#if i manage to get german residency i can get four!

[echo]

being a girl for tax purposes

[twosides--samecoin]

Hi!! Happy weekend! I’d love to hear about some of your ocs headcanons 🍬🌻💩 :]

Here's Jack and Olivia, 2/3 of Long Time Running's main cast - with a bonus heacanon unique to my Dogmeat! You can read the fic -> here <-

Jack Ward is my canon M!SoSu. He was a professional boxer and retired when he was conscripted for the Anchorage campaign and sent to FoB Juneau.

When Med-Tek failed, Jack pushed RJ on a vertibird destined for Vault 150 - a remote Canadian Vault that tested Duncan's illness on its residents. Two weeks later, Olivia Dallaire, my OC F!SoSu, stepped out of a vertibird and onto the hill overlooking Sanctuary and Boston. She'd be an Olympic judoka if there was still Olympics.

🍬On the topic of family: One of the themes in my fic is about the intersection and contrast between found family and adoption as well as miscommunication. Jack sees a younger version of himself in Olivia, but in a subversion of the failed-coach-training-his-actually-promising-protege trope, Jack had the title fight successes and Olivia really never will. All the same, he takes a shine to her. After meeting Father at the Institute, Jack let go of the idea of recovering his family. When he met Olivia, he felt like, "My god, this is the child Nora and I were supposed to have". Problem is, she's uh, a grown-ass 23 year-old woman. Who just immigrated to a different country and has her own trauma to unpack. And the sudden reemergence of his want to be a dad is moving faster than his ability to discuss being family with her. He faces serious role strain between his best friendship with RJ and the fatherhood he feels toward Olivia when he sees RJ differently as he begins to feel protective over her.

💩 Something ridiculous: My Dogmeat can break the fourth wall. The characters cannot hear him in the fic, but the reader can read his thoughts. One of my childhood fave movies is All Dogs Go To Heaven. The main dog is a German Shepherd, voiced by Burt Reynolds. This is how I hear him.

I was born in '94, so those 80's-90's "talking animal" genre movies were really formative for me. Anastasia, An American Tail - themes of lost family, adventure, immigration. Even RJ's story has strong Secrets of NIMH parallels. I'd reached a point where my fic felt self-serious, like it was so grounded in harsh reality and dumpster fire mental health that I forgot to have fun. Saluting Don Bluth by imagining Charlie B. Barkin and Anne-Marie the Orphan as Dogmeat and Olivia was me throwing my hands up and saying, "Fine! Fuck it! We can have fun!"

🌼 Happiness, how'd you get to be happiness: Lately, getting to know each other has been a source of happiness for both Jack and Olivia. Jack as the canon SoSu has all the problems we do when we play the game - wrangling several warring factions that all expect his presence; ignoring Father/the Institute; managing a small empire of settlements. Olivia as the SoSu of her own Vault is navigating immigration and being around people again. The heart-meltingest fluff I have published so far is father-daughter moments. Excerpt below the cut!

Long Time Running Chapter 13: Sabré Olvidar:

Jack glanced at Olivia’s marigold cable-knit sweater and jeans, rolled up at the cuffs. He realized most of her clothing from home that wasn’t her Vault suit was oversized and patched several times over. 

A deep flush of sadness erupted within. He coughed and returned to the topic of conversation. “Well, um.. What.. What do you think of the animals you let go?” 

“I just thank them for giving me a pretty view. I mean, just look at them.” She let go of their hug and stepped back. “If you look at it like this, the window makes them look like a painting.” 

She beamed at the radstag pair - four heads and too many legs. 

Jack obliged the request and stepped back. The window framed the radstags, trees and tall grasses well, like a living photograph. He appreciated the scene with the same intensity as a painting in a museum.  

He broke his gaze away and looked around at the cabin. “Well.. What brings us down here today, anyway?” he asked.

“I was thinking,” she turned away from the radstags. “Um, there wasn’t anyone here last time I visited, and there’s no one here now, and.. Y’know, it’s pretty close to town.. Does anyone own this place?” 

“Truth be told, Miss Olivia,” he replied. “I don’t think anyone’s taken interest in this cabin since the bombs fell. Doesn’t seem to me like anyone owns it.” 

She wrung her hands and shifted her weight as she looked around. “Um.. can I..” 

Jack awaited the question with patience and a smile. “Yes?”

“Can I have it? Please?” she pleaded.

His heart melted anew. Oh, Jesus, not that face, not that face. He decided to mess with her and put on an apprehensive tone. “I dunno.. It’s a big responsibility, being a homeowner..”

She hung on his every word with wide-eyed worry. 

“The cost for materials, the labor.. In this economy, too.. Ouch.” He grimaced, both to ham up the theatrics and to force his mouth away from a smile.

“I-I’ll work, I’ll get a job, I promise-” 

He could no longer keep up the act. “Oh, fine, sure. It’s yours!” 

Olivia gasped and threw her arms around Jack’s torso. Coffee spilled out of her mug with a graceful dive and landed on the floor with an audible splash.

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you- Oh, I have so much work to do-” she let go of Jack and listed the repairs. “I need a door and I have to clean the fireplace and I need to find new windows and-” 

Jack beamed as she bounced around the room. Her braid whipped through the air as she tallied up her needs. Getting to know his little bundle of contradictions was fun. 

“-nails and lumber and.. And that spot on the porch that’s sagging.. I have a lot to do if I want this ready for winter.” 

“Alright, then, that settles it,” he said. “Let’s get a move on.” 

“Where to?” she asked.

“Well, like you said, winter’s on the way. Let’s get building.” 

She smiled, somehow wider than her smile already was. “Yeah! Let’s do it!”

She ran out the door and jumped off the stairs instead of walking down. “Where can we go shopping for supplies?” she asked, turning back to him.

Jack followed and took the steps as normal. “We’ll see what we have in Sanctuary before we look elsewhere. I’ll have to get you a workbench down here.” 

Olivia hopped and skipped ahead. “My own workbench, I-” 

She wasn’t watching her step and nearly tripped. 

«Tabarnak!» she swore. Olivia threw her hands up in mock-offense. “Who put this root here, eh?” 

She laughed off the transgression, tucked the stem of the hubflower behind her ear and turned her pirate smile toward Sanctuary.

Jack Ward, ol’ 111 himself, was thoroughly charmed. Miss Olivia Dallaire contained multitudes. 

Sweet, funny, capable, sensitive. A reader, a fighter, an animal-lover and an occasional jokester who stopped to smell the roses.  

He remembered the leadup to Arturo’s last title fight, when he lived at the house with Jack and Nora. 

One night in the later stages of her pregnancy, Nora laid on the couch as Arturo and Jack sat on the floor surrounded by the pieces of a yet-to-be constructed crib.

Arturo lectured their unborn child on the syntax, phonetics and style guide of French Canadian cursing.

«Esti de câlice de tabarnak!» Arturo exclaimed. "That is what we say when the baby crib is hard to build! You better like it!"

Jack wiped a tear from his cheek as he followed Olivia to Sanctuary.

Arturo would have been so proud to be your uncle. So proud.

[zondearts]

can you talk about wolf au. I'm like an ipad baby and PRSK AUs are how i stay occupied

Oh you don't know how that ask delights me!

It's gonna be a long dump (cuz I've been brainroting for a while) so all that stuffs under the cut

So the prsk Wolf au, was this lil stray idea I had around the time when the werewolf shiho card came out. Basically what if I write a fic in german to improve my german and use the german fairytale inspired set as a base. The original plan was to write a semi long polyneed/shihosaki fic, but that turned into me only writing about the world building and culture, which turned into me writing smaller sidestories to get back into the mood, what turned into... must be around 20k Mizuena slowburn. (but I still haven't managed posting anything aside from some art :P)

I will genuinely try my best to formulate anything coherent, because I am a scatterbrain who suffers under "has to mention small details lest they burst" disease.

Anyways the setting of the au is in the medivelesque city Diva in a country called Sekai. Sekai is a small to medium sized country, around the size of Bayern (the biggest German state) and is under the rule of the Ootori royal family. Next to them four other families rule over parts of Sekai, the Asahinas, the Hinomoris, the Tenmas and the Shinonomes, who all currently reside in Diva.

For each I have selected some symbols which appear in ornaments and patterns.

The Ootori naturally have the phoenix as a coat of arms, they're tbh the only family I haven't properly fleshed out, but they united Sekai (it previously was several smaller countries at war) and at one point almost seperated Sekai, yet that's all I managed.

The Asahinas are a more interesting bunch. Coat of arms and Ornament vise they mainly have symetric rootlike meandering purple patterns, with occasional snowflake-shapes, mostly to potray how the family is connected and interwoven in Sekais politics and how they uphold order. (Their territory is also more Renaissance esque for that reason) They are a family of perfection, which delights most and creeps out some.

The Hinomoris coat of arms is a white Hare looking at the moon. They also have a more forest animal theming, since they control most of the forestry and hunting. (architecturally they have more of a gothic architecture, but only for the nobles and the church (oh the church wai wai)) They're next to a massive forest which I oh so love thinking about. They are a old family next to old trees and in possession of an old church in need of restoration.

The Tenmas coat of arms is obviously the Pegasus (more of a alicorn, but psshhh Tsukasa said it's a Pegasus and his word is law). They have a rich mythological beasts theming, since they're from a long bloodline of dragonslayers etc. They're also paired with Lions, for example one of their cities outside of Diva's called Leo. They're somewhat the spirit of Sekai and enjoy allot of goodwill from the people. (They have a more romanesque building style)

The Shinonomes coat of arms are two Wolfs standing next to a color palette and chisel. Their theming is more prominent in their social standing as respected artist, but rotten family. Their wolves with turned heads, but still wolves. They don't own much land and only work in the arts, closed off in a giant building.

The church shows it's leoneed influences. First Miku is the main deity, the god who creates with song and put the world in harmonious order, which is the geocentric worldview (which I have thought about too much, like man alchemist sure as fuck loved they're geocentricm) besides her, the other cryptonloids are gods aswell. The religion is more music oriented, most prominent in the festivals each month (which I wish to elaborate on, but I can't make this dump that long)

The interesting part of the beliefs is what the heavenly order deems as good and bad, since those are the main sources of conflict here.

Because next to humanity and the gods are the others (die Anderen) a generalized group of those who are not part of the divine order. Those can be simply animals like Ravens, bats, wolves and cats, but also mythical beings like fae, fairies, elves etc.

The normal attitude towards them is neutral, stay away, don't call lest they answer and so on.

All fine and dandy, but the country has been hit by a wave of werewolves gone mad because of a bloodmoon (mythologically speaking, the wolf in the sky (inspired by norse mythology) bit the moon coating it in blood and declaring hunting season) muddying the already blurry borders between human and other.

That attack caused hate and unease to spread around, folks are willing to purge anything other to strengthen the borders between normal and abnormal, healthy and sick, good and bad...

Anyways all the blorbos are other in some way shape or form.

Starting from the ones who are other before the bloodmoon:

Shizuku and Airi:

So Shizuku is the future heir of the Hinomori family (becoming heir after her father dies a bit before the bloodmoon), but she's a bit of a clutz, a bit of an airhead even, so there's some obvious struggle there.

Well she once went into the forest in one restless night and attracted Airis attention. Airi is a Fairy who's also lord of the forest, the same the Hinomoris claim as their territory. Because of that Airi snuck into Shizukus house, hidden as a maid to test if she's worthy to be the "representative" of her forest. (she's just gay)

I have written a bit about their relationship at that time before the bloodmoon, exploring Airis conflicted feelings about where her feelings towards Shizuku belong. Typical "You can't love me! You're a girl and I'm a worm!" plot, mixed with the themes of wildness (symbolized by a lynx) and domestication (a dog). After the blood Moon Airi works with Shizuku, who kinda sorta is about to start a civil war...

Anyways Minoharu:

Haruka is a travelling hunter, who hunts down monsters and other beasts. Minori is a gay nature spirit....like...yk? I also considered writing about their relationship before the bloodmoon, trying to find the idol vibes in it. Atm it appears to be that Haruka hunts down the most unruly creatures thus garnering the admiration of the people and the others.

For most of the time the gratitude of the others would be expressed by odd gifts, like feathers, nuts, pebbles and flowers, for Haruka can't see them. Minorin (the gayass) has been following her for a while, occasionally aiding in Harukas hunts and gifting her stuff like the rest. At some point Haruka noticed her and they kinda sorta got to be partners (sorry didn't manage much development on that yet) After the bloodmoon Haruka got commissioned by the king to kill off the stray werewolves, that's when they started working with Shizuai.

Then Rui and Nene:

Rui is human born with hagstone eyes (dual colored eyes the center is a different color etc) he can see the others. Therefore he got ostracized, because of his weird behavior. Being a exentric doesn't help, so when he found a trapped Siren (Nene, who got kidnapped from her homeland and now chills with Rui), he decided to just... hermit it up, goes full on mad alchemist (raaah). His presence before the bloodmoon is during the Mizuena prebloodmoon plot. There he functions as Mizukis strange friend who asked them to transport riddled letters to An.

An here is a affiliate to Rui, ex knight and of a lesser known nobel family, she and Kohane are the owners of a tavern. Ans task is keeping check on Rui and smoothing relations between the town and the others.

Mizuena:

Mizuki is a changeling chased out of their village after their family found out that they infact weren't their son. They wound up hanging out with Rui for a while, since they have a similar stance of being an unwelcome mix of other and human. On their journey to Diva they met Ena in a small town far from the city (she ran from her family for art reasons) Ena joined them in their journey, finding comfort in their relationship, since Mizuki doesn't treat her as part of "his" family. They bond together, Mizuki assists her in her impulsive new goal of becoming a knight, they have the classic Mizuena runaway story and wham. Gaē

I have written a lot about that in a fic (might finally manage posting the first chapter sometime, still it's in german soo...) focusing on falling out of humanity, searching a future etc. swell stuff to ponder about, but ngl I fear Ena got a bit too ooc

Kanamafu:

So...Kanade's dead...she died...womp womp. Aight lemme explain. Mafuyus presence before the bloodmoon is just being the friendly neighborhood knight, until she ends up standing in ominous mist, talking in a monotone hollow voice how people are cursed, or damning themselves. She has the same eyes as Rui, can see the other, but she's a Asahina, so that can't be, no good girl stares at the corner for hours tsk tsk. Welp that leads to some mental damage, seeing the tortured ghosts of the past, but pretending that everything is fine, mixed with the already present Mafu...trauma, yeagh not fun. Anyways one night Mafuyu heard a haunting song and finds out it's Kanades restless ghost, who cursed herself with the duty of singing prayers to save folks...so they ended up being besties :3

Now! To the after bloodmoon stuff:

So around the time before the bloodmoon, like around one/two months, Saki left the country to get some better help for her illness. While that happens the horrendous bloodbath occurred and Shiho (who was a knight atm) got bit by a Werewolf and spread the curse on Ichika and Hona before running off into the forest. Yay.

Since Shiho only was freshly turned Ichika and Hona got about...wowza two years until the curse takes hold on them. Naturally the panicked people aren't fond of two (there were more but...those didn't make it) future werewolves in their mids, but here comes Shizuku with a steel chair.

The Hinomoris are next to the Asahinas one of the most powerful families in Sekai (excluding the Ootoris) ,so Shizuku, the new head of the family, threathens a civil war if the city harms any people injured by the attacks. She got some backing, since the family helped out a lot of the people affected by the attack. This in mind they came to a conclusion that the cursed will live under their watch until they turn and welp...get executed.

Nice and dandy, back to Saki out of country.

Girl has no clue and will not have any clue for a while.

Her entire friendgroup affected by the perils, Tsukasa and Ichika came to the conclusion to not tell her the entire thing.

So after she returned, still stuck in a room with fabeled beasts painted on her walls, she listens to Ichikas monthly lies. It's all she has.

Until Ichika acts weird, Tsukasa kicks her out, leading to a debate between the Tenmas, where Saki hears the truth and runs away into the forest like Shiho.

There the plot scatteres.

So Ichika? she was under the surveillance of a troop of knights...to be precise niigo. Officially Ena and to balance it out Mafuyu, but Mizuki and Kanade are their plus ones. They have a sorta neat relationship, especially Ichimizu, which I really need to explore more. That aside, Ichika is about to go full wolf and niigo is in crisis mode. Mafuyu is of the opinion to kill her before Ichika reveals their secret. Ena is full, no...no we shouldn't?? unwilling to follow some orders and kill a bro. Mizuki and Kanade are the middle ground, going, hey so killing Ichika is bad actually, but if we let her run away, Ena will be blamed and might even get killed in her place.

They come to a conclusion that they have to surrender Ichika, but find Saki for her, who's disappearance was announced by a very concerned Tsukasa rushing through the streets.

On Honamis side, she already got put in a cell for being a bit too dubious at the monastery. She managed gathering some tolerance, by cutting of contact with Ichika and going full people pleaser, but one bad day and schwomp jail.

One day Emu just spawns in the jail, since a kind friend of her wound up getting put behind bars. Through the conversation Honami gathers that Saki vanishes and admits her concern, motivating Emu to go on a search for her.

And Kasa? his character is a fun one ngl. Tsukasa in this au is enamored by the heroic legends of his forefathers. He has a bit of a self-absorbed vibe for most of the time, but after Saki left he had to face the reality of his beloved fairytales.

So emu contacts him and leads him to her odd friends in the odd forest, Rui and Nene. So that forms the wxs Saki search party.

Aight now where's Saki?

In a gay cottage.

Yk Shiho running off into the forest? Yeagh she got caught by Shizuku. She and Airi put the Shiwolf into time out in the hidden Hinomori hut (hidden by Airi, for I love myself some twisting reality and creating hidden spaces :3. Rui does that as well)

Haruka and Minori who got commissioned to hunt down wolves like Shiho almost found her, but Shizuku managed convincing them otherwise, so they now hang out with Shiho.

How Saki ended up there? Shiho found her collapsed in the snow and idk man unnecessary feelings aside, she wouldn't let anyone die in the snow, let alone Saki.

So she brought her to Minoharu to care for and just hides in the sidelines to maintain distance.

The entire gay cottage part is just slowburn Shihosaki (at least that's what my notes say) and Saki getting the mobility aid she deserves.

Back to niigo, Mizuki managed getting close to finding where Saki may be, but got caught by Airi. Now Niigo has a new sidehussel, overthrowing the government (more precisely the Asahinas).

Luckily, since Ichika is...in prison, Mafuyu has to go back home, so Mizuki can follow her there and snoop around.

From that point things stop being concrete

Around some time, Wxs managed to find Saki, but now they have to figure out how to yk...not let the rest of leoneed get publicly executed.

And well there's a struggle, since even if they save Ichihona, they still have to completely convince a paranoid country, that the others are actually swag and maybe they should hold hands and make out with them.

Either that or run away, something that niigo suggests.

