#not the point but those notes? beautiful. such a well sustained and clean voice.

[dustedmagazine]

Guided By Voices — Strut of Kings (GBV Inc.)

Photo by Ellen Qbertplaya

In an interview following the announcement of the new Guided By Voices record, Strut of Kings, Robert Pollard explained why it would, uncharacteristically, be the group’s only release this year: “I just wanted to give this one a little more time to sink in with the fans. Give them some breathing space.” Take Pollard at his word: Strut of Kings is worth the focus and, speaking of space, it’ll take up as much as your speakers allow.

Back in 2018, I wrote that Space Gun (also that year’s only GBV album) was “a protein-rich re-entry point from which to backtrack through the post-millennium catalog…with triumphant blends of sweeping rhythm guitar, ascending lead riffs and rolling rhythm sections.” Six years and 13 albums later, I’ll say the same of Strut of Kings, only more so. As on Space Gun, Pollard is backed by Bobby Bare Jr., Doug Gillard, Mark Shue, and Kevin March, but here they play with a stormier ambition that adds an extra potency to the songs. This isn’t angry music, exactly, but it is noticeably heavier and sounds off with a harder-rocking urgency.

On the edgier end of things come ornery, ear-ringing slugfests like “Olympus Cock In Radiana” and “Cavemen Running Naked.” The first of which heaves around thick, fuzzy guitar arpeggios over a dogged stomp with the bare menace of early Black Sabbath. The second evokes both Queens of the Stone Age with its brute force drumming and taut, meaty riffs and Thin Lizzy with its buzzy, glamorous bursts of guitar. Sequenced between those two and yet darker is “Leaving Umbrella.” The track, slow, sheer and draped with cymbal crashes and sliding walls of distortion, finds Pollard wallowing in a psychedelic, fantastical fog, like a long lost David Bowie album for Southern Lord.

Ill-tempered bangers aside, Strut of Kings is, like so much of Pollard’s vast catalog, at its best in rich, punchy, power pop mode. One of Pollard’s great strengths as a vocalist is delivering even his hardest-to-parse lines with the conviction of confessional poetry. As the sparkling strum and thrust of “Fictional Environment Dream” is lifted by sustained electronic keys, “trying to sell me/on such same primitive tools/programming fever dreams/with the fools/let them expel me” might as well be Matthew Sweet lamenting “I’m sick of myself when I look at you.” It’s one of several moments when the musical ambition and vigor of this album crosses into more radiant, but no less powerful territory. Take, for instance, the long, elegiac build of “Bit Of A Crunch,” from clean, picked guitar to a robust, sunbreak-after-rain stadium balladry close to Oasis’ ragged, golden “Don’t Go Away.” Perhaps the record’s most potent blend of beauty and brawn, however, is “Serene King.” At the bridge, while Pollard raps towards his jet plane takeoff on the final refrain, a rapid series of single guitar notes shoot up from the bullying rumble of bass, drums and blasting, third-rail rhythm chords, taking the song from fist-pumping to something like transcendent.

Chalk it up to the explosive instrumentals, but the lyrics, often the most beguiling aspect of a Guided By Voices record, aren’t the most memorable part of Strut of Kings. One verse, though, from the album closer “Bicycle Garden,” stands out: “Though all the roses are dying/the old nest climbing with ivy/is lively.” What better way to describe Pollard’s indefatigable musical career than in terms of voracious regeneration. With this latest liveliness, Pollard and company continue that relentless growth. And remember, they’re leaving the breathing space for you: no one said they needed it.

Alex Johnson

[shamandrummer]

Winona LaDuke: Native Environmentalism

I had the opportunity to meet Winona LaDuke and hear her speak at a conference years ago. LaDuke is a renowned Anishinaabe environmentalist, economist, writer and past two time vice-presidential candidate (with Ralph Nader), known for her work on tribal land claims and preservation, as well as women's rights. She is from the Makwa Dodaem (Bear Clan) of the White Earth Reservation in northern Minnesota. LaDuke was raised in Ashland Oregon, the daughter of Betty Bernstein and Vincent (Sun Bear) LaDuke. Her Anishinaabe father worked as an actor in Hollywood in supporting roles in Western movies before establishing himself as an author and spiritual leader in the 1980's. Her mother is an artist and writer who has gained an international reputation for her murals, paintings and sketches. LaDuke attended Harvard University, Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Antioch University. She has testified at the United Nations, U.S. Congress, state hearings, and is an expert witness on economics and the environment. She advocates primarily for the protection of the environment and the rights of women. In 1985, LaDuke helped found the Indigenous Women's Network. She worked with the Native organization Women of All Red Nations to publicize American forced sterilization of Native American women. In 1989, LaDuke founded the White Earth Land Recovery Project in Minnesota with the proceeds of a human rights award from Reebok. The goal is to buy back land in the White Earth Indian Reservation that non-Natives bought and to create enterprises that provide work to Anishinaabe. LaDuke is humorous, enlightening and above all political. She speaks with a Native voice without altering her language for non-Natives. Her words differ from establishment thinking and offer new ways of understanding the world and the solutions we need for the great issues of climate change. She conveys a beautiful and daring vision of political, spiritual and ecological transformation. LaDuke spoke at length about Native environmental issues and challenges. Despite making up a tiny fraction of the world's population, Indigenous peoples hold ancestral rights to some 65 percent of the planet. This poignant fact conveys the enormous role that Native peoples play not only as environmental stewards, but as political actors on the global stage.

All over the world, Native peoples are engaged in battles with hostile corporations and governments that claim the right to set aside small reserves for Native people, and then to seize the rest of their traditional territory. They are confronting the destructive practices of industry and leading the charge against climate change, while defending the rivers, forests and food systems that we all depend on. At the same time, they are blocking governments from eroding basic rights and freedoms and turning to the courts of the world to remedy over 500 years of historical wrongs. Native peoples are putting their lives on the line and fighting back for political autonomy and land rights. And all the while, they are breathing new life into the biocultural heritage that has the potential to sustain the entire human race.

Native Americans often articulate alternative environmental perspectives and relationships to the natural world. Indigenous mythologies and oral traditions express a non-anthropocentric environmental ethic. Indigenous groups offer ancient tried-and-tested knowledge and wisdom based on their own locally developed practices of resource use. And, as Native peoples themselves have insisted for centuries, they often understand and exhibit a holistic, interconnected and interdependent relationship to particular landscapes and to the totality of life, animate and inanimate, found there.

Perhaps the most important aspect of Indigenous cosmology is the conception of creation as a living process, resulting in a living universe in which a kinship exists between all things. Thus the Mother Earth is a living being, as are the Sun, Stars and the Moon. Hence the Creators are our family, our Grandparents or Parents, and all of their creations are children who are also our relations. LaDuke captured the essence of this concept when she said: "Native American teachings describe the relations all around--animals, fish, trees, and rocks--as our brothers, sisters, uncles, and grandpas...These relations are honored in ceremony, song, story, and life that keep relations close--to buffalo, sturgeon, salmon, turtles, bears, wolves, and panthers. These are our older relatives--the ones who came before and taught us how to live."

The industrialized West is largely unaware of how Indigenous societies have functioned, and the strengths they possess that industrial cultures have lacked. Our notions of progress are based on the idea that high tech means better and that industrial cultures are somehow more advanced socially. The current state of our threatened environment demands that communication channels be opened for dialogue and engagement with Native environmental ethics.  

When describing Indigenous environmental activism, LaDuke said, "Grassroots and land-based struggles characterize most of Native environmentalism. We are nations of people with distinct land areas, and our leadership and direction emerge from the land up." Each nation and community has its own unique cultural traditions linked to the land.

LaDuke detailed how different groups of Native people are contending with environmental issues and are seeking to address them at the local, community level. They are also forming national and international organizations that seek to help individual nations, in large part through information sharing and technical assistance. In the final analysis, however, each nation, reserve, or community has to confront its own issues and develop its own leadership. This must be stressed over and over again: each sovereign Native nation will deal with its own environmental issues in its own way. There is no single Native American government that can develop a collective Indigenous response to the crisis we all face. LaDuke emphasized that the environmental awareness of many Native American groups translates into a high level of respect for women in their communities. A good deal of evidence has shown that when women have high status, education, and choices, they tend to greatly enrich a community and to stabilize population growth. Many traditional American societies have been able to maintain balance with their environments because of the high status of women, a long period of nursing for infants, and/or the control of reproductive decisions by women. Many of the leaders in the Native struggle today are women. LaDuke pointed out that respect and humility form the foundation of Native lifeways, since they not only lead to minimal exploitation of other living things but also preclude the arrogance of colonial missionary activity, secular imperialism, and the oppressive patriarchy. She noted that: "In each deliberation we consider the impact on the seventh generation from now. Everything we have today we inherited, we are very, very fortunate today that our ancestors were strong people. We’re very, very fortunate that our ancestors took care of this land so well. We also know that those who are not yet here are counting on us not to mess this up…they’re counting on us to make sure that there will be water for them to drink, that there will still be fish, that the air will not be so poisoned or so hot that they cannot live."

Native people are not only trying to clean up uranium tailings, purify polluted water, and mount opposition to fossil fuel extraction; they are also continuing their spiritual ways of seeking to celebrate and support all life by means of ceremonies and prayers. As LaDuke told us in closing: "In our communities, Native environmentalists sing centuries-old songs to renew life, to give thanks for the strawberries, to call home fish, and to thank Mother Earth for her blessings."

[prouvaireafterdark]

See Something You Like? - Malex Sex Shop AU Part 1/2

It’s FINALLY here: the Malex Sex Shop AU you’ve all been waiting for! Well, the first half anyway (Part Two will be out soon!)

I dedicate this fic to my friendly neighborhood Thigh Riding Anon™️, who inspired this fic with her galaxy brain prompt, and all of you who have been patiently waiting for me to finish this absolute monster of a smut fic. I hope you enjoy it! 💜😘

Also on AO3!

***

When Michael moved to California to start his PhD in agricultural engineering, he’d grossly underestimated how expensive the move would be. The stipend that came with his teaching assistantship just barely covers the rent on his studio apartment, and finding a roommate off Craigslist that’s desperate enough to live in such close quarters isn’t exactly an option considering how many alien skeletons Michael’s got in his closet. The vegetables he’s planning on growing in his complex’s shared community garden will help, but if he wants to eat any time soon he’s gonna have to find a part time job.

Enter Jackie and Kris, the delightful middle-aged lesbian couple who live next door and share Michael’s enthusiasm for sustainable gardening and the occasional midnight smoke.

They get to talking one night while passing a bong back and forth over the railing that divides their balconies, first about DIY organic fertilizer and then about Michael’s degree. He lets spill in a moment of weakness that his coursework is a breeze, but he’s worried he’ll run out of money before he can finish the program. As embarrassed as he is about the confession, it ends up saving his life.

Turns out, Jackie and Kris own a sex shop named Pandora’s Box around the corner and have been looking for some help running the storefront while they focus on expanding their online business and organizing safe sex workshops for the local queer and BDSM communities. The hours would be flexible around Michael’s schedule and all they really would need him to do is stand behind the register, ring people up, and answer questions about their products with “affability and professionalism.”

It’s maybe not the work he imagined himself doing when he moved to California for grad school, but for $15/hr, Michael really can’t afford to say no. He sits for an official interview the very next day and leaves Jackie’s home office with a new job and a pot brownie wrapped in tin foil, eager to get started on both.

Monday afternoons at Pandora's Box are the best. They’re notoriously slow so Michael gets to work his shift alone, which gives him ample time to grade the assignments he procrastinated on all weekend while he sits behind the counter.

It’s a Monday afternoon, in fact, about a year and a half later, when Michael hears the bell above the door chime softly to announce the arrival of a customer who would change his life forever.

The first thing Michael notices when he lifts his head from the stack of exams on the counter is the black leather jacket that’s stretched across the man’s broad shoulders. When Michael’s eyes flick up to get a look at the man’s face, he’s met with sharp cheekbones, beautifully tan skin, and a pair of trendy but understated sunglasses. He looks a little lost—unsurprising, since Michael’s certain he would have remembered it if he’d ever seen a man that pretty walk into his shop before—but when he realizes Michael’s looking at him, he flips his sunglasses up onto his artfully messy dark hair and smiles.

And oh, what a smile it is—the most beautiful one Michael has ever seen, soft and sweeter that it has any right to be, his full lips capturing Michael’s attention with ease. His heart pounds in his chest as their eyes lock together, and if Michael didn’t know any better, he’d think he’s just fallen in love with a perfect stranger.

Before Michael can do more than shoot him a dazed smile in return, the man disappears down an aisle.

As a general rule, Michael doesn’t talk to customers who don’t approach him for help first. It’s best practice in a store that sells pornography and sex toys—most customers don’t want to be questioned about their kinks, and those that do usually already know what they’re looking for—but the pull he feels toward this man is undeniable. He’s curious about him for reasons he can’t explain, and as his feet carry him off in the direction the man went, Michael decides not to question it.

Michael weaves casually through the aisles until he finds the man staring up at the floor to ceiling wall display of dildos and other anal toys—because of course he does. He sends a prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in that this man isn’t buying something for his girlfriend before he steps in line beside him.

“See something you like?” Michael asks, toning down his customer service voice into something approaching normal human speech.

Up close, he can see the man has a septum piercing, which glints a little in the light. Michael’s seen plenty of people with body jewelry come through this store, but he’s never really thought of it as cute until now.

The man smiles at him, a little shy, but Michael’s not so distracted this time that he misses the way his eyes flick over his body in naked interest, and it leaves him feeling a little hot under the collar.

“I’m not sure yet,” the stranger answers.

Even his voice is nice, Michael notes, deeper than he expects and smooth like honey.

Michael nods in understanding. He gets it—this wall can certainly be intimidating, even for someone who’s been to a sex shop before. He looks the man over again, taking in his charmingly flushed cheeks, and wonders if it’s his first time in a place like this. If maybe he needs a little help after all.

It’s a good thing Michael’s an expert, huh?

He doesn’t want to come at him too strongly, though. Encountering an overbearing sales associate isn’t any more fun than being one, and Michael certainly isn’t looking to push the guy passed his personal boundaries. He may be smitten, but he’s not an asshole.

“Well, if you have any questions about any of our products, my name’s Michael,” he says, flashing him a warm smile.

He’s about to go off in search of a nearby display to straighten up so he can give the man some space, but his voice catches Michael’s attention once more.

“And if I don’t have questions?” the man asks, and when Michael turns to look at him there’s a real smile tugging at his lips this time. “What should I call you then?”

Michael laughs, shaking his head as he shoots back, “Okay, smartass, what should I call you?”

For a single, horrible second after his own words reach his ears, Michael thinks he’s gone too far, but the sudden burst of anxiety in his chest turns out to be for nothing—the man’s grin only grows wider.

“Alex,” he says, and to Michael’s surprise he holds his hand out for him.

Alex’s palm is warm against his when he shakes it, and Michael can’t help but wonder how it would feel anchored in his curls or clutching tight to the skin of his hips.

“So, Alex,” Michael starts, emboldened by the introduction. He finds he likes the way Alex’s name feels in his mouth. “What are you in the market for today?”

Alex flushes a little and it’s so endearing Michael has to bite the inside of his bottom lip to keep from smiling.

“That’s the thing—I don’t really know,” Alex answers honestly. “There’s just so many options.”

“Okay, well, let’s start with an easier question: are you shopping for yourself or a significant other?” he asks, and, yeah, maybe he’s planning on filing the answer to his question away for later. Sue him.

Alex looks at him like maybe he suspects ulterior motives, but Michael shamelessly holds his gaze.

“No boyfriend,” Alex says, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “I’m looking for something for myself.”

“Fantastic,” Michael smiles, before he slips a little deeper into salesman mode. “So, judging by the aisle we’re standing in, I’m gonna take a leap and say that you’re looking for a toy you can use for internal anal stimulation. Is that right?”

“Yeah. Think you can help me out with that?” Alex asks, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Definitely,” Michael answers with a smirk before he turns to the wall display. “As you can see, we have a pretty wide selection; you name it, we’ve probably either got it in stock or can have it shipped in three to five business days. Is there a particular price point you’re aiming for?”

Alex seems to think about it. “I’m not really looking to spend more than $100, but I could go up to $150 if it’ll change my life.”

“I can work with that,” Michael assures him. “Any other parameters I should keep in mind?”

“I’ve read that jelly toys can be dangerous, so definitely not anything made out of that,” Alex says, and Michael’s glad to hear he’s done his research. Jelly toys are frustratingly popular because they’re so cheap and Michael usually has to put in a little work to talk people out of buying them.

“Oh yeah, fuck that jelly shit,” Michael agrees, and Alex’s startled laugh makes his heart skip. “They’re impossible to sanitize properly and they’re full of toxic chemicals—you wouldn’t believe the horror stories I’ve heard about them since I started working here. If you’re looking for something with a softer texture, medical grade silicone is really the only way to go. Just make sure you stick to water-based lube or else you could ruin your toy.”

Alex nods thoughtfully, like he’s read that too.

“Glass and metal are also good options,” Michael continues. “They obviously feel a lot harder inside you, but they’re easy to clean, you don’t have to be as careful about what lube you use, and they’re naturally waterproof. They’re excellent for temperature play, too, if you’re into that.”

“Never tried it,” Alex confesses.

“It’s not for everyone, but it can be a fun time,” Michael says, recalling the scorching summer afternoon he spent fooling around with an ice cube tray and a girl he met on Tinder. “So, your options are metal, glass, and silicone. Any preference?”

Michael notices Alex’s eye catching on a set of stainless steel plugs, but he answers, “Silicone for now, I think.”

“Good choice,” Michael replies easily. “So, now that we know what material you’re looking for, let’s talk about your ideal experience. What are you looking to get out of your purchase?”

“An orgasm?” Alex answers, his confusion evident.

Michael laughs. “Sorry, I meant—how would you like to get there? What sort of sensation are you looking for?”

Alex looks a little lost at the question, so Michael turns to plan B.

“See, this one, for example,” Michael says, pointing to a familiar black prostate massager, “is great for when you wanna get off fast and hard. It’s not too thick, so you don’t have to spend a ton of time opening yourself up for it, and the curve puts the tip of it right up on your p-spot. It’s also got a bunch of different vibration settings and get this: It’s waterproof.”

Alex hums in interested acknowledgement, though Michael notes that the longer he talks, the more Alex’s attention is fixed on him, not the toy.

Feeling bold, Michael adds, “I’d advise caution if you’ve got thin walls though.”

“Why, does it make a lot of noise?” Alex asks curiously.

A slow grin spreads across Michael’s lips. “No,” he says with a shake of his head. “But you will.”

Michael watches Alex try and fail to suppress a smile, his full bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“You seem pretty sure of that,” Alex says when he releases it. “That from firsthand experience, or are you just a really good salesman?”

Michael laughs, equal parts delighted by Alex’s flirting and embarrassed by the memory his question brings to mind.

“What?” Alex asks, a smile building on his face.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you,” Michael hesitates, his face heating up just thinking about it. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Aw, come on,” Alex goads him. “Don’t be such a tease.”

Michael gasps in mock offense. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but a tease isn’t one of them.”

“That mean you’re gonna tell me what’s got you blushing like that after all?” Alex asks.

“I’m not blushing,” Michael protests, even though he definitely is.

Alex raises an eyebrow at him. It’s stupidly attractive.

With a huff, Michael considers his options. He doesn’t usually give personal anecdotes like this to customers, but there’s just something about Alex that makes Michael want to give him whatever he wants.

“Fuck it, why not?” Michael says to himself.

Alex smiles victoriously and settles in to listen.

“So, about a year ago, I came in to work and found this box sitting on the table in the break room, which was filled with a bunch of different toys from the company that makes that massager. I asked my boss about it and she said the company sent her a bunch of free samples.”

“Does that happen often?” Alex interrupts to ask. “Companies just send you free stuff?”

“Eh, sometimes, if it’s from a new line of toys that a company wants retailers to hype up,” Michael explains. “It helps that my boss Jackie’s wife Kris has a pretty popular blog where she tests and rates toys, so she gets free stuff all the time.”

“Huh,” Alex says. “So I’m guessing you took one after your shift?”

“Oh yeah,” Michael nods. “Tried it out as soon as I got home.”

“How was it?”

“Intense is about the only word that covers it,” Michael answers. “Those vibrations can be really powerful, it was like nothing else I’d ever tried before. Definitely one of my top ten solo orgasms of all time.”

“Not number one?” Alex asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, I came in, like, a minute, so no, not quite,” Michael laughs.

“Is that the embarrassing part?” Alex asks. “That you came so fast?”

“Not quite,” Michael winces, his cheeks flushing. “As I was coming, I screamed so loud that the little old lady whose living room is on the other side of my bedroom called the cops on me. Apparently, she thought I was being murdered.”

“Oh no,” Alex laughs, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Not exactly the happy ending I was after.”

Alex laughs again, but there’s heat behind his eyes too when he asks, a moment later, “Not usually a screamer, I take it?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Michael winks.

“Mm,” Alex hums thoughtfully. He looks Michael right in the eye as he asks, “Well, what if I don’t want to get off that fast? What if I want to make it last?”

Michael tries not to smile as he gets back to business.

“Well, I should mention that this massager does also have softer levels of vibration intensity, which I only discovered after Officer ACAB knocked on my door,” Michael says.

Alex laughs before asking incredulously, “You didn’t read the instructions?”

“Uh, no,” Michael admits. “I’m more of a ‘take things apart and see how they work’ kinda guy, I’ve never been big on reading the directions.”

“Even after your little misadventure?” Alex asks.

