#cough cough Eleanor from First Kill cough cough

[a-multifandom-mess12]

Any woman character ever: *murdering, torturing, and extorting people*

Me, yelling from the sidelines: YOU DO WHAT YOU GOTTA DO QUEEN

[freakbabyy]

Deception Prologue

A/N: Hello friends! Here's a snippet of the book I'm writing! It'll be an Eris x Reader book. Heavily inspired by Mulan. Basically you make Eris question his sexuality. LMAO. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

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“Winifred Eleanor Ambrose!” Vidia had yelled, “You have five seconds to get inside this house or mother help me-”

“Cauldon, boil me.” I mumbled, strolling towards the house with vigor now, knowing an upset Vidia had meant trouble. Crossing the doorway I finally asked her the million copper question. “What’s happened?”

“You. You’re what’s happened!” She pulled a bag from the floor, slamming it and its contents onto the shabby counter which trembled at the force. “Do you want to tell me why you’re packing? Why you have Finn’s letter in your bag?”

“If you’re asking me, I gather you’ve already figured out why.” I jammed my belongings back into my rucksack, grabbing a few other things I needed from the counter; a couple rolls of fresh bread, and stuffed them into the rucksack as well.

“Whatever idiotic idea you have, it’s not going to work, so drop it.” Vidia sneered, looking back into the other room as mother stirred in her sleep, before dropping her voice. “You’ll get yourself killed, or worse, the entire family crucified as you watch.”

“I don’t have a choice, Vid. Either we do it your way and somehow figure out how to winnow to Finn, who's currently somewhere North right now, and get him back before morning, or we do it my way.” 

“Your way,” She swiped at her eyes angrily, “Is idiotic. It’s a good idea for how to get yourself killed.”

“What choice do we have? I’m the only one who can do this.” Sighing, I dropped the rucksack to the floor, and ran my hands over my face. “I’m Finn’s identical twin, no one’ll know the difference. Tell the neighbors I went to join Finn, or you, on your search for a cure. You know it’s our best shot.”

“I know it’s the best option, but it doesn’t mean I have to like or approve of it. It’s my job as your big sister to look out for you, not the other way around.” She surged forward, wrapping her thin arms around me, burying her head in my shoulder.

“I’ll be okay.” I whispered a promise, as she pulled back, handing me my rucksack from near her feet.

“I’ll write to you.” She promised in return, as I took one last look around the run-down cottage, kissing my little sister's cheek on the way out, and closed the door behind me.

I didn’t let myself cry until I was on my horse, a tan mixed breed who we got at a discount at the market. She was the runt, and wasn’t looking too good until my mother had healed her, using her magic. My mother, Claribelle, was a healer known for her healing properties in animals. We had people travel from different courts with their animals, just so she could heal them. She enjoyed doing it, too, and didn't even charge anything. Though afterwards they usually sent a sort of gift, whether it be the healthiest milk from the cow she healed, a fresh blanket from thick wool of a sheep she had taken off of its deathbed, or sometimes, an offspring from said animals.

Acorn, my horse, was the first of many animals saved by my mother. My mother, who currently couldn’t sit up in bed. My mother, who became sick so quickly, and so fast, that no healer, nor her own magic, could figure out what was wrong. She had fevers at first, muscle aches, symptoms of the common cold; until she had started coughing blood. Now, she can barely move without our help.

There were seven of us, five of us had inherited my mothers healing ability, and two had inherited my fathers water-manipulation, ironically the two were my brothers. Vidia was the oldest, she’s been scouring the continent for tomes that may point to what could be ailing my mother. My twin brother Finnigan and I were born next; Finnigan was checking the solar courts, and I was supposed to be staying with my youngest sister, until the letter arrived. Dorian and Florian were the next twins born, Dorian was looking into Winter and Summer, and Florian was looking into the mortal realm in Prythian and Spring. Finally, my youngest sister, Iris, is tasked with staying with my mother, her being the strongest healer we have. 

I was to help her, do odd jobs in town to get some coin, but that idea was squashed like a bug as a group of men arrived at our door. They were clad in full armor, and held a stack of letters who were addressed to young men around the court. We had known the conscript was coming, every year after the autumnal equinox the high lords soldiers come, bearing letters conscripting the young men into the royal army. We had expected it to come one day, but the timing was impeccable.

Finn had just left the week prior, and we had no way to contact him. Vidia had tried telling the soldiers just that, yet we were told to either produce Finnigan, or face the consequences of High Lord Beron. That was when I had come up with the plan. Take Finn’s place in the army, serve my time, and then return home to mother, fully healed once my siblings and I continue looking for a cure, not worrying about if Beron would show up to punish us, or worse, send one of his sons.

“Woah, girl! Easy, easy,” I slowed Acorn to a stop, and tied her up outside the inn with the other horses that were there. “I’ll see you in the morning, rest up Acorn.”

Stepping into the threshold of the cozy inn, I ignored the stale alcohol smell and strode up to the counter.

“Good evening, Ma’am.” She smiled as I greeted her, returning the greeting. I had to raise my voice over the crowd in order for me to hear me properly.

“Room for one? Or a hot meal?”

“Just a room please.” I pulled out my coin pouch, and paid her the thirty silver coins. The room hadn’t been as run down as I was expecting, nor did it reek of alcohol or vomit, which I welcomed gladly.

Another room was connected on the right wall, and with a quick study I had realized it was the bathroom. It held a round tub, a toilet, sink, and even a mirror. Most taverns didn’t have adjoining bathrooms, so this was a luxury. I took the extra second to look at myself in the mirror.

I looked the same as I always did. Freckles splattering my face in mismatch constellations, red hair a tad knotted from the horse ride, but otherwise cascading in its normal waves. My eyes, a dark almost black brown, reminiscent of chocolate truffles I had loved. Paper white skin, which came from my mothers side; winter court. Too bad none of us had gotten winter powers. My eyebrows, matching my hair, and just as bushy. I used to despise them, how thick they were; but I suppose it’ll help sell the man disguise now.

Speaking of the man disguise, I suppose I had to change a few things; starting with my hair. Sure, men had long hair, too, the high lord sporting it even, but Finn’s hair fell just below his ears. The same eyes, bushy eyebrows, paper skin, even the same nose as I. The differences between us started there; his hair shorter, his cheekbones higher than mine, and he had a long scar across his nose from when we were children.

Grasping ahold of my hair, I grabbed the flimsy dagger strapped to my waist, and stared at my reflection, debating how to do this. Should I cut it in layers? All at once? Do I cut it at all? Was this a stupid idea? Was this entire operation stupid? Would it end in disaster, my head on a pike?

“Fuck it,” I swore, swiping above my fist holding my ginger locks, opening my eyes once I felt the hair flitter down towards the sink. I repeated the process, yanking a piece of my hair forward, cutting above where my fingers held it, and checking to make sure it was symmetrical in the mirror. “Not bad for an amateur.”

Hair grew back, faster than a blink usually; it didn’t faze me. The next part, likely would. The scar. Starting just below his left eye, stretching across the bridge of our identical noses, and stopping just shy of the end of his right eyebrow. 

“In,” I took a breath in, using some alcohol I found on the bedside table to douse the knife in the sink, hoping it did a good enough job of disinfecting. “Out,” I sighed.

“In,” I yanked off my glasses, not letting myself think too much. I angled the dagger, practicing the motion. One chance to get this right. “Out,”

“In,” I screwed my eyes shut, clenching my teeth together in anticipation before opening my eyes once more and solidifying my grip on the now sweaty handle. “Out!”

My knuckles were turning white from the grip I had on the handle, and my face stung even more than I had anticipated - bled more too. I didn’t let myself hesitate, knowing it wouldn’t scar that way if I did.

“You’re doing this to save Finn, you’re doing this to safe your family, you’re doing this to save your mother,” I repeated the mantra to myself as I cleaned the wound with a wet rag from the sink, using a bit of healing magic to make it stop bleeding, but not enough magic to make it disappear. “Good enough.” I murmured, turning swiftly and stalking towards the bed.

Sitting on the surprisingly soft bed, I dug through my bag looking for a set of night clothes. A simple tunic and loose pants would do for now. Both items of clothing were slightly baggy, useful for hiding my figure. Finn was thin, not very muscular, and rectangular compared to my wide hips and round breasts. In my bag was a roll of cloth from our cottage. A note fell from it.

Use to wrap around your breasts everyday when you wake. Do not sleep with it on. Wrap snugly and put your clothes on over. It’ll help. Good luck. I love you. -V

A stinging began in my eyes, and it wasn’t from the recent cut on my face. I put it back into my bag before climbing into bed, not knowing what the future held for me, or rather, for Finn.

[the-delta-42]

The Walking Dead Game What Ifs: What if all of the Ericson’s survivors were captured?

[First] [Previous] [Next]

Taken

What if all of the Ericson’s survivors were captured? TW: Implied/Referenced Torture and Rape/Non-Con.

Clementine ran her hand down her face. She heard Mitch let out a groan, before he sat up.

“What happened?” Asked Mitch, looking around.

The group was split in two, the older boys in one cell and the girls and younger boys in the other.

“Well, Tenn got caught, you tried to save him, got knocked out, Willy, Omar and Aasim got caught, Louis, Violet and Ruby got knocked out, AJ was captured, and I got shot.” Said Clementine, looking at the guard, “What?”

“Minnie.” Gasped Violet, hurrying forwards.

Clementine sighed, of course Lilly would send Violet’s girlfriend.

“Lilly wants to talk to you.” Said Minerva, getting a huff from Clementine, “Hey!”

“Hmm, what?” Clementine looked up, “Wait, you’re talking to me?”

Minerva glared at Clementine, “Who else would Lilly want to talk to?”

“I dunno,” Snarked Clementine, “you look like you have the intelligence of a goldfish.”

Minerva flushed, her face curling into a sneer.

“Minerva.” A dark-skinned woman stepped in, “Get her to Lilly.”

Minerva huffed, before wrenching the cell door open, grabbed Clementine and hauled her out of the cell.

“Where are you taking her?!” Yelled Louis, rushing towards his cell’s door, only to get the butt of a rifle to the face.

“She’s alive.” Everyone looked at Violet, “Minnie’s alive.”

“Violet.” Mitch got to his feet, “I think we have more important things to worry about.”

T

The group sat up, hearing someone approaching, all sat up. They saw Minerva shove someone into the girl’s cell. Ruby gasped, rushing towards the person.

“Clementine!” Ruby helped her up, “What happened?”

“I,” Clementine coughed, “I ran my mouth, I think.”

“You think?!” Ruby glared at Clementine, “What did they want?”

“They,” Clementine coughed, “they wanted information on the New Frontier, the group they’re at ‘war’ with. Lilly heard I used to be part of them, wanted me to,” Clementine let out a throaty cough, “to get them to lower their defences.”

“Why didn’t you?” Asked Violet, “We could get killed.”

“I’m not really open to people choking me for information.” Spat Clementine, wincing as she shifted.

“What’d they do?” Asked Mitch, frowning.

“Oh, the usual.” Clementine winced as Ruby prodded a bruise, “Beatings, cuts, the of threat of rape.”

Everyone looked at her, “What?”

“How the hell are you so casual about this?”

“Well,” Clementine scowled, “threats become a lot less frightening when you’ve already experienced them.”

Clementine opted to ignore the horrified looks from the others.

F

They watched Clementine get hauled off again, with AJ attempting to bite one of the guards, and get backhanded for his efforts. As soon as they were gone, Mitch looked at Louis, “We need to find a way out of here.”

“How?” Asked Louis, frustrated, “We don’t have any way to get the lock open.”

“Minnie can help us.” Said Violet, getting a scowl from Aasim.

“Violet, I know you’re excited to see her,” Said Aasim, “but if she wanted to help us, she would’ve done it by now!”

“You don’t know that!” Snapped Violet.

“Then why hasn’t she!” Demanded Aasim, “Why didn’t she escape? Why is she alone?”

“What’s going on?” They heard Minerva’s voice.

“Minnie.” Everyone heard Violet’s tone change.

“Where’s Clementine?!” Demanded Louis, banging on the cell’s door.

Minerva ignored him, instead focusing on Violet, “Lilly said I can take you out of here.”

Violet looked conflicted, glancing around, “W-what about the others?”

“They’ll get out too, when they stop fighting back.” Answered Minerva, opening the cell door, “Tenn can come out too.”

T

Eleanor frowned, Javi had sent her and Conrad with Clint and a group to meet representatives of the Delta. They’d unexpectedly gotten in contact with them, requesting a meeting. Javi suspected it might be a trap, so the small group was secretly reinforced by a larger group hidden in the surrounding area.

“Hello?!” They heard a voice.

Eleanor was vaguely aware of Max aiming his rifle in the direction of the voice.

“Hello?!” The voice repeated, as a ratty looking man appeared, “The name’s Abel. I’m here representing the Delta.”

“What do you want?” Demanded Conrad, glaring at Abel.

“A trade.” Said Abel, “You’ve got one of ours, Raphael, and we’ve got one of yours.”

As he said that, Abel threw something at Conrad’s feet. Frowning, Eleanor picked the object. She froze, recognising Clementine’s hat.

“That’s…”

“She’s alive,” Promised Abel, “for now.”

“She left.” Dismissed Max, “She’s not one of ours.”

“Neither are the people we caught her with,” Said Abel, “but, I doubt you’d want her boy to suffer like she has.”

“AJ’s alive?” Max looked at Eleanor.

“For now.” Said Abel, “You’ve got other prisoners we want back.”

Eleanor sighed, before looking down, “We’ll see.”

T

Javi looked at Clementine’s hat, frowning.

“Are you sure it’s Clem’s?” Asked Kate, looking at him.

“Positive.” Answered Eleanor, “They mentioned that they had AJ too.”

“Did they say what they were doing to her?” Asked Javi, looking at Max.

“No.” Max shook his head, “You don’t think they’ll hurt AJ?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.” Sighed Javi, looking around, “So, what do we do?”

“What do you mean?” Asked Kate, frowning.

“We might like Clem, but can we really justify letting people go, just to save someone who left us?” Asked Javi.

