#fruits for the fruit month as the sayin' goes

[gumibuki]

Some Vidow from @amanitacurses' Bad End AU!

Thank you for the request, I hope I did em some justice (>'-'<)

[blackbutlerfandomnerddomain]

Autumn Air, Season Fair

The cold autumn air catches the noses and fingers of many as the leafs, dead and colorful, fall to the waters and ground of dried grass. Stone walls are cold and standing still. It's peaceful and quiet.

"WHAT?!"

Well almost-

"Young Master, what are you sayin???" Barked Bard, his blue eyes widen in shock as the other four servants are the same expression. Ciel sits at a chair drinking his tea as he looks at them unphased, "I'm saying you lot are free to marry. It's a silly rule that the master controls what his servants want. You four deserve someone to care for."

The news came a shock to the four, each one different than the other, who simply came over to help clean up the manor that was left untouched for a while and now are told they are free to marry if they so wish?!

Before more protest happen, the sound from down stairs catches their ears.

Ciel's lone eye widen. "She did not-" He stands fast and hurries out the room with the servants following after.

And what a sight to behold!

There in the mansion's entrance hall is Doll and Soma side by side giving away bowls of soup and plates of bread to many children of all sizes and ages and shapes, dirty and clean, a smile full of pearly whites and missing gaps, loud chatter and children squeals erupting as it goes on.

The Earl grabbed the stair rail and called out in a beckon of a mighty voice, "What have I told you about doing things without asking me first, Doll!?" The brunette turned and looked up at him, instantly her freckles face once so cherry turns so sour and cold she looks nearly sick. "Last I check you're just a boy not the blood Queen!" Ciel's eyebrow twitch hard in annoyance as he feels a fire burning in his chest in high volume.

Sebastian was luckily there to calm him before he dare pops off like a kettle screaming for tea, "Miss Doll, Prince Soma, as much as the young master and I are grateful for your actions we do need some sort of warning before hand to help prepare." Soma, who has no adopted a more mature sense of fashion, who's golden eyes of beauty has no recently finally brighten back in light after the lose of his dear friend and butler Agni, turned to Ciel and smile. No longer does he cling onto the boy while talking loudly, he is a mature man now after all, "Sorry about that, just that Doll was telling me about the F.O.L. Orphanage and I just felt they deserved some food with some of my new friends!" Said he in joy.

Doll smiles to the prince but looks back to Ciel and gave him a stick of her tongue.

"Find a ground to stand with her" he says, "It'll be easy" he said... Ciel grimace when staring at the street of London to the very brunette he's been having issue dealing with for the last month. Easy my bloody ass! She is an absolute terrible lady!

He cringes from all the examples he can name the times she was indecent. The way she so casual tried to strip him nude on their first day together. The fact she made him feel her chest. The many times she swore out a word that makes even a sailor of the army blush mad like a virgin in a brothel. The way she ate like a starved piglet in a barn. Her walking around so freely in bloomers and top. Her constant disrespect to the very Earl who has let her live in his manor since the very end of reopening old wounds!

From the distance stands Lizzie who simply sighs in pout, "Honestly, this outing was meant for fun not so people can glare at each other with wire shut jaws."

Not far from her are stalls of fruit where Finny walks rather simple with a hum of his lips. The gardener reached out to a cart of apples and accidentally brushed the hand of another. He jumps and looks to the figure. "I'm sorry-" He stops when he sees who it is, a petite woman with long curly dark brown hair dressed in a red gown with white lace, her eyes big and a beautiful shade of light brown, her skin a warm flush of a darker tone. "Lo siento, ¿puedo ver las manzanas?" Her voice was sweet, like warm honey.

Finny blinks fast as he tries to process what she said. "She apologize and asked if she would like to see the apples Finny." Said Sebastian from behind. He jumped back as he stammers, "O-Oh of course!" The girl giggles, causing the poor boy to blush, and looks at the stall. His green eyes instantly flash to Sebastian, "You understand what she said Sebastian?" The butler chuckles, "Yes. It's quiet easy." "U-Um could you maybe ask her her name?"

Sebastian thought for a moment before going to the woman and the two talk, "Mi amigo pregunta por tu nombre." "¿El rubio?" "Si." The woman look at Finny and smiles bashfully before speaking, "Mi nombre es Valentina, acabo de llegar de Puerto Rico." "Puerto Rico, eso está lejos."

Finny waited patiently until his much older friend comes back, "She says her name is Valentina. She's from Puerto Rico." The blond tilted his head. "Puerto Rico? Where's that?" "It's just by America, between the Caribbean Sea and the North Atlantic Sea." His green eyes shine in wonder, pausing when Sebastian handed him a paper as the girl walks away, "She has also inform me she works as a maid from a family of a singer, and if you would like you can see a show coming up and see Valentina again." Sebastian's poor ears weren't ready for the level of excitement bawl that Finny's voice created upon hearing that and his many many "Yes of course"s.

From the side lines Lizzie giggles upon watching the scene, her spot seated between Paula and Mey-Rin who sits enjoying the air. "Looks like Finnian might've been nipped by Cupid." She giggles, the two maids giggling along side her. Suddenly, the girl with pig tails turned her head fast to Mey-Rin, "What about you? Do you think you might fall in love?" The way Mey-Rin blushed you could've sworn her face morphed into her hair so fast. With a crack of her pitch and stutters galore she croaked, "O-Oh my- I-I never really believed I would, no I didn't! I'm no where near are pretty as you Lady Elizabeth, no I'm not!" Lizzie pouts, "Don't say that Mey-Rin, you're very pretty!"

The conversation was soon interrupted with Ciel walking over with a angry look on his face, his face flustered and puffy in emotion. "What happened young master?" Asked his maid in worry before glancing behind him with Doll who walks pass purposely kicking his leg as she does.

Doll sits on the floor of her new room, knees held tight to her chest as she dressed in only her undergarments and soft wool grey socks, her eye puffy and damp while her nose is wrinkled and snotty. It doesn't take a genius to show she has been feeling distress lately, in fact it increased since February of this year. That night was a lot like this one, nippy and cold, cold enough to reveal your breath, and much like that night she feels so...empty.

Yes, she has the orphans who care for her and she cares for them. Yes, she made fast friends with Lady Elizabeth Prince Soma and Alois Trancy. And yes, she still has Snake. But nothing truly shapes the feeling of whole again as back then...

Back when she was young and free from all the pains of life throws at you with each inch you grow. Back when she could run bare footed across the grass and creeks. Back when the very aches of growing up never affected her. Back when it was just her in that work house with the other children and her family...the only ones who could understand her fully.

Numb, Doll slowly grabbed forth a sheet from the best she was resting against and lazily wrapped it around her frame as she stands upright like a puppet being pulled up by a string. Cold, she slowly made her way to the bedroom window as voices speak forth her hearing, "Come on Doll, let's play!" Her shaking fingers unlatched the hook of the window and slowly pushed it open, her face instantly chilling with the effects of a gush of the wind and the scent of dirt and dried plants that carry through the wind.

As water begin to flow in the corners of her eyes, Doll looked to the grey sky to see her family eagerly waiting for her to join them, open eyes and bright smiles. She doesn't see them in those outfits the circus made nor does she see them as the dirty children she met them as, but as the real them all happy and good. Peter and Wendy are bigger and looked their age, Beast, Dagger, and Joker all have their missing limbs healed, No blood no scars no burns no pain just them...

For a very small moment she felt guilt build, guilt of making them wait for so long and so the quick image of the white roses being splattered red when her head hits the ground, and as quickly as it came the guilt disappeared as she carefully reached a hand out. Out the window to the sky. Out reaching for the family she longs for more than anything in the world. Preying to be set free from this cage of misery and leave this pained empty body behind with all it's cracks and cob webs of trapped wonders.

Suddenly, there's a knock at the door and the door opens.

Doll turned her head to see Ciel stepping into the room with a shy expression. "I'm sorry to intrude this afternoon Doll, I simply have something." Curiosity arose within her tender chest as he stepped closer. Soon Ciel presented what he apparently came by to show, a box of many candy goods of colorful wrappings and ribbons, a familiar shadow of a bunny catching her eye as her nose catches the scent of sweet. Ciel looked away from her undressed self as he spoke in a soft tone, "Erm... I figured you'd like this since you talked about them back then. I just finished giving Alois some products as well so it isn't like you were the soul gifter so..."

As her gentle hands slowly took the box, her heart felt light. He...remembers...All this time... With a soft smile she carefully knelt down to his height more in a scooped dip and lightly kisses his cheek and whispered, "Thank you Smile. They're lovely..."

As the seasons change so does everything else.

Church bells ring out and echos across the sky as large doors opened to show a blond lad dressed all nice and formal beside a beautiful girl in a white gown and a bouquet of lilies and sunflowers, both matching in tears in eyes and bright smiles. No one was the least surprised when Finny and Valentina, his new apple of his eye, were getting married. The two simply just had that strong bond authors can call "love-at-first-sight". Finny has long sense grew to learn her language as she does the same back, even learning some German, and the two haven't dare not speak or see each other since that one concert he was so graciously invited to.

As the two ran off the steps of the chapel, their friends toss rice and flower petals in their way until they made it to the horse drawn carriage, many smiles were tossed and gifted and given back as cheers echo out the crowds. Valentina stops once she gets to the carriage's step and throws her flowers in the air with a smile. Many eyes were on the bouquet and watched as it falls into the hands of Mey-Rin who quickly blushes as her friends cheer. "You know the rule Mey-Rin!" Called out Bard as he chuckles.

As the air grows a touch warmer and less harsh, new chapters have continued to grow.

"Are you serious??" Bard's voice echoed the Midford manor as his eyes grow misty and fast as he stands before his beautiful wife Paula who smiles back. "Yes, I am." She said as she rubs her stomach. The chef and maid have recently tied the knot after much back and forth fluttering lashes and beating hearts of will they, won't they hell everyone witness.

Bard quickly scooped his wife in his arms and spun around. "I'm gonna be a father!" The two laughed as the summer sun shimmers in the air.

Across the way of the forest by a stream of cold water, pass the trees and right pass the beautiful green grass that shine under the sun and flow in the wind, is a wooden swing and a picnic blanket where three people laze about in each other's company. Different shades of blues and different tones of skin mix together as soft kisses come from each lips. Ciel hummed at the taste of honey and peaches from one and strawberries and cream from the other as he laid on the blanket simple minded in calm and peace.

Their bodies have molded and grown over time like clay dolls being shaped by life's invisible hands. No longer are they boys and a girl but a woman and two men.

As many seasons change, so does the people.

As a smooth fire burns it's heart out in the fire place, a shadow of a man walks back and forth across the carpet. In the room with him are many faces of different forms dressed in different colors and styles like a odd box of paints.

Suddenly, a loud scream of a female echoes the hall, causing a lot of people to pause and some to shutter. "I somehow feel the urge to apologize to my mother giving birth to me..." Mumbled Alois as his face pales.

A figure dressed in red look to the pacing man and softly tap him with the tip of a boot and sooth of a voice, "Due calm down Will, she's a tough girl I'll have to remind you."

Since the first spring after the Earl of Phantomhive's 15th birthday celebration, it seems demons, angels, and even reapers have found some sort of common ground. Buried the hatchet some human mortals say. Since then on a very important call some reapers would come by and help on cases much like how Undertaker had before the incidences. And since then a certain stern reaper fell in love and courted a lovely assassin turned maid who accepts his ways and the fact he's a reaper.

Another scream happens which resulted in William running down the halls faster than a very breath, cold sweat fall from his forehead as he reached the room he was searching for. With a hot chest and cold stomach he grabbed hold the knob of the door and swung it open. He blinks as he felt his knees grow weak faster than a melting ice block in the summer heat and sun and his eyes burned with tears as he stared at the bed where his tired dove rests with a freshly cleaned and coddled infant laid gently in her arms crying as tears stream her red face.

After a moment, people came into the room after him to see the scene and quickly offer their congratulations.

William fell to his knees the moment he reached to Mey Rin, tears staining his cheeks like a form of fashion, his finger slowly reach out to the small pink being in soft fabric crying their little lungs out to the world. "My nose...they have my nose..." He chocked when a small hand grabbed hold of his finger and squeezes, his body shaking with this whirl-wind of emotions invading his body. Paula whipped a tear from her eye as she speaks up, "Do you have a name planned for him?" The reaper sniff when hearing the gender. His son, his little boy.

"Xiu and Bella and Brair seemed to have tuckered themselves out."

Indeed, three children lay on the floor of the Midford manor's play room all cuddled together, crayons and papers scattered around, each dressed in their finest little ruffles and ribbons of style like precious gems they are to many, two of them wear a form of glasses perched perfectly on their noses or dangling halfway off their sweet adorable faces and the two are one with soft lavender curls and dark skin while the other is dark hair of ebony black and softer flush pale skin.

The three children's parents smile and softly gathered their respect child into their arms, Hannah and Mey Rin having to silence their giggles as they trade glasses. Sebastian stands tall and softly rubs the back of Bella, admiring how small she is in his arms.

As the rain falls to the window and the soft wind howls, he began to walk down the halls and sing so softly as warmth covers his heart, "Hush little baby don't say a word, papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won't sing, papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring turns brass, papa's gonna buy you a looking glass..."

"And if that looking glass gets broke, mama's gonna buy you a billy goat..."

Sebastian smiled at the sweeter voice that joins his tune as he undoes the ribbon tangled in Bella's dark hair. As both he and Lizzie sing they help each other get their little princess to bed. "And if that billy goat won't pull, papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull. And if that cart and bull fall down, you'll still be the sweetest little baby in town..."

Lizzie leaned down after the covers of silk consumed the small girl and lightly pressed a kissed upon her head. As she rises Sebastian leans down and mimics the motion, but stays still as he whispers, "You have no idea, my dear, but I will do all those things and more if you so wish it...My dear light of my darkness."

This is yet another prequel of my two previous fics:

1-

2-

This fic is still dedicated to @annoyinglyshinycherryblossom, @sebalizzie, @nullb1rdbones, and now @onehellofashadynerd and @docmartensanddietcoke

[gingerwritess]

"Person A is pregnant but finds out just before Person B has to gone on a six month long trip. When Person B returns Person A surprises them with their growing baby bump hilarity and confusion ensues" Maybe this one for Elliot and dad!Loki? have a great day sweetcheeks

combined with this request from @mylovelycrazyworld

summary: well…Elliot wanted a sibling. it’s about time he got one.

warnings: pregnancy stuff, a tiny hint of angst, missing Loki, fluff, and lots of Elliot silliness

a/n: FIRST OF ALL I AM SO PROUD OF THIS so i hope you e n j o y

sorry, second, i got waaay too carried away with this and suddenly its like a part of a wholeass story and yeah we’re gonna move this little storyline right along.

third i accidentally posted this before it was done a couple weeks ago so if you read it that time, i’m so sorry, this one is done and much better.

i’m also so sorry i’ve been gone lately. it’s been a crazy hectic last couple weeks so i haven’t had much time to sit down and finish writing anything! thanks for sticking around :)

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

Of course Loki had to leave this week, of all weeks.

Elliot’s taking the separation fairly well; Loki had left for Asgard with a kiss on the forehead, a tight hug, and a pretty serious request.

“You’ll take care of your mother for me while I’m away, won’t you?”

The little boy had promised, naturally, trying to look as serious and grown-up as he could, and even offered his hand to Loki for a handshake when he went in for a hug goodbye. Loki’s jaw had dropped in shock; then he pushed Elliot’s hand out of the way and swooped him up laughing into his arms for a tight, chaotic, firm hug.

So now you have a protective five year old fussing over you all day long, which is honestly worse than having a protective 1000+ year old fussing over you. He tries to do everything he sees Loki doing, everything he’s supposed to do to “take care of his mother:” like holding your hand in every possible situation, running up behind you and hugging the back of your legs, he’s even kissed your forehead at one point.

Loki’s trained him well.

But morning four of Loki being gone brings an unexpected turn. Elliot has been sleeping in your bed with you, wanting to keep you company—but mostly just missing the clone that Loki normally lets Elliot cuddle up with every night. This Tuesday morning, he’s laying across your stomach, happily sucking a thumb and drooling onto your shirt—well, technically it’s Loki’s.

It would’ve been nice to wake up and see his chubby little face all squished up with sleep, but you’re brutally shaken from your rest by a lurching stomach—you’re going to throw up, right now. You try to push Elliot off you as gently as you can, already retching as you shove him one last time, a little harder than you meant to, and he groggily sits up.

“Whasgoin’on?” He rubs the sleep from his eyes, but you’re already sprawled on the tiles in the adjacent bathroom floor, emptying the contents of your stomach into the toilet. “Mom! No, mom, what’s wrong?!”

“S-stay—stay back,” you cough and wave him away just as before another retch doubles you over, chest heaving when it finally simmers down. “Just give me a second, okay? You don’t want to see this, bud.”

“But are you okay? You got really sick!” He rushes up behind you and starts rubbing your back with a cool little hand. “Ew, you smell kinda funny.”

“Gee, thanks, kiddo.”

“I’m just sayin’!” He holds his nose with one hand, using the other to wrap around your waist and lean into your side. “What does dad do to help you when you’re sick?”

You pull yourself up and over to lean back against the wall, trying to catch your breath and running a hand through Elliot’s curls. “Uses his magic stuff to make me feel better…cuddles with me, just like you’re doing.” You smile weakly down at the little boy, and he quickly lays his little hands on your stomach. “No no no, don’t try it, it’s okay! I feel better!”

“Aw, man.” He sadly retracts his sparking hands—thank god—and nestles back into your side. “I’m getting gooder at my magic, ya know. Dad’s teachin’ me real good.”

“I don’t doubt it, Elliot,” you assure him with a light squeeze of a hug. “But you probably shouldn’t test out any of your magic on people, okay?”

He nods seriously, patting your stomach gently. “Good idea. I gotta be careful with your tummy now, too.”

“Don’t worry, buddy, this is just a bug. I’m already feeling better.”

Elliot shakes his head and crawls onto your lap, leaning down to put his ear to your stomach—what in the world? He listens for a moment and suddenly the wheels in your brain start turning: oh my god. This couldn’t mean…?

The little boy sits up again and feels your stomach one more time, focusing hard on something. “Nope, s’not a bug,” he smiles and gives your belly another gentle pat. “It’s just my baby tryna say hi.”

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

Six pregnancy tests later, there’s no doubt about it. How Elliot figured it out before you even had a hunch, you have no idea, but the little piece of plastic drops from your hand when you flop face-first onto the bed, mind swirling.

This isn’t a surprise.

Elliot had asked. Loki and you had talked, agreed; this is what you want. But really, baby?

Now?

Loki doesn’t get back for another four months. Pregnancies are hard; you’re not going to pretend they aren’t, and to not have your husband here to help you through it…this is going to be much different than when you were pregnant with Elliot.

You glance once more at the last test: positive as ever.

Pregnant. Again.

Sighing audibly, you roll over on the bed and grab Loki’s pillow, hugging it to your chest and breathing deeply, eyes drifting shut.

“We’re gonna be fine,” you whisper, your voice serving more to soothe your own racing mind than anything, “we’re gonna have another baby, and we’re gonna be fine.”

You bury your face in the pillow, hugging it tighter. It smells like Loki—heavenly.

That’ll have to do for the next four months.

* * * *

“What does dad wanna name the baby?”

The plastic fork scrapes against Elliot’s plate in grating anticipation of your answer. He’s picking at his lunch; his appetite hasn’t been quite so bottomless with Loki having been gone for so long.

For yours, on the other hand, the exact opposite is true.

“Dad…doesn’t know yet.” You rip another chunk of bread from the entire baguette in your hand and dip it in butter. This baby seems to have an appetite for seven and a particular fondness for carbs.

Wonderful.

“That’s ok,” Elliot nods thoughtfully. “Names are hard to come up with. I think it should be…blueberry! Cause I love blueberries so much and I love my baby—”

“No, no, I meant…” you struggle to swallow your mouthful of bread and hold up a finger. “Dad doesn’t know that we’re having a baby yet.”

“Why not?”

…yeah, that’s a good question. You probably should’ve called Loki a good while ago, when you’d found out you’re expecting—I mean, it’s his kid too.

But telling Loki he’s going to have a second child just seems like something you don’t do over the phone.

“I don’t want to miss his reaction,” you answer honestly, shoving another chunk of baguette in your mouth. “I wanna sh-uprise ‘im when ‘e gets home.”

Translation: I’m terrified.

Elliot eagerly claps his hands together, the fork falling to the table with a clatter. “That’s a good idea!” He squeals, jumping up to run over and climb into your lap, laying his little hands on your belly. “Dad’s gonna be so excited to meet Blueberry, he’s gonna cry—”

“We are not naming this baby after a fruit. Sorry, kiddo.”

* * * *

An agonising two more months pass, lonely and chock-full of horrid cravings, mood swings, aches and pains and puking nearly every single morning…this baby already seems to hate you.

Elliot’s been a little trooper the past four months.

Hugs whenever you need them, plenty of crayon drawings of your family so you “don’t miss dad too much,” peace and quiet when you fall asleep at the table again, even a few attempted breakfasts in bed. He’s been so sweet and helpful when you know he misses his dad more than anything, so today you drag yourself out of bed, throw up once for good measure, and tell him to get ready for an ice cream trip.

Loki was supposed to be home a week ago, but you can’t let yourself think about that.

Driving with your little bump of a belly is starting to get really uncomfortable, but you make it alright to the little ice cream parlour that Elliot claims makes the best cotton candy ice cream of all time.

“I miss my dad,” Elliot pipes up while you’re sitting in silence, a faint bluish tint to his skin due to the coldness of the ice cream. “He shouldn’t hafta leave ever again.”

“Same here, kiddo, I’m sorry.” You lay a hand on your belly and try to give Elliot a reassuring smile. “This little monster misses him too, but they’re just glad that they have an awesome big brother to take care of them!”

That brings a halfhearted smile to the little boy’s face, and he goes back to licking his ice cream cone, watching you with reddish eyes deep in thought.

“Y’know, dad loves you, mom.” Elliot reaches over to take your hand in his tiny, sticky one, much to your surprise. “He loves you a whole lot, I know it, and he’s not gonna be angry that we’re havin’ another baby.”

Your jaw drops.

What the hell??

Your son, who is apparently getting some kind of crazy read on your thoughts right now, leans over the table and plants a sticky blue kiss to the back of your hand—just like he’s seen Loki do countless times. “Don’t be ‘fraid of him, he’s gonna be so super excited.”

Part of you kind of wants to run away screaming, but maybe mothers shouldn’t do that to their children, so you just gape like a dying fish at the strange little mini-Loki in front of you.

“I’m…I uh…” your mouth opens and closes a few times while your brain tries to catch up. “I’m not…I’m not scared of dad, Elliot, what makes you say that?”

You’re not…right?

Elliot licks his ice cream cone again, catching a drip down his arm. “Nah, you’re ‘voiding your ‘sponsibilities.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re scared to tell dad about Blueberry, right? I heard you in my dream, you told me dad was gonna be upset and get scared to have two kids.”

You swallow hard, trying to find the lie in his innocent statement. “But he—no, he won’t be upset, he wants another kid, he told me.”

This kid is ripping you to shreds, covered in blue and pink melted ice cream.

“S’what you told me,” Elliot shrugs. “Said dad’s gonna like one of us better.”

…you’ve got to pee again.

A blessed escape, cause if Elliot says one more word about Loki or this baby, you’re pretty sure your hormonal self is going to break down in tears.

“I’ll—I’ll be right back,” you choke, scooting your chair back with a loud scrape and pulling yourself to your feet. “Are you okay to stay here? I’ll only be a couple minutes right over there, no talking to strangers, you know the rules.”

Elliot nods, looking worried as you swipe at your eyes and set down your cup of ice cream with shaking hands. “You okay, mom?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll be right back,” You mutter and rush off to the bathroom.

