#i love rose hips they are tasty in jam

[betweenblackberrybranches]

Automaton au Sun and Y/N after a long few hours of harvesting rose hips in late fall

After a longer time of living together Sun has grown quite touchy, holding Y/N every chance he gets.

[thevirtualcanvas]

You don’t really know someone until you go on a desert island together ~

Steven's birthday aka the time Connie lured Steven to Watermelon island because I don’t want Steven to be sad anymore. 

Yesterday was a really angsty piece. Today we get to see how he gets his first kiss. Hope you’re all ready for some proper fluff.

“Cmon Steven! We're almost there!”

They were on Watermelon Island, he knew that much. The first thing that gave it away was, well, he was the one that warped them there. The second was the split mountain that hung over his head behind the now fixed warped pad. The third thing was the party of Watermelon-Stevens that welcomed them with a bubbly joy, dragging him by one hand as Connie took the other.

“Connie, where are we going? There's so much to be done before little homeschool opens. My itinerary is clogged,” he thought of the planner on his phone, full of meetings, and jobs and far too many things to do.

Her laughter was infectious, her bright eyes warmed Steven's cheeks. “Well, Mr. Itinerary, I cleared your calendar for the day. Little home-world will just have to do without you, for a couple of hours anyway.”

“Connieeee,” he whined, haphazardly. It was so nice to see her, between his work orchestrating repairs after Spinel, integration of the gems, and meetings with his space Aunts; and Connie's high workload from school and her Mom they saw each other in glimpses. Mostly through video chats and the occasional moonlit jaunt via Lion. So holding her hand, and being led through the crystal jungle of the watermelon island – he could think of worse days to spend his birthday.

The palm trees gave way, the grass turned to sand and a beautiful cacophony of blues decorated the horizon, Steven had forgotten how nice it was here, relaxing even. On the sand sat a banner – Happy 16th Birthday Steven in Connie's lovely cursive handwriting. Beneath that was a picnic basket, blanket, his ukulele, and her violin and another batch of Watermelon-Steven's completing the finishing touches. He wasn't going to cry. Probably.

Connie held her hand out-stretched. “Ta-dah! Happy Birthday, Steven! You didn't think I'd forget, did you?”

“Connie, this is...this is incredible, thank you.”

He walked, enraptured by his surprise. The Watermelon-Stevens scampered to give them some privacy and peace. Steven kicked off his sandals, wriggled his toes in the sand, plonked himself down on the blanket and picked up his ukulele. The instrument had been sat in a stand on the shelf for months. Since the events of Spinel and her injector, he'd lost his child-like wonder, concerned that another attack could happen any moment, Steven had focused more on growing-up; putting away anything that would deem him childish, expanding little home-world, dealing with actual home-world and the Diamonds. His passion, his music, that had taken an unfortunate back-seat. He plucked at the strings, the sound reverberating through his fingers and up the length of his spine. Steven shivered, he missed this.

He took a deep breath, the first one in a long time, he listened to the sound of the ocean, the rustle of the palms and relaxing sounds of Connie breathing next to him. She plucked her violin first, playing and humming along to a creation of their own design.

The sun is bright, our shirts are clean.

Connie smiled brightly at him, loose strands of her pinned back hair danced among the breeze.

We're sitting up above the sea

Was her voice always this beautiful? It sounded like silk in his ears.

Come on and share this jam with me.

She looked at him expectantly, nodding her head as she strummed and hummed the tune. Carefully, slowly, Steven strummed along. In the back of his mind, he was worried he forgot, or worse, didn't want to. But that worry melted away at her sweet harmony, and sweeter face. As the mismatch of ukulele and violin merged tunes, Steven hummed in time with Connie, pulling up the unforgettable lyrics from his mind.

Peach or plum or strawberry.

Any kind is fine you see.

Come on and share this jam with me.

They played together, the simple chord a testament to their friendship, their devotion to one another and the memories of a simpler time. Playing again with Connie, it was the best present he could have ever asked for. To be in her presence, to forget about his responsibilities for just a little while – sure, her laugh, rich eyes, brilliant smile, lithe dexterous hands, and lean figure, made Steven a tad nervous and weak at the knees but it was Connie, his Connie and that was perfect.

I'll do my best to give this jam the sweetness it deserves ~

He sung at her, waggling his eyebrows in time to the vibrato, causing her to laugh, scrunching her nose.

And I'll keep it fresh.

Jammin' on these tasty preserves!

She sung back with enthusiasm, the fine strings of her violin plucking hard at her rocking out.  

Steven's heart was racing, he hadn't felt this happy in months. Not true joy, not like this. Connie picked up her bow and slowed the rhythm down, ready for the climax of the song. Waiting on his queue, she watched her best friend carefully.

Ingredients in harmony.

We mix together perfectly.

Come on and share this jam with me.

The tune faded naturally, petering out in the ambiance of the ocean. They both breathed heavily, the duet taking more out of them then it would have done nearly 3 years ago. Steven placed his ukulele down, content, and Connie followed suit, keeping her eyes firmly on him. She moved closer, so their knees and hips were touching as they looked out onto the ocean.

“Jam buds, back in action,” Connie laughed, nudging him in the side. “Not bad, Mr. Itinerary.”

Steven snorted and nudged her back, taking off his sports jacket and wrapping it around his waist before leaning back into her. “I thought you're supposed to be nice on my birthday.”

“I am being nice,” she responded with a giggle. “Besides, this isn't the only thing I've planned for you. We're gonna have dinner with my parents, your dad and the gems later. Peridot is 'constructing' the birthday cake, my present for you is at the beach house and – ” She hummed and cleared her throat. A dusky hue rose on her cheeks.

“And?” Steven asked, curious.

Connie twiddled her fingers, puffed her cheeks and risked a glance at him. Steven had grown so much since dismantling the Diamond Authority. He was taller, give it another few months and he'd be taller than her for the first time in their friendship. His shoulders were broader, the material of the band shirt he wore stretched over his shoulder blades. His arms and legs had elongated, but she loved the way they felt around her. Connie felt a smug satisfaction whenever he would sit behind her, legs outstretched, arms around her neck. He would rest his chin against her shoulder as they watched a movie marathon, or Connie would read her newest book aloud to him. Steven's jaw, while still soft and round showed signs of a beard under the surface, the slightest five o'clock shadow discoloured his lower face. He would scratch absently, as if not quite used to this newfound adulthood. And what could she say, she'd noticed. Her jam bud was growing-up, and so was she.

“And...I have one more surprise. If you want it.”

His eyes lit up. “A secret present, what is it?” Steven pursed his lips and shook with joy. “Where are you hiding it? Do the Watermelon-Steven's have it? Oh man, I love surprises!”

She chuckled at his enthusiasm, this would make the next part of her surprise so much easier. He made everything easier. “Good to know you're not too old for surprise presents. Steven, do you trust me?”

He creased his brow, what kind of question was that. “Of course I do, Con. You're my best friend.”

Not for much longer if she had anything to say about it. This was a turning point in Connie's life. She loved Steven. She'd tell anyone as much. But recently a lot of mature thoughts crossed her mind; and between the trips in the Dondai, visits to the beach house and increasingly more tense sleepovers, Connie realised something. She loved Steven. Which didn't change much overall; she would do anything for him, want to be in his life for the rest of hers and, jam on the beach whenever possible. But she also wanted to kiss that adorable face of his.

“Good, so face me, and close your eyes. Keep 'em closed too. No peaking.” He complied, swiveled around, knees crossed, hands-on lap, and eyes locked tight.

Connie leaned forward, taking a sallow breath. She reached out of him, fingertips connecting with his cheeks warm at her touch. She could feel his cheeks dimple as he smiled, turning his head into her fingers. Connie brought her face closer, seeing the pores on his skin, his long lashes, and his soft pink lips.

His eyelids trembled a bit, like he was trying to search for her behind them. Connie, what are you – ”

“Don't peak,” she whispered, wetting her lips, running her fingers down to his neck and feeling as Steven hitches and freezes.

“Connie...” His breath felt hot against her lips, and name danced across her skin.

“Happy birthday, Steven.”

Her lips met his, certain, lacking confidence but wanting. They trembled against one another, this was new, scary and exciting all at once. Steven's hands mirrored hers, buried into the hair at the base of her neck, terrified to explore and desperate to hold. He turned his head, pressing his face further into hers. Button nose pressing into her cheek, tight curls brushed against her brow.

Connie pulled back, flustered, gasping for breath,  hands around his neck, playing with the curls at his hairline. She licked her lips, tasting him against them.

Steven opened his eyes and touched his lips, feeling where Connie had just kissed him. He was shocked, giddy and he really wanted to do it again. He pressed his forehead against hers, interlocked his fingers around her back and grinned. How long had he daydreamed about this moment?

“Connie?”

“Yeah, Steven?”

“That was definitely a surprise.”

She snorted, rubbing her forehead against his. “I'm glad.”

He bit his lip, deep brown eyes reflected into hers. “Can we do it again?”

Their stomachs grumbled in tandem, Connie opened the picnic basket and reached for the sandwich on the top of the pile and shoved it into his mouth. “Maybe, after our picnic, and away from prying eyes.” She motioned to the sheepish group of Watermelon-Steven's half-poking out of the brush behind them. Some gave a little wave, others blew a kiss of their own.

“R-right,” Steven said with a mouthful of jam and bread.

Connie waved back to them before taking a sandwich of her own. She shuffled back up to Steven, her Steven and they enjoyed their picnic in peace and quiet. The tension was gone, replaced by a fondly remembered quiet comfort between them. His hand around her waist, her knee against his thigh, watching as the crystals danced in the shallow waters and the sun changed colour in the sky.

“Thanks for dragging me away from gem stuff,” he said after a while.

“You're welcome, it is your birthday, y'know.”

“I know... Connie?”

She turned to him, mid-afternoon light bringing out the warmth in her skin. “Yeah, Steven?”

His hands found her, connecting perfectly. He should just say it, he'd thought about it a million times before.

“I love you,” it was barely above a whisper, and he couldn't look her in the eyes. But he said it. He'd told her. He was holding his breath and going pink in the face. Thankfully not that kind of pink.

He watched as her face turned the same shade of pink as him, she reassured him with a squeeze of his chunky fingers and gave him the exact answer he needed. “Love you too, Steven.”

Maybe he could keep celebrating his birthday after all?

[the-letter-horror-lover]

Sailor Moon."

Chapter 7

Summary:

Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.

In this chapter, Eric goes out. Rox comes into the picture. Alan has a friend. And the past is a hard thing to outlive.

Notes:

Thanks to my betas and all who give me feedback, in whatever way. :)

Chapter Text

Rox's night was good. The private dancehall was nicely full, and business was brisk. Ze was bored, doing the more predictable work. Ass antlers and nose rings paid the rent so ze wasn't going to bitch, plus the club bouncers threw the drunks out for zir. It was nice, though, when a client wanted something a bit more original and personal. Zir latest client went off with a two-hearts tattoo on the bicep that would no doubt need to be reinked with thought to the drawbacks of someone else's name permanently etched upon your body. The dance floor was full, and the bar packed three deep with people dancing and drinking as if their lives depended on it.

"Media vita in morte sumus." In the midst of life, we are in death. Now, who was here that would let zir play?

Tool Box was what Rox called 'panqueer.' All genders, all expressions, all flavors, and all colors - and Rox loved a good assortment. Ze moved out onto the floor, feeling tres bonne femme tonight - a good dye job had brightened zir hair to an arterial red, plus a splurge at MAC would make anyone feel so very New York. A new underbust corset from Vollers in a tartan ze had no right to wear any longer nipped in zir waist, accentuating zir hips and modest bust.

Ah. There he was.

Hello, you pretty man. Don't you look just as tasty as one of your own cakes.

When you did significant work on someone, you came to know a great deal about them. Simple things like a tattoo or branding design, where they wanted their piercings and which ornaments they chose could tell you so much. Eric Slingby's first design was a biohazard trefoil covering his upper pectoral and the hollow of his shoulder, a red positive sign nested in the center like the hourglass on a black widow spider. Red roses cradled a skull, scythe, and old-fashioned pocket watch, covering his right arm from shoulder to elbow - the hands of the watch rested at a minute to midnight. A work-in-progress of a magpie about to take flight and red roses adorned his left shoulder.

Rox had done all of them to Eric's specifications, and ze looked at them critically now. He really needed to come to the studio - the lighting was better for the whitework. Announcing zir presence was as simple as hooking zir fingers in his belt and pulling him in. What that man did to a pair of low-slung jeans and a black tank top was more pornographic than a gangbang.

"Rox. Baby, you are fucking up my gaydar all over the place tonight."

His voice was low and sweet, and it charged zir up. It was good to be appreciated. Rox pulled him in for a grind. "There's so much you don't know, sweet baby boy."

This time he didn't pull back or shy off, and he was the tamest thing when ze took the lead with him. The DJ did them justice, playing every low, dirty, grinding tune in the archives - and even spun The Cult's 'Sweet Soul Sister' into a fifteen minute jam that had the hookups flying fast and furious.

"Get in my chair, you pretty man. I want to ink you goooood." Yes, you did learn things about a person, like how they saw themselves when you worked on them. You learned things they didn't even know lived in their head and heart. "How did the feathers heal?"

