#how many cigarettes do the cast even go through in a single shot

[archellpelago]

SAM RILEY as DOUGLAS ARCHER

SS-GB ( 2017 )

[flagbridge]

I Saw the Phantom Proshot at the NYPL

Happy 36th birthday to Phantom's first preview on Broadway! I was going to save this post for the actual 36th, but I figure all of us need some more Phantom Broadway "original" content since the official Insta accounts are reminding us today that Phantom is no longer (though it should be) on Broadway. I'm going to post about what I saw, and I'll follow up on January 26 with all my answers!

Some time ago, @or-what-you-will and I went to the NYPL's Theater on Film and Tape Archive, and viewed the archival pro shot of the Original Broadway Cast of Phantom of the Opera, filmed live on May 25, 1988. There is only one copy, and its purpose is artistic preservation (not commercial distribution--the library owns it). It was kept under lock and key during the show's run. All information about how to access the archive is on the website. I can't really tell you anything more besides what's out there because it will become identifying. You get set up in a room with monitors and can pause and rewind, although you can't touch the media.

This was not my first TOFT proshot, but it was the best-filmed. Some, there's a single camera just parked, or there's some generation loss because of when the tape was transferred to digital. This had absolutely vivid colors, a multi-camera shot, and brilliant and clear soundboard audio. I heard lyrics I have never heard (especially during Notes when everyone is singing over one another), the sound balancing was so good. It was as transformative as seeing it live.

These are all the notes we took while there (apologize if they can seem disjointed) More below the cut.

ACT 1 NOTES: 

-Multicam shot

-amazing audio (soundboard), vivid colors

-Raoul/Barton is crying in his voice during the auction

-there’s a “voice” that sounds like a woman singing with the overture (maybe a theramin?) We jumped in shock at this. We've never heard this before, not even on soundboard.

-Sarah Brightman comes on stage during the Hannibal rehearsal, moving across the stage with Meg during “Rome not Roma”--so she dances in the front row during the Hannibal ballet

-Hannibal ballet then has 10 dancers and since Christine is in the whole thing, there is slightly different choreo

-there’s a synth under Meg’s “he’s there, the phantom of the opera”��

-Firmin lights a cigarette and Andre (Future Phantom Cris Groenendaal) stops him right before “Think of Me’ which makes the “Defense de Fumer” on the back of the curtain make even more sense

-Think of Me Gala skirt is not as full (but of note, Carlotta’s Elissa costume is much more ornate than we have now or even at the end of Broadway)

-Raoul sings slightly different notes in Think of Me. Steve Barton goes down a few notes on “young and innocent” (it’s not belted) and is clearly wistful. 

-The think of me cadenza is absolutely effortless

-The “Bravi, Bravi” is haunting and perfectly sound balanced!

-Meg can actually sing and the Angel of Music harmonies work

-Raoul (Steve Barton) is nervous before going into the dressing room. He taps his fingers on the banister and takes a deep breath before going in

-He’s also nervous inside the dressing room–you can see him going from seeing an old friend to suddenly having feelings, being attracted to her. When he’s standing behind her he has a slight moment when he nearly touches a lock of her hair. 

-Raoul is wearing a ring on his right hand (signet?)

-Steve Barton says MY Little Lotte

-Christine (Brightman) is excited about meeting the Angel of music and has a wanting and longing in “Enter at LAST master” (in a way that Lily Kerhoas does now and we haven’t had many Christines who do this) 

-The picture is VERY CLEAR and NO WASHOUT when we see Michael Crawford appear in the mirror for Phantom’s entrance. You see everything

-When the door opens for Raoul to the dressing room after they go through the mirror, it opens slowly (vs banging open). It’s the same tempo that Phantom moves to take Christine through the mirror

-1925 Phantom silhouette vibes at the first “sing for me” 

-Not a particularly aggressive cape twirl, but def a twirl. 

-They get VERY close on “turn your face away”, almost kiss (like, Russians, Panaro/Joseph close) 

- he has a nice portcullis sprawl but she does not press against him, there is visible space between them the entire time

-”Caress” and “hear it, feel it” are explicitly seductive, the former in how it’s sung, the latter because he self-caresses on “feel it”

-the “Touch me” in touch me/trust me is half sung/half spoken order, she strokes her hand over the mask and he does not pull away

-He does have a little panic when she faints and he covers her with the cloak. He’s holding her hair when he sings to her there

-At the unmasking, MC holds for a brief moment before covering his face with his hand so the audience gets a peek of the deformity (before “damn you”) 

-Vixen not viper

-Crawls on knees, not stomach. We get…lots of crying and whimpering 

-Christine sees his face a lot during this sequence. MC lowers his hand as soon as he’s on her side of the stage from “secretly dreams of beauty” to “Oh Christine”, when he turns away–but she is looking at him the entire time. MC is angled right by a mirror shard so we can see a bit of the deformity reflected back

-Right before “come we must return”, MC is about to cup her face with both his hands before changing his mind–she starts to reach for him as well. 

-His Mandarin robe is much longer than we have now (ankle length vs calf length) 

-This Giry has witch vibes

-Steve Barton is playing eager puppy Raoul and it shows even though he looks older (Barton was 35 at the time)

-The sound balancing is so good that you can hear lines you don’t normally hear during Notes 1 and Prima Donna–including the Managers thinking that Christine has just been off with Raoul all night. 

-Sarah Brightman does a different pose on the bed as the pageboy during Il Muto. She crosses her legs vs putting her hands on her hips. 

-Firmin yells “the role of Christine Daae” to the proscenium, clearly directed at Phantom

-Barton Raoul’s “There is no Phantom of the Opera” comes off more as “Christine this is just some dude” vs “he doesn’t exist at all.” 

-Raoul loves Christine so much. He strokes her hair gently to comfort her right before “No more talk of darkness”--his eyes are soft and he’s genuinely caring and concerned (vs trying to be a hero) 

-”All I ask is for one love one lifetime”--different lyrics, she does it twice (This is on soundboards from the time)

-Raoul puts his face to Christine’s hands at the proposal. 

-Christine is clearly kissing his cheek right next to his mouth during the kiss (the final lair kiss is a real kiss) 

-Christine’s “I must go” is not as playful as we often see it later. She really is trying to go. 

-Raoul is nervous at “Christine, I love you”--he lowers his head for a moment worried that he said something wrong. He’s excited when she replies “order your fine horses”

-AIAOY Reprise: Michael Crawford is partially slumped over the angel, he’s holding hands with it to the audience’s right, and arm is slumped over on the left. We get a lot of anguished weeping, and little distressed moans as Christine and Raoul sing, there is rocking and head shaking and then covering his ears. It’s a HUGE difference then when he stands up fully for “You will curse” (he does this again during final lair between “unfeeling scrap of clothing” and “pity comes too late) 

-He also roars before standing

-The Phantom laugh/cackle continues well into the chandelier drop into intermission at the light cut out for about 15 seconds. 

Act II

-Carlotta masquerade costume has no mesh in the skirt–it’s much more of a see-through skeleton crinoline, so the feature is the purple tights

-Not surprising since Sarah Brightman is a dancer, but Christine does the proper choreography during Masquerade--she's the center of attention. Barton also does quite a bit of dancing.

-There’s an organ (almost like a circus organ) underlying the finale during masquerade

-Red Death double doesn’t run down the stairs, he stays at the top

-Giry/Raoul exchange after masquerade–both holding the lantern and super closeup

-Reyer is clearly gay–coded. Some voice and hand gestures during Sitzprobe

-Wishing–only one “help me say goodbye” (when did the second one get added?)

-”Far-reaching” gaze, Wandering Child is a duet

-Piangi says “conquest” is assured (at some point, this became “congress”)

-Michael Crawford imitates Piangi until “past the point…”

-Sarah as Christine is listening intently to Phantom’s voice and immediately noticed something is off–she doesn’t figure it out right away but she notices something. She is suspicious the entire time. It's not clear when she knows for certain.

-Christine never flees from him, during the first caresses, he hovers over her body, she turns to kiss him, he turns away, her hand lingers on her back, before she gets up to sing her solo part away from the table

-Michael Crawford’s hands are in in his crotch when Christine’s singing on the other side of the stage (“you have come here”)--he’s moving his palms in his lap the whole time, his hands are shaking, we only get glimpses of him, most of this part it’s focused on her

-There is none of the arm waving circling while their hands are held, she takes his hands, he switches his grip to hold one of hers, and they keep them on him

-She figures it out when she reaches down–she’s holding his hands above him and she pushes her left (our right) hand down and he pulls and she notices something–we can only see to his upper waist but her hand disappears and her expression changes, it’s implied he has an erection

-she doesn’t ever feel the mask, either accidentally or on purpose

-She doesn’t actually ever try to escape. It’s not the current West End or the past blocking–but more accurate in that she is aware of the situation and plays along. She keeps going with the blocking

-they both get up and keep singing, neither drags the other to the centre, they move together and keep singing 

-The last “return”--he sings it at the unhooding, she doesn’t

-”Say you’ll share with me”--he is really pleading and almost crying on “say you want me” 

-The managers don’t come out to try to usher her offstage, she doesn’t signal to them to stay

-When Phantom gives her the ring, she takes it, but doesn’t put it on–she just holds it

-He doesn’t scream at the unmasking, he just looks shocked and sad

-Ratcatcher order is different–it’s after Raoul and Giry’s first lines, that’s the indication that Giry needs to turn around, Giry screams

-Phantom is crying at “flesh” and through “unfeeling scrap of clothing”, he’s also hunched over through this sequence, and then stands to his full height at “Pity comes too late.”

-Phantom makes a big show of raising the portcullis, hands fully raised

-Raoul swats at Erik with one hand (the other is still on the noose) when Phantom grabs Christine on “start a new life” 

-Phantom is probably the “minimum” amount of rough as we see Phantoms be with Christine in this sequence, as in, he’s definitely scary and menacing but he’s not harming her. He does grab her and spin her around on “start a new life with me.” There are a few wrist grabs (which is book accurate). He’s realizing more that his plan is absolutely crumbling. We get some shots of him on the organ looking panicked.

-Phantom makes a low growling noise before “you try my patience”, which is delivered quickly and almost casually. It is not menacing as some later Phantoms do. 

-”Pitiful creature”..MC’s hand is subtly shaking by his side

-The kiss: the 1st one MC stands with “claw hands” at his side, on the second one, the “claw hands” start shaking

-MC hunches over after he burns the noose

-He stands over the monkey, conducting it with one hand, he is mimicking the symbol clashes, he doesn’t touch it or cover its face

-When Christine returns the ring, his hand shakes as he takes it, he’s hunched over again. 

-She does seem conflicted about leaving, but she doesn’t press her hand back around his, she holds out the ring and his hand shakes as she takes it. She doesn’t linger very long. 

-He says a second “I love you” after she’s gone.

-He’s about to say it a third time, he says “I love…” and then see the veil, and grabs it and screams into it, and then turns and sees the boat leaving

-He sobs and keens a lot

-Raoul bends in the boat to caress Christine’s face on “say the word”)--this is halfway across the stage as opposed to during the stage right exit.

-Deliberately cracks voice on the "can" in “you alone can make” 

-MC Cradling the veil like a baby at the very end

SEND ME YOUR QUESTIONS! You can put it in comments, reblogs, AMA or DM's. I will answer all of them on January 26!

[cactusnymph]

Prompt fill #4 for @dimension20alphabet:

Dares

“Hey Fig”, Fabian hears the Genasi girl—Romilda? Rowina? Ronalda?—say after their latest Bard class on Tuesday. He’s breathing heavily after finishing his latest dance routine and he’s not actively listening to their conversation, but Fig stopped beside him to ask if he wanted to try dancing to one of her new compositions.

 “I wanted to ask if you could—uh. Maybe give me the crystal number of your friend?”

 Fabian grins down at his battle sheet, trying to remember if Romilda—or whatever her name was—is pretty and whether or not he wants Fig to give her his number.

 “Which one?”, Fig asks, which is honestly ridiculous. He is easily the most attractive one—

 “Umm... Riz?”

 Fabian stops folding his battle sheet and blinks before straightening his back to turn his head. Rowina is twirling a very pretty, blue curl around her index finger. She’s very attractive and Fabian is not sure he heard correctly.

 “Oh, sorry. He’s not available”, Fig says with an apologetic smile and Fabian feels his stomach knot into something very unpleasant. Which makes sense, because first of all, The Ball always insists on him and Fabian being best friends. If Riz has a girlfriend, why wouldn’t Fabian know about it?

 Second, Fabian is offended because it’s completely preposterous that The Ball is supposed to be in a relationship while Fabian is not. That’s just absurd.

 Sure, The Ball is endearing and smart and funny and loyal. But he’s The Ball. Tiny, skinny, nerdy, socially awkward.

 “Oh... Oh, sorry, I didn’t know”, Ronalda says and seems very embarrassed before she turns around and rushes out of the classroom. Fig watches her leave and shakes her head before pulling a cigarette out of her backpack to put it behind her ear.

 “Since when is The Ball not available? And why the fuck would a girl like that want his number?”, Fabian asks Fig the second they step out of the classroom to head to the cafeteria.

 “Well, I just know that Riz just wouldn’t be interested in someone like that. And also, what the fuck Fabian, why are you being such a dick?”

 Fabian wants to know what Fig means by ‘someone like that’. He also wants to ask further questions but he’s sure that it might sound weird to get so defensive about something like this. It’s not like he’s actually interested in The Ball’s love life. Or who he’s potentially kissing. Because that would be weird.

 Plus, Fabian could get all the kisses that he wants. He just so happens to concentrate on his dancing right now. And if the whole thing with Aelwyn turned out to be a disaster, then that has nothing to do with him or what a great catch he is. That was simply because they weren’t actually as compatible as they originally thought.

 “I’m not being a dick, I’m just saying that it seems wild that someone would want The Ball’s number instead of mine!”

 Fig rolls her eyes at him.

 “She’s not the first one to ask, you know. Riz has gotten pretty popular after the whole Goldenrod thing at prom”, she says and looks at him with raised eyebrows. Fabian snorts disbelievingly.

 Sure, The Ball has changed a lot since they first met. And since, after their Spring Break, he stopped wearing his weird hat maybe Fabian would even go as far as to call him kind of handsome. If he thought about guys like that.

 Which he doesn’t.

 But the thought that all of a sudden people want to date The Ball is just ridiculous.

 “Oh yeah?”, Fabian asks and snorts a little louder than was maybe necessary. “And who else is interested in The Ball?”

 Fig narrows her eyes at Fabian and raises her hand before she starts listing names.

 “Theo from Barbarian class. Kat from clerics. Ragh said that Riz is cute just yesterday. And Gorgug keeps getting questions about Riz from the Bloodrush team.”

 She looks at him as if she’s expecting a very specific reaction from him. Fabian’s first thought is that he somehow feels like he should run every single guy on the team into the ground who asked Gorgug about Riz.

 Then he wonders why people never ask him about The Ball.

 Then he wonders if The Ball likes guys or girls. If Fabian remembers correctly Baron was a guy, but he was also a nightmare came to life and doesn’t count. Probably.

 Then Fabian gets annoyed again because he feels like he doesn’t know all these things.

 And then he thinks that maybe Ragh should stay in his lane.

 He tries to imagine Ragh and The Ball on a date together, getting their kisses in with each other and it’s ludicrous, completely insane, but his skin feels way too tight for his body all of a sudden and there’s a rush of heat in his abdomen that has nothing to do with dance practice.

 “You okay, dude?”, Fig wants to know as she carries her tray over to a table where Kristen, Adaine and Gorgug are already sitting.

 “What? Yeah. Sure. Whatever”, he snaps, sits down next to Gorgug and starts poking at the atrocity on his plate that is supposed to be lasagna but looks weirdly like something that might come alive and attack him at any moment.

 “What’s gotten his panties twisted?”, Kristen wants to know after one look at him.

 “He’s pissed because people want to date Riz”, Fig says and Fabian considers grabbing a handful lasagna and throwing it at Fig.

 “Why would you be pissed about that?”, Gorgug asks, confused. There is a beat of silence that makes Fabian raise his head just in time to realize that Adaine has cast Message to tell Gorgug something telepathically.

 Gorgug makes a face that shows way too much understanding for Fabian’s tastes because there is really nothing to understand about this whole situation. This is ridiculous. His friends are being ridiculous. And the idea of The Ball being popular is—

 “Hey guys”, a voice says and The Ball slides into the seat next to Fig.

 Did The Ball always have so many freckles? And hair that looks way too soft to be legal?

 Fabian stares at him.

 Riz stares back.

“What?”, he asks.

 “Nothing”, Fabian snaps and starts eating his lasagna. It tastes just as terrible as it looks. It’s hard to ignore the pointed looks that Gorgug, Fig, Adaine and Kristen exchange meaningful looks with each other.

 “Anyway”, Fig says, ignoring Fabian and turning to the others. “Theo is throwing a party this weekend, do you guys wanna go?”

 “Sure”, Kristen says.

 “Is it one of those parties where people drink way too much and then throw up all over the house?”, Adaine asks.

 Fig shrugs.

 “I don’t know. Theo is pretty chill and his parents aren’t home, but I guess it would be cool if we just. You know. Stayed in our group and chilled with some beer or whatever. And he said we don’t have to bring our own booze because I gave him one of our records for free.”

 “Sure. Yeah. We can like. Hang. Who knows, maybe I’ll even drink a whole beer this time”, The Ball says in the same voice he tends to use when he says the words ‘hooking up’.

 “No hard drugs though”, Gorgug says with a look at Fabian.

 “Hey! That wasn’t my idea! That dude just came up and kissed me straight on the mouth!”

 “Wait, you kissed a dude?”, Kristen wants to know.

 Fabian glares at her.

 “I didn’t kiss a dude. He kissed me, okay? It was during our boys’ night and I was very high afterwards.”

 “Must have been one hell of a kiss”, Kristen says with a smirk. Fabian is ready to throw his tray through the cafeteria but he doesn’t get the chance because at this point a dude he’s never seen before steps up to their table.

 “Hey Riz. You coming on Saturday? I invited Fig and you guys over to my party.”

 The Ball smiles awkwardly and scratches the back of his head.

 “Uh—yeah. I’ll be there, I guess.”

 “Sweet. See you then!”

 Fabian stares at the guy who is at least as tall as him, fucking jacked—probably because he’s in a damn barbarian class, and he has a damn eyebrow piercing. What a tool.

 Kristen wiggles her eyebrows at Riz and he has the nerve to blush darkgreen.

 “Stop it!”

 “Soo... Theo, huh?”, Kristen says.

 “Kristen”, Riz says and buries his face in his hands. Fabian wonders if Theo is the person who Fig was talking about when she said that The Ball is not available. And not interested in people like Romilda. He wouldn’t be, of course, if he’s into guys.

 Guys like Theo.

 The Ball is interested in guys. And Fabian didn’t know.

 *

 “Fabian, bro, you alright, dude? You seem a little on edge”, Ragh says on Friday while they’re out on the field throwing some balls—the irony doesn’t escape him.

 “Did you know that The Ball is into guys?”, Fabian asks before he manages to stop himself. Ragh throws the ball to him and Fabian catches it without issue before throwing it right back at Ragh, maybe a little harder than the ones before.

 “I mean, kinda? I don’t think Riz knows what he’s really into. Especially because he’s super freaked out about the whole sex thing, you know. But I guess he’s not not into guys. More into guys than girls. Why? That bother you?”

 Fabian isn’t sure how to explain to a gay guy that he’s offended about The Ball being into dudes without sounding like the worst homophobe. It’s not that he minds. He’s just pissed because he didn’t know. Because they’re supposed to be best friends—and okay, maybe The Ball was always very insistent on that and Fabian never actually confirmed it. But if Fabian is The Ball’s best friend, shouldn’t Fabian know about this?

 Doesn’t The Ball trust him?

 “I mean. No. Obviously not. I don’t give a shit”, Fabian says and watches as Ragh raises his eyebrows at him.

 “Dude, remember how we talked about feelings and letting them out and like, being truthful about our emotions and stuff?”

 Fabian does remember, but he refuses to acknowledge it.

 “Fig said that you think The Ball is cute”, Fabian says instead and Ragh shrugs, the ball still firm in his hands

 “I mean, yeah. He’s cute. He’s smart and super fucking badass. He has dimples when he smiles. Pretty adorable, if you ask me.”

 Fabian feels a rush of anger again and he doesn’t know where it’s coming from. Whoever invented emotions should be hunted down for sport and shot.

 “Well, I suppose, if you’re into stuff like that”, Fabian says. Ragh throws the ball at him, also a little harder than before.

 “Yeah, stuff like that. Like guys, dude”, he says.

 “Yeah. Like that. I wouldn’t know”, Fabian answers.

 Ragh opens his mouth to say something but he seems to decide against it and shakes his head.

 “Whatever, man. You’ll get there eventually”, Ragh says and Fabian has no idea what the fuck that is supposed to mean, but the next ball he throws flies wide.

 *

 Theo’s house is way smaller and less impressive than Fabian’s house—which is to be expected, but he still feels smug about it when the Bad Kids arrive at a red brick building with a garden full of sunflowers and a trampoline in the backyard that multiple people have already started using.

 Loud music, laughter and voices spill out of the open windows and onto the street as Fig pushes the small garden gate open and saunters up to the front door to ring the bell.

 “Damn, bro, you look sleek as fuck”, Ragh says to Fabian and hits him on the back with one his giants hands. Fabian manages not to stumble and grins. Ragh doesn’t have to know that Fabian took way longer than usual to get dressed because he is ready to get his kisses in tonight.

 He doesn’t care about Theo or about the fact that The Ball secretly likes guys. He can like whoever he wants and it’s of no concern to Fabian. For all he knows The Ball can kiss half Elmville and Fabian wouldn’t care one single bit about it.

 He keeps telling himself that as he follows the others into the house where people are already scattered in different rooms, many of them already drunk. There is a beerpong table set up in the living room where all other furniture has been pushed aside.

 “Hey guys”, Theo says as soon as he spots them and Fabian refuses to notice the way he grins down at The Ball  as if they were good friends. Which they are not. Since Riz already has a best friend and, in fact, an entire group of good friends, who are all here right now and of which Theo is definitely not a part.

 Now that Fabian stands in front of him he can see that Theo is in fact taller than him, half elven, half orc with light green skin and pointy ears, dark hair and wearing a black muscle shirt which Fabian finds endlessly offensive.

 “The guys were just talking about playing some old fashioned party games, do you guys wanna join?”, Theo asks and grabs some bottles of beer from a nearby table to hand them to Kristen, Riz and Gorgug. Fabian considers if it would be appropriate to deck Theo in the face because he didn’t offer Fabian a beer as well.

 “I’ve never really played any party games. What kind of games?”, Adaine wants to know. She’s holding Boggy with a look of mild concern on her face.

 “Oh, you know. Spin the bottle, truth or dare, that sort of stuff. Should be fun. Come on, I’ll introduce you!”, Theo proclaims and he throws an arm around Gorgug and waves all of them over to what seems to be a dining room that has been filled with a ton of pillows for people to sit on.

 Fabian doesn’t really know any of the people sitting here—Fig and Gorgug on the other hand know some of them from Barbarian classes. It turns out that Theo also participates in Druid classes, which Fabians finds weird.

 But he doesn’t have time to think too much about how much Theo sucks for various different reasons, because Ragh hollers excitedly, flings himself down on one of the pillows and pulls Fabian down with him.

 “Fuck yeah, dude. This rules! Here, have a beer!”

 Fabian has never played truth or dare before and he’s not particularly sure if he enjoys it. Adaine seems very on edge and picks truth every time, Fig on the other hand is delighted about giving people dares and picking dares herself. Kristen still has a hard time holding her liquor and insists on daring people to kiss each other. Then she starts crying because she misses Tracker.

 Riz is biting his nails as he watches people play and sips on the one beer he’s had since the beginning. Fabian doesn’t actually want to look at him for more than a few seconds, but The Ball is sitting directly next to Theo who is sprawled on one of his dumb pillows and seems to have the time of his life watching two of his buddies stick their tongues down each other’s throats.

 Someone dares Ragh to do a prank call on the vice principal and Ragh apologizes to Fig before he dials Gilear’s number to tell him that he won the lottery.

 “Fabian, bro! I feel like I should make you kiss someone”, Ragh shouts after he’s done and throws an arm around Fabian’s shoulder. Fabian laughs and considers all the girls sitting in the circle to figure out which one he’d like to kiss the most.

 “Make him kiss Riz”, Kristen calls and Fabian is confused for a second until what she said sinks in.

 “Kiss Riz! Kiss Riz! Kiss Riz!”

 Fabian’s eyes find The Ball’s face.

 His big, yellow eyes have grown impossibly wide and he stopped biting on his nails only to start chewing on his bottom lip in a way that looks dangerous with those sharp teeth.

 This is absurd. Fabian would never kiss The Ball.

 “What?”, he says with a half laugh. “No!”

 Fabian feels like this must be some kind of joke. He elbows Ragh in the ribs and says “Don’t be ridiculous.” and it takes him a few seconds to realize that the group of people around him has fallen silent.

 “Riz?”, Adaine says quietly.

 “I’ll be—uh. In the bathroom. Where the toilet is. To pee”, Riz stammers before fleeing out of the room as if the Nightmare King was chasing after him.

[sirtadcooper]

🎨 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Astrid, Astrid, Astrid, what am I going to do? Sort through your consistently perfect gifs? Pick favourites? You have truly set me a great challenge.

Usually I will go through a person’s whole edits tag but I have sorted these into Narcos and The Mandalorian because I was just looking to see how much you had made and accidentally saw a major spoiler for The Mentalist which I am only on season 2 of. I’m looking forward to [redacted] happening, though, because I was starting to ship them a few episodes in! Anyway, onwards with my impossible task.

Narcos

So before I start on this list I want to say that your colouring? It’s perfect every single time. Seriously. Fair warning: I’m going to be saying “perfect” a lot.

Javier Peña + that thing he does with his right hand - A great compilation! I never noticed this little detail so this gifset was a real (pleasant) surprise. I was checking the notes just to see what the general consensus was and I like the he-wants-a-cigarette theory. Just excellent acting from Pedro what a very keen eye you have! Or maybe you just spend a lot of time fixating on Javi’s hands...

Javi being snarky - Gosh, I love this one! Javi’s sense of humour got me though Narcos, although I think only one or possibly two of these gifs is from season 3? The way the life drains out of him over the course of the series just breaks my effing heart, baby. By the end of the three seasons I was pretty cross with the guys in episode one for calling him an asshole, but maybe I can see their point now, haha! But I still love him. I will protec.