“Hey, don’t knock my process. I got a fantastic orgasm out of that ‘misadventure,’” Michael reminds him.

“How could I forget?” Alex asks, shooting Michael a look that really tests his self-restraint.

Michael huffs a laugh and reaches up to scratch the back of his own neck so he doesn’t do something stupid, like push Alex against the fucking dildo display and kiss that look off his face.

“So, anyway,” Michael starts, shifting the topic back toward the task at hand, “you can either learn from my mistakes or you can try something that doesn’t have vibrations at all. We’ve got a great selection of dildos in all shapes and sizes.”

“Do any of them come with a story?” Alex asks cheekily.

Michael snickers in spite of himself. “Maybe,” he says noncommittally. “Let’s see what we’ve got in stock.”

Michael hums as he looks over the display, searching for another recommendation he can make, when his eye catches on a purple dildo with ribbing along the shaft.

“This one’s a good starter dildo,” he says, pointing it out. “It’s a pretty modest size, but the ribbing feels really nice and there’s a suction cup on the bottom if you wanna stick it somewhere and fuck yourself onto it. There’s also a few by the same company that have a hole that you can slide a bullet vibrator into if you wanna get something that can do both.”

“Have you tried them all?” Alex asks.

Michael laughs, looking up at the expansive display of dildos. “Not all of them,” he says, glancing over to Alex as he continues, “but the employee discount here is very generous and, as you already know, sometimes we get free shit. I’ve built up a bit of a collection since I started working here.”

“I see,” Alex replies, the corner of his mouth turning up before he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Michael tracks the movement hungrily when Alex releases it a moment later to ask, “Which one’s your favorite?”

“Depends,” Michael shrugs, aiming for nonchalance even though he can feel himself chubbing up in his jeans.

“On?”

“On how full I wanna feel,” Michael answers, and there’s no mistaking the heat that blazes in Alex’s eyes at those words, nor the sudden intake of breath that fills his chest.

If Alex wants him half as much as it looks like he does, Michael doesn’t even care if he gets fired for where this conversation is headed, so long as it ends with Alex’s hands on him.

“See, sometimes all I’m looking for is enough internal stimulation to get the job done,” Michael elaborates, his eyes watching Alex closely. “When I feel like that, I’ll use that prostate massager I showed you earlier on myself.”

Alex’s eyes flick over to the sleek black toy still sitting on the shelf that they’d just discussed.

“And the other times?” Alex asks when he tears his eyes away.

“Other times… other times I really wanna feel it,” Michael purrs, taking a step closer. Alex’s eyes drop right to his mouth, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip, and Michael can’t stop himself from asking, “You ever get like that, Alex? Like you just need something thick and heavy filling you up, so deep you’ll be feeling it for days?”

“Yeah,” Alex rasps.

“You wanna know what I fuck myself with then?” he asks.

Alex nods, eyes still on Michael’s mouth.

Michael gives him a sly grin before he backs up a few steps to find the sample of the eight inch galaxy dildo he treated himself to a few months ago. Alex follows him, as if they’re connected by an invisible string.

“This one,” he says, removing it from the shelf and offering it up for Alex’s inspection.

Alex takes it from him, his eyes passing over it with interest as he tests the give of the silicone with his fingers. Michael wonders if he’s imagining what it would look like inside him. He hopes he is.

“It might not look like much compared to some of the fucking horse cocks we sell here, but it’s thick,” Michael says, his cock hardening further the more he thinks about it, the longer Alex stands there holding it. “Takes me some time to work up to it, but it’s always worth it when I do.”

“Yeah?” Alex asks, eyes fixed where he’s shifting his hold on the dildo to measure it’s thickness with his fingers.

“Yeah,” Michael breathes, watching how Alex wraps his thumb and forefinger in a tight circle around the toy. They only just touch around its girth.

Alex hums to himself, sounding pleased, and Michael’s gut churns with the need to hear that sound again.

“I bet this stretches you out nice, huh,” Alex wonders a moment later, and with the way he stares at Michael then, like he’s trying to picture how he would look stuffed full, his rim taught over the silicone, he just knows Alex isn’t speaking generically.

“Yeah, it does,” Michael agrees quietly, trying not to squirm under the intensity of Alex’s gaze.

“How do you use it?” Alex asks him, stoking the flames inside him further.

“If you play your cards right, you just might find out,” Michael shoots back.

“You’d let me watch?” Alex asks, a smile teasing at his lips, and it’s all Michael can do not to get lost in the idea of riding that toy while Alex watches with his hand around his cock.

“Think I’d let you do more than that,” Michael admits.

Alex full-on grins at that, but before he can open his mouth to reply someone clears their throat behind them.

Michael’s heart seizes in his chest as he whips around to see Jenna Cameron, a regular customer and occasional drinking buddy of his, standing with her thumbs tucked into her police-issue gun belt. Michael can feel his erection flag at the sight of her.

“What’s a girl gotta do to get some service around here, Guerin?” Cameron asks, somehow managing to look annoyed and amused simultaneously. He notices there’s a discreet black plastic bag dangling from her fingers. “I’ve got places to be.”

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t hear anyone else come in,” Michael apologizes, trying and failing to keep a blush off his face.

“I can see that,” she answers with a pointed glance at Alex.

Michael takes an instinctive step away from him and clears his throat.

“I’ve gotta—“ he says to Alex, jerking his thumb behind him.

“Yeah,” Alex nods, eyes on his shoelaces. It makes the pleasure that had been coiling in his belly sour further.

“I’ll be right back,” Michael tells him, soft enough that Cameron won’t overhear.

The smile Alex gives him in return is encouraging enough that Michael’s fairly certain he won’t disappear if he leaves, so he follows Cameron back toward the register, all the while pointedly ignoring the smirk he can feel her directing at the side of his face.

He walks around the other side of the cash wrap and crosses his arms over his chest before he asks her, without an ounce of enthusiasm, “What do you want?”

“Damn, you’re really earning that employee of the month trophy aren’t you, Guerin?” she jokes, tossing the bag on the table. “I bought a harness this weekend, but it was broken when I took it out of the box. Receipt’s in the bag.”

Michael takes the box the leather strap-on harness came in out of the bag along with the receipt.

“Do you want a refund or an exchange?”

“Refund,” she says. “I’m thinking about getting one of those strapless ones instead.”

“You should talk to Kris, she’s got opinions about those,” he says as he starts scanning the receipt.

“Oh?” Cameron asks. “Is she here?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “You can catch her at the bondage workshop she’s running later though.”

“Perfect,” she replies before leaning forward onto the counter on her elbows. “So are you gonna tell me who the hottie with the nose ring you were talking to is?”

“Why, so you can find out if he’s got any priors?” Michael jokes, not taking his eyes off his task.

“Very funny,” Cameron deadpans. “You fuck him yet?”

“None of your business,” Michael answers.

“So that’s a no, then,” she smirks, and Michael lets out a long-suffering sigh in response.

“Don’t you have places to be? Donuts to eat?” he asks, pushing her return receipt hastily in her direction.

Before Cameron can answer, the front door swings open and in walks a short middle-aged woman with a dark brown pixie cut carrying an iced coffee and a stack of papers.

Michael startles at the sight of her, realizing it must be later in his shift than he’d thought—exactly how long had he stood there talking to Alex?—but he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Kris!” Michael calls to her. “Perfect timing, Cam’s got some strap-on questions for you.”

“Well, I’ve got some strap-on answers,” Kris answers cheerfully as she walks around them to drop the stack of papers—freshly-printed but yet-to-be-folded safe sex pamphlets, Michael notices—onto the counter next to the second register. “Step into my office, baby girl.”

Cameron shoots Michael a look before she steps to the side to talk to Kris, who’s leaning patiently against the side of the cash wrap.

With Cameron finally out of his hair but Kris close enough to notice him leave, Michael starts planning his escape so he can find Alex again, but it turns out he doesn’t need one. When he looks up after putting Cam’s broken harness in the bin under the counter, he sees the man in question approaching his register with a familiar black box in his hands.

“I was gonna wait for you,” Alex explains as he sets the box on the counter, “but I’m actually supposed to be meeting my brother soon.”

“Shame,” Michael says, wishing they had more time. “I was looking forward to finishing that conversation.”

Alex glances covertly at Kris and Cameron before he leans a hair closer and says, “Don’t know that it was the conversation you were hoping to finish.”

Michael blushes, casting a look at Kris and Cameron to make sure they’re too engrossed in their conversation to notice when he leans in a little further and says, low so only Alex will hear, “What can I say? I’m very committed to customer satisfaction.”

Alex laughs, a bright and happy sound that makes Michael’s heart feel strangely full, before he asks, “You charm all your customers like this?”

“No,” Michael says honestly. “Not even a little bit.”

Alex looks at him for a long minute, trying to spot the lie, and when he finds none he merely shakes his head with an incredulous smile.

“Lucky me,” he says.

Michael winks at him before he turns his attention to the box on the counter, shifting it in his hands until he finds the barcode. He usually never comments on his customers’ purchases, but with this one he simply can’t resist.

“Went with the prostate massager, huh?” Michael asks, as he rings him up.

“What can I say?” Alex answers, a smile creeping onto his face. “You made me curious.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” Michael says.

“No,” Alex replies, and the way he looks at him then makes Michael wonder if they’re still talking about the massager. “I don’t think I will.”

Michael smiles at him before he tells him his total. Alex inserts the end of his card in the reader and his receipt prints a brief moment later.

“Can you sign here?” Michael asks, passing Alex the merchant’s copy of his receipt and the green pen he’d been grading with earlier.

“Mhm,” Alex hums, plucking the pen from his fingers and signing his name in a delicate script.

Michael ducks under the counter to find a bag adequately sized for Alex’s purchase before he places the box inside it along with Alex’s copy of the receipt.

“You’re all set,” Michael says, pushing the box in Alex’s direction.

“Thanks,” Alex smiles, holding the merchant copy of the receipt out for Michael to take. “And this is for you.”

Their fingers brush as Michael takes it from him and Michael swears he can feel the tension crackling between them at the simple touch.

“Thanks,” Michael says, mouth a little dry.

Alex glances back to Kris and Cam before he says, “Have a nice day, Michael.”

“You too,” Michael says, his eyes straying pointedly to the black bag in Alex’s hand.

“Oh, I will,” Alex says, one corner of his lips lifting up into a smile before he turns and heads for the door.

Michael can’t help but watch his ass and those broad shoulders as he leaves.

Once Alex is gone, Michael unfolds the receipt Alex left for him. He’s about to slide it into the folder they keep by the register for receipts when he notices the phone number printed neatly beside Alex’s signature. Below, Alex has also written the words: Hit me up if you want to hear my review.

“You strike out?”

Michael startles, looking up to see Cameron leaning on the counter, a lot closer than she was a moment ago. He sees Kris at the far end, folding her papers into pamphlets for her workshop later.

“Not quite,” Michael grins and pockets the receipt.

[iamdunn]

Miraculous Flash Forward Part 5: Return to Paris

A Miraculous Fan-Fic

Written by 

AJ Dunn

Adrien pulled his coat on tight around his shoulders. It was a freezing winter night as he made his way back home. He avoided the urge to transform, though it would be quicker to scale the roof tops than trying to walk. It wasn’t the best idea for the tiny Kwami who was already feeling a chill. Now that Fu is gone, there was no one to heal the Kwami if he got sick. It’s not like there was a listing for guardians. 

The metro had already stopped running for the night but Adrien made his way home. Plagg didn’t waste any time flying off to sit on the heater to warm himself. Adrien pulled the Manchego from the grocery bag he was carrying and broke off a large chunk then tossed it into the air. Like magic, it disappeared into the Kwami’s mouth. Adrien tore up the package that came today It was a fleece Ladybug footed onesie with a zipper up the front. 

“It’s here Plagg.” Adrien beamed. He had created a fake social media account and used it to message Marinette. He was surprised that she responded happily to his request for the commission of a onesie. He wanted to feel close to her again, but he couldn’t let her know it was him. He stripped down right in the seating area and slipped the fuzzy thing on. It fit perfectly. He kicked the box to the side but realized there was something else in it. He moved the tissue paper to the side and found a fleece black garment folded up. It had the red trimming same as her costume design. He pulled it out and found it was a Cat Noir footed onesie with a hood and ears. The feet even had paw prints on the bottom. 

OH Plagg.” he called holding the onesie up. “Look what I got.” waved the onesie around like a child on Christmas. A holiday he’s not had the pleasure of really celebrated since his mom went into a coma. Even while living with Amelie he had avoided it as a sad reminder of his parents. 

“Think you dropped this.” Plagg picked up a piece of paper. It was a pink polka dot stationery folded in half. He opened it up and read the note tossing the Cat onesie over his shoulder. 

“There is no Ladybug, without her Cat Noir” 

It was a simple statement, but it brought Adrien to tears. He dropped heavily onto the couch letting the letter fall from his hands. 

“You know.” Plagg started. “It’s only 5 months until the 5-year reunion. Will you go?” 

“At this point, I doubt they would want me to come.” Adrien surrendered to stood up and headed for bed. Adrien’s phone dinged a new notification as he laid silently on his bed. He picked it up. It was another post on Alya’s Lady blog. 

“It’s 5 months away from the 5 year anniversary of the defeat of Hawk Moth. Now that Paris has finally begun to heal from the pain caused by this villain, the citizens have been asking if our saviors would come together for a celebration. So I managed to rope Ladybug herself into an interview.” The camera zoomed at showing Alya sitting in a room with two armchairs and a simple round table between them. Ladybug sat next to her.

“Thank you for coming Ladybug.”

“Thank you for having me.” Ladybug smiled. She was so beautiful. Her midnight hair had grown out and was no longer in her customary pigtails. 

“First of all, the defeat of Hawk Moth was quite the feat.” 

“That is an understatement.” her serious face looked from Alya to the camera and back. 

“How well do you think the people of Paris have recovered from it? Do you think they are ready for a celebration like this?”

“I think some of us still suffer certain losses even in the wake of Hawk Moths final attack.” Ladybug was looking at the screen now. 

“Are you referring to the disappearance of Cat Noir?” Ladybug closed her eyes and drew a fist to her chest. 

“There is no Ladybug without Cat Noir.” She said looking into the camera again. “Where ever you are if you are watching. Cat it’s time to come home.” tears jerked at his heart as he tossed his phone down on the bed and walked to the railing overlooking at his seating area.

“Stayed tuned for an interview with Marinette, the class president of the class who graduated during the final attack of Hawk Moth.” Adrien turned around and found Plagg holding the phone watching the blog. 

“Must you watch that?” Adrien asked irritated.

‘What’s wrong, afraid you’ll lose the battle and get on a place?” Plagg egged him on. Adrien shook his head and turned back to his bed. He took the phone and went downstairs. Plagg turned the TV on and Adrien mirrored the phone to it. Suddenly there was Marinette on the big screen. He was wearing a cute dress, a black coated top with a flared pink Polka dot skirt. She did love her polka dots. There was a little black kitten embroidered into the skirt batting at, a ladybug? 

“Is that…” Adrien said looking closer at her skirt.

“An ode to Ladybug and Cat Noir?” Plagg finished. “I think it is.”

“Marinette, it’s been nearly 5 years since your class graduation was interrupted by the final attack of Hawk Moth, how do you think your classmates are fairing today?”

“I can’t speak for all of them, but those who I have been in contact with are really looking forward to it. In fact, they are excited and hopeful to see each other again, and the superheroes that saved us.” 

“After 5 years it’s no surprised that we have lost contact with some of our classmates, so how many have you spoken with?”

“All, but one.” the downcast look on her face spoke to her heart’s disposition regarding Adrien’s disappearance. “After that past four years, and all the searching on the internet, they have been no sign of our missing classmate. If you or anyone who know have any idea where our beloved friend has gone, please, let him know we are his family and we miss him.” Adrien turned the television off and went to bed. 

The closer it came to the reunion the more his phone alerted him to updates of Marinette and Alya preparing for the festivities. Marinette had always given her entire self to her friends, helping them, and picnics, how could Adrien have not seen what a true superhero she was and she didn’t even need a mask. 

Adrien picked up his mail in the mailroom then headed out to the school. It was spring now, and only a week away from the reunion. He noticed a thick envelope with a card inside. He opened it as he sat on the metro. It was an invitation to the reunion. Addressed to him. He checked the address and noticed a label had been placed on top of the original label. Thanks, Amelie. Or Emelie. They were both now living together, though Adrien hadn’t spoken with either. Emelie was still incoherent though conscious and living at the manor with Amelie. Adrien looked over the card again and noticed a finally written note in the corner of the card. 

“I’m still waiting for your answer.” He knew Marinette’s handwriting all too well. He smiled as his heart warmed at the message. 

“I will go,” he said out loud, hoping only Plagg heard him from his pocket. Adrien had a lot of arrangements to make if he was to go. He had grounds to maintain. He would need to put someone else in charge of these tasks. Adrien wasn’t sure how long he would stay, but he would start with a week just in case. He was surprised to find someone was at the temple when he arrived. An older man was cleaning up the grounds as Adrien walked up. 

“Laoshi Mao?” the man asked. “I am Orisuma.” 

“I thank you for your hard work, what brings you?” Adrien asked. 

“I had been noticing you doing all this work on your own. Such a hard working young man” Orisuma offered. “I have been released from my job and have nothing to do during the day.” Adrien smiled.

“You have come at the right time.” Adrien motioned for the man to follow him. He keyed open the temple and the two walked inside. 

“I have to go away for a few days, and I was just thinking to myself this morning how I need someone to tend to the grounds until I return.” Adrien walked him and around showing him all of the tasks he had to carry out every day and the onles that only needed to be done weekly. Since classes were still on hold for another couple weeks due to the mourning of Cheng Sifu, there wasn’t laundry. Many of the students left their yi-fu here. 

“I would be happy to provide this survice to you, if you will allow me to continue when you return.” Adrien smiled at him.

“I would be honored to have your aid.” Feeling at ease and knowing he had nothing else to do for the day he returned home to prepare for his trip. His excited and nerves argued in his stomach as he arranged his flight, and packed his bags.

“Felix,” He said on the phone as his cousin answered. “I’ll be on a plane this evening for Paris.” A silence on the other side of the phone told him Felix was surprised.

“Wow, what brought this on?” Felix must be so busy with work that he hasn’t been following the buzz. 

“The reunion is this Saturday, and I have been invited.” 

“Are you finally ready to face them?”

“I am not sure, but what better time to do so.” Adrien gulped trying to not lose his nerve.

“Well, are there any arrangements you would like me to make on my end?” 

“Just see that my room is ready.” 

“You plan to...stay there.” the hesitation in Felix’s voice reverberated Adrien’s own hesitation.

“It makes sense.” Adrien tried to justify it, rather then getting a motel. “People would ask to many questions why the Heir to Agreste manor stays in a hotel instead of his own home.” 

“I see your point.”

“Besides, it’s been 5 years, you’d think a man would have gotten over such a thing by now.” He wasn’t sure he was quite yet, but the prospect of finding out, while it made him wince in emotional pain, it also lightened his heart to the prospect of finally finding out who the love of his life was. His Lady.

“Pick me up at the airport.” Adrien said before they ended the call. Adrien checked the refrigerator for anything that would spoil while he was gone. Aside from cheese which would sustain, he had very little else. His evening meal was still made with Cheng Sifu. Ah, he remembered. He picked up his phone and called him.

“I will be going back to Paris for a week, so I won’t be coming in.” He heard Cheng make some sound on the other end of the line, it sounded like a cheer. 

“You say hello to my nieces for me while you are there.” Another cheer came from the other end of the line. “Before you go, I would like to send them a treat if you don’t mind picking it up.” Adrien agreed and hung up the phone. 

The box was larger than Adrien had expected, but not to large to fit in the back seat of his cab. Luckily he only carried one suitcase and a carry on bag. Mostly for the snacks Plagg would eat on the plane. It was a good thing Kwami’s couldn��t be seen or heard through technology. Otherwise there would be some explaining to do at airport security. He checked the box and suit case then found a seat at the boarding gate to wait for his boarding call. He had a while to wait as he had been in a hurry to get their that he arrived an hour early. Sitting in a nearly empty waiting area where no one else could see him he pulled out his phone holding it up to his head as he pretended to be on the phone.

“Who do you think I should visit first.” he asked Plagg as he used the voice to cover the secret conversation. 

“I’d visit the Bakery first, they have amazing snacks and or Leons Cheese store for some yummy Camembert.” Plagg was more excited than anything at the prospect of the snacks. 

“I can’t go to the bakery first” Adrien gupled. “What if Marinette is there?” 

“She said she wants you to come home.” Plagg reminded him.

“She wants answers, and I doubt my answer will be good enough, Plagg I ran away like a child.” 

“Well, you were in a very unique situation Adrien. No one would blame you for reacting like that.” Plagg was just happy to be going home. “You told Felix to stock up on cheese right.” 

“I think we can handle that on our own, we don’t need someone else doing everything for us anymore.” Adrien had made himself into an independent man. He didn’t want someone preparing his meals for him, or buying his clothes. That was Adrien Agreste and he wasn’t that man anymore. 

“I know the first person I want to see, and I know exactly how to ask her for forgiveness.” Adrien had been following the news in Paris and keeping up with everyone from a distance. It was Ladybug and Marinette he owed the most too, and he would start with Ladybug.

Adrien shoved the box into the back seat of Felix’s car then the suit case. He climbed into the front seat. His hood was still pulled over his head hiding his face. A common thing while he was in public. 

“Will be we making a formal announcement at any time.” Felix asked. 

“Is that wise?” 