Ze was meticulous when working on positives. They sometimes had problems with healing, and could be prone to opportunistic infections. However, Rox did zir best never to turn anyone away. What was silly and trivial to one was a matter of heart and soul to another. That lesson still lay smoking on zir own soul, raw and blackened even now.

"They did really well." Eric showed zir as they walked to zir setup. "About the whitework-"

"I want to do that in my shop, the lighting's better than in this hellhole." It was lovely, actually. Sadism and theater were not incompatible with making a living. "I need to add some to those lovely red roses, too. A little reminder of purity against the flagrante delicto of red. Come on, shirt off."

"Why? Did you want to do some more work on the pectoral?" He obediently peeled it off.

"No, I just like looking at you without your shirt on." Rox pointed to the chair. "Park it right there. Have you decided on the thorns or not?"

"I don't know. I really don't want to go into overkill, but I think that they're kind of fitting." Eric fit his large frame into the chair. "We can try a few on the right, though."

It was a basic tenet that reincarnates had no memories of their previous existence, they carried only the ghosts of memory in their deepest subconscious. Rox repeated this in zir own head and held fast to the belief.

"Small ones. Sometimes a little prick causes more damage than a knife in the guts."

"Or a whole bunch in the back. Sounds like experience, Rox." Eric's smile was as bitter as zir heart. "Been there."

"I know. I read the article in Alt.Queer magazine." Eric stiffened, eyes going hard as ze continued. "You were a side column in Rolling Stone for the federal corruption trial, but AQ was the only coverage of the assault trial. I know more about you than you do about me. I thought it was fair to tell you."

Rox took a calculated risk, telling Eric what ze knew about his past. That Buckland bastard gave him a mortal disease, then he and those other bastards broke him. It was too bad that Rox couldn't tell Eric how Buckland died. It was some of zir finest work - a magnum opus in red.

"Why?" The word came out tightly, and all of Eric's muscles were cranked for fight or flight.

"I read it before I met you, honestly." Truth. The magazine had been left in the shop by a client. "A customer wanted a tattoo based on the cover story from the Body Art Expo."

The trapezius muscles eased visibly, though Eric remained silent and watchful.

"If you want to get up and walk away, I will understand." They found him on the Golden Gate, barefoot and shirtless in February with a bottle of whiskey. Despite the years passed since then, Rox had the feeling that Eric was still a man with his toes out over the edge. "I mean you no harm, and maybe I should have told you when you first landed in my chair, but I didn't."

It was tense as Eric thought it through, looking zir over as if trying to see zir soul. "You knew and didn't say anything."

"I thought that after something like that you might want some... privacy."

Eric's smile was humorless and his eyes as empty as a pair of glass buttons. "Try dignity."

The wound was reopened, and grimly Rox set zirself to drain it. "You have that. They broke you because you were young and foolish, but you survived. Never, ever think that survival is less than a victory."

And how well had ze learned that one? Another lesson still smoking on zir soul.

Eric reached out and cradled zir face, wiping a tear away with his thumb. Shit. Ze hadn't even felt it.

"Sometimes my soul leaks." Even a sadist felt pain, and sometimes even the masochist railed at the injustice of it. "I should pack it up for the night. Unless you want to do that whitework."

"At your place."

"At my place. Nothing you don't want. But at the same time - nothing I don't want."

The way he'd touched zir, the way he moved when they were tearing up the dance floor made Rox's blood race, but at the same time he went where ze led him. This might be a massive overstep, but boldness was ever a friend and should favor zir now.

He helped to pack up, loading the stuff into the Zipcar van - and did not resist when ze pushed him up against the rear doors and kissed him hard. It was good to kiss a man as tall as ze was in heels. Oh, yes - lips and teeth and tongues. But why oh why was the passionate swain not busting the buttons of his fly? Inquiring minds wanted to know.

"Rox. You're screwing up my gaydar bigtime."

His fingers brushed the tops of zir bosoms and ze had to smile.

"Shh. Rox has a secret." Taking Eric's wrist, ze guided his hand under zir crinoline skirt and my, that opened his eyes. "I told you - there's so much you don't know."

The part of zirself that ze could not be rid of nonetheless gave pleasure, and at other times ze had rather enjoyed playing the man. A lifetime ago, Rox thought it a curse of zir origin that no surgery, nor even a demon's magic could alter zir gender to the one she then desired. In later decades, hormones could stop a beard, change a voice, and give the cutest little champagne-saucer sized tits, but that part remained. Eric, it seemed, did not mind - and he gave it a stroke that made zir purr.

"Now. Why, my pretty man, are you not busting your buttons for me? Hm?" One by one, Rox popped them free - and for a moment he almost seemed about to stop zir. "Shh. Let me play."

As if anyone was going to notice in this part of the Village. He wore black boxer-briefs, silky to the touch, and ze slipped a finger in... Oh. My.

"I put it on lockdown." Eric was redcheeked and Rox laughed in delight. "It got rowdy."

There was a 'Gates of Hell' in silicone keeping Eric's rowdy prick constrained. Rox's finger trespassed more deeply into Eric's underclothes. They were going to have such fun!

It was the first time Eric had been to Sharps - zir own studio and home in one. A huge, floor-spanning loft off Canal Street filled both needs. The Victorian-era former warehouse was redolent with the ghosts of baled tobacco and rum. The ancient floors and elaborate white plaster Corinthian columns set off red walls and faintly sinister modern furniture all in black. Theater and sadism went together like vanilla ice cream and hot fudge sauce.

"Put the chair there, pretty man, and follow me. I want the best light for the whitework." Ze rigged the natural-light lamps and arranged the instrument trays next to zir custom tattooing chair. "And the shirt can come off, too."

Alone, he was uneasy and off his game so ze simply assumed the role of Senior. Senior says and junior does, so ze simply bossed him as if ze'd never done anything different. Truthfully, Rox laid the groundwork for this from the first visit. With the needle-tipped quill in hand, Rox was authx and actrx and artisan - Eric was the work in progress, and Rox loved zir work.

"Now this is my favorite object in the whole house." Rox patted the red vinyl padding. "So many uses - tattooing, piercing, branding, bondage..." Ze smiled toothily. "I have a peg for every hole, my sweet, and one for most days of the month besides. If I'd known you'd follow me home tonight, I'd have a selection of goodies picked out for you."

Eric was not, however, staring at the chair. He was staring at one of Rox's favorites from zir own Incubus Unleashed collection - the large tentacle-formed item called 'The Rear Ender.'

"Rox? You have not only managed to confuse my gaydar and mess with my head, but also to scare the living hell out of my ass."

"Oh, pretty man - that's not for you! That's like playing Carnegie Hall - you're not going to make it unless you practice, practice, practice." Scooping up the piece, Rox put it back in the toy cabinet. "Now this... or this... maybe this..." Abstract or artistic representations were his apparent favorites, and Eric's glance lingered on one in particular. So - not really a size queen, and he actually knew where his own prostate was located. "Are you out of practice?"

Oh, the blush rolled almost to his shoulders. "Fairly out of practice."

"Mm." Taking the shirt from him, Rox hung it and configured the chair. "Here, let me make you comfortable."

Barechested in the chair, he made a very engaging exhibit. Restraints would not be a good idea at this point, so Rox began to set up the whitework materials. "Now, your magpie, I like the way the feathers came out, but I want to highlight the black with a little more white and sharpen the definition in the white feathers."

"And you mentioned something about the roses?"

The studio was a much more conducive atmosphere to in-depth discussion, and Rox was very pleased at the ideas Eric produced. He accepted the suggestion of being inked with Media vita in morte sumus, but was not sure where to put it - inking it in white around the black biohazard trefoil was one idea. And all during this time, ze touched him on the arm, the shoulder, the knee, the thigh. Jumpy at first, his reaction told Rox so much - Eric hadn't. Not with anyone. Not for a long time. The tension and desire almost made him quiver.

The touch of the needle on his skin was as sweet as kissing him. Rox made small thorn after small thorn, depicting them as hooked into Eric's flesh, the redness around the punctures more suggestive of torment than dripping blood and gaping wounds. Eric seemed to surf the sensation, his skin lightly flushed, respiration quick and light. When Rox nudged his basket with zir fingers he gave the most delicious moan. Ze just had to take it right from his lips and swallow it down.

"Be still. Behave." Rox admonished breathlessly. The boy could talk you into anything without saying a word, kissing like that. Popping the buttons on his fly and Rox slipped a hand inside the boxer briefs, teasing out the locked-down goodies in the black silicone cage. "My, my. Such a pretty toy."

The cage was very well made, and not your average cheap sex shop model. It was meant to restrain and prevent a rowdy prick from erecting as well as holding back the foreskin for the obvious reason - it made a lovely display. Rox picked up an Exacto knife from the instrument tray and smiled as the pretty thing twitched.

"Hold still for Rox, darling."

"Fuck." Eric breathed the word out but held still.

In this, Eric's prick spoke for him, a clear bead of fluid forming at the tip. Oh, ze had read him correctly. Rox cut the bands of silicone away with a nonchalant expertise, and then cut the anchoring ring from around Eric's balls. Freed, he was most impressive - thick-shafted and uncut, the glans as rosy as his flushed skin. Rox cupped his balls in zir hand, then pressed behind them with a knuckle.

"All nice and primed for me, hm?" Ze smacked the head of his prick against his belly. "Are you going to behave, or do I need to make my own arrangements?"

Theater. Rox waved the 'arrangements' at him - the stretchy red silicone ties in varying thicknesses and lengths. In short order his jeans and drawers were down around his boots - with a token tussle and some trash talk - and the ties held him very securely.

Very safely.

Rox could see the tension bleeding out of Eric, as hard as he fought to hold onto it. The poor boy. The poor wary darling. It was a lovely work, though. Eric's arms were secured and supported behind him, a thick band of red silicone held his hips still, while two others held his nicely muscled thighs apart.

"So pretty, and such a filthy mouth." If Rox's touches were proprietary, it might not be entirely theater. "You need seeing to."

Sauntering away, Rox took satisfaction in the lustfulness of Eric's gaze as ze undressed. Baring zir body had bothered Rox a lifetime ago, but coming to terms with and embracing queerness had made Rox proud of zir physique. Swinging a scythe did things to set off a pair of tits that no bra or corset-maker could equal. .

Ze dressed in flowing scarlet silk - a bias-cut sleeveless robe and nothing under it, with zir hair up in a snood. Slowly, Rox walked around the presentation, allowing Eric to look more fully.

"Pretty man, look at you." Rox walked to the cabinet and opened it, making selections from the array of toys - with special provisions for fluids. Ze kept buckets of detergent and bleach for a pre-autoclave soaking - they worked just as handily for penetration toys. "You're starving for it."

A couple of the selections made his eyes go a little wide behind the purple titanium frames, but he made no objection.

"Now, here are the Rules of Rox. When you want to pause, you shake the rattler. When you want to stop, you drop it. When I tell you to shake it or drop it, you do so or I will stop and make sure you're okay."

"Okay."

Rox placed the rattler in his dominant hand, made him shake it, and then smiled as ze took out a box of black nitrile gloves. "Now, pretty man, I am going to milk that prick of yours until you haven't a drip left to give."

The gloves went on with a snap, and an unfeigned fiendish grin; the expression of ohyes!ohno! on Eric's face was priceless. The other considerations that were inhibiting Eric simply became part of the performance. Rox had not built zir reputation by being careless or cavalier in any role, and Eric had experienced zir needles. To begin with, ze completely ignored his cock. Rox preferred to find out what other spots rang his chimes. There were fond memories of a lover who would come hard from having the backs of his knees sucked, so it paid to never rule anything out.

The lower back was a given - how many people had ass antlers there? Neck and nipples. Ears - also a given because of the piercings. Ass - naturally. Eric's sides were ticklish. Scratching his shoulders made his hips buck. And the unexpected - massaging his feet with particular attention to the heel made him moan.

Finally, Rox sat between his spread thighs, with a smug smile for the straining flesh of his prick, and opened a packet of Surgilube.

"You're killing me, Red." His voice was a low, warm murmur; almost slurred from the endorphins and hormones.

The pain that nickname gave zir was sweetness and agony all at once, because he couldn't possibly remember.

"Pretty man." Rox kissed his thigh, picking up a ribbon of silicone. "We haven't even started."

How Eric cussed like a deckhand when ze tied his balls down and apart, then beribboned the base of his cock. Then, to be fair, ze had to do the same for zirself. Eric had zir at a lovely cusp of desire, torn between simply fucking him silly and wringing him of every bit of tears, sweat, and come that he had to give. It was pure art when he fought his bonds, fountained foul language and curses, kissed Rox as if ze was his lifeline and the embodiment of angelic mercy. He felt safe enough to let loose and it was Rox's privilege to work him over.

The only balk was at the silicone sounds and urethral plug, and Rox demonstrated them on zir own equipment. "Surgical lubricant. Nothing else - it has to be sterile and water-based. Now this is a small diameter rippled sound-"

Playing with his prick was almost as much fun as playing 'how many toys can go into and come out of Eric's ass tonight?' But the best was denying him orgasm for hours until he was delirious and incoherent, burning up with the need for more than getting his shot off.

Rox regloved. "Come on, pretty Eric. You've been such a good boy-"

"Rox, goddamnit, stop being evil and fucking fuck me or I'm going to just up and fucking die on the damn table-"

Oh, so pretty. Foul-mouthed, hot-eyed, with the muscles of his ass, thighs, and abdomen flexing as his body tried to come.

