how it shone red-gold in the flattering light of the candles, and took her time brushing it and styling it out of her face, so it fell flatteringly down her back. Her neck and most of her upper torso was bare but for the chain keeping the vial of water tucked safely against her breasts, the wide neckline of the dress dipping low enough to leave her collarbones bare, but she didn’t mind it. She was inside the Dark Castle, with the Dark One. She was safe there. On the road she always had to think about not attracting unwanted male attention. Here she rather felt like the opposite.

It was a silly infatuation, and many would argue any interest or desire on her part was due to the wizard’s power, which some would say was an aphrodisiac potent enough to make some look past the Dark One’s rather unfortunate exterior. No one would ever believe her if she confessed she rather… liked his appearance. The green-gold skin, the wild hair, the talons, but also the exquisitely-tailored pants and vests, the frothy cravats, the slim coats. A beast and a gentleman. A rather enticing combination, she had found.

She went downstairs into the trophy room once more, where two massive chairs were pulled up next to the roaring fireplace, the main source of light. The Dark One was sitting in one of them, a snifter gingerly held by a clawed hand, containing some sort of brown-gold liquid. He glanced at her the moment she entered the room, unwilling or unable to hide his appreciation for what he saw. He had removed his coat, leaving only his high-collared vest and one of his open shirts to cover his upper body, no forty cravat in sight. He seemed less guarded, more adventurous than he usually was when it came to matters of intimacy.

“You clean up well, dearie. Wish I could say the same for your dress. A wash will only do so much for it, but I refrained from throwing it into the fireplace. You’re welcome.”

“Good, as it’s not your property to destroy.” Beauty sat down, with a poise that betrayed her royal upbringing, and primly crossed her legs at the ankles. “So, Dark One, are you prepared to deal with me now?”

She had dealt with him dozens of times before, she had no idea why it all sounded so much like innuendo now. She couldn’t say she minded it.

“Of course, my dear. I’ve had time to think about our deal whilst you were splashing about in the tub.” His sing-songy voice broke, getting suddenly deeper for a second or two, as if he was struggling to retain his composure. “The vial is certainly a good start, but perhaps not quite enough. Now, I’m prepared to be generous given our long and fruitful history of dealmaking together, but I must also keep up certain appearances. So I thought I would also demand… an evening of your time.”

He tried to make it sound sinister, but she was past getting scared of him. At least in the traditional way. She raised an eyebrow, adopting a rather coquettish expression.

“And what would an evening of my time entail exactly?”

“Oh, well, you know. Companionship, perhaps a game of chess, some good wine, conversation and the like.”

She made a show of thinking it over before offering her hand, which he shook without delay.

“It’s a deal.”

Several hours later she had won two games of chess, one game of checkers, and was sipping from her third coupe of sparkling wine as she listened intently to a story about a deal the Dark One had once made with a king from a distant land. He was a gifted storyteller, engaging and funny, knowing exactly when to pause or gesticulate to keep the flow of the story just right. The king in his tale was rather unfortunate, in the sense that his hubris and arrogance had led him to make a deal with the Dark One that he did not understand. Most of Rumplestiltskin’s deals seemed to be like that, Beauty thought. And when he came to collect people dared be indignant that he demanded what they promised in the first place.

“The king was furious. Never let go of the grudge. Hired several assassins to try and kill me. A waste of gold, of course.”

He let out a trilling laugh, which soon proved to be contagious. Somehow, over time, it felt like their chairs had moved closer, because if she stretched out a hand she could easily touch him. Odd.

“Serves him right, for making such an open-ended deal. What a rookie mistake.”

She didn’t recall removing her slippers but she must have, because her feet were enjoying being pressed against the soft cushion of the chair. He made a gesture for her to lean close, which was a bit of a balancing feat, but she managed. Her heart skipped a bit when he leaned close too, almost pressing his mouth against her ear.

“You have no room to talk, sweet. You struck a very vague deal yourself, committing to an evening of conversation, chess ‘and the like’. That little turn of phrase is an invitation to all manner of sins, even the darkest and most decadent of debaucheries.”

He hissed the last part, making her shiver. Not content with letting him have the upper hand she turned her head so their lips were inches apart.

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

She could tell she had shocked him into inaction. Cocky Dark One, always in control of the conversation, always one step ahead of everyone else. It was nice to see him floundering, to catch him unprepared. Finally he gulped and put a little distance between them.

“Aren’t you the bravest little poppet.”

“My mother always said ‘Do the brave thing and bravery will follow.’ I’m a firm believer of the principle.”

Slowly, almost painfully so, both his hands clutched at the armrests of her chair, effectively pinning her to it. She knew she was supposed to be scared but she felt nothing but excitement, a buzzing just beneath the skin that made her strangely needy for something. Touch, perhaps, or more. The feeling was so overwhelming she did not realise at first that the laces of her dress were coming undone, as if invisible hands were painstakingly pulling them loose. She tried to make eye contact, but he ducked his head, pressing his face against the base of her neck, where it met her shoulder. She sighed, noticing how gentle he was, his touch feather-light, and discovering that she would not mind a rougher treatment. He was restraining himself, she realised, trying to be a gentleman. Sweet, but not what she wanted from him at that moment. Feeling bold Beauty carded a hand through his hair, pressing his face more firmly against her skin.

“Please, Rumple.”

Those two words seemed to have a magic of their own, producing a sudden and radical change in him. He moved too fast for her to see, wrapping her up in his arms and depositing her on the long dining table on the other side of the room. She did not know whether he used magic or simply moved inhumanly fast, but either possibility excited her, reminded her of the power of the creature looming over her, claws tugging at the unlaced bodice of her dress, dragging the velvet down to expose her undergarments. She was wearing the underbust corset he had provided over the snowy linen shift he had also left for her, so it was easy for him to simply tug the shift down a bit to expose her breasts. He leaned forward, nuzzling the space between her breasts, making a sort of satisfied purring noise as he sniffed up her clavicles and down her throat. Then, once he was happy with the level of squirming she was doing, he finally gave her what she wanted, closing his mouth, with all of its sharp teeth, around one of her rosy nipples. It was a strange feeling at first, more unfamiliar than pleasant, but when he began to suck it changed completely, little shocks of pleasure running from her nipple to between her legs. It was amazing, more than she had ever achieved with her own hands whenever she could get some privacy at night, and the feeling doubled when he grasped her untouched breast, his long claws estimulating the other nipple.

She sunk both her hands in his hair, fisting it in an effort to keep herself from squirming too much, feeling both aroused and impatient. She kept waiting for him to tire of her chest and move further down but when he was finally done sucking her nipples his head moved north, his lips blinding searching for hers till they were kissing. It wasn’t anything like any kiss she had experienced before, not even the unpleasant smack her former fiance had forced on her. Though it was just as forceful there was a wild quality to it, one she had never associated with the affectionate gesture. It was heavenly, the release of passion, far from cooling her down, setting her on fire, stoking her need for him till it felt like she would explode if he didn’t give her relief. 

He must have sensed it, her desperation calling to him like a siren song, because at some point he let go of her mouth to travel south, past her aching chest, and velvet-covered belly to where the skirts of her long gown kept her modestly covered. He wasted no time dragging the heavy fabric up, letting it pool around her hips along with the white linen of her shift. She did not have any other undergarments, having not been provided with any, so she was completely exposed to his gaze, from her milky things to her round hips. She squirmed, trying to picture what he must be looking at, the trim thatch of chestnut curls at the apex of her legs, obscenely drenched by this point and making a poor show of trying to hide the pink, glistening flesh beneath.

“What a lovely cunt you have.” His voice was dark, guttural, a monster trying to speak like a man. It thrilled her. ��Let me drink from it, precious.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, choosing instead to simply bury his head against her flesh, his tongue rough and wide as it lapped at her field parting them to seek out the bundle of nerves that was throwing for attention. She arched her back, feeling like it was only her firm grip on her thigh and hip what kept her anchored to the table. She fell into a rhythm of sorts, her body seeking out something she could not find but his mouth striving to compensate, to give her what she needed. It was heavenly and seemed to last an eternity, the sensations building up till everything but them faded away, all sensations muted. She felt him move to, thrusting his hips against the edge of the table, making it rattle in a way that spoke of his sheer brute force. It was heady to have someone like Rumplestiltskin, who had always strived to don the mask of a gentleman around her, be so unhinged, so animalistic. More than anything it was that complete loss of control what drove her over the edge. She cried out, feeling her inner muscles coil and her senses spiral out of control, her orgasm leaving her dizzy. It seemed to last forever and not nearly long enough. She laid there for a while after the feeling passed, feeling satisfied and wanting at the same time. A few seconds later he also keened, slumping against her still-parted legs, his hair tickling the soft skin of her inner thighs.

They lay that way for what seemed like ages, while they scrambled to try and collect themselves. The afterglow did not feel awkward or uncomfortable, and it loosened up her tongue enough to venture out that she had hoped for an even more intimate act, a joining that was even deeper than what they had done.

 “A deal for such a prize would have to involve all my deepest secrets, my most valuable truths.” He paused, pressing his forehead against the silky inside of her thigh, like a penitent would. “One day, perhaps.”

...

“Do you want to meet? I think it’s time.”

The orgasm had mellowed him out, otherwise he was sure he would’ve at least panicked a little bit. But in the afterglow of what they had just shared, albeit virtually, a meeting did not seem like such a bad idea. In hushed voices they arranged the time and place, tomorrow at a café and bistro in Boston. Nice and public, for both their safety. They knew both lived near Boston, so it seemed natural to pick the city. The drive wasn’t too bad, and he hoped it wasn’t a great inconvenience to her either.

Reluctantly they said their goodbyes, both trying to prolong the moment a bit more till they were both close to nodding off. With a final, reluctant goodbye they both disconnected, leaving Gold to clean himself up and make his way home. With his rumpled suit, disheveled hair and five o’clock shadow it must have looked like the walk of shame. It certainly didn’t feel that way.

...

He woke up in a happy mood, perhaps the best in a long time. Far from feeling stupid or embarrassed about his little bit of roleplaying-turned-porn-session he felt smug, empowered by the notion that he had made a smart, desirable woman come with only his voice and imagination. He felt like he was on the brink of something, as if an exciting possibility was opening up for him. 

He went about his day with a bit of a spring in his step, though most citizens of Storybrooke would be pressed to notice. It was only when he saw the book on gardening he was due to return to the library that afternoon- his two Moth orchids had developed small water-soaked spots on the leaves and he had wanted to consult some verified sources instead of relying exclusively on Google search results- that his mood dampened somewhat. As nice as last night had been- bloody fantastic rather- it did make him sad, somewhat, to give up his crush on Belle French. However unattainable it was still nice to have it, that bit of feeling that did not need to be reciprocated to be real. It had been nice to feel something for someone for a change, to look forward to each smile and each small conversation. But it wouldn’t be right, and what he had now was more valuable in any case. Perhaps, with time, he would grow out of his infatuation with the librarian and they could be friends. That would be rather lovely.

He crossed the street towards the library around three o’clock, wanting to beat the rush caused by children being let off school, a busy time for one of the only kid-friendly places in Storybrooke. There were some patrons about, and the afternoon light made the library look truly beautiful. Miss French truly worked miracles with her limited budget.

He found her easily, shelving a few books in the poetry section, and tried not to preen when she smiled widely at him.

“Mr Gold, hi! Always a pleasure. Here to return a book?”

The librarian was always sunny and welcoming, but she looked even happier that day, an excited sort of energy practically rolling off of her in waves. Thank goodness he had decided to give up on his silly little crush, otherwise he might have buckled under the power of her brightness. 

“Yes. And you look particularly happy today, Miss French, if I might say so.”

The librarian smiled even more, if possible, and leaned close, as if to tell him a secret.

“I have a date tonight.”

It hurt, the slightest bit, the shock making him take a step back, but less than it would have yesterday. And perhaps, he reasoned, this would be good. This would put them both in the path of becoming friends, allowing him to leave his crush behind much faster. He forced himself to enquire politely after the lucky man, listening as she talked about someone she had been flirting with for a long time now, and it seemed like the relationship was finally ready for the next step.

“I’m really happy. And very nervous. It feels like such a risk, after all this time building something that could easily fizzle out with a first date. But I’ve always believed in doing the brave thing, and bravery will follow. It’s what my mother always said.”

She had turned back to shelve a book as she finished the last sentence, so thankfully she did not see his jaw drop and his eyes widen, his surprise so visible no one could’ve missed it. His heart lurched in his chest, sheer and sudden panic making it difficult to breathe. Fuck. Fuck. It wasn’t possible. Belle was Beauty. Belle was Beauty. He tried to contradict the notion in his head but he had known Beauty’s British accent was passable but fake, and it made sense for him not to have identified her voice when she usually spoke with her natural Australian drawl, something he associated so closely with her. Everything else he had ever found out about Beauty, in and out of the D&D setting, coincided with what he knew, or thought he knew, about the librarian, one of the reasons why he had developed a crush on her in the first place.

The initial shock was followed by a spike of elation and then a sinking feeling of dread. He needed to cancel. She would be disappointed, but more disappointed if he didn’t and she realised her crush was a man a good deal older than her that was known for being the town monster. It would be awkward and she would not be able to escape him after it, both doomed to meet each other often, given the small size of the town. He could not put her through that.

He stopped himself then, noticing the familiar dark turn of his thoughts, dipped in so much self-loathing it was almost stifling. And he wondered if he really was thinking about Belle or about himself. Being a coward, taking the easy way out. He thought about how he had woken up, the world full of promise and the future bright with the possibility of something great on the horizon. And how he had felt brave last night, to leap into something that had been so worth it. Perhaps it was time to be brave more often. Do something, however small. Put the ball in her court, somehow.

“I wish you the best of luck, then. Perhaps some other time, if you’re not too busy, you could pop into my shop. I have a few antique books I feel you would appreciate.”

It was a nice recovery, and he was happy to see her smile, apparently welcoming the proposition. Everyone knew Mr Gold’s shop was only to be entered when making deals. He didn’t really allow idle perusal of his stock and no one had the money or interest to buy his antiques. His business was conducted mostly with people from major cities on the East Coast.

“Wow, an open invitation to traipse into Mr Gold’s shop, that’s not something one sees everyday. What do you want in return? I hear only deals can grant you access to the shop.”

She made sure to make it clear she was joking, something he appreciated. Feeling emboldened by her kind gesture he adopted a slightly higher pitch and replied:

“Oh, nothing much. Companionship, perhaps a game of chess, some good wine, conversation and the like.”

Being close enough he got to see as it dawned on her, as her brain quickly processed what he had said and where she had heard it before. And he knew, knew because of the way she looked at him, as if she did not recognise him, as if he was a brand new person to her, that she understood the implication, what he had meant to tell her without actually telling her. 

“Hope to see you soon, then. Good luck with the date.”

He turned around before he could second-guess himself, feeling terrified by what he had exposed but satisfied at the same time. This way it was Belle’s choice to show up. For all she knew he had no idea that she was Beauty. She could make up an excuse and simply not meet her, and their worlds would never merge. If she did not want to pursue anything between them all she had to do is cancel the date, or not show up. He would respect her decision and never push for anything, or acknowledge their online relationship in the real world.

He sent her an email just as he was about to get into his car, letting her know that he understood that this meeting was a bit of a risk and he would understand if she backed out at the last minute. There were other things he could do in Boston, and he was not adverse to having dinner by himself. And they could still be friends, no matter what she decided. He was halfway to Boston when he heard his cell phone ping, letting him know he had a new email. As he expected, it was from Beauty:

“I’m on my way. Can’t wait to meet you! See you soon.”

He smiled.

[lifesliced-a]

i’m going to be talking more about ren and hina with their individual and combined experiences since japan’s laws on prostitution give some leeway to the sex industry as a whole. obviously the below content warnings are due to them being of a sexual nature, so discretion advised. 

that being said, i’m aiming to take this from a respectful and technical approach to a character that lives a very different life than some of the other characters on this blog. also this is really, really long. i tried to do my research here as well as tie my character into all that research.

HOST STUFF / REN’S MANAGEMENT OF THE CLUB:

hina and ren have a small age difference of just a year, both having gotten into the industry at a young age ( both 18 ) .

as a host, ren is pretty strict in the day-to-day about hosting. it is exactly as it seems: he hosts and he manages the club.

it’s smoke and mirrors basically, catering to having drinks, flirting with customers, and basically entertaining them. a host can touch the patron, but usually not the other way around. ren is a little less strict to this in his own management of shining!, so long as it falls under the guise of socially appropriate ( returning a gesture from a host for instance, or a hand on the shoulder ) . 

hosts are allowed to give their numbers and often take their clients on dates, which in turn leads them back to the host club to make more money. the goal is to keep revenue coming in. shining! is aimed to the ‘classic’ experience, what many would think of in reference to ouran aesthetically speaking ( and not much else ) . as much as i keep ren at a dissonance from that show overall so as to not be confused, the idea of shining! started as a tourist attraction / pop-up. it no doubt drew that crowd in, and quite purposefully given that foreigners and locals alike were apt to visit. it was a pop-up for a few years before having permanent residence in the red-light district. it’s supposed to be a diamond in the rough; a place for affordable class.

ren was part of the original set of boys hosting for the ‘pre-shining!’ days, and is the last out of them to have not moved to another club / part of the industry. he was chosen just before he turned 19, having worked at another smaller club before he was scooped up. 

WHO RUNS SHINING! BEHIND THE SCENES?

his name is ishikawa goro ( though ren doubts this to be his real name ), and is a member of the yakuza, utilizing shining! for purposes mostly beneath ren’s nose. he started the pop up, he hired ren, and he got the business off the ground while entrusting ren to manage it. ren was known as umi then. goro was the one that suggested he go by ren, finding it fitting for him.

he has been involved in ren’s life for almost ten years based on where ren’s primary verse picks up, and has basically been a formative figure in ren’s life where one was lacking. there is no sexual element to their relationship, though ren had a slight affection for him at first that was quickly realized to be a more fondness. 

goro’s appearance changes often, mostly his hair color. he goes from natural black through shades of brown and blond often, wanting to keep himself from being noticed too often. he acts as a part of the underground.

he comes off pretty cool, collected, and in control. he has all the chips in favor, the deck is stacked, the game is rigged. he tends to give the illusion that power is shared, or that he’s out for everyone’s best interest, but he typically has his own interests at heart. he will do whatever fits agenda. if helping benefits him, he’ll help. if not, he typically won’t intervene. he finds reasons to do things that might not directly benefit him, but those are solely motivated by personal interest. he has a soft spot for children, and tends to be aggressive with offenders that are dangerous to children. this is ren’s best selling point honestly.

WHAT DID REN DO BEFORE THERE WAS A PERMANENT LOCATION / DURING OFF-SEASONS?

when the club wasn’t completely profitable as a full-time position, ren definitely learned early to work around the law. japan’s prostitution laws allow for a lot of loopholes --> read about japan’s laws on prostitution and what sex workers do / where they work to get around these laws. 

>>>> “ Prostitution in modern Japan, as defined under Japanese law, is the illegal practice of sexual intercourse with an 'unspecified' (unacquainted) person in exchange for monetary compensation,[1][2][3] which was criminalized in 1965 by the introduction of article 3 of the Anti-Prostitution Law (売春防止法, Baishun Bōshi Hō). ” <<<<

this leaves the door open to other acts that sex workers can engage in outside of ‘sexual intercourse with an unspecified person’. that basically means they can’t engage in traditional sex with strangers for money, but could have paid sex with an acquaintance. this does not mean they cannot perform oral sex and other sex acts that are non-coital are permitted to be paid for by unspecified persons. there is a term for the industry that i’ve come to understand is like an overlaying term for many different places with different business called ‘health’.

in ren’s case, he’s used this as a strong argument for having paid sex with clients as they are ‘in his realm of acquaintances’. he meets his private connections via the locations he’s worked at, primarily shining!.

ren kept a small string of locals that came to the pop-up location in his black book to keep a small revenue coming in from 19-21. shining! is a running business with four walls by the time he’s 22, to which these connections grows, and he becomes busier ‘moonlight’. however, from 18-21, he did work at a few other locations to supplement cashflow. he has also temporarily returned to some of these gigs shortly after kyosuke was born, and during his transition between apartments ( to which he is currently living at 27 ) .

ren’s options, in comparison to hina’s, are a bit more limited in being hired in what one could consider a “legal establishment”. a lot of his work is reliant on his customer base from shining! and other connections. so when he wasn’t working at shining! or meeting with regulars off the clock ( or ‘friends of’ his regulars ) , he acted as a male equivalent of what’s called ‘delivery health’ which is basically a type of call girl. ironically this is what ren transitions to full-time after leaving shining!, having built up a solid customer base as he follows his former #2 host**

** this host, sho, is a major connection in ren’s life. ren hired sho at shining! to be the genki type. despite their initial differences, rne and sho realized quickly their opposing appearances and personalities could make them more money together than apart. they’ll host together or bounce off each other ( “see how mean ren is to me!” or “see how difficult sho makes my job” to play sympathy ) , which quickly moved to them hosting after hours together. individually they do well, but together there is more profit. they also have an affair together on and off. **

SO WHERE DOES HINA FIT INTO THIS? SHE’S A HOSTESS, RIGHT?

she is! hina met ren when the club was a pop-up, coming to be hosted after constantly having to host. ren understands, as he’s done the same. their connection was pretty quick. 

before hosting, hina’s first job as a sex worker was as an onakura, and she did that for six months while trying to work a few part-time jobs. finding herself, similarly to ren, unable to rise above her circumstances, she quickly quit that to pursue more money.

for a short period she worked as a call girl, but eventually found hosting to be her saving grace while still remaining in the industry. she was given the opportunity by a friend who was a hostess at the time, and had suggested she apply. cleaning herself up, hina excelled quickly, and is quite good at her job. 

where she used to moonlight for $$$, she now gaslights ren for cash due to their connection as mother / father to their son. he always obliges. there is love in that love-hate.

ADDITIONAL DETAILS:

how it all boils down --> both hina and ren are essentially sex workers, though ren is more into the realm of prostitution than hina is. he is the primary caretaker for their son, and his mother, and thus his financial burden is far greater. 

a big reason he leaves his manager position is because a) it’s not going anywhere and b) he can’t let sho leave without him. now that he has a clientele that’s more than several individuals, he can work effectively as a “man on call” and get a larger pool from there. his services are more open, more direct, and not under the guise of ‘hosting’ anymore. they still fall into being advertised within the legal confines, but he’s still in the red light district: at the end of the day, ren is ( and has always been ) a prostitute. there’s nothing wrong with that, and in reality he really is the one that has the hardest time coming to terms with the technically terms for his career. he’s only doing what’s been the oldest profession in the book, and he’s filling a niche that’s more saturated by men wanting women and not women wanting men ( or men wanting men ) .

over time, ren has definitely acted outside of the law, but he mostly does what he can to stay within the legalities forced on him. the reason ren got into this wasn’t originally to go full-in, more needing some quick cash after he had to drop out of university and take care of his mom. from there, it sort of just spiraled, and he was in situations he was either too young or naive to understand, or was just making bad decisions. by the time he met hina and got her pregnant, there was no way ren was going to get out.

he traditionally hosts women more than men, though he sleeps with men and women rather equally with men being a slightly larger margin. there is a stigma of gay men living openly, and he provides comfort as a temporary lover. they can pretend he is their own / their boyfriend for a night.

while most of his female and male partners, for their own reasons, seek him for comfort and sex, others have been more violent. it’s no shock or secret that, especially acting independently without shining! to back him, ren has found himself in trouble, or just some extreme sexual situations.

he’s been hit and choked, which is not uncommon, to full on beaten up. he takes it as some clients just like it rough, and he’s there to provide them whatever kink they pay him to indulge. his motto is: i like what you like. a husband has walked in on him, but didn’t seem surprised. he’s been with couples, has been passed around, and basically is keen to do whatever he has to leave the situation still able to go to the work the next day as ren / come home at night as yori ( kyosuke’s father ) .

** at some point during their time together at shining! through their time post-shining! that ren pursues some cam-work with sho. he usually is masked as they do ‘live-streams’ where they perform with / on each other at the discretion of the chat. this is an on again / off again type of deal, though they typically do well, and get a good portion of views from westerners **

[mrchalamet-mrstyles]

*A MUST READ:*

Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart never broke up. Indeed, their split was merely a distraction for the press that would guarantee the former Twilight stars privacy. In the interim period, where Pattinson got engaged to FKA Twigs and Stewart dated a series of women, including St. Vincent, the pair were actually living in wedded bliss. Their PR game was so effective that it helped to hide no fewer than two pregnancies for Stewart. Now, the Pattinson-Stewart family are happy together, laughing at the ignorance of the press and public who believe they broke up years ago and moved onto fulfilling and happy relationships with other people.

Of all the weird celebrity conspiracies that pollute the internet, the Robsten fandom may be my favourite one. It has everything: Press conspiracies, outlandish theories that would put Moon landing truthers to shame, the inability to tell reality from fiction, and of course, bad photoshops. Every now and then, when I see Pattinson and Stewart in the headlines, I go and visit the tin-hatters’ sites for that potent combination of entertainment and fear for my life. It’s astounding that they’re still keeping up this façade. 

As time passes, I wonder more and more if they truly believe it or if they’re going full My Immortal with the scam. It’s too outlandish to be real, yet the emotions behind it clearly are.

Sadly, this is nothing new for the world of shippers, nor is it limited to the breeding pair of Twilight. Name a prominent pop culture property and the chances are there are hardcore shippers whose interest goes beyond a fizzy hobby. Some fans truly believe that Jamie Dornan and Dakota Johnson are a real couple, which is hysterical because their chemistry levels in the Fifty Shades series are sub-zero. The stars of Outlander face the same shippers. Taylor Swift and Karlie Kloss are secret lesbian lovers, according to a subset of their fandom. Cate Blanchett will eventually leave her husband and children for Carol co-star Rooney Mara, thus freeing her from an exploitative bearding relationship with Joaquin Phoenix. The Larry fandom have yet to admit defeat, even as both Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson admit the fan delusions over their supposed secret romance hurt their real-life friendship. The Supernatural guys may never shake those conspiracies.

