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let-me-write-shit · 4 years ago

Note

can you write a little something about Harry and reader finding out the gender of their baby after a long time of trying?

Ok, first of all, I’m SOOO sorry for taking so long to write this while I finished up my story. When I got this request, I got super emotional because this happened with me and my husband. So the story I wrote is our actual story. I hope you like it.

Word Count: 2,950

Requests are OPEN! If you have a request for a blurb, oneshot, imagine, whatever, Send me a message HERE!!!

And don’t forget to let me know what you think! Enjoy.

CLICK HERE TO READ OTHER COMPLETED STORIES

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Little Miracle

It had been two years. Two long and frustrating years. When Harry and Y/N first started talking about trying to get pregnant, it was exciting. They had been married for about three years at that point and Harry had finally started to slow down in his career a bit to focus a little more attention on his wife with the prospect of starting a family. But things hadn’t gone to plan. They didn’t expect to get pregnant on the first try. Maybe not even the second. But by month three, they started to get discouraged. Maybe their timing was off. Y/N’s period was irregular, after all, and their ideal of ‘letting it happen when it happens’ was starting to become easier said than done. So, Y/N started taking ovulation tests.

She took a text every single day for a week, and all of the tests came back negative. Not a big deal, there’s only three days of ovulation in a month. She continued to take them. The third week, nothing. Maybe her ovulation days were spread out further apart since her period was so irregular? By week five, Y/N began to worry, but she hadn’t lost hope, yet. She visited her OB/GYN who encouraged her to keep trying, try to stress less, and eat healthier. So she did. She started exercising, changing her diet, taking more vitamins, even starting couples yoga with Harry, doing everything within her power to live a better lifestyle. Nothing worked.

With every negative ovulation and pregnancy test they got, Y/N spirits dwindled. Harry began picking up more work, doing anything he could to distract himself from the ranges of emotions that were running through him. Of course, he wanted to have a baby with Y/N. She was the love of his life and to be able to bring a piece of both of them in this world would be the biggest blessing he could have imagined. But seeing the pain and heartache in Y/N’s eyes each day after another negative test felt like a stab in his chest.

He tried to do little things to take her mind off of it. Spontaneous dates, trips to the spa, exotic getaways, concerts, you name it. But when they got home at the end of the day, passing by the empty room they had always talked about one day making into a nursery, he saw the flicker of hope in her eyes die. It was even harder whenever tabloids speculated her pregnancy or friends and family asked when they would have a baby. They always played it off, simply saying ‘it’ll happen when it’s supposed to happen’, but the rage he felt whenever someone brought it up was something awful. It took everything in him not to lunge at the person joking about it. If only they knew, maybe they wouldn’t be so insensitive.

After a year and a half of trying, they decided to bite the bullet and meet with a fertility specialist to see what was going on. Harry had just finished a tour and they thought now was the perfect time to get serious again. Dozens of tests were done between bloodwork, urine screenings, semen samples, and finally an ultrasound. That’s when they were given the news. Y/N had a pretty severe case of PCOS. It was the cause of her irregular periods and the reason why it had been so difficult for her to conceive naturally.

The doctor had sat them down in a room to discuss what this meant. According to him, the chances of Y/N ever conceiving naturally, without medical intervention, were slim to none. And even though there were several medical and procedural routes they could go, the chances of a baby sticking, though not impossible, did not look to be in their favor. The look on Y/N’s face was enough to kill.

After the doctor laid out all of their options, he gave them some space to digest, and as soon as he left the room, Y/N collapsed into Harry’s arms. They had given up hope. What was the point in trying? Why go through all the pain and discomfort of medications and procedures for the high probability that it’d end in miscarriage? When they got home, they began discussing their options. There was always surrogacy and adoption. But the more they talked about it, the more frustrated Y/N got. She tossed all of her unused ovulation and pregnancy tests in a drawer under her bathroom sink and slammed it shut.

“Maybe we can get a second opinion about your PCOS,” Harry suggested, following her into their bedroom.

Y/N shook her head, shrugging her shoulders, and curling up on her bed, tired from all of the crying, “Maybe the universe is telling us we shouldn’t be parents. Maybe it’s just not time yet.”

Harry pouted, curling up with her, “Love, we’re going to have a baby. It may not have your eyes or my dimples, but we’ll have a family someday.”

Months had passed and Y/N continued to take her ovulation tests out of the habit of taking them every day for nearly two years, and every day they would still come up negative. It was Father’s Day, and after a long day celebrating with Y/N’s dad, the couple came home and got ready for bed. Y/N opened a drawer to her bathroom sink to get some floss and to take her daily ovulation test, setting it on the vanity counter before finishing her business, and as she washed her hands, she noticed the faintest extra line imaginable.

Laughing, she threw it in the trash, almost certain that it was either a false positive or a trick of the light. Still, with over four hundred negative ovulation tests under her belt, it was a bit strange. She didn’t mention anything to Harry, afraid he would think she was crazy. The number of times she had convinced herself she was pregnant because of a ‘feeling’ was starting to become ridiculous. But, what’s the harm in trying? Harry looked especially hot today with his hair extra floppy and the perfect amount of stubble on his chin. All it took was her dropping her dressing gown to get him in the mood.

But when the next day rolled around and her ovulation test was negative, she figured the previous night was just a dud. Typical. She had completely forgotten about it, her mind distracted by the fact that Harry had to leave for a few weeks to work on a new album, meeting with producers and mixers, songwriters, and masters in LA. Y/N stayed in their London home, spending time with his family and meeting up with friends.

The day Harry was supposed to return, she decided to get all dolled up for him. It had been a while since she had gone all out, and she wanted to surprise him. First thing’s first, she needed a shower. She stripped out of her clothes, tossing them in the hamper, and decided to use the bathroom real quick before she got in. The sink drawer was slightly ajar and she saw the outline of the unused pregnancy tests she never got the chance to take. She frowned, pulling it out of the drawer, all of the lost hopes and dreams fluttering away with this one pregnancy test. She should get rid of them. She sat on the toilet in thought for a moment before shrugging her shoulders. What’s one more test, for old time sake?

She held the test under her stream for a few seconds and shook it dry before tossing it to the ground, barely out of sight, knowing that the test would be negative like it always was. Besides, she had no symptoms of being pregnant. She felt fine. So, she finished her business and washed her hands. But just as she was about to get in the shower, she happened to look down and saw it. It was faint. Very faint. But it was there. Two blue lines.

Fully naked and one foot wet, she rushed over and grabbed it off the floor, pulling it to her face and holding it up to the light to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. But no matter how she turned it, she couldn’t unsee the two lines.

“Nope. It’s just a false positive,” she told herself before tossing it on the counter and getting in the shower.

But she could barely focus. Her mind kept wandering back to the test. Was it possible? She remembered the ovulation test she had taken on Father’s Day. Maybe she had ovulated. Maybe she was pregnant. No. Not possible. But….maybe?

It was a good thing she drank so much water that morning because when she got out of the shower, she had to pee again. This time, she made sure to get a cup to pee in, wanting to try multiple tests, just in case. She dipped three into the cup and set them on the counter, leaving to get dressed before returning. She took a deep breath, trying not to get her hopes up, before looking down. And her heart began to race. All three, barely visible, had two lines. Were they too faint? Did that mean she wasn’t pregnant?

So, to be sure, she took out the big guns. An electric pregnancy test. She needed to see the words. It wouldn’t be clear until she got a definitive answer. Pregnant or Not Pregnant. So she dipped it in and saw the little hourglass blink, and watched as the bar got closer and closer to completion. It took a moment to register, but when she saw it, an audible gasp escaped her as she clapped her hands over her mouth and stepped back.

Pregnant

“Oh my god!” she cried, tears rolling down her face in streams.

She picked it up, put it down, and picked it back up again to make sure she was reading it right. Pregnant.

Y/N had always imagined telling Harry in a cute, fun way. Putting a bun in the oven, or with a game of Pictionary. Maybe even a little onesie. But all of that went out the window. He was going to be home any minute and there was no way she could keep this to herself long enough to figure out how to tell them. It was something they had been waiting on for two years. She wouldn’t wait another second.

She gathered all of the tests she had taken, capped them so nothing could be exposed to the pee, and took them down to the dining room table, scattering them around and staring at them. Her leg shook, anxious for her husband’s arrival, and she bit her fingernails, still in shock that this was even happening. The beeping of the motion sensor went off, signaling that the front door had been opened and Harry’s voice rang through the house.

“Y/N?! I’m home! Where are you?!”

She tried to shout, but she couldn’t find her voice. The butterflies flapped around in her stomach like crazy and she felt like she could vomit from the nerves. It only took seconds for him to find her, though. He wore sweats and his hair looked almost greasy from his long flight home, a smile had stretched across his face at the sight of her. But it quickly turned into confusion when he neared.

“What’s this?” he asked, looking at the objects scattering the table as he got closer.

He picked one up to examine and upon seeing what it was, his eyes widened, gasping, “What? No way?” he put the test that he had been holding down and quickly grabbed another one, and another, and another, repeating, “Is that a line? Y/N, is that a line?” before finally grabbing hold of the electric test that read ‘Pregnant’. He gripped it tight, finally looking up at his wife, tears rimming his eyes, “You’re pregnant? We’re going to be parents?”

Y/N grinned, her eyes beginning to water, and nodded, “We’re going to be parents.”

Harry lost it, unable to control his emotions anymore. Two years of pent up sadness had blown out of him and he bawled, collapsing into Y/N’s arms and squeezing her tightly, blubbering, “I’m going to be a dad.”

They waited a while before telling anyone, terrified of their fertility doctor’s prediction that their baby would most likely not stick. But after three months of regular appointment and growth checkups, all of which looked great, they felt comfortable enough to tell their immediate family and very close friends, all of whom were beyond thrilled for the couple.

It was easy to hide her pregnancy for a while. She had no symptoms, she hardly showed, and it was at a time where Y/N and Harry hardly left their house anyway, so most people hadn’t suspected anything. They had managed to get halfway through the pregnancy without any leaks, and finally, at their twenty-week checkup, they would be finding out whether they were having a boy or girl.

They were especially nervous because, although they had been tossing names in the air for months now and had a boy’s name picked out almost right away, they hadn’t been able to agree on a girl name quite yet, and Y/N was almost certain they were having a girl, though Harry had been adamant that it was a boy.

“I don’t care, either way. I just want to know what kind of laugh they’ll have,” Harry said as the ultrasound technician moved the wand around his wife’s belly, taking measurements of all of the baby’s extremities and organs. “Like, will it have that cute high-pitched baby laugh? Or will it have one of those laughs that sounds like demonic possession, you know? I just want to be prepared for what I might hear in the middle of the night.”

Y/N laughed, rolling her eyes, “I hope they have a demonic laugh. Imagine how much more fun Halloween would be? And everyone would be too creeped out by their laughing to want to stay too long. Imagine all of the awkward or boring situations we could get out of because of it.”

Harry’s eyebrows raised, “Well, when you put it like that…”

The nurse giggled at their conversation and turned to face them, “Okay, are we ready to find out the gender?”

“Yes,” they grinned, squeezing each other’s hands tighter.

“Alright, let’s see if baby’s cooperating,” sang the technician, sliding the wand down further and pressing it harder into her skin. They saw their baby’s legs moving around wildly as she tried to get a better look in between their legs, digging the wand in harder. And that’s when they saw it. They shared a look with each other, mouths agape, as the nurse smiled, “It’s a boy.”

Y/N laughed, turning to face her husband, expecting him to start gloating. But she saw the reflection of light hit the water that started to collect at his lash line and a single tear rolled down his cheek, his chin quivering and sniffling as he quickly wiped it away.

“We’re having a boy,” he choked, catching his breath and pressing his lips to her forehead, his hand squeezing hers even harder now. The nurse grinned at his display of emotion as Harry whispered into her ear, “Paxton Robin Styles.”

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Taglist: @odetostep

#Harry Styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles oneshot #dad harry styles #dad #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fiction #harry x reader

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phoenixflames12 · 3 years ago

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2, 6, 21? for the sports direct lads

Thank you so much Mag!

From this ask meme!

2. What is their pain tolerance? Do they close their eyes and block it out, or go into full blown panic?

When it's do with himself, John definitely closes his eyes and blocks it out until they're alone and back up in the flat. Then he'll wince, or move a little stiffly, and Henry will be on him in a very tactile, quiet way, getting him to sit down and asking where it hurts and what he can do to help.

When it's do to with Henry, or any of their friends, John panics. He becomes very insular and non-verbal and it's a pain response that he's often seen Henry give. Both of them can't quite make their brains catch up with what their eyes are seeing and it will often take Hannah, or Ned, or Tom, or Fitzjames, or Crozier, or the Hartnell's, to come over and be a silently reassuring presence until the danger's passed.

6. How easily do they cry? Is it different alone vs in public?

They both cry very easily in private. I think both of them have been through enough personal trauma and had to deal with that to bottle it all up, but as Henry says in KTTYL, the feeling of wanting to be swallowed up whole at Jack's funeral has never really left him when he's around his parents.

John cries when he's overwhelmed and can't articulate things properly. I'd like to think he has very mild high functioning autism and can focus on his life and work enough to get through it, but sometimes Henry will find him in their bedroom, curtains drawn, Stravinsky curled up on his chest, weeping with exhaustion at being over stimulated. They've found ways to work around this with noise cancelling headphones, the cat, moments when John disappears into the storeroom and non verbal signs that all of their friends know when it's just getting too much and John needs some time alone to decompress and come back to himself.

21. Does the weather in your setting ever affect their health?

John feels the cold constantly and lives in layers of old woollen jerseys and a heat jacket that gets plugged into the plug socket by the sagging armchair in the living room. He also has back trouble, brought on by carrying boxes and plant pots incorrectly and doing it alone which gets worse in the winter. His specialist keeps telling him not to work too hard, but he absolutely refuses and says that the shop is a lifeline that he needs. Henry tries to ease it by giving him back massages, making sure he takes his medication, making sure he eats and takes regular breaks and massaging his fingers when they get too stiff to open.