"Nobody in the history of the world has died from not ejaculating." Rox smacked his ass. "Spread it, boy."

When ze had been Red, ze had often asserted that Eric's sexual orientation was 'Yes' and he did not disappoint now.

"You think you need to fuck here." Rox touched his temple. "Because you're so primed and ready here." Ze trailed a sharp-edged fingernail down his rosy-headed prick, then between his buttocks. "And especially here."

The toy Rox pressed into him was not the largest, but given that Rox was now very familiar with Eric's intimate anatomy, it was perfectly positioned for maximum stimulation. He writhed so prettily when ze loosened the bonds on his hips, breath hitching as he took the knob-shaped plug into himself and squeezed - only to almost levitate off the table when Rox twisted the bullet vibrator within to life.

Nitrile gloves and a condom were not what ze wanted to give him. Rox wanted to give him flesh and sweat, semen and blood. Ze hadn't killed Gary Buckland slowly enough for what he'd taken from Eric. Instead Rox stripped off the glove, swung astride him, then wrapped zir hand around both of them, pressing prick to prick and stroking them together.

"Rox-ahAHFUCK!" Eric's eyes went wide, arms twisting in his bonds even as he thrust into zir grip. "I- you-"

"Shh, sweetheart. No exchange." Rox's breath hitched hard in zir chest; he was as smooth as peachskin and hard as granite. "Trust Rox, baby. I'll take good care of you."

"Fuck goddamnit Rox if you're yeah going to make me come this hard then you can nf fucking kiss me-"

No need to tell zir twice. Kissing was great. Coming was awesome. Kissing and jerking off with someone else's needy prick was zir new favorite flavor. Rox liked zir bits just fine.

"I still want you to fuck me, Rox-" Eric smiled like an angel, and ze could feel the pulse at the base of his prick pressing against zir and no way to stop and didn't want to-

"B-b-brat! AH!" Rox arched and shuddered, barely in time with a cloth to catch their mess, shouting as incoherently as the man under zir.

After, once Rox freed his arms, he was sweet and nuzzly - and somewhat freaked. Considering it was his first sexual contact aside from his hand in years it was understandable. Eric felt himself a leper, mutilated, diseased - for him the idea of possibly infecting anyone was a horror. That had kept him in fear of a part of himself - sexuality, intimacy and the trust needed for both - that Gary Buckland had blighted. To give Eric some of that back was very satisfying indeed.

Rox cleaned him up and tucked him into bed fuck-drunk and softly dazed, waiting until he was asleep in the red satin to go clean up. The disposables, toys, and equipment were autoclaved separately with the toys going back in the cabinet, the equipment into sealed trays, and the trash into a medical waste container. The buckets took a solution of boiling water, soap flakes, and bleach to sit and cool overnight.

But all this busy-ness, fucking, and cleaning could give one the hungries. As Rox stepped into the kitchen, ze eyed a pigeon feather falling slowly to the window ledge.

So.

Just to be sure, Rox looked in on Eric - taking his glasses off and putting them on the night-table.

When dealing with Reapers, or even suspecting their presence, Rox took few chances and always watched zir back. The life of an outlier and rogue was precarious, and ze had made plenty of enemies in a little over two centuries. To a mortal-fleshed reincarnate, such an encounter would be quick and final - and fatal. This soul, Eric's soul, would be going with Rox when the the time came. Rox's books showed a heavy balance owed, and bringing a lost Reaper's soul home would go a long way to paying it off.

Ze simply slipped into bed next to Eric and spooned around him. This time he was frail and mortal. This time Rox would protect him. And when the next time came, maybe ze wouldn't screw it up so badly. The last thing Rox remembered before falling asleep was wondering if Ronnie and Alan were somewhere out there, too.

~

Sunday morning, Alan awoke and lay in bed. His coffee maker (Amazon was proving dangerous to his American Express card) kicked on, and the scent of the Pearl Street Joe blend began to waft through the apartment. Saturday had been spent holed up and thumbing his nose at the Filgrastim, taking hydrocodone-induced naps, eating, and urinating very, very gingerly.

Andrea called when he was working on his post-breakfast-at-noon cup of coffee and recommended phenaholycraphowdoyoupronounceitadine and Alan asked what it did.

"It anesthetizes your urinary tract including your urethra, but it makes your urine orange. Still, after a Foley catheter you might need it. Annabella Rose, you knock that off right this second!"

"Doggies, Mama!" Piped a little voice.

He really should not have looked up 'Foley catheter' on Google. That was a really stupid thing to do. "What did they to my... stuff?"

"Alan, I'm a nurse, you do not have to use delicate euphemisms like 'my stuff' for referring to your genitals. No doggies Annabella - all muddy. Dirty. Ick."

"Shh!"

"I don't believe it. Did you just 'shh' me?"

"Doggies wanna cookie."

"I Googled 'Foley catheter.'" His stomach did a slow flip and his stuff tried to hide up inside of him.

"Possibly not the smartest thing you could have done to yourself. There are times when you need to leave Google alone. Ma! Come get Annabella! No more cookies, you."

"How old is she?"

"Three. I love my kids, but three makes two look like general anesthesia. No Anna don't open-!"

There was a sound as if a crowd of demented tap-dancers had invaded the house. The doggies.

"What kind of dogs?" He was trying not to laugh.

"Chocolate Labradors. Three of them." Andrea took a very deep breath. "Ma?"

There was a brief conversation in Italian and the sound of the door opening and shutting again - followed by sudden quiet and birdsong. "Gimme a second."

"Okay."

There was the sound of keys, and going down a set of stairs. Then there was the sound of a car door opening, closing.

"The quietest room in the house." Andrea sighed in relief. "My minivan."

"Oh, my God. You are such a mom." Alan laughed.

"Don't laugh! It has to hold me, Carmine, the Nonnis, the kids, three dogs, one walker, Tito's soccer stuff, Annabella's stroller, and commute bags. It's got heated leather seats, cup holders, lots of room, and I even have a dvd player with a 17-inch screen." Andrea had a bit of swagger over her minivan and it made him smile. "Rainy weekends just do it to me - the kids are really active and you can only pacify them with Disney for so long. Now."

"You should be enjoying your weekend. I'm fine." He added, "The cheesecake was the best."

"Junior's. Carmine and I do date nights there. And you were not fine last I saw you."

"But I'm fine now." Alan reasoned. "I'm home, I feel pretty good, and UPS delivered my new slippers while I was out."

"Alan. You had a serious pain episode. You were in shock and a full ten on the Pain Assessment Scale." Andrea paused. "Could I ask who you were talking to?"

"Huh?" Alan frowned. "When?"

"You were looking past me, and I thought you were talking to Dr. Chowdree but he was in the room, not in the doorway. I turned to look, but there was nobody there."

"He must have got out fast. I think it was just a passerby. A younger guy in a black suit." There had been something odd about him, though. Hadn't there? "Not a doctor or anything."

Andrea was quiet for a long time. "You know. Sometimes pain makes your brain do funny things, or your brain does strange things when you're in pain."

"That sounded like it comes from experience."

"I was in a car accident when I was little. It was a wreck and I was hurt very badly."

"Did you see a man in a black suit?" Alan felt his skin break out in goosebumps.

"Yeah." Alan could hear the shiver. "And it made no sense for him to be where he was."

"I think that maybe it's a coincidence. You're right that the mind does weird things." Alan took a long drink of his coffee. "I mean, hurt - right? In shock. Scared."

"Did yours say anything, Alan?"

For a moment he thought of denying it. "He said 'Shh. You're not supposed to see me.' and then I... I guess the morphine hit."

"Alan, mine said the same thing - and when I woke up again, I'd been in the hospital for two weeks."

Alan could hear the rain start, the both of them were so quiet. "Some kind of psychopomp imprint. Afraid and in pain, maybe our ancient brains thought we were dying and our higher brains provided us with a psychopomp - an authority figure in a suit - to take us to whatever-after."

"But wouldn't it be something more traditional? I mean, I was raised as a Catholic-"

"And I was raised as an Evangelical Lutheran - a pastor's kid, no less. I don't think it has any bearing, otherwise we would have seen... I don't know." Alan got up and went to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door and looking for the potato salad. "I mean, in psychological terms a person in pain or perceiving themselves as near death is in an altered state of consciousness, right?"

"Well, yes. The biochemical process of traumatic shock even when not followed by death causes a massive release of hormones and other substances within the body depending on the originating event." Andrea knew her stuff the way Alan knew his stuff, and he shut up to absorb it. "Hallucinations - olfactory, auditory, visual - are not unusual in the presence of severe pain. I remember some migraine and cluster headache patients would report someone being in the room with them - talking, standing just behind them or out of view, sometimes even touching them. I started nursing in an ER environment before I became interested in oncology."

As she talked, the tension went out of her voice and out of Alan's shoulders and he chuckled softly. "Look at us. We scared ourselves."

"Oh, you're right! We really did!" Andrea laughed. "I'd been carrying that around for a long time."

"Well, it's a big thing to carry around. You were a little kid. Was it a very bad accident?" Alan dug into the potato salad - it had a little grated something in it, something Dijonny, and some mix of herbs he couldn't identify.

"Yeah. An eighteen wheeler jumped the median. My dad and brother were killed, but my mother and I were in the back seat and literally blown out of the liftgate still buckled in."

"I'm so sorry." Alan was horrified that he'd even asked.

"People tell me that things happen for a reason. I never saw a reason for that."

"Sometimes, you know, I think that if my cancer happened for a reason it would make me madder than hell." Alan confided. "If someone was doing this to me, putting me through this, I'd be completely psychotic."

"I know, right? I mean, I've been a patient, and I've been a nurse, and if there was some... some agency behind all this..."

Alan let out a long breath. "You have no idea how good it feel to get that one off my chest. I'm a pastor's kid. Some part of me is still waiting for a lightning bolt."

"Alan? Anyone says that to you, you come find me and I will beat the snot out of them for being such an asshole. Then I'll tell them that everything happens for a reason."

He couldn't help it - Alan laughed until he cried. It was so good just to talk with someone, not about anything in particular, just about stuff. If asked, Alan would deny being lonely. He had what one of his teachers had called 'a rich interior life' - ignoring the fact that Alan developed that rich interior life because of the bullying and intolerance then present in his exterior life.

"When's your next injection of Filgrastim?"

To Alan's surprise, he was scraping the last of the potato salad out of the bowl. That was delicious! "Right after I put this dish in the sink, actually."

"Okay. Take your pain medication first."

"First?" Alan opened the 'fridge - the cleaning service personnel rigorously arranged his medications, and put his injectables in the butter niche. They generally came on Tuesday and Friday now, since those were days when he was out of the house for chemotherapy and infusion - leaving him the other days to huddle and recover. "Why before?"

"Because it's better to not let the pain get a grip first. What's the saying? It's more effective to unload a gun than to shoot into a bulletproof vest?"

"Andrea? That's birth control - specifically a vasectomy."

"The same principle applies!" She insisted. "Stop the bone pain before it starts."

"You're the boss." Alan opened the vicodin and washed two down with a glass of water, then took the little pre-filled syringe out of the box in the butter niche. "Can I tell you how much I hate this? I really, really do."

"Deep breath."

"Okay." One. Exhale. Two. Exhale. Three. Ow.

"Exhale."

"I'm okay." Alan put the emptied syringe in the sharps unit and chopped it.

"Shh, it's okay. Get your juice and climb back into bed."

There were just times when you had to listen to the boss. He'd showered and just put on a fresh pair of pajamas after breakfast. The bed was fresh and soft, and the new bed-lounge pillow (Amazon again - boredom, confinement, and a credit card) was super comfortable. "I'm going to get loopy."

"That's fine - loopy's better than hurting."

He could hear the seat adjusting on the other end. "Getting comfortable?"

"Heated seats and a cup holder - also? Quiet. It's a total Mommy Room."

He settled in and rolled his new bed-table into place. "Now there's an investment idea. Mommy Rooms."

"Padded. Soundproof. With a wine bar and chocolate buffet."

"Wine doesn't go with chocolate, Andrea."

"Alan, in one house I have my husband, three Labs, a seven year-old boy with soccer and dinosaur obsessions, a three year-old girl unable to hear the word 'no,' my grandmother Rinaldi, and Carmine's grandmother Capello. Wine goes with chocolate."

The rain pattered on the fire escape as they talked, and Alan realized that he was feeling muzzy and the bone pain wasn't coming and-

"Sleep well, Alan. I'll see you on Tuesday."

"... 'kay. Night." He set the phone down, turned on his side, and slept.

~

There were good ways to wake up in the morning, Rox thought. Showering with Eric and taking him back to bed was one of them. Ze tied him up, put his legs over zir shoulders, and then rode that boy's ass as if his mother had named him Six Flags. Once untied and capable of speech, Eric made zir a breakfast of crepes filled with strawberries, thick whipped cream, and topped with chocolate shavings - served to zir in bed.

Rox gave him an encore, and was pleased that Eric was an attentive and passionate top with stamina to spare.

When ze sent him on his way home, the little deviant turned the Walk Of Shame into the Stride Of Pride in a Sharps logo'ed scarlet hoodie under his black cavalry coat.

Now for another cup of coffee and the Sunday Times... and a black-and-white pigeon in the living room. Rox felt zir teeth go to full points and zir vision tinged with red.