It isn’t all romance related either. Spare a thought for poor Benedict Cumberbatch, whose already overzealous fan-base includes a portion of people who think he was trapped into marriage and fatherhood by his wife, who they paint as the modern-day iteration of Medea. They don’t even think his kids are real. Apparently, one of them is clearly a doll.

I could go on, listing the many other fandoms I’ve come across with these near identical conspiracies of secret relationships, hidden children, public relations bullying, and so on. From Scandal to Orange is the New Black to The Hunger Games, it’s as big a part of fandom as cosplay and dirty fanfiction. A lot of the time, the celebrities being obsessed over don’t even know it’s happening. 

If they call it out, as Robert Pattinson did, or mock it, like Armie Hammer recently did on Instagram after someone DM-d him to claim he should be gay like his character in Call Me By Your Name, then they write that off as simply proving their point. The majority of fans deride and condemn this behaviour, partly because it reflects badly on everyone else but mostly because it’s blatant bullshit that should be treated as such. What is most striking about these myriad conspiracies is how eerily similar they all are in terms of tone and content.

The basic set-up for a tin-hatter shipping conspiracy is thus: The pair are in love, the pair are in a serious relationship, but they have to hide it from the world because of ‘evil PR’. The nature of this shadowy public relations organization is never made clear. It’s mostly rooted in conjecture and a hazy understanding of how the entertainment industry has worked over the decades. 

Historically, publicists and studios have operated with a certain degree of shadiness. In the Golden Era of Hollywood, where studios reigned supreme, a star’s image could be kept on a tight leash and their indiscretions hidden from the public. Fixers like Eddie Mannix (made famous in the Coen Brothers’ movie Hail, Caesar!) could clear up all manner of problems if the occasion called for it. Pregnancies could be hidden, illegal abortions procured, marriages annulled or concealed, and even the occasional murder dealt with (allegedly). We know this stuff happened, and we know that today, publicists do a lot of work to keep their clients happy. That probably doesn’t extend so far as to covering up marriages and multiple pregnancies and fake babies.

The psychologies behind these tin-hatter conspiracies tend to be remarkably similar too. There’s always massive amounts of paranoia at the heart of their delusions. Arrogance is key as well. You need infallible ego to maintain repeatedly debunked fantasies. They talk of their conspiracies as if they’re the most obvious truths in the world, deriding the ‘ignorant masses’ who refuse to see the reality in front of them, which they’ve kindly circled in MS Paint. The mentality is frequently rooted in a strong brand of self-victimization: They tie their theories to social issues like homophobia and claim anyone who opposes their belief that the One Direction guys are in love are clearly bigots. Even when the people in question call out this nonsense, they’re written off as poor closeted prisoners of invincible publicists. The game of tin-hating shippers is designed so that they never lose.

That’s the sad part of this all. They won’t be proven wrong simply because they’ve invested too much of themselves into this fantasy. They run around in circles, desperately claiming everything is against them and only they are smart enough to know the truth. 

If Caitriona Balfe and Sam Heughan insist they’re just friends, it’s only to throw everyone off the scent. When Tony Goldwyn talks of his love for his wife, it’s just to distract everyone from his romance with Kerry Washington. If Robert Pattinson is smiling in public, it’s because he’s thinking of Kristen; if he’s looking a bit down, it’s because he’s thinking of Kristen.

When the fantasy does begin to crumble, the tin-hatters get violent in their rhetoric. Taylor Schilling’s rumoured boyfriend briefly deleted his social media after receiving harassment from her fans who think she’s with Laura Prepon (who just had a baby with Ben Foster). Rooney Mara’s so-called fans called her a disgrace for dating a man and claimed she was letting down LGBTQ+ kids everywhere because of it. Robert Pattinson’s then-girlfriend FKA Twigs faced all manner of horrific racist and sexist abuse for simply existing. It can be easy to laugh people like this off, but we’ve also seen what happens to celebrities when their obsessive fans decide to invade their lives. A 19-year-old fan of Lana Del Rey drove cross-country to her house, broke into her garage and tweeted about it. An obsessive fan of Paula Abdul committed suicide outside her house. Rebecca Schaeffer’s stalker shot her on her own doorstep.

Real person shipping (or RPF) doesn’t bother me in theory. If you just treat it like any other fandom hobby - safe, private, clearly fiction - then go for it. There’s a major difference between liking two actors and writing silly fanfiction about them and going to extremes to prove they’re actually married. 

The people who cross that line are a minority, but they’re a loud and insidious minority who shouldn’t be written off as mere ‘crazies’.

This phenomenon is undoubtedly fascinating and reveals a lot about various intersections of celebrity, media, the internet, fandom, and so on. It’s worth keeping an eye on, if only to ensure nobody gets hurt, because it’s not unique to internet culture. This stuff breeds, and that should concern us all.

Now, when do I get my shadowy PR conspiracy cheque?

[ineffably-good]

Snake Husbandry, 1/2 (GO Fic)

Summary: Aziraphale has some secret books he hides from Crowley about understanding his favorite snake. This story explores a few myths and realities about snake behavior. 

Part of my Serpent and the Seagull series. 

Complete! Read the whole thing on AO3!

______________________________

Chapter 1

One thing Aziraphale had learned in the first year of marriage was that Crowley always curious about what he was reading. It was nice, most of the time, having his partner show a steady interest in what he was thinking about and looking at and doing. But every once in a while, he just wanted to look at a book that he didn’t feel like sharing – something more private. He kept these books in the deepest drawer of his desk, behind a pile of folders.

The hidden books generally fell into one of three categories: romance novels, which he was secretly addicted to and which Crowley would tease him mercilessly about; books about things Crowley considered dangerous, such as spells that could injure one or the other of them but which he nonetheless felt it his duty to be somewhat informed about; and a few books that Aziraphale had acquired very early in their relationship, shortly after he’d first brought Frederick home.  He had three – a slim volume on basic snake care that he’d used rather extensively at the beginning to ensure his new companion was healthy and happy, a rather fascinating and more academic book about different types of snakes and their characteristics, and one thick volume which would daunt any but the most passionate of snake enthusiasts – crammed full of tiny type and hand drawn illustrations and tissue-thin pages and titled “The Enthusiast’s Handbook of Snake Husbandry and Care.”

The third one was the one he most often reached for. Its academic and research-heavy focus appealed to him, but best of all it went on and on about snake lore – the myths and legends that had developed around snakes over the centuries – and took its time in proving or disproving them one by one. It spent a good deal of time on snake psychology and mating habits, and so help him, Aziraphale couldn’t help but draw parallels now and then not only between the book and Frederick, but between it and his spouse. Crowley was, after all, part snake. Sometimes, and especially in the winter, he was all snake, and for longer periods of time than one might expect.

Whenever he wanted to read it, he first made sure that Crowley was out and occupied for a few hours. Then he usually arranged it so that Frederick was curled up around his neck or shoulders. Best to have a plausible reason he was reading about snake husbandry if Crowley showed up unexpectedly and inquired.

But in all honestly, the truth was that he was reading and ruminating about both of the snakes in his life.

What could possibly be the harm?

--

Myth: Snakes will attack you if confronted.

Fact: Most snakes are not likely to attack unless they truly have no other option. When cornered, a snake will panic and do just about anything to flee the situation before resorting to brute force.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called from the kitchen.

Crowley looked up from his spot on the couch. “What?”

“Come in here please?”

Oh shit, he thought, the angel sounded snippy. Snippy was never good. What had he done or forgotten to do?

“I’m comfy,” he whined, just to buy time. If he was extremely lucky, it would work and the angel would give up and take care of whatever it was himself.

“I really must insist!” the angel said.

Definitely an increase in snippiness there. Snippitude? Was that a word, Crowley thought? It should be. No one could be as snippitudinous as his angel.

He heaved himself up with a sigh and sauntered his way into the kitchen. The angel was standing with portions of the coffee maker in his hand, looking prissy.

“We’ve talked about this, Crowley,” he said, shaking the basket at him. “You have to empty the grounds out of it at least once in a while! Look at this buildup, it’s obviously been sitting there dirty for most of the week!”

Crowley sighed. “Oh cmon, angel, we’re ethereal beings! We don’t have to clean things the hard way! You just –” he snapped a finger and the basket was suddenly magically clean – “take care of it the quick way.”

Aziraphale frowned. “That is not the point! We need to talk about household chores again, Crowley. Again! You’re going to have a seat at the table and we’re going to go over the chart of things that need to be done for the eleventh time and try to –”

“Oh, I’d love to angel, really!” Crowley said over his shoulder as he made a break for it as quickly as he could without literally running. “But I’ve got a client meeting – important, very important, thwarting to be done, freelance job – you know how it is –”

“Crowley, come back here!” Aziraphale called after him, sounding exasperated.

“Can’t right now!” Crowley shouted, fingers closing around the doorknob in triumph. “Back later and we can, uh, do that thing. The talking thing. Bye!”

He made straight for the park, where he found a bench in an area he knew Aziraphale rarely visited, and set about having a long nap in the sun.

--

Myth: Snakes strike without warning.

Fact: Snakes will warn you before they strike – if they can sense you, that is.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Crowley warned, as Aziraphale leaned over to pick up Frederick out of the basket where he was noodled up into a tight ball.

Aziraphale straightened up. “Whyever not?”

“Because he’s in a mood.”

Aziraphale tutted. “He’s not in a mood, he’s a lovely little snake, aren’t you Frederick?” he asked, peering into the basket.

Frederick reared up his head and spat at the fuzzy angel, giving his best, loudest warning. He truly didn’t feel like biting the angel today, not unless he had no other choice.

Aziraphale pulled back, then looked up at Crowley, who made no effort whatsoever to not have a “told you so” look on his face. “What happened?”

“He had a little fight with his intended breakfast,” Crowley said.

“Which was?”

“Greckle,” Crowley said.

“All right, please explain.”

“There was a greckle hopping around on the window by your desk, and Freddie here somehow got himself up onto the sill, and tried to eat him, not realizing there was glass in between them.”

Aziraphale winced. “Did he hurt himself?”

“Hurt his pride, maybe,” Crowley said. “The stupid bird mocked him mercilessly once he saw him face plant on the window. You know how greckles are. Only thing worse than a greckle is a starling.”

Aziraphale hrmed in agreement. He couldn’t put his finger quite on why, but even he knew that starlings were utter bastards.

TELL HIM TO STAY AWAY! Frederick shrieked, his voice somewhat muffled by the fact that his head was buried beneath several loops of his body. I’M FEELING VERY BITEY!

“He says to stay away, he’s feeling bitey,” Crowley dutifully translated.

Aziraphale sat down and picked up his teacup. “Well,” he said pleasantly, “nice of him to warn me off, I suppose. Better than just sinking his teeth into my thumb. He’s a good snake, regardless of what any bird might have said.”

“Shh, angel, he’ll hear you,” Crowley said. “And then he’ll just be unbearable.”

TOO LATE! Came the muffled cry from the basket.

Crowley rolled his eyes.  

--

Myth: snakes have excellent eyesight and use it to see movement in their intended prey.

Fact: Snakes don’t always see as clearly as you might think.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said one day, a tone of inquiry in his voice.

Crowley looked up from his rather fascinating game of candy crush. “Yes?”

“I read in an article the other day that snakes can only see dichromatically ��� just two colors, blue and green,” Aziraphale said. “Is that true?”

“I dunno,” Crowley said. “Do you want me to ask him?”

“Ask who?”

“Frederick, you pillock,” Crowley said. “I’ve never specifically talked to him about what he sees. Could be interesting to find out.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, shifting guiltily in his chair, and then lighting up with false bravado. “Why yes, that’s exactly what I meant. Yes, indeed, let’s do that. Spirit of scientific inquiry and all that!”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “You meant me, didn’t you?”

“What?” Aziraphale demurred. “Heavens no. I certainly did not.”

“You did,” Crowley drawled. “Just a big ol’ serpent to you, aren’t I?”

Aziraphale looked at him pointedly. “Did you or did you not just spend two weeks mostly in snake form because it got below freezing outside?”

Crowley knew when it was time to change tactics. “Don’t you think that if I could only see the colors blue and green you would have heard about it sometime in the last six THOUSAND years?”

“Well I don’t know, do I?” Aziraphale protested. “Your eyes are very special, and it’s not like we sit around and – and paint! And I nearly ALWAYS have a blue shirt on. And the Bentley is black and the only real color in your old apartment came from the green of the plants! It seemed plausible that maybe I might have missed something.”

Crowley harrumphed. He stood up and walked over to the bookshelf to the left of the desk and ran his finger along the spines of the books there.

“Red,” he said snarkily. “Blue. Light blue. Gray. Tan. White. Kind of an orange. Dark yellow. Turquoise –”

“Oh, that last one is really more cerulean, my dear,” the angel cut in.

The demon glared at him. He came over to the desk and starting flinging Aziraphale’s pencils onto the desktop. “White. Goldenrod. Yellow. Brown. Red --”

“Actually –” the angel chirped.

“So help me, if you’re breaking in to tell me that one is more of a claret, we are going to have an argument, angel.”

Aziraphale blinked helplessly at him. “All right then,” he said faintly. “You can see colors. I don’t see what you’re so upset about.”

Crowley sat back down on the couch with a thump. He picked up his glass. “Red, by the way,” he said. “I’m drinking red.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’re being such a child.” Aziraphale turned back towards his work.

They both sat in silence, Aziraphale scratching away on his ledgers and Crowley staring into space, until the demon broke the silence a few minutes later.

“We should test Frederick though,” he said. “It’d be interesting.”

--

Figuring out how to do so was a challenge. They’d learned that Freddie could point to things with his tail, so they finally settled on printing out a kind of simple color wheel for him that they laid in front of him on the kitchen table. Just the primary and secondary colors, plus black, white, and gray, all big and easy to identify. Then they got his agreement to look at various objects and try to tell them what color they were.

They held up an apple.

Frederick pointed to gray.

Carrot – gray. Lettuce – green. A picture of the sky – blue. Aziraphale – blue. Crowley – green.

“Wait a minute,” Crowley said. “What do you mean that he’s blue and I’m green? Our skin? Our hair? What are you seeing?”

Frederick looked confused, and confusion always made him irritated. I DON’T KNOW, he shrieked. HE’S JUST BLUE. BLUE IS SOFT. YOU’RE ALL GREEN AND SHARP.

“I’m mostly black and red,” Crowley pointed out to him, after translating for Aziraphale.

DON’T BE AN IDIOT, YOU’RE GREEN, JUST LIKE ME.

“He says he’s green too,” Crowley told Aziraphale.

“Fascinating!”

CAN WE BE DONE WITH THIS STUPID GAME NOW? Frederick shrieked. I’M COLD. PUT ME BACK UNDER THE HEAT LAMP, PLEASE!

Crowley sighed. “He says he’s done.” He picked him up and took him back to his heat lamp on the table in the office.

IF YOU’VE GOT ANY MORE STUPID IDEAS ABOUT THE STATE OF THE WORLD THAT YOU NEED DISPROVEN, JUST LET ME KNOW! Freddie said sarcastically as he settled back in his warm spot.

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Crowley assured him. “You’re first on the list.”

HONESTLY, BLACK AND RED. YOU’RE UNBELIEVABLE.

Crowley turned the lamp up to just the right setting, and left him to continue to snicker quietly to himself about his ridiculous owners.

--

Myth: Snakes are social animals and enjoy the company of other snakes.

Fact: Snakes, in general, do not like other snakes.

Despite the many, many instances in which Aziraphale threatened to never take him out of the bookstore ever again, the angel often couldn’t resist taking Frederick out for a stroll on a particularly nice day. All the snake had to do was look at him in a certain way – a sort of helpless, pouty kind of expression, punctuated by a tiny tongue flick – and the fluffy one would roll his eyes, stuff him in a pocket or wrap him around his neck, and bring him along on his intended walk through the park. Frederick, for his part, would contentedly hiss and settle in for the ride, determined to be good.

It wasn’t his fault if at least some of the time, a rambunctious bird made that impossible. And better not to discuss the incident with the rat beneath the raspberry bush at all. Some things were best forgotten.

--

On this particular day, the fluffy one and the pointy one were heading out to St. James with a bag of frozen peas for the ducks when Frederick decided he was not going to be left behind.

YO SNAKEBIRD, he shouted. I WANNA COME.

Crowley checked in with the angel, then shrugged and came over to his basket and picked him up. “Fine,” he said, draping the snake around his neck, “but you’re riding with me.”

Fine with him, Frederick thought. The nice thing about riding around Crowley’s neck was that they could actually talk the whole time. He curled up with his head on the demon’s shoulder, facing front, so he could watch all the people going by and insult them as needed. This was going to be fun.

It was a warm, beautiful day in early spring, and it seemed like half of London had headed to the park. They saw on a bench and fed the ducks their peas, then spread a blanket out on a sunny hillside and sprawled out for a rest. They were sitting there, munching on olives, when suddenly Frederick hissed and pulled his head up to stare pointedly at something.

“What?” Crowley said. “What is it?”

JUST LOOK! The snake shrieked. LOOK AT THAT!

Both of his companions turned to follow the direction he was pointing in and saw a man sitting about ten yards away. He was slim, with tight cropped hair and tattoos visible on both arms, but what was most notable about him was the extremely large yellow and white snake that was wrapped around his neck and shoulders. The snake appeared to be a yellow boa, intricately patterned in yellow and white, and had to be close to eight feet long. It literally rippled with muscle and a sense of tightly coiled power. It laid with its head on the man’s chest, languid and warm in the sun.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said. “What a lovely specimen!” He immediately felt both of his companions turn to glare at him and couldn’t quite help himself from needling them just a little. “I mean, he’s such a lovely color… I do like yellow, you know.”

“That’s enough, angel,” Crowley hissed. “You’re insulting both of us, here.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I’m insulting you both by admiring another snake?”

YES YOU ARE, DUHHHHHH,  Frederick shouted.

Crowley translated. “Especially him,” he added.

WE HATE HIM, Frederick howled.

“We do,” Crowley confirmed, continuing to share Freddie’s comments with the angel.

Aziraphale blinked. “Well,” he said firmly, “I do think the yellow, while attractive, is a bit showy. I much prefer snakes in shades of black and red, as you both know.”

Crowley rolled his shoulders and allowed himself to be mollified as Aziraphale went back to his book. He and Frederick, though, continued to watch the yellow boa and make sneering comments to each other.

“He’s not very smart, is he?” Crowley muttered at one point as the boa just… laid there.

TOTAL POSER, Frederick agreed.

The snake, possibly picking up on some of the negativity wafting his way from a few blankets over, lifted its head and sighted them both for a moment, flicking its tongue out to scent them, and then went back to staring at whatever it had been staring at before. It looked unimpressed.

“All brawn, no brains,” Crowley said under his breath.

STRICTLY DECORATIVE.

“Couldn’t catch a bird if his life depended on it.”

PROBABLY TOO FAT TO EVEN MOVE.

Aziraphale slapped his book shut. “Will you two please stop?” he said. “You’re going to start some kind of skirmish and I’m going to have to separate everyone and then one of us is going to punched by the rather muscle-bound owner of the snake in question, and then I will be very put out.”

Frederick and Crowley both looked at him, Crowley blinking innocently and Frederick doing his best completely-harmless look.

“Why do you hate him anyways?” he asked, puzzled. “He hasn’t done anything to you.”

Crowley, eloquent as always shrugged.

JUST DO, Frederick shrieked. DON’T LIKE OTHER SNAKES.

Crowley dutifully translated.

“But… you two like each other,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley and Frederick looked a little surprised at that, and they eyed each other warily for a moment as if startled to be reminded that this should have been an issue between them.

Crowley flapped a hand around dismissively. “That’s different,” he said. “Freddie’s the only true snake here. I’m a serpent demon. It’s not the same thing at all.”

HE’S HALF BIRD, Frederick squawked indignantly. IT DOESN’T COUNT.

Plus, he thought, well aware that he’d never share these thoughts with either of them, Crowley was just cool. He was the largest snake Freddie had ever seen or heard of, he could fly, he had magic powers, and he was, inexplicably, a member of his family. He wasn’t about to look a gift serpent in the mouth. He knew he was one lucky king snake to end up where he was.

“Snakes don’t like other snakes,” Crowley said. “You know that. We aren’t social creatures.”

I DON’T LIKE THE LOOK OF HIM. Frederick screeched. LET’S GO OVER AND TALK TO HIM AND TELL HIM HE’S STUPID.

“Perhaps we should go,” Aziraphale said, sensing trouble.

PROBABLY, Freddie shouted. I’M PRETTY SURE I’LL END UP BEATING HIM UP IF WE STAY.

“It would save him the humiliation,” Crowley affirmed.

HE’D PROBABLY CRY.

“Almost certainly.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, tucked his book away and stood up and pushed the other two aside to shake out the blanket.  He rolled it up into a tight cylinder and tucked it inside the picnic basket, then ushered Crowley and his juvenile delinquent towards the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the boa.

“Keep walking,” he said tersely as they both turned their heads to take one last glare at the yellow serpent.

The boa’s owner, looking vaguely amused, raised a hand in greeting to Aziraphale, who politely waved back.

Too bad, he thought. He seemed like a nice man. It would have been interesting to talk to him about his snake friend and see if he had any tips to share. He had the sudden urge to read more of his snake book at home, and see if he could ever hope to understand these two. He’d have to find something distracting for them both to do when they returned to the shop.

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Sex trope #11 wiiiith.. whoever you think would give the best massages cos this bitch 🙋🏼‍♀️ is a big ol horny slut for massages. 😁 Pls and thank you. ❤️

# 11 is … touching anywhere but where the person desperately wants to be touched … I’m gonna deliver on that Steve smut you swore you never knew you needed 😉

* * * * *

“And you are 100% certain that me, getting naked, is going to help you pass your last elective?”

“Not naaaked,” Steve said slowly as his hand came up and scratched at the back of his head.

You raised your eyebrow as you took in the desperation on your friend’s face; it was cute that he was so nervous about asking you to do this for him.

“I’ve had massages before, Steve. If this is some kind of a trick …” you threatened, narrowing your eyes to see if he’d break.

“I promise,” he said quickly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his loose jeans. “I just need to practice on someone and I kinda waited until the last minute so I’m kinda outta options.”

“Big surprise,” you quipped with a roll of your eyes.

“So … you’ll do it?”

With a resolved look, you uttered, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Thanks, Y/N!” Steve said, his face splitting into a toothy grin. “Come over in an hour? I have to set up the table and stuff.”

* * * * *

In exactly one hour’s time, you knocked lightly on the door to Steve Dibiasi’s apartment. One part of you couldn’t believe you were actually doing this, and another part of you was curious to see if he was actually any good at it. Plus, you’d known Steve since sophomore year. He was a silly, sweet guy, and you had almost hooked up on more than one occasion, the key word being almost. Either you were seeing someone, or he was seeing someone, or the stress of midterms or finals was making all of your friends do regrettable things, so thanks to bad timing, it just never happened.

Steve answered the door with what you could have sworn was a shy smile. The Steve you knew was never embarrassed, despite the fact that some of the things that came out of his mouth should have embarrassed him. He had ditched his flannel and was dressed in a dark blue t-shirt and the same jeans from this afternoon.

Music was quietly playing in the apartment, and it looked like, for once, Steve or his roommate had actually picked up after themselves.

You shrugged out of your jacket and tossed it on the sofa along with your bag.

“Where’s the table?”

“In my room. Figured that was more private in case Felix comes back from his girlfriend’s early.”

“So, I guess I’ll just go in and get ready? Give me like five minutes?”

Steve hustled over to the door of his bedroom and opened it; he had candles lit and the massage table looked professional—it had sheets on it, along with a thick blanket on top that kept the client warm and covered as the massage therapist worked.

“I’m … impressed,” you said, tossing a quizzical smile over your shoulder.

“Thanks,” Steve said, hands in his pockets again as he lingered in the doorway.

“So … I’ll just be stripping down now.”

“Fuck! Right. Sorry. Five minutes,” he stammered as he shut the door behind him.

You laughed to yourself as you stripped down to your bra and panties. After a moment’s thought, you unhooked your bra and tossed it onto Steve’s bed with the rest of your clothes.

You climbed onto the table and laid on your back, assuming this was a typical full body massage. You snuggled under the blanket but brought your arms out to lay on top.

“Ready!” you called, wondering if Steve was—

Hovering just outside of the door, he came bursting in before you could even close your mouth.  

“I should’ve asked this first, but I forgot. Is there anywhere you don’t want me to touch you?” his big blue eyes appeared over you and looked comically concerned.

You laughed again, “Aside from the obvious?”

He rolled his eyes, “Duh,” then asked, “Did you really get naked?”

“How unprofessional of you to ask, Mr. Masseur,” you teased.

“Sorry, I just—I’ll just get started.”

At first you watched him fumble around with the massage oil, but as soon as his hands were sliding across your skin, your eyes drifted shut.

He started with your right hand, working various pressure points before he slid up your arm and massaged your bicep. As Steve came closer to your head, you were suddenly very aware of how good he smelled. By the time he had rubbed his way to your neck, you were incapable of stopping the moan that fell from your lips.

“Good?” he asked, and you could hear the cocky little grin on his lips.

“Shut up,” you mumbled.

“Seriously, though. Is the pressure okay? I was supposed to ask that earlier but forgot because you have such pretty skin.”

You cracked open an eye, but all you could see was a tuff of curls as Steve began to massage down your left arm.

“Pressure is great,” you replied, wondering if he was even aware of what he had just said.

After working his way down your left arm, he returned to your torso, focusing more on the fronts of your shoulders than the backs. You were acutely aware of how easy it would be for Steve to just “slip” under the blanket and massage your breasts, and you could feel your nipples growing hard at your mind’s suggestion.

What the fuck, you scolded yourself. And then, much more flippantly, you thought, what the fuck. Maybe, the timing was finally right for—

“Yikes!” you hissed, shivering a little as a blob of too-cold massage oil dripped onto your chest.

Steve apologized as he quickly scooped up as much as he could.  

“You know, Steve,” you said quietly, “You could just keep working your way down my, uh, front.”

You could feel the room actually pause as Steve stopped moving.

Then he chuckled, “Nice one. You almost got me.”

Damn. It was going to be harder than you thought to get him to touch you where you wanted to be touched.

“I’m going to move on to your legs now,” Steve announced, actually remembering something he was supposed to say. “Let me know if the pressure is okay.”