Both of them get SAD in winter, which I think affects Henry more. London becomes very claustrophobic and he closes in on himself, yearning for sunlight and air and open spaces. John tries to make sure that they spend their lunch breaks sitting in the square to feel the winter sun. For Henry's birthday, Ned very sweetly bought him a day lamp which is set up in the living room. It gets put on for half an hour every morning before Henry either leaves for a photography job or they go to open the shop.

Thank you so much!

Much love,

Phoenixflames12 xxx

#q + a #phoenixflames12 does memes #the terror #modern au #reincarnation au #henry peglar has a sports direct mug cinematic universe #henry peglar #john bridgens #bridgens x peglar #bridglar #the askbox/dms are open!

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cicaklah · 4 years ago

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Should you ever be in need of a prompt again, something just crossed my mind and I'm scared that I might forget it if I don't submit it immediately:

Remote controlled sex toy. Diana accidentally or intentionally slipped the remote control in one of his supply crates, and he tries to figure out what it does.

Over the years he's learned to be meticulous with his load out. So many different parts, so many things that can go wrong. So he's got used to compulsively counting things that can go missing, specialist ammo, chargers, and detonators especially. It's never a good plan that hinges on trying to get a sedative gun to fire emetic cartridges right as the target utters a particularly ironic one liner.

He's in Mogadishu, hunting big game hunters who keep having park wardens killed so they can shoot poor animals to hang on the walls of their dental practices, civil wars, famines or good taste be damned, when he counts his detinators and comes up with one too many. Shakes his head, he's groggy from the flight and the heat, but counts again and there is one more than he expected.

He examines the fine print, but it is hard to spot the imposter. They're all matte black plastic, all surely produced in some enormous factory in some new prefab city in central China, and then programmed to spec. He doesn't want to hit the button, but the serial numbers don't match on one, so he sets it aside.

The hit goes off flawlessly, as always, with a Michigan dentist satisfyingly having to be identified by his no doubt extensive dental records. He returns his unused ordnance to the ICA safehouse and the scarred hands of the armourer and nothing much to do before his flight.

He boots up his laptop, and after checking his emails and updating his Instagram with a cropped image of the Spanish steps, hashtag gelato, he digs the little detinator out of his pocket and plugs the serial number into Google.

The main listing comes from a wholesaler, which is unsurprising, but it gets him a name. He searches that, and gets a range of model numbers, which in turn bring him to lovelybunnies.co.uk. Perhaps some form of pet toy?

He's lucky he couldn't get a drink, because that is emphatically not the kind of toy lovely bunnies was in the business of selling. He would have sprayed whisky across his screen.

It's a better class of sex toy website, he'll give it that. The web design is modern and chic. It hints at, rather than explicitly describes, the merchandise. He plugs the list of model numbers into the search bar, and gets a hit on the third. The Piston XLR. A thrusting dildo, in three girths, with realistic nuvoskin exterior and seventeen thrusting and vibrating presets. A deal at £250, but with free shipping. He knows he's flushed red, doesn't need a mirror or another person to tell him that.

He clears his browser history, and checks out to fly back. He's due to be in New York in two days, but he decides to fly into London, on a whim.

He makes enquiries and finds that Diana is at home. The drive into Buckinghamshire is pleasant, he's rented a convertible, and it's still warm enough to have the top down. He pulls into a layby near where the sat nav reports a curious black spot, and calls her emergency number.

"What is it, 47?" She says, immediately flustered at his call. "Are you in danger? This line is for emergencies."

"I'm nearby." He says. "Open the gate. I've got something of yours you must be missing. Some new kit. I'd love a demonstration."

"I...alright. Come round the back."

"Oh, I will." He says, warmly, and throws the car into gear.

He lets himself into the house, and walks through confidently, as if he'd been there a thousand times before.

He finds her in the drawing room, sitting somewhat awkwardly on a low couch in nothing but a robe. It's richly embroidered and fastened loosely at the waist. Her breast is nearly exposed, but he doubts that's why she seems more embarrassed than he's ever seen her before.

"47, I can explain", she says, but as reply, he presses the little button on the remote control in his pocket, and thrills to the choked off sound she makes, the room filling with the mechanical sounds of servos, inverters and pumps pushing hi tech nuvoskin against slick, wet skin.

She slumps down, her hand against her mouth, and undoes the belt of her robe, and he drops down to see up close the best sex toy money can buy.

"Oh, 47", Diana moans, "If you could?"

He touches the little button on the remote, and then presses two fingers to the base of the machine, giving it something to thrust against. Diana's hand gestures further, and so he slides his other hand around, feeling how stretched and slick and swollen she is, how red and delectable, and how she's craning up to watch as he thumbs her lips, feels the movement of the machine, feels the way she trembles and begs him for more.

He removes his hand to up the vibrations, and then curls his tongue around her clit and sucks until she's screaming and the the hand holding the base of the toy is holding it in more than anything else, as she shakes and bucks through another orgasm, unrelenting and so beautiful he can hardly stand it.

She's panting in the aftermath but she's whispering filth at him, telling him to get inside her, to take what's his, as he turns it off and takes his time pulling it out, inspecting the lurid green feat of engineering, before throwing it aside and sliding right into the heart of her, where he belongs.

#hitman #agent 47 #diana burnwood #well this is filthy even for me #diana/47 #were all adults here but fuuuuuck i surprised myself

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meetmyglowinthedarkboyfriend · 4 years ago

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New Apollo Kids Headcanons

This post concerns the three new children of Apollo who first appear in The Tower of Nero, so a small spoiler alert to this post for them.

Jerry - Londoner son of Apollo

His full name is Jeremy Paul Mould. He doesn’t like mentioning his surname because a lot of people make fun of him for it.

His (mortal) mother, Paulina Mould, is a music festival and concert organizer. She met Apollo at some music festival.

He has auburn hair and hazel eyes.

He’s the archer of the three, and is also proficient at knife throwing.

He’s the Nerd™ of the three.

He plays a great many Pokemon games.

Most of the time, he’s probably the most nonchalant shit ever (it’s the Brit in him).

He has a pet golden retriever back at home.

His special Gift is his affinity with corvids -- whether it’s because of Apollo or the city of London (because of local folk legends about the ravens of London), we cannot be certain. (It could be both...)

He gets along better with Yan than Gracie because HK is also a Big City™, with more British influence -- Yan still snarks about the colonialism thing, though.

Gracie - Idahoan daughter of Apollo

She’s specifically from Boise, Idaho.

Her (mortal) mother is called Katrina "Kat” Aleshire. She’s a nurse who doesn’t have clear sight.

She has dark blonde hair and blue eyes.

She’s an avid cyclist and skier.

As a follow-up to the above, she can and will whack you with a celestial bronze ski pole.

She’s very interested in learning about other people and keeps a diary about things she has learnt about others. Despite this, she’s not much of a gossiper.

Being from Boise, she doesn’t really get big chain stores and big cities in general. This is part of the reason why Jerry and Yan get along better with each other than her.

As a follow-up to this one, she’s also big on independent, mom-and-pop stores, and is a small cafe kind of person.

She’s surprisingly good at pen spinning.

She knows how to use a gun.

Yan - Hongkongese child of Apollo (gender unspecified in canon, interpreted as a girl on this blog because I am a Hongkonger who speaks Cantonese as a first language, so I call the shots around here)

Her full name is Tong Wai Yan (唐惠昕), her given name roughly translated to ‘favour of the dawn’. She doesn’t use a Western name (which is somewhat unusual in HK but definitely not unheard of). [I usually use the traditional Chinese translation as a source but it isn’t released yet, so I’m going with my own interpretation here. She’s partially named after my childhood best friend, shoutout to her.]

Her (mortal) mother is a clear-sighted ENT specialist called Trina. She met Apollo at a local library and was introduced to him as ‘Apollo’, no cover names or anything. (HKers can have some really weird names, I’ve heard of a guy called Pluto pop up in my Physics textbook in a question, no joke.) [Trina] also really likes llamas and alpacas.

She inherited her father’s curls, jawline and smile. (Will also inherited Apollo’s smile, for the record.)

She knows how to roller-skate and ice-skate.

She has two rats, a blaze-coated one called Julius Cheesar and a Berkshire-coated one called Ratticus Finch.

She uses jasmine-scented body wash.

She works for the Hong Kong Red Cross (Youth League, formerly Junior Unit).

She likes chocolate-flavoured Koala’s March and her favourite fruit is the dragon fruit. She also favours Sprite instead of other soft drinks.

She plays the electronic keyboard.

One of her special Gifts is echolocation (credit for this concept goes to @thatapollogirl).

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thisdayinwwi · 3 years ago

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Bertha Trost exiled from London

The Seattle Star., Jul 9 1915

The most dangerous woman in London has just been deported as an alien enemy. And there never was a more harmless-looking person. In early Victorian dress, with snow-white hair arranged in nodding curls, Mme Bertha Trost has for years been one of the most picturesque figures in the Westend and Hyde Park. Regularly every afternoon she drove in the park dressed in figured silks worn over an ample crinoline, a poke bonnet half hiding her delicately rouged face and grandmotherly hair. It was vaguely known that she claimed to be a reincarnation of Marie Antoinette, and that at her splendid house in Mariborough gate W she had enshrined a coffin "that she might be beautiful In death." ATTENDED BY GIRL PAGES IN PALACE Obviously Mme Trost was rich. She maintained a splendid home just opposite Kensington gardens where she lived surrounded by Louis XVI furniture and superb plate. But while girl pages in rich silk gowns of Louis XVI period served the guests at madam's frequent "at homes" the queer old lady kept no servants, but lived quite alone, doing all her own cooking and much of the housework. This seemed more remarkable because Mme Trost was a beauty specialist in Bond St W.-a business woman whose trade it was to pander to the follies of the idle rich. Practically all her clientele occupied important social or official positions. After a treatment those who wished to rest their nerves could drink tea and play bridge if they lost, madame was a liberal banker. As time passed and accounts grew the ensnared clients became helpless before their creditor’s curiosity. A more inquisitive old lady never lived. For wheedling Information she was almost without a rival. But one day, after war began, Mme. Trost asked an apparently harmless question of a clear headed, debt free woman. That night Scotland Yard became mildly suspicious of the beauty specialist. Official investigation proved that the quaint Victorian in life was a German subject born in Frankfort, that she had lived 3O years in London and identified herself with everything English, but had never been naturalized. Scotland Yard discovered that long ago, when Bertha Trost was young, she stood in the shadow of Austrian royalty until her connection with an intrigue caused some one highly placed at the Vienna court to suggest that she would be better off in London, where suitable provision would be made for her.

HER CLIENTS GAVE HER STATE SECRETS The Bond st. "business," with its bizarre boudoirs, was merely a blind to hoodwink the police. Behind the trilis screens and rose-strung shutters madam could carry her schemes The Important women whose physical defects she knew, whose notes of hand she held, could often be induced to yield up official gossip, even secrets of state. Mme. Trost a subterranean profession became dally more obvious. Recently she began to drive out with wounded officers just home from the front. Then, grown suddenly reckless, she attempted to visit the camps of German prisoners in England. Scotland Yard called a halt and demanded an explanation. The truth came out. Mme Trost, married 30 years ago in Germany, was searching for her son, a German prisoner, now interned in England. Mother love had made her careless of consequences. In an effort to nullify the decree of exile to her own country she attempted to marry a British subject by special license. But the Birmingham bridegroom, who answered the summons by the first train, arrived in London just as the Lady of the Crinoline was arrested Now her long scheming is ended. For the "quaint old English lady" was a dangerous secret agent, a spy In skirts in the pay of Germany.

#Bertha Trost #espionage #spy

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fuckofffuckofffuckoffloveme · 4 years ago

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Runaway - Part Six

~Masterlist~

Concept: Hazel Richards is a twenty-year-old woman living in London. When she meets a mysterious time-travelling alien known only as the Hunter, she’s thrust into a world of wonder she could only have imagined.

Warnings: swearing, follows S1 of Doctor Who.

As the TARDIS materialised, Hazel smiled. "So how long have I been gone?" she asked as they stepped out onto the Powell Estate.

"About twelve hours," the Hunter replied, having decided to keep her look with the beanie and the trenchcoat.

Hazel nodded. "Right, I shouldn't be too long. I just want to see Jace."

The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "What're you going to tell him?"

"Oh, that I've been to the year 5 billion and only been gone twelve hours," Hazel replied sarcastically. "No, I'll just tell him I spent the night at Shazia's. See you later. And don't you disappear." The Hunter saluted with her metal hand, smiling as Hazel ran off to her flat.

As the Time Lady turned around, intending to find a wall or something to sit on, she noticed an old poster stuck to a concrete lamppost. She read it, and her eyes widened. Immediately, she started sprinting up to the flat.

***

"I'm back!" Hazel called as she let herself into the flat, depositing her keys in the bowl as usual. "I was with Shazia. She was all upset again. Are you in?" She smiled as she saw Jason come out of the kitchen with a mug of tea and stop still, his eyes wide. "So, what's been going on? How've you been?" She blinked when Jace didn't move. "What? What's that face for? It's not the first time I've stayed out all night."

Jason dropped his mug, and it smashed on the floor. "It's you," he whispered, his voice haunted.

Hazel frowned, confused. "Of course it's me."

"Oh my God. It's you. Oh my God." Jason ran forwards to hug her tight, and Hazel saw a variety of missing person posters on the table over his shoulder.

The Hunter burst through the door. "I'm so sorry, Hazel! It's not twelve hours, it's twelve months. You've been gone a whole year!"

***

Later, Jason's shock had given way to anger, and Hazel was curled up in an armchair trying to calm him down. "The hours I've sat here, days and weeks and months, all on my own. I thought you were dead, and where were you? Travelling. What the hell does that mean, travelling? That's no sort of answer." Jason snorted derisively. "Travelling."

"That's what I was doing," Hazel protested.

Jason raised an eyebrow. "When your passport's still in the drawer? It's just one lie after another."

Hazel sighed. "I meant to phone, J, I really did. I just... forgot." She winced at Jason's expression.

"What, for a year? You forgot for a year? And I am left sitting here. I just don't believe you. Why won't you tell me where you've been?" he pleaded.

"Actually, it's my fault," the Hunter confessed. "I sort of employed Hazel as my companion."