"OUT!" Sang-froid had never been the thing, had it? This... invasion was the outside of enough. "Out or I have roast squab for dinner, William T. Spears!"

The pigeon blurred and then resolved into William - as ever in black and white. Perfect. Immaculate. And from the looks of it, absolutely furious.

"Grell Sutcliff, you overstep." The tone was so cold that Rox should have been able to see zir breath.

"And you have no right - I am not one of yours!" Scythespace, ever a part of a Reaper, provided zir with an axe with which to give forty well-earned whacks. "You have no say over me, no authority over me, and I give no fucks for the likes of you. NOW GET OUT!"

Mortal guise or not, ze was a god and that shout shook the brickwork. There was a fine line between love and hate, and this one had given that line one hell of a push. Where William was dripping icicles, Rox felt ze could breathe dragonfire. Evidently, Will had some sense that matters had entered a dangerous new territory - he immediately re-assessed.

"Grell-"

"-is decades dead. I am Rox Sharp. If you want to fully understand how much I had to change to survive, I am certain that that demon and the ancient would be more than willing to share their newfound understanding with you." An eyebrow twitch let zir know that both those beings were certainly on his mind, but the green-eyed monster was not idly named. "Your jealousy ended his life last time and lost two souls to the darkness. He has reincarnated, with the name no less, and that means She Who Spins The Threads has a hand in this."

Will glowered. For a cold man, his passions ran hot and deep - but deeper still was his loyalty to the Society. "With the full name?"

"Eric Ryan Slingby. He told me last night that he has a half-brother - Ronnie."

"All the same, you took him to your bed-"

And he had no right to be accusatory. "Well, at least nothing's changed there-"

"I gave you a trainee, Grell, not a playtoy-"

"And what, William, made you think I was merely playing with him?"

Hit. Score.

It gave zir a vicious satisfaction and ze dismissed the axe.

Unfortunately, ze'd also scored on zirself. Eric had loved Grell - as Senior, as lover - and Grell dumped him cold when Will only crooked a finger. Every decade after that, Grell found zirself still held in fond regard - but also at arm's length.

"I am not yours - no longer a Reaper nor your lover. Whatever you believe I owe you, that belief is one-sided at best. You uttered not a word when the elders broke my scythe and stripped my rank."

"I spoke for you." Will's jaw firmed. "I just did not at the time possess the rank or years to command their attention."

"Fat lot of good it did and not word one from you then 'til now." Rox turned on a heel and walked into her kitchen. "Let's see if we can set a new record."

If ze no longer had a scythe, words would do.

"Blast it you mad creature, give me something! The demon or the the elder - either would see your rank reinstated, your Deathscythe returned."

That was more emotion than ze'd heard from him in two centuries - and it was at least fifty years too late. "And what makes you think for a minute that I want that back? I have other satisfactions now, and the elder and the demon are paying in suffering for what they cost me."

"You know where they are?"

"Of course I do, you silly man. I put them there, and they will remain and suffer until my heart is satisfied enough to kill them. I'm in no hurry." Will's thunderstruck expression made her smile. "If you would be thought of no consequence, first be thought a fool. How handy that has been for me - even you thought me so."

"Grell-"

"Rox - short for Roxanne, when the gender still mattered to me. I have a birth certificate that says so, too. Grell was another person, and lived another life. Mourn her, if you can find it in you."

There was no reply, and when Rox turned he was gone.

There was wetness on zir cheeks. Sometimes zir soul leaked. That was all.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.

In this chapter, Alan is fine - just ask him. An observer observes. Eric has a beef, and a visitor.

Notes:

Thanks to my betas and all who give me feedback, in whatever way. :)

Chapter Text

Monday morning, Alan felt pretty good. He set up the bicycle with the pannier bags, bolted a carry-crate on the cargo-deck, and emptied his backpack. The extra carry-capacity was needed. The food was gone again, and while he understood that he ought to sign up with a meal service or go to the damn grocery store, there was something so satisfying in the meals from Pearl Street. Something as mundane as meatloaf and mashed potatoes, followed with apple cake made Alan's stomach happy. It was the oddest feeling.

The Financial District was largely deserted at six in the morning, and Alan was waiting when Ronald opened the doors. "Good morning, Ronald."

"Good morning, Alan. How are you feeling?"

"Better than some, and you?" If he was wearing a fleece stocking cap and a couple of extra layers, well, it was damp and chilly.

"Awesome! One of my brews has been picked as a finalist in the Five Boroughs Brew Bash." Ronald preened. "Fire Engine Red - a red wheat and honey lager with a little chipotle."

"Congratulations - what's first prize?" Alan brought in the panniers.

"A six month brewing facility and distribution deal with Hudson Micro Partners." Ronald opened the shades and turned on the signage. "Don't worry, I read the contract. The recipe is my intellectual property, and so is the artwork. I'll go get your bags from the back."

There was a person-shaped shadow traversing the hallway very quickly, and Alan pretended not to notice. It seemed that Ronald's butch honey brother was either very shy or a dire misanthrope. Alan was pretty certain that at the moment he himself was far from being presentable, much less date material. Alan also ignored the hushed exchange of 'Goddamnit, get out there. He doesn't bite!' and 'No. I've been cooking all night and I have swamp-balls. I'm going to take a shower. Get me feedback, Beer Brat.'

There was a deathly silence and Alan nonchalantly perused the cold case.

Puddings, yes. The lentils were good, too.

A scuffle.

Caprese sandwiches - on little rosemary rolls.

"Ow ow ow ow - fucker!"

Ronald.

What was this? Mini cakes? Flourless chocolate. Strawberries with cream and chocolate shavings. Cup tiramisu. Cookies? Spice dusted sugar cookies. Chocolate chip. Chocolate-chip-cherry oatmeal. Sour cherry mini pies. Peach mini pies. Pile. He really should get some soups. It was dreary as hell with all the rain. Tomato-basil. A rich cream of mixed mushrooms. Matzo ball - that was for tomorrow. Cioppino - with garlic bread.

"Curried butternut." Came the hiss from the hallway.

The large shadow was halfway down the hall, and Alan took a position between the cold case and the counter.

"No butternut soup. It's always too sweet - it's like drinking pumpkin pie." Alan replied.

"You have nine different desserts and let's talk about sweet. It's curried, not sugared." A gruff baritone, and somewhat indignant.

"Eric, move your ass." Ronald came out bearing three bags and the shadow beat a retreat down the hallway, and from the footsteps, apparently up the stairs.

The disappointed puppy face was back, both for Alan and Mr. Curried Butternut The Hot Butch Honey.

"Ronald-"

"You think he's cute, though! And he's checked you out a few times, but he's got his head all up his ass."

Wait. He'd been checked out by-? Never mind.

"Ronald, anyone laying eyes on him would think he's very handsome. I'd lay off calling him cute, however, unless you want to be noogied or dodging flung pies until you're thirty." Alan opened his wallet, smiling. "Now, I've added to the pile-"

A sigh. "He only acts like a gruff asshole - it's a front. Try the curried butternut?"

Alan gave into the fate's decree and added the curried butternut squash soup to the pile, then extracted two folded sheets of paper and handed it to Ronald. "Feedback."

It was exacting, too. The chef liked the spicy and was mostly subtle about it, but there were some very complex blends. Further, he was a rank hedonist when it came to deserts; he favored sensual but simply presented confections that seduced from the plate. However, considering some of the complex seasoning of the entrees, perhaps that was intentional. There was a quibble about the salt (too little) and the fennel (good Lord) in the bouillabaisse. The seasoning in the vegetable dishes was amazing - anything with potatoes Alan would willingly eat a bucketful.

Ronald was reading and chuckling. "Oh, he's going to have a ball with this! Expect rebuttal."

"Where did he train? Some of the seasonings say France, but others say Spain." Alan started distributing the haul as Ronald rang him up. "There's almost Cajun or Creole influence, too. Very Caribbean but with Mediterranean, too."

"Well, we grew up moving around pretty often - Paris, Berlin, Milan, London, Amsterdam, Vienna, Chicago, Atlanta, Miami. Eric has been cooking since I can remember." Ronald smiled. "He bounced around a lot, too. Miami, Aspen, Atlanta, Sun Valley, Myrtle Beach, New Orleans, San Francisco. He could chef anywhere."

"He's very talented, and he has his own kitchen so he can cook as he pleases. That's pretty unusual for a younger chef."

The Pearl Street Kitchen had only been open for a few months when Alan bought his place on Broad Street. It became his instant, every morning stop on the way to work.

For a moment, Ronald looked sad. "He's a good guy. Don't be put off."

"I'm not. I think that maybe your brother and I are just not good with people we don't know well." Alan admitted as he signed the receipt and added a comfortable tip. "I never have been, really."

"I know how to fix that!" Ronald's sunny demeanor came back from behind whatever cloud had dimmed it. "You guys should come with me to the Beer Bash on Saturday night."

Alan hated to shut him down. "I'll have to see how I'm feeling, and this thing throws so many change-ups that it's hard to make plans. Thanks for thinking of me, though."

He was in week three, and as hard as Alan was trying to handle it, he was deeply afraid that he was not. Andrea could only so so much as a professional and a person - she should not be lumbered with him in her off hours.

Back home, Alan answered some email from the office. His superiors checked in every Monday and Thursday morning with questions, and his salary was deposited like clockwork on Friday mornings. Several of his own investments were ripe for flipping, though until Alan had a better idea of his own physical condition, he really did not want to make a long term plan. As it was, he needed to rethink his longer-term strategies - or did he?

Was the chemotherapy working? What was scheduled for intensification phase? After this Friday he had only one more induction-phase session. It was frustrating, frightening, not to have something quantitative. Then there was the way he felt physically - always cold, tired, sometimes feverish, achy. After the anti-nausea and anti-anxiety meds wore off from a Friday infusion, he felt simultaneously nauseated and exhausted until Monday morning, then fatigued and doped up after Filgrastim left him crappy in general until Thursday.

"Stop. Breathe." Alan rested his forehead on the granite countertop. "Breathe. Don't wind up."

Alone with his thoughts was turning out to be the worst of all possible places.

Time to do things before the vicodin and the Filgrastim laid him out.

Yoga on the Wii. He'd only started a week ago, but if he did the whole program he felt about like he did after a good twenty laps. Squash on the Wii was not as impressive - Alan had a definite desire to get in there and smash, but playing on a digital court was just not very satisfying. He still had two more 'exercise and fitness' packs to evaluate this week - one that included strength training and pilates and the other a general racquet sports package.

Doing things kept him from introspection, and that was good because panic attacks quite frankly sucked - and not in the good, wet way. Ativan knocked them down, mostly by knocking him down, and when combined with the vicodin, Alan was worried about developing a massive pair of addictions. Then there was 'chemo brain' - what if that happened and he was stupid from tranks and painkillers? What if he already had it and didn't know it.

Alan. Shut the fuck up and do some yoga.

Anything to take his mind off the current reality.

And, at times, that included stray thoughts of a hot butch honey in chef's whites.

Who had been checking him out.

When he stopped to think about it, it made him blush.

"Come on. You're twenty-eight. You've had lovers, boyfriends, and one-nighters. Get over it."

Alan did not think he was all that, but he was swimmer-fit and dressed well. The lovers and boyfriends left because they hated his hours. Flings and hookups were less demanding, but sitting here alone on the living room floor with the Wii's balance board, Alan wondered if maybe his energy and attention should not have been more... evenly distributed? Honestly, he hadn't felt alone or lonely before this. There was too much to do, places to go, and things to see. There was a world out there, and Alan wanted to live in it.

He could get a dog. Or a cat.

But what if he-?

"Yoga, Alan. Do not brain. Yoga."

And he did. It was harder than he imagined when he picked out the game, but it did keep his body too busy for his mind to start shenanigans. Then the doses of Ativan and vicodin wiped him out for the rest of the day - leaving him little to do but sleep and vegetate. He couldn't even read, much less play his violin, or follow a simple recipe. This was why he hated the medication - it turned him into an idiot.

All he could hope was that his neutrophils would get with the program and no more Filgrastim.

There was an email from his brother - sent to his work account, not his personal - doing what Teddy called 'Laying Down The Law.' Mostly this consisted of telling Alan to put his affairs in order, designate Dad as next-of-kin, and grant Ted power-of-attorney, and how to get right with the Lord. Alan wrote back with his attorney's name, number, and address with a directive to cease and desist. He should not have called in that vulnerable moment, as telling anyone in his family anything had never yielded any result other than a complete shitstorm.

A quick call to his attorney resulted in a return call from Mr. Conti, and Alan's reassurances that treatment was going well (without really defining that term). In turn, Mr. Conti reassured Alan that the firm would safeguard his privacy. After that, Alan was - all things considered - glad to take his medications, change back into his pajamas, and go to bed at one in the afternoon.

The next morning was an infusion day, but a short one. Alan packed just a couple of snacks and juices, his reader, medicines, and warm socks. Carmine picked him up at eight, and agreed that oatmeal-cherry-chocolate-chunk cookies were breakfast - they even had eggs. Alan split his cookie ration because eating four cookies for breakfast was vaguely naughty, and he wanted to meet Andrea with a clear conscience.

"Man, these are good! Where do you get them?" Carmine had a blissful expression as he dunked the rest of the cookie in his coffee.