He started working on your right leg, and the way he was pressing into the arch of your foot was divine. If those fingers felt that good on your foot, imagine what they could do—

“Cute toes.”

“Mmm. I’ve got cuter parts under this sheet,” you said breathily without opening your eyes.

Steve giggled, “Stop that. Makes it hard to keep this pro-fess-ion-al,” he enunciated.

“You just complimented my toes!”

“Fuck. You’re right. I suck at this.”

You sat up on your elbows and looked at him, taken aback by how sexy he looked as he held your left foot in his big hands, his fingers pressing over your toes.

“Steve—I’m teasing. You’re … damn good with your hands,” you finished, your voice lowering as you gave him a seductive look.

Steve paused his movements and really looked at you, his eyes scanning your face like he was really seeing you for the first time; you almost snickered as you watched the realization that this could become a game dawn across his features.

Slowly, Steve began to work up your left leg, his touches soft as his fingers danced up your shin rather than massaged.

You bit your lip as you watched him, his eyes still trained on your face.

“Lie back, Y/N,” he rumbled, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it before.

You complied, snuggling back under the thick blanket until you felt the weight of it flung off you. Now, all that was separating your mostly naked body from Steve���s eyes was a very thin sheet.

“How’s the pressure? he purred, his hands straddling your thigh as he moved upward, the massage oil allowing them to slide silkily over your skin.

There was no hiding your pert nipples from him now, and you just hummed in response, your fingers flexing against the table.

Higher and higher, Steve’s hands climbed closer to where you wanted them, but just as his fingers were a breath away from your core, he slid them back down your thigh.

“Time to roll over,” he said in a too-professional tone.

Again, you picked your head up to look at him, fixing him with a glare.

Steve just looked back at you, his lips slightly parted before he gave you a nod of encouragement.

But you weren’t about to play fair.

You sat up, stretching, and let the sheet fall away to pool at your waist.

“Fuuuck,” Steve whispered, his eyes wide as his tongue poked out to wet his lips.

You took your time, stretching high above your head, pushing your chest out and even running your hands over your breasts, giving them a little squeeze before finally rolling over onto your stomach. You situated your arms to lay on either side of your head as you rested on your cheek, your eyes settling on the flickering candles closest to Steve’s bedroom door.

“Mmm. So relaxed,” you murmured, your wicked grin hidden from him.

But Steve wasn’t out of this new game yet. He lathered up his hands again and moved to stand directly in front of your face, his hard cock, clearly visible beneath his jeans. As he leaned in to start massaging your back, his crotch brushed against your arm.

“How’s the pressure?” he asked as his length casually pressed into your forearm.

Two could play at that game.

“How is the pressure?” you returned, pressing your arm into his cock.

You felt his hands stutter as they slid down your back, and with a growl of frustration, Steve stopped touching you only to grasp your upper body and roll you over, damn near dumping you off the table before he caught you and pulled your bare chest to his covered one.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he said, his eyes looking down at your lips before he captured them in a brutal kiss.

You both moaned at the contact and you clutched at the hem of his t-shirt before yanking it up and over his head. You wasted no time in stripping him down to be as naked as you, your fingers flying over his button and zipper, his too loose jeans pooling at his feet.

He scrambled out of them and climbed on to the massage table, settling his body over yours as you never stopped kissing. Your skin was still warm and slick from the massage oil and even though Steve’s hands were everywhere, they still weren’t in the one place you wanted them.  

“Touch me, please,” you begged.

Steve pulled back, his lips red and shiny as he caught his breath and said, “Thought that’s what I was doing for the last half hour.”

“Stop being an asshole!” you whined, kicking off the tangled sheet so you could spread your legs.

“I could get fired for—”

“Oh my god, Steve! Please,” you groaned.

He laughed, his eyes crinkling and his teeth flashing as he finally moved his hand to your abdomen. He began to rub lightly, back and forth along your panty line.

“Hey,” he said, forcing your eyes to focus on him.

You looked up and were sobered by the adoration in them.

“I really like you,” Steve said. “I don’t want this to just be a one-off.”

“I like you, too,” you said with a soft smile.

“Obviously,” he said with a wriggle of his brows.

“Shut up and touch me,” you returned, reaching down to wrap your hand around his hard cock.

Steve’s eyes fluttered shut as he groaned low in his throat at the contact, but you pulled your grip away just as quick.

Steve’s thick fingers dipped below the waistband of your panties as his eyes opened and locked on yours. He watched your face as he slid through your wet lips, parting them to press into your clit with his middle finger.

“Oh, fuck yes,” you moaned.

“How’s the pressure?” he asked, his face split into a shit-eating grin.

[eeveevie]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (2/18)

Chapter 2: How to Be a Detective in 10 Easy Lessons

It’s a new year, and Madelyn is trying to stay busy. Hancock pays a visit to the Detective Agency with an olive branch in the guise of a case for Nick. On the beat, a former mercenary turns informant with more information about the mysterious Railroad. Nick and Madelyn track down their missing person while Eddie Winter makes his first deadly move.  

“Well, sure there is. It comes complete with diagrams, on page 47 of 'How to be a Detective in 10 Easy Lessons,' correspondence school text-book and, uh, your father offered me a drink.” - Philip Marlowe as played by Humphrey Bogart (The Big Sleep, 1946)

x - x

Without giving much away, this is a content warning for a minor character suicide that mirrors the canon in-game side quest.

[read on Ao3] ~ [chapter masterpost]

January 10th, 1958

Nick’s desk was covered in case files, whiskey and cigarette ash—an organized chaos was what he liked to call it, but all Madelyn saw was a fire hazard. This was the way Detective Valentine worked best, however, frazzled and hunched over his scattered notebooks, mumbling incoherently behind the wafting plumes of smoke. The agency was for many the one gleaming beacon of hope in an otherwise dark and dishonest world. Nick had proved his reputation with the people was well earned by helping the community the best he could with the limited resources he had, maintaining a network of clients that kept him in business over the years.

“Everybody deserves their fair chance,” Nick always said, so much so that Madelyn considered putting it on a plaque for his wall—if the walls weren’t covered in photos, wrinkled maps and scribbled handwritten notes.

She found it all admirable, part of the reason she agreed to work with him when initially assigned by the District Attorney’s office two years prior. She didn’t realize that by staying, she’d be forging one of her strongest friendships, discovering one of her most trusted of confidants. Yet, as Madelyn lingered in the doorway of his office, she found it difficult to find the right words to say. She wanted to tell Nick about the clandestine note she received on New Year’s Eve, tell him she felt paranoid about being followed and wanted another training session at the shooting range. Instead, she continued to worry at her bottom lip, awkwardly shuffling the small stack of papers in her hands.

“You can stand there lookin’ like a doll or you can come in here and help,” he spoke, not bothering to glance up at her. Still, she noted his little smirk, eyes lit up as he scrawled away on his notepad.

“I know you didn’t hire me to be a pretty face,” Madelyn bantered, knowing it was all in good, clean fun.  She crossed the small space, planting herself comfortably on the cushioned seat in front of his desk.  

Nick gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “I didn’t exactly hire you. You just showed up here on my doorstep like some kitten left out in the rain.”

She laughed, thinking back to the early days of their partnership. Providing legal aid to a private detective that didn’t always play by the rules—it wasn’t the easiest of jobs for Madelyn. It wasn’t until she realized Nick was forced into the unscrupulous position by the Boston Police Department, who saw his presence as interference rather than assistance, never giving the agency the insider access they desperately needed. Perhaps if they did, there wouldn’t be so many unsolved disappearances or murders plaguing the city. That being said, she made sure Nick stayed out of trouble, pulling in favors where she could, the two using their powers of persuasion to find answers to burning questions. It was easier to toe the line than cross it, but each day as the violence and corruption spread across the city, the line became harder to see.

“What’s on the docket for today?”

The question had barely left her lips when there was a commotion in the lobby, Ellie’s frantic voice calling out as her heels clicked across the wooden floors. “Sir, sir! You can’t just walk in there. You have to have an appointment and—"

“No worries, sister,” the familiar, dulcet voice approached. “They’ll be happy to see me.”

John McDonough—Hancock—strolled through the doorway like he owned the place, ignoring Ellie’s protests. The mayor’s younger brother looked considerably different than he did the night of the police gala—dressed in dark slacks and half-buttoned up shirt, a faded red jacket with golden, frilled trim more suited for Halloween than streetwear. He plopped into the empty armchair, hooking his knees over one side and glancing to Madelyn with a wink.

Nick’s demeanor immediately soured. He pointed at the other man. “Speak for yourself.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t have come all this way if it weren’t for nothing, Nicky boy,” Hancock grinned. “Can’t you bend an ear to an old friend?”

Madelyn focused on the detective’s expression, eyebrows knitted together in quiet contemplation as he rummaged for a cigarette before realizing he was fresh out. Hancock noticed, instantly reacting to produce a pack from his jacket pocket. He leaned forward to offer her first, but she declined with a silent wave, causing him to move to Nick. He hesitated, scrutinizing the gesture with narrow eyes before ultimately obliging.

“What are you doing here, John?” he asked, sounding more like the start of an interrogation as he struck a match.

Hancock appeared amused by Nick’s insistence on the name as he lounged back in the chair. “I have a peace offering for you. A case that the local police can’t be bothered with because of the victim’s so-called lifestyle.”

At Nick’s silence, Madelyn interjected. “What is it?”

“Missing person.”

Finally, Nick sighed, relenting. “Give us the details.”

As Hancock spoke, Madelyn wrote in her notepad, neat and succinct lines—they’d have more luck with her organization skills. The missing? Earl Sterling. Twenty-five-year-old bartender from the Fens who worked at the local sports bar across the street from Fenway Park. “Vadim, who owns the bar—close personal friend—came to me crying, thinking Earl had been snatched up by the boogeyman. But who would want to hurt Earl? He ain’t out to hurt nobody.”

Nick was nodding along, jaw clenched, clearly in frustration of another disappeared citizen. That would be thirteen—that they knew of. “And Boston P.D.? They think Earl was undeserving of a proper investigation?”

Hancock scoffed. “Friends in low places. Doesn’t matter that he’s squeaky clean. But since Vadim’s a Russian immigrant, a refugee that has had his run-ins with the law…”

“Of course,” Madelyn sighed, disheartened. It was a cruel underlying fact that not all Bostonians were keen to the changes the war brought. Most carried on with quiet discontent, but others were far more vocal to the point of outright bigotry. A child raised by virtuous parents, Madelyn knew better, ashamed of the city she had lived in all her life.

Nick could sense her stewing restlessness and spoke, nodding at Hancock. “We’ll take the case, track Earl down. One way or another.”

Curiosity got the better of Madelyn as she stared at the two men, sensing the lingering tension. Ever since Piper first mentioned the younger McDonough brother, Nick’s attitude had been uncharacteristically dismissive, and without explanation it was gnawing at her mind. “What’s the deal here?”

Hancock’s eyebrow arched high against his forehead. “Whatcha mean, sister?”

“The animosity in the air is thick enough that I could bottle it up and sell it as a fragrance,” she joked. “Might get rich enough that I could retire early. Buy that cabin up in Maine I always dreamed about.”

While Hancock bellowed out an impressed laugh, Nick sighed through his nose, lips set in a flat line as his cigarette dangled. Still, Madelyn knew he was amused, green eyes bright as he rolled them her way. Hancock’s entertainment settled as he crossed his arms over his chest with a final, breathless chuckle. “I’m surprised ol’ Nicky never told you about me and our time overseas.”

“You two served together?” she asked.

Nick reluctantly nodded, fingers tightening around the wrist of his prosthetic hand, the plastic-metal blend flexing. He didn’t like to talk about it—no matter how many years had passed between the end of the war and the present, it was still an open wound for many, including the detective. He balled his hand into a fist.

“London, during the Blitz,” he explained, in grim conciseness. “Was stationed in Kent in ‘41 during the bombsite recovery. As was John, though he was mostly preoccupied by the local…entertainment.”

Hancock hummed, with a faraway look in his eyes. “There’s something about the English accent, ya’ know?”

“You were disillusioned then, and you’re disillusioned now!” Nick suddenly snapped, hands smacked against the table as he stood up to loom over the other man. Hancock hardly looked intimidated, not even flinching as Madelyn did. “Sneaking off base to get your kicks in some back alley, coming back high as an Air Force bomber. No wonder you’re turned into a beatnik.”

“Better a beatnik than a dick,” Hancock murmured.

“Boys! Boys!” Madelyn stood up with a loud clap of her hands, garnering both of their attention as she stood. “Jesus Christ! Do I need to put you two in separate corners for time out like the curtain-climbers you are?”

Nick scrambled to sit back down, knowing it was a rare thing for her to use the lord’s name in vain, even lightly. Hancock snickered, but flinched when she whipped her head in his direction. “I think you owe Nick an apology, Mr. McDonough.”

He shifted uncomfortably like she had asked him to perform one of Houdini’s acts. “Sorry, Valentine.”

“We’re good, John,” Nick stood again, this time reaching over to extend his hand in some display of goodwill. Hancock took the offer, shaking it with a satisfied grin. “We’ll find out where Earl is.”

As the conversation came full-circle, Hancock tugged on the lapels of his coat and smoothed out the lines of his pleated slacks. He regarded Madelyn with a toothy smile, nodding his head once. “Miss Hardy.”  

She watched as he turned on his heel, slinking out the way he came. Ellie’s disapproving voice called out to him again in the lobby as the bell above the front door chimed, signaling his exit. Miss Perkins’ usual sunny disposition was marred as she leaned into the doorway of Nick’s office, bottom lip jutted out in a frown. “Who was that?”

“Sorry Ellie,” Nick sighed, moving to grab his faded trench coat from the nearby rack. Madelyn smirked, knowing Jenny had purchased him a new one over the holidays—one for Hanukah and Christmas—but there he was, slipping his arms into the same dusty rag. “Hopefully you won’t need to experience such indecency again.”

“Heading out?” Their secretary questioned, looking between the two of them with a shine of excitement in her features. She always liked when they were busy.

Madelyn gathered the case notes under her arm before quickly shuffling back to her own office, pulling on her cream-colored coat that was in much better condition than her partner’s. Purse and papers in hand, she met him and Ellie in the front room.

Nick was adjusting his hat. “Keep a light on for us, won’t you?”  

Ellie flashed a charming smile. “Always.”

Outside, there was a fresh blanket of snow on the sidewalk and a crisp chill in the air. Their destination was a short distance—only a few blocks east. She thought about what sparked their journey.

“Did you really mean that?” Madelyn questioned Nick as they walked in the direction of the Dugout Inn. He glanced at her, unsure of what she meant. “Disillusionment? Do you really not believe in Hancock’s cause?”

He made a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan as he rubbed at his chin. “I believe in results,” he answered, keeping his eyes focused on their path. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The Dugout Inn was a tiny hole-in-the-wall, located right on the corner of Boylston Street, opposite of Fenway Park. The clientele were mostly refugees, thanks to the owners, Vadim and Yefim Bobrov—immigrants from Russia who established the bar shortly after V-Day in 1945. Unassuming enough, though the two had their fair share of run-ins with Boston police over the years, mostly for expired liquor licenses or smuggling illicit moonshine. Never anything as serious as money laundering, tax evasion or murder. Mr. Bobrov’s good natured attitude had made him a valuable ally to Nick, perhaps even a friend, somebody the detective could turn to when searching for leads among the downtrodden and forgotten within the city.

Being a mid-morning Friday, it wasn’t surprising that the Dugout Inn was mostly devoid of patrons, save for Vadim’s twin brother and their lone waitress Scarlett who was dutifully sweeping near the back. There was one daytime drunkard, however, sleeping off his hangover in a faraway booth. Yefim was balancing the books at a nearby table, muttering about needing to pay the gas bill, barely acknowledging the passing duo with a wave. As they approached the bar, Vadim was beaming, wiping the countertop before them in earnest.

“Ah, my favorite gumshoe back to see old Vadim,” he set out two glasses, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Want to try the latest batch? May not have ripened yet, but…you always had a good sense of knowing!”

Nick softly chuckled, but shook his head as he removed his hat, placing it on the bar. “I’m not going to be your guinea pig again, Vadim.”

“And what about the lovely lady lawyer? My lapochka?”

Madelyn smiled at his flattery but waved her hand at his offering. “No, thank you.”

Vadim went to speak but hesitated, instead scrutinizing their appearance in his bar. Sudden realization dawned in his expression as he tightened his fist into the cleaning cloth. “Are you here about Earl?”

Nick had barely nodded before Vadim continued with a sagging hang of his head. “Oh, poor Earl. Gone, just like that. Such a good bartender. Good friend,” he trailed with a forlorn expression that morphed into one of slight amusement. “Terrible with the women, mind you.”

“Always in his cups about his face getting in the way,” he further explained. “I say, no mug is too ugly for any woman! What says you, Miss Hardy?”

She joined him in laughter, humoring the old flirt. “Oh, Mister Bobrov, if you were thirty years younger you might have a decent chance at making an honest woman of me…again!”

Even Nick snickered, shaking his head at the exchange. But they were here on business, not for a friendly exchange of words or a casual drink. They had a man to find, sooner, rather than later. At his signal, Madelyn pulled her notepad from her purse, pencil at the ready for any information they might gleam.

“See anybody from Winter’s gang around here lately?” Nick asked, eyes narrowed when Vadim quickly shook his head, coughing to clear his throat as the tone shifted. Nick quickly glanced to Madelyn who offered a quick shrug. Maybe zeroing in on Eddie Winter wasn’t the best idea. Would Vadim even know what a mobster type looked like?

“Oh!” The proprietor said excitedly, hands waving for emphasis. “A few days ago, there was this young mercenary type that I’d never seen before. Lingered about for a few days. Greaser kid that looked like he belonged to a bad crowd.”

“Did he and Earl speak?” Madelyn questioned.

Vadim shrugged, eyes glanced upwards as he remembered. “Yes? No. All I know is he looked suspicious. A—and I haven’t seen him since Earl disappeared!”

Nick was twisting his lips—a telltale sign he wasn’t entirely sure he liked the credibility of the information—but they had nothing else to go on. He tapped his finger against the counter impatiently. “Do you have a name? A location? Think carefully, Vadim. For Earl’s sake.”

A moment passed as the bartender mulled it over in his head. Vadim then straightened, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. “MacCready! That’s his name! Rum and cola. Overheard him mention a hotel near Scollay Square…”

“The Rexford?” Nick mused, more to Madelyn than Vadim.

She nodded. “The Rexford.” 

Scollay Square by 1958 was not the thriving center of Boston theatre and community it once was. Practically a ghost town, with most buildings boarded up after being destroyed by fire or looters, few businesses remained. The Old Howard Theatre—long shut down by the Boston vice squad stood at the epicenter like a shining reminder of the past. Always Something Doing—but not anymore. The area was now known colloquially as Goodneighbor, nicknamed after Mary Goodneighbor’s 1953 striptease that ended it all. Goodneighbor was a hive of sex work and drug runners, bootleggers and mobsters, all just out to make their living in the world—the perfect place for a person to disappear.

Nick decided the trip west warranted the use of his black Cadillac. They’d make better time, and even he wasn’t one to be caught walking through Boston Common—even armed—at any time of day with the increasing crime rates. As they pulled up outside the Hotel Rexford, they observed a disturbance on the sidewalk, snow flurries disrupting their view. Madelyn was exiting the vehicle before Nick could rush over to pull open the passenger door, ever the gentleman as he offered his hand to her. But she was more focused on the three men in a clear argument on the hotel steps, carefully observing the interaction as she hooked her elbow around Nick’s arm.

“Well, we’re outside now!” The scrawnier of the three shouted from the stoop.

On the sidewalk below, a man with wide shoulders and a crew cut snarled back. “Didn’t have to be like this, MacCready! We were just here to deliver a message!”

Madelyn and Nick exchanged knowing glances but refrained from interfering. While they had their lead identified, the situation was hardly any of their business. It didn’t mean that they weren’t going to eavesdrop and make it their business, gather information that might come in useful later on.

“It only took you six months to track me down,” MacCready spoke, taunting his aggressors. “Winlock and Barnes. You two always hold hands across Boston? Don’t you know I left your wannabe gang for good?”

The man Madelyn assumed as Winlock shook his head, irritated as ever. “Yet here you are, taking jobs where you shouldn’t be. Listen carefully, MacCready, it has to stop.”

“Like I have to take orders from you,” he laughed and for a split-second Madelyn wondered if there was going to be a firefight the way the third man’s hand flinched along his side, reaching under his jacket.

Instead, Winlock defused the situation with a curt nod, signaling to his partner Barnes to step back. “We aren’t going to kill you. Today. Wouldn’t want a war with Goodneighbor, or with Winter.”

Nick’s hand around Madelyn’s arm tightened at the mention. Whoever these people were, they weren’t affiliated with the mob organization terrorizing Boston. MacCready crossed his arms, seemingly bored with the conversation. “Are we done here?”

The two thugs traded steely looks—this wasn’t over—not by a long shot. “We’re done. For now.”

As Winlock and Barnes passed the Cadillac, they took one slow, up-and-down look at the pair of onlookers before disappearing down an alleyway. Madelyn looked after them, deeply unsettled, but snapped back to the present as Nick swiftly led them to the lone man left on the hotel stairs, pacing as he kicked at the snow with his sneakers.

“MacCready?”

“Look pal, I’m not looking for any friends,” he said with a wince, shaking his head.

Madelyn looked at their would-be suspect now that they were up-close. For Vadim to have called him suspicious was not wrong, but if anything, the man simply appeared to be down on his luck. Overall, he looked nonthreatening: faded, rolled up jeans, dark flannel shirt with an army bomber jacket and a matching cap atop his dusty brown hair. He was skinny, like he had missed a few meals, and it made her wonder if he was another veteran of the streets that had returned from the war with no home to return to.

“We aren’t here to make friends,” Nick’s tone was firm, signaling it was time to take the proverbial gloves off. The man was squirmy and would need the two of them to act fast if they wanted the right information. “Do you know anything about an Earl Sterling?”

MacCready didn’t take to intimidation lightly. He narrowed his eyes, looking over both of them. “What are you, some kind of cop? Can’t do his job without his lady wife?”

“Lawyer,” Madelyn corrected, removing her hand from Nick’s arm. She gestured in her partner’s direction. “Detective. Best not say anything that incriminates yourself.”

Nick laid it on thick. “We know you were at the Dugout Inn when Sterling disappeared, MacCready. So do us both a favor and tell us everything you know!”

The man held up his hands defensively, bewilderment spread across his features. “Jeez! Okay!”

“I was only there for two days, following up on…something. Yeah I saw Earl there. Nice guy, if not a bit ugly, but who am I to judge?” MacCready talked and the pair listened, Madelyn scribbling away in her notepad the important details. “He kept talking about needing to get out of town. At first it was innocent like…for a fresh start to meet the perfect woman, but the more drunk he got, the more it sounded like he was running from the wrong kind of people.”

“Who?” she followed up quickly.

“Heck if I know,” he responded.

Nick prodded further. “He didn’t mention the mob or a loan shark? The Railroad?”

The mention sent a shiver down Madelyn’s spine. Why, she wasn’t sure. For all of their digging in the last two weeks, the organization—if it even existed—was still shrouded in mystery. She stalled in her notetaking and tuned out most of Macready’s response. “…it’s just a myth.”

A familiar expression fell across Nick’s face as he mulled over MacCready’s words. Helpful? Hardly. It was more of the same of what Vadim had offered, leaving them at square one. Earl was still missing, and they were no closer to determining why beyond a vague threat of needing to get away.

“I might have something you can use,” MacCready voiced, shifting awkwardly down the snowy stairs so he was closer to them. “But if I’m gonna help you, you gotta help me.”

“What happened to ‘not looking for a friend’?” Nick remarked with a light smirk.

MacCready grumbled under his breath, clearly uncomfortable with the circumstances of their visit. He wasn’t having a good day, it seemed. “All bets are off when your life gets threatened in broad daylight.”

“Is that what that was all about?” Madelyn asked, motioning towards the alley where Winlock and Barnes had wandered off to. She flashed a teasing smile, hoping to get a rise out of the man. “Colleagues of yours?”

“Fu—heck no,” he answered, censoring himself. Odd. She chalked it up to a man not wanting to curse before a lady and rolled her eyes. “They are Gunners. Small town gang that operates out of Quincy. I—I uh, used to run with them about five years ago. When I was younger. Dumber. But then I wised up. Got married and had a kid. Gig like that doesn’t really pay the bills, you know?”

“You’re married?” Nick asked, the two seemed to simultaneously note the missing wedding band. He was trying a different, more sympathetic angle.  

MacCready gave a solemn shrug, but his eyebrows furrowed with annoyance. “I was. But that isn’t any of your business.”

“Excuse me,” Madelyn blinked, the math not adding up in her head. “How old are you?”

MacCready chuckled like he was asked the question every day. “Twenty-two.”

Both her and Nick made the same surprised sound, staring at their suspect-turned-dud in disbelief. There went her veteran theory.

“I have a son, Duncan. He’s five years old,” MacCready continued, the emotions he expressed sincere. “I’m just trying to do the best I can by him. Can’t do that if I’m dead.”

“How do we fit into this equation?” Nick asked, tone softer than before. Madelyn smiled, knowing he couldn’t resist a hardship tale.

MacCready tilted his head back and forth with a low hum. “Two hot shot detectives like yourselves need an informant on the streets, right? Let me help you, and in return…”

“Lawyer,” Madelyn corrected, again.

“Exactly!” he replied, far too excited. “Crime and Punishment that sh—stuff.”

She decided not to lecture him on Russian literature and its vast differences to her actual career, which in itself were completely separate than what services she provided for the Valentine Detective Agency. She exchanged a silent, somewhat amused look with Nick, who seemed just as bewildered by the person they had crossed paths with. Finally, the two nodded and the detective extended his hand.

“Nick Valentine, Valentine Detective Agency,” he formally greeted.

MacCready chuckled as they shook hands. “You couldn’t make that stuff up, could you?”

His handshake with Madelyn was much softer, less amused. If anything, he seemed genuinely impressed. “Madelyn Hardy, attorney at law.”

“Robert Joseph MacCready,” he grinned. “RJ, Mac, MacCready. Whatever’s cool.”