Everyone was silent.

“If we don’t,” Said Eleanor, “they might kill her and AJ.”

“But, if we let Raphael and his friends loose,” Said Max, “dozens more could die.”

The group fell into an uneasy silence.

T

Clementine grunted as the guard threw her back into her shared cell.

“Clem!” Louis rushed forwards, “Are you alright?”

“What’d they do?” Asked Ruby, helping Clementine up.

“I,” Clementine swallowed, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She let out another groan as Ruby helped her into a sitting position, “They,” she coughed, “they said the contacted the New Frontier.”

“S-so, we’re getting out of here?” Willy sounded hopeful.

Clementine ran a hand down her face, “No. Even with their new management, they wouldn’t risk losing their people to get one person.”

The sound of someone approaching the cells drew their attention. They saw Violet and Minerva walking behind Delta member.

“Remember your instructions.” Said the Delta member, before walking away.

Clementine straightened up, “Vio-” Clementine was cut off by Violet punching her. Clementine grunted as she hit the floor, with one of the girls landing a kick in her side.

“What the fuck?!” Screamed Louis, “Stop!”

Minerva took a step back, allowing Violet to take fully control of Clementine’s…interrogation. Minerva watched as Violet broke Clementine’s leg, hand and arm. After landing more kicks in Clementine’s side, Violet stepped back.

“That,” Clementine coughed, before glaring up at Violet and snarling, “was pathetic.”

Violet landed a kick to Clementine’s face, as Minerva spoke, “Michael said she isn’t going to need clothes for the next part.”

Violet hesitated, before grabbing Clementine’s jacket and pulling it off.

T

Clementine groaned as they left, leaving her and the rest of the Ericson’s group alone.

“Clem?” Ruby hesitantly approached hr, “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be honest, I didn’t wake up and expect to be raped in front of everyone.” Clementine voice was tired and hoarse, “Did anyone see where they put my clothes?”

“You’re…” Ruby trailed off, “You’re remarkably calm about this.”

“I’ve seen and experienced it all before.” Clementine winced as she shrugged, “I really hope my arm and leg aren’t screwed.”

Clementine looked over at the other cell, James had been caught shortly after them, “How’s James?”

“He still out.” Said Aasim, looking away from Clementine, “He’s still alive though.”

Louis managed to hook Clementine’s clothes with his foot, before bundling them up and tossing them towards Ruby, “Here.”

Ruby nodded, before helping Clementine get dressed, before resetting her broken bones.

“Clem,” Mitch got her attention, “when there were moving you, did you see anything that could help us escape?”

“No,” Clementine winced, “they’ve got all obvious escapes blocked off, I heard from one of them that they’re near Richmond, but, other than that, there’s no way off this boat.”

“Do you think Rosie’s okay?” Asked Tenn, speaking for the first time since he’d been thrown back into the cells.

“Hopefully.” Said Aasim, letting his mind wander back to the dog.

T

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.” Javi decided to ignore Max, they’d made a rudimentary blockade around the ship, as well as massed a massive group to seize it.

“I didn’t hear you complaining when we were planning it.” Javi smirked at Ava’s voice, she limped up to Richmond’s gate shortly after Clementine left, having survived her fall.

Conrad slinking towards them got them to go silent, “They’ve got a dog chained up in that Lilly person’s office. Clementine and her group are down in the cells.”

“Javi,” Eleanor murmured, “they, they said that Clementine had been… ‘passed around’. They said they planned on doing the same to her boy.”

Javi felt a wave of disgust run through him, “Okay,” he unhooked his bat from his back, “let’s go.”

T

Clementine winced as Ruby reset her fingers.

“What’s that noise?” Asked Omar, looking around.

“It sounds like…gun fire?” Louis frowned, “What’s going on out there?”

They received their answer when the door to the brig burst open and Minerva was being held at gunpoint.

“Max, get those doors open.” Clementine froze, she recognised the voice, but found she couldn’t remember the name. She spotted Max rushing to open the doors, with Louis surging past him and wrenching Clementine’s cell door open. Before he could reach her, Clementine saw Eleanor push past him.

“What are her injuries?” Eleanor looked at a heavyset red-haired girl.

“B-broken arm, leg and right hand, bruising and some fractures, I think.” The girl stuttered, as Ava joined them and helped Clementine up, getting her to release a groan.

“Dislocated shoulder.” Hissed Clementine, as Ava helped her walk.

“Ha!” Everyone looked at Louis, before he proudly held up ‘Chair-les’, “I thought they got rid of it.”

“Charming.” Said the owner of the familiar yet unfamiliar voice, “Clem, where’d you find these guys?”

Clementine winced, before looking at the woman, trying to put a name to the face, “…Christa?”

Christa let out a huffing laugh, “Nice of you to remember me, I only looked after you for two years.”

“…I thought you were dead.”

Christa sighed, “That’s fair.”

“We need to get them out of here.” Said Eleanor, interrupting the reunion, “I want to get her some proper medical treatment.”

The others silently agreed, “Javi and the others are rounding up prisoners now.” Said Ava, as she moved past the group.

“Yeah,” Called a man, “That guard dog Conrad saw was harmless.”

“Rosie!” Gasped Tenn, as the dog ran up to them.

T

Clementine winced, the painkillers Lingard had given her had worn off, they’d put her broken limbs in casts. Javi had told them that Lilly had killed Gabe when they captured her, part of her was heartbroken, she supposed that she still held some feelings for the dork. Louis had dropped by, mentioning that the group had decided to stay in Richmond, Clementine had suggested to Javi that some people go out and establish a foothold in the school.

“How’re you feeling, Clem?” Asked Eleanor, checking in on her.

“I’m alright,” Clementine shrugged, “still feeling a bit sick, but the dizziness has gone.”

“That’s good.” Eleanor nodded, “Look, Clem, I know you might not take this well, but we’re going to do a pregnancy test, just to be on the safe side.”

Clementine felt a surge of panic fill her, before she swallowed, “Okay.”

Eleanor sighed, before leaving the room. Meanwhile, down in the makeshift prison Richmond had, Violet sat quietly, despondent to her surroundings. Louis had given her grief for ‘betraying’ them; Violet couldn’t think of an excuse. They knew Minne longer? Minnie had murdered Sophie. Everything fell apart because of Clementine? The raiders were coming for them anyway. Louis had brought up that she was one of the three that wanted to keep Clementine and AJ around, Clementine had gotten shot while trying to save her, and Violet had turned on her like it was nothing.

Part of Violet wanted Minnie, she always knew the right thing to say, to do. AJ didn’t want to see her; Louis only came to talk to her because Clementine asked him. She remembered Clementine’s promise, when they tried to take AJ, promising to kill her if she touched him. Violet wanted to say she didn’t know what made her stop, but she did. She stopped because she knew Clementine wasn’t bluffing. She stopped because she knew that if she took AJ, she would’ve lost her friend. She stopped because she still cared. Clementine had made herself AJ’s shield, and while that didn’t excuse how Violet had aided in the beatings and, in a miniscule way, the rapes, Clementine placed herself as a barrier for her boy and, after they’d been captured, the rest of their group.

Clementine heard them talking about cutting out Louis’s tongue, so she ran her mouth, insulted them, called them weak for targeting someone’s voice. Violet remembered seeing the bite mark on Minnie’s arm, finding out Clementine had bitten her when they mentioned targeting Tenn.

“Hey.” Violet looked up when someone banged on her cell door, seeing Clementine being supported by Louis, “I could hear you grinding your teeth from the hospital.”

“Why are you here?” Asked Violet, trying to make herself angry.

“To talk to you, dumbass.” Answered Clementine, “I’ve spoken to Javi about getting you and Minerva some help.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Demanded Violet, glaring up at them.

“The two of you were brainwashed.” Shrugged Clementine, “I’ve seen it before, met a guy who was full on drinking the Saviours Kool-Aid. They used someone you loved to get you to see things their way.”

“I’m not brainwashed!” Yelled Violet, jumping up, “Whatever plan you came up with would’ve gotten us killed!”

Clementine gave her a flat look, “You do realise you’ve just proved my point, right?”

Violet glared at her, making Clementine sigh and gesture for Louis to help her out of the prison. Leaving Violet alone with her thoughts.

Next Story: What if Carver attacked Clementine at the Cabin? (TW: Violence against a child)

[serenailith]

shut up (and go to sleep)

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: a4, bed sharing Rating: e Word Count: 2678 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: friends to lovers, frottage, masturbation, overhearing things that shouldn’t be overheard, hob gadling loves dream of the endless | morpheus Summary:

Hob... Well, Hob didn't expect this, but he can't find it in himself to regret a damned thing.

Link: on ao3

masterlist

note: this was supposed to be cute and fluffy. these idiots had other ideas.

Hob sighs and stumbles through the front door. The day has been long, tiresome, and far too frustrating. First, he is pretty certain he failed his presentation, mostly because his group didn’t do their portion of the work, leaving him to scramble to get it done overnight by himself. Then his shift at the coffeeshop had gone over, which meant he was late for his date with Joey—Joey who waited over an hour only to tell Hob the relationship was over. Joey who’d been Hob’s first partner since arriving at uni two years ago, his first partner since Eleanor. He’d been so surprised by the sudden turn of events that he’d missed the bus, so he had to walk home.

Now, his feet are killing him, his back is burning under the strain of carrying his bag, and he can’t stop coughing from all the cigarettes he’d smoked on the way.

He reaches for the light switch, flicks it, and sighs when no lights come on. Of course. He’d meant to pay the electricity bill last week, but he hadn’t had the money at the time. Hob scrubs a hand over his face and drops his bag to the floor. The floor creaks beneath his feet as he stumbles his way through the dark to the bathroom. He needs to shower then go to sleep.

No electricity means no hot water, so Hob shivers his way through getting clean. He hurriedly dries himself off before wrapping a towel around his waist. His bedroom is lit dimly by the streetlamps, and he uses the orange glow to find a pair of boxers. After tugging them on, he sighs, runs a hand through his damp hair, then turns on his heel.

“Go away.”

Hob huffs and shoves ineffectually at Dream’s shoulder once more. “Budge up, you arse.”

“You have a bed, Gadling.”

“Dream. Please.”

Dream sighs, then the bedframe squeaks as he shifts over. Hob slides in beneath the comforter, shuddering in the sudden burst of warmth, and presses even closer to his best friend. Dream doesn’t hesitate; he lifts an arm and drapes it over Hob’s waist. Hob squeezes his eyes closed and listens to Dream’s breathing, slow, steady, even. Comforting, really.

“Joey dumped me,” Hob admits quietly after a long handful of minutes.

“Joey is a wanker,” Dream mumbles back. “You always deserved better than him.”

“Yeah?”

Dream lets out a soft hum as his fingers ghost along Hob’s spine. “Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Like someone who will tell you to shut up and go to sleep.”

“That’s—”

“Hob. Shut up and go to sleep.”

Hob laughs, a quiet thing, and knows Dream is smiling, too.

They’ve been friends since their first year at uni; they’d been assigned the same dormitory room, and they got on like oil and water. It took them two months before they learnt to communicate in ways they’d understand each other. As soon as they did, though, they became inseparable. At the very least, Hob needed Dream.

He rolls over onto his other side so his back is pressed to Dream’s front, tugs the blanket more securely around them, and falls asleep quickly.

When he wakes, it’s to an empty bed and a sticky note stuck to his forehead. Dream’s spidery handwriting tells Hob he’s gone to pay the electricity bill—Do not worry, I only took enough from the box for this. And your cigarettes. Hob curses and lets his head drop back to the pillow that smells like Dream.

Dream, who allows Hob to crawl into his bed and sleep curled up against him. Dream, who listens to all of Hob’s complaints and encourages him to take risks, go after what he wants. Dream, who commiserates when Hob fails at something and plies the man with plenty of ale and whisky when the ice cream doesn’t work. Dream, who now owes Hob cigarettes and will never complain when it’s Hob’s turn to owe.

Hob buries his face into the fabric and breathes in.

God, he’s pathetic.

It’s a week later that Dream crawls into Hob’s bed stinking of whisky and smoke. Hob knows what this means. With a sigh, he tugs until Dream sprawls atop him, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Hob’s hips and arms curled between them. Hob pets gently at Dream’s hair and murmurs apologies. Dinner with his family always sends Dream home a mess.

“Hob…”

“Yes, Dream?”

“Am I truly unlovable? Am I too fucked up?”

Hob grits his teeth at the questions. How dare they make Dream feel so insignificant, so unworthy? He wraps his arms around Dream and pulls him closer, until it feels as if his ribs are opening to make space for the man. As if his heart is tearing itself in half to allow Dream to burrow and make a home there.

“You listen to me. Are you listening? Not just hearing me, because any fool can do that, but I need you to actually listen.”

“I am listening,” Dream mutters, words muffled by the breadth of Hob’s chest.

“Good. You are not unlovable. You’re fucked up, yes, but who amongst us isn’t? And with the family you have, I’m surprised you’re not worse off. But you are you, and you are amazing. Lovely and funny and so damn wonderful. You are lovable beyond words. You are so much more than what your parents have led you to believe.”

“Do you love me?”

“Oh, Dream, of course.”

“No,” Dream growls as he struggles out of Hob’s hold. He sits up, swaying slightly, and Hob grips tightly to his hips to hold him steady. “No, do you love me?”

“Dream—”

Dream stares down at him with wide grey-blue eyes. His hair lies flat about his face, and his pale skin is made paler in the moonlight coming through the window. His voice shatters as he whispers, “Hob, please tell me you love me.”

“C’mere, love.”

Dream lets out a broken sound, all sharp angles and rough edges, and he lists to the side to curl up against Hob. Hob stifles his sigh and holds a very intoxicated Dream as he snores softly.

Hob loathes Dream’s parents. His siblings. All but Del and Thana. They make Dream feel inferior, lesser, and he doesn’t deserve it. Dream is one of the greatest people Hob will ever know. His loyalty knows no bounds. He listens to whatever Hob says with a single-minded intensity that Hob has yet to see in anyone else, and his mind works in wondrous, beautiful ways.

