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scealaiscoite · 3 months ago

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.☽༊˚ three hundred one-word prompts

¹⁾ balcony

²⁾ sunlight

³⁾ voicemail

⁴⁾ hillside

⁵⁾ tent

⁶⁾ lavender

⁷⁾ candle

⁸⁾ hipbone

⁹⁾ bandaid

¹⁰⁾ wrinkle

¹¹⁾ scar

¹²⁾ curtains

¹³⁾ armory

¹⁴⁾ shell

¹⁵⁾ bouquet

¹⁶⁾ necklace

¹⁷⁾ shotgun

¹⁸⁾ apricot

¹⁹⁾ cheek

²⁰⁾ floorboards

²¹⁾ jacket

²²⁾ bruise

²³⁾ flight

²⁴⁾ streetlight

²⁵⁾ carafe

²⁶⁾ lipstick

²⁷⁾ scars

²⁸⁾ poolside

²⁹⁾ cockpit

³⁰⁾ petals

³¹⁾ mirror

³²⁾ lawyer

³³⁾ cloudy

³⁴⁾ butcher

³⁶⁾ bleach

³⁷⁾ sawdust

³⁸⁾ crib

³⁹⁾ ribbon

⁴⁰⁾ wallet

⁴¹⁾ pearls

⁴²⁾ steam

⁴³⁾ chain

⁴⁴⁾ deckhand

⁴⁵⁾ whiskey

⁴⁶⁾ frost

⁴⁷⁾ lace

⁴⁸⁾ camping

⁴⁹⁾ bakery

⁵⁰⁾ traitor

⁵¹⁾ cherries

⁵²⁾ lightning

⁵³⁾ hide

⁵⁴⁾ tattoo

⁵⁵⁾ bonfire

⁵⁶⁾ reverse

⁵⁷⁾ passenger

⁵⁸⁾ speedboat

⁵⁹⁾ bare

⁶⁰⁾ concrete

⁶¹⁾ lieutenant

⁶²⁾ chili

⁶³⁾ tiptoe

⁶⁴⁾ office

⁶⁵⁾ skull

⁶⁶⁾ bikini

⁶⁷⁾ cabinet

⁶⁸⁾ lumber

⁶⁹⁾ laboratory

⁷⁰⁾ paint

⁷¹⁾ arch

⁷²⁾ bitter

⁷³⁾ staircase

⁷⁴⁾ priority

⁷⁵⁾ cell

⁷⁶⁾ subordinate

⁷⁷⁾ tapes

⁷⁸⁾ mangoss

⁷⁹⁾ bralette

⁸⁰⁾ whiplash

⁸¹⁾ syringe

⁸²⁾ cinnamon

⁸³⁾ tequila

⁸⁴⁾ garden

⁸⁵⁾ cigarette

⁸⁶⁾ sofa

⁸⁷⁾ rain

⁸⁸⁾ teammate

⁸⁹⁾ oleander

⁹⁰⁾ boss

⁹¹⁾ pillar

⁹²⁾ amethyst

⁹³⁾ footpath

⁹⁴⁾ driver

⁹⁵⁾ massage

⁹⁶⁾ stitches

⁹⁷⁾ jeans

⁹⁸⁾ brand

⁹⁹⁾ blackout

¹⁰⁰⁾ sunglasses

¹⁰¹⁾ lunar

¹⁰²⁾ velvet

¹⁰³⁾ captain

¹⁰⁴⁾ afternoon

¹⁰⁵⁾ ivy

¹⁰⁶⁾ salty

¹⁰⁷⁾ portrait

¹⁰⁸⁾ strawberries

¹⁰⁹⁾ torn

¹¹⁰⁾ cocktails

¹¹¹⁾ roommate

¹¹²⁾ bridge

¹¹³⁾ table

¹¹⁴⁾ hotel

¹¹⁵⁾ jasmine

¹¹⁶⁾ armchair

¹¹⁷⁾ satin

¹¹⁸⁾ bedsheet

¹¹⁹⁾ hedgerow

¹²⁰⁾ thigh

¹²¹⁾ cliff

¹²²⁾ gravel

¹²³⁾ apartment

¹²⁴⁾ keycard

¹²⁵⁾ coffee

¹²⁶⁾ babysitter

¹²⁷⁾ fire

¹²⁸⁾ chalk

¹²⁹⁾ hurricane

¹³⁰⁾ crickets

¹³¹⁾ amber

¹³²⁾ sherriff

¹³³⁾ lamplight

¹³⁴⁾ flag

¹³⁵⁾ airport

¹³⁶⁾ gasoline

¹³⁷⁾ cherub

¹³⁸⁾ clementine

¹³⁹⁾ scalpel

¹⁴⁰⁾ motel

¹⁴¹⁾ parish

¹⁴²⁾ lighter

¹⁴³⁾ highrise

¹⁴⁴⁾ crowbar

¹⁴⁵⁾ sundress

¹⁴⁶⁾ newspaper

¹⁴⁷⁾ screws

¹⁴⁸⁾ uniform

¹⁴⁹⁾ gold

¹⁵⁰⁾ buckshots

¹⁵¹⁾ coast

¹⁵²⁾ handcuffs

¹⁵³⁾ gunpowder

¹⁵⁴⁾ badge

¹⁵⁵⁾ orchids

¹⁵⁶⁾ chef

¹⁵⁷⁾ levee

¹⁵⁸⁾ tea

¹⁵⁹⁾ helicopter

¹⁶⁰⁾ cemetery

¹⁶¹⁾ ice

¹⁶²⁾ heirloom

¹⁶³⁾ tarpaulin

¹⁶⁴⁾ rural

¹⁶⁵⁾ sergeant

¹⁶⁶⁾ tsunami

¹⁶⁷⁾ lemon

¹⁶⁸⁾ debt

¹⁶⁹⁾ skyscraper

¹⁷⁰⁾ caramel

¹⁷¹⁾ hottub

¹⁷²⁾ rum

¹⁷³⁾ pet

¹⁷⁴⁾ tradition

¹⁷⁵⁾ perfume

¹⁷⁶⁾ bracelet

¹⁷⁷⁾ secretary

¹⁷⁸⁾ degree

¹⁷⁹⁾ braids

¹⁸⁰⁾ prescription

¹⁸¹⁾ invitation

¹⁸²⁾ cocoa

¹⁸³⁾ ransom

¹⁸⁴⁾ boxers

¹⁸⁵⁾ theatre

¹⁸⁶⁾ mascara

¹⁸⁷⁾ sand

¹⁸⁸⁾ collar

¹⁸⁹⁾ shoulder

¹⁹⁰⁾ lipgloss

¹⁹¹⁾ membership

¹⁹²⁾ heatwave

¹⁹³⁾ disco

¹⁹⁴⁾ cabin

¹⁹⁵⁾ popcorn

¹⁹⁶⁾ altar

¹⁹⁷⁾ radio

¹⁹⁸⁾ bayou

¹⁹⁹⁾ bodyguard

²⁰⁰⁾ glitter

²⁰¹⁾ mustache

²⁰²⁾ protector

²⁰³⁾ contacts

²⁰⁴⁾ bullets

²⁰⁵⁾ groceries

²⁰⁶⁾ raspberry

²⁰⁷⁾ microphone

²⁰⁸⁾ coconut

²⁰⁹⁾ villain

²¹⁰⁾ earlobe

²¹¹⁾ purse

²¹²⁾ flood

²¹³⁾ shot

²¹⁴⁾ windbreaker

²¹⁵⁾ granite

²¹⁶⁾ highway

²¹⁷⁾ eggshells

²¹⁸⁾ hoarse

²¹⁹⁾ chocolates

²²⁰⁾ trembling

²²¹⁾ buttercream

²²²⁾ rings

²²³⁾ holster

²²⁴⁾ briefcase

²²⁵⁾ wrist

²²⁶⁾ piercings

²²⁷⁾ cowboy

²²⁸⁾ ashes

²²⁹⁾ ankle

²³⁰⁾ neroli

²³¹⁾ orchard

²³²⁾ tires

²³³⁾ salmon

²³⁴⁾ peaches

²³⁵⁾ rooftop

²³⁶⁾ toast

²³⁷⁾ gala

²³⁸⁾ sage

²³⁹⁾ graduation

²⁴⁰⁾ reporter

²⁴¹⁾ belt

²⁴²⁾ antidote

²⁴³⁾ ship

²⁴⁴⁾ officer

²⁴⁵⁾ wine

²⁴⁶⁾ corridor

²⁴⁷⁾ cold

²⁴⁸⁾ hangover

²⁴⁹⁾ fingertip

²⁵⁰⁾ vintage

²⁵¹⁾ cupcake

²⁵²⁾ saviour

²⁵³⁾ gentleman

²⁵⁴⁾ loan

²⁵⁵⁾ hostage

²⁵⁶⁾ evergreen

²⁵⁷⁾ denial

²⁵⁸⁾ housewife

²⁵⁹⁾ riverbank

²⁶⁰⁾ marshmallows

²⁶¹⁾ books

²⁶²⁾ hockey

²⁶³⁾ lizard

²⁶⁴⁾ silver

²⁶⁵⁾ dinner

²⁶⁶⁾ pear

²⁶⁷⁾ bound

²⁶⁸⁾ waiter

²⁶⁹⁾ tender

²⁷⁰⁾ fallen

²⁷¹⁾ banquet

²⁷²⁾ announcement

²⁷³⁾ roast

²⁷⁴⁾ sneer

²⁷⁵⁾ exes

²⁷⁶⁾ stovetop

²⁷⁷⁾ brass

²⁷⁸⁾ clay

²⁷⁹⁾ valet

²⁸⁰⁾ schoolbus

²⁸¹⁾ exhausted

²⁸²⁾ field

²⁸³⁾ hoodie

²⁸⁴⁾ sugar

²⁸⁵⁾ palmtree

²⁸⁶⁾ burnt

²⁸⁷⁾ diner

²⁸⁸⁾ snake

²⁸⁹⁾ fever

²⁹⁰⁾ domestic

²⁹¹⁾ plaid

²⁹²⁾ wreck

²⁹³⁾ courtyard

²⁹⁴⁾ dozen

²⁹⁵⁾ earphones

²⁹⁶⁾ blueberry

²⁹⁷⁾ anklet

²⁹⁸⁾ shower

²⁹⁹⁾ venom

³⁰⁰⁾ lover

#for those of you who also need to find one singular Perfect word to get you to start writing. ily we are cursed to be like this 😔#prompts #one word prompts #one word prompt list #prompt list #writing prompts #writing exercise #rp meme #otp prompts #soft prompts #imagine your otp #otp writing #aesthetic prompts #word prompts

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bvckleyydiaz · 1 year ago

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a little preview of what’s to come 🫣

“Well,” you hear Derek’s voice call out before you’ve even entered the conference room, “Look at who finally decided to grace us with their presence. Not like you to be late, Y/N.” Your friend grins at you boyishly from his chair. You’re going to miss seeing it every day. Don’t give in, don’t show any resistance. It’s the only thing that will save you now.