“You have something for us?” she reminded, and he quickly removed his hand from hers with a short, excited inhale. The two watched as he patted the front of his jacket before digging through his pockets, finally producing a small key on a golden chain. “Is that…”

“Earl’s key,” MacCready answered with a sheepish smile, shifting his eyes away. “Figured if he was going to be running away, it might come in handy later on. Lives in those apartments near the stadium.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear this,” Nick muttered, shaking his head.

Madelyn wasn’t pleased that their best lead was stolen property, but at this rate, it was their best chance of tracking Earl Sterling down. She snatched the key from him before he could change his mind, tucking it away into her purse along with her notepad.

MacCready regarded her with a stern expression. “Remember my offer!”

She would. But for now, she and Nick had more work to do. 

That wasn’t the first time Madelyn and Nick had backtracked across town, chasing a lead on a case. As they raced through the Fens past the stadium to the grouping of apartments that matched the name on Earl’s golden key, she was grateful that at least this time they hadn’t been sent to Quincy, or Concord. By the time they reached the Parkview Apartments, the sun was setting and the frosty chill from the morning had settled to a near freeze. She couldn’t explain it, but an eerie sense of dread settled in her gut, putting her on edge. Nick seemed to feel it as well, the two dashing up the flights of stairs to make it to Earl’s door.

“What do you think we’ll find?” she asked, nervous.

“Not sure, but we’re about to find out,” he answered, prompting her to unlock the door.

Madelyn was careful, quiet in her actions as she clicked open the lock, Nick taking the lead as he pushed open the door inch by inch. She followed closely behind, the two making their way blindly in the darkened room, the only guiding light the moon that shined in through a broken window shade.

“Mr. Sterling?” Nick called out in a low voice, scanning the area. It was a tiny, studio apartment, with a kitchen nook, a foldaway bed, a small closet and a door that led to the bathroom. From what Madelyn could tell, their missing person wasn’t there. Still, Nick called out again. “Earl? Are you here?”

“Nick, something doesn’t seem right,” she whispered, stepping away to inspect the foldaway bed. Even in the darkness she could see the mismatched stains in the carpet, an overturned nightstand and a few pieces of broken glass. She held her breath before tugging sharply on the release, jumping backwards as the bed—and Earl—came tumbling out. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

Nick managed to turn on a lamp, revealing what she had found, rushing over to her side as she turned away from the horror, covering her nose and mouth as to not retch. He wrapped a comforting arm across her shoulders, exhaling a low, defeated sigh. Earl was dead, but more than that, he had been brutally murdered.

“This wasn’t Winter,” Nick mumbled, drawing a quick conclusion. Madelyn had to agree, even if they only had the scene to go by—Eddie’s men weren’t into butchering their victims. “We need to call—”

They both froze as a clattering sound echoed from beyond the closed bathroom door. Nick swiftly pulled his weapon from its side holster—a well-cared for .44 revolver—and motioned for Madelyn to move behind him. She followed his silent instructions, and reminded him that she too was armed, calmly removing the small pistol she carried from the purse on her arm. He glanced at her with a startled expression—she’d hear about this later—but kept moving closer towards the closed door.

“We know you’re in there!”

When the door creaked open, the two were faced with a familiar, but horrifying sight. Doctor Crocker, a local cosmetic surgeon stood with a wild and strung out look in his eyes—a far cry from the friendly face on the billboard ads plastered around town. He cackled out a laugh. “Naughty, naughty! You’re not supposed to be here! But that’s okay! I can fix that. I can fix anything!”

Madelyn resisted the urge to curse or to scream. For a brief moment, she wondered if she felt this terrified when held at gunpoint more than a year prior by a different madman. Doctor Crocker, however, appeared completely unhinged, dangerous and unpredictable. He hadn’t just shot somebody. He had cut them apart and used their blood as paint for the walls.

“Take it easy, doc,” Nick attempted, raising one hand in a calming gesture, all the while keeping his gun aimed towards the doorway. “Let’s talk.”

“I—I didn’t mean to do it! Doctor Crocker is a brilliant surgeon!”

Talking in the third person was never a good sign, she decided, thinking he had to be high on some kind of illicit drug. Mixed with the adrenaline, the doctor was teetering on the edge of outright disaster.

“He never makes mistakes or loses patients! Only happy patients for Doctor Crocker!” he announced, reaching back to grab what turned out to be his own pistol. Now, Madelyn was petrified. And yet, she didn’t scream, resolve getting the best of her.

“You made a mistake, Doctor Crocker,” she tried Nick’s brand of persuasion, even if it made her skin crawl. “Do the right thing. Just think it through. Come with us quietly.”

At first, her words seemed to have an effect, the daze lifting from his eyes as he glanced down at the red stains that covered his clothes and the state of disarray surrounding them. Doctor Crocker flicked his gaze back to Nick and Madelyn, and the panic returned. “Oh god! I killed a man! There’s so much blood! Blood! All over me!”

He was weeping now, loud and hysterically. Hesitantly, Nick stepped closer in a last-ditch effort to resolve the situation. The doctor lashed out, pushing him away. Madelyn’s heart skipped a beat, and she thought she would be reliving the past all over again. “No! No one can find out!”

But Doctor Crocker didn’t aim towards them. Instead, he turned the gun on himself, barrel pressed firm against his chest before firing. The action took less than a second, faster than Nick or Madelyn could react or intervene. His body collapsed in the bathroom doorway, clearly dead on impact.

“You should’ve seen that,” Nick hushed, his faded coat coming into view as he tucked her head close into his shoulder. She didn’t even realize she was trembling. “You shouldn’t have seen any of that.”

A voice, somewhere in the back of her head told her it was just the beginning. She would become tempered, experienced. Most of all, she would heal. But first, she would see so much more.  

Just like that, the Earl Sterling case was closed.

The Boston Police weren’t pleased with them, but then again, they never were. It wasn’t until past midnight when they were released from the scene, not without a scolding from Sergeant Danny Sullivan. It didn’t matter that they had tracked down Earl Sterling when Boston Police wouldn’t (or couldn’t) and had managed to hunt down a killer in the process. As the police saw it, because any blood was shed, it looked indecent on their behalf, and it all had to be handled very carefully. Nick and Madelyn feared that was codeword for coverup. But they weren’t threatened, or told to keep quiet, which further fed into the detective’s either hypothesis—that Winter had nothing to do with Earl’s death. What had started as a run of the mill case had left them with more questions than answers.

Madelyn and Nick were exhausted by the time they returned to the agency. Ellie had left her little glass lamp turned on, just as she promised, but the brunette was long gone. Instead, a different, familiar voice called to them from Valentine’s office.

“Rough night?”

Piper winced as soon as she saw them come through the door, clenching her teeth in a sharp hiss. It was likely obvious how ragged they appeared, and Madelyn was sure some of their clothes were splattered with blood from Earl’s apartment. Nick pulled off his coat with a groan, tossing his hat across his desk as he snatched up the fresh pack of cigarettes Ellie had left behind. Madelyn didn’t bother, practically collapsing into her favored armchair on the left and slinking down, no matter how undignified her posture appeared.

“That bad?” Piper asked.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Nick responded, puffing out smoke before taking in another deep inhale.

The reporter tapped the rolled-up newspaper she carried against her palm, shifting her gaze between the two of them. “Well, since we’re already swimming in it,” she half-heartedly joked before unfurling the newsprint, dumping it atop Nick’s desk so he could see. “Johnny Montrano Jr. is dead. They found his body in the Harbor this morning while you two were running around.”

Fury seemed to be fueling Nick now, who was already starting on his second cigarette. Madelyn perked up at the news, realizing what his reaction would be. “The bastard’s finally done it. He’s finally had him offed. Fed to the fishes.”

“Fishes didn’t really get to do their job though,” Piper mused, rolling her eyes when the two remained silent, too focused.

Madelyn looked to Nick. “He’s looking to take over the northern territories.”

“If he hasn’t already,” Nick replied in an ominous tone. “Nobody is safe anymore.”

Eddie Winter had just made his first deadly move.

[jimlingss]

Jungle Park [21]

Chapter 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22

➜ Words: 4.5k

➜ Genres: Fluff, Light Humour (?), Slice of Life, Workplace Romance!AU

➜ Summary: The equation is simple. Hoseok needs to hire someone. You need a job. Except like any actual equation, it’s not fucking simple at all! Not when you have to add the fact that he was forced to hire someone he doesn’t want in his office, he has little respect for your job in general, and oh yeah...once upon a time you might have—*CENSORED*.

You love your job. Really you do. This is the best career you’ve had. It’s fulfilling and the administrative work can be rather fun. You adore every person in this office. You haven’t had many bad days or terrible encounters. You also get to work alongside your partner in crime. But this….this is one of the rare moments you have to convince yourself you love your job.

“Look it’s not that big of a deal.”   “Of course it’s a big deal! That’s my personal space that you’re invading. And last I checked, you don’t have to suffer the consequences of your own actions.”   “Okay, wait, wait.” You put out a hand, halting Yoongi and Sunyi’s argument with each other. “Let’s take a step back and assess the root of the problem.”   “The problem is that he microwaved something in my office and now I can’t even walk in without wanting to gag and puke!” Sunyi is both exasperated and hysterical.   “Ever heard of mung beans?” Yoongi’s brow lifts with a mocking smile that adds more fuel to the fire. “It’s quite healthy for you and it’s really soft when you heat them up.”   “They smell like death!” Her fist pounds against the conference table. Out of the corner of your eye and through the glass windows of the room, you catch Lisa and Dahyun looking over from their spot at the front desk. It’s like these two are in the middle of a divorce mediation appointment. “Why can’t you just use the microwave in the kitchen?”   “Jin microwaved popcorn. I don’t want my mung beans to smell like popcorn.”   “You are unbelievable! Get your own damn microwave!”   “Listen.” He spins in his swivel chair, pointing his index finger down at the wooden surface of the table. “Why do you have a microwave in your office anyways if no one can use it?”   “It’s my microwave in my office for my own convenience and for me to use. Not for you, Min!” she spits it out in animosity and her blood vessel at her temple threaten to burst. “Not for you or your damn mung beans! Stay out!”   “Alright!” You shout above them both, straining your voice and getting between them before it spirals more out of control. “Enough. If you can’t discuss the issue properly like adults without screaming then how are we supposed to do this?” A long sigh spills from your lungs. “I’ve heard both sides and Yoongi, I believe you should apologize to Sunyi. It is her microwave after all and you didn’t ask permission to use it. The microwave in the kitchen is working fine and that’s for everyone to use. There’s no need to barge into Sunyi’s office.”   “Okay.” He nods once. “I understand and I’m sorry, Sunyi.”   “That’s it?” The female lawyer looks at you, her arms in the air. “There’s no punishment for him?”   “Well...if there’s a second offense, I’ll look into proper consequences. It’s a warning for now. If you need air freshener, I have some you can borrow.”   Sunyi falls back, collapsing into the chair while rubbing her temples. “Oh my god.”   Today is a heavy session of conflict resolution. You and Hoseok were chatting about the two lawyers casually on the sofa one night and he decided to put an end to it once and for all. It was getting pretty ridiculous when over three quarters of the complaints were of Yoongi from Sunyi. There are a lot of investigations still pending, but it’s time to put everything in the open and find the root issue to address it and stop this nonsense. Hoseok was here, mostly to observe and give you moral support, but much to your dismay, the lawyer looked more entertained than anything.   “Okay. Let’s take a look at some older complaints.” Your foot moves the first box forward and you lean down, plucking a random page from the papers sandwiched inside, as if you were picking a name slip in the Hunger Games. Your throat clears. “On February sixteenth of this year, Yoongi was calling Sunyi by the name Sunny all day and confusing the client they were talking to.”   “It’s a cute nickname, right?” Yoongi asks no one in particular, more so a thought aloud.   “It’s not good if the client is confused,” Hoseok adds.   You put the filled form down. “Yoongi, you should call Sunyi by her legal name since that’s what she wants.”   “Okay.”   You turn to her. “Is that alright with you?”   “I...uh...yeah.” She nods, cheeks heating up, and no one notices her reaction except for Yoongi who smiles to himself.   You pick another. “Here’s one made on December twentieth. Yoongi was wearing too strong of a cologne and it was clogging up your nose and making it hard to breathe.”   Everyone turns to look at her, giving the female a chance for further explanation. But instead, Sunyi’s head is downcast and she fiddles with her fingers in her lap. “Ummm...can...can I actually redact that? I don’t mind...it doesn’t bother me anymore.”   “Redact?” Your brow shoots upwards. “Alright. Makes the job easier.”   Yoongi gazes at her, staring, and goosebumps raise along her skin from the mere intensity of his eyes. Unfortunately, you don’t notice the exchange. You’re too busy picking out another sheet while Hoseok is preoccupied checking you out and making you send a glare his way, to which he gives you a greasy smile and flirtatious wink.   “Okay. November second, Yoongi spammed you email after email asking if orange pee is normal.”   Hoseok butts into the conversation, concerned for his friend. “Did you go to the doctor?”   “Yeah and I’m fine.” He smiles.   Sunyi raises her hand timidly. “Can I withdraw that?”   “Sure.” You put it aside into the accumulating pile. “Here’s another one where you said he was out to get you and driving you insane—”   “Redact that please!” Sunyi interrupts and Yoongi smirks.   He’s still staring at her, elbow propped on the table, cheek in his hand. “I drive you insane?”   She ignores him, speaking directly to you. “I’d like to withdraw it.”   “Okay…”   Somehow Sunyi redacting a lot of the complaints, especially those that attack Yoongi’s general character, personality or behaviour. You’re baffled, wondering if something changed her mind or they reconciled on their own. Nonetheless, the session is fairly successful and the two of them are less hostile towards each other by the end.   Still, you privately tell Hoseok to talk to Yoongi since they’re both friends and you know the latter man respects the former. Hoseok agrees and in confidence speaks to Yoongi about not wasting time or bothering Sunyi anymore to which the dark-haired lawyer nods along with. Sunyi leaves soon after, thanking you and it’s a job well done.   You high five Hoseok but he considers it inadequate, pulling you aside when you’re both alone and he kisses you eagerly, murmuring about how hot you look when you’re working hard. You scoff, chiding for him to get back to work and he salutes you with a firm ‘yes, ma’am’.

The restaurant has a cozy atmosphere, dim lighting that comes from candlelights placed in the middle of tables. The chatter and murmur of conversations blurs together with the soft music, but it’s quieter in the secluded area. The scent of food wafting from the kitchen is appetizing and the quality is only imaginable considering the toasted bread and creamy butter the waitress brought out is already mouthwatering.   You imagine this would be a fancy, hot date between you and Hoseok. But nope. The person sitting across from you is Kim Seokjin who’s devouring the bread like a wild animal starved. You’re also jammed between Naul who sips on her glass of red wine, lost in thought like she’s seen too much in her lifetime, and Namjoon who has his fingers attached onto his phone.   Hoseok is sitting at the front of the table with Jimin, visibly more tortured than you are.   “Jin! What the fuck!” Lisa moves her arm away, shooting him a disgusting glare. “You’re slobbering! And butter just hit my fucking arm! Eat properly, you dog!”   “Look.” He chews, cheeks stuffed to the brim. “I haven’t eaten in literally five hours, okay? I’m starving and the food is taking forever!”   “Can we not swear in a fancy place like this?” Seulgi pleads with a long sigh. “It makes us look unsophisticated and uncultured.”   “Are we supposed to be sophisticated?” Taehyung moves his sunglasses down, looking over the rim of his dark shades.   “What the hell are you even wearing.”   “It’s fashion. Ask Namjoon!”   “Don’t ask me,” the legal assistant mutters while still tapping away at his phone.   Sunyi scoffs. “You’re wearing pajamas, Taehyung.”   “Pajamas are in. Right, Jungkook?”   “Uh...” The younger lawyer reaches for his glass of water, sipping through the straw and refusing to give an answer.   “I can’t believe you blow your money on shit like that.” Lisa shakes her head in disapproval, obviously judging his horrible tastes.   “Don’t tell me how to spend my money and I won’t tell you how to spend yours, Miss-I-get-a-pedicure-every-other-day.”   “Excuse you! It’s relaxing for me.”   “Well, shopping is relaxing for me.”   “I prefer online shopping,” Inyoung timidly murmurs, attempting to mediate the argument.   They ignore her, but Dahyun swoops in with a smile to acknowledge the accountant. “Same here.”   “Look, I’m sorry you fools have no fashion sense.” Taehyung leans back in his seat, arms on top of the other chairs beside him. “And if Namjoon was paying any attention, you would know that he has the exact same set as I do. We actually pre-ordered it together.”   Seulgi turns to her friend with a frown. “What are you doing, Namjoon?”   He doesn’t look away from the screen and she thinks he’s actively ignoring her, but then the corner of his mouth moves. “Texting my girlfriend.”   “What.” Everyone cranes their necks over to stare like they’re hyperactive dogs and he’s a bouncing squirrel. “Since when?”   “Since years ago. Haven’t I talked about her?” The paralegal pockets his mobile device and finally lifts his head, pushing his glasses up the slope of his nose before it slips too far. “She plays in the philharmonic orchestra.”   “No, you haven’t talked about it,” Jin spits at his best friend, absolutely appalled and shocked at this news. “What the hell…”   “Yeah, she’s nice.” Namjoon shrugs nonchalantly and it doesn’t do much to lessen the shock.   But it goes quiet as they mull over the new revelation. And Jimin takes the opportunity to stand up. “Alright, alright. Let me get everyone’s attention again. Fellow employees of Jung and Park, do you know why we’re all here on this lovely evening?”   “Food?” Jin jokes, but he’s all too serious at the same time. He looks around and his eyes pin on a waiter holding a plate...only for that waiter to brush past and head to a different table. Dammit.   “No. We’re celebrating Hoseok’s and my anniversary!” There’s a pause. “Of being called to the bar!”   “Right.” Naul nods and holds up her glass, congratulating him before downing the rest of her drink.   Jimin is not impressed. “Can we get some more enthusiasm in here?”   “To Hoseok and Jimin!” Yoongi holds up his glass of water and everyone mimics him, raising their glass. Each gives one monotonous and short shout and then rehydrates themselves, making you laugh and Jimin snicker.   He opens his mouth, but gives up, taking a seat again with an exhale. His partner, on the other hand, grins. “Would anyone like to make a toast?”   “I will.” Taehyung volunteers, happily taking the spotlight as he stands and holds his water with a boxy smile. “I have been working at this firm ever since it started and I’m so glad that you dragged and threatened me to be here, Jimin. You were right. I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed that tax firm….even if they paid me more and had better benefits and was a closer commute…..”   Both friends laugh and he turns to smile at the other lawyer. “Hoseok, you’re scary. When any of us make a mistake, you glare, but lately you’ve been a lot nicer and approachable. I just wanted to say that it’s okay if any one of us mess up. We’re human after all.”   No one knows where he’s going with the toast, only that he’s ballsy enough to be this direct to Hoseok and still stand in front of him. Though Taehyung has no malice in his voice, just idiotic joy and he inhales, looking carefully at everyone. “But I think we have to mention a very special someone who’s sitting at this table right now. Y/N!”   “Me?” You blink, dumbfounded.   “Yes.” His lips are tilted upwards, cheeks puffing out, too cute. “You are the backbone of our entire firm. I don’t know what we would do without you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for staying with us. Thank you for saving us from scary, scary Hoseok.”   He sits back down and Lisa jumps up. “My turn! First off, I want to congratulate my two bosses, Jimin and Hoseok. Jung and Park has been the best place I’ve ever worked at and even though I know my job is technically less important than all of yours, you have never once made me feel insignificant in the office. For that, I am grateful. Congratulations on your anniversary.”   “But…” She quickly moves on before anyone can stop her and applaud. “I also have to thank Y/N.” Lisa smiles and shifts to you, eyes twinkling. “I know we got off on the wrong foot and I wasn’t always the nicest. But you never once took that and used it against me. You listened to me when no one else would. You helped me during tough times. You feel like a ray of sun in the office. God knows before you came, everything was a mess.”   The receptionist laughs and the others agree, nodding along. “There were boxes everywhere and I couldn’t walk without bumping into anything. So, thank you, Y/N. You don’t know what you mean to all of us.”   She sits back down and Jimin protests, “Wait a minut—”   “Hold on.” Timid Inyoung stands, adjusting the length of her skirt before she picks up her glass and presses it to her chest, gazing at you endearingly. “I also want to thank Y/N.”   The girl is sincere and you’re smiling, tears filling your eyes, overwhelmed by their appreciation. “I know we’re all kind of doing this as a joke to take the light away from Jimin and Hoseok—” She glances at them with a soft laugh. “—but I really mean it. Y/N, you are the sweetest person I know and you were there for me during one of the scariest times of my life. Without you, I don’t know where I’d be right now. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me. You’re the one who sticks up for everyone in this office and I don’t think we tell you that enough. You’re the one who time and time again proves that you genuinely care about us. And for that, thank you.”   You’re speechless. “You guys…”   Jungkook clears his throat. He steps up as well. “Y/N, I know you already know this but, you’re my role model. I aspire to be someone like you, someone who works hard and is so passionate about their work. The office has been changed for the better ever since you arrived. Jung and Park wouldn’t be able to function without your...uh..presence….”   He’s blushing from the attention and awkwardly shuffles back into his chair.   “You guys, let’s not take the light away from what we’re actually here for.” Seokjin grins mischievously, pushing away his hunger and chaotically getting up, scratching the leg chairs against the floorboards. He looks at the front, eyeing both lawyers. “Hoseok...Jimin…” They’re both expectant and Jin lifts his glass higher. “...thank you for hiring Y/N.”   There’s laughing and chuckling all around. Jimin opens his mouth to whine at the audacity to treat him like this, but unknowingly, you interrupt, getting to your feet and scanning your surroundings to imprint this memory into your mind. “You guys, I’m absolutely flattered.”   “You’re the ones who make me love my job so much. To be completely honest, before I came here, I was having a difficult time. I was applying everywhere trying to look for jobs, but I never expected to land my dream career. You’re the best bunch I’ve ever had the opportunity of working with. I’m so lucky and sometimes I wonder if I deserve it all.”   “But let’s not forget about Jimin and Hoseok.” All jokes aside, you shift to address each of them. “Jimin, you’re sweet and generous to everyone regardless of who they are. Congratulations on your anniversary for being called to the bar. Thank you for needing an HR rep.” The lawyer giggles, smiling wide, finally having his proper praise.   “And Hoseok.” Your breath is caught in your throat and you’re focused on him, tunnel vision, everything else blurring into the background. “I don’t think you’re mean at all. Well, maybe sometimes. You’re passionate about your job and I admire that. If people got to know you better, they’d know you’re literal sunshine on this planet. Thank you for hiring me.”   There’s a pause where you take a deep breath, eyes locked into his. “Thank you for picking me...out of everyone else.”   Your speech is coming to an end and you spin on your heel to address the rest of them. “Also, I’d like to use this opportunity to remind everyone that the fridge is a communal space. This has been an issue for a while now, but please do not eat food if it’s not labeled as yours and if you don’t know, it never hurts to ask.”   There’s a round of applause and you sit back down, hands falling into your lap, slightly embarrassed from the whole ordeal. No one notices, but you can feel Hoseok’s gaze on you.   Jimin grins. “There we go! Finally, a proper toast!”   And like perfect timing would have it— “Food’s here!” Jin’s announcement garners cheers as waiters and waitresses approach the table, passing around the food. People begin to dig in and you take one look around at each person’s face, all too happy to be here.   Your eyes meet Hoseok and you smile. He quirks his head to the side as well, staring and smiling back.   //   The pair of you return to the office. Giggles and drunken laughter echo down the halls, fluorescent lights flicker on slowly, flooding the entire floor with light. You teeter inside, throwing your bag and coat onto a chair at the empty front desk as he follows behind.   “Did you have a good time?”   You spin around, arms thrown around his neck. “Course I did.”   “Everyone loves you.” Hoseok grins, searching your face. “You took the spotlight.”   You laugh again, leaning closer and tilting your head. His breath skims along your skin, lips a millimeter away and his hands find purchase on your waist. Hoseok’s eyes become half-lidded, flickering down to your mouth and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Now you really can’t fire me, Jung. Else there’d be a riot.”   He laughs softly. “You know how to capture people, minx.” And Jung Hoseok leans in, breathing you in. His eyes are slightly open, watching your expression until he shuts them, relishing in the tender touch, enjoying the way your hands run through the strands of his hair, tugging ever so gently.   You pull away after ten seconds. “Wait, wait….we said we wouldn’t do it at the office again. What happens if we get caught?”   “You really think anyone would come here at this time?”   “I don’t know.” You giggle, feeling ticklish by the way his hands move along your side. You play with the hairs at the nape of his neck, lips pouty. “We should’ve just gone to your apartment instead.”   “That’s too far away.” He moves closer, body pressed on yours and the air becomes heated, making your skin feel hot. “Would rather have you right here, right now.”   Another giggle spills from your kiss-bitten lips and you draw closer as if you’re addicted to his scent, his hands. But then something stops you from planting a kiss on his mouth. There’s a subtle clatter, like the sound of thunder, but quieter and yet, closer. “Hoseok.”   “Hmm?” He’s too busy staring, touching, taking you all in to notice.   “What was that?”   You both crane your necks over. He holds your hand, stalking the noise. It’s probably a bad idea. You’ve watched enough horror movies, and you don’t know what to do if the office is haunted; knowing Hoseok, he’d probably pick up and move Jung and Park to a warehouse instead.   The noise comes from Taehyung’s office and you frown. Hoseok extends his hand, fingers wrapping around the knob, and he throws the door open. It crashes against the wall. You gasp. Eyes wide. Jaw dropping. There are clothes all over the ground, a small lamp fallen on the carpet as well, probably the noise you heard.   More importantly, on top of Taehyung’s desk, with papers amok is Sunyi and Yoongi wrapped around each other.   “Oh my god!” — “Holy fuck!” — “Don’t stare!” — “Sorry!”   It’s horrifying. You wish you saw a ghost instead.   //   The need to wash your eyes is all too high. But you compose yourself, trying to act like an adult, especially in this moment. You’re sobered up. If possible, the intoxication has been scared out of you.   The conference room is deathly quiet. Hoseok called for an emergency meeting and the two lawyers are barely put together. There are purple and blue hickeys all over Sunyi’s throat, her blouse still unbuttoned. Yoongi has lipstick stains all over his mouth and cheeks, hair riled up like he was electrocuted. It’s so unbearably uncomfortable that you feel yourself dying inside.   “How long has this been going on for?”   You’re the first to start off with a crystal clear voice, enunciating each syllable with your hands clasped on top of the table. “It’s complicated.” Sunyi is mortified, face reddened, head downcast. “It’s been...on and off.”   “When’s the first...time then?” It’s not like you want to intrude into their lives or overstep your boundaries, but this is unfortunately part of your job. You can’t pretend like you didn’t see it.   “Two years ago,” Yoongi states plainly, more composed than the female beside him.   “Years?” Hoseok’s brows shoot upwards, wholly surprised.   “This is purely a sexual relationship,” Sunyi scrambles to explain as if it can save the situation.   “Yeah right.” He scoffs, looking at you to explain. “We’re dating.”   She automatically protests, voice moving up a pitch, sharp and offended, “No, we’re not!”   “Then what do you describe going out ten times to movies and dinners? What? Are we friends?”   “It’s not dating. It’s just...hanging out...or rather, being at the same place by coincidence.”   Yoongi scoffs again, ignoring her. “We’re living together.”   “No!” She sighs. “I just have a lot of my stuff at his apartment and it happens to be closer to work than my place and my landlord is an asshole—”   “Alright.” Hoseok stops them before he gets a headache. He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting them off the hook considering how late of a night it is. “Obviously you need to talk to each other and figure this out. I don’t care what you guys are doing on your own time and neither does Jimin, but we need to know to prevent liability issues, okay? You’re both lawyers and you should understand that. So go home, figure it out, and in the morning, go report to HR.”   Sunyi nods frantically, grabbing her coat and covering herself up, walking out before she’s humiliated any further. But as you all make your way, Yoongi’s cat-like eyes are sharp and narrowed into slits. It sees right through you. “But...why did you two show up?”   He inhales a shallow breath and the corner of his mouth tugs, like they’re tempted to pull into a smirk. He knows.   “I had to pick something up.” Hoseok swallows hard, pupils diverted elsewhere.   Yoongi smiles and he glances at you for a millisecond. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”   “Goodnight, Yoongi.”   The pair of you watch them leave, still unable to wrap your minds around this bizarre development. Then, a tired exhale leaves through the seams of your lips. “I’m going to have to do another presentation on office romances and not having sex here, right?”   “Probably.” Hoseok nods, still looking ahead at the elevator doors with you. “But right now, we have unfinished business.”   “If you think for one second that after that we’re going to your office—”   “To my apartment we go!” Hoseok laughs, clutching your hand in his and dragging you off as your mouth curls and a soft scoff leaves it.   The trip to his place isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Well, considering Hoseok kicks the front door open and he’s carrying you. You didn’t have to take many steps, but he was slightly struggling, almost crashing into the wall and wobbling from side to side. “Oof.”   “I thought I was light as a feather, Hobi.” You make fun of him, tugging on his chubby cheek and mimicking his words from inside the apartment elevator.   Still, the fool of a lawyer manages a laugh and a grin. “You’re heavy as one brick. So not that much.”   “Lovely. Comparing me to a brick.”   Once he’s made it to the bedroom, he throws you onto the mattress, making your body bounce once and you feel absolutely giddy from head to toe. He strips off his jacket before jumping on top of you, causing laughs to bubble out. You complain he’s too heavy and too warm, pushing him off.   But even when Hoseok’s moved aside, he’s relentless, arms wrapping around your abdomen, nuzzling into you. A quiet yawn leaves him and he cuddles into your body, head propped on top of your crown. “Y/N…”   “Hmm?” Your lashes flutter, finally simmering down.   “Wanna just sleep instead? You’re too soft to let go. Like a pillow.”   “Okay.” Your hands card through the strands of his hair, patting and petting him. The man who’s melted into putty hums in satisfaction, reminiscent of a cat being lulled by their owner. “But Hoseok.”   “Yeah?”   “I still need to brush my teeth. And take off my makeup. And change into pajamas.”   There’s silence.   You wonder if he’s fallen asleep. “Hoseok?”   “Yes, ma’am.” He pulls away, albeit reluctantly and obviously tired. Yet somehow, he manages to scoop you up in his arms again, carrying you into his bathroom to get ready for bed. He’s all too silly and as you laugh, you wonder how it’s possible sunshine has been encapsulated into one man.