“Oh, love, if I could change things… I would tell you.”

Hob falls asleep clinging to Dream in an effort to put back all his broken parts.

They don’t speak of it the next day. Hob wonders if Dream even remembers the conversation. Judging by the way he storms about the flat gathering up his art supplies, Hob is going to guess ‘no’, that Dream only remembers the disaster of a dinner and nothing that was said after he came home. It hurts, honestly, for the conversation to go unspoken. Hob can imagine all the words they could speak, all the different directions the conversation could go, but he will never know reality.

Dream doesn’t say a word as Hob makes coffee, as he readies for class, as he leaves the flat.

He’s halfway to the bus stop when he realises he’s forgotten his book—the one in which he’d tucked his essay over mediaeval literature. And his work uniform. Sighing, he hefts his bag further onto his back and pivots on his heel. The walk back to the flat seems to take even longer, and his legs grow heavier and slower with each step. Dream’s temper has always been rough to handle, but after last night…

Hob unlocks the door and slips through quietly. There is no need to disturb Dream while he works; it is usually cause for pointed sighs as Dream cleans up his supplies and puts away the work.

“I cannot work with interruptions,” he always says even as Hob apologises profusely.

He never holds it against Hob, no, and he certainly doesn’t mean to guilt-trip Hob. Hob just… feels guilty, anyway.

Dream isn’t in the living room when Hob looks up. His easel is, his palette is, even his cellphone is—and that gives Hob pause. Dream hates the thing, says it’s merely a vessel for vapid social media for which he has no time nor desire to engage in. Thana must have texted, then. Hob sets his bag down and makes his way toward his bedroom, coming to a stop in the hallway.

He listens more closely, and yes, he’s heard his name. Breathless moans and the faint squeak of a bedframe.

Hob swallows thickly before hurrying to his room. In his rush, he manages to knock over the standing lamp by his door, but he ignores the cracking noise of the shade as he scoops up his book. Down he goes as he trips over a pair of pyjama bottoms he’d left on his floor this morning. He scrambles to his feet and all but sprints toward the front door.

“Hob?” Dream calls from his bedroom.

Hob doesn’t say a word as he wrenches open the door and bolts outside.

He can’t pay attention to the lecture. His laptop screen stays blank even as the professor stresses the importance of the lesson. He barely refrains from scalding himself multiple times at work. Customers have to repeat themselves as they order until the manager puts him on drink-making detail. It hardly goes any better.

All he can hear, all he can think about, is the way Dream had said his name. Hob has heard his name fall from Dream’s lips too many times to count, but never has it sounded the way it did this morning. Hob has never heard Dream sound like that at all, rich and sensuous yet airy, as if he hadn’t managed to drag in enough oxygen. Just the memory sparks something deep inside of Hob.

Oh. Oh, no.

It was bound to happen, Hob thinks, as he clutches his bag to his side on the bus ride home. He’d had a crush on Dream in the beginning, even when all they did was misunderstand each other and argue. But that had gone away. Or so Hob thought. How could it be rearing its ugly head now, two years later?

Suppose hearing your best friend say your name while, what?, touching himself? Yeah, that might do it.

Hob shivers at the thought.

It’s nearing midnight, and he can’t sleep. He keeps hearing his name, keeps hearing Dream’s voice so molten in his ears, and it’s making life difficult. Hob knows it’s inappropriate, but… He imagines what it was like for Dream. What he’d done to himself. What had he fantasised about?

Hob steadfastly refuses to touch himself, instead rolling over to find a comfortable position.

It doesn’t work.

He stands outside Dream’s door minutes later, hesitating in a way he never had before. But he’d also never overheard his best friend jerking himself off to thoughts of him. Hob’s cock twitches, and he grits his teeth and tries to think of anything other than Dream.

“Are you going to stand there all night?”

Hob jolts and nearly falls on his face. His hand grips the doorframe as he steadies himself, then he swallows harshly before stepping into the room. Dream wears only his pyjama bottoms, his narrow torso on display. A trail of dark hair leads to the waistband of his bottoms. He has one hand tucked under his head, the other resting on his chest. He breathes steadily, a counterpoint to the rapid-fire breaths Hob is drawing in.

Hob slides in between the sheets and keeps as much distance between them as he possibly can. Dream frowns and pushes himself up onto one elbow.

“Hob?”

Hob squeezes his eyes closed and buries his face into the pillow even as he admits he heard Dream earlier that morning, he knows. Dream remains silent for a long moment. Too silent. Hob turns his head to see the flush that fills Dream’s face and extends halfway down his chest. Dream drops to lie on his back once more and stares at the ceiling.

“I—I am sorry,” he finally whispers. “I know it’s. Wrong. I should not have…”

“How long?” Hob whispers back.

“Weeks. Months.”

Hob hesitates—God, when will he stop hesitating? It’s only Dream, after all, but this… This will change things even more.

He shifts closer, reaches with one hand, and turns Dream’s head. Dream’s brows furrow, his lips parting, and Hob kisses him.

It’s slow, searching, seeking the truth and giving it back in turns. Dream remains immobile, only for a second, then he’s kissing back. With a soft groan, Hob tilts his head and licks into Dream’s mouth, tastes toothpaste and cinnamon tea. Dream throws a leg over his waist, squirming until he can straddle Hob.

“Show me,” Hob pants out as Dream mouths at his throat. “Show me how you touched yourself. Tell me what you thought of.”

Dream nods vigorously and scrambles to shove down the waistband of his pyjamas. Hob moves to recline against the wall and groans aloud at the sight, at the coarse black hair, at the cock Dream takes in his hand. His movements are slow despite the lust darkening his eyes, strokes so deliberate as to tease. He shifts to get more comfortable, and Hob moans at the pressure against his own dick.

“Tell me, love. Tell me.”

Dream huffs out a laugh and braces himself with one hand on Hob’s hip. “I thought—I thought of you. Touching me, holding me in your hand. Your skin would be, it was warm,” he says softly, and Hob trails a hand along Dream’s thigh. “Warm like that. You would stroke my—my cock and whisper praise, because you always praise me, and do you know how that feels, Hob?”

“Good?” Hob ventures, and Dream shakes his head.

“It is the most wondrous thing in my life. You are. And I thought of your hand on my cock and your other pressing into me. Like this.”

And Hob nearly comes when Dream reaches behind himself. It’s an awkward angle, even Hob can see that, one that stretches and strains at the muscles in Dream’s abdomen. He doesn’t seem to mind: He only moans and lifts his arse. Hob grips at his hips tightly, fights against the urge to take over. This is Dream’s show; he’s only a captive audience.

Dream’s hand speeds up as he whimpers, “You’d fuck me then, I thought of that. I imagined how you would feel inside of me. Hob, please. Please.”

Hob can’t deny himself the pleasure any longer—he sucks on his fingers before shoving his hand down the back of Dream’s bottoms. Dream cries out when Hob presses against his hole, and Hob carefully pushes inside. The way is dry, must be uncomfortable, but Dream lets his head fall back and exhales a sharp moan. Hob can’t get the proper angle, can’t reach deep enough, but Dream rocks his hips between his fist and Hob’s touch.

His release coats Hob’s T-shirt moments later. Hob tugs him down by the hips, until his cock nestles perfectly between Dream’s arsecheeks, and he ruts up against his best friend—fuck, this is his best friend, and it’s more amazing than Hob ever let himself imagine, it’s what he wanted way back when they first met and all he’s wanted today, and his hips move of their own accord. Quickly, roughly, until he comes in his boxers with a groan of Dream’s name.

Dream collapses beside him and immediately curls into his side. “Should we… talk about this?” he asks hesitantly once he’s caught his breath again; his voice shakes in a way Hob hasn’t heard in so long.

“Tomorrow,” Hob promises before yawning.

“Hob—”

“Dream. Shut up and go to sleep.”

[twittercomfrnklin2001-blog]

Eye of the Cat

If you want a wallow in ‘60s cinema Hollywood style, you can’t go wrong with David Lowell Rich’s rather silly EYE OF THE CAT (1969, Criterion Channel, YouTube). It’s got the hair, the fashions (though toned down), a seemingly hip party with people waxing witty (“French films have gone from Marienbad to worse”) and a scenic montage of San Francisco as the young lovers cavort around the city to some groovy tunes by composer Lalo Schiffrin. At places it thinks it’s risqué, but it never goes far enough to scare the horses. Writer Joseph Stefano’s idea of kinky is to have Sarrazin insist on keeping the lights on as he makes love to Hunnicutt just out of camera range. And it’s sort of a horror film. Beautician Gayle Hunnicutt (the best walking ad any beauty shop could ever have) recruits con artist Michael Sarrazin to move back in with his late father’s mistress (Eleanor Parker) so she can change her will to leave everything to him. Then they can kill her and live on money that should have gone to him anyway (if you cough, you’ll miss the line explaining that she’s not really their aunt but rather daddy’s power wife, and the scene in which she comes on to Sarrazin gets a lot more decadent). There’s only one problem. Though she saunters around her garishly decorated mansion (it’s like a Douglas Sirk set without the irony) in Edith Head designer gowns, she’s also a crazy cat lady, and Sarrazin suffers from ailurophobia. Who’ll be turned into kibble first? Sarrazin is animated and almost charming as the wastrel nephew, and Hunnicutt does quite well as the femme fatale. But it’s the old pro, Parker, who shows them how to create a character out of bits and steal a scene without breaking a sweat. Rich bends over three ways backwards to try to make the cats look threatening, but come on, even baring their fangs in slow motion, they’re just pussycats. Still, it’s a diverting little cultural artifact, and it would make a great double bill with NIGHT OF THE LEPUS (1972).

[secondjulia]

The Last

OH can we reshare our own stuff now?! Because I literally just realized it is the Exact One Year Anniversary of my FIRST SANDMAN FIC EVER! And it came with a pic 💔

Rated: G Warnings: Major character death (But, like... in a good way?) Ao3 link

The stupid thing was that Hob still wanted to live. 

His stomach had taken to tightening painfully. Tears, which had been so rare in his long life, tickled at his eyes as if they could sense that the dam would soon break. The physical sensation forced up memories of those rare times when the dam — when he — had broken. Half his village killed by plague. Poor, brawling Robyn dead in a tavern. Eleanor, who never got to see a time or place where childbirth was safe. And the poor, nameless child who got not even the tiniest fraction of the long life Hob had lived.

All were long dust. 

Hob wondered if their atoms had broken down so wholly by now that they’d eroded into the air, gone into the breath of the world, or been sucked into green, growing things, become leaves that fell in autumn, then dried and crumbled into more soil, more dust on the air. 

Probably. It had been so long. They were everything now. 

Most people were everything now. 

“Some rabbit, my lord?”

Hob smiled, and the impatient tears retreated. “Not your lord.” 

He took the meat. The ancient, wrinkled hand that had given it to him rested against his cheek. The woman’s other hand made a gesture, palm against her chest in the vague shape of a cross, a symbol whose roots were almost totally lost to her age. Then she patted the rough whiskers on Hob’s jaw. His hair had grown thick and wild again, and only offering slight protection from the mosquitos. After centuries of shaving in conformity with grooming trends — smooth chins one decade, carefully shaped goatees the next, clipped beards and mustache trends requiring various levels of upkeep going round and round like a carousel — there was something oddly satisfying about reverting to his natural state. As he sat beside the fire in rags, wiping charred rabbit drippings out of his beard, it felt almost like he’d come full circle. A medieval peasant back on campaign, nestling close to the brief comforts of fire and friendship, putting off humanity’s horrors.

“I know my eyes are half blind,” the old woman said as she sat down beside Hob. Her speech was a lovely, woven thing; after thousands of years, its threads were barely recognizable as the descendant of his own mother tongue. “But I see you, my lord. Looking today the same as yesterday — and every yesterday. Young as ever.” She looked sideways at him, her cloud-white hair catching the golden light of the fire, lips pulled up in the tiniest of knowing smiles. “Eternal, as they say.”

“It’s just the firelight, love. Flattering as it always is. You look just like you did when I first tumbled from the forest and into your arms.”

The tiny smile broke into a laugh. She sank her teeth into a hunk of rabbit, then shook her head, grinning. “Lying’s a sin, my lord.”

“No lie.” Hob kissed her temple.

“Respectfully, if you’re here to save us, you might want to get a move on.” She coughed, a chopped, dry sound that had chased her for years now.

Hob rubbed her back. A silent ache swelled in his own chest. She was so young — a tiny spark of eighty or ninety years. It was hard to tell exactly. There were no calendars at the end of the world. 

No. That was the wrong way of thinking about it, of course. The end of the world. The world was thriving. Coyotes had reached all around the Hudson Bay for Christ’s sake! Their screeching howls punctured the night. Mosquito clouds had blown clear up to the North Pole, though thankfully the modified, disease-resistant ones had beaten out the old species. Thank god for ancient technology.

The world wasn’t ending by a long shot. 

It was just people who were ending. 

Everybody except Hob.

The woman beside him let her hands fall into her lap, the hunk of rabbit forgotten for a moment as she worked against her ragged breath. 

Her name was Mina. They had been lovers once. Ages ago, before the world had tired her, and the void at the end had loomed so heavily over Hob. 

As everything went to shit and humanity moved like a great tidal wave and then crashed and petered out, Hob had done what he’d always done: survived.

He tried fighting. For a while, with everything in chaos, there was plenty of soldiering and mercenary work to go ‘round. He tried not to care. It was the trade he’d been raised to, after all. He’d spent his formative years — and a century besides — fighting poor blokes who’d just wanted to live as much as he did. He’d never really had anything against the French or the Yorkists or the Lancastrians. All he’d had was a sword in his hand and some asshole telling him who should die that day.

It was bullshit, and Hob knew it. He’d known it then, too. Death was stupid, and it was stupid to rush it upon everyone with endless power struggles and redrawn maps. 

So he’d given wide berths to the battle zones. He bounced around making his way into increasingly insular bands as humanity dwindled. It wasn’t always awful. Hob had to admit that, especially in the early days of the fall, he’d had an easier time than most. Experience as a medieval peasant was useful in the end times. He’d never been a craftsman or farmer, but he knew how to use his hands and make do and walk for ever and ever.