"The Pearl Street Kitchen. It's my favorite local place." A three-story brownstone on a narrow horse-carriage street, found only when he was taking a direct walking route to work. "Everything's fresh every day."

"I'm going to check them out for sure. What else have they got?"

Alan was more than happy to tell him. "I hate meatloaf - and I love their meatloaf! No joke. And the soups are delicious - you just need to add salt, the chef undersalts on purpose."

"Oh, man. I'm hungry now."

Another meeting with this panel of doctors was another exercise in headbutting, and Alan dug in on the ANC. He didn't want to hear anything until that bloodwork was back with the neutrophil count - because when his second >1,000 microliters neutrophil level came back, he was quitting that stuff so fast-

"You think it's so wonderful, you can sign up for it." Alan snapped. "I'm the one who ended up Googling 'Foley catheter' on Sunday morning when I was turned into a beta-tester for a cross-reaction." No. He was not being a good patient. At the moment, he did not care. "I know how agony feels. I don't like knowing that."

"Medicine, especially oncology-" Dr. Chowdree was again the man on point for this, his colleagues sitting around like so many mannequins in white coats.

"Is an art, a science, and a crap shoot. I know that, but I was Black Swanned by a drug interaction known to happen and was not warned about the possibility." For that, Alan had the same contempt as he did for someone cooking the books and presenting them as pristine. "I'm a patient, not a set of data, and that was terrifying and hideously painful."

"I am sorry, but there was no way to tell-"

"I expect to be informed. Not informing me was a bullshit move." Alan sat back in the chair. "Now stop blowing sunshine up my ass and start informing because you lost a huge measure of trust last week."

As meetings went, it was productive. Alan found that with his smaller stature and slight appearance, people consistently underestimated his intelligence, his tenaciousness, and his temper. It was as he was handing people their asses on a plate that they'd realize the little guy was serious and quit playing games. The real hardball was over the pain and anxiety control medications, with no good routes to take out of the vicodin until his neutrophil count got with the program. The Ativan was the safest route for his anxiety - and he might be able to taper to one every other day.

All things considered, it was a 50/50.

He got ready for infusion, deeply relieved that this was a simple three-hour session instead of an all-day two-bagger. Just Pegaspargenase today. And the fucking Filgrastim.

Alan glanced nervously at the doorway, then laughed at himself. Scared of an imaginary man in a suit.

Andrea tapped at the frame, then stuck her head in and smiled. "I know. I caught myself looking, too. Stupid, huh?"

"Easy to laugh from at home on the couch..."

"Or the Mommy Room..."

"Yeah. Come on, we're being silly." Alan shook his head and opened his cooler bag to reveal peanut-butter-and-jelly cookies and apple-raisin oatmeal cookies. "Cookie?"

"Ooh. Carmine told me about these." A momface with petit silence and eyebrow. "Cookies are not breakfast, you."

"They have breakfast things in them! Oatmeal, wheat, fruit, eggs-"

"Chocolate-"

"In Europe, even in Italy, people have chocolate for breakfast. Also - Cocoa Puffs!"

All objections evaporated when Andrea bit into a PB&J cookie. "Oh, that's delicious!"

Another convert. "I told Carmine where they are. Also - meatloaf."

"I hate meatloaf - love meatballs."

"Meatballs are meatloaf - bite sized." He opened his shirt for the blood draw as Andrea leveled the recliner out.

"Meatloaf is nothing like meatballs." Andrea pulled up her mask and gloved up. "Any discomfort or swelling?"

"No, none." The ritual was actually very comforting, and Alan found himself relaxing. "Reversed proportions. Meatballs go in the red sauce, and red sauce goes on the meatloaf."

He managed to not need the tissues. Maybe he was getting on top of the needle problems.

Andrea covered him up.

"It's just a short session." Alan objected slightly from under the warmed blankets. "Let me know about the neutrophil counts."

"Have another cookie and I'll be right back."

~

Reaper Andrew Whitley paused as the nurse exited the patient's room and held his breath as her gaze paused on him, then a blink, and she continued on her way. That one could almost see Reapers, having seen one herself when very young. Now, perhaps having seen so many under the shadow, she perceived them more than most mortals could. This was his beat, but this was her territory, and Andrew respected the young mortal.

However, he had no collections scheduled until later this afternoon. His assignment this afternoon was altogether different - from outside of Manhattan division, from the UK Home Office of the Society. It began with Andrew's incident report - a routine sighting by a mortal near extremis. It took an extreme shock to the corporeal vessel to begin separation of the record. Honestly he'd thought the poor bastard was for the chop from the pain alone, but Humphries Alan Gabriel was not slated for collection. Instead, there seemed to be some interest in him at a very high level.

Andrew raised his phone and snapped a photo of the subject's face, editing in the name and vital information from the Akashic Records and sent it to his superiors. Mission accomplished.

A chime denoted an incoming message - two words:

'Maintain surveillance.'

It was signed by the Director-in-Chief of the whole damn UK - William T. Spears. The device chimed, letting Andrew know there was a collection in his immediate area.

A nurse and doctor ran by, and down the hall someone was breaking out the crash cart. Andrew sighed. They didn't know, and it always distressed him that they'd try so hard - as if corporeal death was not traumatic enough. Down the hallway and into a small room where Vitter, Reese Audrey was under the shadow. Andrew brought up the data on his phone and took out the small, grey-metal stylus.

"Collection of subject Gardner, Reese Audrey. Born 19 August 1944. Death from cardiac fibrillation." The commotion was intense and purposeful around the frail figure in the recliner. Audrey Gardner's gaze flickered above the oxygen mask as she perceived and watched him. Drawing the small stylus from the body of his phone, Andrew touched it to her flesh and released the record. "Record uploading."

They shocked her body, compressed her chest, put tubes into her throat and down her airway.

"No further notes." Andrew collected the soul and record. "Collection complete."

He pocketed his phone and went out into the corridor, watching Andrea Rinaldi as she exited the pharmacy office. And for a second, just one, the mortal looked right at him - and away again. It was not unusual for certain mortals - EMS, firefighters, law enforcement, hospice and nursing home workers, and medical personnel - to perceive them. They were a flicker of black in the peripheral vision, the brush of someone passing by in an empty hallway, the person at the scene that nobody quite remembered. The mind generally trained itself to unsee what it did not understand, but in certain cases someone from the office had to step in and reinforce that tendency with a dose of Lethe.

He liked her. He didn't want anyone to interfere with one of his favorite mortals. So long as she could convince herself that he was really not there, then nobody had to know.

~

Alan was actually able to stay awake for his treatment, albeit slightly groggy from the Benadryl, talking with Andrea on her rounds as she tended to him and four other patients on infusion. They talked about moving his Filgrastim to evening - his neutrophil counts were rising, but not there yet. If it was the only way not to blow a hole in the middle of the day, Alan would take it.

No Filgrastim until bedtime! It was like a getting snow day off from school.

Andrea was also able to cover the likely course of treatment in the ominously-named 'early intensification' phase. "I'm still going to be your nurse. Continuity of treatment is important - your caregivers know you."

It was caregiver - singular - and Alan's insides exploded in butterflies at the first day's schedule.

No Pegaspargase for two whole weeks. Intrathecal methotrexate. Infusion cyclophosphamide. Oral mercaptopurine. Another self-inject called cytarabine-

"It's not a self-inject. You'll have to come up here for that one and stay for some observation."

"For four days in a row for the first two weeks? And what's intrathecal?" He knew he wasn't going to like it when she held his hands to tell him and held him very tightly as he had a bad case of the shakes. "I had a spinal tap when I was admitted. It was really bad. Are there any alternatives?"

Andrea was so straight with him. God, Alan was grateful for that.

"A port in my HEAD?"

NOPE.

"That's not used very often." Andrea opened Alan's juice for him and made him drink. "It's because cancer cells are tricky, hidey little shits. They can hide in your central nervous system. Some people do need to repeat this course, but that's at their doctor's discretion."

"How many?" Alan drank down the Mean Greens.

"Eighty percent of patients with your type of leukemia enter remission within the induction phase, but it's a temporary remission - not a knockout." Andrea explained. "It only covers the blood and bone marrow. During first-phase intensification, we consolidate and intensify the gains in the blood and marrow, and prepare for the second phase - when we go after it in the central nervous system with radiation, CNS prophylactic chemotherapy, and add tyrosine kinase inhibitors that prevent more blasts from developing."

Alan took a shaky breath and leaned back on his neck pillow. "You shoot so straight with me, and you've been so much help. I can honestly say that I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You don't have a caretaker - so I'll take care of you as much as you'll let me."

Alan considered his family, then asked, "I'm not on good terms with my family. I can honestly say that before I found out I had leukemia that I hadn't spoken to any of them in a decade. Can a next of relative do anything about my treatment? Interfere with my directives?"

"I can't advise you there, but I'll refer you to a lawyer who can. He's really good and makes it stick." Andrea shook her head. "Some people think that the hardest part of this job is dealing with the outcomes that aren't like the ones on the brochure. The hardest thing for me has been seeing my patients get their lives taken over; partners barred, fights over money, patients guilted into treatment after treatment, or abandoning effective treatment. All kinds trouble when all of this, everything, should be about the patient and what they want. Not anyone else."

That was a nasty jolt. "I never thought of that."

"Alan, there are times we've had the cops up here. I'll get you his business card and you call him, okay?"

"I will. I promise."

Alan went home a little after noon with more pages for his binder and had a long talk with attorney Hal Foreman about a) his family, b) his assets, c) his wishes and directives, and d) how to make sure that everything was handled. Alan needed an attorney to draw the documents for a living trust, coordination with his financial services, a professional fiduciary to hold his financial power of attorney and administer the living trust, and another professional guardian to hold his medical power of attorney in the event he couldn't make decisions about his own care...

For fuck's sake, it was almost less complicated (not to mention less expensive) to die.

The observation actually made Carmine laugh and that made Alan laugh in turn.

"Yeah, but it's better to just get it done. That way even if nothing happens, you're still covered."

Carmine was taking the scenic route. "You'd better be billing me for this - and I can't think that my brother's going to give up on this easily. For a preacher's kid from Idaho, I make a lot of money."

"I bill by the hour - livery, not a cab. I'm just giving you your money's worth." Carmine laughed again. "Besides, Didi-"

"What?" Alan asked, unable to believe his ears..

"Didi - Andrea. The wife. It's her nickname." Carmine grinned. "The first time I called her that, we were both still in elementary school. We were having this fight over Real Ghostbusters. I said Janine couldn't have a proton pack because she was a girl. Didi nailed me right in the nuts."

"That's adorable. Painful, but adorable." Alan snorted. "She'd make CEOs I've met run for cover."

"Takes no shit - that's my girl."

At home, he laid out all his notes and started researching, There were professional guardians who would do all this stuff for you - consolidating the legal, medical, and financial aspects into one firm. Most of them seemed geared to the elderly with dementia or the developmentally disabled - not wealthy homos with cancer and grabby next-of-kin. Hal Foreman had sent a list of firms and services to Alan's email, and would coordinate with the one that he chose.

Research was good. Except when it was about yourself and your chances. Andrea had not pulled any punches, Alan was deeply gratified by that. He opened the Preggo Pops as the nausea really kicked in. Andrea - he had a giggle over 'Didi' - bought him the Costco-sized jar. Setting the alarm on his phone to tell him when to take the Filgrastim and go to bed, Alan sank back into his research, letting his brain feed on something other than its own internal processes for a change.

"I'm okay. I'm going to be okay." Alan murmured to himself, tugging the cashmere throw around his shoulders. "I'm doing just fine."

~

"Bullshit!"

"But he liked everything else. It's a minor point, Eric."

"Fennel is not a minor point in fucking bouillabaisse, Ronnie." Eric groused, reading feedback presented with bullet points on the neatly printed two sheets of paper. "Aside from the saffron it's one of the most characteristic notes in the whole goddamn thing."

Ronnie rolled his eyes as he flopped into the purple people-eater sofa. "Out of everything else you fixate on that."

"And I do not undersalt. A chef who relies on salt or sugar to carry his food is a burger-flipper." Eric tucked his towel around his waist and cut himself a big slice of lemon-blueberry muffin bread. "It's not my fault he eats half-assed cuisine in tourist joints that are timid with the seasonings."

"You wanted feedback." Ronnie added. "If it helps, he thinks you're cute."

"You do realize I have a knife in my hand?" The bread only needed a little butter and Eric bit in with gusto. "I can admit that he has some points."

Perhaps Rox had blunted some of his sharper edges. It was hard to get worked up about anything when you'd had all your kink-spots scratched and come three times in twelve hours. Even if it was two days later, his ass still had fond memories of Rox whenever he sat down. Ze had read him like a book, honestly. However, Eric admitted, as a bottom in the hands of a capable top, he was about as subtle as all the neon in Times Square.

Rox was very, very capable and Eric had been delightfully surprised.

Titties were fun, too.

"What?" Ronnie asked.

"What what?"

"You're blushing."

"Shut up." Because, actually, he was. For fuck's sake!

"You got laid! YES! FINALLY!'" Ronnie proceeded to get up and do some twerking dance around the living room, singing, "Eric got laaaaaa~aaaid!"

Eric glared. Ronnie was a world-class chain-jerker - and Eric should know because the Beer Brat had learned everything from him. The things that came around to bite you in the ass. Fortunately Eric had good aim and took the chance to pelt the Beer Brat with those asinine little throw pillows until he fled into the night.