You offer as much of a smile as you can. “Guess there’s a first time for everything, Der,” you murmur, trying and failing to sigh away the prick of tears behind your eyes. Your gaze travels to a spot on the far back wall, just between Spencer’s and Emily’s shoulders. You can’t let yourself look them in the eye. If you do that, this will have been for nothing. “I...” You try to swallow the growing lump in your throat, “I want all of you to know that I love you with everything I have left in me, and... that’s what makes this so fucking unfair.” You take a deep breath to steady your voice, tears already seeping through and breaking down the walls you’ve built. “I didn’t want to do this, but I see no other choice.” You unclip your badge and place it and your gun on the table. You then take the manila folder out of the bag hanging heavily on your shoulder and slide it across the table in front of Aaron.

The sound of your heartbeat thundering in your ears muffles all other sounds around you, and you fear that you’ll break your hand if you clasp them together any tighter. It’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. Aaron’s voice brings you back, the folder opened and his eyes stormy. “What is this?” The sound of his voice makes you shudder. You’ve known your boss long enough to know that if he raises his voice any louder, all the restraint he has will be out the window.

“My resignation,” you tell him and watch his left eye twitch, “Effective immediately.”

Five bodies stand all at once, spines ramrod straight. Rage, desperation, bewilderment, and a few other emotions that you can’t quite decipher mix into a cocktail of misery on their faces.

“You’re leaving?” Derek demands, his tone harsh. “Just like that, no second thought?”

“I said that I didn’t want to do this, that I had no other choice, and I meant it,” you stress. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life hating myself for what I’m giving up. But... I don’t see any other way out.”

“Can you at least tell us why?” Penelope asks, and you feel the knife in your chest twist. You never wanted it to end like this; hell, you didn’t want it to end at all. You remember the text you got earlier this morning, right before you walked into the building. You’ve made your choices. Now, live with them.

“Somehow, confidential information from one of our cases—one of my files—was leaked,” you lie. “The Brass wants someone to blame. And they’re going to blame me because my name was attached to that file.”

“Do you have any idea who could’ve gotten ahold of that intel?” Emily asks. You shake your head.

You knew exactly who it was.

“Why wasn’t I told about the leak?” Aaron asks, his Hotch voice making an appearance. “That’s something I should’ve known.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you tell him, and you are sorry. Just not for the reason he thinks. “Strauss said that the director wanted it handled quietly. This was the fastest way to do that.”

“So, some asshole is going after one of our own, and we’re just supposed to do what?” Rossi asks, his shoulders tight. “Sit with our thumbs in our asses until he’s brought in?”

“Dave’s right,” Aaron agrees. “Y/N, you’re not going anywhere, I won’t let you. I’m going to talk to Erin.” He takes a step forward, but you place a hand on his chest to block his path.

You feel his heartbeat under the tips of your fingers. It’s quick. He’s angry. “Sir, don’t. Please. I’ve already caused enough trouble. I need to just... take it with grace, I guess.” You try to give him a reassuring smile, but it does nothing to ease him. “Thank you for trying to fight for me.”

With that, you take your hand off his chest and walk out of the room without another word. Your palm still tingles from where it laid on Aaron’s chest.

#e posts #e writes #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner series #aaron hotchner angst #y’all are gonna hate me for this one #not gonna lie

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summerofofelia · 3 months ago

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15 day BL challenge time!

OG here 💙

Day 12 - Wedding you wish you had an invite to

Okay, this one was a toughie BUT I gotta go with KinnPorsche because

1. It would be E X P E N S I V E. I’m talking custom tailored Valentino suits and swarovski crystals. Beyoncé would perform at the reception. Their wedding would be featured in Vogue.

Expensive husbands

2. You just know those mafia boys know how to party. We’d do shots out of diamond encrusted shot glasses. The dance floor would be chaotic. Tankhun would jump on a table and break it by doing a death drop. I’d wake up in a bin in another city a day later covered in gold dust and holding a brass pig.

We all know who the real star of the wedding would be

Honourable mention:

Fang & Tan’s wedding.

Tan would do a 10 minute speech sobbing about how much he adores Fang. Tan would ding a glass himself and be like, “oh I guess you have to kiss me now” and Fang would shake his head and smile, slightly embarrassed but so, so happy. Then the horde of giant dumb dumbs (said with much affection) known as their friends would tear the dance floor up with the aid of a thousand shots and cocktails, partying till 4am.

Oh they would P A R T Y

#BLChallenge2k24 #kinnporsche #kinnporche the series #we are #we are the series

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technicolorfamiliar · 2 months ago

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Life & Trust Oct 13, 2024

It goes without saying that I went into L&T with a healthy amount of skepticism. Pretty much everything about how the show was marketed pissed me off, and all of the early teased info about the experience itself (the stupid masks with antlers, the fact that the show is basically a carbon copy of the Punchdrunk format, etc) made it sound ultra annoying. When I walked into the building last Sunday evening, my expectations were low. Which, inevitably, led me to find myself pleasantly surprised by the parts of L&T that worked, and to be massively ticked off by the things that didn't.

Spoilers below, including 1:1 info.

Preshow:

On arrival, I was escorted by a bar staff member to a small café table in the middle of Conwell Hall. Even with all the hype and photos on social media, the space is impressive, from the marble floors and columns to the antiqued brass fixtures to the massive Diego Rivera style show-specific mural hanging above the bar. It's cavernous, opulent in an Art Deco kind of way. There's a lot of cute paper ephemera on the tables, but between the menus, the business cards, the full-size old timey newspaper (full of in-world easter eggs), not to mention the drinks, the canapes, the votive candles… it's a lot of clutter. There's piped in music that's not quite period appropriate. I know there's some concern about disturbing the residents who actually live on the upper floors, but there's no reason they can't have like one person at a piano or something. They don't need a whole band, but some live entertainment would be nice.

Because I knew that people attending the 6pm "cocktail hour" get first admittance into the performance space, that's the entry time I booked. But that meant I had to stand around for the better part of an hour before doing 3ish more hours of standing, walking, and running inside the show. Other people, primarily couples and groups, got put at tables with seats during preshow. Because I was solo, I had to stand. Infuriating. There's no reason those tall café tables can't have bar stools or chairs. L&T seems to cater to couples and groups, which makes sense financially, but if they want to encourage repeat visits, they should make the preshow more accommodating to and comfortable solo guests. Just sayin'.

The Show:

The staff member I met during preshow escorted me and a handful of other guests to a small waiting room where we were held before being shown in to meet "the CEO", aka an older actor playing Old Faust J. G. Conwell. He was great, but the whole intro announcement/exposition scene is too long. Conwell's monologue is fine, but the second half of the scene with the demon? witch? goes on and on for no real reason other than to buy time for the previous group of audience members to filter into the performance space. (Maybe I'm just a broken shell of an immersive theater fan at this point, but I thought this scene and a few other moments in the show reveal too much of the bones of L&T's structure, feeling like ways to fill time rather than opportunities to pull me into the world. But again, maybe that's my fault.)

And what a space. Each subfloor is absolutely massive, yet all of the rooms (except the finale hall) feel a little claustrophobic because of the low ceilings. I know there are entire sections of the set I didn't see, but because it's at least four or five floors of disorienting, labyrinthine spaces, I don't feel like I was missing out.

The first room I walked into was what I can only describe as The Poodle Room… because it was a dark, creepy little office full, like floor to ceiling, of poodle figurines of various sizes. There are definitely some areas and rooms that you can tell a lot of care went into the design and detail -- the Conwell family suite is beautiful, something like an Egyptian tomb is bizarre and eerie, an old tavern and a series of tenements feel lived in.

There's also a Magical Devil Juice Forest with twinkling, color-changing fiberoptic lights on every branch and leaf. There's a dingy vaudeville theater, a nickelodeon running loops of early silent short films, a grimy artist's studio, a plush boudoir with a broken crystal chandelier in a heap on the floor, a coal mine. It's a lot. And yet, some of the spaces in the show have seem unfinished somehow or appear as an afterthought.

Based on what I'd read online, I was expecting the weird devil deer masks all the audience members wear to be super uncomfortable. In reality they're no worse than the Sleep No More masks. The antlers are a little annoying and totally unnecessary. But like a lot of things about Life & Trust, the masks seem to be the product of a certain aesthetic or viral moment the creators are desperately striving for. As Paul Hollywood says, most of what I saw felt like "style over substance."

The performances, all of the ones I saw anyway, were excellent. I tried to avoid characters that had excessively large groups of audience with them. Unfortunately, most of the familiar performers whose work in this new show I really wanted to see all seemed to have huge crowds with them at all times. Luckily, I didn't have to wander around for long before finding another character with few or zero people following them -- which may have been purely by chance or how the creators and performers designed the character tracks. Appreciated either way.

I saw a selection of scenes with the Miners, the Vaudeville Couple, Evelyn, Naima, the Maid, and Dorian, all of whom were played that night by extremely strong and engaging performers. I liked the tone shift with the Vaudeville Couple's scenes, how their sincerity and silliness turns performative and degrading as soon as they're offered money to entertain. I liked the working class Miners balance of hope and despair, the secret affair and role reversal between Naima and her Maid, and Dorian's shapeshifting physicality as his brittle and decadent façade begins to decay.

I followed the tarot reading Con Artist, basically from the top of the show. I should have made more of an effort to stay with them through their entire loop, but it just got to be too difficult to navigate the space as more and more people latched onto the character. The performer in this role was just subtle enough, just intimidating enough, which is no small feat because I imagine the character is extremely difficult to like, especially if you don't get the 1:1 early in their first loop where they explain some of their motivation. Interestingly, the 1:1 reveal of the Con Artist's lack of empathy gives them more humanity. They manipulate and steal from other characters in a way that feels curious, not outright evil. They made pointed eye contact with me in the scenes following the 1:1, marking me as an accomplice. When they eventually confront their own reflection in a hall of mirrors, they are at their most shattered and vulnerable. They collapsed, reaching out to me again for stability and comfort, but even this could have been a kind of manipulation. But you know what? I didn't mind, it was one of the few times in the show I forgot about the outside world all the other audience members around us and was actually… you know… immersed.