And he knew how to move on before suspicion could fall too heavily upon his unchanging head. A new generation of witchcraft accusations had sprung up as they tended to do in times of upheaval. Sometimes people swapped in words like alien for witch or conspiracy for magic. Once, he ran headlong into a very confusing lizard hysteria; Hob still didn’t understand that one. 

But it was all the same. Fear and suspicion and bloodshed.

And hunger. More than once, that deep gnawing hunger had found him again. Starvation so profound that the pain alone would have killed him if he’d let it.

Hob wandered what felt like every continent, seeing fewer and fewer people and more and more stupid death. Death of every variety imaginable. Fire. Flood. War. Disease. Famine. Drought. 

The last people were shockingly gentle. By the time Hob had stumbled out of some chokingly overgrown boreal forest and into their camp, he didn’t have the strength to fight or flee even if they’d been monsters. But Mina, leader of a couple dozen peaceful wanderers, had taken him in and shared their modest home and let him tag along as they followed the food or fled disaster.

Of course, even amid the kindness and generosity of his latest found family, there was tragedy. Child mortality had soared as the world crumbled. The last two children of Mina’s people had died a few years after Hob’s arrival when a cave shelter had collapsed. Hob had marveled at how such an old pain could burn so fresh and white hot. Disease had come home, too, and eventually it became apparent that no new children were going to be born. 

Over the decades that he’d called this place home, Hob had travelled alone, too. He had taken to wandering far and wide, looking for other settlements, other roving bands of the species. But by then, even word of others had disappeared. He never found another living group.

And so as the people around him grew old and sickened and fell to the cornucopia of threats Earth holds specially for humans, and Hob remained. 

The gentle people never did call him a witch, though at some point someone had started a rumor that he was an ancient god returned to the world in its final days. No one could agree on which one. Only bits and pieces of the old religions had survived, and nobody knew their stories well enough to settle the debate.

“G’night, my lord.” 

The last woman alive closed her cataract-clouded eyes and leaned against his shoulder. Hob smiled into her hair and put an arm around her. He let the last scrap of companionship and the golden glow of the fire comfort him. All in all, though it’d had its horrors and sorrows, the very end of humanity wasn’t particularly painful. 

It was the day after that Hob feared.

He gently carried Mina to a rough blanket and lay down beside her. As he listened to the raggedy breathing, puffs of green began to dance in the sky. Before he had come to the foolishly named New World, Hob had never seen the northern lights. He’d stayed away from the poles for most of his time on Earth; back when more of the planet was habitable, it seemed like the sound choice. But now watching the bright splashes overhead, he felt an ache in his chest, like a physical wish to have spent millennia like this, bathed in this kind of beauty.

Mina’s people had stories about them — god’s tears, was it? Or gods’ tears? Even knowing they were just solar wind particles, Hob thought they were godly. 

After watching the painted sky for a long time, Hob realized that the labored breath beside him had gone silent. 

It was a silence that swallowed the world. 

Coyote’s screeched and the vibrant night buzzed all around him — louder even than when he’d been a child. But none of it touched the silence that had fallen on Mina. 

An abyss cracked open inside Hob. 

He had never feared anything so much as he feared the empty world. After all, it had never been that he was afraid of death, it was just that wanted so badly to live. To have experiences, to drink and fuck and make friends and—

And all was now dust or soon would be.

Hob waited some time until Mina had stiffened and gone cold and he knew for sure that he was alone. And then he dug a grave as dawn was just blazing over the horizon, washing out his own wavering fire. 

When it was done, he dropped his shovel and sank to the ground. The abyss yawned wide, and a paralyzing emptiness reared up and took him. His mind went blank. His body stilled. The train of thought that had hurtled him through the ages now drove him into oblivion.

“She died in peace.” 

The deep voice rumbled through the breaking dawn like the voice of Earth itself.

Hob raised his heavy head.

“My friend…” Hob’s own words were a broken, aching pain. He looked at the perfect face cut of marble, wreathed in shadow. The one intermittent pulse of his life, counting out the centuries, salving the loneliness. “My stranger.”

“She left the world, in a dream of something she had only ever heard of in Stories,” his stranger said, his eyes skating over the rough grave and the haphazard cross Hob had tied together for no one to see. “A thing she had always wanted to see: snow.”

Even in the presence of his beautiful stranger, Hob’s heart twinged painfully.

“It was, perhaps, not quite the weather phenomenon you would have recognized,” his friend continued, “but it was a sight to behold nonetheless. Maybe even more lovely for its coming out of fantasy. I admit, I enjoyed the sight after an age without it.”

And yet you could not save any of it. Mina. Snow. Earth.

Only me.

Hob hung his head, a deep feeling of unworthiness rushing into the void in his heart. What right had he to outlive it all? Hob had often marveled at his sheer dumb luck, the absolute mockery of fairness that was this universe where he, a drunk braggart, got to keep living through no talent or effort of his own. But here, finally, at the feet of his beautiful stranger at the end of everything, the magnitude of it crushed him. 

It had been millennia since Hob had prayed, and never to this, his one true patron. He had long learned that his stranger could or would not stop the horrors of the world. There were rules, Hob knew, though he did not know what those rules were. But now, for the first time in a long time, he felt a wild, stupid urge to beg. To pray as fervently as any obsessed ascetic or flagellant for salvation for a world that deserved it more than he did.

But reality pressed too hard in around him. The finality of humanity had slammed down with a force he couldn’t fight.

A question hung between them. 

The man like ice and shadow looked down at Hob with gentleness bordering on pity. For a heartbeat, his lips moved slightly, silently, and Hob could feel his stranger’s reluctance to speak the words, to twist the pain in Hob’s chest. 

But speak he did.

“Do you still wish to live?”

And Hob answered honestly as he always had, a stupid answer, “Well, kinda yeah,” He tried to grin at the that dumb spark of resistance that had persisted through centuries of tumult, through war and witch trials and civilization and chaos. But his words wavered as if tears were pressing in on them, begging to wash away the last of his hardheaded resistance to the inevitable. “But… that’s not really the thing to do now, is it?”

“The choice is yours,” his stranger said simply, letting the words rest between them as they always had. No force, no judgement, no advice. 

Hob sniffed. “Everybody’s gone?”

“They are.”

He’d had to check. In the hours since Mina’s breath had gone silent, a part of Hob had wanted to walk over the entire Earth, just to make sure. There were, of course, no televisions, no phones, no internet. Not even telegraphs. Nobody born in the last thousand years had ever spoken to someone out of range of a human voice. And yet that stupid spark in him had flared ever so slightly at the prospect of plodding across the whole of the Earth’s crust, seeking — as he had always done — for life.

Hob’s head sunk deeper toward his chest. Tears that had been long trapped fell freely. He was at this point, he thought, entitled to a moment’s self pity. He’d fought through a lot over the years, he could let himself have a spot of despair. 

He wiped his cheeks with one hand and raised his head. The sun had risen fully now, and when Hob looked around, he realized that the ragged, grassy stead he’d shared with Mina last night wasn’t quite the same. Instead, it was a lush green meadow with butterflies alighting on a rainbow of flowers, singing birds flitting overhead, and the gently shush of water flowing in the distance.  

“Where’s Mina?” Hob asked.

“She has gone to the afterlife of her people,” his stranger said. 

“Oh, that place.”

“Do you wish to follow?”

Hob hesitated then shook his head. He didn’t know where he wanted to go. He’d never wanted any afterlife, just life and life and more life.

The question still filled the air.

“I guess it’s time, isn’t it?” Hob said. “Whatever comes next… Wherever I go…” A thrill of fear sprouted in his gut. “It’s time.” 

“You could stay here,” his stranger said quietly, almost shyly. 

“You’re sticking around then, are you? In this…” Hob looked around at the world that had sprung to life around him, his lord’s world, and he had no other word for it. “…heaven?”

“This is the Dreaming. And there are more creatures than humans that dream. More worlds than Earth where dreamers lie.”

“Any where I’d fit in?” Hob asked hopefully.

“None that could sustain a human body,” his stranger said. “You would be suffocating continuously on atmosphere that burned you with every breath. Or watching your skin slough off under radiation too severe for any species of Earth to endure. Or walking on ground that charred your feet to the bone with every step.”

“Oh. Right then.” Hob shivered at the horrific images. (And the tiniest, fading part of him still wanted to see it all.)

“But my duties are not even close to over. My land extends to all worlds where creatures dream. If you forsake your body, I could show you things you never imagined. Carnivorous flowers with beautiful minds. Palaces built by stars. And the delightful parties thrown by the stars themselves.”

Hob sniffed again. He wiped the last of the tears from his face. “Well. That sounds like an adventure.”

And then came a sight so rare that Hob had missed it more than the gentle dusting of snow at Christmas or the internet or London or human civilization itself: his stranger smiled.

“I am glad to hear it,” his stranger said. “And so, please, Hob Gadling, let me first introduce my sister.”

A woman walked across the lush meadow. She was dressed all in black, and her feet were bare. 

Hob knew her face immediately. First a memory flashed — an age-old image of a smiling face in a smoky tavern, a pair of kind eyes across the room from his stranger’s own icy, amused gaze and mocking words. Did I hear you say you have no intention of ever dying? 

But no, it was more than that. A deep recognition, like some eternal chord had been struck, and it radiated through him back to the beginning. Here was a great friend he had been parted from for far, far too long — and yet also a power so vast and deep that it dwarfed even the lifespan of humanity.

He had been about to rise. But now he stopped, struck still by awe and recognition. “My lady.”

“Hob.” The woman greeted him with the kindest smile he’d ever seen. Greeted him as if they were indeed the oldest and fastest of friends, going back even before his stranger walked into his life.

She held her hands out and Hob took them without hesitation, letting her guide him to his feet as his stranger came to his other side. Something pinched in Hob’s chest, and he crumpled slightly. But the soft hands of Death and the cool hands of Dream were on him, and he straightened as if a weight had fallen away.

“You’re alright,” Death said. “You’re alright now.”

“As you always will be,” said Dream, “from now on. Now, Hob Gadling, let us see the universe.”

[stahl-herz]

Trick or treat! 🎃

This is late, but: send an ask with "Trick or treat!" to the writer who reblogged this & you could receive: sneak-peek at a WIP, this case is another part of How much change does a Ripple make?'. A snippet from earlier in the story.

“Well, you’re the only one here that can see me, right?” She smiled at his nod of confirmation. “So, I’d like for everyone here to have an idea of what I look like. Please?”

Richard straightened his tie, turned around and practically lunged at the chalkboard. He proceeded to draw… a picture. To say it looked like an artistic representation of a goblin would be flattery. It barely looked like her! With a heavy sigh, she slid off the table and tried not to show how disappointed she felt.

“I guess a deal’s a deal. But shouldn’t everyone here introduce themselves?”

She glanced around the room, and the small table looked even more crowded than before. Some of the royalty looked like they were being squished between their neighbors. A red haired woman looked like she was trying very hard not to elbow the Asian woman beside her in the face. A few people were sitting with notepads behind the table, no doubt ready to take notes of the proceedings. Every person in the room (besides her) had that greyish tone to their skin! Was this just… something to do with their status? Was it genetic? She had so many questions about this!

“Right, Astrid is requesting that everyone introduce themselves. And I’d say that it’s a brilliant way to kill two birds with one stone.” Richard glanced around the room to see everyone nod.

The names of everyone blurred together for Astrid. She didn’t doubt that she would have to ask Richard to reintroduce her to most of them. She couldn’t help the grin that threatened to split her face when it was the blond woman’s turn.

“I am Eleanor Ségolène Clark the First. I am the Representative, Sword, Shield and First Queen of Canada. Yes, the moose in the stables is mine. His name is Bullwinkle-“

“Hmph, not as good as Lucy. I’d love to show you how she can breathe fire! Oh wait, I’m not allowed to bring her here.” The dust covered man beside her grumbled.

“At least my moose, James,’ She looked the man in the eye, and smiled. “isn’t a fire hazard. Which is why Lucy can’t come here, in case your tiny little brain forgot.”

I don’t know why, but I half expected people to either laugh or ‘cough’ in response to Eleanor’s response to James’ remark. But, instead, the creak of chairs shifting under people’s weight, a few sighs, and some muffled sounds of annoyance met my ears. Signe had also shifted in his chair, but in a way that suggested he was ready to get out it? A few people even glared in Eleanor and James’ direction, with the only Asian woman in the room giving a disapproving frown. She was tapping what looked like a folded fan in her hand. She would’ve looked indifferent to the events unfolding between these two, but her grip on the handle of the fan was so tight that her knuckles looked bone-white. Even Richard briefly looked upward, as if asking God for patience, before he cleared his throat.

“You’re mangy moose-“

“I do believe,’ Richard interrupted, “that it’s your turn, James?” He gestured toward the tanned man.

Said man straightened in his chair, rubbed his animal tooth arm band absently, gave an aggravated sigh and nodded.

“Hello, I am James Walker the First. I’m the Representative, and First King of Australia. I share my Sword and Shield with my sister Keri, who isn’t here today. Lucy is my pet crocodile. Yes, she can breathe fire. And it’s a tactical advantage, Eleanor.” He shoots Eleanor a glare and crossed his arms. “I’ve introduced myself, so you can mark the board, aye?”

Richard nods and makes a note on the board. The rest of the royalty introduced themselves. It turns out the black haired man beside Signe was Sasha Lebedev, the Czar of Russia! The last person to introduce themselves was Signe, who turned out to be the King of Sweden. At Richard’s mark of ‘present’ beside Signe’s name, the meeting began.

[bebepac]

Mood Music Monday 11.15.21 🎶

I’m excited to be a part of this. I haven’t been able to submit before so here’s my first one, @moodmusicmonday​  as I haven’t been able to be as consistent as I was previously with releases, due to work. Here’s what I have planned:

Original Post Update: 11/15/21 at 9:15PM EST.