“You will be attending your high school reunion. And no matter what I say, I can’t erase Adrien Agreste or take away their memory of you.” Felix had played off to the press that he was the face of the Agreste brand saying that there was no Adrien Agreste. It wasn’t a lie, Adrien Agreste no longer existed but that was only to give him the privacy to recovery form what his father had done to this city. The Graham De Vanily Brand was a refreshing new start for the former Agreste brand and they needed to make sure no scandals rose up to destroy that image. 

“Transperency is important here. If the media got wind of a secret like this, say, you showing up to a high school reunion, it could be bad for the company’s image.” 

“Can it wait until Saturday. I have some sleuthing to do without a bunch of people showing up.” Adrien asked. His stomach began to tie in knots at the thought of Nino showing up on his door, or even worse, Alya. That girl could be scary at times, and he knew Marinette would have told him about the last conversation they had. He couldn’t bear it. 

“Fine.” Felix huffed. “I will contact Marinette to arrange a formal announcement at the reunion, so you can make your return public and televised.” His face burned at the thought of such a public re-entrance as his heart skipped a beat. 

“If you insist.” He forced a smile as they pulled through the gates of the Agreste Manor. The insignia on the gate as well as all over the house spoke to Gabriel as the symbol was a G inside of a circle. 

“I wish we could change that.” Adrien said.

“As long as Emelie lives, we can’t the house is hers.” Adrien didn’t know if that made it any better. 

“She can have it.” Adrien thought. “I think I am happy in Shanghai.” 

“What if things work out with you and…” Felix stopped the car infront of the entrance. “Marinette?”

“What makes you think I even have a chance with her after all these years?” Adrien looked at him. “You said yourself she stopped asking about me awhile ago.”

“Ask the same question and get the same answer too many times, people tend to stop asking.” Felix was right. Adrien pulled his suit case out of the back seat then leaned into the open window. 

“Would you mind taking that to Tom and Sabine’s bakery, it’s a gift from Sabine’s uncle.” 

“Shall I tell them you brought it for them?” Felix gave a mischievous smile then pulled away without an answer. 

“Please don’t.” Adrien said to himself as he watched Felix drive away. He carried his bacg into the house hoping no one saw him. Felix had even excused the staff for the entire week as Adrien had requested. If Emelie never recovered, this house would become his officially, even though she was a year away from being declared dead before she was found in the basement of the manor. His bedroom was the same as the last time he had been in it. It had been cleaned but everything else was still the same. Including the fact that there were clothes still in the closets. He had bever been ablet to even pack his stuff. 

“I don’t think any of it will fit anymore.” Plagg laughed then flew to his cheese fridge. It was a small fridge and was now empty. Plagg sighed in sadness. 

“Shall we head out to Leons?” Adrien asked him. Adrien walked to the car garage. There were sever cars in their. He opened the lock box by the entry door and fished for a set of keys, there were three cars in their a tiny black coup, a silver sadan, and a black sadan. He picked up a set of keys and clicked the key fob to unlock the doors. The lights on the black sadan lit up. He clicked the lock but and put them back. Another key fob lit up the lights on the coup. He smiled then climbed inside. He had never driven this car. He had only ever been allowed to drive the silver one, but generally he always had his body guard drive him around. 

He had a little bit of shopping to do so he started with Leon’s cheese store, then went to the market to get the supplies for dinner. He intended this to be a picnic unlike anything she has ever had before. 

[abandonedsince2021]

“Mind” ~ my entry for @crossbowking’s writing challenge (& my first attempt at fanfic haha hope yous like it) 💖💖

GIF:

Prompt: Why are you looking at me like that?

Oh god, she really was beautiful.

Even silhouetted by the orange-tinted porch light, you could make out the soft contours of her face. The sight of her wide, dark eyes, of her rosy pink lips was grounding in a way it never had been before, and it put a stop to the hum of the party all around you.

You were grateful for your little safe haven, shoulder to shoulder on the porch of your shared house in Alexandria. This place was surreal, that was for sure: you could hardly believe there were still people around who had never seen a walker, let alone killed one. Part of you pitied them for still living in an idyllic little bubble. Could they really sustain living like this? Acting as if nothing was wrong while there was so much death looming outside the walls was either a superb talent or a fatal character flaw.

Naturally, you’d resisted initially: you’d waited at least three days to shower, showing up to events in awkwardly casual clothes and dirty boots, greeting friendly introductions by puffing out your chest and making your distrust evident. Sometimes, you worried that you’d let your old self slip away, that the disapproving glares and playground gossip were totally deserved. Sometimes you hated that little voice at the back of your head that made you resent people like the Alexandrians, who’d never experienced trauma like you had. Maybe it was jealousy? Maybe it was resentment that you were struggling beneath the weight of every bad thing to ever happen to you while they weren’t weighed down by anything. It was that voice that told you to keep your guard up around Alexandria, that voice that slowed your acceptance into Rick’s group, and that voice that told you to keep the defences up because you didn’t deserve anyone.

It was also thar voice telling you to shy away from Tara’s hand resting gently on yours.

She was the first good thing to happen to you in so long. After you’d lost your parents, your brothers, your girlfriend, your niece. She walked into your life, and suddenly you could smile again, belly laughing at her jokes, telling melancholic stories with a dreamy look on your face. She chased away the guilt that watered down every good thing that ever happened to you, but that was exactly why you couldn’t lose her friendship by confessing your feelings.

Your group seemed to know you had feelings for her: Abraham had publicly pointed out the way your ears tinged pink whenever Tara touched you, a humiliating conversation which meant that Carl now craned his neck to look at you whenever you and her were close. Hell, even Daryl had called Tara your girlfriend and smirked when you feigned a disbelieving reaction. Apparently it was obvious she liked you back, - as Carol had explained with a goofy, patronising grin the only time you’d asked anyone about it - so in theory it was common sense: you both like each other, so why not tell each other?

Because there was always the chance she didn’t feel the same; the chance that she would be put off by your confession; the chance that you could chase away the only person who made you feel okay.

*

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Shit had you been staring? You had been lost in your own thoughts for a few minutes, revelling in the comfortable silence. Her soft voice and teasing tone awoke you from your reverie, dragging you abruptly into the present. She held you captive with her gaze. She looked curious and slightly amused, but you were grateful to note that she didn’t look uncomfortable.

“Just daydreaming,” you told her.

It wasn’t strictly a lie, just a half-truth: sure, you were daydreaming, you’d just neglected to tell her what you were daydreaming about was the curve of her jawline, the soft pout of her lips, the daunting fact that she’d looked equally beautiful on the road, on the brink of starvation as she did within the walls of Alexandria, clean and well-fed and slightly dressed up for Deanna’s party.

“What about?”

You hadn’t planned for that question. Without thinking, you blurted out:

“Just about the girl I love,”

“Oh. Marianne?”

Your heart fluttered at the mention of your girlfriend’s name. Your heart still ached when you thought of her, of losing her to the governor’s bullets. You didn’t have the heart to explain otherwise, so you simply nodded.

“You don’t talk about her much,”

It was true, you preferred to keep your girlfriend’s name out of your mouth. In fact, you were surprised Tara even knew her name, having joined the group after the prison fell. Your relationship surely wasn’t the best, but the weeks after she had died were the hardest of your life. You were sure you wouldn’t have survived were it not for Tara, checking on you after you awoke from nightmares, talking with you and keeping the nagging voice at bay.

You nodded again.

The hum of the party continued as the two of you remained in a dauntingly comfortable silence. No one had made you feel like that. Ever. You shivered against the early evening chill, but her skin against yours was a welcome warmth. And maybe it was the white wine, maybe it was the fact that you were still slightly delirious at the feeling of being clean and full again, but you were gripped by the unresistable urge to kiss her.

“Seriously, are you okay? We can go inside if yo-“

And suddenly you didn’t care. You didn’t care if it was the drink, or the excitement, or the feelings you’d had for her that had been bubbling inside your chest for weeks. Because your lips were finally on hers. You didn’t have to tell her that you were okay, because you didn’t have to, because you poured your answer into the passionate kiss the two of you were sharing: kissing Tara, you were so much more than okay.

And maybe it wasn’t going to last. Maybe the newly-rediscovered feeling of safety and security was all a lie. Maybe it was all going to fall in the morning and you’d been running again soon enough.

But just for those few happy minutes, you couldn’t find it in you to mind.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜 

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​ @pomjompish​ @writerxinthedark​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.                                                        

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”  

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.  

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.  

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.  

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

[alyssawritesssfics]

Hounded [1] 1. Pilot

Pairings: Bellamy x OC // Kane x daughter!OC

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: violence, series spoilers

Summary: After being locked away for eight months, Athena Kane alongside 99 other criminals is sent to the ground to find out if it's survivable. The ground was the dream, but who knew it would turn out to be a nightmare?

Author’s Note: Hii, this is the repost of my series Hounded! I’ve decided to have each chapter represent an episode. I just personally like the look of it way more and find it easier for me to follow along with while writing (and hopefully you find it easier to follow along while reading it). Please remember to note and reblog! It really helps me see interest and therefore update the story more often. Thank you! PS. If you’d like to be tagged in future chapters, please send me an ask with your @ and I will add you to my list!

previous chapter // series masterlist

The cement floor of my cell was cold against my legs, the sensation searing through the fabric of my jeans. I had sat here many times over the last few months, visualizing myself being blasted into space. It was a morbid thought, but one I could never seem to shake.

My cellmate Octavia let out a heavy sigh, pulling me from my thoughts. I examined her, lying across her cot on her stomach, her feet swaying back and forth in the air as she reread one of the few books she had for the hundredth time.

As I watched Octavia, an alarm began to sound within Skybox, causing Octavia to close her book and sit on the edge of her cot.

“What’s going on out there?”

I stood from my place on the ground, making my way over to our cell door. Peeking through the bars, I noticed guards piling in the main doors, opening cells and dragging people out of them.

“The guards, they’re removing people,” I spoke, my voice shaking.

Octavia stood up. “Moving people? Moving them where?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

We both watched the guards remove more and more people before finally, two reached our cell. Octavia and I stepped back, allowing the guards to enter. The first guard to enter carried a case with him.

“Prisoners 395 and 530, stand facing the wall.” One of the guards said.

Octavia and I complied, as the other guard asked us to extend our dominant hands. Octavia extended her right arm, while I extended my left. The guards reached into the case, pulling out large metal wristbands and placing them around our wrists.

“What’s going on? Neither of us is eighteen yet.”

Eighteen. That was when we’d be up for reevaluation, the council deciding whether or not we’d be floated.

“No questions.” One of the guards responded, pulling me away from the wall. “Let’s go, both of you.”

Octavia and I exited our cell, the place we’d called home for nearly a year now, entering the chaos that was Skybox. There were long lines of teenagers, most younger than myself, on each side, on all levels. We followed the line all the way out of Skybox, into a long corridor.

“I want to speak with my father,” I said, turning to face the guard behind me. “Marcus Kane, he’s on the council.”

The guard stared at me, his face expressionless. “Keep moving.”

“No,” I spoke, a glare appearing across my face. “Where is my father?”

The guard pulled out his shock baton, extending it. “I said, keep moving.”

Not wanting to go through being shocked again, I took a deep breath, turning back around and continuing to follow the line. Eventually, the guards who had taken Octavia and I disappeared, more guards lining the path to wherever we were going.

The further I get down the line, I finally see it. One of the Ark’s guards were scanning identification cards before ushering them onto… a dropship?

A dropship.

“Holy shit,” I mumbled to myself. “They’re sending us to the ground.”

…

“Prisoners of The Ark, hear me now.” I listened on as Chancellor Jaha appeared on several screens within the dropship.

Octavia and I had been separated, sent to different levels of the dropship. Looking around, I didn’t recognize many faces, only a few from Earth Skills.

“You've been given a second chance, and as your Chancellor, it is my hope that you see this as not just a chance for you, but a chance for all of us, indeed for mankind itself.” He continued. “We have no idea what is waiting for you down there. If the odds of survival were better, we would've sent others. Frankly, we're sending you because your crimes have made you expendable.”

The sound of booing filled the dropship.

“The drop site has been chosen carefully. Before the last war, Mount Weather was a military base built within a mountain. It was to be stocked with enough non-perishables to sustain three hundred people for up to two years. If you survive this mission, your crimes will be forgiven, your records wiped clean.”

Chancellor Jaha continued on, though I began to tune it out. All I could think about was my father. Did he know about this? He had to have known, him being one of the Chancellor’s closet allies on the Ark.

As the thought of my father’s involvement drifted from my mind, the dropship jolted, sending my head forward, then back against the seat with brutal force. The dropship continued to shake, as screams filled the air.

“What’s happening?” A girl called out.

I had the same question.

The shaking lasted several minutes before finally, the dropship crashed. Everyone remained silent, unsure if we’d actually landed. After a few moments, people began unbuckling themselves, rushing towards the dropship doors.

I was one of the last to unbuckle myself, wanting to avoid the rush. By the time I had arrived, nearly everyone within the dropship was surrounding the door. As I peeked through the crowd, I spotted Octavia standing by the door, next to a taller boy I’d never seen before.

“Where’s your wristband?” I knew that voice.

Octavia spun around to face someone out of my view. “Do you mind? I haven’t seen my brother in over a year.”

While sharing a cell with Octavia, she’d told me many stories about her brother Bellamy. I almost wouldn’t have believed she even had one, if she didn’t bring him up so often. It was sweet though. I’d always wished I could’ve had a sibling.

That was against the law on the Ark.

“No one has a brother,” someone spoke.

“That’s Octavia Blake, the girl they found hidden under the floor!”

I watched as Octavia lunged forward, Bellamy grabbing her arm. “Octavia, no. Let’s give them something else to remember you by.”

By now, I’d pushed my way further through the crowd.

“Yeah?” Octavia asked, looking back at her brother. “Like what?”

Bellamy smirked. “Like being the first person on the ground in a hundred years.”

With those words, Bellamy reached over and grabbed the dropship door’s handle, pulling it down. There was a faint bang before the door slowly began lowering, creating a platform that led to the ground.

It was beautiful, more so than I ever could’ve imagined. The ground was covered in grass, just like I’d seen in books on the Ark. Trees surrounded us, nearly covering the clear blue sky above us entirely. 

I watched as Octavia slowly made her way down the platform, looking back at her brother. He gave her a reassuring nod, and Octavia in turn took a deep breath before jumping off of the platform, her feet colliding with the ground.

We all watched her as she looked around, silent for a few moments. Finally, Octavia threw her hands in the air. 

“We’re back, bitches!”

Cheers erupted through the dropship, delinquents spilling out around Octavia and running through the forest surrounding us. I slowly made my way down the platform, bracing myself as if I expected to burst into flames the second I touched the ground.

Octavia looked back at me, smiling. “What are you waiting for?”

I jumped from the platform, my boots meeting the hard ground. “Oh my god… We’re really here.”

Octavia squealed, pulling me in for a hug. “No more tiny cells and uncomfortable beds for us.”

“Well, I imagine uncomfortable beds aren’t quite out of the picture yet.” I laughed.

“You’re probably right.” Octavia shrugged with a giggle.

Octavia rushed off to catch up with Bellamy, while I stood in place, taking everything in. As I looked around, my eyes fell upon the girl whose voice I recognized earlier; Clarke Griffin, my childhood best friend.

Clarke stood by the edge of a cliff, staring down at the map in her hands. A tall boy with medium-length brown hair stood next to her. Based on the look upon her face, I figured I should head over there.

“Clarke?”

Clarke turned around, her eyes widening. “Athena?”

I couldn’t help but smile. It had been a year since I’d spoken to Clarke, and she looked exactly the same today as she did then. I remembered hearing stories of Clarke being arrested, the reasons often varying, but I never actually thought those rumours were true.

“What’s with the map?” I finally asked.

Clarke took a deep breath. “Do you two see that peak over there?”

Both I and the boy nodded.

“Mount Weather,” Clarke said. “There’s a radiation-soaked forest between us and our next meal. They dropped us on the wrong damn mountain.”

“Please tell me you’re joking?”

Clarke shook her head. “I wish I was.”

“We’ve got problems-” Wells Jaha, the son the Chancellor, spoke as he reached our little group. He stopped as his eyes landed on me. “Athena?”

I blinked, confusion setting over me. “Wells? What the hell did you do to get sent down here?”

“Don’t ask.” Wells shook his head, before continuing. “We’ve got problems. The communication system is dead. I went to the roof. A dozen panels are missing. Heat fried the wires.”

“Well, all that matters right now is getting to Mount Weather,” Clarke responded, marching closer to the dropship. She spread her map out on one of the wings. “See? This is us.” Clarke pointed to a spot on the map. “This is where we need to get to if we want to survive.” She moved her finger across the map.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Wells asked.

Clarke’s face turned pale as she looked away. 

Wells sighed. “Your father.”

The two remained silent, as another boy with a pair of goggles strapped to his head approached. He leaned over Clarke’s shoulder, surveying the map.

“Cool, a map.” He spoke, looking Clarke up and down. “They got a bar in this town? I’ll buy you a beer.”

Wells lightly pushed the boy back. “Do you mind?”

“Woah.” The boy spoke, holding his hands up.

“Hey, hands off of him.” I turned to see a group of boys approaching. “He’s with us.” The rest of the delinquents were also gathered around us.

“Relax,” Wells spoke, stepping back. “We’re just trying to find out where we are.”

“We’re on the ground,” Bellamy spoke. “Is that not good enough for you?”

“We need to find Mount Weather. You heard my father’s message. That has to be our first priority.”

“Screw your father,” Octavia called out. “What, you think you’re in charge here? You and your little princess?” She was staring at Clarke.

Clarke shook her head. “Do you think we care who's in charge? We need to get to Mount Weather not because the Chancellor said so, but because the longer we wait, the hungrier we'll get and the harder it’ll be. How long do you think we'll last without those supplies? We're looking at a twenty-mile trek. So if we want to get there before dark, we need to leave now.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Bellamy responded. “You two go, find it for us. Let the privileged do the hard work for a change.”

Everyone around us cheered.

“You’re not listening, we all need to go!” Wells urged. “Athena?”

Before I could respond, another boy spoke. “Athena Kane? You’re Marcus Kane’s daughter!”

“Your father floated my mother!”

“And my father!”

“Mine too!”

I looked at Wells, narrowing my eyes.

Wells shook it off. “We have to go, now.”

“Look at this everybody,” A boy stepped forward. “The Chancellor of Earth.”

“You think that’s funny?” Wells asked.

“No,” The boy responded, kicking Wells in the leg and watching him fall to the ground. “But that sure was.”

Cheers erupted through the forest, people begging them to fight.

“Come on, Wells.” The boy egged him on.

Wells stood up, getting into a fighting stance. Before any swings could be thrown, the medium-length haired boy jumped from the top of the dropship, landing between them.

“The kids got one leg.” He spoke to the boy. “Why don’t you wait until it’s a fair fight?”

“Hey, spacewalker!” Octavia called out. “Rescue me next.”

People began to laugh, the crowd dispersing. Bellamy grabbed Octavia’s arm, pulling her away.

“Uh,” The boy spoke to Clarke. “So, Mount Weather? When do we leave?”

“Right now,” Clarke replied, looking at Wells. “Finn and I will be back tomorrow with food.”

“How are the two of you going to carry enough food for a hundred people?”

Finn looked around, grabbing goggles boy and another. “Four of us.”

“Sounds like a party!” Octavia had rejoined the group. “Count me in.”

“What are you doing?” Bellamy asked.

Octavia rolled her eyes. “Going for a walk.”

Clarke suddenly reached for Finn’s hand. “Were you trying to take this off?”

The wristband.

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, I don't know. Do you want the people you love to think you're dead? Do you want them to follow you down here in two months? Because they won't if they think we're dying.”

Finn nodded. “Okay.”

“Now, let’s go.”

“Wait,” I spoke up. “I’m coming with you.”

Clarke grabbed my hand, leading me away slightly. “I need you to stay here.”

“Why?”

“Wells can hardly walk and I need someone to help him keep an eye on things here. I know it’s been forever since we’ve talked, but I trust you a hell of a lot more than anyone else here.” Clarke spoke, her eyes shifting to Wells for a moment.

I smiled. “I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment.”

She smiled back. “You got this?”

I nodded. “Be safe.”

Clarke and I made our way back to the group. She grabbed a bag before looking at Wells, who sat on the ground leaning against the dropship. “You really shouldn’t have come here, Wells.”

With that, Clarke headed off into the forest alongside Finn, Octavia, and the two other boys I’d yet to meet.

I looked at Wells, frowning. “Let’s get you into the dropship so you can rest your foot in peace.”

…

A few hours later, I found myself returning to camp after going on a water run, my efforts having been futile. Just as I was about to reach the camp, I spotted Wells gathering sticks. He had also been searching for water the last I’d seen him.

“No luck?”

Wells looked up, startled. “No, you?”

I shook my head. “There’s gotta be water somewhere.”

“Just not anywhere near us,” Wells sighed. “Want to give me a hand with these?”

I picked up a pile of sticks, following Wells towards the dropship. We began dropping them in an already started pile when footsteps came up behind us.

“Find any water yet?” It was the same boy who had tried to fight Wells earlier. I recently learned his name was John Murphy. He stood beside another boy, also named John.

“No, not yet-” Wells paused, his face going pale before he quickly pulled himself back together. “I’m going back out if you want to come.”

I followed Wells’ gaze, spotting something carved into the dropship: first son, first to dye.

“You know, my father begged for mercy in the airlock chamber before your father floated him,” Murphy spoke, his eyes narrowed in on Wells.

Wells shook his head, pushing past the pair. “You spelt die wrong, geniuses.”