By the end of the last loop, my whole body hurt, I was sweaty and exhausted, and fully ready for the show to be over. But ohhh no, the finale had to happen first.

I'm sorry to say, unless you followed Faust Young Conwell or Mephisto -- or have a basic understanding of the primary framing narrative -- the finale makes no sense. The use of the finale space was smart, having the performers up on platforms allowed the audience to see most of the action (unlike some other recent immersive shows *COUGH*THE BURNT CITY*COUGH*), but the whole sequence was waaay too long. The lighting is cool, Conwell does a sick slow motion Matrix backbend at one point, and there's a striking final visual of the straightjacketed body in the water tank, but the whole thing could have been cut down to half the time and be just as impactful. And there was a curtain call?? I get wanting to honor the performers at the end of a show, but it took me right out of the moment. I mean, if you're going to do a show that's so similar in structure and style to Punchdrunk, why not end with character walk outs like they do? Although walk outs may have been difficult because because there's literally only one exit out of the finale space. Still. One of the things I like about immersive theater is that it doesn't feel like a play… I can stay in the world longer if there's no button on the end of the show, like a curtain call, you know?

Final Thoughts:

Reading back over this write up, it sounds like I had a bad time. And that's not the case, really I swear. There's a lot about L&T that works. It's beautiful, the original music is a nice touch (some people hate it, I really enjoyed and appreciated it), and the performances are truly pretty outstanding.

Mostly what doesn't work are the story and the structure. It doesn't have that hard-to-define Special Something that Punchdrunk shows have or even Third Rail Projects had with Then She Fell.

Life & Trust isn't going to haunt me the way other immersive shows do. It's trying too hard to be Instagramable, and thus sacrificing the soul and spirit it needs to be a lasting influence on this particular format of theater.

I'm glad I went and I absolutely did not hate the show, but it's simply too expensive to be worth multiple visits. Nor am I going to be thinking about it 10 - 15 years later.

P.S. I genuinely don't know if I'm going to do a write up on the Sleep No More show I saw on this trip. There's really not a lot to report. I might just write something when it finally closes… whenever that actually happens.

#my writing #life and trust

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ateezreactionsandscenarios · 2 years ago

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The Roommate Agreement - Chapter 3

Pairing: Kang Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Slice of life

CW: None, brief mention of food.

Word Count: 3260

Summary: It’s the morning after the party and your head is pounding. You can’t remember anything from the night before, but now with a sober mind Yeosang feels more comfortable in proposing the idea of you being his roommate

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Prompt List Series Masterlist MasterList Buy me a Coffee

The light piercing through the windows wakes you up, eyes stinging even though you've barely opened them. But that's nothing compared to the headache that makes you feel like you've got a tight headband pulling around your head, making you want to hide under the covers and fall back asleep.

Though the second you pull the duvet up to your face to cover it, the unfamiliar scent of the detergent used on the duvet confuses you. This wasn't what you had washed your bedding in, but because of your headache, you chose to take no notice until you force yourself to sit up, and go to reach for the water bottle that's always on your bedside table, hand swiping in mid air at nothing before almost accidentally pushing something over on the table.

Trying to keep your eyes open to look for it, they open wide at the change of scenery. Slowly, you scan the room. It wasn't your room at all. If you had the energy you’d panic over where you ended up but all you did was sit there looking around the four walls that weren’t yours. Your eyes land on a hoodie that was draped over a chair, a small framed photo of a boy and a girl and a drone sat on the desk. Then it hit you, you were in Yeosang’s room and in his bed.

You give yourself a quick pat down, sighing in relief when you feel last nights clothes still on you. So you didn’t sleep with him but what string of events led you to sleeping in his bed? You just hoped you didn’t make a fool of yourself.

It took all your strength to get out of bed, your legs feeling stiff as you put your weight onto them. You stumble out of the bedroom, the light from the windows and celling lights stinging your eyes to no end making you squint as you walked through the apartment. You make your way into the kitchen, being met with a smiling Yeosang.

“You’re finally awake, how are you feeling?”

“I feel like I have a brass band playing in my head.” You groan leaning against the counter. “How much did I drink last night?”

“You only had a few glasses...but then again you were drinking Wooyoung’s cocktail the whole time so I’ll say quite a lot.” He replies sympathetically rubbing your back not really knowing what to do to help.

“Stay here a second.” He says, before you could answer him he’d run off to his room, coming back a few minutes later.

“You probably want a shower, I’ve left some clean clothes on the bed for you.” Dragging your self back up fully you gently pat his arm as a thank you and go off to the bedroom to collect the clothes.

Setting the clothes next to the sink you turned on the shower and removed last nights clothes, thankful to be away from the smell of alcohol that clung to them. It was the best shower you’d ever taken, something about hangover showers just hit different with you, the way the warm water ran over your skin and easing your aching muscles from all the dancing, the steam clearing your head slightly and the overall feeling of finally being clean was just so relaxing and very much needed. You could have stayed there all day if you could, but you knew you had to get out at some point. The towel you wrapped around you was just as warm as the shower making you hum contently, enjoying the brief moment of warmth before getting dressed.

“I made coffee.” Yeosang announces when he sees you coming into the kitchen, giggling a little from how his clothes looked a bit big on you and seemed to almost hang off you.

“Thank you.” You say a touch brighter than earlier.

“Oh and these too.” He says sliding two painkillers over to you. “You seem more awake now, the shower help?”

“So much, I didn’t want to get out.” You laugh before swallowing both pills with a mouthful of coffee, sighing with a smile at the slightly bitter taste.

“Yeo what happened last night?”

“You really don’t remember?” The lack of surprise on his face told you he expected this much. You shook your head in response.

“We went to Yunho’s party and Wooyoung had you drinking his Kinky Fox Special all night, then I lost you since you went off to dance with San and Jongho. You were close to black out drunk so I told the guys I’d bring you back here so I can keep an eye on you.” You were touched by his sweetness but it still didn’t answer one question you had.

“How did I end up in your bed?” Your eyes showed a hint of nervousness which he was quick to pick up on.

“Oh, I wanted you to at least be comfortable so I put you in my bed, I would have put you in the spare bedroom but my last roommate too all the bedding with him.”

“Did you, umm.” You gestured to the bedroom not knowing the exact words to use and hoping he’d get what you were asking.

“Hm? No, no I took the couch, I always have a spare blanket so once you were in bed I fell asleep on the couch.” He pointed to the blanket and pillow that was still in a messy pile on the couch and you mentally kick yourself for not noticing that sooner.

“Thank you for looking after me, I’m sorry I got in that much of a state.” Your eyes widen for a second as you think of all the embarrassing things you must have done. “Please don’t tell me I made an ass of myself in front of everyone.”

“I wouldn’t say you made an ass of yourself but you did cry.”

“...Why did I cry?” You ask in a small voice. Yeosang debated with himself for a moment over if he wanted to be honest or not, he didn’t want to send you into another panic, but at the end of the day it was something that needed to be talked about.

“Well...You told us you’re getting evicted.” Your heart stopped for a second before it started pounding rapidly in your chest.

“I need to go.” You said quickly. You were ready to head out the door as quick as you could but Yeosang was faster, grabbing you lightly by the wrist and pulling you over to the couch as you tried to fight back.

“Sit.” He orders, pushing you lightly by the shoulders making you fall onto the couch as he joined you.

“Yeo, I really need to go.”

“Just hear me out for a second will you, I’ve gathered by now you don’t remember the offer I gave you last night.”

“If you offered to pay the rent I can’t take it, it’s too much and I can’t keep up with the rest of it so it’ll be a waste of money.” You start to cry. You were mentally kicking yourself again for agreeing to go to the party instead of focusing on what was really important.

“No, that wasn’t the offer, I offered for you to be my new roommate.” You look at him with no answer, tears still running down your face.

“I’m not going to pressure you into making a decision right now, I know it’s a lot to think about but I just want you to know this before you make a final decision.” He scans over your face briefly, just making sure you were listening and taking everything in.

“You’re worried about the rent right? We’ll with a roommate rent is cheaper for both parties, the rent is the same for two as it would be for one, just with two you split it so it’s cheaper. I pay 320,000 won for this place but if you lived here too then its 160,000 each a month which is way cheaper and I assume it’s a lot cheaper than your apartment.” You nod in understanding, you couldn’t deny the numbers sounded promising.

“I’m one of your best friends so it’s not like you’ll be moving in with a complete stranger, and you won’t be on your own all the time either, I’ll always be around and we’ll have each other for company, then if there’s days where you do want to be left alone then you have your own space to be left alone with and the same goes for me.” You still stay silent. His idea was good and it would help you so much, it’ll keep a roof over your head and just like he said, you’ll always be with one of your best friends. You take a moment to let yourself calm down and really think his offer through and he knew this was happening just from the look on your face.

“I don’t expect an answer right now but just think about it.” You nod at him.

“I’ll help you with apartment hunting in the mean time.”

“I’ll be your roommate.” His eyes widen like saucers, surprised you’d already made up your mind.

“Really?”

“Yeah, my situation is pretty shit right now so honestly anything is better than being evicted and like you said we’re best friends and we’ll be helping each other out so why not. Thank you Yeo.” You pull him into a hug, tears running down your face again. The hug happened so fast his brain couldn’t think of a way to respond, leaving him sitting there stiff as a board awkwardly patting your back not knowing what to do or say.

“Sorry.” You say pulling back from him and wiping your eyes.

“No it’s fine, and not to rush you again or anything but do you have a date in mind you want to move your stuff in, I can text the guys to help out.” You take a moment to think again. You needed to get out of your apartment as soon as possible but you didn’t want to make anything short notice for the rest of the guys, at the end of the day they have their own lives and stuff they need to do themselves let alone helping your sorry ass out.

“Well I’m good any day, I need to leave in 2 weeks so as long as it’s before that.”

“Same with me, I’ll ask the guys now.” Yeosang says pulling out his phone and quickly punching in a message to the group chat explaining everything. It wasn’t long before messages started to pile in, all the boys agreeing to help out and saying how they’ll be available any time you need them, even if it means pushing back plans.

“So just pick a day and we’ll be there.” Yeosang says with a smile. You chew the inside of your lip as you debate asking your next question.