The Royal Heir

The Days The Earth Stood Still: Part 1A

Pairing:  Liam x Riley / with Past Pairing Riley X Nico (Riley x M!OC) 

Song Inspiration: Set Me As A Seal  by Rene Clausen  (performed by: The Basilica Choir)

"Duchess Riley, you have clearly always been a favorite of King Liam, and are popular amongst the people. How likely is it that we are staring at the future Queen of Cordonia right now?"

Liam smiled at the crowd, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

"Actually we do have some news."

Riley glanced at him in surprise. What exact news was he planning to tell?

"Duchess Riley accepted my marriage proposal last night, and I couldn’t be happier."

"Duchess Riley tell us how you feel."

"It feels surreal. I never thought something like this would ever happen to me. It's a dream come true."

He heard Riley's stomach grumble, and her face paled, and she coughed lightly.

The Rotten Apple 🍎: Part 3

The Rotten Apple 🍎

Pairing: Liam x Riley / Ellie x ?

Song Inspiration: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me by U2

Ellie was sitting in her first class at the Crown Academy when her phone beeped.

"Eleanor, we need to talk."

"New phone who dis?"

“You know who this is.”

Ellie's phone began to ring.

Her professor gave Ellie a look as she went to walk out of the classroom; Ellie came up with a quick lie.

"It's my Father. You know, the King of this country."

"Make it quick, Princess Eleanor."

Ellie raised an eyebrow.

"Or.... take your time and send the King my regards."

While We Were Apart: Part 2

Mia’s 🌎 World

Pairing: Characters are Single / Past Pairing of Jaiden x Mia

Song Inspiration: Kiss From A Rose by Seal

"What's wrong? Why are you so quiet?"

"You know I'm not much of a talker, Carmen."

That. Was. A. Lie.

"That's exactly right. You're a man of few words." Carmen smiled at him.

Carmen didn't even know him… well not really.

He could be talkative with the right person when things were right. Mia was so easy to talk to before they hit that rough patch causing all the drama between him. Once, he had spent the whole night talking to Mia on the phone that first summer they started dating.

“Is that really the sun, Jai? I can’t believe we have been up all night talking to each other.”  

“Me either. Do me a favor Mia?”

“Sure.”

“I’m already outside my house.  Will you go outside too and watch the sunrise with me?”

He got self conscious when Mia didn’t respond right away.

He softly laughed even though his face, was already on fire.

“Mia…. did you finally fall asleep on me?”

“No,” but he could hear a smile in her voice. “I’d love to watch the sunrise with you.”

[realcatalina]

Everything wrong with Spanish Princess-1x08

So formal bethrohal of Mary was in december 1507, and Henry VII is already coughing blood?! And once again sick worrying about France?! France?!

Oh they killed of Henry VII-all of sudden.

In real life, Henry VIII was by his father's side when he died, as were many courtiers, clergymen etc. Because tuberuclosis doesn't kill you suddenly.

And once again, person is not moving and people around immediately know he is dead not simply unconcious, asleep, etc. Such lazy writing!

Had this happened as they set it, lady Margaret would sent for physician. Yes, Henry VII's death was kept secret for cca 2 days, but his son knew of it! And there would be many servants attending to the King.

Then they have false plotline of lady Margaret executing people who were undoubtedly executed year after she died. 

Henry VIII having falling out with his grandmother-over her not supporting his match with catherine, alegedly destroying papal dispensation, usurping power by unrightfully acting as regent-and all of this is false! 

She was rightful regent, supported her grandson’s wedding to infanta, prepared all the celebrations, Catherine’s and Henry’s joined coronation and died loved, respected and honoured. 

They also had fictional plotline of lady Margaret framing Ovietto for stealing to get Lina to confess marriage was consumated. Ovietto who was never in england in first place. 

And lady Margaret Pole had no bussiness being involved in plot over somebody who was imprisoned long before. False plotlines! So Catherine couldn’t rescue her!

Ferdinand couldn’t refuse match on Eleanor’s behalf. There was no bethrohal, and her grandfather Maxmilian was deciding her fate.

Last look is so strange. They make it seem as if Henry slept with Catherine’s sister, and knows she slept with Arthur and that they have understanding-they are both liars and that is ok. 

While actually the character of Henry is insulted she even thinks he’d slept with Juana and actually thinks that Catherine is a virgin. That is his mindsert in season 2. But finale of season 1 basically told what writers thought of both characters. Both Henry and Catherine are liars and horrible people. Right from the start! 

Giving justice to real Catherine, presentig us with her accurate story? Not in season 1. And Hell no in season 2! Tbh, if season 1 was innacurate, one was in lost of words how innacurate season 2 became. Mindblowing!

[bagadew]

The Great Ace Attorney Playthrough: The Case of the Unbreakable Speckled Band (Part 2b)

Last Time: It turned out that my man Hosonaga hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d lay his life on the line for us, and was beaten up by the killer captain for letting us have a look around first class. As if that wasn’t enough, he then stood before us looking like the Knights of Ni, and gave us Kazuma’s autopsy report, revealing that Kazuma died of a broken neck. Now I (Ryunosuke) get ready to inveterate, and I (Eleanor) get ready to take the captain out!

OVER MY DEAD BODY YOU WILL!

So it shall be.

Susato’s pointing out that it might be a while before we’re all back in Japan, to which I say: It will happen, I can wait

Now on with the actual investigation.

Out in the corridor Biff Strogenov the 1 ton sailor has finally left his post, meaning that we’re free to look for cute animals investigate my beloved Kazuma’s death in cabin number 2!

Wait, that voice? Could it be? Has he returned to us?

Yeah boy!

Oh... he’s not in our immediate vicinity and we actually do have to go in cabin number 2, so I guess we’ll see him again later!

THE CASE OPEN!!! THE PET!!! GONE!!!

Ok game, I get it! I have to remember why we’re really here and not get immediately sidetracked by the faintest wiff of an animal.

Wait...... does she finally believe in us?

:D

WHOO LETS GO TEAM!!!

Right we’ve got a saucer on the floor, meaning that whatever Nikolina keeps as a pet eats off of it. This seems to make my snake theory less likely, but it does back up the idea that the ‘speckled band’ Kazuma saw could have been the tail of something like a tabby cat.

The books in the bookshelf have toppled over, just like they had in Kazuma’s cabin. I wonder if the ship made an emergency stop to let Nikolina onboard and that’s why they were all thrown to the left?

Again Susato, I’m pretty sure Strogenov realised Nikolina had a pet with her the second he helped her on the ship and saw her suitcase wiggling.

Everybody comes for Ryunosuke...

Hang about... the bolt pulls to the left, the same direction the books fell in!

If someone new Nikolina was coming on board (*cough*The Captain*cough*) they could have killed Kazuma and left the door unbolted, safe in the knowledge that when the ship stopped the bolt would slide into place!

(This is how I felt when Kazuma bought up Curare in the last trial.)

Ok, due to my being a bad influence on Susato, she gave the cabin bell pull a good tug, but fortunately it seems that none of them work (which is very odd).

Finaly both the teapot and bin are empty, which could mean anything or nothing at all, you never can tell with Ace Attorney.

Other than that, I think that’s it for the cabin. I was expecting to be interrupted or something, but I’m pretty sure I’ve looked at everything. Now let’s go into the corridor and see if there are any Himbo Detectives knocking about out there!

Hell yeah!

I agree Ryunosuke, the man’s a glorious Jack in the Box!

:D

Go an tap his back Ryousuke, I want to see if he jumps!

Come on everybody, clap along!

TAP HIM RYUNOSUKE!!!

HE FELL OVER!!!

(Editor’s Note: AND I MISSED  SCREENSHOTTING IT!)

So tell me Susato, hows that image of the Great Detective holding up?

Because mine’s doing great!

Looks like Herlock’s been looking at the Ships log, and he’s picked up on the fact that it’s practically blank from 2am onwards, which interestingly is just after the time Kazuma’s diary says he was killed. I’d also imagine this is when Nikolina arrived onboard.

Also Ryunosuk actually payed Herlock a complement!

Something’s happening? What’s happening???

HE WAS DRUGGED TO!!!

(Though I don’t know why I’m surprised. I already guessed the rest of the ship was drugged so they wouldn’t see Nikolina while she was being smuggled onboard)

Has Susato realised too?

And off he goes! Singing all the way!

What a wonderous man you are Herlock

I think she’s worked it out!

As expected of the daughter of the Professor of Pathology!

You know I don’t know if I’ve ever really taken the time to appreciate the level of detail Ace Attorney has sometimes. Like this is exactly how I’d describe the sort of headache you get after being knocked out by drugs.

Susato’s left it for now, and I can’t work out if she’s already worked it out, or if she’s still puzzling it out. Either way, I think she’s got this.

(Ok, I’ve clearly missed something here...)

Or no, I haven’t!

The alarm’s going off!!!

ANOTHER SHIP!?!

DAMN NIKOLINA THE BALET COMPANY ARE SERIOUS HUH!??!

(Clinging to each other Susato and I (Ryunosuke) managed to not die when the ship crashed to a halt.)

Now’s the time to see if the bolts slide closed though!

YES YES!!! LOOK IT’S SHUT!!!

LOCKED ROOM MYSTERY SOLVED BABY!!!

HERLOCK SHOLMES EAT YOUR HEART OUT!!! THERE’S A NEW GREATEST DETECTIVE IN TOWN!!!

(I’m talking about me, not Batman)

Shit! We’ve been rumbled!

HOSONAGA!!!

Hosonaga cares for us so much

I care for you to Hosonaga!

(Honestly I’m surprised the sound of me lowering a crown onto my own head didn’t somehow reach the game world.)

Yeah Naruhodo-san, let Hosonaga in so I can show him my unbearably smug face!

That’s not a very nice way to talk about Hosonaga Ryousuke!

(Sorry I couldn’t resist that joke)

So we have indeed been rumbled lads, and with at least one more part of this case to go it’s not going to be plain sailing

(I’ll see myself out...)

[jacklyn-flynn]

“Beautiful.” Alistair watched his very pregnant wife, his queen, the love of his life, wrap the delicate shawl he’d gotten her around her shoulders and give him that loving smile he so adored. They were in front of the Satinalia tree in their suite amid a nest of pillows and blankets. 

“It is, thank you, Ali. I love it.” Helena fingered the delicate fringe. 

“Yeah, I totally meant the shawl,” he said quietly, feigning a cough. Her soft laugh made his heart clench. Maker, he loved that woman. 

“Okay, now you can open that one I said you had to save for last.” With a wide grin, Helena handed him the gold box that had been hidden behind the tree and out of his reach. He was a notorious present-shaker. 

Like the child he was inside, he tore off the paper, tossing it over his shoulder. Setting the box on his lap, he opened the lid carefully and set it aside. Pulling off the tissue paper on the top, his brows furrowed slightly. He picked up the first thing in the box, a tiny, rose gold tiara, no bigger than a teacup saucer. One brow raised as he held it up questioningly. 

Helena gave him a knowing smile and gestured toward the box again. “Keep going.” 

Setting aside the next layer of paper, he just stared dumbly into the box. He looked up at her, blinking several times before looking back down. “Hel. Are you joking?” 

“No,” she laughed, “not in the slightest.” 

She saw his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard and picked up the heavy cardstock nestled against a tiny, royal purple dress. His hand was shaking as he read it, lips moving slightly. He read it three times before he looked up at her again. She was caressing her stomach lovingly. 

Helena bit her lower lip, smiling with giddy excitement. “Read it out loud!” she encouraged. 

“King Alistair and Warden-Commander Helena Theirin are pleased to announce the birth of their-” he had to stop for a moment, choking up. Alistair cleared his throat and tried again. “The birth of their daughter, Rose Eleanor Theirin.” He dropped the birth announcement back in the box and looked over at her with glistening eyes. “We’re having a girl?” 

She nodded quickly, tearing up herself at his show of emotion. And the hormones. 

“How do you know?” he whispered. 

“Wynne,” Helena said simply, her own voice breaking. “I asked her to be my midwife. She arrived last week and told me. It’s been killing us both to keep it from you.”

In an instant, his face shifted to concern. He scooted closer. “She’s here this early? There are still six weeks, is something wrong?” 

Helena reached out to take his hand, squeezing. “No, love. She wanted to be close, just in case. I would tell you if something was wrong.” 

“Thank the Maker,” he breathed, surging up onto his knees to kiss her, his hand slipping around her neck. With a sigh, he broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers and nuzzling her nose. “When you told me you loved me, I didn’t think I would ever be happier. Then you said you would marry me. Then, against all odds, you got pregnant. Helena, you are the best thing to ever happen to me.” His whisper was reverent and cracking with emotion. She could feel tears streaming down her cheeks. “I want you to know that I will love our baby-our daughter- with all of my heart but that doesn’t mean I’ll love you any less.”

Helena let out a sound that was part laugh and part sob, sitting back to look at his face. “Oh, sweet man, I never doubted.” She kissed him again. Then again. The third kiss she didn’t break away from. She laid back slowly and he followed her down, holding himself over her with his hands planted on either side of her shoulders. Her hands slid over his shoulders and down his chest. She started to draw up his tunic and he broke the kiss, panting. 

“Is it still safe?” he murmured against her lips. 

“Yes,” she laughed, “I want you. A craving, if you will. You should know better than to get between me and a craving.” 

He gave her a crooked grin that made her stomach flip in the best way.

“What I will get between is your lovely thighs.” He raised and lowered his brows several times suggestively. He lowered his head to kiss down her neck and lick along her collarbone. “You taste so good carrying my child. I intend to enjoy it while I can.” The low timbre of his voice made her shiver, anticipation making her ache. 

Alistair parted the fluffy robe to reveal the swell of her stomach. He kissed gently, and she could feel his breath against her skin, warm and comforting. “I’m sorry, Princess. Cover your ears. Your mama is loud.”  

“You’re one to talk!” Helena exclaimed, glaring down at him from her comfortable position reclined against a mountain of pillows as he rested his chin on her bump, grinning up at her. 

“As insatiable as you’ve been, she knows, my sweet.” He kissed her stomach again, whispering, “She’s been riding me absolutely ragged.” 

“Alistair!” Helena chastised with a laugh. “Put that dirty mouth to better use.” 