[florrickandassociates]

TGF Thoughts: 4x03-- The Gang Gets a Call from HR

Under the cut! 

We pick up with a reminder of where we left off last week: Xo’s restaurant being torn down. (Captions call her “Martha” but I’m fairly certain her name is “Marta” on this show)

Diane confronts Canning and taunts him with the deep pockets of STR Laurie. Canning is unfazed and Diane leaps into action. Diane thinks things are going to go her way.

Frank Landau is in reception and Marissa spots him and immediately unleashes an intense series of verbal attacks about how Eli shouldn’t send messengers if he has something to say and how she might marry a Republican. She rants and rants until Adrian shows up to greet Frank. For once, he’s not here to make Marissa’s life harder.

I do love moments like this. One, they’re hilarious. Two, Marissa thinking he MUST be there for her and also referencing her dad is just fantastic.

Landau is really there to talk to Adrian and Liz (and pointedly not Diane) about the DNC’s efforts to engage black voters. Landau wants RBL to come up with a strategy. As Adrian points out, this is a question for a PR firm. But Landau wants RBL-- they’re a black run firm and they’ve worked with the DNC before (though they fired Liz from the impeachment thing-- did we know that?), and, most importantly, they come with attorney-client privilege. 

“Dammit!” Jay exclaims when he can’t find the injunction for Diane’s case in the system. “I just told our top client to fuck off; whatever you’re dealing with can’t be worse,” Marissa responds. Heh.

Marissa can’t find it either.

God bless the loud beeping noise that happens whenever anyone can’t find a legal document. No one would have their sound on (okay, maybe Diane would) which makes this little detail hilarious to me. 

The system says the case doesn’t exist. Before Jay can investigate further, Adrian tells him he’s needed in the conference room. Jay wonders what’s wrong. Then Adrian goes to collect Lucca, who is chatting with Bianca (their convo is friendly but basically sounds like a rehash of what we saw last ep, with Lucca being like “I am a real person who has to do work” and Bianca being like “But being rich is fun!”). Lucca also asks what’s wrong and Adrian wants to know why everyone keeps asking that. Uh, because you interrupted them with a vague urgent request? That always raises red flags…

Jay goes to Diane before he reports to the conference room and shows her that the case she argued a couple of days prior doesn’t exist. This reminds me of Kresteva’s mind game but on a much bigger, scarier level.

Landau asks all the black employees of the firm, who have been gathered in the conference room, what the biggest issue facing black people today is. This feels exceedingly inappropriate. Helping the DNC brainstorm isn’t part of the job description of a lawyer (or a mailroom attendee) and it doesn’t sound like this meeting was voluntary. And who is going to be open about this with their bosses and a client present?! 

“Lack of voting rights,” someone finally volunteers. Racism and police brutality get added to the list too, as does institutional racism. 

When Landau asks what the Democratic Party is doing to combat racism, the room begins to buzz and Jay speaks up to say the DNC is doing “jack shit to combat racism.” He wants to know where the policies are if the DNC cares so much.

Lucca tries to walk his point back by saying Democrats are trying, but one of the mailroom guys pipes up and says he doesn’t feel like the Party is talking to him or giving him a reason to miss work to vote. It is ridiculous that election day isn’t a national holiday.

Landau steps out for a moment and Adrian asks the room to tone down the DNC bashing. I feel like this is an unwinnable situation. If the people in the room speak up and say the truth it’s offending the client; if they don’t then they aren’t providing the insights needed. I know this plot exists mostly so our characters can have this convo but oof, this is not the right setting for this conversation. 

Marissa shows up in Julius’s chambers and he’s happy to see her. She says things at STR Laurie (or “STD Laurie” as the very mature RBL employees call it) are weird.

Marissa wants info on Marta’s case. Julius can’t find it in the system either and gets the same loud beep sound. Julius awkwardly denies ruling on it, then Diane walks in. Julius gets flustered and says he’s no longer on the case and doesn’t remember the case. “Are you fucking serious?” Diane responds. “Don’t swear at me!” Julius says. “I never used to swear, ever, but now I find it useful. People look at me and think I would never swear so when I say this is fucking nuts it has added meaning and this is fucking nuts,” Diane says. Love it. Also, I think TGF does a pretty good job of having some characters swear for impact and others (looking at you Lucca) swear all the time. 

Julius does NOT like being suspected and says to “talk to Adrian’s girlfriend”.

Meanwhile at RBL, the topic is now maternal mortality. A male employee mentions that black women don’t need to be mobilized (I assume he means because they are the most reliably blue voters) and that causes cross-talk. This is one of the more interesting “everyone at RBL debate!” episodes but I don’t think the writers will ever tire of showing that an issue is controversial by getting two sentences into a debate and then having it turn into cross-talk.

Jay jumps in and changes the topic to reparations. The room gets quiet. Lucca says it’ll never happen. Hey, Rosalyn is back!!! Lots of familiar faces in this room. 

Okay I am not going to transcribe this whole discussion but it’s interesting.

All three name partners get called up to talk to Mr. Firth. 

“Whenever I see offices like this, I always think that we’re all gonna be dead some day,” Liz remarks before Mr. Firth enters. Adrian and Diane laugh and Mr. Firth walks in and asks what’s funny. The joke doesn’t land.

Mr. Firth launches into another story I don’t understand or care to listen to. The real issue is that STR Laurie thinks that RBL is billing the DNC incorrectly (RBL is getting more than STR Laurie). STR Laurie isn’t supposed to know what RBL is charging as part of the transition plan in the merger, but Mr. Firth clearly does not give a fuck about honoring that agreement. Pretty clear who has power and who is backed into a corner. This agreement was supposed to “encourage trust” but something tells me STR Laurie doesn’t actually care about encouraging trust all that much. 

After the awkward meeting, Diane, who is just now hearing of the DNC’s business, asks Liz and Adrian if it is old business (RBL’s) or new (STR Laurie’s). It could be argued either way, Liz and Adrian admit.Liz is more concerned that STR Laurie is looking at RBL’s books when they shouldn’t be. She goes to put Marissa on the case.

Diane takes this opportunity to ask Adrian about his girlfriend. Adrian explains he just wants to keep his private life private. I’ve heard that one before. Adrian tells Diane about “Memo 618” and that it intimidated Julius.

CREDITS, FINALLY. I am going to take a break and watch Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist, a show I’ve somehow gotten hooked on despite it being completely mediocre and something I would’ve dumped after three episodes in non-quarantine times. 

And I’m back, two days later lol

Bar-Swarm’s interface looks outdated. Diane knows how to use it, though, and asks the interwebs what Memo 618 is.

Meanwhile, Marissa refers to STR Laurie as “STD Laurie” in a conversation with Adrian. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, which makes the joke even better. Liz and Adrian are very amused.

Marissa narrows the potential list of STR Laurie (I gotta start shortening this-- STRL?) spies down to one, a Caleb Garland who is 39 years old and used to be in the Army.

Now Diane’s case is in Judge Hazelwood’s courtroom. Canning refers to the previous trial and Diane, knowing the last case had no paper trail, insists this is the first time the case is being tried. Canning doesn’t know how to respond and it’s pretty amusing to watch him squirm. Canning really is the perfect antagonist for this case. Kresteva would’ve worked too.

The Reparations convo, and cross-talk, continue. I hate to “case stuff happens” some of the most thought provoking stuff of the ep but, again, I have nothing to add.

Adrian mentions there’s a model for reparations in Chicago and tells the story and explains the model.

The debate Landau requested is too heated for him, because he totally didn’t expect that black voters are a diverse group with differing viewpoints, and Landau thinks the solution is… to add white people to the conversation for diversity. You know, to “gauge how the ideas are landing.” The ideas they are thinking through to help the DNC motivate black voters.

Mayyyyybeeee, just maybe, the problem is that this white dude is commissioning black employees of a law firm to do emotional labor while also treating them as a monolith and being afraid to actually listen to him? And that he’s making it seem like what black people have to say is only important if white people agree? Maybe just maybe that’s part of the problem too???

Caleb is peeling a rutabaga on a game; seems pretty silly. He and Marissa chat, and she asks him why he’s on the RBL floor before I can type out the same question. He tells Marissa he’s there as a spy but he’s not a very good spy. I’m like 99.9% sure Marissa says these same words to Alicia in season six when she shows up to be the bodywoman. 

Marissa and Caleb-- who no one even knows-- join the big DNC meeting because they are white. This seems like a good use of resources.

David Lee gets to be in the conversation, and manages to both snark and take it kind of seriously. Have we ever had it confirmed that David Lee is Jewish? I know Veronica made some comments, but Marissa’s comments here make it seem much clearer he’s supposed to be Jewish. 

Adrian tells a story that Vernon Jordan once told him, and the story uses the n-word. I think we may have heard this story on TGF before, does anyone remember?

Diane’s case is back. The actual particulars of it barely matter and I hope Marta gets more to do going forward and doesn’t just disappear. Judge Hazelwood, too, gets Memo 618, and things stop going Diane’s way. Hazelwood gets pissed when Diane brings up Memo 618 in court. She holds Diane in contempt and swears. Yikes. 

Lucca gets a call to go to the HR department that FINALLY exists now that RBL has corporate overlords. She’s there because there’s been a complaint about Adrian. Before hearing the details, Lucca’s asked not to share the details and she says she can’t promise them anything. HR still shares the complaint-- Adrian used the n-word. Lucca looks amused but HR is SUPER serious about this. A black man used the n-word. Seems like… not a big deal to me? Depending on the context, of course. 

Still no results for Memo 618. And when Diane searches “What is Memo 618?” (which is an extremely specific string but ok) her computer shuts itself off. Is… is that possible? I think I just have to accept that TGF is going to do whatever it wants with tech.

Lucca immediately goes to Liz and Adrian to tell Liz (while Adrian is conveniently there) about the situation. “Apparently STR Laurie has a zero tolerance policy on inappropriate language,” Lucca explains. 

Adrian suspects Caleb; Marissa disagrees because she trusts him already. (This is also making me wonder-- David Lee isn’t RBL, yet he was in the meeting… why?)

Marissa is then instructed to feed Caleb a lie.

Jay’s computer also encounters the issue (and all the accompanying sound effects) with Bar-Swarm and calls it targeted malware. 

Marissa, extremely clumsily (and potentially intentionally clumsily), feeds Caleb the lie. 

HR’s interviewing everyone. Most people say they weren’t offended; one woman says she thinks some people might not have liked it but she thinks running to HR is an overreaction. HR says they’re there to help and hold people accountable. Fine line between holding people accountable and making mountains out of molehills in an effort to be thorough. (Without seeing-- or remembering-- how HR ends up handling this I can’t really say they’re doing a bad job… though I feel like a situation like this probably doesn’t need to involve interviewing so many employees because one or two accounts should suffice to make it clear Adrian was telling a story and quoting someone. And also this does feel like a lot of white people who are unequipped to resolve workplace racial disputes.)

(Also isn’t the real HR problem that the employees were basically being forced into a conference room to have a debate about their own feelings and backgrounds?) 

ADDITIONALLY the HR lady is the scary-ass nurse from Evil. Yikes. That hospital episode is one of the more terrifying-- and interesting-- things I’ve seen in ages. 

Jay repeats the story to HR. They look surprised, like it’s the first time they’re hearing this. No one else told HR the story? 

Somehow this HR complaint gets back to Vernon Jordan. Ok, taking back what I said, this HR complaint has gone too far. I think they can hear from Jay’s story, which literally every RBL employee can confirm, what Adrian’s point was. And what does it matter if the story really came from Jordan or not?! This is egregious overreach that feels more like office politics than anything else.

Yeah, Adrian’s convo with Mr. Firth makes it pretty clear this is a power play to show Adrian he no longer runs things. It’s not really about his language; that’s just a pretext for STRL to send a warning shot. 

Now everyone has to take a class on racial sensitivity and Mr. Firth is lecturing Adrian about how “charged” the n-word is, which sets Adrian off. I feel like it’s pretty objective to say that Adrian knows the meaning and power of the n-word better than Mr. Firth. 

Adrian ponders quitting in one of his late night talks with Liz. I love their convos. They talk about their marriage (suddenly it occurs to me-- somehow it hasn’t before!-- that this is the kind of dynamic I imagine Alicia and Peter would have post divorce) as well as the topic at hand. Liz points out they’ll never fire Adrian for using the n-word in a quote because it sounds ridiculous and STRL has its own issues (they apparently took a group photo without black people and then PHOTO SHOPPED IN BLACK PEOPLE which… that’s worse, guys!!!). “They bought us to put us in their pictures,” they recognize. (They had to have known this going in-- still don’t quite understand why they sold; still don’t think the show will ever care to answer this question.) 

Liz tells Adrian to just do what he wants. 

Then Jay brings up the HR complaint in another group meeting and wants to know who filed the complaint. This ALSO seems inappropriate. 

Someone suspects David Lee; David Lee would never file the complaint because he hates HR. 

More interesting debate continues. Again, nothing to say, but really appreciate hearing all of this.

Oh now Landau is here in the middle of the intrafirm shitstorm.

It was Madeline, one of the equity partners, who made the complaint to make a point. Or at least it seems likely she did. She believes every black person should have a choice not to hear it at the workplace. I don’t really get an opinion here but that sounds like a valid point to me. It also goes back to the whole, “maybe a forced all staff convo about race is not a good idea…” thing. 

Adrian suggests that they could have talked privately instead of having it escalated to HR. His tone is kind of condescending but his point seems fair to me, though I think it’s up to an individual to decide if they think a complaint is for HR or not. If they don’t feel comfortable bringing up the point with their boss, that is what HR is for. 

It sounds like Madeline is a little bitter, too, about Adrian selling the firm. She’d be losing money, based on what we heard last week, so the bitterness makes sense. If she’s the one who submitted the complaint, it seems likely she had a reason to be upset with Adrian’s use of the word and also a point to make about how Adrian no longer makes the rules. 

Madeline also says that Jay bringing all of this into the open is called intimidation. I don’t think she’s wrong.

Landau, of course, sees all of this, and shuts things down despite Adrian and Liz telling him their employees are just “passionate.” Wow. This resolution might even lead one to think that having a law firm conduct an unstructured, seemingly mandatory debate about a personal and controversial topic is a bad strategy for getting things done! Who ever could have imagined it would lead to infighting and cross-talk? 

LOL at these sensitivity trainings and at Jay’s reaction to the watermelon example. 

Lucca is always so aware of rank in a really consistent way. It’s not so much that she craves status like an early season Cary-type might; she’s just very aware of where she ranks and who has power and what systems are at play. 

Adrian, Liz, and Diane (who’s barely had anything to do this episode) click through the sensitivity training slides very quickly. They’re definitely reading the slides.

Caleb goes to Liz and says he wants to be second chair on a case. Interesting. Curious where his character is going. 

Jay discovers the malware is coming from INSIDE THE OFFICE! It’s an STRL ploy! And we end with a very dramatic shot of Diane looking up at the ceiling. 

[the-demi-jedi]

Hello there! I want to share a story I’ve written for a local short story contest. The topic was “The Last Day on Earth”. I’d love to have some feedback from y’all, so if you could spare twenty minutes, it would be great!

Title: The Last Day Word count: 4200 (appx. six pages) Genre: Thriller, romance, mystery Trigger warning: None that I know of. If you notice something, please let me know! Summary: Dan’s life seems to be perfect with his loving wife, well-paid job and a peaceful home. However, his ideal world has been upset by a message from an unknown sender. Who is the person who seems to be threatening him? And is Dan himself the person he believes he is?

The story is a translation from Czech to English, some errors are possible probable :)

Continue reading below!

I know that not many people say this, but I really love my life.

It's already getting dark outside and I finally see my home in the distance. With a smile on my lips, I start to stride towards it faster than I already do. Today was one of the days where I had to visit my workplace personally, as I usually work from home. The genetic lottery rewarded me with a talent for learning languages, including those used for programming, so I make my living as a translator and a programmer. Since I work in two fields, I always have a commission to work on and I can't complain about money - it's enough for me to live comfortably and to the fullest.

I open the wicket in our fence and walk through the garden, beautiful and manicured thanks to my wife's almost motherly care. I approach the main door. As always, I'm greeted by a wooden plate with Dan & Anna engraved on it - it is also a result of my spouse's creative outburst. I know she feels the happiest when she has an opportunity to create something.

I unlock the door and walk in. As soon as I hang my coat on the hanger, Anna is already rushing towards me, standing on the tips of her toes and greeting me with a gentle kiss.

At first glance, Anna is a slight, a bit plain girl. Her dark hair, contrasting with her fair skin, reach her waist. Her big, gray eyes are further magnified by the eyeglasses she's wearing. Yes, we are both adults. But every time she smiles at me with her trademark shy smile, I have butterflies in my stomach like an infatuated teenager.

"I missed you," she says, grabs my hand and leads me towards the kitchen, now filled with some exotic smell. Anna's creativity is undeniable even when she's cooking - and she's always overjoyed like a child when I find her meals tasty.

Even now, her face hardly contains excitement when I wolf down her creation. We talk through the rest of the evening. I usually talk about my work, she enthusiastically introduces me to her new project - a new painting in progress, a short story she started writing yesterday... all while wearing a sweater she knitted herself.

Her bright mind just never stops - and that's one of the many reasons I love her so much. I've dated two girls before her, but with Anna, I feel a true connection for the first time. A hopeless romantic would talk about soulmates. And they would be right. Our personalities complete each other, but we have common hobbies and hopes for the future.

Anna is twenty-four. I met her when she was nineteen and I've spent the most beautiful years of my life with her. We traveled around the world before we finally settled in a nice town in Canada. We are planning to get a dog and then, when the time is right, a child.

We watch a movie after dinner. We don't have the usual disputes of a married couple, like "I want an action splatter while she insists on a rom-com" - we always agree on some nice sci-fi or fantastical movie. After the opening music, Anna grabs my hand and moves it on her head. I smile - it's our own little game. I hold her close to me and start to stroke her hair. Soon, she starts to purr like a content kitten.

As I walk towards the bedroom after the movie ends, I check the calendar on my phone. By presenting and submitting it to the client, I have finished a project I've been working on for a long time - good thing the client paid me accordingly. Satisfied with a job well done, I cross the project off my schedule.

The deadline for my next project, a dull translation of legal documents in Korean, is in three months, so I can feel free to forget about it for a few days. Maybe I could take Anna somewhere tomorrow, perhaps for a dinner out.

Or maybe I could forget about the work for a week and take her for a trip to the mountains. A few days in a cozy, romantic cabin? Why not. I could always catch up with the commission later.

"You're up to something, right?" Anna, dressed in a nightgown, smiles at me with her eyebrows raised. "I know that thoughtful face very well!"

"Maybe I am, maybe I am not," I reply.

"Tell me!" she squeals and attacks me with the full force of her one hundred and fifty-five centimeters. She knocks me down on the bed and we both burst into laughter. Despite the torture techniques she uses on me (tickling, for example), I don't break. It will be a surprise.

An hour and half later, I fall asleep; Anna's quiet breath creates a pleasant ambiance. I'm looking forward to the upcoming days. No work; no Korean symbols and no Cyrillic to translate. Just me and my beloved.

I really do love my life.

 ...

When I wake up the next day, Anna is already in the kitchen, conjuring up the breakfast. She has always been an early bird. I hear her soft, high-pitched voice singing as she cooks. She's far from a perfect singer, but to me, she sounds like a perfect symphony.

When walking into the bathroom, I can't avoid looking in the mirror. I always wonder how did I manage to charm her so much she was willing to marry me even though I look like a typical computer nerd: skinny, not too tall, with a goatee and a hipster-style haircut. The people mostly guess I'm that kind of bachelor who dwells in his man-cave situated in my mother's basement.

Well, it's not that Anna and I don't have a gaming cave. When she's gaming and going through a tough part, she can be really noisy and only pieces of chocolate placed into her mouth can stop the foul words she sometimes uses. I am that type of calm, level-headed gamer.

Before I set the course towards the kitchen and my wife, I check my phone. My lockscreen wallpaper is, of course, my photo with Anna. The picture was taken at the ComicCon - I'm wearing a costume of Lord Revan and she's my Bastila Shan. I didn't have to push her into that. In fact, the costumes were her idea.

A notification is covering a part of the photo: 1 new message.

I roll my eyes. If it is a new client, I can forget about the trip to the mountains right away.

My annoyed face changes to surprised once I notice the sender's ID is set as Private number. And then, after reading the message, I feel only fear and confusion.

This is your last day. Prepare for the departure.

What the hell is this supposed to mean?

The timestamp tells me the message came at three in the morning.

Is this a threat? Am I the next victim of a serial killer with a wicked sense of humor? I stop and think. I have no enemies, if I don't count Anna's parents - it's no surprise they imagined their daughter's future spouse as a banker or a successful entrepreneur. However, after they found out I can take good care of their girl, they warmed up a little.

I hyperventilate. I read those two damned sentences over and over again.

"Dan! The pancakes la Francé are done!" I hear Anna chirping in the kitchen.

"Just a minute!" I reply with muffled nervosity in my voice.

Should I tell her about the message? I don't know. We promised each other we won't hide any secrets. But she would go crazy if I told her. She's an alarmist prone to panicking. I can vividly imagine her screaming into the phone while calling the police, hugging me and hysterically wailing about not wanting to lose me.

Maybe I should involve the police. It's not a direct threat, but how else can I interpret it? Wait. Maybe I've just forgotten a commission and the client is reminding me. However, it wouldn't explain the "departure". Moreover, I meticulously note every new commission I receive. Anna, who is a chaotic, often mocks me for being too organized to the point my schedule is crafted minute-by-minute.

Well, I can't solve it here and now. I sigh and go to Anna.

Naturally, I have lost my appetite, so I have to endure the pain in Anna's eyes when I just nibble at the food.

"You don't like it?" she peeps. "I tried so hard..."