1.05 There Will Be a Future | 3.01 The Kingpin Strategy - It was a great choice to jump from one scene to the other like this. Really adds to the heartbreak. It makes the contrast between his life now (sharing stories in the cool dark) and what it could have been (warmth and light and checked shirts) all the more vivid. The way he looks back at her in the last gif? Ouch.

Narcos, “The Palace in Flames” (2015) | We Can Be Heroes (2020) - A parallel I love and respect, thanks for making such good gifs of it. Shout-out to @keanurevees for being the single funniest person on this planet.

“Jungle Rescue Javi” in Convivir - Listen Jungle Rescue Javi can come and rescue me anytime. You’ve done a great job of colouring so many scenes with different lighting conditions and still have that green shirt look like a green shirt. Like it’s the same hue in each one. How did you do that? That’s pretty neat.

We’ve all gone off the rails down here, Javi. - This scene! I’m not okay! I love the colouring work you have done here. It’s just so perfect, so nice to look at. The whole set has this earthy colour palette and I mean, even Javi isn’t wearing a colourful shirt for once. This is serious.

Javi wearing a leather jacket - These gifs are so HQ I could practically reach out and touch his jacket, you can just feel the textures... with-with your eyes...? You’ve picked shots that all work together as a set, nothing stands out for the wrong reasons. No wide shots, no super close-ups, nothing to throw us off of our jacket appreciation rhythm.

Javi and his yellow aviator sunglasses - My biggest “YEAH BOY!!!” ever for this one. The amount of work that must have gone into this. 24 individual gifs coloured to your usual levels of absolute perfection and then laid out in this very pleasing and completely accurate, not-a-pixel-out-of-line way. Amazing.

Javi chasing Franklin Jurado through Curaçao in Best Laid Plans - Gosh this scene was so tense! You’ve done a great job colouring this despite the changing lighting conditions and the blazing sunshine. Well done! And I never noticed until I saw this gifset for the first time that he’s wearing a pink shirt and jumps from a pink building, haha!

Javier Peña leaning over tables - You see stuff like this? This is why I consider you to be the ultimate expert on Narcos. You make compilations like this and make it look effortless. I wouldn’t know where to start looking for scenes like these without having to rewatch the whole series and take notes. But, hey, maybe that’s what you did. But the fact that you did and made this set is still amazing.

NARCOS | 1.06 EXPLOSIVOS - Great job with such a dark and unforgiving scene! You have the Talent. He looks really pretty here.

Javier Peña + favorite look - Gosh, yes. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Pedro Pascal is a very talented actor. He takes clunky vintage tactical equipment and makes it look flipping incredible, like something he was born to wear. Also thank you for that delectable bonus gif. Arms.

The Mandalorian

Okay I have rambled for, like, 800 words already so I’ll try to say a bit less about these. I’ll try.

Din’s beskar spear heel kick in The Rescue - First of all, I saw this and now I’m pregnant. This is on the list because not only is it Din’s hottest moment for me, but because colouring-wise it is impressive. It’s bright, there’s no colour cast at all, and yet the blacks are really deep and rich. Gideon’s I’m-evil-I-must-wear-nothing-but-black cape looks especially good.

Din’s walk - You are the compilation queen! There’s nothing really that I can say here that I haven’t already said about your other compilation gifsets, it’s just perfect as usual, ya know? You make it look so easy. How does Din look so good when [New Yorker voice] he’s just walkin’ here?

Din just being a dad - Yeah. That’s the Good Stuff.

Din’s shoulder/waist ratio whenever he walks into a room - Everyone shut up I am Thinking.

Din engaging in a dogfight while his son has the time of his life on the backseat in The Siege - Like with your set of pink-shirted Javi chasing that guy in Narcos, you have a real talent for giffing action scenes. You’ve coloured this really well. You can still see details in the clouds and the shadows and your colour balance is impeccable.

Din lifting his helmet to sip soup in The Siege - I love the warmth of this little scene and the colouring you’ve done here. And the bonus gif... same, Grogu, same.

And I think I’ll stop there. I have sadly had to leave out some really excellent posts but I had to draw the line somewhere, haha! You, my friend, are just incredible. Time and time again you grace us with perfect gifs in crisp HD 4K 1080p HDR. And for what? Not for money or reward, but for love. Thank you for all that you do, because you may make your gifs look effortless but I know it is anything but. You’re amazing, you’re talented, you’re perfect.

creators send me 🎨 and i’ll tell you my favourite of your last ten creations and why

[loverspersonas]

the most beautiful moment in life | viii

pairing: ot7? x reader

genre: hyyh au, high school au, angst, drama, fluff, smut?

length: 5.5k

summary: Eight strangers with different stories happen to meet one day, by fate or some kind of cruel, exquisite happenstance, and realize that they’re not as different as they thought.

a/n: i realize i’m updating really slowly and the reason for that is online school which is taking up pretty much all my time BUT it hasn’t stopped me from writing at all. i actually have many different scenes written already, they’re just not in order, so i have to kind of make myself write the scenes that are happening first before any of those, which is hard sometimes cause i have so many ideas :) 

i realize that the pace of the fic is also kind of slow and that’s because i don’t want to have such a big overarching plot (like some kind of mystery to solve or a big villain) but rather small subplots happening at the same time. it feels easier to me to develop characters and relationships and i get to include a lot of different plot ideas that way (and there is so much happening in hyyh). it’s also hard writing this cause the bangtan universe is really complicated when you think too much about it, and we don’t even know everything about it, so i have to work with what we have and what i know. 

so thank you guys for liking what i’m writing! i hope i can do the hyyh era some (even if it’s the tiniest amount) justice, and i hope you guys enjoy it too. and if you have feedback or ideas, i’d love to hear it!

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Remembering details from a dream was a lot harder than a nightmare. Nightmares had you waking up in a cold sweat, sometimes plaguing your mind throughout the day if they were intense enough. Dreams, however, were only alive while you were asleep, and then they slipped away from your mind like they never even happened.

For the past few weeks, you’d been getting dreams that you could mostly or somewhat recall more often. Vague, obscure scenes or flashes that changed sporadically because even in your dream state, you had no control over your mind.

But you noticed that they tended to involve people in your life. Your mother, Sana, your old friends, and the seven boys you’d unconsciously formed a friendship with over the past month. Of course, it didn’t have to mean anything. But some of them strangely stood out more than others. 

One time, you saw Namjoon standing in a dark area with a single white light illuminating his silhouette from above, and a cigarette slipping from between his fingers. Another time, there was Hoseok at what looked like a train station. He was walking along the train tracks at night like he couldn’t see you watching him. And then, there was a scene of Jungkook walking on to the road, changing almost immediately before a car swerved right into him. That was one thing you couldn’t forget. Because you remembered it had been you driving that car.

“Y/N?”

The voice of the exact boy you were thinking of broke through your string of thoughts. When you looked up, you suddenly remembered where you were. 

There were a lot of nice vast areas of green fields that belonged to the Academy. With iron benches and tables and the smell of oak trees, it was an ideal setting for many fundraisers, picnics and outdoor events. You were currently sitting cross legged on top of one of those gray metal tables right beside a tall tree that cast a shade over you and the seven others sitting around you. Judging by the way some of them were looking at you, you must’ve missed something in the conversation.

“Hmm?” you asked, glancing at Jungkook who was sitting beside you, also on top of the table.

“See, I told you she wasn’t listening,” Taehyung said to the two taller boys on either side of him. “Face it, Namjoon. The books were boring.”

While Seokjin seemed thoroughly amused, Namjoon’s expression was just the slightest bit annoyed, so you could tell this argument might have been going on for a while. But his patience with Taehyung and the some of the other boys was astounding to you.

On the opposite side of the bench, Yoongi was sitting with Jimin and Hoseok, and quirked a brow in Taehyung’s way. “You literally said that you watched the Lord of the Rings a month ago.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So?” Namjoon repeated, and the tick in his jaw represented the snapping of his patience. “They have the exact same plot!”

You found yourself drifting from the rest of the conversation again, as some of the other boys began to chime in. On your lap was a notebook you realized you’d been scribbling in with a pencil while the others had been talking. It was hard to decide which was more concerning— the fact that you’d so effectively tuned out the boys, or that you were only vaguely aware that you’d been drawing at the same time.

You felt someone studying you in your peripheral vision. Jungkook decided to finally nudge you. “Not interested in fantasy novel series?”

“No, I—just spaced out for a second,” you answered lamely.

His earlier grin morphed into a slight frown. “Are you okay?”

Am I okay? “Yeah.”

His gaze dropped to your open book, widening a little in mild surprise. “I thought you said you couldn’t draw.”

“I don’t. Art class was an ironic choice that way.”

“What are you talking about?” Jimin said as he leaned over Jungkook to get a better look. Slowly, the others turned their attention towards you too. “This is pretty good.”

Hoseok, who was one of the ones in closest proximity to you, stretched out his hand so you could pass him the book. “Woah.” He went through a few various facial expressions, a lot of them where he scrunched up his eyebrows. “What’s the inspiration behind that?”

“Probably not those dry as hell books,” Taehyung retorted.

Namjoon didn’t hesitate to shove the loud mouthed boy off of the bench, earning more than a few laughs from everyone. Taehyung shot him a glare with an offended hey! 

“Nothing,” you answered him. “I just got distracted.”

The notebook was now in Namjoon’s hand and his expression was contemplative as he fixated his eyes onto the page. “You got distracted and absentmindedly drew this? With no idea in your head?”

“I had a dream.” You gave a shrug, stealing a few potato chips from Jungkook’s snack. “So, I drew it.”

“A dream like this?”

You looked back at him, trying not to frown. “Why, is it that weird?”

“Not weird,” he assured. “Just… a little unusual. I’ve never met anyone our age who would come up with stuff like this from their subconscious.”

“Who’s the boy supposed to be?” Yoongi asked after the book got rotated to him.

“I don’t know,” you answered. There hadn’t been a real chance to glimpse the boy from that scene. All you remembered was the black hair and the white shirt he was wearing as he stood looking out the only window in a plain room with only a mattress and white flower petals scattered on the floor. “Some random guy, I guess.”

“Everyone we see in our dreams are people we’ve seen at some point in our lives,” Namjoon said.

You gave this a considerative hum. Though you knew maybe thirty people who could fit in that description. “Well, I don’t remember then.”

“Let me see,” Seokjin said, taking the book in his hand. A moment later, his face morphed into something you couldn’t quite decipher. But it was like for that moment, he had understood something without realizing it.

“Why the hell are so many people out here at this time?” Jimin spoke up as a few students or groups of them began to appear on the field or pathway, spilling out from the building. “This is when it’s supposed to be the quietest here. I was looking forward to not seeing… pretty much everyone.”

“It’s not like we own this place,” Jungkook reminded him.

Jimin shrugged nonchalantly. “As long as the bright young things don’t show up…“

And just like on cue, the group of cheerleaders and jocks were walking on the opposite side of the field. You didn’t let your attention linger on the old group of friends you didn’t want anything to do with anymore. But as you glanced away, Yoongi caught your eyes as though he knew what you were thinking.

“Way to go, Jimin,” Hoseok said, giving the boy a light shove. “You just manifested it.”

Taehyung leaned back in his seat. “Seeing them this early in the day is really bad for my digestion.”

“Who told you to shove two chocolate muffins down your throat?” Yoongi said to him, referring to the now empty plastic container sitting beside you. You’d made a large quantity of them the other day and after recalling how Hoseok had liked your baking—and all his following requests over texts to make more— maybe the others would like something too. 

The younger boy didn’t acknowledge the harmless judging tone he’d used. “My inner subconscious, which by the way, I have no regrets about.”

“It’s great how you can say that so confidently about something in your life,” Namjoon said with slight skeptical wonder.

“Y/N made those muffins for us with all her heart and soul��“

“Actually, it was just flour and sugar...” you mumbled though your voice was mostly lost under theirs.

“I was just displaying my gratitude,” Taehyung said finally.

“The muffins were actually really good,” Seokjin said to you as he closed the sketchbook and handed it back to you. You made a mental note to ask him about it later.

“Y/N’s a good baker,” Hoseok affirmed before looking at you. “How long did you say you’ve been at it for?”

“Not that long.” You twisted your dyed blonde hair into a bun and slid the pencil you’d been drawing with through it to hold it in place. “I just picked it up this year.”

Taehyung looked at you with a grin. “I guess I’ll have to annoy you enough at work to get stuff for free.”

You returned it with an exaggerated smile. “You come to work during my shift, I’ll have security ask you to leave for harassment.”

His mouth fell open. “B-but I’ll tip!”

You shook your head, chuckling a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

With his arms folded over his chest, he glanced around sombrely. “This is how brittle friendship is, I guess. Like a dark chocolate bar.” 

Namjoon, hiding his amusement with an arched brow, said, “Taehyung, remind me to never ask you for poetry recommendations.”

“Hey.”

Everyone seemed to fall into a silence, realizing that voice didn’t belong to any of you. They turned their heads towards the new arrival, but you didn’t have to look to know who’d approached the table. At first, you thought you could get away without saying anything, but the rest of the boys were casting imperceivable glances in your direction. Finally, one of the others did what you didn’t want to.

“Hi,” Namjoon said to the boy who’d once been the closest to you.

Min-hyuk stood there, as though expecting you to eventually say something to him. Then he looked around the group, smiling his friendly, star quarterback smile. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Min-hyuk.”

“We know who you are,” Yoongi said, the cold undertones in his voice not going unheard by anyone. Leave it to him to keep things harsh but real.

Min-hyuk, probably not used to hearing that kind of tone with that sentence, stared at the boy, a little dumbfounded. “Oh…”

Namjoon—you reminded yourself to tell the guy what a blessing he was— stepped in again. It was probably good that it was him who was leading the conversation. You’d learned by now that none of the others were quite as sensible and level headed when they needed to be. “What he means is, do you need something?”

“Can we talk, Y/N?” Min-hyuk asked finally, the question you’d been dreading, because now it was explicitly directed at you.

You held back a defeated sigh and said, “I have class in a few—“

“It won’t take long, I promise.”

He seemed to be somewhat satisfied when you looked up at him and nodded just imperceptibly. He started to move away from the table, and you made a move to follow when a hand gently closed around your wrist.

“You know, you don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to,” Jungkook said quietly but firmly. His eyes held something like concern, and gazing around the table, the others wore similar expressions.

“Yeah,” you said. “But he won’t stop until I do.”

Jungkook released his hand from yours, watching as you got up and walked over to where Min-hyuk was waiting.

You put your hands in your pockets, right away saying, “Let’s get right to point this time, shall we?”

“I left you a note the other day,” he said, not happy with your attitude, but not able to say anything to it either. “You didn’t reply.”

“That was you?” you asked, dumbly. “I didn’t realize.”

“Come on, Y/N. Who else would write you that?” He paused. “My mother said she saw you at the hospital yesterday. Is everything okay?”

You didn’t meet his gaze, instead mostly looking at the ground. If your eyes drifted around too much, you were afraid to see that other students were watching you like a movie scene. You knew that the seven boys you’d just left were certainly doing that. “Uh huh,” you answered, without any emotion.

Min-hyuk held back an impatient noise. “Look, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I just want to know you’re doing fine.”

This time, you did look up to meet his eyes. “Why?”

“Why?” He was partly taken aback with surprise at your response. “We might not be together anymore, but it’s not like I just don’t care all of a sudden.”

“You didn’t care before.”

He stared at your expression, like he was wondering if you meant it. “Do you really think that?“

“You were never on my side.”

“What?”

Before, this would’ve been hard for you to talk about, because you’d only ever avoided it. To think about it would make you think about all the times you knew you should’ve walked away, the times that you stood there and just took everything when you knew you deserved better than that. But maybe it was time to rip the bandaid off. How long were you going to go back and forth like this? How long was he going to try to hold on to you when you wanted out?

“You wanted to know where it all went wrong,” you spoke. “How about when you stood there and let everyone, even our own friends, say all those things about me. And when I asked you to trust me, you didn’t.”

“It wasn’t that simple.” He shook his head. At least he had the decency to look apologetic, to sound like he meant what he thought. “I–I wanted to trust you—“

“I think I see it now.” It was taking a lot of courage for you to finally say what you needed to say, and now that you finally found it, you didn’t even care that other people were watching or listening. “We were both so good at acting like everything about us was perfect. And as soon as I stopped, things changed. The difference between us is that one of us still pretending.”

“Min-hyuk!” One of his friends from the football team—one of your former ones— came up beside him, tapping his shoulder. He looked at you with the kind of friendliness that was reserved for any random student in the hallway. “Hi, Y/N. What are you guys talking about?”

Min-hyuk seemed to have nothing to say, his gaze on you fixed, but his mind on the words you’d spoken. You were glad you had the ability to leave him speechless, to see him actually opening his eyes to a world outside that bubble he lived in. The bubble that you’d also been a part of, but were now glad to have found a way out.

“Well,” you said to both of them. “I have class now.”

With your bag over your shoulder, you turned and headed for the building without paying attention to any of the stares that followed you.

By the end of the day, that courage and energy that had allowed you to speak up to Min-hyuk had dissipated. Hopefully, he wouldn’t approach you again any time soon. Was it asking too much to not be approached by anyone else at all?

Now, you were standing in front of the doors to the pool once again, looking inside, but not having the courage to go in. It was almost a metaphor for your life. You were standing on the outside of a part of your life from the past, not being able to actually go in and see it properly.

Yoongi’s figure materialized next to you, not saying anything at first as though he could tell you were deep in thought. So, you broke the silence first and asked, “Long day?”

“You have no idea,” he answered. “Guess which asshole of a teacher decided to assign us a 10 page paper due in less than a week?”

Glancing sideways at him, you grinned. “The one who probably has hypertension from having to teach you?”

He shot you a dry look, but the corners of his mouth twitched a little like he was also holding back a grin of his own. “You’re hilarious, princess. But also probably right.” He noticed your attention on the pool on the opposite of the doors. "What, are you not allowed to go in or something? Weren’t you on the swim team at some point?”

Instead of answering, you turned away from the doors and started walking down the hallway. “Weren’t you on the basketball team?”

As Yoongi walked alongside you, subtle surprise appeared on his face. “It’s been a while since anyone’s asked me that.”

“You were captain of the team too, right?” you asked. “That’s how I knew you.”

Something else flickered across his face, though you didn’t know what it was. To you, it was probably the face you wore when you were briefly and vaguely recalling something in your mind.  “Well, it’s always nice to hear that my reputation precedes me. And not just as a gothic, underground rapper.” He ignored your subtle roll of eyes. “I played shooting guard actually.”

You hummed, remembering all the basketball games you attended in the gymnasium with your old friends. As part of the cheerleading team, you’d had an obligation to be there, but some of the games actually got interesting to watch. The first time you’d noticed Yoongi was when one time you’d been running late and had been trying to not fall behind the rest of the team. You remembered dropping one of your pompoms while trying to tie your hair up, and in passing, he’d picked up and handed it to you. You didn’t think he remembered it, and maybe it was a little embarrassing that you did. 

“You were good too.” You stopped near the front doors, most of the students walking around you with no interest since it was the end of the school day. Yoongi shot you a slightly puzzled look. “I was a cheerleader, remember? I’ve been to a bunch of games.”

“I remember,” he said after a moment, and it didn’t sound like something you’d say to someone just to blindly agree with them, so that was why you ended up meeting his gaze. There was something underneath those deep gray eyes that you didn’t really understand, but somehow, still found it startling to hold eye contact.

You half forced a chuckle to move the attention away from you. “Besides, it’s kind of hard to miss the only guy on the team with dyed blonde hair.”

He chuckled. “I almost forgot about that.”

“How could you forget? You were literally my inspiration,” you said, gesturing to your own bleached hair. When he threw you a dubious side eye, you shouldn’t have been surprised. Surely, that would’ve tricked one of the other boys. “Alright, fine, you didn’t. You know, I definitely do not miss the 5 hour practices, or the tiny uniforms or Yuna screaming at some younger, clueless girl to stop slacking.”

“But the outfits were so cute,” Yoongi teased, and though you were glad the topic changed, you shot him an unamused glance. “It was a joke. On a related note… what did the ex-boyfriend want earlier?”

You arched a brow and held back an amused grin. “You can say his name, you know.”

“Yeah, but that would give him too much significance. Unnamed means unimportant.”

You hummed in agreement. “Nothing really.”

“Is that why you ditched us afterwards without so much as a word?” he asked skeptically.

You tried not to sound irritated about it, but you’d hoped you could make it through the day without having to talk about it. “I ditched you, because I wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated about it.”

“How quickly you assume we would interrogate you.”

“Well, wouldn’t you?”

“Fine,” he grumbled after some seconds. “At least 3/7ths of us might. Can you really blame us for being curious? It looked kind of intense.”

Folding your arms over your chest, you looked at him with a grin forming on your lips. “Remember how you said you didn’t care? Well, it’s starting to sound a little like you do.”

He scoffed. “Please. You mistake my blind curiosity for something it isn’t.” He watched you a little longer as you shrugged before saying, “Remember when you said I was good at deflecting? You’re not so bad at it yourself.”

A part of you thought that this was a good time as any to actually talk about it. About how you’d cut things off with Yuna and Min-hyuk, and why you’d wanted to. By now, you felt like you could tell any of the seven boys and they’d listen—actually listen—and Yoongi, despite coming off as aloof and indifferent, wouldn’t judge you or anything. But this recent bond with them felt like a new and good thing, and you just didn’t want to jeopardize it, like you did with most things.

"Do you a need ride home?” Yoongi asked when he realized you were too deep in your head to say anything else about it. “I’m giving Jungkook one too, so I can drop you off after.”

“You go ahead,” you answered. “I have some stuff to do first.”

At first, he seemed almost reluctant to leave you alone, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t insist or comment on it. It would contradict his indifference to most things. Only after he left did you turn and start aimlessly walking down the other side of the hallway. It wasn’t like you had anything to do. You just weren’t sure if you wanted to be around anyone with curiosity like Yoongi’s lingering above your head. Talking about yourself and your personal life was never fun.

Eventually, you ran into another familiar face. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Namjoon said as he approached you in the hall.

“If this is about this morning, I’d rather not talk about it,” you decided to say immediately because if anyone could get answers from you by asking the right questions, it was probably Namjoon.

Fortunately for you, Namjoon could’ve read that from a mile away and wasn’t one to pry. He nodded in understanding. “I figured as much. Oh, hold on a second.” From his backpack, he drew out some loose papers tucked into a notebook. “I went through some of these to find whatever was legible enough.”

You scanned the writing briefly. “Your English notes?”

“Yeah, I remember you said the last class went over your head.” 

“I just don’t understand why it’s bought and not buyed, but it’s walk and walked? Like why can’t they can’t follow the same rule for every past tense conjugation?” you complained, but still a little touched that he remembered something you’d probably said in passing. “But thanks.”

“Also, if you see Taehyung, can you let him know I can’t walk home with him today?”

You nodded. “Sure. Staying back for extra work?”

“No, I—I have a shift today.”

You wondered why he sounded reluctant to answer. “Where do you work?”

“It’s a library,” he said with a small shrug. “It’s on the other side of the city, so I like to leave a little earlier.”

You shot him an amused grin. “Were there no libraries nearby hiring? Because I know if they saw your GPA, they would not hesitate.”

“Uh, this one has a nicer collection.”

“Alright,” you said, deciding not to question his responses since he hadn’t questioned you. But for some reason, it felt like he was trying to hide something. “See you tomorrow then.”

Smiling, he said, “Thanks, Y/N.”

As he walked away, you had to stop the curiosity from getting to you. It truly was an ordeal to be so curious and not want to intrude upon things that didn’t concern you. You had to remind yourself that it was better that information came to you at the right time rather than forcing it. At first, the reminder was about other people, but sometimes, you thought it was also about yourself.

After exiting through the west doors, you noticed Taehyung at the bottom of the staircase right outside the building. He was leaning against the railing, hood over his head and concentrated on whatever game he was playing on his phone. You slowed your steps, approaching the stairs. “You’re still here.”

Taehyung glanced up at you, slipping his phone into his pocket as you came towards him.  “Waiting for Namjoon. The kid’s a genius, but his punctuality could use a little improvement.”

You quirked a brow. “Kid? He’s older than you.”

Folding his arms over his chest, he said pointedly, “And I’m older than you. So how about you don’t question me?”

You had to bite back a smile at his antics. It was hard to believe sometimes that most of these boys were older than you. “He told me to tell you he has work today, so he can’t make it.”

He let out a loud and dramatic groan, practically cringing at himself. “For real? I probably look like some idiot, waiting on the stairs for his even more of an idiot boyfriend.”

You shrugged, not hiding the smile this time. “Just a little.”

He looked back at you. “How are you getting home? I’ll walk with you.”

He already started walking, expecting you to follow, so you didn’t get a chance to reply. With a defeated sigh, you decided to go after him.

Your first mistake was choosing to walk all the way home instead of taking the bus. Your second mistake was letting Taehyung take the lead, because that boy looked like he’d never had a plan a day in his life. While you somewhat admired the spontaneity, you were used to routine or a plan of some kind. Although you did suppose that this year, everything that had happened, and was happening now, was not planned at all.

“I’ve never gone this way before.” 

The buildings were older and a bit worn away, but almost in an intentional manner, posters and signs on the gray brick walls. You passed several small shops and restaurants and cafes that despite appearing quaint seemed very cute. The people that walked by were all in their own worlds, not so much as glancing at you or anyone near them. It was something like a secret tourist spot or a hidden gem.

“Really?” Taehyung said. He walked on your right, but a little ahead. You wanted to say it was because he was leading the way, but that presumed he knew where he was going. “This street’s pretty cool. Hidden away from the centre, though, so you don’t really know about it until you come yourself.”

You removed your eyes from an old bookstore with a chalkboard sign outside. “You must do a lot of exploring, huh?”

“Whatever gets me out of the house.” He stopped walking abruptly. When you stopped to ask what was wrong, you saw a mischievous smile form on his face. “I just had a brilliant idea.”

“Why am I kind of doubtful?”

Despite the many, many questions you asked, Taehyung didn’t answer any of them. He could try and be mysterious if he wanted, but you wouldn’t buy it, was what you said to him. Instead, you waited outside while he went into a convenience store for a few minutes. You shouldn’t have been so surprised when he emerged with a plastic bag in hand, full of bottles of spray paint. You opened your mouth to ask what he was planning, but he just tugged on your arm and made you follow him around the corner.