“Is tomorrow too short notice for you all?” Yeosang doesn’t answer but instead texts the same question into the group chat only for it to be followed up with a load of thumbs up emojis.

“Everyone’s down for tomorrow, we’ll be with you early so we have the whole day to get everything packed and moved out.”

-Moving Day-

It’s 14:30pm and Yeosang wasn’t lying when he said they’d all be at your place early. 9am on the dot and all eight of them were there on your doorstep ready for a busy day. Now everyone was climbing over each other, Yeosang and Mingi were packing in the living room, Hongjoong and Wooyoung were packing the bathroom, San and Yunho packing the kitchen and you and Seonghwa pack your bedroom while Jongho runs between pairs helping out where he can.

You were grateful to have everyone there to help you, if you were by yourself you knew this would take days. The task was easy enough to set for everyone, a pair in each room and to pack only what you needed and anything they think is sentimental or you’d like to keep, the rest gets thrown in a box to take to goodwill.

“How are you feeling?” Seonghwa asks after a long time of silence.

“I’m okay, a little sad to be leaving but I’m okay.” You reply smiling at a hand full of plushies you picked up.

“And you’re okay with moving into Yeosang’s place.”

“Yeah, I mean it’s the best and only option I have right now and he did make a convincing argument.” You both laugh.

“I’ve never seen you wear this, do you still want it?” He asks pulling a black beret from your closet.

“Nah, I’ve only worn it once, throw it in the goodwill box.”

“Like hell I will, if you don’t want it I’ll take it.” He says popping the hat on before continuing with his task.

“Everyone else is pretty much finished, do you guys need a hand?” Jongho asks popping his head around the door to see you were also almost finished.

“Do you want to start taping the boxes shut, that would be a big help.” You smile throwing him a roll of tape while you finish up your last box.

With everything packed and the last of the boxes getting put in the moving van you take the opportunity to have one last walk around the empty apartment. The space that was once filled with everything you own, the space that was your own little slice of the world now empty and ready to be called someone else's. Jongho walks back in from taking out the last box and finds you stood in the bare living room.

"You okay?" He asks softly, slinging an arm over your shoulder in comfort.

"Yeah." You sigh out. "Just giving this place one last goodbye."

"Come on, let's get you going."

"Wait." You say, pulling out a pad of sticky notes and a pen from your pocket and making your way over to the small coffee table in the middle of the room.

"What are you doing?"

"Just leaving a small note for Mrs Kim." You answer with a smile as you scribble down on the sticky note Thank you for looking after me :). Sticking it down to the table you head out with Jongho, making sure to get one more look behind you before shutting the door for the last time.

By the time all your boxes were placed in your new room everyone was exhausted, the many flights of stairs they'd been walking up and down all day and the weight of the boxes had done a number on everyone but now it was the final stretch, all that was left was for you to unpack.

"Do you need help there y/n?" Yeosang asks popping his head into the room seeing you opening some boxes.

"No, you guys have helped enough, thank you, I'm just gonna get my clothes in the closet and pull put some essentials and I'll deal with the rest tomorrow."

"Well if you need a hand just give us a call." You smile at him nodding in thanks.

It didn’t take you too long to finish what you were doing and by the time Hongjoong had popped his head in you were already making the bed.

“Do you want some pizza, we’re ordering in now if you want to join us?” He asked, not stepping into the room so he doesn’t disturb you more than he already was.

“I could kill for some pizza right now, I’ll just finish the bed and I’ll be in.” He smiles with a nod and disappears behind the door again.

Straightening the blanket and adding a few of your favourite plushies, you step back and admire your new bed. You still had a lot to do to really make it like home, but just having a bed was a good enough start the rest would come soon enough.

Making your way to the living room you could hear the rest of the group talking amongst themselves and laughing every now and then. Stepping into the living room Mingi notices you and jumps up and darts to the kitchen, bringing you back a cold can of coke. You thank him and turn to the rest of the group who all have their own cans raised.

“What’s this?”

“A toast to you no longer needing to worry, and a toast to your new home.” Yunho smiles, nudging his can higher to encourage you to do the same. You move over to join the group, slotting yourself on the floor between Yunho and Yeosang.

With pizza in hand everyone was having a good time, the stress of moving had melted away and it was now like any other day. And then the jokes started.

“Yeo...I feel sorry for you.” Wooyoung said lowering his head in faux sadness.

“What do you mean?”

“Well think about it, living on your own you’re free to do what you want and when you want, but now you have a roommate and a female one at that. You’re freedom is gone.” You shoot him a warning glare not knowing where he was going with this.

“Bro, it’s not like she’s my girlfriend, I’m still free to do what I want.”

“To an extent, yes you can go out and not come home till 3am and she won’t bat an eyelash but you leave 1 sock on the floor or dare I say it your boxers and that’s it man, you’re done. Your every move is being watched now, you’ll need to use coasters, there’ll be a huge collection of useless pillows, flowers and scented candles in every room and the list goes on.” You lean across Yunho to deliver a light slap to the top of his head making the others laugh as he drops flat to the floor holding his head.

“I’m not that bad you ass!”

“See the scoldings have started!”

“You don’t live here, so it doesn’t count!” You argue and the others burst out into laughter even more.

“Honestly, that doesn’t sound too bad, I think it might be nice to have a woman’s touch around here.” Yeosang smiled. You didn’t know if he was just saying that to make you feel more at home or if he really meant it but what you were sure of was the look of disgust on Wooyoung’s face.

“Guys I want to place a bet!” San suggests, catching everyone’s attention and a sly smile spread across his face.

“Shoot.”

“How long do you think it’ll be before they sleep together...I give it a month.” You didn’t know what you were expecting him to come out with but it sure as hell was not that and it made you flustered to say the least. San noticed your flustered state but didn’t make the situation any better as he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

“He’s only joking.” Yeosang whispers to you.

“Yeah don’t take it to heart he’s just making a joke.” Yunho says with a smile, lightly patting your back.

“Hear me out, it’s like those stories, two people get to know each other better from living together and then realise there’s sexual tension between them and then one night tensions are high and one thing leads to another and they end up fucking.” San defends.

“And they were roommates.” Wooyoung gasps, jumping at the opportunity to reference a meme.

“Thin ice Woo, you’re on thin ice!” You warn shooting him a glare.

The rest of the group chime in, including Yunho, joking about how they give you anywhere from a week to 6 months before your legs are wrapped Yeosang. You were just grateful the topic died off quickly and the jokes turned to someone else.

Looking around at everyone laughing and having fun, the comfort you feel being around them and vise versa you knew it was times like this that made you feel most at home, it didn’t matter where you were as long as you were with them you were home. You take a quick glance at Yeosang who was holding his stomach from laughing at Jongho choking on his drink, and try to imagine what your life will be like now you’re roommates.

Maybe getting evicted wasn’t the worst thing to happen to you.

Tag List: @stardragongalaxy @kpopjust4u @whatudowhennooneseesyou @8tinytings @jenotation @grim-adventures58 @owjohny @ker1 @tinkerbell460 @haylstoney @scuzmunkie @halesandy @multihunbun @kodzukein @maskedmochii @woosannie @senpai-of-doom @black--awsum @chanst1ddies @actuallyalien

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aquilathefighter · 2 years ago

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Fluffbruary 20: Lounge

Another late one! Find all my @fluffbruary ficlets on AO3 here!

Fandom: The Sandman (2022)

Relationship: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Dream is led by hand down the stairs into a dim room. A jazz lounge. The air is laden with cigarette smoke and the rich tones of whiskey and gin. Low tables decorate the area, some groups already seated and chatting before the main event. The women are dressed in shimmering silk gowns, gilded with beads that catch the dim light and scandalously show off their calves. The men are equally stunning in suits of all colors, catching flashes of pinstripes and checkered vests.

But Hob, Hob he could stare at all night. His chocolate wool suit brings out the warmth of his skin, his eyes, his hair. The man practically glows reflecting all the light in the room in his amber eyes. Dream’s eyes trail down his body, noticing the slim fit of his trousers, finding it difficult to tear his eyes away. Hob squeezes his hand.

“C’mon, love. Can’t just stare at my bum all night! The show’s about to start and I still haven’t been to the bar!” Hob teases.

Dream lets him drag him toward the bar. He prefers to consume beverages in the Dreaming; Dreamstuff doesn’t have any of the strange flavors and textures that Waking food and drink do. He lets Hob order them drinks, knowing without a doubt he’ll make him try some cocktail on account of being “period accurate.” They watch the bartender shake their drinks, tossing the shaker up in the air, then pours them out into two glasses. Hob snatches them up and points his chin toward a table.

“Let’s sit over there, then I can tell you all about the drink I picked out for us.”

Dream pulls out a chair for Hob, not to be out-gentlemanned tonight. Then he seats himself next to Hob, scooting the chair as close as possible. Hob slides the bright orange drink toward him and leans in to make sure Dream hears him as the band begins to warm up.

“Take a sip, love,” he whispers in Dream’s ear. “It’s got gin, orange juice, absinthe, and grenadine. I’m sure you’ll love it, what with your sweet tooth.”

Dream smirks and tries the drink. It is good, the juniper from the gin mixing with the tart citrus making him feel more alert. He hums in approval.

Lips still brushing his ear, Hob whispers, “Good, right? It’s called a monkey gland.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Hob chuckles, “A monkey gland! Some guy thought grafting them on to people would give them long life or something. So they named a drink after that, for some reason.” He shrugs. “Still tastes good.”

He takes a sip of his own drink, finding Dream’s hand under the table and giving it a squeeze.

“Now, you ready for some bloody good music? Might even get you to dance tonight if I’m good,” he winks, knowing how much it drives Dream crazy.

The bandleader counts out a measure, then the room explodes in brass, wood, and string. The rhythm section is non-stop, a train chugging its way till the end of the line. The clarinet howls it's response.

Hob starts to sway back and forth, squeezing Dream’s hand on the off-beats. He glances at Dream, grinning. Dream gives him a small smile back as the first solo begins. The trombonist wails, jumping from first position to sixth and back, keeping time with his whole body.

By the time the second soloist stands, Hob is pushing his chair back and pulling Dream to stand up. The trumpet blares, the mute making it sound even brighter as he hits the notes one after one. The syncopation makes his heart beat faster as they step onto the dancefloor.

Dream turns to face him, placing a hand on his shoulder and the other out expectantly.