Yeah, do it. Make my situation even harder. "It's delicious," I assure her. I try to come up with something that could excuse me acting strange for the next twenty-four hours. "It's just... one of my clients who often employs me has problems with his business and it's likely he'll go bankrupt. I'd lose a part of the money I make and we'd have to tighten our belts until I find someone else."

She examines me with her eyes. She can tell when I'm making things up. Then she decides to just smile at me. Perhaps she decided to trust me - or decided she doesn't want to know the truth for now.

"Come on, Dan, you know it's not about money," she says. "We have some savings and after all... the best things are free," she winks at me.

I return her the smile and swallow the rest of the pancakes.

 ...

I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking. It's not as easy as usual. Anna just flutters around me like a hummingbird and constantly asks me to do something with her. I'm just a step away from snapping at her, but I've never raised my voice at her before and I'm determined not to start now.

In the end, I decide it would be the best to stick to the plan I came up with yesterday.

I lock myself in my workroom and scour the internet for two hours or so, looking for cabins in the mountains I could rent. I smile. Someone's going after me? I'll simply run away. And if I can turn the escape into a vacation with Anna, the better.

The offers repeatedly let me know that I should have booked something sooner. As I start to get frustrated, an offer peeks at me - it's a cozy, well-furnished cabin about a hundred kilometers away from here. The couple who had it booked canceled at the last minute.

I immediately book the cabin and make the payment. Then I leave the workroom. I find Anna in the living room, with a drawing tablet in her hand. I put on a big smile and tell her the news.

As I have expected, joyful squealing and hugging follows. "Adventure!" Anna cheers as she sprints up the stairs into the bedroom where she packs her things. She's clapping her hands like a little girl.

I also pack my stuff; unlike Anna, I only take what I find necessary. It's fascinating how different, yet the same we are. I'm so happy to have her. I have to survive the night so I can be here for her throughout the upcoming days, months, years.

As soon as we finish packing, I cram our luggage (as I've expected, Anna has packed about three times as much as I did) into the trunk of our Mercedes and then we hit the road.

The car radio is playing and Anna joyfully sings along every song she knows. Despite her questionable qualities as a singer, she cheers me up and I allow myself to get carried away. As Anna, Jon and I scream the lyrics of an evergreen Bon Jovi song at the top of our lungs, I even forget about the anonymous message.

I guess it's some kind of mistake after all. The message was intended for someone else. I amuse myself by imagining some low-ranking gangster having trouble with his Don, trying to blame his failure on a message that wasn't delivered. Finally, I feel like myself again.

 ...

Snow comes with rising altitude. When we finally reach the place where the cabin is supposed to be, all the trees around us are snow-covered. I see the excitement in Anna's bright eyes. And seeing this is worth all the trouble. I guess I was sent to Earth just to make this girl happy.

We park the car right next to the cabin, grab our luggage and step inside. I have to admit it really is cozy. The furniture smells of wood. There is a huge fireplace; Anna immediately lights it up. The warm light and the heat from the fire soon fill the room. For a solid while, we just sit in front of the fireplace, close to each other.

The stress is slowly fading away. I guess I really only needed to unwind a little.

As we settle in the cabin, Anna insists on building snowmen outside. Without hesitation, I join the childish fun. We do funny things with our snowmen, both proper and improper things, and we laugh so hard we can't breathe. We go back inside once Anna's cheeks are red due to freezing temperatures.

When I look at the grandfather clock standing in the corner, the smile freezes on my lips. Five in the afternoon. I have ten hours left.

Oh come on, Dan... you told yourself to let it go. It was a mistake.

Anna prepares a kettle of hot chocolate. Neither of us drinks alcohol and this is a perfect alternative for mulled wine. With Anna around, I don't have to restrain my inner child. Neither does she. We don't have to pretend to be something we're not around each other.

We enjoy the rest of the evening and then hit the bed. A huge window allows us to see outside, where the moonlight glimmers on the snow both on the trees and on the ground.

Anna is huddled close to me, but I'm more and more nervous as the night goes on.

"What's wrong with you?" she asks me suddenly.

"Nothing," I reply.

"Stop lying to me!" I hear traces of anger in her voice, possibly for the first time. "I know how you are when you're okay - and also when you're not okay. And right now, you're nowhere close to the laid-back Dan!"

I look at the clock. Midnight. Three hours left.

With an exasperated sigh, I show her the message.

Anna gasps in shock. "Why... why didn't you tell me sooner?" her voice immediately rises into a panicked falsetto. You should have called the police! Do something! Oh God, Dan... who could have sent this to you?"

"And this is exactly why I decided not to tell you. You'd be a bundle of nerves for the entire day. It's most probably just a mistake or a prank, you know, sending threats to a random number. I'm sure nothing will happen." I kiss her forehead and Anna calms down a little, even though I still hear her muffled sobs.

"I'll stay awake," she whispers. "If someone comes for you... I'll protect you."

I pull the girl closer to me and start to stroke her hair. "I won't allow anyone to hurt you. And in case anything happened to me, I want you to know I love you more than my own life. You know that, right?"

She nods.

 ...

The minutes pass. Two in the morning. Every sound I hear startles me.

Is my last day about to end?

At 2:46, I see a movement behind the window. I shush Anna and listen carefully. It seems someone is lurking around our cabin.

Strangely, I don't feel fear, just an urge to square up with the bastard who ruined my precious moments with Anna. I slip out of the bed, dress into my jacket and boots I left next to the bed, just in case, and grab a fire poker I found by the fireplace.

It won't be much useful if the intruder has a firearm. But it gives both me and Anna at least some sense of security. "Stay close to me," I whisper and hand the girl her coat.

I keep an eye on the part of the forest visible behind the window. Nothing. I have the poker in one hand, the other hand is squeezed by Anna. Then I see it - a flash of blue light, similar to a flashlight. So they are illuminating their way. Fine.

"We have to get to the car," I tell Anna. "Someone has followed us here."

The girl nods and tightens her grip on my hand.

As quiet as possible, I open the door and step outside. The pajama pants don't protect me from the cold much. I look around, trying to spot the intruder's flashlight again. I actually catch one more blue flash, but I'm not sure where did it come from.

"Quickly, quickly!” I mutter through clenched teeth, dragging mortified Anna towards the car. I keep expecting a gunshot that would end my last day on Earth.

The blue light appears again. I press the "unlock" button on my car keys. The red headlights of the Mercedes beam into the night, as if they wanted to battle the blue glow. The gunshots will come now. The author of the message will either try to damage our tires or simply gun me down before I reach the car.

I don't care. As long as Anna is safe.

I open the driver's door and literally throw Anna into the car. I did it. Even if I died now, Anna would make it - she doesn't have a driving license, but she has some knowledge about how to operate a car. She would be able to get away.

"GET IN!" she shrieks as she scrambles to the passenger's seat. Illuminated by the blue light, I try to cram myself into the car. I expect pain. The blood throbs in my ears to the rhythm of Anna's sobs.

I thrust the key into the ignition. The car comes alive. The clock on the dashboard tell me it's 2:58. Two more minutes and I'll survive my last day.

The blue light now engulfs the whole vehicle. I look around, trying to figure out where is it coming from. To my shock, I realize the light source has to be above the car. The position of shadows clearly points to that.

"Dan... what is it? What is it?!” Anna screams. “For God's sake, GO!”

I try. However... I feel something strange is happening to me. As if the connection between my body and my mind was fading away. I am trying to rev up the car, but at the same time, I feel like someone else is doing it. Thoughts fill my head - thoughts that are seemingly not mine. Bizarre images and memories.

Only one thing still binds me to this reality. Anna's tear-drenched face. She calls my name, but I can't hear it right. She shakes me. Tries to start the car herself.

2:59:56

"I love you," I manage to whisper.

2:59:58

The blue light is separating my body and soul.

3:00:00

"DAN!" Anna's shriek is the last thing I hear before my mind gets sucked into the void.

 ...

I wake up. However, I have no idea where I am. Or who I am.

The memories of Anna mix up with brand new perceptions. A room full of computer screens and holographic projections that seem so alien and unreal, but eerily familiar at the same time.

"Inhale, exhale, my friend," I hear a voice behind me. They're speaking a language I shouldn't be even able to pronounce - yet I still understand it perfectly. "You've done a good job."

"I've done a job...?" I mutter in that strange language.

My vision is becoming clearer. I'm sitting on some weird chair. Then, the speaker shows himself. I flinch. He's not human. But wait... neither am I. I'm the same as him. I know him. We're friends.

Slowly, the memories of what I've done start coming back to me.

The friend removes a faintly glowing, crystalline helmet from my head and offers me his hand. I accept it, leave the chair and make a few steps. The computer lab now makes more sense to me. I know how to operate it. However, a part of my mind is still with Anna.

"Take your time," the friend smiles after he notices my confused expression. "Living as a human for thirty-two years, from birth to adulthood... that must be pretty demanding, right?"

"You have no idea," I say. Thirty-two years. A few minutes ago, it would seem like a long time to me. Now I perceive it as a moment, an insignificant stretch of time. I remember how it's like to measure time in millennia and eons.

Despite that, those insignificant thirty-two years changed something in me.

I shuffle towards a window. I am high above the ground. It's dark, it must be the nighttime. I see a city below me - strange, surreal buildings illuminated by sterile, bluish light. When I look up at the sky, I see glowing, shattered pieces of space objects and iridescent clouds of a nearby nebula.

Finally, I see my enclave again. Even though I was gone just for a spell, it seems like an eternity to me.

I catch myself still thinking in the human language. I try to find a word describing what am I, but it's not as easy, considering the humans' limited vocabulary.

An alien? No, that's not it. I guess the term interdimensional being is the closest to the truth. We have almost nothing in common with humans, and yet, we're almost the same.

The friend approaches one of the computers. "You have done well. So much data in just thirty-two years. Now we know enough about their world to finally commence the harvest."

The last missing pieces of my memory hit the right spots.

The harvest.

Anna.

"No, you can't do that!" I shove the friend away from the computer. "Stop the harvest! Please! Anna is there... I can't just leave her there! Stop it!”

The friend laughs and lays his hand on my shoulder. "And here we go - the post-extraction hysteria. Sooner or later, it affects all the Pathfinders. Just keep calm. You'll be alright. However, you had to be pretty hard-wired in that world since the message we transmit a day before extraction didn't make you remember who you are."

A Pathfinder. Yes, this is what I am. An individual whose mind is implanted into a being from a different world to live a life of the said being, gathering as much information about their world as possible throughout a single lifetime. The data are then analyzed to prepare an optimal strategy of the harvest. At the same time, the mind of the Pathfinder is returned into their original body through a dimensional rift.

Blue light...

"You can't do that," I feebly try one more time. "Stop it."

"The humans are low on the stairs of evolution," the friend tries to calm me down. "They live for seventy, eighty years. Just a blink of an eye. And if we commence the harvest, our world will be able to sustain for several more centuries." He shrugs. "I know that we're the ones responsible for this and now we have to sacrifice other worlds to save ours. But it is how it is. The strong prey on the weak."

I stare out of the window, watching the harvesting machines getting prepared on a vast plain nearby. Giant, nightmarish machines. Ozone layer siphons. Water pumps. Solar panels. Oxygen extractors. And more. There seems to be an infinite number of them.

I know what happens when they fulfill their purpose. The world that witnesses their rampage is fated to die. It becomes a lifeless wasteland just for the sake of making our world survive for a few more centuries.

I clench my fists. Even though the human life is already fading away from my memory, one thing still lingers there - Anna. What is she doing now. I can do nothing to save her. In a moment, the machines will enter her world through a dimensional rift and steal everything life-giving.

Anna knows nothing. Maybe it's better that way. Right now, she's probably mourning Dan's apparent death. She will soon realize how petty this problem is.

Yes, humans are primitive. They only live for seventy years, they only have five basic senses and they didn't advance much as a species. But I still can't stop thinking about the hidden gems of the humankind. I've spent just a few years with her, but still, I won't forget her.

Maybe in a few eons.

The blue light of a dimensional rift starts to glow above the harvest machines. It will take roughly a day until it's stable enough to allow transport.

One day.

I think about how is Anna, and the rest of the humankind, going to spend the last day on Earth.

...

The end!

If you liked the story, you can comment, share or >donate< if you have some spare change ^^ If you didn’t, feel free to come to my ask box and ask me to never write again... too bad, because I will anyway :)

[mollymauk-teafleak]

All Is Well (widomauk courtesan AU)

How Mollymauk Tealeaf came to work at the Lavish Chateau

Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment on Ao3! 

---------

Sometimes Marion would miss it.

When she sat in her office, which she kept purposely aside from the rest of her brothel, soundproofed and even decorated in a completely clashing scheme from the rest of it all, she would sit alone with books of numbers and order forms and client lists and miss being out there. This had always been what she’d wanted, to own her own house, keep her own place, know that everything was exactly how she wanted it and that everyone who passed through her doors was safe. She had been in enough places that were… otherwise… to have it mean a lot to her.

But still, she would miss it. Never for long, never enough to regret anything, but enough.

If she had the time, if there were no jobs immediately demanding her attention, sometimes Marion would indulge the nostalgic longing that lived in the back of her mind. She would leave the accounts and books and go linger in the bar room, in the booth that was kept clear for her. The bartender would never need to be asked, within a minute there would be a flute of her favourite fruit and champagne cocktail by her hand, and the music would shift and swim in accordance with her tastes.

It was nice to watch it unfold in front of her, the games they all played, subtle, intricate little games barely perceptible to the clients or anyone who didn’t live this life. Knowing when to approach, when to lean just a little further in. When another drink was called for or when to give the server a sign in the hand language unique to the Lavish Chateau workers that the next order needed to be watered down. How to read a client’s wants and wishes, the ones they could barely admit to themselves, in slight shifts of muscle. How to subtly wave over a partner to join the conversation and the eventual revels that would happen upstairs. It was an art in itself, the foreplay and build up, as much as anything that went on in the floors above.

Marion could watch it all and fondly remember when she had been the best at it.

She chuckled to herself that night, sipping her glass, noting happily that it was peach today. You’re getting old, she admonished herself gently as the bubbles popped on her tongue, sitting here with your glory days…

She could imagine most people would think it was a terrible thing, a bitter sad irony, to be a courtesan growing old. Marion smirked in their hypothetical faces.

She came back into the room as a different song began, something softer and sweeter than before, mostly piano. And that was when she noticed the marr in her perfect view. The oddity.

Yasha had spied him too, she noticed, probably before Marion. She was a brand new hire, young and quiet but very good at her job, of course she’d already seen him and was subtly, inconspicuously making her way towards him. Marion held herself stiffer than before, ready to stand and insert herself if trouble was on the cards. Of course she wasn’t as physically intimidating as her new bouncer but she knew how to eject difficult clients.

But, as Yasha reached the figure hunched over the bar and spoke a few, stern words- the only kind of words Yasha was really capable of speaking- she didn’t move to grab him or ferry him to the door. She only looked back to Marion and it wasn’t annoyance or exasperation in her eyes.

She looked worried.

Within a heartbeat Marion was on her feet, heels clicking sharply against the floor as she crossed over. As she grew closer, she noticed several things about the stranger in quick succession, her well honed skills of observation and reading people supplying her quickly and smoothly.

He was filthy. He was young. He was thin.

And he looked terrified.

Marion sank into the stool beside him, bringing herself to his level. He was a tiefling like herself, though an unusual deep purple colour she hadn’t come across before. So not from around here. He was dressed in a dark robe, though dark by design or by the soil and dirt that clung to it, she couldn’t immediately tell.  And underneath it… well he didn’t appear to be wearing anything apart from some tattoos. Not as unusual in a brothel as it would be in some places but still, odd.

“Good evening sir,” Marion smiled as if nothing was amiss, “Are you enjoying your time here?”

He didn’t seem to have heard her at first; his pointed ears, bracketed by an impressive set of horns, didn’t even flicker. But then his cracked lips moved slightly and he murmured something softly.

Marion leaned in, frowning delicately, “M… T? Is that your name?”

“Empty,” Yasha corrected, voice soft so as to use the chatter around them as a cover, “That’s all he said to me too.”

A very bad feeling stirred in Marion’s chest, “Sir? What’s empty?”

The tiefling just gave the barest shake of his head, his curls too matted with dirt and grease to move with the motion.

“Do you need us to get you some medical attention, sir?”

Again, nothing, just a slight intake of breath like he was trying to repeat his only word but couldn’t manage. But Marion could make her own assessment.

“Call for my daughter please, Yasha, if you would be so kind?”

Yasha hesitated, looking between her boss and the young man as if worried to leave them alone.

“I’m just going to take him up to my rooms and help him get cleaned off.  We’ll be fine,” Marion assured her gently.

That answer didn’t seem to assuage Yasha any but she just nodded, “I won’t be long.”

Moving the young man was easy, there was no resistance at all in his muscles and he just half stumbled in the direction he was pointed. Now they were drawing glances, her workers picking up on the snag in the usually calm and relaxed atmosphere, but Marion gave reassuring smiles all around, answering them in their shared language of hand movements that could be so easily missed by clients. All is well.

The young man- the empty young man, as Marion was starting to think of him in her head, as horrible a name as that was- sat on the bed in her private suite, staring into thin air. Like the shadows on the wall were forming an elaborate, absorbing puppet show that only he could see.

Marion set the shower running for him and tried to gesture him to the en suite, “Shall we get you cleaned up?”

Nothing. No kind of response.

Sighing softly, Marion went over to him and guided him to his feet. The dirt clinging to him seemed to be mostly soil, there were green flecks to it if you looked closely. It was particularly crusted under his nails, as if he’d been clawing at the stuff like some kind of digging animal. The robe he wore was far too big for him, seen in close proximity, not just because of how thin he was underneath. It looked as though it was more shroud than cloak.

Marion set her jaw and helped him into the bathroom. He gave absolutely no resistance to her undressing him, like he didn’t feel the fabric against his skin. He was trans, she noted, adding that to her scant information on him. The gently warmed water falling on him drew no reaction either. Though after a moment, when she turned back to him after throwing his robe in the hamper, she could almost see less tension in his muscles, like he’d relaxed ever so slightly in the warmth.

She heard the door to her apartment open behind her. There was only one person who would ever come into her rooms without knocking.

“Mama?” Jester’s voice called, curious. Clearly Yasha had told her a little about their current mystery.

“One moment,” Marion returned, putting a hand out under the water to gently touch the man on the shoulder, not caring when rivulets of scented soap ran under the billowing sleeve of her dress, “I’ll be back soon, alright? My daughter will check any hurts you have.”

She was expecting nothing, more speaking because it would be rude not to. But he inclined his head ever so slightly, water now streaming through his filthy hair and down his face.

“Empty…” he whispered, so soft that it could just have been part of the water’s gentle voice. He sounded so young, so frightened.

Marion gave his shoulder a squeeze, feeling a slighter, smaller version of the same love and fear she held inside her for her daughter. He did look so much like her after all, he could hardly have more than a handful of years on her.

“We will fix this,” she promised, meaning it as much as she could, “And you’re safe here until we do.”

The young man didn’t say his word again and he moved back slightly, as if allowing her to go. Marion went to go but her eyes were suddenly caught on something. They fixed on the young man’s hand, fallen limply by his side. Now it was clean she could see with perfect, horrible clarity just how torn they were, how the skin of his hands was full of ragged splinters, how his knuckles had split, the awful gashes on his fingers.

And they weren’t the only wounds he had. They were simply the only fresh ones.

Every inch of his skin was covered with white, slim scars like a falling of snow. Some were nicks, some were long, all of them cleanly done with a sword that must have been as sharp as a razor.

Marion’s shout for Jester caught in her throat.

There were always spare rooms available in the Lavish Chateau. Marion didn’t have a high turnover in her staff but new faces were always welcome, provided they fit in.

Not that their new guest fit in. But he was welcome all the same.

Marion went to check on him whenever she could spare the time. When she couldn’t, there was always Yasha, who seemed to consider herself in charge of their visitor. It had started as a need to guard him, worrying that whatever violent impulses had earned him so many scars might suddenly reawaken. But now it seemed to be more protective, sitting with him while he slept for when he inevitably woke with nightmares, encouraging him to eat when he was reluctant.

Of course she was there when Marion pushed back the door after a gentle knock. She sat cross legged on the bed with the tiefling opposite her, mirroring her position. He did that a lot, copying others when he was unsure of what to do.

“How are we doing today?” Marion smiled fondly, letting the door close. Of course everyone was maddeningly curious about their guest but he needed his privacy.

“Good,” Yasha gave her a smile, “Watch…”

She faced Molly and clearly, rather formally signed to him in the house’s language. Hello. How are you?

The tiefling bit his lip and signed back to her, his own movements nervous and unsure but it was unmistakably an answer in the same language. I am fine. All is well.

Marion smiled delightedly. The difference in the young man was clear, just how much he’d improved from how he’d been a month ago. He moved on his own, his face held expressions. He still couldn’t talk but he asked for things after his own fashion. He seemed to want to be alone most of the time, the noisy brothel seemed to frighten him a little, but his hands were bandaged and his eyes were clear and present.

And now he could speak to them.

“Yasha, what a wonderful idea,” Marion patted her back fondly, “This is brilliant, it will help him so much.”

Yasha coloured a little, shocking against her pale skin, “I just thought it would be nice if he could  talk to us and if he can’t use his voice… he’s the one that’s picking it up so quickly. He’s learned that in just a few hours.”

He fidgeted a little, looking pleased by the praise. He didn’t always understand what people said to him, like it all came to him through a fog and some things would get lost along the way. But he was good at picking up on tones in people’s voices.

“Well, Mollymauk, well done to you too,” Marion smiles, happy to see him pleased.

Yasha blinked curiously, “Mollymauk? Is that what we’re calling him?”

Marion gave a delicate shrug, sitting in her reading chair, “Well, I had to call him something until he remembers his name. And people are asking about him.”

“It’s a nice name. What does it mean?”

“Well, it’s a kind of albatross,” Marion said thoughtfully, watching Molly who had retreated inside himself a little, practising the hand motions from before until they were sure and certain, “And that seemed to fit him. He’s clearly from the Coast and he just seems like he’s travelled so far. And he looks so unusual, he deserved an unusual name.”

His ears seemed to pick up at that, glancing over at the two of them and giving a small smile. A smile that looked like it might grow.

“Mollymauk,” Marion repeated, “Would that be okay with you?” She translated the name and the question into the hand gestures as she spoke. It took a while to spell out, her hands flitting through the shapes with grace and delicacy.

He tilted his head a little as he processed that, then he looked pleased, answering her with more confidence than before.

Yes. All is well.

Marion always wrote her letters to Ophelia Mardun carefully. They were good friends, lovers on a few occasions when she was back in town and the mood had taken them, but she would never be someone Marion wouldn’t watch her words with.

She was partway through the letter when the knock came at the door. She looked up and spoke a soft welcome, knowing who it would be before he entered.

A year at the Lavish Chateau had changed Mollymauk more than she’d ever have thought possible. He stood much taller than he had before, he wore his own clothes comfortably- patterned leggings and a billowing shirt under a fitted waistcoat- and his horns held bands and caps of gold. Though he’d never be anything but slender, wiry at best, he was fuller than he ever had been and a smile sat comfortably on his face like it was the norm. There were tattoos on his skin that hadn’t been there a year before and his fingers held no trace of ever having being damaged.

Though the scars everywhere else remained. Marion didn’t think they’d ever go away.

“Good afternoon, Molly,” Marion smiled easily, “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” he came in and sank into the chair opposite her desk, the one with the plush velvet cushions. Marion never wanted her guests to feel uncomfortable.

At first Molly’s voice had been wobbly and uncertain, just like his sign language had been the first few times. It had come back in drips a few months after his arrival. He’d remembered words here and there, a lot of it copied from Yasha or Jester or Marion, like a parrot in behaviour as well as his colouring. But once he’d mastered a few small sentences, it came to him quickly, his natural skill for quickly picking things up helping him massively. It was a nice voice in the end, gently accented, quick to laugh and joke.

Before long, Marion returned with a little clay teapot, just big enough for two, soft whorls of jasmine scented smoke emerging from the spout. She filled both their cups, not wanting it to be over brewed and bitter.  She knew Molly didn’t like that, he could be quite particular about his tea.

She’d chosen his first name for him, he’d chosen his second. It seemed to amuse him, given how the first few days he’d been here- days that seemed so long ago now- he couldn’t be persuaded to take any nourishment other than weak tea. He’d also more recently gotten into different methods of fortune telling, tarot cards being his favourite but tea leaves had been his first attempt.

Marion found that passing strange, someone with no past being determined to peer into the future. She supposed she could understand it. With one being lost to him, maybe he just wanted to reach forward and have some sense of control. She’d never asked.

He still did love his tea though.

“What’s on your mind, dear?” she asked softly, watching him blow on his tea to cool it, cupping the little clay mug protectively.

Molly didn’t look surprised that she already knew he had something to say. He’d gotten used to her rather eerie perceptiveness.

“I wanted to ask you something…” he sat back, not lifting his eyes from his tea, “Seeing as I’ve officially been here a year and all.”

Marion nodded, the significance of the day hadn’t been lost on her either.

Molly seemed to take a breath, like he was steeling himself a little, “I want to work here.”

Marion absorbed that, blinking steadily, “Mollymauk… you know I’m happy to have you here. But there’s still so much you don’t know? Yet you’ve never shown any interest in looking into it…”

“I know,” Molly said hurriedly, red eyes wide and worried, “And it’s not like I haven’t thought about it. But I don’t want to.”  

“You don’t want to? Molly, there could be a life out there waiting for you…”

Molly’s face twisted with unpleasant memories, “A life that ended with me in a grave. Whatever happened back then, I have no idea and I don’t want any idea,” he sighed softly, “All I know for sure is I’m happy right now. I’m happy here. And I want to stay here.”

Marion tilted her head gently, “There’s...there’s other places, Molly, different kinds of work, if you really wanted a fresh start. Some people wouldn’t call what we do here an honourable life or even a good life.”

He didn’t seem surprised by that, the clandestine nature of their home was obvious in a number of subtle ways and inferring from that wouldn’t be difficult, “I don’t understand that. How is it any different from the city market? People need touch and comfort as much as they need anything on those stalls and giving it to them is important. It’s fun here, it’s bright and there’s always laughter and… and it’s safe. I like that. I want to be part of it.”