I still didn't manage to find out what is the best solution....

Aight so this is my...~2k long ramble about the Wolf au, only leaving out, traditions, the other vocaloids, myths, interesting motives, changing seasons, further political affairs, horses, different povs, my attempts in using the german language in a interesting manner and...Akitoya.

Idk if that dump is coherent, might make a more coherent one in my prsk account (to shill said account @sleep-deprived-luka )

[silverslipstream]

Hi Jeb!

I'm curious about Kat from White Sky; what kind of science does she do and does it tie into the crime she's framed for? Did she flee into outer space or was it exile? Also did she make the rocket to space? What does it look like?

-HD

Hello, Hyper Discourse, and thanks for the ask! I was really pleasantly surprised to see such a tailored question of specific interest about Kat, so you should know that it was greatly appreciated :))))) Kat's actual job back on Earth was a junior propulsion systems designer for German rocketry corporation Langersprung Developments (English: Long jump: refers to the 'long jump' between Earth's surface and outer space). She was headhunted by Langersprung after winning a national youth design competition and joined them straight out of high-school. She joined a 'residency' at their science park in Munich, which basically amounts to a four-year long think tank before young prospects join the company in an official capacity. It's kind of like a university degree, except you get paid for your studies. The actual crime is somewhat of a mystery in the story itself: Kat didn't exactly have a lot of warning before the German police and ELTO burst onto campus and started hunting for her. All she knows is that someone framed her for viewing and stealing top-secret information related to the Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, the huge spacecraft being built in lunar orbit for the first manned mission to Saturn. It was definitely 'fleeing' in that regard; she managed to get out of the park and the city, but upon seeing her face all over national news, she resigned herself to going on the run in outer space, which is considerably less regulated than Earth. Kat didn't build the Dowager Caroline, she's an 'old tub', built in the late 2030s (more than fifty years before the story begins) by Mitsubishi in Japan. The Caroline runs on chemical propellants instead of more modern nuclear/fusion fuel, and it's a debris hauler: it collects and recovers space junk and abandoned craft for recovery contracts or to sell them as scrap for refineries and smelters. I haven't really sketched out the actual design of the Caroline in my head (zero artistic talent lmao), but in my mind it's very much a 'realistic space RV': think ISS/Mir modules, mostly white and grey colours, bulky and somewhat rounded. It's not meant for atmospheric operation (to get back to Earth, the Caroline would need to dock at an orbital station and the crew would take a separate shuttle down to Earth's surface. I've attached a few photos of design inspirations below so you can see where I'm coming from.

Again, thanks for the questions!

[live-laugh-loverpool]

A Sweet Forfeit

Summary: As a result of losing the staff vs players game, Klopp and Pep have to make Cookies for the whole Kirkby training ground residence.

Tags: @millythegoat, @alissonbecksfan234, @lfc-fanfiction, @moomin279

It was Tuesday, the day before the Carabao Cup match versus Derby. Since the lineup would be a combination of the youngsters and a few pros, most of the players were given the day off. And according to Klopp and Lijnders, that meant it was the perfect time to have a staff versus players friendly match.

The players had laughed at the suggestion, and it had taken a while for them to realize that the two were serious. But Klopp had insisted, and now it was staff versus players on the training ground pitch.

“Thank you for planning our funeral, Jurgen,” Lijnders muttered under his breath, standing in his gray shorts and T-shirt. He’d changed his mind about the idea in the short distance from the office to the pitch. “And right here on this very pitch, too.”

“Come on, Pep, lighten up!” Klopp held onto his hat—he’d insisted on playing the match with it. “It won’t be so bad.”

The Dutchman groaned, blue eyes fixed in a piercing glare. “The only ones who ever played pro football before are you and Claudio. Forgive me if I realize that we’re going to get mauled out there.”

“Claudio’s a World Cup winner! And I played striker and defender at Mainz.” Klopp gestured toward Lijnders, grinning like he’d somehow won a World Cup. “And you can play midfield. It’s not going to be that bad. We trained these boys; so we know how to destroy them.”

*

Thirty minutes later, Klopp cursed the voice in his head that told him a players versus staff game was ever a good idea. It turned out that he and the other staff were more hopeless than he thought.

After only three minutes of play, the staff team were down by two goals. Klopp managed to halve the deficit by nutmegging Firmino, but then Firmino managed to get three goals past Taffarel in the next twelve minutes. Klopp wasn’t too mad about that—Firmino had had a rough past couple of days after all, with his brutal snub from the Brazil squad.

In an effort to at least make the scoreline look decent, Klopp switched to striker while Kornmayer and Nemmer went to the defense as centerbacks. Lijnders and Vera were fullbacks, and they managed to send in four decent crosses, which Klopp headed past Alisson. But it didn’t really make much difference—because Salah was currently annihilating the two German center backs. Even Taffarel couldn’t prevent the Egyptian from bagging a brace.

With the scoreline at seven to five in the players’ favor, the staff switched to an all-defensive system, with Kornmayer in midfield and Jim and Krawolski in the defense. It tightened the ship, but they still managed to concede four more goals in the last ten minutes of the game, leaving the scoreline at eleven to five.

“I don’t think I’ve ever got beaten this badly, even in my childhood,” Taffarel sighed, running a hand over his almost nonexistent hair. “Eleven to five!”

“Oh, well.” Klopp, even after the whipping, remained chipper as he strode down the halls. “Let’s be grateful it wasn’t on camera!”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Lijnders reminded Klopp, a slight smirk crossing the vice-manager’s expression. “The forfeit.”

Klopp froze in his tracks, the memories of earlier flooding him. The forfeit. Oh, scheisse.

*

That was how Klopp and Lijnders ended up in the kitchen, donning aprons and grabbing kitchen utensils from drawers. They’d locked the door behind them, checked the fire alarms and sanitized the surfaces.

In short, Klopp and Lijnders were going to bake cookies.

“What in the name of the Apex League told you this was a good idea?” Lijnders sighed, rummaging around the cabinets. He pulled out a giant Ziploc bag full of cookie cutters. “Couldn’t you have picked any other holiday dare? Like ‘Secret Santa’ or something?”

“Last time I had the idea of Secret Santa, I got an English dictionary.” Klopp shuddered just thinking of the memory, opening a recipe book. “I’m not taking that risk again. This should be a piece of cake.”

“You mean a piece of cookie,” Lijnders corrected him, fumbling with his apron strings as he joined Klopp at the counter. “Now what are we baking, boss?”

They flipped through many of the cookie recipes, but each one was either too boring or too complicated. Eventually, Lijnders and Klopp found a recipe.

“Leb…kuchen?” Lijnders stumbled over the word printed in teal cursive on the paper. “What is this?”

“Oh, lebkuchen!” Klopp’s eyes lit up like a small child on Christmas Day. “It’s a German gingerbread recipe. Only instead of gingerbread these are softer and not crunchy, and we use an egg wash after baking, and—”

“Hold on a minute!” Lijnders leant against the counter, watching as Klopp darted around the kitchen, gathering ingredients. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about cookies.”

“I know how to eat them,” Klopp announced, dropping the ingredients onto the counter. “Oh, this will be so much fun. We’re going to need Christmas cookie cutters—reindeer, snowmen, Christmas trees…”

Lijnders took a glass bottle from the mounting pile of stuff on the counter. Cranberry spirits were written on the label in gold letters. “Jurgen! Why is there a bottle of spirits on the counter?”

“Oh, Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree!” Klopp had found what he was looking for, and now he danced around the kitchen, holding a Christmas tree-shaped cookie cutter and singing to it. “You’re going to be so tasty! And when you enter in my mouth—”

“Jurgen!” Lijnders really wanted to disappear into nothingness, just like the USA would in the World Cup. “The topic, please!”

“And that should be everything.” Klopp proudly surveyed the ingredients, grabbing the cookbook. “Now what did the recipe say again?”

“Do not cook without adult supervision.” Lijnders read the instructions in bright, obvious red. “Thankfully Jurgen, you should be in good shape. Because I’m here to supervise you.”

“Yep, I should be in good—wait, I’m fifteen years older than you!” Klopp brought over five large mixing bowls, setting them on the counter with a clatter. “Now let’s get baking.”

*

It turned out, much to Lijnders’ surprise, that Klopp was very good when it came to following directions. They quickly prepared the dough—now all it had to do was cool so they could add the egg whites.

Ironically, the part with the least possibility to mess up was the one Klopp liked the least.

“So much waiting to do!” Klopp opened a bag of semisweet chocolate chips, pouring himself a handful. “If only lebkuchen dough could rise faster.”

Lijnders nodded, only half-listening to Klopp. He was too busy choosing between various candy canes. “Did you guys ever make these back in Germany?”

“Oh, yeah, all the time.” Klopp took a dog-eared scrapbook from a bookshelf and set it on the counter. He opened the book, revealing a dusty Polaroid photograph.

Lijnders squinted at the page, trying to blow off the dust. He could only make out a young boy of around six and a hand on an empty cookie tray. “...Boss? Is this you?”

“No, it’s Genghis Khan. Of course it’s me, Pep!” Klopp chuckled, sliding the photograph out of its plastic casing. “Even in the middle of crime, I was charming.”

The in crime bit told Lijnders all that he needed to know. “Are we so sure about the charming bit?”

Klopp gasped, trying to seem as offended as he could even though he was clearly ready to laugh. “Hey!”

Lijnders grinned, savoring a bite of candy cane. “Just kidding.”

The timer went off at that very moment, and Lijnders burst into laughter watching Klopp carry the bowl of dough from the refrigerator to the counter.

If it was a miracle that Klopp didn’t drop the dough, Lijnders didn’t say anything.

*

“Christmas tree!”

“Snowman!”

The situation stood firmly in the realm of ridicule and just barely toed the line of insanity. Two grown men were arguing over what shape to make the last lebkuchen in.

“Either we make it a Christmas tree or nothing at all!” Klopp insisted, crossing his arms. Lijnders could tell that the German wasn’t really that annoyed, though.

“You filled up two baking trays with trees, isn’t that enough for you?” Lijnders rolled his eyes, pointing to each of the forty-something Christmas tree cookies on the trays. “People think you’re in your Greta Thunberg era, but this is just ridiculous. It wouldn’t kill you to build a snowman.”

“Oh, but it would,” said Klopp, setting down the Christmas tree cookie cutter.

Lijnders didn’t understand. “Why?”

“I’d get cold feet.” And Klopp laughed at his own terrible dad joke.

Lijnders buried his head under a spare apron, groaning in disgust. “That’s an awful joke.”

“I know! That’s what makes them so good.”

The two eventually settled on a reindeer cookie cutter, decorating it with dried cranberries and coconut flakes. Even Lijnders had to admit it looked pretty good.

*

Thankfully, the cookies only needed 15 minutes to bake. That still left the two with plenty of time to mess around in the kitchen—which took form in a full-fledged mayhem session.

“En garde—OH SCHEISSE!” Klopp held out a wooden spatula, but tripped over his own feet, knocking over a sack of flour. In turn, the sack of flour tipped a bowl of water, which all tumbled to the floor in one huge splat.

“Jurgen!” Sidestepping piles of flour and water, Lijnders navigated towards Klopp on tiptoe. “Are you okay?”

Klopp pulled himself to a stand, shaking flour off his hand. “Uh…yeah. But I do feel sort of white.”

“Well, clearly.” Lijnders chuckled, handing Klopp a towel. “You’re covered in flour and water.”

Klopp caught a reflection of himself in the mirror, shrugging his initial surprise off. “Oh, well. Now you have your snowman.”

*

By some miracle, the cookies didn’t come out burnt. In fact, they looked very much like the picture in the cookbook—golden-brown, moist and shiny.

“Jurgen!” Lijnders slapped Klopp’s hand away from the cooling rack. “These cookies are for the others, remember?”

“We have to test them,” Klopp argued, gaze still lingering on the cookies. “And plus, a couple missing cookies won’t hurt.”

The Dutch assistant sighed, giving in. “You make a point.”

Klopp chose a Christmas tree, while Lijnders chose a snowman. At the same time, they took a bite.

“Not bad. Not bad at all!” Lijnders stared at the cookie as if it were a miracle from heaven. “We actually made decent cookies, Jurgen!”

“Not just decent cookies. Really good ones.” Klopp was already busy packing the cookies into little gingerbread-house shaped tins, sticking a bow onto each one. “I think I know how to use these cookies from now on.”

“How?”

Klopp smirked, taking out more ingredients from the pantry for the next batch. “We’ll use them as motivation for Kostas to cut off his man bun.”

[mygainyear2024]

Day 4 Off the beaten track and 22,579 steps to language school

After breakfast I headed to the gym to do my own (the exercise physio's) program which went pretty smoothly. It wasn't too crowded and I found what I needed. I still managed to miss a turn getting there!

After much fluffing around on the computer, I finally got out the door and headed to Alvor for lunch and my first Portugese lesson at Golfland (basically a putt putt). I posted a question about a month ago on a Facebook page enquiring about language classes and had one response, they put me in touch with Rebecca Cuddeford.

I thought I might walk based on the advice of the Canadian couple I met yesterday, although they indicated the coastal route was the one they took. Given my tardiness I decided to follow the maps.me instructions inland. I did notice the path seemed to go off road, but I went with it and saw a different side of the Algarve. It was quite warm today, around 20-21°, I felt the heat walking in the middle of the day. I was also feeling a tad adventurous, not knowing what might be around a corner, until I started listening to a podcast on the Women Who Travel, Condé Nast Traveler program. Alice Morrison walked across Morocco with three nomads and six camels over 7 months. I think she said she did 70,000kms!! Now that's adventure.

I booked lunch at Ria de Alvor at Wyndam Residences. I enjoyed my fresh herb crusted cod, sadly without wine. I just could not entertain the idea of a glass of Mateus and there was no other rosé by the glass. Later, one of the participants in the language school told me that she'd never eat there! Despite all my research prior to coming I had of course missed the main attractions in Alvor, the harbour and its restaurants, and some cute shops I saw on the way to the bus. This was also the case with Ferragudo yesterday, me in the industrial area, while apparently a different world awaits (realised after I did a review of my copious notes). Luckily I'm here for a while and can return.

I had thought about walking back along the coastal route into Praia da Rocha for gelato, but the language teacher advised against it on my own. The reason, the path is not always obvious and can crumble away! Falling off cliff tops before I actually retire is not something on my bucket list. I do have some women who responded to other Facebook posts I wrote (I sent messages to them today announcing my arrival) so I'll ask their advice and whether they'd like to join me. Otherwise Gary, who attended the class today, is a member of a walking group/s and knows everybody, according to the teacher! I had a lovely quick informative chat with Michelle and ?? about owning property in Portugal. They are still based in the UK, but holiday regularly in Portugal. They said they do pay tax in both countries, but there's some arrangement between Portugal and the UK.

It was a fast paced lesson. Rebecca moved to Portugal eight years ago and within four years started to teach. For €5 per hour payg there were about 15 of us. I was the only Australian and I think I heard all British and Irish accents, some sounded quite funny speaking Portugese. I think they were mostly retired, there was one guy who is an actor and he was switched on with it and sounded fabulous. It is an interesting language, there seems to be some German, French, Italian and maybe Spanish influences. Ricardo, the trainer at the gym last night, sounded like he was saying German words (maybe he was!). Anyway aside from Olá (Hi), obrigada (thank you), um galão (a frothy milky coffee), pastel de nata (Portugese tart), I can now practice Chamo-me Jody (my name is Jody), como estás (how are you?), muito benn (very good), quero uma cerveja (I'd like a beer!). We did practice what was taught last week and then moved on to months of the year and numbers.

I ended the outing with a triple scoop gelato (ricotta & café, pistacchio italiano and my preference, crosscantino & rum) from Gelateria Sorbetto, in Praia da Rocha, only a 12 minute walk from my apartment. It was excelente!

I'm pleased to announce the €2.99 (discounted from €5) bottle of rosé from Setúbal is drinkable. It went down well with my homemade (em casa) prawn fried rice, which was still edible with the notes of turps syrah splashed in as stock!

[introduction-to-performance-vol4]

A letter to prospective players

--

Hi all !

If you’ve clicked on this, it means you’re interested in Introduction-to-Performance: The Roleplaying Assessment Game, taking place at Offener Ofen, AdBK Nuremberg in January 2023. Thanks for clicking! Here, I’ve tried to compile all the information you might need to know before getting involved  :)

📎💌⚖️ 

Who am I?

My name is Gordon Douglas and I’m a performance artist from Glasgow, Scotland. I am currently studying on the MA Live Art Forms programme, and am resident in Nuremberg every October, January, April, and July. In the context of Introduction-to-Performance, I’ll be your host, the game’s administrator, and a fellow player :)

To give you a brief insight into my practice, I work closely within arts and educational organisations: occupying office spaces, reorganising archives, celebrating birthdays, hosting events, assembling publications, and staging tests. Some of my work can be found here if you’re interested. As part of my practice, I devise games that offer collective moments to rehearse destabilising (or queering) inherited power dynamics within cultural austerity. 

One of these games is called Introduction-to-Performance; and I am very grateful to the team at Offener Ofen who have agreed to facilitate its fourth volume in January 2023! 

🧭➿🎲

What is the game?

Introduction-to-Performance is a roleplaying game where participants join a fictional Performance Art Awards Agency. The role of this agency is to collaboratively assess 100 historical performance works, and assemble a shortlist of 10 ‘good’ performances. The game is therefore a collective decision-making experiment, where we decide on our values together– coming to beautiful consensus, or uneasy compromise on what we believe are the best performances from the longlist.

I am writing today to invite you to be part of this fantasy Awards Agency, and together we will assess 100 existing performances towards a shortlist of the TEN BEST PERFORMANCES OF THE GERMAN SPEAKING WORLD EVER! We might also choose a winner, who will receive a fabulous prize :)

I’m not an expert in this world (I’m Scottish, I can’t speak German, and I only live in Nuremberg for four months each year), so I’m also going to participate as a player and learn about these performances too. The shortlisting method that I will administer throughout the game is inspired by theatre shortlisting agencies (Total Theatre Awards), popular education exercises (Peuple et Culture), and trial and error. The sessions will attempt to offer a platform to speak critically about performance and its qualities in a fun environment. 

⚽️📱💳

What do I mean by performance?

The game is open to all experiences because performance is everywhere. It is in the cultural phenomena of shared ritual, in the management or governance of our shared arts education, in the circuitry of the device you’re reading this on. There is no requirement to hold primary (embodied) or secondary (read or seen) experiences of performance art to take part.

The longlist will be conceived of performances from a variety of traditions, interventions, and systems. It will include protest movements, persona works, participatory practice, performance scores, photographs, narratives, organisations, websites, social experiments, provocations, archives, viral content, obsessions, re-enactments, mail art, embedded practice, conversations, actions ... etc.