“As my Queen demands.” 

[mot-hesbian]

Fic request:

Lily x William + "Just when she thought she'd finished crying, the phone rang."

Her cheeks stung as her salty tears ran down the raw skin. Her throat hurt from holding back sobs. Serena was sleeping just down the hall. She'd had enough trouble getting to sleep lately, she didn't need to be woken up because her mother couldn't keep it together.

She thought it'd be different this time. He said it'd be different.

She supposed it wouldn't be the first lie he'd told. It definitely wouldn't be the last. It didn't feel like a lie at first, though. It had felt like a promise he'd kill himself to keep. He was always good at that kind of thing, making her believe.

He'd cornered her into dancing with him at that damn fundraiser, she'd attended with Eleanor. She had been planning on leaving him for a few months by that point, had finally had enough of his twisted games, all the hoops she'd have to jump through just to keep his attention for longer than a minute. As she'd reluctantly swayed with him to maintain the "proper image" that was so important in their world, he'd started speaking.

She could still feel the ache from his bruising grip when she tried to pull away.

He told her that he was sorry, that nothing had happened, that she was just getting in her own head again. Looking back she could recognize the things he wasn't saying, the things he'd say when things were worse again, always in a quiet, stormy anger. Always with a gift to apologize later.

The tears were slowing down, the sobs stopped trying to push their way out of her throat. Just when she thought she'd finished crying, the phone rang. Her body tensed.

It was probably him.

Who was she kidding? It was definitely him. Her mother had no reason to call. She and Carol rarely spoke since their father died and Lily left her old life behind for the solace monotony and complacency provided. Eleanor had grown distant since she and William had reconciled.

Of course it was him. The burning in her throat felt sharper, her face flushed, her eyes and nose stung. She tried to ignore it, she knew she should answer the phone. Though, maybe she could lie and tell him that she'd been asleep when he called. She wouldn't have to answer then.

But he'd know. He almost always seemed to know. It was like he could peer into her mind and would with one look. It was how he'd managed to hold onto her so well, for so long.

For a second she hoped that maybe it would stop on its own, put her out of her misery. Or that it was just in her head, her broken mind taunting her.

The ringing continued so she did what she did best, she slipped into character. She placed on her mask and wiped her tears. She picked up the phone, preparing a fake cough to explain the scratchiness of her voice. She couldn't let him know anything was wrong, not with the news she had yet to share with him. Another two lines to bind them for life. Not that they wouldn't be bound even without those lines. She was his and he knew it.

There were times she hated that she loved him. This was definitely one of them.

Send me a prompt + a ship/character(s) and I'll write a fic

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 4

Charles Vane x OFC slow burn - Part One - Part Two - Part Three

Note: since this story is getting so long, I’ve decided to convert it to a third person OC. She’s really acquired too much specific backstory to be a Reader insert already. So meet Hope Wickham, who hopefully feels like a natural extension of the same character! I’ve never done this before, hope I’m pulling it off gracefully.

Chapter Summary: Acceptance by Vane’s crew comes along with a little drunken violence, but who would expect any less from pirates? Treating Vane’s wound brings more intimacy than Hope bargained for... CW for combat and giving someone stitches.

This episode’s prompt: “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

The tavern is dark, and so thick with smoke that Hope’s eyes are burning around the edges. But the ale is strong, the company is spirited, and all she sees are wide grins around the table. That’s all that matters to her.

The Ranger crew is celebrating again. They’ve just taken port in Tortuga after their third successful hunt since finding themselves on Miss Guthrie’s shit list; the leads she had provided them since the night Captain Vane stormed out of her office had been more insulting than if she had given them none, and so they put their heads together and sought their prizes outside of the neighborhood of Nassau. The takes were smaller, so far, and not everyone here already knew their reputation, yet, but it was well worth it to keep on feeling free.

“This one’s for that Guthrie bitch,” Anne Bonny growls as she thrusts her tankard up for another toast. “Just ‘cause we all know she wouldn’t want us to have it.” Grunts and guffaws answer her around the long, creaking table that the Ranger’s officers and most sociable crewmen have crowded around. “Don’t matter if we can’t fence our prizes, so long as we can drink ‘em!”

That gets a round of cheers and splashing clinks of pewter tankards. Hope drinks deep to that one, short-sighted as she finds the sentiment to be. Because the real point is, with takes like these they’ve managed to keep the morale of the crew up, despite setbacks. They hadn’t lost one capable sailor over the humiliation Eleanor had tried to deal them. In fact, the experience appeared to be knitting the crew tighter together, with Hope right in there with them.

Her expertise helped, as Jack had predicted. The Ranger’s crew had a reputation for idiocy and belligerence once they got into the drink on shore, but every sailor respects the skill of a navigator that can not only lead them right to the richest prizes, but also point them straight back towards a port where they can waste those riches as quickly as possible. It also helped that Hope had drank a few of them under the table that first night, that her wit was only sharpened by liquor, and oh yes, that she had found a few choice words for Nassau’s despot herself on that evening.

Shane, the Ranger’s boatswain, elbows her deep in the ribs. “Tell us again,” he slurs, drinking entirely too fast as he so often does on nights like these, “how you gave the Guthrie woman a piece of your mind last time we was in her joint.”

Hope presses her lips together in a restrained sort of grin. She resists the urge to glance at Captain Vane; if she looks too worried about his reaction it will only set him off worse. But any mention of Eleanor tends to sour his mood, whether negative or neutral. (Positive mentions simply do not happen among this crew). Her eyes travel as far as Jack Rackham, seated beside the captain, and she can see he is checking on him already. When no flash of concern lights up the quartermaster’s eyes, Hope feels safe to at least start telling the story. “I don’t know what she was thinking, approaching me like that.”

Even though she speaks quietly, many of the side conversations cease, heads up and down the long table swiveling around to pay attention to her tale. It seems like no matter how often this episode comes up, there is at least one crewman present that has not yet heard her tell it from her own mouth.

“She had already failed to perturb the Captain, with whatever she said in that private meeting she called him into after we cashed in her lead,” Hope continues, setting the stage.

“Thought she could drag him in by his ear, like she was his fecking mum,” one of the gunmen interrupts. Nods and grunts of agreement pass around the table. Hope just loves the way the men so gleefully rehash the same old stories when they’re in their cups, loves even more that she’s started to be in them.

“He’s not fallin’ for that shite anymore,” Shane piles on, sending a look up the table at Vane that’s half approval, half challenge.

As usual, Captain Vane chooses the path of least words. “Bitch can rot,” he growls over the rim of his cup. His eyes simmer with more complicated feelings than those three words belie, but only to someone who’s looking.

“Which is what he told her, more or less.” Jack’s melodious voice smooths the story along, taking the attention off the uneasy topic of the crew’s feelings about their captain’s… entanglements. “So on to Plan B, Miss Guthrie went.” His eyes turn back to Hope, and most of the crew’s follow.

“She comes by my table, just stands there at first, stiff as you please. Like I’m just going to jump up as soon as she notices me.”

Anne rolls her eyes.

Hope remembers the way her stomach jumped at that point, her respect for Miss Guthrie not yet lost, but there is no reason to recount that part of the story. “Then she does this little cough, when I keep on drinking, take my next turn throwing the dice.”

“It was a good throw, too,” someone pipes in from further down the table.

“It was,” Hope agrees, “and I had a stack of coin on it.” She takes a swig of ale. “But she just stares at me. And as soon as my hand is on my winnings—‘may I have a word with you, Miss Wickham.’” She does a passingly fair imitation of the woman’s voice, higher and snootier than her own.

“What did she want?”

“She told me she was going to get me on another ship.”

The room always gets quieter at this part of the story. A warm, tingling sort of feeling blooms in Hope’s chest, at the way her new crew takes such pride in this exchange. It reassures her more deeply each time, that she made the right call when she took Eleanor’s offer as an insult.

“’It’s terrible, what Vane is doing to you,’ she has the nerve to say to me. ‘But the Nightingale is coming in tomorrow. And the Walrus.” Groans all around the table. They always groan at the mention of the Walrus. “I’ll get you set up with a crew that’s more civilized.” And every time she repeats that line, there is less booing and more harsh, prideful laughter. Hope scoffs. “Like I’m already in her pocket, a piece to move around on her chessboard as she sees fit. She says to me: ‘Vane can’t force you to do anything.’ And I look right back at her, take the drink out of her hand, and say ‘no, he can’t. And neither can you.” Her neck prickles at the way the men look at her when she tells this part. “I like his ship. I like his crew.’ I lean in, sip a drink out of her own cup, and say, ‘I think I might even be starting to like him.”

More cheering, and fists hammer on the table. They love that part. Everything had felt so crystal-clear in that moment, when Eleanor Guthrie patronized to her like that. Hope didn’t want to be protected, didn’t want to be sheltered or assigned. She wanted to earn what she’d got; and here was a crew she was already bonding with, (drunkenly at least) and a captain who respected her skills so much that he’d gone out of his way to get her on his ship, and respected her mind so much that he’d rushed Jack to make sure she felt she could leave.

“So take your fake concern for my wellbeing, I said to her, and go fuck yourself with it. Since Vane’s not at your beck and call to take care of that for you anymore, either.” It wasn’t exactly what Hope had really said. But every story gets larger in the retelling of it, does it not?

Tankards are banging on tables, toasts are being raised, and Shane whacks Hope on the back in comradely approval. “And that’s the night you became one of us.”

She can’t read anything in Vane’s stillness as he regards her from the head of the table.

 Hours later, Hope and Anne are staggering back into the tavern, arm in arm, coming back from a piss ‘round the back of the building. In this town a woman’s got to have someone right there watching her back before she can even think of squatting down. “Where’s everyone?” Anne slurs, her brows furrowing as she inspects the corner where the Ranger crew used to be sitting. Her head swivels toward the other side of the room, Hope’s following rapidly after.

Many of the crew appear to have moved along to some other establishment, or perhaps staggered down to their tents set up on the beach. Jack and Captain Vane are still here, though, sitting at a table with two men Hope doesn’t recognize. All four of them are positively bristling.

Their Captain waves the women over when he spots them. Anne lets herself be tucked under Jack’s arm, and Hope cautiously takes the open chair next to Vane. The strangers at the table look surly, one with long hair tied back into a disheveled tail, the other’s brown locks cropped closer but no less messy. Their once-fine coats, stained and inexpertly repaired, mark them for fellow pirates.

“Captain Mackinaw,” Vane introduces, wrapping a hand over the top of Hope’s shoulder as he does, “meet Hope Wickham, my navigator.”

She braces herself for the long-haired man to comment on her sex, as so many men do, but this Mackinaw is too preoccupied to do more than nod vaguely in her direction. “I can’t just let this stand, Charles.”

Vane nods. Hope has never known him to be a sloppy drunk, but she can feel his inebriation in the careful way he removes his hand from her shoulder and reaches out for the ale on the table. He lifts it for a long, contemplative sip as his fellow looks at him expectantly. “You want me to back you up?” he offers, in slow, measured tones.

Mackinaw looks relieved. “They’re at the north end of the beach. If we make a show of numbers, I reckon they’ll hand it back over without a fight.” He takes another long pull of his own drink, the gesture much sloppier than how Vane had pulled off. Hope resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“And if they don’t?” Jack asks.

Mackinaw smiles sharply. “Then they’ll learn what it means to cross them that used to sail with Edward Teach.”

 “This is a terrible idea,” Hope growls through her teeth, hefting the cudgel of broken wood she’d picked up on their way down the beach.

“Nonsense,” Jack replies. “It appears they have things well in hand.” Less than twenty paces away, Vane and Mackinaw square up against an even-scruffier captain and two of his largest crewmen. Vane’s body language is bristling, and Mackinaw’s looks mocking even from here.

“I don’t believe Charles Vane has ever been known for his ability to talk his way out of a fight,” Hope retorts. She shifts, squaring her hips, attempting to add to the impression that a full crew of violent, capable men is poised to storm down the moonlit beach at a moment’s notice.

“Good,” Anne hisses, sparing one contemptuous glance for Hope as she brandishes both her knives in the direction of the tents. Mackinaw’s rivals are rousing now, recognizing the threat. “I’ve an appetite for blood tonight.”

Hope’s not even sure why she’s here. This could get every bit as bloody as a vanguard charge, if someone says the wrong word, takes things a step too far down there. Violence is not in her skill set; if anything, she should be handling this part, the negotiations that so often stop swords from crossing. But she doesn’t know Mackinaw; barely even understands the grievance he has with the other man on the beach. Something about a horse, or a woman, or a horse that belonged to a woman… and now good men might get hurt, or even killed, because Vane feels loyalty to a man he once sailed with when they both served under the notorious Blackbeard.

An angry shout. Anne takes a step forward; most of the crew lined up behind follows suit. Vane hadn’t rounded up quite all of his men from their carousing around the town, but combined with Mackinaw’s crew they look like a veritable army ready to surround the other crew’s camp.

Said crew is forming up ranks of their own, however. Mackinaw’s rival does not appear ready to back down, puffing up his chest and speaking loudly enough for her to hear the tone of blustering confidence. Hope knows a failing negotiation when she sees one. “Blood it is,” she says wryly.

She doesn’t intend for anyone to hear it, but Jack cocks his head at her.

Vane’s hand has crept to his sword. Mackinaw’s head tilts; the shabby captain grimaces, glances back at his crew, and then throws himself at his rival. The two captains struggle in the sand, pummeling each other.

Is it going to stay between them, or is everyone about to brawl? Hope catches movement from one of the big men who had been backing that captain up. He takes a step that puts him more fully behind Captain Vane, who had turned to watch the men rolling on the ground. “Watch!” she roars, in inarticulate, impulsive warning.

The men behind her surge, evidently interpreting her shout as their signal to advance. They loose themselves down the beach, stampeding Hope along with them.

She grips her cudgel tight, keeping pace with her crew to avoid being trampled. Her face and limbs flush so hot they’re prickling. She managed to see Vane turn before his attacker could strike, ducking under the blow and knocking the man in the gut with the pommel of his sword as he drew it, but after that she loses him in the jumble of bodies rushing past the both of them, to engage the charging Ranger crew.