“Really!? You’ll dance with me?” Hob asks as he takes hold of Dream’s waist and pulls him close. The dances of this time were so scandalous compared to just a few decades earlier. The Victorian age was so rigid and it felt like they didn’t even dance to have fun! But the foxtrot and Charleston, those were about getting up close and personal with your dance partner, having a good time.

Hob laces his fingers through Dream’s and takes the first step. The clarinet is honking and wailing as they step to the beat, back and forth, Dream spinning at Hob’s indication perfectly. Hob is lost as he watches his love in motion. He can’t peel his eyes away from Dream.

As the song ends, Dream pulls Hob even closer. They’re pressed together from shoulder to thigh, Hob panting although he does not need to breathe in the Dreaming. Dream drags his hand from Hob’s shoulder, up the length of his neck, to caress the back of his head. His fingers brush the short strands, delighting in the texture. Hob gazes up at him, grinning. Looking at him like a man who has been lost at sea looks at the land for the first time in years. Absolute awe and devotion make their home in Hob’s honeyed eyes.

Dream has to lean in for a kiss in that moment. The way Hob’s sweat makes his skin shine and the pulsing of his lungs against Dream’s body are irresistible. As their lips touch, Hob groans; his hands tighten around Dream’s middle like he could absorb him into his body. Dream kisses him harder, even as the next song starts up and dancers move around them. Hob flicks his tongue across his bottom lip, nipping as he continues to press himself to Dream. He opens his mouth in response, Hob’s tongue immediately breaching the gap to taste Dream in his element. He tastes different in the Dreaming, like something more. Sweet and longing like the last berry of summer, of wintergreen tea saved for the fall, of first frosts and snowmelt. Hob can’t get enough, licking Dream’s mouth and wrapping their tongues around each other.

Hob eventually pulls back, resting their foreheads together.

“Thank you for indulging me, my love. Can’t wait to see where you take me next.”

“It was my pleasure, Hob Gadling. Dare I say I shall take you dancing again.”

Dream presses one last longing kiss to Hob’s lips as he feels him start to slip from the Dreaming. He will be there to hold them in their bed, to kiss again and again before Hob must get up for work.

#fluffbruary #aquila writes #dreamling #hob x dream #dream x hob #guy who is so normal about the 1920s and jazz

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garthcelyn · 2 years ago

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Risen - A (Unfinished) Version of Chapter One

I'll be real, I don't know how to feel about the direction this is going but hey, it's something.

It was on that planet, at the very edge of the universe, a decade after anything remotely interesting had happened, centuries after the important bits, that the city of Kingshill thrived. The city glimmered in the morning light, its geometric designs of gold and brass cogs shining brightly and its white buildings towering proudly above. The overhead wires crackled with Lancer & Co branded electricity, connecting every house and business and small, forgotten shack to the beauty that was a danger to society, but very good at powering newfangled appliances. Cars and shuttlebuses created by the Godricks of Godrick Gears rushed around to no end through busy streets and polished roads. The same city that was protected by its many soldiers, from those of the military academy to the templars of the twin temples that stood mirrored on opposite ends of this glorious place. A perfect haven, where nothing wrong ever happened. Ever.

In the courtyard of the Temple of Omera, a dog knight lay dying. Flat on her back, her chest a concave broken mess. She wore no armour - that was a first, and now her last. She assumed that when the time came, as it does for all, she would go peacefully and quietly. No such mercy ever came her way.

When the elders dragged her still-wheezing corpse from that patch of evergreen grass, she could not fight. Her eyelids were heavy, eyes staring unfocused into the sky, sending one sloppy glare into Sanctum. Behind her, she left a red carpet across the marble flooring, a snail trail of gore that wouldn’t be her problem.

And there, in the back room semi-used as a mortuary, she lay across the stone table. An altar to her. A bottle pressed to her lips, thick liquid forcing itself down her throat as if it were a living thing. Minutes. An eternity. No time whatsoever. Her chest re-inflated with a violent pop, bones sewing back together, skin mending. She sat up with a start, gasping to fill her semi-fixed lungs, hands grasping at her front, feeling how the skin pulled itself together.

She was alive, and that was awful.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder, patting her gently. A rook, one that the humble dog knight knew years ago, though time is a fickle thing that does what it wants. His name was Rutherford, once. If it still was, she could never be sure. A fellow barbaric cocktail of etain and human, big catlike eyes and pointed ears hidden beneath a thick cascading mass of black hair.

“Cooper,” he said, voice low but crackling like a hearth. A warning. “You need to be more careful, if anything happened to you-”

“Well, I can’t die,” she said through blood-stained lips, the sound closer to a gurgle than her voice. Closer to water fighting to flow down a plughole. “Idris would get lonely.”

“Forget about the damn dog for two seconds. You have a duty. To the temple and your squad.”

“You had that duty, once.”

Rutherford huffed, blowing air forcefully through his nose as if he could breathe fire. He couldn’t, Cooper had checked. His big purple eyes regarded her, stared through her, before he sighed once more. “Get some rest, Cooper. You still need it.”

Nails scratched at the door, shaking it on its hinges. A loud whine shattered the air before Rutherford opened the door and let the bounding mass of fluff and muscle.

“Hey puppy!” greeted Cooper, voice raising several uncharacteristic octaves; reaching over to rub the overly large wardog between his drooping ears.

Rutherford clicked his tongue. “It’s not a pet, Cooper. It’s also not allowed within temple walls. Your bond shouldn’t have called him.”

Cooper did not have a bond with Idris, not how she expected. They were not connected in any way, either through magic or some other means. She cared for him and, in return, he cared for her. The very fact that he was allowed to grow up without that link is likely the reason for his size, the largest out of his litter, who looked closer to a lycan tank than a typical wardog. His size, unfortunately, came at both their downfalls.

Despite this, the temple was unaware that she skipped the bonding ritual so many years ago. Now standing at the ripe old age of twenty-one, she didn’t see a reason to do so. “I need to get back to the barracks somehow, yeah? Were you going to carry me? Probably not.”

“Don’t let me catch it in here again.”

“Yes, sir.”

She swung her legs over the edge of the table, Idris instinctively laying down so that she could climb onto his back. Her spine cracked, joints popping, but sore now rather than dead. Digging her fingers into thick black fur, Idris stood and carefully walked out of the room, his colossal body squeezing through the doorway once more.

The grey room was still and cold, and the only sound was the soft chatter of the other Templars. After everything, it was a welcome sight. Nothing could have been more comforting than the straw of her bed that she gained from wearing her old mattress down for the past twelve years. Idris lay beside her, his big head dropping into her lap with a thump. One step away from perfection, that last step being positively ruined by Hawkins, the rampant bitch of the twelfth herself, changing in the corner of her eye.

“Back already?” she called over, torso bared and a white cotton shirt that was practically the same colour as her skin bundled in her hand. “And you brought the mutt. Of course. Weren’t you busy dying?”

“Rutherford gave me ichor.”

“Ah.”

Cooper rolled her eyes. “Don’t get too worked up about it.”

“Oh, I’m not. If anything, I’m more upset that you’re still here.”

“I hate you.”

“Who got the better of you? I’ll buy them a drink.”

Cooper replied rather eloquently with a middle finger in Hawkins’ general direction.

It was Mayburn who spectacularly ruined her chest. A child. A child, who both wielded a hammer and was raised by Cooper herself. A young dog knight who had, actually, had the temple’s bond with her animal. Was it pride that Cooper felt blooming in her chest, that the girl she trained bested her so royally? No. No, it was likely heartburn from where her ribs continued to fuse back into place.

Regardless, she did not want to encourage the ten-year-old to gain a drinking problem. Not just yet.

“I think they’d only fight you.”

“Then I welcome the challenge.”

Cooper snorted, hand flying to her chest as it throbbed. Fingers pressed at the bones beneath, massaging out the flames that grew within her heart. Hawkins cast a look that could only be described as pitiful, or rather, pitying. A horrific thought. Her eyes soft and scrunched, focused on Cooper and only Cooper, before hardening once more before strapping a pauldron onto her otherwise unarmoured self.

“The Bishop wants to talk to you.” A roll of the shoulders. “Talk to us.”

“Now?”

“Get some rest, Lieutenant.”

As the sun set over the city, bathing the land in a warm golden glow, Cooper found herself once more in the chilling breeze that haunted her. She lead Idris back to his pen, back to his pups and pack mates, hand lost in the mass of fur of his front leg. The sun disappeared over the gleaming white buildings, the city’s gold glinting for the last time that day.

She sucked in a long breath, lungs chilling and filling with the scent of old mutts that would have once caused her to gag, was now a strange comfort. The dogs understood her like no other templar. She ushered Idris in, rubbing him between the ears one last time before closing the door and locking it behind her. The last stop before her summons.

In the temple’s backfield, she felt the wind on her face, and was free for a few glorious moments. Free in the chilling air as the day slowly but surely turned to night. Above her inky black ate away at the pinks and ambers, the twin moons still out of sight behind the paint dabs of clouds. Free. Cooper couldn’t say what the word meant.

The inside of the temple was hardly any warmer. The chill followed her in, hiding within her bones and gripping its withered fingers into her skin. In the ribcage of marble, the only thing that resembled home, the world fell silent. There she stood before her greatest foe, the dark wooden doorway to the Bishop’s quarters. Her heart hammered away, stomach rolling. She hadn’t been in that room in many years; she could still feel the desperation of leaving Andrin behind, even all these years later. For him to never return from the Bishop’s lair, buried with the rest. She alone left victorious, a new title to pin on her chest.

She didn’t regret it one bit.

Cooper knocked. The sound echoed down the empty hallway. She mustered her courage and struck again, the sound ringing in her ears. It was this time a muffled voice came from within, words unknown but assumedly a “come in” or “go away”. Gambling, she entered.

Bishop Nyxus sat hunched behind his desk, his back arched in such a way it almost overshadowed his head. The same man who took issue with his shining templar’s posture looked closer to an uncooked shrimp in purple robes than the head of their fine regime. Slowly he raised his head, green eyes staring unblinking at Cooper, pupils slits in the soft lamplight.

“Late, isn’t it, Cub?”

“You wanted to speak with me?”

The Bishop nodded slowly, gesturing towards the seat before him. Cooper sat, unaccustomed to the soft fabric that stretched over its overstuffed form. She fingered at the deep purple velvet of the armrests, rolling the pads across its surface. Soft. Cosy. Not for her, but she indulged nonetheless. He watched her. Looked through her. Searching for something beneath the surface.