🎉🏆🍾

About the Sessions

The game will take place over 6 evenings, and will involve delegating performances from a longlist of 100 works, to players for independent research. Each session will begin by airing all the researched performances in the room, and invite us to make collective decisions about what goes forward in the process and continues to be discussed. 

The process is relatively simple once we get going, but I’ll explain it all in detail at the Introductory Session!

It is important to be able to commit for the six evening sessions in order to carry the conversation from one session to the next. I will provide soup each evening and some beers/wine, so we have enough sustenance to hold us in the debates!

The dates for the game are as follows:

Tuesday 10th January, 6-8pm - INTRODUCTORY SESSION

Thursday 12th January, 6-8pm

Monday 16th January, 6-8pm

Thursday 19th January, 6-8pm

Monday 23rd January, 6-8pm

Thursday 26th January, 6-8pm - FINAL SHORTLISTING SESSION

The game will be hosted in english, and all students of the AdBK are welcome. There is however a limit of 10 players, so the game will be limited to the first 10 people to respond to this call for players.

🪨📃✂️

Interested?

If you’d like to take part, please fill in the form via this link; or, alternatively, email the following details to gordon.douglas@adbk-nuernberg.de

your name; your pronouns; three words that describe the interests or concerns explored in your practice. And if you want to suggest performances or artists from the German Speaking World for the longlist, I am happy to receive these too (this last one is optional!)

I will message everyone at the beginning of January to send some details about our first session. 

This is the fourth iteration of the game, with previous volumes having taken place at: Edinburgh College (2016-17); Rhubaba Gallery and Studios (2019); and the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland (2021). A website documenting the first volume can be found here. 

If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me!

Really looking forward to hearing from you, and to learning together :)

Gordon

x

[kiruuuuu]

As you might’ve noticed already, a few lovelies have organised an artist/writer pairup on our discord server, so I jumped at the chance to participate 😊 I felt particiularly inspired by @melaniecakes​‘ piece, which you can find here (or as my most recent reblog!) - it’s moody and somber and beautiful, so I tried my best to capture its essence in writing. I can’t judge how well I did, but I hope you enjoy it regardless 💕 And once again, thank you for this stunning art!! (Bandit/Jäger, Rating E, character study, explicit + fickle?, ~6.5k words)

.

“- heavy rainfall and strong winds later this day, especially here in Northern Germany. People are advised to stay at home and, if possible, not park their cars below trees. Temperatures continue to be in the high twenties -”

Marius switches the radio off.

Pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head, he peers at the incoming street signs until he spots the correct one, denoting the entrance to the holiday park. Once he’s stopped in front of the main building, a block of red brick covered in faded posters, he slides the glasses over his eyes again so he won’t get blinded by the midday sun upon leaving the car. The door makes a worrisome sound as he slams it shut – he hasn’t gotten around to fixing it yet, not with how hectic the past weeks have been. Which is why he’s looking forward to this reprieve even more.

No messages. He slides his phone into the back pocket of his shorts and enters the foyer. A young woman greets him, an adolescent girl on second glance, trying her best to seem professional and visibly enjoying the responsibility she’s allowed to bear. Likely the owner’s or manager’s daughter, maybe niece, who knows. Even though Marius deliberately chose the date to avoid the school holidays, it is a Sunday and so she might have been asked to help out.

“Streicher”, he says and rests his hands on the counter separating them. “I’m not too early to check in, am I?”

She flashes him a practised smile. “Not at all, don’t worry. Let’s see – yes, here’s the reservation. Four nights, correct?”

He nods and watches her type a few words before leaving a brief written note for someone. She’s left-handed: around 11% of Germans are. Sinister, his brain supplies helpfully. An odd word, originally meaning nothing more than ‘left’… or did it carry the same ominous connotation during Roman times as well? He’ll have to look it up later.

“Here you are, you’re in number 167. The swimming pool is open 8 to 6, our restaurant -”

“Thank you”, he interrupts her monologue quickly, “I’ve stayed with you before.”

The girl doesn’t miss a beat. “Then you know your way around. Good! If you have any other questions, feel free to drop by or call the number listed in the brochure on the coffee table. Have a pleasant stay!”

He thanks her once more and slips the two sets of keys into a different pocket. “I hope the weather holds up.”

A shrug. “I heard there’s a storm coming.”

“Yeah”, he says evenly. No messages. He didn’t even realise he was taking out his phone until his eyes strayed to the screen. 13:08, reads the display. “I heard it too.”

He steps back outside.

.

The park is dead.

While his trusty car crawls along, he passes the odd family, a few retired couples, an expectant mother with another female companion. They’re all several houses apart and watch him like his arrival is the most interesting thing to happen to them today. Only in a handful of places does he spot a car and drawn curtains, or other signs of occupancy like the residents making use of the fair weather by lounging in the spacious front yard, sprawling on the garden furniture. It’s too warm for any real activities, but not too hot so people sought shelter inside.

Overall, it’s extremely quiet. Only a low percentage of identical-looking houses is being used and he prefers it this way: he remembers how the glass door and floor-length windows of each bungalow face the narrow paths winding through the facilities. He wouldn’t like to be stared at all day and he enjoys the sunlight too much to hide.

Several of his acquaintances have expressed their distaste for parks like this one, calling them boring, bougie, even suffocating. Many of them were dragged along by their families and now aspire to be anyone other than their parents, so a traditional holiday destination is out of the question. This may be why Marius enjoys it so much: he barely went on vacations with his uncle, and when they did, they often holed up in dingy hotels that left him vaguely claustrophobic.

The house is as he remembers it, only more modern. Nestled in between its twins, it’s nothing special – the same apricot curtains, the same badly-painted front door, the same impersonal furniture. It’s large for one person, more than sufficient for two, and the kitchen must’ve been renovated no more than two or three years ago. Paintings and the odd sculpture are inoffensive, the bed missing its sheets. It feels like a clean slate, which only makes Marius like the place even more. He can be whoever he wants to be in here. He can even be absolutely nobody.

No messages. It’s fine, he tells himself.

He takes his time unpacking. What little clothes he brought looks even less in the massive wardrobe crowding the one bedroom. The large box of groceries, however, feels decadent – he could probably survive for two weeks on all the pasta, rice, snacks, and fresh vegetables he brought, let alone the breakfast items. There’s some solace in placing personal objects around the small house, making it his, but all the open space feels lacking regardless. Lacking someone else’s touch.

An unassuming sound nearly causes him to drop his mug and he hurries to put it down before snatching his phone off the kitchen table. His tomcat’s handsome face has him deflate just as fast as his heartbeat quickened: Emmanuelle is a diligent cat-sitter and provides ample updates, delivered with a heap of emoji. It’s not what he’s been hoping for, but it manages to make him smile still. He replies with more gratitude and wishes her a nice day, then he switches to a barren-looking conversation. And hesitates.

Is he at the stage where he just… waits? Or still at the point where he openly shows his excitement, draws in, makes an effort? Inquiring about the house number is yet another obstacle he could remove, and he so does want to pave the way. Plus it’s another reminder.

167, he types and sends. Stares at the singular check mark denoting it’s been sent successfully until it turns into a double. Message received. He chews his lip and waits a minute, waits until the 3 turns into a 4 at the top right of the screen, and then switches off the screen. Just as the lights go out, the check mark turns blue. Hastily unlocking it again and failing twice, cursing the fingerprint sensor for its inaccuracy, he makes sure he saw correctly and yes, it’s blue now. Message seen. He vaguely hopes he’s caused a guilty conscience even though he’s sworn to give up the habit of being petty.

Shouldn’t take long now.

He finally remembers that he has to pee, which is a regular occurrence: he forgets about bodily functions when he’s absorbed in anything, and making the bungalow somewhat homely preoccupied his mind entirely. The bathroom is sterile and cold, though he prefers renovated over cosily dilapidated. The person staring back at him as he washes his hands seems young, with every consequence to it; expectant, lively, too immature to know better. The wrinkles in the corners of his eyes deceive. There are mistakes he still has to make. Turning the tap off, he notices it being slightly loose – he could fix it, but he doesn’t want to interfere with what isn’t his.

For a while, he sits outside in the shade of his temporary abode and just stares into the sky until everything else loses all colour, looks like an old faded photograph. A few voices drift over, nothing he can make out, and his ears prick up whenever someone drives by. No one stops near him. The boredom feels cathartic at first and, later, infuriating. Impatience rises fast as does irritation, an all-encompassing annoyance centring on himself and the whole situation. He came here to unwind and so he’s even angrier with himself for getting worked up.

A brief notion urges him to remain where he is, as if he could punish anyone other than himself by refusing to do anything meaningful. As if it mattered whether he spent the time reading or passive-aggressively waiting for something. He’d end up angrier for sure, and an unwelcome part of him wants to harvest it, collect it, weaponise it into righteous fury.

More like self-righteous.

He rises and gets back into the house.

.

It always feels like he’s getting the sequence wrong – arrives and unpacks before peeing, finally eats the lunch he forgot for several hours, showers next and stands there with his head tilted back and mouth open because it didn’t occur to him to drink anything with his sandwiches. If his schedule is interrupted, if he doesn’t pay close enough attention to what he’s supposed to be doing, he messes it up and pays the price later. He’s lucky he remembered in time.

He brushes his teeth and accidentally hits the loose tap so he ends up with a large wet spot in his crotch.

No messages.

Sprawling horizontally on the bed while letting his hair air-dry, he scrolls up on his phone, up from the received and seen message without a reply. Doesn’t look at the dates, he doesn’t need that right now, but a few messages catch his eye. A few photos. The references.

Last time he was here, in this very park, he barely left the house. The first day yes, a long walk followed by some takeaway, visiting the swimming pool, and then? If looks could kill, neither of them would’ve survived the next-door death glare by both parents the one morning they stepped outside for a fag – they went shopping in a closing supermarket that night because they’d slept all day, angering the cashier as well. Marius did feel bad about it, partly, but he didn’t care enough to change anything.

They kept the curtains closed permanently and it was for the best: being surrounded by families meant they needed to be careful in case a brat saw more than it should have. The weather wasn’t as hot as it is now, yet they ended up wearing a minimum of the clothes they’d brought.

Memories stir something in him, a warmth between his legs. This is also what he came for, a spark to reignite once-smouldering coals, and the past is a solid foundation to build on. He closes his eyes and drops his phone on the pillow next to him, his only companion in the large bed. Fingers creep lower, leave behind a tingling sensation he intensifies with vague daydreams; there’s a voice muttering empty phrases in his ear, hands touching him wherever he wants. The shadowy figure in his mind performs his usual choreography – years of daily practise makes perfect, and it has him hard in seconds. He remembers the time they did it standing up in the kitchen of this house’s counterpart, drunk on cheap wine and each other, the position uncomfortable and not deep enough and still it was the hottest thing.

Marius rolls over so he can reach behind, brushes his fingertips over quivering muscle for a while before he succumbs and grabs the tube off the bedside table. He brought a full one in anticipation, and if he’s honest, he wouldn’t mind spending a holiday like that again: fuck all night, sleep all day, screw the rest of the world. When it’s not focused on absorbing knowledge, his brain is preoccupied with sex more often than not and though he probably deserves to be called old by now, his body manages to keep up. This won’t be the last time he’s using the lube, that much is clear.

A new thought fuels his want, his brain latching on to the scenario instantly, his cock jumping at the idea. The prospect. If he takes his time, he could get walked in on, interrupted at the crucial moment, inspire mirroring desire and set the tone for the next days. Differing sequences are possible and his mind plays through all of them in seconds until he decides on one, elaborates on it, fills it with lush and luscious detail. He’s called names, named obscene, sputters excuses before he can’t verbalise anything anymore, what with the shaft down his throat.

He tries to hold out to increase the chance of his fantasy coming true, but ultimately, his self-discipline isn’t good enough. Panting into the fresh linen of his pillow, he splatters the white sheets even whiter as he feels the tension rolling out of him in waves. Catching his breath, he falls onto the clean half of the bed and stares at a hairline crack in the corner.

How long since his masturbation fantasies turned monogamous? He can’t even remember jerking off while thinking of anybody else. The thought is more sobering than the general post-orgasmic clarity. Compatible libido isn’t everything, and yet the scenes his brain dreams up in the heat of the moment only feature one man. It’s made staying mad difficult, and cutting contact nigh impossible.

No messages. “Fuck”, he breathes, and it feels good. He doesn’t swear often. “Fucking asshole. Fuck this.”

While washing his hands, he turns the tap on a little too much and creates a puddle on white tile.

.

It’s a different person manning the reception now, for which he’s grateful. He tries to compare this woman’s features to the ones of the girl earlier but fails to recognise any similarities – his uncle claims bad people memory runs in the family, but Emmanuelle called him out by stating it’s due to lack of interest. She’s probably right, he’ll remember the first receptionist to be left-handed but couldn’t recall her hair colour. People rarely manage to keep his attention.

“Hi, sorry, I just have a quick question”, he announces his presence as he steps closer to the counter where he checked in. “The park restaurant, it’s only dine-in, correct?”

“Yes, only dine-in”, the woman confirms. She’s not as eager to please but friendly nonetheless.

“Is there a takeout nearby that you can recommend?”

Around her neck, she’s wearing a pendant with a Celtic knot and he wonders whether she’s ever even been to the UK or Ireland or whether she only likes the design. Not that there’s anything wrong with appreciating traditional symbols, but ignorance about their origin is the first step towards putting one’s foot in one’s mouth. Even so, he’s well aware of swastikas traditionally representing auspiciousness – but it doesn’t mean he can stop cringing inwardly whenever he sees one, no matter the context. He was once asked in jest whether a tattoo of a left-facing one would be -

The woman is looking at him expectantly and he realises he didn’t catch a single word.

“Could you repeat that, please?”

“I can draw a map for you, if that’s easier.”

“An address would be even better.”

He’s relieved to see her jot down a street name and a house number and briefly ponders whether he should explain his preference for precise data as opposed to subjective descriptions when he notices her to be left-handed as well. Likely a family connection after all. Who needs to remember faces when he can rely on genetics instead?

As he steps back outside, there’s already a thin cloud layer dulling the previously bright sunlight.

.

Before dinner, he goes mini-golfing. Of all the activities which make someone by themselves look atrociously alone, minigolf must be in the top 10% - he overtakes a laughing family, the daughter constantly haggling as to what constitutes a stroke, her younger brother just happy to participate. They’re the only ones on the course apart from Marius himself, possibly due to the noticeable change in weather: with every passing minute, the sky darkens, and the occasional light breeze intensifies increasingly. There’s no trace of the sun by the time he’s done taking turns putting and writing down his score, and the first drop of rain hits his nose the second he hands over the borrowed club.

Despite not being superstitious, he’d made a deal with himself: if he manages not to check his phone the entire time, there’ll be something afterwards. A notification, a missed call, anything – a reward for distracting himself, for interrupting this obsession. Enough time has passed since his message was received and read (but not acknowledged), the drive over from the capital about as long as his own, maybe shorter.

Emmanuelle has sent another snapshot of his tomcat. No other messages.

He kinda wishes the club back, right back into his hands. Hope has been stretched thin, so now it’s time for utter disillusion to take over, together with pure spite. Alright, nothing is going to happen today. Fine. He’ll be here for four more days after all, that’s enough time for anything he has or doesn’t have in mind. It’s fine. No need to check his phone anymore.

It’s fine.

Back at his house, he turns the key so sharply he hurts his fingers. Trying to cool them under running water leads to him nearly knocking the entire tap loose, so he slams the bathroom door shut behind him and angrily gets his toolbox from the car. This is ridiculous. He knows how to repair basic plumbing and if he told the people responsible, he’d have to wait at least a day, probably more.

It takes him thirty-six minutes to fix the tap and by the end, it’s as good as new. He knows how long it took because he kept checking his phone.

At this point, the light drizzle from before has vanished, and still there’s a foreboding silence. The earth is holding its breath, just waiting for the other shoe to drop: an almost purple sky threatens with fast-moving mountains of clouds and as he looks North, there’s a proper cloud bank approaching. Despite the hour, it feels like night already with how gloomy it is. The air presses against his lungs from outside, thick and humid. There’s electricity in the space around him. A storm is brewing.

.

He eats dinner with the lights on. A few more threatening drops fell onto his windscreen, yet nothing else has happened so far. Absolutely nothing.

The shop was small and crowded, always a good sign, yet he was glad to be able to take his food to a quieter place. A documentary running on his propped-up tablet, chewing chips with some of the skin still on, a steaming mug of coffee next to him, it’s almost cosy. He regrets not bringing any books if only because they’d liven up the place, something all the charger cables and electrical equipment don’t achieve somehow.

David Attenborough narrates over some alien-looking deep sea critters – one of his current fixations – and he feels at peace. Once he’s let go of any and all expectations and accepted that whatever happens, happens, it’s much easier to enjoy the change of scenery. He’s looking forward to lying in bed, finishing the research paper Wamai dug up for him and listening to soft pattering on the roof. This is how it is, this is how it’s always been. He knows it. And still hopes for change much too often.

He hasn’t checked for messages in a while.

.

The drumming of the rain almost drowns it out.

He’s ready for bed, wearing a thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, getting himself a glass of water when he hears it. A soft roaring: a familiar engine approaches, one he’s worked on many times, audible through the water pouring down as if it was too stubborn to be ignored. His heart jumps and sinks, his stomach cramps up in anticipation because now there’s no mistaking it, this isn’t anyone else claiming one of the surrounding houses. He’s coming to claim this one.

Marius sets the glass down by the side window, leans against the windowsill and panics – he should’ve looked busy, maybe, or jumped into bed quickly to make it seem like he fell asleep waiting, or maybe hidden the second portion of chips he foolishly bought because he’s unable to give up entirely and isn’t that part of why he’s here right now?

He can’t make out the sound of the motorcycle stand, nor of the holding box being opened and closed, but what he does hear is the door opening. That’s right, he forgot to lock it and this time, it really was an accident as he would’ve loved to have him knock instead, get drenched for a few seconds longer while he waits for Marius to let him in.

Heavy boots walk closer.

Even now, his thoughts are racing trying to decide what he should or shouldn’t have done, whether he should’ve dressed differently or how he should react in a moment, but then he’s there and all thoughts are wiped off his mind instantly.

They look at each other. If Marius were holding anything, his hand would shake.

“Hi”, says Dom.

His voice is raspy and his appearance scruffy: an unknown type of dirt is smeared on his cheek and forehead, his wet hair sticking to his head probably because of the helmet and the rain equally, the leather covering his thighs dripping water to the floor. His jacket glistens in the soft light, small rivulets running down his arms to add to the growing puddle by his feet. He smells of mud and smoke. He’s smiling so brightly he looks like an idiot.

Lightning illuminates the scene briefly, like a paparazzi who caught a huge scoop – as if there was any secret surrounding them – and not even two seconds later, thunder strikes. The deep rumble is blood-curdling, makes his heart skip a beat and doesn’t stop for an eternity, growling on and on as nature rages outside. The storm is here.