Or at least into the bathroom, preparatory to fleeing into the night.

"And shave, you ass!" Honestly. The face-weeds had to go. And the knit cap. Did Ronnie own anything to wear but skinny jeans and old bowling-alley and gas-station shirts? "Put something nice on! Like a shirt without someone else's name on it!"

Heaven knew how many times Ronnie had just flipped him off behind the bathroom door. But, really, how long could he go around looking like some satire site's cartoon hipster?

Eric finished his breakfast for dinner, then put on his whites. There was a good bit to do downstairs in the way of use-up-or-toss out, making stocks and sauce bases, and he fully expected to cook until three this morning.

The walk-in freezer was stocked with tubs of bones, trimmings, vegetable peels, and leftover bits from previous nights. These went into brown stock and demi-glace, chicken stock, turkey stock, vegetable stock, fumet de poisson, and court bouillon. The doughs for breads were ready for a second rise, and the cookie doughs had been resting for a full day. The grill needed firing and so did the stone oven for the breads. He sliced the meats and cheeses for sandwiches, prepared the garnishes and spreads. Roasted red pepper and eggplant soup, garlic roasted potato soup, and kale with linguicia soups took up three five-gallon stockpots. The breakfast dishes were done first, the baked goods second, soups and lunch selections third, desserts fourth.

It was midnight when Eric sighed, swept the sweat-soaked bandana off his head and walked down the kitchen hallway into the darkened storefront. It was a point of pride that after three years here, Eric had almost no leftovers at the end of the day. There was a roast beef, mushroom and brie sandwich, a small side of Dijon potato salad, and one of his beloved Manhattan Special coffee sodas.

His phone vibrated in his back pocket and he pulled it out - then smiled and answered. "Rox."

"Hello, pretty man." Ze purred. "You need to come see me tomorrow afternoon - we never got to those feathers on your magpie."

Jesus. He had to replace the Gates because if a phone call was all it took to get him hard-

"Red, you sound like chocolate ganache tastes."

"Is chocolate another of your kink spots?" There was the sound of splashing, the sensuous sound of water over flesh. "Should I get an icing bag and write naughtiness on your skin in Scharffenberger?"

"Yes." Great. The dick preempted the brainstem and hijacked the mouth. "Now I have to finish the grab-and-bag dinners with a boner, you sadist. And-"

Something... someone moved in the shadows of the hallway. A shadow in the shadows. Eric put his hand on the knife used to cut the sandwiches.

"Eric?" Rox prompted. "Are you all right?"

"Ronnie?" Eric called. "Hey, bro. You're back early."

No answer. Eric drew the knife from the sheath. How had anyone gotten in? Everything was locked and barred, and the fire-escape operated from the inside.

"Eric?" The sultry tone disappeared, replaced with something sharper than ordinary concern.

"Rox? Give me a second. I think there's someone in here."

Chapter 9

Summary:

Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.

Eric has a visitation. Rox to the rescue. Ronald's evening is full of surprises.

[truehauntings]

"Tasty" and "Leaves" for the autumn asks!! :D

🍁 Leaves - favorite candle scent?

There are so many good ones! I do love to sniff candles at the store. My favourites are probably fruity / sweet ones or those with a pumpkin spice scent

🍎 Tasty - do you have a comfort food?

Oh, yes, haha. A) Toast with rose hip jam and B) bananas

[pflagentmichigan]

Very true. And if you don't cut the roses for the blooms and wait until they have been pollinated, lose their petals and the rose hips develop, you have a tasty source of vitamin C. Rose hips are especially lovely as a tea or jam. A good reason to gift a living plant when possible!

Also, despite their colour and beauty, I can't quite forget the fact that when you give someone a bouquet, you're handing them a handful of severed plant genitals.

Do you like flowers?

Flowers are fascinating, especially roses. It's interesting how many people say 'every rose has its thorn' to denote negative connotations when the presence of thorns is a mere way to survive and fight off predators, especially since homaging romantic partners with roses is seen as a romantic gesture - though it's worth noting that roses are edible and that would be an act of providing...

[jessicakmatt]

Staff Picks: 7 LANDR Distribution Artists We Loved in September

Staff Picks: 7 LANDR Distribution Artists We Loved in September: via LANDR Blog

Thousands of artists trust LANDR Distribution to get their tracks on streaming platforms worldwide. But did you know we listen to every single submission? Here’s a taste of some of the incredible talent that comes through our distribution community.

For this installment of staff picks we’ve lovingly hand-picked some choice LANDR Distribution releases for the dying days of summer and the onset of fall.

It’s the perfect playlist to celebrate cooler days and cozy evenings.

You’ll find everything from wistful ambient soundscapes, Swedish experimentalism to Nigerian boom-bap reggaeton.

1. Tiger Mask – Sinai

The minimal three-part guitar, bass and drum arrangements come to a head on the final track of Tiger Mask’s first EP.

Sinai is a shifting midwest emo, indie rock style ballad. Its wandering lo-fi guitars, melancholic vocals and longing chords build nicely into a booming final verse.

Sounds like: American Football, Broken Social Scene

2. Simon the Magpie – Microwave

Electronic experimentalist Simon the Magpie came out with an excellent full-length album this summer.

The stand-out track for me was the swirling and spaced-out mixture of bells, synths, samples and percussion on “Microwave”.

Simon has a lot on the go these days. Check out his YouTube channel for funny yet educational content about music gear, production and a… barbed wire bass?

Sounds like: Stereolab, Animal Collective

3. ES.KAY – End of the World

Montreal rap producer ES.KAY recently came out with his new single “End of the World”.

The neo-soul rap and R&B bop is a hot track with a great hook at the chorus and strong rap performances throughout.

It’s an excellent offering from a great independent rapper that’s emerging from Montreal’s increasingly hot hip-hop scene.

Sounds like: ASAP Ferg, Big Sean

4. Imani Rosee – Real Woman

“Real Woman” is the impressive debut single from Imani Rosee.

The neo-soul songwriter puts out an incredibly powerful vocal performance on the track.

But it’s the empowering message of the song that hits hardest when she sings—I don’t need time by my side/ No I don’t need pride/Cause I’m a real woman.

The empowering message of the song hits hardest when she sings—I don’t need time by my side/ No I don’t need pride/Cause I’m a real woman.

It’s an inspiring debut from a budding new artist.

Sounds like: Solange, SZA

5. Patient Hands – Wash My Hands

Sweeping ambient soundscapes that oscillate in and out best describe Patient Hands’ new track “Wash My Hands”.

The calming five-minute track features sprawling synth pads and drowned out vocals that create a potent minimalist ambient track.

It’s the perfect background music for a sunny but crisp fall morning.

Sounds like: Time Hecker, Oneotrixpointnever

6. Hannise – Blue Jungle

“Blue Jungle” is the new dancey house track from producer Hannise.

It’s a classic sounding electronic jam with swooping bass, samba inspired drum programming and some tasty piano chords.

For a chilled-out dance track, this is an excellent offering from a young new producer.

For a chilled-out dance track, this is an excellent offering from a young new producer.

Sounds like: KAYTRANADA, Project Pablo

7. Damilfice – Bumba

“Bumba” is the new pop-reggaeton single from Nigeria based producer Damilfice.

It’s a classic reggaeton track with sensual singing and dancey drums.

If you’re looking for the perfect track for a (small) party at sunset, this track will get everyone dancing.

Sounds like: Daddy Yankee, PARTYNEXTDOOR

  The post Staff Picks: 7 LANDR Distribution Artists We Loved in September appeared first on LANDR Blog.

from LANDR Blog https://blog.landr.com/staff-picks-september-2020/ via https://www.youtube.com/user/corporatethief/playlists from Steve Hart https://stevehartcom.tumblr.com/post/629897781359853568

[vilistmu]

Happy Anniversary My Love

*Тhere is sex content

"Good morning" Marcus wraps his arms around Abby and put a tender kiss on her neck. He buries his head against Abby's shoulder. The familiar scent of jasmine and her warmth was like a balm for him.

"Good morning you too" she turned her head to him. Abby looked at his eyes for a long moment then leaned toward him and kissed his lips. Marcus closed his eyes when their lips met. They linger to lying down embraced for several minutes before he asks.

"You know what day it is today?" he whispers against her face.

"I love you too" Abby murmurous while slowly stroking his beard with her hand. I can do this for the rest of my life and never get tired – she thought.

"Happy Anniversary My Love" he whispered softly between a series of quick kisses.

"Happy anniversary" she repeated. Marcus smiles warmly giving Abby's chin a gentle squeeze. Abby gave him another tender kiss and tried to stand up but Marcus grabbed her hand gripping it slightly.

"I have to check Vera" she said smiling at him.

"No. She is not here."

"What do you mean she's not here? Of course she is" Abby jumped off the bed and headed for their daughter's room. She carefully opened the nursery door just to find her empty bed.

"What is Marcus? Where is Vera?" she asked with a concerned voice.

"Calm down Abby she's okay. I asked Octavia to take her in the evening after we slept"

"But I don't understand why you would do that?"

"Here. Come on." He hugged her around the waist and pushed her gently to the kitchen. The small table was covered with a white blanket. Pink and red rose petals were covered it. There was a plate of toasts, cheese and jam. A bowl of fruit and two jugs of coffee and milk were waiting to be tasted. "Marcus ... this is so..."

"Come on. Come here." he moved them over to the chair. He sat down and pulls her in his lap. Marcus placing the bowl with fruit in front of Abby. He tears off a piece of toast and put a spoon of jam on it while Abby bites a small piece of strawberry.  She handed the rest into his mouth.

"I can't believe you did that" she said.

"I would do anything for you Abby" he brought the piece to her lips. Abby took it as a gently nibbling and sucked his fingers.

"Mmmmm" she moaned.

"Tasty?" Marcus asked nuzzling his head on Abby's neck. He slightly caressed of her thigh. His fingers began to play with the hem of her shirt. His other hand made small circles on her back.

"You have to stop right now Mr. Kane otherwise I will be late and Jackson will not be very pleased" Abby said but still she put her hand in his hair. He tugged her off closer to him. They were both well aware of the desire of their bodies.

"I don't think he will expect you to be in time today" Marcus learned and bite her throat slightly. Abby dropped a throaty sound. That turn on him even more. She stood up and took his shirt while Marcus's fingers slipped in her underwear tugging it down. Her black bikini fell around her feet on the ground. Abby reached out her hands and pulled off his boxers while Marcus drew her back into his lap.

"Abby..." Marcus ran his hands over her body under the blouse. He grabbed it and pulled it over her head. The shirt hit the floor and Marcus lips finally were attached to Abby's skin. He trailed kisses down Abby's throat and Marcus breaths came in soft hot impatiently breathing. The moans escaping from her mouth were low and sweet. Abby tilted her head back and squeezed her eyes closed she gasped and pulled up Marcus's hair. Marcus cradled Abby's hip in his hands. She was hot and slick turned on from Marcus she feels his mouth as he played with her nipples. Abby grabbed Marcus hand and stuck two of his fingers into her mouth. When she was satisfied with the humidity of Marcus' fingers she directed it toward her core. His fingers pressed inside to caress her G spot he began to pump it. She gingerly moves to Marcus hardness. Abby crossed her ankles behind him.He gently pushed inside her and began to move. Abby moaned while grabbing Marcus head pulling his hair strongly which made him winced. Abby continued to ride on Marcus while he said.

"Ahhhh! I'm so... close Abby"

"Let it go Marcus"

Marcus thrusts harder and faster running his hands on Abby's body which is covered in droplets sweat. Abby came first her juices running down to him. This pushed him over the edge and Marcus came into her hard with a low growl in her ear.

"You are a terrible influence" she whispered.

She kissed him harder both settling close against each other to feel the skin on skin tacky with sweat.

"I need to take a shower. Jackson is expecting me."

"Shall I accompany you?" Marcus asked with a sly smile.

"Don't you dare" she replied.

As Abby was in the shower Marcus considered the second part of his surprise.

[christhatcher]

12 albums from 2016

These aren’t in any particular order. I have, and continue to, love them all. If I’d have listened to the Mammoth Weed Wizard Bastard album more often I reckon that would’ve got in too. Unfortunately I do a lot of listening to music in the car, and I’m perpetually late for work, and it’s impossible to drive at anything approaching the speed limit when you’re listening to an album by a band called Mammoth Weed Wizard Bastard.

Underworld - Barbara, Barbara We Face A Shining Future

Oh Underworld you've soundtracked many significant moments in my life from the 90s onwards, and as we both get older you keep reminding me that youth and fire in the belly aren't the only ingredients necessary for making vital music. Underworld have blown me away again with an album which finds them at their most intimate yet transcendent. To my mind that's the perfect balance to pitch on an album that takes its name from some of a husband's final words to his wife.

The lyrics to Low Burn ('Time, The first time, Blush, Be bold, Be beautiful, Free, Totally, Unlimited') could, in the wrong hands, all too easily find their way onto a platitudinous meme but they sound vital in the context of the tune, a cresting wave of synths, strings, bass throb and eventually Hounds of Love toms. The perspective shifts on the penultimate line to include, "Panic, craving, nothing... Time, the first time..." and it transforms the vocal from a call for the Living to one that seems to encompass life and death's full cycle. Played back to back with Nylon Strung, whose refrain 'I want to hold you, laughing' assumes a mantra like quality, the two tracks feel like a compellingly heartfelt plea to embrace utterly the short moments we have.