The street you stopped at had to be somewhat of a visual arts scene, because you recalled passing arts and crafts places and small galleries, and the wall that stood in front of you now was a graffiti wall.

“This is so cool,” you said in awe, all thoughts of skepticism at Taehyung’s actions gone. Your gaze roamed over the various artwork and writing, painted on by different kinds of paint and people and minds. It was like an anonymous outlet for creativity and self expression, something like in the olden days when things like freedom of expression was outlawed, so people had to get creative around it.

“I love all kinds of art,” Taehyung said, dropping his backpack and crouching near the ground. “But graffiti has become more interesting recently. Here.”

You looked to see that he was holding out a can of spray paint for you. “This is vandalizing.”

He half scoffed, half laughed. “This is an artistic statement.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive, Taehyung.”

“Relax, Y/N.” He placed the can in your hand himself after he decided that you wouldn’t take it, then took another out of the bag for himself. “I’ve done this billions of times. You won’t get caught.”

Despite yourself, there was an urge in you to just do it, get your hands a little messy. That was why you liked to bake after all, wasn’t it? That was why you chose art class. You could make a mess and make something good out of it. You could control something instead of being controlled. But turning back to the wall of art and messages and stories, you hesitated. “I can’t paint like this,” you tried lamely.

Taehyung shot you a look. “I saw your sketch today. It was far from shitty.” After a minute of waiting, he sighed. “Fine, I’ll go first.”

The way he walked up the an empty section of the wall with confidence, how he shook the paint can and effortlessly began to draw strokes in red paint told you that he wasn’t lying when he said he’d done this a lot. 

When he finished, he stepped back to where you stood, briefly appraising his work before saying, “Your turn. Don’t think too much. Just whatever’s on your mind, let it out.”

So, you found yourself closing your eyes briefly, and releasing a breath before stepping forward. You pushed on the paint can’s nozzle and let your mind take over for your hand and for a few minutes, all that was heard was the faint car engines in the distance and the spraying noise of the paint. Finally, you let your arm drop to see what you’d made. It was a pair of blue wings like a butterfly’s.

Taehyung studied the wall for a moment before humming, “Interesting.”

“By interesting, you mean awful.”

He shot you a look. “By interesting, I mean interesting. You and Namjoon might like to have second meanings to your sentences, but I’m a simple guy.”

“Uh huh.” You watched him move back to the wall and start painting something else. It was funny how before you’d known him, you had him pegged for some kind of reckless skater boy with a rebellious streak. He was actually more of an artsy boy with a rebellious streak. “I guess it would be easier if everyone wasn’t always pretending to be something they’re not.”

“Was Min-hyuk pretending to be a super nice guy again?” He only glanced over his shoulder at you when he didn’t get an answer. Of course this topic would’ve inevitable come up although you’d also assumed Taehyung would avoid uncomfortable conversations whenever he could. “None of those guys are all what they show. It’s good that you hit one of them. You might accidentally activate some part in the brain that knocks some sense into them.”

You nodded at this, slightly amused. “If that was how neurobiology worked.”

“Let’s experiment. Hit me over the head really hard and tomorrow, let’s see if I pass my math test.”

You were holding back a laugh when your gaze fell on part of his drawing. “Is that your signature?”

“Oh, that... it’s kind of like my alias,” Taehyung said almost like it was embarrassing for him to say. This must have been the first time he’d told someone about his side hobby. “For when I’m out painting.”

“For when you’re out vandalizing,” you remarked.

He mocked the face you’d made earlier and said, “They’re not mutually exclusive, Y/N.”

You let out a scoff, but couldn’t hide your amusement. “What does it mean? The V?”

“It’s short for Vante.”

You hummed. “Interesting.”

“You mean interesting good or interesting bad?”

“I mean interesting,” you said, deepening your voice a little to mock him.

The side of his mouth curved into a grin. “Touche.”

Returning your attention to the wall, your eyes began to study the various drawings, fleetingly going back to another wall and another drawing. “You haven’t seen anything like the hwa yang yeong hwa we saw before, have you?”

“No,” Taehyung answered, then gave it another thought. “Not that I’ve been to a lot of graffiti places outside of this area. But from where I have looked around, it’s made me think that maybe this... Smeraldo person isn’t a regular graffiti artist.”

“As in, this was just a one time thing for them?”

“Maybe.”

“I guess that means it’s not just graffiti we should be looking at,” you speculated. “It’s definitely a start but could be any art form.”

“Or maybe the art is just a way to get it out there.”

You frowned. “Meaning what? Someone’s trying to say something? To send a message?”

He shrugged. “It’s possible, yeah.”

His attention refocused on the drawing he’d started, but your mind began to run through possible explanations. What if somehow someone was trying to say something? More importantly, what if someone was trying to say something to you?

The sun was beginning to lower by the time you reached Taehyung’s place. You didn’t even realize the two of you had been out for a while with his detour idea. 

You tilted your head up to observe the apartment building complex. Since you’d never been to this part of the city before, you couldn’t say much about it. But by the oldness and the obvious low maintenance of the building, you guessed that the rent was affordable. Taehyung, like you, wasn’t one of the richer kids of the Academy. You supposed that the talent that had gotten him in was art related, if not painting specifically.

“Is this where you live?” you asked to break the silence.

“Yup,” Taehyung said, popping the sound at the end. “Home sweet…” He trailed off a little as his faraway gaze crossed the building, instead turning back to you. “Do you live close by? I can walk with you.”

You made a dubious face. “Are you sure you want to walk there and then all the way back?”

“Hey, I may be lazy, but I’m not that lazy.”

“I don’t need protecting, if that’s what you were going to say.”

He scoffed. “Obviously not. You broke a guy’s fucking jaw!”

“It wasn’t actually broken,” you muttered before shaking your head. “Wouldn’t you rather go home? Your parents are probably waiting for you.”

“No one’s waiting for me.” Before you could say anything, he waved it away, his long hair hiding the expression on his face you were trying to read. “It’s fine. Forget it.”

But he didn’t make a move to walk towards the complex’s stairs that led up to the first floor. Even as you stood there for another minute and he just stood with you, you realized he wasn’t about to head home regardless of if you left now or stayed. And for a moment, you wondered if this was what he had meant that day weeks ago. No one’s waiting for me. It was a thought that had held a place in your mind for a long time too.

It’s better not to force information you don’t even need to know, a voice in the back of your head reminded. Finally, you said, “Are you hungry? I could go for some coffee, and the Brew’s not far from here.”

Taehyung turned to look at you. If he was grateful for the chance to avoid going home, he didn’t show it. “Will you give me a discount?”

“If you stop talking, I’ll pay for your entire order.”

The carefree smile that stretched across his face as he started dragging you towards the next street was enough for you to know that he was, in fact, at least a little grateful.

chapter vii // chapter ix (coming soon)

[theseshipsshallsail]

Oliver has developed a particular fondness for dinner drudgery over the past decade. At thirty-four, he felt a greater appreciation for the twinkle in Samuel’s eyes as he lured some unsuspecting academic into a debate he was destined to lose. The all-too-familiar smirk hidden behind a wine glass as Annella caught his gaze mid-rebuttal, the same mischief written over her features as that of her son’s. He even welcomed Mafalda’s regular fretting about his diminuito waistline as she cleared away what little remained of a feast fit for a king.

And then there was the man to his right. The man who held a cigarette in one hand, and his heart in the other. The man who slanted his head on Oliver’s shoulder as the evening wore on, allowing him to drop a kiss to the riotous curls that drew his fingers like a siren’s call. There were no more secrets between the four of them - though according to Annella there had never been any to begin with - and when Elio yawned twice in as many minutes Oliver found his own jaw cracking in sympathy. 

International flights never got any easier, and although they’d managed a short nap on the train in from Milan, they were both flagging fast.

The after-dinner conversation had revolved around his latest manuscript for the past half an hour, and slipping an arm around Elio’s side, Oliver tapped his ankle beneath the table. “You still with me?” he murmured softly, and Elio scoffed as he nestled closer.

“Seulement. One more limoncello and you’ll have to carry me to bed.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Or the last,” Elio said, as Samuel raised a toast in their direction.

“Happiness resides not in possessions or gold, but in the soul. Wouldn’t you agree, our wayward Americano?” he asked, prompting Oliver to back up his argument as he stole the last arancini from Elio’s plate. 

“Big results require big ambitions, Sami.”

“And nothing endures but change.”

“Always with the Heraclitus...” Elio grumbled good-naturedly, leaning over to kiss Annella on the cheek. “Bonne nuit, maman. Remind me to show you that biography in the morning.” 

“The Piaf?” she asked, and Elio nodded as he rose to his feet. 

“There’s a new bookstore just opened in the Village.”

“Che magnifico!” Annella said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Tell me all about it when you’re not falling asleep in your tortelli.” Smiling, she took Elio’s face between her palms. “Dormi bene, piccino. Et toi, Cauboi.”

Oliver laughed as he finished shaking hands with the other two guests - stalwarts of the Bocconi Languages department he vaguely remembered from his brief stint at the university. “I doubt that’ll be a problem. The moment my head hits the pillow I’ll be dead to the world.” 

Elio raised an eyebrow. “The dead don’t snore like Anchise’s old generator,” he said with a wink as Samuel rounded the table to join them. “Papà, siamo stanchi. It’s been a long day.”

“It certainly has,” Samuel said, hugging him tightly. “Go! Go! Don’t make me sprain anything by rolling you out of here.” Stepping back, he clasped Elio by the forearms. “I’ll ask Mafalda to save you something if you sleep through breakfast.”

“Molte grazie.”

“Anytime, figli miei,” Samuel said, embracing Oliver in turn. “Goodnight, the pair of you.” 

“Thanks, Pro.”

Enfolding Elio’s hand in his, Oliver led him towards the villa, taking the time to appreciate the sounds of nature after six months of city living. One day, he’d love to move here permanently - spend his golden years in the country that spurred his reinvention - but there was no rush. Not when the best part of Italy was a permanent fixture in his life, already.

The house was in shadows when they stepped over the threshold, but they each navigated the lofty hallways with ease as they headed upstairs. It was a journey they could do with their eyes closed, and avoiding the creaky top step out of habit they shut the door to Elio’s room behind them with a quiet click. Their room, technically, but in Oliver’s mind it would always be his. He may have usurped it for six weeks in the summer of ‘83, but the overstuffed bookcase and outdated cassette tapes were like a portal to the past, and it never failed to make him feel twenty-four again. 

Conflicting though those feelings might be.

The only obvious difference was the double bed now taking up space along the back wall - though Oliver quite missed the creaky single frames of yesteryear. The shutters were latched apart, letting out the stifling afternoon air, and the bathroom doors were pinned open, turning the space into the large suite that originally befitted Elio’s grandfather.

Toeing off his espadrilles, Oliver watched as Elio fell face first onto the bed. Dramatic as always, he groaned into the crisp, blue sheets, so Oliver hung his shirt up in the wardrobe then walked over to tug off his sneakers, placing them beneath the writing desk where he was unlikely to trip over them come morning. 

“I haven’t been this exhausted since I finished that three week stretch with the Philharmonic,” Elio said, words muffled, and Oliver chuckled as he sat down beside him.

“Fifteen hours by plane, and a ninety minute schlep on the Regionale? I think that’s to be expected.” Reaching over, he stroked a palm up Elio’s spine, bunching his t-shirt in its wake. “You can’t stay young and restless forever.”

“Speak for yourself, old man.” Elio shot him a sideways glance. “Why are you all the way over there?”

Over there, meaning beyond kissing range.

“I thought you were too tired?” Oliver asked, and Elio rolled his eyes like the precocious teenager he’d fallen so hopelessly in love with.

“Too tired for Democritus and his atomic theory,” he said, shifting onto his side. “Never too tired for you, tesoro.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Cradling Elio’s cheek in one hand, Oliver felt a hot lick of satisfaction as he brushed his thumb over the smooth skin, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, then nibbling gently. A soft whine fell between them, and Elio slung his arms around Oliver’s shoulders, legs banding around his waist like a tether.

“That’s better,” he said, half-hard in his jeans. “Just like old times.”

Oliver sniggered. “Someone better warn the peaches.”

“Connard.”

“And a fine one it is, too,” he teased, swatting Elio’s ass through the stiff denim. 

The resultant yelp was a thing of beauty as Oliver ran his nose along Elio’s collarbone, savouring his scent. Beneath the sour musk of travel were the sweet notes of juniper and cherry laurel, and sucking briefly at his pulse point, Oliver actually felt the yawn building before Elio was forced to pull away, sighing in frustration.

“This isn’t happening, is it?”

“Define this,” Oliver said, licking away his pout. 

They might not be about to set any records for horizontal gymnastics, but the needy whimper Elio pressed to Oliver’s throat was enough to spur him onwards as they quickly rid each other of their clothing. Silver light streamed in through the windows, casting shadows over their naked bodies, and finesse fell by the wayside when Oliver brought their erections together, stroking them both in tandem. Transfixed, he watched the pleasure flick across Elio’s features, treasuring the way his lashes fluttered if he twisted just so - the glazed expression as he kissed him like they had all the time in the world. Leisurely and indulgent.

“I’m going to come,” Elio whispered scant minutes later.

Like it was a secret. 

Like it was something precious. 

And it was, Oliver knew, as the other man rutted into his palm, shuddering against him. It was there in every touch. Every tender endearment. Elio might wear his heart on his sleeve, but none of his previous lovers had been privy to the true depths of his emotions, and as he threw his head back in release Oliver couldn’t help but chase him over the edge, inarticulate and inelegant in his abandon.

Pearly white covered his fist as liquid fire rushed through his veins, each movement growing slower and slower until they eventually ground to a stop, swallowing each other’s gasps between needy pulls of their mouths. Groggy with sensation, his lungs felt constricted by the memory of how to breathe, yet sweaty, sated - and in dire need of a shower - they lay there in the aftermath, neither of them willing to give in as their eyelids started to droop. 

He loved Elio like this. Loved him always of course, but especially like this. With his hair mussed - his face relaxed - his lips swollen as a result of his kisses, and Oliver sighed fondly as he brushed the curls from his forehead, only to receive an incoherent grumble for his efforts. It was his mind he’d fallen in love with first, though. The way he challenged him constantly. Pushed his boundaries day-by-day. Always striving for more. 

He’d been a fool to consider walking away. To give Elio up, however begrudgingly. He was a part of him - perfect in his imperfections - and as Elio drifted off between one blink and the next, Oliver banished such dismal thoughts to the shadows of the past, refusing to give them life when his future lay literally in his arms.

“Goodnight, amore mio,” he whispered, and grinning, hooked his toes in the underwear hanging from the bedpost - his, Elio’s, he couldn’t quite tell - wiped the worst of the mess from their painted stomachs, then followed him into a dreamless stupor.

 Something was tickling Oliver’s nose as he floated in the trance-like state between sleep and reality. It was a familiar experience, and forcing one eye open he smiled down at Elio’s crown where it rested upon his chest. Their legs were entangled beneath the sheets, the toes of Elio’s left foot twitching beside his calf, and Oliver tapped an idle rhythm along his spine as he squinted at the blessedly silent alarm clock. 

It was almost seven a.m, and with zero intentions of moving anytime soon, Oliver watched the dust motes dance in the pink strokes of dawn. He was still foggy, but with his recent promotion and the increased demands of Elio’s tour schedule, moments like these were few and far between in New York, so Oliver indulged himself by listening to Elio’s steady breaths, unwilling to disturb him prematurely. 

The villa was quiet and still as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and when Elio burrowed into his neck, Oliver felt the same dizzy thrill he always had, thanking his lucky stars for the man who’d turned his life upside down in the very best of ways. 

Sappho once wrote what cannot be said will be wept, and this room had seen it’s fair share of tears at the start of their relationship. Even now, it was hard to believe how close he’d come to losing it all. But like Odysseus, Oliver had returned to his love, and he had every intention of seeing this journey through to completion.

“In the crooks of your body, I find my religion,” he whispered, continuing to smooth random patterns over Elio’s trapezius, and it was all he could do not to moan in response as an arm wrapped around his waist, skimming his burgeoning erection.

“Mere air, these words, but delicious to hear...”

Verbal and cognizant was more than Oliver would usually expect before Elio’s first cup of coffee, but taking a chance, he tilted his face up to see him properly. “Morning, sunshine. I thought you were asleep.” 

Elio yawned into the hand at his jaw. “Not with you scribbling Ancient Greek on my ribcage.”

“You caught that?”

“Ovviamente.” Humming, he dug his chin into Oliver’s sternum. “It felt like you were writing your name at first, but then you drew the symbol for pi, and I figured you were just hungry.”

Oliver snickered. “Did you not notice Mafalda’s continued attempts to fatten me up? Maybe I should tell her it’s your hip bones that leave bruises, instead.”

“You love it.”

“More than she’ll ever know,” he conceded, mourning the loss of skin on skin as he eased out from underneath him. “Alright, genius. Since you’re so good at this...” Pushing the covers out of the way, Oliver traced a treble clef from the middle of Elio’s back to his sacrum, finishing it off with a flourish. “What was that?”

Elio smacked his lips. “Too easy,” he murmured into his folded arms. “And a bit crooked. My old music tutor would plotz.”

“Brat.” Oliver smirked as he knelt between his thighs. “Are you challenging my artistry?��

“Might be.”

“Might be, he says.” Chuckling, he ran his thumb up from Elio’s tailbone, sure and certain. “How about my penmanship, then? What letter?”

A pink flush spread over Elio’s cheek. “D,” he decided, squirming slightly as Oliver’s huff stirred the loose curls beside his ear.

“How on earth do you confuse a P with a D?”

“Have you seen the state of your handwriting?” Elio protested, constantly offended by his messy scrawl. “Aren’t you professor types meant to set an example?” 

Oliver scoffed. ”Perish the thought,” he said, dropping a lingering kiss to his nape. Elio’s cock lay flushed with need, and though he had no intention of bringing him off quite yet, Oliver couldn’t resist brushing his palm over the underside. “Indulge me,” he continued, stroking from root to tip. “Let’s play a game.”

“What sort of game?”

“An easy one, apparently.” Fighting his own arousal, Oliver followed the thick vein up then back, tugging gently on Elio’s balls. “But guess right, and I promise I’ll take care of this for you when I’m done. How’s that for an example?”

“Your generosity knows no bounds...”

“Ready?”

“Che diavolo!” Elio turned towards him, and Oliver felt breathless as he looked him square in the eye. “Tell me you’re joking?”

“Just a little longer,” he promised, propping himself on one arm to walk his fingers over Elio’s scapula, leaving a thin trail of slickness when he curved it round to his lower back. “Letter?”

Elio settled down with a put-upon sigh. “An S?” 

“Correct.” Oliver pressed a fingertip to the freckle on his hip. “Next one,” he said, drawing a diagonal line up to his top vertebrae, then sweeping down to its twin. 

“A?” Elio asked, then went rigid as Oliver poked him between his ribs. “Smetilla! That tickles!”

“It’s supposed to.”

“Why?” Laughing, he batted him away. “Did I get it wrong?”

“Not at all,” Oliver said, splaying a proprietary hand over his right buttock. “But next time, let me finish first, yeah?”

“Never heard you say that before.”

“Don’t be jealous of my stamina, Perlman.”

“Stronzo.” Elio arched into his touch. “Another.”

“Eager, are we?”

Elio snorted into his forearm. “Eager. Horny. Non vedo differenza.”

“Fair enough.” Oliver angled his thumb and forefinger towards Elio’s spine, fluid and precise. “This one’s harder,” he said, pinching them together.

“V?” Elio asked before he could go any further, and Oliver tutted as he began a downwards line towards his tailbone.

“Au contraire, mon chéri,” he said with a playful growl. “Not till I’m finished, remember?”

It was the work of a moment to complete the action, and Elio shivered as he glanced back at him through heavy lashes. “Y,” he muttered, shoulders hitching with a snigger. “A few inches can make all the difference, sì?”

Oliver smiled. “So I’ve been told,” he said, the slight breeze from the window lifting the hair from his forehead. “And what can we derive from that?” 

Elio had a specific weakness for his public speaking voice. One which Oliver wasn’t above exploiting at every opportunity. 

“Fuck…”

“Nope.”

Slender fingers circled his wrist as Elio cursed him out in several languages. 

“Spell it for me,” Oliver encouraged, turning his lips to the salt-gleam dimple above his ass, before remembering to narrow it down. “In English, per favore.”

“S-A-Y,” Elio answered obediently, already sounding flustered. “Say.”

“And you thought you’d never complete your Masters…”

“Attaccati a sto cazzo.”

“Rude.” Oliver licked a stripe across his earlobe. “Be a good boy, and I’ll cling to yours, though.”

“Santo Cielo…” Elio huffed in annoyance. “I really hate you right now.”

“No you don’t.” Oliver snuck an apologetic kiss to his temple. “Not even a little bit,” he told him, copying the exact same pattern from earlier. “Second word, if you please.”

“Another Y?”

“Another Y,” he confirmed, watching as Elio clutched the pillow in a white-knuckled grip. 

He remained perfectly still, however, so Oliver drew a deliberate line along his left flank before placing the pad of his thumb back at the beginning, then dragging it to the right. Once more, from the middle, then again from the bottom, and Elio was almost panting when he finally stopped.

“E,” he whispered, causing Oliver’s heart to skip a beat.

Because this was it. 

No turning back.

There was an urgent pressure in his throat, and when he tried to swallow it down, the emotions damn near choked him. “Last one,” he muttered, snaking his index finger in another winding curve, and Elio waited until he lifted it away completely before answering.

“That’s an S,” he said, then paused to string all three letters together. “Yes?” Freeing his wrist, Elio rolled over to face him. “Say yes?” he asked, sleep-rumpled and adorably confused, so Oliver hummed something vaguely agreeable as he mouthed at his jawline, needing the rough scratch of stubble to ground him. “I don’t understand.” Brows knit, Elio pushed up on his elbows. “Say yes to what? What is it that you want?”

Oliver had spent weeks trying to find the right words, but ultimately, only three would suffice. 

“To marry you,” he said, light-headed - and slightly concerned he was about to vomit. He hadn’t felt this terrified since he’d knocked on the adjoining door nine years ago, nothing but a broken heart and the vain hope of forgiveness to his name. “A piece of paper won’t change anything. I know that. But I told you once - out on that very balcony - that I loved you. All of you. Body, mind, and everything in between. You make me happier than I ever thought possible, Elio. This… you… you’re it for me.”

“Cuore mio…” Elio released a plaintive sigh. “I love you, too,” he whispered, taking Oliver’s cheeks in his hands as he sat up against the headboard. “But the courts... you know they won’t recognise -”

“Legally, no,” Oliver agreed, shifting to his knees. “Not yet. But we can do this our own way. Have a ceremony for us alone.”

“Not alone,” Elio corrected absently, hooking his heels behind him. “Together.” His lips pressed into a firm line, and the seconds in which he blinked back at him were the longest of Oliver’s existence. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he asked, and instead of answering, Oliver reached for the small box he’d hidden in the bedside cabinet upon their arrival. 

“Open it?” he asked nervously, and Elio made a sound that was almost a laugh, high-pitched and fluttering.

“Only you...” he said, and if it weren’t for the tell-tale crack in his voice, Oliver might be worried. “Only you would wait until I’m jet-lagged and sporting a semi to ask me the second most important question of my life.”

“Just a semi?” Oliver slid a palm to the crease of his thigh. “Hang on. Second? What was the first?” he asked, and Elio smiled as he gently butted against him. 

“Does this make you happy?”

“Oh...” 

Elio held his gaze. “So important you asked me twice, in fact.”

“I did, didn’t I?” No doubt there would be a third time, too. He’d always admired the sight of Elio in a tux - slightly more so than the sight of him out of one - and Oliver resolved there and then to fit it into his vows. “Still, that was before your rejection of all things cliché. How’s a man supposed to plan a proposal around that?”

“Quelle question!”

“Such high maintenance,” Oliver murmured, tipping his chin. “But I wouldn’t change you for the world.”

It was a struggle to kiss whilst grinning inanely, but they gave it a good try nonetheless.

“Are you going to open this or what?” Oliver asked, bracing himself as Elio cracked upon the box to reveal the antique gold and onyx band.

“That’s my grandfather’s ring,” he whispered softly.

“It is.” Giddy, Oliver watched the sunlight glint off the heirloom’s polished surface. “Sami wanted you to have it. He’s had it cleaned and resized for the occasion.”

“My father?” Elio raised an eyebrow. “Plotting again, were you?”

“Not as such,” Oliver said, remembering the two word inscription on the inside. “I couldn’t care less about government approval, but I needed to know we have it from those whose opinion I actually value.” His heart tripped over itself as he chuckled apprehensively. “I think your mother’s already chosen a hat,” he confessed, and Elio groaned. 

“She’s going to invite everyone we’ve ever met.”

“She’ll not be inviting anyone if you don’t say yes,” Oliver teased, and the look he received could cut glass. 

“Idiota.” 

“Charming.”

“In what possible scenario would I ever say no to you?” Elio asked, reeling him in by the Star of David around his neck. “You’re a part of me. You are me.” Leaning in, he nuzzled into his hairline. “Oliver… you’re the best person I’ve ever met. Credimi. You’ve always been my forever.”

“Cor cordium.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t even -” Oliver froze. “Wait. Did you just -”

“Yes,” Elio repeated, eyes bright. “Yes, Oliver!”

It didn’t matter that his own vision was blurred. That the full extent of his vulnerabilities were on display. That Elio saw just how lost in him he truly was. Relief purged his body, sparks detonated across his skin, and Oliver made a chorus of his name as he freed the ring from its velvet cushion. It was cool to the touch when he picked it up - the weight of it heavy with promise - yet with unsteady fingers he slid it onto Elio’s left hand, sealing his declaration with a heartfelt kiss to his knuckles. 

“Please tell me these are happy tears,” Oliver whispered, pulling him into his arms.

“Why? Afraid I’ll get a nosebleed?” 

“Way to spoil the mood, Casanova…”

“The sweetest pleasures are those which are hardest to be won,” Elio quoted, studying the black inlay almost reverentially. 

Oliver studied him instead. “You like it?”

“È perfetto.” Elio sniffed as he ducked his head. “I want to get you one, too. If you’ll wear it.”

“Wear it?” Oliver’s lungs were far too tight, but at least that meant he wasn’t dreaming. “Why would I ever take it off?”