“Did you drive carefully?”, he asks because he doesn’t know what else to say. Dom is surrounded by the cautious joy of someone who knows they did something wrong but tries not to care, not to show.

“Yes”, he lies as smoothly as always. He’s painfully present, sticks out like a realistic element in a surrealist painting – not meant to be there but fulfilling a role somehow, unexpected, in stark contrast to his surroundings. Marius wants to sink into his arms, make him say that everything’s fine, that he’ll never have to worry about anything ever again. He’s tall, imposing, broad, inviting because he’s his. Like a wild animal he tamed: intimidating to everyone else, safe for him and him alone. Dom’s beard is unkempt and he looks like he needs a shower.

All the reproach melts. The irritation fades. The unbearable boredom pales against the blunt reality of Dom being here right now and Marius is scared of how intense the effect is. Still is. The magnetic attraction between them, the reason why Dom said yes to Marius’ idea of visiting the holiday park back then and this time, the very thing which kept them inside all day last time they were here.

“I missed you so much this last month”, Dom adds and now he’s not lying. Maybe.

The next crack of thunder is just as loud as the one before, following Dom’s words and masking the sound of Marius’ glass falling over. Did he twitch? He must have, though he doesn’t remember, can’t feel the impact, only knows he’s truly and utterly doomed.

“I’m glad you’re here”, is the only truth he dares to speak and they’re having a whole different conversation beneath all this, a back-and-forth, an exchange of concessions and accusations though Marius feels like they’re all coming from him. He can’t stand the atmosphere, the tension, the waiting. He leaves his spot when the next lightning bolt flashes, and sinks into Dom’s embrace as thunder strikes again.

He’s the one who turns it sexual, almost immediately. How could he not? Dom is so much his type it hurts, all gruff and cheeky and strong, plus he’s fucking sexy in his biker gear, looking ready to beat someone up at all times, his tattoos peeking out from below yellow-striped black sleeves. His solid frame only just fits into Marius’ arms and he’s hard everywhere, stiff leather, toned muscle, the bulge in his crotch he’s probably been nursing ever since he entered the park. Dom starts out with a simple hug, squeezing him so tight a few joints crack, but when Marius’ hands land on his ass, he understands.

Dom lets him bite his earlobe and suck on his neck and nearly climb up his body in the attempt to get as close as possible, and when it’s clear that Marius isn’t going to stop anytime soon, when it’s obvious he won’t say anything or ask anything until after, when he pants an impatient come on into a coarse beard, Dom relaxes into it. Their tongues meet and Marius lets out a desperate moan as they trade hungry open-mouthed kisses. He needs this like air, needs a reminder, needs to remember how it feels in person instead of only in his head. Now he can smell sweat as well, even in this weather and at the speeds Dom races along, it’s too warm for all these clothes. It’s driving him insane.

Cold fingers slip into his underwear, grab and spread his cheeks and he interrupts their making out to gasp hurriedly: “I’m ready. I did myself after dinner, half an hour ago. I’m still wet.”

“Jesus Christ”, Dom growls in his ear and he squirms with want at the deep voice. Marius is spun around and nudged towards the kitchen table, nudged with a leg between his, a leg he presses against as he props himself up on the table surface. He might as well not have jerked off at all today with how aroused he is. Dom pushes himself against Marius’ back, nearly from head to toe, and mutters: “Needy little bitch.”

Marius’ knees go weak. He feels blood rush to his crotch and the tips of his ears, and when Dom yanks his briefs down, he’s digging his fingernails into the wood. They’re gonna do it standing up, his favourite, just like back then when all the previous flirting and side glances and secret winks and accidental touches culminated in the hottest five days of his life, when a getaway with a friend – a co-worker even – turned into something else entirely.

It takes too long, the whole unzipping and getting some lube anyway and lining up, but when Dom finally enters him, when the blunt head pushes inside, when Marius feels himself opening up and accepting his cock whole, he can’t breathe anymore. A shaky whine is all that escapes him, and then Dom takes advantage of how relaxed and stretched he is by pulling out and slamming back in. Hard. And Marius is ready to come the moment Dom hits his prostate for the first time.

His eyes are tearing up from the intense pleasure of getting pounded like this, Dom hitting all the right places in all the right ways and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up even for a second. Marius moans and can’t even hear the rain anymore, ignores the rumbling thunder in favour of his own heartbeat’s staccato as he tries to escape from this onslaught and bask in it simultaneously. If this is what he’s been waiting for, it’s worth it, more than worth it: he’s in heaven, forgetting everything other than the way Dom thrusts into him over and over again.

Teeth scrape over the back of his neck, fingers grip his hips so hard it hurts, Dom’s breath is in his ear. He’s in ecstasy as well, fucking like there’s nothing else in the world, sinking deep into Marius’ tight heat. He feels bigger than normal, more intense, and the words he pants against Marius’ shoulder are words he doesn’t say often. But now, he repeats them time and time again as he gets them both closer to their climax.

Marius times it so they come together, barely having to touch himself to reach orgasm, and their moans mix as they’re pushed over the edge simultaneously. They pant, shudder, tense up completely, tremble with relief and hold on to each other, Dom with his arms wrapped around Marius’ torso, Marius grabbing one of Dom’s thighs as they ride it out together. They slow down, catch their breaths, stay for a few seconds to come back down. Dom’s frame supports him until he regains control of his muscles and in the pleasant afterglow, he’s immensely grateful.

Lips pepper his cheek and temple with kisses. “I need a shower”, Dom mumbles into his hair and he nods.

“Me too.”

“You go first, I’ll take longer.”

It’s a mistake, but only Marius knows this. When left alone, he sobers up hard. And he might just remember that Dom was supposed to be here about half a day earlier.

Again.

.

“Who did you meet?”

Now’s the time when Dom won’t meet his eyes anymore. Instead of cutting an imposing figure, he looks weak in his pyjamas, thinner, older. He doesn’t insult Marius by asking him how he knows. They’ve been here before. “An ex-cop”, comes the quiet reply. “Explained to me why he wasn’t one anymore. The things he had to tell – thirty years ago, before we started? You don’t want to know what was acceptable then. You don’t want to hear the stories he heard from his seniors. It was… disheartening, to say the least.”

Marius crosses his arms. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter while Dom is nibbling at the chips, perched uncomfortably on the couch. A bad conscience doesn’t make a healthy appetite. “That bad?”

“Worse. Corruption doesn’t even cut it. The worst is the laziness, you know? The cold-bloodedness. His boss flat out told them to ignore some shit, so they did. Stopped caring. Picked their battles. It’s not that they… were malicious, or anything. If that makes sense. Just cold. Devoid of empathy.”

“I believe it. We’ve seen worse.”

“Not that systematically, not in Germany. It was almost the entire state.”

Granted, it sounds shocking.

And this is the absolute worst about it: there’s always a good reason. An inspirational or terrifying story to hear, an interesting person to befriend, a chance meeting of one in a thousand. Dom thrives in the company of strangers and never gets tired of rehashing the same old stories he’s perfected through pure repetition. Marius knows how important these random coincidences are for him, how much he enjoys exchanging life stories with people he’s never seen before and will never see again. He’s learnt languages just for this purpose. It’s part of his self-worth.

Why didn’t you exchange numbers?, he asked Dom once, twice, thrice. Why didn’t you try to stay in touch?

And Dom eventually replied with the real reason – a slip-up, he might not have meant to reveal it to anyone, but he was probably drunk or distracted, because he said: What would I have to gain?

Which explains everything.

It explains many of the fruitless conversations they’ve had, it’s the answer to so many questions Marius asked. Because it shows how Dom interacts with the world. How goal-driven he is. How incredibly greedy.

He wants to possess everyone with the least amount of effort. If he knows somebody’s life story, if they’ve given up important parts of themselves to Dom, he now owns them. And keeps them. For what reason, Marius still doesn’t understand, but Dom will not pass up a chance of stealing anyone.

He needs no friends, he needs an audience. He needs no lover, he needs someone to fill the gaps in between.

And just like he described his newest affectation’s co-workers and superiors: there’s no inherent malice in what he does, but a lack of self awareness and empathy. On a surface level, he realises he’s acting wrong somehow. Yet he can never fully understand why Marius is not content being second to complete strangers. Over and over again.

The realisation hits him like the rain is pelting the outside world: if he allows it, it’ll go on. He alone decides on how long this will continue, how many days he’ll waste like this, permeated by this man without ever containing him – because Dom would never make a decision like that. He has nothing to gain from ending whatever it is they have.

“I’m going out”, Marius says. He needs to process it, and by that he means: process the decision he’s already made. He can’t keep up with someone who has no object permanence, to whom he’s convenient when he’s there and irrelevant when not.

He can leave, tell Dom to pack his things and go, then return and pack up himself. The money’s gone, a partial refund is unlikely, but that’s the price of it. The money doesn’t hurt as much as the memories he won’t relive now, the new memories he won’t make. Dom makes a feeble attempt to stop him, asks him where he’s going, mentions the weather, yet Marius’ mind is made up. He gets dressed quickly and doesn’t look in Dom’s direction. It’s so incredibly hard to refuse him directly.

When he steps outside, he realises he’s underestimated the storm. Wind howls and yanks the door out of his hand, slamming it against the inside wall; rain instantly drenches him like a cold shower, running down his back and soaking his thighs on the short path to his car. There are puddles everywhere, a million mirrors reflecting the forked lightning which spreads over the sky, travels horizontally and leaves behind a crass afterimage. He’s freezing, he didn’t pack for this kind of weather and shakes out his phone once he’s made it into his car, tosses it onto the seat next to him. Droplets hang on his eyelashes, his hair lets water drip down the back of his collar. It’s miserable. It’s absolutely miserable and he feels like crying.

Even on the highest setting, the windscreen wipers can’t keep up with the sheer torrent falling from the heavens: it’s difficult to see more than a few metres ahead. He crawls onto the narrow path and tries to remember where to go, moves by memory rather than sight, at a snail’s pace. Dom could run after him if he wanted to, but he probably knows it’s futile. He turns the heating on at full blast but is hit with cold air instead, making him shiver. It takes a bit to heat up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his phone light up.

He ignores it.

He creeps past where he thinks the reception is, jumping at sudden thunder, and wonders whether there’s still anyone inside. Hopefully they’re all safe at home. Like he should be.

Just when he wants to turn onto the proper street to leave the holiday park, there’s a dip in the road. A dip who knows how deep. A dip completely filled with water. The downpour has turned it into a small pool and Marius is not ready to sacrifice his car to the elements.

Defeated, he turns the engine off and leans his forehead against the steering wheel. He can’t go anywhere in this weather. Dom certainly can’t either, it’s a miracle he made it here in the first place and Marius is not about to throw him out with nowhere to go, no. He can sleep on the couch.

Who is he kidding, there is no way Dom will sleep on the couch when they’re under the same roof, and it’s not gonna be Dom’s fault. Marius can’t keep away from him, and right now it feels like some malevolent weather god doesn’t want him to either.

His eyes burn and his cheeks are wet again, not just from rain this time. With blurry vision, he picks up his phone after a while and squints at it to read the notifications.

3 new messages.

I’m sorry, is the first one. Too little too late. Marius wipes his face with a sleeve and it ends up clammy regardless. The next one is more of the same: I’m really sorry babe. I try but it’s not enough. I think of you all the time but I don’t know how to show it. He’s heard it before and won’t blindly believe it this time, not anymore. If he can’t even reply to a message for several hours, then no. It’s not enough.

The third one, however, gives him pause. Either way, please keep the gifts on your back seat. I bought them for you.

Confused, he turns around and spots a bag from his favourite bookshop in Berlin which wasn’t there the last time he was in his car. Trying not to get them wet, he takes out the large volumes and reads the titles, one by one, lips moving. It’s five books, differing in target group but all on the same topic: the deep sea. There’s a thick coffee table book with nothing but beautiful photography, a biography of a famous marine biologist, a supposedly well-researched novel and two more scientific publications.

They’ve never given each other gifts before, not like this – favours, yes, smaller birthday presents, takeaway, trinkets.

And not only did Dom think of him, not only did he decide to gift him something special just because, no, he remembered his current interest. Remembered his favourite bookshop. He might not be certain of what kind of literature Marius prefers, but he got it all, just to be safe. At least he didn’t get a colouring book.

In a way, this is in line with how Dom is: in the heat of the moment, he knows just the things to say to mollify or distract Marius. To make him forgive just this once. If he’d turned up at Marius’ door with these after they’ve had a fight, after today, or as an excuse or an apology, Marius would’ve been genuinely hurt at how calculated it’d be. That he’d weaponise something like this.

But they hadn’t had a fight prior to today. Dom didn’t introduce them as an apology. He secretly put them in Marius’ car as a surprise. He might not even get to see Marius’ face as he finds them. And why?

Just because.

What does he have to gain from it? Next to nothing, if anything at all.

Marius looks out at the dimly illuminated hellscape, the surface of the impenetrable water hole dancing under all the rain. He looks at his phone, at 3 messages.

Then he takes a deep breath and puts his car in reverse.

[whosaskingwrites]

Fickle Love (Akaashi x Reader x Bokuto)

A/N: So this was supposed to be for Akaashi's birthday...whoops. But its here now lmao ngl I just kinda wrote with no idea in mind and this is what ended happening so yeah. Hope you enjoy and happy late birthday to Akaashi 💞

Details: 7.8 pages 2,758 words

Date: December 8th, 2020

Warnings: Mentions of poly relationships I guess, angst if you squint, Gn! Reader not really a warning but I didn't know where else to put it

Theme: Akaashi wasn't the best when it came to love. Having a habit of ignoring you and burying himself in work. Leading you to turn to Bokuto which leads to some revelations and a question for Akaashi.

Love was a fickle thing Akaashi knew. People fell in and out of love all the time so he never trusted love. He didn't want love he wanted to avoid it. Avoid the heartbreak he was positive would follow. But instead he met you a bright-eyed student in his class. It took almost nothing for you to mesh yourself into his life completely and making yourself comfortable like you belonged there.

It took even less time for you to weasel your way into his heart and make yourself comfortable. Only a year after you'd met and he asked you out deciding that love may not have been as fickle as he thought.

Four years later and he knew he had been wrong love was indeed fickle and his proof was in the sight across the street from him. There you stood hands clasped around Bokuto's as he kissed your cheek. He waved before running off and Akaashi rushed home preparing for the worst.

A few hours later you slipped through the door "Keiji? I'm home!" You called hearing the soft pads of feet come up to you. Love was fickle he knew you were going to lie when he asked his next question "Hey Y/n. What did you do today?" You suprised him though. Only after you'd gotten over the shock of being called Y/n and not darling.

"I went to lunch with Bokuto today," You said happily slipping off your coat and hanging it up. He certainly didn't expect you to be honest about what you did today. He loosened up a tad bit in response "Oh? Why?" You laughed at his question "Bo needs contact with us you know that. But you haven't been answering his calls so we went shopping and I filled him in on how you were. Afterwards I treated him to lunch as a thank you," You smiled up at him eyes bright with nothing hidden.

"Yeah? Did you guys hold hands so he wouldn't lose you?" He joked and you shook your head "He grabbed my hands at the end of lunch because I promised him I'd bring you next time," you had laughed remembering the incident. Relief flooded him then no of course you weren't cheating on him that'd be insane. You were as loyal as Bokuto was plus he couldn't keep a secret to save his life and neither could you. He relaxed as he realized how wrong he was to assume something.

"Im sorry," He said suddenly while you tilted your head in confusion. "What for?" You had asked before Akaashi leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I forgot to give you your welcome home kiss," He rolled off casually hiding the fear he'd felt earlier. This fear had only continued to grow as the days went on but it was his fault anyway.

_______________________________________________________

"Keiji are you free today?" "No I'm busy," "Oh...Okay," 

"Keiji we haven't gone on a date in weeks!" "Im not stopping you from going out somewhere," "I want to go out with you though,"

"Keiji-" "Im busy Y/n,"

Two weeks this cycle continued as you walked to Akaashi's at home office. Two taps against the door and you opened it "Kei-" His eyes snapped up frustration was on his face but he took a breath before it faded. "What?" You sighed turning to leave again "...Im going out to lunch with Kotaro again. He says hi by the way," You left the room quickly and Akaashi blinked 'Kotaro?' Surely you meant Bokuto but there was no way you two were on a first name basis it'd only been a few days since the last lunch.

His eyes landed on the calender and he froze what had only been a few days to him was actually two weeks but still too short for a first name basis. You'd only know Bokuto for a few months and he'd known the male for years and still never used his first name.

He sighed returning to his work. He'd question you when you got back from lunch he didn't have the time to right now. Nor did he know your location so going to find you was like a needle in a haystack. A very big bustling city of a haystack and the needle being you with a slightly bigger needle in the shape of a volleyball player next to you.

He continued work for a few hours before his office door was thrown open. He expected many things when he looked up but he didn't expect Bokuto. But what got him was the fact that Bokuto was furious it was a look he'd never seen before on him. The glare he had on his face was enough to make Akaashi freeze. 

He knew Bokuto was typically happy like a dog but right now he felt fearful since now he staring down an angry German Shepard who was defending their owner. It was silent for a long moment before Bokuto spoke. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Akaashi felt his blood turn to ice at the tone Bokuto used.

"W-what?" He cursed silently at his own stutter Bokuto would latch onto the weakness he showed. "Whats today Akaashi?" Bokuto had asked in that same icy tone. It was so razor sharp and cold that Akaashi was convinced the room cooled and ten degrees.

"...Its December 1st Bokuto-san," He elected to answer the question instead of ask why Bokuto didn't call him Keiji. Based on the mood Bokuto was displaying he didn't expect to be called Keiji. However supplying the date only seemed to rile him up more as his glare sharpened.

Akaashi shivered involuntarily at it "Are you forgetting something?" He barked out and it was then that Akaashi realized Bokuto hadn't blinked yet. "No," he was confident in the answer. Your birthday wasn't until b/d and his was in four days. Bokutos had already passed but said male wouldn't have been mad at him. Sad maybe but not mad.

"Oh really? Then tell me why Y/n is at my place crying because you forgot that today is your anniversary," Bokuto had stepped towards him in anger and Akaashi took in involuntarily step back in fear. "They're at your place?" Akaashi asked and Bokutos jaw clenched.

"Yeah. And they are going to stay there until you sort yourself out," Bokuto growled turning and slamming the door closed with enough force to crack it. Akaashi stood frozen for a few extra moments trying to regain his composure after being afraid. He shook his head as he processed Bokuto's last sentence.

No you'd always come back to him, even if a fight had broken out between him and you, you would always come back. You had to come back he was your fiancé and the wedding was going to be in the upcoming w/f/s/s so he continued to work shaking off his encounter with Bokuto that had manage to worm a tiny bit of fear back into his heart.