"When you say companion...?" Jason trailed, his eyes wide.

"Not in the way you're thinking," the Hunter assured him.

"Then what is it?" he demanded. "Because you, you waltz in here all charm and smiles, and the next thing I know, she vanishes off the face of the Earth! How old are you, then? Thirty? Thirty five? What, did you find her on the internet?"

"No, I just -"

Jason cut her off, cornering her against the wall she was leaning against. "That's my sister! I thought she was dead, because of you!"

The Hunter's eyes narrowed. "If there is one thing you can believe about me, it's that the last thing I would do is leave you with a dead sibling." With ease, she pushed Jason away, and marched out, heading for the roof.

***

Later, Jason and Hazel were sitting in the kitchen over a couple mugs of tea. "Did you think about me at all?" Jason asked, frowning.

"I did," Hazel assured him. "All the time, but -"

"One phone call," Jason cut her off. "Just to know that you were alive."

"I'm sorry. I really am," Hazel sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder.

Jason put his arm around her. "Do you know, what terrifies me is that you still can't say. What happened to you, Haze? What can be so bad that you can't tell me, sweetheart? Where were you?"

***

Hazel sighed as she joined the Hunter on the roof. "I can't tell him. I can't even begin. He's never going to forgive me. And I missed a year. Was it good?"

"Middling," the Hunter shrugged.

"Ugh."

The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Well, if it's this much trouble, are you going to stay here now?" There was a hint of sadness in her eyes that Hazel picked up on.

"No, definitely not. But I can't do that to him again," she stated.

"Well, he's not coming with us."

Hazel snorted. "No chance."

"I don't do families," the Hunter said quietly.

"He squared up to you!" Hazel cried in an attempt to change the subject.

"Nine hundred years of time and space, and I've never been threatened by someone's brother," the Hunter shook her head.

"Your face!"

"I was scared for my life!" the Hunter joked, smiling.

"You're so gay," Hazel sighed.

"Well, yes," the Hunter agreed easily.

Hazel nodded. "Okay... When you say nine hundred years?"

"That's my age," the Hunter clarified.

"You're nine hundred years old," Hazel raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah."

Hazel blew out a breath. "Jace was right. That is one hell of an age gap." The Hunter laughed, and Hazel sighed. "Every conversation with you just goes mental. There's no one else I can talk to. I've seen all that stuff up there, the size of it, and I can't say a word. Aliens and spaceships and things, and I'm like the only person on planet Earth who knows they exist."

A deep foghorn-like noise interrupted her, and a huge spaceship passed overhead, trailing black smoke. It was heading for the city, and smashed through a few faces of Big Ben before swallow-diving the Thames. The Hunter and Hazel watched as a plume of black smoke rose into the air on the horizon. "Only person on planet Earth, huh?" the Hunter asked cheekily.

"Oh, that's just not fair," Hazel pouted, before following her friend as she ran off down the fire escape.

***

"It's blocked off," the Hunter sighed as they got as far as they could, to where the army had put barriers across the roads.

"We're miles from the centre," Hazel frowned, standing on her tiptoes to try and see over. "The city must be gridlocked. The whole of London must be closing down."

The Hunter grinned. "I know. I can't believe I'm here to see this. This is fantastic!"

Hazel narrowed her eyes. "Did you know this was going to happen?"

"Nope."

"Did you recognise the ship?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Do you know why it crashed?" she tried.

"Nope."

Hazel rolled her eyes. "Oh, I'm so glad I've got you."

"I bet you are. This is what I travel for, Haze," the Hunter enthused, spreading her arms. "To see history happening right in front of us."

"Well, let's go and see it," Hazel shrugged. "Never mind the traffic, we've got the TARDIS."

The Hunter made a face. "Better not. They've already got one spaceship in the middle of London. I don't want to shove another one on top."

"Yeah, but yours looks like a big blue box," Hazel pointed out. "No one's going to notice."

"You'd be surprised," the Hunter told her. "Emergency like this, there'll be all kinds of people watching. Trust me. The TARDIS stays where she is."

Hazel sighed. "So history's happening and we're stuck here."

"Yes, we are," the Hunter smiled.

"Well, we could always do what everybody else does. We could watch it on TV," Hazel suggested.

***

Hazel smirked as she watched the Hunter flicking through the channels, sipping at a coffee Jason had grudgingly made her. The Time Lady rolled her eyes as people started turning up and chatting, practically drowning out the TV. "Oi, I'm trying to listen!" She watched as specialists were brought in, but frowned when the channel switched to Blue Peter. The toddler that had pressed the button grinned up at her from her lap, and she rolled her eyes, taking the remote and switching it back. "Go on," the Hunter muttered, seeing the body had been brought to Albion Hospital, with members of the army arriving.

Eventually, having seen all she needed, the Hunter deposited the toddler with his mother and went for the balcony exit of the flat. Hazel followed her out. "And where do you think you're going?" she asked, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows.

The Hunter turned to look at her, leaning against the railings. "Nowhere. It's just a bit human in there for me. History just happened and they're talking about where you can buy dodgy top-up cards for half price. I'm off on a wander, that's all."

Hazel raised her eyebrows higher. "Right. There's a spaceship on the Thames and you're just wandering."

"All right," the Hunter sighed. "I just want to check something out. You don't need me. Go and celebrate history. Spend some time with Jace."

"Promise you won't disappear?" Hazel asked.

"Tell you what." The Hunter reached down into her pocket and withdrew a golden key on a matching chain, similar to the silver one around her own neck. "TARDIS key. It's about time you had one." She handed it over, smiling, before setting off towards the TARDIS herself. "See you later."

***

Back in the flat, Jason was proposing a toast. "Here's to the Martians!"

"The Martians!" everyone cheered, except Hazel, who rolled her eyes. The door opened, and she looked over, hoping to see the Hunter, but froze when she saw Mike, who's eyes widened at the sight of her.

"I was going to come and see you," Hazel tried as the room went silent.

"Someone owes Mikey an apology," Shazia raised her eyebrows.

"I'm sorry," Hazel apologised immediately, but Shazia shook her head.

"Not you."

Jason made a face as everyone looked at him. "Well, it's not my fault. Be fair. What was I supposed to think?"

***

The party had started back up again in the living room while Mike, Jason, and Hazel had retreated to the kitchen, Mike shutting all the doors and the serving hatch. "You disappear, who do they turn to? Your boyfriend. Five times I was taken in for questioning. Five times. No evidence. Course, there couldn't be, could there? And then I get him, your brother, whispering around the estate, pointing the finger. Stuff through my letterbox, and all cause of you."

Hazel frowned at him. "Mikey, you're not my boyfriend. I don't know where you got that from, cause it weren't me. Besides, I didn't think I'd be gone so long."

"And I waited for you, Hazel. Twelve months, waiting for you and the Hunter to come back."

Jason held up a hand to stop him. "Hold on, you knew about the Hunter? Why didn't you tell me?"

Mike nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Why not, Hazel? Huh? How could I tell him where you went?"

"Tell me now," Jason ordered, looking worried.

"I might as well, cause you're stuck here," Mike gloated. "The Hunter's gone. Just now. That box thing just faded away."

Hazel rolled her eyes. "Shut it, pikey."

"She's left you," he goaded. "Some girlfriend she turned out to be."

The girl ran out of the flats, coming to where the TARDIS had been, with Mike and Jason following her. "She wouldn't just go, she promised me."

"Oh, she's dumped you, Hazel!" Mike taunted. "Sailed off into space. How does it feel, huh? Now you're left behind with the rest of us Earthlings. Get used to it."

"She would have said," Hazel stated, nodding confidently.

"What are you two going on about?" Jason asked as he caught up with them. "What's going on? What's this Hunter done now?"

Mike laughed. "She's vamoosed."

Hazel growled. "She's not, because she gave me this." She showed him the golden key on its chain around her neck. "She's not my girlfriend, Mike. She's better than that. She's much more important than -" She cut herself off as the TARDIS key started to glow, the ship herself beginning to materialise a few feet away. "I said so!" Hazel's eyes widened when she saw Jason staring at the TARDIS in shock. "Jace! Jace, go inside. J, don't stand there, just go inside. Just, Jace, go. Oh, blimey."

The TARDIS fully materialised, and Hazel ran inside while Mike and Jason stared for a moment before following her.

The Hunter smiled when she saw Hazel come over to her. "All right, so I went and had a look. The whole crash landing's a fake. I thought so. Just too perfect. I mean, hitting Big Ben? Come on. So I thought let's go and have a look -"

Hazel cut her off, wincing. "Jace and Mike are here."

"Oh, that's just what I need," the Hunter rolled her eyes. "Don't you dare make this place domestic."

Mike stalked over, clearly annoyed. "You ruined my life, Hunter. They thought she was dead. I was a murder suspect because of you."

The Hunter looked over his shoulder at Hazel meaningfully. "For future reference, this is what I call domestic."

"I bet you don't even remember my name," Mike snorted.

"Spike," the Hunter replied confidently.

"It's Mike."

"No, it's Spike."

"I think I know my own name," Mike raised an eyebrow.

The Hunter snorted. "You think you know your own name? How stupid are you?"

Hazel followed Jason out as he ran off, overwhelmed. "Jace, don't! Don't go anywhere. Don't start a fight! J, it's not like that. She's not. I'll be up in a minute. Hold on!" She went back into the TARDIS. "That was a real spaceship."

"Yep," the Hunter agreed.

"So it's all a pack of lies? What is it, then? Are they invading?" Hazel asked.

"Funny way to invade, putting the world on red alert," Mike pointed out sullenly.

"Good point, could be a little more cheerful," the Hunter evaluated. "So, what're they up to?"

***

"So, what're you doing down there?" Mike asked, peering down at the Hunter as she meddled with the circuits down in the grating.

The Hunter sighed. "Spike."

"Mike," he corrected.

"Spike. If I were to tell you what I was doing to the controls of my frankly magnificent time ship, would you even begin to understand?" the Hunter raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose not," Mike admitted.

"Well, piss off, then," the Time Lady snapped, going back to her tinkering.

Mike rolled his eyes, going over to Hazel, who was leaning against the console. "Some friend you've got."

"She's winding you up," Hazel told him. "I am sorry."

"Okay." Mike didn't look convinced.

"I am, though."

The man sighed. "Every day, I looked. On every street corner, wherever I went, looking for a blue box for a whole year."

"It's only been a few days for me, maybe a week," Hazel confessed. "I don't know. It's, it's hard to tell inside this thing, but I swear it's just a few days since I left you lot."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Not enough time to miss me, then?"

Hazel swallowed, uncomfortable. "I missed all of you."

"I missed you," Mike admitted.

"So, er, in twelve months, have you been seeing anyone?" she asked.

"No," Mike replied.

"Oh," Hazel nodded, edging away from him a bit.

"Mainly because everyone thinks I murdered you," Mike shrugged.

"Right."

"So, now that you've come back, are you going to stay?" he questioned.

Hazel's eyes widened. "I can't," she blurted.

"What do you mean, you can't?" Mike frowned, glaring a little.

The Hunter hauled herself up out of the grating to push between them, to get to the monitor. "Usually, one means almost exactly what one says, Spikey."

Mike glared at her. "Excuse me, this was a private conversation!"

"I know, I heard," the Hunter replied nonchalantly. "Anyway, I patched in the radar, looped it back twelve hours so we can follow the flight of that spaceship. Here we go." She held out her metal hand, and a lever just out of her reach flicked down. "Hold on, come on." She moved slightly out of the way so that Hazel could see, sneakily nudging Mike further away from her.

"Is that the spaceship?" Hazel asked, pointing to a small dot moving towards Earth on the radar image.

"Exactly. That's the spaceship on its way to Earth, see?" The Time Lady followed it with her metal index finger. "Except, hold on..." She turned a dial telekinetically, and the image rewinded. "See? The spaceship did a slingshot round the Earth before it landed."

"What does that mean?" Hazel wondered.

"It means it came from Earth in the first place. It went up and came back down." The Hunter sighed, thinking hard. "Whoever those aliens are, they haven't just arrived, they've been here for a while. The question is, what have they been doing?"

***

Later, the Hunter was sprawled on the jump seat, trying to concentrate on figuring out who these aliens were and what they were doing. Mike was rather hindering her progress as he kept channel-hopping on the monitor, providing a fluctuating level of noise that didn't help the Hunter's concentration in the slightest. Hazel had gone further into the TARDIS to get some peace and quiet so she could call Jason. "How many channels do you get?" Mike questioned.

"All the basic packages," the Hunter replied, opening her eyes in annoyance. She looked up a little as Hazel reentered, not looking too much happier than she had when talking to Mike.

"You get the sports channels?"

The Hunter rolled her eyes. "Yes, I get the football." She blinked, recognising someone on the news. "Hold on, I know that lot. UNIT. United Nations Intelligence Taskforce. Good people."

"How do you know them?" Hazel asked quietly, and Mike scowled as he noticed the Hunter's gaze soften as soon as it hit her.

"Cause she's worked for them," he stated, smirking at her raised eyebrows. "Oh yeah, don't think I sat on my backside for twelve months, Hunter. I read up on you. You look deep enough on the Internet or in the history books, and there's her name, followed by a list of the dead."

The Hunter gave him a weird look. "Oh, yeah, that's nice, Spike. Always good to know I'm being stalked."

Hazel smirked a little. "If you know them, why don't you go and help?"

"They wouldn't recognise me," the Hunter explained. "I've changed a lot since the old days. Besides, the world's on a knife-edge. There's aliens out there and fake aliens. We want to keep this alien out of the mix. I'm going undercover, and I'd better keep the TARDIS out of sight." She thought for a minute, putting on her trenchcoat and a pair of fingerless gloves to cover most of her metal hand. "Spike, you've got a car. You can do some driving."

Mike scowled, but didn't bother correcting her. "Where to?"

"The roads are clearing. Let's go and have a look at that spaceship," the Hunter decided. They walked outside, right into a helicopter spotlight, and she winced. "Or not." Mickey ran off.

"Do not move! Step away from the box and raise your hands above your heads!"