David Bowie - Blackstar

We will never see his like again. To some extent that’s probably true, but that’s because Rock n roll is now nearing the point of anachronism; it's passing is inevitable but not something to mourn. We can't be forever young and full of piss and vinegar and I think if you're determined to be 18 till you die you've set your sights pretty low. I actually hope that the future of expressive culture lies not solely in the hands of men and women on raised stages preaching to the masses but in increasingly indivisible hands and minds brought together and operating in the spaces where the real and virtual world blur. I hope it's a place where individuals come second to the product of expression. In short, I hope there isn't another David Bowie. I love the guy (as much as it's possible to love someone you've never met), but I hope that before too long we no longer require these figureheads to align ourselves with or against. I want his work to survive and be celebrated but I hope that the culture he sprung from baffles my descendants, because there's something rotten about our obsession with the shock of the new that is the third quarter of the 20th Century.

Jez: Look, Mark, I'm a musician, in case you've forgotten. I answer to a higher law, the law of "If it feels good, do it."

Mark: Oh, that's a great law, isn't it? What's that, Gaddafi's law?

Jez: It's the musician's law. Colonel Gaddafi could not lay down a bass hook, Mark. That should be clear even to you. - Peep Show (series 3 ep 5)

It was the shock of the new, not a Solomonesque cultural cache. And now the world is moving on. Not diminishing in talent over time as we speed further away from the grand ejaculation of the Big Rock n Roll Bang. Music hasn’t descended into an over reliance on auto tune, or computers. There isn’t a dearth of ‘real’ musicians learning ‘real’ instruments, learning their song ‘craft’… ‘organically’. The world is moving on. But still we get to listen to the fucking bullshit put about by old people convinced that the brief period when you’re most emotionally engaged in the cultural stimuli around you happens to be the apex of civilisation; and you should never underestimate a Baby Boomer’s ability to slip a pair of rose tinted blinkers over your eyes when you’re moving into the crawl space they’ve rented out to you from their burgeoning property portfolios (Hippies and Yuppies – only really distinguishable by the proportion of their income spent on joss sticks).

But back to Bowie. Guilty of none of the above. His capacity for re-invention and forward thinking doesn’t need re-iterating, the back catalogue up to and including Blackstar speaks for itself. This has turned into a rant but, sod it, I'm not in the mood for not ranting.

Here's to Mr Bowie, perhaps the ultimate rebuttal to those who cite ‘honesty’ or ‘realness’ or ‘rocknroooooll’ as fundamental to making ‘organic’, ‘real’ music and writing ‘proper’ songs. Who used artifice, and sounds regardless of source, was fearless and transcended rock n roll and took it higher than it deserves, subverted and utterly disregarded hoary, chin stroking… fuck it… boring… notions of what a song/album/concert could/should be.

And he left us with Blackstar. All of the above.

The Comet is Coming - Channel The Spirits

It's quite hard to believe that this is the sound of just sax, synths and drums (or ‘skins’, if I'm trying to be vaguely alliterative) recorded (to tape no less) in a three day burst of creativity. The sound, all pervading atmosphere and ethos at large here is worthy of the entire Arkestra, amped up and channelled through Funkadelic via Leftfield at their most furious. If they've heard Channel The Spirits, then I imagine that the house band at the Restaurant At The End Of The Universe are probably worried about losing their residency. Sub point: Slam Dunk In A Blackhole (which wouldn't sound out of place on either Blackstar or Kendrick Lamar's To Pimp A Butterfly) is my song title of the year.

Savages - Adore Life

Opening with the three chord grind of The Answer, Adore Life positively pulses and howls (the guitars sound feral) before dissolving into more cerebral territory for the title track. Jehnny Beth's lyrics run the gamut of love, turning the subject inside out fearlessly, never breaking eye contact. It's an intense, beautifully paced piece of work, packaged in monochrome but red blooded through and through.

David Holmes – Late Night Tales

I was introduced to Mr Holmes via one of those late 90s Chillout compilations. The culprit, 'Rodney Yates' is a journey borne on floating ride cymbal and strings a la Lalo Schriffin, which led me to its mother album 'Let's Get Killed'. Over the subsequent years, I've lapped up pretty much everything he's done, be it soundtracks (Out of Sight springs to mind), Psychedelic Funk mix albums (Come Get it I Got It), freaky Hip Hop (The Free Association) and this year, Late Night Tales and Unloved (more of the latter in a bit).

If there's a unifying thread to Mr Holmes' work, to these ears, it's the sense that he's a man outside of time. His work is peppered with samples and ideas from pretty much every decade since it became possible to capture and replicate sound. But this is not the back catalogue of a retro mongering throwback, it's a body of work that speaks of a genuine love of sound and an overarching desire to share it. I have no idea how much of his own music is created from samples and how much is original composition... the lines are utterly blurred and it makes for compelling listening.

In these interconnected times, the Internet, behaving like it's second syllable, drags the endless bounty of musical creativity onwards with ever decreasing regard for chronology and Holmes has a rare talent for sifting through the haul for treasures. If you're on the search for new artists then Mr Holmes beats Spotify or any app you could imagine hands down. He's arguably never been better than on Late Night Tales. It's a beautiful, torchlit collection made all the more striking by the fact that it's largely beatless and full of acoustic and vocal performances thematically linked to questions of love and loss. A truly mesmerising experience.

Church of The Cosmic Skull – Is Satan Real?

I've spent the last few years resolutely trying to engage with modern sounds after years in a proto metal, Sabbath indebted cul de sac (not a bad place to be admittedly, but it's good to shake things up every so often). This year however, I've found myself slipping back into my comfort zone, maybe as a way of escaping the hideousness of 2016, maybe because albums like Is Satan Real? are so fucking tasty. It combines the vocal, harmonic... There's no other way of saying this... pomp of Queen, hooks and almost jazzy flourishes that The Zombies would've actually stayed split up over and a deliciously sparse smattering of Sabbathian crunch. The fact that they only properly let rip on the closing 'Evil In Your Eye' is a masterstroke that has had me reaching for the repeat button, repeatedly.

Metronomy - Summer '08

Joe Mount is not cool, he’s no rock star and he doesn’t swagger, but the music he makes does, albeit in a slightly jerky, twitchy St Vitus on espresso way. When I was small I used to make myself spaceships out of bits of furniture, and go on adventures of the imagination… Listening to Metronomy has always felt a little like being invited into someone else's world of 'let's pretend'. One where the lightsabers are still visibly made from mismatched lego bricks and the Darth Vader helmet is quite obviously a plastic policeman's helmet with a flap of cardboard inexpertly sellotaped around the back. They aren’t smooth. They're not making music for parties in and around Jacuzzis and JD shaped swimming pools, but 40 minutes in the company of this collection of off kilter electro funk, break and disco beats and aching slow jams might allow you to pretend that you are. And, once again, the artifice is far more stimulating and appealing than reality.

Opeth - Sorceress

Opeth. Opeth. Opeth. I just bloody love them. That's a shit review, but it's basically how I feel. I guess that how you feel about Opeth depends on your views on progressive music. If you think it's wanky and unnecessary then you'd be forgiven for avoiding Opeth but I'd argue that you're mistaken, because there are very few elements included in an Opeth number that could be considered unnecessarily wanky. Dramatic shifts in tempo and volume and time signature abound on this, as all, their albums. The key to their success though, is that they're artfully and meticulously placed with an almost architectural eye for detail that seems set on firing the imagination, rather than bludgeoning the listener with its own cleverness. In the truest sense of the word Sorceress is a wonderful addition to an enviable back catalogue.

Hedvig Mollestad Trio – Black Stabat Mater

 I don't really know much about these ladies. I'm not sure whether to describe it as Jazzy proto metal or proto metallic jazz... maybe the latter. But it is fierce. Really fierce. The five tracks slowly descend from a (relatively) straight forward opening freak out on a jazzy, turning bluesy groove, to nightmarish feedback and clatter that could be mistaken for King Crimson being dissolved in a rusted cauldron of battery acid stirred by Trolls. Also: One of my favourite album covers in a long time.

Paul Simon - Stranger To Stranger

Received wisdom has it that 74 year olds should just rest on the canon, firing blanks, cashing in on the willingness of Mojo readers to part with their coin for ever more padded out and barrel scraping reissues. Paul Simon seems to think that the best way to get through one's three score and tens is to build an album from the beats up and then bring in a designer and player of micro tonal instruments to add layer upon layer of otherwordly sound. I like Paul Simon. A lot.

Unloved - Guilty of Love

A collaboration between Jade Vincent, Keefus Ciancia and David Holmes (him again). As with Late Night Tales, Unloved is a creature of the night, but this time with teeth, paraffin eyes and a taste for smoke in the back of the throat. Guitars twang, drums can be heard reverberating up blackened alleyways and the astonishing voice of Jade Vincent entices, admonishes, damns and defies. When A Woman is Around should be considered a classic, 'Truth is seldom found (by a man) when a woman is around... Lose that Cheshire grin, take it like a man, keep what's yours, leave me mine.' Although there's a dark 60s vibe at work here, it's beautifully realised, with the faultless songwriting, performance and production giving it an elusive timelessness.

Nissenenmondai - N/A

This album is a perfect example of singular and fearless exploration.

They're a power trio, but that's where the similarities to that particular trope end.

They veer closest to making minimalist Techno, but with guitar, bass and drums.

They sound like they're being beamed in from the future, and not necessarily a good one.

Some of the album is hard to listen to and imagine it having been created by humans.

That's why I love it.

[idonotknowhowtoo-blog]

How to Find and Identify 13 Wild Winter Season Edibles|Outdoor Life

These swamp-loving plants bear a number of edible sections throughout the year, but the part you'll want in winter is the starchy rootstock. Dig them before the swamp freezes solid and you can benefit from this important starch source.

Determining Features: Try to find the renowned brown seed heads that have actually exploded into a mass of ivory colored fluff (which makes for excellent tinder, too). These grass-like plants will be 3 to 9 feet high with an oval sample to the lower stalk. You'll find them growing in damp conditions.

Range: Various cattail types are discovered worldwide. The common cattail is found in the Lower 48, along with throughout southern Alaska and Canada.

Finest Bet: The typical cattail (Typha latifolia) is the largest species, and it has the largest distribution.

Edible Uses: The white starchy material inside the long brown rootstocks can be scraped out and utilized to thicken soups and stews. It can also be dried and ground into flour. While you gather the rootstocks, watch out for the little sprouts at the base of the plant. These small whitish spikes can be steamed, boiled or fried as a tasty veggie.

Warning: A number of types of bigger iris plants likewise grow in damp conditions and bear rootstocks. These are poisonous, and do not have a "corn canine" seed head. Make certain each plant you take has a cattail seed head attached to it, and you can't fail.

Edible Utilizes: The pulp and skin of the rose hips can be eaten raw or the entire increased hip can be steeped to make rose tea. The tasty, sweet, red-colored fruits are a great source of vitamin E and also a vitamin C powerhouse, containing 7 times your daily allowance.

One of the most winter-hardy fruits is the wild persimmon. If you taste one before it is ripe, the fruit's sour and astringent qualities will flood your taste buds with a horrible cottony feeling. However if you wait until the fruit becomes a gooey wrinkled mess (late fall through January), the fruits are amazingly sweet.

Recognizing Features: The American persimmon (Diospyros virginiana) is a deciduous tree with alternate simple leaves and small orange fruits that consist of large brown seeds. A related types with bigger fruits (offered in grocery stores) can be found in Japan and neighboring countries. The clinical name of this fruit is diospyros, which means "food of the gods." If you are concerned that they are overselling the quality of the fruit, you haven't tasted a ripe one.

Range: Wild persimmons are discovered in the eastern half of the U.S.

Best option: Search for extremely old and wrinkly fruits in late fall, continuing into winter season. Generally, the rougher they look, the sweeter they taste. In late fall, you'll need to look out for unripe fruit, which will give you a strong case of cotton mouth. In winter season, you'll need to ensure you do not consume a rotten one. Trust your eyes and more importantly, your nose, to prevent rotten fruit.

Edible Uses: The completely ripe, native persimmon fruits are a sticky, gooey sweet bonanza. The fruits of this eastern tree have 127 calories and a complete day's vitamin C per cup of pulp. Consume them raw, turn them into jam, or ferment them into golden colored red wine.

This typical needle-bearing tree can provide tea and an edible inner bark.

Recognizing Features: Needles grow in clumps of 2 to 5 needles, and pine cones are discovered on more mature trees.

Variety: Numerous pine types (Pinus) can be found in open woods and mountains throughout much of The United States and Canada. Related edible types can be found in America, Europe and Asia.

Edible Utilizes: There are lots of types of pine (the genus Pinus) throughout the northern hemisphere and many can supplying two winter survival staples-- pine needle tea and pine bark flour. The tea is easy to produce. Grab a tuft of green needles, rip them or slice them into small pieces, and drop them into some really hot water. Do not boil the needles! This makes the tea bitter and the heat damages the vitamin C. Simply high the needles in hot water for 10 minutes and take pleasure in. One cup of tea made from one ounce of needles must provide approximately four times your day-to-day allowance of vitamin C.