I attempted to follow Wells, though both boys blocked my way. “Where do you think you’re going? Don’t think we haven’t forgotten about what your father did.”

Shaking my head, I took a step back. “That was my father’s doing, not mine. The same goes for Wells. Feel free to take it up with them when they come down here though. I’ll be the last to stop you.”

Murphy looked me up and down for a moment before a smirk crept across his face. He didn’t say anything, simply stepping out of my way. I took it as an opportunity to join Wells, who still stood just a few paces behind them.

“We’re not safe here, Athena,” Wells whispered.

“No, we’re not,” I agreed. “There’s nothing you or I can do about it, not until Clarke and the others get back. We just have to lay low, watch each other’s backs, like the good old days.”

Wells smiled. “I’d give anything to go back there right now.”

I let out a small, shaking breath. “You and me both.”

…

Wells and I spent the rest of the afternoon searching for water, with no luck. As we came closer to the camp, I stopped. Noticing my absence from beside him, Wells also stopped, turning around to face me.

“Can I ask you something?” Wells nodded. “What happened with Clarke? I heard stories in lockup but never from anyone who had actually been there.”

Wells was quiet for a moment, kicking his feet around in the dirt. “Her father discovered a flaw in the Ark. That they’re running out of air. He wanted to go public with it.”

“But he didn’t?”

“Clarke found out and told me, and a few days later her father was arrested.”

My heart sank into my stomach. “You told your father, didn’t you?”

Wells shook his head. “It wasn’t me, but Clarke thinks it was.”

“So he was floated?” I was having a hard time processing all of this.

“Yeah,” Wells responded. “Clarke saw it happen, and then she was arrested too.”

I shook my head. “I had no idea…”

“That was kinda the point,” Wells mumbled.

I frowned. “You haven’t told Clarke it wasn’t you, have you?”

“I can’t tell her, Athena,” Wells said, not able to look me in the eye.

“Why not?”

Wells once again fell silent. “It was her mother.”

My eyes grew wide. “You’re sure?”

“It wasn’t me and I’m the only one Clarke told. Do you really think she’d expect her mother to turn her father in?” Wells asked. “I can’t tell her. It would break her, especially now.”

“So you let her hate you…”

Wells frowned. “Better than her hating her mother.”

I smiled softly. “You’re a really good friend, you know that?”

Before Wells could respond, the sound of screams filled the air. They were coming from the camp. Both of us looked at each other before hurrying our way back. By the time we arrived, there was a large crowd surrounding the campfire.

We both pushed our way through the crowd, spotting Murphy prying off a girl named Fox’s wristband. She winced as the wristband popped off, and Murphy tossed it into the fire.

“Who’s next?” Bellamy asked.

“What the hell are you doing?” Wells asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

Bellamy smirked. “We’re liberating ourselves. What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re trying to kill us all.” I hissed.

“The communication system is dead. These wristbands are all we got. Take them off, and the Ark will think we're dying, that it's not safe for them to follow.” Wells added.

“That’s the point, Chancellor,” Bellamy replied. “We can take care of ourselves, can’t we?”

Everyone around them cheered.

“Do you think this is a game? Those aren't just our friends and our parents up there. They're our farmers, our doctors, our engineers.” Wells shouted, looking around the crowd. “I don't care what he tells you. We won't survive here on our own, and besides, if it really is safe, how could you not want the rest of our people to come down?”

“My people are already down here,” Bellamy replied. “Those people locked my people up. Those people killed my mother for the crime of having a second child. Your father did that.”

Wells shook his head. “My father didn’t write the laws.”

“No, he enforced them, but not anymore, not here. Here there are no laws. Here, we do whatever the hell we want, whenever the hell we want. Now, you two don't have to like it. You can even try to stop it or change it, kill me even. You know why?” Bellamy’s smirk only grew wider. “Whatever the hell we want.”

“Whatever the hell we want!” Murphy cheered.

Everyone began chanting around us, repeating those five words over and over again. I couldn’t believe it. How could they all be so stupid? So selfish? They were going to get all of us killed.

Suddenly, I felt a speck of water hit my bare arm. Then another, and another. Then, water began falling from the sky rapidly.

“It’s rain,” A girl called out. “Real rain!”

The cheering began once again, as I lifted my head to stare at the sky, letting the rain wash over my face. It was as if all of my previous worries washed away for a few moments.

“We need to collect this,” Wells spoke up, yanking me from my bliss.

Bellamy smiled. “Whatever the hell you want.”

~

next chapter

[peachyteabuck]

what’s your damage (eliot spencer x reader)

summary: after a particularly rough job, eliot turns to you for comfort. 

pairing: eliot spencer x reader

words: 1612

trigger warnings: mention of injury, smut (includes riding, dirty talk, unprotected sex)

notes: thank you to @myhoneybeeheart​ and @lovelycarose​ for listening to me screeching about leverage. you’re both lovely and i will be contacting you the second i begin my next eliot fic 💖💖

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

It’s not as if Eliot can’t take a beating. Or torture. Or being Sophie’s punching bag when they needed an aversion so Parker wouldn’t be noticed as she stole whatever the fuck it was they were stealing this time.

But somewhere between Nate resetting his broken nose, taking down three guys with swords (swords!), and scrolling through the entire encrypted folder full of pictures and videos of you and himself in varying states of decency – he just became too much for him. It’s not as if Eliot has some sort of pseudo mental break – it’s just that he normally enters your shared home with more joy, more spark.

He’s always tired when he comes back from jobs, it’s part of the…well, job. But even as you stand in the kitchen and hear his key turn in the lock, you can tell something’s off.

Eliot – quiet as ever – closes the door and turns to look at you and whatever it is you’re eating (or, were eating, since your attention had zeroed in on him the second he texted you that he was “on the way home” in a much easier code than usual), not bothering to see if you follow him to wherever it is he’s going (you do – you always do).

Wordlessly he drops his keys onto the counter, stalking towards the living room before stumbling onto the couch with the grace of a parking structure collapsing during a devasting earthquake – the bags in his hands falling onto the hardwood floor in the same manner. He doesn’t even untie his shoes when usually he takes them off the second he comes in the door.

All of it, everything he had or hadn’t done, pointed to one conclusion: he’s fucking exhausted.

Just as mute as he is, you return to the kitchen to grab the supplies necessary to steal an Eliot.

Once those have been gathered, you find the love of your life in the exact position you left him – nearly asleep even as he sits upright.

He notices when you enter the room, opens his eyes just enough to see the sadness and worry that’s painted your face. He says nothing.

Let me take of you, the look says, handing him the ice pack.

He takes it and places it at the top of his spine, pressing against the couch to keep it in place. Though he remains speechless, the avoidance of eye contact and everything else he’d done up until that moment are enough to tell you that he accepts whatever it is you want to give him.

You start with Eliot’s shoes – untying them before pulling them and his socks off and putting them in the mudroom to be cleaned at a later time. On your way back to the couch you grab the first aid kit from the bathroom along with the small trash can, placing them next to you as you sit next to him.

Neither of you say anything for a long time – the grocery bag nearly filled before Eliot turns to face you.

“Is that my sweatshirt?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

You let out a little snort as you rub the last bit of antiseptic into the scratches on his bicep. You’d have to go to the store soon, you note.

“Yeah,” you leave a small kiss on the part of his arm not mangled and slathered with various over the counter disinfectants. “Made me feel better when I missed you the most.”

Neither of you says much else, especially as you notice the growing bugle in his pants and the hitch in Eliot’s breath when your fingertips graze over the seam there.

You gulp ever so slightly before you unzip his jeans, pulling them down just enough so that you can free his aching cock from its confines. Eliot moans at the rush of cool air, lips barely parted as he desperately tries to strain his bruised ribs. You consider just wrapping your lips around him until he comes down your throat and calling it a night – bruises and cuts on his face nearly too much for you.

But then he begs, and fuck it triggers something deep in you, something you didn’t know existed. Men like Eliot Spencer don’t beg, they barely bargain or negotiate , let alone throw their heads back and twist their hands in your hair so they can lightly tug at the follicles and ask “please, baby” ever so beautifully.

“What?” you ask, furrowed brow and jutted bottom lip the picture of cluelessness as you spit on his cock, slowly jerking him as your pussy tightens around nothing.

Eliot sighs ever so slightly – not annoyed but still frustrated. “Baby, please –,” his eyes roll back as you lick the underside of his shaft. “Fuck I’ve missed that pretty pussy so fucking much please, I love your mouth and your hands but please let me inside of you, it’s all I’ve been thinking about since I left. Please-“

He babbles on while you sit there, stunned. Eliot’s not the most quiet person you’ve ever met, but rarely laid himself bare like that.

Another wave of arousal hits you as you swallow the spit that had gathered on your tongue, nodding silently as you strip yourself of your shorts and Eliot’s sweatshirt before positioning yourself in his lap.

He reaches for you, wincing a little as one of his hands find the back of your neck. It’s not as if he ever had to pull you in for a kiss, but especially now you make the effort to close the gap between the two of you.

Eliot’s hands move to your waist as you guide him inside you, palms and fingertips rough from years of combat and whatever else he got himself into.

“Oh God,” you moan, one of your own hands cupping his face as the other moves to grip at the back of the couch. The rest of your body stays in place – giving both of you a second to savor what you both had been craving for the past seven long, grueling days. “God, I missed this.”

Eliot lets out a small hng as you kiss at his neck, teeth scraping against the stubble on his jaw. “Me t-too,” he manages to get out, brain focused on the feeling of your velvet cunt along with not causing more trauma to his very injured body. It’s a delicate battle between the two most consuming feelings he’s ever had the fortune of being overwhelmed by: adoration for you, and deep, all-encompassing pain. “God, I thought about this nonstop since I left.”

You give a little snort, beginning to move as desperation comes crawling back, settling itself over you skin and in your core. It’s good, so good you’re nearly overwhelmed. But Eliot’s injured, and you’re the only one who can get both of you off, so at least one part of you – however how small – has to remain present.

“That it?” you ask, peppering his face with small kisses as you continue to slowly ride his cock. “That’s all you missed?”

It takes a second for Eliot to respond – brain lost in the euphoria, nearly drowning as your cunt envelopes his cock over and over and over again.

“Missed cuddling you,” he replies eventually, voice even deeper than before. “Missed waking up with you curled up on my ch­-chest, fuck,” you know he’s getting closer, but you refuse to stop - refuse to let him stop, too. “Missed cooking for you and s-seeing you in my clothes.”

You smile, kissing him once more as he continues to rub at your clit. “Is that all?”

Eliot gulps, trying to find that laser focus that allowed him to kick ass but short-circuited the second he crossed the threshold and saw you, swallowed by his sweatshirt with a face filled with concern. “Missed how you moan when my fingers first enter you, how beautiful you look when you come. Missed your tits and how fucking gorgeous you sound when you moan my n­- oh shit-“

He could feel how close you are, how tight you’re becoming around him as the tectonic plates in your abdomen come closer to fracturing with each passing second.

“C’mon, baby,” his thumb circles tighter and tighter around your clit, other hand in a death grip on your hip as your movements become more frantic. “Come for me – come around my cock.”

And, God do you come.

“Eliot!” you scream – whole body spasming as you tighten your grip on him, all of him before collapsing against Eliot, your lips crashing against his as he chases his own release.

“Fuck, fuck-“ he moans into your mouth, panting against your lips. “Fuck, baby I’m-“

He comes inside of you with a long, deep grunt – whole body tensing under you as you remain panting on his chest. There’s a long, sustained silence as he remains inside of you, reveling in the feeling of having you in his arms again. For a long while – most of his life, really – he didn’t think he could have something like this. Even with Aimee it always felt off somehow, something always felt like it was missing whenever they were together.

Eliot’s never had that problem with you. It scared him at first – still does sometimes, too. But moments like these make it worth it.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice soft as you speak.

“As good as you remembered?” you ask, tracing random patterns onto the well-worn t-shirt. You move to kiss Eliot once more, noticing how less tense he seemed.

Eliot smiles despite the pain, pressing his lips to your hairline. “Even better.”

[nyctolovian]

Summary: What if Jon was a Witch and Martin was a Runaway Royalty? Funnily enough, it doesn't make their first meeting any less unfortunate and terrible.

Warning: Since this might be something people are sensitive about, Martin is described as "fat" and "plump" in this fic. But not in a derogatory way? (Please tell me if it comes off as such oh dear.)

"Who the hell gave you the right to eat all my cookies?" Jon hissed, brandishing his broom at the intruder. 

The man gulped visibly as his round chocolate eyes wobbled. The crumbs still dusted between the freckles of his pale cheeks irked Jon to no end.

He had been saving those butter cookies, savoring only a couple every few days. So you can imagine the shock and fury that coursed through Jon's veins when he returned to his cottage after a frankly needless travel, and found a large man sitting in his living room with an empty tin on his lap. Before the man could even react, Jon had shoved him to the floor and whipped his broom forward threateningly, demanding an explanation for the cookie thievery. If Jon had given the situation more thought, he might have realised his priorities were slightly out of order, but it was the only tin he had procured from when he last set foot amongst human civilization. And he abhorred the thought of going into a town after just three months for a mere tin of cookies.

"I-I-I'm really sorry… I…" the intruder stammered out. "I, um, stumbled upon this cottage… and no one came back for the past two days so… I thought it was abandoned and, well, stayed…" 

"Abandoned?!" Jon shouted. "What part of this–" he gestured towards his numerous possessions with his broom "–looks abandoned to you?"

Sure, the cottage didn't have much furniture, but there was plenty of belongings that served to prove its occupancy. Most obvious was how it was filled wall-to-wall with towering mahogany shelves of well-kept books. No one in their right mind would simply desert such an extensive collection of ancient knowledge. This house was admittedly more library than home, but Jon's point still stood. 

"Well," muttered the man, "it is quite messy and dirty to be honest."

Jon narrowed his eyes at the intruder, who hastily  muttered an apology. It wasn't as though he was wrong though. If one were to believe Sasha James (whom, in Jon's experience, had never been categorically wrong), his living conditions were dreadful. It was as though a hurricane had swept through the house, throwing his belongings about, but deliberately left the dust and dirt alone. Books were scattered across all surfaces, couch and floor included, as several layers of dirt settled on the floor, shelves and table. Even some articles of clothing strewn on the floor and chairs have gotten jealous, and begun their own collection of dust as well. And maybe the air in this house was… a fair bit mustier than it should be.

Jon had never been much of a cleaner.

"I'm sorry. I really am," the man began again. "You're… not going to kill me, are you?"

"What? No!" Jon scrunched his nose in horror. "Of course not."

"Oh, uh, good." He let out a nervous chuckle. "To be honest, when I first came in and saw all the books and crockery, I thought the owner of the house might be some kind of witch. I'm glad you aren't one. They can be quite creepy, and I frankly don't like the idea of being cursed by one."

Thunk! Jon hit the butt of his broom against the wooden floor, eyes narrowed. Drily, he corrected, "I am a witch."

"Oh." The fat man pursed his lips as he shrunk into himself. "That would explain some stuff."

With a huff, Jon rolled his eyes. It was tiring to constantly have people doubt or assume he wasn't a witch just because of the way he looked. Admittedly, most people in the witchery profession were women. He had only known three men who were witches, only one of whom he had actually met, and maybe one other non-binary witch. At least this time he hadn't been accused of lying. "Don't worry. I won't put a curse on you or anything absurd," he told the now deathly pale intruder.

The man let out a sigh. "Right. Thank you. Sorry," he said nervously as he stood up, hunching into himself apologetically. “ I'll… let myself out now.”

Jon wielded his broom once more and the man yelped pathetically. "Now, hold on. I'm not letting you go after you've treated my house like a hostel for two days and eaten all my cookies."

"I'm really sorry," he muttered. "I don't have a single coin on me…" He pointed at an unfamiliar bag beside the table. "I… I do have some parchment and quill though."

"Parchment and quill?"

"It… has a certain vintage feel to it."

"No need. I can subsist on pen and paper just fine." He jerked his head towards the overflowing mess of a study table.

The man winced. "I'm sorry… I really don't have much else with me."

"Right," Jon said, narrowing his eyes. He couldn't help but doubt those words. The fabric of the man's clothes looked rather expensive, and the garment was skilfully crafted to fit his stocky build. It was unusual to see a man this well-dressed without a single coin in his possession. But an actually well-to-do man wouldn't be stumbling into cottages in a forest and polishing opened cookie tins off, Jon would presume. "What's your name?" he asked.

The man's already big eyes widened further. "Uh, what?"

Impatiently, Jon groaned. "Your name. Do you have one?" he asked, acid practically dripping from his voice.

"Ah, um, yes," the man stammered out. "I'm Martin K- Blackwood."

"Martin K. Blackwood?"

"Uh, yeah?" 

"Are you answering or asking a question?" Jon snapped.

"Answering! Answering."

He huffed in annoyance, his eyes sliding across his kitchen. When he had left, unwashed crockery and cutlery were piled up into haphazard towers in the sink and on his tables. However, they were now properly washed, dried, and placed into his cabinets. So this home intrusion hadn't been an entirely unprofitable one.

With a glint in his eyes, Jon said, "I have a proposition." 

***

Stupid Martin, he cursed himself. Why are you constantly making things worse for yourself?

First, it was the whole running away from home thing. He didn't regret that in particular, but he probably should have brought along more than 10 silver pieces. It was no wonder how after a mere week, all his money was spent or given to a group of famished scrawny children. Then, he had decided to cut through the woods in hopes that he could sustain himself on wild berries, none of which, he later found, looked convincingly edible. Then, he had stumbled upon a curious cottage in the middle of a dense forest and, upon finding it abandoned, let himself settle in. As was typical of his luck, it wasn't actually abandoned, and its owner was none other than a witch. Thinking back, he should have taken note of the tinge of change in the air when he first stepped foot, evidence of its steady pool of magic, and its otherworldly still-resident.

Most mortifyingly, however, Martin had flushed to a ridiculous shade of pink when the witch smirked and said he had a "proposition" because, holy crap, did Martin have an imagination. The puzzlement on the witch's face at his reaction before clarifying what aforementioned proposition actually was might have been the finishing blow to his dignity. 

"You're not in some romantic comedy," he muttered angrily to himself as he scrubbed the study table with all his might.

"Did you say something?"

Martin looked up at the witch, who had retreated to the floor while Martin cleaned his study table. He had built a fortress of books around himself and had to straighten himself to look over its walls. There was genuine confusion on his features as he asked the question. 

"Uh, no," Martin said, shooting him a smile and adjusting his spectacles nervously. "Just a rather nasty stain here."

The witch–"Jon, Jonathan Sims," he had been told–shrugged and returned to burying his nose in some spell book, his tousled hair cascading gently with the movement to frame his handsome face with a wavy shoulder-length curtain. His slender fingers flipped the page gently before curling thoughtfully over his stubbly chin.

With a sigh of resignation, Martin got back to removing the stubborn stain on the dining table.

It always were the prickly men that had the prettiest faces, weren't they? So Martin really couldn't be faulted for consistently developing unwise infatuations for them. 

The image was still imprinted in his mind's eye, like an afterimage of too-bright light. Falling to the floor had kicked up a cloud of dust and the poet in Martin felt the air tremble with ethereality. And the sight before him was nothing short of divine.

Jon's lustrous greying locks tangled gently with the sunset glow from the ajar front door, and his silhouette was outlined with light. It highlighted how well the black pinstripe suit fit his slender figure and gave him a sort of cool sharpness. His thick eyebrows were tightly knitted in a rather adorable frown on confusion. His eyes were beautiful obsidian that reflected every shimmer of emotions upon its surface. Martin found his gaze slowly trickle down from those eyes to his thin parted lips as though guided by the sureness of gravity. Then, Jon brandished his broomstick and–bloody hell–Martin would be lying if he said that didn't spark an embarrassing warmth in his gut.

Being in close proximity with someone this hot was going to be detrimental to his health. Martin was pretty sure if he spent a second longer around this man, he would have fainted like an anaemic lady in a poorly fitted corset. That or lock himself in the washroom, preferably with the shower on, for a suspiciously long period of time.

Thank god, however, Jon had the fashion sense of a grandmother. When he emerged from his bedroom, he had changed out of his suit, into a dark green cardigan, overstretched beige shirt, and grey tartan trousers. (Tartan? Really?) Every single article of clothing was baggy and oversized beyond what was sensible for someone as small and angular as Jon. Martin had never seen anyone more swallowed up by clothing than Jon was. That was saying a lot since Martin had seen more jesters than the average person in their entire lifetime. 

At least, he supposed, the colours of his apparel complemented his dark earthy skin, bringing out the richness in its tone. Martin might go as far as to say that what Jon was wearing now made sense. When Jon first appeared, he was posh and brooding dark colours, oozing with cruelty–a foreboding shadow that obtruded the autumn palette of forest and cottage. However, in his indoor clothes, he was an easy fit in the puzzle that was this house, with its quaint exterior and cosy interior.

There might also be something endearing about seeing such a slight person swaddled in soft fabric. And the smallness of the man as he sat criss-crossed on the floor did no favours for Martin’s sensibilities either.

Martin shook his head, physically objecting to his own train of thought. He couldn't afford to let his imagination run wild like letting loose a golden retriever with cabin fever. After all, if he actually had to clean up the house to compensate for his intrusion, he was going to be staying in this cottage for a long while. Because, despite his unquestionable familiarity with his broom, Jon had clearly not used it (or any cleaning tool for that matter) in the house for at least 4 months, and Martin was now left to deal with the aftermath of such a decision.

With a soft sigh, he went to change the water in the pail before moving on to cleaning the kitchen table, which was honestly worse off than the study table. That was a major understatement given the amounts of stains and bits left on the kitchen table. Martin rolled up his sleeves and began to scrub the stubborn stains.