Hazel and the Hunter raised their hands warily, and the human flinched as Jason came running out the flat, only to be held back by a couple of soldiers. "Haze! Hazel!"

The Hunter smirked, looking right up at the soldier carrying a megaphone. "Take me to your leader," she called.

***

Hazel looking around the well-furnished police car in surprise. "Wow, this is a bit posh. If I knew it was going to be like this, being arrested, I would have done it years ago," she joked.

The Hunter shook her head, pulling her beanie snugly around her ears. "We're not being arrested, we're being escorted."

"Where to?" Hazel wondered, frowning.

"Where'd you think?" the Hunter raised her eyebrows. "Downing Street."

Hazel's eyes widened. "You're kidding."

"I'm not," the Hunter assured her.

"10 Downing Street?"

"That's the one."

"Oh my God. I'm going to 10 Downing Street? How come?" Hazel asked.

The Hunter winced. "I hate to say it, but Mike was right. Over the years, Apollo and I have visited this planet a lot of times, and we've been noticed."

"Now they need you?" Hazel inquired, deciding not to touch on the mention of the Time Lady's brother.

"Like it said on the news: they're gathering experts in alien knowledge. And who's the biggest expert of the lot?" the Hunter asked smugly.

"Patrick Moore?" Hazel teased.

"Apart from him," the Hunter rolled her eyes.

"Oh, don't you just love it," Hazel laughed.

"I'm telling you, me and Moorsy, we were like that," the Hunter exclaimed, crossing her fingers. She frowned for a moment. "Who's the Prime Minister now?"

Hazel snorted. "How should I know? I missed a year."

***

"Oh my God," the human girl whispered as they entered 10 Downing Street, giggling in excitement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, can we convene?" a man was saying. "Quick as we can, please. It's this way on the right, and can I remind you ID cards are to be worn at all times." He handed one to the Hunter as they approached, and the Time Lady noticed his ID named him as Indra Ganesh. "Here's your ID card. I'm sorry, your companion doesn't have clearance."

The Hunter narrowed her eyes. "I don't go anywhere without her."

"You're the code nine, not her," Ganesh stated. "I'm sorry, Hunter. It is the Hunter, isn't it? She'll have to stay outside."

"She's staying with me," the Hunter insisted.

Ganesh sighed. "Look, even I don't have clearance to go in there. I can't let her in, and that's a fact."

"It's all right," Hazel shook her head. "You go."

"Sure?" the Hunter raised an eyebrow, not wanting to leave her alone.

Another woman bustled up to them. "Excuse me. Are you the Hunter?"

"Not now," Ganesh scowled. "We're busy. Can't you go home?"

"I just need a word in private," the woman pleaded.

"You haven't got clearance," Ganesh told her. "Just leave it." He turned to the Hunter. "What about the Doctor? Is he coming?"

The Hunter's face clouded over, and she ignored the question, speaking instead to her companion. "I'll be out as soon as I can. Don't start a fight." She hugged Hazel, then went into the conference room.

Ganesh turned to Hazel. "I'm going to have to leave you with security."

"It's all right," that woman butted in again, making Hazel smile at her persistence. "I'll look after her. Let me be of some use." She started walking down a corridor with Hazel. "Walk with me. Just keep walking. That's right. Don't look round. Harriet Jones, MP Flydale North." She stopped in a clear corridor. "This friend of yours, she's an expert, is that right? She knows about aliens?"

Hazel narrowed her eyes. "Why do you want to know?" Harriet promptly burst into tears.

***

The Hunter started scanning the prepared papers as soon as she sat down, ignoring everyone else.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please," General Asquith began. "As you can see from the summaries in front of you, the ship had one porcine occupant."

Standing up, the Hunter interrupted him. "Of course, the really interesting bit happened three days ago, filed away under Any Other Business. The North Sea. A satellite detected a signal, a little blip of radiation, at one hundred fathoms, like there's something down there. You were just about to investigate and the next thing you know, this happens. Spaceships, pigs, massive diversion. From what?"

***

Harriet had lead Hazel to the Cabinet Room, still crying. "They turned the body into a suit. A disguise for the thing inside!"

"It's all right," Hazel told her. "I believe you. It's, it's alien. They must have some serious technology behind this. If we could find it, maybe we could use it." She started opening cupboards, looking for anything alien-looking, when a man's body fell out of one, almost hitting her. "Oh my God!" Is that the -?!"

Ganesh sighed as he saw Harriet through the doorway, and marched in. "Harriet, for God's sake. This has gone beyond a joke. You cannot just wander." His eyes widened as he saw the corpse. "Oh my God! That's the Prime Minister!"

***

"If aliens fake an alien crash and an alien pilot, what do they get?" the Hunter theorised. "Us. They get us. It's not a diversion, it's a trap."

***

A plump blonde woman appeared in the doorway. Harriet and Ganesh recognised her as Margaret Blaine. "Oh! Has someone been naughty?" she asked.

"That's impossible," Ganesh protested. "He left this afternoon. The Prime Minister left Downing Street. He was driven away!"

Margaret smiled innocently. "And who told you that, hmm? Me." She reached up to her hairline, and started to unzip her forehead.

***

"This is all about us," the Hunter realised. "Alien experts. The only people with knowledge how to fight them gathered together in one room." She rolled her eyes as the leader of the meeting, Green, farted. "Excuse me, do you mind not farting while I'm saving the world?"

Green smirked. "Would you rather silent but deadly?"

General Asquith removed his cap and unzipped his forehead. The room filled with a blue light, and the Hunter struggled to see as an alien wriggled out of the skin suit. As the blue light faded away, she saw an eight foot tall green creature with huge black eyes in small baby-like faces. "We are the Slitheen."