“Bonbon?” he asked, finally breaking his unblinking stare. Cooper grabbed one from the little ornate bowl on the desk with very little hesitation and popped it in her mouth. It was awful. Chalky and bitter, like licking at where the stone had began to crumble in the courtyard, or the powder that had accumulated behind the peeling wallpaper of the armoury. It coated her tongue, viscous and sour, and stayed there like her own personal punishment. The Bishop gave a small smile at her struggle. “You died today. Perhaps I should be impressed, that the one you trained has overtaken you so quickly, though I invested a lot into you. You do understand how hard it is to fill our ranks since the war, yes?”

She nodded, despite not understanding at all. The temple was worthy to serve, no matter how curious she was about life outside. Four hundred shills, she cost. She had never seen that much money in her life, wasn’t allowed. Too valuable, Nyxus had told her. That, paired with free room and meals for the past twelve years, was more than she could ever give back. Twelve years. She had been dragged through the temple gates kicking and screaming, a feral little thing; underfed and sharp. She had been placed under Rutherford’s care, and had bitten him plenty of times during those first few weeks. That, too, had been beaten from her, trained from her.

She scarfed another bonbon to fill the silence.

The Bishop poured a glass of red, swirling the liquid around the chalice. “Now, Cooper, you’re better than this. You’ve always been better than this.” Cooper grew warm and uncomfortable, sweat prickling her skin. It was a compliment. She was sure it was a compliment. With a long sip, and a lazy appraisal, the Bishop spoke again. “Make it up to me?”

Cooper nodded without hesitation, sitting forward in her seat, though not daring to touch the desk. An over eager child in adulthood. Her skin itched, burned with the need to please despite it all. She could count on both hands the times she had seen him, spoken to him, in all her years serving the Goddess. A busy man who the Goddess chose as her eyes and ears over the Kingshill temple. Too busy to raise her and too busy to father her, but pushed her forward the best he could. She owed him.

“How?” she croaked out. She cursed herself, swallowing the words like a bitter pill. For the Goddess, she’d do anything. It was only right. “How do I make this right?”

“I would have told you in the morning, though there’s no harm in telling you now.” He sat back in his chair, chalice abandoned and fingers steepled. Still, he watched her. Never once had he taken his gaze off of her. “You’re needed on a search party, as you’re likely aware Prince Kirran is missing, and his siblings have asked for you personally.”

Cooper’s stomach dropped. It twisted and boiled, raging against the flesh it was housed in.

Through gritted teeth she said “of course.” And left it at that, which brought a little smile to Nyxus’ lips.

“You’re our best,” he said like a threat. “I agreed on your behalf, though I will have to send Captain Hawkins alongside you. Should take a few months, and I have something in mind for when you return.”

That something, Cooper hoped was the greatest reward of all; no longer being under Hawkins’ leadership.

“Of course, sir,” she nodded, “anything for the Goddess.”

Nyxus smiled at her now, teeth gleaming like the paste advertisements littered around on posters around the city. Very white, and dripping charisma. “You’re dismissed, my cub. You have a long week ahead.”

After sleeping the day away, it now evaded her. The silver moonlight washed over the barracks, untainted by the stained glass that filled the front half of the temple, barely kept out by heavy purple curtains. There in her once-white shirt that had belonged to at least a dozen templars before her, now drenched due to the warm night air; Cooper wanted to die.

As silently as she could she shifted her legs to the side, pulling on her worn down excuse for shoes, she fled the barracks as she had many nights before. It was something she would have considered herself quite good at, if it wasn’t for the knowledge that Nyxus had given the order to let her leave whenever it fancied her. A perk of training under Stykes Academy, though that in itself was only natural for templars. Despite it all, they had a better training ground.

#kd writes #wip: risen

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villagerain · 2 years ago

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@steeleidolon --

It is as public as a public venue can be -- more or less. Not precisely the highest class of bars, End of the Line resides in the sliver between the transit station and the corkscrew tunnel vehicle access, and serves grounders who may need to wait for the train until last call as much as it serves Plate-dwellers looking for a taste of the underbelly without the grime of Wall Market.

It may as well be a speakeasy lifted from fifty years ago and deposited three hundred meters above the ground. Nicotine-stained brick and amber lights, wrought iron cup-stools, plush leather benches worn to a patina, a dark hardwood bar, real wood and brass in an age of synthetics, all paint a picture of run-down opulence.

And then there's the karaoke setup. Kunsel descends to whistles, the odd catcall, a tossed-crumpled gil note (with a phone number, it looks like), and then jeers as he cedes the stage and the microphone to an unsteady salaryman who is ruddy-faced and eager for the next song. Must be a regular. It's early yet as these places go and the crowd isn't that large.

Kunsel is mostly out of regs, not that over-knee boots and fitted trousers are terribly uncommon. The hug of long-sleeved mesh and angle-patterned dark fabric draw attention away from the lambent gleam of eyes in the dark. Not to say he did not bring the other half of his uniform--it's within sight in the clear-paneled gun cabinet behind the bar. Swords and coat, right next to someone's shotgun. Maybe the barkeep's. Maybe not.

Playing by the rules and all.

Kunsel helps himself to a perch on a stool right nearby with an air of sprezzatura he may not feel at the eerily familiar face.

"Oof. Why are you looking at me in that tone of voice?" He manages wry as he orders something strong and citrus-forward. Maybe he'll even get to finish it. "Was it that bad?"

A Turk outside of uniform is still a Turk. Balto has eschewed the usual suit jacket and white shirt for a satin, navy blue shirt buttoned up to his collarbone and white slacks, but he is not here without purpose. That delineation between profession and personal does not exist for him anymore. The higher you climb, the older you get, the smaller the view out that window becomes.

SOLDIER First Class, Kunsel. Newly promoted. Not his usual type, but that hardly matters.

Balto keeps his head bowed, providing his undivided attention as his companion’s rich baritenor shares space with the warmth from old-fashioned, power hungry incandescents and exposed brickwork walls.

He's already nursing a drink by the time Kunsel snakes his way back through the rounded tables with their glossy, vinyl black marble finish. The ball of ice in his glass bobs on its amber bed as he sets it down and leans against the bartop on one elbow with his body angled towards Kunsel.

"You could benefit from vocal training." There's something resembling a grin on his face, more in his eyes than the line of his mouth as he meets Kunsel’s gaze over the top of his glasses. "It wasn't bad, objectively speaking."

Good enough to impress the crowd, although the reception of most any performance always improves with a pretty face.

“I can’t complain anyway.” If not for a direct invitation to attend, he’d be sitting out in the cold on the rooftop right about now, half-asleep with a headset on. Good to know the brutal honesty approach isn’t a total wash. “So, why the change of heart?”

Balto breaks eye contact briefly to glance at the bartender as she slides an eye wateringly bright, orange cocktail across the way.

“Sector Eight Cocktail.” She looks between the two men beneath a fringe of brown bangs, guessing at their association perhaps, before the curiosity drowns somewhere in the need to address the demands of the bar’s other patrons. Attractive in the conventional sense, despite the fake lashes and dramatic winged liner. Balto catches her attention before she can turn away by wiggling his fingers ‘hello.’

“Hey pretty miss, I’ll have one too, please.”

#steeleidolon #kunsel.#we're borrowing time 'til the sunlight comes -- steeleidolon.#[ ν ] – εγλ 0001 - 0007.

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lupismaris · 2 years ago

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The Opening Act of Spring- a Black Sails Fic. Chapter 3

The Ranger’s have a castle above the clouds, the delta bayou’s favorite undead son hasn’t changed much despite appearances, and we meet the patriarch of The Walrus- one of the beloved queer bars in west Brooklyn- Hal Gates.

The condo The Rangers shared on West End ave was high up in a shiny new building, overlooking the Hudson river and the west skyline of Manhattan. Silver wasn’t surprised that his sister had opted for a sleek home with floor to ceiling windows and polished wood floors, she had always day dreamed about a place above the clouds, untouchable like the men and women they conned for eating money. And now, as he and Anne stepped out of the private elevator, it seemed as if her dreams of that life, to a point, had come true. Of course the life time of suffering and blood that had gone into it could hardly been denied, but as with all things Max did, no one would know it. Grace and Elegance masked all, by careful design.

Silver whistled at the well lit space, kicking off his shoes at the door. Sunlight was starting to spill into the open concept living and dining room. The lime washed walls were decorated with elegant pieces of art, contemporary and colorful to contrast the neutral tones of the condo itself, the furniture mid-century modern with its rich honey toned wood and brass metal accents. House plants and vases of flowers, well loved and flourishing, were tucked into every sensible corner and open surface, bringing life into an otherwise sterile home, one that Silver would have expected to see in a high end magazine review.

“She’ll be in the studio, through there,” Anne said, nodding to a room past the kitchen. She handed over the bouquet of Irises. “Give these to her. I’m gonna make sure Chaz is up for work.”

“Sure, thanks, by the way-”

She waved it off and disappeared down the dim hallway.

“Right. Good talk.”

The studio had, as expected, the best lighting in the whole condo. It was a corner unit and the studio sat right at the corner, able to scrape together whatever sunlight available at whatever time of day. Silver had to guess that Max’s bedroom was graced with either the next best natural light, or the best light fixture money could buy to mimic it. The room was filled with various dress forms and metal figures, each draped in different fabrics that would, in time, become cocktail dresses and gowns. Two work benches were littered with supplies, pages of sketches and two sewing machines, boxes of sexing tools, pens and pencils and drafting tools, shelves covered in bolts of lush fabrics in jewel tones and soft neutrals. All that was what Silver expected to find, the heart and soul of his sister’s enterprise laid bare.

But over by the windows, where Max was seated, stood an easel and canvas, with several half finished canvases of varying sizes leaning against the glass awaiting their turn. A small table attended to Max’s right, carrying a tray of oil pastels and a cloth for her hands, a pair of chamois for blending, and her morning cappuccino long forgotten, its foam clinging to the sides of the porcelain bowl.

His sister had always wanted to take up the finer arts, or so she had told him, but their lives had never allowed them the time. Too much running, too many lies, too many masks, and whats more, gutter rats like them had more important things to worry about than the delicate curve of a shadow on the page or how to blend charcoal, didn’t they?

Silver stood there silently for a few moments, watching as Max blended the soft peach of sunlight into the clouds she was attempting to capture, the view from her window shifting ever so slightly so that her canvas was a perfect dream of the Morning sky. Her dark curls, coiled more tightly than his own, were tied up high on her head with a silk scarf, the rich green and gold of it reminding Silver of laurels, a perfect contrast to her darker skin.