Marion reached out and put her hands over Molly’s where he held the cup, “Molly, if this is really what you want then of course you can work for us. You’re already part of our family.”

Mollymauk looked relieved at that, smiling hugely, the lamplight catching on the points of his teeth, “Thank you! Thank you so much, I’ll be as good as I can possibly be, I’ll always show up on time, I’ll do whatever you need…”

She laughed brightly, wondering if she’d ever had anyone be so enthusiastic. A year ago, she never would have let someone in Mollymauk’s condition sign up to be a courtesan. But looking at him now, he was so far from the scared, flinching man who’d stumbled into her Chateau just looking for warmth and light. His thoughts were his own, his words were his own, his decisions were his own.

Marion smiled warmly and withdrew, giving him her reply in their own hand language, just for old time’s sake.

You are welcome. All is well.

If she had the time, Marion liked to come linger in the bar.

It was strange how much had changed in a year and how much hadn’t. The taste of peaches and champagne on her tongue was the same. The sound of laughter and love would always be the same. The pride she felt as she sat back in her booth and let her golden eyes slide across the scene in front of her was the same.

What was different were the faces, the clients and some of the workers. Yasha was taller where she stood by the door, a greatsword visible over her shoulder that would have been near impossible for her to heft two years ago. Beauregard, a runaway from some high ranking family she wouldn’t reveal but Marion could guess, was laughing with her daughter over at the bar.

And Mollymauk Tealeaf was in the middle of it, laughing louder than anyone, playfully perched in the lap of a lawmaster, whispering something in his ear while simultaneously signing over to Yasha an unkind but hilarious comment on the scent of his client’s breath.

Marion rolled her eyes fondly, catching his eye and signing for him to play nice. Molly grinned, completely unabashed, and gave her a wave.

He wasn’t always on time. He wasn’t the most reliable of her workers. But Marion still felt a strong love for him, the same she’d felt when he’d first sat at her bar, the feeling that reminded her so much of her love for her daughter.

That hadn’t changed. And it never would.

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations NOEL! You’ve been accepted as IAPETUS.

This was the hardest decision we’ve ever had to make. Both of the applications for Jack were so damn good and we went back and forth on it. But, the way Jack idealizes Alma in your expanded connection has what hooked us, Noel! The way you ended Jacks bio to everything written about Alma, to this “He’d expected a gun to his face; instead, he’d gotten a lifeline.” This, this line right here had us SOBBING. We can’t wait to see you bring Jack to life on the dash! 

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information: 

NAME/ALIAS: Noel :~)

PRONOUNS: They/them

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: CDT / GMT-5

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Jack Mizuno

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cismale, he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:  

I see Jack as someone with an identity whose boundaries are constantly in flux, and the consequences of that endless/unsure sense of self. Someone (largely) unrepressed, unrepentant, unashamed, whose depth comes from his own unknown limitations, and the exhilaration that comes with exploring that edge. What could he do, what will he do? He hardly knows himself, but rather than being a problem, it’s a challenge, a philosophical question. He shares his brain with so much all the time, and sometimes the space between himself and everything else is more a suggestion than a defined line. 

He’s like one of those kids raised in excessive, grotesque wealth, except with information instead of money; information, which is often power. Definitely someone who never learned to shut up, turn down the drink or the job or the daring glance. No one can be tapped into the Internet like that, an endless sea of screaming neon and screens and signs and meaning and nonsense and desire, and not be a little bit unhinged. He combats this with a straight-forward, analytical nature, a temperament capable of riding the crest of all that data without drowning. Most of the time. 

Ultimately, Jack is someone with immediate access to anything and everything he could ever want to know, and a personality just morally flexible enough that he wouldn’t for a moment think to feel ashamed using it against someone.

BIO: (cw: neglect, violence, addiction, drugs, suicidal ideation)

Jack’s power had started as a party trick.

It was the first time he’d been invited to a sleepover. The other boy’s parents probably felt bad for him, the kid with no mom and no friends and an always-absent father, but the specifics didn’t matter much. He’d been hungry for their attention, anyone’s attention, and when the opportunity was given to him he intended to leave an impression. Do you have a computer room? There’s something you should see. He’d rested one hand on the mouse, one on the keyboard, scowling-serious like the hackers he’d seen on TV. The posture was more for the visual than anything else; he wasn’t going to need to press a single key tonight. Give me a name. Someone you hate.

One brush of his thumb against a wire, and the screen flickered a hundred colors. Garbled words and images, resolving into a series of personal photos, emails meant for someone else’s eyes. A social security card. A private world cracked open for him, as easy as asking please.

It was the last time he’d let anyone watch him work. The other kids had looked at him in horror, his still hands, the blank look on his face. Blank as the static on a broken TV, or the waxy face of a corpse. Freak. Mutant. It didn’t bother him— other people’s opinions rarely bothered him— but it made the reveal less effective. Distracted from the point, which was: Look what I can do. And, more importantly: What can you give me for it?

Jack had been glad when they'd moved states not long after. Moving every few months was mostly an annoyance, but it did give him an unlimited supply of second chances at first impressions. By his teens, he’d perfected his routine. Cash for information. Blackmail, answers to tests, access to any secret. Any question answered, for the right price. Even if he had nothing to spend the money on but video games, candy, cigarettes and (eventually) drugs, whatever— it was the power that got to him, the real fun of the exchange. Before long his clientele had expanded from his fellow students to the local teachers. Then their friends. Then, a more dangerous kind of customer. More dangerous friends. If his father noticed his new schedule of late-night outings, he never mentioned it. Richard Mizuno had never been much of a parent, coming and going with no notice, sometimes for weeks on end. When they were sleeping in the same house, he didn’t seem to notice Jack’s movements around him at all.

Jack got caught when he was fifteen. A client looking for dirt on a cheating spouse recognized him, his dark hair, those blank eyes. Hey, aren’t you Mizuno’s kid? It was inevitable, running in circles adjacent to criminals, that he’d eventually run into someone who knew his own criminal father. Rich was a small-time con man and a big-time gambler. What money he made never lasted long in his pockets; it was rare that he made more than he lost, and outrunning his debts had been what kept them on the move through Jack’s childhood. That evening, his father called him into the kitchen and passed him a cigarette over the cheap plastic table where they’d never eaten a meal together. That evening, his father looked at him with interest for the first time in his life.

Once again his ability was a party trick, this time for his father’s benefit. Something to show off to strangers in the back rooms of clubs and anonymous private basements. Look what I found on you. Imagine what I could find on your enemies. Blackmail was a dirty business, but it paid better than the various scams his father had been working through the years. Pretty soon, they were making good money, more in a week than they’d previously seen in months. For the first time, they signed an actual lease on an apartment. He swapped out his Craigslist bed frame for one from Ikea. Soon, all Jack’s evenings were spent scowling in corners, the prop for his father’s grand reveal, and his mornings were spent sleeping through classes. He didn’t need to be present for the actual deals, but his dad liked leaving an impression, and silent boy genius hacker was a pretty memorable one.

That routine lasted nearly three years. The Mizunos made a name for themselves as the ones who could get dirt on anyone, anytime, and bore no strict alliances; it was more lucrative that way. Their reputation began to precede them. Even at a young age, Jack knew enough about the world— enough from watching his father, and the men who came after him— to know it could never end well. Inevitably, his dad made a gamble on the wrong person, and got a bullet in the head for his trouble. Jack took what was left of their money and ran as far as he could run, all the way to the opposite coast, into the familiar arms of an anonymous face and an unfamiliar town.

In another life, that would have been his lesson to take a sharp right turn and set down some more legitimate roots. As it was, he’d spent his years honing his abilities, learning how to control them and sell them to the highest bidder. The money was too easy, the satisfaction of a new impossible puzzle cracked— it was addictive, all-encompassing. Where most people only accessed a trickle of information at a time, their own personal corner of infinity, Jack bathed in it.  All the world’s secrets at his fingertips, if he did things right, if he kept at it. Every puzzle had its solution. He could have anything and everything in the world he could want, and at that moment all he wanted was more.

He was so cocky. Cocky, and empty, and often bored. Sometimes high. It was a dangerous combination. First, he got run out of New York with his life, just barely. He’d bet on the wrong person, someone who knew that all it took to get him to do something was telling him he couldn’t. Nothing more attractive than a locked door and a challenge. Nothing better than proving someone wrong. Next stop, Chicago, where he hadn’t fallen into old habits as much as his only habits. It started with some high-powered mutant at a house party, looking him up and down with a raised brow— This guy? Really?— and it was like he lost his fucking mind. People could call him any name in the books and he wouldn’t bat a pretty eyelash, but questioning his abilities set him off like a rabid dog, what little common sense he had disappearing behind a smirk. All the mutant had to do was cock his head and ask, Can you? And Jack had said, Try me.

Jack would show them. He would show everyone in the entire world if he had to. And that was how he’d found himself on the wrong side of the Blackburn Syndicate.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS: 

ALMA: When Jack looked up from his crouch on the floor of the Blackburn server room and saw Alma, pure rage in a five-foot-two frame and looking ready to snap his neck, he’d laughed. In the split second between seeing their face and recognizing it, his mind tried the odds of getting out of that room alive and came up with the equivalent of an error message. So this was it, his penultimate moment, the last bad decision in a history of bad decisions. He’d lived his life from one increasingly risky gamble to the next, always left unsatisfied and searching for the next big thing-- assuming he didn’t get his face kicked in first. Not a great way to live if longevity was a priority, but he’d been running long enough on hubris to ignore that part. Until now. Now, it seemed the ever-chaotic universe had found a small justice to be done, one small moving part of chaos to put back in its place. He was going to be powered down for good. All that was left was to let go, with the finality of an animal going limp in the mouth of its mother, submitting to the inevitability of the narrative he’d always seen coming. 

Jack wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. Disappointed? He should be. He’d gotten caught before he could deliver the product to his client. He’d failed the job. But he’d gotten into the Blackburn servers first, cracked open the deepest secrets of one of the most secretive gangs. The rest of the job was just… transportation. This was his biggest challenge to date, and he’d— somehow, incredibly— pulled it off. Which was how he’d found himself laughing in the face of the inevitable, expression lit only by the blinking red and blue lights of the monitor below him and his hands nested in a tangle of wires like the hair of a lover. 

He can’t imagine what she saw in him at that moment. A scruffy kid in old clothes living out of a hotel on the South Side, spending his days chain-smoking out the bathroom window while he waited for his phone to ring. Those days, he’d always had this feeling like he was about to vibrate out of his skin, worst of all when he was waiting for a job. Bouncing between all these intense, erratic impulses, always on the edge of shaving his head or robbing a bank or jumping in front of a car. He was a ball of tightly-would energy with no container, spinning and ricocheting and destroying everything it touched, and getting himself banged up in the process. An attack dog without a leash, biting its own tail into infinity. Jack was on his way to a dead end, full-speed, and changing paths wasn’t an option. Stopping felt like drowning; moving, outwitting every challenge, outrunning all consequences, at least it had a rush.

Until Alma Rosario looked at him and said, I’ve been looking for someone like you. He’d never been looked at like that before, like they were taking the whole measure of him, like they knew what he was and what he was meant to do. You’re with us now. Like he’d been theirs the whole time, and everything up until that moment was just practice for the real work of his life. He’d expected a gun to his face; instead, he’d gotten a lifeline. Someone who gave a fuck about him in a way no one ever had before. A cool hand on his shoulder, a direction to point his focus, and a leader who took his restlessness and alchemised it into blood-deep loyalty. The rest of the world could get fucked, but Alma Rosario had spared his life in more ways than one, and he’d follow them to the ends of the Earth.

EXTRA:

Jack speaks English, Japanese and Polish. The last he learned from his friend group in high school, who he had nothing in common with apart from a mutual interest in doing drugs and World of Warcraft. A fun side-effect of his ability is a natural aptitude towards languages, which could be cool if he ever cared enough to do something with it. In reality, he’d only learned Polish so he could talk shit as well as the rest of them during games. 

At one point in his childhood he’d gotten really good at card tricks as an outlet for his fidgeting. It didn’t stick, but he still has the muscle memory.

There is an irony to the fact he ended up in the Blackburn Syndicate, the most holier-than-thou of the gangs, considering he doesn’t give a fuck about mutant rights. He’s never cared about politics or paid much attention to life outside his circle, and the interiority of his ability has spared him from the abuse other mutants experience on the day-to-day.

The last romantic interest he expressed in a girl was Rei Ayanami from Neon Genesis Evangelion; to be fair, he was 12 at the time.

There was a period at the beginning of his work with the Blackburn Syndicate where he lived in Alma’s guesthouse, because he had nowhere to go, and had been kicked out of his hotel for not caring enough to pay their bills. While he didn’t spend much time with Alma personally, being literally taken in off the street solidified his trust in their promise that Blackburn takes care of its members.

Jack was born on August 6, 1990 (which makes him a Leo sun, Scorpio moon, Capricorn rising.) Yes, this is a year to the day the internet went public.

His mother left him with his father when he was five. He doesn’t remember anything about her, but if she was thoughtless enough to leave her child with a man like his dad, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t think about her much anymore.

Jack has a secret obsession/fascination with the arcane and occult. Possibly because it’s one of the few topics that remains mysterious, no matter how much digging he does.

His home computer has a Sailor Moon-themed keyboard. It is wholly incongruous with the rest of his place, which has as much personality as a cheap motel room.

Jack reads everyone in Blackburn’s emails. Because he can. Occasionally their texts, too, if he really doesn’t like them, or distrusts their motivations. (He distrusts most people’s motivations.)

On that note, he considers it part of his job to keep some amount of dirt on everyone he knows, from bank account details to embarrassing archived Myspace profiles. The only one he affords their privacy is Alma.

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/remusjlupin/jm/

ANYTHING ELSE: N/A

[viewfromthevault]

Fallout OC Interview

Thanks to the lovely @tarberrymentats for the tag 💜

Rules

Choose an oc

Answer the questions as that oc

Tag 5 people to do the same

I’ll tag @nonbinaryrobot @rogue-lavellan @drneverland @commonwealthcommoner and whoever else wants to do it because I never know if I’m bugging people by tagging them or not 🤣

Gonna do this with Lesley

Okay so I got waaayy carried away and thought maybe I should throw this under a read more for the sake of your dashboards.

1. What is you’re name?

“Lesley Elvira Mathews. Not a real fan of Elvira so don’t call me that unless you wanna get whacked.”

2. How old are you?

“Shit, I dunno. I was nineteen when I got the boot. How many years ago was that now?”

(Lesley’s timeline is a bit funky at the moment. I wanna say this takes place after main story stuff and before fo4, so she’ll be in her early twenties)

3. What do you look like?

“A fucking legend.”

4. Where are you from? Where do you live now?

“See, I thought I was born in Vault 101, but actually I was born somewhere in the wasteland then grew up in the vault. Not a fun environment to grow up in, to tell you the truth. A lotta assholes livin’ there, except Amata.

“I’m happy to say that now I live in my very own house in Megaton. It’s not a super private place, though. Gotta few couch surfers.”

5. What was your childhood like?

“Could’ve been better, actually. Like I said before, there were a lot of assholes in 101. Had a real hard time making friends. People liked to call me the problem kid because I got in a lot of fights, but I didn’t start all of them and those fuckers had it coming. Grown-ups complained about me all the time and the Overseer hated my guts, but that’s ok because I hated his about the same.

“I guess it wasn’t all bad, though. My dads were pretty great, even when James was too busy being James. Granny Palmer used to look after me when they were both busy, she was really nice. And then there’s my best friend, Amata. If it weren’t for her I probably would have went nuts in there.”

6. What groups are you friendly with? Are you allied with any factions?

“I currently do work with Reilly’s Rangers and the Regulators. I get to run around the wastes and kill bad guys for money?? They had me at ‘caps.’

“I used to be part of the Brotherhood of Steel, though I don’t remember actually signing up or anything. They dropped my sorry ass as soon as they thought I wasn’t useful anymore. Bastards.

“This one lady also said I could be part of this Railroad group if I didn’t tell this fancy suit where this android person went. Still waiting for them to call me back.”

7. Tell me about your best friend.

“It used to be Amata, but we went our separate ways. Good terms, though. The fella that fills that role now is the bee’s fuckin’ knees. Tall, knows his way around a gun, kinda cranky, but he has a secret softy side.”

8. Do you have a family? Tell me about them!

“Well, the family I told you about earlier kinda fell in on itself when James fucked off. Jonas was murdered and I got stuck with the blame, James zapped himself with enough radiation to ghoulify a super mutant. Last I checked, Granny Palmer was ok, as okay as you can be when your only grandson is killed. I don’t know if she’s still around. I also had a mom once, she died about five minutes after I was born.

“The family I got now? Pretty bomb. There’s aunt Cross, though I don’t get to see her much anymore, Butch who surprisingly is like a brother to me, Fawkes the coolest meta human around, Dogmeat the goodest boy, that little urchin from Lamplight that shows up now and then to drink all my Nuka-Cola, and Charon of course. I’d say Wadsworth, too, but he’d take offense to that.”

9. What about partner or partners?

“Oh man he’s fuckin’ great. Lots of people are scared of him, but he’s real sweet when you take the time to know him. A complete badass that I would absolutely die for. A lot smarter and funnier than people give him credit for. He’s one of the few people who actually listens to me and doesn’t get mad when I get to yakking too much. Is willing to stick his neck out for me, not that I want him to do that, mind you, but it’s real nice to know he’d never throw me to the wolves like others would. Nice ass... what were we talking about?”

10. Have you ever heard of the Brotherhood of Steel? What do you think about them?

“Uh, yeah? I just told you I was with them once. To be honest, though, they’re far from perfect. Sarah and the old man are pretty great, and Cross of course. But there’s a lot of shit that goes down without the old man knowing about it. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear the guy died under ‘mysterious circumstances’ and they put up some wet mop in his place.”

11. Who are your enemies, and why?

“Jeeze who isn’t? I don’t know who’s paying them, but the Talon Company is dead set on killing my ass. Their client could be slavers since they hate me with a passion. Arefu doesn’t like me for some reason (ooc: thanks for the gitch, game). I don’t have enough fingers to count this shit out.

12. What about the Enclave?

“Those motherfuckers are lucky I wasn’t at Adams Airforce Base. I’d teach them the meaning of the word slaughter.”

13. How do you feel about super mutants?

“They’re real fun to fight with, but it’d be nice if they didn’t always try to shoot you on sight you know? Why can’t they be more chill like Fawkes?”

14. Have you ever fought a deathclaw?

*points at stump* “The fuck do you think?”

15. What’s the craziest fight you’ve ever been in?

“Me and a bunch of folks took over a spaceship once.”

16. Do you like fighting?

“Does a yao guai shit in a landfill?”

17. What’s your weapon of choice?

“I’m a real fan of stabbing shit, so I mostly work with swords. I have this neat ass one I made myself from schematics I got from vampires, don’t ask, I like to call Shishkebab. That baby has a funky little function where the blade catches fire, which is pretty damn cool if you ask me. I also got a neat sword with an electrified blade from a weird pre-war bunker thing.”

18. How do you survive? Your wits, your charm, your skills, brute force, some combination? (a.k.a. what’s your S.P.E.C.I.A.L.?)

“I’m fast, strong and I talk real good.”

[S-7 P-5 E-7 C-7 I-5 A-6 L-5]

19. Have you ever been in a vault? What do you think of them?

“Yes, I grew up in one. Keep up! As for the others I’ve seen, I guess I should consider myself lucky that I was stuck with the one I was. Vault-Tec is fucked, man.”

20. How do you beat all the radiation around here? Has it effected you?

“Rad-X and Radaway are pretty expensive, so for the most part I just try to stay away from it. I did intentionally get super sick from radiation once, but as far as I know it didn’t have any lasting effects.”

21. What’s your favourite wasteland critter?

“Dogmeat. He hasn’t tried to eat me yet.”

22. What’s your least favourite wastelad critter?

“Fucking mirelurks. With their big meaty claws and their gross shells, swimming arounf waiting to get you by the ankle. I hear they have more legs in other parts of the country.”

23. How do you feel about robots?

“I guess they’re ok. I wouldn’t put a whole lot of trust in them, but if they don’t bother me then I won’t bother them.”

24. How many caps do you have on you right now?

“Not enough for you to wanna mug me for after this wraps up if that’s what you’re asking.” (she’s fucking broke)

25. Nuka-Cola or Sunset Sasparilla?

“Sunset Saspawhat?”

26. Do you do chems?

“Only when I need to, they’re too expensive otherwise.”

27. Do you ever think about the pre-war world?

“What is there to think about? They fucked up the world and now we have to deal with the consequences.”

28. What’s your deepest regret? What would you do differently?

“Maybe if I got to Dad sooner he wouldn’t have died. Maybe neither of them would have died. I don’t know.”

29. What’s your biggest achievement? Or what do you hope to achieve?

“I guess my biggest achievement would be getting to where I am now, finding a place and people who like me because I’m me. Learning that I can be loved. Mushy shit.”

30. What do you want for the future? For yourself? Your friends? The world?

“To be able to live freely and happily no matter how you look or act. To always have an adventure waiting around the corner. I just want us all to have a good time, you know?”

[corinnejmorris]

↷ CORINNE MORRIS |MAKE SURE YOU HIT HIM WITH THE PRENUP

       The apartment is quiet as she overlooks the cobblestone streets of Tribeca. Alessia relishing in the fleeting moments of extra asleep, Logan at the ‘brush your teeth and grumble about manhattan’ stage of his morning routine. Yet Corinne is a silent intrusion into their way of life; mostly because Logan is her brother and he knew first hand the fit she’d throw being shut out from his life, secondly because she was a free and adoring babysitter. She stands in front of the floor to ceiling windows, softly swaying with Cain propped against her hip. As espresso heats up on the stove top, Logan can’t help but smile at his older sister. Delicate fingers wrapped around his son’s tiny fist, her face lit up like he’s never seen it before— some call it motherly glow, but in this case it was pure unadulterated love. And although he’d love to give her this moment forever, they’ll be a day late and a dollar short if they don’t get moving soon. He pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth and pipes up, “We’re leaving in 15 minutes tops, subway, walk, or car?” he asks before opening a cabinet to grab a travel mug, coincidentally with the name of his firm printed across it as if it wasn’t already obvious that he was the epitome of Manhattan finance bro. 

       The little moments like these were the ones that she cherished most. She couldn’t wait for the chance to do the same with a child of her own. In her very own kitchen, maybe not the one she lived in at the moment— too many tight corners and sharp edges but, one day. Maybe a house in Alexandria, along the river, with a backyard  reminiscent of the one she grew up with, but just close enough to D.C. that if she was needed at the office she could make the drive. Yet it was all just a fantasy for Corinne, she was playing a game to see whether she could live vicariously through her brother or go mad. So far so good, though. Every baby being inherently cute, was a universal fact in the same vein as the concept of an infinitely expanding cosmos. But Cain was different, his teeny fingers, his cheeks chubbier, and the joyous expression in his sweet blue eyes made her heart melt at the mere sight of him. She presses her forehead against his and closes her eyes softly. She takes a moment's pause to revel in that newborn smell and whispers “good morning” in response to her nephew’s giggle. She returns the smile only to be interrupted by her brother who stood at the opposite edge of the galley kitchen. A kitchen she wasn’t particularly fond of, for reasons beyond the decorating— rather, a long, tall, strip of marble masquerading as an island that Cain was sure to split his head on when he finally gets the hang of zipping around their apartment. It’s a day she sits and waits for with anticipation, not for her nephew to get stitches but, for the day he can safely stand on two feet and run to her, shouting “Cor! Cor!” The day he’s able to express his feelings for his aunt is the day she might just keel over and die from the explosion of happiness in her chest. 

       She turns slowly, still bouncing Cain on her hip. She flashes her brother the smile reserved for clients and television cameras. Sweet, caring, yet unnaturally still, as if there’s no one really behind it. “Whatever you prefer,” she says softly, careful as to not allow any inflection in her tone as to not disturb the small human in her arms. She pads her way across the floor to her brother whose arms are outstretched ready to pull his son into his chest with the same bright smile Corinne had shone earlier. People often said despite the thirteen year age gap, they looked incredibly similar. If that was even remotely true, she hoped the nurturing smile her brother displayed was the same one Cain saw when he looked up at her. He pulls his son close to his chest before sticking his toothbrush in his mouth and pointing at Corinne with his free hand. “Corn, I’m ready in five minutes, We’re walkin’, and then taking the subway to his office, and we’ll stop for a coffee on the way— don’t take any of that shit that’s on the stove it’s Alessia’s and it tastes like garbage,” he says which earns him a pointed glare for Corinne. “What? You’re worried about him? He knows I swear,” he says with the shit eating grin he’s perfected over the years before disappearing around a corner. Corinne is left alone with the hum of the streets of Manhattan and shrill squeak of  a stove top espresso machine. 

      In that very moment she remembers why she’s even in the city in the first place. It was all she could think about as Nicky drove her to the airport, all she could think about as she knocked back a martini in the airport private lounge, eyes expertly trained on the flights touching down and lifting off to destinations that weren’t her’s— places she’d much rather be than where she was headed. It was all she could think about as she met Logan at the airport and he placed the small suitcase she brought with her into the trunk of his S.U.V. But when she saw the little carseat in the back— that’s exactly when all the bad thoughts washed away. She would see her nephew, and all would be okay. But now as she stood at her brother’s front door, purse slung over her shoulder fingers tentatively play with the dainty rings she chose to accessorize with, purposely skipping the ring finger on her left hand. “You put a ring on that finger, before you’re engaged and you’ll be cursed for life,” her mother used to say when she was a little girl, sitting at the vanity table as her mom brushed through her long blonde waves with precision. Corinne even at such young age, idealized this beauty, vanity, gratuitous accessorization. The bows in her hair, and look in her mother’s eyes when her eight year old daughter applied lipstick with razor sharp accuracy. She was a doll. Her mother’s doll. When she got older, when she dressed herself, tried lip gloss instead of lipstick; her mother didn’t want to play anymore. 