Hope runs until she’s stopped, feeling like she’s part of a wave crashing into a craggy shore. She sees the shape of a man, arms raised in threat, and she swats at it with her cudgel. The impact of it thudding into him throws her more off-balance than she expects. But the untampered momentum with which she had hit him is enough to knock the man to the ground.

Anne roars beside her, a ferocious sound, triumphant. She kicks that man across the jaw to keep him down, then thrusts her face close to Hope’s. “Atta girl!”

And after that Anne’s bloodlust is infectious, as Hope finds herself suddenly eager to pick her next target to bludgeon. Her crimson-haired crewmate keeps pace with her, seemingly amused by Hope’s sudden spirit.

A man missing more than a few teeth looms up in front of her, and lands a blow that glances off Hope’s head. She falls back, but Jack Rackham catches her from behind and heaves her right back onto her feet again. Her attacker wasn’t expecting her to come up so fast; nor was he expecting her foot to land so heavy in his gut.

She wants to get to Vane. She doesn’t have time to consider why, only knows that the direction that she should force her feet through this fray is over to where she saw him last. She ducks under fists and shoves bodies away from her. Anne and Jack appear to have the same idea, and they’re better at it, too. Hope hears the crunch of a broken nose to her left, turns in time to see a man dropping to his knees, howling. Blood trickles down Anne Bonny’s forehead, and she doesn’t wipe it away when it reaches her open-mouthed grin.

The fighting ends just about as suddenly as it began. “Yield!” comes the voice of the enemy captain, and his men, for the most part, stand down. When the throng clears and Hope can see Charles Vane again, something in her chest loosens even though the side of his face is puffy and his hairline is stained with blood. He’s holding the shabby captain from behind, sword under his throat, and Mackinaw is gloating in front of them.

 And as far as the Ranger crew is concerned, that’s the end of it. No loss of life, and not too many injuries to show for the impulsive brawl. It could have been so much worse. Hope still doesn’t even understand what it was all about. She follows her captain back to their own beach camp. She follows him through the camp, settling the wounded, watching him check on every man without slowing down. Watching him favor his left leg the whole while, and otherwise ignoring his own obvious injury entirely.

When she notices that the size of the bloodstain suffusing the fabric of Vane’s trousers has definitely been growing, Hope finally approaches him. “It’s nothing,” he grunts, waving her off. “Now where’s Jensen? He came down with us, didn’t he?”

“You’re no good to him, or any of the men, if you pass out from blood loss,” Hope scolds.

Vane looks down at himself, mouth set in an ornery line. He brings the lantern in his hand close to his thigh, and wet blood glitters. He grunts, then puts all his weight on that injured leg and gives her a pointed look, brows raised high. He’s still drunk, she realizes. “It’s fine.” His usual growl grinds tighter across the words, though. And when he tries to take a normal stride past her, the leg buckles.

She reaches out to steady him and finds herself wrapped firmly underneath his arm. He lets her support his weight for just a moment, their faces so close as he studies her expression. His jaw still has a stubborn set to it. Her palms feel hot against his body, particularly the right, which landed close to his heart. “Back to your tent,” she orders. “Let me tend to it.”

His brows furrow and she pushes him up the beach before he can argue further. He takes one step with his weight on her, then shakes off her support while muttering something about the men watching. “Jensen?” he roars, still looking around the maze of tents.

“Sleeping it off,” someone shouts in answer, and only then does Vane turn back to Hope, ready to cooperate.

She scowls, shaking her head a little as she accompanies his limping path toward his own tent. “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

Vane doesn’t answer. He may not have even heard it. When they reach his tent, he pushes aside the flap and all but collapses inside. Hope pauses for one steadying breath before bending to follow him in. The captain seems the type to be a very difficult patient.

The lantern he had been carrying is set just inside the entryway. Vane settles onto his bedroll, a weary noise escaping his lips now that there’s no one left to observe him but Hope. She’s going to want more light, to examine that wound properly. She looks around for another lantern amongst the smattering of personal effects he’s brought to shore.

There’s rustling behind her as she gets another light blazing. When she turns around, Vane’s got his shirt off, resting back on his elbows and waiting for her.

“I’m glad to see you’ve gotten yourself more comfortable,” Hope says dryly, “but that’s not the half of your body that I need to take a look at.”

Vane grins, and Hope tries to stop herself from blushing. His sun-darkened skin glistens in the lamplight, creating an all-together different effect on her than all the other times she’s seen the man stripped to the waist while sailing. He dips his head in acknowledgment of her words and lifts his hips to remove his trousers.

Her eyes register a long line of pale white skin being revealed to her gaze before she whips her head away, belatedly realizing he’s not wearing anything underneath. The image of the side of his bare ass is going to be hard to get out of her mind now, and she makes an irritated noise at the man. “Cover yourself, please.”

She waits, probably longer than necessary, before turning herself back to face her entirely nude captain. He’s lying back against a cushion once she’s gathered her nerve, with a blanket pulled over only his uninjured leg, and his unmentionables. And is the bastard smirking? She should march herself right out of there.

But then Hope’s eyes fall on the wound that’s been revealed and she forgets her modesty. “Uglier than I was hoping to see,” she mutters, worried, and drops to her knees beside his bedroll.

Vane makes an offended noise. Did he think she was talking about his body? How drunk is he? Hope is a little concerned that he doesn’t seem concerned about the wound in his thigh, slashed down the outer edge about a foot up from his knee. She brings the lantern closer and pokes at the bright red edge. When he doesn’t flinch, she presses a little harder, moving the flesh around to try and get a better idea of the depth of the wound.

“It’s not too deep,” she reports when she’s completed her assessment, “but it could use some stitching.”

“Told you it was fine,” he says gruffly. When she glances up, he holds her eyes. He’s given her many unreadable looks since she’s come to know him. But this one, while he’s laid out naked underneath her, with the flickering light so soft and warm, sends tingles through her body. “You good with a needle?”

Hope blinks. “Yes, yes,” she stutters, searching her pockets for her sewing kit. It’s another feminine role she’s tried to avoid getting stuck in, being the one who mends, but for Captain Vane she’ll make an exception. “Hold the lantern.”

She marvels that his arm doesn’t even waver as she cleans out the wound, holding the light up steady for her above his leg. His face remains almost serene, gaze already on her each time she glances up at him, as if watching her work is all he needs to ignore the pain. She pushes the errant thought away; more likely he’s just drunk enough to feel numb.

She can see the entire length of his body, bare from the swell of his shoulder, down his sculpted waist, over his hip bone and all along his pale white leg. It’s distracting, the way the eye is pulled to the crease where his thigh meets his belly, and—

And perhaps he’s not the only one who’s still a little drunk.

“Hold the lantern closer,” she says, and squints in closer to where she’ll begin her stitching. Tells herself not to think about the body that this leg attaches to.

She thinks she hears a little hiss of air the first time the needle goes in, but it might have just been the wind. When she dares look up again, Vane still has a straight face, contemplating hers.

“It was a foolish risk,” she says as she slides the needle in a second time. “If you took this slash just a few inches in toward the artery, you could have been bleeding out.”

His voice rasps only a little worse than normal. “But I didn’t. And reputations are maintained. It was not an insult Mackinaw could let slide.”

“And his name is worth our risk?”

Vane’s eye narrow. “He would do the same for me.”

“Are you sure?” The needle goes in again, and Hope feels the barest flinch in Vane’s limb. “I’ve known many that wouldn’t care a wit for the suffering of former crewmates.”

“Teach’s crew was different.”

Hope is the one to look levelly up at him, now. She’s heard tell of how Edward Teach came to leave Nassau’s harbor. “Perhaps so. But I would not expect they would still feel that way about Charles Vane.”

Her words cut him, she can see that. He flinches in a way that her prodding at his physical wound could not have caused. “Mackinaw had left before all that,” he says simply.

Hope nods, and drops her eyes back to her work. Just two more stitches ought to do it. Was he trying to make up for that betrayal, was he happy to sacrifice what he had in service to any member of that old crew that might forgive him for having helped Eleanor drive Blackbeard out of Nassau? These are questions she does not dare ask.

“Tonight was foolish,” she says again, after completing the last stitch. She bites off the end of the thread. “Foolish, but noble.” She still feels a small amount of shame when she thinks about the dispersed crew of the Starling, about being one of the handful who now serve under the very captain that had taken their ship and exiled her brother-in-law (although from the letters her sister sends, it seems that he is supporting her just fine pirating out of other cities). She can understand those complicated feelings, the ones that have no easy answer, when facing the fallout of one’s own choices. Any action that smacks of amends must feel like a breath of cool air. Now, exhausted and sobering up in the dim of Vane’s tent, brushing her arm over his lifted knee as she wraps his wound up tight, she finds that she may actually be admiring him.

Part V

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Caged

“Pile out, you tramps. It’s the end of the line!”

“In this cage, you get tough, or you get killed.”

“Who’s the cute trick?”

“Kindly omit the flowers.”

“Keep it active. She’ll be back.”

Screenwriter Virginia Kellogg went behind bars to capture slang and elements of prison routine, and boy did it pay off. John Cromwell’s CAGED (1950, TCM, Plex) is a punchy good time, even when it’s hectoring the audience about the need for prison reform. It set many of the tropes of the women’s picture, but stands on its own perched on the dividng line between camp and high drama. It’s also unusual in that it got veiled lesbianism and references to drugs and prostitution past the Production Code. Eleanor Parker stars as the young innocent sent to prison because she was in the car while her husband got himself killed trying to rob a gas station. She’s thrown into a world of corruption, sadism, sexuale exploitation and terrific character women. A lot of the fun comes from watching the situation change her, and Parker gives a carefully modulated performance in which the young innocent is as interesting and believable as the woman she becomes. She’s not the whole show. You also get Ellen Corby as a crazed husband killer, Jan Sterling as a dumb blonde, Betty Garde (the original Aunt Eller) as the recruiter for a shop-lifting ring, Lee Patrick as a vice queen who could be the dictionary illustration for “lipstick lesbian,” Olive Deering as a suicidal inmate, Jane Darwell as matron of the isolation room, Gertrude W. Hoffmann as a lifer and Gertrude Michael as a fallen society woman. Best of all are Agnes Moorehead, who could ring nuance out of a laundry list, as the sympathetic warden and Hope Emerson as the sadistic matron who looks on Parker as a source of income and possibly something more. Cromwell was always a whiz at directing actors and melds the cast into a solid ensemble. He and cinematographer Carl E. Guthrie create some powerful visuals, but one of the most stunning effects uses sound. In her first night in the cell block, Allen has to adjust to sleeping in a room full of people as the soundtrack fills with coughs, yawns, and sobs that gradually overwhelm her and us.

[sadaboutniall]

something about you;

introduction | masterlist | tag | wattpad

Sixteen. January, 2015.

So, Niall tries to move on. 

He does everything you’re supposed to, after a breakup: he gets a haircut, buys some new clothes, writes a bunch of breakup songs, goes on a world tour. He kisses boys and he kisses girls, and when he wants to call Isla, to talk to her about the kissing boys thing, he doesn’t, because they don’t talk anymore, and that’s not what he should do. 

He makes friends in every corner of the globe, finds himself in strange beds with strange people in countries he wasn’t even sure existed when he first met Isla. He learns to like new foods, nearly kills Harry with a rogue golf club by accident on multiple occasions, does rehab on his gammy knee, and doesn’t call Isla. 

It’s early January and he’s in London and he’s not thinking about Isla, not letting his mind wander around the fact that this city is hers now, that she spends more time here than he does, that this is her home—that she’s built a life here without him. He doesn’t know much about it, really, save for the bits and pieces he picks up on Instagram by accident. 

And there are bits and pieces that he has picked up: the fact that she’s still with Jack, who won his most recent rugby match against a rival uni. The fact that her degree seems to be going well, that she’s got an internship with a firm here in the summer, meaning she won’t be home in Mullingar at all. The fact that her sister Erin is pregnant. He tries not to think about it all too much. 

He’s alone, which is fine, except for when he thinks about the fact that no one else he knows is: that Harry just landed in LA to spend time with friends, that Liam and Sophia are cuddled up together in Wolverhampton, that Louis and Eleanor are doing the same on the other side of the city. Zayn is with his family, too, and he seems happier to be home than Niall’s seen him in a long time. He tries not to think about that too much, either. 

So Niall’s alone, and that’s fine. He’s used to it by now. 

He goes to Waitrose to get some groceries for himself. It’s fine, the whole cooking for one thing. It just means he has leftovers to eat over the next couple of days, means he can spend less time cooking and more time doing things single people do, like watching TV, talking to people they’re interested in, and decidedly not thinking about their ex girlfriend from secondary school.

In the baking supplies aisle, Niall sees a ghost. 

He doesn’t know if he should say hello or not. He doesn’t know if they’re still friends—if they’re even talking. For a moment, he doesn’t even know if she’ll remember him. 

Thankfully, Emilia makes the decision for him. 

‘Holy shit,’ she says, eyes wide, familiar smile growing. ‘Hey.’

‘Hi,’ Niall feels awkward, despite the fact that Emilia is one of his oldest friends. He doesn’t like that things can change like this. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good, really good,’ Emilia takes another step toward Niall, looking genuinely pleased to see him. It relaxes him a little, but, still, his heart is on edge. ‘I didn’t know you were back in London.’

‘Just for a bit,’ Niall says, scratching at the back of his neck. ‘Heading to LA soon for rehearsals and stuff.’

‘Right, well,’ Emilia tilts her head a little to the side, as if she can’t quite believe this is happening either. ‘It’s been ages since anyone’s heard from you, Niall.’

‘It’s been ages since I’ve heard from anyone.’

He regrets it as soon as he says it, but Emilia laughs, shaking her head with a rueful smile. ‘I told Sean as much, yeah. You can both be so fucking stubborn sometimes.’

There’s that familiar tugging sensation in Niall’s belly, anxiety kicking at its confines. ‘I’m, uh. I’m really sorry. I don’t have a good excuse, really, and I don’t want to be that bloke that fucks off and doesn’t talk to his mates anymore. It was just. I mean. I don’t have an excuse.’