“And change my name. Officially, this time.”

His smile was so wide it hurt his cheeks. “Anything you want, sweetheart,” Oliver said, clutching Elio close, pressing his face into the hollow of his shoulder. This was their life, chosen and built together. Theirs to have, now and for always. “As long as I can call you mine… anything at all.” 

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Shelbys at Somme: Chapter 9

Thomas X Reader

Word Count: 1644

Summary: Grace is forced to endure Reader’s company as Reader heals.

by @adventuresintooblivion

On Saturday morning, it was Thomas that welcomed Y/N instead of Ada. He sat across from her taking a long drag from his cigarette. His eyes were cast out the window a thousand miles away as Y/N sat up. He didn’t acknowledge her at first. 

“Thomas?”

He stirred only slightly. “I’ve got something waiting for you downstairs. Do you think you’re up for a small trip?”

Y/N dressed slowly, using the nearby table as support and taking time to make sure everything was in place. She put on women’s clothes for once; the stays prevented her from making any sudden movements that would jostle her ribs. When she was done, she turned to face Thomas. 

His eyes had gone wide as he watched her. The cigarette was held loosely in his hands, the end burning dangerously low. Ashes fell onto his fingertips, jolting him into the present. He yanked back his hand from the burning sensation. 

Thomas cleared his throat, “I...I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before.”

She shrugged. “I don’t hate them, but the structure is usually too much for running across rooftops and such.”

“What’re you doing on a rooftop?”

Y/N flashed him a wicked smile, “Illegal things.”

He stood and offered his arm. “Someday you’re gonna tell me what you did before the war.”

She didn’t answer as they made their way down the stairs. It was slow going and she didn’t exactly enjoy any of the movement, but she’d be damned if she was cooped up in her rooms for the next two months. Thomas was patient with her, letting her pick the pace, but she was still relieved when they made it to level ground.

The Garrison was already somewhat busy, people grabbing a drink before heading out. Y/N vaguely remembered talk of a football game, so it would only get busier. However, more people were standing than normal; a table by the stairs seemed to be missing. Something was still taking up quite a bit of room.

There against the dingy wood of the pub, stood a black gleaming Baby Grand Piano. It was massive in the crowded space and seemed to glow despite the dim lighting due to it’s highly polished surface. Ivory keys were stark white and begging to be played.

  Y/N froze, “Thomas, what the hell is that?”

“Well, I’d expect you of all people to know what that is. But I’ll humor you nonetheless, it’s a piano. A Steinway to be exact.”

“Tommy! Those cost a bloody fortune.”

“To get them shipped here, even more so. But I hear they’re extremely popular in New York City. If we’re going to fancy this place up a bit, might as well have one, right?”

She couldn’t stop her head from shaking, but no words left her lips. Thomas gently guided her towards the seat.

Y/N glanced around wildly. “What’re you doing?”

He leaned forward and she could hear the grin in his voice, “You’re so worried about earning your keep. Go on, play it.”

The room parted for them until finally she sat. Leather creaked beneath her weight as she settled into place. Her fingers brushed over the keys reverently, it was the barest touch and yet it took everything she had not to just play. A thousand notes flooded her mind. Long lost memories ingrained in the notes of a song.

“Tommy, this is too much.” She didn’t feel the tears until she tasted the salt on her lips.

His hand lifted ever so slightly, but he stopped. His eyes casting out among the crowd. 

Thomas whispered, “You’ve shown me genuine kindness time and again. And I’ll not have you up in that room feeling useless. Now please, play for me.”

“Any requests?” Y/N bit her lip. She refused to let the sob escape her throat. 

He grinned, “The one you made for me?”

She slapped his arm half-heartedly, “You bastard. Trying to make me a blubbering mess in front of everyone.”

“Well if you’re not up for it . . .”

“Shut your heathen mouth.” 

Her fingers returned to the keys as Thomas stood. He left to go to his office. Despite the distance between them--and the wood--he could hear each note as she began to play. The idle chatter died. Men turned from their conversations to listen to a song only a handful on earth had heard before. 

One song led to another. The day passed by in a blur as Y/N’s hands soured across the piano. All the frustration of the past few days coming out in a prolonged concert. Patrons became used to the background music, their chatter filling what would have been silence.

Eventually, Grace came to stand beside her. A small tray with a bottle and two glasses was grasped tightly between her hands.

Grace cleared her throat. “You’ve been playing for hours. Think you could use a drink?”

Y/N glanced up. “Actually that’d be fantastic.”

It was the first time Grace had seen Y/N since before her abduction. Every time her eyes strayed towards her busted lip or bruised skin a cold chill ran through her. Campbell had really done that? She nodded and poured the drinks quickly. She was about to step away when Y/N stopped her.

“Are you ok? You’re looking kind of pale.”

“It’s been a rough few days.” Grace answered as she ducked her head. “I worked a job for Thomas, and it wasn’t what I expected to say the least.”

Y/N took a drink. “He took you to the races.”

Grace started, “He told you about that?”

“He told me what he had planned for you.” She glanced up at Grace. “So, is he as much of a bastard as he thinks he is?”

“No.”

Y/N caught herself smiling, “That’s good to hear. Come, join me.” 

Grace paused a moment before joining Y/N on the bench. It was a tight fit but it worked well enough. 

“Do you play?”

Grace shook her head. “No, singing is where my musical talent stays.”

She nodded, sipping her drink as she glanced around. Eventually Grace caught herself staring at Y/N. Her voice was almost too soft for Y/N to hear, “Thomas trusts you.”

“I might’ve saved him once or twice during the war.” She shrugged.

Grace blinked, “You were a nurse?”

Y/N snorted, “I don’t know anything more than what they teach you in basic.” 

“You fought?!” 

Y/N flinched. "Tell the whole world why don't you?"

Matthew's death finally made more sense to Grace. This woman beside her was trained to kill in the bloodiest war the world had seen. She couldn't have been running on much more than base animal instinct, just like the other men in this bar. She reluctantly admitted to herself that she'd like to see another woman lose her senses in battle. However, she squashed down that natural curiosity, appalled with herself.

Grace's words were barely a whisper, "You killed people, how many?"

Y/N blinked. "It's a bit morbid to count. But it was a side effect of what I actually did. I was the distraction and the insurance to get our boys out if something went wrong in the tunnels. The only person out there who is a better shot than me is Jeremiah."

"Why're you telling me all this?" Grace bit back a snarl.

Y/N cast her a sidelong glance, an eyebrow slowly raising, "Do you not want to be friends?"

Why the hell would I want to be friends with a monster like you? Grace flashed her a perfectly cheery smile, "I apologize. I guess I'm just tired. If you'll excuse me?" She stood without waiting for an answer. There was so much she wanted to say. All of them clashing together fighting for their chance to be said, but every single one of them would've revealed her.

But she couldn't stop one last quip from slipping past her lips, "Brass knuckles, are they a good weapon for self defense?" 

Silence hung in the air so heavy the idle chatter of the bar couldn't seem to penetrate it. 

"Only if you know how to throw a good punch. Why do you ask?"

Grace stammered, "I wanted something just in case. This isn't exactly the best area in town."

Y/N gave her a tired look. "You work at the Garrison. No one will hurt you."

Grace didn't know what to say, so she simply nodded her head and left. She gripped the tray to stop her hands from shaking. It wasn't until Harry tapped her shoulder that she realized she'd frozen behind the counter.

"Come on, Girl; we've got work to do."

The rest of the night kept Grace too busy to breathe easily let alone think about Matthew. It wasn't until Thomas came in a few hours later that she realized that it was almost closing time.

"Hello, Grace." He leaned against the bar, his eyes roaming over her figure. 

She wasn't going to pretend she hadn't noticed it happening more and more often. "Hello, Mr. Shelby."

He shook his head. "I thought we were past that by now."

Grace glanced away. "Your friend by the piano seems to have a high regard for you; I wouldn't want to offend her."

He raised his eyebrow. "What did she say?"

"She said that since I work at the Garrison, I'm free from any harassment on the streets."

"You are."

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, holding his gaze for a long moment. "And why is that Mr. Shelby?"

He shook his head, "Don't worry about it. Just call me Thomas, alright?"

Grace nodded before returning to her spigots. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as Thomas headed directly for the piano.

[the-demelza-robins]

american high school!jily part five: of explanations and apologies

hello!! SO sorry this has taken so long, thanks for sticking with me! here’s chapter five :)  you can also read it on a03 if you want!

Petunia comes back for Thanksgiving with a declared major and a boyfriend. The major — nursing — is to be expected; the boyfriend, however, is not. His name is Vernon. He’s stocky and short and smells like cigarettes. They sit in the living room — Petunia and Vernon, Mom and Dad, Lily — in near silence.

Finally, Lily speaks. “How’s school?”

Petunia flicks an invisible piece of lint off her pencil skirt. “Fine.”

“What are you majoring in, Vernon?” Lily’s mom asks.

His lips spread across his face and it takes Lily a moment to realize that this is what his smile looks like, reptilian as it may appear. “Finance.”

“Vernon’s very good at it. He’s a senior, you know.”

“A senior?” Lily blurts out before she can stop herself. “In college?”

Vernon shoots Petunia a look, like who the hell is this girl, and Petunia responds with a grimace before turning back to her sister. “In college, Lily.” She spits Lily’s name like it’s poison.

“It’s just —”

Lily’s mom glares at her.

A knock sounds at the front door, and Lily springs up to get it, surprised to find James standing on the doorstep. It’s been drizzling out, and he doesn’t have a coat, and for a second Lily feels like she must get him warm, give him a blanket at least, but then he smiles and wipes droplets off his glasses and offers the bouquet of flowers he’d been holding.

“From my mother to yours.”

“Huh?”

“I think they’re on the PTA together, hit it off. She wanted me to bring flowers to the Evans household.” He looks over her shoulder, into the house. “Is this a bad time?”

From the living room, Lily’s mom calls, “Who’s there, Lily?”

Lily sends a panicked look in James’s direction. “Um. James — James Potter?”

“Don’t leave him out in the rain,” her mother calls, scolding, almost, and Lily can imagine, with frightening clarity, the look Petunia’s giving Vernon right now — the Lily’s always been different, socially awkward, just my silly sister, glad you found me and not her…

“You okay?” James asks, brow furrowing as his eyes search her face. “I can come back.”

“No, sorry, just spaced out for a second. Come in,” Lily responds, shaking herself slightly and taking the bouquet. “They’re pretty.”

“My mom wanted to send, um, lilies and petunias, but I talked her out of it,” he admits, hands in pockets as he follows her through the foyer and into the kitchen, where she starts looking for a vase.

“Thank god.”

“Thank James,” he teases, hopping up on the kitchen counter, and this is something he’s always been infuriatingly good at, James: acting like he’s at home wherever he is. Tricking her into feeling comfortable, even when she’s not.

For a second — brief second — Lily imagines what it would be like to stand between his knees and kiss him. She dismisses the thought. Finds the vase. Fills it with water from the kitchen sink and cuts the flowers’ too-long stems and arranges them in a pleasing way. James watches and doesn’t speak.

She’s run out of tasks, now, so she turns to face him. “That calc test is going to give me a migraine.”

He smiles, something weak in it. It occurs to Lily, horrified, that he may not want to be here, with her; that he may have come in because her mother insisted that he do so, that he’s been waiting to leave this entire time. After all, why would he want to spend time with her? They’d been friendly at school, sure, but that doesn’t mean he wants to see her outside of it. She opens her mouth, closes it: how does one say “you can leave, if you want” without sounding like a complete jerk? Besides, she wants him to stay. She’s not sure of many things, but that she’s sure of. She would exchange James’s palpable silence with Petunia’s any day.

“Is your sister here?” he asks, tracing a finger along the faux-marble lines of the countertop. She tries her best not to keep staring at his hands. Why is she staring at his hands?

“Yeah, she’s home for Thanksgiving. With her boyfriend.” Lily can’t hide the displeasure that coats those last few words.

James raises an eyebrow. “Would you rather she stayed single?”

She shrugs, leans against the opposite counter. The Evans’ kitchen isn’t huge — more like an afterthought, removed from the rest of the first floor — and only a few feet separate them. “He’s just… three years older than her. And so boring.”

He laughs at that. “Maybe he’s not boring to her.”

Lily leans forward conspiratorially. “Want to know a secret?”

“What?” he whispers, head tipping towards hers.

“I think she likes that he’s boring.”

James makes a face. “What’s the fun in that?”

“I know, right?”

“Lily?” A new voice.

Lily turns so fast that she can feel her neck crack, just a little bit. Her mother now stands in the doorway, apron over her nice dress, eyeing the flowers and the boy who brought them. “Hello, James.”

“Hello, Ms. Evans,” James says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. That confidence, that sense of self, falters under Laurel Evans’ gaze — she’s been known to have that effect.

That is, at least until she tilts her head, smiles. “How’s your mother?”

He grins back. “Great, yeah. Having a bit of a gardening moment.”

“Looks like it. The flowers are wonderful.”  

“I’m glad you like them.”

“Stay for dinner?”

Lily looks at her mother in shock, but the woman doesn’t even cast a glance in her direction. James does, though, and for a second Lily swears she can read his mind. It goes like this: he raises an eyebrow, and she responds with a shrug, and he thinks for a moment (fingers still tracing those marble-countertop lines, Lily can’t stop watching them move) and then nods, and says, “If you’d have me, that would be great.”

“You’d better get out of the kitchen, then. You can visit with Petunia and Vernon?” Here, Laurel’s eyes shift to her daughter. “Or Lily can show you the house?”

Lily’s never been like her mother, not really. Appearance-wise, Lily’s hair is too red and her eyes are too green and her hips are too wide. Personality-wise, her voice is too soft, her confidence too fallible, her way of being too unobtrusive. Laurel and Petunia: two peas of the same pod, but here, now, when Laurel glances at Lily, gives her an out, another option, anything better than spending more time with her sister — now, Lily realizes that her mother may understand her better than she thought.

“I’d love to see the house, Lily,” James says, mischief in his eye, knowing what he knows, now, about her annoyance with Petunia.

“Wonderful,” Laurel says. Wind blows against the windows as she and Lily swap places, as James hops off the counter, as he follows Lily out.

***

The Evans residence is not a mansion, not in any sense of the word. Lily avoids the living room, where Petunia, Vernon, and Mark Evans still sit, making stilted conversation, but she shows James the home office, the first-floor powder room, the dining room where they’ll eat later. “Upstairs are just bedrooms,” she says, standing by the staircase, unsure what to do with herself.

“I bet you have a color-coordinated bookshelf,” James says, like he can tell by the freckles on her face or the way she walks or anything about her, really.

“Oh?” she replies, cocking an eyebrow. Standing on the first step of the staircase, they’re the same height.

“Yeah.”

“One way to find out.” And then they’re walking up the staircase, and into Lily’s room, and she has to blink. Has to reset. Because this — James Potter in her room — was never supposed to happen.

“No color coordination,” he tsks at her bookshelf, then sits on her desk chair. She takes the bed — it’s a twin, not big enough for the both of them. All is quiet as she watches him examine her desktop. She feels laid bare, vulnerable, as he looks at the pictures she’s chosen to frame.

“Halloween, freshman year,” he says, pointing at a photo of Lily and Marlene, dressed as emoji salsa dancers.

A dim memory surfaces. James, in a broad-rimmed hat and heeled boots. “You were a cowboy, right?”

“Yeah. Peter was my horse.”

She sees it, now: James, shorter and rail-thin, all sharp angles, drinking in Sirius’s kitchen. Seeing her. Shot, Evans? Her, wrinkling her nose, turning away. Her first real party, completely sober. “I bet he loved that.”

His expression darkens for a second, then he nods. Gives her an easy smile. Her skin’s prickling because the last time they were together for this long, they ended up kissing. And she’s not sure that’s an experience she wants to repeat. Well, part of her’s not sure that’s an experience she wants to repeat.

He turns back towards her desk, focuses on an old photo of her and Sev; one she’s debated cutting up and throwing away a million times. “I forgot you were friends with Snivellus,” he says, aiming for a light tone and missing the mark completely.

“It’s Sev.”

He turns back towards her. “Oh?”

“It’s Severus. Sev. Not Snivellus.” She needs to regain control of this situation, needs to put some barrier up; needs to remind herself that the boy in her bedroom, the one looking through her stuff, is still James Potter. Still too sharp to touch.

“He speaks quite nasally, though,” James says, smirking slightly.

“I think it’s quite a mean nickname to give someone,” Lily says, tone stiff. She sits up straighter, meets his eyes.

He looks away first, something like red coloring his cheeks. “I guess it is. Old habits die hard.”

It’s a concession — yes, a small one, but a concession nonetheless. She decides to match it with one of her own. “I keep thinking about Halloween.”

His gaze snaps back to hers, and it’s her turn to blush. “Not the — not that part. Before. When you asked me why I’m so, well, confusing.”

She can’t do this. Can’t unspool her thoughts, untangle them, arrange them neatly; can’t do it while looking at him, can’t do it while in her childhood bedroom, can’t unpack the mania and leave it for him to interpret, like some lost artifact.

But then she marvels at the fact that he’s here, that he’s listening, waiting patiently. And she decides that she can at least try.

“For the most of my life, I haven’t been on your side, James,” she finally starts, staring at her lap. “Sev was my only friend. I felt like he was the only one who got me, who truly saw me. Petunia didn’t; Mom and Dad tried but they were too busy. He was my only ally.”

At this, she dares to look up. He’s frozen, devoid of all color: a painting. An anomaly against these pink-painted walls.

“And — not to go into specifics — but he had a rough childhood. Rough home life. And you — you’ve always been so perfect, James. Smart. Charismatic. Um, handsome. You coasted through life, and you made his a living hell.”

“I didn’t coast through life, Lily,” James mutters, but it’s a moot point. She knows it, he knows it.

“It’s not your fault — the coasting, that is. Everyone knows you’re destined for — well, whatever you want, really,” she says, making some vague gesture towards the window, towards the world. “But it was a harsh contrast to Sev. You were perfect, and you were still bullying him.” A whisper, but he can hear it: “The perfection hurt the most, I think.”

He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. “And then that night. Halloween. You asked why I was mad at you, and you didn’t remember. You didn’t remember all those days on the playground. You could just forget. It made me, well, mad.”

He clears his throat, but she’s not finished. “I know you’re not like that anymore. I overheard you in the stairwell, back in September, and it was nice of you to take the blame for the camera. And I know that Sev — well, he’s — he’s not really someone worth defending. But that’s where it gets hard. We were friends for a long time, and I’m trying — I’m trying so much to forget, to forget about our childhood and our moments together and the fact that, for so long, we were each other’s person. But it’s difficult, and your reaction was just salt in the wound.”'

The thought strikes Lily, belatedly, that she’s never told someone this much about her relationship with Sev. She wonders if confiding in James was a mistake, but dismisses the thought. She trusts him now, she realizes. She has no real reason to, not really; a shared math class, one Halloween night — these connections don’t inspire automatic faith. Yet still, his casual friendship over the past month, the way he blends into her home life: these small interactions make her confident that he'll guard her secrets.

“Lily, I’m so —” he sounds stiff. Like he’s exercising a muscle long neglected. She hears his inhale, hears him start again. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I forgot on Halloween. I separate — I didn’t make the connection between you and Severus, Lily, because I’ve tried so hard to forget it. Reminding myself that Severus Snape knows you better than I ever will — it’s just too painful.” Another breath. “You’ve always been the one I wanted to impress. I was so jealous of Severus, Lily. When we were younger, I couldn’t believe that you chose hang out with him over me, but of course you did. You’re so good, Lily. We were assholes, we hurt people. I regret it all, now.”

The air stills. He looks up, then out the window. His glasses have fallen down his nose, and Lily feels the oddest urge to slide them back into place. “It’s okay,” she finds herself saying, because it really is. A textbook apology. She accepts it wholeheartedly. “I just wanted to explain.”

He nods, gaze slotting back to hers, something wonderfully familiar about it. “Your explanations are more emotionally taxing than the average girl’s, Lily Evans.”

She feels her mouth giving way to a smile. “Can’t ever do anything halfway.”

He chuckles quietly, face falling into unreadable territory yet again. “Right.”

Shit. “I would — I would like to be friends, though,” she offers tentatively. “For real this time.”

For a second she gets deja vu — that same proposal of friendship, his same smile, reappearing now, a month ago on Halloween. “That’s a relief.”

“And James?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t — I need you to know — I don’t see you as that elementary school kid anymore, okay?”

His grin stretches even wider, but before he can respond, Laurel Evans knocks on the door, telling them that dinner’s ready.

Lily can’t help noticing that, as they leave her bedroom, James is standing up straighter than he did before. Can’t help noticing that she is, too.

[rightintheguts]

The Witch of Birmingham

Chapter Two, below the cut.

“Huh, Monaghan Boy won.” Ruth commented offhandedly, casually flipping to the next section of the morning paper. Bianca paused in her idle stirring, gaze sharpening as she paused in her people watching, and took in the woman across from her.

“What, really?” Ruth nodded, before returning to her previous page, and folding the paper back so Bianca could read it. After scanning the bold print of the headline before her, a smug grin broke out across Bianca’s painted lips, causing the other woman to dramatically roll her eyes and groan, as the topic at hand fully hit her.

“Well, I guess you have two choices: pay for lunch, or pay the five shillings you owe me.”

“I still have no idea how you knew--were you tipped off?” Bianca smiled enigmatically, shrugging a single shoulder.

“Call it a gut feeling, more like.”

Her friend shot out an indelicate snort, “That’s some ‘gut feeling’, you got there.”

Looking out towards the canal, Ruth took upon a look of consideration, before cutting her dark eyes back to Bianca, who decided to finally finish off her tea. “Who’d you think will win the next one?”

Bianca smiled over the rim of her cup, eyes twinkling with mirth. “I’ll only tell you, once you pay for lunch, and give me the five shillings.” Jaw-slacked, Ruth balked at her friend’s audacious demand.

“You’ve got to be joking!” When Bianca continued to grin--she threw in a brief brow wiggle for the hell of it--Ruth forced her mouth shut with a snap, then sighed in resignation; already twisting towards her purse.“You’re a bloody menace.” she growled.

“I know, that’s what makes me so endearing!”

Snorting once again, Ruth valiantly tried repressing a smile. Waving down the waiter, she paid for the pair’s lunch; afterwards slipped the betted money to her friend as they were leaving the cafe. Bianca obnoxiously counted the money aloud, knowing it would immediately irritate her friend, then she unceremoniously stuffed her winnings down her shirt. Ruth shook her head at the woman’s actions; looking at her expectantly, she pulled out a pack of Camels, plucking one out for herself, before offering one to Bianca, whose face scrunched up in distaste.

“I don’t know how you can smoke that rubbish.”

“Like this.” Placing the pack away, she pulled out her box of matches and lit the stick, inhaling a long drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke. Bianca rolled her eyes, pulling out her own pack.

“Sweet Aftons, or nothin’--you’re goin’ to smoke, do it right.”

They then spent the rest of their lunch period walking through town, doing a bit of window shopping, and gossiping about their colleagues at work. Bianca listened as Ruth began to prattle on about her neighbor, who couldn’t take a hint.

“I finally informed David that I wouldn’t go out with him, even if he was the last bloke on this God-given Earth!” she rolled her eyes towards the heavens. “Which went completely over his fat-head; he asked me out thrice more, before I had to lie and say I had to go visit my sick mother.”

“Your mother passed when you were ten; God rest her soul.” Bianca crossed herself, while her friend gave her a flat look.

“I know.”

Laughing at her friend’s tale, her mind went to her own neighbors, the Hughes. Among the many changes her life had undertaken, since that day three weeks ago, the married pair was one of them: instead of being woken by a pair of screeching Banshees, she was now woken by the furious banging of the Hughes’ headboard. Bianca had to admit, she was impressed; though the couple were far from teenagers--they sure did fuck like ones. Well, good on them.

“So? Who's going to win, eh?” Ruth’s question, broke Bianca from her thoughts. Blinking, she hummed, tapping a finger to her chin. She began a mental conversation with herself, her expressions morphing too fast for Ruth to decipher, before settling on a look of agreement; a resolute nod soon following.

“Bet on Monaghan Boy, he’ll win again.” Ruth raised a brow.

“That sure are you?”

“Whose the one short of five shillings? Oh, plus the ten you paid for our lunch?” she smiled impishly at Ruth, who grumbled and stomped out her cigarette butt.

“Touche.”

__________________________

The very moment she punched out her time card, Ruth was on her. Intertwining their arms, the other woman barely gave Bianca time to place her card in it’s slot, before she was practically dragging her out the office doors, and onto the cobbled street. Shooting a bewildered look towards her friend, who looked as if the Devil himself possessed her--God protect her--she inquired as to why Ruth was in such a hurry, to which the woman rolled her eyes.

“We’ve got to get to the betting shop--before they stop taking bets!” Finally understanding, Bianca picked up her pace, soon matching Ruth’s hurried strides.

They swiftly weaved through the influx of people, and practically ran across the bridge, entering Small Heath with barely a breath in their bodies. Ruth took the lead soon after, having made the trip to the betting hall several times, and Bianca tried her best to keep up with the woman’s long strides.

Once the pair reached the building, which was fit to bursting with eager men waiting to bet their money away, Ruth finally paused in her hellish pursuit, allowing Bianca to finally regain her breath.

“All right, here it is: how much should I bet?” Ruth asked, releasing Bianca’s arm while she began rifling through her hand-bag.

“Have you already paid rent?” She asked. Her friend looked up with a quirked brow, before nodding. “Then all you have on you.”

Dark eyes widening, Ruth held the Bianca’s stare; about to ask if she was serious, but decided against it. Mouth snapping closed, she grabbed her friend's hand, and the pair began to push their way to the front of the crowd. Both women ignored the curses, and disgruntled looks thrown their way. One man had went so far as to block their way, but with a swift kick to the shin (courtesy of Bianca), and a rough push (courtesy of Ruth), the man was swiftly dealt with.

Reaching the book keeper, who only spared them a raised brow, he gruffly asked them who they were betting on. Ruth released Bianca’s hands, and reached for her purse; and much to the surprise of everyone around them, she unceremoniously dumped the entirety of the contents of her bag, onto the table. Shillings and pennies fell upon the table, some rolling off the worn table, but Bianca was quick to snatch them up and placed them in the pile of currency.