As he got rid of the last grime on the table, he stood upright and stretched his back, hearing it crack softly. His eyes settled upon the clock above the bookshelves. It was 8.45pm already. Concernedly, he asked Jon, "What time do you usually have dinner?"

The witch looked up from his volume, his dark hooded eyes blinking owlishly. As though just realising what Martin had said, he let out a quiet noise and glanced towards the clock. "Oh," he muttered. "I forgot."

Like a disappointed parent, Martin pursed his lips.

"Now." Jon nodded to himself as he rose from the floor. "Now would be good."

"I could cook."

Jon jerked to a halt, midway to standing upright. "Ah, yes." He plopped to the wooden floor like a stuffed doll before crossing his legs once more. "I should have some potatoes…"

Sheepishly, Martin said, "Actually, um, I ate them. But, uh, I can cook rice."

Jon jutted his chin out. Exasperatedly, he waved his hand and grumbled, "Fine. Do whatever." Grumpily, he returned to reading again. 

After clearing the dining table as best as he could, Martin went to work with cooking. After examining the contents of the fridge, he decided on a simple meal with baked beans and some veggies and sausages since there wasn't enough time to defrost any meat.

While Martin was scooping out the uncooked rice, Jon suddenly spoke, "Do you really know how to cook rice? None of that white-people rice-boiling nonsense. I have a rice cooker." Then, in the most condescending voice, he asked, "You do know how to use a rice cooker, right?"

"If it assures you, I've worked in the kitchen of a Mexican restaurant before."

 Jon, whom Martin was fairly certain by now had quite the dramatic streak, visibly relaxed with a loud sigh of relief. "That's good." Then, he burrowed into his books again.

Turning around, Martin rolled his eyes and flipped on the tap to wash the rice. After filling the rice cooker with rice and water, he plugged the cooker to a socket and hummed with curiosity. "I wonder where the electricity comes from?"

"Magic."

Martin startled.

Jon's head was peeking out from behind his ever-growing book fort, which now reached just below his chin. There was a proud quirk in his eyebrow as he continued, "I decided living this deep in the forest doesn't mean I have to give up the conveniences of technology. So I've imbued this cottage with magic to keep the electricity running."

"Well, that would explain the lone WiFi network my phone detected."

"It's password protected," Jon said, as he wriggled a smartphone out of his pocket. "Do you need it?"

"No thanks," Martin responded immediately. Then, realising how strange he must sound, he added, "Uh. I have unlimited data."

Despite how ridiculous this must have sounded, Jon didn't seem to pay the blatant lie much attention. Instead, his attention had shifted to his own mobile phone. He typed furiously into the device for a few minutes before his phone began to ring. His expression soured and he muttered under his breath, "God damn it, Tim."

"What?" Martin blurted even though he had heard Jon loud and clear. 

"Just a… troublesome friend. It's none of your business." Jon picked up the phone and began the call with the most peeved "Yes, Tim?"

"Right. Yes… Of course." Still, Martin couldn't help but perk his ears.

"Before you begin, the answer is a resounding no," Jon said. "No, I don't. ... It doesn't matter to me what the rewards are. … You can't– Ugh…" He squeezed his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I really couldn't care less. … I'm not your personal sniffer dog. Or the state's for that matter.” The perpetual small frown on his face deepened with bewilderment. “What do you mean you’re not…?” Then, with a huff, he muttered, “Shocking.” His lips however quirked up by an almost indiscernible centimetre.

Martin felt a pang of curiosity. This might have been the first trace of a smile that he had seen on the crotchety man. Noticing that he was staring, Martin ducked his head and busied himself with cooking the sausages.

Suddenly, Jon shot to his feet. "Don't you dare!" he hissed. "Tim, I'm warning you. … Fine." His tense shoulders relaxed as he folded his arms in front of his chest. "I'll… I'll see what I can do." To Martin's disappointment, Jon stepped over his fort of books and headed into his bedroom, where the conversation continued without eavesdropping ears. Pursing his lips, 

Worry was a hungry hound nestled under Martin’s sternum. Perhaps his ribs were particularly sweet in its canine teeth because it frequently gnawed and chewed at his chest. But this might be the biggest and hungriest hound yet, though this time it spared him and merely nibbled. 

Stop overthinking things, he told himself. Not every Tim in the world is going to be Tim Stoker.

***

Tim Stoker was unrelenting when he wanted something.

Jon had realised this long before when he had helped search for his brother but this was ridiculous. Threatening to reveal a hermit’s address, much more one that practiced the occult, was to strip a hermit crab of its shell. And revealing it to the Royal Guards of all people was to smash the shell with a massive hammer while the crab was still in it—needlessly cruel and most probably going to get him killed.

But Jon supposed simply helping Tim out would be much less inconvenient than moving house and cutting ties with the man. Besides, he wasn’t entirely a nuisance.

With a grunt, he knelt beside his bag, still unpacked from his previous trip, and grabbed his journal and a pen. "Alright," he said, setting the book on his lap and pinning his phone between his head and shoulder. "Tell me about this prince. Age? Birthday? Height? Weight? Something?"

"Um… 28, I believe? Not sure about his birthday… Height is between 180 and 190, I think? Uh… He's on the fat side… He's got curly brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, wears glasses, dimples handsomely when he smiles…"

A long-suppressed groan finally escaped Jon. After his draining trip to the Witch's Conference, he really didn't have the energy to listen to Tim describe what was clearly a small crush of sorts. "This is going nowhere. Just send me a photo."

There was a brief sheepish silence. "Haven't got one, actually."

"Alright, hold up," Jon cut him off. "How on earth do you have nothing on this man? He's a prince for god's sake. In fact, I've only been hearing about this whole missing prince debacle from you. How is this not on the news yet? It's as if you people don't even want him back."

"Well," Tim mumbled over the phone, "it's… a tad bit complicated. You know, how I said I'm not doing this for the state?"

"Mm." 

"It's 'cause he ran away to avoid getting married off to another kingdom," Tim said. "Specifically the Nebula Kingdom."

Jon raised an eyebrow. The political ties of the Nebula Kingdom and the Kinsley Royal Family would put even the most volatile stock markets to shame. That was to say, they were mercurial at best. Having a marriage between the two nations would likely stabilise their relations, but if the groom scampered off, it wouldn't just look bad. There would have to be either war (fortunately, a non-militaristic one since neither country was physically confrontational), or massive compensations of the monetary sort. And the Kinsley Royal Family was not quite as wealthy as Nebula, so their best bet at the moment would be keep this runaway business on the down-low for now.

From the other end of the phone, Tim sucked in a hiss of breath through his teeth. "Yeah… So, honestly, only the most high ranking officials are aware of his disappearance. To everyone else, he's just caught a bad case of flu."

Curious, Jon pressed, "And how is a mere royal alchemist such as yourself privy to such confidential information?"

"Actually, he's a friend of mine," Tim said. "So you can imagine how worried I am for him right now."

"I take it you're not carting him off to the palace the moment I find him?"

"Of course not," Tim said with an affronted tone. 

Jon let out a hum. "And why the lack of photographs?"

"Well," Tim said. "There's the fact that he's pretty camera-shy. But, also, he's sort of… an illegitimate child of the prince. So things were kept on the very down-low when it came to him."

"Good lord." Jon squeezed his nose bridge with a loud sigh. He could imagine it already: keeping the illegitimate child a secret, ensuring no one could recognise him, and then using him as a marriage pawn when the time was ripe. With how notoriously prolific the prince was, no one could ever tell the difference between an illegitimate child and a regular concubine's offspring. 

How a man could sustain such a virile lifestyle perplexed Jon, to be honest. But there were a great many things of the sexual nature that had that effect on the witch so he'd much rather think about actually decipherable things such as spells and potions. 

Mentally shoving his distaste aside, Jon continued, "So how do you suppose I find this man without any useful information?"

Jon could practically hear the sunshine in Tim's voice. "Not sure to be honest! I was kind of hoping you'd have an idea."

"I'm a witch. Not a… private detective or sniffer dog or whatever you're taking me to be!" Jon grumbled. "Tim, it's not that I don't want to help you, but you have to give me something better than just a general description of the man."

"Right…" Tim sounded genuinely disappointed. "What about his stuff? I'm not sure about witchcraft but you guys use possessions and stuff for curses and such, right? If I manage to find something he left behind… would that work?"

Jon hummed in thought. "Wait a moment."

He scavenged through the books in his bedroom and found a leather-bound journal that was practically falling apart. Gently, he flipped through the pages and finally came across the section he was looking for. 

"Well, if we are to use an object, I'd cast a searching spell on the seeker, which I suppose would likely be yourself," he explained, running his forefinger over the squiggles of the page. "There are then several criteria that the object has to fulfill. First, we need it to be of emotional importance. Then, it has to have a connection between the target and the seeker, meaning you should try to find a gift from this man. Not something you took without his permission or something that is borrowed. And even then, there is a chance of it being a dud."

"That's… not ideal," Tim winced out. "I'll see what I can find." His voice was warm and sincere. "Hey, thanks a bunch, dude. You helped me find Danny, and now Martin as well… I was lying about exposing your house address by the way. I'd never do that. "

"Yes, Tim, I know."

Tim bounced back into his cheeky disposition. "Love you too, Jon! Bye!" 

Jon rolled his eyes and ended the call. 

Martin… The prince had the same name as his unexpected intruder… 

A frown settled upon his brow. What if…

There was a quick rap against his bedroom door. Jon got to his feet and opened it.

"Oh!" Martin–the intruder–gasped. "I thought you were… still on your phone… or something. Um, I was just… Dinner's ready?"

"Ah," Jon said with a nod. The two of them sat at the dining table. The food looked good actually, much to Jon's relief. Still, with some frankly warranted skepticism, he fluffed the rice with a scoop, and when he saw that it was nice and soft. He placed it in his bowl and began to eat. 

Sitting opposite, the cook took a sigh of relief at the silent approval and dug in as well. Then, his phone began to ring and he swiped the screen absently. "I saw some tea in the cabinets so…" he muttered as he got up and carried two mugs from the kitchen counter to the table. 

Jon took a sniff from the cup. Chamomile. Carefully, he took a sip, and his eyebrows yanked upwards with delight. 

Martin's plump cheeks dimpled deeply with pride as he hummed and drank from his own mug as well.

Jon supposed he earned that. When he brought the rim of the mug to his lips again, his eyes fluttered half-closed as the fragrance of the tea surrounded his senses like an old but well-kept blanket, warm and soothing. 

Wouldn't it be great to keep him around? His mind sponsored. Jon had to beat the thought down with a stick. He was a hermit and he planned to stay as such. Besides, Jon had a niggling feeling about this man's identity... 

But this Martin couldn't possibly be a Prince Martin, Jon convinced himself Imagine such excellent tea-brewing skills squandered on royalty.

[buckyreaderrecs]

A Toast to Whiskey: Chapter 1 / 2

Summary: You work in an old bar hidden away from the modern world. It's almost charming, but not quite. That's probably why Bucky likes it.

Words: 2,325 Pairing: Bucky Barnes/reader Characters: Bucky Barnes Additional tags: Bucky needs a hug, recovering Bucky, mostly canon compliant (Infinity War and Endgame didn’t happen, Stark Tower still exists), angst, she/her pronouns, more tags/characters to be added with part 2, brief mention of Nazis, mental health will be prominent part of part 2

Note: Find this fic and others on A03 - click here. And follow this Tumblr! I post lists of Bucky/Reader fic writers and reblog all my favs. I’ve just started it, so would love the support! xo Rhi

Dedicated to: @browngirlmagic for the conversation. The next chapter is the Lush one!

A Toast to Whiskey Chapter 1 / 2

There were a lot of things in the dusty, old bar that made the man's jaw clench in annoyance, distaste, or anger. You were compiling a list of these things, doing your best to minimise their occurrences. There was one you couldn't avoid though, and it was almost amusing that it bothered him at all. Each time someone ordered a drink - beer, cocktail, shot, whatever - a clean glass was given. The man didn't like it. Was it not like that in his time?

If James Buchanan Barnes thought he'd gone unnoticed in the hole-in-the-wall bar you worked at, he was mistaken. Not entirely, to be fair; the baseball cap and quiet stopped the other patrons from even giving him a second glance. 'Patrons' might have been too civilised of a word to call them. They were old, sickly, local men that had been drinking the same beer from those same taps forever. Harmless, mostly. Unobservant, entirely. Not you though. The first day Bucky walked in and taken a barstool on the very corner, closest to the door, you knew exactly who he was.

Like a lot of people that came and went from the establishment, Bucky's seeking of anonymity was granted. You pretended to not recognise him. You were kind to him, a little more gentle than you were to others, but mostly just a good bartender. And in time, you grew accustomed to the charade. He came in a couple of afternoons a week, but never during the nights when it would be busy. Eventually, he even started to speak more than a couple words to you.

"New cap?" you greeted Bucky with a grin, putting the only drink he ever ordered down in front of him.

Bucky wrapped his right hand around the glass of whiskey. He glanced at you, smiled and shrugged.

"Speaking of new, can I ask you something?" you asked.

The expression on Bucky's face was guarded, but definitely one of concern. You realised you should have just asked, rather than let his mind spiral.

"What’s your problem with clean glasses?"

He looked surprised. Surprised was an experience Bucky wasn't particularly used to or fond of. He wouldn't hold it against you though.

"How do ya know I got a problem?" he asked back, genuinely curious.

Shrugging, you looked around casually. "Guess I notice a lot of things about people,"

"Right," he said slowly, knowingly. "I don't know… Just seems wasteful… Is it the law?"

"That we have to use clean glasses?" you asked with a laugh. "I don't know… probably not. I mean, it's more hygienic. Probably makes the drink taste cleaner or whatever. Board of Health might have a problem with us if we didn't… Not that I've seen one of them in here in years."

Bucky picked up his glass and finished the whiskey. "Fill her up," he quipped. He'd made a half-joke, and you appreciated the effort.

"Yes, sir. Lemme know if you, you know, what anything else," you told him, topping him up, knocking your knuckles on the bar top, and walking away.

…

Bucky Barnes certainly wasn't the most chatty person you'd met. It was better to ask questions if you wanted to pass time with conversations. Easy conversation was one of your special skills, being a bartender and all. However, it was incredibly difficult to do this when you were purposefully avoiding topics that would put Bucky in a position to have to, you know, admit his identity and all that. So, things stayed superficial.

No, Bucky didn't watch the game.

Yes, the weather's been insane.

No, he doesn't want any nut mix.

Okay, maybe yes to pretzels.

Yes, he can see your hair has changed colour.

Yes, he likes it.

For as long as it had taken to get to the point of superficial conversation, it didn't take any time at all to run out of things to say. As it turned out, neither you nor Bucky had lived, or were living, shallow enough lives to sustain it. There were questions you were begging to ask, and if he was honest with himself, Bucky was kinda just counting down until you finally spoke up.

…

"So, I got a question,"

"Mmm. You have a lot of questions," Bucky said, smirking then taking another sip of his whisky.

"You could ask me somethin' if you want a change of pace, pal."

It was a joke. Just banter. But a dark expression flashes across Bucky's face for only a split second. You didn't catch it.

"What's your question, Y/N?"

He knew your name?

Of course he knew your name. He was The Winter fucking Soldier. He probably knew everything about everyone that worked and frequented the bar. How had you not thought of that before? Suddenly, it seemed risky to ask what you had planned to.

Bucky watched you hesitate. He sighed and looked around at the empty room. It was a Monday afternoon and it was just before the regulars showed up to knock beer bottles together and catcall you across the bar. It was just you and him.

"Ask," he said softly, taking his cap off and setting it down on the barstool next to him. You watched Bucky run his hands through his hair, tucking some of it behind his ear.

"Why do you drink whiskey?"

Bucky laughed. Like, a proper heartfelt laugh. "What?" he said, nose still scrunched up in amusement.

"What?"

"Why do I drink whiskey?" he repeated.

"Yeah… I mean… It's disgusting… and, like, you… can't get drunk, right?"

There it was. You did it. Admitted you knew him. Which he figured out. So none of what was happening was really a big deal. But it sure as fuck felt like it.

"Right. I can’t- Well, I can, but it takes a lot,"

"Asgardian mead a lot?"

Bucky grinned and tipped his glass towards you. "How do you know about Asgardian mead?"

You snorted. "Everyone does. Everyone knows everything these days,"

"That's what we want you to think," he said, not skipping a beat.

It made you laugh. It was already better talking to him without false pretences. "So, whisky?"

"Ah… Guess it's that everything's different now… An' that's mostly good. But… You know."

No. No, you didn't know. How could you even begin to understand? "Yeah," you said, your voice far more quiet than you meant it to be.

"Whiskey's still whiskey,"

"It tastes the same?" you asked.

"Almost. Not exactly. Close enough,"

"Makes sense… But why here? S'not like this bar been here since the 40s or anything."

Bucky was visibly trying not to smile. Or make eye contact. "Ah… Not sure how to answer that without… offending ya,"

"Huh? ... Oh, I don't own the joint or anything,"

"You don't?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

"No? You think I did? Why?"

"You're…" but he shrugged, still guarded. "I don't know," he lied. "But, ah, I was just lookin' for somewhere…"

"Pretty much stuck in the 40s or thereabouts?"

He nodded, smiling. "But without the Nazis,"

"Mmm… I mean… Have you watched the news lately?" you very quickly said.

"I try to avoid it," he admitted solemnly.

As people started to wander in, the conversation waned. Bucky watched you serve cold beer and pour bags of crisps into bowls. He listened to the worst songs being picked on the jukebox and he sat truly shocked you weren't even at least the daughter of the owner. Despite what you may have thought, he hadn't bothered to investigate you at all and finding his assumptions to be wrong was unsettling.

See, Bucky was a little bit smitten with you. He thought you were smart and sassy and timelessly beautiful. You were the ultimate perk of randomly picking this as his hideaway from the world. But, he figured you were only here because it was a family business. Why was someone smart, sassy and beautiful working strange hours at a shitty bar?

It was hard to say which of you was more curious about the other.

…

Something about what Bucky said had stuck in your head. Whiskey, his drink of choice, was the closest thing to his own time he could find. You could do better than that though.

About a year into working at the bar, you were finally allowed to venture into the cellar to clean it up. There were boxes of shit from forever ago down there and you just wanted it sorted, gone, and the space put to better use. Most of what lived beneath the floor was trash, but every hour or so you'd find something cool. A few vintage beer signs. Empty bottles of collector edition Coke. That kind of stuff. But, there was one thing you had found that you now wanted to stumble across again.

Nobody could remember where it had got to.

It took two days of searching to find it.

The bottle of whiskey was shoved under a bunch of paperwork in the office's bottom drawer desk. Not exactly where you'd store something worth a lot of money, but hey - the barely-there owners of the bar were eccentric, to put it nicely. You didn't recognise the brewing company on the peeling label, but that wasn't the point. The date on the bottle quite clearly read 1940.

When Bucky took his usual spot that afternoon, you bounced over to him with a grin on your face. He looked up at you, keeping his cap.

"Aren't you gonna ask me why I'm so happy?" you said, elbows on the bar and head in your hands.

Bucky smiled a little. He seemed sad. Sadder than usual. Good timing.

"Why are you so happy?"

"'Cause I found something that's gonna make you real fuckin' happy. Check this out!"

You produced the bottle from where you had it stashed under the bar and handed it to Bucky.

Bucky's lips parted slightly and his eyes went all glossy. He read the label carefully, probably trying to place the brand you couldn't. He handled it so carefully, even more than you in your fear of dropping it.

"This is real," he finally said.

"Yeah. I found it in the basement ages ago and just remembered it. 1940, so I figure it's like, first or second batch after Prohibition, yeah?"

Bucky nods. "I guess…" he replied, smiling, remembering Prohibition. "And before all the distilleries had to stop again,"

"For what?" you asked.

"The war," he said so matter-of-factly that it hurt a little. He looked up then, saw your confusion. "Dunno if it was law or if they just did it, but most places stopped making drinking alcohol and started making stuff to help win the war. And ah, whiskey stopped being made because it took up too much crops. I don't know. Something like that."

Something like that. Like he hadn't lived history.

"I didn’t know that. That's…" Not 'cool.' "That makes sense… Anyway. Open it," you ordered, getting out two clean glasses.

Bucky put the bottle on the bar and looked at you seriously. "Y/N, that's gotta be worth… a lot… Can't open it for no reason,"

"Nobody here cares about it. And besides, it's not really no reason, is it?" He didn't move or say anything. "Bucky." He flinched at his name, glanced around to make sure nobody heard. They hadn't. "I think you kinda earned this one, yeah? Now do me the honours."

Why was everyone in Bucky's life so goddamn stubborn?

He sighed and opened the bottle silently. You nodded in encouragement, letting him pour.

"A toast," you posed, holding your glass up. Bucky mimicked your action. "A toast to…" Everything in your head sounded either very cliché or very sad.

"Whiskey," Bucky finished.

"Whiskey," you agreed.

Drinking at the same time, Bucky swallowed in two gulps while you struggled with a sip.

"Jesus fucking Christ it tastes like cat piss now and it did then," you whined, pouring the liquid left in your glass into Bucky's. He laughed at you.

After drinking that down quickly, Bucky reached across the bar and took your hand in his. "Thank you, Y/N. Really."

A toast to finding things that make us less homesick.

…

After the 1940 whiskey, Bucky came in more regularly. He stayed longer, despite the place filling with people. He even began to talk to the other regulars when they sat at the bar and argued with you about politics, the news, and kids these days. You watched him play devil's advocate, siding with the old men, sarcastically poking fun at you with a quick comment every now and then.