And do not forget the bark. Shave off the inner layer of bark right next to the wood. This layer is rubbery and cream colored. Dry the strips until brittle and grind them into flour. One pound of this flour has about 600 calories. It has a moderate pine taste and is good for extending your food supply by blending in with other flours. You might also be fortunate enough to find some bigger pine cones with nuts inside them. These are a really important food with a high calorie content.

Look out: Skip the tea from loblolly pine in the eastern U.S. and the ponderosa pine in the American southwest, as current studies suggest that they might be rather poisonous. And an essential pointer, ladies who are or might be pregnant should not drink pine needle tea from any types, as it might be abortive. The nuts and bark, however, are safe for usage.

Spicy and scrumptious, wild onions turn your wild-caught fish and game into a meal suitable for a king! Varied and frost-resistant, these plants provide a fantastic wild spices throughout the winter season. Get a little spade and a bag to hold your prize, due to the fact that the wild onion is one of nature's superfoods.

Determining Features: Your initial step to make certain a plant actually is an onion or garlic is looking for the round root and rounded stem that onions and garlic share. Once it passes that test, go to the scratch and smell stage of screening. Scratch the bulb, or bruise the green tops, and you should instantly smell the familiar oniony odor. The plant consists of numerous sulfur compounds, which mix with the salt in your tears, to produce a weak sulfuric acid-- the cause of the burning eyes and sobbing while dismembering these plants.

Variety: There are over a dozen different types of wild onion growing throughout North America.

Edible Utilizes: Tender tops and juicy bulbs can be consumed raw or prepared. I like them carefully sliced as an aromatic seasoning component, in both salads and cooked dishes.

Beware: Onions and garlic are a group of plants that are edible to human beings, and typically really yummy. However don't just wolf down everything formed like an onion. The more comprehensive family they belong to is the lily household, which can be a problem for foragers, due to the fact that some lilies are harmful and resemble onions initially glimpse.

Edible Uses: The berry skin and slightly-bitter pulp can be consumed raw and the seeds spit out. The berries can likewise be steeped in hot water to make a tea. Barberries include an immune-boosting compound called berberine, which can assist to keep us healthy in cold and flu season.

Edible Uses: The tender leaves and stems can be consumed raw or prepared. The star chickweed (Stellaria pubera) and mouse-ear chickweed (Cerastium vulgatum) can be eaten as a cooked green and star chickweed can be consumed raw. Chickweed can likewise be utilized as an anti-itch poultice for irritated skin or eaten to relieve irregularity.

Enjoy the taste of pecans? You'll most likely enjoy the sweet taste of the pecan's wild cousin. Pecan is a southern types of hickory with a flavor that resembles most other hickory nuts. Not just do hickories taste good (except for just a few bitter types), however these tree nuts are also a bonanza of calories.

Recognizing Functions: Hickory trees are deciduous hardwood trees discovered in North America and Asia. The leaves are alternate substance and the nuts have a "double" nut shell. There's a husk that removes, exposing a nut shell below. Simply ensure you do not get a buckeye, which have a double-layered nut shell like hickory, but buckeye nuts are poisonous. Hickory nuts have a multi chambered inner nutshell (like a walnut), while the harmful buckeyes have a strong round nutmeat (like an almond).

Range: Hickories are found in Asia, the United States, Mexico, and Canada.

Edible Utilizes: Hickory nuts are the most calorie-dense wild plant in this lineup. One ounce of spent hickory nut meat loads a whopping 193 calories, with the majority of that coming from fat. Most hickory nuts taste like their most popular relative: the pecan. These sweet and fatty nut meats can be used as a raw food, chose right out of the shell.

Beware: There are a few types of hickory that have really bitter nuts. They aren't hazardous to eat, however they are so nasty that you will not have the ability to consume them.

Look out: Wear water resistant gloves when dealing with goopy wet walnut husks. Not just will the walnut hull pulp color your skin an odd color, however some people develop painful skin inflammation from contact.

Acorns are among the most typical tree nuts, and with a little processing, they supply us with a nutrient rich power food.

Recognizing Functions: There are approximately 600 species of "oak" throughout the world. This list consists of deciduous and evergreen tree types discovered in cool climates to warmer tropical latitudes. Oaks have alternate simple leaves in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. North America consists of the biggest variety of oak types, with a surprising diversity of 160 species in Mexico. The fruit of the oak tree is a nut called an acorn, borne in a cup-like "cupule."

Variety: Oak types are found throughout the Northern Hemisphere.

Best option: Stick to the white oak (Quercus alba) and its round-lobed family members for the most affordable level of bitterness and the quickest leaching times.

Edible Uses: One ounce of acorn nut meat contains a little more than 100 calories, which much of our forefathers ate as a staple food prior to agriculture. The bitter acid in them is easily gotten rid of by breaking them into pieces and soaking the acorn nut meat portions in duplicating baths of warm water, one hour at a time, up until the bitter is gone.

Look out: Consuming acorns that still consist of excessive tannic acid can cause nausea and gastrointestinal distress. Also, make sure you don't collect any buckeye nuts. Once they have fallen out of their husks, buckeyes can have a similar appearance to acorns, but unlike acorns, buckeyes are toxic and unable to be leached.

[aidemmediagroup]

11  #1 Hits  Over 30 Soundtracks songs.  Now fabulous & fresh Freddie Jackson arrives with a love movement. For urban contemporary listeners and music critics alike; there is no doubt which R&B artists deserve a place among the greatest of all time. Freddie Jackson mastered the art of chart domination during the mid to late 80's, and today continues proving his distinction as one of the Top 50 Greatest R&B Singers (Billboard 2017). The proof is in the phenomena: a Billboard chart resume that boasts 18 songs in the Top 10 with 10 songs rocketing to #1, a 3x Grammy Nominee, and an American Music Award winner. The Harlem native's star first appeared on the horizon in 1985, after releasing his debut album, Rock Me Tonight (Capitol Records). Before that, life appeared ordinary enough behind the scenes with a word processing job, train rides to do session work, and backup singing gigs throughout New York nightclubs. Despite a brief stint at the start of the 80's on the west coast, as lead with the R&B band Mystic Merlin, it was back on native soil that Jackson would launch his career.  Once again, his gospel-bred musical connections would play a key role in his destiny. Even while singing backup for Melba Moore, it was fellow church member and friend Paul Laurence at Hush Productions, who joined to shape Jackson's own turn at center stage. As a talented record producer and songwriter, Laurence realized enough was enough and pulled Jackson from behind both a typewriter and other acts; penning him a hit with the title track for what would become Jackson's debut album-"Rock me Tonight". Even after shooting to #1 and sitting there for six weeks, Jackson wasn't done hitting the charts. He quickly won urban contemporary radio's heart with, "You Are My Lady"-a second straight R&B topper that became his highest ranked single on the Pop charts-hitting # 13. He quickly followed up with, "He'll Never Love You (Like I Do)" and "Love Is Just a Touch Away", while sending them both straight to R&B Top Ten. The debut LP reigned over the R&B album charts, going platinum. His phenomena persisted after a duet with Melba Moore, "A Little Bit More" shot to #1 R&B, and he backed it with yet another platinum-smash aptly titled, Just Like the First Time, in 1986. This is when Jackson appeared musically magical with the success of the album's singles, charting: "Tasty Love", "Have You Ever Loved Somebody", and the soother, "Jam Tonight"-all hitting #1 as if he planned it. Even, "I Don't Want to Lose Your Love" went to #2. During the tail end of the 80's, on into the 90's, what appeared to be a slowing of Jackson's hits on the charts, was actually a shift in his music's placement-a word Jackson says is the key to not just performance but life. Radio listeners still got albums such as the 1988, Don't Let Love Slip Away-which introduced hits of the singles, "Hey Lover", "Nice and Slow", and "Crazy (For Me)". By 1990, Jackson's, Do Me Again, an album with the hit track, "Main Course", topped at #2. He released 1992's, Time for Love, with the soul remake,"Me and Mrs. Jones" (later a soundtrack addition). By the time he signed with RCA/BMG Records in 1993, he was making worldwide appearances at a record pace. He even gave fans a Christmas album, before leaving to record Private Party with Scotti Brothers Records in 1995. There, the next album's single, "Rub Up Against You" rose to the Top #25 R&B.  While critics questioned the change of chart-topping agenda, fans saw, as much as heard, the hit maker in film and on TV in tandem with his radio releases. From the start, the pattern of simultaneous media and music appeared, such as with the syndicated special, "The 1985 R&B Countdown", hosted by Whitney Houston to the following year playing himself and singing, "He'll Never Love You (Like I Do)" on the daytime drama, "One Life to Live"-Jackson was a constant presence. By 1988, he joined other world-renowned legends in celebrating Freedomfest: Nelson Mandela's 70th Birthday Celebration.  This kicked off a subplot to his life story-that of a popular singer pulled at a superhuman pace between the stage and the big and small screens. When cross-referencing his music with the movies and TV, one clearly sees Jackson stayed in heavy demand. Once he seized the era and the airwaves with a number of hits, even film and TV audiences couldn't get enough. Not limited to recording ballads aimed at adults; over 30 motion picture and television soundtracks-such as kid's favorite, All Dogs Go to Heaven-feature his acclaimed vocals as well. Not content with his music alone, producers and directors spent the next decade tucking Jackson into scenes with his hits-from popular sitcoms like Family Matters, and The Golden Girls, to feature films. After appearing with his song, "All Over You" in the low budget horror film, Def by Temptation in 1990, he went from light camp to serious cinema with King of New York (his song "Dream On" included) alongside heavy-hitters like Wesley Snipes, Laurence Fishburne, and Christopher Walken. In 2000, he eased into the new millennium still grooving up broadcasts as he performed his classic, "Rock Me Tonight" on Love & Basketball. By the following year The Jazz Channel Presents Freddie Jackson aired, highlighting his greatest hits over the decades.  Despite all the cinematic adulation, he felt an even greater need to stand by his music recording-despite the changing tides in R&B over the years. When Hip-hop's popularity began to shoulder in on the genre's position, a few artists like Jackson wisely rolled with the new trends-even throughout his seemingly silent, post #1 hit domination era. While a few of his industry peers began crossing over to Pop charts, he took the change from a different approach by blending his vocal prowess with various newly emerging R&B and even Hip-hop talents. From the 1991 EPMD/Tracie Spencer tracks, "Love Me Down" and "Main Course" to Mikki Howard/Da Youngsta's 1992 releases, "I Could Use A Little Love (Right Now)" and "Can I Touch You", as well as the 1995 Brownstone/Kut Klose jams, "Come Home II Us" and "Rub Up Against You". Having made numerous rounds of major TV shows-from Top of the Pops, Oprah, to the Soul Train Awards, and even writer/performer on The Tom Joyner Sky Show; with several hit videos of his own-he is at once familiar to fans. His music is kept current over three decades even via the digital age, such as his hit, "Have You Ever Loved Somebody" being placed in the video game, Grand Theft Auto IV, in 2008. Eventually, like many major artists in the Internet dominant age, Jackson created independently produced projects, gaining more control over both his life and his career-while still charting songs in the Top 100's including, Life After 30 (#81 R&B, 1999), It's Your Move (#45 R&B, 2004), and Transitions (#26 R&B, 2006). By 2010, he released the single, "I Don't Wanna Go", from the Barry Eastmond produced, For You, an album off the Entertainment One Music label. In 2012, the TV series Unsung featured The Life of Freddie Jackson, who in turn gave a new audience of fans yet another single two years later with Climax Entertainment entitled, "Love & Satisfaction". His current release-Love Signals-offers longtime fans and new listeners alike just that-a melodic offering of love in a multitude of styles. From the orchestral openings to the instrumental driven collaborations with master musician Gerald Albright on "Hold Me Tonight"-each song is a pulse of passion and light. "All I Wanna Do" will surely become the new anniversary anthem, while his most global track to date, "Save The Babies" asks this tumultuous era's most pertinent question: 'Who is going to save the child?' Coming from a master crooner, Love Signals aims to be a beacon sent out by one of R&B's brightest and ever-evolving stars-proving fabulous Freddie Jackson is still fresh enough for today.   TOUR DATES 2017 APRIL 20 Sacramento, CA 8:00pm - 9:00pm MAY 13 Columbus, GA Columbus Civic Center 8:00pm - 10:00pm MAY 14 Kingston, Jamaica Candlewood Place 8:00pm - 9:00pm MAY 26 Atlanta, GA City Winery Atlanta 7:00pm - 8:00pm MAY 27 Alexandria, VA The Birchmere 7:00pm - 9:00pm MAY 28 Richmond, VA Renaissance Ballroom 4:00pm - 8:00pm MAY 29 Nashville, TN City Winery 8:00pm - 10:00pm JUN 09 Boston, MA Scullers Jazz Club 8:00pm - 10:00pm JUN 10 Boston, MA Scullers Jazz Club 8:00pm - 10:00pm JUN 17 Los Angeles Greek Theater 8:00pm - 9:00pm JUN 24 Detroit, MI Riverwalk 6:00pm - 9:00pm JUL 29 Country Club Hills, IL Country Club Hills Theater 7:00pm - 8:00pm AUG 11 Jerk Festival Centennial Park 8:00pm - 9:00pm AUG 18 EL Cajon, CA Sycuan Casino 8:00pm - 10:00pm PR Contact - Interviews/Media: Double XXposure Media Relations www.dxxnyc.com (201) 224-6570 Theellerbeegroup@aol.com More at http://freddiejackson.net/