__________________________________________________

Akaashi didn't fully leave his office again until December 5th. He'd left it plenty of times before then but only for something quick eat or the bathroom or something to drink. In these moments he never bothered to look around the place but now on his birthday he did.

He expected to be greeted by your sparkling voice like you had done for the past four years but instead the house was silent. "Y/n?" He called out walking around the house was still perfectly clean. The last time he could recall hearing you was on the first with the vacuum running and the patter of your feet running around.

Since then he realizes the house had been silent except for his movements. As he walked into the dining room something glinted on the table in the early morning light. When he turned to look he froze there was your engagement ring. The thin band of silver sat there almost mockingly on a yellow sticky note.

He picked up the note and written on it were a few simple words. 'They aren't coming home - Bokuto' his brain filled in the missing words Bokuto had told him a few days ago "Not until I fix myself," he mumbled thumbing at the sticky in his hands. He knew what Bokuto meant he'd been borderline ignoring you for weeks to work.

Thoughts of your anniversary had left his mind but he didn't think it was that bad until right now. Forgetting had been the final nail in the coffin for you but he still had a chance. You weren't gone forever just temporarily misplaced. He rushed to shower and go buy flowers his brain running a mile a minute trying to figure out how to get you back and apologize.

He felt nervous and he was unsure of why until he remembered where you had taken up residence. Bokuto had never been scary to him, just a bright ball of happiness but the fear Bokuto had instilled in him a few days ago had lingered, and he was about to walk right into the lion's den.

__________________________________________________

He couldn't see you as he approached the door. Maybe you were tucked away upstairs or in a place the windows didn't show but he'd seen Bokuto. The male was pacing clearly on edge and definitely dangerous but Akaashi would have to face him sooner or later so with a shaking hand he knocked.

Only half a second later the door swung open and Bokuto stood there mouth set in a hard line. Akaashi fought to supress the shiver that wanted to trail up his spine. "Is Y/n here?" He asked and once again cursed himself for sounding so meek. It was just Bokuto he wouldn't hurt him the man couldn't even hurt a fly! Although that sentiment didn't hold much when he felt like he was staring down the loaded barrel of a gun.

"Yes," Bokuto answered after a few beats of silence. His eyes raked over Akaashi's form judging him and seeing if he was ready to have Y/n back. "Can I see them? I'd like to talk," He was definitely playing with fire when Bokuto looked back up at his eyes. "About what?" He asked lowly Akaashi noted that Bokuto was staying quiet which meant you had to be downstairs. "I'd like to apologize for ignoring them and forgetting our anniversary," Bokuto nodded once before swinging the door closed.

He blinked in mild suprise "Bo-Bokuto-san?" He questioned wondering where he went wrong that warranted the door being closed. He was about to knock again when the door opened revealing you. Your h/c hair was slightly messy and e/c eyes half lidded in sleep.

What Akaashi didn't like was the MSBY jersey that swallowed you figure. The number 12 emblazoned on the front and long enough to cover your thighs. He couldn't tell if you were wearing pants but he hoped you did. You never walked around his house like this unless it was after a fun night but he couldn't assume things. Not now and he especially couldn't accuse you of cheating when Bokuto was on the staircase right behind you.

He could see that the golden eyed male was poised to attack when the conversation would start heading south. You tilted your head in confusion "Hello Akaashi," You had mumbled and he did flinch then. No pet names or his first name no, you had decided on formal. "Hi darling," He whispered the pet name but you merely shook your head.

"Why are you here?" The genuine confusion on your face made Akaashi feel a lot worse about everything. "Im here to apologize and seeing as its my birthday id like my present from you to be going on one date with me," He said slowly "Please," was tacked on as an afterthought. You turned your head eyes meeting Bokuto's and Akaashi hated the jealousy that crawled up his spine when his eyes softened.

"Um actually Akaashi I wanted to talk to you about something," Your hands had balled into fists tightly gripping the hem of the shirt you wore. A nervous habit you had whenever something scared you. He felt his heart drop in response to those words and you shook your head. "No no! It's nothing bad- well I guess that depends on how you feel about it," You were quick to try and sooth him and Akaashis heart swelled at the fact that right now even if you weren't getting along you still worried about him.

He didn't even realize you had led him inside until he was on the couch. His eyes trailed over you figure as you sat across from him. The shirt rode up enough exposing part of your thigh and Akaashi could see the hem of a pair of shorts. They followed their path until his eyes rested on the new gold band around your ring finger. It was decorated in a series of small gems that were the same blue as his eyes and he took a deep breath.

"What is it?" He lightly questioned when the silence began suffocating him. Bokuto was behind him somewhere he felt the stare being burned into his back. The second this conversation possibly turned south Bokuto was ready to jump in. "Well...I was wondering how you felt about the two of us becoming um...three of us?" You looked down afterwards hands nervously ringing together.

"...three of us?" He wanted more clarification were you implying a kid or something else? You hummed meeting his eyes before they flickered to the male that was behind him 'oh' it pieced itself together then. You were implying a poly relationship with him and Bokuto. He must have been quiet for too long since your hands began rubbing at your sides.

He scrambled for an answer he knew he was unbothered by it but this was...The two of you were only a few months away from getting married and you wanted to add Bokuto into the mix? Now of all times? He took a shuttering breath as he thought.

"Well...I guess I have to call the restaurant and tell them to change the reservation for three people then," he offered a small smile and your head whipped up. "Really?" You whispered and he could only supply a nod. 

"Yeah now when I'm busy with work the both of you can harass me into taking a break," it was a poor attempt at a joke but you had laughed anyway. He heard a chuckle from behind him as well and he breathed out a sigh of relief. "Keiji are you sure? I don't wanna make you uncomfortable or anything...," you trailed off and he smiled "im sure but are you sure about Bokuto? Hes a little chaotic," He asked "Hey!" Bokuto had an immediate reaction to the accusation.

You laughed reaching out and taking his hand "So is it a fancy dinner place?" You asked as Bokuto came over to take your free hand. He watched your thumb move back and forth across Bokutos hand a comforting gesture and he noticed the minute shake of Bokuto's hand. Unconsciously he reached out with his free hand and took Bokuto's which seemed to startle him slightly as wide gold eyes met his.

Akaashi gave a light squeeze and Bokuto settled with a sigh. "Its the restaurant I originally proposed at so yeah I'd go with fancy," he answered after a second. "You're making me get dressed up for your birthday dinner? Despicable really," you dramatically sighed and he found himself laughing. "Well I suppose we don't have to go since you've already given me the best present I could ask for today," He smiled tilting his head to the side and looking at Bokuto who was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a look of concern on his face.

"You alright Bo?" He looked up at the unfamiliar nickname eyes meeting Akaashi's once again. "M'fine just...I don't own a suit," He said quietly. The silence that stretched afterwards for a long moment before you broke it. "Kotaro what do you mean you don't own a suit you're a professional athlete!" "It wasn't an issue until now!" He shouted back love was fickle yes but as he watched you and Bokuto interact he knew

It was fickle but he wouldn't trade it in for anything.

[akimmito]

Heroes are made by the path they choose

Previous | AO3 | Next

___________________________

Chapter 3

The Paris news continues to speak of the Akuma two days after the event, Marinette is stressed coping with the disaster that remained on her catwalk. Unlike in previous years, Paris is not ready to deal with another Hawkmoth again, and the city's mood fell immediately from the moment appeared. Fashion week continues, but everything feels bad. They have not officially left the apartment since the event, although they have been going to the MT headquarters.

She looks at the cup of chamomile tea that Hugo, her butler?, was kind enough to prepare to help her relax, but she knows that a tea won't help her.

"Mother, we should get out of town. You're pale. ”Damian approaches her and analyzes her posture, obviously she didn't sleep the night before because she was checking the security cameras distributed by Paris looking for the origin of the butterfly, but they are more than five hundred and Max's algorithm barely reduced it to one hundred and twenty cameras. He's concerned about her health, he knows how she gets when she focuses too much on a task.

"Do you want to go to the country house?" She asks putting her head on her arm, dozing off from lack of sleep and the calming effect of chamomile. She just needed a distraction from her mind.

"Yes, you could use a break. Felix can take care of everything in the MT and if they need us, we are a portal away. "He maintains his neutral expression, there are days when he reproaches himself for caring for the woman who decided to adopt him knowing that he's a trained killer, but today is not one of those. She never wanted to change it, not as he thinks his father would have done if he had gone to live with him... Bruce Wayne doesn't tolerate murder, after all. The MT is curious, they dance a lot on the gray line. He was lycky to get them.

"Yeah... you're right." Mariette straightens up and rubs her eyes. If they are going to travel, she must avoid falling asleep until they are in the car on the way to the country house. "That reminds me, we can take Ringo, the vet says that its leg is already better and that he can be transferred from the shelter without problems. "

Damian is encouraged by the news, the little cub was shot in the leg by some thieves, the owner despised him taking it as lost, but he asked his mother to help it heal so that it would not die. The puppy is alive and they can take it to a place where he can be safe and be a happy dog. They made the right decision.

"Go get your bags ready. Maybe we will get to lunch time. "She gets up and picks up her phone, she must notify the employees that they will arrive earlier than planned.

Damian goes to his room being followed by Longg, he must get everything he will carry ready. Not even fifteen minutes have passed when he has everything ready, keeping comfortable clothes to be able to play with his pets in the extensive terrain, very different from his normal residence.

Marinette and Damian live on the top floor of an apartment building just four blocks from the Eiffel Tower, she likes the evening view and even has a window where she has placed a mattress. Damian also became a fan of that same location and became his favorite area within the apartment, although he prefers the Animal Shelter and the country house, both of which were bought especially for him, all because she couldn't fill the apartment with animals (despite of her own desires to do so).

The only pet in the apartment is a very demanding fluffy white cat who likes to be the center of Damian's attention, who gets angry on weekend trips to the country house, where it's forced to live with the others animals ... dirty and unworthy of be a Lenoir. The cat is very proud to be the favorite and it hates with all its might the cat of country house, which always steals the child's precious attention (with dogs it doesn't get in because they are very large, two German shepherds, a Garafiano shepherd and an Australian Shepherd, plus a Bernese Mountain puppy.)

Damian is ecstatic with the prospect of spending six days on the country house, although the cat, named Dafne, doesn't look happy and even growled at the boy when he tried to grab it the first time, now it has already relaxed and brought its bad humor to its transport box. He closes the box and takes his things, now all he has to do is wait for his mother to stop being a mess to they can leave.

"Do you have your suitcase yet?" Marinette asks going from one side to another in the rooms, Damian doesn't even answer her and he only goes out to the living room to wait until she finishes messing up the whole apartment. "Hugo, where are my sketch books?"

They're already packed, Miss Marie. Also the fabric catalog of the next collection and the general balance of the month."

Hugo is a very English man to someone who lived in France most of his life, but she's not going to question him about it (Max did a very good background check). He started working with her a year after founding her brand and somehow managed to discover the MT and is now an unofficial member, making her escapades much easier by having him cover her. She's grateful to heaven for making her cross her path, she would have gone mad without him already.

"Thanks, Hugo."

"Hugo, did you pack the Kwami and Dafne meals?" Damian asks when the man returns to the room. He's eager to leave to meet his pets, he sees them every week, but it's not enough time.

"Of course, the extra order for cheeses was also made for the country house."

"Oh, Hugo! You're the best, I hope you live a thousand years!" Plagg arrives full of joy and almost dares to hug the man, but that is not his style, on the contrary, he cheers for the excellent service. "I wish all my kittens would treat me like you. "

Marinette enters the room with her suitcase and looks at Plagg with mock annoyance, amusement seeping into her gaze. She misses Tikki, she was always the voice of reason, but Plagg has a unique way of keeping her high spirited and, with the stress of her life, very much appreciates his presence, daring to consider he more effective than encouraging words from Tikki.

"Yeah, right? It's not like I paid for all your cheese. ”Plagg flies towards her and repeats the action, causing her to finally laugh at his games. Longg lets out a small snort from his position near the boy, he had not made any noise and that causes others to be surprised by his presence sometimes. Damian rejoices when he sees the others jump off  for forgetting that Longg is active too.

"Shall we go now, mother?"Damian takes out some Dior brand sunglasses and the black mask from his handbag to prevent his face from going out in magazines or social networks without his consent, he doesn't understand what is the interest in them, they are only people with a little money and a brand that becomes more famous after each show. In any case, they shouldn't be interested in him and he detests those who do.

"Yeah, we can go now."                                                

Damian smiles with pleasure putting on his dark glasses, which are already part of his daily wardrobe because he always accompanies Marinette to all kinds of events, the least he can do is learn to combine brands and styles for each time he goes out. He usually opts for black, although lately he no longer cares about trying styles and clothes that he would never have considered wearing.

When they go out to the main entrance, where Hugo is already waiting for them with the car, he have already put on the mask and, of course, a curious spectator treats them as if they were the stars of an Oscar-winning film. At least no one can notice his annoyed expression under the mask.

They enter the car and Damian takes the opportunity to get Dafne out, it prefers to travel like this and  they will not change vehicles as when they leave the country, he can carry it all the way. Everyone thinks that he’s too spoiled, but he considers that it's fair since it's the only animal that he's allowed to keep at home.

As the small Lenoir family moves towards the country house, in the MT, Kagami destroys the training dolls with a saber, under the watchful eye of Luka who, from the second level, watches her move with the fury of a hurricane. He mentally notes placing the doll replacement as part of the following month's expense.

"If she continues like this, she will come looking for us to fight with us." Luka turns to the person who has just entered, Alix stands near him, appreciating the power of the cuts and the lethality of the Japanese woman. "The little demon would have a good training match with her. "

"Mari sent a message, they will be at the country house. "

"How envious, I wish I had a place like that to escape to." She yawns, leaning on the railing. "But duty calls.”She mutters when her phone starts ringing to the rhythm of the Seven Nation Army, which means it's a call from work. Alix walks away just waving.

Luka smiles softly, it's a calm day. Perhaps everyone is a little more tense, stressed and with excitement itching their hands, but it's very calm, life continues its course regardless of the problems that may exist. The insignificance with which life itself deals with the matter gives he the certainty that they will solve it, that this time there will not be a third party that stands in their way of recovering Nooroo.

The voices are loud outside the training room and he can see the moment when Nathaniel and Kim enter arguing, Marc is a few steps behind them looking at them with an undoubtedly irritated expression, as if they had been on that same topic for a long time.

"I tell you, if we were to work with someone outside the MT, it can't be Batman. I love my privacy, thanks. ”Nathaniel says tired, he despises eternally the heartless blonde who brought up that subject only to leave saying he had job. Kim is not an official member, hei tournaments trips and constant swimming training prevent her from being one, so he doesn't fully understand why the MT remains so in the shadows (even with the irony that the Parisian media talks about they with the same frequency as Jagged, Clara and other famous faces).

"He would help a lot, you know."

"Yeah, but he would also discover the Miracoulous and that is a resounding no. Our duty is to protect them and the less people know it, the easier it'll be. "

"They mention it in the news!"

"In fact. "Marc speaks behind them, tired of hearing them repeat arguments. "Since decree No. 35 of the current French government was released, any mention of the Prodigies in the media will be sanctioned according to the provisions of the MT, that is to say, us, and of the Parisian heroes, also us. It has even been included in the Constitution as a secret of identity and provenance for the protection of heroes. Chloe was devastating when she demanded a law that protected us and the Kwami, without lying, she put all the cards on the table without mentioning personal gain. "

Kim is speechless, he really didn't know that. When was the last time he updated on the laws in his country? He might as well break some and he wouldn't know it. To take into account, just like talking to Chloe about it.

"You see? Now that we are done with this, can we train? "

Kagami destroys the last doll at that moment and turns to the newcomers, has released all her frustrations.

They are supposed to be starting the investigation into the new Hawkmoth, but the mayor's office has requested that they refrain from starting the investigation for a week, he does not understand the irrationality of that request. She's very angry at the mayor's negligence, the longer they delay the investigation, the harder it will be to track him down. Still, it annoyed her more the way Marinette and Felix so easily accepted orders… when they don't take orders from anyone, they can move around the edges of the law, but they're not below it.

"Has Mari-hime arrived?"

"She texted that she'd be at the country house with Damian, she needs the break," Marc replies before heading to the locker room to change into training clothes.

"Where's Felix?"

"Work." Nathaniel growls the answer and then follows his boyfriend, just thinking about the blonde makes him bitter. An hour arguing nonsense with Kim is enough to put anyone in a bad mood, he doesn't understand how Max can be such a good friend with him.

Kagami frowns and hands the saber to Kim before leaving the training room, she's angry again. What do Marinette and Felix intend? She rarely understands what goes through their heads.

Luka comes down from the second level to intercept Kagami, she's being overbearing on the whole miraculous butterfly issue. He knows that Marinette doesn't play with the affairs of the MT, she doesn't endanger them on purpose and they don't make hasty decisions, only one person is more cautious than she and that is Felix, if the two agreed to wait, they have something keep in mind.

"Kagami." He calls her, but she doesn't stop. "Kagami."

"I'm not listening to you, you're going to defend them."

"I ask you to think about it more deeply. Mari is very serious about retrieving the butterfly clasp, she knows what she's doing."

"Oh, Yeah. I really believe that." She looks at him annoyed, in front of him.

"You are upset, but don't let anger cloud your thoughts. We are all frustrated, eager to fight, but we will only hit a wall if we rush. You have to know when to take a break, this is a good time. "

She purses her mouth, holding back the words. He's somewhat right, their cannt just run into the unknown pretending they know where they are going. Her only answer is a nod before she resumes her journey, perhaps she should go see her mother and stay away from the MT until the break ends or another Akuma appears, whichever comes first.

_______________________________

Damian @DamianLenoir

Ringo is better and today he will meet his new brothers, he is a very happy puppy.

[Attached photo]

Alix @LostHeroBunnix

Why did I think opening an art school would be fun? I should have kept my skates.

Felix @GrahamV_Felix

Should I yell or yell at the worthless one who flooded the set? I just had to turn on a tap, not recreate the scene of the Biblical Flood.

Nath @NathanielKC_twt

@GrahamV_Felix Being nice and not giving a scare of death to the people around you could help you the other people not flood the set. Did you know?

Felix @GrahamV_Felix

@NathanielKC_twt And become Marie? Is not my style.

Marie L. @MarieLenoir

@GrahamV_Felix @NathanielKC_twt Too much style for you, it doesn't fit with you; p

Chloe B. @BourgeoisQueen

Marie take me with you! @MarieLenioir

Damian @DamianLenoir

@BourgeoisQueen NO.

______________________

Ages:

Tomoe T: 50. Bruce: 45. Dick: 28. Luka: 26. Jason: 25. Marie and her group: 24. Tim: 19. Damian: 10.