You certainly didn’t look fine, but Elliot shrugs to himself and goes back to his ice cream, keeping a wary eye on the other people in the shop.

“Did your mother just leave you out here all alone?”

Elliot spins around in his chair at the voice, dropping his ice cream cone to the floor and bringing his hands up ready to fight whoever is approaching him—Loki’s taught him enough to fend for himself.

But when he whirls around, he immediately lowers his hands and jumps out of his chair—it’s Loki.

“DAD!” Elliot scrambles out of the chair and bolts into Loki’s waiting arms, knocking him over with the force of his hug. “Dad, dad, you’re home! You’re home!!”

“That I am,” Loki laughs, hugging the little boy tightly to his chest. “I missed you so much, Elliot, so much.”

“Hey!” Elliot points a little finger into Loki’s chest, suddenly serious. “Don’t you ever leave us again, ‘kay??”

“Of course, I’m so sorry I had to—”

“Pinky promise??” Elliot shoves his little finger in Loki’s face, and the god chuckles, extending his own to seal the promise.

“Pinky promise. Hopefully.”

Satisfied with the agreement, Elliot jumps off his dad and rushes back to the table, frowning at the sticky mess that’s left of his ice cream on the floor. “You owe me an ice cream, dad, look whatcha made me do.”

“My sincerest apologies, young man,” Loki chuckles, swooping the kid up in his arms for another squirming hug, trying to sneak a few tickling kisses somewhere on his face. “Where is your mother?”

You come out of the bathroom just in time to hear Elliot answer “hidin’ from you, I think,” and you stop dead in the middle of the shop when you see your husband smiling wide and holding Elliot in his arms.

“Elliot! No I’m not!” You shake yourself out of your shocked daze, running over to the two of them and nearly knocking them over when you throw your arms around Loki’s neck.

Immediately setting Elliot back on the ground, Loki breathes your name and draws you into the tightest embrace he can manage, his arms clutching you so close you have to plant your hands on his chest and gently push him away to keep him from hurting your belly.

He doesn’t seem to notice, but Elliot sure does.

Loki’s hands cradle your face as he pulls away and just stares at you for a moment, trying to decide if words could even begin to describe how happy he is to be with you again.

“I missed…oh, come here.”

He laughs with watering eyes and pulls you close, pressing his lips to yours over and over until neither of you can breathe, half laughing, half teary-eyed because he’s here, you’re all here, together finally.

“That was—mmph—too long,” you laugh around Loki’s relentless lips, keeping a hand to his chest to keep him from your baby bump.

Elliot bounces on the balls of his feet, glad to see his parents so happy again, but sticks a hand between you both to cover your belly. “Careful, dad, don’t hurt my b—”

“ELLIOT!” You cut him off with a nervous chuckle, shooting him a pointed look—shh!

The little boy claps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

“What for?” Loki asks with a breathless laugh, his hand cradling the back of your head to keep you pressed against him.

“Nothing, nothing,” you assure him, kissing him again. “Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re home, Loki. Tell us everything!”

He holds you away from him for a moment with his hands on your shoulders, looking you up and down with a dopey grin on his face—you’re really glad you wore a too-big shirt today, it covers your beginning baby bump pretty well.

“You look incredible,” he murmurs, shaking his head in disbelief—he missed you. His eyes fall on your chest and linger for a half a second longer; your breasts seem…bigger than when he left.

Trust me, he would know.

But he shakes it away and pulls up a chair, and the three of you launch into a detailed retelling of everything you’ve missed over the past four months.

“Well, everything went wrong the moment I stepped foot in Asgard.” He leans forward, eager to tell his story. “There had been an attempt on the relics, and rumours of more to come, so we had to—what’s so funny?”

Elliot’s covering his mouth with a sticky hand, desperately trying to muffle the giggle-fit overcoming him as he looks at you: you’re clutching your stomach with an extremely pained grimace, trying to get comfortable in the little metal chair.

“Nothin’…” he snorts and quickly looks away from you when you glare at him. “What happened next, dad?”

“Okay…” Loki shoots you a confused glance and you quickly grin back, trying not to look like there’s a tiny human laying directly on your bladder right now.

How’s that working out for you?

“Are you alright, my love? You look like you’re in pain.”

“Just a stomachache!” Your gritted laughter is nervous but hopefully convincing enough.

“Are you sure? Just tell me, darling, I can disspell the sickness in less than a second—Elliot!” He whirls around in his chair to glare halfheartedly at the little boy giggling again. “Your mother is in pain, why are you smiling??”

“‘Cause I know something you don’t know,” Elliot sings, clapping his hands with glee and wiggling around in his seat. “Mhm, I’ve got a secret, ‘n I’m not tellin’—”

“Elliot. That’s enough.”

You reach over and pull the little guy into your lap, clamping both hands over his mouth and smiling sweetly at your husband—who just looks very confused. And a little worried.

He’s made it pretty clear that there would be no secrets in this little family of yours.

“Our son…has a secret?” Speaking to you, not Elliot, he raises an eyebrow and it’s not exactly amused. “Care to enlighten me, wife?”

“Don’t worry, Loki, it’s not a secret,” you sooth, tapping Elliot’s mouth twice before letting him go again. “It’s more of…a surprise, really.”

Elliot clasps his hand behind his back and rocks forward on his toes, excited eyes darting back and forth between you and Loki.

“I don’t like surprises.”

“But you’re really gonna like this one,” Elliot promises, sending an overly dramatic attempt of a wink your way.

Unbelievable.

Letting out a dismayed groan, you drop your forehead to your hand. “Elliot, please stop…”

Loki crosses his arms, already looking a little on the defensive side with lips tightly pressed together—this is exactly why you didn’t want to tell him. Way to go, kid.

“If you have something to tell me, tell me now.”

“I—can I tell you at home? Later?”

The god sighs, not able to help feeling as if the joy of your reunion had been let out faster than the air in a deflating balloon—now he’s worried, feeling excluded, almost offended.

Secrets. Never a good idea within a family.

“Don’t worry, snowflake,” you chirp with feigned nonchalance. “You’re gonna love this surprise.”

Your fingers cross under the table.

* * * *

Loki doesn’t bring it up the rest of the day.

You’d guessed he would mention it again at least during dinner, try to pry the information from you, but he smiled and listened to Elliot talk about his loose tooth, eating his food apparently unbothered.

Your knee hasn’t stopped nervously bouncing since you sat down.

Maybe he knows? If Elliot felt it, Loki certainly could. The kid’s voice is still echoing through your mind as you get Elliot ready for bed:

“You told me dad was gonna be upset and get scared to have two kids.”

Okay, maybe you’re a little worried that Loki’s past may hinder his enthusiasm for a second child, but you’ve never even admitted to yourself that he would be upset or scared. But the more you think about it, the more sense it makes: he would be terrified.

Favouring one child over another? That would be Loki’s worst nightmare, yet he hadn’t brought that up when Elliot first asked for a sibling. He’d happily agreed to have a second kid, kissing away your concerns…

Hugging your arms around yourself, you stare at his back from the doorway. His hair is lazy, pulled into a mindless knot on the top of his head; he looks relaxed, doing dishes. At peace with his life.

His life with his wife and his one son.

Did he lie to you?

Had he looked you in the eye, said “I want another baby,” and lied?

God of lies, you keep letting yourself forget.

Your mind goes berserk right there in the kitchen, convincing you that he lied to you, that this baby is unwanted, that he only said that he wanted another baby to keep you happy, that no, he didn’t ever want children, he just wanted to fuck you, that everything he’s ever said to you is a lie—

“Your thoughts are deafening, my love.”

You jump with a start as his voice interrupts your destructive train of thought. “Were you listening?” You immediately ask, voice venomous. “Loki, did you listen?”

He turns around and dries off his hands, leaning back against the counter with a sad smile. “Of course not, out of respect for your secret. I trust you to tell me.”

You stare at him, unmoving and unsure, and he pushes himself away from the counter to take a few tentative steps toward you. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs, sensing your troubled mind. “You need rest, then you can tell me this secret when you are ready.”

Nodding slowly, you let him take your hand and lead you to the bedroom, keeping your mouth firmly shut. He shuts the door behind you and you walk straight to the bed, laying down and turning your back on him to avoid this as long as possible.

“Don’t you want to change first?” Loki laughs, and the mattress dips as he climbs on next to you, laying right against your body and pulling you back into him. “Those pants can’t be comfortable, let me get them off of you.”

You shake your head—horny, lying bastard.

“…would you like me to draw you a bath?” He’s trying a gentler approach now, noticing your apprehension and holding you closer.

Another shake of the head.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

Your hand subconsciously falls to your little baby bump, but Loki’s follows right after to cover your own hand with his.

You’re sick of this—just tell him.

You slip your hand out from under his, grab his wrist, and press it to your belly. His breath catches in his throat, you can hear it, and his cold hand gently runs across the swell of your stomach.

“What is this?”

Just say it.

“I’m pregnant.”

He sits straight up behind you and you screw your eyes shut—he’s going to leave now, right?

But he doesn’t leave; instead cold hands grip your waist and pull you onto your back, catching the hem of your shirt and promptly ripping it from your body.

“Loki!”

He looms over you, knees on either side of your body as he stares down at you. His eyes are wide and a distracted hand rubs over his mouth, trying to process this.

“How long have you known?” His voice is barely a breath.

“…four months.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

The hurt on his beautiful face is a sucker punch to the gut—you idiot, of course he wouldn’t be upset. This is Loki we’re talking about, your husband, the father of your child—children.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologise quietly, avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t…I thought you-you would be upset.”

He breathes a laugh and carefully runs his fingertips down your sides, trying to memorise the sight of you carrying his child…again.

“Why would I ever be upset, my love? I can’t believe you’re this pregnant and you didn’t tell me—”

“Elliot said something,” you anxiously cut him off. “It was stupid, really, I’m stupid for believing it…” you take a breath and ramble on. “He said he had a dream you got upset about having two kids cause you might like one more than the other.”

Loki pauses his kissing down your torso, freezing with his hand splayed across your baby bump. “How did he…”

“I dunno. He was freaking me out, Loki, he started telling me things I wasn’t even thinking yet.”

“That’s my boy,” the god laughs, resting his forehead on your stomach as your brow knits in concern.

Carding your fingers through his hair, you nudge Loki’s head up to look at you. “This doesn’t worry you?”

“Our son turns blue when he touches something cold.” He presses his lips to your stomach again, eyes tightly shut. “I’m afraid your family isn’t exactly the epitome of human normalcy.”

“Yeah, but Loki, was he right?”

“That I’m scared?” He trails his lips up your baby bump, over your chest and coming to rest firmly over your mouth. “My love…I am terrified.”

“Oh.”

Your arms wind around his neck and pull him back down to your lips—maybe if you keep kissing him, he won’t be able to see the disappointment in your eyes.

It works for a little bit, and you nearly lose yourself completely when he starts gently nipping at your lips and moving to tend to your neck; he’s making you drunk on him with the flip of a switch.

It’s too easy for him.

“Loki.” Your hands curl tighter in his hair.

“Hmm.”

“Then why did you tell me you wanted another kid?”

The god pauses, moving from your collarbone back to your face to frown down at you. His fingers are cold along your jaw. “Because I do want another kid.”

“But you’re terrified.”

“And you’re not?”

That makes your mouth snap shut, eyes darting around the room to avoid his piercing gaze. Of course you’re nervous, it’s not like you have any better ideas of how to raise a child—and you’re the one carrying it, for god’s sake.

“I don’t think I need to say more.” Loki smiles, soft and edging closer to the sad end of the spectrum. “I’m always scared. Of you, of my son…and now my second child.”

You still can’t look at him. Shame, maybe.

“I’m terrified of you, did you know that?” He’s kissing you again, lazy lips soft along the outline of your own, up and down your jaw. “Terrified of you, our future, our children. I could lose you in seconds.”

“That’s optimistic.” You try for a cracked smile.

Cool lips meet yours, firm as his hand traces over your baby bump. “It’s realistic, actually. Keeps me honest with myself.”

“We’re not leaving you, if that’s what you’re scared of.”

“But I don’t deserve for you to stay.”

Here we go again.

“Why do you always do this??” You force a playful smile onto your face and sit up, a hand on Loki’s chest pushing him off of you onto the bed. “There you go hating yourself again, sheesh.”

Grateful for the change in subject, you roll over halfway on top of him and mold your lips to his—his, parted slightly in surprise. Your hands cradle his face, stroking through his hair and over his cheekbones as you pour every ounce of adoration you possess for him into the kiss.

Then it really clicks, just how much you missed him.

Maybe that’s why you feel this…disconnect.

Within seconds his shirt is off too, your hands scouring every inch of his skin you can reach, Loki’s breathing becoming shallower as he fumbles with belts and tries to hold your face to his at the same time.

“Missed you,” he whispers hoarsely, giving up on the belt and falling into you, shaking hands holding your neck and waist in a death grip. “My family, I missed you both, and this new one—”

His voice cracks and he moves down, littering every inch of you with kisses that come to rest on the swell of your stomach as his hands hold tight to your hips.

“I’m beyond excited.” It’s nothing more than a whisper. “Terrified, scared out of my mind, but I am so, so happy our family is growing.”

“You sure?” You tangle your fingers in his hair and tip his head up to smile down at him.

“Do I need to prove it?”

God, you missed him.

You grab hold of his face and pull him up, smashing your lips to his.  “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

So he does.

At least, he tries, until a yell for dad echoes down the hall.

“Good to see nothing has changed,” Loki sighs, pressing one last kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Don’t you go anywhere, we’re not done here.”

You throw a pillow at him with a laugh as he winks and slips out the door.

Elliot is awake, as expected, sitting in his bed clutching the blankets to his chest, a strangely bright smile on his little face. “Hey dad!”

Loki raises an eyebrow. “Hey…”

“You awake?”

“I am now, clearly.” He sits on the edge of the bed and plants a kiss on the top of Elliot’s head. “Why did you call for me?”

The little boy shrugs. “Just wonderin’.”

“…if I was awake?”

“Yup.”

They stare at each other for a second—

—Loki confused and battling with the fact that he just had to leave you on the bed to come take care of this kid, and Elliot scrunching his nose up in the biggest grin at his dad, just happy to see him.

“I’m…going to go back to bed now.” Loki points at the door, giving his son a strange look. “Unless you have literally anything else to tell me? Redeem my coming in here?”

“Nope!” Elliot throws his arms out in a request for a hug.

…that Loki all too happily delivers.

“Oh! Did mom tell you the secret yet?” He whispers, squeezing Loki tighter with arms thrown around his neck.

“She did,” Loki chuckles. “Are you excited?”

“I can’t wait! We’re gonna be bestest friends and I’m naming it Blueberry cause I love blueberries and I love my baby so I’m gonna—”

“Blueberry??”

“Yeah!”

Loki shakes his head with a laugh. “Blueberry Lokason. A name for the ages, without a doubt.”

Elliot beams at his father’s approval and Loki ruffles a hand through his curly hair. “Come on, go to sleep. You shouldn’t be awake right now.”

“Well you guys woke me up…” he grumbles, flopping down on his pillow.

Not again. Loki freezes, face twisting in worry—you hadn’t even started. If that was too loud, then by the end of the night the whole neighbourhood is going to be awake. “Were we being too loud?”

“Nah.” A little smile spreads over the kid’s face. “Mom’s just happy, real happy, and it woke me up.”

“You…you can feel that?”

“Yup. Just like you.” He nuzzles deeper into his pillow. “Thought’ya might wanna know, dad, ‘case you forgot.”

With a face as precious as that, Loki doesn’t have the heart to tell him that’s not just like him…that’s not exactly how his access to the mind works, but the last thing Elliot needs is another reason to believe he’s unusual.

“In case I forgot what, Elliot?” He smiles and kisses the boy’s forehead, running a hand through his hair.

“How to tell when mom’s happy!” He opens his eyes and rolls onto his back, grinning up at Loki. “I almost forgotted too, she’s been sad so long. S’why I woke up!”

“Well.” Loki’s heart twists painfully in his chest. “Thank you. I think I remember now.”

“I gotcha covered, daddy.”

“Go to sleep, little giant.”

* * * * * * * *

The walk down the hall back to the room leaves Loki wondering.

He…felt it.

The kid could tell you were pregnant before you even knew, he could tell that you were nervous to tell Loki, he knew that Loki was scared before he’d admitted it to you…now he felt that you were happy? Strong enough to wake him up?

Apparently Elliot can do a lot more than just turn blue.

The thought of that is terrifying.

All Loki can think of as his hand rests hesitantly on the doorknob is what he’s done. What he’s passed on to this child, unwillingly taking another life down with his own curses.

Elliot’s life is going to be full of pain, if this is what he is capable of. It’s bad enough that he has no control over the shifting of his skin, no thanks to the fruitless attempts Loki has made to figure out how to help him, but now…

Loki starts when you open the door.

“What’d he need?”

You’re smiling—happy, Loki can tell this time. He silently thanks Elliot for the reminder.

“A hug.” He quickly smiles back. “Wanted to know if I was awake…the usual midnight Elliot inquiries.”

“Can I get one?”

You hold your arms out and grin, giddy and irresistibly bright, and Loki steps forward to sweep you into his arms.

“I’ll give you a bit extra, too,” he chuckles, peppering your neck with light kisses as he walks you backward towards the bed. Your knees hit the edge and you fall onto the mattress, grabbing him behind the neck to bring him down with you.

An arm by your head to keep him hovering over you, Loki pauses, just smiling down at you as a few lingering laughs leave your lips.

“Are you happy, my love?”

Cold fingers run down your cheek and he leans down, brushing his lips against yours.

“Of course I am,” you mumble, tangling your fingers in his hair to keep him close. “You’re home, I’ve got the best little kid sleeping down the hall, and we’ve got another one on the way.” Another peck on the lips. “I’m way past happy, snowflake.”

“Good,” he whispers, and decides that’s going to be enough for him.

That’ll be enough for all four of you.

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

hope you enjoyed, feel free to send me ideas!

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[boogiewrites]

Mae Flowers Chapter 5

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Mae LeBlanc (OFC)

Summary: A modern, magical Alfie Solomons AU.

Warnings/Tags: Language.Magic/Supernatural. Soul mates.Some domestic fluff, getting to know you stage. Talk of the unknown. 

Click on my screenname then go to Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.)

When she woke to a warm spring morning, Mae was thankful she didn’t have puffy eyes or a headache from crying the night before. She’d sobbed hard, sadness surging from an uncontrolled well of emotion that had always been within her. She was a sensitive soul she’d been told before, both in the form of compliments and insults. Being sad that people weren’t nice to her when she always went into interactions with a good heart wasn’t something new to bring her down. But she’d had something to make the roller coaster of let down shoot back up suddenly and she was caught off guard. A nice man to be kind and take care of her after the rest of the world seemed to be against her all day. It was too much for her still fragile heart to handle and despite being less sad, but mostly confused and uncertain, she cried again. She hated crying in front of others, she quickly became overwhelmed with thoughts of being less than and looking down on her for not controlling herself.

But she hadn’t felt that last night. No, she felt seen and heard. She had someone to look her in the eyes and tell her her feelings were valid, that crying was healthy and being able to feel so deeply was a gift and not a burden. Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t woken up feeling an emotional hangover like she had every other time she’d cried. Things were already proving Alfie right with how they would work better together than apart. Luckily, she had just woken up and therefore didn’t have the capacity to think about that at the moment. Right now all she was really focused on was having to pee.

Alfie sees her scuttle the short distance between her room and the bathroom in her slippers and pajamas. Little shorts and a tank, all her softness wobbling with a sleepy shuffle of her small feet. He grinned, a small huff of amusement for the little fluffy goblin scuttling around her own house.  He hears the click of the bathroom door as it opens and calls out to her, “Breakfasts almost ready. Ya in?” his neck stretches in her direction, head tilted to hear her muffled reply in the affirmative.

She entered the kitchen, hand disappearing into her bed head curls to mindlessly scratch as she yawned. “Smells good.” she approves, a sniff and a heavy-footed saunter over to the round kitchen table.

“Fanks.” he mutters, multitasking with pans and spatula. “‘Mornin’ luv. Ya slept well I take it? Didn’t a hear a peep all night.” He could’ve said my dreams were as smooth and clear as a moonless night’s reflection atop a lake. A sure sign that she wasn’t bothered in her sleep.

“Yeah.” she nods, her hair bouncing as she did so. She fusses with her hair, pushing it back as he approaches the table. “Oddly enough.”

“Odd will become commonplace soon enough.” a nod and a self-assured tone she hoped to emulate moves out of a barrel chest in his plain white t-shirt. She recalled the shirt from the first time she’d seen him in her dreams. What an odd fact, she muses to herself. Perhaps he was right. “That’s some immense hair ya got there.” he smiles down at her with an affectionate inkling in his eye and tone.

“Thanks?” she gives him a quirked brow as she tilts her head up at him, peeking out from under her mop of half-formed spirals.

“Was a compliment.” he clarifies as she nods and becomes quickly distracted by the food being slid in front of her. “Full English.” he declares, his shoulders hunched as he turns to retrieve his own overflowing plate. A perk of being immortal was he could eat almost anything and everything and not give a second thought to it. He now had an excuse to make the rich comfort foods he missed. He found himself not neglecting but finding comfort in the things of old that made him, him. He had run from the messier human emotions for a long while. He ran from the things that made him human in the first place as well. That entailed disappearing and not emerging until everyone he knew was long dead. It included religion, sex, and human comforts. He was his darkness for long years, but this little sunspot was bringing him back to his old self. The things that made him Alfie before things took a turn for the worse and he became what he was now. She made him feel human again. Among other things.

“Tomatoes?” she asks, her head tilted like the curious Percy’s that just jumped onto the table to sniff at the mushrooms dissapprovingly.

“Breakfast, innit?” he says, a fork in hand and a sausage already on the way into his mouth.

“And beans?” she keeps the same confused expression.

“It’s what we ate when money was good when I’s growin’ up. Comfort food, that.” he points with a greasy fork across the sun-streaked table from the light coming through the patio doors.

“Full English.” she mutters as if it were still a question to her. “S’good.” she shrugs and pushes things around on the plate.

“Got tea, English as all bloody hell.” he chuckles and points to the kettle. “Coffee, bangers, beans, bacon, beefeaters from the garden and mushrooms. Ya made me some of your soul food, ya comfort food. This is mine.”

“Food is… weird.” the sleep starting to fade fro her voice but clearly her mind wasn’t matching up to what her mouth wanted to say.

He snorts with a mouthful of food as she chews thoughtfully. “You gonna elaborate on that ingenious remark?”

She gives him a smile, knowing there was no ill will in his jab but agreeing that she certainly would have fleshed out what she meant more. “Everyone’s gotta have it, but it’s different everywhere ya go. It’s the backbone of any culture, somethin’ anyone could know about y’know? But somehow it’s also deeply personal despite it bein’ somethin’ that everyone has.” she pauses and takes another bite. “It’s weird.” she shrugs despite that being her final statement.

“Humans are weird would be a more overlapping remark. But it goes without sayin’. Humans can make anything personal. A rock, a meal, a string of words. Very self-absorbed, very self-important. But it’s in their nature. Means of survival ‘n that.”

“Their nature? You aren’t human?”

“I was. At one time. I’m more of a vessel if you will. I am me, yeah? I hold everything that made Alfie Solomons a man, a human. But I am also timeless energy that is simultaneously full to the brim and empty all at once. Knowledge from the very beginning of time, and past the present. I’ve lived in the underworld and on this side as well.”

“That’s… sorta heavy for breakfast, man.” she states blankly before they both move into a shared laugh.

“You asked. I am here to answer.”

“Thanks for answering,” she says sheepishly. “Do I also contain all that? Time and space and the whole Carl Sagan monologue?”