You weren't sure when it happened, but you realised Bucky had grown to be comfortable in the space. And there was something about that that made you ridiculously happy. Like, sunbeams bouncing around on the inside of you making you all hot and tingly and full of joy whenever he was there kind of happy. It was gross.

Bucky would walk in, sit, place his cap down and grin at you with his cute little teeth and sparkly blue eyes. It made your day without exception, and you started to notice more little things about him and how they made you feel. When he hooked his hand behind his ear it would make your stomach flip.

One time, when he was telling you a story about carnival rides and baby Steve throwing up, a loose strand of hair fell across his face and you immediately and unconsciously leant across the bar and folded it gently behind his ear for him. Bucky froze, and you went to apologise, but he spoke first. "Thanks," he said softly, with more meaning than the situation called for, then continued on with his story.

It was like that for just over a month. Then he stopped coming in. There was nothing in his final visit to indicate he wasn't coming back. Bucky just disappeared.

CLICK TO READ PART 2/2

[bubblyani]

Limit of Love

(Freddie Jackson x Reader)

Part 1 of Freddie Jackson Two Shot

Request by : @97freaknik

Rating: Mature (18+)

Author’s Note: When the idea of Freddie being in love was presented to me, it really did feel very challenging to imagine, given what we see in The Take. But anyways, we all can dream and imagine. And based on the request, I went through a rollercoaster ride myself writing this. Separated this into two parts, so that I can really get in to this. Hope you all enjoy!

The sun shining at nighttime was a phenomenon considered impossible. But not for you. Especially whenever those eyes, mixed with green and blue were in view. Whenever that smile, that flashed with happiness never left you alone. The smile that hinted happiness that only both of you could ever share.

All this, belonged to Freddie Jackson. And fortunately, he belonged to you.

“Busy with work?”

The question escaped your lips ever so casually, as your boyfriend entered the flat. You may have sounded so, but only you knew how excited you were upon seeing him.

“Mmmm yeah yeah...more or less” closing the door behind him, Freddie pondered while answering,“How about you?” His attention proceeded to move over to you, who seemed to be leaning on the pantry, scribbling something with focus.

“Oh! the same...yeah” you replied, tone filled with empathy, eyes unmoved.

“What you up to?”

“Ah...I got to fill these out for mum..” you said, pointing with your pen when he peeped from your side.

“It’s funny...” you began, “...when my parents used to tell me how busy they were, I wouldn’t believe them for one sodding bit...but now...” chuckling, you continued, “I understand...”

You didn’t hear his reply. In fact you didn’t hear anything at all.

“I hope you know...I’m not that kind of girl...to give you an awful time just cause I don’t see you for a few days an-Freddie? are you listening?”

Your question finally seemed valid, especially when you felt the zipper of your dress slowly being undone, and you knew Freddie was behind you.

“Hmmm? Yeah go on...” his mindless response made you chuckle, for you knew where this was heading.

“Anyways, I’m really alright with th ...” you suddenly paused, “....that”. You were suddenly aware of the tight claps of your bra as it was finally loosened, when he unhooked it.

“Hmmm...”

In a concentrated world of his own, Freddie went ahead to brush your hair upfront. Your skin  was rife with life with his feathery kisses landing on the back of your neck.

“So...how about...” shivering, you continued , “you?”  

Holding on to the pantry, you were fully distracted from your previous engagement, “Things still sour with Ozzy?” You struggled to form that question with all your might when his kisses descended down to the your now exposed back.

“Yeah....not much has changed with that selfish bugger...” he muttered on to your skin. You sighed, slowly turning to face him.

“I’m sorry Freddie...” you said, stroking his cheek, “he might think highly of Jimmy now. But it won’t last forever...”

“Yeah well... let’s not talk about that fuckin’ geezer...when I’m here with you. Come here-”

With his hands on your waist, he kissed you on the lips.You were clearly reminded of the magic you shared with him the moment the lips touched.

As the magic sustained, those hands skillfully wandered back, tightly holding on to the openings of your dress. And in one clean motion , you felt him pull your dress down, the unhooked bra catching up, until you remained in just your underwear. Giggling into the kiss, you were definitely not surprised.

“Awwww...hello darlings...” Freddie cried out affectionately, his eyes moving over to your bare breasts. Brushing your hair back, you offered him a better view. “Fuckin’ hell...” you watched him lick his lips,“I missed these so much I even fuckin’ dreamt of them...” leaning forward, your head titled to the side as you felt him kiss your jawline. He was indeed serious, quickly cupping your left breast with his right hand, his palm encircling your nipple until it grew hard. All this,  you were no stranger to. It was merely one of the things he enjoyed,and you certainly didn’t mind.

“Did you miss me?”

He pulled away from your neck, the moment you asked him that. You may be fine not seeing him for a while, but it did not encompass your insecurities about his feelings for you.

His left hand that remained on your waist suddenly disappeared, grabbing your face only to kiss you once again. You felt your entire body de solidify when his kiss grew intense. You wanted to take all those words back when his tongue entwined with yours, deepening it within seconds.

“Every ...fucking ...day babe” he breathed. Excitedly, you bit your lower lip upon his satisfactory response. Finally your hunger were on par with his.

“You know...”

“Hmmm?”

“It has been a while...” you purred, guiding his hand from your face, over to your buttocks, “since we-Ahh...” gasping, you felt a dose of pleasure when he took your nipple between his fingers, “...fooled around on the pantry” you moaned, immersed in arousal as his fingers rolled the hardened bud.

Chuckling low in victory, Freddie gave it a playful pull, making it swollen and red. Once he savored your moan which followed, he kissed you hungrily, showing his approval before lifting you up, placing you firmly on the pantry top to begin your lustful escapade.

6 months. You couldn’t believe you didn’t know of him, you didn’t know of this bliss 6 months before.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

(6 months ago)

A zombie would have approved of the way you stepped into the pub, for it was a spot on imitation.The pub was almost deserted, and fortunately you preferred it that way. How else would it mirror your emotions? Sliding into a bar stool, your heavy sigh signaled the bartender of your arrival.

The vodka you ordered did not seem to help one bit, leading you to take another sip with a larger volume. You wished you could melt away just like the alcohol that melted away in your tongue. In the midst of all the melancholy, you were suddenly startled when a figure sat right next to you.

“Oi! Billy...the usual, mate”

This voice, it hinted somewhat of an attractive tone. It was the tone you liked. And as you stealthily turned your head to lay your eyes on him, you knew your instincts were not mistaken. His half opened shirt showed off the gold chain around his neck. And the way he scratched his ear, gave his rings and piercing quite the attention. But nevertheless, he looked appealing. He was handsome in your eyes, and you knew you weren’t the only one who stood by this. And all the sudden, you felt aware of yourself.

“You like what you see, babe?”

Eyes widened, you were now definitely aware of how he caught you staring.

“Oh!” turning away in an instant “I’m sorry...that was rude” you said weakly. He chuckled.

“Ohhh...naaahhh” he shook his hand in the air“it’s alright, it’s a free country, innit Billy?” He said, looking at the bartender.

You chuckled, feeling more at ease. It seems you haven’t screwed up yet.

“So...” the man began, “...what’s a beauty like you...” he continued, pointing at you, “doing here alone..at a time like this?”

The mere fact he acknowledged you as beautiful was a progressive step forward. And it cheered you up even more.

“Well...this ‘beauty’ just got fired”you said, raising your glass “Here’s to no future!”

“Awww fuckin hell...” with a dejected tone, he turned to  you “ I’m sorry love” he said, to which you responded with shrugged shoulders,  “Billy...another round for her..on me”

Heart wrapped in warmth, you looked up from your glass, “Thanks”

Along with the second round, came in introductions, and more excuses for conversation.

“So...what were you doing?”

“I was a hairdresser” you said, “at Lola’s”

“Blimey...is that right?” He asked with surprise. You nodded with a smile.

“Uh huh” you uttered, making you sad later on.

“Well,...”he began,“it’s a fuckin pity they lost themselves a great employee..” he said, lighting up his cigar during.

“Heheh you don’t know that” you said, with your elbows on the table “for all you may know, I might have been the worst one”

“Nahhh...you know what? I don’t believe you” he stubbornly disagreed, as his piercing gaze caught your attention.

“Well...” You muttered, “then I won’t stop you”  you smiled.

Looking back at him, you realized you’ve never seen eyes as beautiful as his. And how they held their own against those luscious lips he owned. Thick, inviting and very kissable.

Funny, your thoughts even went that far.

When you went home that night, your stomach ached from laughter, your jaw ached from smiling the entire evening. But your heart didn’t ache, for it was lifted. For you made a friend out of Freddie Jackson.

Your heart continued to remain lifted when the your phone rang frantically the next evening. With its shrill tone, it urged you to answer.

“Hello?”

“Y/N...” that tone echoed in your ear, “Hello babe...”. You squealed in glee.

“Freddieeee...” you cried out, “oh...how are you?” You asked, holding on to the phone “I was just thinking about you...”

“Oh yeah?” He sounded pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah...” your reply was instant “Oh Freddie...I got my old job back!”  

“Fuckin’Hell you serious?” He exclaimed. You nodded, “I am ...”. His chuckle through the line made your heart sing.

“Well congratulations babe...”

“Thank you...” your tone grew soft. “Hey..why don’t you come over tomorrow?” You said, leaning on the pantry “I’ll cook ya something” you said, excitement filling your bloodstream.

“You sure I won’t choke to death now?” Freddie asked teasingly. You giggled.

“Very funny ...you won’t cause ...I'm actually quite good”

“Really now?” You involuntarily nodded to his curiosity, “Fuck! My mouth is watering just thinking about it”

Suddenly that tone his, held you by the hand and took you somewhere. Somewhere quite dirty. Suddenly you imagined his eyes washing over you, as if you were the mouthwatering meal.

“Oh um uh...heheheh” you struggled with your response, for you were too busy blushing “...well I’ll see you tomorrow”

The moment you hung up you knew impatience was to rule the day.

Your heart couldn’t stop racing with excitement as you waited for him “tomorrow”. You clearly  remembered how you impatiently floated your way towards the door the moment knocks made themselves known.

Although, when you opened the door you were faced with a man who did not look as joyful as you. Instead, there he stood, feeling his own pulse, looking lost.

You swore your heart sank.

“Freddie?” You asked softly, “What’s the matter?”

Wiping his eyes with his fingers, he cleared his throat.

“Nothing babe...I’m fine” he forced himself a grin. You were not entirely convinced.  However, you didn’t want to force your way in either. Nevertheless, there he was right in front of you.

Little did he expect you to surprise him by wrapping your arms around him, pulling into an embrace.

“ I am...so glad you’re here...” you breathed into his shoulder, “ ever since I met you I...I feel happier. My life...seems better”

His grip tightened around you.

“Me too, babe”

The shivers you felt running down your spine were indeed real. When you felt him slowly take a whiff of your hair, that heart of yours suddenly remembered to race again. Ready, set, go. There it was.

Pulling away slowly, you looked up shyly to find Freddie’s lips staring at you.Those lips always looked good. But up close, oh! so much better.  

“Did anyone ever tell you...” those lips began to  form words, “...how fucking good you smell?”

“No...” you whispered, hypnotized. You wanted to kiss him. With all your heart. They were calling out to you.

Before you could inhale, Freddie moved in swiftly, snatching your hopeful lips with his hypnotizing ones. How relieved you were to know he felt the same. As you pulled him in, you knew he’d wholeheartedly agree to the events that will follow.

You were never shy with the idea of lust or the pleasures of the flesh, but that was it. They were interesting, experiential and stimulating; but in the end of the day, you were empty. For love never bothered to get to know you. But that night, when you saw him, when you held him, when he conversed with you through words and touch, you you felt the presence of something you never felt before. You felt love.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

(The next morning)

When he exited the building, he did it with a swagger full of pride. He certainly welcomed the morning looking refreshed and ready. Wearing a toothy grin, he turned back to find you joining him outside.

Hands were enveloped tightly, and greetings were exchanged inaudibly. All before he held your face lovingly, to plant a kiss that would almost last the entire day. Satisfied, you could not help but utter words of affection to him, when he stared in to your eyes with longing.

With a chuckle, the hands quickly parted, allowing yours to wave back at him as you ran to catch the bus. All the while he stood there, lighting his cigarette, eyes glued to your disappearing figure until he finally left for business.

All this, she watched. And as she did, fidgeting seemed non-existent for a few minutes for she was busy holding her breath. Proceeding to bite her manicured nails, Jackie Jackson could not believe what she witnessed just then.

———————————————————————

PART 2 HERE

Tagged: @starlightmornings @rogerfxckingtaylor

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[dat-town]

CODE Z3RO | CODE 01

characters: BTS & Red Velvet genre: thriller, futuristic au warning: none summary: The twelve most ambitious and promising university students are welcomed in Choego, the world’s first entirely artificial intelligence-driven city, to compete for five job contracts that could change their life. But what if something goes wrong? What if they get trapped? What if the city suddenly turns against them? Can they find a way out before the countdown reaches zero? words: 4.4K tagged: @philosopher-of-fandoms​

➼ Chapter Index

Smart cities had been prickling people's mind ever since microchip was created and even before. A place with infrastructure so developed you could find everything you need in a 10 minute walk radius, with such top security you wouldn't have to be afraid of letting your child outside, with an air so clear thanks to the green places and lack of cars that you could see stars clearly at night. The city that itself produced all the energy it needed making it sustainable and environmentally friendly. A community that didn't need nor relied on physical workers anymore but had machines to do everything they did. A city like that used to be a dream. Now, after dozens and dozens of failed projects, that city was Choego.

And Jeon Jungkook was there to make a name for himself.

After getting checked by a high tech security system, not to mention the more than 6 months long application and selection process, he was finally here, inside of those enormous gates of the artificial city, in the heart of future, as the second youngest of the twelve candidates to be a part of the real-life simulation, to experience another world, the life as it was and what it could be.

"This is beautiful," a girl with her brown hair in a ponytail, tied by a red ribbon whispered on his right in awe.

Jungkook glanced at her a little disinterested but followed her gaze anyway to marvel at the city built of metal and glass, pretty parks in-between of the human-made constructs and a part of him agreed. The lack of annoying mass of people flooding the streets, the clean roads without litter or stinking smell, the mathematical architecture of this place sure impressed him too.

Even if Choego was more of a ghost town with the lack of people than the dream city presented on ads.

"Sure if you have the taste of a caveman," another girl chimed in sarcastically, flipping her long black hair behind her shoulder, grabbing on her Gucci bag like her life depended on it.

Jungkook scoffed, averting his attention back to the huge projectors welcoming them in the city of future. It was a short movie about the development and building of the town, the fight and struggle of the hundreds of researchers, scientifics, politicians and other powerful people who dreamt a place like this could exist as it was today. 

An awkward laugh cut through the murmurs of arrived students as their host descended on the granite stairs.

“Sorry for the advertisement. Our PR team insisted on showing you this,” said the tall, graceful female figure. She had a lab coat over her carmine dress, thick framed glasses on her snub nose and ginger hair so shiny she could have made an appearance in advertisements. She looked gorgeous, no wonder half the boys widened their eyes at the sight. However, the other half turned a blind eye to the welcoming committee, more immersed in the city itself.

Jungkook barely bat an eyelash at her as his mouth rather hang agapé on the enormous computer and server room the city had, a whole new district of wires and chips and machines that keep the city alive, it was basically the heart of its blood circulation. Amazing.

“My name is Han Raina and I’m the lead researcher here,” the woman bowed towards them slightly and being either polite or intimidated, most of the candidates did the same. “It’s my pleasure to greet you all.”

It sounded a bit forced, artificial but everybody anticipated her welcome speech because of the loads of classified information they basically came here in the blinds, not knowing anything about what to expect. Jungkook for one was clueless, and as he looked around, the other candidates had just as curious eyes like him. He was sure in one thing: he won’t go home without getting a job and the foundation of his stable future here.

“First of all, congratulation for passing our tests and being chosen. You are the greatest hope of the next generation and that’s exactly why you are here now. To see and be a part of the future. I would like to remind you that everything you do is recorded on hidden CCTV cameras all around the city because of security reasons and so that we can monitor your reactions.”

“I haven’t seen any cameras,” a pastel-haired boy interrupts as he checks the surroundings. A few follow his lead and he’s right, there are no cameras that can be seen around.

“They are too small to see. Probably micro or nano-sized,” Jungkook muttered and relished in the way every head turned towards him. As an electronic engineer student that was something he knew well.

“That’s right, Mr. Jeon, great thought,” Miss Raina smiles at him fondly and the screen that previously showcased the city’s presentation, was now divided into nine smaller frames, live recording of them from different angles. “But please, don’t pay any mind to them, act natural.”

For those who weren’t overdramatic, it was an easy task since they were aware that each public places had these kind of cameras recording people’s every move even in Seoul. Also, for safety reasons of future it was essential for the city to have eyes everywhere.

“I know all of you are very excited and curious since we left you in the dark but please understand that the simulation will only be realistic if you don’t know the details. However, it’s time to give you a little head-up on the city and about your week here. We can sit down and make ourselves comfortable in our meeting room. Follow me,” she beckoned a finger, inviting them closer and the dozen of university students followed her in unison.

“Sorry,” the earlier, ponytail girl apologized when she bumped into Jungkook on accident. She had pure innocence and childlike wonders in her eyes. Kim Yerim, the boy glanced at the name card hanging in her neck and he made a mental note about this girl not being a real competition.

“Let’s go, Yeri,” an older guy, Kim Seokjin based on his card, nudged her to move forward and there was both familiarity and fondness in his voice as he guided the girl by a hand on the small of her back. What a coincidence for siblings to make it to the top 12. Smartness must run in family or maybe the researchers wanted to add this as a factor to the simulation, who knows?

The group walked along a wall with a huge 3D map of the city into a room on the second floor which had a great view of the park in front of the building. They were merely 2 hours from Seoul yet it felt like another world, fancy, clean, ultramodern and green. Even the chairs in the room were done with utmost care to fit all the health requirements and ergonomic needs.

As soon as everybody was seated, the woman pulled out a high pack of documents and shared one pile of paper with each of them.

“First, we will need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement. You can’t tell anybody what you saw or experienced here. It’s a business know-how we can’t risk. If it’s done we can finally talk freely,” she explained as nobody complained. When they agreed to help this project, it was an evident, understandable condition.

Quickly everybody scribbled their names onto the paper but only a few of them read the contract throughout about the consequences of violating the confidentiality. Jungkook was one of those people.

When all of them handed the papers back to Miss Raina, she clapped happily.

“Okay, so now let’s talk about the city. You probably know a lot about its history, or if you don’t, you can always take our leaflets, so now let’s talk about its design,” she pointed at the map appearing on digital screen. As she was talking about certain parts of it, the map constantly changed, zoomed in or out. “We are now here, in the main research building of the town. Next to us is the laboratory, there’s the hospital, the public offices on the other side of the road. You can see the parks as the green blocks yourself too. Your dorms are located in the residential area, on the western part of the city. So yes, you will be able to see the sea but we do not recommend visiting it. For security reasons we closed off the ports.”

“And the bridge too,” a messy, brown haired guy mumbled as he stared at their cheerful host with cold suspicion. No matter how quiet he was, with that firmness of his voice nobody could not hear what he said and the hidden implication behind it.

Han Raina raised one of her prettily arched brows. 

“Sorry but what do you mean by that?”

For a minute, it seemed like the guy was about to leave it with a grimace and careless shrug but then he pointed at the eastern side of the map where the Bridge of Silence, as they called it, connected the artificial island with the mainland.

“This city is totally closed and has only one way in and out with a gate controlled by electronics. Do you have any emergency plans for like terror attacks, or if they hack the gate?” he asked edging on the border of being necessarily polite and an arrogantly know-it-all. However, it was undebatable that the question he stated was an essential element of the security and safety of Choego. 

“That’s highly unlikely to happen, Mr. Min but of course, “ the researcher lady nodded and sat down with her elbows resting on the table. She acted like the patient elementary school teacher educating the kids about the basic laws of physics. “Imagine this city as a huge computer. What happens when a computer is attacked?”

“The firewall kicks in,” the apparently tech-educated guy replied without hesitance and earned a satisfied smile from their host. A pang of envy poisoned Jungkook’s veins as he watched their interactions. Wasn’t it unfair for one of them to have a head start like this?

“Correct, it’s the same here too. Though, since our security is so high level any computer control panel has three-factor authentication including a biology one too,” Miss Raina explained and as Jungkook looked around, he wasn't sure everybody understood the concept of three-level protection. That it needed three separated traits to open a door, one knowledge-based like a password, one possession-based like an ID card and one biology-based like a retina scan. Because of the latter it was the most difficult kind of security system to trick without making a scene and the researcher echoed his thoughts:

“It’s impossible to hack our system from the outside. If anybody tries that, they have to be here and then we can pull a Louvre move on them. Does anyone know what happens if the security system detects a theft in the most famous museum of Paris?”

Ah, what is this? A quiz night? Jungkook almost grunted because he had no idea but he was actually surprised that for a long minute, nobody spoke up.

“It will close its doors, seal the endangered zone with bars until the police arrives,” the tall, wide-shouldered guy from earlier, Seokjin said much to the delight of the lady.

“Yes, so if anything like that happens, we plan to trap the intruders inside. The sectors would be switched off the electrical grid one by one until the attacker has no choice but to wait for the authorities right here,” she concluded and turned back to the suspicious guy. “And we have evacuation plans, too. Don’t worry.”