Some cosmetics also fell from Ruth’s bag, but once again her friend was there to collect them and get them out of the way, a lipstick almost making a successful escape attempt, but Bianca had managed to stop it’s pursuit.

A few notes also joined the pile, before Ruth pushed all the money towards the now slack-jawed book-keeper.

“Monaghan Boy.” she proclaimed, attention turning towards Bianca, who had taken it upon herself to return her friend’s things back into her bag. The man set about counting Ruth’s money, also shooting an expectant look towards Bianca’s idle form. Catching both looks, Bianca sighed good-naturally, and reached down her shirt. “Oh, what the hell--Monaghan Boy for me as well.”

Slapping down the five shillings she had won onto the table, the man was quick to collect the coins, plus the single note she hastily decided add; writing down both amounts down in his thick, leather-bound book, before asking their names to attach to their bets. Ruth gave hers, and Bianca followed suit.

The most curious thing happened as soon as she did; immediately, she felt a set of eyes fall onto her, causing her body to unconsciously straighten, becoming tense and alert. With practiced subtlety, she casually cast her gaze around the shop; blue eyes bouncing from man to man, before they were caught by a set of glacial orbs.

She froze for a moment, her mind processing, before it finally registered on who the person--man --was. Thomas Shelby, I’ll be damned; wonders never cease.

He stood between a pair of Blinders--one of which looked as if he lost a fight with a bear. Both hat and jacket absent from his person, quietly conversing with the duo, but his sharp gaze was locked solely on her. Though wariness had initially welled up at the sight of him, she couldn’t help but smile at him, the memory of that day swallowing up her caution, and replacing it with giddy amusement. He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, as she caught that ghost of a smirk make a brief appearance, before it vanished as quickly as it came.

Before she could decide if she should approach him or not, the choice was made for her, when Ruth suddenly linked their arms once again, and maneuvered them out and away from the betting hall: she couldn’t decide if she was disappointed or not.

“Well, I guess drinks are on you then!” she shot Ruth a questioning look, who was quick to inform her that they were going out tonight; that Bianca was going to go home with a nice bloke, and have raunchy sex till dawn. Said woman blew out a scoff, shaking her blonde head.

Ever since she revealed that she hadn’t had sex in two years, her friend--among many of her female colleagues--made it their personal mission to get Bianca laid: much to said woman’s annoyance.

“After all: you’re a young, beautiful woman who deserves to have a plethora of suitors at her beck-and-call.” Bianca disagreed; she didn’t need a man in her life.

“It’s not about needing a man, love: it’s about going two years without sex!” She threw Bianca a look of incredulity. “What’re you, a nun? Next you’re going to tell me you adopted a stray cat: the damnation of any single woman--might as well join a convent!”

Bianca was about to laugh at Ruth’s proclamation, but the sound died in her throat, her face drained of color. She stopped in the middle of the street, forcing Ruth to jerk to a stop and stumble in her heels. Before the woman could ask, Bianca swore; revelation crossing her pale face.

“Dear, God: I need to get laid.” Her friend looked at her accusingly, mouth flopping open in horror.

“You adopted a fucking cat.”

“I’ve been contemplating, whether or not I should adopt a cat; there’s a difference!” With a harsh proclamation of ‘Just barely!’, Ruth once again began their trek to the nearest pub, only this time, Bianca didn’t trudge along, she matched her friend step for step.

[buzzdixonwriter]

The Purple Monster Strikes

Recently in an online discussion of 1950s sci-fi films, the old Republic serial The Purple Monster Strikes came up.

Why is came up I’ll mention later, but first let’s note it: 

was made in 1945 

was the last 15 chapter Republic serial

is awful

Not eyeball gouging / brain melting / soul scorching awful the way The Lost City or Gene Autry And The Phantom Empire or Captain Video are awful, but awful enough…

…yet at the same time, worthy of comment (as we’ll soon note).

1945 is a crucial year.  Despite the Nazis last ditch Battle of the Bulge, WWII is clearly winding down to an Allied victory in both Europe and the Pacific. 

American audiences feel tired of the war wand want something else in their entertainment, even low brow / low rent entertainment like movie serials.

Republic produced three serials that year:  Federal Operator 99 proved surprisingly good, Manhunt Of Mystery Island (their next to last 15 chapter serial) tried some new ideas that while interesting didn’t prove interesting enough to be tried again, and The Purple Monster Strikes brought interplanetary thrills back to the theaters, only this time instead of visiting Mars, Mars (at least two of ‘em) came to Earth.

As noted in my overview of Federal Operator 99, Republic serials of that year looked…inexpensive.* 

This is especially true of The Purple Monster Strikes which really needed a bigger budget, a better script, and adequate production time for the type of story it was trying to tell.

That story?

In a nutshell:   The Purple Monster is a one-Martian invasion come to steal the secret of the “jet plane” (the script uses the term interchangeably with “rocketship”) from Earth and take it to Mars where it can be mass produced and used to attack our world (Why?  WTF knows or cares?).  To achieve this The Purple Monster bumps off the scientist in charge of the project, physically possesses his corpse by turning into a ghost-like entity, and tries to kill a nosy investigator and the late scientist’s niece.  In the end The Purple Monster tries to escape Earth only to get blowed up real good (Did I mention this is silly, stooped, and trite?  I did?  Good).

So why am I interested in The Purple Monster Strikes?  Well, for two reasons, the second and more important one we’ll save for the end, the first is that when watched with fully informed eyes, it’s a testament to the single greatest contribution the serials made to filmmaking:  The production board.

Lemme ‘splain what that is.

In the old days of movie making it was a folder with slots for narrow strips of colored cardboard to be slid in.  The strips were color coded for interior or exterior scenes, night or day, specific locations, second unit or special effects, etc.

These strips were grouped together on the production board so all the exterior day shots at one location could be filmed back-to-back, followed by all the night shots there before moving on to a new location.

The colored carboard strips were further broken down to match production numbers in the shooting script (“Scene 37:  The bandits take the town”), key props and costumes, stunt work, but most importantly actors / characters in the scene.

You want all your most important / expensive / difficult stuff grouped together…but you also need to figure out what you didn’t need so you could pare down your budget.

For example, if you need someone to play a policeman in Scene 1 and in Scene 12 but those scenes are shot two seeks apart, maybe it’s cheaper to have two different actors playing two different policemen for one day each than keep one actor on call for two weeks.

Likewise, if you’ve got an actor in a key supporting role, put all his scenes together.

This necessitates shooting out of sequence, but shooting out of sequence is now pretty much the industry norm for any filmed or taped production.

The serials invented the production board and the rest of the industry speedily glommed onto it.

Once you know what to look for in The Purple Monster Strikes, you can pretty much break down which scenes were shot when.

Case in point: Masked heroes and villains aside, serial characters rarely change costume except to match stock footage from earlier productions.  It’s not especially notable for male characters but females typically wear The Same Damn Dress in Every Damn Scene.

So when heroine Linda Sterling gets dunked in a water tank midway through The Purple Monster Strikes, you can bet that was her last day of filming since they were no longer worried about ruining her costume.

Likewise when a female reinforcement from Mars arrives, the exact same location right down to the same car parked in the same spot are used even though the female Martian doesn’t arrive until 2/3rds of the way into the story.

You wouldn’t notice this week to week in a movie theater, but they’re painfully obvious when bingewatching.

Case in point: There are never more than four characters onscreen at any time; this was all the production could afford on any given day.  If a fifth character showed up, one of the others needed to be knocked unconscious (if they were lucky) shot and fall off camera (if they were unlucky), or disintegrated (if they were really unlucky).

For example, the hero and heroine could be talking to a scientist (day 1 / shot 1) when three baddies show up at the door (day 2 / shot 1).  The first baddie shoots the scientist, who falls off camera then enters the frame and knocks out the heroine, who conveniently falls behind a counter (day 1 / shot 2).  The other two baddies enter and a huge brawl erupts (day 2 / shot 2).  The heroine revives (day 1 / shot 3) and shouts a warning at the hero.  The hero blasts a minor baddie who falls off camera as the other two baddies flee the scene (day 2 / shot 3), then the heroine rejoins the hero (day 1 / shot 4).

Binge watching also reveals a lot of sets and props reused again and again.  The same footstool is used as a weapon more than once, a prop valve in one chapter serves an entirely different function in another, and while serials frequently reused stock special effects shots, The Purple Monster Strikes doesn’t just use the same exploding car shot twice in the same serial, not just twice in the same chapter, but twice in the same car chase!

(Speaking of which, whenever they get in Linda Sterling’s car you know the odds are 50-50 it’s going off a cliff in a big flaming fireball.  The Purple Monster Strikes has her going through so many identical make automobiles you’d think she owned stock in a car dealership.)

Anybody familiar with Republic serials is going to find a lot of reused sets and props here.  Having seen Manhunt Of Mystery Island recently, I immediately recognized their ubiquitous warehouse set, the Republic Studios loading dock doubles as two different factory exteriors, and having lived in Chatsworth several years I can practically name each and every rock in the exterior scenes.**

On the plus side, bonus points for some impressive looking props, including a rocket test engine that provides the explosive cliffhanger for the first chapter, a double-barrel disintegrator that looks like a giant set of binoculars (I wonder if it was originally a military surplus training aid), and a spaceship seen under construction for most of the serial that proves to be the most striking design the redoubtable Lydecker brothers ever created (a pity it’s glimpsed only briefly before being blown up in the last chapter; Republic should have reused it for their later sci-fi serials instead of the dull unimaginative designs they went with).

Fun factoid: Mi amigo Donald F. Glut, filmmaker / NYTimes bestselling author / film historian, knew The Purple Monster hizzownsef, Roy Barcroft, and reports Barcroft had the wardrobe department sew a secret pocket in his costume for his cigarettes! 

Speaking of Barcroft, he’s the best thing in this serial and he ain’t that good.  A perennial bad guy in serials and B-Westerns, he normally turned in a satisfying performance, but the script for The Purple Monster Strikes gives him nothing to work with.

I mentioned previously how Federal Operator 99’s script works more often than not and gives its characters something the actors can work with, but The Purple Monster Strikes?  Nada.

Every line is a clunky flat declarative sentence exposition dump of the “I’ll take this strange medallion we discovered to Harvey the metallurgist to analyze” variety.

Even Linda Sterling can’t do anything with this though she tries to find an appropriate facial expression for whatever scene she’s thrown in.

As for nominal star Dennis Moore, I won’t say he’s wooden but in one of the innumerable fight scenes Barcroft hurls a coatrack at him and for that brief moment the coatrack delivers a far more memorable performance.

Sidebar on the fight scenes: They are choreographed expertly, among some of the best Republic ever staged, but directors Spencer Gordon Bennet and Fred C. Brannon -- both serial veterans who could do much, much better -- really dropped the ball in shooting them.  They’re shot almost entirely in wide angle longshots using slightly sped up photography instead of intercutting to keep the pacing fast.

The rest of the cast consists mostly of stuntmen carefully enunciating their one line before the fists start flying, or older male actors who deliver surprisingly good performances compared to everyone else.

But that script -- oh, lordie, that script!  This was made in 1945 and they’ve got a damn organ grinder in it!  Organ grinders vanished from the public sphere with the damn of movies; by the 1940s they were found only in comic books and animated cartoons; in other words, kid stuff.***

It’s clear the writers on The Purple Monster Strikes (Royal Cole, Albert DeMond, Basil Dickey, Lynn Perkins, Joseph Poland, and Barney Sarecky) considered this mere juvenile pablum, not worthy of even the smattering of sophistication they sprinkled on Federal Operator 99.

An adult can watch Federal Operator 99 and at least feel the story makes some kind of sense and the characters, however imperfectly enacted, at least offer adult motives and behaviors, but The Purple Monster Strikes is just insulting to the intelligence (I mean, they call the female Martian invader Marsha.  Seriously?).

Okay, so why do I think this is worth writing about?

Because The Purple Monster Strikes is the bridge between WWII and the Cold War.

Most of the major tropes of 1950s sci-fi are reactions to Cold War anxieties, and those anxieties are transplanted WWII anxieties.

Before WWII, American moneyed interests waged a relentless PR campaign against communism, socialism, and labor unions (sound familiar?).

Forced to make peace with the Soviets during WWII, these moneyed interests -- now heavily invested in what Dwight D. Eisenhower called the military-industrial complex -- bit their lips as US pop culture portrayed the Russians as gallant allies against fascism (and they were; credit where credit is due).

As soon as the war ended, however, and in fact, even a little before the end (see The Best Years Of Our Lives; great movie), they were already recasting the Russians as treacherous authoritarian atheists out to conquer the world.

As noted earlier, American audiences felt weary of a relentless diet of war related entertainment and in the waning days of the war turned eagerly to non-war related stories. 

Likewise studios, not wanting to get caught with rapidly dating WWII related material nobody wanted to see began actively developing different kinds of stories.

After four years of intense anxiety, the country needed to come down but couldn’t go cold turkey.  Science fiction (and hardboiled mysteries and spy thrillers) provided safe decompression.

1945 marks a significant sea change in Republic serial production.  Sci-fi would become a more predominant theme, infiltrating other genres such as the ever popular masked mastermind (viz. The Crimson Ghost).

Federal Operator 99 would be the last highwater mark for more plausible serial stories, but crime and undercover espionage remained serial staples to the bitter end.

Only Manhunt Of Mystery Island seemed a misfire and even in that case it only meant the masked mastermind returned to more traditional origins instead of the inventive backstory created for Captain Mephisto.  

What The Purple Monster Strikes did was take a very familiar set of WWII cliches and stereotypes then recast them in a (relatively) safe science fictional context.

The closest prototype to The Purple Monster Strikes is Republic’s G-Men Vs. The Black Dragon, as racially offensive as you could hope to imagine, and turn the inscrutable “yellow” villains into malevolent purple ones (later green when colorization was added).

By making the literally other worldly alien the “other”, 1950s sci-fi sidestepped the worst implications of their own themes:  

Invasion 

Subversion 

Fifth columns 

Loss of soul / identity / individuality (personified in bodily possession by alien intellects)

Paranoia

The Purple Monster Strikes lacks the wit and wherewithal to fully exploit these ideas, but it sure could hold them up for everyone to get a quick glimpse.

As childish and as inane as the plot may be, by the end when hero and heroine realize there is literally no one they can trust, The Purple Monster Strikes dropped a depth charge into preteen psyches fated to go off six years later with the arrival of The Thing From Another World and countless other sci-fi films and TV episodes afterwards.

Did The Purple Monster Strikes create this trend?  No, of course not – but as Stephen King pointed out in Danse Macabre regarding the incredibly inane The Horror Of Party Beach’s selection of nuclear waste dumping as their raison d'être for their monsters:

“I’m sure it was one of the least important points in their preproduction discussions and for that reason it becomes very important.”

King’s point is by not giving the matter much thought, The Horror Of Party Beach’s producers simply tapped into a subconscious gestalt already running through the culture and said, “Yeah, nuclear waste, wuddup widdat?”

Likewise, The Purple Monster Strikes’ producers / directors / writers didn’t sit themselves down to analyze Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four but rather picked up on the forever war current already moving through the American body politic.

War without end, war without ceasing.

And if we can’t define an enemy by name or place, so much the better!  The war on crime, the war on poverty, the war on drugs…

The war on terror.

The forever war thrives on the faceless unknowable enemy with the unknown but clearly malevolent anti-American agenda.

“Them”…against…U.S.

As an artistic achievement, The Purple Monster Strikes is sadly lacking in nearly all aspects, but as a cultural artifact, it’s still a clear warning.

Only not about “them” but about…us.

  © Buzz Dixon 

  *  read “cheap”

** Republic’s low budget backed them into an overlapping series of sci-fi serials, loosely referred to as the Rocket Man / Martian invasion serials by fans.  The Purple Monster Strikes’ costume was reused for Flying Disc Man From Mars (which featured a semi-circular flying wing already featured in Spy Smasher and King Of The Mounties) and again for Zombies Of The Stratosphere, but between those two serials the wholly unrelated King Of The Rocket Men was released.  Zombies… is a sequel to both Flying Disc Man… and King Of The Rocket Men but Radar Men From The Moon introduces a new character -- Commando Cody -- who wears the same rocket pack as the heroes of King… and Zombies… but faces a lunar, not Martian menace then he spins off to become Commando Cody:  Sky Marshall Of The Universe in a quasi-serial (i.e., no cliff-hangers, each chapter a complete adventure) fighting a third alien invasion!

***  Or the works of Bertolt Brecht, but that ain’t what Republic’s going for here.

[sourwolf-n-the-spaz]

This is a little follow up to the post from the other day. I wanted to do more text messages, but the story didn’t fit right for it at this point, so I decided to do a written drabble and continue with the messages after -- I already have an idea of how to go on after this.

--------------- 

“Scotty. Scoottiiiieee,” he slurs, trying to give his friend a slight shake. ‘Trying’ being the operative word because ever since Scott become a werewolf, he’d acquired this weird sort of concentrated muscle mass thing or something — he’s heavy, more than he should be considering how much space he actually occupies. And Stiles is drunk. Correction, Stiles is wasted. Which is probably why he misses Scott’s shoulder entirely and ends up smacking him dead in the face instead.

Thankfully, Scott doesn’t bite off his hand in retaliation, preferring to let out a long garbled groan that Stiles barely makes out over the loud music and tilt to the other side of the questionable couch. Stiles is pretty sure he’d be more worried about that sticky substance coating the cushion he’s sitting on if he wasn’t so out of it himself. As it is, he can’t really amass the willpower to care — he already has to look after Scott and that single task uses up all of the brain capacity currently available to his disposal.

He glances over the hordes of people congregating on the dancefloor, squinting to see if he catches sight of the girl he’d left Scott with before — back when he thought his friend had just lucked out and considered ‘mission find Scott a rebound’ a whooping success.

He doesn’t really remember her face, but he knows that she was blond and flirty, and she was wearing red leather pants. Normally that kind of thing would jump out to the eye, but this club had a worrying amount of people involved in the single goal of embodying the matrix’s cast wardrobe. So, no dice.

He leans back to avoid the guy who almost spills his entire cup of beer on him, avoiding most of the spillage but still getting some on his pants -- those are going directly into the wash when he gets home -- and looks back at Scott. Who is currently doing his best to become one with the couch. And drooling.

He hopes Derek wasn’t lying about being here in ten, if something really is wrong and it turns out they walked right into the lion’s — hunter’s? — den, Stiles wouldn't last thirteen seconds on his own. Normally he’d give himself at least a minute, two if he’s feeling lucky, but the alcohol in his blood is making his brain to limbs coordination even more shoddy than usual. He’s the brains of the operation, he needs Scott for the brawn part.

It’s when he’s contemplating the consequences of actually calling his dad for help and risk being grounded for over a month that they show up. He doesn’t notice her at first because she pulled her hair up into a bun, and he’s pretty sure she was also wearing a different top before, but she’s not alone.

There are two guys trailing after her, the kind that could give the bouncers of this place a run for their money, and they’re heading straight for them. They should probably get gone like, yesterday.

Stiles stumbles his way up from the couch and tries to lift Scott from his melted starfish sprawl so he can drag him away, which is easier said than done. He manages to get Scott on his own two feet, swinging his arm around his own neck and carrying the brunt of his weight on his shoulders.

He maneuvers them through the moving throng of bodies on the dancefloor, hoping that the chaos is enough of a distraction to shake their tail. He almost takes a nosedive to the floor when Scott crosses his feet and gets in the way, but he crashes against someone’s back and is able to stay upright. There are some insults thrown his way for it, but the music just hit a particularly dubsteppy verse, so it’s not like he can hear them anyway. And he has more important and time sensitive things to do than apologize for stepping on someone’s toes, like escape the possibly murderous hunters who’ve poisoned his best friend.

He continues pushing his way through the crowd, guiding Scott through a zig zagged line to the other side of the room. He remembers seeing one of the club’s security people posted in that direction, close to the cloakroom, so that’s probably the safest place for them to be right now. Until Derek gets here, that is. Derek who definitely said to give him a warning if people showed up for Scott. He totally forgot. In his defense though, texting Derek would take up more time than he could spare at the moment.

He spots the security guard he was looking for and thinks he might actually be home free for about two point zero four seconds before a hand snakes around his neck and hauls him back by the hood of his sweatshirt.

He loses his hold on Scott, who is also wrenched away from him, and finds himself being dragged off to the side and shoved through an open door. Scott is flung right after, crashing into him, and they both drop to the floor.

They go down like a human-werewolf knot game gone wrong and Scott’s elbow finds a way to whack him right on the stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs. Must be karma working its avengeful ways for earlier.

He barely manages to roll out from under Scott when hands are grabbing harshly at shoulders again, yanking him up and forwards. He careens into the wall ahead, experiencing the terrible feeling of having the room spin violently in his head.

There’s the sound of a heavy door opening next to him -- the back door, they’re taking them outside, not good -- and then he’s being forced to move again. This time, when he falls on the cold hard tarmac outside, they don’t bother hauling him up again. Scott is dropped next to him unceremoniously, and Stiles spares a grimace at the way he lands on his arm. He's pretty sure he heard a crack.

He looks up, finally getting a good look of their captors. There’s the girl from before, who decidedly does not look as blond or as nice she previously did, and her two goonies, both sporting some curious looking bulges in their pants that Stiles is pretty sure are not of the happy variety. His suspicions are confirmed three seconds later when they both pull out their handguns.

How in the hell did they even manage to get those things inside the club? He is so gonna write a one-star review about this place as soon as he gets internet access and a functional computer.

“Where’s the rest of your pack?” not-so-blond biker barbie barks at them, sporting the stink-eye of the century.

He has enough perception to think, Don’t give up werewolf secrets to the scary girl in leather pants, Stiles, and lets his mouth run before his brain has time to catch up.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” he says intelligently, earning a sneer from the trio. In his defense, he’s too drunk to be held accountable for anything he says.

“You really want to play stupid when I’ve got two guns trained on your mutt?”

“That’s a very good point. Taken, deliberated, sustained. As you were,” he deflects, fidgeting nervously when one of the goons switches aim and trains his gun on him instead.

“You might want to reconsider what you say to us. Your buddy here might be able to heal a bullet as one would a scratch, once the wolfsbane wears off, but something tells me you won’t fare as well if I put a hole through your stomach. Care to test that theory?”

Stiles swallows, “Nope, I’m good thanks.”

“Glad we’ve reached an understanding. Now, how many are there?”

“Huhh, fifteen -- no, twenty,” he mumbles, fiddling with the club’s wristband, “there are definitely twenty smokes in a pack of cigarettes.”

The girl lets out a groan of frustration, yanks one of the guns out from the hands of her thug and charges towards him. He scrambles back, wincing when he feels a shard of broken glass dig into the palm of his hand – right, back of a nightclub, there’s probably a lot of broken bottles around – but is unable to do much as she ceases the front of his hoodie and hauls him up, placing the muzzle under his chin. He gulps, feeling the metal of the barrel pressing against his throat.

“I’m losing my patience with you. I might just skip the gut shot entirely and put one directly in your mouth. What do you think?” she asks, mock-curiosity thick in her voice.

“I think that would be very counter-productive towards getting me to talk?” he offers back, unable to control the nervousness that seeps into his voice. Let it not be said that Stiles Stilinski wasn’t a little shit ‘til the very end, though.

The girl smiles, a twisted sneering turn of the mouth, really, and is about to say something undoubtedly terrifying and death-threatening when a deep howl rips through the air.

Oh thank God.

Judging by the volume of the sound and the way the pebbles and glass shards tremble on the ground, Derek is close. Which is also a conclusion his trio of captors have arrived at, evidenced by the worried looks they’re now exchanging.

“Want to know how many there are? Fine, I’ll tell you. Ten. There are ten of them, and that’s not even counting our alpha,” he says, lying through his teeth and hoping the urgency in his voice combined with their growing concern is enough to sway their minds. “Do the math, that’s three of them for each of you. You really think those odds are in your favor?”

“Brie, we can’t take on the alpha,” the goon in the navy-blue shirt says, uncertainty coloring his tone. “Larry said—”

“I know what Larry said,” the girl – Brie, thanks for that lovely piece of information goon no1, now he’ll know who to stalk – snaps, turning her head to glare at him. “Fine. Put one in the beta’s head and we’re out of here.”

Turns out adrenaline is a good head-clearer. Truth is, Stiles barely registers moving until he’s shoved Brie away, catching her by surprise enough to dislodge the gun from under his chin, and diving for Scott. Luckily, Derek picks that moment to show up as well, which is probably why the hunters make the very intelligent decision to ditch and run rather than kill them and earn themselves a very angry alpha in pursuit.

They retreat back into the club as Derek catches up to him, eyes flashing red with fangs and sideburns proudly on display.

“Scott?” he asks, skidding to a stop next Stiles and glancing at the aforementioned, still very intoxicated, werewolf.

“He’s fine, or will be anyway.” He’s pretty sure he heard Brie talking about the wolfsbane wearing off, so they must have dosed him with the normal purple strand. “Go after them.”

Derek doesn’t need to be told twice, he’s disappearing inside the club even before Stiles finishes the sentence. He hopes the alpha at least had the forethought to tone down on the sideburns -- it’s not exactly close to Halloween, people might not take too kindly to having an outright werewolf shoved in their faces.

He drags Scott over to the wall and props him up against it before sitting down and leaning back on it himself. He takes in a long breath and lets his head thump on the bricks.

“Stiles?” Scott mumbles from next to him.

“I’m here, Scotty,” he sighs. “I’m here.”

It’s doesn't take long until Derek’s storming back out of the club, his presence and the heavy frown on his face allowing him to make the obvious assumption that the hunters got away.

“No luck?”

“Do you have any idea what nightclubs are like? Too many scents, too many sounds, they’re impossible to track,” he growls, turning the force of his million-volt glare to him. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Huh, about?”

“Coming here!” he snaps, eyes flashing.

“I was thinking we need a break! Come one dude, even you have seen how hard Scott is moping around lately, I needed to get his mind off Allison.”

“So, you decided the best way to do that was to bring him here—” he points an angry thump back at nightclub—" for a late-night hook-up, out of pack territory, and straight into the hunters’ arms?”

“Well, it’s not like I knew there’d be hunters!”

Derek sets his jaw and glares him into silence. Had it been a year ago Stiles would currently be having major concerns about his continued safety and well-being. Now though, he’s (mostly) sure Derek won’t actually do anything to him, no matter how much he pisses him off. He did come all the way out here at four in the morning to rescue their asses, right? He totally cares.