"Thank you all for wearing your ID cards. They'll help to identify the bodies," Green smiled sweetly. He pressed a remote activation switch, and the ID cards emitted electric shocks to their wearers, including the Hunter, who fell to her knees, biting back a scream of pain.

~~~

If you enjoyed, please like and/or reblog, and if you can spare anything to donate to my Kofi, I’d be incredibly grateful! Thanks for reading :)

#doctor who #doctor who fanfiction #oc insert #gxg #lgbt #slow burn #thedoctorcried

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blueiscoool · 4 years ago

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Rare Portrait of Cross Dressing French King Henry III Discovered

Last year, British art dealer and broadcaster Philip Mould purchased a rare miniature portrait sight unseen.

Though the seller had listed the work as a likeness of Elizabethan adventurer Sir Walter Raleigh, Mould had his doubts.

“From what one could tell, [this portrait] had an appealing and curious aspect … which required further investigation,” he tells the Telegraph’s Dalya Alberge.

The “Fake or Fortune” host’s hunch regarding the petite painting’s provenance proved correct. As Sherna Noah reports for the British Press Association (PA), research conducted by Mould and art historian Celine Cachaud has identified the work’s subject not as Raleigh, but as Henry III, the controversial Valois king who ruled France between 1574 and 1589.

In addition to confirming the portrait’s sitter, the analysis revealed concrete evidence of the painting’s authorship. Per a statement from the art dealer’s London gallery, Philip Mould & Company, when a conservator removed the two-inch-tall work from its locket-like frame, they found a surprise on its back: the date 1578 and the signature of Jean de Court, an acclaimed court painter who also produced portraits of Mary, Queen of Scots, and Elizabeth I.

“We can now firmly and finally imprint 16th-century royal portraiture with de Court’s name,” says Cachaud, a portrait miniature specialist at the Paris National Institute for Art History, in the statement. “This groundbreaking discovery will have a major impact on the study of late Valois portraiture and miniature painting in years to come.”

Mould tells the Telegraph that European courtiers often commissioned portrait miniatures as tokens of love or intimate gifts. De Court’s image of Henry shows the ruler wearing a strings of jewels, a bonnet and a shirt with elegant white ruffles—a depiction similar to the few extant portraits of the French king. (Henry’s face was “all but wiped from history” following the French Revolution, as it was dangerous to own royal portraits in the new republic, Mould tells the PA.)

Henry reigned during a turbulent period in French and Polish history. Many historians argue that his reign escalated the Wars of Religion (1562–98), a prolonged conflict between Protestants and Catholics in the region, according to Encyclopedia Britannica.

Historians continue to debate the exact nature of Henry’s sexuality. Evidence exists that he had sexual relationships with both women and men, and that he employed a number of mignons, or male favorites, in his court, writes Laurence Senelick for the Gay and Lesbian Review.

Accounts penned during Henry’s lifetime offer additional insights on the king’s personal life. Diarist Pierre de L’Estoile, for instance, complained that Henry frequently wore women’s clothing and kept a coterie of male companions. Per the statement, L’Estoile wrote that the king lavished money and attention on his mignons, who wore “their hair long, curled and recurled by artifice, with little bonnets of velvet on top of it like whores in the brothels, and the ruffles on their linen shirts are of starched finery and one half foot so long so that their heads look like St. John’s on a platter.”

Writing in the Journal of the History of Sexuality in 2003, scholar Katherine B. Crawford argued that many of Henry’s political opponents painted his sexuality as deviant in order to discredit him. In early modern France, sodomy was considered a mortal sin and a criminal offense, although it was rarely prosecuted.

“Throughout his reign,” the historian explained, “negative readings of Henry III’s sexuality were available for use against him whenever the political situation allowed.”

Crawford added that these polemics about may have strongly influenced the fanatical monk Jacques Clément, who fatally stabbed the king on August 1, 1589.

According to the Telegraph, the miniature’s original auction estimate is believed to have been “in the high hundreds of pounds.” Its true value is now thought to be closer to several hundreds of thousands of pounds.

Mould has offered first refusal of the work to the Louvre Museum in Paris.

“This work is a French national treasure—a hugely significant unpublished image of a misunderstood king, and confirmation of Jean Decourt’s immense talent,” says Mould in the statement. “It would be wonderful if it could ‘come home’ to Paris, as I believe that is where it truly belongs.”

By Nora McGreevy.

#rare portrait of cross dressing french king henry III discovered #history #history news #painting #portrait #art #art work #artist #jean de court #french royal court #gay and lesbian

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yofavcocoa · 4 years ago

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Amber Heard Plastic Surgery Before as well as After

At least that's what Dr. Julian De Silva, a London-based cosmetic surgeon, concluded when he examined the 33-year-old's features using computer mapping modern technology.

" The Phi ratio of 1.618 has actually long been believed to hold the trick for elegance," he states. After determining Amber and other superstars across 12 essential pens for the nose, lips, eyes, temple, chin, and facial symmetry and form, he discovered that Amber came closest to the old Greek principles for physical perfection thanks to cosmetic surgery! Visit Website and see pictures before and after plastic surgery!

" [She] has one of the most lovely faces in the world, racking up a high 91.85 percent."

Certainly, a cosmetic surgeon greater than any person would recognize that the supposed "best" face proportions can be accomplished by going under the knife. Interestingly sufficient, Dr. De Silva's formula scored Kim Kardashian 91.39 percent, as well as most of us, recognize there's nothing all-natural regarding her!

So did Amber additionally have a little aid? Allow's learn!

Amber in 2005

Our first shot was from back in 2005 when Brownish-yellow was 19 years old. She's got the same dirty blonde hair color, the same eyes, and also the very same lovely skin. What's various compared to now? I think it's generally to do with her mouth. We can see that her top lip was naturally a lot thinner than the reduced one, for starters.

Amber in 2006

In this more front-facing shot from 2006, we get a far better consider her initial nose. It appears a little broader and extra noticeable compared to more recent photos. Additionally, her smile doesn't have that "Hollywood" look yet; I think since she has a little bit of an overbite. Keep in mind the thinner brows, which got on the pattern back then.

Amber in 2007

In 2007, Brownish-yellow was still undressed (I think!). I'm rather sure I would not have acknowledged her in this shot. Again, the distinction is all in the mouth-- her overbite is triggering her teeth to protrude over her reduced lip slightly, and also, her top lip isn't almost as full. The makeup is additionally rinsing her complexion. I assume the structure is too matte and grainy and can make use of some measurement from bronzer or flush.

Amber in 2008

In 2008, she cycled via several hair colors. First, it was back to her natural dirty blonde-- however, styled in these stiff, retro curls. (There was a genuine old Hollywood moment around this moment, do you keep in mind? Scarlett Johansson made use of to use this type of appearance too!) Brownish-yellow's teeth are additionally brighter, although there are many more changes to find. When it comes to the "bunny lines" close to her nose, sometimes those can occur from Botox. However, she was only 22 at this time ... hmmm!

Amber in 2009

The black hair had actually faded right into this deep brownish by the list below year, which Amber paired with a spray tan and spiky false lashes. From this angle, I see two points. She still has that minor overbite appearance (which she does not have currently). Plus, her nose still has the same little bump on the bridge, similar to 2007.

Amber in 2010

After that came one more significant change in 2010. To accompany her initial film functions as the women lead (in Drive Angry and The Rum Diary), she upgrades both her hair color and makeup. This warm blonde is a lot kinder to her complexion, and the great smoky eyes and flushed cheeks are tranquil. I don't think she altered anything additional regarding her features at this time ... yet stay tuned!

Amber in 2011

The list below year, Amber was a blonde once more, but this time around, it looks a lot extra brightened. Although I'm still not fascinated by the color, the smooth styling makes her appearance equally the star. One more monitoring: spray tans were a whole lot extra obvious in this age! The same chooses the makeup, which is heavy-handed. When it comes to her teeth, they're whiter and brighter than ever before. She had veneers because the shapes and sizes are different from 2008.

Amber in 2012

At age 26, Amber had yet an additional hair color change, and also, this one's my favorite of all, a warm medium brown. I can bear in mind caring about this at the time, and I really feel the same way already! Orange lipstick was a huge trend that year, as well as Brownish-yellow is using it with attractive fresh skin. Her eyebrows have actually also completed rather, compared to 2006. But there could be something else adding to this look ... a little tweak to her nose. Bear in mind; celebrities typically change their hair at the same time to toss us off!

Amber in 2013

Amber's redhead hair was just as gorgeous in 2013. I really did a double-take with this photo-- initially, look, I thought it was Miranda Kerr! You have to admit that she looks extremely modelesque with the marginal makeup and side-swept, brushed-out waves.

Amber in 2014

I think 2014 was the year that Brownish-yellow truly "made it" as a star, ending up being a regular on the red carpet. The first thing that leaps out in this image is her top lip. Does it look fuller because the edge has been overdrawn with lip lining? Or did she have a little something infused? I'm not sure!

Amber in 2015

Okay, by 2015, I definitely assume Brownish-yellow was messing around with hyaluronic acid lip shots. See just how the bottom side of her top lip is quite lumpy? She also had this very same expression in 2007, and also, her top lip did not have this much fullness. I believe she finally arrived at her "Life Colour" with this blonde in other news. She has remained near to this color since!

Amber in 2016

Does Brownish-yellow get prettier and also prettier or what? She was 30 in this image, and I'm enjoying the off-the-face updo as well as glowy makeup. Red lipstick has actually started to become her point currently (it additionally makes lip injections less obvious!). You'll see that her mouth setting appears a lot more loosened up, perhaps since her teeth are no more protruding as much.

Amber in 2017

Hair and makeup always boost considerably as individuals climb the celeb ladder, and this appearance is no exemption. The tousled beachy hair, great brown smoky eyes, shaded brows, contoured cheeks, and matte tarnished lips are all extremely innovative (and were no question implemented by specialists). Notice how her top lip now matches the dimension of her lower one.

Amber in 2018

With a streamlined ponytail as well as red lipstick, this ensemble was perhaps Amber's most developed look today. See what I indicate about the red lipstick camouflaging the plumped-up lip( s)? Although she is putting on a heavier layer of the structure, the makeup is excellent. Her face also appears a lot more angular currently, possibly from age, weight-loss, or tension. Honestly, I think she looks a little tired. (Stars! They're just like us!).

Amber in 2019

That brings us to Amber's latest pic-- and even with red lipstick, these lips stick out. They're absolutely the plumpest she's needed today, as well as are what obtained me thinking of this Before & After, to begin with! Fortunately, they're balanced by extremely, very little makeup, an off-the-face hairstyle, and her max eyebrows yet.

Conclusion

Before I started this Before & After, I thought Brownish-yellow underwent a few cosmetic tweaks to rack up so high with Dr. De Silva's algorithm.

Specifically, I believed a nose job-- similar to the majority of celebs we have actually looked at in this column. Now that I've analyzed her red carpet images, I still think that procedure. But this is just one of the more difficult instances to inform without a doubt!

With her face angled sideways, there's not a considerable distinction in her account over the years, except perhaps a much less forecasted suggestion. When she's facing the electronic camera, she could have had some traditional sculpting to tighten her nostrils and develop a more button-like idea.

Something I bank on, nonetheless-- Amber made huge modifications to her lips as well as teeth!

There's no denying that she explores lip injections these last few years to boost her upper lip's dimension.

What made the largest difference was addressing her protruding teeth, probably with something like Invisalign's undetectable dental braces. Currently, when she smiles, her teeth no more overlap her bottom lip. She additionally has a much whiter, more even smile, likely because of a combination of teeth lightening and porcelain veneers.

When we consider plastic surgery, we do not generally think about aesthetic dentistry, yet Brownish-yellow's Before & After goes to show you exactly how transformative it can be!

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itsmyusualphannie · 5 years ago

Text

an elemental match

Title: an elemental match (ao3) Author: itsmyusualphannie Artist: fay-pepper - check out her amazing art here!! it’s so good. like how. <33 Beta: m0xicity - thank you sm for your help! Word Count: 8.5k Rating: T Warnings: Blood, broken bones, earthquake Summary: “one moment can change a day, one day can change a life, and one life can change the world” - not buddha dan and phil, who like everyone else in their world have some level of superhuman powers, are out and about when tragedy strikes. they have powers, though. they can fix this, right? right. (right?)

Author Notes: i’ve been wanting to do a powered-dnp (not superheroes) for a while now, so this was super fun to write! it went a tad darker than i intended, but don’t worry, it has a happy ending! (sort of?)

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick. Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

“Nope!” The chair’s legs screeched against the floor under Phil as he slid back from the desk. He rolled his shoulders and stood, shoving the chair back into its place. His open laptop on the desk was brightly lit, cheerfully mocking him. He frowned at it. “No. I’m done.”

The clock tick-tocked again from where it hung a few feet above the desk. Phil wondered why he had even gotten it. He turned and left the room.

He found Dan in the living room, prone on the floor with his face upturned toward the ceiling. His eyes were closed, mouth opened slightly as he breathed steadily. Phil stood over him and nudged him with a socked foot. “Hey, Dan.”

“Shh, fuck off,” said Dan without opening his eyes. “I’m...meditating.”

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

“Meditating,” Dan insisted.

Phil poked him in the side again. “You said you wanted to look at the video once I finished editing it.”

“Ugh. You suck,” but Dan had opened his eyes and he was heaving himself up now. His fingers dug into the rug as he gained his balance, and then he stumbled to his feet, grabbing Phil’s arm for balance. “Whoo,” he said. “That’s fun.”

“Don’t pass out,” Phil told him. He reached to nudge a curl that had fallen across Dan’s forehead.

Dan let him. “So you’re finished editing, then? I thought it’d take you longer.”

“The clock was driving me insane,” Phil admitted. He tucked the curl back to rejoin the tumbled mess on Dan’s head. The bare skin it revealed felt too intimately naked, so Phil replaced the curl with a quick kiss. Dan laughed when Phil’s lips pressed against his forehead. “Dork.”

Phil shoved his shoulder half-heartedly. “I’m romantic. Shut up.”

“Sure you are,” Dan agreed, too quickly. He headed toward the office. “Come on, I’ll look over your video.”

Phil let Dan go ahead of him while he detoured to the kitchen. Although they had eaten lunch a few hours ago, he felt like a snack was necessary right about now. He opened the first two cabinets and, finding nothing good, left them wide open as he wandered to the next cabinet. Finally, he found a pack of Haribo that had been shoved to the very top of the self just out of reach of his fingers.

“Phil!” Dan called from the other room. “You’d better not be getting something to eat. We’re going shopping as soon as I’m finished with this.”

Phil glanced up at the bag of sweets, then toward the office. Making up his mind, he turned back toward the cabinet. He stretched his hand up to the high shelf and flexed his fingers, wiggling them a little in a come-hither motion. The bag, untouched by his physical fingers, nevertheless heeded the mental call. It shifted on the shelf, and then, in an abrupt movement, threw itself off the shelf into Phil’s waiting hand. Phil hurriedly ripped it open and dumped a handful of the gummies into his other hand, then held the bag in his palm and lifted it back toward the shelf. The bag floated off his hand and back into place, adjusting itself between two other containers.

Phil abandoned the kitchen, leaving the cabinets open as he popped a few gummies in his mouth. “Nope, not eating anything!” he assured Dan. He pushed open the door to the office and crossed the room in a few strides, stopping behind Dan, who was seated at the desk chair in front of Phil’s laptop.

Dan didn’t look back at him, but his voice was amused. “You know I can literally feel that you’re lying to me.”

Phil shoved the rest of the gummies in his mouth, hastily chewing them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said around his mouthful. He glanced over Dan’s shoulder at the video that was playing on the laptop. “Any suggestions so far?”

“I’m only two minutes into it,” but Dan paused the video. “Actually, yeah, here. This transition is a little weird. I’d cut it a second or so sooner.”

Phil watched as Dan rewound the clip. The Phil on-screen was laughing as a handful of glitter floated around his head like a halo. Dan, with a few swift clicks, deleted an awkward segment that Phil had missed in his editing earlier. He pressed play again, and now the video showed a smooth flow between the moment Phil had been easily controlling the thousands of particles of glitter and the instant he had released his power over them and they had all cascaded over his head. Since Phil had filmed all of this in one take, he’d had to be careful with the use of his powers, not eager for a headache. If he overused them, one of his dreaded migraines would creep up on him, and not even Dan’s empathic powers could help him. In this case, though, the abrupt release of the objects he was controlling hadn’t been intentional - he had heard a dog barking outside, and naturally, had lost his concentration.

Rubbing at his hair in memory, Phil grimaced. “That was two days ago and I still have glitter in my hair.”

“Please don’t remind me,” said Dan, his gaze still affixed to the screen as the video continued. “I have glitter in my pants.”

He laughed. “Well, you didn’t have to let me - ”

“Nope. No. We’re stopping that line of conversation.”

Still chuckling a little, Phil didn’t finish his sentence. He kept watching as Dan finished the video, making a few more small adjustments that Phil hadn’t caught. He was pleased with the small reactions he got from Dan’s perusal, the involuntarily laughs and moments of surprise. This was one of his favourite parts of the video-making process.

The video was barely ten minutes long, but Dan took his time looking it over and it was a good half an hour later when Dan saved the file for the final time and sat back in the chair. “It’s good,” was all he said.

“Good?” Phil huffed a laugh. “Is that all?”

Dan stood up in an elegant movement, spinning and draping his arms over Phil’s shoulders. “It’s fantastic. It’s creative. The bit with the glass dildo-looking thing was a bit much, but I love it. So will everyone else.” He punctuated his input with a lingering kiss.

Phil hummed against Dan’s lips, letting his hands drift to loosely hold Dan’s waist. “Mmm, okay. Good. Thanks.”

Dan pulled back and cast him an unimpressed stare. “You taste like Haribo.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Phil blinked widely.

Dan scoffed but gave him another quick kiss. “Twat. Come on, we need to go shopping.” He pulled back from Phil’s grip and left the room. Phil grabbed his phone from the charger on the desk before he followed, checking to make sure that it was fully charged.

“Are we just going to Tesco?” Phil asked after Dan, swiping at his phone as he wandered into the living room.

“Unless you want to go somewhere else!” Dan yelled back. He had detoured to the bedroom, apparently.

Phil pulled down the notification bar on his phone and frowned at the bright news alert that was visible. He clicked on it and was directed to a BBC One news article. “Uh...maybe Starbucks!” he called absent-mindedly. “After we’re...done shopping…” He trailed off without noticing it, his finger tugging up the article page so he could quickly skim it. There had been another tremor on the east side of London. Specialists were considering it minor, as it was under a 4.0 on the Richter scale and was barely noticeable. Still, it was one of several that had happened over the past few months, and the tremors were never located in the same place.

“Weird,” Phil mused to himself. He jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder.

“What’s weird?” asked Dan, peering over his shoulder. He sounded breathless, tugging down the bottom of the shirt that he had apparently just changed into. His hair was mussed, but artfully so. He must have gone by the bathroom for a moment.

Phil showed him the screen. “Another tiny earthquake.”

“Huh.” Dan thoughtfully regarded the article for a moment, then turned away to grab his shoes from the rack by the door. “There’s been a few of those, haven’t there?”

Phil closed the article and set his phone down on the table in the hall beside him, joining Dan to slip on his own shoes. “Yeah, it’s a little odd.”

“I dunno,” said Dan. He tied his shoelaces and stood, glancing around. Clearly spying what he was looking for, he trotted across the room to grab his phone from the coffee table. “It could just be nature. Y’know, the world is ending and whatever. I wouldn’t be surprised. It could also just be some kid coming into their powers and still figuring out what’s going on.”

Considering that, Phil admitted to himself that it made sense. Every child on Earth was born with some power lying dormant in their genes, which usually revealed itself at puberty or during some traumatic stressor in their life. Few were truly powerful; most were just tiny, usually-ineffectual powers like an abnormally strong bladder, tasting by touch, changing colours of fabrics, and being able to moisten objects by touching them. Most people had versions of their parents’ powers that were easily recognized once they manifested.

Phil’s own power had been a sort of combination of his parents - his mum could manipulate bursts of wind and his dad could make anything float as long as he had touched it in the past few hours and was able to physically lift it. Phil’s power might have been on the higher spectrum of abilities since he could manipulate many objects at once such as thousands of glitter particles, but since he couldn’t do it for very long, he wasn’t considered particularly powerful.

“That could be it, I guess,” Phil acknowledged, “but if so, it’s odd that they wouldn’t have been identified yet and taught to control it.” Since most powers were so various and weak enough that they couldn’t affect anyone’s surroundings much, there wasn’t any specialized public education for them, but in the case of stronger manifestations, there were private schools to help individuals control them.

Dan just shrugged, fishing the keys from the bowl on the coffee table. “It’ll be fine. Unless it’s nature, then we’ll probably all die.”

“Dan,” Phil scolded.

“Global warming,” He said darkly. “It’s going to kill us all.”

Phil shoved him toward the door, laughing despite himself. “Stop it!”

Unlocking the door, Dan ducked outside, chuckling. “Oh, you know I’m right. The icecaps are melting and the penguins are - ”

“If you say one more time that all of the penguins are dying out, I’m going to revolt,” He threatened, snatching the keys from Dan’s hand and locking the door resentfully.

“I can feel that you think I’m funny,” Dan laughed at him.

Phil waved a finger at him. “Stop reading my emotions when I’m pretending to be upset. You could just...you could single-handedly save the penguins, is what you could do.”

He scoffed and held up one hand in demonstration. “This thing? I touch things with it to cool them off. I can’t refreeze the entirety of the polar ice caps. That’d be nice, though.”

“What would be nice,” Phil shot back, hesitating only briefly, “is your mum.”

Dan shoved him this time, huffing a laugh. “Oh my god, shut the fuck up.” His hands were cold against Phil’s shoulder even through his shirt, a clear demonstration of Dan’s secondary power.

That - his hands - was what automatically placed Dan in the top 1% of humans with powers. Neither of Dan’s abilities was remarkably strong - his empathy power and his ability to chill his hands to the freezing point of 0° celsius - but having a second power at all was incredibly rare. Like Phil, however, overusing either of his powers resulted in a negative drawback. Dan’s was mind-numbing exhaustion.

Dan’s secondary power also gave them an...interesting bedroom life. Before he met Dan, Phil would never have thought he’d have any sort of wild kinks. Now, though…

Dan poked Phil in the cheek with his cold finger. “Oi,” he said. “Stop thinking about sex.”

“I’m not!” Phil protested. “Besides, you can’t read my thoughts.”

“I can sense your sex emotions,” Dan said, unimpressed. “We need to get groceries, and if you start imagining us in bed before we even leave the building then we’re not going to get anything done.”

Phil cast him a haughty stare. “That’s just proof of your lack of self-control.”

“We’re leaving,” Dan declared.

“Coward,” Phil retorted, but followed him toward the stairs without further argument. They trundled down to the ground floor and made their way out onto the street. It only took a moment to hail down a cab, and then they were on their way to Tesco.

“Did you get the list from the fridge?” Phil asked a few minutes later, a belated question since the cab was already pulling over to let them hop out at Tesco. It was, after all, a little late to go back and fetch the list.

He looked exasperated as he shut the door behind him. “No, Phil, I told you to get it.”

“What? When?”

“When I was changing!”

Phil considered that. “Oh. Huh. I didn’t hear you.”

Dan rolled his eyes, but it was more fond than annoyed. “I knew you would.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket as they walked inside Tesco. “I took a picture of it last night just in case.”

“Oh, good. We need cereal too, since I added that to the list this morning. For...no reason. I just decided that we need more...to add to what we already have.” He grabbed a trolley and pushed it ahead of them while they headed for the far side of the store.

“Sure you did,” said Dan, clearly not believing him. “And it’s definitely not because you ate the rest of it during a two a.m. snack spree.”

Phil nodded. “No, definitely not,” he agreed innocently. He swerved the trolley into the bread aisle. They didn’t actually need any bread, since they still had half a loaf, but Phil didn’t think they would go shopping for another few weeks so it wouldn’t hurt to stock up.

“Do we have any tortillas?” Dan asked, trailing beside Phil as he swiped at his phone. “It’s not on the list, but I wanted to make fajitas tomorrow night.”

“I don’t think so,” Phil replied after a moment of thought. “I don’t remember using them all up, but I haven’t seen any.”

Dan leaned to grab a loaf of bread and toss it in the trolley as they walked. “Oh, didn’t we have those wraps last Saturday when PJ and Sophie visited?”

“Oh yeah, we did.” Their friends had come over right before lunchtime, so Dan and Phil had offered them the easiest food they could make quickly. Phil recalled the tea that had cooled as they chatted, and PJ briefly using his ability to warm liquids and reheating it with a wave of his hand. “And we ate the rest of the biscuits, add those to the list, too.”

Dan complied, tapping away at his phone. The rest of the shopping trip commenced this way, wandering down aisles searching for items on the list and occasionally getting distracted by things that weren’t. Phil had to convince Dan that he did not need four of the exact same candle since one would serve the same purpose, while Dan was very firm about not getting a massive chocolate bunny.

“But we need it,” Phil had insisted.

“Philip Lester. No. You’ll get high on the sugar.”

And that was that. They were leaving Tesco only an hour after having entered it, arms laden with bags.

“I have realized our mistake,” said Phil as they stood on the pavement outside Tesco, waiting for the Uber that Dan had called.

“What?”

“Well, I wanted to get coffee. But now we have to take these groceries back or the refrigerated stuff will go bad.”

Dan shrugged, glancing at the phone balanced in one hand to check for the status of their ride. “We can go back out. We need more exercise anyway, we’ll just walk to the one a few blocks from our flat.”

“I guess,” he agreed reluctantly. Dan was definitely more into the exercise than Phil was - they had already both gone jogging this morning and Phil was perfectly happy with that level of effort for the day. Coffee would be worth it, though. He was jolted from his thoughts of exercise and coffee by a bag that was starting to slip down his arm. “No,” he told it, eyeing it suspiciously. It didn’t listen, the weight of the bananas inside dragging it further and leaving faint red lines on his arm. He loosened his grip on the bag in his other hand and wiggled his middle and index fingers at the bag. It obediently slid back up his arm, ignoring gravity to settle in the crook of his elbow.

A car up in front of the pavement and Dan waved briefly at the driver. “Uber’s here,” he told Phil, already heading for the trunk of the car. The driver hopped out and helped them load their groceries into the back of the vehicle, putting the most fragile items into the safety net. Once they had everything arranged, Dan and Phil climbed into the backseat and they were off back to their flat.