Jungkook wanted to laugh. If they were worried about something that definitely wasn’t terrorist attacks or a tsunami flooding the city. What were the chances of these events to happen right now while they were being evaluated? See? He was more stressed of the possibility of leaving without a contract in his hands, head down in shame.

“Okay, so since we talked about your dorm. Here are your ID cards,” Miss Raina flicked her fingers and at cue, the staff started handing out metal bracelets for each of them. “You can take off the visitor cards you got at the gate earlier since you are going to use these bracelets for identification from now on.”

The accessory’s design was simple, gender-neutral, easy to clamp on and light on the wrist.

“This functions as the prototype of the chips that will be injected into our future residents. It not only stores all the data about you but also monitors your health in case you were in an endangered situation. It also keeps track of your GPS coordinates to locate you and it holds all your authorization to make sure which sectors and offices you can and can’t go in. Your authorization level right now is a common researcher’s so you access most of our buildings including the labors. Once you will work here, of course, it will depend on your job position.”

“Does it have a camera in it, too?” a guy in baseball cap chimed in certainly not impressed by the idea of always being followed around. Not like phones didn’t have the same functions already and millions of people used those voluntarily.

The woman was quick to shake her head, seemingly absolutely horrified at the presumption.

“Of course not, we respect personal space.”

“But you will know when we go to pee,” said the guy as he threw in his visitor card that said Jung Hoseok to the middle of the table and put on the bracelet anyway. Even if this test took the evaluation process a bit too seriously with analyzing all their reactions, none of them wanted to leave. No matter how much doubt or fear they felt, they were too curious or too ambitious.

“What’s more, based on our health factors they will know when we need to go before we do,” a red-haired girl chirped and Jungkook frowned at the bracelet clipsed on his wrist.

“Yes, Miss Son is right, it’s an advanced tool, but keep in mind, it’s for your own good. It’s the future,” the researcher lady reminded them. The ‘future’ seemed to be their magic word solving every problem and being the ultimate answer.

“All in all, you need to have the bracelets on you all the time since it’s the key for your dorm rooms, too. Boys and girls will be separated, of course, but we provide you a common area to socialize where dinner and breakfast will also be served everyday. Based on your daily activities you will have lunch in either the offices’ or labor’s canteen,” she once again points at the map that highlighted the mentioned parts and flashed tomorrow’s menu on the board. Reading about Korean barbeque and pasta salads with salmon made Jungkook hungry as it was almost dinnertime and he hadn’t eaten since morning.

“Ahh it’s excited, isn’t it?” Miss Raina clapped enthusiastic again but nobody joined her. A few forced an awkward smile and some didn’t even care. They didn’t come here to have these chitchats and the middle-aged woman was most likely aware too as she added: “Don’t forget, even though we evaluate you individually, you have to work together in teams to succeed the simulation. Any questions?”

A few candidate exchanged uncertain glances but then a stern looking guy in dress shirt asked the question that had been on all of their mind: “What is the simulation about exactly?”

With his Rolex watch and elegant attire, it was obvious he came from a rich household. The son of Parks, Jungkook had heard about him. It was all in the news, that the child of the right-hand of Seoul's mayor will be a part of this test, one of those who can experience the dream city first hand. Some even thought he came here to spy for his father.

It was an interesting thought. Why would the investors of Choego let a potential rival's son on their land willingly? Or people are just being nosy and making fuss about nothing?

“I can’t tell you, sorry," Miss Raina shook her head and provided a diplomatic answer about her reasons. "It would change your natural reactions and the results of our research would be false.”

It actually made sense but Jungkook still couldn't make anything out about this project. He applied for the promise of bright future but they all basically dove into the unknown as they came here. But he wasn't the only one worrying about being left in the dark.

“And when will we be notified about our daily activities?” An older girl with rounded glasses asked as she was tapping on the glass table rhythmically but the awaited answer was just as vague as the earlier one.

“You will find your schedule for the week in your dorms. If you don’t have more questions, my colleagues will accompany you to there. Rest well, tomorrow will be a long day,” the researcher lady bid her goodbye with a well-practiced smile and two other scientists showed them the way to their temporary residences.

“You were brought here in an environmentally friendly bus but since the city is designed for pedestrians and not for cars you'll have to walk convenient distances like this,” they explained as they headed outside.

Their guides kept talking about the advanced technologies used in certain parts of the cities, the borders of the zones, the buildings' functions but Jungkook's mind wandered off as he stared ahead at the paradise made of glass, metal and money. He would live here one day, he decided and he wouldn't let anybody stop him now that he was finally here.

Kim Yerim had long learnt that in every group of people there was that one who knew the most nasty secrets of everybody and couldn’t shut up. She didn’t have to wait long to realize that among the twelve of them, Park Sooyoung was the gossip queen. No wonder since her whole family came from the tabloids.

“I really don’t get what half of these people even do here. It was in the requirement to have a major that can contribute to the development of the city and yet, here we have a psychologist, a sociologist and even a journalist?” she scoffed pointing at Joohyun, Hoseok and Yerim one by one. She didn’t even try to be discreet about her opinion as she was talking to noone in particular. She just wanted to show off but maybe it wasn’t the best crowd to do so, to outstand from. The mentioned boy didn’t seem to care that he was titled useless while the group’s eldest, Joohyun turned tomato red. It must have been quite offensive to her to be told off by a third-year while she was working on her doctorate.

And Yerim, she quickly turned her gaze away and her brother patted the back of her hand.

“Don’t even listen to her, okay?” Seokjin whispered into her ear and shot a sharp look at the girl in brand designed clothes. He was trying hard not to snap. He might have been a pretty calm person but for his sister, he would have done anything, to any extent.

It definitely wasn’t the hosts’ greatest idea to lock them into one place competing to get those limited job offers while they had to cooperate. They were both rivals and team members. What kind of absurd paradox it was? So when after having their nutritional dinner at their dorm place, they were advised to get to know each other a bit by introducing themselves or at least their name, age and major, it was almost obvious it wouldn’t end well.

“And that shabby kid?” Sooyoung carried on unbothered, pointing her finger at the youngest engineer of the group, Jungkook, if Yerim remembered correctly. “Believe me, he is the charity case here. This dorm is a real glow up from his place. The city creators must have taken pity on him”

“Oh as if you are any better. What the hell are you doing here, little vacation girl?” Jimin snorted and brought his arms onto the table, locking his fingers and looking straight at the Gangnam girl over his hands. From the look of her eyes, it was obvious the two of them had some history together or at least they knew each other, which wasn’t surprising as both of them lived the high life of rich kids. “You are only here because your daddy slipped a big pile of money to the investors.”

“Excuse me,” Sooyoung’s breath hitched and she looked downright offended by the accusation. “Every city needs tourists and that’s why I’m here. It’s just as important as the bullshit you do.”

That said bullshit was actually genetics, an innovative and really fascinating field of engineering. Yerim was actually quite impressed that even genetics were presented by the candidates.

“What did you just say? At least my field makes our lives better and healthier, it makes progress while you are just money-hungry...” the politician’s son kept raising his voice until Jin interrupted him:

“Enough,” he stopped the heated dispute with a single word before it could get even worse. “Haven’t you heard? We will need to work together. Not against each other.”

Maybe it was his Crisis, Disaster and Risk Management masters classes that taught him how to approach these problems but unfortunately, not everybody was so cooperating.

“As if,” somebody mumbled from the back, his lilac hair falling onto his forehead. He looked like he wanted no part in this desperate attempt at staying civilized as he stood up and left without any further goodbye. It stirred up the calming atmosphere again and Yerim couldn’t help but wonder if it was on purpose. Marketing was the keypoint of manipulation after all. That’s why she didn’t blame Sooyoung entirely for stereotyping all of them based on their majors and the information her father provided.

“Watch if I ever team up with these,” Gucci girl’s mouth pulled a grimace and as dramatic as she could be, she walked out the opposite direction Taehyung did, towards the girls’ dorm.

Yerim sighed. It was only their first day here and yet tension was already cuttable in the air. And the couple’s fight didn’t help either…

“Stop being so clingy, Joon,” the red-haired med student snapped at her boyfriend in disbelief. “We are not on a vacation, for god’s sake, let’s be professionals about this.”

“Huh? Now you’re saying we can’t be boyfriend and girlfriend here or what?” The pastel blonde hair guy blinked in confusion and - in Yerim’s opinion - understandable hurt written clearly on his face.

“It’s nothing personal, honey, but it’s basically a very unique job interview and you don’t befriend your rivals,” she said and trotted after Sooyoung.

A heavy sigh left Namjoon’s mouth and Hoseok who sit on his other side patted his back in empathy.

“My girlfriend also applied,” he told the exasperated engineer. “But when I got my letter, she said she was happy she didn’t got in because it would tear us apart. For your sake I hope she was wrong.”

She probably wasn’t, they all knew but nobody said anything and slowly they went on their way dispersing in the building.

Yerim got a good night hug from his brother and waved him off as she scribbled down some notes in her diary about today. Nobody was bothered by her little bit childish antics, nobody cared. The dining room was empty - save from one boy on his phone - when she finished and got up to shower and get ready for tomorrow.

Her assigned roommate was a very quiet girl called Seulgi who learnt some quite fancy named major - Civil, Environmental and Architectural Engineering as Yerim recalled - and she seemed pretty kind so far. They exchanged a few words before Yerim could actually use the bathroom. By the time she let her sore muscles loose under the hot water and brushed her teeth in front of the foggy mirror, Seulgi was fast asleep. With her nerves, the younger girl wasn’t so lucky, she struggled to close her eyes and let dreamland take her. Even the smallest noises of the ventilating system kept her awake.

After half an hour of tossing and turning in bed, she decided to take a world and have a glass of water so as quietly as she could she left their room. When the door closed behind her the corridor’s lamps automatically turned on much to her relief. She followed the directions she remembered from earlier, occasionally opening doors with her high-tech ID bracelet. Luckily she didn’t take it off for sleeping or else she would have had to go back for it. To her own surprise, she was able to locate and found the common room with kitchen without getting lost.

She filled a glass full of refreshing cold water and gulped it down as quickly as a man on verge of dying. Just as a relieved sigh bubbled up from her throat, she heard it… the clock ticking and hitting another hour. Then a flash of red painted the whole room colourful and Yerim almost dropped the glass as she turned on her heels. Putting it down onto the counter, she took careful steps towards the floor to ceiling glass windows. Her palm fit onto the cold surface nicely as she watched the moon’s reflection on dozens of glass buildings with wide eyes. The red light came from the building vis-á-vis burning carmine and angry. Yerim’s heart skipped a beat when suddenly she heard the unmistakable sounds of sirens.

“Ah I knew you were going to be here. Can’t sleep?” a familiar voice questioned in an amused tone and in her panicked state, the girl turned towards his brother, face breaking into a confused and terrified expression just like hers when they were children and she found a spider in their room.

“I think there’s something very very wrong, Jin,” she whispered in a trembling voice.

The faint distant sound of alarms and the warning red light suddenly stopped and then, all the lights darkened in the sector next to them. Like somebody turned the light switch off right at two o’clock and the border between the zones sparkled with electricity.

“No, it’s okay,” the elder said hurriedly pulling his sister away from the window. Just in time so she couldn’t see that lost bird flying right into the invisible wall and falling down as if it was struck by lightning. “I guess the simulation just started...”

[selenecrawford]

The Odd Pair 2

Warnings:

Shingen arrived to his home and greeted his family. His mother was happy with her son's success but she preferred a more humble lifestyle. Shingen always was pending that she never lack anything on their household. He always enjoyed the weekend visits because of her and Tomas. His father died of a heart attack while he and Yukimura were young leaving his mother to sustain the family. Growing up in town Shingen loved the peaceful, atmosphere and how laid back you could be. His room was always clean with the same posters he used to have on high school. Yeah those were the days were he was the start of the football team but also a ladies man. Girl's were always attracted to him. Shingen smiled at the prospect of always having an entourage of girls around him. Only one girl was always shy and never part of the pack. Selene.

Always looking like a boy she was always either studying or working on a car at the workshop at school. Her father was always scolding her telling her to be more feminine, yet she never paid attention. Shingen took a look at the little bookshelf finding what he was looking for. The school book in which there was a picture of Selene. Voted as one of the boys. She never used a skirt for that time. Giving a head shake Shingen pulled some jeans and a red polo shirt.

“Mom, I'm going to see the boys, I will be back later.”

“Be safe and try not to get into trouble, OK?” grinning like a mischievous boy Shingen went out to met the others at the bar.

Selene arrived at the house and gave a sigh to calm her agitated heart. She could still feel Shingen arms holding her. Clearing her mind she went on to clean the house in order to get everything in order. Since she had been working non stop for 2 years, her boss gave her a  license to put her affairs in order. At least working hard paid off was Selene's train of thought. Changing her attire for a more comfortable one, Selene took a look at the full body mirror on her room. Her hair was now on a low pony tail, with minimal make up, some lip gloss, the black shirt with the skinny jeans hugging her legs and black converse were the perfect outfit. Since nights were becoming a bit more chilly she got a light grey duster and decided to buy some groceries and go to eat. The cellphone ringing took her out of her mental planning.

“Hello?, Selene speaking.”

“Ah, Selene is Mr. Leonard Kruger your father's lawyer. How are you?” the old man's voice was rich and deep. Selene used to think he was a voice actor. But in fact Mr. Kruger was a friend of the family.

“Uncle Krug, its been such a long time. How is everything?” Kruger was also one of her many adoptive uncles Selene used to have.

“ I wish this will be a better time to call but, I'm afraid not. I'm sorry for your loss kid. Tomas might not be there always but believe me when I tell you he always loved you and worried about you.” his voice was solemn.

Fighting the tears Selene cleared her voice.” Thank you Uncle Krug. We managed to patch things up in the end.”

“Good, that's great to hear so in that case you will be for the lecture of the testament tomorrow at 9 am in my office.” with this Kruger hung up without giving Selene opportunity ask what he was talking about.

Shingen managed to get to the bar without incidents and located the guys at the end of the saloon. Aside Masamune everyone was having a beer and playing poker.

“Well, well, well the prodigal son has return home uh?” Nobunaga was the first one to spot Shingen arriving to the table.

Taking turns to shake hands with everyone Shingen responded ironically.

“Considering that you are the self proclaimed chosen one Nobunaga, I guess we both are back? How is the family?”

“Good, how is your mother?”

“She is good, mom as always being mom .” said Shingen smiling while taking a seat next to Kenshin.

“Selene was so beautiful today. It's a shame that it wasn't a better occasion. Now she is alone.” said Mitsurani.

“The lass had grown up quite well. I was glad to see her. I might invite her to meet Marlene.” said Masamune.

“If I remember you used to have a crush on her right?” it was Ieyasu's turn to speak.

“I did but on high school I understood that it was only that and we spoke about it. She was OK with it. Besides she used to have a crush with our Mr. Football star here.” Masamune pointed on Shingen's direction.

“I thought it was something temporary.” Shingen given a non emotional answer. He tried to not make it more than it was. He was still bothered by the way Selene acted with him at the cemetery.

“Selene is a great woman, perhaps not a beauty like the one you are now use to date now Shingen but I know the man who marries her will be happy.” Hideyoshi looked at Shingen with intensity.

Holding his arms up Shingen said. “OK wait a minute. We are talking about things that happened twenty years ago. Why am I being  getting my head bit off after all this time?”

“Because no sooner than she left you did the same. That prank was really low even for me and you know how mean I can be.” this time it was Kenshin who made the comment.

“Look, I tried to apologize she was already gone. Now, can we just take a break on this. If it makes you feel better I will apologize with her OK?”

Everyone agreed to Shingen's suggestion and let the topic die. The time passed while they talked about their own lives. When it was Shingen's turn his phone started ringing.

“Takeda here.”

“Ah, Shingen is so good to hear you. How are you? It's me Leonard Kruger, Tomas Crawford lawyer.”

“I'm good Mr. Kruger, how can I help you?” Shingen went to a less crowded section of the saloon to speak more in private.

“Tomas, made me in charge of reading his testament and he name you on it. I need to be on the office tomorrow at 9 am.”

“I didn't expect that from Tomas. OK I will be there.”

“Good.” with this Kruger hung up. Shingen returned to the table and took a lot sip at his beer.

The conversation continued until midnight when Shingen decided to bail out and going back home. While driving he passed Selene's home noticing the lights on. He considered stopping by but then decided against it since it was too late. She might be tired and need time to collect herself. With this he returned home and decided to get some sleep before his meeting with Kruger

The next morning, Selene woke up feeling a bit tired. She made some coffee and a cheese toast before getting for her meeting with Mr Kruger Looking at the day many memories came to her mind. Most of them were her running behind Shingen and playing with the boys. At some point she learned to dance but she kept it hidden. Only Masamune knew about it. She made him promised not to tell anyone about it since she feared being mocked. Dancing was her stress breaker. She could dance for two hours and help her clear her mind. It was also a good exercise for her in case she didn't got a gym near. Taking a small boom box she went to the room her father used as storage. The last time he told her that he cleared the place and now was empty. He was expecting her to come back one day to visit and she could use it. Her father was a complicated person in Selene's eyes. Taking the boom box she started the song. The notes and clap made Selene forget everything. Moving at the rhythm she start her routine, making turns and claps Selene loosen herself to the music until the end. At the end she was almost out of breath but feeling better and energized. Looking at the time she run to get a quick shower, dress up and wear a subtle make up. For this time she decided to wear, black trouser pants with a purple shirt and black blazer. This time she opted to only wear mascara, liner and lipstick. For shoes she put on her normally low heel shoes. She had a lot of things to do having a comfortable shoes will help her a lot. Looking at her outfit she let her hair loose with a headband to prevent her hair to fall on her face. This time she decided to use her cats eye glasses. Taking her purse, Selene went to the town.

Upon arriving she found she wasn't the only one waiting for Uncle Krug. Shingen Takeda was talking with the secretary who apparently had never seen a man in her life. Shingen was polite with her but Selene somehow saw some tension on Shingen's part. Shingen was wearing a terracotta jacket with white shirt and black trousers with black converse. He was looking dashing and really handsome. Perhaps, he might not like to flirt all the time. Clearing her throat she let her presence known to them. Shingen straighten up when he saw Selene. Today she was wearing a pair of cat eye glasses with a slim frame that will make her green eyes more alluring than unusual.  Since when she became so beautiful? Shingen was impressed with her change. Selene was civil but tried not to speak more than necessary.

“Good morning, Mr. Takeda.”

“Good morning princess.” Shingen gave her his best smile. Selene nods in response.

Shingen felt ignored and didn't like the feeling. He was going to tell Selene something when Leonard Kruger emerged from his office.

“Oh, Good morning, so good to see you both. And on time, come on, let's talk in my office.”

Selene frown at the implications of Shingen being present on the testament. That meant that her father added him on the testament. A small shiver run around her back. She started to have a bad feeling on the pit of her stomach.

“Well as you know, Tomas, decided to leave a testament. I asked  Nobunaga Oda and Masamune Date to be present on this day as witness.” after saying this Nobunaga and Masamune arrived.

“Good now that everyone is here let's start with the lecture.” opening up the document. Mr. Kruger started the reading.

“I, Tomas Crawford Edwards, here by leave my will and testament in order to let down my final wish after my dead. All my possessions will be divided as follows. The car repair shop and the Shelby will go for Shingen Takeda who I used to love like the son I never had.”

Shingen noticed that Selene tensed next to him. She was blinking rapidly. He felt bad when he saw her face getting sad.

“Next my home, my land which consist on half of the town will belong to my daughter Selene Constance Sakura Crawford  Mirakawa. I know Selene is a strong and independent woman, but I prefer if she would had married with a nice dependable, honest, man. So in order for her to receive her inheritance. She needs to comply with certain conditions. First she needs to live for one year in our home on this town in order to gain the rights to own the terrain. Second, she must marry Shingen Takeda and sleep on the same bed for that same period of time. They will need to learn to live together and can't abandon the house during this time, unless is to go to work related business. They must be together all the time. If by the end of the year you are still together you can inherit the properties mentioned before. Also Shingen you cannot be unfaithful to Selene or she will loose the inheritance. If Shingen or Selene do not full fill any of these conditions everything will be sold and the money donated to charity. Shingen and Selene will have 24 hours to think about this. If they fail to comply with any of these demands the testament won't be validated and you will loose your all including the car repair shop.”

@elievalentine @colivara @notsafefortum-blr @datemasamunemaiwaifu @unstoppablelinda @epicdragonlady @yeshasays @masa-little-kitten @mikamiw @kimi00twin @kouei116 @blue-bean-exe @mitsuhidethesnek @la-piperina @pirateprincessyuki @jennacat84 @valfraeyja @little-blue-octopus @sengokuotaku82 @serenity-writes @xathia-89 @shouta-bakugou @cailannuesugi

[edenfalling]

[Fic] Random fragments that I will never finish

[devsash]

Under One Roof - Part 4

A collaboration with @tindomielsilverthorn

(Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 5 / Part 6)

Arriving at the door to the Cottage, Elwynn Forest

Niqi hefted the satchel at her side. She reached up and gently knocked on the door. Stepping back, she waited to see if either of them were home. The door opened, revealing Mehe. Recognising the Ren'dorei girl, he nodded. "Bal'a dash, Niqi. What brings you here?"

Niqi smiled meekly. She curtsied to him. “Hello, Meheaaris. I… I heard that Anas’s sister was injured. I thought maybe I could help. I hope it’s alright that I came to visit.”

He nodded again, stepping aside. "Come in. Anas is with his sister. He should be out in a bit."

She stepped in and looked around. “This is a nice place. Do you like it?” She ran her fingers lightly along the woodwork on the wall.