Derek’s nose twitches then, and his eyes run a cursive look over his and Scott’s bodies before settling back on him with a renewed anger.

“Why is there blood?”

“What?”

Apparently Derek is short on patience because next thing he knows he’s being manhandled into an upright position and receiving a full-body search.

“Wow, wow, wow. Calm down, grumpywolf. I just cut myself on some glass,” he explains, lifting his hand to showcase the small gash, no more than a scratch, really. There is a slow trickle of blood running down his palm, and it stings a little, but he‘s more worried about catching an infection from the dirty glass than at the actual wound itself. Derek must have caught the scent of it.

“Can you go two seconds without somehow endangering or injuring yourself?”

“Probably?” He totally doesn’t mean that to sound like a question. He blames the alcohol.

Derek rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it physically hurts and lets go of his arm with a huff. Stiles wipes the the blood on his pants, making a mental note to scrub them with hydrogen peroxide – the things one learns when regularly associating with werewolves – before putting them in the wash.

Derek sidesteps and leans down to grab onto Scott’s arms, heaving him up and supporting him by placing his arm around his neck just like Stiles had done before. Scott mumbles out something unintelligible to Stiles – not to Derek though, going by the distinct sour look his face adopts – and sags against the alpha.

“Come on,” Derek says, starting to head down the alley.

“Huh, what about the car?” Stiles asks, fumbling to catch up.

“Leave it. Scott, can come back for it tomorrow.”

“What if we get a ticket?”

Derek stops and turns to shoot him the glare of deathTM, judgmental eyebrows and all.

“Right, shutting up now,” he promises, making a lip zipping motion and swaying slightly on his feet from a momentarily alcohol induced loss of balance.

Derek glares at him for a second more. “If you hurl on the Camaro, I’ll toss you in the street.”

[heathsbitch]

Treat You Better ➳ PEAKY BLINDERS

ix. CONFRONTATION

           Ivy's eyes flickered open, the comfort of her bed engulfing her in a peaceful trance. She groaned, pulling the covers of the bed back. A dull ache racked her body, memories of the day before came flooding back. She shook her head, trying to get rid of them. 'At least I am not going to be seeing her any time soon.'

Ivy's hands searched through her wardrobe, looking for something nice to wear. It was her first proper day working for Tommy. The past few days she had been so busy and hadn't had the chance to work, Tommo was okay with that though. He was the one making the girl so busy after all. Ivy pulled out a black skirt and a white shirt with small, black stitching on it. The smell of toast and bacon filled her nose as she descended the stairs of her new house. "Morning, Pol." She said, walking into the kitchen. "You're up early." Polly had her hair pinned back so it didn't get in any of the food and she wore a small apron around her waist. "I've got work." She gave Ivy a light chuckle. "Sorry, it seems so weird for you to have a job, at your age."

"I'm sixteen now, Pol. It's about time," The girl took a seat at the kitchen table. "Do you need any help?" She offered up. "No, petal. I'm okay." Within a few minutes, Polly had served up a simple breakfast of toast and bacon and Ivy was swiftly making her way through it. "This is amazing, Pol. Thank you." She showed her a small smile at her compliment. "We probably should've waited for Michael but you've got to head off soon." Ivy brought a napkin up to her mouth to wipe away any excess food that might've lain there. "I did think it seemed a bit quiet down here."

"I heard you shouting last night. Are you two alright?" Polly asked, taking a bite out of her own toast. "He just asks too many questions, that's all." She nodded, understanding the girl's frustration. "It's his birthday today, you know."

"Really? How old is he, five?" Polly laughed a little bit before lightly scolding her. "Be nice." Ivy finished her breakfast before Polly did so she brought her plate over to the sink so she could wash it up. "Oh, just leave it. I'll do it later. You need to be off now." She offered. "Thank you, Pol." Ivy walked over to her and gave her a small hug. She grabbed her coat off of the rack in the hallway and waited outside for John to pick her up, he had offered the day before, prior to the auction. A loud car horn sounded in front of the girl, breaking her free of her trance. She laughed knowing that Polly would be mad at him for beeping the horn.

"Esme's in there now. I'll be back soon." John told Ivy as she got out of his car. "Okay. Bye Johnny." She waved at him before making her way into the gaming den. John was right, Esme was in there, sorting out the books. "Morning, Esme." She took a quick look at the girl and smiled briefly. "Morning, Ivy." She returned the smile and Ivy walked into her office. There was a large stack of papers on it that she quickly got to work on. About ten minutes into her work, she could hear Esme talking to somebody. It wasn't a male voice so it couldn't have been John. The girl stepped out of her office to see who it was.

"No fucking way." She muttered under her breath.

There she was, dressed in a white, fur-lined coat. Ivy's mother. She was talking to John's wife still and hadn't noticed her standing there yet. "You left me!" Ivy yelled as she marched over to her. "You haven't seen me in three years and that's the first thing you say to me?" May quipped at her daughter. "Oh, I'm sorry, what am I supposed to say? Thank you for leaving me. With no note, without a single word. You left me! And you dragged Joe with you!" Sarcasm dripped from her voice like venom. Both Esme and her mother stood there, silent.

May took a step towards Ivy, holding one of her hands out. "Petal-" She started but Ivy cut her off, "No, you do not get to call me that!" She took a small step towards the girl, not wanting to annoy her daughter any more than she already had. "I didn't have a choice," May spoke calmly, "I had to save your brother from him-"

"Save him? From what? A family, a good life?" Ivy shouted at her mother, she was not impressed with May's lies. "A good life where he would get beaten every day? I don't think so." May spat at Ivy. The girl's heart pounded through her chest, pain raging through her small body. "It was only a few times," Her voice had lowered from a shout into almost a whisper, "When we misbehaved. Besides, he never hit Joe, it was always me." Ivy's watery eyes were cast at the floor, the memories purging her. "It wasn't always you, petal. You know that," May's voice was soft and comforting, she took more steps towards her daughter, wanting to comfort her. "Ivy, you were always his favourite, that's why he was so harsh on you. I thought you'd be better off without me and with him, you'd be stronger."

"Do scars make you stronger, mum. Years of pain, alone. We could've been there for each other." Conflicting thoughts raced through Ivy, maybe Alfie wasn't that bad, and maybe what May did was the right thing to do? "Petal, we all have scars, and you and I both know that not all of them came from him. You were a reckless child, always trying to start a fight, you-"

Her calming voice was cut short by John stomping into the room. "What the fuck is going on here?" Both mother and daughter had tears streaming down their cheeks, May's hands rested upon Ivy's shoulders, the girl was shaking. "One chance." Ivy muttered. Her icy eyes lifted up to be met with her mother's chocolate pools, John's question completely ignored. "You get one chance, if you mess up one more time, I'll never forgive you," Her words were stern but her heart burned. She longed to be back with her family, to be with her brother again. For them all to be reunited. "I've missed you so much." Ivy finally caved, pulling May into an embrace.

John and Esme exchanged glances, confused at the scene in front of them. Ivy and May pulled away from the hug, gratitude deep within May, "Thank you, Ivy. I promise I won't hurt you again." The girl turned to John, an explanation forming in her head. "John, Esme, this is my mum, May Carleton." The woman nodded at the pair.

But their introduction was cut short as somebody else stormed into the room. "I see you made it, May. Sorry I'm late," The harsh Brummie accent cut through the betting shop, Thomas. "And you've met Ivy, she-" His excuse was cut short by the girl. "She's my mother, Tommo." His eyebrow twitched and his eyes widened slightly. His expression quickly turned stoic once more, "That explains how you know Alfie. Ivy," He turned to the girl, "She the reason you lashed out at the auction?" Ivy nodded and Tommo hummed. "Right," He pulled May out of the room but not before Ivy and May said goodbye to each other. As soon as they left, the girl got back to her work, wanting to rid her head of old memories.

After a long day of work, Finn walked into Ivy's office and sat down. He held a lit cigarette in his hand. He took light puffs from it but didn't speak. "Can I help you?" The girl jokingly asked. "How are you, Ivy?"

"I'm good," Taking a break from her work, she lent onto her desk. "How are you, Finley?" He shot Ivy an annoyed glance paired with a toothy grin. "That's not my name. I'm alright, though." Silence filled the room. "What do you want?" The girl questioned with a light laugh. "I wanna catch up with you. We haven't really spoken since the Garrison re-opening." Her mind was cast back to the moment the both of them had in the alley way. He still didn't remember it. "It was a good night." Finn took a deep breath before speaking. "John told me what happened." Ivy's back straightened. He knew that they had almost had sex with each other. "Really?"

"Can't believe we stole a bottle of rum." He laughed and the girl let out an awkward chuckle. John hadn't told him everything. "Was that all he told you?" Curiosity got the best of her. "Yeah, and that he found us almost passed out in an alley, but that's it. Why? What else happened?"

"Finn, we, uh, do you not remember what happened before John found us in the alley?" Ivy questioned her best friend. He shook his head and lent back in his chair, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Her voice was quiet, unsure of how to phrase it, "We kissed, Finn," His green eyes widened, his cheeks flushing pink. "And we almost had sex but John caught us." She stuttered through her words, it was better if he knew the truth. "Oh," The teen whispered. "Was it, um, good? The kiss?" Ivy chuckled lightly and bit her bottom lip, "Yes, better than good." Finn beamed at the girl, almost proud of the kiss, even though he couldn't recall it.

Both of them had conflicted emotions about each other, each hiding the truth from one another. "You still need to teach me how to read." He looked at the large book in front of the girl, trying to make sense of it, quickly trying to change the subject. "Oh yeah," Ivy reached into one of her draws on her desk. "I found a few things that can help." She brought out two slips of paper. One had the alphabet on and how to pronounce each letter and the other one had an old children's story on it, one her father used to read to her. She handed both of them to Finn. "I want you to read through this one for now," She gave him both pieces of paper but pointed to the one with the alphabet on. "Try to memorise all of them and if you need help, come to me." He stubbed out his cigarette and took the papers. His eyes skimmed over the sheets before he stuffed them into his pockets. "Thank you." He said with gratitude. "Hey, that's what friends are for."

"I was uh wondering if you wanted to head down to The Garrison. It's Michael's birthday so everyone is going down there." Ivy agreed to his proposition and followed him out of her office and the house, she had pretty much finished her work anyway. But nerves ran through the girl, she was not looking forward to seeing Mickey again.

The Garrison was filled with people, smoke and the smell of alcohol filled the air. Finn grabbed Ivy's hand and led her to the small room in the corner. He kept her close to him at all times. They walked in and Arthur, Tommo John and Esme were already in there. John's eyes went to the teen's entwined hands. He gave Ivy a questioning look and she shook her head. "There's the star-crossed lovers." Arthur shouted and clapped a hand on Ivy's back. The girl immediately let go of Finn's hand, she didn't want them to get the wrong impression. They were close, but they were just friends, right? Finn's face dropped from a smile into a frown when she let go of his hand. They took a seat next to John. A large bucket rested on the table, it was filled to the brim with beer. "Alright, you two. You've got two choices, mild or mild?" They laughed at John's humour. "Mild." The pair said in unison. John slid over two glass tankards of beer to them and winked in the process. "Here you go." The door opened and Polly and Michael came into the cove. Polly looked gorgeous. Ivy rolled her eyes at Michael, she did not feel like talking to him that night, even if it was his birthday. "There he is. Look." Arthur announced as they walked in. Ivy felt slightly bad at the fact that she didn't put anything nice on but she cast the thought aside, it was only Michael.

He had a beaming smile on his face when he walked in. Everybody cheered at them and Ivy sat there in silence, sipping her drink. "Happy birthday, Michael." Tom congratulated him with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He shook his hand and Polly smiled proudly at her son and nephew. "Eighteen years old, you're a man today." She scoffed at the word 'man', he was anything but that. Ivy was still annoyed at Mickey from the auction. She just couldn't understand why he wouldn't leave her alone, even after she had told him to.

"Give him a drink John boy," A glass was slid over to Michael and he gladly took it. "And after that, we will go and find you a lady of the night." Michael's eyes met Ivy's and she rolled them at the contact. "Arthur!" Polly scolded. She would kill Ivy and Finn if she found out what happened at the re-opening of The Garrison. Everybody smiled at Polly and Michael, even Thomas was smiling. He reached into his pocket, searching for something. "Michael," He cleared his throat and handed him a box. "What is that?" Michael asked whilst he opened it. "So you're never late to work," Ivy sat forward at Tommy's words. "Welcome to the business, Michael." Polly lent in to hug her son. "Wait what?" Worry flowed through the girl, she couldn't deal with living with him and working with him. "You're looking at your new boss, Ivy." Tommy told her. "Piss off." She threw herself back in her seat. "Language!" Polly warned the girl. "Right, let's get him drunk." John grabbed Michael after the confused glances about her break out.

Thomas was saying something about whiskey when Finn whispered in Ivy's ear. He rested a hand on her knee. "Hey, are you alright?" She turned to face the boy "Yeah." She smiled, trying to reinforce her words. "A toast." Everybody stood up and so did Ivy. "To Michael." Glasses were raised in the air as everyone gave a toast. "To Michael!" Everyone repeated. He had a smug look on his face as he came and sat down next to the Solomons.

Michael teased her the entire night. He did everything from sliding his hand up her thigh to whispering in her ear. Ivy had had enough of his stupid games. "I'm going out for some air." The girl excused herself and made her way into the back bar of The Garrison, not wanting to be found by anyone. Her head raced, "Why am I enjoying his teasing?" She mentally scolded herself for it.

The dim lights casted an orange hew across the room, the dark furniture scattered across it. Ivy sat down at one of the spare tables, her head in her hands and her heart beating sporadically against her chest. The silence engulfed her, comforted her. But it was cut short. "There you are." Joy was evident in his voice. "Piss off, Michael."

"No nickname this time? Shame, I thought it was cute." Ivy sprang from the chair she was sat in and darted over to Michael, a smirk stretched upon his lips. She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and thrusted him against the wall. "Shut up." She hissed. "We both know you like the teasing." His hands slid down her body, finally resting on her bottom. He squeezed roughly and the girl's eyes rolled back into her head, trying to force the moan back down her throat. Her grip on his collar loosened slightly, Michael took the opportunity to swap their positions, Ivy's back now firmly against the wall.

"I know you can feel me princess," He whispered in her ear as he pushed his crotch into her own, a hard bulge pressing into her hip. "Think about it." Michael placed a light kiss to her neck just below her ear before leaving the room. Ivy let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding in. He was an annoying pain in her ass, but one thing was for sure, she enjoyed the position she was in only moments ago.

"Fucking hell."

x. THE PUB FIGHT 

MASTERLIST

[radstag-ghoul]

Chapter 1: The Alley Cat and Scarecrow

Wendy was definitely lost, of that she was sure. For the past hour she had been roaming the ruined streets of Boston, evading raiders, feral ghouls, Gunners andl Super Mutants, whilst trying to find Diamond City. The map on her PipBoy was no use now however, the screen having staticked out about an hour ago, leaving her to follow the crumbling highway above.

She was also sure she was as good as dead unless she found a better place to hide. Scarcely daring to breathe, the woman continued to cower behind the ruined truck, the tick, tick, tick of the Super Mutant Suicider pacing around on the other side just loud enough for her to hear.

"Where'd human go!" The mutated being bellowed. Wendy flinched, her grip tightening on the pipe rifle in her hands. Her luck at avoiding conflict had finally ran out it seemed. Just five minutes prior she had run into a band of five Super Mutants. Two of them she had managed to take out, though two of those that remained, she realized too late, were much more deadly. She had already seen what the first suicider had done, to one of its own comrades who had gotten too close, so she knew she had no chance against the remaining monster. She had been partially caught in that first explosion, thrown violently against a wall, and judging from the sharp ache in her left arm and side with each breath she took she'd wager she had broken a rib or two and her arm. Not to mention she was covered in numerous burns, her Vault jumpsuit riddled with scorch marks. She had also been seperated from Dogmeat in the blast, unsure if the faithful hound had even survived. Poor dog. I can't even look for h-shit! She looked around frantically, as the ticking grew steadily louder. "Gonna find you! Gonna kill you!"

Then, she saw it. Her salvation. From the corner of her eye, the glow of a neon sign. In her panic she hadn't noticed it before, but now it seemed bright as day to her eyes, beaming proudly the word "GOODNEIGHBOR" with an arrow pointing to the right. Don't know where that goes, but sure as hell better than sitting duck here. Saying a silent prayer to whatever god was listening, Wendy peeked over the hood of the truck, attempting to gauge if she'd be able to make it before she was spotted-just in time to look the angry Super Mutant right in its beady, dark malevolent eyes.

"There you are!" It bellowed, dashing towards her as fast as its thick, muscled legs could carry it.

"Fuck!" Wendy screamed, turning tail and running towards the sign and where it pointed. She could hear the ticking speeding up, practically behind her accompanied by the loud plodding steps. Up ahead she could see a door, with another neon sign above it. Though with a sinkimg feeling she realized she wasn't going to make it in time. So this is how it ends, blown to hell by the fucking un-jolly green giant. Never even made it to Diamond City. Shaun, I'm so-

The loud booming pop of a gunshot sounded off from somewhere atop the wall of "Goodneighbor", a bullet whistling over her head towards the monster behind her. Hearing a strangled grunt and a loud thud Wendy would wheel about, to see her pursuer lying dead on the ground, blood pooling from its ruined left eye, the mini nuke it had been holding having rolled a short distance away, no longer in danger of being detonated.

What in the goddamn...? Looking back to the wall, she saw no one there who could have fired the shot. Several moments later however Wendy heard a voice-distinctly masculine and somewhat annoyed- calling over the wall "Well? You gonna come in and thank me?"

"Uh...sure." She called back, Well, if he saved me guess that for sure means they're friendlies in there. I hope. Taking a deep breath, she would cautiously limp towards the door, slowly opening it and slipping inside.

The first thing she noticed was the man just clambering down from the wall, a sniper rifle holstered on his back-a thin wisp of smoke still wafting out of the barrel, indicating him as her savior. Bald with a patchy stubbly beard upon his chin, he wore the same style of black leathers and jeans she had come to associate with the bands of raiders she had tangled with. Which of course already made her uneasy, along with his sleazy smile. He took a drag from the glowing cigarette in his hand as he looked her over, taking in her current sorry state.

The second thing she noticed was the location she was in: what appeared to be a town of some sort-if it could even be called such. Two shop fronts stood across from her, and to her left a building she remembered from a middle school field trip-the Old State house. In the shadows of the building Wendy could see two people standing together, face to face, quietly conversing with eachother-the one with their back turned to her wearing a long red coat of some sort, and what appeared to be a tricorn hat. The one that faced her was decked out in metal armor, a woman, her head shaved bald save for a single, long crest of copper colored hair that fell in a wave over the left side of her head.

She continued to stare for several moments, distracted from the one who had killed the suicider-though her attention was jerked away from the pair as he spoke up, his voice just as sleazy as his smile "Now now, you can properly thank me, eh? Hows about some payment for saving your ass. And of course y'gotta pay for...insurance as well, being a newcomer and all."

Wendy blinked, "Um, excuse me? Insurance?" Is he for real?

"You heard me." He sounded more aggressive now, a more demanding tone to his voice. "All newcomers gotta pay insurance. And like I said, you owe me." He smirked.

Wendy felt the flush of red hot anger rise in her as she shook her head at him, "I don't have that many caps, and I need 'em!" She snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why even shake me down now? What was the point of saving me when you coulda just picked over what was left of me?"

"Caps have worth, irradiated, melted metal don't. That's why. Not very bright, are you?" He sneered, tapping ash from his cigarette as he started walking nearer, blowing the smoke in her face. "Now, I ain't saying it again...you hand over everything you got in them pockets or 'accidents' start happening to ya. Big, bloody accidents." He patted the rifle on his back, baring his teeth in a threatening grin.

"Fuck off," Wendy snarled, with as much venom and malice as she could muster, raising her pipe rifle to point at him, satisfied when she saw him flinch at the unexpected ferocity. "Or you're the one that's gonna have a big, bloody accident." In the back of her mind she knew it wasn't a good idea. She was already tired out and injured, practically on the verge of falling over right there, though she was doing her best to hide it as she glared unwaiveringly back at him.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of red approach, accompanied by a voice- slightly gravely, somehow smooth, yet with a subtle edge of command to it. "Whoa, whoa. Time out."

Finn flicked his gaze to the man, taking a step back from Wendy as she too turned her attention to the newcomer-the red coated stranger who had been standing in the shadoss. Though as he now stepped out of the gloom, Wendy had to hold back a gasp as she saw his face. Beneath the tricorn hat atop his head, the man looked to be bald, the entirety of his face and the rest of his head and visible skin covered in burns and scar tissue. Half of his nose had fallen off, leaving two bare nostrils in place of a proper proboscis. The outer lobes of his ears were likewise missing, along with most of his lips. Dark brown, nearly black eyes bored into the man, seeming devoid of either white or pupil. The coat he wore looked extremely old fashioned-a colonial frockcoat, completed with black trousers, a frill collared shirt underneath, and most amusingly a tattered old American flag tied around his narrow waist like a sash. "Someone steps through the gate the first time, they're a guest. You lay off that extortion crap." That dark gaze fell upon Wendy, a slight worried frown tugging at his scarred lips, so quick she thought for a monent she was imagining it. "This one especially, look at her, she's shakin'. Must've been through some shit to get here."

Wendy blinked, realizing she was indeed shaking, trembling slightly, though neither from her ordeal or from Finn's threats. No, it was this strange, scarred man that now made her shake, much to her embarassment, as she fought not to look away from such an inhuman gaze, scarcely daring to blink. What is he? Is he one of those...things? He looked somewhat like the feral Ghouls she had fended so far, though much less zombie-like, decrepit and decayed looking, and clearly more intelligent and sane. He must be one of those normal Ghouls Preston mentioned.

For the briefest moment Wendy saw a flash of fear in Finn's eyes at the approach of the Ghoul, though he tried hiding it, puffing his chest out and crossing his arms "What d'you care? She ain't one of us!" He growls "'Sides, I saved her ass, she owes me!"

"What, no love for your Mayor, Finn?" The Ghoul huffed slighty, pretending to be offended. "Also I don't think she owes you anything. You were just being a good neighbor, right? So let her go." There was an edge of steel to his voice this time as he glared at Finn, never once breaking eye contact. If Wendy herself had been on the recieving end, she would have caved instantly.

Finn, however, wasn't as smart, as he took another step towards "the Mayor", dropping the butt of his cigarette and grinding it under the heel of his boot. "Y'know what, you're soft, Hancock." He gave a dark chuckle, staring right back unflinchingly at him. "You keep letting outsiders walk all over us, someday there'll be a new mayor." He cast his gaze at the town around him for a moment, trying to catch the eyes of those watching. Though everyone seemed to be carrying on with their own business, Wendy could see many people glancing their way every so often. The woman in combat armor was the only one who seemed to have her full attention focused on the scene, smirking as she leaned against one of the shop walls.

Hancock gave a small sigh, his expression softening some as he seemed to drop the "tough mayor" act. "Come on, man, this is me we're talking about." His lips curving into an easy soft smile, he started walking towards Finn. "Let me tell ya something..." He extended a hand to the man, placing it on his shoulder as if he were about to pull him into an embrace. Finn looked uneasy, though uncrossed his arms, letting his guard down at the Ghoul's familiar, friendly tone.

Wendy saw different however, as she saw the glint of steal behind the Ghoul's back. She didn't even have time to cry out in shock as Hancock drove the blade of a knife into Finn's chest, not once but twice, his smile twisting into a savage grin. Finn gave a strangled cry, his face frozen into a mask of shock, anguish, and betrayal. As the man toppled over, twitching and gasping as his life ebbed away and the blood pooled under him, Hancock uttered a loud tsk tsk tsk, wiping the bloodied blade on a rag he produced from somewhere within the frock coat. "Now why'd you have to go and say that, huh? You're breaking my heart over here." Raising his gaze from the dying man, those dark orbs focused on Wendy, that worried frown having returned. "You alright, sister?"

Wendy swallowed hard, struggling to find her words after witnessing such an unexpected, brutal act. "I-I, uh, th-thanks?" She stuttered stupidly, wheezing some. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off some, her side was starting to scream with pain, making it much harder to breathe. With alarm she noted her vision starting to swim, as her knees shook violently, threatening to give way beneath her. "Jus...need a mo'..."

Hancock blinked, walking nearer to her, reaching out a hand as if to steady her. A hand still spattered with Finn's blood. Already he sounded somewhat distorted and far away to her, seeming to grow and stretch further and further away "Shit, I'm gonna take...as a 'no'. Listen...a stimpak...y'need...it easy?"

Thats all she heard as she crumpled to the pavement beneath her, the stress and strain of her injuries and ordeal finally catching u to her. As her vision blurred and darkened, she heard a few last words before she slipped into unconsciousness

"Poor little Alley Cat..."

* * * * * * *

Hancock swore loudly, rushing forward to try to catch the woman before she fell-too late, sadly. He should have expected that to happen eventually given her current state. It was pretty damn impressive she didn't collapse as soon as she stepped through the gate. "Shit..." He sighed as he knelt beside her, calling over his shoulder to Fahrenheit as he heard her approach "Think she's gonna need more than one stimpak. Medex too. Also, got any radaway on ya? Feel like she's gonna need it. Poor Little Alley Cat..." He murmured.

The woman's right side was covered in burns, most second degree but several third, splotching her Vault jumpsuit with scorched holes. Judging from the faint glow that lingered around them, Hancock could tell they were nuclear in origin. Thought I heard a Suicider. But no boom. Must've ran into more than one. Amazin' she's still alive.

Fahrenheit scoffed as she stood beside him, tossing him the requested meds "Don't you think it's a little too soon for that?" She joked, refeeing to his...untraditional use of the chem when it came to 'spending time with his smoothskin friends' "Don't think she's exactly up for it either."

Hancock shook his head, tsking as he nimbly caught the syringes and Iv bag, scarcely having to look"I'm sure there'll be plenty of time for that later, but it's for a much more practical use now. She's fucking coated in radiation burns." Taking the cap off the medex syringe, he'd slide up the sleeve of her jumpsuit, wincing in sympathy as the woman whimpered and stirred, the material rubbing against one of her burns. Sliding the needle into her vein, he'd push slowly down on the plunger, before slowly pulling it out, tossing the empty thing aside.