‘S’alright,’ Emilia jostles the large carrier bag on her shoulder, filled with groceries. ‘I know it was a lot for you, over the summer.’ 

‘It was,’ Niall says, for the first time. ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

Emilia gives him a knowing smile, then, ‘do you want to have a pint sometime before you leave London? You, me, and Sean?’

‘Fuck, yeah,’ Niall doesn’t even bother to hide his excitement, his relief. He can hardly imagine anything he’d rather be doing than having a pint with two of his best mates, actually. ‘I leave Sunday afternoon but I’m free tomorrow night?’

‘Oh,’ Emilia coughs awkwardly, and Niall feels his high deflating just a little bit. ‘We can’t tomorrow night. We’ve got, erm, a birthday party?’ 

It dawns on Niall unpleasantly, like turning the shower on freezing cold and stepping right under the harsh spray, or like walking into the corner of a counter when you’re not looking where you’re going. His body reacts before his mind does: he heats up, feels itchy and uncomfortable in his own skin, feels the tugging in his stomach intensify. Emilia jostles her bag again, and Niall’s brain catches up. Early January. It’s Isla’s birthday tomorrow. 

‘Fuck, right,’ Niall manages to say around the lump in his throat. It came out of nowhere and makes him feel sick and sad, like he needs to lie down for a long, long time. ‘I can’t believe I forgot. Does Saturday night work?’

‘Yeah,’ Emilia’s smile is softer, patient, and despite all she’s done for him Niall doesn’t like it, doesn’t want to feel pitied by someone who doesn’t know what this kind of heartbreak feels like. He wants to go home. ‘Saturday is perfect. Your number still the same?’

‘It is, yeah.’ He needs to leave. Now. 

Grand. Do you want to pick the place, or should we?’

‘You pick. I, uh. I just realized I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes, actually, and I’ve got to run. But I’ll see you Saturday. Just text me.’ He doesn’t even wait for her to answer before he steps forward for a quick hug, a kiss on the cheek goodbye. She pats his back and he thinks about the fact that she probably saw Isla today, that she’ll probably see her again later, and tries to ignore the way his brain is screaming. There’s nothing he can do. 

‘Niall?’ Emilia says, pulling away from the hug. She stays close, looking up at him seriously, and all Niall can do is nod, mouth dry, cheeks flushing red. ‘If you call her—like, for her birthday, or any other reason—she’ll pick up.’

Niall gapes, opens his mouth, closes it again, like a fucking fish, like a toddler, like an idiot. 

‘I just feel like you need to know,’ Emilia takes a few steps back, giving him his space. Inside her carrier bag he can see a load of baking supplies—all the right stuff for making Devil’s Food cake. Isla’s favorite. ‘She’ll always pick up.’

####

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[phenomenal1500]

The Blood In My Veins | Black Sails

Chapter 60: XXXIII

For Chapter 59: Actions Have Consequences click here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Find her? I have her." I immediately smiled at Charles before giving him a shoulder bump to give him credits for his amazing guessing skills and he playfully grabbed me by the hip to push me against him. As always I let out an embarrassing squeak and gasped for air as Charles placed his other hand right under my breast to secretly outline it.

"Then show us!"

~~~

Slowly, the day had almost passed just as fast as a human could blink and see the world again and I had settled myself at the shoreline to watch the sea come closer and pull back again every few seconds followed by the small clear waves. The pirates under Billy Bones leadership were prepared to hold the beach against Woodes Rogers' redcoats and as I examined them they seemed to be ready for every possible strategy and their minds were open for every option that could happen. However.... of course the fighting spirit was soon over when we all noticed that only Silver was returning from the fort and with one of my eyebrows raised I wondered where he had left Flint. Had he killed him?

I didn't have to do much to hear that information because the news was already spreading across the island in less than a second after Silver and Billy had discussed it.

The deal had been done; we were buying Nassau back, in exchange for the cache of the stolen Urca gold.

How weak it sounded for us to choose this outcome.... it also sounded way too easy if I thought about it.

A woman would be rowing out to Rogers' ship to persuade him to sail to Port Royal and await Eleanor Guthrie's arrival with the gold that we had to hand over to regain Nassau. It all sounded too good to be true and I immediately knew there was something off about the deal. Besides, Rogers would never retreat until he had Nassau. I've seen his true self.

Of course I had to warn one of our most important leaders, the one that was now stuck as hostage in that fucking miserable fort.

God, how many bad memories were linked to that place? The war between Flint and Charles.... Abigail's captivity.... my captivity.... Jack's captivity.... Charles' captivity for the second time and almost certain death twice. Slowly I pushed myself up and sighed while letting all the memories flow away as I walked to the hard surface to get a better grip under my feet before I made my way towards the fancy building it had all started in. The Governor's Mansion. I remembered that Jack had made it his salon after he had conquered the L'Urca De Lima. The citizens of Nassau drank, fucked and gambled in the parlor, while Jack had moved into one of the bedrooms to claim it as his own with me moving in for a week or so after Charles had left off to sea, tricked by Jack into capturing a slave ship.

Those weeks had been calm, no enemies to deal with and no problems. Well, that was before the rumours had spread about the imminent arrival of Woodes Rogers.

Jack had then gathered the most important people to discuss the defence of Nassau, but some had tried to refuse before Jack had shown his newly grown backbone by threatening their crews directly.

That was also the first place where I had met Charles' mentor, Edward Teach.... who had at the time announced that Flint had died by the hands of Captain Hornigold. The news had ripped away my faith. Of course I trusted Jack and Charles with my whole life, but I somehow already had felt it in my bones that the show of force wouldn't work out. Because of all that we had now ended up here and to get Nassau back so easily after all the effort we had to put into our forces to regain it would perhaps lure us into a massive trap.

I dragged my tired body up the few stair steps and leaned against the door frame as I watched Charles puzzle out the best strategies with two other men I remembered as his loyal crew members.

I didn't want to disturb them and stood there until one of the men turned around to share a gaze with me. "Captain, I think someone needs you."

Charles didn't even have to think about who the man was talking about and still stood ahead of me with his back my way, leaning over the big table in the middle of the room.

"Naida.... something's off and I can't get it out of my mind." He ran his hands through his long hair, being completely honest with me about his feelings in a long time again, and I hooked my foot behind the leg of the chair on the opposite side of Charles to pull it back and sit down on it straight in front of him.

"I know." I sighed while closing my eyes, afterwards watching the ceiling as I leaned my elbows on the table we had once used to discuss the future and defence of Nassau.

"You heard about it as well?"

"Mhuh." I hummed and looked Charles straight in the eye as he straightened his back and shook his head.

"I can't believe Flint would agree to this, you?"

"I don't know, perhaps he was done with everything, wanting to secure the island and the people within it."

"He would never give up his war." Charles reminded me, but I was still deep down hoping that all of this would be over one day, just so that maybe he and I could one day live how it should have been.

I didn't know how quickly it happened after I had found Charles, but suddenly the room filled with familiar faces who really had no business here anymore.

I was completely lost and I, confused, gazed at Silver who hopped in last after the room was full as I was trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

"A ship was spotted on the horizon, approaching the rendezvous beach from the south and flying no colors. Kofi and his men are returning. The wind is dying out. The cache will be on the sand in a few hours, at most." Billy coughed a bit to clear his throat while letting his eyes scan the room.

"Who knows they've arrived?"

"So far? Him, you, them...." Billy pointed at me and Charles who calmly walked their way. "And I. That's it."

"But sooner or later, people are going to know." I whispered to the men as we had approached the two and I leaned against the desk to support myself while Charles sat down.

"And we're going to have to give them instructions about what happens to that cache once it lands." Charles went on talking as he rolled a coin through his fingers while resting his boot on his upper leg. He didn't let his eyes drop from the coin so he wouldn't make a mistake, but we all knew he was concentrating on thinking about the best options.

It was always something Charles did to think harder about an important strategy or subject. He was a man with a lot on his mind and by focusing on the coin he could always concentrate on one particular thing.

The reason why I sang was the reason why he rolled a coin through his fingers.

"There's no more putting off a decision. Giving up that money is an impossibility." Silver clenched his jaw as Billy leaned more forward to the four of us so that nobody would suspect what it really was about. "Flint will just keep pushing for these things, costly things that we pay for with our own suffering, with our own lives. You know this. You've always known this." Silver had softly shook his head and sighed while Billy lowered his voice even more so I had to really focus on his lips to understand what was going on. "Sooner or later, it has to end. You send word to the fort and tell them it's here. Arrange for them to come out. I'll have men waiting there. I'll end it quickly. All you have to do is look the other way."

"I don't want it happening in full view of that beach."

"Yeah..." I noticed that Billy looked very tired because of the red glow and bags under his eyes and Silver didn't look so good either, probably both struggling with the former 'friendship' that had been lost by the war.

While I was examining the two men, Mady walked through the door and closed it behind her with a stern face expression as usual, softening a bit as she walked further in and spotted Silver. Charles and I smiled at each other and greeted the unknown red-haired man before my lover got up and offered me his hand to leave the Governor's Mansion with me, clearly a sign to leave the two lovebirds alone.

~~~

Me, Charles and Mady with a few more companions of her side had been ordered to wait for Eleanor and Flint to emerge via the secret tunnel that had led to the fort because Silver had notified that he didn't want the exchange to happen in full view on the beach. It somehow sounded weird and suspicious, but I didn't have to complain about such things. Our only job was to escort Flint and that bitch to a secluded beach which wasn't that far away from the center of Nassau and.... I got to see Flint again. As I heard the insects chirping, I peacefully played with a white butterfly that had landed on my leg and took in a deep sigh as I spotted the blond woman stepping into the light, followed by the redcoats that tried to both.... kill.... Charles.

My heart suddenly started to beat faster and I couldn't hear my surroundings because of the blood pounding in my ears that blocked the other sounds.

I saw nothing but red and squeezed my hands until my nails had torn my soft skin, leaving small moon shaped cuts into my palms.

That whore had stripped me from almost everything, twice! I clenched my jaw in full hate and tears of hatred filled my reddish eyes. It wasn't long before I pulled a knife from my boot and longed for nothing but her death, but instead of actually cutting her to fucking pieces, I had been stopped by the careful and gentle arms of the man I loved and I gazed at him in horror. Why didn't he feel the same way as I did?

"She would have killed you if I hadn't saved you from that fucking fort.... and you are stopping me from the one thing we all fucking want!!"

Before I knew it, I was pushed tightly against the muscular man and bursted into tears without even realizing it. I no longer cared about how my reputation crumbled down at the moment, these people didn't even notice any of this happening as they had already put a pace behind their walking and Flint was the only one waiting for us. Slowly a hand was moving up and down my back to keep me calm and little kisses were left on my hair.

Luckily for the blond whore it helped because the red atmosphere quickly turned gloomy and l became a calm and tired mess.

When Charles got up and hoisted me up with him, he knocked the dust off my clothes and dried my tears before I started doing it myself, taking a deep breath as I did so.

Eventually I managed to stay calm around the demon and we walked through the dunes behind Mady.

Of course I walked next to Flint and Charles who were both always on the lookout if I had any tendencies to turn that whore's neck around again, but for now I would leave her alone until I found the right time.

We actually walked to the coast for the price of the L'Urca De Lima, however, the only thing waiting for us was a delightful Jack with a small crew; the ship that was seen approaching was Jack's and not the one sent to retrieve the gold.

"STAND DOWN!!! JUST WAIT!!!" The clumsy, but highly intelligent man pointed out at his crew as he noticed who stepped his way.

I hadn't seen Jack for maybe a month and a half, and he didn't know the news about Charles who hadn't yet given up his life at the gallows.

With full joy I pushed Charles and Flint to the waterfront and the three of us walked to Jack at a high speed.

It seemed like I wasn't the only one happy to see him.

"Flint?" He furrowed his eyebrows until he saw us. "Naida! Charles!"

"What are you doing here?" Flint questioned the man as Charles and I took turns giving Jack a tight embrace and he was amazed when he saw Charles and me healthy and well. He also immediately changed his gaze to my stomach and I smiled, confirming the kid and I were also okay.

He had cared for us both when we were captured so it was normal for him to question its health.

"Thank you, Jack, for keeping me safe from the governor." I thanked him as I thought back to the day when Jack and I were imprisoned together in Nassau. He had offered himself to go free willingly with Rogers if I was allowed to walk freely around Nassau, unharmed, as long as I did nothing that had something to do with conspiracy against civilisation.

"You're welcome, Dear." He smiled back and then watched Flint. "We escaped the governor's men. Came back to rejoin the fight, but didn't know if the harbor was safe to enter. What are you doing here?"

~~~

"You want to trade it? You want to trade the cache, my cache?"

"It was the only way we could avoid a fight we were more than likely to lose. And it guarantees us control of the island today and for certain."

"All it guarantees is we no longer have the cache that we all agreed was critical. And who decided this? You and Mr. Silver? Because I can't imagine Naida and Charles committing to such a thing." Flint had stayed quiet as he knew Jack was right and I watched the ground. We could have stopped them, but it was too late when Charles and I figured out their plan. "Ah... It won't work."

"It's done. It's already agreed to."

"She agreed to it. Her people agreed. You've agreed. Naida and Charles and I probably didn't. But it's all meaningless unless and until he agrees. Woodes Rogers."

"He left the island for Port Royal as she asked to await her arrival with the money. He's already agreed to it."

"No, he hasn't. I watched him defeat Edward Teach in battle...." I gasped as it occurred to me that Jack had just declared Teach as dead and right away my thoughts went to Charles who had lost his father figure. I gently pushed myself against Charles's side as I wrapped my arms around him and I noticed that Charles weakly embraced me back. "Outnumbered and through sheer force of will. I saw his bloodlust with my own eyes. That man will never surrender his position here. He will never allow himself to be defeated by you or I. Not because we bribed him, not because Eleanor Guthrie told him so. He simply will not allow it to happen. I don't know where that man went or what designs drew him there, but this I know.... Woodes Rogers will be returning.... and this fight isn't nearly over."