Of them all, Max’s laurels were most deserved.

“No one likes a ghost in the doorway, mon cher,” she said over her shoulder, taking up a robin’s egg blue pastel.

“I’d disagree but I’d hate to ruin so lovely a morning-”

Her laughter was as sharp as a jaybird’s call, joyful and just a little mocking. “Oh you’re exhausting. Come on then, you’re already half an hour late as it is you cad.”

Silver felt himself smile, his first honest smile since landing at JFK, and let himself enter the room properly. Max set down her pastels and wiped her hands, twisting on the stool to face him. Her lounge set, knit leggings and loose tank top of bone white, looked soft and well loved. She wore no make up, the only colour on her cheeks the stray smear of blue pastel along her cheek bone from a misplaced finger, and the only jewelry Silver could see was the delicate gold bracelet he had given her years before after their first big score.

And a simple gold diamond ring on her left ring finger.

“Well now when did that happen?” Silver asked with some astonishment. He’d expected a phone call if not a photo if Anne had finally popped the question after years and years of domestic bliss.

“It hasn’t, it’s a place holder,” Max said, though the soft blush in her cheeks meant it still meant the world. “She grew tired of people presuming things, had me pick out something classic until we could custom order something better. You know I wouldn’t choose a diamond for the final product.”

“No you had always been partial to pearls or emeralds, I remember that.” Silver kissed her temple and passed over the irises. “These are from her by the way.”

“Thought as much, you never bring me flowers.”

“No I bring you shiny things worth stupid amounts of money and leave the romantic gestures to your beau.”

Max rolled her eyes and got up to find a vase for the flowers, leaving Silver to poke around the studio like a curious stray cat. “I imagine those gifts are still at your hotel, since you look like shit and Anne said she found you drunk in a bathtub this morning?”

“Mmm it wasn’t my best wake up call I’ll give her that.”

“You don’t drink, mon Cher, I take it Jack’s plan didn’t go as well as he hoped?”

It was a question, but Silver felt the rhetorical tone even with his back turned.

“Did you suggest it to him or did he think it up all on his own like a big kid?”

“Now now don’t be too cross, it could have been worse.”

“How exactly? With Flint gutting me in public? Strangling me in an elevator? Tossing me off a balcony? Or do you have a more romantic kind of murder in mind?” Silver asked dryly, dropping onto the vintage loveseat by the windows.

Max set the vase of Irises on the closest work station and turned to face him with a sigh. “Are you finished feeling sorry for yourself? Or would you like to wallow in self pity for a few more minutes?”

“Few more couldn’t hurt.”

“You’ve had more than enough time I think and I don’t want to hear it.”

Silver pushed his sunglasses up onto his hair and blinked and the sun filled room. “As you wish. I’m just saying it was a dick move. And I’m a little surprised at you, shacking up with Flint after all this. When you were the one who knew before we all did that it was worth it in the end.”

Max crossed her arms and leaned back against the workstation, taking in Silver’s haggard face, bloodshot and shadowed eyes. “More than just a drink then hm?”

“Oh I’m sorry if it was Ellie would you have done better?”

It was cruel and he knew it. His sister’s eyes hardened for a moment as she considered him.

“Yes. Because I did the work you haven’t.”

Silver sighed and turned his gaze to the window.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” she said after a moment, “You abandoned us. You had the opportunity to stay and have a real chance at something better and you walked away, so what I choose to do in my business ventures is none of your concern, Silver. You gave up that right.”

“Then why ask me here?”

“You abandoning us does not mean we have chosen to abandon you.”

It took effort not to look up as she crossed the room, coming to sit on the love seat next to him.

“Even if you’d rather we did,” She added.

“That- that’s not-” He sighed, turning to her and shaking his head. “I don’t wish that, you know I don’t.”

Max smiled at him and reached up to tuck a few stray curls behind his ear. She said nothing, just let his empty lie hang lifeless in the space between them for a moment, before asking about his flight in from Istanbul.

He had never been able to lie to her, and she had never been able to lie to him, not in any way that had mattered. Little white lies and surprise parties were possible, sure, but when it mattered? Eventually it would unravel, the fibers fraying and thinning as they tried to spin them, faster and faster until they were left empty handed and shamefaced. The only lie that stood was, in a sense, a shared truth- that neither of them had existed before their meeting, that their lives had begun the moment they had met in the back room of a dusty and dirty whore house in some city they pretended to forget the name of. Before that there had been nothing. That was the only lie they would permit.

And maybe it was better that way. Maybe it was better that Max knew Silver was lying when he said he didn’t want to be forgotten, abandoned to his self made misery while she and her lovers built new beautiful lives for themselves in castles on clouds. Because otherwise he’d have to admit it out loud, admit that he wanted to play the martyr and be left to the consequences of his mistakes.

That he didn’t think he deserved a second chance.

Some people didn’t deserve to be saved, right? Didn’t deserve to prove themselves bettered? Maybe, just maybe, he was one of them and the best thing he could do was let that be the case. Especially if it meant he didn’t have to acknowledge that he had in fact made the mistakes in the first place.

But he’d never win that argument with Max, not if she had it in her head that, for whatever reason, he was meant to be a part of their bizarre new lives.

Did he resent her, and the others, a little, for said beautiful new life? Despite it being everything they had bled for all those years? Yes.

Did it make sense? No not even remotely.

He found himself chewing over the thought all afternoon as they had an early lunch, the other Rangers joining them in the dining room. Rackham tried to be a gentleman and offer Silver his one punch to the stomach over drinks-gone-ary, but Silver refused him with a tired laugh.

“Let’s keep a running tally for now,” he said, letting Rackham pull him into a hug. “I’m sure you’ll earn another soon enough. Besides, I think both of us have had our nerves shaken enough over the last twenty four hours-”

Rackham laughed and kissed his cheek as he let him go. “Haven’t we just. There is nothing quite as terrifying as that man stalking you across a room. I thought I’d forgotten that fear but no, no, it has been thoroughly reintroduced to my nightmares after yesterday.”

It had never left Silver’s dreams, the way it felt to have Flint watch him from across the room, move with him, appear suddenly at his side like a phantom.

“You try bein’ in a fuckin kitchen wit’m,” Vane said over his shoulder, his rumbling voice raised slightly to be heard over the rhythmic thud of the knife against the cutting board. “One moment you’re alone gettin’ mise set no body but christ to talk to n’the next he’s there raining hellfire down. If he didn’t announce himself he’d get gutted for scaring a man.”

Rackham sat at the breakfast bar so he could watch Vane cook, “That’s a trait you share darling.”

“Doesn’t mean I gotta like it on him now do I?” Vane asked, feeding Rackham a slice of radish with salted butter.

Silver fought the urge to roll his eyes. They’d become bizarrely domestic and exhausting in their retirement, Rackham smitten in his expensive lounge wear and Vane wearing an apron with his name embroidered on it, putting the finishing touches on a cheese board and salad while the spanakopita finished baking.

It would have been gross, in the way it was for you to see your best friend mack on their new beaus. That is, if Silver wasn’t ultimately struggling with the concept of Vane as a kept house husband who fixed lunch for his roommates and only had a job to keep him out of trouble and wore, of all things, embroidered aprons.

Silver could distinctly remember the day he learned that Vane had removed another man’s head for pissing him off, after all. He had seen the aftermath alongside Max, her ex and the rest of the Guthrie smugglers. It wasn’t something you easily forgot.

Rackham had done the truly impossible. He’d take the wild thing and domesticated it, just enough to fool to world into thinking it had always been so. Silver made a note to never question his capacity for sex, romance, or sheer power of will ever again.

If nothing else, the embroidered apron was going to take a lot of getting used to.

He said as much later that afternoon, relishing the loud burst of laughter that rang out in reply.

“If Jackie hadn’a spent two days makin’ the damn thing-” Vane shook his head, his long hair tossing as he did. “Shoo ain’t catchin me wearin’ another that’s for damn sure. Jackie made it, understand?”

Another park, this time across the bridge, with a stunning view of the river, the sparkling glass and metal skyline of Gotham across the way. Silver had followed Vane to Brooklyn once lunch had finished, Max and Rackham off to a busy afternoon of fittings and model interviews for the summer look book, Anne joining them as she often did. So Vane had found Silver a spare helmet and pulled his vintage Harley out of the private garage, slipping the valet a few bills on their way out of the back entrance in a way that felt very routine, and they made their way to Brooklyn, slicing through traffic.

Silver watched the various pedestrians pass them by, the two of them seated comfortably on an ornate promenade bench, Vane’s bike parked a few feet away on the curb. “Still, considering you used to pitch such a fit about things like that? I distinctly remember you giving Flint so much shit whenever he told you to wear a shirt. Or say please.”

Vane snorted, all sharp teeth as he smiled in amusement. “Mmm but it is fun fuckin with that old queen innit? He cared far too much about respectability when it didn’t right matter n’he knew it, but it made him feel better to scold about it anyhow. Sense of control when it was all falling apart.” He shrugged. “Just cause Jackie get’s me playing nice doesn’t mean I believe it. Just means I believe it enough for his sake, you know? Makes him happy, makes him smile, so I believe in it enough to bring bout that result and keep one foot toeing the line should Jackie forget they don’t play fair. Means, end.”

There was that all encompassing “They” again, alongside a shadow that Silver thought he recognized, of the man who’d burned off his own finger prints at 13, who never quite understood Flint’s need for decorum, but seemed perfectly at home with Silver’s deeply rooted fear of commitment.

“And the means of working for Flint?” he asked when Vane didn’t continue.

“Mmm.”

There was a pause then, as Vane watched the clouds slowly roll in over head. A small, ghost of a smile played on his lips, as if he’d remembered some little joke that Silver wasn’t party to.

“Why I get the feeling you been asking this question all day?” he asked in turn, rolling his head over to look at Silver. “It’s eatin’ you up real bad innit, us tolerating each other again?”

Silver looked away with a sigh. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Shoo, does anything about any of this? Johnny we stole the world out from under those fuckers and what’d I get in turn?”

On the expressway below the promenade, a truck’s exhaust backfired. Smoke, the smell of burning oil filled the air for a moment as the clouds continued to shift over head, memories taking shape in the altered light as Vane continued.