[saint-gallier]

Shelter

So, i'm getting evicted. My landlord finally decided to kick me out and sell the studio empty. But i'm lucky, the renewal of my rent happens every three year aka next september, i have a year to pack my things, look for a new place and the potentiality of moving in another city. I'm profoundly gutted. Last visit, a woman, visibly overexcited with the prospect of getting a place to invest into, even more when she learned i wasn't going to leave. Oh but i do not have a job right now and so she didn't make any offer because i was at risk. I've been living here for 8 years, i wasn't going to stop paying. Also, the rent was too low to be interesting according to her. It felt so like i was being blamed for living specifically here. Landlords, they have too much power over their residents. It's a relation that reaches an immediate high standard in terms of viciousness towards the so-called "system".

With all the back and forths with hometown and me home these past few years, i've been thinking a lot about shelter. It's the word in english that i thought about in my very frenchy brain. That word shelter. It lies as a very common trope in popular culture yet its appreciation is more intricated in language. The german word 'Heimat' is impossible to translate in french without losing at least 40% of its meaning. Heimat means more than being born in the country, more than having a home, perhaps a sense of nostalgia is directly injected into its meaning, more than a feeling, more than a loss. 'Shelter' is of the same linguistic range in my opinion. I won't pretend being a senior linguist on american english idiomatics but let's have a go. Shelter, as far as i use it, means more than litteraly a location where lies a coat of protection, a wall made of steel to refuge anyone from hurricanes, which includes its function as a storage room. Against any godlike intentions, shelter means protection. It also means the place that harbours people from other people when they use violence as a replacement for communication. Shelter means security. But it also includes the security of home, that roof over your head. That having a place to sleep in, to cook, to store a catalogue of cozy sensations that go along your life, that witnesses the consequences of the achieved routine. That shelter can have many faces today, whether you get along with a van for two or your family of four living in a small studio, etc. It tells you only one thing: you are in control of your life.

I have never experienced that, not in recent years. I came to the realisation that i endured more than i created, that i lived through more than i provoked, waited more than did. I'm the only one to blame of course. I tried to regain some of it like complaining about something at someone. It's not worth losing your time and strength, it costs more than it rewards. Although companies, they should be punished in some way for their customer service that rubs shoulders way too much with insanity...

I'm tired of having no control over the few of things i have. My studio is very dear to me, i know it still looks as 'the place you lived in during your student times'. It's barely decorated, there is not enough space for a kitchen, it has been poorly rebuilt, yet more than anything, it felt like home, like my home. If i owned it, i could design both floors, i even drew some layouts. But it's over. Someone else decided for me what to do. It's back to packing and planning, and thinking what is the next move. Maybe it's for the best, i don't know. But that grasp over my life is exhausting. Let me handle it for a while, i'll manage well damn it.

P.S.: ironically enough, compared to what happened to me almost 10 years ago, that dreadful january that left me agonizing for years, all of this, is nothing.

[royalbluehues]

Come Back to Me. Pt. 2

Title: Come Back to Me. Pt. 2

Author: royalbluehues

Warnings:  None.

Pairings: William Schofield x Reader

Author’s Note: It’s here, lassies. The second part. Next part should be coming soon.

Would you want to see a second part of I Promise? Let me know!

I love seeing your kind words and thoughts! They make me happy! :) A drabble with Tom is currently in the works, so keep an eye out for that.

Part 2: Dressing Down

“You girls will be aiding the nurses in making beds, handing out food, caring for the injured, sterilizing the instruments,” Matron Carter spoke, “tasks such as those will be executed professionally.”

The middle aged woman sat her clipboard down on her small desk, “If you remember the contract you signed back home, you will keep in mind that the Red Cross does not tolerate any unprofessional behavior. You came to care for the sick and the dying, not to be lollygagging.” 

She looked to Kitty, one of the English girls, who was looking down and twiddling her thumbs, “Is there something you would like to say, Miss Stanton? You’re fidgeting quite an awful lot.”

Kitty’s green eyes look up in guilt, and you bent your head forward with eyes furrowed to look at the girl. 

“Of course not Matron Carter. Not at all. Just nervous to begin is all.” Kitty spoke languidly, despite her nervous twitches.

“And you,” the Matron spoke, whipping her head to where you were standing, “I’ve been told that you were walking about unsupervised. What do you say for yourself?”

You straightened your back, eyes wide as you looked at the matron with contained panic. All eyes were on you now, and Kitty’s head was bent to look at you in the same fashion you had with her. Matron Carter’s grey eyes sized you up quizzically, waiting for your response.

“I was just going for a walk,” you told her honestly, wishing you could turn your head to snap at the other girls to stop looking at you, “To clear my head.”

“To clear your head?” The Matron Carter repeated, “Girl, you are near the front lines. A few miles north and the Germans are there ready to shoot down anything that moves in sight.”

You felt your cheeks redden deeply, “I apologize Matron Carter. It won’t happen again.”

You narrowed your eyes, too embarrassed to meet eyes with her. Kitty and Shannon had told you and Lila about how severe the Matron was.

“Had she been a man,” Kitty once told you as she pinned her hair in place, “she would have met all the requirements to be a drill sergeant.

Now you were receiving the sting of the statement. 

“That goes to all of you,” the head nurse peered over to the other girls, “I’ve a tight ship to maintain. Kitty and Lila, I’ll be requiring you to help with the kitchen today, allow the boys working there to rest a bit. The two of you,” she spoke to you and Shannon as she lifted a paper up from the clipboard, “will be fixing the beds in the medical tents and rolling bandages. See to it that you assist any of the surgeons or doctors if they need help.”

She picked up her pencil, scribbling away at the paper, and all four of you stood ramrod straight, waiting for her next instruction.

You would estimate that you waited for a solid two minutes.

She peered up at you all from her activity, “Well?” She said coldly, “Go on then! You’re wasting time!”

You were the first one to exit the tent, hands clasped as you let out a sigh of relief from leaving her proximity. 

“The kitchens!” Kitty bemoaned, “What am I to do at the kitchens?” She grumbled when she was far enough where the matron wouldn’t hear.

“I hear they have a lovely assortment of turnips at the moment,” you put in, smiling cheekily to her.

“Oh hush,” Kitty told you, jutting her bottom lip out, carefully stepping around a pile of mud that had formed from the rainfall only hours before, “You know what I can’t fathom?” She asked, not waiting for a response, “We’ve come to help doctors, not bloody cook.”

Lila frowned at her companion, “Kitty that’s not nice, what if we were the ones in the trenches? Besides,” she told her, lifting her skirts to hop over the pile, “I’m sure we’ll make a better meal then the ones the boys have been cooking up.”

Lila, who came with you on the ship to England, held a sweet heart, always looking for the positives in situations. She had come from Cincinnati, and had easily befriended you upon meeting. 

“Cheer up Kitty,” Shannon piped up from behind you, “You might catch yourself a suitor.”

Kitty whose head lolled to the side, nodded, “Well I suppose you’re right. Well, I suppose we won’t be seeing much of each other until the day becomes night. Tooda-loo.”

She offered her arm to Lila, who hooked her arm with hers, and smiled at you and Shannon. “Take care ladies.”

“To you two as well,” you responded, beginning to walk in the opposite direction, “Don’t tire yourselves out.”

“Kitty’s got a point you know,” your British companion told you, “about actually helping. Not doing menial tasks.”

“Shannon,” you said sighing, “I don’t think the nurses will ever truly accept us. They just see us as help, not actual trained nurses.”

“But we are!” She exclaimed dishearteningly, “I had to go through classes to get my certificate!”

“I suppose it isn’t good to complain about such things now. We’re here and that’s all that matters.” You replied, looking around at the bustling activity.

You heard Shannon mutter about your ‘American enthusiasm’, but you ignored her.

Upon reaching the tent, you began your work. Changing the bedding, replacing it with the new ones, fluffing pillows. You made small chat with Shannon and was introduced to the head doctor. 

Your time passed slowly, and the gust of wind did little to alleviate the cold you were feeling. By now, it was nearly midday, and you and Shannon were sitting on opposite sides of the large tent, with baskets full of bandages at both your feet.

You were too concentrated on your task, rolling each bandage and tucking it in itself, laying it neatly in a small pile beside you. You shivered as the wind crashed against you.

You failed to hear your name being said in a low murmur, but heard Shannon plainly say, “She’s over there.”

You looked up mid-roll, seeing the tall man from the night before. You smiled brightly in greeting, “William.”

He came to you with his helmet held between his hands, reminding you much of a boy being scolded for getting caught, “Hullo.”

“How’s the day faring you?” You asked as you finished rolling the bandage, and then looking up at him through your lashes.

He shifted his weight and hooked one finger to ring the sweater at his neck, enthusiastically saying, “It was fine!” He turned red, clearing his throat, “I- uh, it’s been fine, thank you.”

You stood from your chair, moving the basket to the side, “That’s always something lovely to hear,” you told him, looking down as you fixed your white apron.

He took a step back, allowing you space, “I wanted to apologize for not coming earlier.”

You shook your head, “It’s unforgivable, lance corporal. Truly unforgivable,” you jokingly quipped at him, stepping aside as you gestured towards the chair, “Sit, please.”

He moved to sit, a small smile tugging at the upper corners of his lips. “Now let’s see here,” you mumbled, moving his chin up and to the side. 

The young man watched you with alert eyes, noticing the way the small curl by your right ear bounced in the wind. He held his breath as you moved closer to inspect.

“A nasty gash.”

“Just a scratch,” he countered, “Nothing serious.”

You moved to reach for the wet rag lying in a bowl of water, ringed it, and began cleaning his neck, “I’ve been trained to take any form of injury seriously, William.” When dirt gathered on the rag, you went back to rinse it, ring it, then come back to clean once more. “You’ve any other gashes?”

He sniffed, “Well there's one on my arm, but-”

“But nothing.” You interrupted, “I need to be thorough with my work.”

“Alright then,” He said, the same small pull of his lips returning.

“Tell me more about your home,” you told him, stepping back from your work. You avoided meeting his eyes, feeling them on you as you uncapped the made Dakin’s solution. You wet the small piece of cloth at your fingertips.

“What would you like to know?” He asked you quietly, in a softly spoken manner.

You hummed, “Tell me about your picnics with your mother.”

He shifted in the chair, tilting his head up when you moved in with the antiseptic, “Well, Mum really enjoys cooking. She’d pack meat pudding for us to eat. That was dad’s favorite.”

You dabbed at the cut, watching as he did the slightest of flinches that could have gone unnoticed had you not been studying him. He suddenly smiled, a genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle around the edges.

“There was one time Mum had packed our meal the night before, and I managed to sneak into it. She enjoys baking, and she had just made a batch of biscuits. But not just any biscuits,” he told you, eyes rounding as they met yours, “she made her shortbread biscuits, and I managed to get my hands on them. She was so mad that she told me that she’d never make them for me again. Nearly threw a fit, I did. But she still made them after. That day she had another tin hidden and took it with us. When we’d go, she’d put down a sheet, one with flowers all around it. She’d take a book with her and read, and if she wasn’t in the mood to read then she’d take her knitting with her.”

“And what would you do?”

“Oh, I’d play. At that age you can find entertainment in nearly anything. I’d climb the willow tree that resides just by the river. Sometimes I’d watch the boats sail by, or see if I could see any fish.” He scratched at his chin, looking off, “Dad made me a boat out of some spare wood he had. I’d play with that, too.”

He had absentmindedly taken off his jacket by know, rolling up his shirt to show you the long scratch running up his right arm. “Is your father at home?”

He shook his head, “No. He died a few years ago. He got sick.”

You frowned, both at his words and at his cut, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. Not your fault.” He let you lift his arm and tap around the wound, “What about you?”

You paused your movements, “What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about your home.”

You gently set down his arm and nodded. “When I think about home, I like to think of how my apple tree is faring. She’s a beautiful thing, just outside my bedroom window. Around spring time I’d purposefully leave my window open so when I’d wake my entire bedroom floor was covered in petals. Have you ever seen an apple tree in bloom?”

He stayed quiet, but only for a moment, “Yes. I’ve seen cherry blossoms as well.”

You dabbed at the cut with solution, “Well, at home we only have apples. I’ve never seen a cherry tree before, but I can imagine they’re similar.”

“Yes,” He replied quietly, “Quite.”

The tone of his voice made you look up, “Are you alright?”

He lifted his eyebrows, looking at the irritated area around the cut, “Yes, I’m alright.” 

You eyed him thoughtfully, noting the way his demeanor became despondent. “What else would you like to know?”

He inhaled deeply, speaking as he exhaled, “Do you have someone waiting for you back home?”

You let out a small laugh, “Other than my mother and father and brother, no. Nobody special if you mean it in that regard. And you?”

He shook his head, “No. I’ve no one either.”

You wrapped his arm in a light gauze, pinning it securely and then shimmying down his sleeve. “On that note, you’re all patched up.”

He looked as if he did not know what to do, only looking down where your fingers pulled at his jacket, “Oh.”

He then looked up at you, “Can I meet you later? When you’re alleviated from your duties?”

It was your turn to blush, “Oh, I’m afr-”

“No she cannot.” 

William watched the color drain from your face. You moved to stand ramrod straight, clasping your hands behind your back, holding the rag soaked with solution. “Matron Carter.”

“Was is it that you’re doing?” The nurse asked you, eyeing William sitting in the chair. 

“I was cleaning his wounds, ma’am.” You told her quickly.

“And what of this meeting later on?” She asked you coldly.

You shook your head cheeks deepening in color, “Oh, no, ma’am. I was just about to tell him that due to protocol-” Your words died away under her stare. Your mouth opened and closed like a fish that has been plucked from water.

The stout woman frowned in disapproval, “I do not need to be constantly reminding you girls that you cannot stray from your duties, nor can you begin affairs with the men.”

You were taken aback, eyes widening in horror, “Matron Carter you are severely mistaken-”

“It was my mistake,” The man behind you piped up, standing to stand beside you. “I did not know that the nurses were not suppose to mingle amongst us.”

“Well best keep it in mind, lance corporal. While you’re at it, you can inform the other men.” She glared up at him with a stony look. “The volunteers have enough work as it is.”

She walked away, leaving you astonished. 

“Forgive me,” William apologized once again, “I didn’t know.”

You blinked, moving to take the wrapped bandages, “Don’t be silly. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was, though. I’ll keep my distance. Thank you for helping me.”

You said nothing, still mulling over the head nurse’s words. Just thinking about it made your throat tighten in anger.

When you finally processed his, however,  and when you had turned to face him, he was already gone.

.

.

.

Masterlist

Tags: @sexyskywalker @aathepenguin

[dweetwise]

day 21: i don’t feel so well

prompt from: whumptober pairing: felix x ace notes: the hanahaki au nobody asked for. i’m still a little confused about the trope but i tried <3 warnings: descriptions of illness, injury and blood, temporary character death word count: 3130

“That was awesome! She didn't stand a chance!” Steve cheers.

“That's what she gets for camping. What a bitch!” Nea laughs

Ace grins despite the pain, steadying himself against Jeff's sturdy form while the four of them are making their way back to the campfire after a successful trial.

His head is swimming and there's blood staining his teeth, his back stinging from numerous bloody gashes from the killer's katana. But he's alive, even if he had to crawl out through the exit, his teammates not letting the Spirit secure the kill on him.

When they get back to camp, Steve and Nea are off to spin the tale of their rescue to the others, and Ace can't help but smile when they generously color the experience; just like he would.

Jeff supports him to sit down against one of the logs, offering a somewhat awkward "There you go, buddy" in encouragement.

Ace sees Quentin hand Claudette one of his med-kits and then the group's resident healer approaches him with determined steps.

“Hey, sweetheart—” Ace starts with a grin.

“Stalling isn't going to work,” Claudette shoots him down quickly, seeing right through his act. So Ace sighs dramatically and shrugs off his jacket, and the girl immediately hikes up his shirt to start cleaning the wounds on his back.

Ace hisses from the sting of some kind of alcohol, turning his attention back to the others to try to distract himself from the pain.

Most of the others are listening to to Steve's and Nea's story while the rest are scattered around camp, doing their own things. Kate is tuning her guitar, Jake is stocking one of his toolboxes, and Cheryl seems to be practicing the card trick Ace taught her a couple of days ago.

And then there's Felix.

Finally giving himself permission to look at the handsome German, Ace's heart immediately starts beating faster. He's not even doing anything, just sitting by the fire engrossed in a conversation with Zarina, but Ace is so infatuated even just Felix breathing is almost enough to make him blush.

He thought he was too old for schoolboy crushes like these, but then again how could he not fancy Felix? The guy has some absolutely god-tier genes, a chiseled face and ice blue eyes and a body to die for. He’s also smart, and sophisticated, and filthy rich.

And god knows none of those qualities had ever been Ace's strong suit.

At first Ace had thought his hyperfixation on the man was jealousy, but then his body showed him that was definitely not the case; he didn't want to be Felix, he wanted to be in Felix. The realization didn't phase him as much as it maybe should have, because even the straight-as-a-board Ash had commented on Felix's good looks. And Ace sure as hell wasn't even straight to begin with.

No, his panic had come from when he'd caught himself looking at couples like Jeff and Adam being mushy together and imagined himself and Felix in their place.

Ace had a healthy amount of confidence, though the others might not describe it that kindly, but he wasn't blind. Felix was younger than him, maybe not by an impossible amount but still enough to be noticeable. He was also model-tier gorgeous with a body to match, and while Ace wasn't bad-looking he also had a crooked nose and a build solely used for drinking and gambling.

All in all, he recognized when someone was out of his league, and even though he couldn't resist a cheeky flirt ever now and then, he knew his feelings would never be returned.

But he still allowed himself to look; sue him.

He's in the middle of an indulgent daydream about laying his head on Felix's lap like Kate is doing to Yui on the other side of camp, all the while effortlessly keeping up small talk with Claudette tending to his wounds.

And then he starts coughing.

It's not a normal dry cough, it wracks his entire body and keeps going, and he curls in on himself because damn it’s making his throat hurts and his lungs ache something fierce.

“Ace, what's wrong?” Claudette's worried voice cuts through the attack. He tries to reply but it just makes him cough more, and it's not stopping—

Something slimy lands in the palm he's using to cover his mouth and then he can breathe again, taking sharp gasps of air while his throat tingles from the abuse.

He looks at whatever piece of his organs he managed to cough up, the Spirit's blade probably having rearranged some of his guts. He opens his hand and sees—

A flower?

It's absolute covered in blood, but there's no mistaking it, a single flower sitting in the palm of his hand with some loose petals surrounding it.

Why did he cough up a flower? Where did he even get it? It looks like some sort of cherry blossom, a far cry from the Entity's pustulas or the forest bouquets they pick and use for offerings.

“Are you okay?" Claudette asks, moving to kneel beside him in worry. When she sees the flower, she gasps in surprise.

“What happened?” Meg is quick to join her friend, coming up behind Ace to peer over his shoulder. “Uh… did that flower come out of you?”