The woman lay still once more as the drug kicked in, seeming to fall deeper into unconsciousness. However, her eyes slowly fluttered open, glazed and unfocused, staring directly into his. Her trembling rosy lips parted, as she croaked out a single word. "Sc...are...crow..." Her eyes slipped shut again, as her breathing deepened, passing out for good.

Hancock blinked, not sure what to think of that. "Huh...alright then." This one's got "very strange" written all over it. Wait...111? As he continued to look her over he noticed the numbers sewn along her collar, announcing what Vault she hailed from. "Heya, Fahr, ya ever hear of a Vault 111? That even in the Commonwealth?"

Fahrenheit leaned in closer to inspect the Vault Dweller herself, silent save for a long hmmm before she'd straighten again, shaking her head "Can't say I have...she's a looker though, eh?" She joked, refering to the burn scar and white blotched skin that marked her right cheek. "Ain't the first time she's been burnt this bad."

"So it seems." Taking the radaway now Hancock ripped it open with his teeth, carefully pouring some over each of her wounds, confident there'd been enough time for the medex to put her out for it. After that he would stick her in the shoulder with both stimpaks, before he'd stand, motioning to two of the Neighborhood Watch who lingered nearby "How's about instead of rubbernecking ya make yourselves useful. You, carry her over to the Rexford, tell Claire she needs a room. If either her or Marwoski give ya shit, tell em I'm footin her bill."

He watched as the one he indicated rushed forward to scoop up the petite woman, grumbling under his breath as he hurried off towards the hotel with her. Hd nodded tothe other, jerking his thumb towards the still-warm corpse of Finn "You, take out the trash. Get that scuzzball out of my sight." Turning, he'd walk back towards the State House, not even bothering to watch the other Ghoul drag the would-be mugger away, making a note to check in on the odd woman later. "Now, Fahr, what were you saying about Pickman's Gallery ag-hmm?" The Ghoul stopped, his hand hovering over the knob of the door as he heard scratching at the town gate, as if some sort of animal were trying to get in. Then several moments he could gear barking, carrying over the wall from the otherside. Curious, Hancock strode over, throwing open the old blue door-his knife at the ready first in case of trouble.

A blur of brown and black fur tore past him, causing him to cry out in surprise as the beastie ran across his toes "What the hellM He blinked, watching the dog run further into town, heading in the direction of the Memory Den and Hotel Rexford. "...Huh. Well, betcha 50 caps that dog has something to do with her." Chuckling, he shook his head, closing the gate once more as he strode back towards Fahr and the Old State House. "Now, you were sayin'?"

* * * * * * *

Wendy awoke with a start, her eyes flying open to stare at the peeling, cracked, burned ceiling above her. Her mind spun in confusion, as she tried to process where she was and what happened through the clinging, groggy haze of sleep. Boston. The Super Mutants. Someplace called Goodneighbor. Hancock.

Suddenly something wet and cold brusher against her hand, accompanied by a soft whining sound. Uttering a small gasp, she turned her head to look beside the bed, to find a familiar canine nudging at her hand. "Dogmeat!" She exclaimed, scrambling to sit herself upright. The dog gave a small, happy bark in reaponse, jumping up on the bed. Laughing, Wendy flung her arms around him, not even minding the sloppy wet licks he gave to her scarred cheek "Oh, thank God...I thought you were a goner. Who's the bestest goodest boy?" She crooned, scratching him behind the ear. Dogmeat whined happily, squinting his eyes shut and leaning into the touch.

As she lavished attention on her canine companion, Wendy allowed herself to look around the room, taking in her unfamiliar surroundings. She appeared to be in what was once a hotel room, reduced to decrepitcy and decay by the ages. The bed she lay in was nothing more than a lumpy old mattress on a rusted steel frame, with an old straw pilliw and a patched up blanket thrown over it. A wobbly old chair sat by it, upon which her pack and rifle rested-much to her relief. An old dresser was pushed against the far wall, with a smudged up mirror, covered mostly in cracks. Atop it, an old electric lantern hooked up to a small battery provided the only source of light in the room, casting all but the corners of the room in dim, flickering light. Those remained draped in shadow, as well as the area around the doorway-where she saw a glowing red dot, reflected by dark orbs above them: eyes, dark and inhuman, that watched her from the gloom.

Wendy's blood ran cold at the sight, the hairs on the back of her neck raising. With a snarl she reached for her rifle, fight-or-flight kicking in as she decided she would kill whatever was in the room with her, before it killed her. She raised the gun, pointing it right at those eyes, her finger hovering over the trigger.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there!"

Wendy faltered at the familiar, scratchy voice, as two heavily scarred hands appeared from the dark, raised palm-out in a placating gesture. A moment later, Hancock stepped into the lantern-light, a lit-cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth-the source of the red light she had seen. "There's no need for that. We're all near-civilized here, yeah?"

"Y-you?" Wendy sputtered, lowering the rifle. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Hancock shrugged as he dropped his hands back to his sides, taking a drag from his cigarette before speaking "Well, was here to check up on ya. Had some of the Neighborhood Watch bring ya over after you passed out, gave you a stimpak and some medex." Walking over, he carefully picked up her pack from the chair, placing it on the bed. He'd drag the now empty chair over to himself, turning it backwards before plopping in it, his thin legs straddling it and his arms crossed over the backrest. Smoke curled from the edges of his mouth and the remnants of his nostrils, the wisps slithering wraith-like along the skin of his disfigured face. "Didn't expect any of that Heh can't say I really blame you though," He chuckled "Wouldn't wanna see this mug after I just woke up. Either way, you're definitely doin' better than before I'd say."

Wendy took a deep breath, taking a moment to calm her nerves as she set the gun down on the bed near her relocated pack "Sorry...and, uh, thanks for bringing me here. Er, though I'd like to know where exactly 'here' is." She fought not to shudder at the almost unworldly sight before her, telling herself it was just a smoke trick. And of course the Ghoul's appearance in general.

Hancock tapped his fingers against the back of the chair, raising a hand to take the cig from his mouth, tapping the ash from it. She noticed that a couple of his finger nails were missing, those of his pinky and ring finger. "That'd be the Hotel Rexford, home of the best beds and best chems in Goodneigbor-well outside of my personal stash. Paid for the room myself, so don't worry about Claire coming to collect. Well 'least for another two nights." He didn't seem put off by her earlier reaction to his arrival. If anything he seemed amused, a smile tugging at the corners of his burnt lips.

Wendy snorted, quirking a brow "The best beds? I'd hate to see the worst..." Jokes aside, she was surprised at his generosity. Something's up here. "You treat all newcomers this nicely?" She scooted closer to Dogmeat, who appeared to have dozed off, curled up by her side. "Or am I special?"

The Ghoul chuckled, his smile widening "Heh, you're a sharp one. In a way, yeah, you are special. Not everyday a Vault Dweller comes walzting into Goodneighbor. And from a Vault I've never even heard of? Well, y'can understand why my interest's been piqued. Wouldn't do to have you croak in the gutter before you even answer my questions. Though honestly, even if you were just another dirty, desperate drifter? Still woulda done it." He shrugged "You needed help, so I helped ya. Simple as that."

"Yeah...I s'pose that's fair enough. So...what do you want to know?"

The Ghoul shrugged, raising his cigarette to his lips again, inhaling the pungent smoke. "Eh, was actually thinking I'd let ya ask your own questions first. Sure you gotta be curious too, Vault Dwellers always are. It'll make things smoother when it's my turn too. So shoot." He waved his hand in a 'go ahead' gesture, before crossing his arms over the chair again. He wpuld rest his chin upon them, watching her intently as she spoke, his tricorn casting his face in shadow.

Wendy blinked, not having expected that. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she decided to start with something she hoped wouldn't offend him, but she wanted to confirm, "So...you're a Ghoul?"

He nodded, seeming if anything pleased by the question, his smile widening to a grin. "That's right. Like my face? I think it gives me a sexy, king of the zombies kinda look. Big hit with the ladies." His voice shifted to a low purr, as he leaned in slightly closer, flashing her a wink.

Wendy swallowed, finding herself blushing, much to her surprise. She coughed and flicked her attention back to Dogmeat, scratching behind one of his ears. "Uh, y-yeah. Sorry, just you're the first I've seen that's not..."

"Feral?" He finished, smoke trickling from his nostrils. "Yeah, I guessed. But, listen. Lota walking rad freaks like me around here, so ya might wanna keep those kinda questions on the lowburner. Not everyones okay with em. Now, what else ya wanna know?"

Wendy looked back up at him, hoping the last of the redness had left her cheeks. Come on, he's a walking corpse... "What was with that Finn guy?"

Hancock let out a long sigh, shaking his head in disappointment "Ah, Finn. Well until recently he was one if our best fighters...could drop a Suicider from-eh, well, from what I've heard you already saw. Really gonna miss him next Super Mutant Attack that rolls around...eh, well, anyhoo, he was getting too big for his britches. Wasn't really leaving me any choice. Way he was challenging me, threatening newcomers, had to make a mayoral show of strength. Though, I hope that incident with him didn't taint your view of our little community." He smiled again, his dark eyes twinkling, "Goodneighbor's of the people, for the people, ya feel me? Everyone's welcome."

"Thanks for that. Goodneighbor, eh? That's the name of this little town?" Wendy mused.

Hancock nodded, his voice full of an almost fatherly pride, "That's right. We cobbled this little neighborhood together out of the freaks and misfits that just won't fit in anywhere else." He flashed her another wink, (and to her embarassment she began to blush again) "You make enough friends here, you'll call this place home soon enough."

"Ah, well...I probably won't be staying that long." Wendy admitted, feeling somewhat guilty. Despite herself, the more she sat talking and joking with him, the more she was starting to like the Ghoul.

He shrugged, seeming none too disappointed at this news "So? Doesn't mean you'll be gone for good, right? You might come back someday. Life's weird like that." Taking one last pull from his cigarette, hed lean over to stub the glowing butt out in a nearby ashtray, smirking as he settled in his chair again "Anymore questions?"

She fell silent for several moments, pondering what to ask next. "Just one more...what's your story, Hancock?"

Hancock laughed, grinning widely "Ooo, how I love to hear you say my name finally. Well, it's my favorite subject. I came into this town like...a decade ago? Had a smooth set of skin back then. While I was busy making myself a pillar of the community I would go of on these...like...wild tears..." He seemed to gaze beyond her as he reminisced, expression unreadable before he'd sigh, soft and fondly "Ah, I was young. Any chems I could find, the more exotic, the better. Finally found this experimental radiation drug. Only one of it's kind, and only one hit left..."

Wendy's eyes widened slightly, quickly putting the pieces together "And that's what made you...y'know?"

He nodded, shifting slightly in his chair "Yep. Oh man, " He sighed again, his eyes losing focus for a moment as he chuckled "The high was so worth it. Yeah, I'm living with the side effects, but hey, what's not to love about immortality?" He smirked, his eyes glimmering from under the shade of his tricorn.

"Wait, you're immortal?" Wendy gaped, not sure wether he was pulling her leg or not. "But how?"

Hancock shrugged again, waving his hand in a wishy washy gesture "Well...not exactly. Ghouls just age really, really slow. Something about the rads, maybe? Who knows."

Wendy took a minute to let all this information set in, not sure what to think of it. "Huh. Well, immortal or not, you're a helluva risk taker, Hancock."

He chuckled again "Only have one life, why not try it all? Now then," He leaned in closer to her, his eyes focused intently on hers. "So hows about we start with a name?"

Wendy found herself lost for a moment in those dark pools, caught off guard by the direct eye contact. "W-Wendy," She stuttered, before clearing her throat, doing her best to steady her voice "My name's Wendy. Wiggin." She stuck her hand out towards to Ghoul, offering him a handshake. Damned if I make it seem like I'm scared of him.

Hancock smirked, taking her small, pale hand in his larger, scared one, giving it a hearty shake "Wendy Wiggin...heh, I like that. Wiggin. Pleased to make your lovely accquintance."

Just as she expected, it felt rough to the touch, ridges of overlapping scar tissue rasping against her palms. She tried not to shiver at the sensation, finding it not unpleasant but definitely odd. And as he called her 'lovely' she had to fight not to blush for the third time in her conversation with him. Lovely? He sees the thing on my cheek, right? "Heh heh, well I wouldn't call it that..."

As she was about to release his hand, however, her vision suddenly turned white, before several quick, dreamlike images flashed through her mind:

An old shack on the shores of a small lake, two young boys running beside it.

One of the boys, now a man, smiling in a disturbing way, inhuman and long.

A syringe, filled with a small amount of green glowing fluid, held by a trembling hand.

A body swinging on a noose, a crowd cheering below.

And Hancock, his back turned to her, as they both stood on the roof of an unknown building, a fiery mushroom cloud rising into the sky before them...

Wendy gave a small gasp, returning to her senses as she quickly jerked her hand out of his grasp. She could tell from thestrange unfocused look in his eyes, howenver, that she was too late. What did he see? Me probably, or something about me. Fuck!

The Ghoul shook his head as if to clear it, blinking it confusion as he raised a hand to scratch at his bald scalp "Eh...shit, sorry for zoning out there. Jet flashback," He offered an apologetic smile, chuckling sheepishly. "Now where was I...oh, right. Your turn to tell your story."

Wendy gave silent thanks to whatever diety had given her such luck, glad to have avoided a topic she didn't want to discuss. They'll all drive me out of here...know he said this place was for freaks, but they gotta have limits. "Alrighty...just fair warning, itsa little...wild. Not really expecting you to believe it "

Hancock laughed, gesturing to himself "I'm used to more than a little wild. Lay it on me, I'm all ears."

Wendy nodded, taking a deep breath, silent for a moment before she started. "The Vault I'm from...111...it was some sort of cryongenic storage-thing. To tell you the truth, I'm...pretty fucking old. Like, before the War old. See, when the bombs fell, we didn't know that, my husband and I. We thought it was gonna be yknow, a proper Vault. Seemed like it at first, when we all rushed in. Hell, I was still so stunned I didn't even notice all the red flags. They had us step into these 'decontamination pods', me in one and the husband and baby in the other. That's the last thing I remember, looking through the glass at them in the other pod. Then everything went cold and dark..." She trailed off, taking a breath to steady herself before she started the next part of her unfortunate tale.

Hancock continued to watch her, scarcely blinking, though she could see the displeasure and anger in his eyes "Lying to a bunch of people like that...that's seriously fucked up. And they had you on ice this fucking long?"

Wendy nodded "Yeah...and from some of the shit I found on the computers of the 'scientists' who were supposed to be 'studying us', they intended to never let us out. Theu were gonna leave us behind once the radiation cleared. Luckily fate was as unkind to them as they were to us...they all killed eachother before they could even be let out. Tore eachother to pieces like animals according tp the logs."

Hancock nodded approvingly, chuckling darkly "Bastards got what they deserved then."

"Heh, yeah. Anyways...we probably would have been frozen in there forever, but someone broke it

Though they didn't come to save us. They..." She found this part difficult to tell, turning her gaze to her own hands fidgeting in her lap "They thawed out mine and my family's pod. They didn't unlock mine though. Two of them, one of em in white suits...the other one bald. He...h-he tried to take Shaun from Nate...my son...my husband. Tried to trick him, but Nate knew something was up. Wouldn't give him our son. So he...that bastard he...he..." She growled, clenching her fists as she fought back tears. "...killed him." She finally managed to get out, holding back a sob. "Killed him and took my baby. And I couldn't do anything to stop em. Could only pound on the glass...and scream. Then they put me back on ice...until the pod broke, and I was free...though it was too late..."

Hancock's gaze had softened, one of sympathy as he shook his head "That's vile...no parent should have to go through that. And your husband...so, I'm guessin' be plan is your lookin to hunt down the sacks of shit?"

She sniffled, embarassed as she wiped a tear off her ruined cheek with the back of her hand. "Yeah...I'm giving 'em hell when I find them. But that's just the problem, I don't even know where to begin looking. I was pointed in the way of Diamond City, but got lost." She sighed, raising her arm and Pipboy attached- the screen still fuzzed with static, much to her chagrin"This thing keeps fritzin out on me. Map on it won't work. So I got lost...ran into some Super Mutants. Managed to take out the smaller two of them, but then...those explosive ones-Suiciders you called them? Came charging at me. One of them blew up, fucked me up, lost Dogmeat," She patted the snoozing pup's head, illiciting a soft grunt from him, "Could only run from the second. Almost got me too...but Finn got him first. Luck I guess, in a way. So....that's how I found myself here."

Hancock was silent for a minute, his head tipped down, face obscured by the brim of his tricorn "Well you're right about one thing, that's certainly one hell of a story. To think you're that old...heh, only people who can claim that honor are older Ghouls. I'm still a young whippersnapper." He shook his head, sighing as he raised it to look her in the eyes again "But speaking of these...vermin again, I think Diamond City is your best bet at finding 'em. I have an accquintance there whose good at getting to the bottom of shit like this. Nick Valentine. Bonus, he could probably give that Pipboy of yours a lookover. Guy's got a way with tech." He gave a wry chuckle, causing a brief moment pf confusion for Wendy.

There's a joke here I'm missing. "Do you know the best way to get there from here? A way that preferably takes me past as few...friendly locals as possible? Though think I need a little time before I head out. Really need to stock up...get a new outfit." She sighed, refering to her ruinied jumpsuit, poking at one of the holes on her sleeve.

He nodded again "Sure, when time comes I'll draw you up a rough map. Heh, almost wanna go out with ya myself, but sadly can't leave. Up to whats left of m'ears in 'mayoral duties'...bleh." He made a distasteful nose, uttering a short, bored sigh. "Speaking of, I'd best get to it." He got to his feet, the chair creaking loudly "Thanks for telling me your story...I sincerely hope you get justice. And find your son."

Wendy smiled, incliningh er head briefly "And many thanks to you for helping me.

*******

Hancock shook his head again, trying to get rid of the strange feeling that still clung to him, annoyed at the white that still lingered at the edges of his vision. Some flashback...if it even was that. As an experienced junkie, he was no stranger to weird side effects from chems. But that had been something entirely different.

Closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples, leaned against the wall of the hallway as he tried to remember what he had seen....

A young girl, a mere infant, ginger curls spilling from atop her head, a white blotch marring her right cheek, clothed in a black dress. She was held in the arms of a likewise dressed older woman, her hair the same orange shade. Both of them stood before an empty coffin.

The same girl, older, cowering in the corner of a school yard as children threw rocks and sticks at her, screaming "Witch! Freak!"

A man in an old soldiers uniform, golden haired and handsome faced, smiling as he held a ring out.

A red haired baby, smiling up as he lay in his crib, reaching for the spinning mobile above him.

The same man from earlier, but this time a single bloody hole in the middle if his forehead, his wide brown eyes forever open and staring in horror.

And finally, Wendy standing atop the Mass Fusion building, a savage grin on her face as a nuclear explosion occured before them, her eyes in contrast strangely pained.

Opening his eyes, Hancock shook his head again, cursing and mumbling to himself. It's probably just your fucked up brain making up shit based on what she just told you. Her husband, her kid....but...she didn't say shit about the stuff I saw of her as a kid...I'm guessing that was her. Or that last part. What the fuck? And even then...saw it all before she told me all that...Bah ..I needa drink. Shit's gonna do my head in.

As he sauntered into the lobby Clair shot him a nasty look from her spot behind the front counter, her arms crossed. “So when am I getting what’s owed for that stray upstairs? Your people said I’d get the money. Mowarksi’s gonna-”

“Alright, alright. Enough. Told you I’d fork it over when I was done here.” Sighing in annoyance, he reached his handinto his frock coat, fumbling for the hidden pocket he kept caps in. Counting out thirty of them, the Ghoul strode over, placing the money atop the desk. “See? Let it be known John Hancock’s a Ghoul who always pays his debts.” With a wink and a two fingered wave he sauntered out of the lobby into the street outside, pulling a pack of cigarettes from a different pocket. Sticking one of the smokes in his mouth, he’d light it with an old gold-plated lighter from within his pocket, taking a drag. Giving a small cough he began walking away from the hotel, steering his way towards the Third Rail.

What a day, what a day…

[your-brother-crutchie]

Place We Were Made

So, I’m still alive?

Ummm, also I really love Maisie Peters and just needed to write this fic so here’s a link to her song. Some lines in this are taken word for word from her so you really should go listen to it, I’m nowhere near clever enough to come up with anything this beautiful

——————————— 

Albert had invited Spot and Race to some club in Queens. Apparently, his girlfriend was in a band and they were playing there that night. They weren’t to say anything but Albert had told them that he desperately needed somebody with him to stop him from going insane. He knew that Race could act and, even if Spot didn’t really care, that was enough to help Albert pretend to like Beth’s band.

Spot was stood at the bar whilst the band set up, Albert downing shots to get through the night whilst Spot ordered drinks for him and Race with his brother’s ID. It was nice to have your siblings around to exploit for alcohol. Spot always wondered whether it upset Race, he knew that he missed his siblings. Although he’d never met them, Spot often wondered whether Marco, the oldest, would have let Race borrow his ID to go out. Probably not. From what Spot had heard, Marco was the sensible one. That tended to be what growing up raising your siblings did to you.

Looking across at Race, Spot could tell that he was already tipsy. They’d stolen a bottle of gin from Spot’s dad before coming out and Race had probably had the majority of it. He’d managed to find himself a stool and was giggling with Albert as they watched Beth and the other girls get into position. If Albert had been banking on Race helping him keep a straight face, Spot probably should have worked harder to keep him sober. 

He watched Race lean heavily on Albert, draping an arm around his shoulder whilst Albert shifted uncomfortably. Unlike Race, Spot wasn’t completely blind. Every single one of their friends, including Spot, was acutely aware of the feelings Albert had had for Race once upon a time. Who knew if they’d ever gone away? From the way Albert was doing anything but looking at Race, Spot guessed they’d never completely left. Race had always been the only one to never notice. He didn’t know what it was, but something in Spot’s gut twisted as he watched the pair of them. They’d been friends long before Spot had got there but there was something about seeing them together, so close like that, that made Spot squirm.

As Beth’s band was starting to play its first song, Spot made his way over to their table, whisky in one hand for him, JD and coke in the other for Race. He used the opportunity of putting the drinks down to push Albert out of the way and sat in the middle, letting Race prop himself up against his shoulder instead.

The three of them were silent for a few minutes, just listening to the band play and trying to think of what to say. Eventually, Race managed to slur his words into a sentence and interrupted the heavy quiet of their little bubble, “Albert. They’re shit.”

Albert just nodded slowly, eventually letting his head drop into his hands but picked it up quickly, as if remembering that Beth could be watching. With a big smile, he whispered, “I know,” through gritted teeth.

Rolling his eyes, Spot took a long sip of his whisky, wishing this would be over yet not wanting Race to sit upright. There was something calming about the way Race’s soft curls tickled his neck, his breath hot against his t-shirt.

——————————— 

When the set eventually finished, Spot let out a sigh of relief, shaking his head as he watched Albert plaster on a smile to greet Beth. Something was going to go wrong there and very soon, be it Albert’s lingering feelings for Race or the fact he couldn’t stand sitting through her band without his friends there.

Feeling a tap on his shoulder, Spot turned to see Race standing behind him, shaking his cigarette box in his hand and tilting his head towards the door. He stood, letting Race take his hand and lead him along behind him. They probably shouldn’t have left Albert yet but Race only ever wanted to smoke when something was bothering him and Spot wasn’t going to let him go alone. 

They made their way out of the club, heading past the bouncer, showing the stamps on the backs of their hands so he knew they’d want back in. Race led them down the alley to the side of the club, behind one of the bins and against the brick wall. Here, they were hidden from the street. If someone came looking for them, they’d have to venture into the dark alley and Spot had a feeling no one but Race was stupid enough to do that.

He pulled a cigarette out of the packet, resting it between his lips as he dug in his back pocket for his lighter. Coming up empty, Race blinked at Spot and he sighed, getting his own out and lighting it for him, “Why are you smoking tonight?” Spot watched as Race took a drag, something behind his eyes relaxing the second the smoke spiralled out of his lips and up into the cold air. The early morning was dark but a streetlight nearby cast enough light to cause the bags around Race’s eyes to look heavy and dark.

“Just to choke that feeling, you know?” 

As much as Spot didn’t want to admit it, he did know. He knew so much about coping and this way that Race coped especially. He had stopped a few months ago after Race ended up hospitalised for his habit. Bronchitis and smoking didn’t really go well together but it hadn’t been enough to stop Race, as much as Spot had pleaded, “ ‘Till the walls don’t need the ceiling, right?” It was something they’d always said to each other, something about opening up the part of the brain that shut down when Race was feeling particularly bad.

Nodding slowly, Race went quiet as he just breathed, in and out, smoke flowing through his lungs and flooding the air above them. They were silent for a few minutes until Race eventually stubbed his cigarette out and flicked it into the bin beside them, turning to Spot, “All we ever talk about is leaving.”

Spot had to admit, this took him by surprise. He thought about it and realised it was true; so many nights turned into long conversations about the places they would go when they got away from the city. He knew that Race had never liked it there but Spot was strangely fond of his little corner of New York, “Okay?” Yeah, he talked about going away but never permanently and definitely not yet. However, there was something final about the look in Race’s eyes.

“It’s just- I’m actually going to do it.” Race was certain, Spot could tell just from looking at him, and he realised then that this was what Race had been thinking about all night. He’d never normally have got so drunk when he was meant to be supporting Albert if something wasn’t bothering him the whole time and Spot should have noticed it, “I’m going to England for university.”

This practically floored Spot, who leaned his head back against the cool brick wall as he felt the blood start to pound in his ears. Race was going to leave. He should have known it was coming but nothing could have prepared him for this. Race was going to leave him behind. His whispered words barely passed his lips as his unfocussed eyes blinked at Race, “Are you sure?” He knew it was too late but he had to try. A good friend wouldn’t try to hold him back but Spot couldn’t help being selfish. He didn’t want Race to leave.

“It’s not forever, it’s just-“ Sighing, Race fumbled with his cardigan sleeves and ran a stressed hand through his mop of curls, “Look, I just don’t want to end up trapped here. It doesn’t mean we won’t be friends anymore,” He must have seen Spot growing more and more distressed, as he took his hand and leaned his head on his shoulder, tickling his neck with his hair, “Look, all that I know is, no matter how far away, this is the place we were made. I may not have grown up here but you and I know every streetlight, every nook and cranny of this city. Alright, maybe the colours will change but this is still home. We’ve still got the fires on the beach, all that time we’ve spent together. Maybe I’m far away but the memories won’t just go away. I need to go somewhere new but I’ll always come back here- back here for you.”