~~~

“Straw?” Phil asked hopefully, but the barista had already turned away, harried and rushed with the line of customers out the door. Phil looked down mournfully at his drink. The straws by the door were gone and Dan was already tucked into their usual table in the corner, sipping at his macchiato as he swiped through his phone.

Excuse me, Phil heard from a woman slipping past him to escape the Starbucks. He only had time to notice her arms piled with coffee and a bag of chips clenched in her teeth before she was gone. She must have mentally projected the words at him using her power, he supposed. Taking a step back as another customer navigated through the line in front of him, he craned his neck to see if there were any straws left in the container behind the counter. There were some left, in a half-full box of straws tucked beside the syrups. A barista snatched one and handed it, along with a drink, to a customer, then immediately went back to making drinks. Phil squinted, making sure he was focusing on just one straw - he didn’t want another incident to occur - and then casually, unobtrusively stretched his fingers toward them. Nothing happened for a moment, and then a straw wiggled in place. It squirmed free from the confines of the other paper wrappers surrounding it, then leapt high in the air, above the customers’ heads. Phil released his control over it, then hurriedly snatched it before it plummeted to the floor.

Pleased, he unwrapped it and shoved it in the lid of his drink as he made his way to the corner, where Dan was still on his phone.

“I can’t believe yours was done first,” he said, sliding into the chair across from Dan. “And then you abandoned me.”

“I can believe it,” said Dan, not looking up. He sipped at his own boring-looking drink. “I got something normal, and you got that...monstrosity.”

Phil glanced down at it. It was pink and glittery and ...definitely different. “I had to try it,” he protested. “Look, it’s delicious.” To demonstrate, he slurped deeply from the straw. He could feel his face collapse into disgust as soon as the first sugary drop hit his tongue. “Um.”

Dan laughed, finally glancing up, probably to take a mental picture of Phil’s expression. “It’s a good thing everyone here isn’t an empath, or that raving recommendation would turn them all away.”

“It’s...unique,” Phil insisted. He took another sip and resisted the grimace that wanted to live on his face.

Dan set down his macchiato and sighed, reaching out for the drink. Phil handed it to him unhesitantly. Taking a brief sip of the drink, Dan winced and shook his head. “Sometimes, Phil, you don’t need to try new things.”

Phil stole Dan’s drink to wash the taste from his mouth. “Well...now I know not to get it. Besides, it’s limited.”

“Float it over to the trash bin,” he instructed, shoving the colourful drink back to Phil and taking his own back. “Limited doesn’t mean it’s good.”

Rebelliously, Phil drank from it again. “I’m not going to waste it.” He set it down after a few moments when the icy cup became a little too much for his hands. Dan was having no trouble with his own iced macchiato clasped unflinchingly in his free hand - but then, he wouldn’t, with hands that were unaffected by the cold.

It was unfair, Phil decided, that Dan could consistently keep his drinks cooled to the perfect temperature. To retaliate, he stole his drink again.

“You’re going to buy me another one,” Dan threatened mildly. He was on his phone again, though, and Phil didn’t feel particularly intimidated.

“Who’re you texting?” he asked around the straw in his mouth.

“Cornelia. I was asking her about a new merch idea.”

“Ooh, the gloves one?” Phil thought that one would sell brilliantly. Dan’s secondary power was the one most prominently used on his channel - in fact, only diehard fans even knew about Dan’s primary empathic power. It just wasn’t something that could be visibly touted in his videos. As a consequence of that, while both Dan and Phil had sold merch themed around their abilities, Phil had a logo shaped like a burst of wind that was stamped on some products while Dan’s was an icicle, only marketed toward his secondary power. One of Dan’s most recent items - a foam cup holder that chilled drinks while keeping hands warm - had sold out in the first week.

“Yeah, she likes it, but she thinks they need to be a different type of fabric.” Dan frowned at his phone and typed out a message that was disturbingly fast for only one hand. “As if leather isn’t practical.”

Phil laughed. “Dan, just because your hands never sweat doesn’t mean everyone else don’t.”

“I mean, I was joking about the leather, but I don’t want them to be solid wool. That’s just as hot, right?��

Shrugging, Phil took another long sip from Dan’s drink. “I don’t know anything about fabrics.” He glanced down at the cup, noting the liquid dipping below the melting ice. He probably would have to get Dan some more.

“What kind of useless gay are you?” asked Dan half-heartedly. He sighed and set down his phone. “I don’t feel like figuring out merch shit right now.”

“Tired?” Phil regarded him, a little concern niggling at him. Dan didn’t look exhausted, particularly, but if he had been overusing his powers, it might be weighing on him.

Dan waved a dismissive hand. “No, I just...don’t want to deal with it. It’s really busy here, too. It’s a little distracting.”

Sometimes Phil forgot that Dan couldn’t particularly turn off his empathetic ability. He could narrow his focus onto one person to read every aspect of their feelings, or even project his own emotions, but unlike Phil, it wasn’t something he had to consciously activate to use. Phil remembered Dan once describing it as “street noise, like cars driving past outside. You’re not always paying attention to them, but you know they’re there. And when an angry or upset person is near, it’s like an ambulance going past with its sirens on.”

“Any sirens?” asked Phil. They used the analogy often, an easy way for Phil to gauge what Dan was feeling from the people around them.

Dan shook his head. “Maybe in the distance. It’s just...heavy traffic.”

There were quite a few people packed into this small Starbucks. Phil pushed the macchiato back toward Dan. “Here, have a drink. And chill it again? The ice is melting a little.”

“You’re so generous.” Dan’s lips twisted wryly, knowing. He could feel Phil’s attempt to distract him from their surroundings. “It wouldn’t be melting if you hadn’t stolen it.” His hands had already gripped the cup, and Phil watched, unendingly fascinated with the way condensation spread in tiny frozen crystals as Dan’s long fingers wrapped around the plastic. Phil sometimes wondered what would happen if he had gotten a secondary power along with his telekinetic abilities. He doubted the results of any other power would look as elegant as Dan’s.

“Are you going to finish yours?” Dan asked, raising an eyebrow at the drink Phil had forgotten existed. It was still sitting abandoned, pink and bright and eye-searing, by the puddle of melted water that Dan’s cup had left.

Phil took a stubborn sip from it, refusing to let himself react to the explosion of bitter-sweet that soured his mouth. His eyebrow twitched defiantly. “Yes. I spent almost four pounds on it.”

“Sometimes, we just have to acknowledge that an experience wasn’t what we wanted it to be, and chalk it up as a lesson learned. Sometimes, we just have to move on from our mistakes.”

Phil glowered at him and his wisdom. “I hate you.”

“You hate that drink more, though. Are you really going to continue to suffer just to prove some sort of asinine point?”

“I could,” Phil said mutinously. He tried to take another insistent drink, but his mouth refused to cooperate. The straw tap-tapped vainly a few times against his lips before he gave up. “Ugh, fine. Shut up,” he added before Dan, his mouth parted in a wide, silent laugh, could say anything. He glanced around for a trash bin, ready to push his failure of a drink through the air and dispose of it.

“Come on, let’s head back to the flat,” Dan interjected. “You can throw it away on the way out the door.”

Phil dubiously eyed the crowded line of coffee-impatient customers stretching out the door and down the sidewalk. “It’s too bad neither of us can teleport.”

“That would be convenient,” Dan agreed, standing and fetching his phone and halfway-finished macchiato. “Do you know how many awkward situations I would have just abandoned?”

“Who needs to converse when you can reverse?” Phil added, then frowned. “Wait, that’d be a time power wouldn’t it?”

Dan laughed. “Yeah, like that kid I told you I knew in primary who could like rewind twenty seconds of time? Everyone knew when he did it, though - he got uncontrollable hiccups for like an hour after.”

Phil didn’t like getting a headache if he overused his powers, but he couldn’t imagine it happening every time he used them. “Poor kid.”

Dan made his way determinedly for the door of Starbucks, going just slow enough for Phil to navigate past two teenagers and catch up. “Well, you know, the more powerful the ability, the stronger the body’s backlash. I think it’s a good thing, so we don’t have time-warping and mind-destroying supervillains trying to take over the world.”

“It sounds so ominous when you say it like that,” Phil squeezed behind a rotund woman happily chattering away on her phone and found the bin just beside the door. It was almost full, but he dropped the drink in anyway. He mournfully watched it fall into the rest of the rubbish and thunk heavily against an empty cup, taking a moment to wish it had been a better drink.

Dan had already ducked outside. He tapped the window, raising an amused eyebrow at Phil’s inability to keep up with him. Come on, he mouthed.

Phil shrugged helplessly back at him. He had to grieve for such a beautiful monstrosity - it was only right. The sugar deserved to be missed. Dan just rolled his eyes at him.

Fine, Phil mouthed back. He waited a moment for a gap in the line of customers, and then he edged his way between them. He had just reached the door, swinging shut as someone stepped inside, when he felt it. It was just a tiny shudder at first, and Phil thought maybe someone had nudged against him, but then the floor trembled beneath his feet.

It took a few seconds for everyone around him to become aware of the ground’s awakening, but a more violent palpitation caused a visible disturbance and the conversation in the Starbucks abruptly ceased, a loud silence falling among the inhabitants. Phil became aware that someone was gripping his arm, their nervousness allowing them to abandon civility and grasp onto the nearest stationary object. He could see the display case to his left quivering minutely and an abandoned cup atop it wavering, undecided whether to topple to the floor. The floor juddered again, and Phil felt his knees knock against each other in an attempt to keep him standing. The cup fell.

A hesitant scream breached the silence of the room, testing if it was the right reaction. It trailed away after only a moment, and now Phil could hear a low rumble somewhere deep beneath the ground.

Then the panic started; It wholly infected the group within seconds, and there was an instant rush for the door as dozens of people simultaneously decided that getting outside was their best option. Phil’s ears rang with screams, but since he had been directly in front of the door, he was immediately shoved out of the door and onto the pavement before he could even attempt to react. He staggered as his feet hit the concrete, almost losing his balance, but regained his equilibrium and forced rapid steps away from the pushing, sudden mass of bodies exiting the store. The ground still rumbled warningly beneath him, threatening worse. He could feel the intensity of the tremors increasing. The sign on the pavement that proclaimed the coffee and pastry of the day bounced a few feet and then, with a heave of the concrete beneath it, toppled sideways and was immediately trampled by urgent feet.