"Very much." Mehe closed the door. "Thank you for this. And for the bloodthistle. I've planted them outside."

Niqi smiled wide. “Oh I am so glad! You are very welcome. I just want the two of you to be happy. You both deserve it.” She very gently placed her bag down on the table before looking out the window.

The door to the guest room opened presently to admit Anas's tall figure. He appeared solemn and exhausted, though as soon as he glimpsed Niqi, a smile split his face. "Niqi? When did you get here?"

“Hello, Anas! Just a few moments ago. Oh but you look so tired!” She moved to him and peered up with concern.

Anas shook his head. "It's nothing," he said, waving a hand. "I didn't expect to see you here." Mehe threw a sharp glance at the door to the guest room before stepping closer to place a hand on Anas's arm. "Why don't you offer our guest a seat? I'll get us some tea."

Niqi tipped her head to the side. “I hope you don’t mind that I came. I wanted to see if I could help at all.”

"Of course I don’t mind.” Anas sighed as he led her to a simple wooden table. Waving towards one of the chairs, he seated himself in the other. Mehe disappeared without another word into the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you bring Sheronda to the healers in Stormwind? Couldn’t they help?” She climbed into one of the chairs and pulled her legs up under herself. “Or did you just want to look after her yourself?”

"They already seem terribly strained with all the people they're looking after. I don't think Sheronda would much like it there." Anas glanced at the door. "At least it's a bit more quiet and comfortable here."

Niqi reached across the table and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I understand.” She moved her bag in front of her and slowly reached inside. “I brought something that might help. Though I don’t really understand it all.”

"Really?" Anas peered at the bag curiously. "What is it?"

Mehe emerged from the kitchen with two mugs of steaming tea in his hands. He set them before Anas and Niqi before returning for his own mug.

Niqi inclined her head to Mehe before turning her attention back to the bag. She slipped the heavy material down the side to reveal a large jar. “While Kalimè was healing, they kept bringing her over to the Moonwell. Æl said the waters are special and can aid with a lot of things. So Lady Tindomiel helped me fill this to bring to you.” She set the jar in front of Anas and picked up her tea cup.

Anas blinked. "From the Moonwell?" He reached out to pick the jar up reverently.

Niqi took a sip and nodded. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to do though. Is it special?”

"Very special." He smiled at her. "The Moonwells contain the sacred water from the Well of Eternity. It sustains life and heals hurts."

She smiled wide, he blue eyes shining at him. “Well then I am glad I could bring it to you. Lady Tindomiel spoke a prayer over the jar before she sealed it. She said you would know what to do with it.” She glanced at the closed door.

"I do. Thank you, little one." He set the jar down carefully  just as Mehe stepped out of the kitchen with his own mug.

The Ren'dorei man sat beside Anas before taking a sip from his mug. He eyed the jar thoughtfully before glancing at Niqi. "How did you find your way here?"

Niqi flushed. “I wanted to visit, so Lady Tindomiel told me how to find it. She gave me a little map to guide me.” She took another sip of her tea, smiling gently.

Mehe nodded. "How have you been?"

“Well enough, I suppose. Much better now that the House isn’t all stuck at the Fortress,” she offered. “Have you settled in here all right?”

"We have, all things considered," Mehe replied, taking a sip.

"Mehe's been the one mostly working on the repairs," Anas said with a smile. "I help out when there's time off from the shop."

“Has it been terribly hard, Meheaaris? Is there any way I can help?” She looked around the space, trying to see what he might have done.

Mehe's eyes narrowed as he peered over the rim of his mug at Niqi. "I've said you can call me Mehe."

Niqi’s tendrils twitched as she peered at him. Her voice grew quiet, “I didn’t think you’d want me to anymore...”

"Hmm." He set his mug down on the table. "You may," he said simply, his tendrils coiling around his arms. "And I've been able to deal with most of the repairs on my own."

"Mehe planted the seeds you gave him in a patch behind the cottage," Anas said. "He's been planting all manner of herbs in there as well."

Niqi perked up a bit. “I am so glad! Plenty of things to make your salves and ointments? Maybe for your beautiful pressed flowers?” She tugged her sleeves down, fluffing the cuffs.

"Yes." Mehe threw another glance at the door to the guest room as he took another sip. "Maybe enough to sell in the window of your shop."

"Oh, Mother Moon! That slipped my mind entirely!" Anas exclaimed. He reached for a piece of paper. "Niqi, I saw a few nice places we could set up our shop. I'll give you the addresses if you want to have a look."

“Is something wrong, Mehe? You keep checking the door.” She tipped her head to the side.

Mehe raised an eyebrow at her. "Oh, nothing. Just wondering if Anas's sister is okay in there."

A derisive snort came from the door.

Anas winced. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "The walls are not very thick here," he said to Niqi.

“Oh, is she back there?” Niqi winced a little. “Am I disturbing her rest? Oh, Light! I should have asked before coming over! This was so inconsiderate of me.” Her tendrils thrashed  wildly. “I would love to go see what you found.”

Mehe shook his head. "I'm sure she's fine," he said evenly. Anas picked up his pencil and began to write the addresses down. "Here," he said, handing the slip of paper over. "I think they're quite strategic."

Niqi reached over and took the page  before quickly tugging her sleeve back down. She looked over the addresses carefully. “These are all in good traffic areas! When did you have time for all this?”

Anas grinned. "Mostly while Mehe and I were looking for supplies for the repairs in the city." Mehe nodded, finishing his tea.

“Do you have a favorite?” She picked up her cup and sipped again.

"I like this one in the Trade District." Anas pointed at one of the notes. "This one facing Lion's Rest seems nice as well."

Niqi smiled wide. “You know I love those fountains.” She made a little star next to the two mentioned.  “I’ll look at these when I head back in.”

"That's wonderful." Anas smiled. "But they're all good places anywa--"

"Are you going to introduce your guest to me, Reianas?" a woman's voice said imperiously from the guest room. Anas blinked, glancing at the door.

Mehe shook his head, his lips thinning. "Would you like to meet her?" he asked, glancing at Niqi.

The small Ren’dorei looked between the two men and the door. “I won’t be disturbing her?”

"Of course not, child," the voice said impatiently. "Elune knows I could use some new company."

Anas gently placed a hand over Niqi's. "Only if you want to," he said very softly.

Niqi looked up at him, a little confused. She lowered her voice to a whisper, "Would it be a bad thing?"

"She can be quite... difficult," Anas said apologetically.

Mehe scoffed. "That's putting it lightly."

Niqi pulled her lips in, her tendrils curling up tightly and twisting. She looked up at Anas and then over to Mehe. "Will she be worse if I don't go? Because I will if it will make things easier for you..."

"I suspect she will still be pretty much the same," Mehe said with a shrug.

Anas nodded apologetically. "He's probably right."

Niqi sat quietly, trying to work out what to do. Her tendrils twisted and curled frantically one moment, settling the next.

"I could show you the bloodthistle," Mehe offered. "If you want, of course."

She glanced over to him, her mouth falling open in surprise. “Truly? That would be very nice.”

Mehe nodded, getting to his feet. "Come on then."

Niqi slid from her chair and smoothed out her skirt. Looking over the table, she tipped her head to the side. "Are you coming, Anas?"

"In a bit." Anas rose, collecting the mugs. "Let me clean up first, then--"

"Why are you preventing your friend from meeting me, Reianas?" Sheronda's voice snapped. "Are you trying to starve me of any company besides your little Ren'dorei?"

Niqi looked back at the door her eyes wide. Whispering she asked, "Are you sure  it wouldn't be better if I at least said hello?"

Mehe glanced at the door. "By all means," he said with a shrug.

Anas set the mugs down. "I'll go in with you, if you want," he offered.

Niqi looked up at Anas and nodded. "I don't think I should go in alone."

Mehe nodded, picking the mugs up. "I'll wait for you outside," he said before heading into the kitchen.

Anas placed a hand gently on Niqi's shoulder. "She's not a bad person," he murmured. "Though she is unhappy about seeing Mehe and myself together."

"You told me once that she didn't like that you were with him," she nodded. Anas nodded. Visibly steeling himself, he knocked on the door before opening it and stepping inside.

[lucifer-kane]

Hey guys if you read this/reblog it I’ll be forever in your debt bc I finally did something in Helimire and might continue from here 

Christopher presses his hands into the cool white marble of the outside walls of Helimire’s city walls, his entire body shaking, the adrenaline slowly seeping from his body as he takes a moment to catch his breath. Well. This is the first time he’s been run out of the city in the many many years he’s lived in it. He knows who sent the assassins after him, that was obvious. The three bastard council members who have had it out for him since he started working in the capital. Attempting to pull himself, forcefully, up the latter to get his well deserved seat on the council.

They know him. They have a vague knowledge of who he is and what he wants to do and how he wants to change the city for the better. And that’s the thing. It’s for the better, for future advancement and betterment, like years before. The city is ready for change and Christopher could easily help with the things. With his scientific knowledge and ability to help with a numerous abilities the humans. Well those without magic he should say, that they will need help. Maybe not his own, but there are people already attempting to change how the city is. Not a lot, not badly. Just to advance their city for good.

But there are three people who seem to have a power over the rest of the council, people fear them because they’re just a step or two down from the king and queen themselves. They have the ability to hire mercenaries and assassins to deal with people they don’t like and will use those abilities to get what they want. Christopher has the ability to do the same things they do, as do other members of the council, but these three bastards. Briar, Jeramiah, and Garett, three very smart and powerful people who can manipulate anyone they can think of to follow in their paths. They constantly sway the vote of other board members, since all decisions have a majority governs all deal, and if the majority of the council doesn’t agree on passing something, then it doesn’t.

But they are senior members, have the power they do, and people just fear them at this point. Christopher doesn’t, a couple other council members don’t, but they have just enough of a grasp on the other members, that they’re overruled each time. But now Christopher is just damn tired and he wants all this to be over, the controversy is tiring and he, at this point, doesn’t want Helimire to fall to people like them, but if he doesn’t somehow figure something out soon, it will.

Right now though, he’s just going to take a time for himself, outside of Helimire. Not too far, he could never stray too far, this is his home and straying too far almost physically hurts him. So too his families old cottage he goes.

The hills outside of Helmire are beautiful, especially this time of the year when it’s warmest and he can smell the bright red and orange flowers that only grow in the thick cropping of trees, the ones his family planted when they were young. Christopher picks a few as he walks through the woods, coming to a large clearing where in the middle is a two story home, only slightly run down, not at all modern. He comes by to clean it up every few months, to keep it nice and good enough where he could come and stay for a little time.

Christopher takes a few hours to do some stuff around the home, building up a fire to make something to eat, because this home was so old that there was no dedicated place to cook that wasn’t the fireplace. It was always cold there, not because of anything weird, just because of the location, so the heat is good anyways. After that he sits down in the small cozy study that was half the size of the one he had in his home in Helimire, but he adored it. He wrote a couple of letters, one to his sister, wherever she might be. One to Silaf, who is one of the people who can easily tell both sides of the community where he is and that he’s okay, and one to William, his prince and a man who he doesn’t want to worry.

He was a little shocked that the man befriended him, but after a while he did realize. William Bello, the prince of Helimire, would rather spend his days in taverns as a undercover bard and artist, he liked the freedom he got, and his parents hardly could care. They were young and an heir wasn’t required of William, things worked different here and Christopher knew William adored the requirements. He didn’t have to do much other than learn and be tutored, but he was already advanced, mostly in art in music but he was wonderfully smart in other places as well.

He tells everyone where they can find him, giving Morgan only a few words since she could find him easier out of anyone, being his twin after all. William is the only one he has to give some detailed notes to, directing him out of the walls of the city of Helimire to the hills and deep into the woods there. While nothing bad came from the woods, there were all the normal dangers; wolves, bears, other such animals. Just in case the man wanted to visit. And Christopher hoped for it, just a little bit, in the back of his head.

But a few days go fast, he works like he usually does, going into the woods and grabbing random herbs and flowers from around the cottage, going deeper and hunting for something more than simple foods, a deer is good, they’re large here, the bucks taller than himself and almost frightening to look at. But he kills it easily, painless death with magic and he carries it back on a small wagon. He uses every bit of the animal, there’s no such thing as waste to him with these sorts of things, Christopher can use all of it, weather it be in food or in potions, he stores away all the other things besides the meat outside where nothing can get to it, and makes a simple stew for himself, in a large pot over the fire with some herbs and sweet flowers to give flavor and some vegetables that still grew wild just outside the cottage.

The clearing was overgrown, but the view wasn’t ugly, it was covered in flowers and foods, that while didn’t sustain any humans anymore, animals fed freely from it and with the magic Christopher dusted over it many many years ago, things continued to grow from it as time went on, 350 years and things were still like the day he planted them with his sister shortly before they moved to a rapidly growing Helimire city.

Being there, he was brought back to his childhood, thinking of when he and his sister were children, before their parents were gone and Helimire was even a blip on Astor’s radar. There are moments when he missed that time, where he misses his mother and father more than anything in the world and it hurts his heart. Tears well to his eyes and he walks into the garden while food is still cooking, dropping down onto his knees in one portion to dig some weeds out of the area and put more magic into the grown, some of the plants growing before his eyes as he does so. Christopher picks another bundle of flowers, a bright shock of red, orange, and pink against the dark clothes he wears. He presses his nose into the petals and breaths in the scent, sweet and thick, like the perfume his mother wore and that his sister still sometime did. That only existed to the two of them anymore.

“I never picked you for a gardener, dove.” Christophers head shoots up at the voice coming from the edge of the clearing, not too far from where he kneels, a dressed down William stands, dark curls messy and soft brown skin specked with some dirt as he seemed to get into a few situations coming up into the hills. Christopher can’t help the soft chuckle that comes from his throat.

“Only when I’m here,” He smiles, standing and walking over to his dear friend. “I didn’t actually expect you to bring yourself all the way out here just to visit.”

“Well I wanted to check up on you, ask you why you’re holding yourself up in…” His eyes flicker to the cottage and Christopher snorts a bit. “Here…”

“Come inside, I’ll explain everything over dinner.” Christopher nods his head to the cottage and William follows behind, his eyes looking at everything once they enter, taking a deep breath and exhaling after a moment.

“Oh it smells amazing in here.”

“I would hope so, I know I’m an excellent cook.” Christopher chuckles and fills two bowls with the stew then pulling apart a loaf of bread for them both. They both sit down on the small table in the room near the warm fire.

“So…” William starts after a few bites of food and telling Christopher how good the food is. “What are you doing here and not in your large beautiful home in Helimire?”

“Someone tried to kill me in my own home, so I decided to come to a home of mine that know one knows of.” Christopher takes a bite of food, like he wasn’t just telling someone that people were trying to murder him. William drops the bread in the stew and looks at Christopher like the man has grown another head.

“You… Christopher who? You can’t just drop that on me of all people and expect me not to be worried for you.” Christopher waves a hand.

“William it’s nothing for you to worry about, darling I am going to be fine, it’s not the first time, it has just been a while.”

“That… Christopher I know you live a hell of a weird life, but dove… I’m still worried even more now that you say this has happened before.” Christopher shakes his head and reaches out and grabs both of William’s hands in his own and looks deep into the mans lighter blue eyes.

“William, my dear, my friend. You know who I am and what I am. You got the luxury of knowing that many months ago and that should be enough. Nothing bad will happen to me, I just need to stay out of the city for a few days and things will be fine.” William huffs and tuns his hands around to grip Christophers even tighter, gritting his teeth slightly, a small fearful expression on his face.

“Stay at the palace at least, you’ll be more protected there than anywhere else, especially not here.”

“William there are six people who know about this home, two of which have been dead a very long time. Darling, I am more safe here than anywhere else. I understand that you wish to protect me, and I love that you wish to, but I grew up in this small place, I know I am safe here.” Christopher pats his hand gently and pulls away after a moment.

“You… I didn’t realize you lived so close to the city.” Christopher nods.

“It’s been here since before Helimire was a thought,” A soft smile spreads across his sharp features. “I come here, I have come here, for so long because I want to keep it beautiful and my home. I have protections on this area so things can’t be destroyed. I can’t lose this land, because if I do, I’ll only have one other thing of the time when I was a child, and that is Morgan.” More tears spring to his eyes and he shakes his head, wiping them away.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t realize it meant that much to you.” Will runs a hand over his face and through his hair. “I still need to realize that you’re older than Helimire itself.” There’s a soft chuckle from the two of them after that.

“Sometimes I do as well. It seems as more time goes on, I’m more forgetful. I sometimes forget that Morgan is the same as I am. It’s annoying to her and I feel terrible when I do forget.”

“Well I’m sure I would forget a lot if I was as old as you.” Christopher laughs, throwing his head back and putting a hand over his stomach.

“There’s a lot of stuff I remember! There’s just a lot to remember in general.” Christopher kicks him under the table a little bit, shaking his head.

“I’m sure there is.” The two of them finish up the food, eating more than probably necessary, getting stuffed and falling onto a lumpy large chair together in Christopher’s study, Christopher grabbing a random book from a pile on the floor. Boy he should really start carting some back home to his library in Helimire, and probably donate some to the actual large library in Helimire as well.

William, as soon as he’s sitting down and realizing that it’s going to be quiet for a good time, pulls out a leather bound sketchbook that is stuffed with loose papers other things, as well as a small charcoal piece that seems to have seen better days and heavy wear. He begins sketching, at first it’s the room and the furniture in it, but then moves to Christopher who seems deep in whatever book he’s reading. The text is in another language William has never seen, even though his family has a large library in the castle, and he’s been to the one in the centre of Helimire numerous times as well. This is something totally new to him, and he sees Christopher reading through it like it’s common tongue.

It shouldn’t surprise him really, the man is one of the smartest people he’s ever met in his over 30 years of life, Christopher knows things more than anyone, knows about Helimire better than anyone except for the mysterious Silaf William has only met a handful of times in the past, all through Christopher.

But he draws the man, easily and almost one to one. William has drawn the man many many times, on spare pieces of paper in meetings he’s had to go to, he had a actual portrait planned out as a gift. One like all the higher council members had, and honestly, William was surprised that Christopher didn’t have one already. Maybe he did… but it wasn’t from him.

It was already planned out, he had sketched out numerous designs and used up numerous pieces of paper and supplies, but it was ready, and the sketch was already on the canvas. He had bought some oil paints in town a few weeks before and William was ready to get started on it once he returned home, he knew he’d end up locking himself away until he finished it, making sure it was utter perfection for the man he adored so much.

William thought the man was unattainable, romantically wise. While he had never tried to ask him about, William was so dead set on the fact, too anxious to actually attempt courtship with Christopher. Although his family was supportive, Christopher’s twin even caught onto the feelings William had for her brother and adimatly tried to convince him to go for it.

Maybe one day.

It’s hours later before Christopher finally makes another move, putting down the book and stretching, a few bones in his back popping as he does so.

“If the offer is still on the table, I’d actually like it if I could stay with you William. I’d like some company while I wait things out.”

“It’s always on the table, my dove.”

The two leave the next morning, Christopher waving a hand over the front door to keep it locked so that no one could get in, no matter how much they tried. He packed up other things he knew he would need, not wanting to make the trek all the way back up after a while, he was grateful to William that he could stay with the man and his family for a while, adjusting and figuring some things out while time passed.

During the walk back to the city that took a few hours, William happily filled the silence between the two of them, talking about anything and everything he could think of at the moment. He stops at one point to pick a couple of the deep crimson flowers that sprout at the edge of the forest, saying how he know his mother would love them when she and his father returned from another city later that week.

Finally entering the city, Christopher steps closer to William, hooking his arm through William’s, his head held high as he made his way through the streets again to get to Will’s home. While he knows that the other members of the council wouldn’t be out on the streets at this time, there were informants everywhere, disguised as anyone, you couldn’t tell who was one. Christopher put on that same face, the one of stone, where he knew no one would approach unless close to him. Others, stayed away, knowing that Christopher, while a good man, was not one to mess with when he seemed angry. It was a good face to put on sometimes when it was needed.

And finally, entering the large castle that was too big for Christopher’s taste, he lets the face fall into soft admiration for the building, crafted absolutely beautiful. He looks around before speaking.

“I remember when this place was being built, that’s when I realized the city was going to be made of beautiful marble and one of the greatest cities in Astor.” He walks through the halls, following William through large hallways, admiring the white stone and gold inlays. “Shockingly, I’ve never been in it.”

“Never?” William asks, coming to a stop in front of a door, opening it to show a large studio like room, smelling of paints and other art supplies. Christopher shakes his head.

“Never. Of course I know things have changed since it was first built, but it’s still so utterly beautiful, I love it.”

William looks at the man, a soft smile on his face, mirroring the one on Christopher’s as well. He loved how the other talked about Helimire and the things in it, how he witnessed so much over so many years. How Christopher talked highly of his home and the good people in it, how he’d do anything for any of them.

“You’re so passionate, dove. I don’t know how you can do it after so long.”

“You love your art and the art of others, no matter how much time you’ve seen it, yes?” Christopher asks, taking a seat on a chair on one side of the room, William busies himself with getting out paints and a new canvas, he’s going to draw Christopher today, with the man himself modeling for him.

“Of course, I guess I didn’t think of that. You’re right…. Do you mind if I paint you?” William asks, putting up a stand and setting the canvas on it, raising an eyebrow at Christopher as he peeks out from behind the canvas.

“Right now?” Christopher asks. William nods.

“Just as you are, if you have a book to keep you company, all you have to do is sit there and be your absolutely beautiful self while I attempt to get your wonderful likeness on a canvas.”

“Such words.” Christopher laughs. “But yes, of course, I’ll sit for you darling.”