Spot glanced out the mouth of the alley, seeing the flickering lights of the city and rush of traffic, even at two am. He caught Albert running after Beth and noticed a construction site raising a building from the ground. Maybe things would change around him but Race promised that they would stay the same and one day he would come back for him. So Spot put on a teary smile and hugged his best friend.

——————————— 

Spot and Race sat on the steps outside Race’s apartment building, his suitcases piled up next to them, as they waited for the bus that would take them to the airport where Spot would say goodbye to Race for the longest time since they’d met. He knew that Race just wanted to go somewhere, anywhere that was far away from home, but he could have picked somewhere a little closer. Somewhere that Spot could have visited. England was so much money away.

Looking at Race, Spot bit his tongue to stop himself from crying. He was going to allow himself one tear and it was for after Race had turned away at the airport so that no one who knew him would ever see it. One big flaw in that plan, however, was the fact that Spot couldn’t stop thinking about all of the time he’d spent with Race and what he was going to do with his days now that he was leaving. Spot remembered one time when they’d played poker in his tiny bedroom and Race had talked about boys he now called exes, freezing cold because the boiler had been broken for weeks. He remembered that twist in his gut then, the one that was happening now, only ten times worse.

Over the last few months, since Race had told him he was leaving, Spot had started to notice the feeling growing. It practically happened every time he looked at Race now and he knew exactly what it meant, he just didn’t want to think about it. Spot wasn’t going to ruin the best friendship he’d ever had just before he walked out of his life for months and he didn’t get a chance to apologise.

The bus pulled up and, as the driver climbed out to help Race put his bags in the luggage compartment, Spot held his shaky breath and watched the New York lights flash against Race’s olive skin for the last time, thinking about how beautiful he was.

Race stopped at the door, looking back to Spot when he noticed that he wasn’t following him. A sad smile crossed his face that practically made Spot melt and he offered him his hand, “Come on, Scotty, you’ve not lost me just yet.”

[emptymasks]

And I’ll be coming for you too

Pairing: Tom Cody/Raven Shaddock

Words: 3319

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Tags: Pre-Slash | Canon-Typical Violence | Non-Graphic Violence | Kidnapping | as in the canon kidnapping of ellen in which raven still tries to forcibly kiss her but then backs of maybe some think thats ooc but i dont like writing anything vaguely non-con or dub-con so | yeah im writing fanfic for a ship that has only 1 other fanfiction | Unresolved Sexual Tension | Swearing | Fist Fights | Gangs | Gang Violence | Bikers | raven just likes pretty things deal with it

Read on Ao3

Notes: So this whole fic was just written as a practice for the actual fic I want to write, but I wasn't sure if I was getting Raven's dialogue in character so I thought as a practice I could just write scenes from the film. So all the dialogue is actual dialogue from the film (apart from one line), and Raven's internal voice is all my writing. I wasn't sure whether to post it as this was just to help me practice getting into character for them, but once I finished typing I realised it was 3k words long so I may as well post it.

Also, yes, hi, hello, it's been over 2 months since I posted. I was being so good at writing frequently again and then I just dropped off. I don't know why I became convinced I didn't have the time to write, and when I did I just couldn't get myself to do it. But now the UK is on lockdown and I've had to shut my shop, my only source of income, guess I don't have the excuse of not having time anymore huh.

Also it's late and my eyes were hurting as I proof-read so there may be mistakes there wouldn't usually be, sorry.

He’d almost forgotten how pretty she was.

They’d tied her up as soon as they’d gotten back to the bar and Raven had stayed with his men, sorting things out and going through how he was going to handle her, and how none of them were going to tell anyone where she was.

Ellen was still on the bed where they’d left her, of course she was, it’s not like she’d be able to untie herself. She was moving her arms, trying to tug them free and failing. She was glaring at him with such cold hate that only sharpened her features. Her chest was heaving.

Raven was across the room in an instant. He sat on the bed, putting his hands either side of her waist. Not touching her, not yet. He smirked down at her and her expression didn’t change. He felt a twinge of anger. Couldn’t she feel something, even if it was burning rage? Without thinking he swept down in an attempt to kiss her but she turned her head away.

“You know, you’re making things real hard on yourself. You act nice, me and you fall in love for a week or two, and then I let you go. Nobody gets hurt,” He reached out to hold her cheek. “You see, I ain’t such a bad guy. I just… get excited around pretty girls.”

He tried to kiss her again but she continued to turn away and push her legs up to try and create distance between them. Raven frowned.

There were women in this area that would love a chance with him (some men too), though granted it was more because they figured sleeping with the leader of the Bombers would give them some protection, but here he’d had to go after someone who didn’t want him.

She was so beautiful though, even more so without those brightly coloured lights from the stage beaming down on her. She seemed so much smaller like this…

Raven watched as Ellen continued kept herself pressed away from him. He got to his feet and paced the length of the room and back. This should be easy, she was tied down, just… you know… do it… But he’d been hoping she could be into it, a stupid fantasy. Is that what he’d done all this for, some fantasy crush?

Goddamn, if it was that this would all be so much easier.

He’d sensed the Bombers getting restless. What with other gangs rising up, and trouble with the Road Masters, he’d sensed that somewhere getting pretty displeased about how he was running things. They felt like they hadn’t done anything big in ages, that Raven wasn’t bad enough, wasn’t tough enough. That he was starting to go soft. So what could be a bigger move to show he was not to be messed with than to successfully kidnap the single most famous and heavily-guarded person in Richmond. That would be big enough to shut them all up.

He cast a glance back at Ellen before storming out of the room. He let out a slow breath to make himself appear calm before crossing the hallway and into the room where a group of Bombers were playing cards, and he sat in his usual seat next to Greer. Greer wasn’t the best fighter among them, but he’d quickly become Raven’s right-hand man as he had an uncommon sense of loyalty towards Raven. He’d rather have an okay fighter who’d actually give a shit if he was shot, rather than the best fighter who’d leave him to bleed out in the streets.

Raven put Ellen from his mind. Either she’d come around and they’d have a fling, or she wouldn’t and Raven would move her to somewhere where the others Bombers couldn’t get to her. He didn’t want all his men putting his hands on her, and while he had gone to all this trouble, he wasn’t the type to force himself on someone. Abducting, sure that’s easy and hey you don’t have to hurt them, but he wasn’t comfortable doing that. Not that he could let the other Bombers know that.

He was trying to focus on the game and lit a cigarette, when some blond girl burst into the room.

“Knock, knock,” She said, smugly, as she pointed her gun at them.

Raven calmly took the cigarette out of his mouth. He’d had guns pointed at him too many times for it to bother him anymore. Maybe that would worry some people. Maybe it should worry him.

There was a commotion outside the bar, and then he heard footsteps closer to them, before retreating. Shit, someone figured out where Ellen was.

“Guys, it’s been a slice,” The blonde girl backed out of the room, shutting the door behind her as she ran off.

Raven shot to his feet. “Well don’t all just sit there!” He yelled as the Bombers finally started moving and following her out of the door.

When Raven finally got outside, away from all the bodies crashing into each other in a panic, there was fire in the street. Whoever came for Ellen sure was having some fun. Raven could respect that.

Navigating his way through the fire, he saw a man starting up a bike, a Bomber bike.

“Well,” Raven called over to the man as he approached. “Looks like I finally ran into someone that likes to play as rough as I do.”

The man on the bike turned around. Raven had never seen him before. Strange that it wasn’t a local, only locals knew how to get into the Battery. Maybe he was some hired hero or hitman paid off to get Ellen back.

He was pretty though.

It wasn’t like Raven to not notice that. He’d realised when he was fairly young he had a penchant for pretty things, whether they were girls or guys. His mother used to say it was a good thing he was named after a bird, since he always seemed to chase anything pretty and shiny.

“Yeah, this must be your lucky night.” Oh so the man was sure of himself. Quick too. And what those words could mean in another context. Raven could almost think the man was flirting.

“I’m lucky? I guess maybe I am,” Raven smirked, then dropped into a scowl. “And you’re dumb. Real dumb if you think you can pull this off.”

“I think you’re forgetting something,” The man pulled at the front of his coat. “I’ve got the gun.”

“I can get guns, smart guy, lots of them. Now why don’t you tell me your name?” It was a perfectly normal question. If he was going to find this mystery pretty boy (mystery man, his brain fought among itself) and track him down, he’d need his name. It wasn’t because he was interested… Alright, it wasn’t just because he was interested.

“Tom Cody. Pleased to meet ya,” The man’s lip twitched into the hint of a smile. It annoyed Raven.

“I’ll be coming for her. And I’ll be coming for you too.”

“Sure you will. And I’ll be waiting.”

Raven let his face break out into a smirk that seemed to get under the man’s skin as he turned his head away. Raven watched him set off on the bike, then turned to walk back through the fire.

--

Raven sent Greer to go and arrange the meeting with the cops. Greer could take care of himself, but also Cody wouldn’t care to go after him. Hell, Raven couldn’t show up alone anywhere right now, Tom Cody present or not. Ellen Aim was well loved and being her abductor was not making him any more well liked than he was. People still feared him, sure, but now people from out of town knew his face. He wasn’t sure if he liked that. A guy always needs to be able to disappear. You never know when you might have too.

“I want Tom Cody. I want to nail that son-of-a-bitches’ head to the side walk under that marquee that says ‘Ellen Aim’ on it,” Raven couldn’t help but grin at the thought.

Cody was infuriating him more every second. First he shows up and takes back the girl, then he proceeds to shoot his men, blow up his street, and steal a bike (maybe the bike should bother him less). He wanted to punch him in the face real bad. The idea of Cody losing to him, submitting to him, was a pleasing thought. And he needed it. Not because he was obsessing over Cody, no, not at all, but the Bombers had just suffered a lot of damage while he led them and that was causing a lot of rumblings. If Raven didn’t make Cody pay, the Bombers were going to him pay.

The cops hated him, he knew that. Fuck them.

“And to prove to you that I’m gonna be a nice guy,” Raven continued. “I’m coming in with just two of my men. After I take care of Cody, they’ll be no more trouble,” He was smirking again as soon as he said Cody’s name, he could feel it.

And they were lies of course. For a week or so he’d act like he was keeping his word, but then start to scale things back up again.

“Do your job man, keep the peace.”

--

That fucking bastard cop. Fucking liar. Cody hadn’t shown up. Knowing Officer Price, he’d probably warned Cody to get out of town.

Whatever. It wasn’t like he was dumb enough to trust cops.

He rode down, with Greer and Mikey riding just behind him, and came to a stop in front of the barricade of cop cars. He stopped his bike and watched as the cops approached, clenching his jaw.

“Well?” Raven lounged back on his bike. Cody was possibly still here, or at least could still show up.

“It’s real simple, Raven,” Officer Price spoke up. “There’s no showdown. Tom Cody ain’t here and neither is the girl.”

Oh fuck, yeah the girl. He’d sort of forgotten about taking Ellen back since he’d been so focused on Cody.

Cody who wasn’t fucking here.

“I don’t get it,” Raven felt his jaw starting to shake.

“Get off your bike, Raven.”

Alright, tough fucking cop.

Raven stood, swinging his leg over his bike. “I ain’t too crazy about jails, chief. I got a better idea for ya.”

As Raven raised reached into the pocket of his black, leather coat, he watched the cops tense as they expected a gun.

Idiots.

Raven pulled up the air horn so they could clearly see what it was, and he pressed it.

He watched the cops faces as they realised what was about to happen. It was so fucking satisfying. Watching their faces crumble as he head the rumble of bike engines approach and approach and the cops’ eyes widen as they realised just how many where coming.

“I told your friend Cody I could get a lot of guns.”

It felt like such a brilliant moment.

Some short little runt had to ruin it, pushing his way through the gathering crowd to start yelling in Raven’s face.

“What is this?! You can’t get away with this! You think you can ride into any town and kidnap anyone you want?”

Yeah, pretty much.

“Now, get the hell out of town and leave these people alone,” The man spoke as if he was somehow intimidating. As if that was going to make Raven leave. Pathetic.

He didn’t even need to tell Greer to get the guy out of his face, Greer just stepped forward and punched the man. The officer behind Price scurried over to help the fallen man.

They could easily take the cops. It would be something. Not as satisfying as if Cody was here. It wasn’t fair.

Then there was a screech. Tires on concrete.

Raven saw the red blur before he even recognised it as a car. Cody pulled up behind the cops, perfectly placed so Raven could see him, like he wanted all of Raven’s attention on him. As soon as Cody stepped out, he took one look at Raven and shrugged off his coat. He threw it back into his car with a sharp turn and stalked towards Raven. Raven couldn’t help but inspect the other man’s physique more. Perhaps Cody was more muscular than he’d thought. He could still take him though… especially with what he’d brought with him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Cody didn’t look fucking sorry at all. His face was this blank expression. Raven couldn’t tell if he was angry, or just bored.

He won’t be bored for long.

“I’ve got something special in mind. I brought them along, just for you,” Raven removed his own coat, revealing even more black leather underneath. He turned around to throw his coat onto his bike.

He motioned to Greer to get the weapons he’d brought with him.

“Well my plan went to shit,” Officer Price turned to Cody. “Let’s see how you do.” He stepped closer to Cody as if he didn’t want Raven to know what he was saying, but Raven could still hear. “Kick his ass.”

He watched Cody give a slight nod and a smile to Price. He looked more infuriating when he was smug.

There was shouting people started to run out form their houses, as they got closer Raven realised most of them had guns. Well, he really better fucking win this.

The hammers made a clanging sound as Greer spun them around in his hand, before throwing one to Cody and the other to Raven.

Fuck guns. These were things that could do some real damage. It also got them up close and personal, made strength come into it. Anyone could stand and fire a gun.

“Nice, huh?” Raven twirled the hammer in his hand, looking casual, before pouncing and striking towards Cody.

Cody’s reflexes were good. He dodged every blow and Raven fully realised the weight of the weapon. If you weren’t careful swinging it, it would bring you down with it.

“Get him!” Greer cheered as Raven struck Tom just below the shoulder.

He’d got a hit in. Okay, he could do this.

Their hammers locked and Raven twisted so it fell out of Cody’s grip, but he was quick to pick it back up. Fuck that. When their hammers locked again, Raven let go with one hand to punch Cody in the face.

That did feel good.

He backed Cody up against a car as he kept dodging more blows. He dodged Cody’s swing that continued on through the car window, covering them both in tiny shards of glass.

They continued to fight and while Cody managed to hit Raven, they quickly went to locking hammers against each other’s. This wasn’t going to work. Fuck! Cody was physically stronger than he’d anticipated. He couldn’t tell from that trench coat that underneath was a fucking jock. If he couldn’t beat him with strength, he’d have to be agile. He twisted and kicked his leg out, his boot landing in Cody’s gut.

Cody was caught off guard and Raven punched him again, sending Cody sprawling onto the floor. He was faintly aware of Greer screaming past the adrenaline pumping through him, blocking out everything other than Cody.

He went to strike down on Cody, but the bastard kept moving. He wasn’t paying attention, purely running on emotions, and before he knew it Cody had grabbed his hammer back and swung it around to hit Raven in the back.

Well turns out he’d been right about them fucking hurting.

Cody then managed to get up and bring his knee into Raven’s stomach, before hitting him across the back with the handle of the hammer.

They locked their hammers a final time as they both pushed with all the strength they had. Their gazes flickered between each other and the hammers which were slowly moving down. Raven could feel himself slipping, he wasn’t strong enough, god fucking dammit.

Raven’s hammer clattered to the ground.

He’d fucked up.

He watched Cody swing back and couldn’t help but feel all kinds of fucking scared as he realised if that hammer hit his head he was very much not going to be okay.

But Cody threw the hammer to the ground.

What the fuck?

What the fuck?! He didn’t want Cody’s fucking pity!

Raven heard himself screaming before his brain processed that that noise was coming from him. He charged at Cody, running him up against some of the Bombers, knocking them and their bikes over. He didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care, he just needed Cody to stop being so fucking infuriating.

He kept punching and kicking and Cody fell and tumbled some more, knocking over even more bikes in his path. When Cody tried to stand up, Raven kicked him in his stomach. When he didn’t try to stand up, Raven grabbed him and pulled him to his feet just to punch him in his face and sent him falling back down again.

He approached Cody again, but Cody’s leg flew up (how was he that fucking flexible?) and kicked Raven in the face. It was Raven’s turn to go sprawling over the floor, landing on one of the Bombers.

He looked up and saw Greer’s face was cold. Jesus, fuck, it’s always the loyal ones isn’t it. Or the ones that think you are. How dare he act like Raven was disappointing him?! He’d only been punched once and already the Bombers were giving up on him.

There he was, not paying attention again, and Cody hauled him to his feet, punching him again and again. They were both getting tired. Raven could feel himself slipping. Tom punched him in the face once, twice, three, four times in a row. Raven stumbled back, barely staying on his feet. He wasn’t sure if he was swaying or the whole world was. His vision was getting blurry.

A shape that looked like Cody walked closer to him and all it took was a push on his shoulder and Raven was falling onto the ground.

He was faintly clinging onto consciousness as he heard cheers and then the sound of too many guns cocking.

“Let’s get out of here!” Greer’s voice called out.

He heard the bikes drive off, more and more or them and he wasn’t sure what he hoped for. If they left him here he’d be sent to jail. If they took him with them… fuck. He’d fucked up. They were not going to keep him around as leader. If they took him with them, he was probably going to get more of a beating and either killed or left out in the street to die like some fucking roadkill.

He felt hands on his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, boss,” It was Greer. Greer was picking him up and placing him on the back of one of the bikes.

Fuck. He was fucked.

His bike was left behind because of course no one fucking thought he might need it. They knew he wouldn’t. He was so tempted to just let his body slide off onto the road before they reached the Battery, just slide off and lay there until someone found him, or he died. He didn’t really care which, right now. He tried to move, but Mikey’s hand was tight around his waist.

“Just making sure you don’t fall off, boss. Don’t want you getting any more hurt than you already are.”

Yeah, sure. That was fucking why. Because they were concerned. Not because they were going to take him back and use his limp body like a trophy to whoever knocked his teeth out first.

This was all his fault.

If Raven lived through the night he was going to hunt that man down.

Tom fucking Cody.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Animal Instinct + Dead Disco | Writing Update

Hey People of Earth!

We’re back with another Moth Work update because ya girl has finished two chapters and is here to spill all the tea! If you missed update one, and two, be sure to check them out before reading this one! I’ve been having a bit of cabin fever with this project lately which has made it difficult to really immerse myself into the project. But we’re almost at the 20k mark of this project which is wILD! I never imagined writing so much of this story (which was initially just a guilty pleasure) and I’m happy with how much I’ve learned about my characters just through this small detour in the series.

The first chapter I’ll be updating on is chapter four, ANIMAL INSTINCT. 

This chapter was a giant pain to finish! It had about 5000 revisions mid-draft, and I definitely feel like I had blinkers on when writing it. Because of that, I lost sight of the big picture and really got stuck on the little things, like the writing and overall quality of the project. This was not actually the purpose of Moth Work--it was supposed to be a dumping ground for whatever. However, in this chapter, I became really hyperfocused on all the small details I disliked which made drafting it a month-long process. I’ve now come to a slightly healthier place with quality in this draft, and found a middle ground between trash-dumping and nitpicking. 

What’s it about?

Animal Instinct is a major point of tension for Lonan and Harrison as their goals deviate. This chapter focuses heavily on the volatility of their relationship and highlights Lonan’s current irrational mental state. The title stems from this idea of calculated action for the sake of a single person’s benefit. 

The writing bit: 

I struggled to write this chapter quite a bit. It took me the majority of July to complete because of a major logic problem I kept running into. After struggling for a few days, I finally realized by fleshing out what I’d written initially, I could overwrite the logic problem. The solution took a lot of work/test scenes to figure out, but eventually I got it!

Excerpts:

I shared this excerpt before because it’s one of the only paragraphs I don’t mind in this chapter! I think the flow is a lil funky but I dig the concept! This outlines the last bits of the cabin, specifically Harrison’s final check around the perimeter. 

Around the corner, the back patio is static—like Anna and her son never stopped sitting there. Her bowl of avocado and Greek yogurt—the holistic remedy Emily said would make her glow like an angel—sits gummy and pestered with flies. One of Milo’s toys is wedged under the cheap lawn chair. It haunts him, seeing them while not seeing them, but he leaves everything like it is. Anna and her son will always remain on the patio, Anna with her cheekbones splayed for the moon, Milo babbling mildly about his father like he hasn’t made the connection. They’ve gone invisible.  

After this first scene, Harrison does some driving in the dark which gives me major book three vibes lol, and eventually pulls into a motel somewhere in Nevada. This route from Oregon to Boston makes no sense but I conveniently needed Lonan to end up in Vegas, so!! do it for Vegas!!

In the motel, Harrison meets Jeremiah, his potential new man lol. Harrison is focused on getting in and out of there as quickly as possible, but he’s like dang mans teeth are the straightest I ever did see (me too tho). Because he gets distracted, he fails to notice his car turn off, and only makes the connection after passing it a few times in the parking lot. He minorly paniques as he looks for Lonan, but eventually finds him around the building. 

The scene that follows gets volatile as heck, and really showcases how similar Lonan and Reeve are? Like dang that whole family tho? (Can I join?)

I’m not going to share much of this scene because she gets dramatic, but this is the wildest dialogue I’ve written in a while and I think I’m going to steal it and make Reeve say it because something like this would come out of her mouth:

“Do you feel that, Harrison? I could burn you with a cigarette and call it a wolf bite and nobody would know the difference.” 

sounds normal at first then NOPE

The next chapter (chapter 5) is called Dead Disco:

This chapter came together very quickly because I’d had it basically planned out, however, it veered into an emotional direction I wasn’t expecting. This chapter was supposed to be fun and lighthearted, and it ended up being... not that??  

What’s it about?

After the tragic drama that occurs in the previous chapter, Harrison wakes up the next morning to notice that Lonan has #left and #taken the car. This is v/ not good, but instead of getting super worked up he chooses to chill out at Jeremiah’s place and chill ft. some disco. I meant for it to be cute but Harrison ends up in a mental place I wasn’t expecting, so the chapter feels a bit “derealized” to me. After both Lonan and Harrison head out on their solo endeavors, they meet back up and this encounter ends *badly*. 

Playlist:

July 31st Rachel was feeling very enthusiastic about the playlist for this chapter (I was writing while listening to music) and wrote down a list of songs that describe the progression of this chapter (in order + all Nothing But Thieves because predictable!):

Holding Out For A Hero

Crazy

Afterlife

Hanging

Excuse Me

Forever & Ever More

You Know Me Too Well

I’m Not Made By Design

Amsterdam

Number 13

Itch

Hostage

BUT SHOUTOUT TO: Disco by Surf Curse

Probably the most accurate vibe here lol

Excerpts:

This first excerpt is Harrison angsting hard about missing his friends. I don’t *love* her but I don’t *hate* her! I tried revising it but it... flopped, so here’s the failed revision:

Lonan could say those words and it haunts him, how easily he taints him like a bad omen. There are so many things Emily would tell him to do to cleanse the bad magic, but Harrison recalls none of them properly. He remembers words like moon, and black walnut, and quartz crystal, and cardamom, but can’t think of what to do with any. He wishes he were like Foster, curious enough to carry around a pocket dictionary, or like his mother, clever enough to make something up on a whim. All Harrison can do is bury his face in his palms outside the restaurant and hope no one watches him. The main road bustles by and he wishes to be invisible, like Anna and her son. He wants his friends back. Foster could lull him to consciousness with a quiz on the different kinds of plants, which are edible, which are poisonous. Reeve would split a cigarette with him and scare him back to life with her driving. Emily will never speak to him but at least she’d cast a curse on him, and even that’s better than his nullified state of living. It’s disorienting, to feel asleep while awake. Harrison blinks hard, but everything feels the same—the buildings all shimmering, the people staring barely even people, everything derealized like it’s all been coated in REM. 

(tag urself i’m foster’s pocket dictionary)

This next excerpt outlines Harrison getting turnt with his new man and then getting philosophical? drunk Harrison be Aristotle and Madonna smushed together idk

Harrison knows he shouldn’t drink around a stranger but Jeremiah’s got a handmade bracelet and scribbly tattoos on his forearm so it’s hard not to trust him. Photo prints of hostels in Japan, statues in Europe, cathedrals in Paraguay decorate the walls in perfectly cut rectangles. Each is plumed with a dried flower and it reminds Harrison so much of Emily, he has to look away, back to the Lonan-coloured drink. He studies the shot glass like it isn’t transparent, the grooves around the perimeter, the engraving that reads Cancun 1987. He loses Jeremiah’s absent swish around him, and gets lost in the blue. The trifecta amazes him, how a colour as unnatural as this has manifested in Lonan’s eyes, his earring, this drink. He tips the glass back and finishes it in one go, and even though it’s strong and should taste like artificial blueberries, his mouth is tasteless and numb.

“You live here alone?” Harrison asks, raking his fingers through his hair. The apartment overlooks the strip across the street and Harrison gets lost in it, the artificial signs like bad advertising, the neons ill like influenza. When he looks toward Jeremiah again, his glass is refilled and he has to think hard to remember if he emptied it in the first place. 

This is where Harrison manages to make disco big sad + some lowkey salt at Lonan which is always! a! win!:

Together, they move in a trance, limber and manic. The glass in Harrison’s hand isn’t a weight—it’s a lifeline. The apartment blurs, and waves in slow motion. Harrison doesn’t hear the music or taste the drink; he feels nothing in the ground, and everything in his tongue. His hair swims in his face like Lonan’s, moving like he did in the water, careless in his forehead, his eyes. The pictures on the wall become the pictures in his bedroom, and the blinking doesn’t get rid of them. In his sidesteps with Jeremiah he sees him, in the glass, across the street, under a streetlamp. Taking his cigarettes, his light, his car, his mouth like a cannibal. 

To end this update, here’s some dialogue ft. savagery:

“You’re patronizing me.”

“You’re patronizing yourself.” 

A meme to accompany this lol:

So that’s it for this update! At the time of drafting most of this post (which was a few weeks ago), I wasn’t really feeling this project, however, after writing chapter 6 and switching POVs into Lonan’s head (where there’s lots of messy stuff to work with), I’ve been having a lot of fun!

I’m sorry updates have been slow on this blog--I’m in the process of moving so I’m getting busy, however, I hope to post at least one more update before I go off to school! Thanks for reading. :)

--Rachel