He gives her one of those smiles that makes her avert her eyes. The kind that handsome men have beautiful ladies when they courted them. She wasn’t equipped to deal with his charm and ruggedly handsome face this early in the morning. Or ever, for that matter. “Yeah, love ya do. Which is why we’ll be starting with some meditation today. Help you get in touch with all that. It’ll help every facet of ya complicated self. Gotta learn restraint and control before we move onto the more… intense activities.”

“Am not gonna have to like..sacrifice anyone am I?”

He lets out a sudden laugh. “Nah, love nothin’ of the sort. Not unless ya want to.”

“I don’t.” is a quick and curt answer given. Of course, she didn’t. A little ray of sunshine made of life itself wouldn’t want to get messy. That was more his side of things.

“Noted.” he gives a firm nod and a supportive closed mouth smile before they both become absorbed by the task of fueling up for their work.

-------

He had asked her where she would feel most comfortable, and to no surprise to him, telepathic of not, she had said in her garden. With a reassuring hand on her back, he leads her to the middle of a grassy patch in the center of the back yard. Her land was totally enclosed with a high fence and the outlines covered in different flowers and bushes and fruit-bearing trees, buzzing with insects already so soon into spring. A warm sun beamed down, making her brown skin shine, freckles happy to soak up the rays and darken across her cheeks, the yellow light hitting her eyes and lighting them up golden with her lush mixture of green spun delicately around her tight iris. Her curls shone, the sun-kissed streaks happy to lighten with their long missed sunbaths every day from being stuck inside during the cold months. They were bouncing happily, air dried as she perched with crossed legs on the soft grass.

“This is a lovely garden, by the way, pet. You’ve done a bang-up job on your own.” he grunts out as she adjusts his legs to mirror her.

“Thank you. I’m very proud of it.” a soft but accepting smile graces her round and darling face as she squints in the sun.

“Ya should be.” he nods and clears his throat. “Have ya ever meditated before?”

“Not really no.” she shook her head. “I’ve lit incense and practiced some deep breathing before. But not like... Ommm and…” she pushes her middle fingers and thumbs together, resting them on her knees to explain.

He suppresses a smile at her wordless explanation of her length of knowledge on the subject. “I see.” he moves to take her hands. “Ya have a hard time quietenin’ down that mind of yours don’t ya?”

She nods, a hint of being ashamed in her eyes as she casts them downward.

“Now, now. No judgment here. This is Day 1, Step 1. Any progress is good progress. No progress is still practice, yeah? I’ll be gentle on ya don’t worry. Not here to upset ya.”

She presses her lips together and nods and takes a deep breath to steady herself.

“Now. First, we’re gonna close our eyes, yeah?” He leads her through being in the present. Taking in the moment. Acknowledging every sound and feeling, the blades of grass tickling her bare legs, the buzz of bee’s and the warmth of the sun, a kiss of wind that rustled her hair. She could sense it all, that was fine, but now she had to let it all go. “Work to clear your mind. No worries. No curiosities and philosophical musings. Just be. If a thought comes, say ‘ello, and let ‘im be on ‘is way.”

She smiles at his playful lit in explaining and she finds comfort now with his touch, hands clasped together between them.

“We’re going to have a moment, now. Try to work on that for a bit. I’m here if ya need me.”

“‘Kay.” is her soft reply as she tries to clear her mind. The garden fades away, but her thoughts still clumsily barge in. Worries about the future, the past, is she doing it right, was he sure he had the right girl? She tries to push it away and struggles.

“Ya need help, luv?” he offers with a gentle rub of his thumb against her hand.

“Yes, please.” she asks in an almost whisper of a voice.

“No shame in asking me for help, right? So make it sound like ya aren’t ashamed. I’ll ask ya again. Do you need help, luv?”

“Yes.” she states clearly, louder and a nod to back it up.

“That’s a girl. I’m gonna use my energy to calm ya down. Don’t be afraid of it. You'll feel it.”

She takes a shaky breath. “Okay. I’m not. Thank you.”

“Good girl.” he acknowledges her attempts at being self-assured and squeezes her hands. He didn’t have to, but he thought a physical cue might help her out at these early stages.

She does feel it, and it feels amazing. A shiver up her spine, his power like cool water in her veins as she exhaled in a sigh, feeling her shoulders lose their tension. Is what relaxed felt like? She didn’t know her.  “Oh, wow.” she exhales.

“Good?” he asks, concern in his voice.

“S’good.” she gives a dazed smile that he doesn’t see. A grunt in response is all she receives.

There’s an easy silence between them. She doesn’t know how long it goes on, but she felt like a popsicle left out in the sun, a puddle on the grass, a fat happy frog soaking up the sun for energy without a care. A thought floats by, and she decides to share it. “Am I...looking for something?” she asks.

“If ya like. It’s a bit advanced but we certainly can. You can ask a question, ask for guidance, clarity, divination. Whatever ya like.” he explains.

“I’d like to try.” her voice quiet but due to the relaxed state she was in and not from fear any longer.

“Go on, then.” he reassures her.

“Do I have to share it with the class?” the honesty in her voice makes him let out a laugh, a quiet one as not to startle her but her endearing and effortless charm was taking him by surprise.

“Nah, luv.” he chuckles out and gives her hand a delicate brush with his thumb again to show support.

What do I even ask? She wondered. I’d like to know… anything at this point. Okay, focus. I wanna know who he is. Who… we are if we’re these… soul mates. I just wanna know what it all means. Hmmph, not asking for much there are you. She sighs out of frustration and focuses up again.

He feels her drifting and pull back and smiles. She’s learning fast.

I want to know who this man is. Who is this Alfie Solomons? Do I trust him? Is he who he says he is? What is it that I feel when he’s near, this vibrating energy inside that feels like I’m on the verge of something, good or bad I don’t know. I just want to know...anything really….please? She would be the only one who could give puppy dog eyes to the universe and have it bend to her will.

After a short while, a not awkward silence, he feels something. A tingling in his fingers first, then moving up his arms. Were they falling asleep? It wouldn’t make much sense he wonders but he soon realizes it’s coming from her. It grows warmer as if he’d sunk into a hot bath. He ran cold, like a reptile, cold-blooded before her, and feeling warm blood in his veins was something he hadn’t felt in over a hundred years. A wiggle of his heart in his chest, a warm slinking feeling up his neck and into his mind. It was far stronger than anything he expected. But he would soon find out, she was a lot stronger already than he anticipated. Her coy nature and shyness a mere cover for the intensity that lies beneath. She had been protecting everyone else with her reservations, not protecting herself.

Her intention ran through him, she wanted to know him, and her power sought him out. The universe said, if you want him, have him, I only made him for you after all, and lets her creep into his mind. It all came in flashes, waves on a shore that faded in and out, too fast to grasp it all at once.

She smelled alcohol. Something sweet and deep, she could hear machines, men yelling, heavy footsteps up old wooden stairs. There were strongly scented leather books, piles of paperwork and a feeling of unease. Another wash of nostalgia washes over her, she sees a dog, happy and excited. She sees an empty bed sat in a dark room filled with books and papers, the walls covered in so many different things, both common and rare that she couldn’t make them all out. She smells the strong scent of cleaning chemicals, a woman by a sink, working hard and a feeling a longing overtaking her. There’s a hat over the doorway, a beacon for something important, a cane by a bed, bottles that looked like medicine on a nightstand. She saw blood in the sink, a sinking in the pit of her stomach.

“Mae.” she hears him echo in her head. He wasn’t speaking aloud. “Stop it. You don’t want to go there. -I- don’t want you to go there. You won’t find what you want here. Go back.”

Her eyes fluttered behind their lids, her hands grasping his, his underlying anger showing itself for her uninvited intrusion.

A hiss that wasn’t Alfie snaps up and shuts her out. It speaks a language she does not know, but it doesn’t frighten her, although she wonders for a moment if it should. His darkness. She knew it immediately. She’s endlessly fascinated. A black smoke, formless and endless whirling, moving through muck and earth as she pursued it with hungry curiosity. -Come see. Your answers.- a distinctly masculine but not human voice says, the smoke twists into a long cylindrical shape, it forms and shifts, an awe-inspiring black iridescence comes to shape. She sees a snake, endless, it could fit in her mind but was larger than the planet somehow. She knew he, his darkness, was the snake. A fitting symbol of rebirth and transformation, immortality and renewal, as death and destruction were all forms of creation in the end. It was as if she were being gifted with sight for the first time. She could see him, and know what his essence stood for.

Sunlight shone on it and the most beautiful colors came off its scales. She realized she was the source of the light. It twists up and directs her eyes to a moon. It’s blue, purple and green, all pastel and colored like the snake. They were one, they were the night and the darkness and everything that called it home. The dirt, the death it holds, both old and new, the beasts that only emerged to worship the moon and live in the dark were its children. Every cold-blooded animal, every reptile and insect knew it and didn’t fear it. So it came for her to understand, neither should she.

She sees her sun take form, moving towards the moon. She felt no fight between them. It was as if they wanted to be close, but had long been separated by the sides of the earth. Something that existed, but didn’t, that faded in and out unnoticed until it was already upon you. They radiated blindingly bright together, and the behemoth snake reveled in it. She felt a strange pull, a split from herself as a rabbit came into view. The snake circled itself, mouth to tail as it writhed, an ouroboros as the white rabbit neared. The rabbit was her, she realized. She was seeing her light, the mate for his darkness. A rabbit she pondered, watching he fearless bound about in the sunlight, warm thick fur and a wet twitching nose, full of life and energy. Her light was life, fertility, and growth, creation and desire. A vulnerability, a softness unparalleled was what she contained. She suddenly understood it. Understood what it meant to be her, to be him, and thus, understood why they had been destined to find each other.

The rabbit and snake entwine, the sun and moon fusing, something that should’ve seemed unholy or apocalyptic seemed to make perfect sense to her. It all came together, just like everything did, from the first creation to the last, she’d always been there, and so had he. She, life, sending him, death, her gifts that he loved so much he kept them forever. A blinding light went dark and she was no longer separate from herself as she gasped and went eyed, flung back into the present, in her human body, hands tight around Alfie’s forearms, nails digging in and sweat pouring from her.

He blinked at her, the most curious expression on his face as she caught her breath. “You understand now, don’t you?” It was more of a rhetorical question at this point. “You’re more powerful than even I knew, Mae.” he pauses again, waiting for her to process it all.

“Yeah… I am.” she says with the first absolutely certain tone she might’ve ever had in her life.

“You’ll only grow more so from here. You’ve surpassed my expectations already.” he pats her shoulder and they meet eyes, as if for the first time. He sees her with a question and not fear in her eyes. She had found the answers she was looking for. At least she had enough knowledge now to grasp the situation. “This is only the beginning, luv.”

I tried to reverse search the image and came up empty handed so if you know whose it is, I’l gladly credit them. 

@jaegeeeeer​  @brianaisasongbird​ @hardygal69​ @emerald-bijou​ @captstefanbrandt​ @coolgh0st​ @tinastarkandco​ @xstylishmileage​   @s-h-e-w-r-i-t-e-s​ @peakys-mystic​ 

[freezing-kaiju]

a stupid stubborn sort of vow

an AsuRei fic, 1.5k words

Summary: After an emotional confrontation between Asuka and Hikari over the latter’s moving away, a confession goes badly and  Rei finds herself having to comfort a miserable Asuka, her sworn rival. Vows are exchanged, of a sort.

(au detail: modern au, set during community college, no evangelions, au to be named soon)

It was precisely 7:32 PM, Friday, a mild September night. Rei left her window open, as ever. She didn’t have a particular fondness for the night air; she was indifferent, as she was with a laundry list of things.

That list was waning, though, thanks to the person who was now occupying her thoughts, as she did jarringly often nowadays.

Asuka Langley Soryu. Her rival. Nemesis. Adversary. Enemy, opponent, opposite... match, even. The first time Asuka declared she hated her, Rei had expected their petty rivalry to stop in a month. Asuka’d move on to the next annoyance, the next thing to be furious on, and Rei would be left behind as ever, ready to proceed on her way.

But Asuka stuck. Through third grade, fourth, fifth, all of middle school and now two years of high, Asuka was a thorn in Rei’s side, and Rei a thorn in hers. Rei supposed Asuka was, aside from her brother, the closest thing she had to a friend.

And Asuka loved to argue.

So the duo whiled away the nights over the years making up a host of feuds. Any topic that came to mind, Asuka’d take a stand on, Rei’d pick something opposing and stick to it as much as Asuka stuck to hers. 

Asuka loved pop music, the kind she could dance to. Rei picked classical, the only kind she listened to. Asuka preferred magical girl anime, Rei decided she prefers shonen. Asuka argued the best fruit was apples, Rei countered with pomegranate. Sometimes they’d spend a whole evening trying to come up with what to fight over and end up dozing off side by side on Rei’s bedroom floor.

Tonight though... well, tonight, Rei hoped Asuka wouldn’t come. Not that she didn’t look forward to another bout with her, of course. But, well...

She put her book down for a moment, marking it with one of Monday’s completed worksheets, and picked up her phone. No texts from Asuka. She tapped the contact regardless, and stared at their brief exchange from that afternoon.

Asuka: sayin googbye 2 hikari 2nite Asuka: *goodbye, FUCK Rei: Ah. Asuka: leave the window open ncase i fuckup Rei: I will. Good luck. Asuka: fuck u wonder girl Asuka: dont need ur luck Asuka: seeya, h8 u 4ever Rei: You too.

Rei treasured those interactions. But she knew Hikari was more important to Asuka. Sometimes, when they went on hikes to out-endure each other or exploring abandoned buildings to see who chickens out first, Asuka’d ramble about how long she’d had a crush on her best friend. How much she wanted to kiss her, hold her hand, how she was sure Hikari’d be the one to always stick with her, the one she could spend the rest of her life with.

Needless to say, Asuka had been pretty pissed about it. And paranoid, and stressed, and panicked, and above all sad. Rei knew by now how to tell apart the various shades of anger on her emotional palette, but the past week had seen a roiling blend of all the worst.

Rei placed her phone back down on her desk, an island in the void of mostly empty space, and picked her book back up. The Horse’s Song, another in her carefully organized shelf of nondescript books. So far it failed to provoke anything, but the clipped pace and strange dialogue kept her attention well enough. Asuka would tear the book a new one, if Rei convinced her to read it. She’d save that idea for another topic-less day.

Seven pages further in, a sound split Rei’s concentration. The clang of someone tripping over that bucket Shinji still hadn’t found a place for. A scream of “FUCK!” Hard footsteps on the grass.

Rei put aside her book, turned her chair to the window and placed her hands on her lap.

After a few moments and a series of loud slams, Asuka’s hands slammed onto the windowsill. The paint on her nails was chipped. She groaned and slowly lifted herself up, eyes fixing right on Rei’s. Her expression twisted into her customary glare, but wavered, unable to stick in its natural state. Her makeup ran like a storm drain down her face, blue eyes red from crying, hair clips barely holding on. Her cheek bore an unexpected bruise.

“I’m here.” Rei softened her monotone, hoping that the sentiment overcame her blank expression. Evidently it passed muster; Asuka’s glare shifted slightly, her grimace twisting into a sweet sneer.

“Yeah, I can— Ugh,” Asuka grunted as she clambered the rest of the way through the window, “I can see that, Wonder Girl.” She kicked off her shoes and flopped back-first onto Rei’s bed.

“Your makeup’s running.”

“I know.”

“You were crying.”

“I know.”

“You have a bruise.”

“I KNOW!” Asuka snapped, bolting upright. “God, you really are a robot, you know that? ‘Scanning rival, injuries detected, initiate snide remark protocol’. Ever thought about talking like a person? Asking what’s wrong?! Or hell, maybe I’m lucky you’re a robot in a meat suit, any rational human would’ve slammed the window on my goddamn hands so thanks for being a freak I guess!”

Rei paused for a moment, weighed her responses, and settled on, “I trust you too.”

Asuka took this about as well as a sucker punch. She gaped, eyes wide, balled fists going slack.

“You— wh, what even, I’m— what?!”

“The bruise,” Rei veered the subject ninety degrees, “where’d it come from?”

“Wh— oh.” Asuka covered her cheek with her hand, staring pointedly at the nothing on Rei’s walls. “...Hikari.”

“You fucked up?”

“No!” Asuka snapped. “...well, I did, sure,” she admitted with a glower, “but so did she!”

“How.”

A miserable smirk cracked across Asuka’s face. She spread her hands as if to announce exactly what wasn’t up her sleeve. “So, picture. Me, helping lug all her stupid luggage into her dad’s car. Hikari sticks behind, looking up at me, class-prez poise and a shy little grin on her, okay, gorgeous face. I’m trying not to cry. Turn to her, about to ask if she’s gonna keep in touch.”

Rei nodded, eyes focused on Asuka’s. 

“And...and, like a stupid jerk, she fucking— she kissed me!” Asuka said, with the same level of incredulity as someone discovering they’re an elf. “She kissed me, and she said that she l...lov...lo...” Asuka sputtered, “liked me!”

“Oh no.” Rei could already tell where this was headed.

“And being me, I just had to panic. I don’t remember everything that happened, it was kinda a blur! But I remember...my hands were on her shoulders and I was...god, I think I was begging her not to go.” She tch-ed. “Pathetic of me. Disgusting, really. No wonder she clocked me.”

“Liar.”

Asuka gave Rei an utterly withering look, but Rei continued. “You aren’t pathetic. Or disgusting. You’re Asuka. Those words aren’t compatible with Asuka.”

Asuka’s look softened instantly; Rei could see the beginnings of tears prick her eyes again. “Goddamnit, Wonder Girl. No, you know what? Get over here.” Asuka patted the spot next to her on the bed. Rei obliged, leaving her chair to nestle in just close enough to not upset Asuka. To her shock, though, she felt Asuka’s fingers ghost along her palm... then grasp it like a lifeline to her last hope of salvation.

“Wonder Girl. Ayanami. ...Rei,” Asuka began, and Rei could tell her teeth were gritted. “You and me. Our whole...our whole rivalry. How the fuck long are we gonna keep this up?”

“When you stop caring,” Rei said instantly, the response one of the few she never thought she’d need but prepared for the sake of it. “When I’m no longer useful. When it doesn’t matter to you.”

Asuka’s answering laugh was the hollowest Rei’d ever heard.

“Right then. Then... then I’ve got an idea.”

Rei tilted her head and Asuka took it as her cue to continue. “What if... what if we swear on it?”

“How?”

“Easy, stupid. Here, I’ll go first.” Asuka scoffed, then put on her most arrogant affectation and proclaimed, “I, Asuka Langley Soryu, promise to forever be your rival, your foe, your most trusted enemy, to hate and to keep. I swear to follow you, Rei Ayanami, to the end of the world, through thick and thin, of spite and sheer devotion.”

Rei hummed for a few moments in response. “...I, Rei Ayanami, promise to forever be your rival, your foe, your most trusted enemy, to hate and to keep. I swear to follow you, Asuka Langley Soryu, to the end of the world, through thick and thin, of spite and sheer devotion,” she parroted back, meaning every word with her whole, dull, robotic heart.

Rei knew Asuka would never let her see it, but she could feel her smile radiating out at her. 

The two girls laid there, for what could have been a minute or an eternity (but was precisely eighty-seven seconds). 

It was a vow they both intended to keep.

[kissmyafropuff]

Shooting Star (3)

Hello Beloveds!

Now, before anyone else calls me out, I’ll admit it myself that I’ve been slacking. It’s been way too fucking long since I posted chapters 1 & 2– my bad. ���� Just love me, okay? A bitch is out here living a whole ass life.

If you don’t want to be tagged, let me know. If you do want to be tagged, let me know. 

Here it is y’all, Chapter 3.

Author’s Note: I am very new to this, so be kind to me.

Warnings: Idk what goes here? Swearing? Use of the n word is inevitable.

Words: ~ 1.8K

Enjoy my loves xo 🖤✨

Chapter 2

The air was thick. Almost opaque with the fear and anger; frustration and impotence rolling off of Erik and all around those nearest him. Why had her eyes zeroed in on his daughter, and why had the trio taken a collective glance at each other? Erik tried to shift Aurora away from the thieves' sightline, but they’d locked in. They had seen her necklace, and it was apparent to all around them that this was what they were really after.

Zora attempted to break their laser-like focus on the child, “Look. The alarm has an auto trip function. Anything or anyone so much as cracks that glass above and it alerts the local police and SWAT. You’ve got 3 more minutes tops before--”

“You shut her up, or I will.” Tatania never took her eyes off of Aurora’s necklace, but calmly and swiftly silenced Zora with a delicate yet deadly looking blade which just seemed to appear in her hand. She twirled it-- gracefully, almost majestically, but no less menacingly.

Puck went to Zora quickly and shook his head at her, revealing some of the short and gruesome cuts all over his neck and upper torso, just below his collar bones, trying to do for her what no one seemed to have done for him: shut her before things got worse. The sight of Titania wielding that knife seemed to have relieved him of his incessant chatter.

Nothing in Erik’s life could prepare him for this moment. No amount of time in the SEALs, nor number of deployments to Afghanistan could have prepared him with the tools to quell the fear which had taken root in his belly. The almost palpable tension in the air had him in a cold sweat; perspiration covering his whole body in a matter of moments, causing his black v-neck t-shirt to cling to his torso, his palms slick with the ever growing reality that he is outnumbered and outgunned while this psycho bitch has her focus zeroed in on his babygirl.

“My, my, my. What a beautiful little flower you are, ma petite” Titania practically purred as she made her way across the bank’s lobby. She pulled up just short of the Stevens family.

“Errrrrriiiiiiiiiiik!”

He didn’t need to see Portia’s face to know she was upset with something. He also didn’t need either degree from MIT to know that if he didn’t hurry his narrow ass up those stairs to help her, it would only get worse. He sped up.

“Yea, bae. What’s up?”

“This is all your fault! I hate you for talking me into this, and I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

The morning sickness had been almost non-stop since her first trimester.

“Can I get you some Saltines? Tea? A ginger ale? Anything? Fuck, lemme get you a cool cloth.”

“No, no, I’m fine. I’m just being bratty,” Portia said, head still in the bowl, ready to offer up yet another sacrifice to the porcelain gods. She knew that being miserable for the last 7 and a half months wasn’t Erik’s intent when he first brought up trying for a kid. He’d grown up longing for a family for so long, and from what little she’d shared about her own, he knew that her’s wans’t close. Building a family, just the two of them, had been his dream for the first two years of their marriage. When they decided to start trying, Portia didn’t expect them to be so...good… at it. Within the first month of trying, it seemed to have taken, because within the first 6 weeks, she was puking every day.

Loudly. Painfully. Incessantly.

“It’s not bratty behavior when there’s actually something upsetting you.”

“Mon chou, I’m not upset. Your child is just tossing and turning in there, and I’m riding that wave of sea sickness. I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve only got literal days at this point. This little butter bean will be here before we know it,” Portia finished weakly, lifting her head and trying to reassure him with a grimace she hoped looked more like a smile.

“Uh, bae. I love you, but you gone stop calling my daughter a fuckin bean.”

“Well, since someone can’t agree with his wife on a name or even agree to find out the sex, it looks like I’m sticking to veggies and fruits. Maybe I’ll just call him Mommy’s Little Kiwi.”

“Aye--”, Erik responded with a deadly look in his eye, “ No daughter of mine is gone be some dumbass Kiwi. If ANYTHING, she’s a pomegranate. She regal as fuck.”

Portia erupted into laughter. It was just the right kind of laugh to help her get out of wallowing from her morning technicolor yawn. Erik helped her to her feet, and she washed her face and brushed her teeth.

“Okay, well, if we can’t agree on a fruit or vegetable, should we move from edibles to something else? We have to call him something.”

“HER name will come to us as soon as we lay eyes on her. How am I supposed to name my daughter before I ever see her?”