        She’s brought back from the recesses of her memories when her brother approaches. “Go go go, I can stand bein’ fuckin’ late,” he says opening the apartment’s front door. They take the elevator in silence as he taps away violently at the screen of his cellphone. “Fucking clients whatta’ they know,” he scoffs before sliding the sleek, caseless device into his pocket— she’d prod about that later. She offers a polite wave and “good morning Stan,” to the doorman which contrast sharply from the dap up her brother gives. Clearly she was the eldest, momma would have liked the way she conducted herself and would have reprimanded Logan and that’s all that really mattered. They begin their walk down Watts St. She wobbles slightly on the cobblestone in her four inch heels. The added height does nothing as she still just a hair under Logan who claims to be six foot, but just cleared 5’11” and 3⁄4. “You look like a baby Giraffe,” he snorts and gives her the once over. “Fuck off, it’s the cobblestone,” she retorts with a playful swat at his shoulder. They turn onto Canal St. and Corinne thanks the city planning gods for pavement. “You know all that fucked up walking coulda’ been avoided if youd’ve just met the man in fucking Raleigh right, Corn?” she winces at his words as they shuffle down the steps alongside the rest of the morning crowd. “Yeah, and stay with momma? In that big ol’ fuckin’ house? Not see you? Or Alessia? Or my nephew? Ya’ I don’t really mind cobblestone streets all that much,” her tone is short as she’s squeezed between him and some other financial analyst, clearly a new guy if he’s still walking around with the banker bag.

      His sigh is loud and exasperated as he and the rest of the passengers are jostled by the movement of the subway cart. They stare at one another in the loud ambience has come to know is native to the streets, and subsequent subway tunnels of New York City. “Stand clear of the closing doors please,” sounds the crummy speakers that probably haven’t been changed since the 70s. It’s only after a few people shuffle off the train that Logan opens his mouth again. Idiot, you never did know when to shut up. She thinks back to the times when he was four or five and would cry and whine to their mother if she so much at looked at her brother the wrong way. “He’s just a baby Corinne,” her mother would snap as she coddled her angel son. The origins of the rage that brindled within her at moments like that is still unknown, maybe it was because she knew he’d forever get off scot free or because she knew his fakery earned her a night in the hallway closet. “I’ll never understand why you don’t like her—” There’s thirteen years of pain you’ll never understand. “she’s not even that nasty of a person—” Not to you, she loved you. “Maybe if you called once in awhile, and fuckin’ visited you wouldn’t have any issues,” he berates her as the knuckles wrapped around the handle of her purse turn white. She wants to snap, but she’s in public and she’ll control herself. There’s also the possibility that she might get all choked up and make a fool of herself as the tears stain her face. “It’s not that I don’t like her Logan, we have opposing views and she’s unbearably judgemental.” Her tone is controlled as the doors open and they step out onto the subway platform. 

      Up the stairs and they step out onto wall street, where a million different men dress and act like her brother. Their conversation has been postponed until further notice as Logan ushers her along with his index finger. “The place I go to makes North American style Turkish coffee,” that just sounds like an oxymoron in itself, she thinks to herself quietly. They dodge angry callers, bird scooters and blind texters as they weave down the street. They turn into a quaint coffee shop with standing tables only, inundated by patrons too focused on their own business to even look up at the door chime. The stereotype of New Yorkers not giving a fuck, was most definitely a real one. They approach the cash and Logan greets a man— boy? who’s name is Mattias. The exact kind of person she’d picture who’d work at a North American style Turkish coffee place. Logan orders and Mattias proceeds on with Corinne who orders a simple turmeric tea. They move off to the side and sit— or rather stand at the edge of a long communal table. “So let me get this straight,” Logan starts “You and momma don’t talk, so she calls Mr.Clark who calls you, who then proceeds to call me, to ask if you can crash?” She sways her head along to the rhythm of the story, “Well I mean yeah...kind of?”

— ⟡ ▒ ONE WEEK EARLIER ▒ ⟡ —

      It’s a little after 1pm on a Wednesday and Corinne strolls back into her office after having changed into her Lululemon yoga attire for afternoon yoga at the office. She sits at her desk and pulls her ringlets back into a bun, as her eyes inspect the report she’s been forwarded. The moment her hands drop from her head the LED on her desk phone flashes. “Cor? I’ve got a Mr.Clark on the phone for you, from Raleigh,” Nicholas sounds worried, as he always does when a 919 number called Corinne. He knew very little about Corinne’s family but knew that she rarely called them and they seldom called her unless it’s to return one of her phone calls. “Oh?” Her immediate reaction is one of confusion and fear. She remembers her mother’s lawyer and his office in their little town center. A stone building with a gold plate by the front door that read ‘Clark & Brennan Legal Offices’. Corinne both loved and hated that office, with all its dark wood and leather, the smell of stale paper and what a 10 year old could only define as alcohol on Mr.Clark’s breath when her mother would force her to greet him with a hug. What she did love was his secretary; Kelli, a twenty something brunette, with long legs accentuated by pencil skirts and a kind smile. Corinne always sat on her desk, ate Chupa Chups, and read Judy Blume novels. But, the only reason Mr.Clark would call her is, if something dire had happened— but surely, Logan would have called her first if her mother had died, right? “Yeah send him through Nicky,” she says leaning back into her desk chair. 

“Hello, this is Corinne Jessica Morris speaking,” she answers in her most professional tone, she had a feeling he still thought of her as that 10 year old girl whose legs used to dangle off the edge of his secretary’s desk.

“Connie—“ A nickname she hates, Connie is short for Constance, not Corinne. “It has been an awful long while since I’ve heard from you, how are you doing miss?”

“Mr.Clark! It has been far too long, to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing from you?”

“Connie, Connie I know it’s been awhile but you needn’t call me Mr.Clark, please call me frank—“ she wouldn’t. “I’m actually calling on your mother’s behalf,”

“Oh, well in that case...Frank, I’m interested to hear what you have to say,” It’s gotta’ be inheritance, Logan is for sure getting more.

“It’s about your prenuptial agreement, I think some congratulations are in order sweetheart,”

“What? A prenup?” She retorts sitting up straighter.

“Yes, a prenup if you’d prefer, there’s one from ‘95 but, surely it needs to be updated to include your new home and the like?” He continues, not even acknowledging Corinne’s surprise.

“Mr.Clark, I don’t think you understand. I’m not engaged— I’m not even seeing anyone at the moment,” She reiterates.

“Is that so?” he pauses and there’s a silence on the line. “Well it wouldn’t hurt to look it over, I’m sure a gorgeous girl like you has many options.” She visibly winces at his words, you haven’t seen me in person since I was 16, creep.

“I guess so,” she says quietly— it’s not that she hasn’t thought about the suspicious lack of ring on her finger, there were other things she wanted to accomplish first.

“Well I’m in Raleigh til’ Friday but, I’ve got an early mornin’ flight to California so I’ll be out til’ Tuesday and in the New York offices until Saturday—”

Corinne quickly interrupts, “I’ll be in New York. Can I meet you on Thursday?” She slides the phone between her shoulder and ear as she grabs her cellphone to send Nicky a text. Flight to NYC. Next tuesday. Red eye. Call Logan.

“Oh well in that case, I’ll be delighted to meet you in New York Connie. My secretary will be in contact,”

— ⟡ ▒ — ⟡ ▒ —⟡ ▒ —

“And that was it?” Logan asks as he finishes the last of his Turkish cortado, which inherently isn’t Turkish coffee the second milk was added. 

      Corinne responds with a nod before taking a sip of her tea. Before Corinne can even open her mouth Logan starts again, hands upheld as if to say hold the fuck on— “Corn are you even ready to get married? Do you even want to?” His expression is a mix of shock and concern. Unable to meet her brother’s eyes she looks down at her left hand and plays with the ring on her index. Of course she wants to get married; she’s been planning her dream wedding since the day she kissed R-D. Was she ready? now that was an entirely different question, she’s perfected the art of living alone, eating alone, drinking alone but, rotating a colourful cast of friends in lieu of feeling lonely. 

“God Logan, I think I know myself enough to know what I want. I’m just waiting—”

“When was the last time you were in a relationship,” he blurts out, cutting her off.

She counters hastily “God, what does it matter to you?” 

“How do you know what you want if you haven’t been in a relationship since you were in fuckin’ college!”

“How’d you know Alessia was the girl you wanted to fuckin’ marry after banging her at fuckin’ mixer?” 

      Logan simply smiles back at her, and she hates it. She hates snapping at him, she hates his smug grin but most importantly she hates this conversation. 

      “Look, I really don’t need the lecture Logan I’m just gonna go, listen to what he has to say and that’s it,” as she finishes her sentence, his cell phone pings. “Shit its work,” he says reading the preview off his lockscreen. “Look, I gotta go, just keep walking south on Broadway you’ll be at his office in two minutes,” he hugs her quickly before heading off to his own office.

      Corinne walks slowly, following the directions her phone gave her. She stops in front of a massive building, a far cry from the old stone of North Carolina. She greets the information desk attendant with her nicest smile. They give her the floor number and direct her to the elevators where she clambers in alongside a dozen or so corporates. It’s only as the numbers rise does she wonder how much business a small firm from North Carolina does to warrant a New York Office. Once the elevator chimes for the thirty-sixth floor she squeezes past those who remain in the elevator and out into a sleek reception area. As quietly as she can manage she makes her way over to the gatekeeper. “Hi I have an appointment with Mr.Clark at 8:30? I’m Corinne. Corinne Jessica Morris.” her voice is soft as she makes eye contact with the receptionist who was clearly not expecting to be bothered this early. She types at lightning speed before handing Corinne a security pass and informing her he’d meet her in conference room 5C. 

      She scans her pass and electric glass doors whirr open. Nice touch, we should get those. The office is quiet besides a few early risers who eye her as she walks past, heels clicking on faux marble tiles. Another automatic glass door lets her into the conference room. She’s greeted by a bouquet of flowering dogwoods, white roses and a box from Ladurée with a little note taped to the top— lovely to see you again Connie. “Thank you,” she says to no one in particular as she pops the top off and fingers hover over the rows of delicacies. With a bite she sits and sets her purse down on the table besides her. 

      At exactly 8:40am Mr.Clark strolls around the corner, with a younger man holding a legal pad and a stack of papers in toe. She can’t help but think of Alex who’s timeliness was uncanny and it brings a smile to her face. “Connie,” his tone is sing songy but sounds as though he smokes Cubans at least once every few days. “Mr.Clark,” she says replicating his sing songy tone. He greets her with a kiss atop her knuckles and she struggles to keep her smile from faltering. With his free hand he claps a football player sized palm on the shoulder of his companion. “This here is Garrett, he’s easily one of the, if not the smartest legal minds in the New York office, He’s gonna’ be my running back on this matter,” Garrett greets her with a simple nod and a “nice to meet you,” as he sets his materials down on the table.

      They each receive a copy of her original prenup and Corinne quickly leafs through it. She wonders if her mother envisioned her marrying Ryan-Dean and that’s why she had this made. Corinne wonders if he was even still a possibility. For a brief fleeting moment she wishes she had this meeting in North Carolina, just to ask her mother about the context of this document but alas, she was going to do this alone. “You’re a very attractive woman both on paper and in person, are goal is to protect you and all your assets in the event of a separation,” Clark starts. “Let’s start with the disclosure first,” Garrett pipes up taking a highlighter to the document. “It’s my understanding that you are not yet engaged, right?” He pauses, glancing at Corinne expectantly. She returns his glance with a nod. “So we’ll just be updating the framework of this agreement and retcon any specifications in the event of an engagement,” he says nonchalantly as he scrawls on his legal pad.

      It’s hard to hear of love spoken in such a calculative fashion but, she understands the reasoning behind such a thing. “Let’s begin with the disclosure of assets,” Garrett says. Mr.Clark begins listing off numbers, “Approximate net worth of eight million U.S. dollars which is comprised of property in Adams Morgan, Washington D.C. at an estimated value of 1.7 million U.S. dollars, A 2018 Audi S7 at an approximate value of 92 thousands U.S. dollars, a Roth IRA with a current value of Approximately 1 million U.S. dollars, a 15% share in Morris Consulting Ltd which roughly translates to about 3.2 million U.S. dollars and finally an investment portfolio with an estimated value of 1 million U.S. dollars,” he finishes with a quiet sigh, and Corinne looks between the two of them to see if that’s a good or bad thing. Garrett offers a simple raise of his brow as he goes back to writing on his pad of paper. “Does that sound about right to you miss.Morris,” he asks nonchalantly.  “Yes, it concurs with the information I was given by my financial advisor,” her hands are crossed politely on the table. She wonders what his expression meant. One of surprise at her financial value? Commendation for her self made company? An evaluation of her?

     “Well whoever the guy— or lady, may be, they’ll be one lucky son of a bitch,” he looks up from his writing and smiles. Corinne returns a bashful grin before Mr.Clark interrupts. “But we’ll make sure he’s not too lucky,” He flips to the next page. “One of the main concerns your mother brought to me was your inheritance—” I fucking knew it.”She assumed it’d be a point of contention in the divorce filings so she’d like it included in the prenuptial agreement,” Well that’s probably the most seemingly logical thought she’s had in decades. “Oh, I don’t see why that’d be an issue,” she shrugs and smiles at Mr.Clark who offers her a smile in return. Veneers. For sure. “So the clause we drafted states that your partner receives 10% of the differential between the day the prenuptial is validated and the day the divorce is finalized,” she nods. “You can always fight for less but this felt like an agreeable number,” She nods again. “No, 10 is fine,” in reality she’s lost in her own thoughts— who could theoretically receive all this money? She makes a potential husband shortlist in her mind.

CORINNE JESSICA MORRIS-??? HUSBAND SHORTLIST

???

Ryan-Dean Marks

Luka ???

Gavin Moir

     The list is short with reason, yes she would if asked but, they’re all hypotheticals. They’re also all people she wouldn’t mind sharing a life with nor an amicable divorce. Which is a terrible thought to think but its a genuine fear she has. Isn’t the statistic something like 50% of marriages end in divorce? Her parents had their trials and tribulations but, lasted through it all. She knew too many couples that didn’t make it through though, and that’s what really scared her. She always quietly mentions to herself— you’ll be different. you’ll make it work. “Now there’s also alimony, which is sometimes waived but, It’s beneficial to at least set up a framework; less headaches down the road.” Garrett’s voice interrupts her thoughts, and she snaps out of her gaze and turns to him. “Do you plan on having children?” He asks. “Of course,” she replies, sitting a little straighter in her seat. “An increasing number of women are opting not to,” he says almost defensively. “When you have children, child support trumps alimony. It’d be fruitless to define the terms of child support so early on, do remember this is simply a framework.” Mr.Clark adds and both she and Garrett nod in unison.

     “For alimony we’re suggesting the differential of 45% of your net income and 30% of your partners net income.” Garrett says. Is that enough? Is that too much? She doesn’t imagine herself marrying someone so wildly out of her tax bracket but it’s all about protection right? “This seems like a lot of money going out,” her voice is quiet as she inspects the papers before her. “It’ll make the process easier,” “It’s just a framework,” Mr.Clark and Garrett’s voices overlap as they both look at her and she’s frozen in place. Mr.Clark gives Garrett a sideways glance before clearing his throat. “An attractive prenuptial agreement is beneficial for all parties sweetheart, and like Mr.Howard said it’s only a framework, we’ll most definitely do alterations down the line at you or your spouse’s request, alright Connie?” He smiles again, teeth too white and too straight. Corinne returns an uneasy smile and quietly utters “okay,” and that’s how they proceed. For the next hour and a half, outlining the details of the money she’ll split with an invisible suitor. When they finish and walk her to the door, bouquet in one hand and a box of macarons under the other, she thanks them for their time and they thank her for her’s. After a hug from Mr.Clark and handing off her security card to Garrett who says he’ll take care of it she’s left alone with her thoughts.

     She steps into a surprisingly empty elevator and as the doors close with a soft click, she feels a tear roll down her cheek. She uses the back of her hand to wipe it away before the elevator is inundated with more passengers. She’s exhausted, she wants to be back home in D.C. Alone in her bed, with the lights off. She opts for a taxi rather than the train and sits in silence as the financial district passes by her window. She greets the doorman with a strained smile before taking another elevator up to her brother’s apartment. In the silence of the tiled hallway she leans her head against their front door and stifles more tears before taking a deep breath and wiping her tears away as best she could. She unlocks the front door and is greeted by Alessia and her nephew. She can’t help the smile that replaces the tears. “Hey, didn’t know you were back so soon,” Alessia says as she passes Cain off to an awaiting Corinne. “We were just about to go on a walk, you down?” She asks absentmindedly as she packs a diaper bag. “Okay, I’d love to. Lemme’ go change my shoes,” she says softly as she plays with her nephew’s tiny hands. you’ll be different. you’ll make it work.

[ebullioscopic-blog]

It depends on the profile

It depends on the profile that you set up because when you make a profile, you write a little bio about yourself, and my bio might be seen as a little more out there'. I'm open to anything, like roleplay, so a lot of the time I get roleplay requests, more just because I find them fun no matter how unusual or bizarre they are. What excites me are uncommon and unusual requests that you wouldn't really come across. Life's too boring otherwise.Some of the girls broadcast risqué photos of themselves for free using sites like Instagram and Tumblr while others only use sites which require payment before viewing. When the clothes do come off, it can be damn lucrative: Domino estimates she hauls in around $US300 on a good day — although a bad day is zero dollars, and hours wasted. But it's enough for her to be completely self-sufficient, albeit weary of the whole thing sometimes. More concerning though are the handful of "true creeps" she runs into — the gents who aren't just pervs, but sexual threats. That's never OK, but the rest of the time, occasional criminals aside, the job sounds downright leisurely."Mostly it's conversation. I do role-play sometimes, and a small part of it is nudity and masturbation," she says.

It's very possible, but if they do no one has ever said it to my face. I used to be in porn production for big companies, and that was probably the only time I experienced negativity. I told a guy about what I do and he was like I don't agree with porn. These women are being forced to do something they don't want to do. It's degrading. He did bring up some good points but I argued that it was the same as any office job. Your boss is going to fuck you over or you don't get paid, right? It's the same. At least with webcamming, I work for myself and I can choose how much I earned, and if nobody wanted to pay me that [amount], they wouldn't come to me.Others aren't so lucky, she says, referring to her peers' dips into coerced sex and assault. "Guys who are in charge of these business, they don't respect the girls, because of this job. A girl who does this doesn't deserve to have respect — that's just the mentality. But at the same time, Anna downplays the prevalence of studio abuse as "exceptions", or even complete fabrications — ploys for sympathy and the money that might trickle with it.In a corner of the room there is a large computer screen, an expensive camera and behind them, professional photographers' lights. Dozens of pairs of eyes may view Lana in her room online in real time via dedicated adult websites. But she does not make any money until a member asks her to "go private" in a one-to-one webcam session.When the clothes do come off, it can be damn lucrative: Domino estimates she hauls in around $US300 on a good day — although a bad day is zero dollars, and hours wasted. But it's enough for her to be completely self-sufficient, albeit weary of the whole thing sometimes. More concerning though are the handful of "true creeps" she runs into — the gents who aren't just pervs, but sexual threats. That's never OK, but the rest of the time, occasional criminals aside, the job sounds downright leisurely.

The basic premise of the cam girl game is a simple one: You pay a girl for her time, and in exchange, she'll take off her clothes, talk to you, play with herself (and others), or any combination thereof. When your money is up, so's your time — the two of you part ways until you've got the cash and willingness to go at it again. And when that time comes, you'll have thousands upon thousands of girls ready to swivel and smile for you in real time. It's a massive catalogue of preening women of every variety: big, skeletal, black, white, Asian, American, Greek, Czech, etc. To find them, look no further than the Big Three of cam girl delight: Streamate, LiveJasmine and MyFreeCams. These three mega-networks advertise across the mainstream porn tube sites of masturbating ubiquity — PornHub, ClipHunter, etc — but are shells and shadows themselves. So how do you get in?The curvy 21-year-old from Queensland says 'you can't just sit there, look pretty and take your clothes off,' – that customers want someone who is real, who they can form a relationship with. Are there any really common requests that you get?The important thing is to keep a paying client online for as many minutes as possible. CONTINUED BELOW...

[azure7539arts]

The International (Part 3)

Rating: General

Premise: Q, a private detective, has received a new case to look into.

► Other parts: (1) – (2)

“Is it a code?” Alec leans in, body looming just over Q’s shoulder with one hand bracing on the table only a few inches away from the laptop. For someone who likes to act like he’s a ruthless brute, he’s actually rather quick-witted, catching on without requiring much prompting or assistance. (Although Q is still rather unsure about how much of that ruthless appearance is real, and how much of it is just for intimidation.)

James is the same, even if it seems like he tends to hide behind his charm and charisma more.

They really make quite an interesting duo, these two.

Q sighs, deliberately pushing his chair back as he stands up to get the two men behind him out of the way. “Stop hovering would you.”

“What are you doing?” James asks as he curiously watches Q moves about to reach for a drawer, in which holds a lot of cables (all neatly wound up and separated, mind), and take one out.

“Connecting this to the big screen so you two would stop breathing down my neck, what do you think?” Q deadpans. There’s a reason why he spent a bit of his saving on buying that telly after all… (other than to occasionally play game on it of course, not that he’ll ever admit this even if Eve tickles him to death.)

To their credit, James and Alec actually stay put and wait, no matter how impatiently, and Q bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smirking, lest he end up in a ditch somewhere sooner rather than later.

“I’ve decrypted the files included in there and found these diary entries that Nellie dated all the way back to the start of 2011. But—” With the screen now connected to his laptop, Q quickly has the files laid out on the much bigger monitor for all of them to see, “—the timestamps, as you can see, indicate that this is much more recent. Just January of this year, 2012.”

It must resonate with them somehow, the timeline, because James and Alec suddenly appear to be on guard now, despite the lack of surprise in either their eyes or postures.

“The entries mostly seem to be about mundane things,” Q carries on. “But I did notice anomalies here and there, very minute changes in the font and formatting throughout the text.” And honestly, if he weren’t as stubborn and meticulous as he is, he probably would’ve overlooked it. But as it is, he wrote a basic algorithm to track these anomalies, and… “Yes. It is a code.”

“Did you manage to find any meaning in those?” James frowns at the screen, hands in his pockets, and straightens even more.

Q nods his confirmation, returns to his laptop, and pulls up his algorithm along with the results it has garnered. “At first glance, they look like meaningless strings of number, but then again nothing meaningless is ever so specific, so I started to think back on whatever kind of clues that Nellie might have left behind. And I realized that… she went through all her belongings in that flat to get everything she needed but didn’t touch her kitchenwares and—”

“Books,” James finishes.

“ISBN numbers?” Alec quizzically adds after a pause.

“Correct.” A small smile tugs at Q’s lips.

James draws in a deep breath and starts for the door. “We’d better head back to her flat then.”

“My thought exactly.”

-

“Q.” Danielle caught him at the elbow and pulled him closer to her. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Q hadn’t told her who these two new clients were, but Danielle had always possessed a sharp eye for reading people even if she kept refusing to become the official third partner to this tiny, tiny business.

“It’s okay, Danielle,” Q soothed, but really, he had always had a hunch that his penchant for seeking out the truth and solving intriguing riddles would someday land him here… Well, not here as in this exact circumstance, but something close to it more or less.

It wasn’t as if any of the crimes attributed to Amber had ever actually stuck anyway (there were no substantial proof), so what he was doing, strictly speaking, wasn’t illegal.

Yeah.

“I’ll be fine,” Q continued.

Danielle didn’t look like she believed him, but before she could say anything else, James’s voice from the door—“Coming?”—had interrupted her, and Q, without wasting a good chance, slipped his arm from her surprise-loosened grip.

“Just a second!” he called back then returned his attention to her. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you know it.”

-

Turns out, there are such things called bad luck and jinxing, and while Q normally doesn’t indulge in these superstition, he has to admit that there are certain situations in which their theories do hold some sort of substance.

One such instances, he supposes, involves being shot at.

Which is precisely what is happening right then.

“Keep your head down!” Alec hisses, the fast release of bullets from a semi-automatic gun raining hell down upon them.

“Just give me a gun, too, so I can protect myself, then we can gripe about safety later,” Q grinds out from between his teeth, keeping his rucksack—and, subsequently, his laptop—close. They are all hiding behind the small island in Nellie’s kitchen.

From the looks of things, it seems they aren’t the only ones looking for clues. By the time they arrived at Nellie’s abandoned flat, someone else was already there ransacking through whatever remaining contents of the place, and the whole situation just escalated from that point onward.  

“Fine,” James snaps, ducking down with a hiss when a couple of bullets whizz by too close for comfort. He reaches into his jacket to draw out another handgun and slides it over to Q. “Just don’t shoot yourself in the foot with it.”

Q scoffs and picks up the Beretta, feeling its weight settling naturally into his palm with James’s body heat still radiating from it.

“Like I would ever give you the satisfaction,” he mumbles, flicks the safety off, takes aim, and shoot.

-

-

Naples of Italy did, at first, seem like a good idea, but under the heat of the too bright sun scorching down from a sparsely clouded sky, its appeal is fast dwindling.

Q has not been built to withstand high heat, and he’s recognized this from a very young age… Turning into into a boiled lobster with his skin flaking off from being sunburnt was not a fun experience.

“Explain to me again why you insisted on bringing me here?” Q asks for what must be the tenth time already, and whereas Alec looks about to chuck him down the nearest large body of water, James just appears amused in his short-sleeved shirt and trousers, looking every bit the tourist that he’s not.

“Think of it this way: As long as you still value your life and don’t feel like ending up in some back alley with a bullet to your head, you’ll will follow us,” Alec replies, not really sharing James’s easy humor.

“You’re the ones who got me into this in the first place,” Q points out. “Both of you let the perpetrator see my face and get away.”

“Well, you nice little contract did demand us to guarantee your safety, so...” James chimes in with a shrug. “Besides, are you saying you don’t personally want to pursue this to the end then?” He’s smirking again, all sharp and lethal swaddled in a visage of charms and possibly cheesy pickup lines. 

Q rolls his eyes, refusing to even acknowledge he’s been caught so easily. “Whatever.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Just get me out of this heat.”

“Yes, yes. Stop hounding us.” James shakes his head in exasperation. But really, it’s not like he’s even trying to hide his smile anyway.

(tbc.)

-

[Prompts: Italy + Code]