“I… guess so?” Ace says, his voice raspy and throat protesting being used.

“So you just, like… ate it? Before?” Steve cocks his head in confusion.

“Come on now, I'm not that stupid,” Ace snorts, some of his worry giving way to amusement over the incredulous situation.

“Then what the hell was that?” Meg asks, scrunching her face up in thought while poking at the gross flower.

“I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong,” Adam raises his voice from across camp, straightening his back when all eyes turn to him. “It’s an illness, I recognize the symptoms."

“Can't say I've ever heard of a disease that makes you barf petals,” Ash offers, clearly skeptical, and Ace shares the sentiment.

“Shh, hear him out!” Laurie scolds.

"It's a Japanese folk story,” Adam explains. “Flowers start growing in a person's lungs, causing coughing and bleeding and..." he hesitates.

“Well?” Meg demands.

"And ultimately resulting in death, unless the condition is cured," Adam says grimly.

“Are you talking about hanahaki?” Yui pipes up before anyone can question the weird statement. “You know that's just a shojo manga trope, right?”

“It's also mentioned in historical literature,” Adam argues, though from the way he refuses to meet Yui's gaze, he seems to be embarrassed over the subject.

“Dude, nobody cares if you read girl comics, just tell us what the cure is,” Feng snorts, and that's probably the most concern Ace has ever seen her display over his well-being.

“It's—” Adam starts, before faltering, awkwardly scratching at his neck while looking at the ground. “Supposedly caused by unrequited love.”

There's dead silence in the camp.

And then Nea bursts out laughing.

“Jesus, what a story!” the tagger snickers. “Can you imagine Ace as a fairytale princess?”

“Honey, I think you might have gotten some myths mixed up,” Jeff says diplomatically, patting Adam's knee affectionately.

“Yeah, you probably just inhaled a flower in your sleep or something,” Steve encourages Ace.

“I'm pretty sure this is just a practical joke from our dear spidery overlord,” Ace chuckles and pointedly doesn't look Felix's way. Come next trial, his injuries will have healed anyway, including the weird burn in his lungs.

But they don’t.

Trial after trial, the Entity resurrects him and heals all of his wounds but the coughing persists, more and more flowers following.

Even the others are getting worried.

“That's it, bud,” Ash offers, patting his back while Ace is wheezing for breath after coughing up some more petals. “It's just a weird flu, you'll be good as new soon.”

“At least the flowers go with my shirt,” Ace jokes, voice reduced to a rasp, clearing his throat. “Pink was always my color.”

He's trying to keep his and the others' spirits high, since there doesn't seem to be anything they can do to fix the situation.

“We need to do something,” Ace hears Laurie hiss to Dwight, apparently disagreeing with his sentiment.

“B-but how can we even help him?” their leader, bless his heart, looks genuinely upset over Ace's condition.

“Maybe we should try Adam's suggestion," Laurie says.

“Yeah, except you know he wouldn’t tell us even if he did like someone,” Yui huffs from beside them. “Good luck getting an answer out of a compulsive liar.”

Ouch, but also fair. Ace sure as hell isn't going to reveal his dumb little crush, especially since Felix has avoided him since this entire goddamn flower thing started. He knows there's only a slim chance that Felix realizes what's really going on, but it still feels like rejection nonetheless.

He can deal with this. Even if it kills him, the Entity will just bring him back anyway. It's not even that bad.

But then it gets so much worse.

After a week, Ace is laying on his side while black spots dance around in his vision and he struggles to draw enough wheezy breaths into his lungs. His chest hurts, and his throat is so sore even just the air passing through burns like fire. He hasn't been able to speak in days, and that's almost worse than the pain, not being able to use his only coping mechanism of running his mouth until something sticks to lighten the mood.

His head is cushioned on Kate's thigh and he gets a tiny bit of satisfaction from the knowledge that at least he managed to lay in one pretty blonde's lap before dying, even if it’s the wrong one. The touch is comforting nonetheless, though the fact that it’s accompanied by Kate's girlfriend practically screaming in his ear kind of puts a damper on the whole thing.

“I swear to god, I will make every single person in this camp kiss you, do not test me,” Yui threatens, one of the few who haven't given up on curing him. “Is it Jane? Bill?”

If Ace had the energy, he'd probably laugh about her choices, curious as to why those two were the ones she picked. As it stands, he merely stares at her, wondering if his eyes look as dull and lifeless as he feels.

“He's going to die,” Jake says from somewhere to his side, but Ace doesn't even bother turning his head or denying the statement. Hurried voices shush the saboteur while Kate starts humming a melody to distract him, Yui glaring absolute daggers in Jake’s general direction.

His next trial, Jake's prediction comes true.

Ace collapses to the ground in the midst of a coughing fit. The flowers are growing even bigger now, he can feel them tearing at his throat and vocal cords, retching when they trigger his gag reflex on their way out. His vision blurs and then goes black, body finally giving up as the illness consumes him.

He's not even injured from the killer, but the pool of blood he falls into is big enough to cover the entire side of his face. He lays there, not sure if he's even breathing, just thankful that the awful coughing has stopped for at least a moment.

When he comes to, he expects the small comfort of the campfire before he has to go through the same thing again. Instead, he doesn't have enough energy to even open his eyes, slowly realizing he's still in the trial.

It takes him even longer to realize he's being held partly off of the ground, his body hanging limply in someone’s grasp. He idly wonders if a killer is going to mercy hook him, but then he hears something.

Crying.

Focusing on the sound, Ace realizes he's not just being lifted, he's being held in someone's arms. Someone is holding his near-dead body and crying.

With both his mind and body broken from suffering for so long, he allows himself to imagine it's Felix, even though he knows it's not true. Felix has shown he doesn't care, not talking to him and being so grossed out by his symptoms he’s barely even looked at him—

“Das tut mir leid,” is whispered against his hair, and Ace wonders if he's hallucinating or if his brain has given up on speech comprehension, because that sounded an awful lot like German.

Suddenly, he gains some of his strength back, his chest not feeling nearly as tight as it has for the past few days.

“Felix?” Ace asks, and even though it comes out as a raspy whisper, it's impossible to miss in the stillness of the quiet moment. The surprised hitch of breath he gets in response sounds impossibly loud, and he manages to blink awake just enough to see the tear-streaked, wide-eyed face of the person he never thought he could have.

And that's when the Entity decides he's bled on the ground long enough and he blacks out from blood loss.

When Ace comes to, he's no longer in pain. He can breathe. And he wants nothing more than to get back to camp and be reassured that he wasn't imagining Felix being there for him in his final moments.

He runs to the campfire, panting from exertion once he's illuminated by the familiar glow and shocked faces turn to look at him.

“What the—did you run here!?” Meg exclaims incredulously.

“Yeah,” Ace says, eyes scanning the small crowd of familiar faces, so focused on finding a particular one he doesn't even realize the implications of managing to speak without issue.

“Your voice!” Kate exclaims happily, and Ace pauses to collect some of his thoughts.

“Shit, you're right,” he says, a smile tugging on his lips for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Welcome back, you bastard!” Nea cheers and flings herself at him in a sideways hug, and Ace stumbles to catch himself from falling, chuckling at her antics.

Claudette is sobbing, looking impossibly relieved, and the others are cheering among themselves, though Ace can't make out the contents because he sees a familiar figure making its way to camp and his entire world zones in on that person.

Felix looks up at the sound of the commotion, and Ace's heart breaks a little over how puffy his eyes still look, but then their eyes meet and Felix looks so hopeful—

“Hey,” Ace says, and it probably gets drowned out by the others, but Felix's eyes widen in recognition and he starts walking faster.

“Are you…?” Felix asks, close enough for Ace to hear him over the others shouting.

“He's fixed!” Nea answers for him, finally letting go of the almost painful hug in favor of smacking Ace on the back encouragingly.

Felix glances at Nea but quickly looks back at Ace, waiting for confirmation.

“Yeah, I… guess I'm cured,” Ace says, and it almost feels weird to hear his own voice again. “Or... You know, I hope so.”

Because he's still not sure about Felix's feelings, and he has no idea where they're going to go from here.

But he doesn't need to worry, because Felix's face lights up in a way he's never seen before, letting out a disbelieving, genuine laugh. And then he's stepping forward and cupping his cheek and Ace only has time to blink in confusion before his head is tilted up into a kiss.

“Woah,” Ace hears Nea exclaim, her hand leaving his back like burned. “This, uh… this is new.”

Ace smiles into the kiss and tunes out the rest of her and the others’ surprised babbling, grabbing Felix by the collar of his dress shirt and pulling him deeper into the kiss.

When neither of them are making a move to pull away, their friends seem to be getting fidgety from the show.

“Why don’t we go for a stroll in the woods?” Kate suggests, and the chorus of “Sure!” “Great idea!” and “Oh fuck yes get me out of here” that follow are enough for a laugh to bubble up in Ace’s throat and get swallowed by Felix’s mouth.

When the last pair of footsteps have hurried away, Felix deems it appropriate to finally break away from the kiss. Though he doesn’t go far, burying his head into the crook of Ace’s neck and shoulder and wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug.

“Welcome back,” Felix murmurs against his skin, and the warm affection spreading through Ace’s chest is a welcome change from the constant pain he’s been in for way too long.

“Didn’t expect such a thorough welcome,” Ace can’t resist flirting, hands sneaking up to rest on Felix’s incredibly firm back. The chuckle he gets in return reverberates through both of their bodies due to how close they are, and Ace wonders if Felix can hear his heart frantically beating in excitement.

“I’m… shit,” Felix eventually sighs, lifting his head to meet Ace’s eyes. “I don’t know how to make up for being an idiot. I just watched you suffer and didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay,” Ace says, but now he’s curious. “Why did you avoid me?”

“Because I was afraid that I'd get the illness too,” Felix says, looking at the ground in shame. “I thought any one of us could get it, and because of how I feel about you… I was scared I was next.”

The confirmation that Felix had feelings for him even before this whole clusterfuck started is enough to make more butterflies dance in Ace’s gut, a flush creeping up his neck over how the other is openly spilling his heart.

“If I’d have known I was the one causing it, I would have done something sooner. I’m so sorry," Felix murmurs, looking at him with sad puppy eyes.

“Hey, it's not like I was being very cooperative,” Ace points out, giving his most encouraging smile. “It's not your fault, it's the dumb flower sickness.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that, regardless,” Felix frowns. “But… I'm glad it lead us here,” he adds with a bashful smile that makes Ace’s heart do a couple leaps.

“Figures the best and worst things of my life would happen simultaneously,” Ace flirts, and apparently Felix enjoys being called the best thing in his life, because his sappy smile widens even further.

Ace can’t resist diving in for another taste, capturing smiling lips in a kiss that lasts even longer than the first one and makes their friends groan and complain about “Geez, you’re still going?” when they rejoin them at the campfire.

[sweetestrequiems]

New Day, Same Queen

Summary: The queens have been reincarnated into their new bodies. They have a lot of emotions and they are confused by what’s going on. Some of them are more emotional than the others. Welcome to the modern age, Queens of Six.

Part Four of Six: Anna von Kleve (Eng.: Anna of Cleves)

A/N: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 -Cleves is kinda angsty and that’s my fault, but like... Cleves is always given fluff and I’ve nothing against that. Yeah, this has an okay-ish ending, but this is arguably one of the more emotional parts. Howard’s is the most emotional, in my opinion. 

Tag List: @aveasorae | @watercolored-lemonade | @boombiotch | @patdfobmcr-yt | @everything-insanity | @silverpetals97 

––––––––––

October 22nd, 2019.

Mornings were no longer truly quiet in what was to become the Tudor household in the next few days.

The downstairs level of the residence was quite lively. The first, second, and sixth wives of the late king of England were pretty much having a casual conversation over a cup of tea. It was almost as if nothing had really happened between them in their past lives. A few laughs could be heard here and there, but mostly it was chatter that wasn’t discernible. A groan came from (quite unironically) the red queen. The fourth wife of Henry.

The German, Anna of Cleves.

Sitting up, she ran her hands through her hair and yawned. “Alive again? Maybe this is all just a bad dream.” And so, the woman laid back down and closed her eyes. But this immediately backfired when she shot back up with a realization. “WAIT A SECOND. I DIED ALREADY. THIS CAN’T BE A DREAM.” Fear began to sink in as the covers were pretty much ripped off of the bed and she hurried to the closest mirror. It was no joke, she was alive. With her hands on her cheeks, she just gave one good look at herself.

“I’m alive again? How? This isn’t possible, it has to be witchcraft or something. Maybe this is all a fever dream, right?”

The chatter from the lower floor was telling that this indeed was NOT a fever dream.

“I’m actually alive. This looks like the future, I swear…”

Well, Cleves, you’re not wrong. You’ve found yourself in what’s the future to you, but modern day to the rest of the world. This isn’t old age England anymore. With a sigh, the fourth wife finds herself a bit defeated. “The possibilities of this happening are… next to none. Wait… Amalia!” The thought of her sister came rushing into her head. Amalia had to be alive if she was… right?

The fear began to set in.

Amalia of Cleves surely had to be alive.

Her beloved sister surely had to be alive with her. Why would Amalia not be with Anna?

Opening the door to her room, Cleves almost frantically began to look around the top floor. Aragon and Parr were the names on the other doors. The hope was slowly beginning to drain from her eyes. Could it be so that her sister wasn’t alive after all? It took a sinking moment, but her chest immediately collapsed under its own weight. The tears silently fell from the red queen’s eyes, her hand tightly gripping to the railing of the stairs. A few sniffles were the noise she let out. Angry was a good way to describe her, but saddened was another one. The Cleves sisters, both sought out by the king, and Anna was the one to have gone to England.

“N-Nein, das kann nicht wahr sein! Amalia kann nicht tot sein…”

A bit of a broken voice. While she was happy to have been given a second chance at life, this… this was not what she wanted. “Sie kann es nicht sein, oder? Aber… vielleicht ist sie es. Und vielleicht kann ich nichts dagegen machen.” In a dark way, she was right. There wasn’t much she could do about being the surviving Cleves sister. And while this broke her heart, the fourth wife had to buck up and compose herself. She needed to investigate the noises coming from the bottom floor.

The slight rustling from the stairs got the attention of the other wives.

“Did somebody else wake up?” Anne Boleyn raised an eyebrow, the mug of tea in her hands being set down on the table. Catherine Parr and Catherine of Aragon both exchanged glances, unsure of who was the person coming down the stairs. When they saw the fourth wife, all three of them raised their eyebrows. Anne Boleyn was the one who managed to get anything out. “That’s… that’s the other door on your floor. This must be another one of his wives.”

“Wo bin ich?” She knew English, she however, did not want to actually speak it until she was sure that the three ladies in front of her were to be trusted. Catherine of Aragon’s face immediately dropped upon the realization that this was the other wife that she and Anne had discussed just the day she woke up. The German wife. With a sigh, Aragon shook her head.

“Do any of you speak German, by any chance?” Catherine Parr pulled on the collar of her shirt. It was a safe bet to say they did not speak German.

“Was sind eure Namen? Mine Name is Anna von Kleve.”

“Cleves. Anna of Cleves! That’s the fourth wife of us. So, we’re missing… the third and the fifth, apparently?” Boleyn’s eyes look the woman up and down. “Cleves is your last name, right?” A rather simple “Ja.” was the response.

“Do you speak any English, Anna?”

“Nein, ich spreche kein Englisch.”

“She doesn’t speak English,” there’s a defeated sigh from Catherine Parr. “We have a problem. We can’t talk to her if she doesn’t–”

“Es war nur ein Witz!” The German let out a laugh. “I do speak English, I’m just pulling your leg. I’m Anna. But I did want to know, who are you ladies? You seem to be good friends.” A bit of a smile from the German. Anna knew she had to hide the fact she was grieving over her sister’s death from centuries ago.

“Catalina de Aragón, but I’m called Catherine in English. I was the first wife.”

“Anne Boleyn, and I speak French, not German. I was the second wife.”

“Catherine Parr. I wrote books, psalms, and meditations. I was the sixth wife.”

“We all share one thing in common then. We’re all Henry’s wives. I was the fourth wife. Shipped over from a foreign country to marry the man. A surprisingly interesting experience. Anyways, where exactly are we? I’m a bit lost.” Anne motioned for Anna to join them, and she did. “We’re in modern day London. Everything is… so different. We have a Queen, and she’s seen more as a figurehead and not a political influence. Can you believe it?”

“It’s crazy how things change in such a span of time. But, the best thing of it all… is that we get a second chance at life!”

“It’s truly a miracle. I might be able to write another book.”

Cleves seemed to remain silent. Her mind was quite fixed on the fact she did not have her sister. The sudden positivity in the room became worry as the red queen said not a word, and the blue one was the one to spark up the conversation. “You seem like you have something bothering you, Anna. Almost like you’re not too excited to be alive.”

“I didn’t exactly think I’d be coming back to life without my younger sister,” her gaze looks up. Cleves did look quite defeated in a sense. Boleyn herself nodded, sharing the sentiment but on a different scale. “I only thought about myself, I’ll be honest with you. But I didn’t realize Elizabeth wouldn’t be alive, either. I miss my daughter, really…” The look in her eyes sympathized with Cleves. “But I read really, really great things about her. And… it’s the fond times that matter, Anna.”

Aragon was not as lucky to say her daughter was… as good as her sister. Parr just pulled on her collar and looked away. She was having a moment herself.

“We all have one thing in common aside from Henry, and that’s the fact we all have someone we miss. And life is going to suck without them, but… y’know, I think we can always move along with it so long as we remember those people in our hearts, right? That’s got to count for something,” Boleyn’s expression began to turn into more of a smile. She stood up, and gave glances to the other three women. “I know! How about we all go out today and explore London? See how the place has changed and maybe if we find where our loved ones are buried, we go pay our respects?”

The other three ladies seemed to have perked up at that idea. Even Cleves, despite the fact that she’d have to head to Düsseldorf a day on her lonesome.

“And Anna, where did your sister live? In Germany?”

“Amalia? Yes, she did.”

A smile from Anne Boleyn, and smirks from the Catherines. “We’ll go to Germany one day. And we’ll go visit her resting place. All of us! We’ll go as a group and be there for you. How does that sound?”

The German queen just smiled, feeling at ease with her newfound friends. “Das klingt wunderbar.”

Welcome to the modern age, Anna of Cleves. A woman of rather humbling circumstances and power. Now, that woman is here to show others how to keep trucking through the hard times. Two of you remain to wake up. Will the mother to the throne, Jane Seymour, be the one to arise? That answer is to come soon. But, you all have such an important and greater purpose in this life. You’re one of a kind, no category. Too many years, lost in history. You’re free to take your crowning glory for five more minutes. You’re SIX.