Portia tried a different tactic. “Well, it would help us if we just knew what sex we should be expecting, then we could be compiling a list of names to choose from. That way when he, or she -- she interjected quickly-- makes an appearance, we have a short list. Can we at least agree to a short list? We won’t even have to make a decision, we’ll just have a jumping off point today.”

“Fine,” Erik acquiesced. “Let’s start with the boys, it don’t really matter no way,” he said sucking his teeth.

“Excuse me,” Portia questioned, incredulously.

“I’m just sayin, ma. I know you carrying my little Princess. I just know it!”

Portia looked up into her favorite eyes in the world. Their depths fathomless when he was this full of love, and their color reminded her of the vanilla beans her grandmother used when making fresh ice cream when Portia was a young girl. She couldn’t deny him anything when he looked at her like this. If she had the power to snap her fingers and move heaven and earth to give him a daughter in that moment, she’d do it.

“Okay, well just humor me.” Portia asked they dressed to head out of the house.

They came up with a list of three names for a boy: Oscar, Maurice, and Bryan

For the girls, Erik wanted to stick to more of a theme. While he may have fought at the beginning to not even go down this path, now that he was here, he was determined not to walk away from this conversation without landing on his daughter’s name.

“Okay, how about this: she can have one name from each of us.” It was a little hard to hear Portia’s words, coming through muffled since she was presently stuck trying to slip one of Erik’s hoodies over her puffy hair and swollen midsection.

Smart enough to not comment on his wife’s dilemma, Erik just set out to help her finish pulling it down over her belly, and without a word on her current predicament, went to the closet to grab her slides.

“I like it,” Erik agreed. “But which names? I don’t have any family names I want to pull from. The only woman in my life growing up was my moms, and she was gone so soon, I wouldn’t even want to lay all of that on a little one,” Erik quietly confessed to his wife.

“Let’s see. She could have a name from the Xhosa language for her heritage and family on your side. I don’t know what to do for mine.” Portia was almost ready to go, just looking for her favorite hair wrap to tie up her mane.

Erik was quiet for a moment. Heart still grieving a mother and relationship long gone, while still overflowing with love for this swollen, smart mouthed woman that he knew his mom would’ve adored.

“Anathi,” he said before he realized it. “It means ‘they are with us’. Seems pretty fitting, huh?”

Portia’s eyes caught his in the mirror as she tucked the last end of fabric in her wrap. Both sets were bright with tears.

“I love it,” she whispered, words barely audible. “But what are we going to do about a first name?”

“Well, I like that thing your family has going on. All of y’all are named after women in literature, but they also are the names of constellations, right? How about, Juliet?”

“Nigga! I am not naming my daughter after some little precocious child who thought she was in love and wound up offing herself over some knucklehead boy before they even turned 16. Try again.”

“Astrid,” Erik risked, only to be rewarded with a sharp sniff coming from Portia’s direction as she gathered her keys and wallet.

“Aurora!” He exclaimed.

“Pretty sure I’ve never read that name as a leading lady in any story,” Portia countered, her haughty ass attitude slowly slipping away. These mood swings were getting out of hand.

“Fuck. I just couldn’t deal with you gettin any snippier, so I just thought of the most beautiful sight I could think of that made me think of the stars,” he answered, bashfully, putting on his finishing touches, and grabbing his phone, wallet, and keys.

“It’s perfectly, imperfect. Not quite what we set out for, and somehow precisely what we needed.  Aurora Anathi Stevens. I love it, mon chou.”

His dimples took over his whole face. “Really? I just wanted her to have a little of both of us in her name. She gets your family’s bougie ass legacy with names, and one of mine as a reminder of all the ancestors who’ve come before us.”

Portia was practically bouncing in place she was so happy. “I love it. Really, really.” She took a heavy, negro spiritual sigh. “I have to call my family and tell them we’ve landed on a name. We don’t talk much, but they at least need to know.”

“How bout this: you call them while I drive. I think we’ve earned a very nice breakfast of your choosing. Naming my daughter is kind of a big fuckin deal and all; let’s celebrate.”

“Oooh! I know just what I want.”

Erik rolled his eyes and mouthed along, “Strawberry pancakes.” It was the same thing Portia had been craving this whole pregnancy. One short stack order of strawberry pancakes with blueberry syrup.

“Aiight now, but don’t be tryna pick off my plate. I’m getting chocolate chip pancakes, and I ain’t sharin’ shit.”

They climbed into his car just as Portia’s family answered her call.

“Hello, Erik.”

That cadence. The subtle lilt of an accent she’s tried through years of practice to discard. Fuck.

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[aquilamage]

I have been wanting to do a baby Kay + the aa detectives (aka the rfta crew, basically) fic for so long, but I keep jumping around between things and it’s just. But anyway I realized I do like what I have so even though it’s a wip I’m still sharing because hopefully someone else finds it interesting. (and maybe it’ll motivate me to work on it more)

The first time they see the kid, none of them particularly think much of it.

“What are you staring at, Jake?”

He turns in time to see Angel lean against the end of his desk. With a casual gesture, he indicates a door on the far side of the room. “Thought I saw Detective Badd walk by with a kid. That’s mighty strange, don’t you think?”

Her gaze is now focused in that direction. “Are you sure about that?”

“I saw her too.” Detective Goodman wheels his desk chair back to join the group. “Well, I passed them in a hallway earlier. Little girl, about this tall, chin length black hair, big puffy coat?”

”Yup.”

There’s a moment of silence as the three of them consider this information. “Do you think she’s a witness, then?” Angel leans over to talk in a more hushed tone. Smart, considering that there’s quite a few other people in the room.

Bruce sighs. “That seems the most likely, although for her sake I hope not.”

“Yeah, she was a real lil’un. Can’t be more than a few years old.” Even with the milder cases he’s worked, that’s not something he would want a kid to have to get mixed up in. Jake sinks back in his chair.

Angel’s still watching the door. “I’m surprised they gave the case to Detective Badd, though.” Her sharp analytical gaze is a tiny bit softer than usual, although maybe it’s just the angle she’s at from them. “I mean, he’s a decent guy, but he’s not exactly the type you’d think of as ‘good with kids’.”

A slight pause before Goodman says, softly, “Well, you never know.” It’s pretty clear the other two had been silently agreeing with her. They had only ever seen Badd as quiet, serious, and generally not very emotive, and couldn’t really picture him acting otherwise, so…

Not that it’s in any part in their hands anyway. They drift back to their own work after a few more minutes, and after not having another sighting, eventually put the incident out of their minds.

---

Until a couple weeks later, when Angel furtively pulls them into the breakroom.

“What was that for?” Jake fixes his bandana from being yanked by it.

She just shushes him, making a ‘get down’ gesture before moving to the window facing the larger office.

Goodman shrugs. They copy her, trying to keep an angle so they won’t be seen.

And there’s Detective Badd, with the same kid.

“Well…” Jake drawls, “I think we can rule out her being part of a case then, huh?”

The other two nod silently, still watching. Because now, of course, the question is: how is this girl connected to Badd?

He’s talking to one of the other detectives, with her standing at his side. Watching them very intently, head tilted way back, she nods emphatically with that expression you only get with small children trying very hard to be serious. (its cute) After a while though, her attention wavers.

She’s just about to scurry off behind someone when Badd puts a hand on her. He says something, very briefly, then goes right back to the conversation.

She seems to consider something. Then, carefully, she grabs the edge of his coat in one tiny hand, trailing it behind her as she walks a couple feet to the side. And within the little circle of space that affords her, she starts investigating everything.

As the silence in the breakroom has stretched on, it’s also become loaded as the three of them slowly came to the same tentative conclusion. But it’s another few moments before Jake swears softly. “You don’t think that’s his kid, do ya?”

The other two laugh, almost nervously.

“If someone just told me about this I’d tell them to come back with a more reasonable lie,” Angel says, tapping her fingers on the sill. No one has to say anything to agree with that. Badd’s been her longer than any of them. They’ve never heard even secondhand of anything that might so much as suggest him being in a relationship, much less a family. It’s…a weird thought; trying to fit the image of the detective they know into any concept of that is…it doesn’t really work.

And yet. She sighs. “But given the information we have right now, it’s also the most reasonable conclusion.”

---

So thus commences operation Find Out What’s Up With Badd’s Kid(???). They were all detectives; they just have to investigate some more.

It’s readily agreed to be done quietly, though. If Badd has never been open about his personal life before, it doesn’t seem like directly prying will be fruitful, besides perhaps in upsetting him. Even if he is nicer than one would initially assume, that doesn’t stop Badd from being pretty intimidating. (And, in a contradictory but weirdly strong feeling none of them quite know how to voice, they can’t help but feel like this whole thing was something Badd had mentioned and they’d all somehow managed to miss, given how casual he seems about bringing her around). So, they observe at a distance.

---

Angel is at the courthouse, sorting through some files during a recess when she spots the pair. Badd walks through the hall, the girl following behind. But where he’s able to cut a path through the small foot traffic through sheer size and demeanor, her shorter steps put her at a few feet of distance, forcing her to move around people.

Not that she minds. She ducks back and forth with a grin, the extra little twirls and hops making it clear she’s turned it into a game. It’s impossible to tell at this distance, but it seems like she might be singing.

Badd notices her lagging, and after waiting for her to catch up, resumes at a slower pace.

It’s easy for her to just keep in line with him now. As she does, she sticks her hands in the pockets of her overalls, walking with a little bit of a crouch. It’s a very good impression of Detective Badd (even if the expression is a little over the top serious), and it takes Angel all of her professional composure not to smile and laugh at the sight.

---

Jake heads home just a little late one evening. On his way out, his path crosses with Badd as two hallways converge.

The kid is curled up in his arms, asleep and clutching the front of his shirt.

Maybe if he wasn’t quite so tired and taken by surprise, he could’ve come up with something to say without specifically commenting on her presence, an invitation to talk without making it a demand. But instead he walks with them in silence. There’s an awkwardness on his side as he debates with himself, wanting to watch Badd but nervous about being noticed at that, given how physically close they are.

He holds the door out to the parking lot for them. And before his brain really has time to consider it, he says “you two get home safe.”

For a fraction of a second, it seems like Badd’s giving him a look. Then, he simply nods. “You too,” he replies, a little stiff, before leaving.

---

Shortly after the incident in the breakroom, Bruce starts taking notice of Detective Badd’s desk. Because it’s then that he starts seeing the drawings. Usually tucked in with other papers (although there’s the occasional one stuck to the file cabinet), they’re a colorful collection. He never gets close enough to have a really good look at them, but they’re obviously a child’s drawings. (It’s entirely possible they’d been there earlier as well, and he was only now noticing them because he’s looking for them – it does make him wonder what else he might have missed, though.)

And another thing: every so often Bruce notices that the pictures have changed. It’s a little thing, but along with everything else a clear suggestion that he’s spending a lot of time around this kid.

---

But despite all the little glimpses they’ve been getting, several months pass without getting anything closer to a definitive answer. It’s frustrating, but they don’t know what else to do at this point besides wait and hope for something that will give them answers.

---

Late one Tuesday morning, Jake walks into the office after finishing an assignment. On his way in, Goodman waves him over.

“Marshall!” he says, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. “I’m really glad to see you. Do you have time to talk?”

“Yeah. Actually, that reminds me. Payne was sayin something about an investigation report he needs from you by tomorrow.” That had not been the ideal morning experience, listening to the prosecutor’s screechy tones about something that wasn’t even under his control. It certainly makes Bruce’s calm, plain voice all the more soothing to listen to.

Even if right now it’s a little off from usual. “Oh! Oh right, yes, of course.” He looks around before leaning in. “But first, there’s something slightly more pressing.” Then, as if he’s remembering something, a glance over Jake’s shoulder. “Where’s Detective Starr?”

“Out. You remember that warehouse of stolen goods? She’s out there investigating today.” Scratching his chin, he studies his coworker. “Somethin bothering you? You seem mighty jumpy.”

He deflates a little at the news. Then, he ducks his head again. “Nothing wrong, it’s simply unexpected, and I was hoping we could all-“

As he’s listening Jake feels a creeping sensation at the back of his neck. He frowns, trying to figure out the source. His gaze sweeps down toward Bruce’s desk. And then further down.

Staring at him from over the top of the desk, big wide eyes and little hands grasping the edge of the table surface, is the girl.

“What in tarnation…” he breathes out slowly. Turning, “Bruce, what on earth are you doing with Badd’s kid?”

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #213

"there's a voice in my head, says i'm better off dead, but if i sing along a little fucking louder to a happy song, i'll be all right."

Are there popsicles in your freezer right now? No. Ice cream? No. Is there a lamp in your bedroom? Well, two heat lamps for Kaiju and Venus. Would you prefer eating jello or pudding? Pudding. After washing your hair, do you put any products in it? No. Last time you ate a salad? Yikes, it's been a long time... Can you name 2 books of the Bible? Uhhh Luke and Revelations? Do people usually think your brother is handsome? I don't know, I haven't lived with him since I was a kid, and he doesn't live in my state. So we don't know the same people. Have you ever crawled thru a vent? Not to my memory. Are there toothpicks in your kitchen? They're in the bathroom. How many living grandparents do you have? One. Do you eat more than 3 meals a day? No; I don't even always have three. Do you know how old your house is? I believe it was made in the '70s. Do you think you have great potential for success? Meh. Have you applied any lipstick, chapstick, gloss, etc to your lips today? No. Would you rather have tan or pale skin color? Pale. Sometimes I hate it, but I like it more overall. Especially when you're a goth at heart know what I'm sayin'. Last time you entered a high school? Probably my sister's graduation. Last time you rode a bike? It's been years, dude. Probably not since high school. Do you drink your water from the tap? You couldn't pay me to. Our water is technically clean, we've had it tested, but dead serious, the hot water smells like rotten eggs. I'm pretty sure Mom said it's something about the salt content in the pipes. But nevertheless, mind over matter would nooot work. Is there any kind of design on your socks? I'm not wearing socks. Have you ever had an ice cream cake for your birthday? No, I'm not a fan. Do you use dryer sheets? Yes. Do you like Subway? Yeah. What was your worst mistake in your life? Letting a guy become god, the entire universe, and more to me. Is this year the best year of your life? Oh, hunny- Is there someone in your life you wish you never met? I don't think so. Did you sleep well last night? I never do. I always wake up at least once. What’s the last song you heard? "Happy Song" by Bring Me The Horizon is on repeat. What is your favorite line from a TV show? I don't have a clue. Any current family issues? No. Who is the last friend you spent time with outside of school? Summer and I talked for a while at my niece's b-day party a few days back. What do you think of your mother? Your father? Your siblings (if there are any)? I love them. There's one sister I don't know so can't really say anything on her, then I do have another sister who, if I can assume via Facebook interactions, can't be too fond of me. But I could be mistaken with my habit of said assuming... Who/What is one person/thing that had the biggest impact on your life? Who: Jason. What: my mental health. What is the biggest problem in your life right now? How isolated I am and void of purpose I feel. What is one band that you find yourself going back to again and again? You mean like, stop liking but then get back into? None, I think. Have you ever had a crush on someone of the same gender as you? Yes. Have you ever kissed someone of the same gender as you? Yes. Do you and your dad get along? Yes. What’s the longest amount of time you’ve ever kept a goldfish alive for? Idk. Can you see your purse right now? Yes. Are you wearing any perfume? What kind? No. Are there products in your hair? No. Have you ever eaten cat food? I don't think so, though I wouldn't be surprised as a kid. How many pets do you have? Six. Do you actually like them? All but my sister's dog. I can't stand him. Do you have one best friend who is always there for you? My girlfriend. Do you wear skirts a lot? I never do. I hate my legs. Do you basically live in jeans? I have zero jeans. Do you wear sweatpants a lot? Not really; if I'm not in pjs, I'm usually in dance or yoga pants. How many pairs of jeans do you think you have? Zero. Do you like hoodies? Yeah. Big ones or the form fitting kind? Bigger ones. Did you ever actually have a rubber duck? I think I did. Are you one of those people who claim to live with no regrets? I go back and forth, lol. But no, I have regrets. Do you love your computer? It's got a few issues, but yeah. Do friends or family come first? Family of the heart, anyway. Us sharing blood doesn't mean shit to me, honestly. What’s your lucky number? I don't believe in "lucky" numbers. Who were the last 5 people you spoke to? I'll include via technology because otherwise I have no clue. Mom, Sara, Emma, and two women interested in adopting Kaiju. Do you have the same password for everything? No. Do you get shy around the person you like? Sometimes. What color is your phone? Dark navy. Do you prefer pens or pencils? Pencils. Do you like peanut butter? Yes. If you could live forever, would you? Hell no. Do you talk in your sleep? A lot. What was the last thing you regretted? Probably depression binge-eating something. Are you any good at cutting hair? Never tried. Do you like your yearbook picture this year? N/A What was the last YouTube video to make you laugh? Ummm there was something last night, but idr what. Do you like tomatoes? No. Do you have a pool? I wish. How would you describe your style? Too poor and lazy to be a goth so dresses in whatever is at the top of my drawer tbh lmao. Do you still talk to any of your exes? One. Have you ever been arrested? No. What was the last thing you watched on TV? I don't watch TV by my own volition anymore and there's not even a TV in my room, so... I really don't know. Do you have a tan? Even the Irish are ashamed of me. What was your most embarrassing moment? Who knows. I'm so easily humiliated and affected by it that I can remember times I've been even remotely embarrassed as far back as pre-k. Do you fall for people fast? No. Do you tell your parents everything? No. Are you quick to judge? Depends. Not generally. When was the last time you crawled through a window? I have zero clue. Are you scared of spiders? Most, yes. What would you do if the doctor told you that you were pregnant? Have a full-blown panic attack despite that being physically impossible. Do you plan on moving within the next year? It'd be nice, but I estimate it'll be around two more years. Have you been to a baby shower? Yeah. How many cars can fit in your driveway? Hm. A few, since the parking area behind the house is decently-sized. Are you taller than your mom? No. Are you a cuddler? Yes. Sleep on your back or stomach? My stomach/upper torso kinda to the side. Think of the last time you were angry. Why were you angry? I don't remember. Though I know I was mad recently. How long has it been since you had sex? Almost four years. Who was the last person to call you babe? Sara. Last reason you went to the ER? My sister got in a car wreck. Have you ever taken pictures in a photo booth? Yeah. When was the last time you shaved your legs? It's been maaaany months. What facial cleanser do you use? Biore. Do you use a blowdryer? No. If someone wanted to know what you smelt like, what should they smell? Dogs and cats lmao. Have you ever cheated on the significant other that you have now? No. For that one week a month, do you hate being a woman? Still rather be a woman. Favorite underwear brand? Idk. Last thing you bought at the mall? A book. Do your parents like your boyfriend/girlfriend? Yes. What if an ex asked to be back in your life? Aaron: We've never had issues, we just drifted apart. It'd be weird for him to ask that, but I mean, sure? Juan: I don't know. Probably not. Jason: I REALLY don't know. We could probably be friends at a distance. Tyler: No, I think. Girt: He's still in my life. If you’re on a laptop, how much charge does it have right now? It's charging and only tells me the minutes until it's at full charge. Last gift you received? I don't know. Lesson you recently learned? I absolutely cannot work in a busy environment. What is your favorite condiment to go with french fries? Probably ketchup. What is a field of study that is of your interest? Zoology. What do you have a habit of doing when engaging in a conversation with someone? Thinking too hard on what the appropriate amount of eye contact is. Have you ever laid in a hammock? Yeah. What time of day do you feel mostly at peace? Morning. How has the weather been treating you lately? It's way too fucking hot and humid. Have you ever lost a pet in a tragic way? How did you cope? We've had numerous cats be hit by cars. It was always sad, but I mean, I got through it. Especially as I was just a kid and didn't quite fathom how serious death was, nor did any cats I was SUPER attached to die that way. What can you go a day without doing? Going outside. What can’t you go a day without doing? Using some form of technology. Talking to Sara. Who do you spend most of your time with? No one. I'm usually alone. Do you have a favorite classical composer? No. What type of quality is a must-have in a friend? A caring heart. Have you ever eaten a zucchini? A fried one that was sliced into chips. What type of art would you hang up in your room? Dark art or fandom-related stuff. What goes good with a nice cold glass of milk? Oreos omggggg. What fruit is too sweet to you? None, I think? How much money did your last vacation cost? I don't even remember my last vacation. Have you ever taken a physics class? Yeah. What are your thoughts on celebrity idolization and ‘fangirling/fanboying?’ Oh boy, I can't talk shit here for obvious reasons lmao. What is the messiest area in your home? I'm not sure... I haven't been in my sister's old room in forever, and I can't remember if it's empty or not. If it is empty - hell, even if it isn't -, the answer's probably the laundry room. Who was the last person you called? My mom. What’s your favorite computer game genre? Horror is my favorite game genre period. Do you have any exes your parents never liked? No. Well, Mom had mixed feelings about Juan, but so did I. She didn't not like him, though. Do you take public transportation to work? N/A. Public transport doesn't even come here. What extracurricular activities did you do when you were growing up? Soccer for one season (I hated it), softball, basketball, briefly cheerleading, and dance. Has anything unusual happened to you recently? Idk. I don't think so. Do you like chicken korma? I have no clue what that is. What was the last type of tea you drank? I never drink tea; I hate it. Have you ever been severely mentally ill? Yes. Where is the most interesting place you could go that’s within day-trip distance from your house? Stealing previous answer: Washington D.C. Do you ever rearrange your furniture? No. Have you received financial help from your parents in the past 5 years? Lol I'm still financially dependent on them. Are you a fast or a slow eater? I am an extremely fast eater. I'm not messy or anything, I just, eat how I feel is normal? Just chew until you've done so enough to swallow. What room(s) of your house did you last vacuum? Mine. How old were you when you had your first relationship? My first "real" relationship started at 15. I had a middle school bf for just like... a month or so, but that was all puppy-dog love. Why did your last relationship end? I verified that I didn't like him romantically, and I also found I was just too guarded. In our four months of dating, I got no closer to him than I was from the start. I wasn't ready to date a guy again. What was the last thing you purchased from a small local business? No idea. Is there anyone in your family/household whom you frequently argue with? No. Do you live in a high cost-of-living area? No. Have you ever used chewing tobacco? Ew, no. Do you ever feel like someone would be disappointed to see your body or are you comfortable with your body enough where you don’t think that? I fucking hate my body and I'm sure anyone else would too. What is your favorite flavor of Monster? I don't like Monster. Do you follow your head or your heart? Both, I guess. It depends. How do you act under pressure? Did somebody say PANIC?!?!?!?! Do you ever call people just to hear the sound of their voice? No. Do you ever look back at your yearbooks? No. It'd probably depress me. Have you ever ran from the police? No. Have you ever written on someone’s face in your yearbook? Ha ha yeah, back as a kid... Are you double jointed? No. Who was the last person to yell at you? Mom. What is your favorite stuffed animal that you own? My first stuffed meerkat I named after Zaphod from MM. Or my moose Brownie. Do you have any trophies? Somewhere. Do you work out? No. What grade are you in? I’m not in school. Do you like screamo music? No. Let me hear words, please. If I learn the lyrics, I can /sometimes/ enjoy the song, though. What does your wallet look like? It's rectangular with a Harley Quinn design. Do you have any hickeys on you? No. Is weed a drug? *Technically*, by definition, yes Who’s the first person you turn to when you need a shoulder to cry on? Mom or Sara. Would you cheat on someone for revenge? Or if they wouldn’t find out? No, that's fucking stupid. If you got pregnant right now, would you keep the baby? If I was, God forbid, raped, I don't think I could. If I had unprotected sex willingly, I truly think pregnancy would traumatize me, but I'd probably go through with it and put it up for adoption. I'd want to take responsibility for my actions. Does your family have a secret? No. Are you prejudice against any groups of people? No. If someone gave you a houseplant, would you keep it? Yeah, to be nice. That fella wouldn't live long, though. When/where are you most likely to sing? In the car. Are there any exercises that you do regularly? I'm trying to get in the habit of planking every day since it works out your whole body. Would you ever wish to explore a cave? HELL YES!!!! If you had a son right now, what would you name him? Probably Damien. Who names their son after a Markiplier character? Me. But real talk, I like the name. Do you own a desktop or a laptop? A laptop. Have you kissed more than three guys this year? I haven't kissed any guys. Who’s with you? Mom's on the couch outside my door. Can you use chopsticks? I highly doubt it, especially because I have tremors. When did you last go to an amusement park? Oh, wow. I actually think this was shortly before Jason and I broke up. So 2015. Are there certain things that can’t be joked about with you? Don't you fucking dare joke about rape, retardation, suicide, or self-harm. What would you do if you had a baby with the last person you kissed? We're both females. We can't. Your phone is ringing. It’s your ex. What do you say? I don't have any of my exes' numbers, so I'd answer it and say "hello?". Are any of your texts in your inbox locked? A couple from Sara. If there were no letters on the keys on your keyboard, could you still type? Yes; I don't look at the keyboard when I type. Have you ever dated someone longer than a year? Twice now. Do you currently have a scar? I have a lot. Have you ever seen somebody get shot? No. You have $5 and need to buy snacks at a petrol station. What do you buy? I mean, it depends on what I'm up for. Usually Reese's or something sour. If you were reincarnated as a sea creature, what would you want to be? Probably a dolphin. What do you order most off the internet? Clothes. Describe the last time you were injured? So I have this awful habit of tearing my fingernails when they get long, and I peeled it way too short. Rock concert or symphony? Y'all know I'm picking rock. What is the wallpaper of your mobile phone? Mark and Chica, and my home screen is Sara and me. Most recent movie you’ve watched at the cinema? Detective Pikachu. Name an actor/actress you’ve had the hots for? Jason Momoa. My straight side is certainly still there, friends. What’s your favorite kind of cake? Red velvet. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? No. Have you ever eaten snow? Yeah. Have you ever done ballet? No. Do you listen to classical music? No. Do you watch Spongebob? I don't watch TV period. Do people consider you intelligent? Those in my life seem stuck on high school me, when I was really smart. I don't think I am anymore. What curse word do you use the most? "Fuck," oops. Would you ever date someone covered in tattoos? Well yeah, I'm probably gonna BE that person one day, lmao. What’s the way people most often mispronounce any part of your name? It's impossible to mispronounce my name... The only thing that sometimes happens is my name is misspelled.