Dan. Stricken by the thought, and that his brain had abandoned it until now, Phil backed into the side of the store to get away from the stream of people and stood on the tips of his toes to look around. The brick dug into his back, rippling uncertainly, but he ignored the movements to scan the crowd. He and Dan were both taller than most of these people, but he couldn’t see Dan’s familiar curls or sloped shoulders anywhere.

“Dan!” Phil called, but it was drowned by the yells and screams of others around him. Someone bellowed “Earthquake!” but everyone already knew, and everyone was already running, as if there was any way they could escape the earth’s rebellious upheavals.

He attempted a step away from the wall, but an angry roll of the earth split the pavement in front of him and he moved back hastily, his shoulders thudding painfully back onto the brick. Feet juddering for balance beneath him, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the crack in the pavement. It seemed surreal, the casual rip through the concrete as if it was paper. Phil’s thoughts grasped desperately at his memory of that very morning - the article, the one with the earthquakes. The possibility that it would happen here seemed so infinitesimally low, but here it was.

Call 999. The idea came to him so suddenly that he realized it wasn’t his own - the woman who had pushed past him only a few minutes ago must have still been in the area and was projecting her thoughts to everyone in the area. And stop running.

Phil couldn’t see a single person stop running - projection didn’t control anyone - but there were a few people that scrabbled for their pocketed phones. A phone, he should call Dan. He reached for his pocket, but his fingers slipped uselessly against the empty fabric of his jeans, and he remembered with sinking despair that he had put down his phone on the table back at the apartment and forgotten to pick it up again. “Dan!” he called again, a vain effort lost amongst the noisy crowd now filling the pavements. The other stores along the block were emptying, all of the customers desperate for the open, freeing space of the street. Phil was vaguely sure that, in an earthquake, people were meant to get beneath a table or hold onto something and not run outside, but he had no way of stopping the panic from spreading as quickly as the tremors had begun. He felt utterly useless.

Someone screamed, just another noise amongst the commotion, but Phil’s attention was grabbed by the sound. It seemed like it was still inside the Starbucks, the one he had been unceremoniously propelled from in what seemed like hours ago but couldn’t have been more than a minute or two. His gaze jumped involuntarily from the panic before him to the glass door of the Starbucks just a few feet to his left. It was juddering in its frame, the glass shimmering in place as it threatened to break. There was another piercing wail from inside, and Phil was suddenly sure that someone had been left inside.

He moved without thinking, feet dancing around the shallow crevices that were splintering the ground to make his way to the door. Aware that the glass could shatter at any moment, he grasped the handle and tugged gently, but the door didn’t move. Glancing down, he found the cause of its impediment - the stone around the frame had climbed to escape the ground’s movements and imprisoned the door.

“Help!”

Phil’s gaze snapped up and past the shuddering glass of the door, and now he could see where the screams had originated. There were two teenagers in the far corner of the store. One was sprawled on the floor, a leg twisted at a grotesque angle. She was grasping it with both hands, her head bowed as if she was fighting against the pain. Another girl crouched beside her, trying to hold onto both the wounded girl and a table beside her at the same time. She shivered minutely, but Phil couldn’t tell if it was from pain or the ground still trembling beneath them. She opened her mouth to yell again, but then her gaze locked with Phil’s and her expression collapsed into relief. Waving, her voice shuddered as she spoke. “Help, please! My girlfriend tripped and we can’t get out!”

Phil was quite sure that coming outside, amongst this disaster and panicking people, wouldn’t help, but he wasn’t going to leave them. A few details of the scenario jumped out at him: the flickering lights in the shop; the abandoned coffee cups and pastries strewn abandoned across the tables and tumbled to the floor; and then, the worst of everything, the cracks climbing the darkly painted walls of the Starbucks. It was that which made up his mind more than anything.

“Keep holding onto the table!” he called through the nervously warping glass. “Give me just a second.” He braced himself against the next fierce roll of concrete beneath him. It felt like surfing a wave of brittle, uncertain catastrophe. He had never surfed, and he didn’t think he ever wanted to now.

A cautious tug on the door handle did nothing but anger the glass. A crack seared across the top corner and Phil hesitated. He didn’t want to shatter the glass if he could avoid it. The solution sprang to him as soon as he glanced back down at the frame that was held captive by the upheaved ridges of the stone walkway. Releasing the handle of the door, he flicked a finger and a mental order at the jagged edges of the rock. It resisted him for a moment, yearning to obey the more powerful force of the yawning earth beneath him, but he insisted, and it reluctantly complied. The obstruction sank into the walkway, the stone seeming to melt as it reformed under his power, freeing the frame, and he opened the door instantly, careful but persistent. It took him more than a few moments to navigate inside and across the trembling floor, almost tip-toeing to keep his balance when the ground heaved beneath him. He couldn’t help but glance up at the cracks that were webbing across the wall just beside the two girls on the floor. There was something almost anticipatory about the scrawled lines and the way they stretched eagerly for the ceiling. This building wasn’t safe.

Phil wasn’t sure anywhere was safe right now.

He knelt beside the two girls, ignoring the way his knees dug into the powdered concrete. He didn’t bother asking if they were okay - they weren’t, and neither was anyone right now. The wounded girl, her chin still tucked to her chest, was breathing shakily, her fingers bloodless at the grip on her own leg. Her hair, cascading around her face, shuttered her expression from Phil’s view.

The other girl had watched Phil’s approach with anxious eyes, and her voice sounded gritty now when she spoke. “We need to get out of here.” Her own hand was tightly gripped on the other’s arm.

Phil glanced up briefly at the wall and its spreading cracks. “Yeah, we do.” He surveyed the wounded girl’s leg, then, a hasty inspection that made his stomach twist. Her knee was twisted beneath her in an unnatural position that felt wrong to look at. At least there was no blood. “Do you think you’ll be able to move?”

She simply shook her head, the tips of her hair swaying. Phil could see the tiny purse of her mouth, the pain-tight crinkles that squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m suppressing her nervous system,” the other girl hastily explained. “That’s my - I can do that, but only when she isn’t moving. Can you...you pushed down the ground outside? What can you - ?”

“I can control small objects,” Phil said, and then hesitated. “...Usually. I might be able to float larger objects, but it’s a lot harder and it doesn’t always work.” He had rarely, other than a few playful mental shoves during his childhood, actually moved a human being. Skin and muscle and bones were so much more fragile than blocks of wood and malleable concrete. Experimenting wasn’t really an option with this aspect of his power, not when he could easily injure delicate skin or breakable bones with the wrong mental nudge, and torn humans did not zipper back together like a ripped piece of fabric would under Phil’s attention.

Something was prickling at the back of Phil’s mind, a bubble of suggestion that felt familiar, but he dismissed it with little effort. When he focussed back on the nerve-suppressing teen crouched beside her girlfriend, he could see her eyebrows furrowed tightly together.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her. She hadn’t seemed injured, but she must have been the one screaming earlier. He might have missed something obvious.

She blinked, then nodded. “No, I’m fine. I just got...tired for a second.”

The floor shook beneath Phil again, gritting bits of crumbled wall into his knees, and it shook his awareness back to the store around them. He studied the cracks again, noting their rapid spread. His throat felt tight, too tight. Spreading cautious fingers, he tilted his palm toward the corners where the wall met the ceiling and prodded at the cracks, little more than a mental brush against them, in an attempt to gauge how deep they went. He needed to know if the structural integrity of the building was compromised. A few pieces of plaster crumbled and showered all three of them, mocking his efforts, but he got his answer only a second later when the ceiling creaked ominously above them.

“Okay, we need to leave,” Phil ordered.

Both girls started to move at the urgency in his voice, but they had all waited too long. With another heave of the ground and a groaning protest from the wall supports, the ceiling lost its will to stay perched precariously on the rebellious walls.

The ceiling fell.

Phil threw up both hands instinctively as the lights, plaster, and wooden beams crumpled inwards and down toward them. The entire building was crashing down upon him and he could feel the weight of it sink past his fingertips, past his desperately outstretched hands, past his arms and shoulders and chest, and settle deep into his bones. It wanted to crush him, and all he had to hold it back was the tightly wound threads of his ability that were twisted around his mind. The strings, those bits of energy that he associated with his power, yanked tight around his head and he clenched his eyes shut against the sudden, searing pain that blossomed in his mind. It was all-consuming, an instant migraine worse than anything he had felt even on his worse days. Briefly overusing his power and regretting the headache it invited was nothing compared to this. It had been less than seconds, and his blood was fiery pain in his veins, his bones quaked, and his skin crawled at the whispered sensation of air against it.

But...he could feel the air. He wasn’t physically crushed beneath a tonne of destroyed ceiling. The cords of his power were strangling his mind, but, somehow, he was still alive.

Phil opened his eyes. Around and above him, the building hung suspended in broken fragments, chunks of plaster, thick beams of wood, and glinting pieces of shattered lights all frozen in terrifying stillness.

“Oh my god,” breathed one of the girls.

He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t move. If he moved even one hand, still flung out at the mass of destruction hovering above them, then he didn’t think he could maintain it. He didn’t even know how he was doing it, not really. There was a part of him that felt detached and silent, observing the display of frozen destruction in a quiet curiosity.

“Oh my god,” said one of the girls again. He could feel her looking at him, shaken. “You’re bleeding.”

One of the threads of Phil’s power reached out for her with anticipation, but he let it slip away. The words that she had spoken registered faintly in the back of his mind, and yet it seemed inconsequential through the haze of pain that surrounded him. He could feel it, though, the blood creeping from the burst vessels in his nose and pooling in the dip above his upper lip.

“Holy shit,” said the other girl. It was the hurt one. Her voice was tight with her own pain from her leg, but she sounded clearer than Phil felt.

He had to force his thoughts to arrange themselves. Most of himself was vacant, wrapped around every misplaced molecule in the air above him, but the strings strangling his mind were drawing ever tighter and he knew something was going to break. Blood dripped from his lips when he spoke. “You need to get out of here.” His throat clamped around the words, and he had to force them out. Slowly, slowly, he let his gaze drift to the way out - and there was still a way out. It was narrow, and surrounded by dangerously suspended bits of the ceiling, but there was a path to the still-open door.

“We wouldn’t leave without you!” Her voice was desperate, but Phil knew in a distant sort of way that yes, she would.

But he could move. He had to move.

“Wait, can you...here.” The girls were moving now, and one hissed with pain, but Phil didn’t dare let his concentration shift enough to take notice of what they were doing. They were done in only a moment, and then they were standing beside him, one leaning heavily on the other. He was still in a half-crouch on the floor, and his fingers trembled in the outstretched pose he maintained.

“Please,” said the girl supporting the other. Her eyes were ringed with white, and she trembled in fear, but she held out a hand unhesitatingly to him. “Please, stand!”

The ground rumbled beneath them again, very briefly. Phil hadn’t noticed that the quaking had stopped until it moved again. It was only a brief slip of concentration, and Phil snatched back control in half a second, but one of the threads digging deep into his mind stretched, and stretched, and snapped.

It started in the corner of the room first. A whisper of suspended plaster pattered against the floor, and then a heavier particle of a lightbulb shattered on an overturned table. Phil clung desperately to the strings of his power, but they were fraying and his mind ached and he was so, so tired.

He was lurching to his feet before he even thought about it. His hands still outstretched, he swayed in place, half-expecting the ground to collapse beneath him or the broken chunks of the building to come crashing down upon them all, but somehow, there was no immediate consequence. His lungs stuttered in his chest, and he sucked in a breath, realizing that he hadn’t been breathing for a few long moments. His chest heaved, and he hurt. Tearing his gaze from the effects of his ability that surrounded him, he met the wide-eyed stares of the girls. The threads of his power began slipping from his grip.

“Run,” he said.

They ran. The injured girl cried out each time her wounded leg hit the floor, but her girlfriend was gripping her waist with a ferocity that Phil would have approved of if he wasn’t distracted by his own mind ripping free from the destroyed ceiling that he held in midair.

A beam, heavy and wooden, crashed to the floor behind the crumpled counter of the shop. Another string tore in Phil’s mind, but he fought against the others trying to wrench themselves from his grip. He took an unsteady step after the girls, who still hobbled desperately for freedom. If the ground moved now, he wouldn’t make it to the door.

The ground didn’t move, but the ceiling did. More clutter fell piece by piece, raining down upon the floor and crushing tables beneath them.

Phil held on, and he held on, and he slowly made his way for the door, and he held on.

And then he was stumbling out of the door just after the girls, and the store was crashing down behind him in a thunderous, bone-rattling roar, and his thoughts were warping terrifyingly inside him. He could taste the blood on his lips, mingled with the fresh air of freedom he had gained. His eyes felt glazed, and he stumbled off the pavement to get further from the store, still tumbling and settling in its ruin. Something crumpled, and Phil realized it was him. Someone caught him, but he didn’t know who it was. His mind was too loud, crashing against every nerve in his body. He felt hyper-sensitive, every touch and smell and glimpse of light screaming pain into him.