He hadn’t been there, the day Charles Vane had died. It hadn’t been long after he’d lost his leg and despite a clean amputation and proper antibiotics, his lack of rest had lead to an infection. Silver had been laid up in a safe house for three weeks, during which Vane had been captured on a raid.

“A noose,” Vane continued, “A coffin. If it had gone any different, if a fucker had been a smidge less upset that afternoon-” he laughed again, a darker, older sound and dropped his head back to look up at the clouds. Silver could see clearly the scar the rope had left, resting where his adams apple should have been, faded slightly with the years but haunting them all the same.

In the small courtyard of Rogers’ largest factory town to fall, Charles Vane had been strung up like the animal the world had thought him to be. Silver had learned later that some small speech had been made, the warden being kind enough, or stupid enough, to give Vane parting words. Whatever was said had been the last bit of fuel for the fire. In the riot that followed, his body went missing.

Silver had never been brave enough to ask him how, whether it had been sheer dumb luck or all part of a grander plan. Something told him that Vane would just level him with that tired, oddly wise look, and just smile, before changing the subject entirely.

“You and Flint tried to kill each other. More than once,” Silver reminded him, trying to change the subject. “Couldn’t agree on anything-”

“Who says that’s changed?” Vane shrugged, getting to his feet and stretching his arms high above his head, cut sleeves of his work tshirt riding up to show the faint edge of old scars long the underside of his pecs. “Said it before, Say it again- ain’t no body making that queen into a trophy but me.”

“Yeah but-”

“’Sides, something healthy bout that if you askin me. We different men, sure, he may be soft, but only I know just how so. Certain kinda intimacy you only get with a man you decide to be the end of, one way or another. Wouldn’ you agree?” Vane’s smile was teasing as he pulled out a cigar from his bag and fished around for his lighter. Silver pulled out his and waved for him to lean in.

Vane did so and held still, lips pulling at the cigar while Sliver lit it, smoke curling around his tanned face. “Thats a kind of love ain’t nothin’ gonna replace. Not comfort, not peace, not gold. Not even sex.”

Their eyes met as Vane pulled back, Silver feeling pinned under a gaze not for the first time that day. It was all he could do to stare back at the gray eyes that shifted behind cigar smoke.

“You used to want comfort, now I think bout it,” he continued, “easy comfort even. Mmm. Now you lookin more like me every day, Johnny. It’s a lean look on you. Pity we never wanted to be the end of each other. Otherwise, I think we’ a been interestin, you and me. Guess I gotta leave that to the old queen.”

Vane patted Silver’s cheek when he didn’t reply and moved around the bench towards his bike. It was time to head to the bar and for Silver to disappear back to Manhattan. That was the safest thing to do.

“Vane.”

“Mm.”

“You’d tell me if he wasn’t retired.”

Vane straddled the bike and puffed at the cigar for a moment. Silver didn’t look back at him.

“If he was out of retirement, I’d be out of retirement. Game’s not fun without that fucker in it.”

That might have been the truest statement he’d heard in the last 24 hours. Silver sighed and nodded, letting his head hang and his body sag into the bench a bit. He listened as Vane kickstarted the old bike, the engine revving to life.

“Make sure ya get home before the sky opens. Don’ want them findin’ ya in the gutter-” came Vane’s shouted goodbye before the roar of the bike echoed away down the street and Silver was again left with the settled ambient sounds of the promenade and the dark clouds building overhead.

The patriarch of the Walrus sat in the alley when Vane’s bike pulled up, where he could almost always be found before the happy hour rush began, his heavy form settled comfortably into the old bar chair they kept propped up against the wall. Hal Gates looked up with an unimpressed look, tired eyes peering over the reading glasses that sat on the tip of his nose to read the now forgotten copy of the week’s Brooklyn Daily Eagle that sat on his knee.

“Bout fuckin’ time you got here,” he said flatly as he watched Vane park his bike with a laugh.

“Shoo I got five minutes n change, can’t fault me for that-” Vane paused to pull out his lighter, which had been in his front picket the whole time, and relight the cigar.

“You know damn well that’s not what I’m talking about you shit. You want to tell me whats got him in a fit this time?”

“Why should I know, boss?” Vane flashed him a sharp smile and climbed off the bike, grabbing his bag from the saddle box.

Gates sighed and pushed himself to his feet, tucking the newspaper under his arm. Vane had a couple inches on him sure, the cocksure attitude that drove some people to the edge, but Gates didn’t need to posture when he closed the space between them. Two steps across the alley and he hummed in tired amusement as Vane watched him expectantly.

“Because,” Gates said simply, reaching up to take the cigar out of Vane’s mouth, “He’s looking for you.”

With a sharp smile of his own, Gates helped himself to the cigar and returned to his chair. Before Vane could make his no doubt clever remark, or at least follow up on the cigar stealing, the back door to the kitchen flew open.

“Ah, there he is, on cue-” Gates murmured, puffing at the cigar and going back to his paper.

“Now wait a goddamn-” Vane tried to say, as Flint came out of the open door like a wolf from a cage, grabbing him by the front of his shirt. The momentum of his movement had them stumbling backwards, Vane pushing back against him, the two of them half wrestling on their feet.

“Where the fuck is he?” Flint snarled. “Where- So help me Vane I will break your fucking jaw where is he-”

“Fuck is that gonna do- break my jaw ya cunt how is that gonna-”

“I know you’re a part of this Rackham can’t keep shit to himself-”

“Hey what’d I say about ya goin’ for Jackie-”

“Jackie can go to hell unless you tell me where the fuck he is!”

Flint managed to get his ankle around Vane’s, getting him off balance enough to shove him back against the alley wall. He kept one hand in Vane’s shirt while the other closed around Vane’s throat, threatening but not so tight that he couldn’t get the words out.

“Tell me,” he repeated.

“Get fucked.”

“I will make you talk so fucking help me Vane-”

Vane smiled, all top teeth, and pressed into the hand at his throat. “How ya gonna do that hm?”

Flint didn’t move forward, the way Vane’s goading invited him to. He could feel the slightest pressure of Vane’s hand against his stomach, it acted as a warning. Sure enough when he glanced down, Vane’s trusty old butterfly knife was resting against his shirt, the same empty threat as Flint’s hand around his throat. Vane held his gaze with a lazy, hungry smile that called Flint’s bluff with the satisfied smugness of a card shark. Flint hated him in moments like that, hated him deeply. It would have been so easy to tighten his hand and squeeze, but only if it were anyone else. Vane knew just how to make good use of that butterfly knife.

“If you two are quite finished stroking each other off,” Gates said after a moment, “I have a bar to run and happy hour starts in twenty minutes.”

It took a moment, but with a snarl and a huff, Flint shoved Vane against the wall and stormed back inside without another word, leaving Gates puffing at his cigar and watching Vane toy with his butterfly knife.

“So you want me on bar or-” Vane asked.

“Oh no, he will be on bar. He needs to be on a tight leash tonight and I will be holding it, thank you. You keep your head down and behave yourself on the line please or I’m calling Jackie.” Gates folded his paper and stood again, pushing his reading glasses onto his head and gently stubbing out the cigar to save the rest for later. “Do I even want to know what this is all about?”

“Silver’s back in town.”

Gates blinked, then sighed with a decade’s worth of resignation. “My personal twink from hell. Fantastic.”

He stopped Vane just inside the kitchen. “Don’t tell the boys. Not yet, not with Flint so keyed up about it and all. We don’t need it to be a bigger mess that it clearly already is.”

“Shoo, alrigh’ boss.”

“Go on with you then. I’ve got a hell-hound to keep in line tonight.”

Vane’s laughter followed him through the kitchen. Said hell-hound was braced against the darkest corner of the bar, staring into a glass of dark rum.

“Are we talking about this?” Gates asked.

Flint glared at him from the corner of his eye and knocked back the rum. He poured himself another drink and put the bottle away.

“Alright then. You’re on bar with me and Muldoon-” Gates held up a hand as Flint made to argue. “No. I don’t care. This is how it is, am I clear?”

The alternative was, as it was for every member of staff (Gates included) going home for the evening. If Flint went home he’d spend the night driving himself insane or worse, wandering the city, tapping into contacts and allies, trying to eliminate all place where Silver couldn’t be. If he was at their bar he could at least stay tethered to something that felt like reality, at least for now.

“We can talk it over after close tonight,” Gates added softly, resting a hand on Flint’s back, “Figure out a plan if you like. But you know you can’t be in the kitchen with your head in the past.”

After a pause and a slow deep breath, a bit of tension eased out of Flint’s shoulders.

“Fine.”

Gates rubbed his back for a moment. He grabbed the rum bottle again and topped off Flint’s drink, before pouring himself a matching glass. The bar was mostly empty, one high top occupied by someone with a beer and a book, a booth hosting a late lunch date, one regular nursing his aviation at the end of the bar. They could take a moment just the two of them.

“We’ll figure it out, Jamie,” Gates told him, knocking the glasses together. Flint nodded weakly and said nothing, taking up his glass, tapping it gently against the bar top, and downing it with ease.

Across the street, watching the foot traffic and cars pass the brick street front of the Walrus with its custom neon sign and myriad pride flags catching the growing winds, sat a busker. He was a familiar sight on the block, playing his bass guitar under the scaffolded walkway to whatever audience would stop to listen. As the sky opened up and people hid under the scaffolding, his audience grew for a time.

Amongst them, a young man with a camera who was as interested in the bar across the way as he was in the busker’s performance. Silver had to admit he was grateful for the cover, between it and the storm, not a soul from The Walrus, patron or crew, noticed him.

Yes it was risky, even with one of his casual get ups on (you’d be surprised how often people ignored trucker caps and hoodies), and no it wasn’t like he thought Vane or the others were lying.

He just needed to see it for himself, needed to see Flint’s retirement happily ever after with his own eyes for it to seem real. Or so he had thought.

Seeing it in that moment, seeing Flint slip out front for a moment and stand under the awning to have a smoke, his attention fixed wholly on the storm clouds overhead-

It didn’t help. It just sent him running back to Manhattan with his metaphorical tail between his legs.

#my fic #opening act of spring bs mdau fic #black sails fic #black sails modern au #silverflint #silverflintham #john silver #max black sails #charles vane #hal gates #james flint #for anyone wondering Vane is Appalachian born but grew up in the mississippi delta and louisiana areas #i cannot put into words how much i love writing this fic and writing him and writing hal and writing flint HHHHH god #i love these men these ridiculous stupid men #Anne and Max are just lovely #i can't wait to reintroduce you all to everyone AUGH

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