[thelastspeecher]

NaNoWriMo ‘17 Day 18 - New Parents

Day 01   Day 02   Day 03   Day 04   Day 05   Day 06   Day 07   Day 08 Day 09   Day 10   Day 11   Day 12   Day 13   Day 14   Day 15   Day 16 Day 17   Day 18   Day 19   Day 20   Day 21   Day 22   Day 23   Day 24 Day 25   Day 26   Day 27   Day 28   Day 29   Day 30

Summary: Stan and Angie welcome their first child, or rather, chick. [Phoenix Enchantment AU] Word count: 2074

               Stan tucked an extra stick in the nest.  

               Gotta make sure this thing’s stable and warm and shit like that.  He glanced at Angie, who was brooding the egg, half-asleep.  Gotta make sure the two of ‘em are comfortable.  Angie’s tawny gold eyes opened at the sound of voices coming from the stairs.

               “It’s been a couple weeks, do you think Pele’s forgiven me yet?” Ford asked.

               “I don’t know if she’ll ever completely forgive ya,” Fiddleford replied. “But she might be a bit more willin’ to let ya take her vitals.”

               “Perhaps I can check her cloaca.”

               “No,” Fiddleford said firmly.  The two men arrived at the attic landing.  “It’s a miracle she didn’t do the same thing to the vet she did to you. Don’t know why she held back.” Fiddleford smiled warmly at Stan and Angie.  “Howdy, Mr. and Mrs. Phoenix.”

               “Mr. and Dr.,” Angie crowed.  She adjusted herself slightly.  Fiddleford frowned.  

               “Hmm.”

               “What?” Ford asked.  

               “I thought I saw somethin’ when Pele moved.  Somethin’ under her.”

               “Something under her?  Like an egg?” Ford asked eagerly.  Fiddleford shrugged.

               “Might be.”

               “I’ll look into it.”  Ford made a beeline for the nest.  He reached out to pick Angie up.  She hissed at him.  “Maybe you should grab her.  She likes you more.”

               “Sure.”  Fiddleford walked over and reached forward.  Angie eyed him suspiciously, but didn’t make any threatening noises. “It’s okay, honey.”  He picked her up.  His eyes went wide.  “Goodness, would ya look at that.”

               “I’ve never seen an egg like this,” Ford remarked.  “And now we have an explanation for her odd behavior.” Ford reached for the egg.  Angie let out a screech.

               “Ford, don’t,” Fiddleford said.  

               “I need to-”

               “Ya still haven’t recovered from Pele bitin’ ya.  Do ya want to reopen yer stitches?” Fiddleford asked.  Stan snapped at Ford’s hand.  Ford removed his hand from the nest.  Growing increasingly agitated, Angie nipped at Fiddleford’s fingers. “Oh, okay, sweetie, down ya go.” He carefully set her in the nest again. “Sorry ‘bout that, hon,” Fiddleford said, stroking her.  Angie burbled apologetically.

               “Sorry, Fidds, I don’t know what came over me.”

               “Why did you put her down?  I wanted to examine the egg,” Ford protested.  Stan hissed, his feathered crest rising.  

               “Stanford, Pele just laid it.  Both of ‘em are goin’ to be on edge fer a while.  It’s a miracle Pele didn’t draw any blood tellin’ me off.  She held back, and so did Prometheus.  Next time, it won’t be a mere warnin’.”  Ford sighed.

               “Very well.  Perhaps in a few days, they’ll have calmed down enough to let me examine their progeny.” Stan let out another sinister hiss.

               “Don’t count on it, Sixer.”

----- 

               “Hmm?”  Angie was woken by movement under her.  She blinked blearily, decided to dismiss it, and closed her eyes again.  The sensation of something rocking grew stronger.

               What is that?  I’m not sittin’ on anythi- the egg!  Angie abruptly stepped to the side, accidentally elbowing Stan close to the nest’s edge.

               “Angie, it won’t be sunrise for like, three hours, what’s the deal?” Stan croaked, waking up.  

               “The egg,” Angie chirped.  “It’s- it’s-”  Stan looked over.  His mouth dropped open.

               “Holy Moses, is it hatching?”

               “Looks like,” Angie whispered.  She and Stan watched with bated breath as the egg rocked back and forth viciously.  As suddenly as the movement had started, it stopped, and a small crack appeared in the shell.  “Oh Lord, oh Lord,” Angie whimpered.  The crack grew wider.  A small, fuzzy head poked its way out of the egg.  “Goodness.”

               “We’re- we’re-” Stan stammered as the chick struggled free from its egg.  “We’re parents.”  The chick turned in a small circle before catching sight of its parents, huddled together in shock.  Stan and Angie stared silently at their child, unsure of what to do.  The chick let out a soft chirp.

               “Oh my Lord, she’s beautiful!” Angie screeched.  She walked over to the chick and nuzzled its head.  “Stanley, look at her!”

               “I’m lookin’,” Stan said.  He joined Angie.  “You’re right.  She’s the most gorgeous kid in the world.”

               “Clearly,” Angie crooned.  

               “Wait, how do we know it’s a she?” Stan asked, cocking his head.  Angie blinked.

               “I’m not sure.  I just know.”

               “Same here.”  Stan stared at his daughter.  “We decided on Molly for a girl, right?”

               “Yeah.”

               “All right, kid, here’s the deal,” Stan cawed.  The chick looked up at him with big, tawny gold eyes.  “Your Uncle Ford is gonna call you Pinatubo.  That’s not your name.  Your name is Molly.”  Molly blinked slowly.  “Oh yeah, and Fiddleford and Stanford are your uncles.  They’re humans, but you aren’t.  It’s weird.”  Molly let out tiny chirp.  “Good.  Glad you’re on board.”

               “Her feathers,” Angie whispered. “She clearly gets her pretty plumage from you, Stan.”

               “She’s got your eyes,” Stan replied.  Molly opened her mouth.  “What’s she doin’?”

               “I’m not- oh.  She must be hungry,” Angie said.  She looked over at the food stand. “Shoot, we’re all out!  Fidds refills the dishes in the mornin’!”

               “Think you can wait until then?” Stan asked Molly. She closed her mouth, looking disappointed.  “Yeah, it sucks, but we’ll get you some-” Molly abruptly opened her mouth again and began to emit a loud screech.  “Ah, fuck!” Stan yelped.  He stumbled back in shock and careened over the edge of the nest.  

               “Stan!” Angie squawked.  

               “I’m fine,” Stan cawed at her. He shook his head.  “A bit dizzy, but I’m fine.”

               “We need to get this baby some food.”

               “Agreed.”  Stan ruffled his feathers, preparing to take flight.  “I’ll go grab somethin’ from the kitchen.  One of the nerds had to have left some fruit on the counter, right?”  Doors slammed from downstairs.  “Never mind, we can just get the nerds to get the food.”

               “Come back up here,” Angie said.  Stan took off and landed in the nest.  

               “Molly, it’s okay,” Stan said desperately.  Molly paused her screech for a moment to breathe, then started again.  “She’s never gonna shut up!”  Footsteps raced up the stairs.  Fiddleford and Ford arrived at the attic landing, disheveled and in their pajamas.

               “What on Earth is goin’ on up here?” Fiddleford demanded.

               “Hey, we’re not pleased about the kid screamin’, either!” Stan squawked.  

               “Fiddleford!  The egg!” Ford said, grabbing Fiddleford’s arm.  “It hatched!”

               “Goodness!” Fiddleford gasped.  “The lil chickee must be hungry.”

               “No shit, Sherlock!” Stan screeched.

               “I’ll get some food,” Fiddleford said, already running downstairs.  Ford stared at the phoenixes.  

               “Pinatubo hatched,” Ford whispered, his eyes wide.  A broad smile appeared on his face.  “Pinatubo hatched!”

               “Great, just what we need,” Stan grumbled.  “Ford getting all emotional.  He doesn’t even know she’s his niece!”

               “I think it’s nice,” Angie said. She winced as Molly’s screech increased in volume.  “But I agree, it’s not what we need right now.”

               “I’m back, I’m back!” Fiddleford said, coming up the stairs again.  He rushed over to the nest and deposited some banana slices, dead crickets, and walnuts in front of Molly.  Molly stopped screeching for a moment.  She knelt and looked at one of the crickets, then nudged it towards Angie.  

               “Why didn’t she eat it?” Stan whispered.  Angie grimaced.

               “Stan, I- I think we have to feed it to her.”

               “Okay.  Then what’s with the wigged-out expression?”

               “Ya know how some birds feed their young, right?” Angie said.  Stan stared at her for a moment.  “Darlin’, I- I think phoenix chicks feed from their parents regurgitatin’ things.”

               “Oh, come on!” Stan screeched. “Why is bein’ a bird so gross?”  Clearly getting frustrated, Molly began to screech again.  Stan and Angie winced.  “Fine!  Fine, kid, we’ll do that!  Anything to get you to shut your yap.”  Stan turned to Fiddleford and hissed.  “Scram!”

               “I think they want some privacy,” Fiddleford said to Ford.  

               “But-” Ford started.

               “Pinatubo will still be there in the mornin’.  We should go check on Tate, see if he got woken up by the noise.”

----- 

               Angie hummed softly to Molly as she preened her daughter’s downy feathers.

               “Baby girl, I can’t believe yer already a month old,” Angie chirped.  “Seems like yesterday that I laid ya.”

               “Yeah, well, you know what they say,” Stan squawked from the toy stand.  “Time flies when you’re trapped as a bird.”  He viciously grabbed at one of the toys, a dangling knotted rope, with his beak.  “It’s about time they gave us somethin’ to do up here,” he said in between attacks. Angie chuckled.

               “I think I like watchin’ ya mess with the mirror most.”

               “That one’s pretty entertaining,” Stan agreed.  “When we’re back to human, don’t tell Ford I played with it though, okay?”

               “If that ever happens,” Angie sighed.  Molly chirped at her curiously.  “Oh honey, I wish I could see what you look like as a human baby.”

               “I already know,” Stan said.  “Cuter ‘n hell.”

               “That goes without sayin’,” Angie said.  She and Stan looked over at the stairs, upon hearing footsteps.  Fiddleford walked into the attic with a large animal carrier. “Oh, joy of joys,” Angie said flatly.  “What is it this time?”

               “Pele, mind comin’ over here?” Fiddleford said.  Angie clacked her beak.  “Okay, I’ll sweeten the pot.”  Fiddleford opened the carrier and set a handful of peach slices inside.  Angie’s eyes widened.

               “Holy shit, he really wants you to get in,” Stan said.  “They never use that much food to bribe us.”

               “All right, I’m curious enough to do what ya want,” Angie chirped.  She nuzzled Molly one last time, then took flight and landed inside the carrier.

               “Any luck?” Ford called from downstairs.

               “Got Pele,” Fiddleford shouted back.  “So, we’re halfway done.  Get up here so’s we can finish.”

               “Look, I don’t care what you offer,” Stan hissed.  “I’m not gonna leave Molly alone.”  Ford walked upstairs.

               “Ready?” Fiddleford asked him.  “We’ll have to move fast fer this to work.”  Ford nodded silently.

               “What’s goin’ on?” Angie cawed. Fiddleford closed the carrier’s door. “Hey!”  Fiddleford marched over to Stan.  Stan eyed him.

               “Howdy there, Prometheus.  Yer quite the protective dad,” Fiddleford said.  Stan frowned at him.

               “What’s your angle?” Stan asked.

               “Stanley, Ford’s takin’ Molly!” Angie screeched.

               “What?!” Stan shouted. Before he could move, Fiddleford grabbed him firmly.  “Lemme go, Fiddleford!  Your boyfriend, my twin brother, is stealing my kid!”  Stan writhed in Fiddleford’s grip, but couldn’t break free.  “Fine!  You wanna play dirty?  I’ll play dirty!”  Stan snapped at Fiddleford’s hands.  Despite the thick leather gloves he was wearing, Fiddleford winced in pain, but didn’t let go.

               “I know yer not happy, but we need to take lil Pinatubo in fer a checkup,” Fiddleford said calmly.  Stan’s eyes widened.

               “You’re taking her to the vet? Bastards!  She doesn’t deserve to be treated like a damn animal!”

               “Look, we’re doin’ what we can to keep everyone calm and happy,” Fiddleford said.  “Pele’s goin’ to come with, so lil Pinatubo’s not alone.”  Stan could hear the carrier’s door open and close quickly.  

               “Ouch!” Ford yelped.  “Dammit, Pele!  I was giving you your chick back!”

               “You manhandled my baby!” Angie screeched.  “Yer takin’ her to a veterinarian!”

               “Stanford, go load up in the car,” Fiddleford instructed.  “We can’t have Prometheus flyin’ after us.”  Still trapped by Fiddleford, Stan couldn’t see Ford leave, but he could hear Angie’s screeches of protest getting quieter, and Ford’s hurried footsteps fading.  Downstairs, a door opened and closed.  

               They’re gone.  Stan drooped.  

               “Hush, it’s okay,” Fiddleford said soothingly.  He stroked Stan’s back.  Stan let out a sad croak.  Fiddleford carefully set Stan down in the nest, then immediately bolted down the stairs. Stan screeched angrily and flew after him as fast as he could.  However, he was still a split second too late; Fiddleford beat him to the door and closed it before Stan could escape.  Stan let out another furious screech.

               “Assholes!”  Stan landed on the floor, deciding to walk back to the attic.

               And if I make a mess on the way, so be it.  Stan ruffled his feathers angrily.  If they knew who we really were, they wouldn’t pull this shit.  If only I could tell them.  He looked down at the hardwood floor.  There were some scratches in wood, from when a possessed badger got loose a few months ago.  Hmm…  He experimentally dragged his beak down the hall, leaving a long, jagged mark.  Stan crowed triumphantly.  Fuckin’ finally!  It’s time to let ‘em know they’ve been treating their relatives like birds for months.

[genesisarclite]

Constants and Variables

Summary: in the early days of Morgan’s Neuromod testing, a young woman is assigned to his office as part of her everyday stocking rounds. Things start out fine enough, until the trials begin. Explores the world, consequences of Morgan’s testing (and losing his memory), and what happens when someone on the very lowest tier of the company gets way too close to the VP. The response to this (admittedly somewhat slow start) will determine if I post the rest of it.

note: started as a freewrite, got way too long. enjoy mah first Prey fic.

note 2: yes the title is from BioShock Infinite. it fits, it sits.

Aislinn has a name she doesn’t particularly like and a job she isn’t fond of Earthside, so when she sees an ad to stock inventory on Talos I, she jumps at the opportunity. It’s space, after all, at the heart of mankind’s current and greatest endeavors to be… well, amazing. Better than this. Anything is better than this. Pretty as Earth is, she had no extended family that cared, one deceased parent, and a half-handful of friends who wished her well.

The tour was only supposed to last eleven months. Or so.

Aislinn is twenty-nine, a mess of brown hair touched with faded blonde highlights atop her head, a mishmash of cultures and quirks that comes from growing up in the Dublin metropolitan area. Everyone says space isn’t the way, that it’s too expensive, but it’s better than driving a truck hundreds of miles every week and refilling the raw materials the Operator printers used. Three-dee printers were a wonderful, awe-inspiring, awful invention she both loved and loathed.

The TranStar employees look at her sidelong – at her practical patchwork of elbow-length sleeves, sturdy pants, and utility belt – but only the women, in their perfectly primped perms and sleek silk skirts, refuse to go too near her. She doesn’t mind too much, because HR is friendly enough, the interview goes well, she waits two months, and then she’s shipped off to zero-gee training and two months’ worth of “life aboard Talos I” seminars that give her weird dreams.

She’s given a suit and told how to wear it, check for damage, and that it must be worn at all times on the station. She asks if that includes sleep. The trainer stares at her for a bit. He never really answers.

Then she’s up in space, traveling to Moon Orbit, to the bustling and beautiful station that is Talos I, shuffled in with a bunch of other trainees, and lost in the crowd.

For three days, she studies maps, steers clear of the GUTS, listens to hilariously perky training vids, and stares out in space at the sparkly ball of Earth, dangling on its invisible thread in the cosmos as it swings slowly around the giant ball of fire that held everything in place. She’s among the lowest-ranked on the station – back of the line, last to be called, moving about without being seen, one of a hundred faces never seen by the suits.

She drinks cold-brewed coffee with a metallic taste and vaguely hears some scientist make an off-color joke about coffee mugs and tentacles.

Then the station ambience gets a little quieter, sometime in the spring of 2032 – time doesn’t mean much out here in the infinite blackness of the cosmos – and there’s chatter of important scientists coming for a visit. She stocks in the Yellow Tulip, trying to ignore the scent of a cracked bottle of brandy as she tosses it in the recycler, while a barmaid chatters and a woman sits, trying to focus on something. More scientists. Always more scientists, back and forth, Earth to Moon to station, always talking about procedures and experiments and volunteers.

Eventually, sometime in March or so, she finds out it’s the president and VP of TranStar, the Yu brothers, both brilliant scientists, who are greeted with sleepy excitement by the round-the-clock staff. She’s in the crowd, trying to see, but has to climb on a small box to get a look, being short, and none of the higher-ranked employees bother to move for her, not even to let her get the briefest of glances, so she fights for it.

There’s two men, one slender and the other quite… stout. Both walk with their heads up and backs straight, but the stout one walks like he owns the world – which he does, she supposes – while the slender one moves with a swagger she doesn’t really like, as if he’s daring the observers to gawk. Neither looked at all bothered by the people around them, some of whom were practically bouncing on their toes.

They were roughly the same height, the stout one with stern features but a calm expression, the slender one with fine features but a very cool expression.

Neither of them looked around much as they walked.

Aislinn got bored, eventually, and slunk off to go back to stocking. Word on the street was that they’d be here a while, so she’d get plenty of chances to see them.

Maybe, anyway. Hopefully.

She’d never meet them, though. That she knew. They were important scientists and the masterminds of TranStar, and she was a lowly stocker who went unnoticed by everyone except a few fellow blue-collar employees and ever-chatty Operators. If she did happen across them, it’d be by accident, not design.

-

The lobby is a nice place to relax, with its breathtaking views of the galactic arm and Sagittarius A* region, of the Moon’s dusty sphere glittering below and the Earth gliding in the sea of stars. It always smelled like flowers if the groundskeepers just finished trimming, and it functioned like a solarium, settling over her like a warm blanket after an hour in a somewhat-defrosted freezer or too many hours close to the cooling fans.

It had been a little over a month since the brothers had arrived.

In the TranStar exhibit, she took up janitorial duties out of boredom, sweeping and dusting, making a circuit, while a groundskeeper hummed to himself and snipped off bits of dead plants. Nothing went to waste, not even dust, as it was bagged and taken to be recycled. Both resources and space were immensely valuable here. Talos I, for all its eye-popping size and architectural beauty, was still a station spinning in the cosmos, and though it got some resources from the Moon, it had to be self-reliant to some extent. There were gardens and hydroponics everywhere, most of them in the Arboretum – one place she had not yet been – that grew everything, including fruits that tasted vaguely of meat.

The groundskeeper poked his head inside as she finished up. He was taller than her, with spindly arms and legs and a mop of black hair that never seemed to sit right on his head. “Hey, did you hear?”

“No.” She didn’t pay attention to station gossip.

“Mikhaila about drunk herself off her bum last night,” he told her. After a quick glance around, he ducked lower and dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “She and Morgan got into a–”

“Morgan?” Aislinn waved her dustpan at him. “There’s three Morgans on this station, Matt.”

“Morgan-Morgan. Morgan Yu. The only one anyone talks about?”

“Oh, yeah, him.” Though she tried to ignore the talk, there came inevitable moments of hero worship from at least a dozen employees, and she hadn’t been able to escape the occasional bout of swooning from a woman who happened to catch a glimpse of him. “And… why should I care?”

“Because everyone’s talking– you know what, you’re no fun.” He pouted and shook his head. “Can’t you pretend to care for five minutes?”

Again, she waved the dustpan, closer this time. Matt made a face and scurried away.

The Mikhaila-Morgan gossip lasted about two days, before the man himself apparently told someone off when he overheard it, and the talk stopped cold.

Stocking rounds brought her to the station’s inner circle – Teleconferencing, Human Resources, the like. The drink machines had to be restocked every single day in these places, and that wasn’t going into the volunteer quarters with their million kinds of snacks. She didn’t mind, though. It was work, she was paid reasonably well for it, basically set her own hours, and had managed to snag a room with a view that she relaxed under, in naught but her skin, enjoying the warmth of the sun, after a long day’s shift, while reading a book.

Jason was the secretary outside Morgan’s personal office. He was missing when she first brought up a box of goods, and as she put items away in seemingly random cupboards and drawers, she stumbled across his computer password – one written on a sticky note, in clear violation of station rules, and was so blatantly hero-worshippy that she very nearly took a picture before dutifully throwing it away.

Though she spent twenty minutes puzzling out where everything went, the door to Morgan’s office never opened, and no one ever came her way.

She stocked in peace, collapsed the box, and threw it in the first recycler she found.

Two days later, she brought another box up for restocking. Jason was there this time, head in one hand while the other fiddled with the keyboard on his desk. “Aislinn, right?” he said suddenly, as she made her approach. He completely butchered her name, but then, the spelling didn’t exactly make it obvious. “Nice to meet you!”