Suddenly, blissfully, it all quieted, and Phil let his eyes slip shut to embrace the warming darkness that enveloped him.

~~~

Phil woke up slowly, his thoughts piecing themselves back together as his eyes blinked open. It was dark in the room he was in, but he could make out a slumped form in the chair beside his bed. A slow, steady beeping came from a machine on the other side of him. He was in the hospital, then. He lifted careful fingers to his forehead as if to check that it was still in once piece, and was pleasantly surprised to find that nothing...hurt. He would expect his head to be splitting with a migraine after the bits and flashes of what he could recall.

“You got the good stuff,” came a gravelly voice from the person beside him. “A doctor with a healing ability was in here earlier.”

“Dan,” said Phil. His eyes stung, tears prickling at the corner of his vision as emotion swamped him. “You’re okay.”

“Fuck you,” said Dan, but it was too soft to be anything but fond. He moved abruptly, leaning halfway out of his seat to drape himself across Phil and bury his face in the crumpled neckline of Phil’s hospital gown. “God, you dick. You scared me so much.”

Phil’s arms had moved instinctively to grip him. “I couldn’t find you,” he said, the memory of that frozen panic flashing back to him. “You were just...gone.”

Dan’s laugh was a half-sob, muffled against Phil’s chest. “I couldn’t find you,” he said. “I got shoved across the street somehow and when the tremors stopped and I made it back to the Starbucks, it had already collapsed. I only found you because these two girls were bawling beside you thinking you were dead.”

“Are they okay?” Phil asked, suddenly urgent with the reminder of the couple that had survived an entire crushing building with him. “One of them had a broken leg, I think.”

“Yeah, there were a lot of ambulances and shit that pulled up seconds after everything stopped shaking and falling. They’re safe.” Dan finally sat back up, swiping ineffectually at his eyes with one hand, but the other found Phil’s hand under the thin, sterile hospital blanket and gripped it tightly. “I would have given them my phone number or something, but I was a little preoccupied with you being fucking unconscious.”

“Sorry,” Phil apologized weakly, but Dan laughed, the noise wet and catching in his throat.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, you controlled an entire building. That’s insane.”

It was insane. Phil didn’t want to do it ever again. His head throbbed at the reminder of the crushing sensation and the terror he had felt when he slowly lost his grip over his ability. “Yeah,” he said. “It was...crazy.”

Dan sighed, and he looked exhausted suddenly. The evening sun peeked through the room’s blinds, highlighting his chest and face in rosy golden strips. “God, Phil. You scared me so badly. Never do that again.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Phil agreed. He examined the deep, blood-bruised bags under Dan’s eyes and patted the narrow space on the cot beside him. “Here, nap until the nurse comes to check on me.”

“I’m not going to fit,” Dan protested, but he was already climbing in beside him. His curls tickled Phil’s cheek as he settled in, and his body felt like the missing piece of a puzzle when he pressed himself into Phil.

Phil still didn’t know quite what had happened - what was causing these earthquakes, how he survived such an overextension of his powers, or even what tomorrow would bring - but for now, he closed his eyes and let his arm curl around Dan’s hip and he breathed.

They were both okay. That was all that really mattered.

#phandom big bang #phandom big bang 2019 #pbb 2019 #phan #phanfics #phanfiction #phanfic au #phanfic superpowers #tw mild blood #tw broken bones #tw earthquake #telekinetic phil #empathic dan #+surprise power dan #angst #domestic #happy ending #mostly?#ok i'm done

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retrogeekgal · 5 years ago

Text

Repeating Mistakes

Summary: John Constantine shows up at your door after breaking your heart two years ago. Needing help from someone he trusts, he can only turn to you. But like everything with him, the truth isn't black and white. And the secrets John's keeping from you this time, may cost you your life.

Word Count: 2.7k

John Constantine x Reader

Notes: Hello everyone! This is my first posted work, so please be kind!

This fic has all the tropes- hurt/comfort, dramatic confessions of love, possessive!John, protective!John, sassy!reader-- If you can think of it, I've probably got it here.

Please leave me all the notes and comments :)

I've read some comics but this is based off of Matt Ryan's incredible portrayal of our favorite chain smoking, hard-drinking British wise ass on Constantine and Legends of Tomorrow.

Enjoy!

Repeating Mistakes (archive of our own)

Chapter One.

The dense humidity makes your thick hair curl at the ends as you step in from the outside and take in the lavishly decorated lobby. For last minute accommodations, this hotel is excellent.

A kind doorman waits to greet you, readily assisting you with your bags. Your tired eyes scan the attached restaurant and are more than pleased to see a fully stocked twenty-four hour bar just steps from the entrance. You could happily make yourself at home here for some time once your work is finished.

Making your way down the long hallway to your room for the next few days, your thoughts drift to the events that led up to arriving here. After a particularly grueling possession in the midwest, you were looking forward to taking a few days to relax and recharge.

With your key in the door, the call came through about a cursed mirror in a plantation just outside of New Orleans. The client was wealthy too, wealthy enough to double your rate if you left straight away. Despite your exhaustion, you couldn't resist.

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

“Ghosts bring in the money down here,'' the owner, William Moss, had drawled over the phone. “Tourists want to get spooked when they visit the old south, but this is different. Doors are slamming, we hear whispers when there ain't no one else around and the room freezes during the warmest parts of the day. It wasn’t like this before we found that mirror buried on the property. I figured it must've been two hundred years old, at least. A real antique to draw in the history buffs.

"It's got some bad juju and I, well I was told" he had hesitated slightly- you remembered that clearly, “you were just the talented young lady for the job. I was informed of the great love you have for New Orleans and its culture and your reputation clearly precedes you. You came highly recommended.”

For a moment you had thought to ask who’d given you the glowing recommendation, your suspicion ate at you, but the tone in his voice said you ought to put it aside. The more information he gave you, the more you knew these were the right things to say to get your attention. And so, as soon as your full cost was deposited into your account, you had booked a flight and were on your way to the Big Easy.

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

You made ghost stories and cursed objects your business, and business was booming. You had once worked alongside the greatest master of the dark arts in existence, and while he had viciously broken your heart, John Constantine had taught you well.

Thanks to his tutelage, your name was well known in the occult circles as a talented mage and dark object specialist. After your time with him, you had become skilled in both light and dark magic and had exorcized more than your fair share of things that went bump in the night. So being told you were highly recommended wasn’t an odd thing. Any hesitation to tell you who recommended you, was.

Pressing your keycard to the door, you absentmindedly touch the necklace you always wear and wonder for the second time in as many days if John was the reason you're here right now; he knew how you felt about New Orleans. The magical reserves that ran throughout the city were alluring to anyone who practiced the mystic arts.

You and John had spent many nights wandering the streets of the French Quarter, feeling the power flowing through the ancient city center. Even if everything here reminded you of your biggest mistake, it felt good to be back.

You found your suspicions running through your thoughts again. This case was a milk run for you, all the pieces fell into place too easily. All but one; John had made it very clear that he never wished to see you again; the idea of this being his doing after so long made your mind run in circles. It just wouldn’t make sense, but then, John didn’t always make sense. You’d made every attempt to convince yourself this was coincidence, pushing him from your mind as you have for so long.

Your charm and skill helped to secure work in an industry that couldn’t exactly advertise, thus you typically weren’t between jobs for very long, you knew these were facts. Perhaps you only thought it was him because of the flooding memories that came along with this city. You could have said no if you really wanted to, but you couldn't pass up the chance to visit your favorite place once again, even if this did smell like John's handiwork.

Ceasing all thoughts of the british bastard, you drop your bags and crash tiredly onto the pillow top mattress in your room. You lay there for just a moment and enjoy the cloud-like softness of the bedding. Taking a deep breath, you roll onto one side, propping your head up on your arm. Your rumbling stomach reminds you that food is necessary to live and you’ve consumed none. The humidity from outside still clings to you like a second skin so a shower is also on the menu. With a groan, you push yourself up the rest of the way. You reach for the phone and order a burger along with two bottles of local beer. Happily, you charge it to your room and gather your things to take a shower while waiting.

The elegance of the marble bathroom pleases you as flip the lights and survey the room.. A large whirlpool tub sits in the center of the room with an ornate glass shower to the left and a separate door to the right. You turn on the hot water to let the steam fill the room while you shrug off your clothes. The water soothes your tired body and while you wash off the grime of the day, you lean against the wet tiles to savor the relaxation of the moment.

Eventually you feel the hot water start to cool and figure your food should be arriving at any minute. After decidedly turning off the water, you reach for a fluffy, white towel and begin to methodically dry yourself off. As you step out of the bathroom, wrapped in a lovely plush robe, you hear footsteps and three sharp knocks. Right on time. Without another thought, you unlatch the door and throw it open.

Leaning against your doorframe, half cloaked in shadow, is a shock of messy blonde hair attached to a lanky male figure. The strong scent of cigarette smoke assaults you before you have a chance to drag your gaze up and meet coffee colored eyes that give you no hint of his intentions.

“Hello darling, I was hoping we could have a chat.”

It takes you a second longer than you know it should to fully process that the man who left you crying in a London airport two years ago, with nothing but a silly piece of jewelry and a broken heart is now leaning only a few inches from where you stand. Clad only in your hotel robe and rising anger, you realize that you should have known there’s no such things as coincidences.

Without waiting for permission, John Constantine pushes past you into the room and you slam the door behind him. Words fall out of your mouth before you have time to fully process them.

“Excuse me! You can’t just- ” His leisurely presence frustrates you further, causing you trip over what you're trying to say. The bastard is entirely too relaxed given what's happened between you. You attempt to take a steadying breath before unclenching your jaw and trying again. “Constantine, what are you doing here?”

John narrows his eyes slightly at the formality of his last name but wisely says nothing about it. Instead, he lowers his hands in a placating gesture and takes a step toward you.

"You have every right to want to kick me out the bloody door but I’m hoping to appeal to your sense of decency. I need a favor and believe it or not, you’re the only one I trust.”

You sharply exhale in disbelief but John continues, undeterred.

"I know what I said to you." He says slowly. "I know how bloody awful it all was. I had my reasons, but believe me luv, I wouldn’t be here right now if there was any other way. I know what it did to you when--”

You cut him off, quick and angry, before the logical side of your brain can reign you in. "When you left? You have no idea what it did to me!"

“I know, I'm… listen” he says, his voice low and determined. “I have a chance, a small one, to break into hell. There's just a few missing pieces. I had to hope that you’d hear me out to start and that with any luck, you kept that necklace I gave you.” He looks at you with mild incredulity once he sees it and flashes a crooked smile that you’re frustrated to find still makes you swoon.

You look at him for a moment, mindlessly your hand moves to touch the small pearlescent stone sitting between your collarbones. “Yes, I kept it.” your voice soft, barely above a whisper. You thoughts are swirling. Did he think you would have thrown it away? So many times you thought that you should have but every time you hovered the necklace above the trash, you just couldn't. You hated that you couldn’t. Why couldn’t you throw away a stupid piece of jewelry when he so easily threw you away?

"Sweetheart, if I could just,” his pause is all the incentive you need to cut in, this time your voice is more controlled than before but barely restraining the anger you feel.

“No. It's been two years. Two goddamn years Constantine.”

“John.” He says softly, leaning against an armchair, hands shoved in his pockets. “Come on, luv. It’s John. Don’t be like that, don’t be so cold ay?”

“Are you serious?” You scoff, folding your arms defensively against your chest. Memories of the last time you were with him surge forward unbidden, from the safe you’ve locked them away in and damn it, you can feel your eyes prick with tears at the edges. This is not happening. In the countless scenarios you’d thought of in the months following John leaving you, this was not how your fantasies of confrontation had gone.

"You broke my heart and didn't give a damn about it! Two years, John! For two years I've tried to push the thought of you out of my head because every time I couldn't, it'd break all over again! I hated you for what you did to me in that airport. HATED YOU. I hated you and I hated myself for still hoping you'd come back to me. God. John, I stopped hoping. I had to, but here you are, and what did you expect? I'd forget it all? That's not fair. You can't just... come back."

John casts his eyes away from you but says nothing. It seems you struck a nerve. Good.

“So yeah,” you laugh, “I get to be as cold as I damn well please. In fact, you’re lucky I haven’t hexed your ass yet. You know I damn well could.”

John folds his arms across his chest, defense mechanism mirroring yours. "I do, but I’m trusting that you won’t. You're a better person than I am, always have been.”

The intensity you find when you meet his dark eyes has an uncomfortable vulnerability but you refuse to turn away. “Just hear me out luv, and if after I’m done you still want to throw a curse at me? Fine. I deserve worse.”

John focuses on your face then and you feel shaken by what he's just said. When he speaks again, his voice is low and thick with an emotion you can't place. “You might think I’m an absolute bastard for what happened between us, but there are things out there that want to destroy me daily, and the people I care about tend to wind up dead or worse because of it. What do you think I would have done...” he stops and holds out a hand to you. It takes every ounce of your self control not to cross the few feet between you and take it. He slowly closes it and withdraws.

“You know the life I lead, you knew all the rubbish when you asked and I agreed to teach you.” The Brit laughs bitterly and drags that hand across his face. “ I prefer to walk this path alone and with good reason. I am sorry that I hurt you but I’m bloody well not apologizing for my reasons. If you’re going to hate me, hate me, but at least you’re still breathing.”

A brief knock at the door completely derails your shock and confusion at his words and you tear your eyes from his, remembering the food you ordered. "Shit. Room service. I’m not hungry anymore but it’s paid for so…”

After a moment, John strides to the door and opens it; his previous uncertainty replaced with a cocky grin. “Ello squire,” you hear him say as you grab clothes and head back into the bathroom.

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

Your mind is racing as you slip a fitted tee over your head and pull on your jeans. One thing runs through your head over and over. What do you think I would’ve done? John didn’t often let words that hadn’t meant to be said out loud slip, but this time, you believed, he did. The thought of him reciprocating feelings, still, as he once had made your heart palpitate and left your stomach in knots. You couldn’t get your hopes up, you couldn’t think that way… but it was so hard not to.

Your hands are shaking slightly as you zip up your boots and you mentally curse yourself for letting him get under your skin like this, again. You knew you’d run into John eventually. This was a small line of work. You were both known in the same circles and had many of the same contacts. But you told yourself that when the day finally arrived and you crossed paths with him, you’d be prepared. Your abilities continued to grow without him and you’d have no problem showing John that his absence had had zero effect on your life.

But you weren’t. You weren’t prepared at all, not for this. This was an uneven footing on already rocky ground. Feelings you thought long buried were clawing their way to the surface faster than you could stop them. So much for moving on.

You want to be furious with John. Furious that he has the audacity to show his face here and ask for your help. Furious that there was obviously a bigger reason that he sent you away and he hadn’t trusted that you could handle it and furious that he thought that an explanation so simple was enough.

Yet you aren’t. You’re furious with yourself. Furious that after you had gotten over your initial shock, you were relieved to see John was safe and whole. Furious that he still had the power to disarm you with that crooked smile and make your heart skip when he said your name. Worst of all, you realize, you’re furious that you still love him. And in the end, you know that despite what he put you through- no matter what it is that John needs or what it will inevitably cost you, you're going to help him.

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