[charliegreco]

( ben barnes + cis male ) — have you seen charles greco ? this thirty-eight year old is a personal financer who resides in manhattan. he has been living in nyc for thirty-eight years, and is known to be charming and confident, but can also be conniving and arrogant, if you cross them. people tend to associate them with beaten italian leather boots and smiles that never meet his eyes. @codstarters​

triggers for neglect, drug use, gambling, & personality disorders.

general information.

full name: charles greco. handle: charlie. title: n/a. age: 38. date of birth: november 12, 1983. place of birth: manhattan, new york. zodiac: scorpio. gender: cis male. nationality: italian-american. religion: atheist. orientation: greyromantic heterosexual. relationship status: single.

physical attributes.

face claim: ben barnes. height: 6'1″. weight: 170 lbs. hair color: dark brown. eye color: dark brown. tattoos: none. distinguishing marks: deep brown eyes. outfit/clothing style: beaten boots, expensive jeans, dark shirts, worn leather, fitted suits.

background information.

hometown: manhattan, new york. current residence: manhattan, new york. past residences: manhattan, new york. spoken languages: english, italian, german, russian. financial status: upper class. education level: college graduate. organization: potential illegal ties.

familial information.

mother: alessia greco. father: unknown. siblings: none. children: possibly a few bastard children.

personality.

moral alignment: chaotic neutral. mbti: estp-a - the entrepreneur. enneagram: type 9: the peacemaker. temperament: choleric.

biography.

one thing was incredibly clear to charlie greco from the moment he could comprehend the hand that life had dealt him: nothing would come easy, and nothing would be worth the time if it was.

his mother always had the means of making a decent living for her son and herself, but squandered all of her earnings on selfish means instead. she was certainly a beautiful woman: alluring both physically and with a wit sharp as a blade’s edge, but all of her attention had always been selfish. surely it was habit taught to her from a young age, something she never bothered to break before she involved herself in other human interactions. but it was likely her beauty and charm that had seduced the man who impregnated her, and the likes of his name were never so much as whispered around offspring. charlie has never known the man’s name.

babies should be a joyous occasion, and yet alessia greco found a way to make it entirely self-involved. her body had to bear the pain, her child was what made everyone so pleased, her creation. anyone who dared to involve themselves in the mess of his mother’s life was sure to see how narcissistic the beautiful italy born-and-bred woman was, and yet no one pressed a finger onto the issue.

but such is the way of the world, so often are children abandoned to their fates.

he was a beautiful baby, but grew to be an awkward toddler, an awkward little boy. alessia made no attempt to hide her disgust at how her creation could be so gangly and ungainly, could stow away for hours with quiet toys that suggested knowledge more than play with other children. but perhaps that was for the better — she couldn’t very well brag and show up with something like him, her offerings would be meager in comparison to children who were the spitting images of their beautiful parents. simple genetics, the awkward transitional period of a child, were held against a child who knew nothing of the world or such disgust from his mother. charlie was six, and alessia greco was the love of his life. all mothers should be, for little boys.

but as he grew older, as his awareness developed, and as the blinders fell from his eyes charlie became aware of his mother’s feelings. while he was utterly devoted to her, drew pictures of her at school or told stories about my mom and me, she was ashamed of his too-long legs and chubby cheeks. his loss of innocence came across the dinner table (boxed macaroni and cheese again, so mom could go out again for the night), when he told her “i love you, mommy” and alessia heaved a sigh and responded with a purfunctory, “yea.”

grades meant nothing. educational achievements meant nothing. unconditional love from a child meant nothing, and charlie began to realize that if he wanted something more than boxed macaroni and cheese for dinner every night (if alessia even bothered to make it) he would have to get it himself. however it wasn’t as simple as taking it — simply taking things earned him a swift but stern slap across the face and if he hadn’t learned in his younger years, charlie surely understood alessia’s feelings with those.

he learned his charm from her, but it wasn’t easy being the odd child he was. still, with a desire to achieve, charlie applied himself to the art of manipulation. he discovered it was simple with the charm of a child: people were more likely to assist if you added a few tears, a little naievety. his teachers began to understand his plight as home as difficult when he spun the yarn of his mother having become deathly ill. his peers found him appealing when he shared goods pilfered or traded from others (without their knowledge for the former), and the reputation he earned himself in his youth formed the personality that perfected at puberty.

while all of these tricks worked outside of the household, charlie never managed to pull the wool over his mother’s eyes. but where unconditional love once stood in tolerance for alessia and her narcissism, now contempt remained. charlie fell out of love with his mother at twelve, and never looked back.

on the summer at the end of his freshman year of high school charlie left an odd-looking boy. in the fall of his sophomore year he returned transformed, as if the summer heat had been a chrysalis and the ugly caterpillar emerged a butterfly. now if you held up a picture of alessia greco beside charlie you could see he was her child, all it took was a shot of growth hormone and the deepening of his voice. abyss-black eyes were the stark difference between the two of them (ignoring the thick black hair that sprouted from his face if he didn’t tame it back to stubble every four or so days), and alessia noted how much she despised the way he stared at her now. it made her skin crawl if only because it seemed as if he was looking through her.

and he was. now he saw her for what she was: a selfish woman who had only wanted him to brag about her own achievements. but he hadn’t been worth bragging about when he was small, and now that he towered over her she wanted him to be seen with him. but charlie refused, perhaps a little too politely for her to understand at first, and it was only in a binge of some substance abuse that he took a stern hand with her. only when she struck him first out of a dead sleep — staring at him for near twenty minutes before lashing out at him. it was the threat of never touch me again that he punctuated so perfectly, threatening to hold back no means to defend himself should she raise another hand at him.

alessia mourned for herself the loss of her baby boy. all that was left was a man who was nothing more than a reminder of her failed relationships throughout the years. you’re just like them. you’re just like them.

but he was nothing like them. perhaps the only similarity being how much he despised her, as they all did in the end.

over-achieving won him an early high school graduation by one year and excellent grades a near free-ride through college. he was always good with numbers, always good at calculations and the choice to step into the mathematical field was easy. alessia was notably absent when he gained his college diploma, if only because charlie couldn’t be bothered to let her know of the date. any by now he’d escaped the clutches of her den and made his own home somewhere on the other side of the city. he was sure he would never purposely cross paths with her, and if they did meet it was purely accidental. purely venomous.

his first steps into the world of banking began the same as any other bland story: a teller whose talent for numbers opened gateways of opportunity. charlie was twenty-two when he was offered the position of personal finance. he was twenty-four when he began taking private, rich clients, and it was only a few months into that position that he met “slick ricky” dimatteo. the meeting wound up more fateful than any singular moment he had with his mother, at least it was opportunistic. silver-tongue and charm allowed for charlie to step into the world of second set of books, illegal numbers … extra money.

now he looked exactly like the son of alessia greco. fine suits, hundred-dollar hair cut, winning smile the smiles never met his eyes — that died in his childhood, with his innocence, but he when he wagged his tongue people listened and were apt to believe the words that oozed from his lips. honest life turned to opulence … he was sure he could have had more if he wanted it, but sitting on the outskirts of a life of real crime was comfortable for him. when he stole away in the middle of the night to confirm the collection of illegal debts owed he kept his own two hands clean (so what if his command got people hospitalized, right?) and charlie prided himself on the ability to forget what he had seen. things are so often lost in the black abyss.

potential connections.

clients: charlie works as a personal financer - he cooks two sets of books. this can either be a legitimate client or one that seeks to make bets or otherwise gamble their money in some form through his other connections. 

past flings: 30+ please. charlie is a one and done kind of person. he’s not at all unfamiliar with his needs and has never expressed romantic interest in any of the women he’s slept with.

arm candy: someone who attends high-class events with him. typically someone who understands his humor, and also understands that in the world of money appearances are everything. best suited to someone he’s more friends with than a stranger. (davina yueng).

friends: legitimate or otherwise. if they aren’t connected to his illegal business, they don’t know about it. if they are friends with him through said illegal business, obviously they know. (abby rosen).

i’m open to various other connections, these are just some ideas!

[365days365movies]

January 21, 2021: The Wages of Fear (1953)

What exactly is a thriller, anyway?

Now, I’ve repeatedly considered having thrillers take up their own month, considering that they’re considered one of the core eleven film genres. However, they intersect so commonly with other genres, that I’ll be incorporating it into other months this year.

The definition of the thriller or suspense genre relies on surprise and intrigue. The audience is made unaware of certain information, giving a sense of mystery to the movie’s setting. The protagonist is often also unaware of these certain things, although that certainly isn’t a requirement. 

Sometimes, they’re as innocent as the audience, if not moreso, and may be getting manipulated during the course of the story. Escapes, chase sequences, clear or hidden dangers, all of these meant to build suspense and unnerve the audience. It doesn’t have the overt scares of a horror film, and its action scenes build up to a feeling of building dread. They’re adrenaline-raising, heart-pounding, edge-of-your-seat films. 

We’ve already covered one of the most prominent subgenres, the spy movie. We’ll cover more during Horror October, naturally, and a couple more this month. Comedy April’s even going to have a comedy thriller or two, while Romance February will pack an erotic thriller in there. Oh, and let’s not forget Crime July and Drama December. Like I said, they’ll be all over the place. Today, though, we cover one of the seminal French action thrillers, similar to our last two entries, but MUCH older. Enter Jean-Georges Clouzot.

Clouzot is one of the old-school French directors, even though he debuted quite late as compared to most, in 1942. A French Alfred Hitchcock, Clouzot’s first solo film was The Murderer Lives at Number 21. And surprisingly, it’s known as a comedy-thriller, and made a splash in theaters when it debuted in 1943. Which is interesting, given that whole World War II kerfuffle at the time. His most famous film, however, came in 1955, and was called Les Diaboliques. And THAT’S a psychological thriller that may end up on my list for October.

But two years before that, he made an action thriller. You know where this is going at this point, so let’s get on with it! SPOILERS AHEAD for The Wages of Fear!

Recap

Before we start, a tiny disclaimer: GIFs were...impossible to find for this one. HOWEVER, I miraculously found a recolored copy that I was able to convert into GIFs. I prefer the black-and-white version, which is how I watched it, but SACRIFICES MUST BE MADE

We start in Las Piedras, a small village in a Spanish-speaking country somewhere in Central America. A group of men speaking French, English, and Spanish are relaxing on a saloon porch, trying to beat the heat. These men include Mario (Yves Montand) and Bimba (Peter van Eyck). His girlfriend (?) Linda (Véra Clouzot, the director’s wife) works as a servant in the saloon.

Eventually, the men are told to leave, with Bimba being told to go to the airport to pick up mail. Arriving on the plane - other than a man with a whole-ass GOAT, which must have made for a fun flight for EVERYBODY involved - is a rich-looking man in a white suit and a fancy fly-swatter.

Our man, who’s French, runs into Mario, who is also French. This is Jo (Charles Vanel), who, despite looking rich, is out here looking for something monetary. Mario, after being weirdly cold to Linda, leaves for his home where he lives with Luigi (Folco Lulli), who speaks Italian. A real polyglot of a movie, this one. 

Over the course of a montage of indeterminate time, we find out that there’s no work in this town for the various men, who are stuck in this town because of the desert surrounding it, expensive tickets, and no jobs or employment opportunities. We also find out that since there’s oil, there are Americans.

The Southern Oil Company, SOC, dominates the town due to nearby oil fields. They aren’t the best, though, and they tend to treat the townspeople pretty terribly. Jo inquires for a job there, to no avail, and reconvenes with Jo. After treating Linda and Luigi, to be frank, like ABSOLUTE shit, Mario...WAIT A GODDAMN SECOND

HOLY SHIT, MARIO AND LUIGI LIVE TOGETHER. REALLY?!? Holy shit.

Jo’s a dick, it turns out, which causes a rift between the two Frenchmen and the others. After literally getting the entire saloon angry with his antics, he threatens the nice Luigi with a gun, causing a tense atmosphere with everybody. After literally handing Luigi a gun to shoot him, the dejected man leaves the bar, dejected. Like I said...Jo’s an absolute DICK.

The next morning, something’s happened. The oil field has caught on fire, killing some of the residents who worked there. This causes some anti-foreigner rhetoric, which’ll probably spell trouble for our mostly foreigner cast. The foreman is Bill O’Brien (William Tubbs), who’s asked to handle the situation by his bosses. The only way to put out the fire is to generate an explosion triggered by nitroglycerin. Which seems...backwards, but I don’t know how oil works. They need to transport the nitroglycerin to the field, but the job is too dangerous for unionized workers. Therefore, the idea is formed to bring in some of the unemployed men, especially those that hang around the saloon. And, of course, that includes Mario, Jo, Bimba, and Luigi.

Speaking of Luigi, sad news. Looks like his construction job has resulted in cement powder depositing in his lungs, giving him 6 months to a year to live. Shame, he seems like a very nice guy. And so, considering that this job is dangerous, but follows a lot of money...he doesn’t have much to lose.

One of the people at the briefing immediately backs out upon learning about the job. He notes that this job infects men with fear that they can’t recover from. For that fear, the wages are $2500 per person. Only four people can do this job; two per truck, with one driver and one passenger. After some trials, Mario, Luigi, Bimba, and Smerloff, a German, are chosen. Jo isn’t good enough, much to his own dismay. However, as Bill and Jo are old friends of sorts, they make a deal; if one of the men doesn’t show up, Jo can take his place.

That night, the men (sans Jo) gather in the saloon. One young man, an Italian named Bernando who wasn’t chosen, gives Linda a note to mail to his mother. Sadly, there’s a reason for that that I won’t show here. But while they tell him that there’ll be a next time, he insists that their won’t be. I’ll let you fill in the tragic blanks.

The next morning, Smerloff doesn’t show up, having last been seen with, uh...with Jo. Wonder where Smerloff went. Well, predictably, Jo ends up replacing him. Jo and Mario go first, after winning a coin toss. They drive off hauling their truck loaded with nitroglycerin, and you can feel the fear begin to set in for Mario. As they drive through town, Linda tries to say goodbye, only for Mario to literally push her off the truck, MAN, I don’t like this guy.

As the truck drives, they encounter their first obstacle: Jo. As he’s driving, fear would appear to set in for him as well. He overcomes a couple of large puddles, but begins to shiver and sweat, saying that he’s sick. But no, he’s definitely just nervous, and they stop the truck in a forest of sugarcane so that Jo can take a break. However, they have to get going quickly, as the second truck is close behind them.

In the second truck, Bimba and Luigi talk a bit, with the affable Luigi doing most of that talking. But when Jo and Mario stop for a second time, they tell the pair off and drive past. Because of this, they hit the first real obstacle: a stretch of rough and bumpy road called the washboard. To get over it, one has to go 40 mph to get over the bumps. If not, then the truck will feel the bumps, and the nitroglycerine will explode.  Luigi and Bimba get over with some difficulty, finding out that the gas in their truck contains water, and needs to be changed.

As for Jo and Mario, Jo’s nervousness costs them time and energy, as he refuses to speed up to the proper speed before getting on the washboard. They have to back up (inside their own tire tracks), and Mario officially takes over the wheel. And he starts going fast...too fast.

They almost collide with the other truck, but Luigi and Bimba speed up in time. Next obstacle: a road under construction. A K-turn is needed, and that turn requires a flimsy wooden construction to be driven on. It isn’t easy, the very competent Luigi and Bimba manage it all right. Jo and Mario get there, and Jo, predictably, FREAKS OUT. 

Mario, on the other hand, is overly reckless. In order to get over the rotted out road, Mario has to drive to the very edge of the construction. Jo, who was guiding him from the back of the truck, ends up tumbling over the side. While Mario thinks he’s dead, Jo instead takes the opportunity to straight-up run away, although Mario does see him. This is a problem, as the truck begins to slide on the wood without Jo’s help. But Mario, ever-resourceful, figures it out. But...

OH SHIT! Mario gets off the construction just as it’s starting to collapse. He makes it forward, and passes the cowardly Jo, who tries to get back onto the truck.Mario, UNDERSTANDABLY PISSED, almost leaves him behind, but finally stops so that he can get rejoin. The two get into an argument, where Mario calls Jo out for once being brave, but now being a coward. Jo tells Mario that he has no imagination, and that Jo’s “died fifty times since last night.” I love that line, honestly.

Back to Luigi and Bimba. They talk about life after the money, even though we’re aware that Luigi doesn’t have much of that left. It’s then that the next obstacle appears: a talus slope, from which a giant rock has fallen, and blocks the road. Bimba has the...bright idea (?) of using the nitroglycerin to blow up the stone. Which I feel like is an...idea.

They make a hole in the rock, then siphon some nitro out of a container. The others catch up, and back the trucks away, leaving Bimba by himself to do the deed. And it is...ABSOLUTELY NERVE-WRACKING HOLY SHIT. After setting up a Rube-Goldberg device and pouring the nitroglycerin into a hole in the rock, Bimba lights a fuse and sets it to blow. 

But because they fear they;ve parked too close, Luigi runs back to put out the fuse! Too late, though, as the nitro blows, and rocks fly, almost falling on the trucks in the process. As for Luigi...he survives! Knocked out by the shock from the explosion, but not injured. In the process, the rock is finally destroyed, and Mario and Luigi finally reconcile as friends.

Back on the drive with Luigi and Bimba! We find out that Bimba’s a German, whose parents died at the hands of the Nazis. He himself was in a work camp for 3 years, which is why he is as brave as he is. Behind them, Jo and Mario talk of France, and Jo rolls a cigarette.

...FUCK. 

Luigi and Bimba are gone. Like that. This, of course, freaks out Jo, who runs away from the truck. Mario catches up, and beats Jo for his cowardice. They return to the truck, albeit very reluctantly on Jo’s part. They make it to the site of the explosion, where there’s...no sign. No sign of the truck, of the guys, nothing. Just a busted pipe spitting up oil, creating a massive puddle.

Jo goes into the shallow pool to guide Mario through it, but gets stuck in the pool in the process. Mario runs over his leg, and the truck itself gets stuck in the oil. Mario gets out of the truck and helps Jo, whose leg is FUUUUUUUUUCKED up. I mean it, it’s like a busted sausage link, like a sock made of MEAT. It’s not OK, is what I’m saying.

Mario, using a cable, an iron rod, and his wits, manages to pull the truck out of the oil pool. He gets Jo, and the drive continues. Jo, in pain and possibly bleeding out, is close to falling asleep. To keep him awake, the two talk about Paris. Day turns to night, and Mario continues to drive. They finally make it to the burning oil field...but too late for Jo.

Mario’s finally able to get out of the truck, and stumbles towards the fire and collapses. Not dead, just exhausted. He gets all of the money promised to the four, and leaves in the now empty truck to go back to Las Piedras. Free of nitroglycerine and free of fear, he gleefully drives back. In the saloon, the patrons celebrate Mario’s survival while listening to Blue Danube, and so does Mario! And Mario is driving...carefree. And recklessly.

...That’s The Wages of Fear. See you in the Epilogue.