Aislinn paused. Jason was her height, carrying a layer of pudge all over his body, culminating in round cheeks and large, shiny eyes. He seemed harmless enough. “And yourself,” she said, extending a hand to shake his, and he took it, heedless of the dirt on her glove. “Lookin’ anxious.”

“No, no, just harried and– that accent, it’s lovely, where’s it from?”

She smiled. It was true, she hadn’t heard anyone else with an accent like hers yet. “Ireland.”

“Oh, beautiful, just brilliant. I love it. Can I call you Ash? And can you say more words? It sounds so lovely.”

Despite herself, she smiled broader. Jason was harmless, giddy as a small child. He might have lived a sheltered life, and what harm did it do to talk more so he could hear the accent he obviously adored? Besides, he was far too happy to turn down, at least for now.

“I’ll be sayin’ as many words that’re needed, Jason,” she told him. “Now, did you need something?”

“Mmm, yes. You brought two boxes, right?”

She blinked. “Uh… I did, yeah. Requisition orders requested two this time.” At her feet sat one of the boxes; she lightly kicked it with her foot. “You know why, don’t you?”

“I do! One of them–” He stood up so fast, his chair skidded back. For a man his size, he sure did move fast on his feet. “That one, with the pink label? That goes in his office.” Jason put particular emphasis on the pronoun, as though it were mystical, and smiled goofily to punctuate it.

It took a moment to sink in. “Wait, Morgan’s? I can…” Thinking of the chitchat of the other employees  and what she had seen of Morgan the day he arrived, she felt her skin crawl. At her side, the fingers of one hand clenched. “That a good idea, Jason? Maybe it’s better you go in, huh?”

“Oh, no, no, no, it’s fine! It’s totally fine, it’s compl– it’s fine.” He grinned at her and nodded.

She wasn’t so sure. “And, where does it all go?”

“He has a fridge, and a– it’s a mini-fridge. Not like a big fridge. It’s over by the fabricator.”

Morgan had his own personal fabricator? She sighed quietly. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he have his own everything? He was the snob at the top. He could requisition anything he wanted. “Alright, then,” she muttered, and picked up the box to carry it into the office.

It was a spacious one, overlooking the lobby where a few people meandered, with plush red carpeting and bronze-colored trim everywhere she looked. Despite reminding herself not to snoop, she still made a detour around his desk. A few odd sculptures, a potted tree, some abstract paintings on the wall, and a portrait of what she could only assume was the Yu family – an old man, an old woman, Alex, and Morgan. None of them looked particularly happy, with Morgan looking perhaps the dourest of all.

“Big happy family, huh?” She shook her head and made her way over to the kitchen – or whatever would be the proper term for it. There was indeed a mini-fridge and a cupboard, both of which looked as though they didn’t belong and had simply been shoved wherever. Both were completely bare but for a few meager scraps she tossed into a box after she emptied it, bound for the recycler (one of which was directly to her left, but she wasn’t about to start toying with the VP’s stuff).

Nearly done, she heard the entrance door slide open and the sound of footsteps hitting the carpet hard enough to sound loud even to her ears. The sound of someone muttering under his breath made her freeze for a moment before resuming her task. The sooner she got done, the better.

Then he was standing over her; she looked up and craned her neck back, perturbed by this sudden invasion of her space. “Who are you? The stocker? Are you assigned to my office?”

Something about the way he spoke made her uneasy. Morgan looked high-strung, exhausted, and his stance was all business. He scowled down at her, but his eyes were blazing, and she wanted nothing more than to bolt for the door like he had set her tail on fire.

Opening and closing her mouth, she fought to keep her voice steady. “Yes, Mr. Yu.” Collapsing the last container, she laid it in the box with the others, smoothed out her uniform, and looked at him. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll be out of your way in just a moment. Pardon me.” She tucked the box under her arm and speed-walked out, though she felt his eyes on her back all the same, even when the doors slid shut.

Two days later, she received another requisition order to restock his office. Considering the meager amount she had put in there to begin with, it didn’t really surprise her, but she still had to do a double-take, wondering how he had managed to go through it so quickly… and why.

And why didn’t he just come out and get his own? Why was she his keeper?

She returned Jason’s greeting and entered the office to find the VP already present, but too busy at his terminal, pecking away at a keyboard, to pay her any mind. Every so often, he spoke lowly into a transcribe, then went back to his typing, so she ignored him and went about her duties. The box contained a little more food than last time – bags of tomato jerky, a few cans of iced coffee, boxes of wheat biscuits… and then, at the back, tucked in a little box no larger than her hand, a few scraps of meat jerky. Real meat jerky.

Aislinn, having gone a long time now without the taste of real meat, lingered a moment, holding it between her fingers. The box was light, trimmed in gold filigree. For a moment, she entertained the thought of opening it, just to smell it, before remembering who ordered it and filing it away in momentary disgust. She didn’t like Morgan, she didn’t like Alex, and come to think of it, no one else really did, either. Even the women who swooned didn’t dare get too close.

She wondered if he even had any friends.

Collapsing the containers and throwing them in the box, she tucked it under one arm and moved to leave before she could intrude on the man’s buzzing mind.

“Excuse me.”

Startled, she nearly dropped the box as her foot skidded across the carpet, stopping her but nearly making her trip. Biting back a reflexive curse, she turned to face him. Morgan was still in the same position, hands poised over the keyboard, but looked steadily at her. The look was one of supreme focus, as though he studied her.

“I’m aware someone was assigned to stock my office, but Jason failed to tell me who you were.” He had a firm, polite, direct manner of speech that felt as cold as the station’s hull, and just as unreadable, a startling change from just two days prior. “Can you tell me your name, miss?”

No, she didn’t like him at all. He felt to her like a puzzle of shifting geometric cubes made of cold metal, far from the warmth of the sun, moving and changing, but on the surface, it all looked the same. He had been upset before, but now, he just sat there, as though nothing had happened. It bemused her.

“Aislinn,” she said, enunciating clearly, and nodding.

“Aislinn, you say?” He spoke it perfectly, as though he had said it a thousand times. “Well, it’s good to meet you at last, then, Aislinn. I apologize for my behavior when we last met. I had encountered… let’s call them ‘difficulties’, that day. I’m sure you understand if I don’t elaborate.”

It bemused her how calmly he apologized, but at least he had done it. “Of course, sir.”

“If you’re going to be coming here, you may as well call me Morgan.” He raised one eyebrow. “Pardon me for asking, but would you do one more thing for me, before you leave for your next rounds?” When she nodded, he continued, “In that box, there should have been an order of cold-brewed coffees. Please bring one to me.”

She set the box down and did as he asked, finding it already quite chilled despite the short amount of time. She handed it to him, and he took it from her without flinching.

For some reason, she had come to think that he would be somehow repulsed by the lowly workers of Talos I, but then she remembered he was a scientist. Getting his hands dirty came with the territory. What was a dusty, slightly grimy stocker compared to a dish of tardigrades and exotic cosmic materials?

She found his cool politeness and inability to be read obnoxious, regardless.

“Thank you. I expect you’ll return later in the week. I have other matters to attend to now, if you’ll excuse me.” He went back to his terminal, and she left to throw the box and containers in the recycler.

-

Two days later, she was indeed back, carrying two boxes and stocking his office with one. Every time, he asked for one of the cold-brewed coffees – a caramel-flavored one, without fail – and when he caught her inquisitive look one day, he only told it helped him concentrate, and the caramel reminded him of something from when he was young. He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask, leaving as quickly as she’d come.

Two days later, she returned. Morgan wasn’t there, and she left in the space of less than ten minutes.

She left one of the coffees on his desk, though, just in case.

Two days later, again and again, for nearly two weeks… the pattern repeated, but the circumstances did not. She found him in a poor mood again one day, but the other times, he was pleasant and polite, though cool as ever, sometimes ignoring her altogether, sometimes telling her anecdotes about his day, or his work, or some nugget of his past.

And without meaning to, she starts peeling back the layers.

He told her offhand about a blend of tea and coffee he favored, which he had kept meaning to order, but simply forgot. He told her about Alex breaking his arm in a blind fury, then moping about and helping while it set. She found out that he liked the tiny pink flowers a groundskeeper sometimes left on his desk – a mess of clippings, tucked prettily into a jar, which he didn’t seem to mind. He told her about ostrich meat, expensive to ship to the station, and how he longed for even a shred of the stuff, a concoction he missed from his time on Earth.

Then other factoids crept in. How he always wanted to play the piano. A little about Mikhaila, the station’s chief engineer. When his middle name slipped out one day, that gave him particular pause, causing him to look at her as though she were something to be studied again. What had been ten-minute trips had turned into fifteen, twenty, and thirty, as she dawdled and listened and tried to solve his ever-shifting puzzle.

Bit by bit, the pieces took on unique colors and shapes. Under his cool stare, she still felt anxious, but it wasn’t scary anymore.

“Hmm.” He tipped his head. “Well, I didn’t intend that to happen, but it did. Tell no one else of it. There are some small things that are best left as… personal secrets.”

Why his middle name – a perfectly innocuous one, she thought – would be a secret puzzled her, but she had long learned not to question him too much. If he wanted to divulge information, he did it freely, and when he didn’t, the answers he gave were as cryptic as possible, and left her thinking for hours.

She couldn’t say she liked him, but at least she had managed to find a man beneath the ice.

Then the day came when she found him standing at the office window, staring down at the lobby in silence with his arms folded. “Ah, Aislinn, on time as always,” he said as she arrived. “You had mentioned coming from Dublin. Is it as lively and beautiful as everyone says? I’ve personally never been there.”

“Guess so,” she said, still not comfortable calling him by his name – not a man like this,. Somehow, it felt disrespectful to do such a thing. “I liked it, sure, but I liked space more. Dublin’s fine, but there’s too many bars and not enough sober men.” She cracked a small smile, then looked hard at him. “What’s ailin’ you?”

“I have been undergoing some… tests. As the one person who visits most often, you should know what’s going on.” He shifted his weight. “Tomorrow, my memory will be wiped clean, and a new round of testing will begin. That day you found me in a poor mood? I had just undergone the first trial.”

It took a moment for her to realize what he was saying. “Uh… can… can I ask what sort of testing?”

He looked at her, studied her a long moment, and nodded, before turning back to the window. “Shouldn’t hurt. Jason, Alex, and a select few already do – those who interact with me daily, those who need to know. I’m assuming you’ve heard about neuromods? Well, those.”

Aislinn had to stare at him a bit. Removing neuromods would remove his memories? She had heard of such a thing, but never gotten specifics. Did it remove all of his memories, or just up to a certain point? Her family had never been able to afford neuromod treatments – what info she did have was completely secondhand.

And Morgan could pass on so much information in a few short sentences, his cool and polite tone and gentle cadence both as cold as hull metal and fascinating as the distant stars. She had yet to see him smile, though, or hear his tone shift much from this one. The ice had cracked, but the core still hid away. Now, he sounded completely unaffected by the idea of losing his memories. It bothered her to hear.

“That means, the next time you come here, I won’t know who you are.”

“Do you…” She frowned. “…lose everything?”

“No, only back to the point the neuromods were installed. But because I met you after I began the first trial – you, and Mikhaila – I won’t remember either of you. It will be as though all that time… all this time never happened.”

Slowly, she nodded, still trying to absorb it. “Aye, then.”

“You know enough that you could convince me you knew me.” He looked at her again. “Shouldn’t be a problem for you. I plan to make the next trial much shorter – days instead of weeks – so as to make this easier on everyone.”

His expression was as unreadable as ever, even when she looked hard at him. “Did you get anything from the testing so far, though?” she said as she moved to begin her stocking duties.

“I can run further and process information much more quickly. Math seems to be a second language, savant-level. Increased strength. Beyond that, I have gained little else.” Unlike most people she knew, this man rarely sighed, or shifted his weight, or made any sort of sound he didn’t completely intend to make. “This next round… I am hoping for something useful.”

“Maths isn’t useful?” she said as she tucked away the coffees.

“This level of math is plenty useful, but it isn’t anything I couldn’t learn on my own with more dedication,” he told her. “All of this is completely random. Next time, I might have learned how to be a master gambler, or… play the piano.” He lowered his arms. “It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow, we resume testing, and I expect you’ll still be coming in.”

She wondered what it would be like. “To do my duties as always, sir.”

“Please, Aislinn, after a dozen times asking, you should know.” He tipped his head. “Call me Morgan.”

[a-deluded-banana]

a shot in the dark

a shot in the dark

She had no place to be and no promises to keep. It was one of those lazy, Kool-Aid-sipping, porch-swinging August afternoons, the ones that feel as if time is just ambling along or maybe pausing for a nice long nap. There had been so many of those afternoons that summer. The freedom would be pleasant, she thought, if only there were something to do with it. There hadn’t been a speck of excitement in the town of Douglasville since Mr. Hobbes’ cow disappeared three months ago. Curious and adventure-hungry, she was a loaded spring.

“Maisie, what did I tell you? You’ll break your neck. And don’t let your skirt fall down like that.” Her mother’s voice cut into her thoughts. Reluctantly she swung down from the porch railing where she had been hanging by her knees and fixed her mother with a glare from across the yard.

But her sulkiness dissipated at the sound of familiar footsteps. “Maisie, Maisie, c’mon!” It was Thomas, one of the neighborhood kids, a red-headed, freckle-faced wisp of a boy. He was Maisie’s favorite—although she’d never admit it—because he had a rebellious streak and never missed an opportunity to stir up mischief at school. Everyone knew him by the way he walked, a distinct long-short rhythm, the mark of anyone crippled by polio. The other kids teased him for it. He was in the sixth grade, a year older than Maisie, but in the summer that didn’t matter.

“What?”

“I gotta show you somethin’. C’mon!” In his eyes danced the excitement Maisie had been waiting for.

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.” His lanky, sunburnt arm beckoned her to follow.

With a cautionary glance over her shoulder at her mother, who was hanging up a pair of underwear and humming busily to herself, Maisie fell into step beside the boy, the dirt road’s dusty exhales rising in their wake. When they had reached the corner before Thomas's house, he slackened his pace, a finger to his lips. Staying close to the side of the house, he led Maisie into the backyard.

They stood before Thomas's father’s toolshed. Rusty hinges creaked twice as the door opened and quickly closed again. Once they were out of sight, Thomas's eyes changed. “You gotta swear not to tell anyone, okay?”

“Why?”

“‘Cause if my dad finds out, I’m dead meat. Got it?”

Maisie nodded, her interest piqued.

“Pinky promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in--”

“Come over here then, and remember, be quiet.” The shifting of some crates, a box of white paint cans, and the broken frame of a washboard revealed as wooden chest, which Thomas opened.

Maisie had never seen a gun before—not in real life, at least. It lay on a neatly folded bed of blue velvet and looked like it would hurt her if she made it angry.

“I found the key under my dad’s bed.”

“Does it work?”

“Yep, she’s all loaded up and everythin’.” He lifted the gun out of its holding place as if it were a sleeping princess, and cradled it in his arms. “A big one, too.”

She let him swoon over it until curiosity got the better of her. “Can I hold it?”

“If you’re careful. Don’t drop it.” He held out the weapon, albeit reluctantly. “Well c’mon. It’s not gonna jump out and bite you.”

She hadn’t expected it to feel so heavy in her hands. Nor had she expected the thrill that travelled up her spine or the peculiar sense of boldness. Still, she tried not to let Thomas see her shaking hands.

“You’re holdin’ it like a girl,” he laughed.

“Well how do you know the right way to hold it?”

“Every guy knows how to hold a gun,” he replied, puffing out his chest slightly.

“Show me, then.”

He guided her fingers around the weapon. “You wrap your right hand over your left, and your pointer finger—no, not that one, your pointer—goes along here like this. And when you wanna shoot, you put it here.”

Her finger leapt off the trigger as soon as his guiding hands were gone. “You don’t plan to use it, do you?” She gingerly returned it.

“Naw, I wouldn’t actually use it. It could come in handy, though.”

But when she looked up at him to ask why, all she saw was the angry black eye of the thing, hovering inches from hers. “Put that down!” She backed up, skittish suddenly, nearly upsetting a small tower of boxes.

“Gee, I was only joking.” But Thomas pointed it at the window instead, cocked his head, and winked down the length of the gun, a John Wayne drawl coming from his licked lips. “Let’s go on an adventure.”

“What kind of adventure?”

“Remember that old crank Mr. Grimm?”

Of course she did. Everybody knew Mr. Grimm. The infamous town drunk lived at the outer edge of the village, in a droopy-eyed house that stood directly next to the dump; rumor had it the old man had been born and raised right in that very dump, and Maisie suspected he’d die there too.

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Well, he’s always sayin’ things about my leg on my way to school. I’m ‘bout to show him what I’m made of.”

Not a soul in Douglasville knew of an anger quite as bitter or as deep-rooted as Mr. Grimm's. Every morning at sunup, already scowling, he would hobble down the street, making sure to tromp on someone’s flower bed on the way, and take his usual place on the stoop of the corner post office, where he sat and commented on ladies’ dresses and grumbled about the state of politics and generally cursed everything under the sun—but his favorite pastime of all was tormenting schoolchildren. Especially Thomas, with his leg brace and funny walk.

“...What do you mean?”

“Oh, just tease ‘im a little, you know how he gets all worked up over things.” He had slipped the gun down his pant leg and now stood with a hand on the doorknob. “You coming?”

“You’re not… bringing that along, are you?”

“Only in case of an emergency. And to scare ‘im.” He shrugged as if people went out every day with guns hidden under their pants. “Aw c’mon, it’ll be funny!”

Maisie picked at a scab on her elbow. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t be such a sissy.”

He might as well have slapped her square in the face; there was nothing Maisie hated more than being called a sissy. “Okay,” she said, but only to nurse her wounded pride, and because she was left with no other option. And besides, Thomas had a point; it would be pretty funny. And so the adventure was on.

--------

Crows ruled the dump from atop heaping thrones of discarded things, pecking and perching and ruffling their dust-coated black feathers. To Maisie, as well as most of the kids of Douglasville, the dump was a land of endless possibility. What was tossed out when someone died or moved out could be salvaged and take on a new life for another. So Maisie had come to know her way around the dump like the back of her hand.

Now Thomas was shushing her. “He’ll be gettin’ home right about now.” As if in response, Mr. Grimm came staggering up the sidewalk, sending the two daredevils darting for cover behind the nearest mountain of junk. Mr. Grimm’s door slammed.

Thomas peered over a worn-out tire. “Looks like we can hide under the kitchen window. He won’t be able to see us down there. I say go, we make a run for it, got it?” Maisie got a little thrill and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Go!”

They made it to safety. Crouching in their hideout, Maisie looked above her head at a gnarled mass of vines, shriveled by the summer heat and clinging to the trellis. It whispered as if threatening to tell their secret.

“Go look in the window,” Thomas hissed in her ear, “and tell me what you see.”

“Why can’t you do it?” Maisie whined.

“‘Cause I gotta be on the lookout in case we need to get out of here in a hurry. Go on.” But his leg brace glinted the real reason as the sun beat down on his twisted frame and his eyes full of brewing storm.

Against her better judgement, but out of pity that Thomas couldn’t, Maisie trusted the trellis with her weight as she craned her neck to see over the windowsill. Even from outside, the air in the house felt stagnant and thick. Flies circled over a half-eaten loaf of stale-looking bread on the counter, and there was dust in the kitchen sink. Finally she noticed the man asleep in an armchair, one wrinkly arm dangling by his side as if he’d been dropped there by accident.

When she reported the news, Thomas visibly deflated. “We’ll just wait until he wakes up then.”

Their hiding place was smaller than it had looked from afar, and their clammy skin was pressed together in some places. In their pre-adolescence a shared self-consciousness descended upon them. Maisie busied herself by wrapping bits of dead vine around her finger. She’d never really thought of people in terms of boy or girl; were they really that different anyway? Why did she wear a skirt and not pants to church? What was it exactly that made a boy a boy and a girl a girl? She had extracted some vague clues from scraps of overheard grown-up conversation and a magazine she’d found in her dad’s coat pocket, but these were mismatched pieces of a puzzle she sensed you didn’t ask about anyway.

Above their heads, Mr. Grimm’s radio crackled out something about President Kennedy having made an appearance at a baseball game last Saturday. “My dad says President Kennedy is a blockhead Catholic,” Thomas whispered, wiping a trickle of sweat out of his eyes.

“You think we really will get a man on the moon someday?” Maisie pondered.

“Naw, I don’t think so.”

Maisie thought about it. “I do.”

“My dad says it’s a load of nonsense.”

Silence settled in. Beside Mr. Grimm’s house stood a quite healthy-looking apple tree Maisie hadn’t noticed before. She found a rotten apple and rolled it around with her toe. The fruit was small and green with a light dusting of pale red like a baby’s cheek. She wondered why death had come so early in its lifetime; perhaps a squirrel had accidentally knocked it off its branch. In any case, here it sat in Mr. Grimm’s dirt, decayed and full of worms.

Over time a lurking black shape became visible in Maisie’s peripheral vision like a shadow. As soon as she realized what it was, her heart leapt into her throat and she whisper-shrieked, “Put that thing down! Put it down!” The gun had been so close she had practically felt its breath on her temple—just like in the toolshed, only this time she didn’t know how long it had been there. By instinct, she had shrunk back against the trellis.

“Why do you do that?” she demanded.

“Shh! Stop being so loud.” He was polishing the weapon with the hem of his shirt.

“Why do you point it at me like that?”

“For practice.”

“Practice for what?”

“C’mon, you know I’m not gonna hurt you.”

"I know," Maisie said, "I just... I just hate it bein’ so close.”

“I’m gonna scare ‘im good,” Thomas was saying. “He’ll think he’s under attack, and when ‘e comes over to see what’s goin’ on, we’ll hide. Then, just when he’s startin’ to settle down again, I’ll shoot his hat right off, or somethin’. That’ll scare ‘im good.” Thomas's ginger hair flamed in the sun.

Maisie could hardly blame him for wanting to torment the old man; Mr. Grimm was a good-for-nothing bully, that part she knew—but the boy's eyes had a strange light, she thought.

But a noise in the house left the thought suspended in midair. Both children froze like deer in headlights as Thomas's eyes locked with Maisie’s.

As soon as Maisie could haul both of them up without causing a racket, the children were peeping over the windowsill by the stale bread and still-blabbering radio, the gun poised between their heads. Mr. Grimm stirred in his armchair. A tendril of dead vine crunched under Maisie's foot on the trellis and both children held their breath.

For the first time Maisie wondered what had happened to Mr. Grimm to make him so bitter. Perhaps the man had never been anything except angry in his life. A bony, blue-veined hand clutched drunkenly at a half-empty bottle arm’s length away on the table, knocking it to the floor. He swore at the broken fragments, then fell silent again.

“Well,” Maisie hissed, eager for the gun to be back in its cabinet, “wanna call it a day?”

But Thomas made no reply. A vein in his forehead was pulsing like the pounding of Maisie’s heart.

Maisie’s trembling grip on the trellis slackened with sweat. Through the window on the opposite wall of the house the sun was hanging heavy in the sky, and Maisie longed to be swinging on the porch railing again, without a care in the world. Besides, her mother must be wild with worry by now.

When Thomas looked at her, her stomach felt like it was being squeezed by a fist, and she felt like yelling out in powerlessness. In her confusion the thought came to her that Thomas could pull that very same trigger on her if he pleased, with only Mr. Grimm and the junkyard crows to bear witness. All earlier excitement was as stale as Mr. Grimm’s bread. Thomas's finger twitched. Would he? Could he?

Maisie tried to reassure herself. It was just a game of hide-and-seek—or better yet, they were a pair of secret agents waiting to expose the bad guys and save the day--only Maisie wasn’t sure who the bad guy was.

Then time went from barely moving to racing. With a considerable amount of effort, Mr. Grimm stood up from his chair and turned around. When he saw them, a look of drunken loathing contorted his face. The crows understood; they scattered, cawing their warnings. Maisie closed her eyes. Thomas cocked the gun, and in that moment she knew that whatever he was going to do, she couldn’t stop if she tried.

[psi-psina]

The Hounds of Baskerville, a long-ass read-through.

Pt one, 221B.

I haven’t done this to an episode in years... I’m gonna preface this with a quick summary on how I read the symbolism in the show so that anyone who might happen to read this might have a clue as to what I’m talking about. The symbolism I’m referring to here is the double-meaning attached in the text to food/hunger, drug use/cravings, and tea. 

Edit: I almost forgot! Full credits to Ariane DeVere for the episode transcripts! Without her there would BE no Sherlock meta lmao.

Mirrors are:

Bluebell = Sherlock

Henry Knight = Sherlock

Louise Mortimer = John

Jaqui Stapleton = John

Corporal Lyons = Sherlock

Major Barrymore = John

Bob Frankland = Moriarty

Billy & Gary = Sherlock & John

The Fisherman & The Widow = John & Sherlock

Moriarty: Sherlock

Mycroft: Sherlock

Mrs. Hudson: Sherlock

Lestrade: Sherlock

Baskerville is the Heartroom (a depressing situation).

Note on how I read the symbolism:

Tea = Sentiment. 

Does this need an explanation. Tea is warm, comforting, hospitable, lovely, as good as a hug. Making someone tea is a universally accepted gesture of warmth and hospitality. Sherlock loves tea, he makes so much tea, he wants it ALL the time, because he’s a SCHMALTZ. He goes so far as to reject all other forms of sustenance (i.e. FOOD!) in favour of it, but no one can survive solely on tea, Sherlock! 

Eating as Intimacy and, Hunger = Desire. 

Food, and eating as an act both carnal and communal, carries meaning in all cultures and in literature the world over; the association between gluttony and lust, feasting and orgies etc, is as old as the bible, in which desire and shame itself entered the human realm via the eating of forbidden fruit. It’s permeated literature ever since. Practically speaking, food has been used to denote the other appetites in film and lit for a long, long time for reasons both practical and creative.

So in regard to Sherlock, in the unaired pilot when John and Sherlock go to Angelo’s, they equate the act of eating and the act of having sex when Sherlock pointedly uses the same phrase (“Everything else is transport.”) to field questions about his “appetites”. Then John asks if Sherlock has a “girlfriend” who “feeds him up”, explicitly framing eating (or in this case being fed) in a romantic context.

The pilot isn’t strictly speaking canon, but they have clearly carried this thread over completely into the finished version of the show, they just haven’t spelled it out quite like this, which allowed them to embed it into the show with a lot more nuance. They wait until ASiB to even draw an explicit connection between “dinner” and “romance”.  Eating is still framed very romantically in S1 but the link isn’t made explicit until later when Irene flat-out states that her asking Sherlock to have “dinner” with her is her attempt at being delicate in broaching the topic of sex with him.

In the show, eating is never framed in terms of the act of sex, but in terms of hunger (a synonym for desire) and intimacy. Hunger = Desire, in the text. It’s the simplest synonym to parse, ever.

Sherlock’s Cravings/Drug Use as Lust/Libido

They lifted this right out of Private Life. We all know, Billy Wilder said that he wanted Holmes to be a closeted homosexual who was unable to admit it, maybe even to himself, and that was the reason he took dope. Even in the final censored version of the film, it’s pretty obvious. Moffat and Gatiss were coy about what their intended approach to Holmes’ opium use was going to be in their modern setting, to the point of saying it was simply not an avenue they were going down with the character, despite heavily implying past drug use in ASiP and ASiB. This was yet another flagrant lie, and by the time HLV rolled around Sherlock was back on narcotics. His substance abuse carries the same meaning that it has/was intended to have in Private Life, but has been implemented far more creatively. You are meant to understand the talk of Sherlock’s “cravings” as being textually about his sexual cravings.

It’s also important to keep in mind the fact that they clearly distinguished between this thread and the thread wrt Food, which absolutely does encompass sexuality but is fundamentally about intimacy and sharing. It is positive, and it is always framed that way. Sherlock’s “drug problem” is framed VERY negatively. It is a negative expression of the sublimation of his sexuality.

Anyway. Food is a bit of a non-issue in this episode, the focus in this go-around is squarely on drugs and tea/coffee.

The final thing of import: Irene Adler is a mirror for Sherlock’s sexuality.

In the prologue, we see Henry (Sherlock), running over the moor, amid flashbacks of the Hound killing his father. He’s lost, distressed, confused. He comes face to face with a lady and a hound as he runs; he’s benevolent, curious, friendly. But Henry is traumatised, and with the Hound’s snarl roaring in his ears, he screams in terror when the doggie leans in for a sniffle. :(

The Morning After

Like Mark’s first episode, Hounds opens with a bang. This time as Sherlock slams 221B’s door. Like a gunshot. The camera swoops over to some little hound’s in the window of Speedy’s, heads bobbing as if to show us what’s in pursuit of him. Thematic. Nice tone setting mates.

Inside, Sherlock barges onto the scene, tense, covered in blood, gripping a huge phallic harpoon. Next thing we know, he’s cleared the blood off himself and his giant cock harpoon and is dramatically keening for a case because he NEEDS a distraction. This is the most oddly agitated and manic we ever see Sherlock, and it is not without reason, as it might initially appear. The events in the 12 months over which A Scandal in Belgravia takes place were thus,

he falls in love, bad. like ass over tit bad.

he comes to believe his feelings are, and always will be, unrequited and his hopes (however forlorn) are crushed (Battersea)

and all his WORST fears about love are consequently reasserted (Irene takes advantage of him and fucks him over, and he in turn exerts his own worst self and ruins her life out of spite. MESSY.)

So, he’s not really doing well. This episode, which takes place in the days immediately following the end of Scandal, is largely the fallout of those events. “I always assumed [falling in] love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.” Might as well be called The Hounds of Love.

So anyway, he’s practically vibrating and levitating with the force of all that maddening, doomed sexual energy he’s had pent up for over a year. He paces as John looks through the papers, scowling in disgust when John points out the photograph of him in the hat that Irene had caressed. Sherlock then screams, and slams his harpoon down before abruptly turning to John and demanding John give him some. I mean get him some. Same thing, really. Either way he NEEDS SOME and he wants John to GIVE IT TO HIM. :/

Like jhbkjlkm, could they have framed this demand anymore suggestively lmao. No. John flawlessly deadpans him and Sherlock makes a petulant face and turns away. Apparently Sherlock has tried to force himself to ditch his “habit” cold turkey (what an idiot…) and paid everyone off so he can’t “get any” for miles. Boy realises this was idiocy and hollers for Mrs. Hudson. He then begins frantically tearing the place apart looking for any stray cigarette he can suck on, BEGGING John to tell him where they are;

“Tell me where they are. Please! Tell me! Please.”

Just sayin…he begged...twice.

Mrs Hudson pops in as Sherlock throws himself across the room in search of his Secret Supply, now begging her to tell him where he keeps them. Hudders provides the tea dear, she can’t help you in this area Sherl you’ve called on the wrong mirror my boy. Hudders has no idea what he’s on about and he has another dramatic huff and grabs his harpoon again. Hudders offers to make some tea, and maybe a nice warm cuppa could calm him down enough to settle his (ahem) harpoon but-

“Seven percent stronger…” *[1]

Yeah, tea ain’t gonna take the edge off these cravings mates, he needs the GOOD STUFF.

He rounds on Hudders, brandishing his big harpoon at her (lasjflsd), and segues into a frankly hilarious and exceptionally frustrated deduction about her romantic exploits first thing on this Monday morning. He’s like, “even Hudders is out there taking names, while I am mouldering inside this perpetual hellprison two feet away from the untouchable object of my desires!!!” Also...where, exactly, do the scratch cards lead? i’m dying to know.

He inevitably goes on to point out that her beau is a worthless womaniser so she’d better not pin any real hopes on him, calling back the deductions he makes at Christmas in Scandal about Molly’s love life, which were also embarrassing projections of his own insecurity and heartbreak about the situation with John, and his bitterness and resentment toward John for his slovenly dating practices.

Yes. So in Scandal, Greg’s and Sherlock’s SO’s are sleeping with a teacher at Christmas and it is decidedly not all sorted, and Mrs Hudson (Sherlock) is in a relationship with a womaniser who’s just keeping her on the side of his main gig(s). Uncanny.

Anyway, he successfully upsets Hudders with the jab about her lover because misery loves company, and jumps into his chair, folding in on himself in agitation. John instructs him to apologise to Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock looks positively affronted. He says he envies John for his mind, for being so “placid, straightforward, barely used.” He says it flippantly, as always couching it in insult, to mask the truth in the sentiment. Because his is out of control. He’s tearing himself to pieces. His desires are trapped on the launchpad, tearing him to pieces. :/

He screams, again, that he needs a case, and John screams back that he’s just solved one by “Harpooning a dead pig, apparently.” “Apparently” indeed. This phrase is a play on the idiom “Flogging a dead horse.” As is Sherlock’s propensity for flogging corpses. They twice imply (in ASIP and TAB) that the ‘medical’ reasons Sherlock provides for doing such things are a pretext; “So, bad day was it?” And apparently he’s escalated from flogging corpses, to impaling them. :/ And I feel like this is also very much about Scandal, because:

Listen, it’s not a coincidence that the first is the closing sentiment of Scandal and the second the OPENING sentiment of Hounds, taking place the literal following day. A Scandal in Belgravia = Flogging a dead horse. The Woman (i.e., Love). Tedium. The outcome (rejection, heartbreak, misunderstanding) was always decided. Inevitable. He’s rejecting all of it.

Poor John just...perseveres through this behaviour as Sherlock flails and wriggles around in his chair petulantly. “Nothing on the website?” Sherlock huffs.

Nothing but…Bluebell. A locked room mystery! A rabbit that vanished from inside his locked hutch after he turned luminous, like a fairy! According to little Kirsty.

IMPORTANT!!: This is all about Sherlock. All this talk about Bluebell the luminious bunny is about Sherlock. Sherlock is a Bluebell. And there are some nice info’s about Bluebells:

“Bluebells have long been symbolic of humility and gratitude. They are associated with constancy, gratitude and everlasting love. Bluebells are also closely linked to the realm of fairies and are sometimes referred to as fairy thimbles.”

“Bluebells are widely known as harebells in Scotland.”

“Another name for bluebells is Dead Man's bells. This is due to the fact that fairies were believed to cast spells on those who dare to pick or damage the beautiful, delicate flowers.” [x]

“Even if it’s not forbidden to pick bluebells, you might not want to do that on account of the superstition of bad luck. Picking bluebells and bringing them to your home means inviting bad luck to enter into your life because based on many folklore, the fairies had cast a spell that will bring bad luck to anyone who dare to destroy (or pick) this majestic-looking flower.” [x]

^ Fitting for John, wouldn’t you say.

The Bluebell is symbolic of loyalty, gratitude and everlasting love, but is surrounded with superstitions of ill fate and death due to their reverent and supernatural associations. A lot like the Hound. And you will see, the Hound and the Bunny are equated once we enter Baskerville.

“What am I saying this is brilliant. Phone Lestrade. Tell him there’s an escaped rabbit!”

A genetic experiment. Out roaming the moors. Luminous. Red eyes. Not very dangerous though.

They argue about Cluedo for a moment and then at last, the doorbell rings. Client! And a wild Henry appears.

They sit watching Henry’s documentary about Baskerville. Sherlock’s eyes flick from Henry to the TV as the presenter tells us about the superstitions that surround Baskerville. Sherlock is skeptical of Henry’s fears and their interview starts out brusquely. He interrupts Henry’s reminisces, instructing him to skip ahead to the part where his dad was ‘violently killed’. John reacts to this glib remark in a way that could be suggestive, since there are hints that John’s father is also dead, and even if still living, is certainly lost to him in the way the following subtext suggests. Or perhaps it’s just a reaction to Sherlock’s general assholery. Or both.

Henry recounts his memory of his father’s death; he’s mauled on the forest floor as Henry watches on, terrified. Henry shakes as he remembers it and we then cut to…Sherlock. Also trembling, just slightly. Imagining. 

“It got him…tore at him, tore him apart…”

This brings me to the meaning of the Hound in this episode, and by extension Henry. This is the heart of this episode. The Hound is a monstrous distortion of an ordinary dog that is literally created using “fear and stimulus”. The Hound is a representation of the fear and hatred that transforms a natural, ordinary (dog) love/sexuality into something unnatural, violent and predatory. Homophobia. This is part of what turns Sherlock’s love, his capacity to love and ability to be loved, into something twisted that he is frightened of and deeply cut off from. And the nature of this memory (and now The Final Problem) makes it clear that this damage began very early in his life. So even though Sherlock is outwardly skeptical of this whole Hound business, and he clearly maintains rationally that it’s all complete nonsense, treats it (defensively) like a joke and refuses to believe it even after “seeing” it, he is still very vulnerable to the effects of said “stimulus”. Henry, as a mirror for Sherlock, represents the part of him that has been terrorised and haunted by the Hound since his childhood. The way Sherlock treats Henry is indicative of how he treats this problem in himself.

Henry (Sherlock) imagines the Hound literally tearing his father apart, and losing him forever.

Sherlock acts glibly toward Henry, who is offended by his blasé attitude about such a serious matter and we get this exchange before Henry gets up to leave.

HENRY: “Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?” SHERLOCK: “Why, are you joking?”

It’s interesting, because this is the start of a particular thread about the Hound in this episode and we now have some pretty strong parallels to this thread in The Lying Detective.

People laughed at them. Delusional, paranoid, exploited, taken for a ride, played for an ad campaign, can’t tell what’s real anymore.

They are the same, after all.

But as Henry is about to leave, Sherlock stops him with his deductions, and persuades him back to his chair. So, deducing Henry (….Sherlock).

SHERLOCK: You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you’ve now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr Knight, and do please smoke. I’d be delighted.

Sherlock says he’d be delighted if Henry would smoke for him, which is hysterical to me because honestly, if Sherlock’s cravings were actually about cigarettes (ie, if this show was normal) this’d be the part where Sherlock bummed a smoke for himself. But it isn’t (about cigarettes) and it’s not (normal). So instead, once his feverish deduction is over with, we get Sherlock practically trembling on the edge of his seat as he watches Henry light up, then launch himself off his chair into Henry’s face to suck in the smoke that’s just come out of Henry’s body. :/

“Punched-out holes where your ticket’s been checked […]” SHERLOCK: The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee: the strength of the stain shows that you didn’t take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast – or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich. HENRY: How did you know it was disappointing? SHERLOCK: Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl – female handwriting’s quite distinctive [Sure Jan]. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later – after she got off, I imagine – you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You’ve been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you’re not that into her after all. Then there’s the nicotine stains on your fingers ... your shaking fingers. I know the signs. No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here. It’s just after nine fifteen. You’re desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at five forty-six a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong? HENRY: No.

So Henry (Sherlock) arrives at Baker Street that morning, distressed because of ‘what happened last night’ with remnants of his ‘’disappointing breakfast” on his face and clothing

desperate for a cigarette.

No chance to smoke one stuck on the train, on which he met a woman whom he was initially interested in but ultimately indifferent to, had a ‘disappointing breakfast’ and spilled his ‘coffee’. Which he also takes black. Because he’s Sherlock. The coffee & the girl is yet another moment associating women with coffee along with the conclusion he (Sherlock) is indifferent to it/them. The detailed observations about Henry’s (Sherlock’s) smoking habit and ‘cravings’ and a few rather…erotic shots of Henry’s mouth and fingers…in Sherlock’s mind’s eye…

Doe eyes and pouty mouth ehhh...Alla this is…homoerotic. :/

I’ve always been in two minds about this deduction. This deduction is either about Irene, or about something that Sherlock actually….did the night before, when he was apparently out “impaling dead pigs”. I’ve always been inclined to read this deduction as being about Irene & the events of Scandal, which are what caused the Hound to rear it’s ugly head again and compelled him to return to the ‘scene of the crime’ after a very, very long time. It’s also the exact kind of underhanded nonsense Mark loves, he literally can’t even wait for 5 minutes to subtextually disavow any straight reading of Scandal lol.

Anyway, John then asks Henry if this story could be a product of the trauma of losing his parents as a child and we learn that Henry has a therapist, Doctor Louise Mortimer (John), who is the reason all of this is happening. Henry (Sherlock) is trying to confront all of this because of Lousie (John). “She’s the reason I came back. She says I have to face my demons.”

So Sherlock asks Henry what it was he saw when he returned to Dewer’s Hollow, what was it that changed everything? Just footprints. Footprints on the exact spot he saw his father torn apart. Sherlock is truly annoyed at Henry for this, dismissing these fears immediately and quipping “Sorry, Doctor Mortimer wins, childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring!” ....... . ..  .. .. .  . .. .. . . . .If only we could have known…if only we could have known the extent of this bullshit…that this is literally The Final Problem…in which Sherlock is facing his Final Demon s for John…because of John so he can save John…and it’s all framed as. A childhood trauma that’s masked by an invented memory of a dog…

I’m sorry but they’re so stupid and awful I’m gonna die.

Anyway, Sherlock bids Henry goodbye, reassuring him it was probably just paw prints which could be “anything therefore nothing”, not a monster, not a danger, just the fancy of Henry’s troubled mind. “Off to Devon with you, have a cream tea on me.” (Mark 😩) And on that note, he makes a beeline for his bedroom no doubt intending to rub one out immediately but then-

HENRY: Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic Hound!

Sherlock stops in his tracks. He makes Henry repeat his words, loading them with great significance, and with that cryptic bitch look on his face, he's just like “I’ll take the case.” Sherlock later reveals that he takes the case specifically because Henry called ‘it’ a Hound:

SHERLOCK: Why do you call it a Hound? Why a Hound? HENRY: Why – what do you mean? SHERLOCK: It’s odd, isn’t it? Strange choice of words – archaic. It’s why I took the case. “Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic Hound.” Why say “Hound”?

Strange thing to call a dog these days. Archaic. Bygone. Anachronistic. So with that he decides, it’s time to lay this particular ghost.

But not before being a cock about it. Poor John is baffled by this sudden development, not least as Sherlock suddenly puts on airs that he’s “far too busy” to leave London at the moment because he has to solve the case of…Bluebell a,sdjf. John looks hurt as Sherlock taunts him and acts like he’s gonna send John off to deal with Henry and this Hound bullshit on his own, as though JOHN is the one for whom the Hound is a problem, while he sits on his arse at home sulking and obsessing over Bluebell the bunny rabbit instead of dealing with ANY of his problems himself. COCK.

John just looks knowingly at Henry, and then taunts Sherlock right back, tossing him cigarettes he had hidden inside Billy the whole time. Sherlock won’t even look at them now and just flings them over his shoulder, “I don’t need those anymore, I’m going to Dartmoor.” And out he flounces. We now have a Superior Distraction. 😩

[1] Just wanted to note; this situation has progressed to the point of being fully reversed in The Lying Detective. In Hounds, he’s still abstaining from ‘drugs’ but his ‘cravings’ have overwhelmed his desire for ‘tea’, and so he begs for a fix, be it cigarettes or a case. By the time TLD rolls around, he’s fully given in to his ‘addiction’. He’s using ‘drugs’ heavily, but now he’s desperate for a cup of tea. He stops taking clients and initially blows off Faith’s bizarre case claiming it’s “too weird” for him, and ends up taking the case basically because he...Bonds with her. 

:(

tagging a few people that might be interested, i guess @sarahthecoat, @impossibleleaf, @obsessivelollipoplalala, @221bloodnun, @gosherlocked, @devoursjohnlock, @mrskolesouniverse, @smoljohnlock, @northstargrassmaiden etc :)

[himbowelsh]

7, 8, 23!

interrogate me baby

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Their clothes both fall to the wayside at the tearing of determined hands, mouths working along each other’s bodies in a frantic yet furious rhythm. Joe can’t seem to hold George tight enough. His fingers leave bruises against fragile skin, purple blossoming in the echoes of his touch. George’s mouth refuses to leave Joe’s skin, sucking his own trail of marks. He delights in the taste of salt, sweat and something sweet, something so uniquely Joe that it makes him feel dizzy. He knows he’s found the right spot when he sucks just beneath Joe’s ear, and the man against him groans.

It’s glorious, and George can’t get enough. For just a few moments, he sees everything in perfect clarity, and there are no questions left to ask.

Joe’s hands on him, his mouth on Joe, are all that matters.

Behold, the reason I upped the rating of how quickly do we sell our souls to M. This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to writing smut, and the closest I want to go. I like this passage because of it’s intimacy. It isn’t poetry, but it’s something else, and I think I capture the emotion there well.

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

okay, okay, this is a goofy one buuuut.... (from i need a nap, not a bar brawl)

“Hoooly shit,” a loud voice says from his left. “Your arms are like fuckin’ bazookas.”

“Bazookas aren’t actually that big. They’re long, not wide. You sayin’ I have noodle arms?”

“No, no.” The guy slams a hand on the bar, and it bounces. He doesn’t seem to notice. “They’re like… like… shit, what’s a good analogy? C’mon, I’m six shots deep here. Help me out.”

Joe doesn’t know why he humors him. Maybe it’s how earnest he seems, like some sort of persistent dog. Maybe it's the way he's still grinning, even as he fumbles for a good pick up line. It might be more charming than Joe wants to admit, and he really doesn't need this tonight.

“Pistons,” he sighs, pulling a word from the top of his head. “They're big, and they bend.”

The guy claps his hands together, grinning broadly. “Perfect. Couldn't have described ‘em better myself. Not that your face isn't gorgeous, but your arms are a work of damn art. You ever tried crushing fruit with those biceps?”

“I really hope this ain't your usual way of hitting on people.”

“Nah, I'm even more charming sober.”

It’s far from poetry, but I just love this exchange! It represents the characters of both of them perfectly -- George, fearless, charming, and a little wild, and Joe, handling it with fond exasperation.

23. If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?

Hmm... as far as this fandom goes, I don’t have any one fic I feel needs to be rewritten. Mostly because I’ve only been writing here for a month, and my writing style hasn’t changed that much in that window of time. I guess if I could rewrite anything (or destroy it entirely) it would be my greatest sin in this fandom, the george luz is a furry fic

[shinymills]

Plague Ship

Before I lay out my last words, I want to say - I want to say that I know I deserve whats happened. We all do, for more'n a few reasons I guess. We ain't good folk. Poverty, war, famine, it'll change people ... You either learn to strip away morals and survive, or you cling to civilization and you die. Us, we survived. Till now, leastwise.

We had a pretty tidy system worked out, you see? Didn't - didn't work all the time course, not even seventy percent of it, but it worked, enough that it got me and my crew from point A to B with food in our belly, the air in our lungs, and fuel in our ship. All'a the things we needed to survive and thrive.

Whenever supplies would start running low we'd set ourselves up as a ... A, whatcha call them? Angler fish, yeah. We'd send out a nice little signal. Not always the same one though, fast way to have people catching on right there. Stuck close to the Rim when we'd be playing lure - less chance of patrols or some shit answering, playing well-meaning knights when we all fuckin know ... We *all* fuckin know anyone rescued by any of the Corporations ends up shoved into Indentured until their 'debts' is paid up. 

Shit, sorry, rambling. Hard to focus lately. Hard to stay in one line, one... One thought, you know? My head comes and it goes, I guess you could say. My crew - my crew ... They haven't been so lucky as to just - to just be having trouble with thoughts staying in lines, with their minds staying in place. Don't know yet if that means I'm the lucky one, or if ... If my luck was just shittier, cause I get to watch everyone crumble down. 

Fuck... Fuck, fuck, fuck, still rambling. Yeah. Sorry. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Lures. We was low on O2, yeah? And fuel, but O2 was the big concern. Getting anywhere don't matter much if you're fuckin dead, right? Yeah. We'd set up a distress signal to send out a basic S.O.S, powered down the auxiliary functions, and sat back to play the waiting game.

People - People think living on the edge of civilization, the rims of society, nothing but action, danger, and drawn out fights trading blasters shots and witty - witty barbs back and forth. Not so much, yeah? Lot of times, we're just waiting for someone to snap up the lure. Little tense, mostly quiet, but that would make for boring fuckin vids, right? Yeah.

Shit - Fuck, rambling. Sorry. Yeah, anyways, so we sat back and we're there waiting to see who, if anybody, gonna show up. Hours we waited there, quiet, and dark. Me and my men, we was startin’ to think maybe we was gonna have to pull up shop, try another sector or something like, when Haugh calls out all soft like that a ship's come into range.

Not a - not a *second* after he's said that we're getting hailed. Cheers us right the fuck up, cause we was all getting antsy as hell. Course we don't fuckin answer. Just let'em keep hailin away as they pull up alongside us. Isn't long at all before we're feeling the ship rumblin’ and shakin’ as the dock with us. Which is ... See it was odd thinkin’ on now, yeah. Most of'em, they hail longer, yeah. Cautious. Not them. Eager like. Fuckin eager. Should've - should've fuckin’ ... Don't matter. Don't fuckin’ matter anyway.

Me and my crew, meanwhile, we've already gotten into position on either side of the airlock and we're .... and we're - we're fuckin waiting, yeah? The minute the hatch open blasters are drawn and we're fuckin on them. Didn't put up much of a fight. No fight, none, just ... just went down like tissue paper, all four. One had - had a weapon on'em, but the other three just had medical lookin, high shit. Never seen nothin’ like it before.

Me and the crew, we was countin ourselves *so* fuckin lucky as we looked over that shit. Was obvious we'd managed to snag an honest to god Medi Ship. This haul, this *fuckin* haul, we was sure to be set for the next few months. Thought our luck had finally turned for the better. Countin - it was counting chickens before they was hatched. Yeah.

Second we stepped through the airlock we knew shit wasn't right. Remember - remember what I was saying about them blaster fights people always thinkin life on the Rim is like? What it looked like inside that ship. Couldn't see no bodies. Plenty of blood, yeah... no bodies. Should've left right then. Iverson - Iverson, young boy, maybe all of seventeen, wanted to. Only one with the sense he was. Only one with any - with any kinda sense. Was a good kid. Good kid. Didn't - he didn't ... But Haugh went callin’ him a pussy. Got some of the men laughing and, yeah, he quieted down quick enough. Should've listened - should've ... Should've left, but we was low on food, fuel.

We swept through the ship, real thorough like. Weren't sure what the hell happened, didn't want caught in the middle of some kinda mutiny or some shit. Never found any real survivors. Not - not really. Found a few bodies. Some of'em weren't right,  they didn’t look *right*. Less - the less said about that, the better. Few of'em looked like they could've been responsible for the mess outside of the airlock. All of'em wore uniforms, some of'em doctors and nurses ...those ones, they were the worst off. Someone had had a fuckin’ hate-on for them poor bastards. Rest of'em looked like the might've been security. All of'em had Corporate logo stamped on their uniforms.

Should've left right fuckin’ then. Just forgot about the haul and just ... And just tried again somewhere else. But we was fuckin’ desperate, and stupid as shit. Stupid gets you killed out here, every time, stupid gets you killed out here.

Last room we came on was ... It had hospital bed, yeah. Only living thing left in that ship, near as we could tell, and he was dead to the fuckin world. Had a little nametag on his shirt that read Moore. Strapped to the bed, straps across his fuckin stomach, and ankles, wrists, and lookin like he was off playin’ out in the stars. There was charts on the wall, X-rays and shit. Bunch of medical mumbo jumbo. Couldn't make heads or tails of any of it. Haugh put a bullet in his head. Pissed Iverson off ... He was a good kid, good kid. Haugh just said he was dead either way. Weren't wrong. 

We didn't waste time getting everything we needed back our ship. Place was - it was just ... We was fucking stupid. So fuckin’ stupid. Just - should've just left. Fresh air was fucking amazing though, let me tell ya.  And the food we got from them. That fuckin’ food, man. It was - it was just ... Fresh fruit. Iverson, he'd never even fucking seen a fruit that weren't dehydrated first. That boy was damned near cryin’ when he took his first bite of a pear. Juicy, yeah? Crunchy ... With - with the sweet drippin’ juice, and he said it was the best fuckin’ thing, yeah. Best fuckin’ thing. We ate their food, breathed their air, and tried to forget that ship.

Fuck, shit. Sorry. My mind it wants… it doesn't like lines, straight lines so much. Anymore. Moments, sometimes it gets hard to make it stay in the line, it wants to stray, lead away. But I've got to finish what I'm fuckin’ saying. For me. My men. So fuck that.

Week or so on, we're on our way to greener pastures. Love that saying. Ain't nothing green to be seen out in this darkness. Always liked that sayin’ though. S'nice. Yeah. Bigger and better things, maybe. Different, at least. We've done forgot about that Medi Ship, out of sight out of - out of mind. Yeah. 

Two weeks in and Iverson accused Haugh of trying to steal his thoughts, trying to - to worm his way into his mind. Said he only did what he did because Moore told him to. That the only way to keep Haugh out of his head was to go and - and drill straight into the man's fuckin skull. Iverson was - he was a kid, and him ... Him doin’ somethin like this threw us all for a fuckin’ loop. Fucking crazy. 

Sometimes people's just too good, can't handle the things we’ve gotta do to survive. Me - I figured Iverson still ... I figured he was still pissed at Haugh about shooting that Moore guy like he did. Fuckin’ stupid lookin back now, yeah. So, so fucking stupid. Only thing that made sense at the time though. Yeah.

Didn't know… wasn't sure what to do with him. Didn't want to space him. Some of the crew did, yeah. He went and drilled a goddamned hole in a man's head. And my crew… Can't blame them. But he was a good kid, didn't wanna do that. Tied him up, stuffed him in the Med Bay. Figured ... I figured he'd be safe enough there. Just keep him there till we could figure things out.

Two days after that - just, two fucking days, I walked in the Med Bay to find Ricks, our half assed drunk of a doc, tryin' to fillet Iverson. I say tryin’ cause... He ain't never had the steadiest of hands. Always drunk. But he had a surgical saw in hand, and he'd been - he must've been at it for a while, cause ... Cause most of that boy's left leg was gone. He was still alive, but he weren't - he weren't ... Only reason it went on for so long was cause he weren't screaming. When I walked in Iverson was just watchin’ him. He looked so, so fucking calm. Like it was what was supposed to be happenin’. 

Iverson, he didn't last much longer after that. He never screamed though ... He looked so fuckin calm the entire time. So goddamned calm. Ricks ... They asked him why the fuck they did that. He weren't even friends with Haugh. We all thought, everybody thought ... Just figured it was him getting back. Angry, and getting back. Hard. Yeah. But he goes and says that it was on account of Moore tellin’ him that he had to start getting ready for the winter.

I don't know what to fuckin’ do. Crew's wanting to space'em, cause fuckin Christ, he just carved that boy up. And I'm - I’m wanting to, too. I ain't too proud to admit I was fuckin scared ... Confused. Didn't know what…  didn't what to do. And Moore again. Moore. Don't understand it. We space Ricks. Don't even have to drag him, he just - he just walks. Keeps goin’ on about how he's ready for winter, and not to worry on up until Singh shoves him in. It's not a relief seeing him sucked out the airlock. Should've - it should've been. It ain't.

Three days after that, my first mate, Vorster, he, I find him in the armory with Singh. He's got ... Singh is on his back, willing like. Just watching the ceiling, smilin’, and - and Vorster is wrist-deep in the man’s stomach. Got - he's got some of his ... Some of his fuckin insides pulled outside, and somehow, I don't fuckin’ understand it, but Singh is still alive and smilin’, and lookin so fucking happy to be there. Minute I walk in they both look at me. Same time. Just stare. Vorster keeps moving his hands around inside Singh's stomach before pullin’ out this loop of the man's intestines and - and he, Singh - he helps and I can't help it, I throw up. I've seen some shit, but that was... It weren't right. 

Afterwards, I'm questioning Vorster and he's tellin’ me all about how Moore had told him and Singh that he had to help Singh dig some kinda - some kinda sickness out of him. Singh's dead, course. There ain't ... Just ain't no comin' back from that. Ain't. Can't ask him. But he looked so…  he looked so fuckin’ happy, and I don't know what to fucking think. Vorster gets spaced. Shoved out the airlock. 

Keeps happening. One after the other. My crew. My men. They just keep going after each other, mostly like they're - like they're willing like. One or two put up a fight. Damned good fight. Me. Me, I stick to my cabin now. Just ... just stay in my cabin. Some fuckin’ captain I am. Hiding in my own ship like a fuckin’ stowaway. I can hear Davidson, I think it's Davidson, outside my door sometimes. Talkin about fuckin’ Moore. I don't listen though. I don't. Ain't gonna fuckin listen. 

If I do, if I do, got my gun right beside me. Ready to open a new hole in my head. Yeah. I just ... This ain't me seekin’ no kinda forgiveness,  no atonement. Don't regret my life, don't regret - don't regret a damned thing I've ever done, 'cept one. Should've left that fuckin ship. Minute we saw what was in there, should've fuckin left and never looked back. 

And Moore, I tell him that, and he… He says I’m right. We probably should’ve turned right around. Left. But he’s awful glad we stopped.

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

6: This Isn’t Your Story

For the entirety of the bout, John had to deal with the fact his opponent was much more agile than him. She ducked, weaved, and ultimately frustrated him to no end. She ran circles around him and jumped from high places using her small frame like a projectile weapon. She wouldn’t let up and would not let him gain the momentum when John managed to catch her. She expertly countered an elementary offensive style that possibly had no place in this modern era. And he would have perished for his apparent inability to adapt if it weren’t for the British woman’s repeated attempts to drive his face into the canvas with a rudimentary snapmare. John finally grabbed on and slammed her through the mat. Stunned by the impact, she stumbled to her feet and before she was able to stand up right, John slammed his knee into the side of her skull. The audience collectively gasped as she crumpled to the mat. The pieces started to come to together as he wrapped his arm around her neck and cut off the flow of blood to her brain. There was just a moment where she was aware and she fought. Her feet kicked in the air and her nails dug into the flesh of his forearm. John could feel her exhale as she struggled. A bell signified the end of that fight and her body went still against his. The man who officiated the contest yelled at him to let go. And John did. He placed her gently down on the mat. She was a picture. She was in a moment of time where nothing happened. The murmur of the spectators intensified as they watched him watch her. He knelt down and reframed the picture so it was just as it should be. That moment passed as the official’s demands rang louder than the aforementioned bell. John quickly departed the field of battle with little fanfare. In a locker room where no one paid him any attention, he sat on a bench drenched in a layer of cold sweat. The adrenaline wore off and he could start to feel every time she put the point of her elbow into the base of his neck. He stared blankly at a gold and black mural of a penguin as he listened to the ebb and flow of the show. When he heard the announcer thank the people for coming out and to drive home safely, he concurred. John changed, grabbed his blue gym bag, and navigated a seeming labyrinth of hallways to get out. John failed as he ran into that snooping mustached man accompanied by another man with a camera mounted on his shoulder. “Bishop Church - the internet sensation!” A microphone was once again shoved in John’s face and he could see his stoic expression just out of the corner of his eye in the lenses of the camera. “Come! Talk to your people! Tonight was a big night for you, my friend.” “We are not friends.” Ace was too quick to let that affect him whatsoever, “we’re all friends, Bishop. Your Monday Night Brawl debut was a success and you outlasted a very game Emma Louise.” “Okay,” John could see that the hallway behind the interviewer opened out into the where he parked his vehicle. He had told the mechanic and her employee to stand by there after they enjoyed the fruits of a pair of backstage passes. “What was going through your head at the end there? You fancy Emma? What was up with that, my man?” “Nothing.” “So a normal day at work. Bishop, four days from now on Friday Night Rampage, you still have a sizable challenge against Hannibal and Chambers - and get this, next Monday the following match has been signed - you will face former Television Champion Kendrick Kross.” John continued to look past Ace. “This is your chance, buddy. Tell the world what you think of Double K. He’s riding off a crazy last couple of weeks. In a span of two weeks he won and lost the coveted television championship and he undoubtedly sees you in his way to reclaiming that glory. What do you have to say about him?” “He seems nice.” “You said that last week!” John pushed past the annoyance but not before looking directly into the camera where the view is uncomfortably close and nearly up his nostrils. “Ever wonder why they say it’s raining cats and dogs?” John created some good old-fashioned dead air with a pause in consideration to those who would contemplate his query. “In 17th century England, homeless cats and dogs would drown and float down the streets so it would literally look like it was raining cats and dogs.” He moved his mouth way too close into Ace Heart’s microphone. “I found that interesting.” John successfully ended the interview and finally met up with his two guests standing in front of his green machine. The young teenager with who he shared a name with was dressed in the newest Ruthless Aggression t-shirt and protectively clutched an autographed 8x10 of the newly crowned champion. Mike, however, cleaned up nicely with a crisp looking white pin striped jersey with the number 9 on the back, oil free jeans, and work boots. She still had that dirty baseball cap on. John concluded that it was akin to his ratty pair of sneakers. “Thank you for coming out tonight as my guests.” Before the woman could say anything, little John interjected, “It was awesome!” “Good, good,” big John trailed off as he reached into his back pocket. He extended a white envelope containing the remaining balance of the repair, “This should make us even plus extra for the inconvenience of a delayed payment.” “Ay, thanks. Didn’t have t’ add nothin’, but I’ll take it if you’re offering. You’re a real stand-up dude,” she pocketed the envelope. “If you say so. Well, if you don’t mind, I need to hit the road. I’d be happy to invite you to future events,” John’s keys jingled in his hand as he retrieved them from his front jeans’ pocket, “and feel free to keep up with me on the … you know, online thing.” “Might take you up on that, thanks,” she paused and shuffled her feet a little, before blurting out“Hey, hold up a sec. Can I ask you somethin’? John walked around the passenger’s side of the car, opened the door, and slung his bag into the seat. He looked up over the roof of the car, “Yeah?” “The end of the match. Yours, I mean. … What the heck was up with that? I mean, she was out. What was the sleeper hold for? Just, y’know. Outta curiosity.” “Right,” he slammed the car door with a force that could be considered passive aggressive, “You’re curious,” he sighed, “It’s how I like to win.” “Kay. Fair enough,” she shrugged in a casual manner and her fingers drummed against the rectangular shaped rise in the pocket of her jeans, “…mean, seemed kinda pointless overkill, but you do you.” “Yeah. I think I will.” The young teenager sniffed nervously as the tone of two adults become slightly more loud with each exchange. John moved back around the car and angled towards getting into the driver’s seat. Mike was steadfast, though. “Look, I’m not tryin’ to be all judgey here. I’m just sayin’, I did this before myself, and it’s not cool unless you’re tryin’ to look like an asshole. Or in the case of… whatever the heck-all you were doing afterward, a creepy asshole.” John stared at the woman directly and unflinchingly and then asked, “What do you want from me? I paid you for your services. I invited you to watch the show. The show is over.” “And thanks again for it,” she huffed, eyes flashed beneath the brim of that past its prime Mets hat,“You don’t need to get all fuckin’ bent out of shape, I’m just trying to help out a goddamn peer. Sheesh.” “This isn’t your story.” John finally got to into his car and closed the door shutting the world out. The woman had put her foot in the between the door and frame of the car, “HOLD ON ONE GODDAMN SECOND!” John slowly turned his head at another impediment to a peaceful evening. “What is your fucking malfunction? What the hell do you know about this bein’ my goddamn story or not?” John exited the car and at that moment, he loomed over her and the reality of the disparity of the size of their bodies was apparent. John was a bear on his hind legs and he was threatened. Nonetheless, this woman did not back down. And unbeknownst to them, Ace Heart and his cameraman had heard the elevated voices and was covertly filming the exchange. Without context, John Bishop Church is being caught in the act just before he committed assault. “I thought you were different but you aren’t. You want to tell me what to do. I’m tired of being told what to do. Don’t tell me what to do.” The cameras zoomed in further framing the exchange between the two perfectly. She stood resolute and one hand reached up to swivel her cap around. Her glare was as fiery as her hair, and if she was intimidated it certainly wasn't evident, “That goes fuckin’ double. Piss fucking Christ. You think I’m scared of you or somethin’? That I’m some fucking schmuck here to boss you around? I sure as fuck ain’t your wife.” John could smell the flowers but he was outside of the gate and it was padlocked shut. The scent still had an effect and he strangely felt better. He was relieved because he was confident that this relative stranger could handle the brunt of expressing his feelings about possibly the worst month of his life. “Guys,” the nearly forgotten young man mouthed. “I made a mistake. I just wanted to do what I love but what I love is now twisted ugly abomination. I’m not a wrestler. I’m not what I can do in that ring. I’m a sideshow attraction. I’m a punchline to a parade of marching miscreants saying the same thing. They say it here with no repercussions. And so the story next time isn’t that I can defeat a former a television champion. It’s that I am who I am and that is all I am. They say it on here,” John holds up his phone, quickly scrolling through a multitude of private messages: Kill yourself.Rot in hell, dipshit.You killed your wife.Off yourself.Fuck you.Eat shit.Hey, you may be innocent but you’re so boring your wife probably killed herself. John feigned laughter and it was literally the first time he has emoted this much in twenty years. Fuck you and your dead family.Kill yourself.You should have got the juice, asshole.Put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger, you fucking baby killer.Neck yourself, retard.Did you fuck your wife’s corpse?Kill yourself.Kill YOURSELF.KILL YOURSELF. The phone shattered as he threw it to the ground. “I was a collegiate wrestler with Olympic potential! I was the 1996 rookie of the year! But every time someone shoves a microphone in my face they want to say something smart. They want me to say something so they can twist it out of context. They don’t care that I won tonight! They pretend and say snide underhanded bullshit. They don’t care that I love this business more than anything. They want to poke and prod and figure out what is going on in my mind. I’m tired of it! I’d take it all back if I could. At this point, I wish I was in an unmarked grave because this sure isn’t worth it.” She finally backed up a step, her expression going from fury to contrition and New York accent was still there but subdued, “Holy balls. I had no fucking clue. Shit, man. I’m sorry.” “Like I said. This isn’t your story and you don’t want it to be. People can talk and they can believe what they want. I keep that inside and I don’t expect you to know or even care. I want to be Bishop Church, professional wrester. I want to be looked at as part of the brotherhood and not as an outsider. I don't want to be a tale of redemption so a bunch of suits can say they did a good thing. I just want to live my life. I’m trying and no one here wants to give me the chance. I’m a charity case. In one night, everything and everyone was taken away from me. I don’t know what happened and I never expected to be here but Mike, I’ve worn out my welcome and its time to go.” “No, I get it. I mean, not all of it, that goes without fuckin’ saying, but, I lost it too. Before I was ready. I like what I do, but I don’t LOVE what I do. What I loved was this,” she made a sweeping gesture around her. The lingering fans trailing out of the arena, the ring crew heading in to disassemble the ring, the other talent getting in their cars alone or in groups to move on to the next town, “It got taken from me and I wasn’t ready, and it fuckin’ sucks. So bad,” she frowned, her face twisted in and out of various thoughts before rested on an expression of determination, “Don’t. You love this. You love this and despite all the other bullshit that landed in your lap, you got another shot at it. You got one and shit, I’d sure like one, and maybe, maybe we could help each other out. So at very least you won’t have to deal with that fucking mess…”

 she glanced at the busted up phone on the asphalt, “…without any backup. Because holy shit, nobody should be subject to that.” John shook his head and said back in his normally aloof tone, “But you don’t work here.” The young John was relieved that this didn’t come to blows looked at his boss quizzically as well. She gave what could only be described as an absolutely cocksure grin, “Not yet.”

[sommeliercourses]

“There’s Liquid On The Brain” (Checking In With Primus And Claypool Cellars, 2018)

“When minds are dripping color, And there’s liquid on the brain They laugh to one another, And politely go insane”

– Primus, The Dream

Last month, I had the pleasure of (once again) checking out the funky, entertaining, and technically dazzling band Primus, as they rolled through Philly on their Ambushing the Storm tour. Primus are currently playing with fellow prog-influenced band Mastodon in support of The Desaturating Seven, an at turns raucous, pretty, trippy, and virtuosic concept album based on Ul de Rico’s also trippy, gorgeous, and all-too-allegorically-topical-and-relevant-today (hey, one of the goblins is Orange… just sayin’…) children’s book The Rainbow Goblins. The album is played in its entirety during the show, with vibrant and also trippily-fantastic visual accompaniment that, I can tell you from personal experience, goes down even better with a wine-altered state of consciousness.

As was the case last year, I got to tag along with the VIP Package ticket-holders as a guest of Chaney Claypool, wife of Primus front-man Les Claypool and (along with Les), proprietor of Sonoma-based Claypool Cellars, who have been mentioned on these virtual pages for over eight years (holy crap!) at this point. The current tour VIP package offers a Q&A session with the band, and a tasting of some of the more recent Claypool Cellars releases; given my penchant for awesome prog-y type tunes, and my pinch-me wine-thing day job, and my music-thing side-gig, you can probably guess that I was pretty pumped to spend an early-summer-ish evening watching my various worlds collide…

Goofing around with Claypool Cellars’ Chaney Claypool (far right)

2016 Claypool Cellars ‘CC Pachyderm’ Pinot Noir Rose (Sonoma Coast, $28)

Only 200 cases of this delightfully zesty little beauty were produced, with fruit sourced from the Russian River Valley’s Moore Vineyard, which in my experience has produced varietal Pinots on the cranberry/pomegranate/lithe side. That profile is all played to excellent effect here, with a red-berry-and-stone-fruit-infused flavor emphasis that retains a buoyant mouthfeel and should have rock music fans and rose lovers wantonly flocking to chilled bottles of this well-balanced stuff. That it’s holding up so well after getting a year+ in under its belt is, I suspect, a testament to the Claypools’ now relatively long-standing penchant for finding excellent vineyard source material in their hometown Sonoma vicinity.

The tall one makes wine. Also, Team Iron Man forever!!!

2013 Claypool Cellars ‘CC Pachyderm’ Thorn Ridge Pinot Noir (Sonoma County, $68)

It’s rare that I get to taste the same wine on three separate occasions, as I have with the Claypool Thorn Ridge vineyard Pinot. You’d think that I’d be sick of it by now, and you’d be very, very wrong. Planted in the 1990s, Thorn Ridge sits on relatively steep hills outside of Sebastopol, and sees little water. What you end up with (and what’s also the case here) are Pinot wines that kind of dance between acidic structure and floral notes on the one hand, and a bit of tannic grip and depth of red fruit on the other. When I tasted this vintage last year, here’s what I wrote: “Despite its lithe profile, there’s good structure here, and I’d recommend waiting for a couple of years (or at least through the listening of an entire Primus album) before yanking the cork out of it.” That’s even more the case now, as the density of fruit and oak aging notes are still roiling around together like young, inexperienced lovers gettin’ busy, and haven’t yet really come together to make refined, tender, sweet-sweet luuuuuv. But make tender, sweet-sweet luuuuuv they eventually will.

Cheers!

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Copyright © 2016. Originally at “There’s Liquid On The Brain” (Checking In With Primus And Claypool Cellars, 2018) from 1WineDude.com – for personal, non-commercial use only. Cheers! Source: http://www.1winedude.com/theres-liquid-on-the-brain-checking-in-with-primus-and-claypool-cellars-2018/

from Linda Johnson https://meself84.wordpress.com/2018/06/21/theres-liquid-on-the-brain-checking-in-with-primus-and-claypool-cellars-2018/